I don't remember if they ever talked about what happens to Remus on the full moon. Either way, this is my head canon. Please be respectful of that. Any critiques on my writing are very welcome though. :)

I don't own Remus Lupin.

Remus hated full moons. It started with fatigue. He'd find himself drooping at his desk by nine and he'd know it would only go downhill from here.

The worst was sleeping in. Instead of being wide awake at six to get a silent hall for breakfast and an hour or two for last minute homework or quiet reading, he'd still be asleep after even Sirius had left the dorm, and none of the boys had the heart to wake him. Not that he'd be able to eat even if he could get to breakfast on time. Half a sausage at dinner if the boys made him. Some brown bread for lunch, possibly with jam if Lily prodded.

He felt as though he were withering away; as though he'd simply shrivel up if he stopped concentrating. He tried to go on as long as he possibly could before he had to retreat to Madame Pomfrey. Tried to convince himself that he would be fine through sheer force of will. But the night before every full moon always found him strapped to his bed at the hospital wing through Pomfrey's expect sheet-tucking and wheezing out every breath. He didn't mind being unable to move; it was nice just to be tucked in, for once.

The day of the full moon itself he almost never remembered. There were snatches; the boys checking in at lunchtime, Pomfrey with another potion. Sometimes there were other people in the ward with him and he heard them through the curtains.

"Em dexeh Nitram! Tluaf ym ton S'ti!"

"If you'll just drink this Mister Butterby..."

"And how, exactly, does one charm oneself purple?"

It was good to breakup the monotony, but it annoyed him that unconsciousness always claimed the rest of the conversations. He'd have liked to know how to charm things purple and make people speak backwards. It would make for a good prank someday, or at least an interesting birthday present.

And then the actual moon. He never actually remembered what went on on those nights. Sometimes he would remember emotions. Anger, frustration, the rush of competition. Colours, sometimes; he'd know Sirius' black fur anywhere and James' eyes were still that green, even as a stag.

Mornings were the worst, though. He was always sore. Always. Even after the boys started helping out. He had never once woken up before eleven on those mornings. Sometimes he had unknown scratches or he would throw up for a couple of hours before his stomach settled down. Once the boys told him he had eaten a rat and he wasn't sure if the vomiting was disgust-induced or his digestive system in abject protest.

A couple of mornings he had woken up to James or Sirius or even Peter in the bed beside him, with bones broken or scratches. Sirius had a permanent scar on his upper arm from his claw marks. He'd laughed it off, but Remus hadn't seen him in a singlet since. James had three small dots on his thigh where his claws had gone bone-deep. He said they were from a dog he'd had when he was a child.

Sometimes he hated himself. He hated that he'd dragged his friends into this, that he was dangerous, that people risked getting hurt. He hated that he could never have a normal life, never have a girlfriend, or children or normal things or-.

But he didn't know how he could not see Sirius as a shaggy black dog, or what would have happened if he'd never have known how studious James secretly was if he had to be, or how loyal Peter was if he set his mind to it. Would they be this close? Probably not. The seriousness of his condition cemented their relationship. He remembered how scared he'd been when James had started looking at odd, monthly medical conditions and how terrified he'd been when James had found out. How it had been their secret for two horrific months, and then in the midst of learning to be animagi Peter had asked, for the hundredth time, why all this effort was really necessary and he'd just…He'd been crying when he told them. Sirius didn't even tease. He'd never brought it up.

He had to love them for it. Nobody else had stuck by him like that.

So it sucked, and was painful, and inconvenient, and deadly, and made him want to tear his heart out. But he had friends. He'd live. He'd survived worse. Still, it didn't stop him hating full moons.

OH MY GODS I ACTUALLY FINISHED SOMETHING! (Even if I've been reading too much PJO so I fangirl to Ancient Greek gods. Oops) I don't think I've finished anything for years, let alone published anything. What do you know?

If you're wondering, the backwards writing says: "It's not my fault! Martin hexed me!"

Also I'm really, really sorry for all of the horrifically long-winded sentences. Do not attempt to read any of my work aloud, ever. I probably should have warned you at the beginning, but eh. I'm trying (failing) to work myself out of it. Also I fail at commas, so...

Thanks for reading! Have a splendiferous day. Cookies for you (::) (::)

Bre