The very first night back in Hogwarts was a strenuous one.
He was home. And it had not changed in the many years he had been absent from its grand halls. So close to the full moon, he was restless and he had decided that lying in bed, tossing and turning, tangled in the bed sheets was not going to help him either way.
Already, he had met the young boy; his black, unruly hair was just as messy as his fathers and every other chiselled detail of his face seemed to practically scream James, from the visual impairment requiring glasses (the circular lenses, of course) to the size of both of their grins. His eyes, however; well, his eyes were all Lily's. He had his mother's eyes.
The castle's floor was cold against his bare feet as he leisurely strolled through the darkness. If he had the map, his lips quirked at the thought, if he had the map; he would have been able to revisit a few of the secret passageways that he had discovered during his own time here. Eyes glazing over, he remembered the very first time the four of them used one of the first passageways and it somehow led them out to Professor McGonagall's office. The older witch had been quietly marking some papers when they tumbled out of a large portrait hanging above the fireplace.
Professor McGonagall stared at them in shock, her mouth open and her jaw slack. She opened it further to say something, most likely to either question how the bloody hell they had fallen out of a picture frame, or to yell at them and immediately hand them a detention slip for the rest of the week. James had held his hand up, glasses still askew on his pointed nose, and simply said, "I am just as confused as you are."
Granted, he had highly doubted that. Although, as Peter retrieved the Map out of his robe pocket and turned away to inspect it; James asked instead, "How did we get here?"
He had helped; peering over his shorter friend's shoulders to realise that they had mistakenly (and stupidly, he'll admit) gotten two very different secret passageways confused. Upon relaying this information quietly to James, so that their Head of House's keen ears would not pick up any words, they all bowed deeply, apologising profusely before leaving the office.
It took them a few minutes, when they were safely turning onto another corridor, to become conscious of the fact that they had left their fourth member.
The three of them had turned back, and marched into the office –knocking politely, mind you—where they found Sirius leaning on Professor McGonagall's desk. His elbow rested on a large pile of test papers and stray bits of hair fell into his face. He only had chance to say, "So, Minnie… Know any secret passageways for me?" before they had grabbed hold of his other arm and dragged him all the way back to the Common Room.
Even now, he found himself smiling at their antics. It turned out Minerva did know her fair share of the castle's secrets, although she had been unwavering in her decision to share with them the knowledge. She had had a soft spot for them, despite the dastardly high number of detentions she had given them.
As he continued his midnight stroll, he came to a section of the corridor that was bathed in pure, white moonlight. Three large windows adorned the side of the stone wall, letting the light flood in and drench archways of the shadow-covered floor in colour. He came to a stop, when his toes were mere inches from stepping in the first puddle of light.
It was such a silly thing; this phobia of his. After all, the moonlight couldn't kill him. It could not crawl up and wrench every last breath out of his body, nor drain him of his tainted blood. Alone, it was pitiful. However, the affect it had on him was monstrous. It may not kill him, but it made him want to kill others. And that, in itself, was deadlier than anything.
Slowly, he made his way to the very side of the corridor, where the moonlight that escaped through the glass disintegrated into darkness. This was where he belonged, he thought grimly, edging along the corridor with his back to the wall to avoid touching the light, alone and dancing with the shadows.
He remembered the very first time he had had to come clean about his condition to his friends. He had lied to them for too long, and it pained him to continue doing so.
"I have to visit my mum tomorrow. She's ill again." He said, hastily averting his eyes and shoving a roast potato into his mouth. The din of the Great Hall was heavy on his shoulders, and his ears twitched at the onslaught of sound.
The three of his friends looked at each other blankly. Peter was sat on his right, with James and Sirius directly facing him. Sighing, James leaned forward.
"We're your friends Remus. You don't have to lie to us."
He was quite sure his heart stopped beating then… Just as his brain stopped working, and the potato lodged itself somewhere in his throat. Luckily, Peter was there to bang on his back to stop him from choking too much.
Drinking some pumpkin juice to delay him from answering, his eyes flitted to each of his friends nervously. "I don't know what you're talking about."
They had dropped the subject then, with a deflated shrug from James. It was Sirius who confronted him later, when they had all retired to their dormitory.
"We know what you are, Remus."
The blood in his adolescent body had frozen, and his eyes dropped close of their own accord. Internally, he knew this day would come. He knew they would find out, being as intelligent and nosy as they were. Chancing a glance up at Sirius; he noticed the anger deeply etched into his friend's face.
"I don't know why you didn't expect us to find out! I can't believe you didn't even tell us! I thought we were your friends."
James harshly sucked in his breath. He fell onto his bed, and stared at his feet. Guilt and despair seeped through his entire body, melting every bone and oozing out of every orifice. "You can leave. It's okay. They all do –leave, I mean—when they find out."
The room was quiet for a few seconds. Then, he felt the bed dip. When he looked up, he saw Sirius sat down next to him. The twelve year old was also staring down at the floor, as if deep in thought but when he looked up, obviously feeling his friend's gaze on him; his grey eyes were piercing and intense.
"I am not leaving, Remus. Nor is James. Or Peter. You are our friend and no matter what, we stick together. Am I pissed you didn't tell us? Yes. Am I even more pissed that you thought so lowly of us? Slightly. But what you need to understand is that even if you do have a… furry little problem; we love you just as much… Possibly even more, cause… y'know, how many guys can really say they have a werewolf as a best friend?"
James, who, along with Peter, had also come to sit on the bed, punched him in the arm. "What Sirius is stupidly failing to say, is that we don't care who you are or what you are. And even though you're a werewolf, you're our friend first."
He had been unaware of the tears that had somehow unwillingly made their way down his cheeks and as he sniffed and rubbed them away, he could not be more thankful for his best friends.
"How did you find out?" He asked curiously.
James laughed and leaned closer, mischievously lowering his voice. "Hey, you'd be surprised to find out that Sirius actually does know how to find something out for himself!"
Sirius's indignant, and rather crude, reply had echoed around their dormitory, only being drowned out by the laughter that followed.
He then remembered the time he had woken about 24 hours after his first transformation, which he had not had to lie about. They had all been there, despite the fact that visitors were strictly not allowed this late at night. It was no secret how they had gotten there; the cloak. The very first thing he saw were two large hazel eyes, framed with black glasses, staring at him closely.
"Morning beautiful," the face had said, before stopping itself. "Or should I say goodnight?"
When he jumped away, the eyes widened and revealed to be James Potter, now laughing raucously. Despite the scare, he had never had a better wake-up call.
After that, every full moon; they skilfully and smoothly covered for his scars in the inconspicuous manner only the four of them knew how to achieve. In fact, the question "How on earth did Remus get those scars?" was asked so frequently that the three of them did not even need to stop what they were doing to think up a reply. They did not even have to look up from their chess game, or homework, or newspaper. The lies became like second nature for them.
"He fought the Giant Squid."
"He batted 100 Death Eater's all at once."
"Quidditch practise, very nasty snitch accident. You wouldn't want to know."
"He killed You-Know-Who."
"What scars?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Who the hell is Remus Lupin?"
The last one was his favourite:
"He saved our lives."
That one was true, they told him after he had incredulously pulled them up on it, laughing. But their faces were sincere, and although they never told him just exactly how he saved their lives, they stood by what they said.
The corridor felt strangely lonely now as he wandered further down it, into the shadowy depths of the darkness; leaving the patches of moonlight far behind. Although he hadn't noticed before, his cheeks were wet and he quickly dragged his sleeve across them. His eyelids felt heavy and he was just about to turn around and go back to his room, when a voice called him out.
"Boy."
It sounded to come from just a little bit further down the corridor and as he ignited his wand nonverbally, he could see no figures other than himself.
"Turn off that light, boy!" An irritated gruff voice somewhere to his left exclaimed. He shone the wand closer to where the sound came from. "Do you not understand simple English or are you simply stupid?" An old man with a grey groomed beard and large black hat on his head was scowling down at him through blue eyed slits. He was wearing a medieval brown robe with white cuffs around the wrists and neck.
He muttered the counter-spell and his wand's light faded instantly. Inspecting the portrait, he experienced a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, although brushed it off.
"Bit late, isn't it Professor?"
He smiled wirily.
"Insomnia plagues me, I am afraid."
The portrait remained quiet for a moment and then the man's eyes widened comically.
"I remember you," the portrait murmured, seemingly to himself. "You were one of four."
He watched, astounded, as the portrait reminisced. "Always getting into trouble. Although, Albus had a special place for you in his heart… Often overlooked your tomfooleries…" The man peered at him through his glasses. "Where are your friends, Professor?"
And as he thought it through, he smiled sadly. He wanted to say that they were here, right here, in the place that his heart should be, or that he didn't truly know since they had left him all at once. Instead, Remus looked up at the portrait and his smile turned genuine, as he said, "They're on the next great adventure, waiting for me."
After that conversation, he quickly made his way back to his room, having to pause shortly and hide in a secret alcove as Mrs Norris, Filch's blasted cat, came prowling down the corridor. He was a Professor and even if the caretaker did catch him out of bed after-hours, he certainly would not be punished for it. But old habits die hard.
As soon as he got back into the safety of his room, he shrugged off his robes and caught sight of a small picture frame positioned neatly on his chest of drawers. He slowly made his way over to it, crossing the room in a matter of steps. The glass was cold in his hands and, even through the thin layer of dust, he could vaguely see his aged face reflected back at him. The actual picture was of four young men. They stood still, and he found it extremely strange as opposed to the more customary magical moving ones. But he remembered that this particular photograph was taken by Lily; the first picture on her muggle camera.
There was a small and rather plump boy with sandy hair and watery eyes, stood next to the second-tallest of the group, with unruly hair that stuck up in every direction and glasses perched on the end of his nose. Third in line was probably the most typically handsome with dark wavy tresses and grey eyes; a ghost of a laugh etched on his face. And finally, there he was. He was the tallest with light brown hair and a lanky frame. Scars, however faint, marred his pale skin.
In the reflection, he could trace the number of scars he had on his face now. These would heal, eventually. Hardened by time, and brushed over with experience and care; the scars on his face would heal. The one on his heart, the gaping hole in his chest, on the other hand, would not.
Whilst he should have felt sad, he didn't. For when he looked at the photo, he did not see a traitor, a corpse, a criminal and a werewolf; he saw his best friends, The Marauders. And for the moment, he didn't care about the fact that they were no longer together, but cherished the fact that he had managed to live in a world that discriminated and frowned upon everything that he was, thanks to the three boys in the photograph.
But then reality came crashing down, and his shoulders felt heavy with the weight of his past, and his knees could not seem to carry his body and the picture frame fell out of his grasp with a smash. They both fell to the floor.
He saw himself reflected once more in the fractured shards that lay strewn across the carpet. One man. Not four.
But the saddest part about all of their absences, was that a part of him had left with them. He knew it now. For they ignited a light in him, that had been doused in an inflammable substance for twelve long years. And now that they were gone, he could feel the light plunge into an insatiable darkness.
Remus didn't lose his friends. He lost his brothers. He lost a part of himself.
And now, he realised with a dull ache, it was just a little too to fix that.