Sirius Black starts to learn Latin at age eight.

He pores over the ancient, dusty tomes, ignoring with a vicious passion the tutor that hovers over his shoulder like a mad bumblebee. Every time the tutor tries to correct Sirius' grammar, Sirius says "I know!" in an exasperated tone of voice and turns away. If, that is, he answers at all. The tutor seems to hate being ignored, and Sirius loves doing whatever the stupid tutor hates.

He rocks back and forth in his chair during lessons, staring out the window. When his mother covers up the window, Sirius stares at the wall. So there. She can't cover up the wall, now can she? And even if she did, Sirius would only stare at the covering.

Sometimes he meets the tutor's eyes, but he only ever makes silly faces when he does so. The tutor hates that. "You're not listening," the tutor snaps, slamming his hand on the table. Dust flies into the air whenever he does, which makes the tutor cough. Sirius laughs.

"Of course I'm not listening," says Sirius, and the tutor always snitches on Sirius to his mother at that point.

Sirius' mother enters the room in a rage, saliva flying out of her mouth in a very undignified fashion, saying things about Sirius' future and his reputation—though she really only cares about her own—and Sirius tunes her out. He's gotten very good at tuning things out over the years. Sometimes she pleads instead of yelling, wheedles instead of wailing... and Sirius takes even greater pleasure in ignoring her when she's desperate.

The tutor tests Sirius sometimes, but Sirius doesn't care one bit. He purposefully gets every single one of the questions wrong, and he doesn't care at all when his mother comes back into the room to shout at him. "Your brother isn't half as bright as you are, but even he's trying harder than that!" she shrieks. Sirius looks at Regulus, who's flinching, and rolls his eyes dramatically. Regulus doesn't smile.

The tutor doesn't smile either: not even when Sirius tells him that the ablative form of dies is what I want Latin to do. Sirius thinks that's hilarious (especially since Latin is already dead), but no one else in the stupid house had a sense of humor.

Regulus continues with his lessons: making strides, learning vocabulary, and eventually translating whole books and reading Latin with ease. Sirius does not. He just folds paper airplanes during his study time and tries to throw them at just the right angle so that they muss Regulus' perfectly-brushed hair. The tutor makes him sit in the corner for that.

Latin is so boring, and Sirius can't stand sitting still. He wants more than anything to do what he sees other boys his age doing whenever he has the leisure time to stare out of his upstairs window—laughing, teasing, and jumping out into the street, only to jump right back whenever a car passes, shrieking in mock terror.

Sirius wonders what would happen if one of them got hit. He'd almost like to see that.

But alas, even if it does happen, Sirius will probably be in the library of the Grim, Old Place—learning Latin. Well, learning Latin, with a sarcastic emphasis on the first word. Sirius hasn't yet successfully declined puella, which was the first word that Regulus learned.

To be honest, Sirius CAN decline puella if he wants to. Puella, puellae, puellae, puellam, puella, puella in the singular. Puellae, puellarum, puellis, puellas, puellis, puellae in the plural. Easy-peasy. He'll just never admit that to the tutor.

"Your own name is Latin, you know," says the exasperated tutor one day, trying to clean the chewing gum out of his hair. Sirius doesn't know where the chewing gum came from, exactly. He suspects that it was accidental magic on his own part. "Sirius. Derived from a Greek word meaning burning. It's a star in a constellation called Canis Major—that means..."

"Big old mutt," says Sirius scornfully. "Yes, I know."

The tutor pauses. "You have been paying attention," he says slowly. "Sirius... let's try something new. If you can achieve a perfect score on one of my tests, then you may skip Latin lessons tomorrow."

Sirius thinks about that. "May I go outside?" he asks. "I'd like to go outside and play with the other children instead of staying in my room."

"Why... yes. I can agree to that."

"Fine, then. Gimme the test."

The tutor looks at Sirius and arches an eyebrow. Sirius rolls his eyes once again.

"Very well, sir. If you would kindly allow me to take the test, then I shall be forever in your debt."

"A little dramatic, but I'll take it," chuckles the tutor. He hands Sirius the test.

Sirius scans the questions at light speed and scoffs loudly. He may not enjoy learning Latin, but he's clever enough to have absorbed enough to pass the stupid test. How could he not have, after spending hours in that dusty library? And why is it always dusty? He and Regulus use it every day.

The house-elfs, Sirius reflects, are probably very bad at their jobs.

He finishes in nearly no time at all and hands it back to the tutor. "There. Done," he says, grinning. "Can't wait to go outside and play with that long noodly snake like the other children."

"A skipping rope?" says the tutor, amused.

Sirius sighs and waits semi-patiently as the tutor finishes checking his test. He slams his foot against the carpet obnoxiously and repeatedly, relishing the tutor's stern glances towards his tapping toe. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam...

"It's nearly perfect," says the tutor finally. Sirius' eyebrows shoot up.

"Whaddya mean, nearly? It is perfect. I didn't get any questions wrong, did I? Even broke out the Perfect Pureblood Handwriting..."

"I don't know where you're picking up that slang, boy, but you need to speak properly," says the tutor sharply. Then he hands the test back to Sirius. "You didn't get any questions wrong, but you've spelled your name incorrectly."

Sirius' mouth falls open. "It's not spelt wrong! I put it in the genitive!"

"I appreciate your going the extra mile, Sirius, but it should have been in the nominative, seeing as you were simply supposed to state your name."

"But the genitive indicates possession, and the test belongs to me..."

"If you had written 'the paper of Sirius', then that would be correct. But there is no noun, so it is wrong."

"There is a noun. My name is written on the noun. Just because I didn't write the noun doesn't mean it's not there..."

"Sirius, you lost the wager," says the tutor with a stern finality. "That is my final say. But you may try again tomorrow..."

Sirius huffs a frustrated sigh and crosses his arms. "Fine," he says.

But the next day, the tutor says that Sirius' E looks too much like an A. And the next day, the tutor isn't satisfied with the speed at which Sirius completed the test. The next, it's a problem with Sirius' attitude. The next, it is an issue with his handwriting. What's more, the tests are getting progressively more difficult; after a week, Sirius can no longer receive an effortless perfect score.

Sirius knows what the tutor is doing, of course. Sirius isn't stupid. The tutor knows that the prospect of going outside is the only thing that will persuade Sirius to do his lessons properly, and he also knows that Sirius' mother will never allow it. Not when Sirius is picking up all this slang from merely watching the neighborhood boys from his window. Not when the neighborhood boys are Muggles. Not when they carelessly get dirt on their shoes and wear Muggle play-clothes instead of proper robes.

Sirius isn't even sure he wants to play with Muggles. They aren't really up to his standards. Probably not clever enough to keep him entertained for long. He only wants to get out of this stupid house. So he plays along for a few weeks and makes great strides in his lessons... but then the motivation tapers out as he realizes that his work will never be perfect enough for his stupid tutor. He starts to make up funny answers on his tests again. The tutor is dismayed, but he knows there's nothing he can do. He'll never get permission from Sirius' mother to actually reward Sirius when he does right.

Like a dog, Sirius thinks disdainfully. Sirius wasn't a dog. He was much better than that.

In the meanwhile, Regulus achieves relative fluency (as fluent as one can get at Latin) and starts on ancient Greek. Sirius stares at the wall. Regulus earns his parents' praise. Sirius stares at the wall. Regulus excels at piano, French, reading, writing, and maths. Sirius stares at the wall.

Finally, Sirius' mother agrees to allow Sirius to go outside once a week, as long as he starts doing his lessons to the best of his ability.

Sirius declines the offer. He doesn't want to play with Muggles, anyhow. He only ever wanted to be rid of this dusty house, but it looks like he never will be—either inside or outside, there's no escaping Grimmauld Place.

Remus Lupin starts learning Latin at age eight, too.

He's been a werewolf now for more than three years, and it has already taken its toll. His eyes always seem to be shrouded in shadow from intense periods of exhaustion—when Remus isn't plagued by constant nightmares, he is the nightmare himself, scratching himself to bits in the small family cellar while his mum quivers in fear in the sitting room and his father tosses and turns, trying in vain to be well-rested in order to heal his son the next day before going to work. When Remus looks at himself in the mirror, he only sees the amount of weight he's lost, the pallor of his skin, the scars on his hands, and the constant dead look in his eyes that he can't seem to get rid of, no matter how much he smiles.

It doesn't really matter how he looks, though. He sees no one, save his parents, and they don't really care how Remus looks so long as he's alive.

Remus can read all by himself now, but his parents still insist on reading to him after every full moon so that he can "rest his eyes". Remus knows that this is just a ploy to get him to fall asleep, which is a bit annoying. It doesn't matter if he looks and feels tired. He doesn't need to save his energy for anything. It's not as if he has school, dinner parties, football matches... or whatever kids his age typically do. He doesn't even have friends.

What Remus does have is time—too much time, in fact; Remus has all the time in the world. When he wants to go to sleep, he will. And right now, Remus does not want to sleep. He's been doing that for hours and he's ready for something new.

His father reads him Maxwell Melephant and the Magic Elephant for what seems like the hundredth time. Remus mushes his face into the pillow and groans so vehemently that he nearly falls off the couch.

"Are you hurt?" asks Remus' father, alarmed. It's evening, two days after the full moon, and it's also a weekend. Remus' father doesn't have to work today, so he can stay home all day and fuss over Remus. Remus isn't sure whether he's pleased or annoyed by the fact. "Did the wound on your side open again? Stay there, Remus; don't move—I'll fix it..."

"Nothing's happened," says Remus. He's a bit angry, actually, so he takes a few calming breaths—in through his nose, out through his mouth. Anger is reserved for full moons and full moons only. "I'm just kind of bored, that's all."

Remus' father takes a deep breath and then places the book upside-down on the coffee table. "I'm sorry," he says. "Ever so sorry, Remus. I know it's hard. I wish I could do more. I'd switch places with you in an instant, you know..."

"It's fine," says Remus automatically. "Could you keep reading? You were at the part when the elephant was climbing the redwood tree, I think."

"So I was," says Remus' father, but he doesn't pick up the book. He doesn't speak for a long time, and Remus tries to get comfortable while he's waiting. It's not quite possible with a large wound on his side—it seems to stab Remus sharply whenever he moves his stomach the slightest amount—but he can try anyway. Once he's more or less satisfied, he pulls the scratchy woolen blanket that his mum knitted up to his neck, obscuring the scar on his left shoulder that has remained a constant reminder of what Remus is for more than three years. Remus doesn't mind that scar, not really—but he knows that his parents do.

When Remus' father opens his mouth to speak again, it's not because he's resuming the story. "You need a hobby," he says thoughtfully.

"I have a hobby," says Remus. "Misery. That's a hobby, isn't it?"

Remus' father would normally laugh at such a joke (Remus didn't mean anything by it, after all), but he doesn't today. "Are you really miserable?" he asks seriously—and a little guiltily, if Remus isn't mistaken.

"No. I'm fine. You and Mum are loads of fun, Dad. I mean it."

"But what have we done?" muses Remus' father. "What have you done?"

Remus suspects that his father is talking to himself, since he isn't making any sense. Remus has just learned the word rhetorical, and he thinks that it applies in this situation. Remus replies anyway, of course. "You teach me some magic with your wand. That's fun. And Mum teaches me maths and writing. And I read a lot. And you let me play with that Boggart that we keep in the cupboard. I help Mum cook, and I play chess sometimes. And Mum taught me to crochet. And we draw pictures together sometimes... and you tell me stories. Remember when we tried to write one? Mum said that it was the worst story she'd ever read, and you know how much she hates Maxwell Melephant."

Remus' father smiles, but it seems to be nothing more than a formality. "Yes, but that was because we depicted her as a giant, fire-breathing dragon. Your mum doesn't particularly like being depicted as a heavyweight, ancient magical animal capable of destroying entire cities in a single breath."

Remus turns into a rather heavyweight animal with claws and teeth, capable of destroying entire cities in a few hours. He does that every month. But he doesn't mention it—why ruin a good thing? It'll only upset his father. Remus laughs weakly. "I have fun. I promise."

"No, you don't. You just don't know what fun is."

"I know what fun is. Fun is a three-letter English word, derived from—" Remus pauses here, because he is an eight-year-old child who knows nothing of etymology. He hears his parents make that joke sometimes (his father is a typical Ravenclaw; he knows these things. His mother just makes things up), but he never quite understands what comes next. It's something to do with other languages, he's pretty sure. One of them, he knows, is Latin.

Remus doesn't know any other languages. He wonders what it would be like to know another language. Is it anything like the foreign words that Remus' father teaches him to speak when he's casting spells? Does real magic happen when people speak other languages? Do people look different when they speak different languages? Remus doesn't know. He's only spent time around his mother and father, after all, and neither of them are bilingual.

"I want to learn Latin," says Remus. "Is that a hobby?"

Remus' father blinks. "Do you even know what Latin is, Remus?"

"Of course I know what Latin is."

Remus' father crosses his arms, and Remus knows that he's teasing him. "Oh, really? What is it?"

"It's like... you know, another language... that people speak."

"Half right," says Remus' father, laughing. "That's an odd hobby for an eight-year-old, but I'll ask your mother what she thinks when she's done with her nap. It's time to go to sleep now, all right, Remus?"

"Keep reading Maxwell Melephant?"

"Only if you finish that glass of water. You need to..."

"Hydrate," Remus finishes with a groan. He tries to reach for the glass, but there's a sharp stabbing pain in his side that causes him to cry out—his father wordlessly hands him the glass and helps him sit up. It is extraordinarily painful, but Remus manages to finish the water. He nearly asks for more, but he doesn't particularly want to navigate standing up and going to the loo if he happens to drink too much, so he merely leans back and falls asleep to the familiar words of Maxwell Melephant and the Magic Elephant.

When Remus wakes up, his mother is pressing a damp cloth to his forehead and mumbling something. Remus blinks the sleep out of his eyes and leans into his mother's touch; her words come into focus like the lens of a Muggle camera. "...mus? You're awake?" she says, and Remus nods. "Your father tells me that you want to learn Latin?"

"Sure," says Remus. "Dad says I need a hobby. Latin's a hobby, isn't it?"

Remus' mother laughs a little and removes the cloth from Remus' forehead. Remus almost protests, but it's not long before the cloth is dipped in water again and then replaced. "Sure, honey. I suppose it is, in the most basic sense of the word. I learned Latin in school, did you know?"

"Could you teach me?"

"Erm... no. No, I don't remember a thing. It's a bit of a dead language."

"How did it die?"

"No, not dead... not dead like that. There aren't native speakers of it anymore is what I mean. Everyone who speaks Latin also speaks another language—and it's more written than spoken to begin with."

"I can write," says Remus. He doesn't know why his heart is so set on learning Latin, but it is. "I bet I'll like it."

"I... I suppose you might. I never did. Dead languages are dead boring, in my opinion." She pats Remus' hand and ruffles his hair. Remus makes a face. "I'll pick up some books at the library, all right? And then I'll teach you what I remember. It'll take a lot of studying, I'm afraid, and I don't know exactly what you're going to do with it... but why would I stop my kid from learning Latin?" She laughs. "You're an odd one, Remus Lupin."

Remus might be odd, yes, but he is also patient. He waits a full week until his mother has time to fetch Latin books. When she returns, she sits down at the dining room table with Remus and teaches him the basics of conjugating and declining.

And Remus does not like Latin. He's not very good at memorizing things, even though he does it all the time (what else is there to do?). He doesn't have a good enough grasp on the English language quite yet to understand the subtleties of a second language. But he studies the language anyway.

And he keeps doing it for years.

He becomes relatively good at Latin, actually. He grows to love it. He likes studying by his window on a rainy day. He adores the time that he spends with his mother, studying Latin while she reads a book or knits or fusses over Remus. He relishes it, because every time that he spends on Latin is time spent—and all Remus aims to do is to spend time, really. He has no goal. Latin is a relatively useless language.

But when has Remus ever done anything that was beneficial for his future? Remus has no future. He knows this at eight years old. He knows this because the Ministry have told him so. He knows this because his whole life has implied the fact. There are constants in Remus Lupin's life: the full moon, pain, and loneliness. He will live in a small house with his three closest and only friends (his mother, his father, and the Boggart that they kept in the cupboard) forever. Remus cannot fathom forever, but he knows that it's a very long time, and he spends his seconds waiting for it to end.

He picks up Welsh a year and a half later. Remus is Welsh himself, though he hasn't lived in Wales since he was five. Remus' mother protests. "Remus, not everyone in Wales speaks Welsh," she says. "No one in my family speaks it. You'll have no one to speak Welsh with. We've been living in France for a week now; why don't you learn French instead?" But Remus hardly has anyone with which to speak English, even, so he doesn't really care. Besides, they only end up staying in France until the next full moon.

Remus' time whittles away, bit by bit, second by second. His life exists in intermissions between full moons. He can't do anything useful, because he would need a future to do so—so he learns languages that no one speaks, memorizes poetry for no real reason, and writes stories that no one will see. He doesn't have a reason behind anything, but—much like his appearance—he doesn't care so long as he's alive.

On the day that James Potter turns nine, his parents throw him the most excellent birthday party that James has ever seen.

Streamers float in the air, just low enough for James to yank on their curly tails if he wants to. Confetti swirls at James' feet, perpetually suspended a few inches above the ground—it's like wading through multicolored water. Balloons bob against the ceiling, and they're all red and gold (James' favorite colors).

James' favorite part, though, is the pile of shiny presents in the sitting room, resting securely on the table directly underneath the chandelier. James will never tell his parents, but he's already slid a thumbnail under the largest one and lifted the wrapping just enough to see what it is. He did it in the dead of night so that his parents would never know, and he was so perfectly sneaky that he knows they'll never find out.

The present seemed to be a broomstick. James already has one, but he just knows that it's a bigger, faster model. He can't wait to take it for a spin and see what model it actually is (he couldn't really see enough through the wrappings)... but first, he's going to enjoy his party.

His friends arrive around noon, and James' mother, ever the gracious hostess, lets them in. James can be a gracious host, too, when he wants to—he never wants to, of course, but he figures he'll try it today. "Welcome, Madam Pattinson," he says sagely, sweeping into a graceful bow.

Pattinson places a hand over her heart and smiles. "Oh! Such good manners. You've raised a good boy, Euphemia."

"I know I have," says James' mother. She kisses the top of James' head, and James grins. "Why don't you run along and play with Janice until the rest of your friends arrive, Jamesy?"

"Right-o, Mum!" says James. Janice is standing behind Pattinson's skirts, sucking her thumb. James cringes. Janice is such a baby.

"Go on and play with James, dear," says Pattinson to Janice. Janice closes her eyes, seemingly drawing up the courage from a place deep within, and then dashes inside the house to play with James.

James entertains Janice for the next twenty minutes—there's really no other word for it; it's not as if Janice is entertaining James. He doesn't know why Pattinson arrives everywhere thirty minutes early. He might understand it if Janice wasn't a snivelling brat, but she is, so James doesn't understand it. He suspects it's because Pattinson is tired of playing with her tiresome child and wants a babysitter.

James sighs. He should be paid for his time, at least.

Marcellus arrives around half noon, and James is much more glad for the fact. Marcellus is loads of fun. He has a pet parrot that he carries around on his shoulder. The parrot knows dirty words, and James always gets a kick out of hearing them. James' mother doesn't approve of this, of course, but Marcellus always tells her that "it can't be helped", seeing as the parrot doesn't understand what it's saying. James' mother accepts this, and then Marcellus always leans over and winks at James. Little does James' mother know that James and Marcellus taught the parrot those words themselves on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

James can't wait to show Marcellus his broomstick. Perhaps he'll let Marcellus ride on the back—if they fly far enough, then they might be able to ditch Janice without getting in trouble. If James' mother asks, James will just say that they "only meant to be gone for a second, but then they got lost". It's not very believable—James has a great sense of direction—but James' mother always believes any excuse that comes out of James' mouth. She's a good mum like that.

It isn't until twelve-forty-five when the party really starts. James has ten good friends, and all of them arrive within five minutes of each other, carrying presents and wearing comfortable dress robes. James' robes are red and adorned with patterns of Snitches—his parents bought them for him exactly one year prior. James is growing out of them now, but he plans to throw a massive tantrum if his parents buy him anything but Quidditch-themed dress robes in the future. He loves these robes.

James and his friends play all the regular games—pin the tail on the house-elf, Ring-Around-the-Gillyweed, and Duck Duck Snidget. James wins every one. He'll never admit it, but he practices these games for hours—what's the point of having a birthday party if someone else wins the games?

James' favorite part of the party is opening his presents. His parents did indeed get him Quidditch-themed robes—these are red, too, but they have tiny, moving golden Quidditch players on broomsticks flying up and down the sleeves and across the chest. They're even better than James' current dress robes. He hugs his parents and changes into his new robes straightaway.

His new broomstick is a grown-up broomstick—it's not a model with safety features, and it's not even made for kids! It's a real-life broomstick made for real-life adults. James is smiling ear-to-ear for the rest of the day. The rest of the presents can't measure up, and James' parents have to remind him to be polite and thankful—but James is trying his best. He's just so excited to go outside and play with his new broomstick.

He normally loves it when his friends visit, but today he plays with them a bit impatiently while he waits for the party to end. He's ecstatic when they finally leave. "Can I play with my new broomstick now?" he squeals, not even waiting a second after the front door shuts behind the last of his friends.

James' mum smiles adoringly at James and ruffles his hair. "Of course, but Daddy needs to supervise. And go slowly!"

"Sure!" yells James, already removing the new broomstick from its box.

"James, you have to change out of those robes. They were very expensive, and I don't want them to get soiled."

James needs only pout for fourteen seconds before his mother begrudgingly agrees to let him fly the broomstick in his new robes. That's a new record.

James' father supervises while James rides over treetops, past smoking chimneys, and above the Potter mansion. He can go so much higher than he's ever gone before, and it's such a thrill to look down and see his legs dangling so far above the ground. At this height, his shoe is bigger than an entire house.

"You're going too high, James!" says James' father, and James reluctantly lowers his broomstick ten feet. He gazes at the sparkling emerald pond and then dives hard and fast, pulling up just in time to skim his shoes across the water. His father yells at him for that, but James isn't going to fall. He feels more comfortable operating a broomstick than he does walking, even. And James is a good walker. He hardly ever bumps into things.

Now, from the outside, James looks like a spoilt brat. Some people say that he is. He's never set much stock in rules; after all, he always seems to escape with nary a scratch. Perhaps James is lucky. Perhaps he's clever enough to get out of a scrape. Perhaps his family is so coddling and adoring that James has never really been in danger to begin with. Either way, James looks like a spoilt brat from the outside looking in.

But James knows that he isn't all bad. He does follow rules—sometimes—and he does listen to his parents—sometimes—and he doesn't complain—well, not always. His parents treat him well and love him so because he is a good child, don't they? James would be in a lot more trouble if he never listened and always did the opposite of what he was told. He'd never be allowed to ride such a dangerous broom, so high above the treetops, if he weren't at least a little bit responsible. James' parents trust him.

And because he's been so good recently, he decides that he can break a rule here or there. He climbs higher—even higher than he'd been before—and ignores his father's shouts of annoyance. Then he dives. The wind whistles past his ears. The houses and trees are blurs below him. There's a delicious swooping feeling in the pit of his stomach. James—who is responsible, at least a little!—watches the water carefully as he draws nearer—and then he pulls up at exactly the right time, expecting his shoes to skim against the water again and perhaps even spray his father and earn him a laugh—

But James forgets to take into account that the broomstick on which he is riding is not the one that he's been riding for the past year. The velocity, speed, and feel are all very different from what James is used to. The broomstick isn't as light and responsive to his touch, so he pulls up a bit too late. The bristles of the broom are caught in the water, and James feels the broomstick sag underneath him—he tries to pull up, but there's not enough time and not enough strength—James is submerged in the water. When he resurfaces, paddling and gasping and laughing, there's water in his nose and it burns.

"James!" cries his father, rushing towards him. "Are you all right?"

James is lifted out of the water, and his nods his head. "Fine, Daddy," he says. He's still laughing. He keeps laughing until he notices that his leg hurts a lot.

When he looks down, his leg is covered in blood. "Oh, ow," he says. Now that he's seen the wound, it starts to hurt ten times as much. James' eyes fill up with tears.

"Oh, dear," comments James' father. "Let's get you inside to your mother." He carries James, bridal-style, and James tries not to think about the burning in his nose and on his leg. He clutches his broom to his chest, and he cries harder when he notices that some of the bristles have broken off. He cries still harder when he realizes that there's a gash in his new robes.

James' mother coos over him as soon as he enters the house. "No harm done, Mia," says James' father. "He only scratched his leg on a rock at the bottom of a pond—it's much worse than it looks. I'll mend it in a second."

"But my broom!" sobs James.

"We'll take it to the shop and get it repaired, son. Don't you worry." He turns to James' mother again. "Everyone gets hurt on their first adult broomstick, Mia. The thrill of it is just too enticing. Not to worry—I was there to slow him down."

James wonders if he crashed because his father slowed him down, and his crosses his arms over his chest. "Wish you hadn't," he mutters darkly.

"Do you want to be fish food?" says James' father, and James giggles. He's feeling a bit better now. "That said, you really should have obeyed me. I know you think that you're invincible on a broom—and don't get me wrong: you're a thumping good flyer and you'll be on the Quidditch team before your third year—but there are certain rules that you have to obey in order to be safe. And since I now know that you're not as responsible as I thought you were, I'll have to supervise you every time you fly from here on out until you can prove yourself."

James sobs a little at that, knowing that he won't be able to have any fun with his father around. But it's fair, he knows. James cares about fair.

His mother mends his wounds, helps him out of his wet clothes, and summons a house-elf to draw James a bath (with more bubbles than water; just as James likes it). James hates the concerned look on his mother's face. Things aren't perfect anymore. Things are messed-up, and James wants to fix them. He has to. He feels so bad for her—she hasn't done anything wrong—and he wants to make her happy again. "I'm sorry, Mummy," James says. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to get hurt... or ruin my robes... or break my broom. It was just so fun."

"It's all right, darling," says James' mother. She kisses his forehead and rumples his hair. "You made a mistake, but now you can learn. Carpe diem."

James has what his parents call a photographic memory. He can recite long strings of numbers and words. His vocabulary (though he never chooses to use big words) is advanced. He can read faster than both his parents combined, and remember more, too. He has some vague memories of himself as a baby, before he could even walk. If James hears it, then he remembers it—which is why he's so certain that he's never heard that word before. "What's carpe diem?" he asks.

The annoying thing about being so bright and so young is that adults tend to laugh James off. He doesn't get an answer—he only gets another rumple of his hair and a "such a clever boy". James is disgruntled now.

He decides that, if no one will tell him, then he's going to find out for himself. He knows where the library is. And riding to the library safely on a broomstick all by himself will certainly prove to his parents that he can be safe and responsible, won't it? So, under cover of night, that's exactly what James does. It's a good job he's magical enough to unlock the shed by himself.

The library is closed, which isn't what James anticipated. So he sits on a bench outside the library for a bit, hoping to wait until the library opens and he can go in. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but he suspects that the foreign phrase will be in the foreign languages section.

James nearly falls asleep on the bench, but he's interrupted by a kindly-looking lady with soft brown eyes and floofy grey hair. "You're the Potter lad," she says, and James nods. "It's midnight, my boy. What are you doing out so late?"

"Technically early," says James, who knows how the twenty-four-hour time system works. "I'm waiting for the library to open."

"Why?"

"So that I can find out what carpe diem means. Mummy won't tell me."

"Oh," the lady says, laughing. If she knows what it means, she doesn't tell James. "Did you fly here all by yourself?"

"Yes," says James. "The broom's bristles are a bit broken because I fell into a pond—yesterday, not recently—so it's a bit wobbly. But I stayed close to the ground. I even stayed behind the trees in case there were any Muggles around, but I know there aren't any Muggles in this wizarding neighborhood. I was ever so careful."

"I believe you." The lady looks vaguely impressed, and James puffs his chest out with pride. "Carpe diem is Latin for seize the day. Now, why don't I Apparate you back home?"

"No, thank you," says James. "I have to get home on the broomstick so that my parents trust me to fly alone." He swoops away before the lady can say 'no', and he's home in less than ten minutes.

His parents are still sleeping; they never even found out that he left. James can't wait to tell them.

The next morning, he announces over breakfast: "Carpe diem is Latin for seize the day."

"It sure is," says James' mother. She's used to James' knowing random information by now, James is pretty sure. She doesn't look impressed at all. "James, the shed was unlocked. Did you remove your broom to look at it last night?"

"No," says James. "I actually—"

His mother interrupts before he can finish telling his mother that he'd actually flown it. "Good. I knew that I'd made it clear that you were not to fly your broomstick alone under any circumstances. Daddy said that I wasn't blunt enough, but you understand, don't you?" She smiles at him and finishes her tea.

James slowly shuts his mouth and then leans back in his chair. "Yep, crystal-clear," he says.

He never tells his mother nor father about his midnight excursion. But even if he had gotten in trouble for it, it would have been worth it.

Carpe diem. James decides then and there that he'll live his life by that phrase. After all, what's the point of life but to have fun?

Peter Pettigrew doesn't really ever find out what Latin is.

And he doesn't really care, to be honest.

The first time he has an actual conversation about the language is in the dormitory with Remus Lupin, who is Peter's best friend. They both adore James and Sirius, of course, but they can recognize that they're the underdogs. They aren't as loud and brash and bold as their dark-haired counterparts. It's always been James-and-Sirius, Remus-and-Peter. Remus and Peter are the afterthoughts, but that's okay.

Well, that's what Remus says, anyhow, but Peter knows the truth.

It's actually closer to James-and-Sirius and Remus, and also Peter. Remus and James are close because James loves having someone ill to take care of (and Remus is always poorly, for reasons unknown). Remus and Sirius are close because Sirius loves to vent about his parents, and Remus is a very good listener. Peter and Remus are close because they're similar (again: Remus says so, but Peter thinks he's just being kind). Remus has special and separate bonds with each of the other Marauders, but Peter is only close to Remus.

And it's so annoying. Peter spends more time around Sirius and James than Remus ever will. Remus is either ill or visiting his ill mother all the time. Remus doesn't join in on some of their more boisterous pranks. Remus sometimes prefers to spend time in the library rather than with his friends. It's Peter who gets into trouble for the sake of James and Sirius. It's Peter who claps for James when he does a fancy trick on his broom—Remus either reads a book or teases him. It's Peter who spends as much time as he can with James and Sirius, and Remus who is only their friend when he feels like it. So why is Peter still treated as an add-on? It's not fair.

Peter doesn't resent Remus, though. How could he? Remus is kind to Peter when nobody else is. Remus talks to Peter when nobody else will. Peter is always Remus' first choice, and that means the world.

James and Sirius are in a detention today, and Peter is doing schoolwork with Remus. They're talking about spells, and Remus says something about Latin roots. "What are Latin roots?" says Peter. "Are they like tree roots?"

Remus doesn't laugh, even though James and Sirius might've. He leans forward slightly and his eyes light up, just as they always do when Remus gets excited about something (they didn't used to, but now they do. Peter wonders what's changed). "It's a language," says Remus, "a very, very old language." He presses his lips together, and Peter knows that he's about to make a joke. "Older than Professor Dumbledore, even."

Peter laughs, but Remus isn't done yet. "Older than Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall combined. And older than Sirius, even though he thinks he's so old and wise just because his birthday is before ours." Remus smiles at Peter's laughter before continuing. "It's nothing like English. In English, we change the endings of verbs when the subject changes. In Latin, you change the ending of nouns, too—and adjectives have to agree with gender, and there's a whole separate tense just for when you aren't sure about something..." Remus rambles for a bit about the wonders of Latin, but Peter zones out for a bit. He doesn't really understand. "...But even though it's so different from English, a lot of the words we get—and a lot of the magic spells, especially—come from Latin," continues Remus. "Especially the big words. So when you know some Latin vocabulary, then you can guess what a word means based on the parts of Latin in it. That's a Latin root—it's part of the word that stems from Latin."

Root. Stem. What's up with all the plant terms? "Sounds complicated," says Peter.

"Oh, it is. Terribly complicated. I learned a bit of it before I went to Hogwarts, but I was never particularly good at it. I worked hard, though."

"Why'd you learn it, then?" asks Peter. He can't fathom the way that Remus' mind works sometimes. Who would learn for fun?

"Well..." Remus seems to be thinking very hard. "Sometimes languages are difficult to learn because they're always changing. Like French and English and Spanish and things. The vocabulary and slang changes all the time. But Latin isn't changing at all—it's been the same for years, and it'll never change again." He pauses. "And then there's the rules themselves. Latin has a lot of rules, but that means that it's predictable. It has relatively few exceptions to the words. And... I always found it fun to memorize things." Remus shrugs. "My life before Hogwarts was always very predictable, so Latin was comforting, in a way. Things that are constantly changing are a bit like moving targets, aren't they? My life's not predictable anymore, of course," Remus finishes with a laugh.

"It's not?"

"Are James and Sirius ever predictable?"

"Well... no." Peter smiles, but he's a bit concerned. "Does that mean you don't like us?" He dares to use the pronoun us, even though he knew that Remus was chiefly talking about James and Sirius. Peter likes being lumped together with his friends.

"That's not it at all," says Remus, waving his hands. "I think you're great. It's not what I'm used to, but maybe... it's better than what I'm used to. Moving targets are a little more fun, I think."

Peter disagrees, but he'll never say so. He thinks that his own relationship with the Marauders is a bit like a moving target—and, unlike Remus, Peter isn't quick enough to hit it. In fact, he's not even quick enough to see it until it's far too late. The expectations are always changing. The Marauders are too quick for Peter, too fast for him, too bright. Every time Peter feels like he's caught up, his friends have already moved on.

But Remus can keep up. Whenever Sirius makes a snide comment towards Remus, Remus can fire back with one equally snide. Whenever James starts babbling about things that Peter doesn't understand, Remus can keep up and ask questions without seeming stupid. Remus is a lot like Peter, but there's just something there—and Peter doesn't think it's intelligence, but it's something akin to it—that makes him a good, exciting friend.

And whatever it is, Peter doesn't have it.

At first, Peter tries to be just like James. He copies James' excitement and nonchalant attitude. He runs his hand through his thin, blond hair (it doesn't have the same effect, but he does it anyway). He thinks that perhaps he'll play Quidditch someday. He could be on the same team as James. Wouldn't that be grand?

Then Peter realizes that he's started too high. James is perfect, so Peter needs to aim a bit lower. So he makes jokes that he isn't entirely sure are kind, just like Sirius. In second year (after they'd already found out about Remus), Peter makes a rather unsavory joke about werewolves to Remus' face. Remus jokes about werewolves all the time, but there's something about Peter's joke that makes him go pale and shaky. He laughs it off, but Peter feels awful. He stops trying to be like Sirius. Sirius sometimes makes Peter feel bad about himself, and he doesn't want to do that to anyone else.

Peter decides to aim even lower. He's going to be like Remus, who seems to fit in without even trying. Peter tries for Remus' brand of deadpan humor. He sits with his hands folded, just like Remus. He lets his mouth twist upwards when he's happy instead of breaking into a huge grin. He tries to be kind to everyone, even when it isn't true. He starts lying a little bit more, just like Remus—about tiny things, just like Remus. Peter even begins to do schoolwork more, like Remus.

James and Sirius seem playfully exasperated about Remus' desire to do well in school. "That's our Moony," they say, shaking their heads and going outside to play Quidditch. But when Peter stays in to study, they look at him and scoff. "It's not that hard, Peter. You don't really need to revise for the Potions exam. It's the first one of the year. It's gonna be easy. How thick can you get?"

So Peter stops trying to be like Remus. He isn't sure what secret ingredient Remus has that makes James and Sirius love him unconditionally, but Peter has no good relationship with his friends. Even Remus seems to prefer James' company to Peter's on occasion, even though Remus and Peter are supposed to be best mates.

After a while, Peter starts to notice flaws in his friends. They are no longer the paragons of light that he once thought they were. Peter, ironically, notices flaws in Remus first.

Remus is self-pitying and self-centered. Everything always has to be about him. Whenever Peter tells him something even remotely sensitive, he can tell that Remus is pitying himself in his head, even though he doesn't say it aloud. Remus' life is worse; Remus' life is always worse. Peter doesn't mind at first, because Remus is right. But... after a while, it gets tiring.

And Remus pretends that he thinks something of Peter, but Peter knows that too much of it is a farce. Remus is better than Peter. He has suffered more, and he has still come out better. He is a harder worker, a better listener, and better with people. Peter's too slow, too hesitant, and not funny enough for Remus' tastes. And Remus knows it—he's just too polite to say so.

That hurts more than Sirius and James' disparaging comments, actually. With James and Sirius, it's obvious that the three of them are not on equal footing. But Remus seems to offer Peter crumbs of friendship that taste sweet in Peter's mouth and turn to plastic as they go down. Does Remus even like Peter? Peter isn't sure.

Oh, perhaps he's overthinking things. Perhaps Remus is a much better person than Peter thinks he is. Perhaps they all are. After all, Sirius makes exactly the same belittling comments towards Remus as he does Peter—the difference is, Remus can laugh them off, and Sirius respects him for that. And James may be conceited, but there's something much brighter underneath. James is so empathetic that it almost hurts.

Peter almost wishes that he were a werewolf.

Forget almost. Peter wishes that he were a werewolf. Maybe that's the certain something that Remus has and Peter doesn't.

James and Sirius may be the mascots of the Marauders in public, but Remus is the mascot in private. He's the glue that holds their little group together. James and Sirius would never get rid of him: no, it's too much fun to be friends with a werewolf. They love it.

James bends over backwards to take care of Remus when he's poorly. Sirius relishes the danger of having a werewolf friend. Everything is always about Remus, and Peter wants everything to be about Peter. He doesn't even need all that much; he only wants people that genuinely like him. Peter is only a Marauder because of a mixture of chance and Remus. Chance gave him position: it was the reason that he was placed into the same dormitory as the rest of them in the first place. Remus gave him means: he was the one that convinced the other Marauders to treat Peter nicely, even though Peter is now trapped in a group that isn't anything like him.

Well, he's not trapped. But he wants to be.

Peter wants to be equal with his friends more than anything. He wants it so much that his heart aches. He's happy to have friends, of course, but sometimes he feels as if he is merely witnessing a friendship instead of participating.

Peter doesn't know much about the Latin language, but he does know that a moving target is much harder to hit than a stationary one. "I think I'd like Latin," says Peter.

Remus smiles—closed-mouth, as he always does—and folds his hands on his lap. "So did I," he says, "but there are better things, aren't there? And much more useful things. Like this charm, for instance—I think you're waving your wand a bit too much. Try a smaller movement. There, that's it..."

Peter resolves to enjoy his friendship, as strange as it might be. He will not be self-pitying like Remus. It doesn't matter in the long run, does it?

Remus relishes the feeling of knowing something strange and obscure that most people probably don't know. Here he is, a Dark creature roaming the corridors of Hogwarts—a Dark creature who knows Latin, of all things. Knowing something so ridiculous makes him feel clever and a little less of a monster. Werewolves are so often seen as bringers of death, but Remus is spending his time bringing a dead language back to life.

Sirius knows that Latin makes Remus feel clever. Remus doesn't mention it a lot—he's Remus, of course he doesn't—but he'll throw a few phrases around here and there. Remus loves words. Anyone who knows Remus knows this. He memorizes poetry. His grammar is often immaculate. He reads himself to death. Remus corrects Sirius' grammar, and Sirius lets him—it makes Sirius feel more a rebel when someone is telling him off for bad grammar, just as his tutor used to do, but with Remus it is all in good fun. Sirius never tells Remus that he knows a bit of Latin, himself. He pretends to be as dumb as dirt on the subject. It's not really because of Remus, though—fact is, Sirius is embarrassed that he had a Pureblood upbringing like that. He wants to cut all ties with his past.

Things are complicated, as things usually are. Peter likes the idea of Latin, but not the language itself. Remus likes the language itself, but not the idea of it—not anymore. Sirius hates both the language and the idea. As for James, he blissfully exists on his own little planet, seizing the day in any language he can get his hands on.

Mostly, they don't speak of it. It is such an inconsequential thing in the grand scheme of things: they'd much rather be chatting about Charms tests and Flitwick's new haircut and Dumbledore's flamboyant clothes.

Remus stops brushing up on his Latin skills after he meets the Marauders, and he never looks back. When he's thirty, he'll see a simple motto on a building written in Latin and realize that he cannot translate it. Perhaps he could have at age ten, but now he's forgotten. Remus hardly remembers the days of poring over verb charts, and nor does Sirius. Latin, for Remus and Sirius, represents the past.

It is a dead language in all senses of the word—both metaphorical and otherwise—and they wouldn't have it any other way.

AN: Another scene from my longer fanfiction that I wanted to expand upon. My latest chapter (44) explains Remus and Peter's relationship a bit, and I thought I'd explain that a little more. And I have a scene in chapter 43 in which Remus just happens to know a couple words in Latin. I don't actually know Latin: I have written this one-shot with the Power of the Internet. Hope you enjoyed!