Questus stormed back into his house and slammed the door behind him. His vehement movements caused shooting pains to travel up his leg and to his spine, but he didn't even wince—anger was a hell of a pain reliever. He walked over to the fireplace and tossed Floo powder into the flames. "Hogwarts, Headmaster's office," he said, and then he stuck his head into the flames and coughed loudly to get Dumbledore's attention.

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, but he looked up at the sound of Questus' dramatic cough. "Ah, John," he said. "How are you finding the arrangements?"

"You have a lot of questions to answer," said Questus angrily, "but you're going to have to come over here. The smoke is bothering me." He coughed again, this time for real. Damn werewolf senses—the scent of the smoke was far more potent than he remembered. "I won't wait. Right now," Questus added, and then he removed his head from the flames and stumbled to the sink, where he washed his nose with tap water to rid it of the smell of smoke. Tap water tasted different from Conjured water, but Questus would deal with it.

There was a loud crack, and then Dumbledore was standing in Questus' kitchen, admiring the cheesy flower-patterned walls. "Cough drop?" he offered. "I have some lemon-flavored ones. Those are my favorites."

Questus was definitely not in the mood to humor Dumbledore's antics today (well, he never was, but that was besides the point). "No!" he said. "Dumbledore, you should have told me that Lupin, of all people, is living next door!"

"Oh," said Dumbledore. "I thought for sure that I had mentioned it. It won't be a problem, will it?"

"Of course it'll be a problem!"

"Why?"

"I am not a teacher anymore! Now there this horrible obligation to talk to him, and I don't want to do that! I want to be alone!"

"Since when have you been one to care about social obligations?"

"Since when have I been one to want to live next to a twelve-year-old werewolf? I don't like kids!"

"You liked Remus."

"I tolerated him, and barely so. There's a difference between being curious about Lupin and genuinely liking him."

Dumbledore walked over to Questus—who was still leaning heavily on the sink—and put his hand on his forearm, firmly guiding him to an armchair. Questus never would have admitted it, but he was thankful—after all, his leg hurt terribly and there were times that he didn't think he could move on his own for fear of falling. "John, it will benefit the both of you," Dumbledore said quietly.

"Yeah? How, exactly? I don't plan on talking to him."

"Remus' parents will help you, should you ever need it—any of the Lupins will be happy to answer any questions you may have—Remus may need someone to talk to every once in a while—"

"I'm not his therapist!"

"Perhaps not, but..."

"No, Dumbledore. No buts. Pushing the job of therapist onto me isn't okay, and you should have told me."

"You wouldn't have moved there if I had."

"Yes, that's rather the point! Do try to keep up. I enjoyed Lupin's company, yes, for a time. There was nobody else in that awful school who appreciated my particular brand of humor and honesty, but that most certainly does not mean that I want to be next-door neighbors with him. I like talking to adults, not children. I want to talk to somebody of my relative intelligence, attention span, personality, age..."

"Species?"

It was a joke. Questus knew it was a joke, and Questus wasn't really offended by it. Still, he was angry, and he wanted an excuse to blow up at Dumbledore—and here it was, however meagre. An insensitive joke—the kind that Questus would usually appreciate, but not today.

"Shut up!" hissed Questus, pulling out his wand and pointing it toward Dumbledore. "I've never tried to hex you before," he snarled, "because I knew you'd win. After years of trying to be the best duellist on planet Earth, I didn't think my pride could take that. And you know that, too—that's why you refused to duel me to keep my skills sharp while I was teaching at Hogwarts. You know you'll beat me. We both know..." Questus brandished his wand a bit, but Dumbledore didn't even flinch— "which is exactly why I am not afraid to do it. We both already know. Why not prove it?"

"Why not?" repeated Dumbledore. "I think the better question is why."

"Because I'm angry."

"And how much of that is you, I ask? You know your temper and patience aren't quite what they used to be. How much of this is you, John, and how much of it is the lycanthropy?"

Questus wasn't sure what to say to that. "Does it matter? That's what I feel, and I'm willing to act on it."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. Questus didn't even register Dumbledore drawing his own wand until it was too late: after a mere blink of an eye, Questus' wand was in the long fingers of Albus Dumbledore. Years of training. Years of studying. Decades of being the most respected Auror at the Ministry... and just like that, Questus had been defeated, before he even knew the duel had started. Embarrassing, yes. Enlightening, yes. Questus felt useless, and frankly embarrassed that he'd even tried. He probably looked like a child playing with a stick in the eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Was this how Lupin felt when he duelled with Questus?

"Does that satisfy your curiosity?" Dumbledore asked softly.

"How...?" Questus shook his head. "I didn't think you could move that quickly. Mighty impressive."

"Thank you. You know, I heard from a very reliable source that deep breaths tend to help with the temper. In through your nose and out through your mouth, I believe it was."

Questus snorted. "Right."

"John, I have a feeling that some good will come of this new living arrangement. And, even if it does not... what bad could come from it? Please trust me."

Questus looked at his wand in Dumbledore's hand. He looked at the tree just outside his window. He looked at his leg, which was still steadily dripping blood, despite Pomfrey's best efforts to stem it. He sighed and took a sip of the Blood-Replenishing Potion that Madam Pomfrey had provided for him. "I trust you," he said finally, "but I stand by what I said before. Remus Lupin and I are not going to be 'friends', nor am I going to be his 'teacher'... we shall keep a good old frosty distance."

"Noted," said Dumbledore, and Questus rather wanted to punch those twinkling eyes right out of his skull. "I've brought you a housewarming gift, by the way. I'll leave it just on the counter with your wand."

"You bought me a whole house. I think that's enough."

"But you can never have too many houseplants." Dumbledore winked. "Please enjoy your summer of recovering from your injuries and ignoring Remus Lupin."

"I won't!" called Questus.

Dumbledore Apparated away, and then the house was too quiet.

There was quiet, and then there was Quiet.

Gone were the days where Questus woke up early to get some quiet to himself before the hordes of children woke up. Gone were the days when he woke up before Crawford and Simmons, jogging through London while it was still dark out. Now that Questus lived alone, there was no quiet, but there was Quiet.

Quiet-with-a-lowercase-Q had always been a pleasant sensation. Questus could close his eyes and hear nothing at all, save his own breathing. He could read peacefully, all distractions eliminated and only peacefulness left. Quiet-with-a-lowercase-Q had been one of Questus' favorite things.

There was none of that anymore. Questus couldn't catch a moment of quiet, not even when he stuffed a pillow over his head and plugged his ears with handkerchiefs. His heart was beating. The birds were chirping. The branches were rustling. The wind was whistling. The bloody blades of grass were brushing against each other. He heard his bones creak when he moved, he heard the electricity thrumming in the walls, and he heard the faint chatter of the townspeople carried on the wind. He was constantly annoyed, and his ears were constantly full of noise.

Questus grieved Beth, and he grieved his health, and now he also grieved the quiet. Would he have to wait until death itself to catch another moment of quiet? It was unthinkable. How did Lupin live like this, in a state of constant noise? How could he possibly want to spend any time around Potter and Black, if he was already bombarded with such sensory torture? How was it possible that he could step into the Great Hall or attend a Quidditch game? Questus was baffled.

But even worse than the loss of the quiet was the presence of Quiet. Quiet-with-an-uppercase-Q was entirely different from quiet-with-an-lowercase-Q, and it was frankly horrible.

Questus was used to the type of quiet that wrapped around him like a warm, comforting blanket, but Quiet was akin to a boa constrictor. Questus loved the quiet that reminded him of piping hot tea, but Quiet was boiling water. The real difference, when Questus thought about it, was that quiet was the lack of bad things (namely, noise), and Quiet was the lack of everything, good and bad included (namely... too much to count, really).

It was Quiet. There was nothing to do, there was nothing to look forward to, and there was absolutely nothing to distract Questus from the misery and loss that surrounded him like a cloud. The Quiet was all-encompassing and horrible: it enveloped him like a bramble, and it poked in all the wrong places. There was nobody to talk to, nobody to loathe, nobody to love, nobody at all. It was Quiet, and it was suffocating.

Questus suddenly realized that he'd never lived alone—not once. In fact, he'd hardly ever been alone in a building (despite being the most introverted person he knew). There had always been people nearby—be it his Hogwarts roommates, his Auror roommates, or the thousand sleeping students within Hogwarts walls. There had always been people, and Questus had never been alone.

He wasn't sure how to be alone, exactly.

He tried his best. He did all the normal things: he woke up, he brushed his teeth, he lied in bed for eight hours because his body hurt far too much to do anything else, and he read a book. But it was too loud, and it was too Quiet, and John Questus discovered that he did not like to be lonely. In fact, the aversion that he felt toward being completely and entirely alone was somewhat akin to fear.

Well, fiddlesticks.

Dumbledore showed up again at Questus' house two days before the full moon. "I heard you talked to the Lupins briefly," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling infuriatingly.

"Don't say a word," hissed Questus, who had now spent countless hours chatting with Remus Lupin. "It's not as bad as I thought it would be, that's all."

"Thank you for trusting me," said Dumbledore kindly. "Now, why don't I tell you about the arrangements for tonight?"

"I noticed the cellar. I have been walking around a little bit..."

"Even though Poppy warned you to stay off of your leg."

"Yes, even though. I saw the cellar. Went inside. It's pretty obvious what I'm meant to do."

"Good. The lock on the inside of the door can only be opened by a wizard, which you will no longer technically be come moonrise. Leave your wand here. The charms have already been placed on the cellar, of course—you need not worry about that. You will be safe."

"I know."

"And don't forget to relax."

"I am relaxed. I'm not worried. Who do you think I am?"

There was a moment's silence before Dumbledore said, "Why, I think you're a person like the rest of us, John."

"Hmm. Debatable. Werewolves aren't always considered people."

"Have you considered that, every time you insult yourself, you happen to be insulting Remus Lupin?"

"Why does it matter? I don't care. He's not around, and even if he was, he already knows that not everyone considers werewolves to be people. He can take a joke, and insults won't change the fabric of the universe or anything."

"I see."

Another moment's quiet (well, as quiet as it could get, which was to say, not very quiet).

"How do you feel?" Dumbledore asked.

Questus groaned. "Awful. Terrible. I can't believe Lupin actually goes to class on days like this. Can't imagine what it'll be like the day of the full moon..."

"Would you like me to visit?"

"Yes."

"It would be my pleasure. I imagine Remus has told you all about the transformation process?"

"Yes."

"How is he taking it?"

"Taking what?"

"The news of your newly-contracted lycanthropy, of course."

"Oh." Questus grinned and stretched massively. "Well, Dumbledore, I'd say he's taking it very well... seeing as he has no idea."

"No... idea? You haven't told him?"

"Of course not. Made up some lie about a cursed building. He could tell, you know—said there was something off about my scent. I told him it was the Blood-Replenishing Potion. He hasn't met a lot of werewolves in the past—only those at the Werewolf Registry—so he never put two and two together. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"John, this is highly uncharacteristic of you. Don't you think that it is information that he deserves to know?"

"No. Yes. Maybe." Questus leaned back into the armchair and stretched once more. His bones and muscles really were feeling awful. "You realize that he's going to have questions about it. He can't remember being human; he has no idea what aspects of him are from the lycanthropy and what's just part of his personality. He'll ask me about that. He'll want to know if anything's changed. And... I can't give him an answer to that."

"Why not?"

"Because things have changed. Everything is different. My morals are no different, but my emotions are—my personality is—among other things. I can't tell him that. He'll lose his mind with self-pity and self-loathing."

"You mean to tell me that you, John Questus, are concealing information from a child because... you're afraid it will hurt his feelings?"

Questus sighed. "No," he said. "That's not really it, either. I am worried that it will harm his... you know, his drive; his will to live... but that's not it. I would tell him in a heartbeat. It's only... well, I'm embarrassed. I don't want him to know. And it'll kill him if he knows that I know..."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think you understand how absolutely dehumanizing and humiliating this is. If he knows that I completely understand every single thing that he goes through, he'll go mad. He's told me about it, of course, but to know that I have first-hand experience with every single embarrassing detail is—well, that's different. And I feel the same way. I don't want him to know that about me. It's better that way."

"I understand your reasoning, but my point still stands. Whatever has happened to the brutally honest Professor Questus?"

"Don't call me Professor," said Questus. "Recent events happened, that's all. I was so curious about Lupin's predicament, and now I understand it fully—yet it feels much worse, obviously. My old mantra was that information can't hurt a person, but I've discovered over the past month or so that information can hurt very badly." He ran his hands through his hair, which seemed to be getting drastically greyer by the day. "It's not the fact that I feel awful that hurts; it's the knowledge that I am no longer human. It's not the fact that I'm not talking to Beth that hurts; it's the knowledge that she's dead and I'll never see her again. The facts don't hurt, Dumbledore—the knowledge of them does."

"Eloquently stated, but still uncharacteristic. You believe that emotions are useless and often controllable, do you not?"

"Yes," emphasized Questus, "but I've had enough, all right? It's been a long month. I'm not keen on either causing or feeling more pain. I'm finished. I'm tired. I detest emotions, and I've felt too many. I'm terrible at dealing with this sort of thing, all right? I didn't even want to tell him I was leaving because I knew the aftermath would be horribly annoying to deal with! I have had my fill of emotions for the rest of my life, really! I want... I need... a break."

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Now I see. That is, of course, understandable."

"But you're right—it does rather grate on my conscience to keep it a secret. I'll tell him. Next month."

"Whatever makes you happy, John. I do believe that talking will benefit the both of you."

"You're right," said Questus. "I'll tell him next month. I know I will."

At Questus' directions, Dumbledore came to visit the evening after the full moon. "Evening, John," he said, sympathy clouding his voice. Questus didn't blame him. He knew he looked pitiful. "How did things go?"

"Badly, thanks." Questus was staring off into space; he couldn't bear to meet Dumbledore's eyes. "Lupin was spot-on about everything, but it's not something that can be put into words. Horribly painful. Incredibly degrading. I regret the fact that I survived the night, and I sincerely hope that I do not live to see my next birthday."

Dumbledore looked sorrowful. "Is it really that bad?"

"Yes. Terrible. It wasn't until mid-afternoon that I managed to get out of the cellar and into the armchair. Took those potions that Pomfrey left me. Healed myself. Got dressed. Woke up two minutes ago." He yawned. "I've taken so much Pain-Relieving Potion and lost so much blood that I wouldn't be surprised if I sleep into next week. That was terrible. Can't do that again next month, much less for seven years. God help me."

"But you will?"

"Well, it's not like I have a choice... save suicide, but I'm far too stubborn for that."

"I am so sorry, John."

"You have no right to be. It was my own fault."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah. Would you mind just staying? For a moment. Twenty minutes. I'm going to sleep, and I need a little less Quiet in here."

"I would not mind at all," said Dumbledore, making himself comfortable.

Questus drifted off to sleep, trying to figure out how he was going to tell Lupin. He didn't know how yet, but he would definitely tell him sometime that summer. Definitely. Absolutely. Soon.

He didn't.

He tried to tell him—a few times, at least—but he never found the right time. Questus had known, but he hadn't really understood exactly why Lupin was so quiet, reluctant, and somewhat... unresponsive at times. The fact was, Lupin was dealing with the unfathomable; trauma beyond belief; pain beyond words. Questus had read books upon books about his condition, but he hadn't really understood the crux of it.

The thing about lycanthropy, Questus learned, was that it sapped all hope. Questus had never been one for hope, but the lack of it was stronger than the presence. When the sun rose after the second full moon, Questus had felt relief. After all, it was over now. The third had been the same. But on the fourth, Questus found himself on the floor of the cellar, breathing heavily and dripping sweat, tendons and bones stretched and reformed beyond recognition not once, but twice... and he didn't feel an ounce of relief. Why would he? It was just going to happen again in a few short weeks.

The lack of hope was a funny thing. It drained his will. His mind, oftentimes, drifted to the snowball fight—the four boys who called themselves the Marauders, throwing snow around and laughing. He remembered seeing Lupin's face. It was if someone had switched a light on inside: Lupin had been positively glowing. And that wasn't the only time—Lupin had the same look about him when he'd entered Questus' classroom after joking with his friends in the corridors... when he'd told Questus stories of the Marauderish antics... when he'd talked of being top of the form while drinking tea in Questus' sitting room. There was hopelessness in his face, yes, but there was also an indescribable and unexplainable zest for life behind the haunted look of a child who had endured far too much pain.

Questus supposed it came from adaptation—after all, Lupin had been young when he'd turned lycanthropic, so he'd gotten used to it by now—just as all people learned to accept the fact of their own slowly impending death. But... all the same, Questus couldn't fathom going through what Lupin did—what Questus now did—and still wanting to live. Living was a chore nowadays. It wasn't much of a gift.

So when Lupin came to Questus' house near the end of the summer, anger radiating from his every cell, telling him that his parents wanted to take him out of Hogwarts... well, it was all Questus could do to contain his own anger. That wasn't fair. Questus needed Lupin to live because he himself could not. He needed that small scrap of hope that, if a mere child could find meaning in a life of hatred and pain, then so could he. He would not let Lupin end up like him. He would not let a person fall to ruin before his eyes for a third time.

After all, Questus wasn't sure what he'd do without the work that he was doing for Dumbledore. Reading the newspapers, sorting events into categories, coming up with plans of attack... that was his only purpose now. Life was nothing without a purpose, especially when one was a werewolf.

Lupin was mildly annoying and very young—but he wasn't as weak as Questus had originally thought. He couldn't be, because now Questus and Lupin were going through more or less the same thing. Either Lupin was uniquely strong, or Questus was uniquely weak, and the former was much nicer to believe than the latter.

Questus became a bit closer with Lupin's parents over the next couple of months (they were good people, if not slightly misguided at times), and summer had barely ended when Lyall Lupin knocked on Questus' door.

"Door's open," called Questus.

Lupin stalked in, a rare no-nonsense look on his face. "Does Remus know?" Lupin questioned.

"Know what? He knows a lot of things. Bit too much, actually. Something of a know-it-all."

"Don't," Lupin said, and his tone was much sharper than it normally was. "Please tell me that you've told Remus."

"Babbling isn't attractive, Lupin... though I suppose you're already married, so you don't need to look all that attractive."

Lupin stood there, arms crossed, for a very long time. Questus turned back to his newspaper after a moment of silence. If Lupin wasn't going to talk, then he wasn't going to entertain his drama. Finally, Lupin blew a stream of air through his nostrils and collapsed into the armchair. "Questus, put the newspaper down," he ordered, utterly defeated.

Questus did so. "What, pray tell, was so important that you had to interrupt my—"

"Shut up and listen to me, okay?" said Lupin, and Questus shut up. "My son is a werewolf, and he has been so for nearly eight years. I watched him heal from the initial bite. I watched him figure out how to manage the enhanced senses, and I watched how to deal with the overwhelming and conflicting emotions. I watched him recover as much as he could from the trauma and fear. I was the one who had to explain to Hope what it meant... had to explain to him... had to explain to the Ministry... had to lock him up every month. I know what a werewolf is."

"Congratulations. Lupin, I know you know what a werewolf is. I'd be damn impressed if you didn't by now."

"Yet, somehow, you thought I wouldn't notice."

"Notice what?"

"Don't play dumb. You have that same look about you that Remus did seven and a half years ago."

"You're saying I'm a toddler?"

"I'm saying you're a werewolf."

Questus rolled his eyes. "If you're going to spout ridiculous conspiracy theories at me, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Lupin crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. "If I were to go to your cellar right now, then I think I know what I'd find."

Questus paused. He hadn't cleaned out the cellar from last month. He simply hadn't had the energy. The damaged walls and door would be something of a giveaway, certainly, and he knew he wasn't able to stop Lupin via magic without looking suspicious. There was no other option, unfortunately.

"Right," he said, nodding slowly. "Okay, fine. Sure. As of the beginning of last summer, I am a werewolf."

"And does Remus know?" Lupin pressed.

"No, in fact, and I must implore that you do not tell him."

Lupin threw his hands into the air, clearly incredibly frustrated by the whole situation. Questus, who was also incredibly frustrated by the situation (and by himself, honestly), did not blame him. "And why not?!" cried Lyall. "Why can't I tell my son that there actually is, in fact, someone who understands? Lycanthropy is awfully isolating, Questus! He has no one to talk to! Please do this for him... it's not as if he won't understand. Send him a letter right now so that he has time to get used to the idea before seeing you in person. I'm begging you—he needs this more than you can even imagine..."

"I'm not telling him important information like this in a letter."

"He's my son and I know him inside-out. Trust me, he'd rather hear it in a letter than in person. Less pressure to be calm and composed."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I have my reasons."

"Let's hear them, then."

Questus sighed and repeated to Lupin what he'd told Dumbledore, but Lupin wasn't impressed.

"Yeah? Don't care. You need to tell him."

Questus sighed yet again. "Fine. Fine, I will. I was planning on it, anyway—just waiting for the right time. I promise, all right? Before the end of next year..."

"Before summer starts."

"Fine. My only condition is that you swear that you or your wife will never, ever tell him, got it?"

"Very well." They shook on it, and then Lupin started to laugh a bit breathlessly. "One werewolf leaves my house, and then another one shows up. Goodness. I just can't escape them."

Neither could Questus, but it wasn't a laughing matter in his case.

AN: Happy full moon night! (Although, in Remus and Questus' case, there's not much reason to be happy about it.)