Author's Note: CW for memory issues/having difficulty remembering if something was real or not. Brief period accurate mention of mental health (crazy).
Also good news! I am slowly writing more. Not a lot, but almost daily. I think I am going to try to bump it up to one chapter a week, two chapters the week after. So next week I'll only get a chapter out Tuesday then the week after that there will be two chapters!
-x-
After supper, Remus made his way to the library; he knew the route by heart and mentally faded out until he started heading down the corridor outside the library. Jean-Marie was waiting by the doors, a seam-splitting satchel over one shoulder. He looked older than fourteen in his Ravenclaw uniform.
He started to ask if he was late then realized he should probably say it in French instead, not sure how much English Jean-Marie would understand. But as soon as he got the first syllables out, Jean-Marie began shaking his head.
"No," he said, thick eyebrows knitting together. "Speak… most English." Then his frown became more pronounced. "That is not right?"
"Er." Remus had no idea what to do. He hadn't expected to be half-tutoring someone in English, though he realized suddenly that that was probably McGonagall's intention. "It is cl-close. Um. It—I th-think what you're go-going for is that we sh-should speak m-m-mostly English?"
Jean-Marie was watching him with a puzzled expression.
"Vous voulez dire que nous devrions surtout parler anglais?" Remus inquired, feeling like he was floundering. You want to say that we should mostly speak English?
"O—yes," he said. "You… ahhh… you have… your… bégaiement?"
Remus felt heat creeping into his face and he ducked his head, nodding. "Y-y-yes. I—er, it—it's c-c-called a—a stutte—stutter. In—in English. Stutter."
"Ahh, I am… I… apology… if I am intrusif." He paused. "What is… the English word?"
"It's close to the-the—the f-feminine form. Int-t-t—in—in—" This was ridiculous and he felt himself grow hotter. "Intrusive," he finally forced out. His problem with speaking was going to make it a lot more difficult to help Jean-Marie; this wasn't something he had considered until now. Brilliant idea, getting someone barely able to speak normally to teach someone English! "J-just pronounced dif—different. And n-no, it's f-f-fine. You—I'm—it's okay."
Jean-Marie nodded. "Let us start?"
They went into the library and found a table near the back to sit at. Jean-Marie upended his satchel sending everything pouring out, including a box of sweets and a thermos full of water. A couple of pots of ink clanked against the table and about ten different quills spread out across the pile of stuff. It was such a James Potter thing to do that Remus had to suppress laughter. For some reason, he had been imagining Jean-Marie as this older, sophisticated Frenchman but really, he probably wasn't all that different than the other Marauders.
Jean-Marie began pulling everything back together to organize all the school-related books and papers, as well as shove everything else back into his bag.
"Ah, I get… many notes from class. Lucienne did—did—" His brow furrowed as he tried to figure out the word he was going for. "Co…py?" he asked slowly.
"Copy, copie," Remus replied and Jean-Marie smiled. That's when Remus realized there was some hair above his upper lip, very faintly. He had a mustache. Remus was tutoring someone with a mustache.
"Copy. Lucienne did a copy of notes in French." He pushed over a large pile of notes. "My own… ahh… not good? The words I do not know are… are…" He gave a frustrated grunt as he rubbed his forehead. "Sounds. I write the sounds."
Remus looked in dismay at the notes. Some were in a very neat, small handwriting, all in French. Others were in a bigger handwriting, in shaky English, most of the words spelled wrong, and several French words interspersed. What was he supposed to do? It felt very overwhelming. Plus should he make the words… phonetic…? Jean-Marie would need the properly spelled words.
"D-do you have a—a—a tr-translator?" Remus asked.
Jean-Marie pulled out a thick book, setting it down. "I say the word. I write the word. That, the writing, is not so good for me. English spelling is… strange."
Remus nodded. He had been meaning something more like… an item Jean-Marie could wear that would tell him translations as the teachers spoke; that, he realized, was probably very expensive and not something to expect him to have.
"R-right." He stared down at the notes, a dim headache clutching the back of his skull. Yet… part of him… also felt a little excited as he tried to figure out the best way to help Jean-Marie. Helping someone with schoolwork. Helping someone learn. Teaching. "A—erm—o-okay." He swallowed, hoping he could get used to Jean-Marie quickly enough to get rid of the stammer. He spoke slowly, focusing on each syllable to try to lessen the problem. "I think what might be best right nn-n—now is if I—if—if I make copies of your notes."
Jean-Marie's notes were in a notebook while the French ones were on loose parchment pieces. These he began straightening out, stacking carefully.
"I'll m-make—I'll—" He bit his bottom lip, trying to figure out the best way to explain, as well as slowing down. He had to go slow, for his own sake. "I'm going to copy over both sets of—of notes in both English and French. Y-you'll have everything in both."
Jean-Marie's eyes lit up then the joy almost immediately faded from his face. "That is… much? Too. Too much work." He gave a half-smile at figuring out how to say exactly what he meant.
Remus shrugged. "No, it's fine. I… I don't think this—I—I can't do this every day. But it might help to start. I'll expl-plain as I go."
"You… there is not need for talk slow," Jean-Marie said. "I need to hear English how it speaks."
Remus flushed a little. "I'm talking slow for my s-sake, not yours. If I talk slow and—and carefully it helps me not stutter so much."
"Ah! Apologies."
"No, it's… it's fine."
He began with the French notes. The first class the fourth year Ravenclaws had for the day was Herbology. This was followed by Transfiguration and Charms, then a free period before lunch; after lunch there was Divination, which was very confusing for Remus to help with, then for some reason two free periods, and finally Defense Against the Dark Arts. When Remus asked about the double free period, Jean-Marie explained he had Arithmancy, however Lucienne didn't take that class. He opened his notebook to show Remus the confusing, misspelled notes he had taken himself.
Remus thought he might have go to McGonagall to tell her he couldn't do this. A fourth year lesson for a subject he hadn't even attended yet, written by someone who didn't know the language very well? What the BLOODY hell was he supposed to DO?!
He wasn't even sure if this was what the teachers wanted from him. He was told to help Jean-Marie but was this what they meant?
"Right," he breathed out, anxiety bubbling up in his chest which he tried to push down.
He rewrote the notes as best he could in proper English. Soon he realized it felt a little like reading Peter's writing. Pete writes a lot of things out phonetically, he realized. It was something part of him knew, but also somehow hadn't really occurred to him. He then approached the words like he would when helping Peter and that worked out fairly well. There were still a couple of words he had no idea what they might be, and needed Jean-Marie to read out for him.
Once they were done, he told Jean-Marie that he'd probably need Lucienne to help out with the notes as well. He suggested that Jean-Marie also borrow notes from someone else in the Arithmancy classes. English notes. Jean-Marie nodded to all of this, watching Remus as he wrote out the words.
"Remus…"
Remus glanced up since Jean-Marie fell silent. "Hmm?
He reached up, brushing some curls from his forehead. "I have a, I think, intrusive question?"
Remus tried to keep his face impassive. "Wh-what is it?"
He picked up one of his quills, twirling it between his fingers, focusing on the feather instead of Remus. "There have been things I have… heard."
What's he heard? Remus wondered, trying not to feel scared. Rumors of his illness? What it might be? Did he already suspect, because Charlemagne knew? He assumed Professor Charlemagne hadn't told Jean-Marie however he might have let something slip that helped Jean-Marie put clues together—
"Pas là dans la tête," he said, avoiding Remus's face. Not there in the head.
"Loopy," Remus wagered, and Jean-Marie gave a nearly imperceptible shrug of the shoulder. "There—the—um—er." He blinked down at the parchment; there was a small splatter of ink from where it dripped off the end of his quill. "Some say so."
"Ah." Jean-Marie seemed surprised. "That is not a yes or a no."
Remus set the quill down, trying to blot up the splatter with his sleeve. "I d-do not think so but there—I—I know I do things that others consider to be… c-crazy."
"Ah. Some say you are… strange?"
Remus picked the quill back up. "Some s-say so, yes."
"Some say you are… ill?"
Now he looked up into Jean-Marie's dark eyes. "Y-y-yes," he whispered. "That—that—that's t-true."
Jean-Marie tilted his head. "Some say you are cute."
Remus jerked his arm, knocking several papers to the floor as well as a bottle of ink. Ink went everywhere, spreading across the wooden floor. He scrambled down, mopping it all up into his robes sleeves, hoping the house-elves could get it all out. "What?" he squeaked out from the floor.
He didn't hear that right, could not have heard it right, how could that have been said?!
Jean-Marie laughed quietly as he maneuvered himself to the floor, using a spell to send as much of the ink back into the bottle as he could. "Yes, some… ah… filles… girls. Say."
Remus couldn't believe his ears and felt incredibly out of sorts. "Wh-wh-what—how—you—th-that—I don't—" He swallowed, sitting back on his heels. It had been two days. How the hell did Jean-Marie hear all this in forty-eight hours?! "Wh—who says?"
Jean-Marie produced some handkerchiefs to clean up the ink his spell hadn't managed to move. "I… I question about you, Remus. I question my… students, ah, the—classmates?"
"C-classmates," Remus mumbled, still red. Who the bloody hell had said that last one? He tried to think of any fourth year Ravenclaw girls who might and the only one he knew was Aegis's cousin. "P—Pandora? Silverlocke?"
"Eh?" Jean-Marie rose to his feet, offering a hand. Remus hopped up, ignoring the offer. "Non, non! Pandora Silverlocke, she say to me you are…" He glanced upwards, trying to remember. "Kind?"
"Oh." He felt pleasantly warm at that.
"Gryffindor girl," he said, holding his hand out to indicate a height. "That is the one to say you are cute." What Gryffindor fourth year girl would say that? "McKeannon?" he drew out slowly. "I think is her name."
Remus had no clue who that was. "You… asked people about me?"
"Yes. You… I think you are…" He sighed, and gave up trying. "Puisque mon oncle vous a choisi pour m'aider, je ne peux pas m'empêcher d'être curieux de savoir qui vous êtes. Je ne voulais pas offenser en demandant." Since my uncle chose you to help me, I can't help but be curious about who you are. I didn't mean to cause offense in asking
"N-no. Um. No offense," Remus mumbled, not sure what it would seem if he told Jean-Marie not to ask anyone anything about him. "Je n'étais pas offensé." I was not offended. Then, "My—the—the loopy thing is… er, common through the castle, that didn't surprise me that you—um, that you heard that. A-aa-as is my being ill."
Jean-Marie sat back down, keeping his bright eyes on Remus. "I hear more about your friends that I did you."
Safer territory than himself. "I imagine you would. Er, and—and I think you mean, um, 'th-than' and not 'that' in—in that con-context."
"Ah, thank you. Your friend… the dark one does play Quidditch?"
"James," Remus said. "James Potter, yes, he—he plays Quidditch. He's a Chaser."
"The other too?" Jean-Marie put his hand out to act like he was indicating a height but he stretched his hand way up.
Remus managed a laugh. "Sirius Black, n-no, he doesn't play—"
"Black?" Jean-Marie cut him off. "Il est de la famille Black?" He is from the Black family? Before Remus could answer he smiled again. "Non, ce n'est pas grave." No, it does not matter.
Remus wasn't sure what to say. The Black family had connections to France, Remus knew that much—not by the fact Sirius was taught French growing up, but by the fact their family motto was in French. Toujours Pur. Always Pure. Was Jean-Marie's reaction from knowing something about the Black family from France, or from things he heard around the school? No, he seemed startled that Sirius's surname was Black. If it was around school he would have known that, right?
Jean-Marie had continued talking, rambling about the other things he had heard about the Marauders, mostly about James and Sirius. They were the famous ones. They were the ones you didn't really need to ask anyone about to hear gossip about. Everyone knew who James and Sirius were.
Remus… was on the fringe of that, of not needing to be asked about to hear gossip about, but only because of his oddness. Talking to himself—like Quirke—and his constant clumsiness, sitting on the floor of the library more often than not, he knew he had been seen on occasion climbing out from underneath library tables, he suspected Spinnet had told people he was sometimes under his own bed, his inability to talk, his inability with most social cues, his tendency to be a bit scatterbrained or lost in the clouds… not to mention the smaller things. So much adding up to his loopiness.
Peter was the sort you definitely needed to ask people about, and in fact Jean-Marie didn't even mention him. Remus was curious and interrupted Jean-Marie with, "Has anyone said any—anything about P-Peter?"
Jean-Marie squinted in thought. "That is who?" he finally asked.
"Never mind."
Remus finished transcribing all the notes. Jean-Marie had everything in perfect English, and his own English notes in French. Jean-Marie could have done this on his own but it would have taken ages, one word at a time with his little translating dictionary. He also helped Jean-Marie with a few words he had trouble with. Some words that had multiple meanings, or that sounded the same as others. He had to explain that 'dual' and 'duel' were two completely different words, spelled in different ways.
"Duel with the 'e' is… fight," Jean-Marie said slowly. "Dual with the 'a' is… ah… two? Double?"
"Y-yes."
He wrote that down in the notes alongside the words. "Je ne peux pas commencer à vous remercier, Remus." I cannot begin to thank you.
"I—I'm more than glad to help," he said, which was mostly the truth. He still felt woefully inept at this and that surely Lucienne or someone else would be better. But he did really enjoy it, despite the pounding headache.
"When will we meet—" Here Jean-Marie paused and Remus hoped he wouldn't say tomorrow. There was no way he could meet every night. Plus he needed to meet with Fawley. "—ahhh!" He smacked his forehead, mumbling in French. "Later!" he suddenly exclaimed before frowning. "Next?"
Remus stretched out his arms, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out. "Thursday?" he suggested tentatively. "I—I have—I'm meeting—meeting someone tomorrow night—the nurse, she—"
Jean-Marie waved his hand. "You have not the need to—ah—explain! Thursday is… is… parfait?"
"P-perfect," Remus supplied as he stood up. "Um. If you need help b-before that, feel free to—to say, or, um, to—ask someone to get me."
They said their goodbyes then Remus swung around to the charms section, quickly finding some books about sound related spells. When he took them to the desk he was dismayed to see it was eight-twenty.
Mr. Farrow, the crotchety old librarian who hated most kids, gave Remus a strange look. "Past your curfew."
"I—I s-s-see that," he gulped. "Th-thank you."
He stuffed the books into his already-too-full bag before leaving. He resisted the urge to run, keeping his feet at a normal pace until he slipped into one of the many secret corridors that the Marauders knew about. That's when he took off running. Whenever he emerged into the well-used corridors he slowed, using werewolf instincts to keep himself away from people. Mostly he used the hidden passages. However, on the fifth floor something strange happened. The back of his neck prickled as he walked down one of the corridors—one used by most people that was seemingly empty at the moment.
He paused, sensing someone watching him.
Sensing someone breathing.
Quietly.
Muffled.
He glanced around, the hairs on his body raising up. Nobody seemed to be around but—but there was someone there! It felt like—like—
"James!" he hissed out, the familiar scent of grass, broomstick wax, and fresh air finally hitting his nostrils.
There were a couple of footsteps then James appeared, ripping his invisibility cloak off. "How did you know?"
Remus tilted his head, frowning at him. "What are you doing? It's not late enough for you to be sneaking about." Usually when James and Sirius snuck around to explore the school, it was well after most of the school went to bed. Not at eighty-thirty when Prefects were still patrolling the halls.
"You're out after curfew," James noted as they began walking arm-in-arm; mostly due to the fact James had his arm linked firmly with Remus's and wasn't letting go.
Remus wasn't going to let him change the subject. "Is that what you were doing? Looking for me?"
"Yes."
Remus stopped, folding his arms. "Liar."
James tried to put on his most innocent expression. "Why d'you say that?"
"If you were looking for me you wouldn't have been hiding when I came by," Remus said, twisting his head as he heard other footsteps. He grabbed James's arm, hurrying them along until they got to a side corridor. Not a hidden one, but one not used often.
"Fine, fine, I was waiting around to hear the password to the Prefects' bathroom, all right?" he said, rubbing his forehead. "Sirius and I want to set a big prank up in there."
"Prefects?! James, why would you—"
"Which is why we didn't want to tell you!" James grumbled, prodding Remus's arm. "You get that tone and puff up and lecture us like we're naughty children—"
"Which you are," Remus grumbled.
"Maybe," James agreed, stopping at the foot of a flight of stairs. They were very narrow and rickety, an ancient staircase that was dangerous and pretty much never used unless one knew where to put one's foot. "I'm going back for a bit. I don't think I'll get the password tonight, however I should stick it out a little more." He ruffled Remus's hair. "Don't frown at me like that, Remy. It's fine." He whipped his invisibility cloak back on and hurried off.
Sighing, Remus climbed the stairs, avoiding the spots that were illusions. He forgot one spot, his foot going right through. He scrambled, grabbing the railing for support, yanking himself back up.
"Don't use those stairs."
Remus gasped, whirling around, nearly falling through another hole. If he didn't have hold of the railing he would have gone through. "Wh-w-what? James?" He didn't sense James but he didn't sense anyone else either. "Hello?" He looked wildly around, not seeing anyone who could have whispered that. He didn't recognize the voice either.
Slowly, he pulled himself to the next stair then simply crawled up the remaining two, hugging the wall and clinging to the railing. He sat at the top of the stairs, panting a bit. You probably imagined it, he told himself, rubbing his eyes. It had been a very long day, after all. And it wasn't over yet. He wanted to get as much of the assignments out of the way as possible, as well as start researching for the song prank the others wanted to do. Not to mention he still had Astronomy.
You're hearing things.
He stood up, brushing himself off, wincing a bit when he saw the dried ink on his sleeves, having already forgotten about it. Except, the last time he thought he was hearing things… he wasn't. It had been a skeleton, and—
Don't. His stomach tightened and one hand pressed against his chest, fingers curling against the fabric. Do not think about it, do not! He needed to, eventually, when he did the research on sacrificial magic and the runes on the dagger but… not right now. Not until he settled more into a routine, when he had hopefully a little less pressure on his shoulders.
It's not another one though. He began walking, constantly glancing back to make sure nobody was there. The… illusion of Professor Young had sounded different than that. That sounded clear, like someone actually speaking to him—or, whispering to him. Either his imagination or someone playing a prank on him.
Not that the first one was one, he reminded himself. That was made… maybe not so clear by Dumbledore and Fawley, but clear enough. Dumbledore hadn't discussed it at all, while Fawley told him it had been an illusion. Though, thinking about it, he wondered about that. Would the illusion spend so much time whispering? He had heard it whispering, that's what drew him to the pit in the first place. Then the spirit—the illusion disappeared.
Hadn't it?
Suddenly Remus couldn't remember if he had heard it whispering. Maybe he had imagined it. Had he? He remembered the other Marauders reacting. Or…
He paused to lean against a wall, pressing his hands against his face, struggling to remember. That whole day felt so hazy and distant—so unreal. And now he really wasn't sure how much had actually happened.
Panic began settling in, and he needed to find one of his friends. He didn't want to go back to hunt James down so he needed to keep going to the tower, because he needed to ask. Needed to make sure.
Needed to make sure he hadn't made up the entire spirit.
Maybe he had.
No! No, the other Marauders had seen it, had heard it—right? He remembered them mentioning it to Dumbledore too. They all experienced it.
Right?
He got to the painting as quickly as possible, though when he tried climbing through the entrance hole he wound up falling face-first onto the floor. There were a lot of snickers as he bounced up, trying to look as though he didn't care. He strode through the common room, spotting Peter, Lily, and Alice playing the board game Griffin Flip. He cast another glance around and saw Sirius in one of the little nooks, partially behind a rich tapestry, with Cassie also in the armchair, half on his lap; his arm was tight around her waist, and their faces were very close.
"P-Peter?" He approached the table, hoping they didn't mind the interruption. "Can we sp-speak a—a moment? Only a m-moment."
"Yeah, sure, 'course," Pete said, scooting his chair back and following Remus to a 'corner' of the room, as much as a round tower could have corners. "What is it?"
Remus stared into his face, not sure how to explain. "Um. About…" He suddenly felt stupid. How was he supposed to ask if something actually happened or not? All he needed was his friends thinking he was crazy too. "It's about what happened after final exams, last June," he said, hoping his voice wasn't too stiff.
Peter's face tensed up, his shoulders straightening, his smile fading into a straight line. "I don't—"
"It happened. Right?"
Peter stared at him in disbelief.
"Not—not the other stuff. Not after the pipe. The… the first part," Remus whispered, shifting from foot to foot. Then his voice dropped even more. "The… the sp-spirit."
"I don't want to talk about it." Pete turned away, body language and scent radiating fear and anger.
Remus grabbed his sleeve. "No, not—I don't—I'm not asking to talk about it. I don't—I just—it did happen. You saw it. You heard it, didn't you?" He tried not to look or sound desperate but judging by the frown appearing on his friend's face, he wasn't doing a good job. "You did, right?"
"Yes," Pete said shortly. "Of course. Why?"
Remus released him, slumping a bit. Thank Merlin. "Nothing."
"Remus?"
"No, it—I just—I had a moment where I c-couldn't remember if it did or not," he said, knowing it was probably a mistake to admit this.
Peter rubbed his neck. "I wish I could forget it happened."
No, you don't, Remus thought, not wanting his friend to go through this absolute mess going on in his head. "Thanks. Sorry to have bothered you."
"You—you okay…?" Pete asked slowly.
No. "Yeah, I feel better now," he promised, managing a shaky smile. "I'm going to go study. Er, have fun with the game." He hurried up the stairs, feeling relief when he shut the dorm door behind him. He stripped his inky robes off, his sleeveless jumper, his tie, and kicked his shoes off before sinking into his bed.
It happened, the whispers from the spirit happened, that wasn't my imagination. He pulled his pillow over his face, grateful for the coolness of the fabric. Did the whisper a bit ago happen? He thought it had. He hoped it had.
It was better than the alternative.