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Remus doesn’t remember a lot about his first few moons.
He tells that to everyone, his mother, his friends, even a government official at one point. He didn’t realise what was happening, he insists. How could he even possibly remember that far back, he had to have to be a superhuman, he says.
It’s all a bit of a lie.
He doesn’t remember all of it, truly. He barely remembers the third one, the forth moon a distant memory. Even the second moon is a little blurry.
No matter what he tries, every method and trick of forgetting he uses, he simply cannot forget that first night.
The popping pain of his joints shifting into a new, unfamiliar place. The sudden sensation of intense inhuman wants. The tension as he stalked around his cage. The sound of the low growl emitting from the moment the wolf realised it was the farthest thing from free.
He likes to think he can’t remember which scar he got first.
He does though. After the wolf finally gave up its fruitless attempts to escape the cage, it struck, scarring him for life.
It’s only small, a half moon indent on the inside of his left wrist. Barely even recognisable.
His mother hadn’t even bothered to heal it when she first saw him tumble out, shivering and crying.
He remembers that too.
Her fear.
Her fearful cries as she took in the sight of her precious son, cowering and shaking. He was rocking back and forth, he remembered that. Trying to numb the pain, the new and fresh intensity of the bleeding scars.
He remembers that pain.
He doesn’t feel it as much anymore, unfortunately far too familiar to the sting of his joints moving into an unnatural state.
He used to remember it every time someone commented on a new scar, everytime a stranger's glance became overpowering, everytime someone would accidentally brush up against him a little too hard.
He’d relive that pain every time he was reminded of his condition.
He slowly forgot that pain.
As the greetings after the moon turned from fearful cries from his mother, to mumbled reassurance from Poppy Pomfrey, and finally to the sound of Sirius fussing over him.
He forgot that pain as his scars weren’t seen as a weakness. People barely saw the scars anymore. Instead they saw Remus. The bookworm, studious, chocolate addicted, Remus.
The first person to truly see past his scars was not one of his new dormates at the age of 11.
Instead, it was with the confident redhead who affronted him on the first day with a solid handshake and asking him if the book he had clutched under his arm was any good. His first friend, as much as Sirius debated against it.
Lily never saw the scars. She only saw Remus. He remembers the first time that blooming feeling of acceptance filled him.
He remembers his first moon, sure. How could he forget it?
He remembers the pain, the stares, the silences filled with unasked questions from people he just met.
He remembers his lonely existence, no friends to speak of.
But he also remembers the thrill of his first moon with his friends, the feeling of belonging when he realised what they had done for him.
He no longer remembers a lonely existence, filling his life with loud laughs and secret smiles, people he loved and cared about filling his life.
He painted over the bad memories, choosing to forget them. He never truly forgets them, like the half moon scar on the inside of his left wrist never truly fades.
But when Sirius kissed the scar on the day of their wedding before pulling him into their first dance, he repaints the memory. Instead of the biting pain, he remembers the all encompassing joy.
Remus clears his throat as he looks over the crowd. 64, and still giving talks to schools on the importance of acceptance. The first war with Voldemort long over, the second a fresher scar, and still the problems existed in wizard society.
His first friend was still gone, but at least he was still here.
He sees Sirius in the back, smiling and chatting with some teacher. He scans the faces of the young wizards and witches sitting near the front of the stage, alight with curiosity.
Suddenly, he stops on one face.
A jagged scar runs through the boy's upper lip, and he rolls his eyes as another boy leans in and whispers in his ear. He smirks dryly before whispering back.
Remus lets out a breath. It’s like he’s transported back to his school years.
He can practically see Sirius, fussing over his hair while waiting. Peter, already complaining about needing to go to the bathroom. James, trying to get Lily’s attention. Lily, ignoring James as she chats with Remus.
Before he can lose himself in the path of remembrance, he pulls himself together. The new principal introduces him and he walks out to the polite clapping.
“Hello everyone. My name is Remus Lupin-Black. I am 64 years old, and I am a werewolf.”
He stops as a few light gasps are heard around the audience.
“However,” he continues, “that does not define me. I have been married 34 years to the love of my life. I love reading and chocolate, and I absolutely hate seagulls and quidditch. I was once a student in this very school. I fought in both wars against Voldemort, and lost many of my loved ones.”
He moves around the stage as he talks, gesturing to himself.
“These are the things I choose to define me. I choose what makes me myself, and I choose why the people around me love me. That’s why today I’m here to talk to you about acceptance, and defining yourself.”
As he continues with the talk, he sees the previously slouching scarred boy, sit up, hope dancing through his eyes.
He sees it everytime he does this talk, everytime a small kid who has been taught systematically to hate themselves for not fitting the mould of society realises they’re not alone. That’s why he does it.
Because if he can remember his first moon, so can most others. He chose to repaint that memory, to get rid of the sour taste it left. He wants to help others forget, and repaint.
As he touches the scar on the inside of his left wrist, he smiles, and remembers his wedding day.