I'm Just A Human

A/N: Okay, so just in case you get confused, James and Lily are alive in this. The Order defeated Voldemort back before he could destroy them, so the Potter's are all well and alive, and Peter was sent to Azkaban for conspiring with the Death Eaters.

Tonks is 19, but I made Remus and the Marauders in their... Mid-twenties, maybe. Around there. I know the difference is more than that, but I altered it slightly for the sake of my story, I hope you guys don't mind too much.

So yeah, I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One:

Was it possible for a floor to gain dirt the more you wiped at it? The mop soaked up the water in the bucket, rinsed out a bit, then spread across the dusty, hardwood floor as Jill chewed my ear out with her babbling. She was going to be big, she was going to make it, everything I heard on a regular basis with her. She'd blow a bubble, I'd nod my head and continue with my work, despite the fact it wasn't getting any cleaner as the hours progressed.

Hours, minutes, seconds; they all dragged on with Jill sitting there. I couldn't very well pull out my wand and magic the place clean with a Muggle lazying around.

"My daddy always said to never give up, to keep on trying. I swear, if my daddy knew what I did to get my gigs... Times are tough, right John?"

Her feet kicked against the stage, but I didn't look up at the use of my middle name. She found my proper name too hard, too much of a struggle, so she insisted on John instead, but I didn't protest. It wasn't as though I didn't mind, because it did bother me, as much as I played it off like it didn't, but I was just too tired to pay her the thought, to correct her for the thousandth time, just to receive the same reply over and over. It was easier, as she put it. This was easier too. Ignore it.

Sighing heavily, my eyes darted over to where her red heels clacked against the wood flood, then up to her figure stretching and yawning, I couldn't suppress a yawn in return. Contagious, people tended to classify the yawn, but I blamed it on simply being tired. Tired, overworked, paid little. It was all I had, all I could do, my payment to the place for letting me play. I'd clean, after all the performances of the night, and I'd get to keep my regular spot on the evening line up. Plus, they tended to pay me extra, Mr. Jones being an understanding man and all, for cleaning up after everything. I did a thorough job, he'd say, and then he'd ask my secret. My reply would be honest, magic, and still he'd chuckle in his ignorance, and I'd inwardly smirk at just how clueless he really was.

"Heading out soon, John?" Jill's hands rested on her hips after fixing her skirt that was riding up her thigh. It wasn't like I was staring intentionally, it was obviously noticeable. "It's getting late."

"When I'm done." I replied, moving the mop in circles around the same area I stood in for what seemed like hours. The dirt clung to the floor like a magnet. "I earn the money I get."

She scoffed, her honey eyes narrowing at me as she stepped forward, stepping hard against the floor. Click, click, clack! She stood before me, leaning in close so that her nose was inches from mine, giving me a look of distaste as though I had offended her. I had, but whether it was meant to offend or not, I was still unaware. I hadn't anything against her, but I wasn't particularly Jill's biggest fan either. So I stared back at her, looking unimpressed, or so I thought, though mainly looking tired, worn out. Mr. Jones and Richie, a guitarist, both commented on how tired I was. I hadn't been getting much sleep lately. In all honestly, I don't think I ever did get enough sleep.

Yawning again, I went back to mopping. She spit on the floor and left, walking hard as she did so. I waited for the heavy, metal doors to slam shut before I dropped my mop to the floor and hopped up on the edge of the stage. The place was a mess. Cups and candles sat scattered and lit on the little tables, crumbs haloing around them from the food that those attending the performances ate earlier. I had to clean that, all of it. The cups, the tables, the chairs, pile everything neatly and fixed perfect for the following night so everything could simply fall back into the aftermath it underwent every night. Luckily, Richie would end up with it for the remainder of the week and into the next, just like he was put with for once every two weeks, every month.

"I have sleep study, I'm allowing them to experiment on me, to try to cure me."

Was my excuse, although it was far from the honesty I normally gave Jones. I found it funny, no one at work realised I left every week around the same time, around the full moon. Perhaps it was a small detail to some, but the biggest detail in my entire absence. My condition, my change, my problem, why I left was because of the moon. What the moon's affect had on me, on a werewolf. I couldn't trust myself around that time, and I normally cut it close just for the sake of having the money, of needing the money, and what's done was done.

Pulling my wand out from my deep pocket, I gave it a flick and everything seemed to fall into his proper place. The sinks, the strainers, against the wall, flattened on the tables, blown out; leaving me in darkness for the moment, until I murmured "Lumos." under my breath, emanating light from my wand and illuminating the room. I gave it a glance over and summoned a candle from one of the tables, walking over to the piano placed left-center of the stage. Blue flames erupted from my wand and lit the candle. Placing it on top of the piano, I sat down on the bench and lifted the lid, letting my calloused fingers press against the black and white keys.

I smiled. Something rare from me, unless I was in my place, on my bench, my fingers sliding aimlessly against the keys, yet following a rhythm without them even realising it. I played a tune, notes memorized in my head to songs I knew by heart, playing against the keys and filling the air with the euphoria I felt whenever I sat down at that bench, in front of the instrument, and poured my emotions into all I did. I wasn't a clean-up boy, I wasn't a werewolf, I was a musician, an artist, and nothing else mattered in the world. Nothing but the music.

The story of my life told in notes the piano played. From childhood, starting from the only vivid memory I had, at the age of four. My father got on the wrong side with the wrong person, having the damned werewolf come and take it out on me. Cursed, I was cursed, forevermore plagued with the burden of being a werewolf. Protected, constantly my parents sheltered me from the world, but then I made friends at the age of eleven. Friends who accepted me (despite being weary at first, but who wouldn't be?) and cared for me through all the tough times. The death of my mother, the rising of a Dark Lord, the loss of my father... And then, for a while, I felt alone. My best mates considered me conspiring against them, finally giving into my wolf instincts and falling in line with Greyback in his pack. They were wrong, but Peter did it. Peter almost gave up our beloved friends, but we took down the man who wanted them before he could do them any harm.

And then there I was, sitting with a hobby I was brought to at the young age of seven, sheltered in my home with nothing but this instrument. It gave me comfort in my darkest moments, and I knew I could always turn to it. And I always did. It was safety, it was home, it was what I knew best. The black and white keys of the piano, the tune each key made.

C, D, G, the heel to my hand rested against the keys. I blew the fire out.