Lupin—

I read your letter ten times. Once forwards, barely skimmed it eight more times, and then read it through once more—just to beat your record. So there.

You enquired about my well-being, to which I will simply say this: When I'm not incredibly bored, I'm doing fairly well. Unfortunately, I'm incredibly bored all the time—thus I am never doing well and life is very bad.

Your family has been inviting me over for supper nearly every evening. Your mother thinks I'm funny (I'm not funny), and your father likes having someone to talk politics with (not to brag, but I'm wonderful at that). I think they're lonely. Perhaps they're bored, too—I suspect boredom can be rather contagious.

You should know that your parents are currently hanging your letters on the walls. It's a little creepy. Their faces when they got your last one—they were over the moon. Careful what you write, because it'll likely be on the wall for the rest of your life.

I have a lot of things to address, and I'm going to start with the most pressing concern. Unfortunately, I know exactly what animal pulls the carriages, and it was very unwise to pretend that you could see it. I'm not sure why you jumped to that conclusion. Didn't it seem to be too much of a coincidence that you couldn't see it—and James and Sirius were pretending the same? You should have stayed as neutral as possible until doing the research. You need to stop letting your strange self-loathing tendencies eclipse your sense of rational logic.

The animals in question are Thestrals, and I assume that you've done enough reading to know exactly what that information entails. Only a person who has seen death can see a Thestral (that is, a person actively dying, not merely a dead body). I'm not sure what kind of things your friend Pettigrew has seen, but you should be glad you can't see the Thestrals. They're just as Pettigrew described them, except ten times uglier.

Now, of course, you have to work it into your backstory. Put it in that dumb novel of lies you're writing. I don't care. But you can only see Thestrals if you've seen death—and now you need to explain why, where, and how you've seen death. That's a pretty major event, so don't treat it too lightly.

You mentioned your anxiety about your friends. If you're so afraid of losing your friends that you cry when you think about them, then you're not doing it right. You're playing a part, remember? There's no room for emotion like that. Enjoy them while you have them, and don't worry about how long it lasts. It's terribly boring back here, yes, but I'm sure I can convince your parents to make amends regarding your lifestyle if you do return. Everything's going to be fine, so don't bother worrying. It's pointless and annoying.

Regarding Pensley—I laughed so hard that I nearly fell off of my armchair. I'd say that I'm sorry that you have to go through that, but I'm not. That's the funniest thing I've ever heard. Scented candles? I should get some in my house. (Can you really pick out individual scents with twenty scented candles in the room?) Good luck dealing with that woman. I'm infinitely glad I'm no longer working at Hogwarts, that's for sure.

If I were you, I'd write your essay about why you DISAGREE with the Shakespeare quote. Pensley seems like the type of person to adore Shakespeare to the moon and back, so she'll be appropriately annoyed if you stress the fact that Shakespeare was wrong (and not some perfect paragon of literature). I can suggest these things because I am no longer a teacher, but don't tell Dumbledore.

And I'm very sorry that Pensley calls you Henry. That's probably the worst thing that's ever happened to you, isn't it? You must be suffering so much. I can't think of anything you've experienced that's worse than that.

Additionally: by all means, continue writing to me if you have the time. It's not like I have anything else to do.

The stray cat has stopped by, and now he lives with me. Any name suggestions would be greatly appreciated, unless it's something stupid like Garrison or Nolan. I must say, I'm quite tired of calling him "Cat."

Feel free to tell your friends that we are now in correspondence—as long as you describe their reactions in great detail. I can only imagine.

—J. Questus

P.S. Call me Professor one more time and I name the cat Werewolf.

Dear Professor Questus—

Bold of you to assume that reading a letter nine times is my RECORD. Nine times is my NORM.

And name the cat after a terrifying (and canine) Dark creature, I dare you. That's all kinds of ironic. Personally, I would name him Edward (a perfectly respectable name that references Edward Lear's "The Owl and the Pussycat"), but I'm sure you'll think that Edward is just as stupid as Garrison or Nolan. I didn't name Garrison, by the way—that was my dad. But it's a good name, in my humble opinion.

I'm glad you've adopted the cat; I quite like cats (more than dogs, at least), and I don't want him to starve. We were going to take him in, but feeding him would get too expensive. The cat in question is very grumpy—you two are perfect for each other.

Why on earth does Hogwarts have Thestrals pulling the carriages? I don't remember if they're dangerous or not, but even if they aren't, why isn't Dumbledore worried about scaring the students? Thestrals sound terrifying. I'll probably say that it was a random person whom I saw die—if they ask, which they might not. I'll tell them that I was seven, and some homeless person got hit by a car. I'm not sure what else to say.

I counted three "moon" puns in your letter. That's cruel.

I did indeed write my essay as you suggested, but it didn't annoy her. In fact, she called me "extremely clever" and "very creative". I mostly wrote it about spells—you know, how spells work with certain words but not others. Sirius' essay is only one sentence, and it's not even in English. He said something along the lines of "Si les mots n'ont pas (insert French for "value;" I can't read his handwriting), alors tu peux parfaitement comprendre cet essai." I don't know if that's right, actually—I don't speak French (that's why he had to write it down for me, and I could hardly read it through the ink blots that resulted from a violent ink fight he had with James). But he got full marks, even though he just meant to annoy Pensley. She loved it. I think she's just the type to give everyone good marks, honestly.

We're talking about Romeo and Juliet in class—she's all for "class discussion" and "thoughtful conversation" and "teaching each other" and such. It's awkward. As a teacher, shouldn't she be the one teaching us? When James said that, she told him that it's "valuable life skills," but I don't think we'll ever have to have a class discussion about Romeo and Juliet in real life. In-class discussion is in its own category, isn't it? I mean, YOU always wanted us to have discussions with each other in class, but it's not the same and I thoroughly dislike her.

You asked if I could pick out individual candle scents—I CAN'T. That's the problem. I'm used to being able to do that, but now I'm just bothered by whatever scent is blowing in my direction. I can get used to certain scents after a while, but now it's changing every time there's a slight breeze—so, in addition to the scents being far too overpowering to focus, they're also changing every time someone moves.

I'm starting to get the feeling that nobody really likes Shakespeare—they just convince themselves that they do because it's the socially accepted thing. Is it socially accepted? I don't know, I just don't like Pensley very much. Honestly, I used to like some of Shakespeare's sonnets (for the iambic pentameter), but now I can't stand him. If I have to hear Pensley say "in fair Verona where we lay our scene" ONE more time... but I digress. I'm just glad that we haven't started Mindfulness Made Easy yet.

The main problem is: this isn't Defense Against the Dark Arts! I haven't learned ANYTHING about D.A.D.A., because this is just a dumb literature class. On that note, which textbook did you assign for your second-years last year? I'm going to fail if I don't learn the information on my own, and Defense is especially important this year because of the impending war.

Unrelated, but I'm glad Dad finally has someone to talk politics with; Mum and I are no help. Mum tries, but it's hard for her to understand a world that she never had any part in. And frankly, I get scared of Dad when he gets into politics. He's very intense. (I don't know why I'm telling YOU this, of all people; you're far more intense than he is.) But the real problem is that he always gets too nervous to talk about werewolves, and his anxiety makes me rather uncomfortable.

I told James that we were in correspondence, and he didn't seem surprised. He wanted to write you a letter. Sirius followed suit, and I think that maybe he hexed it. Exercise caution.

—"Henry"

John!

Heyyy it's james. i told Remis this letter was PRIVATE, and we respect his privacy enough that he probly wont open it. Alas now we are no longer respecting his privacy. Now that you're not around and you cant yell at me for being nosy, I want to tell you that i KNOW something is off about remus, and i'm guessing that you probly know what it is. if you tell us then I promise I wont judge him or something. He's our friend and nothing can change that, so i'm not sure what he's keeping from us. Pleaseee don't tell remus that we're prying. He hates that (which only further confirms that he's HIDING SOMETHING.)

See, sirius and I have this master plan to play good-cop-bad-cop (which is a muggle phrase that my dad sometimes uses). basically, i'm being the bad-cop and grilling remus about our suspicions, and sirius is being the good-cop and trying to make him feel safe and welcome and such. we figure it's a good balance, and Dad says good-cop-bad-cop is a good way to get people to confess to things. But it's NOT WORKING because Remus hasn't told us anything.

We know his mums not a werewolf, which would have made perfect sense but ok. How ill is he? He looks ill. He came back from summer holidays evin worse than he was before he left. he's super thin and he looks like he doesn't sleep much (and sometimes he has nightmares but not too often at the moment).

I hate mysteries. I can't even focus on quidditch. Please please pleeaaaaseeee tell me whats wrong with remus so that i can focus and make the gryffindor team this yr. I just feel bad that he doesnt trust us

Thx!
jemes

ps. if you wont tell me, maybe sirius' letter can convince you

Potter—

Your grammar is atrocious. I know that you have decent grammar (remember: I'm the one who graded all of your D.A.D.A. essays last year), so I assume you're just doing it to annoy me. Congratulations; it's not working. It'll take more than that—although you came worryingly close when you misspelled your own name.

Your insistent pestering of your best friend, however, most certainly annoys me. Remus has told you again and again exactly what is wrong with him, and the fact that you won't listen is a problem of YOUR trust, not his. Since I am now his next-door neighbor and have seen more of his family than I had ever hoped to, I can confirm that his mother is indeed ill (not a werewolf), and that he shares her affliction (but to a lesser degree). That's all there is to it, and I hope that you can find it in your heart to trust your friend instead of assuming that he's a pathological liar. Occam's Razor is not always accurate. You cannot look for a simple solution, because Lupin's life is not simple. It's as easy as that.

I know for a fact that Lupin has done nothing but support you since he came to Hogwarts, and pushing into his personal business is a pretty poor way to repay the way he puts up with your shenanigans. I suggest you stop trying to uncover a nonexistent scandal and simply accept your friend for who he is.

I have not opened Black's letter, and I have no plans to do so. You do remember that I was an Auror, don't you? I can recognize a Bat-Bogey Hex when I see one.

Good luck making the Quidditch team. With your attitude, you definitely need it.

—J. Questus

James put down the letter and let out a low whistle. "Woah. He can yell at me for being nosy without actually yelling at me. I didn't think he could do it, but he can. Now I feel all ashamed of myself."

"What?" said Remus, setting down his fork. "I'm not surprised he yelled at you. But what for, exactly?"

"For 'prying into your personal business'. All I asked was what kind of illness you have, since you won't tell us... and then he completely blew up. I mean, I get it. But still. It's just odd that you haven't told us is all I'm saying. I thought something was up."

Remus felt his chest constrict, and his breathing suddenly grew short. "Nothing is up! I haven't told you because I don't know!"

"You know it's not fatal," said Peter. "So either you're lying about that or you're lying about this."

"You don't need to know what an illness is to know if it's fatal or not," said Remus hotly. In through his nose. Out through his mouth.

"Fine, fine," said James. "We believe you. By the way, Sirius—John didn't even open your letter."

"Aw," said Sirius.

"Of course he didn't," said Remus. He was trying to be normal, but he still felt all panicked. "I need... to go to the loo. I'll meet up with you before Transfiguration, okay?"

James nodded. "Sounds good. Hey, Sirius, think I can hit Snivellus in the back of the head with a piece of mashed potato?"

Remus practically ran out of the Great Hall.

He figured he'd go to the girls' loo—Moaning Myrtle was in there, but no one else was. Maybe she'd leave him alone. Myrtle had seemed to fancy Remus back when he was in first year, which had been uncomfortable and disturbing... but maybe, since he'd made it clear that he wasn't interested, she'd leave him alone... perhaps he could get some time to himself after all.

No such luck.

"Oh, it's you again!" giggled Myrtle, wiping her eyes. "Remus Lupin. I was wondering if you'd come back... or if you'd just forgotten about me."

"You're not very forgettable," said Remus. He didn't really mean it as a compliment, but Myrtle ate it right up.

"Neither are you," she purred. "You should come back here every once in a while... oh, are you sad? Tell me about it."

"Not sad," said Remus. "I have to go, Myrtle."

"Come back soon!" she called.

Yeah, no. Remus wasn't going to do that.

Remus wandered past the DAD classroom (that was where he'd gone when he was in emotional turmoil last year, after all), but the scent of candles that floated clear down the corridor was a vicious reminder that Professor Questus was no longer there.

Then he remembered that Questus had sent him a letter—he hadn't wanted to open it around his friends, but it was all clear here in the empty corridors. He sat on a bench and opened it carefully.

Lupin—

Your friends suspect, but I think you already knew that. Don't worry; I wrote Potter a very firmly-worded letter about invading your privacy. It was very good, if I do say so myself—I do believe I've bought you some time. Even so: it's borrowed time. They're clever, and I'm surprised it's taking them so long.

Now stop worrying, you idiot. Breathe. It's not that hard. (Which is what I told you on the first December full moon, if you remember anything before the concussion took effect. I know I said I'd never mention that day again, but it's far too much fun.) Enjoy the time you have with them, and we'll figure things out as we go. Emotions are pointless, and you're one of the most emotional (and therefore pointless) people I know. Calm down. The Dark Arts wait for no one, you know—even people with incessant worrying tendencies.

Additionally: I now own a cat named Werewolf. Thanks for that; this is all your fault.

To respond to the other parts of your letter: I'm surprised you're a cat person, the Thestral plan is sound, Shakespeare was stupid, your father is very intense, and Practical Defense Year Two (though I think you've read it already).

Don't call me Professor.

—J. Questus

Remus sighed, smiled, and put the letter in his pocket. It was almost as good as the real thing, even with the horrible smell of scented candles floating into his nostrils the whole time.

He started towards the Great Hall to find his friends, determined to enjoy himself while he still could.

"Today we will be learning Reparifarge," said Professor McGonagall. "This spell can correct nearly any type of Transfiguration and revert it back to its original form—even if said Transfiguration has been done incorrectly."

James waved his hand around in the air. "Nearly every Transfiguration? What do you mean?" He'd recently taken to asking an impossible amount of questions per class period in the hopes that teachers would take too long answering them and the class wouldn't have to learn as much. His favorite trick was asking them right at the end of class (in the hopes that the teacher would run out of time to assign homework) or at the very beginning (like he was doing right now). McGonagall had never been fooled before.

"Dark Transfigurations cannot be undone so easily," she said, taking care not to look at Remus, who was currently sliding lower and lower into his seat, "nor can Transfigurations achieved by extremely powerful wizards. The power to undo must match the power to do. Certain Transfigurations, like Animagus transformations, must be undone with specific spells. Reparifarge will not undo anything as complicated as that—it is a spell intended for simple transfigurations, and other spells will have to be administered for anything more complex. Good question, Mr. Potter."

James scowled, and Remus nearly laughed aloud.

"I have placed feathers on each of your desks. As an added incentive, reverting the Transfiguration done on each feather will produce a small piece of chocolate. Feel free to eat it once you have properly achieved the Transfiguration—but if you do it improperly, I'm afraid it will still taste of owls."

There was a chorus of "Reparifarge!" and James got it on the third try—Sirius got it on the fifth—Remus took about an hour (his chocolate still tasted owl-y, but he wasn't sure if the Transfiguration had been very bad or if his senses were just too keen), and then he set to helping Peter. James started trying to Transfigure his quill into... well, Remus didn't know what. Sirius was trying to break James' concentration, and the both of them were laughing.

"What on earth are you doing, Potter?" asked McGonagall, walking up behind James with a stern frown on her face.

James smiled. "I'm trying to Transfigure this quill into a mouse," he said. "I've already finished with Reparifarge, and I'd like to keep myself intellectually stimulated."

Remus scoffed. Yeah, right. James just wanted to learn how to Transfigure things into mice so that he could cause mice to pop up every which way, causing the school to fall into a state of chaos as students found themselves with mice in their hair mid-lecture.

"That's a very difficult Transfiguration," said McGonagall, still frowning.

"I can do it," said James. "If Sirius stops ruffling my hair!"

Sirius poked James' side with his wand. "Trust me, mate, we don't need a mouse running round in here."

James frowned and poked Sirius back. "The world needs more mice. There's never too many mice."

"I disagree," Remus piped. "There can definitely be too many mice."

"I like mice," said Peter thoughtfully.

"It doesn't matter who likes or dislikes mice," said McGonagall—and then, to Remus' surprise, she smiled. "By all means, Mr. Potter, keep practicing."

She left to help another student, and then Sirius reached out to ruffle James' already-ruffled hair with a leering smile. "She likes youuuu," Sirius crooned. "Teacher's pet!"

Perhaps James couldn't Transfigure a quill to a mouse quite yet, but he could most certainly Transfigure Sirius' hair to jelly. Five minutes later, Sirius was in the Hospital Wing, James had been assigned a detention, and Remus and Peter were laughing.

Remus was indeed enjoying himself while he still could—just like Questus had said—and it was helping quite a lot. He'd have to thank Professor Questus later. Even though the man was no longer his professor (as he constantly reminded Remus), he'd still managed to teach Remus more in a couple of letters than Pensley had since the start of term.

Although, to be fair, that wasn't a particularly difficult thing to achieve.

AN: "Why don't I have any pencils?" I ask myself. I look inside my desk. I buy packs of pencils every few months, it seems, yet I don't have the plethora that I thought I would. I only have three pencils. That's it. Three. Where do they all go?

And then I notice that I have four mugs on my desk, containing mixtures of pens and pencils instead of beverages. I have pencils in my nightstand. I have pencils in the organizer in my closet. There are pencils in my dresser. There are pencils on my windowsill, on my floor, and under my bed. There is one behind my ear. There is one in my hair. I'm not losing pencils—I'm simply putting them in different places every time. I have plenty of pencils. I am made of pencils. I am pencils.

They're here—hiding—watching—waiting—but alas, I can never find one when I need one.