November 4th, 1976: Remus Lupin

"A word, Lupin?"

He's surprised, to say the least—what have any of the Slytherins ever wanted to do with him?—but nods politely and follows Damocles Belby out of the classroom. "Interesting meeting," reflects Remus, thinking back. Kingsley may be more charismatic, but he's still insisting that Meadowes run the prefects' meetings, a move Remus considers less and less baffling as time goes by. A grudging sort of respect is forming in her favor, despite Angela Macmillan's sincerest attempts toward the contrary, and it's starting to show why Dumbledore saw a leader in her when he chose her for the post of Head Girl.

"Yeah, interesting," Belby says shortly. He stops Remus at the end of the corridor and turns to him purposefully. "Listen, Lupin—I know what you are."

"You… know," repeats Remus with a shadow of a bemused smile. "If you're talking about Mrs. Norris's camel humps—"

Belby cuts him off, shaking his head, "I didn't mean about Mrs. Norris, although I expect you were in on that, too. The timing is rather cliché, actually, being that Halloween was last Sunday and there's all this circulating Mudblood talk—"

"Muggle-born," says Remus, tensing. It's not just about Belby's disrespectfulness, though; it's the Muggle myths and the time of the season and the chill running down his spine and—

"—I'm just surprised I didn't notice sooner," Belby laughs, a cackle in his eyes. "Those haunted spirits in the Shrieking Shack every full moon… And saying you're sick? That's the oldest excuse in the book; surely any prankster in his right mind should come up with something better than that… if it weren't something so taboo it makes all that cleverness just dry up."

Remus watches his feet, the ceiling, the quarter-moon in the window—anything but Belby's face. "What do you want, Belby?"

But Belby isn't listening, not anymore. "I'm sure Macdonald has gathered by now that I'm the top-ranked student in the class."

"Not necessarily," says Remus, starting to flare up. "She's not just a gossip monger, and especially less now than she ever may have been—"

"My best subjects are Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts," Belby continues, "and I've been thinking of a project to combine the two for a while now. Makes it more ironic that I didn't notice your… affliction… until recently, but that's all right; it hasn't hurt the timing at all. I've only just come up with a tentative recipe."

"A recipe for what?" demands Remus. Belby's voice is steady, face impassive, but something about the look in his eyes…

He blinks, and the moment is gone, to Remus's relief. "Just a little potion I've been working on," says Belby quietly, "and if I can get the recipe right, your… ah… furry little problem, Potter is calling it? …will be nothing but a memory."

A drawn-out pause. Remus's breath shallows with every passing second. "What's the catch?" he asks finally, briskly.

"The catch?" repeats Belby snidely.

"Please, Belby. You wouldn't be telling me all this if there weren't something in it for you more than just fame and glory," Remus reasons.

Belby's eyebrows rise, just barely, and he says, "I'll need a test subject, of course, and there could be—undesirable experimental effects. After, when I release my findings to the public, there will be speculation as to how I tested the potion, and given your monthly whereabouts…"

He could have to come out as a werewolf. He thought he'd give anything for an end to the hell he goes through every month, but to give up his opportunities in exchange… but Belby's already slipping something out of his robe pocket and stuffing it into Remus's hand. "Read the recipe. Think on it. Let me know in Potions tomorrow," offers Belby, adding a little quieter, "You're the only one at Hogwarts, but I get the feeling you're one of the most deserving ones out there, Lupin."

Rattled, Remus leaves with a nod and heads back to his dormitory. He doesn't plan to tell the blokes—he can barely wrap his head around it, yet he knows it's something he needs to work out for himself—and to his suiting, a Lily-tirade is in full swing when Remus enters the room. "I can't figure her out," James moans, rolling onto his stomach to bury his face in the bedspread. "She drove me away after her parents died, but no, she can't bear to spend a minute away from me after she and Snape have a row—"

"Does that really disappoint you, mate?" says Sirius skeptically, adding a quick "'lo, Moony" as Remus crosses to his bed. "I would think you'd want to be on her good side."

"I do, that's not it—basically the same thing happens twice, and her reactions are completely different. Push me away, let me in," James laments. "It's like I can't ever tell what will get her to like me and what won't, like one of these days she'll decide to hate me for a month because I have the wrong reaction to something she says…"

"Shouldn't you just capitalize on it now before you eff it up, then?" Sirius suggests (Remus shoots him a reprimanding look as he flips open a textbook for bedtime reading). He's smearing chocolate all over his bed—Lily only moved back to the girls' dorm three days ago, and already Sirius is back to eating at inane hours.

James's eyes flash dangerously. "She's not just an object, Padfoot. I care more about her feelings than to treat her like, oh, the way you treat McKinnon, with that whole shag-and-drop cycle of yours…"

Sirius opens his mouth to protest, but Peter cuts in warningly, "It's over now, anyway, Prongs. She's fighting off Lockhart now, isn't she?"

"It's different than it was last year," James goes on, his temperament gradually subsiding. "She's not just some bird with red hair and a suspicious social life anymore to me. She's… Lily's my mate now, too, and I have to think about that. I'm happy for that. She's so…"

"Will you think it encouraging if I tell you you're much more articulate when she's in the room?" Remus says with a laugh; James scowls but says nothing further.

It all seems so normal, away from Belby, even with the full moon less than two days away; his pulse is easing, the color is flooding back into his cheeks. He's breathing again by the next morning as he heads to breakfast with the Marauders, snickering as they meet a deranged-looking Filch in the stairwell. "It's only a matter of time before they catch us, you know," Remus warns the others as they pass him, his voice satisfyingly unwavering. "Belby looked a bit suspicious of me at the prefects' meeting last night."

"Relax, Moony," says Sirius jovially, throwing open the doors to the Great Hall, "you're getting paranoid again. Sitting with Lily again, Prongs?"

"Where else?" says James, closing his eyes as he hugs her from behind—she's studying her Defense notes from yesterday and bats him away, but only halfheartedly. Remus gives an awkward little wave to the other girls at the table and takes his usual place between Sirius and Emmeline, reaching to heap omelets onto his plate.

Mary is the first to greet the boys, albeit through a mouthful of eggs. She's gotten mellower these last few weeks, ever since Cattermole left her, Remus has noticed—less nosy, though just as outgoing as before. Her hair is red today, though not as striking a shade as Lily's—to Remus's understanding, she's switched to Glamour Charms for now. "Potions for you lot today, right?" she asks. "I'm, like, so glad I dropped it this year… Slughorn is such a waste of time."

"Since Witch Weekly is so much more important than an education," says Emmeline dryly from behind her copy of the Daily Prophet.

Mary rolls her eyes. "Shut it, Em, you dropped it, too," she chides. "Besides, I'm cancelling my subscription, so don't even act like—"

"You're cancelling it? Where am I supposed to read it now?" interrupts Marlene, appalled.

"I can get Greta's or Ver's for you when they finish," says Mary. "They read pretty fast, and, like, they'll only need one copy after, anyway. Since when do you read Witch Weekly, Lene?"

"What, you haven't been wondering where all your old magazines have been disappearing to for the last two years?" says Marlene with a sheepish grin. "God, how daft—"

Remus breaks in hastily, asking, "How are your patrols going, Alice? The success of Meadowes's term as Head Girl practically depends on how this goes…"

"I should be asking you that," says Alice, running her fingers through her hair. "I get to go patrol with Frank; meanwhile, they gave you Regulus."

"Oh, it's not that bad—really, Sirius, it isn't," insists Remus at Sirius's bristling. "He's not the best company, I'll admit, but he's perfectly agreeable, at least for now. Belby…"

Peter says, "What is it with you and Belby today, Remus? First Mrs. Norris, now—"

"You gave her the camel humps?" says Marlene, snickering.

Remus sets down his goblet with a nervous clatter. "We, er, had something of a run-in after the prefects' meeting last night… don't worry, it was nothing," he dismisses, feeling rather harried.

Sirius raises his eyebrows as Peter furrows his, but Remus shakes his head, mouthing later. He glances at James, expecting similar disbelief, only to find the Marauder ringleader engrossed in conversation with one Lily Evans.

"Smitten, isn't he?" Emmeline's comment echoes his thoughts, and Remus nods, shrugging. "It's all right, though, it'll blow over. It's only love."

Remus swivels in his seat to take a good look at her—he hasn't really seen her in a while, he realizes. There's something clairvoyant about the puffy grey rings under her clouded eyes; the way her wispy hair silvers and thins by the week… "Only love?" Remus repeats, lifting his goblet again.

"That was rhetorical, you know," remarks Emmeline, delicately raising a fork to her lips.

It takes him a little too long to think of something suitable, for before he has a chance to wheedle any conversation out of her, Alice pushes away her plate and rises. "Potions starts in a quarter of an hour, and I don't want to be late. Let's go."

To buy time, he prods at his omelet and sighs. At the thought of seeing Belby again—the morning has passed too fast, he thinks—his stomach churns. "You know, Alice, I think I'll ditch today. That Halloween party last Saturday was enough Slughorn for one week. I'll meet you lot in the common room later?"

His decision attracts even Lily and James's attention: he may be a Marauder, but he, Remus, is the one who rarely misses a class, at least not without provocation from the others. "You serious, mate?" says Peter. "You're usually the one dragging them to Potions…"

"Dead serious. I've got some research I wanted to work in the library anyway," Remus confirms, a vague plan forming. "Will you tell Slughorn I'm not feeling well or something?"

"But Remus—" He's halfway across the Great Hall by the time he hears Sirius's protests. It wasn't a lie—he has research to do, though not necessarily of the academic sort. He digs around in his pocket for a certain tattered sheaf of parchment as he half-jogs to the library, barely nodding to Madam Pince as he heads toward that juncture of the reference section where Potions, Herbology, and Defense Against the Dark Arts meet.

It must have been hell for Belby to try to write this. Books tell of defeating werewolves only from the outside, never from within, and Remus can see the crossed-out instructions where Belby blurred this line between destruction and remedy. The parchment bears far more mistakes than it does instructions, it seems, and the final product isn't much more promising. "Devil's Snare clippings? Does he want to murder me?" Remus whispers, tracing a finger over the inky page.

"Not likely." He hits his head on the shelf above him, he's so startled—but it's (only?) Regulus Black, who's crouching to face Remus even as Remus's temple throbs on impact. "If there's one thing you can trust about Belby, it's that he'll put his own glory over your misfortune. Risk going to Azkaban for attempted murder—and lose all those years of his life? Even breaking out one day would seem like a waste of effort to him, and then he'd be a runaway, what could he accomplish then? Even if he weren't caught, then, it would only be because he passed it off as a mistake, and to him that's even worse than admitting to crime—admitting to getting it wrong."

"Some friend you are to him," mutters Remus, hastily stowing away the recipe.

Regulus's smile fades after only a moment. "Slytherins don't make friends, just allies. So what's so wrong with you that you've got Belby, of all people, working on it?" he asks.

"You'll find out if he succeeds, won't you?" Remus retorts. More than anything, he's surprised that Belby didn't spill the beans on his lycanthropy.

"So he wasn't just being a secretive arse when he wouldn't say what he's doing with you," Regulus muses. He chuckles—it sounds sinister to Remus—and rests on his haunches. "No class this period?"

"Skipped it. This is more pressing," says Remus. "Where are your cronies?"

Regulus snorts full on at this, leaning against the bookshelf for support. "We patrol together twice a month, Lupin, you should know by now that I don't do cronies. My brother didn't ditch with you?"

"He doesn't know about this," Remus admits.

"So you haven't told your best mates but don't try to hide it from their foes." Silence. "If you don't mind me asking something, Lupin, why do you talk to me like a-a—"

"Like a human being?" Remus fills in, shutting him up. "Like more than a shell of a wizard training in the Dark Arts? Not like my mate's pesky little brother who, somewhere along the line, went astray?" His voice cracks a bit—he feels weary, here with Regulus, squatting on the library floor. "Don't take it as a compliment, Black, I don't think any better of you than I did two months ago."

Regulus snorts. "What makes you think I was out for your approval? I was just wondering, 's all."

"Is that what you told Sirius when he found out you met with the Death Eaters? That you were just wondering what it was all about?" snaps Remus, casting aside the books in his lap and rising.

He's hit a nerve—he can see a tic throbbing in Regulus's temple—but he doesn't care, not when he's been dealing with these patrols for weeks now as politely as he could, and not said one word in Sirius's defense, not one; and now Belby knows and he has to choose, relief or opportunity, how is he supposed to choose—did he ever really think he could keep going like this without anyone finding out? He has to do it, he realizes: it hardly matters whether it's Belby or himself that's a danger to him, and if he refuses for the privacy, it's not like it would last long.

He has half a mind to go to Potions and catch the second half of class, but in his state of mind, that's probably not a wise idea. "Tell Belby to meet me outside the prefect's bathroom after dinner tonight," he says bitterly over his shoulder, and he heads back to the common room, collapsing wearily into an armchair with his Gryffindor mates the minute he spots them. "I had a run-in with Regulus in the library," he says darkly when Peter glances at him, alarmed.

"You don't want to talk about it?" Peter empathizes. Emmeline and Mary don't seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary: they're engrossed in their copies of Unfogging the Future and Remedial Numerology: A Flourish and Blotts Recommended Guide, respectively.

Remus just nods, sinking in his seat. His muscles ache with anticipation of the coming moon, but this is no time to let his guard time—there's never a time to let his guard down, not while he's living with lycanthropy. He's learned to conceal it, for the most part, so that no one thinks anything of his visits to the Hospital Wing; but then Belby came along and…

xx

It's later, Divination—they're reading crystal balls again, since Dumbledore refuses to hire an incompetent replacement for their last professor, and Sinistra's substitute teaching doesn't include a rigorous lesson plan. Remus sits on a pouf between Peter and Emmeline and tries to stop imagining a full moon in the orb. He doesn't think they notice his pallid face and shaking hands: Emmeline is intensely focused on her divining as always, and Peter's face is reddening with effort as he struggles to see anything at all. And all the better—he doesn't want their attention, not today.

He hates what the moon does to him. It's not that he thinks ill of himself for it, not at all—he's talented, likable, at the top of the class. And yet there's always this thing inside him, eating at his glory, which, if discovered, could take it all away. Fiscal success hinges on secrecy, and as for his relationships—well, he hasn't forgotten what almost happened to Severus Snape last year, and it still turns his stomach over to think of it. Having his mates there with him for the transformations… it thrills him, comforts him, but terrifies him.

And this potion—this potion could end all that, couldn't it? At least the part of it that's most important to Remus: he'd no longer be a danger to his friends, to a girlfriend or wife or child one day. Sure, he'd have to be careful to take it regularly, but it's not like he would forget to stop himself from turning into a beast once a month. He wouldn't have to treat himself as a threat anymore—he'd still be different, but he wouldn't be dangerous, and he can't think of a greater relief.

But oh, the circumstances of it! From the looks of the recipe, Belby has a long way to go before he'll get it right, and that means a lot of trials and a lot of full moons after which Remus might not wake up. He can't have the Marauders there to help him through it, obviously—Belby can't find out, and he doesn't want to put them in danger (it's such a burden to be a danger)—so he'll be more agitated than usual as it is, let alone the experimental side effects and potential failure that the potion may have. And if, pray tell, Belby gets it right before they graduate, suspicion will doubtlessly fall on Remus as the test subject; no one else enrolled has as questionable a background. His career choices after they find out…

"All right, Remus? You look a little pale," whispers Peter feverishly. Remus starts and glances over: he's had no luck with his fortune telling, it seems, and he's eyeing Remus with empathy and concern.

He forces a smile, if only because Emmeline's glancing at them from behind her orb. "Er, yeah, I'm fine, Peter, thanks," he says in a rush, "but I have to talk to you and the other blokes after class about something, all right? It's important."

Peter quirks an eyebrow but says nothing in dissent; Emmeline's gaze flicks away again. "Thanks, mate," mutters Remus bashfully, and he sinks so that his eyes are level with the crystal ball, resting his chin on the table. For once, the moon isn't staring back.

He doesn't tell them what's going on, not honestly. "You—can't come with me tomorrow," he tells them brokenly in the dorm after class is over, all sweaty palms and throbbing heart.

A cacophony of protests meets his words from the boys, a mixture of confusion and defiance. "But that's ridiculous! Are you mental?" demands Sirius, the loudest of the three, but he doesn't quite drown out Peter ("Why not, Moony, did something happen?") or James ("Who the hell are you to tell me what I can and can't do for you?").

"Merlin, am I the only one here who remembers the time Snape almost got himself killed because of me? And don't get defensive about it, Padfoot, I'm not putting blame on you," he adds hastily, "but it wouldn't have been an issue if we weren't frolicking around the grounds making threats of ourselves. There was that time with the Slytherin fourth years, and I know for a fact that Hagrid's getting suspicious." He crosses his arms and fidgets a little—he means it, but he's still lying, and he's never been good at keeping things from his mates.

"Those twerpy little Death Eater wannabes had it coming, and can't we just Confound Hagrid to get around that?" says Sirius, still fuming a bit.

James interjects warningly, "Don't get carried away, Padfoot, you don't want that on your record."

"Listen, I can handle it on my own," Remus insists as forcibly as he can, which isn't very. "I did fine without you lot for fifteen years; it won't kill me to go on like this a little more. Just take a few months to prioritize, yeah? Keep in mind that the next person isn't going to be Snape."

Peter suggests quietly, "Why don't we just transform in the Shack with you and keep you company down there? It wouldn't feel right to leave you all alone."

Remus freezes, gaping. He hadn't thought of that, and he can't exactly accept their offer, not without them finding out about Belby—and he doesn't want to know what sorts of opinions or interference they would have in the matter. "No," he says feebly, frantically racking his brain for an excuse. "No, you can't; I won't let you."

"But Moony—" begins James impatiently.

"Don't think I don't know what kinds of scars you end up with after one night with me," Remus improvises, hoping his face won't give him away. "Lily Evans does a damn good job concealing them, but—"

"Lily doesn't just conceal them, she heals them," snaps Sirius. "It's good as new by the time she's done."

Remus shakes his head, thinking wildly. "And one of these days it'll be too big a wound for her, or she won't get to you in time, or—no. You can't, not for the next few times, and I'm not taking no for an answer."

And he doesn't: his voice shakes, but his resolve is firm, and they've grudgingly agreed by the end of the conversation. They catch the last half-hour of dinner with the girls, then disperse for the night: Peter with Siobhan, Emmeline with Maggie McKinnon, the rest together in the common room. Remus, though, breaks off from the pack after a few minutes and heads into his dormitory, breathing quickly.

He doesn't have much time. Rummaging through James's trunk and trying not to feel like he's a terrible mate, Remus pulls out the Invisibility Cloak and stuffs it in his bag, then shoves in a few books for good measure and hurries out of the tower. Belby—if there's anything good about him, he's dependable—is pacing outside the door as directed, his eyes slanted and suspicious when his gaze falls on Remus. "You're late," he accuses, pausing to lean against the corridor wall.

"If it turns out that I show you what was slowing me down, you'll feel lucky I came late," dismisses Remus before he gives the password for the bathroom. He's worked up from the earlier confrontation and isn't afraid of another one. "Get in."

Belby darts inside with him and locks the door behind them. "I take it this means you're on board?" he prompts, arrogance laced through his voice.

For a moment, Remus just looks dumbly back at him; then he says scathingly, "You think I'm going to trust you on this, just like that? Merlin, Belby—Devil's Snare clippings, Alihosty leaves, infusion of silver? What the hell were you smoking when you came up with this?"

"If you knew a thing about potion-making, you'd realize that the essence of belladonna reacts antagonistically with the Alihosty and reverses it to cause serenity instead of hysteria, and the asphodel acts as a sedative so that the Devil's Snare can take proper effect," retorts Belby, not missing a beat. "The Devil's Snare, when ingested, isn't what kills you—the overdose of naturally produced adrenaline is. Prevent that, and the clippings, guided by the silver and newt's eye, should counteract the lycanthropic brain cells activated by the full moon—you'll remain in a wolf's body, but your mind will be your own."

Remus quiets, blushing hard. "Mudbloods are good for one thing: sometimes, their sciences play a part in wizardry," whispers Belby with a hint of a smirk. "Still have doubts? Or are you bold enough to question the one here with a background in chemistry?"

"If you haven't thought this through, it could kill me," says Remus, dropping his voice. "I know you're conceited enough that you wouldn't care that I'd be dead, but don't you realize what would happen to your career when they found out it was you?"

"Yes," Belby says steadily. "So are you on board?"

After another pause, Remus pulls out the Cloak and thrusts it at Belby. "This is an Invisibility Cloak. Use it to sneak out of the castle at around ten o'clock tomorrow night, then go to the Whomping Willow—prod the knot on the trunk with a stick; it'll freeze the tree long enough for you to get in the passageway that leads to the Shrieking Shack. Ten o'clock, Belby, after that I might have transformed already by the time you get there. Bring the potion with you."

"You're a righteous little bastard, aren't you, Lupin?" asks Belby drippily.

He scowls and slams the door on his way out.

The next morning, Remus checks himself into the Hospital Wing and gets through the day on Madam Pomfrey's store of Dreamless Sleep Potion. He's tense and alert when the dose dries up at quarter to nine, so he coerces Pomfrey to take him to the Shrieking Shack earlier than necessary and waits it out. Any last-minute doubts he has he shakes off: it's too late to waver.

Belby comes promptly, though it feels like eternity has passed twice over by the time he arrives. He's got the Invisibility Cloak in a bundle under his arm and a glass vial squeezed in his hand. "Drink up," he says icily, tossing Remus the vial; it slices through the air on its trajectory before he catches it. "Anywhere you want me to stash this on the way out?" he adds, hoisting up the Cloak a little.

"There's a bedroom that way," says Remus, pointing; "leave it in there, and lock the door just in case."

Belby nods curtly and readies his wand toward him. "What are you doing?" says Remus sharply, backing away with the vial in his hand.

"You think I'll just give you an untested potion and then leave you here?" laughs Belby incredulously. "I have to stay to track your progress first—immobilize you if it doesn't work, revive you if it backfires. It would be irresponsible not to monitor your transformation."

"Of course," mutters Remus. "Here's to hoping you're as brilliant as they all seem to think."

He gulps down the potion and waits for the moon to come out to play.