You know how this story ends; it's heartbreaking, it's tragic, it yanks at your heartstrings and buckles your knees, and it makes you curl up into a ball on the linoleum floor of your kitchen, with a tub of ice cream (mint chocolate chip, perhaps) and it definitely makes you cry.

Of course you know how it ends, but this is how it begins.

It begins with Remus Lupin: werewolf teenage heartthrob. Er—at least, two of those things would be correct. The third, of course, is subject to opinion, or preference, but come to think of it, it's also what Remus is feeling today: his heart is throbbing today, and it hasn't exactly stopped since the full moon two days ago. But that's nothing unusual for him.

You know he is a werewolf, but there are certain aspects of Remus Lupin's life that you might not have guessed. The first detail of Remus's thus far humdrum life is that he attends a non-magic secondary school.

It's one thing not to receive an acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's another to be awaiting it, to be dreading it, to be questioning the very existence of it, when suddenly an owl slams into your window with a loud, startling crash, and you think this is it with intense expectancy and eagerness that are edged with a certain hesitance you can't ignore.

Remus' mum had perked up. And by 'perked up' I mean she dived from behind the kitchen counter, towards the window at the speed of light, shouting frantically, with a huge dopey grin spread across her face. "It's here! He's in! Remus! He's a wizard, like you John! Oh! Right, the owl! Window!"

"Calm down, mum," eleven-year-old Remus had said, massaging his temples in a way he hoped looked irritated, or casually indifferent—one of the two—when inside his blood was pumping furiously. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. "Well, what's it say?" he had demanded, blurted out, once she had opened the window and coaxed the owl to the sill, and it had dropped the envelope from its beak into her hand.

It wasn't an acceptance letter. It stated bluntly that Remus Lupin, being officially registered as a werewolf with the Ministry of Magic, he was not allowed to 'endanger the wellbeing of fellow students' and thus, was not allowed to attend Hogwarts that September. The letter was concluded with a sloppy signature from headmaster Armando Dippet (really just a curvy A, a loopy D and a wiggly line, as most adult signatures looked).

Remus' heart had sunk to somewhere below his ankles, perhaps to the floor, or more likely beneath the floorboards and past the basement and into the wet soil of the earth, to join the hearts of his mum and his father, and his old heart, the one that had belonged his younger self when he had first been bitten and first exposed everyone around him to the madness that was his disease.

Later, when the crying and outraged yelling from his mother and father had respectively died down, his mum had said, quietly, "why did they even send the letter? Why did they have to remind us?" and his dad repeated the same thing he had been shouting minutes earlier: "They didn't need to send this."

Remus had paled, his own eyes stained with silent tears. He had merely said, "I got what I wanted." His parents looked towards him, confusion evident in their creased brows. "At least I got a letter from Hogwarts," he said. "I've always wanted one, just as proof."

"But Remus, I went to Hogwarts," his father said, placing a hand on his son's arm. "I'm your proof. I've told you the stories."

"I know," Remus replied, his amber eyes holding wisdom too old for someone so young. He took the letter in his hands and folded it up where the paper creased. It was a different proof; it said to Remus that he was magic, just like his father, and that had to be good enough. "But this is mine," he said, looking at the letter. "And, honestly," he let out a deep, shuddering sigh. "Can you say you expected anything else?"

Remus had gone to the same Muggle school his mother had, while his father stayed home to teach him basic magic. He learned household potions and fixing spells, and fighting spells just in case. Remus got through primary school with exceptional marks and praise from his teachers, but with two absences a month hanging over his head. Those were recovery days for nights of the full moon. His parents were friends with a healer at St. Mungo's, which was convenient for a werewolf, and even though most of his small wounds were softened by her spells, a few thin scars still clouded his face, haunting him every time he looked into a mirror.

In fact, Remus is looking into a mirror right now. He is fourteen. His hair is wet from a hot shower; there are bags under his eyes made prominent by rubbing them. His bones feel dull, and heavy yet hollow at the same time. Conflicting feelings are often a side effect of turning into a monster once a month. His parents detest that word and will scold him for using it, but that's what Remus is. Remus is a monster. He knows this; he has accepted this; he wishes he wasn't and it wasn't like this. But this is the way things are, and this is the way they'll always be.

"Remus, dear, breakfast!" the shout breaks through his reverie and he startles a bit backwards, knocking the back of his legs into the side of the bathtub. "Oww," he moans quietly, feeling the twinge in his muscles, before calling back, "just a minute, mum!" and leaving the cramped bathroom behind and padding down the hall in his sock feet.

The Lupin's house has two stories; the rooms are small and cluttered with his mother's knickknacks and framed photographs—both magical and Muggle—and his father and Remus's household charms wash the dishes in the sink. The duster bounces around like it has a mind of its own, bobbing up and down against the mantel. The house also has a basement, of course, with a custom steel door and wall coverings, for transformations.

Such is the house of a half-blood werewolf.

The kitchen is tiny; striped wallpaper; wooden cupboards; rusty stove. Pictures line the wall above the dining table: photos of primary school Remus, baby Remus, laughing Remus, serious Remus, and one of John and Beatrice's wedding.

Bea Lupin, a plump woman perpetually dressed in an apron and a pair of woolen leg warmers she insists are 'hip,' is making breakfast herself this morning. She is flipping homemade pancakes, Remus's favorite, and humming tunelessly. See, when Bea hums without any real tune, this means she is putting up the appearance of someone happy. She can't concentrate on a specific song to hum because she is worried about her son. Remus is still exhausted from the full moon two days ago, but he has to go to school today, or the homework will start to pile up and he will drown in it.

"Morning, mum," Remus says, he, too, putting on a cheerful expression. His bones are aching. This is the pattern of things in Remus' home life: one person pretending for the other who is also pretending for the person pretending in the first place, and everyone is fully aware of the others pretending because that is The Way of Things (Remus wonders if The Way of Things makes any real sense to anyone outside of his family). Masks are worn in the Lupin household. Masks without any malicious intent; masks for protecting, masks like armor. Remus's armor is without chinks; he has built it that way since he was very small, too small to be concerned with wearing armor but needing to, to survive, to protect; it was all he could do.

Remus sits down at the rickety dining table and props his feet on the empty chair across from him, stretching out his calves and sighing in relief. Bea Lupin waltzes over with her false cheer and sets a steaming plate of pancakes in front of him, along with a glass of milk and a jar of maple syrup.

Heavy footfalls signal the appearance of his father, and sure enough, John Lupin opens the basement door and shuts it behind him, brushing dirt from his hands onto his trousers.

"Wash your hands," orders Bea and John smiles, nods and rinses with soap and water, washing away the grime and definitely blood from his cleanup of the Transformation Chamber, as Remus has named it in his head. He tells them he uses magic to clean, but Remus doesn't quite believe him, and thinks perhaps that magic isn't strong enough to remove Remus' stained blood from two days previous. He wonders, wildly, if his blood is different from other human blood. The thought scares him, however, and he shoves it to the back of his mind for later.

"Has this morning's Prophet turned up yet?" John asks conversationally, scrubbing in between his fingernails with force.

"On the counter," Remus replies around a mouthful of breakfast.

John dries his hands and grabs the Daily Prophet from its place beneath a vase of sunflowers that feels out of place in late autumn. John unrolls the paper and scrutinizes the headlines. He is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a long nose and thin plastering lips. His face is weatherworn, with too many wrinkles and lines for a man his age, and graying hair too. Remus suspects that he himself will look like his father when he gets old, without the heinous mustache, though, and more scars.

"Bea, look at this," John says, urgency to his voice. "Look at this!" he flattens the paper onto the counter and claps his hand across the headline. He is eager, which is unusual. Remus pushes away his empty plate and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, standing to see what the fuss is about.

HEADMASTER DUMBLEDORE PROMOTES EQUALITY AMONGST STUDENTS, the large writing says, with the caption: Newly appointed Albus Dumbledore will not accept prejudice by blood status, and vows to treat students equally.

"Blood status," John says, skimming the article. "He believes muggle-borns and half-bloods should be treated equal to pure-bloods, but what about..." the unsaid word hangs in the air with the pregnant silence that follows. What about werewolves?

"Oh. No of course not," Remus says, deflating, his momentary hope dissipating. "I should get ready for school. Mustn't be tardy again."

...

Remus has one friend at school. Kingsley Shacklebolt is also a wizard. He lives with his father who works practically every second of every day at the Ministry, and his grandmother. Remus isn't sure but he thinks Kingsley's mother is dead. Kingsley is a man of very few words, a man of action. Er, fourteen-year-old of action, but still. The only personal details of Kingsley's life he has ever shared with Remus are as follows:

Number one: "I can't go to Hogwarts. Grand is ill, and dad is working, so I need to take care of her."

Letter b: "I dunno how old Grand is." Kingsley had snorted, rifling through his Daily Prophet. "Old as the wind, probably."

And you mustn't forget: "I like pie. Apple. Not boysenberry."

And that concludes the list.

He is such an action-oriented being that when he suspected about Remus being magic, he had merely walked up to him one day, pulled his wand from his trousers pocket and waved it once, producing golden sparks. Remus did the same with his own wand. They had nodded, Remus had smiled, and that was that.

A few weeks later on a day after the full moon, Remus was at home, eating a bowl of oatmeal while his father lectured about the goblin rebellions. There had been a knock at the door, and Remus had sprung to his feet, eager to escape John's droning tones, and volunteered to see who it was.

Kingsley stood at his doorstep, panting heavily, towering above Remus. He clutched a heavy book in his arms.

"Kingsley, hullo..." Remus greeted, uneasily shifting on his sore feet.

Kingsley nodded, shiny sweat glistening against his forehead. He had evidently sprinted all the way there, and Kingsley was a sprinter on the track team. This was last year.

"Come in, sit down," Remus had said, and Kingsley had marched, marched through Remus's house and into his kitchen and set the book down on the counter with a ceremonious plop. John Lupin had seen the title and sworn loudly, but Kingsley ignored him and turned to Remus, looking expectant, even nervous.

The title of the book was: A Study on Werewolves.

Remus's breath had hitched painfully as he took a step back, shaking his head at Kingsley in disbelief. Remus had been a fool. Of course Kingsley would have noticed his monthly absences, and anyone could figure out the cycles of the moon. Yet Remus's only thought was why did Kingsley have to be a wizard? His only friend, the only person he chose, was a wizard, and now this wizard knew everything and probably hated Remus for it.

Kingsley had bitten his lip and said, gently, "You never hurt anyone, do you."

"No," Remus said instantly. "Never."

Kingsley nodded. "And that's why you can't go to Hogwarts."

"Yes," said Remus.

"You miss school each month. You have scars. You hurt yourself?"

"Yes."

"You're brave."

Remus had been at a loss. "I—You're—"

"I'm your friend. I'm late for biology."

And Kingsley had left.

Remus loves Kingsley like a brother, like a brother his parents had been too afraid to have after dealing with Remus. Remus's parents adore Kingsley, and Remus reckons Kingsley feels the same. He can only reckon about him, of course, he can never know for sure; but that's Kingsley and Remus is a reckoner by nature (though he will never admit it like that, seeing as reckoner isn't a real word).

...

On this particular morning, Kingsley doesn't meet Remus halfway on his walk to school like he normally does, so he reckons his friend is absent. After all, his grandmother has been doing badly lately.

So when he reaches the front steps of school and opens the door, slinging his rucksack over the shoulder that hurts the least, it comes as a complete shock when the first thing Remus sees is Kingsley's towering build. Then suddenly he feels himself being yanked by the collar towards the boy's bathroom.

"What're you—Kingsley!" Remus protests, trying to escape the strong boy's grasp. He manages to get free just as he's shoved into the bathroom; a location devoid of Muggles. "Happy Monday to you, too—"

"I'm conflicted," Kingsley says, his husky voice is higher than usual, but only by a slight. He does, indeed, look very conflicted.

Remus brushes himself off in annoyance. "Why is that?"

"I'm conflicted!" Kingsley repeats. "I don't know if I should be happy, or sad, or both."

"Er—what do you feel?"

Kingsley shoves him. "Don't be a girl, Lupin."

"I'm not—!"

"Grand died," interrupts Kingsley.

"Oh," Remus says, then cocks his head and adds, "Well, I doubt you should feel happy about that."

"Dad is sending me to Hogwarts."

"You—Oh, oh my god, Kingsley, mate!" Remus stammers, a genuine smile splitting his lips. The 'oh my god' thing was yet another Muggle phrase he has reluctantly picked up, after so many years in their wake. It isn't that Remus doesn't like Muggles, because he likes them as well as anyone, but it just goes to show how different Remus is from other wizards.

"I'm happy about Hogwarts. Sad about Grand," Kingsley concludes unnecessarily. "I mean I'm really, bloody excited about Hogwarts. I'll be in fourth year, with the rest my age, but I'll haveta take the examinations to prove I'm not a complete berk."

Remus makes a conclusion of his own. "That's the longest sentence you've ever spoken to me," he says.

"And the school got a new headmaster," Kingsley continues. "Did'ya see the Prophet?"

"I did," says Remus, his smile falling. "He sounds... good."

Kingsley frowns, reading Remus's tired expression. When Remus deflates like that, it means he is disappointed. Kingsley has disappointed his best friend (a.k.a the worst thing a person can do in Kingsley's book), so he hastens to add: "We will write."

"Yeah," Remus agrees weakly. "Every week." A moment of silence follows. It's not particularly uncomfortable, since these two are used to some form of quiet between them, but it isn't peaceful like it usually is. "When are you leaving?" Remus finally asks, dreading and already knowing the answer.

"Few days."

"Right."

...

This story also begins with a rushed statement; scared words with insecurity behind them and with Sirius Black putting his life on the line in a moment of impulse, of frustration, and of trust.

It starts when Sirius bursts into the dormitory; his sloppy curls a mess, his Gryffindor necktie askew and the first three buttons of his skirt undone. He finds James Potter, his best friend in the entire bloody universe, sitting up in bed, reading a Quidditch magazine. He looks up, wide owly eyes behind squarish glasses. "What's up, mate?" asks James.

"I'm dead," Sirius announces, attempting to run his hands through his hair but getting them tangled. He flails, trying to rid them free, and when he does, slams them onto the mattress of his own four poster bed. "I'm dead, I'm fucking dead, oh Merlin help me. I can't go on."

"Drama queen," James snorts. "It can't be that bad; you exaggerate. Now tell Jamesy Wamesy what's the matter, ickle Sirius."

"You have got to stop giving yourself those ridiculous nicknames," Sirius groans, collapsing onto the bed and reaching for his combat boots. He yanks them off and throws them into Peter Pettigrew's bed to join James's.

"Lily Evans thinks they're cute," James says in defense, giving Sirius the evil eye and saying the girl's name as if she were a celebrity. Well, she is in James's book.

"Evans thinks you're a moron and likes to laugh at you; this is why Evans is ace."

James goes red around the ears. "Sod off, Black," he mutters, cramming the Quidditch magazine close to his eyes. "Damn right she's ace."

"Where's Pete?" Sirius asks, not really caring but vaguely wondering and keen on dragging this out for as long as possible.

"Library," snarls James, still peeved about the Evans thing.

"Library?" Sirius repeats, the tiniest bit baffled. "Our Pete? Peter Pettigrew?" he tries to clarify in disbelief. "Reading?"

"Studying," corrects James. "McGonagall threatened to fail him."

"By fail you mean...?"

"String him up by his ankles in the dungeons, yeah." James pauses, staring bullets into the magazine but not really reading anything. "Sirius, why're you dead?"

"H-huh?"

"You came in here, all dramatic, and now you're trying to change the subject."

"Am not."

James sets down his magazine in exasperation, and peers over at Sirius from beneath his glasses. James's hair is no tidier than Sirius's, but that's because it always looks like rumpled bird feathers. "Liar," James says. "Just tell me."

"It's—it's not something I can just tell..." Sirius perches himself nervously on the edge of his bed, forcing himself to face James and clasping his hands in his lap. "It requires, er, some explanation."

"Then explain," James suggests, his tone lighter. He notices how jittery Sirius is and he knows what that means. It means Sirius is hiding something, something bad and huge and it's most likely going to land the pair of them in detention, but right now he doesn't so much care about that. For now, James can only be worried.

"It's about me," Sirius says slowly. "And, you know, er, do you know Martin McKinnon? The Ravenclaw?" He, too, uses the full name as if this boy were famous.

James nods. "Er—yeah, I've got Potions with him. Why? Did you kill him? Sirius, be honest, did you jinx his nose off?"

"That was once! One time!" Sirius shouts then sinks back down, gnawing at his lip, which is chapped. He squints his eyes, stammering like the dickens. "Uh—well, Mar-McKinnon and I—we, er—him and me—I—I'm not gay!" he blurts, a blush blooming in his cheeks.

"What? What are you talking about, Sirius?" demands James, scrambling up to the edge of his own bed and staring in astonishment at his best mate. "Of course I know you're not. Y-you like birds too much to be." He sounds just a tiny bit unsure.

"Right!" Sirius squeaks, relieved James doesn't think of him as some nancy. "I'm not gay! But you can... You can't argue McKinnon's an appealing guy?"

James balks, more confused than ever. "Are you sure you don't mean Marlene?"

Sirius snorts. "Merlin, no. Have you seen the shoulders on her? Bloody Amazon, she is. No, I do mean Martin McKinnon."

"Well, he isn't... not attractive. But, I don't think... I mean, Sirius, mate, are you all right?" It's a stupid question, James knows, but he can't help but ask it. Sirius is shaking, past the point of jittery, and his hands are being wringed madly.

Sirius shakes his head. "No," he admits. "Because, because—" he closes his eyes and the words begin to topple out like they have a mind of their own. "Because Martin and I were having a snog in an abandoned classroom and it was really fucking amazing and I don't fancy blokes, but he wanted to and he's so whatever, but then Regulus shows up, out of bloody nowhere and he sees us and. And he's going to tell our mum, James, she's going to know that I'm not gay but I sometimes, kind of, like blokes, maybe just a little bit." He gasps for air, opening his eyes and looking anywhere but at James. His expression becomes harder, challenging; he challenges James to say something.

James can't. What is he supposed to say, again? How do you form words with your tongue in the way? How do you make words without your tongue? People without tongues can't talk, right? And has Sirius just told James something huge?

"Say something!" Sirius bellows, pounding his chests against the mattress and then springing to his feet; he lunges towards James and grabs him by the collar. "Say something, you're my best mate! You're my—you're my real brother!" His voice cracks in desperation.

"I—Sirius—it's okay," James croaks, his mind whirling. Of course it's not okay, he realizes, when James thinks of the things that Sirius's parents will do to him, have done to him. They've hurt him before, they've locked him up; James has seen the blood and the bruises Sirius tries to hide at the beginning of each year. James knows how much Sirius hates the summer holidays, and always stays at Hogwarts for Christmas, and James knows how much Sirius hates his family with their pureblood mania and Slytherin pride.

Sirius lets go of James's collar and falls backwards into his bed again, holding back his usual groan.

"Tell Regulus not to," James decides, finally. He jumps from his bed and sidles over to Sirius, hesitating before sitting down next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. James isn't one for touching, so Sirius knows his concern.

Still, he flinches away from the touch. "Reg doesn't listen to me anymore," he says, a bite to his voice. "Not since he became Snape's number one fan."

"Slimy brother-stealing git," James deadpans, echoing Sirius' own words during second year. He remembers Sirius's fury, like white-hot pokers seared into his memory. "Sirius, you know I don't care if you like blokes, or don't, or snog a McKinnon—either one—because you'll always be my best mate, right?"

Sirius squints up at James and sniffs gruffly, trying to maintain his manliness but feeling silly. "Yeah, I know," he says. "You sound like a girl though, but I can forgive you this one, since I basically snogged like one today." There's a comfortable silence, in which James watches his friend with heightened senses. "I tried to run after him, but he ran away," Sirius says after a minute, his tone quiet as if he is sharing a secret. He kind of is, anyway. "Regulus, I mean. He didn't say anything, but... the look on his face. I think he was... No, he definitely was. Disgusted."

"He shouldn't have been," James says fiercely, threateningly. "I'd pummel him so hard, your mum would feel it. Would get punched in the cunt. She's a fucking hag, too, Sirius. When you're of age, you can forget about all them, so I say, snog who you want, like boys, like birds, be a whore; I don't care."

He lets out a sigh. "Your cursing always lightens my mood. So, thanks, Jamesy," Sirius says gratefully.

"No, when you say it, it sounds stupid."

"Are you trying to say when you say it, it doesn't? Because it does, believe me James...y Wamesy. Haha, you tosser! Always cheering me up with your tosser ways!"

"Shut it!"

"Hey, let's play Quidditch later tonight."

"Sure, Sirius."

...

The next couple days pass without much activity for Remus. He merely goes to school, talks to Kingsley while he can, and returns home to bury his nose in a book, locked in his bedroom.

Today is a Friday, the day of Kingsley's goodbye; he won't be returning to school on Monday; Remus won't see his only friend until summer. Suddenly July seems a very, very far away time. Kingsley doesn't hug him, because that isn't something Kingsley does, but there are copious amounts of shoulder clapping and hand shaking and Remus really, deep down, just wants the blasted hug.

Afterwards, Remus walks home by himself. He drags his feet. He lives in a little suburban town where all the houses look the same. He is just starting to wonder if he has accidentally passed his own front door without noticing when he catches sight of his parents outside in the driveway. They are standing next to a tall, thin man with a graying beard and a pronounced crooked nose that Remus can make out even from across the street. He is dressed in long, purple robes.

Wizard robes. This man is a wizard.

Remus breaks out into a run and reaches the trio within seconds. His parents are smiling widely, and saying things like, "thank you, oh thank you, Professor, or Headmaster, I should say."

The man smiles back, though more contained, and his eyes twinkle. They are a peculiar pale blue. "Ah," he says when he notices Remus. A refreshing voice he has, like taking a sip of cold water. "You must be Remus, I take it. So nice to meet you," the man holds out a thin hand and Remus shakes it.

"That's my name," Remus says, stupidly. "Er—nice to meet you, sir."

"Oh, darling," Bea Lupin interjects, bobbing up on her heels. "This is Professor Albus Dumbledore," she introduces. He eye-twinkles warmly at her. "From Hogwarts," she adds eagerly.

Remus takes in the name with recognition and an inaudible gasp. "Oh, right, you're the new headmaster," he says shyly. "It's an honor, sir."

"Likewise, Mr. Lupin," Dumbledore says back, surprising Remus enough to widen his eyes and Dumbledore to chuckle good-naturedly. He is certainly older than Remus's parents, but by how much Remus can't be certain. Dumbledore has plenty of wrinkles, and an entirely gray beard and hair, and he wears a pair of half-moon spectacles. Remus has already decided that he likes him.

No one has ever been honored to meet Remus before.

"I'd like to ask you a question, Remus," says Dumbledore carefully, regarding Remus as a whole. He sees a reserved outer shell, but how Remus's lips curl up in an almost-smile suggest a strongly spirited person just waiting to break through. This boy would like nothing better than attending Hogwarts. Bea and John have informed Dumbledore of the boy's loneliness, of his passionate loyalty to his friend and his family. He is brave and just; he likes to help others, teach them new things, and he loves to learn. Dumbledore knows of the immense weight Remus carries over his shoulders, yet just by looking at him, Dumbledore knows Remus will do well in anything he tries.

"A question, sir?" Remus asks, his heart clattering against his chest, threatening to burst through his skin and create an awful heart-bursting mess.

This is when Albus Dumbledore asks Remus the single greatest question in the history of great questions. He asks: "Would you like to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" And Remus isn't quite sure what is happening to his emotions, and he grins wider than he has ever grinned, and says, "oh, yes, sir. More than anything."