Chapter 7: The Old Familiar Sting

Maybe they should have noticed. Later, James cannot believe that he didn't. He had thought that, with the idle conversation, the meals together, the occasional eye contact, Remus had turned a corner with Sirius and was willing to forgive him.

It was incredibly naïve, really. But that was James down to the ground: painfully, blindingly optimistic. Hopeful to the last.

He'd explained away the quiet, the time spent in bed, eyes firmly shut, as being a natural consequence of a post-gathering hangover. After all, they were all a bit worse for wear on the Saturday. So Remus slept through breakfast and lunch…James himself had only crawled out of bed at midday because it became too difficult to ignore his stomach rumbling.

There was also the approaching full. Back before they knew that Remus was a werewolf, James had noticed how his hushed, reclusive friend started to slow down, sleep more, look more uncomfortable in the days leading up to 'visiting his mother'. Once the truth had come out, it made more sense. Remus was in thrall to the waxing moon, and felt every hour of the days approaching the full in the tightening of his muscles, the creaking of his bones. It wasn't unusual for him to need to sleep more, to be weighed down by discomfort and distraction.

It was only on Sunday, late afternoon as the sun set in the distance, that James realised that he had entirely misjudged the situation.

"I'm going to do the full alone."

That had got everyone's attention. Three heads snapped up, James dropping his textbook that he'd only been half paying attention to on the bed in front of him. Remus' face was blank, a gaze which gave no warmth. It was unsettling, to see him like this. As if he didn't even know them.

"You…what?" James asked, pushing his glasses up his nose. "But – "

"Have a month off," Remus interrupted, as if granting them a much wished-for holiday. The lightness in his tone didn't make him sound happy - just hollow. "Get your Potions essay done."

"Fuck Potions," James replied, clambering off his bed and glancing over at Sirius. His best friend was staring at the ground, a look of abject misery on his face. Good, James thought uncharitably. "We don't want to write an essay," he turned back to Remus, who was now heading for the door. "We want to be with you."

Remus paused, his hands rammed in his pockets. "I don't want you lot there."

The words stung like a slap across his face. "But – Moony, you – "

"I'm not joking," he said bluntly. "Don't come," and left before anyone could say anything more.

The silence he left behind was crushing, dangerous.

Peter was the first to find his voice. "D'you think…maybe he doesn't mean it…?"

James sank on to his bed, still staring at the door. "No. He meant it."

Peter's pale face loomed into his field of vision. "But – he'll hurt himself – "

"Yes," James agreed quietly. "He will."

"So we should go anyway," Peter tried, sounding torn between wanting to believe his own words and wanting to be told otherwise.

James met his friend's gaze. He didn't understand what was happening – none of them did, except the person who'd just walked away. The person who was apparently closed off to them now. "If we go now, against his express wishes…he might never talk to us again."

Sirius moved at last, over to the windowsill. The sky was darkening, and they all knew it wouldn't be long before the moon appeared. James watched him, frustration bubbling up inside him like molten lava. "Did something else happen?" he asked. "It seemed – it seemed better…"

Sirius shook his head. "Nothing happened," he murmured. "I thought…" He trailed off, voice splintering in his throat.

James tried to calm himself, but panic had joined the frustration now, a pulsing, fearful wash over him that he couldn't breathe through. It felt like they were standing on a precipice, about to fall and completely unable to do anything about it. The inevitability of the abyss below. "Didn't you think this would happen?" he asked. The words seemed to scrape their way out – he didn't talk to Sirius like this. "When you said all that to Snape? That Moony was just waiting for one of us to fuck it all up and prove him right?"

There was a long silence; James couldn't see Sirius' expression, his face in shadow at the window. Eventually, words found their way out. "We can still fix this," he said, and he sounded as if that hope was like a knife at his throat. "I can still fix this…"

James ran a weary hand over his face. "I hope so," he murmured. "I really do."

The sky was a haunted charcoal grey through the cracks in the boards which covered the windows. Clouds obscured the stars, normally so clear up here in the highlands, and threatened rain. Remus sat on the end of the rickety bed, thought about how the rain would disrupt the Herbology lessons he won't be able to attend tomorrow. The rain, when it came, hammered down on the greenhouse roofs, Professor Sprout's voice lost in the constant dull drumming. Students found it hard to focus, in there, in the rain.

That won't be a problem for Remus, though. Remus will lie in a bed in the infirmary, listening to the rain against the stone walls, remembering again the many ways in which he was so different, so unwelcome, so unnecessary. A burden and a danger to this school, to his classmates, without them even realising it. A burden and a danger to his friends, although they pretended otherwise.

Friends. A word which had become shapeless, nebulous in his mind. He closed his eyes against the headache which burned in his skull, the falling pressure which meant rain like driving rusty nails into his brain.

It was nearly time.

When they had first told him that they knew, they knew what he was, when they'd said they didn't care, he had struggled to believe them. Three earnest faces had gazed back at him, eyes wide, so intent on convincing him. They must have done an excellent job of convincing themselves. They'd convinced him, after all.

Sirius had asked, later that evening, as the four of them sat cosied up on Remus' bed, what transformation was like. "Does it hurt?" he'd asked, so innocently that Remus could have laughed in reply. He had tried his best to describe it – to describe that agony, that fear and hatred and ratcheting pain, like losing yourself more with every second, the awareness that sits over you, even beneath the feeling of bones breaking and realigning, of claws tearing through skin. But it was almost impossible to fully explain. They had nodded, and listened, and looked suitably wan at his description. "It's fine," he had finished, quietly, as if that short, useless sentence could make them less frightened, less full of pity. "I'm used to it."

In a way, he was. You got used to something if it happened once a month for over a decade. But at the same time, each time, it was a surprise. As if maybe this time, his mind thought it might be different. Might be better.

If only.

When he could open his eyes again, he carefully folded away his clothes, his wand, as he always did. Usually, he would sit there, listening to quiet footsteps below, to the murmurs of James and Peter and Sirius, and knew that they would help sand down the rough edges of the night. Usually, that distant company kept him together during the transformation. It still hurt, of course it did, but it was a pain tempered by the understanding in his gut that he was not alone.

Tonight, the moonrise dragged the wolf, kicking and screaming, from the boy. And the wolf knew. It knew it was alone.

That was the last thought he remembered.

Dawn broke, a scattering of dull light across the shack floor, catching dust motes and splinters of wood and rivulets of blood in its travels. A shallow beam fell across Remus' face, his own face again, broken and rearranged bones like pieces of glass from a shattered vase, and the daylight forced his eyes open. Even his eyelids felt heavy. Several minutes later, he felt able to move his arm – a clumsy, severe movement – to feel the tender, swollen skin around his left eye. His fingers come away sticky, wet. If he had to guess, he would say a broken cheekbone. Maybe the eye socket. It felt like it did when he'd woken up, aged eleven, his last full at home before leaving for Hogwarts, to find his face almost caved in. The wolf had felt the stress and nerves as keenly as the boy, evidently.

It took several tries, but soon he was sat – slumped, maybe – on the floor, leaning heavily against the bed frame, the ripped and frayed blanket covering as much of him as it could in the frigid November air. Through his one, unswollen eye, he saw the damage inflicted on the room around him. The wolf was not used to being kept inside anymore. That much was clear.

"Remus?" Madam Pomfrey's voice was nervous. Remus couldn't blame her, after the carnage of the last full. At least he was conscious this time.

"Up here," he called back, although he could barely raise his voice; he felt suddenly aware of the pain of breathing, the tenderness on his right side. He shifted the blanket, looking down to see the stretch of a bruise across his torso, purple and blue mottling his pale skin like storm clouds.

"Oh, dear," Pomfrey's voice lifted his gaze; she had entered the room without him realising. She knelt at his side, gently touching the bruising. "Looks like a broken rib or two. You poor thing."

"I'm," he murmured, the breath catching again, "I'm okay…"

"Hmm," she gave him a quelling look, wand drawn now. He closed his eyes, resting his head back against the bed as the numbing buzz of healing spells settled over his torso. "And your face, too – anything else of note, Remus dear? Before we go back to the hospital wing, I mean."

"Dunno," he whispered, and tried to smile. He didn't think it worked. "Least I'm not bleeding to death on the floor this time, eh?"

"Hmm," she said again; he opened his eyes (or, eye, as one remained stubbornly, swollenly, shut) to look at her, to catch the barely concealed sadness, distress, on her face. She wouldn't have to experience these sad, distressing things, he thought, if it wasn't for me. "Small mercies, Mr Lupin. Right, I think this should be enough to get you back to the infirmary without too much pain." She stood, fetched his clothes and wand from the usual place, and turned to give him some privacy – an absurd notion, really, given the state she had seen him in over the years. Once dressed, she gently linked her arm through his, and they started the slow, steady procession back to the castle.

Outside, the grass was glistening with rain. "Between showers," she said, casting a nervous glance up at the sky. "It's been on and off all night."

He didn't have the energy to say anything in reply. She didn't expect one, anyway. Over the years, she had become adept at keeping up a soft string of commentary that didn't require a response, that kept him sufficiently distracted from the pain. He considered it a kindness on the same level as her skill with her wand, or her talent with a healing potion.

No one else was in the infirmary when they arrived. "Illness taking a break?" he murmured as she helped him into his usual bed, behind the usual array of privacy screens, the bedside table filled with the usual painkilling draughts and bandages.

"So it would seem," she replied lightly, drawing the sheets up and over him in a gesture so much like his mother that for a moment, his heart seemed to physically ache in his already-painful chest. She paused, sighed, looking down at him, and he wondered what it was she saw. A pale, damaged, bleeding boy. A monster, just beneath the surface. "Right, let me fix up that face of yours and run a few diagnostic spells before you go to sleep," she said after a moment. "I'll have you feeling as good as new in no time."

He swallowed, and nodded, fixing his gaze to the vaulted ceiling. "'kay…"

It was often once back in the quiet of the hospital wing that they discovered the smaller, more insidious injuries he had inflicted on himself in the night, the ones that weren't showy, that hid themselves before baring their teeth. The arm he had so spectacularly broken last month had taken a hammering - no wonder it had felt so clumsy to move earlier - and now featured a long, jagged slash down the length of his inner arm, elbow to wrist. "An inch to the left and you'd…" Pomfrey had started, then shaken her head. "Well. Anyway."

That fixed, she'd then had to deal with a litany of scrapes and gouges on his legs - yet more scars to add to his collection. It was over an hour later before she stood back, satisfied. "There," she said softly; he met her gaze. "You'll sleep better now, dear."

He hoped that was true. A creeping sense of shame, of unease had drifted over him as he lay there, in pain, and he wanted it to go away. "Dreamless…?" he murmured.

She hesitated, but nodded, reaching for the sleeping draught in question. She poured out a small measure and helped him hold the goblet to his lips. "Good. I'll check on you in a while, but you know where I am if you need anything…"

With any luck, he'd be in a comatose state before too long. He didn't need anything there. "Okay," he agreed nonetheless. "Thank you…"

He closed his eyes, listening as her footsteps faded in the direction of her office, and before he could wonder if perhaps he should tell her about the clawing, clinging dread he felt, he had already drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

It was already getting dark again when he woke next, rain still falling sheet-like against the windowpanes. He blinked his one good eye, letting his sight adjust to the dim flicker of the candles that cast an almost ethereal light over the hospital wing. Turning his head – slowly, carefully, aware of the dull throb of his face, still – he first found his watch, then found a figure, watching him.

"Lily," he murmured, and she sat forward with a small, sad smile. "Hello…"

"Hi," she replied, nodding towards his watch. "It's just gone five."

That saved him trying to read the tiny clock face through one blurry eye. "Monday?"

She nodded. "How are you feeling…?" She seemed all too aware of the pointlessness of such a question, judging by the expression on her face. He could understand the need to fall back on social niceties, though.

"Oh, you know," he replied, shifting slightly in to more of a seated position – and wincing as his now-mended, but still sore, ribs protested at the movement. "Been better. Been worse."

She let her gaze wander to what must now have been a remarkable bruise and scar around his eye and cheekbone. "I thought…doesn't Pomfrey fix you up?"

He smiled slightly, without much humour. "This is me fixed up."

"Christ," she muttered, then looked embarrassed. "Sorry…"

He would've shrugged if he'd had the energy. "'s'fine." He looked down at his arm, at the wound now healed and the thick, ridged scar it had left behind. "She mends the bones and seals up the wounds. The rest of it has to just…sort itself out."

"You broke some bones?" she asked sympathetically.

"I think…eye socket, or cheekbone," he pointed needlessly at his swollen-shut eye. "And a few ribs."

Lily was quiet, watching him, for what felt like forever. He shifted again under her gaze; he hated the pity more than anything else. Now that she knew, now that it was confirmed for her, was their friendship going to be reduced to her, pitying him, and him, tolerating it?

Finally, she spoke up. "It's barbaric, that you have to go through this," she said. He looked up to her face, surprised. "So many amazing minds, the whole world of untapped magic, and no one has even researched how they might be able to help."

He closed his eye a moment, exhausted just at the thought of it all. "No one wants to help monsters."

"Well, that's bullshit." His eyes still closed, he felt her reach and grasp his hand. "One, you're not a monster. And two, you'd think it would be in everyone's best interest for a lycanthrope to be safe and well during their transformation."

He didn't say anything; he remembered James and Sirius having a similar, heated discussion last year, when another nasty piece of legislation had tried to be forced through the Wizengamot. He didn't see much point in talking about it – it wouldn't change the fact that he was helpless, no matter what, that he was less than in the eyes of his own government. They could hate it as much as they liked. Nothing would change.

"Rem…" He opened his eye at that to find her green eyes fixed firmly on him. "I…I don't claim to know everything that's going on with you and your friends. But you don't need to shut yourself away from them – from anyone."

"You're right," he agreed quietly. "You don't know everything that's going on."

If she was hurt by that, she didn't let it show. It was a quality he so admired in Lily: she was resilient almost to a fault, setting aside her feelings to make her point. "They care about you," she carried on. "You should've seen Potter today. He could barely concentrate. And Sirius – "

"Don't," he interrupted her, surprised at the rawness of his own voice. It felt too honest, too open. "I don't – Sirius doesn't give a shit."

She frowned. "I really don't think that's true…"

It wasn't that long ago that he would have agreed with her. When it seemed to him that actually, Sirius did care, quite deeply, and maybe on the same level that Remus cared about him in return. And yes, it was confusing, and yes, neither of them could confront it, and yes, it was amazing and terrifying all at the same time. Like the first time flying a broomstick: exhilarating, but with the threat of a long, painful fall.

Now, though… now he looked back at all those times when he had thought there was something more, just there, fizzing under the surface, and realised that it had been a fiction – a lonely, pathetic boy seeing what he so desperately wanted to see. Because how could someone feel that way about him, how could they make him feel seen and on the edge of something spectacular, and then turn around, trade him off as a weapon? It was the act of someone who had never really seen him, at all, but saw the potential of what use he could be, of what terror he could instil, of what destruction he could inflict.

And he should have known. All along, he should have seen this coming. Because alongside the sadness and the anger and the betrayal was a thick, viscous layer of shame, shame that this was who he really was, shame that he had clung to the idea of being normal, just like anyone else, when he wasn't. Sirius wouldn't, couldn't have used James or Peter in this way. Only him.

His dad had said, so many times, "be careful who you trust." How utterly ridiculous for Remus to imagine that he didn't need to listen to that advice. That people weren't exactly who Lyall Lupin thought they were. That Remus wasn't exactly who they all knew he was.

"Remus," Lily's voice filtered through again. "Are you okay? Are you in pain?"

He nodded, because it was true, although he couldn't pinpoint whether it was just physical or something more. Every spiralling thought was exhausting; it all just led him down into the dark, where he didn't want to go. "Yeah…"

"I'll get Pomfrey," she decided, standing up and bustling off before he could say anything else. He stared at the clean white fabric of the privacy screens that cut his bed off from the rest of the ward, a sight he saw every month, and took several slow, deep breaths. He tried to hear his mother's gentle voice in his head: there we are, in….and out…steady now, Re. You're okay. She'd so often had to bring him back down from the brink of anxiety, spikes of panic that could hurt as much as the wounds that littered his body. Thinking of her voice now just brought the brief sting of tears to his eyes. He felt six again, wanting only the comfort that his mother could provide. An embrace, a kind word, a warmth he could find nowhere else.

Lily and Pomfrey returned as he was carefully trying to sit up, wincing at the pain the movement caused. "Oh, dear," Madam Pomfrey clucked in sympathy, moving towards the bedside table and the stash of potions there. "Time for some more painkillers, I think."

"I'm okay," he murmured, as he always did.

She gave him a dubious look, then glanced back at Lily. "He always says that," she said, trying to sound light. "I've tried to get him to break the habit, but…"

"You don't have to be okay," Lily pointed out, moving to the other side of the bed to give Pomfrey space to work. She took his hand again. "It's okay not to be."

He just nodded, staring resolutely at her hand on his, at the chipped blue nail varnish on her thumb that looked like the colour of a clear evening sky. Madam Pomfrey muttered some more healing spells and dosed him up with more potion, pausing to pat him gently on the shoulder. "You must get more rest now, Remus," she told him, and looked up at Lily. "Miss Evans, I'm sure he's been glad of more…stable company, but perhaps you should take yourself off for dinner now and leave him to sleep."

Lily nodded, and gave his hand one last squeeze before she let go. He already could feel the potions working their magic: a drowsy numbness was sinking over him, the edges of everything becoming blurry and soft. "I'll come again to see you tomorrow," she said; she sounded like she was speaking from the end of a tunnel. Maybe the tunnel to the shack? No, that wasn't safe… He blinked, looking up at her again. "Rest up, Rem."

He must have watched her walk away, and Pomfrey, too, but he wasn't aware of it. Before too long it seemed like it would be a very good idea to close his eye, just for a minute, and so that was what he did.

Sleep was a mercy.

It was nearing nine o'clock, any remaining light long gone outside the windows, the rain having finally stopped. When he had woken, Pomfrey had insisted that he eat something before he have any more painkillers – "you need to line your stomach with something, dear" – and so he was picking at a piece of toast with disinterest when he heard the huge wooden doors of the infirmary creak open, and footsteps approach.

James' expression was careful and controlled, his hands shoved down into his pockets as he rounded the privacy screens with some hesitation. He stopped, shuffled from one foot to the other, before saying, "Can I come in?"

They both felt uneasy at that, Remus could tell. He'd never asked before. Never felt like he needed to.

"Okay," he agreed quietly, tearing the crust from his toast.

James moved to the seat that Lily had occupied earlier, dragging it with a sharp scrape across the stone floor so that it was as close as it could get to the bed without crushing his legs. He sat down, his gaze roaming Remus from head to toe, clearly trying to calculate the damage. Remus had to admit, James was very good at regulating his reactions; he hardly ever flinched, or gasped, or winced at the sight of that month's injuries. Finally, he looked back up at Remus, and nodded at his eye. "Looks sore."

Remus stared at him, trying to work out where this was headed. "It is," he replied.

James glanced away, over at the potions and other medical detritus that was gathered nearby. "Saw Evans at dinner," he said. "She said she came to see you…"

Ah. Well, Merlin only knew what else Lily had said – although some of the visit was a potions haze, he knew he had lost some of his grip, some of his carefully-managed veneer. "Yes," he confirmed, voice steady. "For a bit."

"Broken ribs," James said next, and Remus thought he saw something like guilt flash on his friend's face. "And your…cheekbone?"

He chewed mechanically on a small bite of toast, swallowing it down like sawdust before he replied. "Well, who needs two eyes, anyway? Overrated."

James sighed, sat forward. "Moony…what happened?" he asked. "I thought – I don't understand. None of us do."

It was probably the part of Remus that was still in pain, that was exhausted and fed up and weary to his core, that made him want to make this as difficult as possible for James. "Don't understand what?"

James frowned. "Things seemed okay," he barrelled on – of course he did. It was James, after all. "But then you told us not to come. Why?"

Remus tore bits off the remaining toast, focusing his attention there. "I didn't want you there."

"But…Sirius could have stayed back." James sounded so sad, so confused. He wanted to make that better, he did, but he also wanted to lay back down and close his eyes against it forever. "Pete and I – "

"I didn't want you there," Remus said again, finally looking up and meeting his gaze. He couldn't hold it for long, though. "I've done this on my own hundreds of times before, James. Will have to do it hundreds of times to come."

"But you don't have to be on your own," James argued, frustration clear in his voice. "Is this…punishment, for us? You'd rather rip yourself to shreds than just tell us what's wrong?"

He'd never liked confrontation. It left him feeling sick, uneasy, although he never showed that. Another one of his skills, crafted over the years – don't show how you feel. "Nothing's wrong," he replied. "I just wanted to be alone."

"Bollocks." He looked up, then; James was staring at him, fierce hazel eyes locked on his. "You know that's bollocks, Remus."

"It gives you all a safer month," he said, as if James hadn't said anything at all. "You get more sleep."

"Fuck sleep!" James glanced over his shoulder, reluctantly lowering his voice. "Do you really think that sleep is more important to us than you? Our best friend?"

"Sirius is your best friend." As soon as the words came out, he wished he hadn't said it. It had just slipped out, too honest, too blunt – he couldn't hide behind this.

James' face had fallen, an expression of something between hurt and sorrow marring his features. At first, he couldn't seem to find the words. They both just sat there, James staring at him, Remus staring at the sheets covering his scarred body, the silence roaring around them. "Remus," he murmured at last; he had never heard him sound like that before. "You're my best friend, too. It's…not a hierarchy. You're just as important as – "

"Stop," he shook his head, pulling in as deep a breath as his bruised ribs could manage. "Forget I said it. You don't need to…to try to make me feel better, it's just the way of it, isn't it – "

"That's not what this is," James insisted. "I thought you knew that. I – did – what happened, to make you think…?"

"Really," he said, and swallowed hard. "I'm not – you know, we're not children, it…people have friends who are closer. I mean, other people do."

"Moony," James said, voice heavy with something that Remus didn't want to examine. "I'm sorry that I – that we made you feel – but it's not true."

Remus looked up, forced a smile to his face that they both knew wasn't real. But it felt like all he had left. "Sorry," he murmured. "The potions are making me…y'know. I'll feel better tomorrow."

James watched him, clearly torn between wanting to believe him and knowing, in that way that friends know, that it just wasn't true. "I think we – should talk, some more," he said, with a worried frown. "But, yeah, maybe tomorrow…when you're feeling a bit more with it."

Remus nodded, knowing that it wasn't going to happen. "Thanks."

"I'll…let you get some sleep." James reluctantly stood up, hesitating there at his bedside before shuffling back to the privacy screens. He paused there, looking back at him. "You know we bloody love you, mate? You know that, right?"

Remus let his gaze flick back down to the torn-up toast on the plate in his lap. "Right," he agreed, voice as light as he could make it. "Thanks…"

James sighed. "Night, Moony…" and unwillingly disappeared, footsteps fading back away until the room was silent once more.

He just wanted to sleep again.

The next morning, Madam Pomfrey deemed him well enough to leave the infirmary. He wasn't so sure he agreed, but he still hadn't told her about the weight that seemed to sit on his chest – he knew it wasn't physical, so what could she do about it, anyway? It seemed pointless.

She told him to go to breakfast, and then his first lesson, but instead he found himself outside McGonagall's office, his whole body tense as he knocked on the door. "Mr Lupin," his head of house greeted him with a surprised frown. "I was just going down to breakfast – "

"Can I talk to you?" he asked. It wasn't like him to interrupt a teacher – much more Sirius' speed – but it seemed enough to make her realise this was something she needed to pay attention to.

"Of course," she stepped back so he could enter, closing the door behind him. "I'll get some tea and toast sent up, shall I?"

More toast. He didn't have anything close to an appetite, but nodded anyway, taking the seat across from hers. He tuned out as she murmured with her wand, and before he knew it, she had pressed a hot cup of tea into his hands. He looked up. "Milk, one sugar, yes?"

"Right," he agreed, watching the surface ripple with his shaking hand as he lifted it for a sip. "Thank you."

"Of course," she nodded, pausing to spread raspberry jam on a slice of toast. "So. How can I help?"

It wasn't until that moment that he knew what he wanted to say.

The air was crisp and cool as she made her way up the hill, out of the village. On a clear day like today, you could see the spire of Hereford Cathedral in the distance, the sun glinting silver off the winding River Wye which curled in and through and then out of the city like a ribbon. It was a slow walk back from her work at the post office, but she never minded it, not with views like this one.

By the time she reached the crest of the hill, her breath came in short puffs, drifting like smoke away from her. Here, she could see the copse of trees that shielded their home from the lane. Nearly home, and just in time for a mid-morning cuppa. She never cared when Sue gave her short shifts here and there to fill in gaps in the schedule – it meant she still got to make the most of the day, and every penny added up.

The house was silent and still as she let herself in, pausing to pick up a few letters from the mat. This sort of post was only ever for her – sure enough, 'Hope Lupin' on every envelope. Lyall's post came by owl, something she was still getting used to even after being with him for close to two decades.

Cup of tea in hand, she went to settle in to the living room. In winter, it was by far the warmest room in the house – just about the only room they could afford to heat. She took her time building up a fire that would last before sitting back on the sofa and opening her post.

She was just reading a letter from an old friend from sixth form when the fire suddenly flared a startling green. She dropped the paper and almost spilled her tea as a tall, slender woman in long black robes stepped out of the flames. It took her a moment to recognise her.

"Professor McGonagall!" Hope stood up quickly. "Good morning!"

"I'm so sorry to arrive unannounced," her son's teacher replied, dusting herself off. "I tried to call through the Floo earlier but no one was home."

"I was working," Hope replied with a frown. "Has – has something happened? Is Remus okay?"

"He is fine," she assured her, taking the seat she was offered. "There were a few injuries, of course, from Sunday, but nothing too unusual." She paused. "He has asked if he can come home."

The frown on Hope's face only deepened. "Come home? But…why?"

McGonagall sighed. "He will not tell me. He's not upset, as such - doesn't seem emotional. But when he came to see me…" She paused. "He is not himself. And – I suspect it is to do with the incident last month. He has not been coping well since, from what I have seen."

Hope was used to feeling confused in conversations with magical folk. "The incident?"

"Ah…" McGonagall winced, just slightly. "He hasn't told you?"

"Told me what?"

The story that followed left her feeling desolate – desperately sad for her son. She knew his insecurities all too well, and how this would have played right into them… "Well, then," she met the teacher's gaze. "If he wants to come home, he should. Maybe recuperation time is needed."

McGonagall nodded. "I have spoken with the headmaster; he feels a short time away would be beneficial. But he thinks – and I quite agree – that if he is away for too long, it will be that much harder for him to return."

Hope pursed her lips: she didn't like to be told how to parent her only child, her beloved son, even if it was by someone so well-meaning. "We will take each day as it comes," she replied evenly. "And of course I will keep the school updated."

"Very well," McGonagall agreed, and stood. "I will go and send him back through. Apologies again for the interruption, Mrs Lupin."

It felt an oddly anxious few minutes, standing staring at the fire, but eventually it flared green again and the bruised, hunched form of her son tumbled through.

She took just a moment to look at him, her heart aching. One eye was swollen shut, bruises blossoming out like dark petals across his face. He was holding himself strangely, and she could tell he had hurt his side somehow. But all of that was not so unusual, sadly. What she wasn't so used to, not since he'd gone to Hogwarts and found friends, found a place in the world, was the broken, hollow expression on his face. Without a word, she stepped forward and folded him into an embrace. He may have been sixteen, and getting on for six feet tall, but he was still her little boy.

He seemed to crumble in her arms; they stood for a while, her rubbing his back as he buried his face in her shoulder. It was discomfort, clear as day on his face, that ended the hug, and she took in his dull eyes before she took his hand in hers. "Come on then, my lovely," she said softly. "Let's get you into bed, hmm?"

He nodded his assent, following her up the narrow staircase to his bedroom. It wasn't long before she was tucking him in under the patchwork quilt her late mother had made. "Get some sleep, Re," she murmured, dotting a kiss to his cheek. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

His eyes closed almost gratefully. She sat there and watched as the discomfort eased from his face, slumber washing away all else, for now at least.

They lived in a small house, all they could afford on Hope and Lyall's meagre salaries, with all of Hope's inheritance sunk into reinforcing the cellar for Remus to transform in each month and little left over for much else. But, even with being away at school for the majority of the year, he was still used to being able to hear every conversation in any room of the house if it raised much above a murmur. That was how he woke up, several hours later.

" – but they said physically, he's fine?"

"Well, yes," his mother's voice was frustrated, "but that's clearly not the point, Lyall! He's – he's depressed – "

"Oh, stop with your Muggle nonsense." His father did not much buy in to psychology, which Remus had often thought was ironic, given how much of his childhood Lyall had spent in a state of depression. He was perfectly happy to deny the existence of conditions he himself lived with. He wasn't depressed, he was 'exhausted from looking for cures'.

"It's not nonsense," Hope insisted. "You didn't see his face! I couldn't send him back there like that! It's – it's not humane. He's our son, Lyall."

"I'm well aware." A sound like pots banging on the stovetop muffled his next words, leaving only, " – mollycoddling the boy isn't going to help," to drift up the stairs.

"Parenting is not mollycoddling," came her tense reply. "I'm not discussing it further, Lyall. He's staying as long as he needs to."

Remus stared at his old bedside table, the battered copy of Casino Royale left there from when he'd been reading it in the summer, a mug of water emblazoned with the fading words 'Fun in the sun in Salcombe!'. The peeling paint on the walls, the curtains Hope had made herself, and repaired over and over. On the wall, dozens of photos, the Marauders grinning broadly at him, waving.

He rolled over, pulled the covers up higher. Closed his eyes again.

Tuesdays were, in James' opinion, the worst day of the week. It was always his most relentless day of classes: double Arithmancy, double Divination, plus the kick in the brain that was Ancient Runes. They never had Quidditch practice – Tuesday being Ravenclaw's day to train, greedy bastards – and he usually reached dinner feeling like he'd been run over by a bus. If he had his way, Tuesdays would be banned.

He'd tried to explain Remus' strange mood in the infirmary the evening before to a worried Sirius and Peter, and they'd all agreed that they needed to tackle the boy as soon as possible before he let these ideas whirl away from him. He always looked so together, Moony, so calm and steady; not many people realised that he kept so much pushed just below the surface. Sometimes he needed some loud teenage boys to tackle him, get him to talk. James was always up for that job.

But there was no sign of him in their shared classes that morning, nor at the lunch table. "He probably just needs a bit longer in the hospital wing," Peter had guessed, choosing not to get too worried and instead focus on his sausage sandwich.

In Ancient Runes, Evans offered a similar theory. "He looked pretty rough yesterday," she pointed out, voice low across the row. James shot a glare at Iris Fenwick, Lily's desk mate and Peter's ex, who could not have been more blatant about trying to listen in. "He probably needs more time to recover."

"I 'spose," James agreed reluctantly. He paused, marvelling at the fact that they were sat there, talking – not arguing, talking, like normal human beings. "Thanks. I know I just need to calm down a bit."

She shot him a grin. "That could be your personal motto, Potter."

"Alright," he huffed playfully. "I've got feelings, you know."

"I heard Rafe Thicknesse asked you out," Iris interrupted cheerfully, nudging Lily. James watched for a moment as Evans blushed prettily before he looked away, focusing his attention back on the board. "Is it true? He's gorgeous!"

They were friends now, weren't they, so it didn't matter if James listened to Lily's reply or not. As it happened, he chose not to, but that was only because he needed to concentrate on the translation block on the board at the front of the room. Sometimes study had to take precedence, surely.

By the time four o'clock rolled around, the last bell sounding, he had decided to go back to see Moony in the infirmary. It wasn't just the things Remus had said that were rolling around in his brain, gathering momentum; it was the way he had looked, too, the way he had tried so hard to cover his own sadness, his raw feelings. James couldn't bear the thought that his friend could feel that way for even a minute. Yes, he was close with Sirius, but he was close with all of them in different ways – he just wished he was better at explaining that. But, as he'd shown often in the past, when it came down to it, he fumbled his words, said the wrong thing. His mum always said he meant well if nothing else. He was working at getting the words to match the meaning. A work in progress.

The infirmary was quiet, the privacy screens tidied away and Remus' bed empty, sheets folded neatly, no sign at all that anyone had been there. "Oh, I sent him out this morning, Potter," Madam Pomfrey explained when he appeared in her office doorway. "Just before breakfast."

A growing sense of unease had settled in his chest as he walked back to Gryffindor Tower. It was a huge castle, that was true, but there were only so many places someone could hide for very long before they were discovered. Someone should've seen Remus by now.

He found himself outside McGonagall's office – unknowingly standing, fist raised and body tense, just as his missing friend had done hours earlier. She looked at him with something close to pity on her face, an expression he was unused to seeing from his head of house.

And then he was back in the dorm, leaning heavily against the closed door as Sirius and Peter watched, frowning. "What's up?" Peter asked. "Runes wasn't that bad, was it?"

James blinked, blinked again, staring at his friend before he finally found his voice again. "He left," he said at last.

Sirius froze. "Who left?"

"Moony." James pulled off his glasses, letting the world blur around him. It was easier than seeing the looks on his friends' faces. "He left. He's gone home."

Outside, rain started to fall.