That night, Remus sat on the floor of the dormitory and explained nearly everything about the Registry process to his friends. The only thing that he skipped over was the Veritaserum and Sirius' father—he would tell them that later.

"So they just make you wait for hours and hours?" said Sirius. "That's awful."

"The Ministry of Magic employees sort of see us as the 'easy job'," explained Remus. "We won't complain to the Ministry for bad service—or rather, we can't—and we have to stick around no matter what. So the Ministry workers come in and get paid extra for the time that they spend with us, but most of the time they're on break or doing other work. It's a very inefficient system."

"Maybe that's why my dad is working it this year," said Sirius. "He always was a git. Did you see him around, by the way?"

It's now or never, Remus thought miserably. "Actually, that's the thing I wanted to talk to you about, Sirius. He was... he was working with me. Personally. Directly. With the paperwork."

Sirius' eyes went wide. "No way."

"Yeah. Not the whole time. Just the questions... the last part."

"So he knows that you're a werewolf now?"

"Yes, but he doesn't know that I'm close friends with you. Fortunately, it never came up."

"That's fine!" said Sirius. "I'll tell him myself!" He put on a frighteningly innocent expression and clasped his hands together. "Hey, Dad, you know Remus Lupin? Gryffindor? My age? He's in Gryffindor like me, and he's also my best mate after James Potter the blood traitor!"

"I'm tied with Peter, I think," said Remus, seeing Peter's expression.

"Nah. It's James, then you, then Pete. You're all my friends, of course, but there's a clear order."

Remus shook his head at Sirius' obnoxious disregard for Peter's feelings (even though Remus agreed—there was an "order" in all of their friendships, Remus' included), but he didn't press the matter. "Anyway, Sirius. No. You should not tell your father that you're friends with me... in fact, I think you should stay far away from me when he's around."

"Why, though? I don't mind. I want him to know! He's probably gonna warn me that there's a werewolf at Hogwarts, anyway, so he might as well know that I know."

"He won't tell you. Healers who treat me and Ministry workers who handle the Registry are sworn to secrecy. They're under some spell, I think. They're not physically able to tell anyone what I am... otherwise, everyone would know, because Ministry workers aren't likely to keep the information to themselves without some kind of incentive. So your father won't tell you."

"He mentioned it to me last year, though. Said he saw you at the Registry."

"He wasn't working there last year, but he was this year. He was working directly with me, so he has to be sworn to secrecy."

"Well, then I'll tell him myself!" Sirius repeated.

"No!"

"Why not? He already knows about you, so..."

"First, I'm worried about how much trouble you'll get into."

"Pish-posh. They won't do anything, really. Most they'll do is kick me out of the house more frequently, and I'd love that."

"Second, they might try to keep you from being friends with me."

"How would they do that? They can't do a thing while I'm here—or while I'm at James'!"

"Third..." Remus heaved a sigh and told them about the Veritaserum, the aconite that made him cough until he couldn't breathe, and Orion Black's harsh words. He watched their expressions carefully as he did so: Peter looked worried, James looked sympathetic, and Sirius looked sort of confused. Blessedly, all three of them waited until he was finished to ask any questions. "I'm sort of worried about what he'll do to me if he knows that I'm close friends with his son," Remus concluded. "They all hate me—think I'm a danger to Hogwarts—and it'll be even worse if he knows that I'm constantly in close contact with his child. He's worried about you, Sirius, and he wants to protect you. The closer I am with you, the more drastic measures he'll go through to achieve that."

"He's not worried about me," protested Sirius. "He doesn't care about me. He just wants an excuse to treat you like scum. Always treats me like scum, anyhow. You were in an enclosed room with him for a few hours, hm? Imagine being in an enclosed house with him for twenty-four hours a day!"

Remus didn't think that it was the same thing at all, but he didn't say anything. "Don't let's give him more of an excuse to hate me, okay?" he said, studying Sirius' face. Sirius nodded, but it wasn't very sincere; in fact, he still looked confused.

"Why didn't it kill you? The aconite? That's wolfsbane, isn't it?"

"It was a very small amount, and they gave me some sort of respiratory potion right afterwards, which helped a bit. I might have choked to death, I suppose, if they hadn't... but only after a very long time. And I probably would have died if Veritaserum contained more aconite. But they did, and it doesn't, so it was okay."

"Is that why you've been looking ill?" asked Peter.

"I don't look ill. I'm fine."

"You do look ill—you look positively dreadful. I was afraid to ask because I figured that it was the full moon coming up. When is that?"

Sirius answered before Remus could, and he did so with a massive eyeroll. "January sixteenth. Keep up, Peter." Then he stood up and bounded over to the door. "Coming?" he asked.

"Er... where?" said Remus.

"Quidditch. James has practice in a few minutes, remember? I want to watch."

"Oh! Yeah. I'm coming."

And so Remus Lupin pushed the bad memories down and tried to enjoy the bitter weather with his friends, sitting in the stands and watching James swoop around like a lanky bird with spectacles as if his life depended on it.

January thirteenth was another Quidditch game, and James won. There was no party in the common room this time, which made James very angry. "It's a big deal!" he said angrily. "Why aren't we having a party?"

One of James' Quidditch teammates, Tudor Shacklebolt, clapped James on the back. "Quidditch is a big deal," he said calmly, "but we'd run out of steam if we did a party every time we won. The Gryffindor team is so good that we don't need to celebrate every win—we do it too often."

That seemed to satisfy James. "I suppose. But parties are still nice."

"But Quidditch is the real reason we play, Potter. Isn't that right?"

"Yeah. Quidditch," agreed James. Shacklebolt left, and then James turned to Sirius. "What d'you say we go to the Kitchens tonight and nick some food?" he whispered. "I'm still in the mood for a party."

"Absolutely," said Sirius.

"Sounds great!" said Peter.

Remus smiled and followed his friends inside. After a day of being treated like a dangerous creature, being part of a group and valued as such was a wonderful feeling indeed.

"No, Peter," said Remus in Charms class the next day, "you move your wand in more of a swoop... less of a poking motion. Yeah."

Peter tried swooping his wand more, but he accidentally hit Evans in the eye. She scowled and called them annoying. Sirius grinned at her and flicked his wand in her direction—nothing happened, but Evans flinched all the same, which made Sirius laugh. Evans scowled again. "Leave me alone, Black!" she said.

"Be nice," said Flitwick anxiously, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Have you mastered the Freezing Charm yet, Lupin?"

"I think so," said Remus. He pointed his wand at the rat on his desk, which was scurrying and trying to get away. "Immobulus," he said clearly, and the rat immediately stopped moving. Flitwick picked it up, examined it, and then set it back down with a satisfied look on his face.

"Very good. The whiskers are still twitching, but whiskers are always difficult. Well done."

Remus beamed. "Peter's having a bit of trouble with the wand movements; would you mind helping us out a bit?"

Flitwick spent a couple of minutes correcting Peter's technique, and then he turned to James and Sirius (who were very clearly not working on the Freezing Charm). "What exactly are you doing, Black and Potter?"

"I'm trying to master the Patronus Charm," said James, eyebrows furrowed into a mask of pure concentration. "I got something a couple of days ago when I was practicing, but I can't cast it nearly as well as Remus can. And I need it to be corporeal."

"That's a big word," said Flitwick, "and an even bigger spell. It's not really second-year material. Perhaps you should try again when you're a bit older."

"Expecto Patronum," said Sirius, and a white shield burst out of the tip of his wand. "See? We're close. We just need to be happier." He winked cheekily. "Practicing the Freezing Charm isn't likely to help us with that. It's so boring."

Flitwick made a little squeaking noise. By the sounds of it, he wasn't even angry that Sirius had called his class boring—no, he was practically on top of the world. "That was brilliant!" he cried. "Brilliant! I've never seen such advanced magic done so well from such a young student!"

"I can do it, too," bragged James, and he immediately conjured a smaller wisp of a shield. "It was bigger yesterday," he said, but it hadn't been.

"They've been practicing nonstop in the dormitory," Remus explained to an awestruck Flitwick. "Peter, too; he's getting good at it as well. I don't know why they're so determined to get it, but..."

"Potter said that you can cast it, Mr. Lupin? Would you like to show us?"

Remus glanced at James, who was mussing his hair and grinning lazily at the newfound attention, and Sirius looked just as happy. Remus didn't need to overshadow them (even though he could definitely cast it better). Besides, he didn't want to stand out more than he already did, because drawing attention to himself like that could have disastrous consequences. "Er... mine isn't nearly as good as theirs, actually," he lied. "Peter should try, though."

Peter turned red and shook his head.

"That's all right," said Flitwick. "I'm still impressed. Very impressed. Feel free to keep practicing the charm during class, Black and Potter. I can see that your rats are perfectly immobilized. Ooh, and ten points to Gryffindor!"

Evans scowled again.

Dear Professor Questus,

Thanks a lot for that Apollo Mannaro book that you gave James. (And I meant that sarcastically, in case you couldn't tell.) That book is frighteningly detailed. I don't even know how you found out some of that information... some of it is Restricted Section material! It's entirely too heavy for second-year eyes, and I'm not sure what you were thinking when you gave it to James. Did you forget that stuff was in there?

The other day, for instance, James was lying on his bed reading (he's about two-thirds done with the book already, and I swear all of it is memorized), and then he got all still and started to stare at me. He looked kind of ridiculous, esp since Sirius had been chucking quills at his hair for the past fifteen minutes (and they were actually sticking!), so I laughed at him and told him that he looked like a particularly ugly gargoyle. He didn't laugh, so I figured something was wrong—he motioned for Sirius to come, and Sirius read the passage and started staring at me, too—and I'm not a fan of staring, so I threw a pillow at them. They still didn't laugh, which was odd. Getting hit by pillows ALWAYS makes them laugh for some reason.

Apparently, the page that they were looking at was a diagram that you had drawn of werewolf life expectancies (how did you get a hold of official Ministry records?). Your calculations came out to an average life expectancy of thirteen years after the bite, which seems about right to me (as an AVERAGE, nothing more!). But my friends can do arithmetic very quickly in their heads, and they realized that I'll be in seventh year, so James started panicking a little. It took a very long time to explain that most werewolves don't die of natural causes, which brings the average down immensely, and that it's only counting for unsupported & civilized werewolves, and that things change with potions and people to help, and that it also depends on age bitten... AND he was being even weirder about it after he flipped the page (though I don't know what you wrote on it. I didn't see).

Eventually he got me to admit that I probably wasn't going to live to be Dumbledore's age (which is ridiculous anyway for someone of my health. Come on, they HAD to have known that). I told them that they were probably going to outlive me (but it's not a big deal!), and then James kind of lost his mind. I thought the whole thing was obvious, though. I think I've even mentioned it in passing! Of COURSE I'm not going to live to be the age of Nicholas Flamel. Have they seen me?! Lots of people don't live to their mid-hundreds. Even Muggles don't. It's nothing to get worked up about!

You're still cheating on dots and boxes, by the way. There's no way that you can have that many boxes already, so you might as well give up and admit it. Give Mum and Dad my love. Don't let Werewolf's claws get too sharp. Also: what does "misanthropy" mean? It cropped up in my Defense text but I don't know what it is. Sirius won't let me borrow his dictionary, but I think that's because he Transfigured it into a peanut and is too embarrassed to admit that he can't turn it back.

Thanks for nothing,
R.J. Lupin

P.S. My tone in this letter seems very harsh, so I thought you ought to know that I really am thankful for everything you've done for me and I trust your judgement (most of the time).

Lupin—

I did forget that was in there, but I think that your friends do have a right to know. You remember that conversation, right? When we discussed the concept of the right to information? This is a very good example. Your friends ought to have a good understanding of the fact that they will likely outlive you. I feel it's an important bit of information to know, don't you?

I do remember what was on the next page that Potter was looking at—it was a pie chart that I found somewhere of civilized werewolf deaths and their causes. You should look at it when you get the chance; it's very interesting. Came from a scientific book, so all the data is approved and official. Most of that data is. There's a researcher named Alexander Adamson that has some great resources—no full books yet, but maybe someday.

Don't worry, your friends will get over it. YOU did, after all, and you're the one who's probably going to die before you get to be my age. I must say, your views towards mortality on a whole are very mature. Your dots and boxes skills, however, are severely lacking. Trust me, I don't need to cheat. For someone who so constantly worries about the future, you are disturbingly awful at thinking about moves before you make them and all possible outcomes. You should practice that. It'll help with duelling.

"Misanthropy" is basically the state of distrusting or disliking humans and/or human nature. "Mis" is a prefix with negative connotations, and "anthropy" is a suffix that pertains to humanity. ("Lyc" is a Greek prefix meaning "wolf," so "lycanthropy" is the state of being both wolf and human. Most people, particularly Orion Black, like to leave out the suffix. Maybe that'll help you remember it.) Oddly enough, the prefix "mis" comes from Latin, and the root "anthro" comes from Greek. It's a conglomeration of languages, which seems untrustworthy in and of itself. You'll find that interesting.

Has Black tried Reparifarge? Transfiguring something into a peanut is fairly advanced magic for a second-year. I do hope that he hasn't eaten it, however: Transfigured or duplicated food has no nutritional value, but dictionaries are often quite useful when not Transfigured into a peanut.

I have drawn up a chart of every possible play that you could make on our game of dots and boxes, and there is quite literally no way that you can possibly win at this point. I've started a new one. You may go first.

—J. Questus

P.S. Don't worry about your friends. Just like you, they are not fragile china dolls in need of protecting. They'll be fine, I promise.

P.P.S. Why in the world did you apologize for a "harsh tone" in your postscript? First of all: it wasn't even that harsh. Second: even if it was, you're perfectly allowed to be angry every once in a while. Third... have you forgotten who you're talking to? You really think that I, John Questus, would be offended by bluntness? Your stupidity never ceases to astound me.

P.P.P.S. My post-postscript had a very harsh tone, and I'm sorry. You ought to know that I don't really think you're an idiot.

P.P.P.P.S. Kidding. I'm not sorry. See how stupid apologizing sounds?! Stop it.

Remus put down the letter. James was at Quidditch practice again today, but Remus had stayed indoors (both because of the awful weather and his soreness due to the upcoming full moon). Peter and Sirius were serving detention for whatever they had done to Snape, but James was scheduled for later because of Professor McGonagall's insistence on "not punishing the whole team because of the actions of one person" (but everyone knew that it was just because she wanted Gryffindor to win the House Cup).

Remus wandered over to James' bed and, in a moment of courage, grabbed the book out from under James' pillow. He knew that it wasn't kind to snoop, but... well, James had done it to him, back when he'd been trying to figure out Remus' secret! And Professor Questus had given Remus permission! And it wasn't even James' book! Satisfied with this logic, Remus flipped open the book and leafed through it, looking for the page that had scared James so much.

Every single page was marked in some way. It must have been annotated relatively recently, because Questus' handwriting had changed since he was cursed. Remus knew from both the duelling notebook (and from his own essays that Questus had meticulously marked and annotated) that Questus' handwriting had been a lot steadier before he'd been injured. But this handwriting was shaky and thin in some places, so Questus had definitely used the book to amuse himself after having been injured rather than doing it continuously through Remus' first year.

Most of it, from what Remus could tell, was clinical. The majority of Questus' notes were only slight corrections on the information that Mannaro had originally written—sometimes, he had crossed out single words and chosen a better synonym; sometimes, he'd slashed entire paragraphs. Like the duelling notebook, Questus had chronicled his sources and page numbers with frightening attention to detail (even when Remus had been the source. Words could not describe how weird it was to see a bit of information with Remus Lupin, 18 December 1971 as the citation). But even though it was inordinately weird at times, it was nice to read it to himself instead of looking over James' shoulder whenever James seemed too distracted to notice.

Remus suddenly came across jagged stubs of pages—clearly, they'd been ripped out of the book as close to the spine as possible without damaging the binding. Remus flipped back to the table of contents to find the offending chapter. Page ninety-one... Werewolves' Murderous Tendencies in Human Form. Not all of the chapter had been removed, but the portions that remained had been carefully annotated and marked up. Remus smiled. That was nice, at least.

After a few minutes, Remus finally found the page that James had showed him. He took a breath and flipped it.

It was just as Questus had said—a pie chart, hand-drawn (clearly copied from a different source). The data had been taken from ten years of recorded werewolf deaths, Ministry-recorded and approved. Remus stared, his eyes bouncing from the chart to the key. It was just as he'd expected, for the most part. Werewolf hunters made up a sizeable portion of the chart, which didn't surprise Remus at all. Ministry executions had a substantial portion to themselves. Poverty was there (starvation and poor health), as were "natural" deaths (resulting from injuries and wear-and-tear over the years, Remus presumed). There was another section dedicated to werewolves who got into fights with humans (or other werewolves) and came out worst. But the largest section, accounting for nearly half of the chart, was suicide.

Remus wasn't surprised, but he was a bit disturbed. He wondered if the data counted werewolves who asked for death directly after being bitten instead of letting themselves be saved by the silver and Dittany (which was an unfortunately well-accepted phenomenon)... but no, Questus had written at the bottom that the statistics came from Registered werewolves, and werewolves didn't often Register until they'd survived the first transformation... though they were often Registered posthumously by friends or family, for reasons that Remus didn't quite understand. Yes, perhaps that was a large part of it.

Remus wasn't suicidal. He wasn't depressed. He was always frustrated when someone insinuated that he was, because he was perfectly happy, most of the time. But... he could understand, sometimes, why so many werewolves would be, if they were all alone and didn't have anybody in the world to help them. Remus didn't even want to imagine a scenario like that. It was as Susi had said: by werewolf standards, Remus Lupin was incredibly lucky.

He suddenly felt very angry, and he wasn't sure why at first. Was he angry at himself? No. At James? Definitely not, though he was a little scared that James would start treating him like he was fragile once again. In through his nose, out through his mouth...

No, he was angry at Professor Questus! That was it. Why would Questus even begin to think that this was okay? This information was Remus' to share, and Remus' alone... right to information or not, this was highly inappropriate for sheltered and innocent second-years. Suicide wasn't something that young children should know about. Twelve-year-olds shouldn't have to know that their friend's lifespan was highly limited. And then Questus hadn't even apologized in his letter!

And Remus knew—he knew—that this had always been Questus' creed. Information shouldn't be watered down for anyone, even the young. The Dark Arts wait for no one, Questus had repeatedly said. Remus couldn't even count the number of times that Questus had told him something that everybody else had held back on because of Remus' age. Questus had been the only person to mention the war. Questus had warned Remus the very first time they met that he wasn't going to walk on eggshells around him. Remus knew firsthand that Professor Questus did not think twice before giving out information that a person wasn't likely to enjoy. So... why was it so different? Professor Questus had brought up the fact that Remus would likely be homeless (and dead at a young age and alone and ill) in the past, but it had never bothered Remus before. In fact, Remus was always incredibly thankful for Questus' bluntness and willingness to share his real thoughts and ideas instead of abridged versions to protect Remus' feelings. So why was it so different this time?

Because Remus had always been the receiver of such information! He'd never watched it be handed out to someone else. Was this how Madam Pomfrey always felt when she watched Professor Questus talk to Remus? How did Remus even feel? He wasn't sure.

In through his nose. Out through his mouth.

He picked up a quill and a piece of parchment and drafted a harshly-worded letter to Professor Questus (much harsher than his previous letter). He stressed the fact that it was his own information and should not be given without his permission. He outlined the importance of privacy in sensitive situations. He mentioned how sheltered his friends were. He wrote about the possible repercussions of his friends knowing such information. He requested that Questus receive his permission before telling his friends about his private life. Then he finished the letter with a simple, polite paragraph that he knew would seal the deal.

I know you're going to want to debate the logistics of such a request, and I know that you'll likely win said debate. But this isn't an issue of logic; it's an issue of trust—you know more about me than anybody else, probably, even my own parents, and I expect you to know what is appropriate to share and what it not. It's not that I don't trust my friends to handle information, it's that I don't trust them to handle information with tact. They've only known the truth since November. I love them with all of my heart, but they are still twelve years old (and so am I). I'd much rather worry about school and friends and hexes than my own impending mortality.

Thank you,
R.J. Lupin.

Then Remus folded up the letter, Vanished it, and tried his best to forget about the whole incident. It was over and done, and there was no point in starting conflict. Life would go on.

AN: Bit of a heavier chapter. Fear not: Marauderish antics up ahead!