Remus woke up the next day at one in the afternoon. He opened his eyes and saw sunlight streaming through the cursed window, which was unusual. Typically, his friends woke him up at the crack of dawn. But, even though he missed his friends dreadfully, Remus was very happy to be catching up on precious sleep—the full moon was in about a week, and Remus was starting to feel it already.

He sat up and stretched, not worrying about who might be there to see the scars under his sleeves. It was nice, to say the least; almost like he was home again. What was the day again? Let's see, the full moon is six days away and it's on the 31st this month...

So it was the twenty-fifth. December twenty-fifth. It was Christmas!

Remus was suddenly wide awake. He got out of bed and noticed a pile of presents by his bed. How had they gotten there? Why did he have so many? Had someone come into his room while he was sleeping? Ah, that's right. Magic. It wouldn't be too hard to transport presents to his dormitory magically, he supposed. At least, he hoped that was what had happened—he wasn't too keen on someone coming into his room while he slept. He supposed anything was possible, though, since he slept like a pile of rocks.

And that made sense, since Remus literally had a rock named after him in the dormitory (courtesy of Sirius and Peter). Remus the Rock. Remus giggled. Peter had taken Remus to his house for holidays, so Remus the Rock was absent from the dormitory. Remus wondered why Peter had bothered to take the heavy rock home with him—spending Christmas with a rock did not sound entertaining in the slightest—but he figured he shouldn't judge. After all, here Remus was spending Christmas alone in the dormitory because he didn't have any other friends. That was more boring than a rock.

He figured that it would be a lot less fun opening presents alone, but it was better than nothing. And why did he have so many? He was too curious for his own good.

One of them smelled like his parents, so he opened that one first. It was wrapped in plain brown paper that Remus recognized as reused from his eleventh birthday. He opened it carefully and set the paper aside for future use.

And, just as he expected, it was a knit Gryffindor blanket. Stray strings were hanging off of it, but it was—miraculously—staying together. It was more of a blob shape than a rectangle or square, but Remus appreciated it nonetheless. He wrapped it around himself gratefully and fished the card from out of the wrapping paper.

Dear Remus,

Happy Christmas! We got the card that you sent; it's lovely. Dad says that you put quite the impressive Animation Charm on it. It looked good to me, but I can't tell the difference between a good one and a bad one! I'm ever so sorry about the blanket. Dad put a Durability Charm on it, he says, so it should last a very long time... but that's probably not a good thing. It's hideous. I tried to get him to let me fix it, but no such luck. Sorry about that, dear. You'll have to pretend to like it when you see him next.

There's a Sickle attached to this card. I expect you to spend it on yourself on the train. That's right—if you bring those Sickles back to us then we shall never forgive you. Knowing you, you've refused to spend the money that we gave you at the beginning of term. Dad says that buying sweets on the Hogwarts Express is part of "the experience", so please do that.

We love you! We'll write to you again tomorrow (it's Christmas Eve as I'm writing this). Wish me luck in dealing with Uncle Bryson. I'm not entirely sure why your dad likes him so much. I'll tell you all about my family reunion!

Lots of love,
Mum (Dad says hi too!).

Remus smiled. "Good luck," he whispered. He pulled out a piece of parchment and immediately wrote back, wishing them a happy Christmas and thanking them for the gift. The blanket would be a nice piece of home when he went to the Hospital Wing on the thirtieth, even though his father's scent would have faded by then.

The scents of the gifts had mostly mingled together, so he could only clearly recognize that of his family. He picked up another gift—this one was wrapped in red—and opened it slowly. It was a box wrapped in tape. Remus wasn't sure how to undo the tape in order to preserve the box, so he used a Severing Charm and resolved to fix it later. It was quite a big box, but extremely light.

Remus peered inside... and saw a picture frame. A very small one. He took it out and examined the picture, which depicted a laughing James holding up the mirror with Sirius' face in it.

There was a note in the box, too.

Hi MFCD!

Christmas at the Potters! We celebrated on Christmas Eve so that Sirius could join the festivities via mirror. Hope you're doing well at Hogwarts! (I thought it would be funny to get you a HUGE box and then put something tiny in it! Was it?)

—James and Sirius

Remus wondered vaguely what MFCD was. Then he realized that it stood for Mr. Fragile China Doll and scowled good-naturedly.

He reached for another gift and opened it slowly, revealing a small magazine clipping. There was a note, and Remus read it first (because that was good manners, of course).

Lupin,

Happy Christmas. Thought you'd enjoy this; found it in a magazine.

There was no signature, but Remus would have known whom it was from even if he didn't immediately recognize the handwriting. He skimmed the article quickly.

Do Werewolves Have Emotions? Responding to the Claims of Salvis Manard, by Alexander Adamson.

Salvis Manard, expert werewolf hunter, claimed last Thursday that werewolves were unfeeling beasts twenty-four-seven, not just one night a month. As a historian and psychologist myself, I'd like to offer an alternate perspective.

A few years ago, I met a very kind werewolf (whom I shall call Thea to protect her privacy). She was living in the flat across from mine, and I wouldn't have known that she was a werewolf had I not volunteered to work at the Registry one morning. I never would have expected to see her there, but there she was: my perfectly normal, relatively quiet, polite and well-mannered next-door neighbor. And, as I gave her a ride home that evening (seeing as our flats were so near to each other and she could not Apparate), I learned some important things.

One: Thea goes through great pains to contain herself every full moon. She's spent hours upon hours charming the cabin in which she transforms. I have seen it myself; it's very impressive magic. I assume that it must have taken at least three hours, perhaps up to six.

Two: Thea endures more prejudice and hate from the wizarding world than we can even begin to imagine. People despise her for what she is, even though she has never done anything to merit it.

Three: Thea is, first and foremost, a victim. She herself was bitten directly by Fenrir Greyback as a teenager. She has spent her formative young adult years with a painful and dangerous curse.

Four: I do not use the word "painful" lightly. The transformations are painful, very much so, and Thea emerges from her cabin after every full moon with scrapes, scratches, bruises, and deep wounds that magic can barely even heal.

Many of you, I am sure, will argue that Thea is faking it all. Her personality, you may say, is a farce—a method of luring innocent people into her clutches on the full moon. You say that she plans to murder you in cold blood, eat you alive, or bite you and turn you into a monster just like her.

But think about it logically. Thea and I have been in the same room alone. Had she Vanished the body, no one would have ever known. So why didn't she? And why would Thea go through so much pain every month just for one victim later down the road? And why would werewolves in general even try to gain our trust if they are so much more powerful than we are?

The simplest solution is often the correct one, and the simplest solution in this case—the obvious one, might I say—is that Thea is not faking her personality, motives, or innocence at all.

Let me ask you this. Are werewolves so much cleverer than we are to the point that they would concoct an extremely elaborate plan for which even I cannot figure out the purpose? If so, why do we view them as stupid beasts, only capable of killing and biting? And what is the benefit of pretending to be human? We have to jump through hurdles to step around the obvious solution: werewolves are people, just like us. They can feel, they can cry, they can hurt. They are people with a curse, not monsters with a vendetta.

So how did the myth that werewolves are generally unfeeling monsters come into existence? It would be easy enough to believe that they are dangerous one night a month. Why don't we?

Some of it originates from the incorrect belief that emotions stem from the heart rather than the brain (this belief is often referred to as the cardiocentric hypothesis). Many ancient cultures and people—such as the ancient Egyptians and Mesopotamia, Aristotle, Democritus, and Diocles—held to the belief that the heart was the impetus behind our every thought and action.

This, paired with the fact that is a fact that lycanthropy is a blood curse, is the recipe for the type of prejudice that we see today. When a human becomes a werewolf, his or her blood is contaminated with the curse. It is a physical curse, therefore, that affects the werewolf all hours of every day. Brain functions, senses, and blood consistency change (some dramatically and some only slightly). And since the curse has a physical, direct effect on the blood, it must also have a direct, physical effect on the heart—which it does. The heart of a werewolf is, anatomically, a slightly different shape than the heart of a human. Even the heartbeat is notably irregular and quick.

Many ancient philosophers and cultures did not find it difficult to assume that, since the heart was different, then the emotions must also be so. The assumption was not helped by the few werewolves who did give into the curse and purposefully harm others. That's not because it was inevitable, though—it's because, as I mentioned before, being a werewolf is extraordinarily painful. Without a system of support, who can blame a person (werewolf or no) for giving in after hours of hardship and pain? Giving up is a human action as well as a werewolf one.

My research has left me with even more questions than I started with. Why do we still hold to these primitive beliefs? Why do we believe everything that's passed down to us without doing our own research? Why do we believe that we are in the right for hating others based on something that they cannot control? I implore the general population to see sense: for Thea, for werewolves everywhere, and for society itself.

Once a month, they do not have a choice in becoming monsters—but we do. Why waste our perpetual free will on hatred towards others?

Remus flipped over the article, where Questus had scribbled a small note.

It's an unknown magazine; hardly anyone reads it. But it's interesting. This was written a couple of years ago (I found it in the Hogwarts library), and now Adamson's the most famous (and probably only) werewolf advocate on earth. I hear he's writing a book or giving speeches or something. Might look into it later.

Remus put the article down and smiled. Even though the subject matter had made him a bit uncomfortable (Remus didn't particularly like reading about the things that made him inhuman), it was interesting, to be sure. And accepting, which was very odd for any type of mainstream writer. That was all that Remus ever wanted, really. He would put it in his Marauder photo album (Sirius had made copies for all of them) later. It was nice to know, at least, that not every human held the twisted prejudices that Remus had encountered far too many times.

Professor Questus was, in Remus' opinion, the best professor at Hogwarts by far.

To Remus' surprise, there were still more gifts, though he couldn't even begin to think who had sent them. The next one was from Madam Pomfrey: it was a notebook. Remus appreciated the thought so much that he doubted that he would ever write in it. It was too precious to mar with his average handwriting.

The next gift did not have a note nor signature. It contained a small set of vials, neatly lined up in a case. Remus wasn't sure what it was for, but there was only one person at Hogwarts so wise, enigmatic, and... random. Remus brought the gift up to his face and inhaled to confirm. Professor Dumbledore. Remus would probably never know what Dumbledore was getting at, but that was okay. He appreciated the thought nonetheless.

From his grandmother on his mum's side, Remus received a card with five pounds inside, just like he did every year. There was one more gift, and upon opening it, Remus discovered a new quill. It was very clearly from a real owl, and was perfectly sharpened. There was no note.

Remus tried to catch a scent. It was familiar, but the witch or wizard who had sent it hadn't handled it enough to give him a clear idea of whom it was from. But perhaps he could recognize the scent of the specific owl if he tried very hard...

It took him ten minutes before he finally placed it: the quill had come from a large, dark owl with the word hospital magically written on its wing.

McGonagall's owl.

Remus grinned. One point to McGonagall.

Breakfast was extravagant, to say the least. The Prefects invited Remus to sit with them, and he accepted the offer. He did not want to sit next to Snape again, who was now scowling whenever Remus walked past.

Surprisingly, the post still came. Remus received the Daily Prophet (he was both surprised and pleased that James' owl was still traveling the distance to Hogwarts to get it to him) and another letter from his father. He did not open the letter from his father, in case it enclosed sensitive information, but he did pore over the Prophet whilst finishing his breakfast. He was very thankful for a reason to avoid talking to the Prefects. They didn't seem interested in talking to him, anyway.

Dumbledore was, as expected, completely decked out in Christmastime garb. Even the color of his beard perfectly matched the red and green holly that was now all over his robes. Remus giggled a little in spite of himself at Questus' face: he did not look as if he approved of such ridiculousness.

Everyone was in good spirits, and Remus picked up bits of chatter from the other tables.

"My mum got me an actual broomstick...!"

"Granddad's coming over for Christmas. Thank goodness; I missed him..."

"Did you see the mistletoe in the Hufflepuff common room...?"

"Peeves is singing Christmas carols in the corridor by the stairs to the second floor..."

"Would you look at these decorations...!"

"Aw, a piece of evergreen fell into my Pumpkin Juice..."

Remus glanced up at the ceiling of the Great Hall: it was covered in clouds, and tiny particles of snow appeared to be falling. A perfect snowy morning.

Later, Remus heard shouts and whoops of joy coming from outside. He figured that there was a friendly snowball fight going on, but he had no desire to join in. It was a lovely day to stay inside and read in the toasty library with Bufo on his shoulder and Madam Pince's eyes boring into him as they always did.

Maybe he'd write a letter to his parents. Maybe he'd write thank-you notes to his professors. Perhaps he would read some Christmas-themed books (Remus had fond memories of his father reading him Beedle the Bard tales on Christmas). Or maybe he'd just relax and take in the sounds and smells, which were so strong a week before the moon.

Life was good, Remus decided.

The day passed, and it was time for the Christmas feast before Remus even knew it. Walking to the feast felt a little like walking to his death. He knew that it was going to be a little like Slughorn's party: loud and unpleasant, with far too much food and far too many people.

At least this time, he reasoned, there would be no Newt Scamander.

Yes, Remus thought for absolute certain that the feast would be miserable. But the thing was, Remus wasn't always right. He hadn't thought that he was going to make friends at Hogwarts. He hadn't thought that he'd be safe in the Shrieking Shack. He hadn't thought, initially, that he was even going to like Hogwarts. Remus was wrong a lot, and that was why he was attending the feast instead of staying in his dormitory and reading a book. It was also partially because Remus knew that Madam Pomfrey might murder him if he didn't eat. But still. Every instinct that Remus had was telling him that he was going to hate the feast with all his heart, but Remus was often wrong.

Yet upon entering the Great Hall, Remus realized that he had been entirely correct.

There were sounds of Christmas crackers all over. People were talking and shouting and there was so much food on the table that Remus' nose was burning. People were running and he was being jostled and there was far too much noise. Remus managed to choke down a slice of bread and jam before exiting the Great Hall as quickly as he could and heading for the Gryffindor common room.

To his surprise, he was not the only one in there. There was another boy—Remus didn't know his name, but had seen him around. He was a Gryffindor as well, but he looked much older. He had dark skin and brown eyes, his arm hanging haphazardly off the chair as he whistled a tune and read a book, and—most notably—he was wearing a Prefect's badge.

"You're Remus Lupin," said the boy.

Remus nodded. He wasn't sure what else to do.

"I suppose you don't know me."

"I've seen you around," managed Remus. And he had done a couple of times, though he couldn't exactly remember where. "Why aren't you at the feast?"

"Well," said the boy, "it's a long and complicated story. Why don't you tell me why you aren't there, first?"

"I... don't like... crowds," said Remus, which wasn't untrue. "Was overwhelmed. Wanted somewhere quiet."

"I'll leave if you want me to," the boy said.

"No, it's... it's all right. Why aren't you at the feast? I'm curious now."

The boy grinned. "Well. I'm kind of, sort of... banned. From the Christmas festivities."

"Why?"

"Because I... I... oh, it's no use. I suspended Filch upside-down over the Black Lake for three hours."

"What?" Remus was horrified. "That's awful! You must feel terrible!"

"Yeah, I do." The boy looked remorseful. "I meant to get up to six, but the spell wasn't strong enough."

"You... you did it on purpose?"

"Of course. It was right hilarious. I even cast a Disillusionment and Silencing Charm on him so that no one would see him or hear him. It was brilliant." The boy stretched out further on the chair, a lazy grin reminiscent of James' spreading across his face. "I got detention, too. For a week. With Professor Questus, and he gives the worst detentions. But he's fun to tease. It's horrible I got caught, though. I hardly ever get caught."

"You tease Professor Questus?" Remus couldn't even imagine.

"He thinks I'm funny, actually. Still punishes me for it, but he likes me. At least a little. Actually, he doesn't. Hates me. With all his heart, and the feeling is mutual."

"But... but you're a Prefect, aren't you?"

"Me? No. Nicked the badge. But no one will ever know."

Remus blinked.

The boy suddenly let out a roaring laugh. He wiped his eyes in mirth. "That is a good act! Brilliant! You look so innocent!"

Remus blinked again. The boy thought that he was acting innocent? The Adamson article sprang to the front of his mind with full force. People did tend to think that werewolves put on an "innocent" act. Did this boy know what Remus was? "Aren't I?" he asked, unable to keep the note of panic out of his voice.

"Ooh, you're good." The boy shifted on the chair and put his book down. Then he held out his hand for Remus to shake. "Kendric's the name. Kendric Isaacs. Seventh-year. I know your friend James quite well; he talks about you and Black all the time."

Remus shook his hand tentatively. "You're the one who used us to get the password."

"Used you? Never!"

"Yes, you did...? To get the password for the One-Eyed Witch."

"Oh, that. Yeah, that would be me." Isaacs laughed. "Do you want to talk pranks for a bit? From what James says, you're a right genius."

"No, thank you," said Remus slowly. So that was why Isaacs thought that he was only acting innocent. He thought that Remus was a Prank Master like James pretended to be. "I think... I think I'm done for the day. Going upstairs. Sleeping."

Before Isaacs could say anything else, Remus had scurried up the dormitory steps and burrowed under his covers, not even bothering to do the Knock.

What kind of reputation had he created for himself? And why was everyone so intent on pulling cruel tricks? Some of them were nice, but others—like dangling Filch over the Black Lake or hexing innocent students—wasn't nice at all. Remus, who felt completely and utterly helpless during the hours leading up to the full moon, knew the feeling of uselessness all too well. He didn't like anything that made others feel more or less the same way.

Was it just something wrong with Remus, that he didn't find it funny? Was it because he was a werewolf?

No. That didn't even make a sense.

Remus fell asleep, although it was only seven pm, with the thoughts still swirling around his head. He woke up at least three times during the night—not because of nightmares, but because his head was so full that it was hard to focus on anything, even sleep.

Life was good, indeed... but why did it have to be so complicated?

AN: JK Rowling does a lot of symbolic names, some of which I've touched on in previous chapters. Many of them are very on-the-nose. I've done a bit of that, too, in order to stay close to the source material. "Questus", for instance, is Latin for "complaint", which seemed fitting, for some reason (and I mostly just wanted him to have a name that started with Q! Originally it was "Quill" but I decided that was too close to "Quirrell"). "Kendric" means "chief" or "champion", basically, and "Isaac" means "one who laughs". "Champion of Laughing" seemed accurate. And "Alexander" (Adamson's first name) means "defender of men". Anyway, that's your fun fact of the day!