Disclaimer: I think I'm basically just deferring to Rowling at this point.

A/N: Huge thanks to allegrapf for being my sounding board regarding this chapter, and for asking all the right questions. I couldn't write this story without her. Also, this chapter is very short, and it doesn't contain new action per se. I'm sorry about that. The next chapter is in the works and will be substantially longer. I'm hoping to finish that and get it up soon, but you never know.

Remus transformed shortly after Halloween. It was considerably less awful than it could have been, thanks to Severus's Wolfsbane, and Remus was endlessly grateful to have access to the potion without it eating half his paycheck like it would have had he been compelled to continue buying it on the black market. Even so, he always felt badly about missing out on life when he transformed, and working at Hogwarts was making him feel even worse about his propensity for absences, because his students expected and counted on his presence in ways he had never been quite sure Sherlock did.

The fallout from his absence also made Remus considerably less enchanted with Severus than he had been when he'd downed that last draught of Wolfsbane. At first it sounded like typical student complaints: "It's not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give us homework?" Oh, I don't know, maybe he wanted you to learn something? "Two rolls of parchment!" You can handle it.

But then, amid the tumult of voices, Remus discerned the word "werewolves."

Oh Merlin.

Remus kept his expression neutral and professional. He really had way too much practice controlling his face, all things considered. "Did you tell Professor Snape we hadn't covered them yet?"

The gist of the students' responses seemed to be that they had indeed informed Severus of their curriculum, and he had been unimpressed.

Classic. "Don't worry. I'll speak to Professor Snape. You don't have to do the essay." Please don't do the essay.

The students seemed greatly relieved at the prospect of not having to complete the essay on werewolves after all, and Remus felt a mirror image of their relief bloom within his chest. He had dodged this trick of Severus's, at least. The students wouldn't be turning on him yet. Only one student didn't seem relieved; Remus thought he caught Hermione Granger's mutter that she had already completed the essay. No matter—from the past two months of observation, Remus was convinced that Hermione was a fundamentally good-hearted girl, and, besides, she was Muggle-born; neither of these traits suggested that she'd subscribe to typical wizarding prejudices against werewolves.

But Severus. He'd always been obsessed with werewolves, especially when it came to proving that Remus was one. Severus had never spoken about his suspicions very openly—at least, he'd avoided doing so within earshot of any of the Marauders. But he hadn't kept silent, either; on patrol one night during the fall of their fifth year, Remus had confided in Lily regarding his "furry little problem" only to discover that, as a friend of Severus's (or Sev's, as she'd stubbornly kept calling him even during that tumultuous year in their friendship), she had been privy to his theories and had already been fairly certain that Remus was a werewolf.

Maybe, if Remus had avoided ever mentioning that bit of information to the Marauders, everything would have been fine. He should have been able to count on a prank springing from the knowledge. But oh, Sirius . . .

Remus couldn't remember the night properly, because transformations never left as clear a record in his mind as they left on his body and his surroundings. But he remembered the death stares he received from Severus during the following days and the conversation in Dumbledore's office when the headmaster felt the need to inform him that his "security had been compromised." He remembered the other Marauders' awkwardness around him and Sirius's defiance that crumbled, over the course of three agonizing, endless days, into guilt. He remembered the nights of unprecedentedly early bedtimes when no one could be bothered to stay up because James and Sirius weren't speaking. He remembered the warring urges within himself: to make peace like the pacifist he was, and to hold a grudge because he'd been betrayed; to be mad at Sirius for giving him away and using him as a weapon, and to be mad at James for acting like he was the one who'd been wronged; to think Sirius was an idiot and pranks were inherently stupid, and to think that Severus ought to have known what he was getting into and would have deserved to die. He remembered the fear that his secret would spread further and the exhaustion of holding onto so much anger.

It was difficult, then and now, to remain mad at Sirius Black. But perhaps Remus should never have forgiven him in the first place. Then maybe he could have convinced James and Lily to use a different Secret-Keeper. Maybe they wouldn't have died. At the very least, maybe the news of Sirius's betrayal wouldn't have gutted him as thoroughly as it had. Maybe it wouldn't have haunted him the entire time he was living with Sherlock. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.