Remus could tell within the first couple of seconds that Questus liked duelling far too much. He didn't think he'd ever seen the man so excited. Animated, sure. Annoyed, definitely. Terrifying, yes. Excited? No.

Although the cause of his excitement might not have been the duelling: it might have been the wealth of werewolf information that he now had the opportunity to extract from Remus—which he was certainly taking full advantage of.

"I'm guessing werewolves don't have super reflexes," said Questus. "That's a myth, correct?"

"Yes, sir," said Remus.

"Nor additional strength?"

"None at all."

"Because strength is body-dependent, so you only have it on the full moon... you know, with the different body."

"I... suppose."

"And reflexes have to do with certain instincts, which you—again—only have during the full moon."

"Yes, sir..."

"But., then what about your senses? Are they too deeply interconnected with your brain? Those are mainly body-dependent, too. Why..."

"I don't know, sir."

"So some things developed after you were bitten, and some things are dependent on the moon."

"Yes, sir."

"And your senses are stronger right before the full moon?"

"Yes, sir."

"So they're directly tied to the moon phases." Questus paused. "Why would that be?"

Remus shrugged. "I don't know. It's magic. You probably shouldn't overthink it."

Questus laughed a little. "Right. Is anything else also tied to the moon phase, then? Any other abilities?"

"What... does this have to do with duelling, sir?"

"It's very important to gauge one's strengths and weaknesses. I did this when I was learning to duel in my second year. Everyone who wants to be good at it sits down and thinks about what he should play off of and what he should avoid. Know thyself and all that. So... what abilities...?"

"Erm," said Remus. "Nothing to do with my body—no reflexes, strength, or imperviousness to certain magic. That's only on the full moon. But things change around the full moon, though it's usually for the worse... I have better senses, but I'm also... fatigued. And it hurts."

"Elaborate."

"Muscle pains. Bones. I'm just very sore."

"And you get ill?'

"Yeah—not congested or anything, just fatigued and pale and a headache. And I... well, you remember. I was fainting the one time. But that's never happened before."

Questus made a small humming noise, evidently considering something (though Remus didn't know what—and frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to know). "And what about your mental state?"

"Mental state?"

"Of course. Your mind is very different now from what it is on the full moon. When it gets closer, how do you progress along the line between human and wolf? Temper problems? Easily annoyed?"

Remus paused. That was not something that he'd told many people—only his parents and Madam Pomfrey. He hated it: the horrible, terrible anger that got so much worse around the full moon. That was why he wasn't allowed to get angry, why he was always breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth... He knew that if he lost his temper, he wouldn't be able to get it back. "I don't like to talk about that, sir," he said.

"Ah, so it's a yes, then. Curious."

"I'm not really ever human," Remus admitted.

"You do a wonderful job acting the part."

Remus knew that Professor Questus wasn't trying to offend him, but being reminded that he was only acting hurt nonetheless. Still, it was true, and Remus had been the first to admit it.

Remus looked at Questus, who was as unfazed and unapologetic as ever. Remus liked that. "So what's it like, then?" Questus asked impatiently, and Remus jumped at the sudden sound: he'd been a bit distracted.

"What's what like? Acting?"

"No. The temper." Questus' tone suggested that the meaning of his earlier question should have been obvious, but Remus disagreed. After all, hadn't Remus told Questus that he didn't want to talk about it? SO why was Questus asking about it? It didn't make sense. Oh, well... there was really no arguing with Professor John Questus.

"I... I just... get annoyed. That's all. And then I take a few deep breaths and it's done. But..." He frowned. "I hate myself for it."

"And you want to hurt people?"

Remus stared at him, wide-eyed. "I... sir... can we...?"

"That's a yes, then. That's not a bad thing, as long as you can control it. Good for duels, honestly. And very interesting."

It wasn't.

Now Questus cleared his throat in a way that rather suggested that he was about to start lecturing. Remus was thankful for the fact—after all, a monologue meant that Remus wouldn't have to speak anymore. He was getting a bit tired of speaking, both emotionally and physically. "Okay," said Questus, "so you're going to want to play off of those strengths—as well as your intellect. You'll figure out how to do that along the way. As for the actual duelling: formal duels require some pre-show rituals, but I can't see you participating in a formal duel between now and second year. I recommend—here, you can take notes." Questus pulled some parchment out of his pocket and handed it to Remus, who took it gratefully.

"The goal," continued Questus, "is to—well, the goal is different every time. I imagine every duel you'll be in will be to defend. Ironically, in order to defend, your goal is to stay on the offensive side. If you're too slow, even for only a second, your opponent will cast a spell—you'll put a shield up—and by the time you put the shield back down, your opponent will have cast another spell, and the cycle will only continue. You have to be on the offensive side until you can disarm your opponent. That's the most basic rule of duelling. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Something that inexperienced people often forget in duels is that everything around you is fair game. Furniture, ceiling tiles, the works. Once, when I was an Auror, some Death Eaters made the ceiling collapse overhead. It took all our combined efforts to keep it from falling on us, and then they were able to land a few spells while we were distracted. Two people died."

"That's horrible!"

"That's life. We were outnumbered, anyway. It was inevitable and we all knew it. Besides, the people that died were pretty useless anyway. But the point is, shield charms are important in all cases, even when the spell isn't aimed directly at you. Wizards have very good aim, you know. We use our wands for everything. No one just randomly misses their target."

Remus had before, but then again, he was only a first-year.

"Now, a standard Shield Charm—incantation Protego, as you already know—shouldn't be used all the time. If you can physically move out of the way, then you should. Experienced duellists are able to cast spells while dodging a curse, which puts them back on the offensive side. And Shield Charms don't work on everything—there are a few spells that are unblockable, the most famous of which being the Killing Curse. You already knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thought so. That's fourth-year curriculum, you know, though I'm sure I've mentioned it before. Anyway. Nonverbal spells are helpful, but not everybody can manage them. If you get good enough, however, you can talk about something completely different and cast spells at the same time. I've distracted a few opponents that way. It scares them, makes you look more at ease than you are, and distracts them from their own spells as they register what you're saying. I think you could manage that."

"With all due respect, Professor, I can barely cast the Water-Conjuring Charm."

"A sixth-year spell. Why on earth would you learn that right after the Levitation Charm? I've been meaning to ask."

"I..." Remus hadn't realized that it was so advanced, to be honest. His father cast it after every full moon. "It's useful. After full moons."

"You're thirsty afterwards?"

"Yes, and... er, my mouth... unpleasant tastes..."

"Oh, you wake up with blood in your mouth and you want to get rid of it."

Remus cringed. "That's the long and short of it, yes."

Questus snorted a little. "You speak like somebody's grandmother. Very restrained. Kind of annoying, actually—you don't need to restrain yourself around me; I doubt you could shock or disturb me if you tried. Someone should try that sometime—that might be a fun game. Anyway, you shouldn't worry about more advanced techniques right now. You'll get there, I think. Even when you end up leaving Hogwarts, you'll continue your education from home, won't you?"

When. Questus had used the word when instead of if. Even Questus thought that Remus' departure from Hogwarts before his education was finished was inevitable. Even though Remus agreed entirely, it still made him a little upset. "Yes, sir," he answered, refusing to dwell on the thought. "My father started teaching me a few years ago, but I didn't get my own wand until a few months ago. I imagine he'll continue... when I leave."

"Good. You could be an outstanding duellist." Abruptly, Questus stood up and stretched—Remus was rather taken aback by the sudden end of the lesson, though he probably should have expected it. Professor Questus was not the type of person to ease into things. "Well, I'm afraid there isn't much more theory that I can teach you," said Questus. "If you'd like practical lessons, however—when you're feeling better, of course—then you're always welcome."

"That would be brilliant, Professor!" said Remus. "Really?"

"Of course. I rather like teaching. Well, only some people, that is. Didn't think I would, but it's mildly enjoyable... lecturing and one-on-ones, that is. The rest of it is rather horrible, and this school is dreadfully boring. I was so glad to be rid of it come seventh year."

"I don't think I'll ever want to leave."

Questus snorted. "Well, you can't teach."

"I know that. I wouldn't want to. There's no point in putting anyone in danger longer than I already have. Just because I don't want to leave doesn't mean I won't."

"Very mature view, for an eleven-year-old," said Questus. "Hagrid still hasn't reached that mindset, and he's four times your age." Remus thought that was a little cruel, but he didn't say anything. "I'll see you around," continued Questus, oblivious. "Try not to die."

"Of course," said Remus. He picked up his schoolwork and resigned himself to a few more hours of boredom.

Remus liked Professor Questus.

"You're going to have to stay for another day, Remus. Your leg is bad this month."

"That's all right, Madam Pomfrey. I'm writing a novel."

"You're writing... a novel?"

"Yes, it's called A Documentation of the Life of Remus Lupin."

"So an autobiography?"

"No. A novel. It's fiction, actually." He pulled out his Booklet to show Madam Pomfrey. "See, this is the booklet in which I write all of my lies to my friends... you know, so that I can keep track of them. I read it every night before bed so that I'll never accidentally contradict myself. But it's getting too extensive, so I'm writing a novel instead. With sentences instead of bullets. Do you want to hear what I have so far?"

Madam Pomfrey laughed a bit and pulled a chair over. "Of course—while you're doing that, I'm going to change the dressings on your leg."

"Okay. Here it is. Once upon a time, there was a Muggle named Hope Howell who lived in Cardiff as an insurance agent. One day, she was taking an afternoon walk in the forest, as she was wont to do. It was cold, and she had forgotten her jacket at home."

"You've made up all these lies?"

"No, this part's true. I just wanted to set the stage. Mum's told me this story a dozen times. Sometimes Dad tries to tell it, but it always ends in a few sentences. He's awful at storytelling. Anyway. Hope walked through the forest, and it was cold. She thought that something was going to jump out at her and eat her, like a werewolf."

Madam Pomfrey made a small noise, either out of amusement or confusion. Remus couldn't tell. He had meant it to be a joke.

"Except Hope didn't believe in werewolves, seeing as she was a Muggle," he continued. "And I don't think it was a full moon. Suddenly, a terrifying man stepped out of the bushes..."

"Your father, I'm assuming."

"No. Suddenly, a terrifying man stepped out of the bushes! Hope screamed and tried to run, but she was frozen to the spot. Then another man stepped out of the bushes! This one wasn't scary, though, he was actually rather scrawny. He pulled out a stick and turned the man into a mushroom. Hope was confused. The man was actually a wizard, and his name was Lyall. He told her it was a Boggart. Hope, however, thought that he was saying 'bucket' and it was futile to try to explain things further. So Lyall gave up and just pretended that nothing at all had happened. Are you listening, Madam Pomfrey? You look distracted."

"Hm?" Madam Pomfrey seemed utterly focused on Remus' leg. "Yes. I'm listening. Continue."

"Okay. So Lyall escorted Hope home, and then one thing led to another, and Hope learned about magic, and they got married, and they had a child on March 10th, 1960. The child was completely normal. Average weight and length and intelligence, and he was not Dark or strange whatsoever. Everything's still true up to this point, by the way. I'll let you know when it stops being true, although I think you'll be able to tell for yourself."

"Sounds good."

"The boy's name was Remus Lupin, and he led a completely normal life. Except for the fact that he was a wizard. When he was two, he accidentally opened the door to Lyall's experimental pet Boggart, Garrison. Garrison escaped and started wreaking havoc on their cottage."

"I'm guessing that's true?"

"Yeah. Mum was terrified, I'm told, though I don't remember. Anyway... Remus kept using magic on household items, and it got to the point that they had to lock him in the cellar..."

"What?"

"That's true, too. Quite coincidental, seeing as they still have to do that. It was only for a few seconds, when I was out of control and Dad needed a break. Mum threatened to call Child Services, and he let me back out. I thought that it was the funniest thing ever, of course, Dad says—ow!"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to pull the dressings so tightly."

"It's f—" Remus blinked. "I mean, I'm not angry. Here's where it's not true anymore, by the way. When Remus was very nearly five—it was February sixteenth—Hope received a diagnosis for a rare, complicated, and likely fatal illness. The family was distraught, and Remus in particular was affected so much by the fact that he developed an irrational fear of leaving the house. I looked it up, Madam Pomfrey, it's called agoraphobia. I'm putting that in the footnotes."

"But you didn't actually have it?"

"I came pretty close. I think it was about two or three years ago that some Durmstrang boys attacked me and I wouldn't leave the house for a month or two, even to get the mail. Mum still receives it the Muggle way, you know, when we're in Muggle areas. But I got over it... and it wasn't that big of a deal, because I hardly left the house anyway. Anyway. Remus thought that if he left, his mother would die. So he stayed inside, read books, and helped take care of his mum. His hearing got to be very sensitive because he didn't ever hear anything above seventy-five decibels. That's all I have."

"Very entertaining."

"It's not meant to be entertaining. It's meant to help me remember." Remus stretched, and one of the wounds on his arm moved in a very uncomfortable manner. "Ow. I'm tired, Madam Pomfrey."

"I can tell. Why don't I draw you a bath? It'll help you relax before bed."

"Thank you. Wait, not yet."

"Yes?"

"Are you angry with me?"

Madam Pomfrey tilted her head. "Why would I be angry with you?"

"Because I contradicted you when you were arguing with Professor Questus..."

"I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at him. There are a great many things that man does not understand."

"He seems like he knows a lot of things."

"He knows, but he doesn't understand. There's a difference, you know, and empathy is a very difficult thing to go without."

Remus thought about that. Yes, he understood that completely. After all, knowing and empathy was the difference between being a wolf and being a person—reemergence of empathy was how Remus knew that he was truly back to normal. But Questus definitely possessed some empathy. After all, he wasn't a werewolf. Perhaps Madam Pomfrey was talking about a different type of empathy... or perhaps there were varying levels. Remus' brain hurt, so he stopped thinking about it.

"But I don't blame you for wanting to learn," Madam Pomfrey continued. "That's just in your nature."

At that, Remus beamed. He'd never heard anyone talk of his 'nature' in such a positive way before. "The war doesn't scare me," Remus said. "You said that Professor Questus would scare me, but he didn't. I know there's a war. Isn't it official?"

"Yes, but I expect it to fizzle out in a year or two. I don't think it will be nearly as bad as the one with Grindelwald."

"Why not?"

Madam Pomfrey patted his head a little. "A bit of hope can change the world."

Remus disagreed. Hope had not stopped him from getting bitten. Hope did not change the fact that he transformed every month. How long had he spent, alone in the cellar, hoping with all his heart that he would not transform this time, that he would sleep, that he would not hurt himself? How long had he spent closing his eyes as tightly as he could, hoping it was all just a bad dream? And how many horrible experimental cures had his parents' hope subjected him to?

No, hope was only wasted time. It was better to be quietly resigned, to accept the fact that things were bad and that they would never change. And people who thought otherwise just hadn't seen enough of the world.

Remus worked more on his novel the next day, and then he wrote a letter responding to James'. Apparently, James had stayed up for twenty-four hours straight on New Year's Eve before finally collapsing on the couch and spilling ice-cream all over the floor. His father had carried him upstairs.

As for Sirius, he was still on the mirror with James nearly twenty-four-seven. And Remus had no idea what Peter was doing.

Professor Dumbledore came to visit Remus shortly after lunchtime. Remus was levitating a large textbook when he heard Dumbledore enter the infirmary and ask Madam Pomfrey how Remus was doing. Remus listened passively as he continued to levitate the textbook; did not expect Dumbledore to actually enter Madam Pomfrey's office, but he did, and Remus was caught unawares. He lost concentration, dropped the textbook, and it landed on the floor with a very loud thumping noise.

"Good afternoon, Remus," said Dumbledore, pleasant and undeterred as always.

"Afternoon," mumbled Remus. "Why are you...?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the Werewolf Registry."

"Oh. How did you know...?"

"I am, politically, a very influential man. I tend to know a lot about the inner workings of the Ministry. Madam Pomfrey mentioned last night that you'll be going with your parents?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there anything that you need from me?"

"I don't think so."

"What time do you need to be there?"

"Er..." Remus hadn't paid much attention to the letter, besides the date. He knew that it was terribly irresponsible to ignore an official summons from the Ministry, but the formal handwriting had made him a bit sick to his stomach. He pulled out the letter from beneath his bed and scanned it quickly. "This time it's at nine in the morning."

"And what time do you suppose you'll be out?"

Remus counted on his fingers. "Ten."

"So one hour?"

"No, sir. Ten pm."

"You expect to be there for thirteen hours?"

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, so Remus did his best to explain. "It's not really... there aren't many people—werewolves—who come. It's sort of a joke, the Registry. So it's always last priority for the Ministry. They do it in stages, and there's wait time between each one while the Ministry workers go off to work on other things. Once..." Remus laughed (a little bitterly, but he tried not to let it show). "Once they completely forgot about us. We got there at seven am and it didn't end until midnight."

"That's very unfortunate."

"It's not too bad. Sometimes Mum and Dad and I sneak away and walk around London while we wait. And the other werewolves who show up are nice. Occasionally."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "I think our best course of action is to meet with your parents in Hogsmeade at... seven am? The four of you can explore, have a Butterbeer, and do whatever your hearts' desire may be. Then you and your parents can Apparate to the Ministry. When you have finished, I would recommend Apparating back to Hogsmeade and waiting at the Three Broomsticks. Madam Rosmerta will let me know you've arrived, and then I shall bring you back to the castle."

"I could... I could just walk back to the castle myself."

"Absolutely not. Even though you are remarkably mature for your age, the fact remains that you are eleven. Does that all sound manageable to you?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"My pleasure. Swift recoveries, Remus."

Dumbledore left, and Madam Pomfrey entered to give Remus some more potions that tasted of dirty socks and rotten tomatoes.

"Madam Pomfrey, do you want to hear more of my novel?"

"No. It's midnight. Go to sleep."

"Fine."

"That's another cap in the jar."

"Ughhhhh."

"Madam Pomfrey. Is it morning?"

"No. It's four am."

"Which is technically morning."

"No, it is not. Go back to sleep."

"Fi—oka—sure."

"You're learning."

"Madam Pomfrey. My leg hurts."

"That's to be expected."

"Can you do anything about it?"

"I have done things about it. If it hurts so much, then I would recommend pinching yourself as hard as possible."

"...Why?"

"When you stop, then it'll stop hurting."

"Never mind. I'm going back to sleep."

"Good plan."

"Madam Pomfrey. May I leave yet?"

"No. Stop asking."

"I'll pay you."

"Pay me what?"

"All the money that I have on me right now."

"Which is none."

"You know me too well."

"Madam Pomfrey."

"What?"

"Who's out there in the main ward?"

"Basil Blythe. A sixth-year boy from Hufflepuff. You wouldn't know him."

"Will he leave soon?"

"Why?"

"I want to take a walk around the ward."

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because you nearly tore your leg to shreds recently, obviously."

"Oh, right. I forgot."

"Madam Pomfrey..."

"Remus Lupin, you are supposed to be napping. I know you're bored, but you need to sleep. The more you sleep, the sooner you'll feel better—ergo, the sooner you'll be out of the Hospital Wing. Please go to sleep."

"I just wanted to tell you that Bufo is on top of your hat."

"What? Oh, goodness... oh, dear... get it off..."

Many words could be used to describe a certain Remus Lupin, and patient was definitely one of them. However, right now, Remus was a patient in the noun form and most certainly not patient in the adjective form.

The seconds ticked by, and Remus waited... sometimes patiently, sometimes not-so-patiently... until he could leave the tiny hospital bed, enjoy his last few hours of freedom before the Werewolf Registry rolled around once again, and actually see his parents, which most definitely sweetened the deal of going to the Ministry.

Remus stared at the ceiling and counted the tiles for the forty-second time since breakfast.

AN: I've had the same song stuck in my head since I woke up this morning, and it's driving me insane.