"Your father and I put a roof over your head, give you clothing and money and food, taught you to read and write in multiple languages, and raised you with every Pureblood ideal and mannerism that you shall ever need to know in order to be successful in life!" shrieked James in a very posh accent, and Sirius doubled over with laughter. "How dare you squander it all to be friends with James Potter, who is wonderful, brilliant, far better than I'll ever be, and an excellent Quidditch player?"

"She didn't say that," gasped Sirius. "No way."

James grinned and put down Sirius' mother's letter—he read them aloud to Sirius every morning, and, in Sirius' opinion, it provided quite the breakfast entertainment. "Nah, she didn't," said James, ruffling his hair. "But I like this version better. Anyway. After that, it's just the normal things. 'How dare you' is in there six times... no, seven. And then there's the infamous all-capital letters..."

"Motherly love." Sirius tried to deadpan (something that Remus was all too good at), but failed miserably. He was laughing too hard—not as hard as Peter, though, whose face was redder than the Gryffindor tapestry. How did Remus always keep such a straight face? And, talking of Remus... "It's been a couple of days since the last full moon, James," said Sirius quietly. "Where is he? Still recovering?"

James shrugged. "Sometimes he's gone for a long time... I think. It's been two days... maybe. He should be back soon... probably."

"You sound unsure."

"I am. Wasn't he gone for six days that one time? Last December?"

"Oh, right."

"Can't wait to ask him about it after Quidditch tryouts and get some answers."

"Me either. Hey, Mum said something else in her letter, too, but I was laughing too hard to hear it properly. Something about the Daily Prophet?"

"Yeah. Your dad made some sort of political statement that's going to be printed soon."

Peter made a small noise of amazement, but Sirius only scowled. "I'll bet Regulus is excited, then," Sirius grouched. "He loves it when Dad's in the paper."

"Your brother is never excited. I don't think I've never seen him smile."

"He was like that at home, too. Always reading. Impassive. 'No, Sirius, I do not want to play a game. Amuse yourself. It's not that difficult.'" Sirius dropped the ridiculously posh accent—he'd been sort-of adopting James' recently; it fit in a little bit better than his old RP with hints of upper-class wizarding twang. The Blacks took pride in maintaining the Pureblood wizarding accent of the olden days, but Sirius didn't care for it. His brother—stupid Regulus—got an absolute kick out of sounding like a Black, though.

"He's an idiot," Sirius continued. "I was so disappointed when he started doing magic and I realized we'd be at Hogwarts together. Although..." Sirius grinned. "Regulus was a late bloomer. Started when he was nine. Mum and Dad were terrified that they'd birthed a Squib. That's why Regulus wanted to get in their good graces... afraid, you know. Wanted acceptance, which he'd never gotten. Did all of his perfect little Pureblood training and all that, hoping it would give him magic or whatever. Now he's just relieved he's in the Blacks' good graces, and he's being even more insufferable. Ugh. I'm so glad he's not a Squib, though. That would have been terrible for him."

"You're glad he's not a Squib...? But you sound like you hate him!"

"And that's why I don't like talking about Regulus with you, James. You don't get it. You can love a bloke and also dislike him. I wish he weren't my brother. I wish I'd never met him. I wish I didn't have to deal with him. But... well, he is my brother, and there's nothing I can do about it. So I hate him. But I am glad he's not a Squib, for his own sake."

"Makes no sense."

"Exactly. You don't get it. I told you—I want to talk to Remus about it, because Remus understands more. When this whole thing blows over and we're friends again, I mean."

"You think Remus will understand your ridiculous brother paradox?"

"Mm-hm. That was another thing I realized the other day. Remus told me that his relatives had mostly left—said they were angry with his father for marrying a Muggle, which I believed at first. But it makes more sense that they left because he's a werewolf, doesn't it? They found out that he was a werewolf and skedaddled. So he understands family problems, I think. It's basically the same thing that happened to me, except Remus doesn't have to deal with his relatives anymore and I still do."

"I'm glad you have someone who understands, then. At least a little. I try, mate, but you know my parents. Definitely not the same as yours."

"Definitely not. My mum would rather keel over and die an early death than send me those stupid care packages your mum sends."

"Don't be jealous. I share with you, don't I?"

Sirius smiled. Yes, James shared. He shared very frequently. Sirius liked it best when James shared with him without telling Remus and Peter—Sirius and James sometimes ate the sweets in the care packages during detentions while no one was looking, or in the common room in the middle of the night, or during class as quietly as possible. It was a shared experience as well as shared sweets, and Sirius was more thankful for it than he cared to admit.

James yawned, stretched, and accidentally knocked his hand into Peter. Peter laughed and hit James back, and then they both started laughing. "Well anyway, Sirius, Remus gets my Daily Prophet," James said, still grinning, "and you don't get one. Do you want to see your dad's statement?"

"Nah. Let's not worry about it. If it's important, then Remus will tell us." There was a very long, uncomfortable silence. "Well, maybe he will," amended Sirius, because Remus hadn't told them much of anything recently.

"Maybe. I'm gonna go practice Quidditch."

"I'll come with."

"I'm coming, too!" said Peter, speaking for the first time.

And so the three non-werewolf Marauders went to play around on broomsticks, allowing themselves to forget their various troubles for a small moment.

Remus could not forget his troubles, even for a small moment.

"Madam Pomfrey? May I have some water?" he asked, and his voice was impossible hoarse and scratchy.

Madam Pomfrey hurried over to Remus' bedside and filled his cup. "Certainly. How are you feeling?"

"Er... everything kind of hurts in a weird way. But it's... dull, not sharp."

"Your spine is still healing up; that's probably why. You have a few letters from home."

Remus accepted them gratefully and sipped his water. Suddenly, his fingers spasmed violently, and the cup slipped out of his hand. Water spilled all over Bufo, who blinked up at Remus dolefully from his perch on Remus' lap. "I'm sorry!" said Remus. "Sorry, Bufo."

"Two caps in the jar," said Madam Pomfrey, drying Remus' bedsheets immediately. She ignored Bufo, which was fine. Bufo needed a bath anyway, so a little water wouldn't hurt him (although he did look quite angry with Remus now, in his own froggy sort of way). "What happened?"

"I don't know! My hand just... moved! All on its own!"

"Probably still the spinal injury. They're tricky things. I can't always get them healed up on the first try—I'll have to have another go when you're sleeping later." She filled his cup again, but Remus didn't dare take another sip. "You told me that werewolves won't fatally injure themselves on the full moon?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, I still don't believe it. How on earth would you have survived with that sort of injury? It's preposterous."

"Would have healed eventually, and sometimes transforming to and fro takes care of the rest of it."

"Transforming helps heal you?"

"Not from a wolf. But to a wolf, yeah, since werewolves are magical and dangerous by definition and all that. They have to be dangerous come full moon; that's part of the magic. Human injuries don't often translate, and when... you know, when my bones rearrange themselves come moonrise, sometimes they do it more properly than they were before, if only to fulfill the magical requirements and make me... well, dangerous. I wouldn't have died; I just need to be healed so that I'm not in pain all the time and can attend my classes."

Madam Pomfrey frowned. "Mind if I ask a question?"

Remus was reminded a bit of Professor Questus, although he didn't often ask for permission first. "Go ahead."

"I'm not sure if you know the answer, of course. I just figured I'd ask. There are werewolves who don't try to integrate themselves into human society, correct?"

Remus wasn't offended at the statement, but he did wonder if anyone in his place would be offended. "Human society" implied that there was no place for magical Beings—only humans. It implied that society belonged to humans and no one else. But Remus wasn't offended. Of course society was intended for humans. That's why it was so hard for him to get along in it. "That's right," he said.

"How do they survive? I assume they don't have access to Healers and potions and spells. How do they function, being injured all the time?"

"They're not injured," said Remus uncomfortably. "Only me. I'm... going against my nature. Locking myself up. That's why I get hurt, remember? Werewolves who don't do that... don't get hurt. They just walk away from a transformation... well, I suppose a little tired and sore and worse for wear... but not hurt."

"What about the few days before? Do they get as ill as you do?"

"Never really met another werewolf," said Remus. "Except Susi from the Registry, and I don't see her before full moons. Dad thinks the extensive illness is partially because I'm young—he supposes that maybe it'll go away a little when I'm older and not growing anymore. And I think that part of it is that... there are things werewolves do... to make it easier on themselves. Things that I would never do. You know?"

"No, I don't. May I ask...?"

Remus appreciated Madam Pomfrey's hesitancy to make him talk about such topics, but her excessive politeness was a bit off-putting. Remus rather preferred Professor Questus' brash way of approaching the subject so harshly he practically trampled over it. But Remus could work with this, too. "It's just my theory, and I might be wrong. But I think that the transformation is generally easier on werewolves who genuinely... look forward to it. Wild ones. You know?"

"No, I do not. Are you comfortable elaborating?"

"I suppose. Er, McGonagall was talking about it around Halloween last year. Viciousness of an object affects Transfigurations because it's harder to Transfigure an object against the object's will." The theory had been bouncing around Remus' head for a while, but he'd never voiced it before. Still, talking things out was addicting. "So I think... maybe it's worse on werewolves who do try to... integrate themselves into human society. Wild werewolves probably don't feel it as acutely, because the transfiguration from human to wolf isn't going against their will. It's still a Dark Transfiguration, of course; they're going to be ill before, and it's going to hurt no matter what. But maybe it's a little bit better."

Remus thought back to February sixteenth, 1965. He didn't mean to, but the memory just popped into his head—and he was just as powerless to control it as he had been powerless to control his hand when he'd dropped the cup. February sixteenth, 1965... yes, he remembered. He remembered all too well.

He remembered being half-asleep and drowsy. He remembered hearing noises outside his window just as he drifted off, but hadn't paid them mind... he'd thought it was just a harmless animal. There had been scuffling, growling, grunting, and scratching. There had been the noises of heavy breathing. Then, there'd been scratching noises on his window... and then, finally, crashing. There had been sounds outside Remus' window, yes, but there hadn't been sounds of screaming, yelling, shrieking, or other sounds of unbearable pain. And Remus didn't like to compare himself to Greyback... but he couldn't really imagine silently transforming like that. So something had to be different.

Madam Pomfrey spoke, jerking him out of his thoughts. "Are you quite all right? You've gone pale."

"Fine," said Remus hurriedly. He picked up the water and drained it, unable to wait any longer. "I would never," he told Madam Pomfrey, setting the cup down and wiping his mouth. "I'd never. I don't care how much easier it would be. I would never live in the wild like them. I would never look forward to it. That's sick."

"I know," she said, and she patted his hand (just like Remus' mum sometimes did when Remus was getting worked up). "That's what makes you such a wonderful person. What would you like for breakfast? It's nearly eleven."

"Anything's fine."

"Toast, jam, and eggs?"

"Sure."

"I'll be back soon."

Remus watched her go, and then he pulled out the letter that bore Professor Questus' handwriting. It was distinctive—Questus' handwriting was thick and bold, as if he'd been pushing the quill into the parchment with unbearable force, and at the same time shaky—as it was whenever he was feeling ill. Remus opened it carefully and read it as quickly as possible. He figured he'd better do it now, lest he risk another "that man isn't as great as you think he is" rant, courtesy of Madam Pomfrey.

It mainly consisted of normal pleasantries: updates on his parents, updates on Werewolf the Cat, inquiries about Remus' health, and a lengthy response to the question that Remus had asked pertaining to the DAD curriculum... Remus breathed a sigh of relief and folded the letter back up. He'd read it in full later, but skimming Questus' letters first thing was always relaxing. If there was nothing ominous in Questus' letters, then there was nothing ominous going on—for Professor Questus always told Remus everything. Now Remus had nothing to worry about in his parents' letters, either.

The rest of the day was quite boring. He read his parents' letters, wrote a couple of his own, did homework, munched on every morsel of food that Madam Pomfrey fetched for him, and flipped through the Prophet. There was nothing notable in it—except Orion Black's statement on Dark creatures, which was now printed publicly on page two. Remus caught himself reading it over and over again until it was nearly memorized.

"What do you think, Bufo?" Remus whispered as soon as Madam Pomfrey was away in the main ward, caring for a student. "How much is Sirius going to hate me?"

Bufo croaked. He probably didn't know the answer, either.

Remus sighed and read the article for the hundredth time. "Yeah, Sirius is gonna hate me," he decided. "He's going to be furious if he ever finds out what I am."

Sirius was furious.

He marched back into the dormitory, slamming the door behind him. He didn't even bother to do his Secret Marauder Knock before entering, which was a testament to how furious he truly was. "Stupid stupid stupid," he muttered. He punched his pillow. "Stupid!"

He didn't have to worry about James coming in, because James was away at Quidditch practice. He didn't have to worry about Peter coming in, because Peter wouldn't miss watching James practice for anything. And he didn't have to worry about Remus coming in, because...

Suddenly, he heard a tentative knock at the door—a Secret Marauder Knock, no less. He recognized it immediately as Remus' signature knock.

Wait.

Remus?!

"That you?" he called. "Remus? Loopy? Lupin? W...er... Mr. Fragile China Doll?" He'd almost said "Wolf-Man," but now he realized why Remus had never liked that name. He grimaced. Then he remembered getting Remus that silver wolf figurine for his birthday last year—it had just been a joke, but he could only imagine how terrified Remus had been. His stomach roiled uncomfortably, and he punched the pillow again. He was getting quite the workout today.

"Er, yes?" said Remus. He entered the dormitory and shut the door behind him. "Sirius? Another letter from your mother?"

"What are you doing here?" said Sirius flatly, staring at Remus' bandaged hands... the bruise blossoming under his chin... the bag clutched tightly in his hand... Bufo on his shoulder. Remus was pale, sickly, and limping. Whoever had kept Remus under control on the full moon had done a very bad job preserving his health. Sirius scowled, angry at the world. "You shouldn't be out of the Hospital Wing," he said, even though he knew he was being quite rude. "You look like a zombie or something."

"Nope, not a zombie. Still one-hundred-percent human," said Remus, and Sirius chuckled a little. He wondered how many werewolf jokes Remus had made that he'd missed. Remus smiled a bit in return, but it looked like it has hurt a bit to do so. "I'm ill all the time, Sirius. I can deal with it at this point."

"Oh."

"I saw you talking to a Slytherin in the corridor. Was that your brother?"

"Yes."

"Regulus, was it?"

"Yes."

"You didn't look happy. Is that what this is about? He said something that upset you?"

"Kinda."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"...Yes." Sirius budged over and drew his knees up to his chest. Remus sat beside him hesitantly (Remus did everything hesitantly) and plopped Bufo on the tops of Sirius' knees. Sirius looked up in surprise.

Remus was smiling mischievously. "Bufo helps," he explained.

Sirius let another watery chuckle loose, which bought him time, because... well, he couldn't really tell Remus what was wrong.

The problem that was currently plaguing Sirius resided in the Daily Prophet. Regulus had caught him in the corridor—tapped him on the shoulder. Sirius had turned around, furious. "I thought I told you to avoid me as much as possible at Hogwarts," Sirius had spat. "I don't spend time with the likes of you. Slytherins. Pureblood terrorists."

Regulus' face had remained perfectly blank, which had annoyed Sirius even more. Sirius could never draw a reaction from Regulus, because Regulus was a perfect little Pureblood robot. "I've never hurt a person in my life," Regulus had said. "You know that, Sirius. I simply thought you should know that Father printed a statement in the Daily Prophet. I know that you don't receive the newspaper, but I'm certain that you are still expected to read this particular issue. It is, after all, an important family matter. It describes what we stand for."

"It's not what I stand for." Here, Sirius had felt fire running through his veins, and it had taken all his self-control to stop himself from strangling his brother to death.

"I am just trying to help. Mother will be angry."

"Let her yell. She can't do anything else—it'll ruin her perfect Pureblood image."

"I am risking my own image coming to you, Sirius. And I think I have proven over and over again that I know better than you do when it comes to our parents' expectations..."

"Nah, I know just as well as you do. Probably better, because I know they're stupid. I choose not to follow them."

"Sirius, you are being completely unreasonable..."

"Oh, stop talking like a stilted little gentleman Pureblood."

Regulus had looked around, scanning the corridor quickly, and then he'd leaned closer to Sirius. He'd dropped the formal accent at once, and then had said in a quieter voice, "Mate. Don't be an idiot. Don't you think it's good to know what your parents stand for? Even if you don't agree? You can be both defiant and informed, you daft clown. And it's nothing bad—it's just on Dark creatures—not Mudbloods or anything."

"Don't you dare speak that word around me," Sirius had hissed. A very, very bad feeling had flooded his chest right around then. "Fine. Gimme the newspaper."

"Very well." Regulus had handed Sirius the newspaper, and with every word that Sirius read, his heart had grown heavier with guilt.

He'd thrusted the paper back at Regulus and stood at his full height—more than half a head above Regulus' small frame, because Regulus was a bit short for his age. "I hate you and I hate this family," he'd declared. Then he'd sprinted towards the dormitory, the offending sentences running through his brilliant memory at warp speed.

Hags, werewolves, vampires, and other humanoid monsters should be treated just the same as tigers and lions—killed if they pose a threat, and restrained if they do not.

And then that emotion had welled up inside of him, fierce and strong. What had Remus called it? Guilt with a Sirius-y twist? Yeah, that was it.

And now Sirius Black was in his dormitory, staring at the very "humanoid monster" that his own parents sought to destroy. Remus was smiling a little, blessedly oblivious. Bufo was on Sirius' knees, staring up at Sirius with the same expression that he always wore. Sirius wanted to punch something again, but he was afraid of hurting Bufo. Yeah, Remus had been right. Bufo did help... if only to stop Sirius from doing something stupid.

"Did you read the Prophet yet?" said Sirius. "I know you were ill, but did you read it...?"

"I read it," said Remus. Sirius searched his face for signs of offense, fear, anger... anything!... but alas, he found nothing but worry for Sirius' plight. Perhaps Remus had missed the statement. But then... "You father made a statement, didn't he?" asked Remus, dashing all of Sirius' hopes with one sentence.

"Yeah."

"You don't look happy."

"I'm not."

"Does it... bother you?"

Sirius finally found emotion on Remus' face—hope. He didn't see that very often, and he was determined to cultivate it. "Yes," said Sirius firmly. "Yes, it bothers me. Hags and werewolves and vampires should be treated like humans, shouldn't they?" He wondered vaguely if he was insulting Remus by just insinuating that they weren't human. Oops. "I guess they kind of are humans, I mean..."

"They're not," said Remus. "Don't you listen in DAD? Hags are Beings, but not humans. And werewolves aren't even that."

Sirius didn't detect any bitterness in Remus' tone, but he still felt guilty.

"Furthermore," continued Remus, "I happen to agree with your father fully. If it poses a danger to society, it should be restrained or killed. I thought you... didn't like werewolves? Isn't that what you said?"

The words might have been accusing if they had been spoken in that kind of tone, but Remus just mostly sounded confused. Sirius was a little taken aback by Remus' harsh words towards himself, but Sirius was going to fix things. It was, after all, Sirius' responsibility to do so. "I don't want to be like my parents," he said. "If they believe that humanoid..." Sirius didn't think that "monsters" was the right word... "You know, hags and werewolves and vampires... if they don't like them, then I do. I've had a change in heart."

Remus, to Sirius' surprise, scoffed at that. "That's silly. Would you stop writing just because your parents taught you to do it?"

"Er, no."

"Your parents are right about some things. Just not everything."

"So you don't believe that... people who aren't human... can be good? I'm inclined to trust you more than my parents."

Remus was quiet for a long time, and Sirius wondered if this was where he was finally going to get a confession. He hoped so; he couldn't wait for the secrets to be over. "No," Remus finally said, and Sirius' hopes were dashed yet again. "Not really. But the fact that your father agrees with Death Eater ideals is... disturbing. That he would admit it publicly, I mean. He officially supports the other side now, hm?"

"Yes!" said Sirius. "Exactly! He's said it around the house, but never in public like that. And... for the record... I think you're wrong about hags and werewolves and vampires."

"Hags eat children. Vampires kill people. And what about Greyback?"

"Maybe he's just misunderstood."

"He is not," said Remus, and his words were more harsh than Sirius had ever heard them. Remus closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose and then out through his mouth. The air tickled Sirius' nose a little, and he suppressed a laugh. Laughing, he suspected, might be very inappropriate in this situation.

"Maybe not. But I'm sure there's a good werewolf, hag, or vampire around somewhere," said Sirius, grinning at Remus.

"They are animals," said Remus.

"Bufo's an animal, isn't he?"

"S'pose." Remus was silent for a bit. He seemed to be considering something. "You really think so, Sirius?"

"Yes. Absolutely. You're mad if you think your pet toad is secretly a human."

"No... I mean, yeah, but... about that other thing. About non-humans being good people sometimes."

"Of course."

Remus took back Bufo, and Sirius caught a ghost of a smile playing around his lips. But when he spoke, it was as flat and emotionless as Regulus' voice always was. "You're wrong. But I'll let it slide, seeing as you're wrong about a lot of things. About 90% of the time."

Sirius forced a laugh and tried to change the subject. He wasn't about to get any information out of Remus, and he was clearly upsetting him, so it was time for a change in tack. "You were in the Hospital Wing for a pretty long time," he pointed out. "Four days."

Remus tensed. "I was ill."

"I know. But James and Peter and me wanted to do a Halloween prank. You up for some planning tonight? We all know that James is going to keep us up with his hundred-and-one-step Halloween plan."

Remus laughed at that, and Sirius nearly breathed a sigh of relief at the sound. "Of course. Hey, Sirius? Question."

"Yeah?"

"You... believe me, right? Because you've been acting weird. You believe me about my mum? You and James don't have some weird theory again?"

"Nope," said Sirius, waggling his head. "No weird theory. You're a good person, and that's all that matters. We don't care anymore."

Remus smiled a little more at the words "good person", and Sirius was glad to see it.

Sirius was angry at the world, he was angry at his parents, and he was angry at himself... but he wasn't angry at Remus. Not really. Just frustrated by all the lying and sneaking and internal anxiety.

How did Remus do it all the time?

AN: I love how pencil sharpeners sometimes break the pencil point entirely, effectively doing the exact opposite of their job.