"That's the thing, though—it doesn't matter if the human part of you loves someone—a woman, say—or wants to keep her safe, or even hates her. To the other you, the once-a-month you, everyone is just a body. Everyone is the same. Something to bite. Something to make like you."

Subject 87


An eviction notice was plastered to Remus' front door. Stark black-and-white letters, every one a capital, his name scrawled haphazardly across the page in dripping ink.

It was the day after the party, and I'd come to his flat in hopes of ameliorating the situation and—selfishly—also in search of comfort. Despite our resolution I still felt guilty for the things I'd said, the accusations I'd levied against him. I didn't know how to cope with my newfound realization that I was not as removed from prejudice as I'd believed, and so I thought, paradoxically, of Remus. He'd always insisted, after all, that I should not feel obligated to work through my worries in isolation. But now I was here and he was nowhere to be found.

The date on the notice was a week ago. My heart sank as I read on. Remus hadn't said a single word about it last night. I imagined him packing his belongings alone, each motion painfully familiar, wondering where he would go next. A cold wind blew and I shivered, pulling my robes tighter around myself, and moved closer to the door.

It was a single sheet, affixed to the wood with Spellotape. Written across the neat black lines under "Reason for Eviction" was just two words:

DIRTY WOLF

Guilt coursed through me in heavy, nauseating waves. All of this had been going on behind the scenes, while I was obliviously wrapped up again in maternal drama. It made me ill to think that I'd drunkenly demanded Remus tell me whether he'd ever killed anyone, when more than ever he'd just needed someone to believe in him. My heart ached for what he'd been put through, these two words surely emblazoned across his mind as he talked to partygoers last night, as he followed my drunk and insistent stride to the balcony, as he kissed me just before the clock struck midnight. And, to make matters worse, it was likely he'd been evicted because of the work we were doing together. The Prophet had covered our committee meeting, and Remus was back in the public eye for the first time since his year at Hogwarts.

I tried to rip the notice from the door, but it withstood my efforts. I attempted a second time, a third, before realizing the landlord had magicked it into place. He wanted everyone who came this way—every neighbor, every postman, every unassuming passerby—to know what he thought of Remus, and what he had done about it.

I stormed downstairs. The flat was over a pub, and I remembered Remus mentioning that the same man owned both. It was evening and he was working, of course, the pub echoing with quiet weeknight bustle. On any other day I might've found it inviting. The room was small, but cheery and bright.

The patrons all turned to look at me when I burst in—irate, red-faced, the only woman in the room. The man behind the bar raised his eyebrows at me, a smirk carving his cheeks. I knew in that moment Remus had not fought him. Had seen the sign, packed up his things, and left without a word.

"Problem, missy?"

"That man," I spat. "The one you kicked out of his home. It's illegal. I—I'm with the Ministry."

At this point all of the men in the room were looking at me, not with any real concern but mere curiosity instead, as if I were some kind of spectacle: a bird who'd flown into the room by mistake and become trapped.

"It's not illegal."

"What are you talking about?"

The landlord set a glass bottle down and leaned against the counter with an ease that made my blood curdle. "Well, he would have been allowed to stay," the man said. "But it clearly states in the lease that a werewolf must disclose his condition at the time of application." He shrugged. "He didn't. So when I found out, he had to go."

It was really this simple for people like him.

"You're disgusting. A coward."

The man crossed his arms. "Your wolf should have followed the rules."

My wolf. As if he would've ever been approved for the unit if he'd identified himself up-front.

I stood, fuming silently, as the bar carried back on around me. I wanted to break glasses, I wanted to strangle the man, but I knew none of these things would be productive. And I knew part of me was still angry with myself, wanting desperately to take it out on others. My first priority should be figuring out where Remus had gone.

I reoriented, approached the bar and asked in a different voice, "Do you know where he went?"

The man had just turned his back to grab a mug from the shelves and so his response seemed to emanate from all of him, his body, his core, instead of just his mouth:

"Who cares?"


What I remember is being in Remus' office for the last time. Soft patter of rain on the windows. The smell of worn leather as he packed his trunk. There wasn't much, never would be, but the process was still slow going; whatever had happened to him during the most recent full moon had not involved curling up in his wolfsbane state and waiting for the night to pass. He was covered in dark purple bruises; several bandages were wound inexpertly around his hands and I thought I could see a makeshift splint peeking out from beneath a pant leg as he walked back and forth across the tiny room.

All I knew at that point was that someone had leaked the truth of his identity. Remus' lycanthropy had become cheap hallway gossip overnight. The Slytherins were making crass jokes about him in the Great Hall over breakfast. A curl in Draco Malfoy's lip.

"Who was it? Who let it slip?" I was asking desperately. Upon hearing the news I'd run immediately to his office, imagining a scenario of comfort. I found him packing instead, unnervingly calm. I still wasn't sure if he had planned to tell me he was leaving.

"Tell me." The office felt like it was shrinking around the two of us as I spoke. He still hadn't said a word, instead removing his books ritualistically from their shelves, handled with utmost care. The attached wall seemed to grow closer to us as he pulled away from it, everything only getting tighter and more claustrophobic. This place of solace was fast becoming something else, something I didn't recognize. This was the memory I'd be left with, and there was a vague futility in trying to change what was happening. I attempted anyway.

"You could talk to Dumbledore," I offered, thinking quickly. "There's always something—"

"Cora, please." He stacked the books into his trunk, their worn leather spines sticking out just over the lip. "You know about the curse, don't you?"

"The one on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position?" I sputtered. "You don't really believe—"

He just smiled at me quietly, snapping the lock on his trunk closed with his wand.

"I know when it's time for me to go. I'm not upset; you shouldn't be either."

Anger shot through me, white-hot. "You're relieved. You're happy to be going."

He spread his fingers across the trunk's surface and leaned over it, closer to me. "No, Cora, that's not what I—"

"My apologies, Remus," I said with an air of mock coolness. "Have I made you uncomfortable, this last year? I'm so sorry. You should have said something sooner."

"Cora," he said again, haltingly. "I do care a great deal for you. But—"

"I've misread some things." I nodded curtly. "You were trying not to hurt me. But you've been worried I'd get you into trouble. That night Dumbledore came. And now you're going. Well, you'll be safe now, Remus. I won't cause any more trouble."

"I care about you," he repeated, unmoving, his hands still spread on the trunk. I realized it wasn't even his departure that upset me so, but rather his reaction, the dulled acceptance. An understanding that there was nothing for him here. And a denial of what I knew he'd felt for me. Even if he couldn't admit it now.

"One day I'll tell you what happened last night," Remus said. "And I think as you grow older you'll begin to understand. That our feelings for people are never black and white. That trust is more complicated than believing in a single person implicitly." He paused and pressed his lips into a single thin line. "That perhaps it was selfish of me to spend so much time with a student. That I was taking advantage of your feelings. That I was lonely."

"Why does the motivation matter? We had that time together regardless. It meant something. Don't mar it retroactively because you feel guilty now."

"Oh, but I have plenty to feel guilty about." Abruptly he snapped the handle of his trunk upright and lifted. "I must be going, Cora. You understand."

He always said that when I didn't; I felt I'd never get this, the moment, what he was saying, why he was leaving. In fact this would be the last I saw of him for the next two years: his back to me, his final exit, those broad shoulders weighted down with the world.