Y1, C13: In Which the POV Randomly Switches

It was time for a staff meeting. Curfew had just begun, and Filch and the Prefects were manning the fort while a select few of the teachers stopped by The Three Broomsticks. Calling it a "staff meeting" sounded professional, but it was really just a plethora of gossip. Talking about the more difficult students kept the professors sane—well, relatively sane, anyhow.

"That James Potter," said Professor McGonagall, "is going to do great things. Take note, Horace."

Slughorn's eyes lit up. "What did he do, exactly? My last Slug Club was rather boring from the first-year side."

"He achieved Reparo on his very first try. No small feat for a first-year."

"A wonderful flyer as well," said Hooch. "Very steady, and right quick."

Flitwick nodded eagerly. "Good in Charms, too, although Amanda Fritz from Slytherin got it in two seconds flat."

"What do you think of Sirius Black being in Gryffindor?" asked Sprout.

"The Sorting Hat is never wrong," said McGonagall, "though I do wonder how his family is taking it. I haven't heard from Walburga, and it is making me quite nervous."

"Nor have I," said Hooch. "He does seem like a Gryffindor to me, though."

"I wish he had been in Slytherin," said Slughorn. "Broke tradition. I wonder what went wrong with him?"

"Nothing 'went wrong' with him, Slughorn," said McGonagall. "Gryffindor is a perfectly good House."

"I'm not saying otherwise, my dear! But it is a shame."

They talked of the first-years for a little while longer, but eventually, conversation trailed off. "I'm just going to say what we're all thinking, seeing as everyone else is too cowardly to say it," said Questus: those were the first words that he'd spoken all evening. "Remus Lupin."

"Fairly bright," said Flitwick. "Got Wingardium Leviosa on his third try. Shy, to be sure, but well-mannered and intelligent."

"He was having a bit of trouble in Transfiguration," said McGonagall in a stiff tone. "Confidence problem, you know. Most first-years have them."

Questus spoke again. "I'd wager he has next to no confidence. Good liar, though, which is commendable. Should have heard his response to a comment that Lily Evans made about werewolves."

"Yes?"

"Well, they were quizzing each other before class. It very quickly turned into a 'would-you-rather' type game, which was humorous enough on its own. They got into the subject of Dark creatures, and Evans asked Lupin if he would rather fight a vampire or a werewolf."

"What did he say?" asked Sprout when Questus paused for dramatic effect.

"Something along the lines of, 'A werewolf, because if I managed to stay alive till moonset I imagine the werewolf would apologize and invite me out to tea.'"

Pomfrey snickered. "That does sound like him. It bothers him, you know, when people talk of it—but he manages to keep his composure. Most of the time. I've enjoyed his company; he's really quite funny."

"And he hasn't tried to attack anyone?" asked Sidus slowly.

"Of course not!" said Pomfrey. "He's not dangerous. He's eleven. An eleven-year-old child—it's terribly tragic."

"How did it happen? Do you know?" asked McGonagall.

"He told me that he was four." said Pomfrey, "and he mumbles about it in his sleep—nightmares, you know. That's all I know, and I don't think he'd ever want to tell me more. He's very private; sort of secretive. Won't even tell me he's in pain unless I prompt him."

Questus snorted. "Needs to toughen up, if you ask me."

"No one asked you," said Pomfrey. "I assure you, Remus Lupin is tougher than I ever will be. Boy walked all the way across the grounds with an impossibly injured leg. Besides, he's eleven. He's allowed to be uncomfortable when someone mentions werewolves."

"The world waits for no one," said Questus. "I'm sure he already knows: bad things happen to young people. He needs to be less emotional in order to defend himself. He can't jump every time Dark creatures are mentioned."

"He doesn't!"

"Not visibly, maybe, but I can see it in his eyes." The other teachers were now watching the argument with interest.

"Nothing is going to happen to a child at Hogwarts!"

"Then why don't you tell me exactly what happened to my sister?" hissed Questus.

The room went silent.

"John, I'm sorry... but things are different now, with Dumbledore," said McGonagall softly.

"No. Things won't ever change. My sister was killed before my very eyes when I was in second year. I was right there, and I knew the spell. If I hadn't been too scared to keep a cool head—if I hadn't hesitated—then I would have been able to save her. We were both young, of course, but the Dark Arts wait for no one to grow up."

No one spoke for one agonizing moment. Questus' sister had died in an unfortunate accident involving Devil's Snare that some of them still remembered hearing about. It had been all over the Prophet at the time.

"I was an Auror, remember? I've seen awful things happen to young people. You said it yourself: Lupin was four. Tragic, yes. Surprising? No. Bad things happen. It's time we all accepted that and moved on. If we keep a cool head and teach others to do the same, then we can save people—temporarily—in the future. Yes, Lupin's seen some things that, in an ideal world, children shouldn't see. But I think it's been established a very long time ago that this isn't the ideal world, and sitting around talking about how unfair it is won't change that. Let him grow up. Push him a little. Goodness knows he doesn't want to be coddled."

"You're right, he doesn't," said Pomfrey, a little ashamed. "But nothing's wrong with him. He's doing his best."

"Right," said Flitwick, "and I think it's time we settled the score about prejudice as well." His eyes flitted over the other teachers, some of which looked guilty. "I've been stared at before. I'm half the height of the average first-year. It's not pleasant, and it's very obvious when someone is trying not to stare. He's completely normal—to my knowledge—save one night a month. Please treat him as such. I've seen you in the Great Hall and in the corridors—some of you are doing a very bad job of it. It would be funny, even, if I didn't know how much he must hate it."

"Easier said than done," said McGonagall. "Some of us have grown up on stories of werewolves. They're bogeymen of sorts in wizarding families, like monsters under the bed."

Pomfrey finished her butterbeer and set the glass on the table with a clink. "I'd like to remind you of my previous statement—he's eleven. Probably not physically capable of hurting anyone."

Questus grunted. "If you're uncomfortable, I'd suggest talking to him about it. Lot more understanding than you'd think, he is... If not infuriatingly quiet."

"I can attest to that," said Pomfrey, smiling. "I'd like to say one more thing, and then talk about another student—Remus is the type to hate people talking about him behind his back."

"Not as if we're going to stop," said Questus.

"Anything about his personal abilities?" asked Slughorn. "I invited him to the Slug Club, but it was... unfortunate timing. Sarcastic answer I got from him, too."

"I might have to hear that one later, Horace," said Sprout.

Poppy ignored them and continued. "I don't know how much class he'll be missing in future months. I didn't want to let him go as soon as I did. Just... don't say anything to him if he stops taking notes, or has a bit of a limp, or anything like that. I seriously doubt he'll be leaving the Hospital Wing every month devoid of injuries. Now, why don't you tell me why Rose Thompson ended up in the Wing with buttons for eyes?"

The teachers fell into a conversation about Rose Thompson. Dumbledore listened, passively, as he had been doing all night.

He was thinking very, very hard.

Dumbledore sat in his office that night, humming something by Mahler and sucking on a lemon lolly. He held Remus' memory in his right hand, looking at it intently. It was funny, how the lightest and happiest memory looked just the same as the horrifying ones.

He'd wanted to wait until the other teachers were asleep to view it. It was a little embarrassing to be walked in on when he had his head in a Pensieve and his tush sticking out in the air—besides, Dumbledore thrived on solitude. A sleeping castle was just what he needed to focus. Dumbledore expected he'd be ruminating over this particular memory all night; he was not the type of person to sleep with an unsolved mystery swirling about his head.

Finally, the clock struck midnight. Classes started early tomorrow morning, and Dumbledore was certain that everybody was asleep by now. He finished off his lemon lolly with a crunch and hummed the final note of Mahler. Perfect timing. "Well then, Remus," he whispered, "let me see what I can do."

He pulled out the Penseive and tipped the phial over, letting the contents spill inside. It was beautiful, for such an ugly memory. Dumbledore took a breath and dunked his face in.

And there he was: inside the abandoned building. He let the memory solidify before looking around. Dumbledore had worked on the building all summer, and it was exactly as he remembered it. Poppy Pomfrey had wanted him to escort Remus himself the first night, but Dumbledore had refused—after all, this was Poppy's job. Not his. And there Poppy was, standing with her hands clasped tightly in front of her—if Dumbledore knew Poppy well, which he did, that was a sign of discomfort. There was Remus, a calm smile on his face betrayed only by the shaking hands that he hid behind his back. Poppy was saying something about his fake smile.

"Fake it till you make it, that's what I always say," came Remus' voice. Dumbledore smiled. Remus Lupin was a Gryffindor through and through.

"You are a strange boy, Remus Lupin," said Poppy.

"Whatever gave you that impression? I'd like to think I'm perfectly normal, thank you very much. Nothing about me is strange, dark, or otherwise abnormal whatsoever." Dumbledore chuckled. He heard Remus' voice quaver on the last word, and wondered how much of it was nerves and how much was a normal part of the transformation process. He supposed he'd find out sooner or later.

Poppy eventually left, and Remus stood, unmoving, the smile frozen on his face.

Silence.

Moments passed, and Dumbledore vaguely wondered if he had been Petrified. Or perhaps that was part of the transformation process, too?

But not so. All too suddenly, the smile left Remus' face and he dropped to the floor instantaneously. He was freely quivering as he held his hands up to his face and clenched and unclenched his fingers, staring blankly. He wiped away a stray tear, and there were no more. A few minutes later, the quivering stopped nearly completely. Remus' breathing slowed: he was taking them in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like he had been doing in Dumbledore's office.

"Okay," Dumbledore heard Remus whisper. "I've done this before. It's no different." Remus worried the hem of his robe and closed his eyes tightly, mumbling something... then he stopped and stood up. It looked as if it were painful, but he walked to the second floor of the building and looked around, dragging his fingers on every wall and every piece of furniture.

After a while, Remus made his way back downstairs. He looked so unsteady that Dumbledore had an odd desire to help him. Or to tell him to sit down, the stubborn child.

Remus inspected every piece of furniture slowly. When he arrived to the piano, he plunked out a one-handed melody.

A, A A.
A, A A.
A, A A... Bb... A... G, C, F.

"Moonlight Sonata," Dumbledore whispered, amused. He had always prided himself on his vast knowledge of music.

"Sorry to destroy you," Remus whispered to the piano, and then moved on. The piano did not respond, which was just as well.

He found an empty spot on the floor and began to pace back and forth, which was something that Dumbledore, too, often did when he needed to clear his head. Remus was mumbling something again, and Dumbledore walked alongside him to hear it better. "Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone; for the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, but has trouble enough of its own."

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, thought Dumbledore. Solitude. Remus finished out the poem admirably, not missing a single word.

"There is room in the halls of pleasure for a large and lordly train, but one by one we must all file on through the narrow aisles of... pain." Remus paused. "Well, that's dark," he said. "I was looking for something more light-hearted. Let's not end with that."

Dumbledore chuckled again.

Remus continued to recite some Lewis Carroll, some Edgar Allan Poe, and even some Shakespeare, getting more and more animated as time went on. Eventually, his voice and legs failed him, and he sat down on the floor, now shaking violently.

He clasped his hands together, as if he were trying to physically force them to be still. It didn't work. "Not so soon," he whispered. "Please, not so soon. Not today. I have enough to worry about..."

He lied on the floor and tapped his fingers on his stomach. It was clear that he'd done this many, many times before, and Dumbledore watched curiously. It appeared as if Remus was trying to get some sleep—in vain, of course. As if anyone could sleep in that state. Even Dumbledore himself would not be able to do so, and he was nearing one hundred years old.

The memory shifted forward in time; Dumbledore noted that Remus' shaking had increased dramatically. This can't be just nerves, thought Dumbledore, but he knew full well that the moon was still hours away from rising.

Remus sat up and started mumbling again, this time his notes (evidently memorized) from Potions class. Suddenly, he clutched his chest and whimpered, twitching violently and scrunching up his face. Tears fell freely down his face, and he seemed to be struggling to take in air. Dumbledore briefly wondered if it was the start of the transformation, but it was much too early.

Whatever it was, it ended gradually, eventually leaving Remus flat on his back and breathing heavily. He scrambled into a sitting position and hastily wiped his face. "Calm down," he chastised himself.

It didn't happen again for about twenty more minutes, but the second time was worse than the first. "Oh, stop being so angsty," Remus told himself aloud when it was finished. "This isn't your first rodeo."

He sat there, quivering, whispering, and tapping his fingers anxiously, for some time. It was a very long handful of painful moments before a shaft of moonlight fell through the boarded-up window. Remus froze completely. There was no quivering, tapping, nor whispering. Six seconds passed.

Remus glanced out the slat in the boards that resembled a window. He looked like he might be sick out of terror. And Dumbledore could see, as he watched Remus' skeleton rearrange underneath his skin, why Remus hadn't wanted anyone to see this.

It took about forty seconds total before Remus was completely transformed. Dumbledore watched in a sort of detached way as Remus tore up furniture and his own skin.

He watched for about an hour, trying to figure out what, exactly, he could do to help—but it seemed futile to do so. Dumbledore waved his wand, and the memory skipped several hours. Now he was watching Remus transform back. Remus sat up, breathing heavily but completely conscious. "Good morning, Madam Pomfrey. Beautiful day, isn't it?" he mumbled.

Dumbledore did not pity Remus Lupin, but he did have a sort of newfound respect for him.

He pulled out of the memory and hummed some rock music. Merlin, did he need another lolly.

Experimenting with different POVs. Will do so more in later chapters (though not for a while). I wrote all of this a very long time ago... looking back, the contrast between light and happy chapters vs. dark and terrifying chapters (and individual sentences, even) is very stark. This isn't the first time it happens, nor will it be the last. Such is the life of a Marauder, I suppose :)