Remus had learned how to read a calendar very early in life.

As a werewolf, it had seemed an absolute necessity. He hadn't had much interest in reading as a child—that had changed after he'd been bitten and could no longer play outdoors due to constantly declining health—but his parents had sat him down and taught him his letters once they realized that reading would be the frequently-bedridden Remus' only source of entertainment for hours on end. First, Remus had learned simple words (like "dog", "cat", "red", and "myrmecophilous"—the last one had actually been his father's idea of a joke, but Remus had learned it nonetheless). Next, Remus jumped straight to learning the months of the year, the days of the week, his numbers, and all sorts of lunar phases.

He still remembered his father's furrowed eyebrows and hunched shoulders as he sat next to Remus with a calendar, pointing out the days and months with a slightly strangled voice. "See, that's February," he'd said. "Can you spell that?"

"F-E-B-U-A-R-Y," said Remus. He'd been working on that one all week.

"Close, but there's a hidden R."

"Why?"

"Because the English language is a patchwork quilt of nonsense."

"Like the one Mum sewed once?"

"More like the one I tried to sew—remember how it was falling apart and Mum had to toss it? Yeah. Like that. But anyway, this is February, which is a month of the year, and…"

"What's a monf? How long is a year?"

Remus' father sighed and walked to Remus' drapes; reluctantly, he pulled them back, and sunlight streamed into Remus' room. Remus blinked harshly. His drapes had been closed for a long, long time, and Remus had grown unaccustomed to natural light. "You see the sun?" Remus' father asked, pointing to the window.

Remus dashed to the window and looked. "Yes," he'd said. "I see it. It's bright."

"Don't look at it. We're actually moving around that sun right now. The earth is a giant ball that goes round and round the sun while spinning round and round itself…." Here, Remus' father plucked a Gobstone from Remus' shelf and demonstrated. "See? Round and round. The amount of time it takes for the earth to spin in a circle is a day, and the amount of time it takes to travel around the sun is a year. You've lived for six years."

"Okay. What's a monf, then?"

"A month is…"

Before Remus' eyes, his father dropped the Gobstone. It squirted liquid all over Remus' floor, as Gobstones were wont to do, and Remus laughed; his father, however, did not. He merely waved his wand, and both the liquid and the Gobstone disappeared. Remus, even though he was only six, got the sense that this was a very serious topic. He stopped laughing.

Before he knew it, he was in his father's lap on the bed. The drapes were closed, and the calendar was still opened to February. "You remember the moon," said Remus' father.

Remus stiffened. He'd heard that word. "The full moon is when I go to the cellar," he said. "It's the white circle in the sky at night."

"Yes… yes. Yes. The moon is… yes. The moon travels in circles round the earth, just like the earth travels in circles round the sun. Did you know that?"

"No."

"Okay, well, it does. And how much we see of the moon depends on where it is in the sky. The sun makes the moon shine. So when there's no sun on the moon, we can't see the moon outside—that's called a 'new moon'. And… it's a full moon when there's a lot of sun on the moon."

Remus chewed on his thumbnail. "Okay," he finally said.

"A month is about the amount of time it takes for the moon to go all the way around the earth. A month is a little bit longer, though."

"Why?"

"I've no clue. It's just the way it works. A month is usually thirty-one days long. Today is April twenty-eighth, 1966. Do you see this little circle right here on April sixth?"

"Yeah."

"That was the full moon, remember?"

Remus' father's voice was a bit croaky, and Remus didn't like it. "I 'amember," he said. He chewed his thumb a bit harder.

"So you just have to follow the dates, and then you always know when the next full moon is, see? And it's… it's really, really important that you always know when it is. So the next one is…"

"After six sleeps," said Remus. He wasn't sure why he and his father were doing this, but he could feel the magic—it was practically wrapped around his bones, pulling on his joints, snaking up to his very heart. He couldn't really explain it, but he could feel it—he did not know much about the moon, but the lunar phases yanked on his nerves in different ways that made it very obvious. It was just as clear as when Remus was coming down with a cold. He didn't know why, but he knew that his throat was sore, and he knew that it was likely to get worse in about two days… yes, it was like that.

Remus wasn't sure why his father was asking the question, but he thought that perhaps getting it right would make his father happier, because right now he looked like death warmed over, and he wasn't laughing (he hardly ever laughed nowadays). Remus loved it when his father laughed and the corners of his eyes went all squinchy.

But Remus' father didn't laugh. He merely looked at Remus, who was still gnawing on his thumbnail, and flipped the calendar to May. Remus could hear him counting under his breath.

"You're right," said Remus' father, but he didn't sound happy about it. "How did you know that, Remus?"

Remus shrugged.

"No, Remus… how did you know that? How? Did you count the dates before?"

"No," said Remus softly. "Am I in trouble?"

His father dropped the calendar and hugged him. "No. Nonono, Remus, you're not in trouble. I just want to know how you know."

Remus was six years old, and he could not put any of this into words—indeed, now Remus was nearly fourteen years old, and he still could not put it into words. "I just know," said six-year-old Remus, and then he accidentally bit the tip of his fingernail too far, causing it to bleed.

"Oh, dear," said Remus father. He still didn't sound happy—quite the opposite, in fact. "Oh, dear. Here, Remus, let me get you some silver and Dittany… you have to stop doing that, all right? And…"

Remus' father left the room, still rambling, and it wasn't until he was downstairs that Remus caught a sort of broken sob—"I hate this," he heard his father say, and then he heard the telltale noise of something being thrown, probably a pillow—and, thirty seconds later, Remus was in his father's arms again, flipping through the calendar as if nothing had happened at all.

The thing about the Lupin family was that, before Professor Questus had moved in, they had not talked about anything. Remus' father knew that Remus knew when the full moons were, and Remus knew that his father knew that Remus knew when the full moons were—it was a whole slew of knowing, but there wasn't any acknowledging. For Christmas the next year, Remus got a book of calendars stretching thirty years into the future. The full moons were carefully outlined, even though he didn't need them to be. No one mentioned it.

But it was all right. Remus didn't mind. In fact, it became sort of a pastime of his to flip through dates—almost like a game. Remus took careful note of the days on which the full moon fell on or around a special day, like Christmas (1977), New Year's (1971), or Halloween (1974).

Remus spent many an afternoon flipping through the book, calculating his ages in each year, staring at the little moon circles until his eyes began to burn. He had countless full moon dates memorized, to the point that his concept of time was completely based off of the moons phases. "We're going to have spaghetti on Wednesday," his mother would say, and then Remus immediately remember October, 1970—a Wednesday full moon. "You'll come of age on March tenth, 1977," said his father, and then Remus would remember that the full moon in March, 1977 was on March fifth. "I'm visiting the doctor in two weeks," his mother would say, and then Remus would remember that in 1973, the full moon was almost exactly two weeks away from Christmas. It haunted his thoughts—indeed, whenever Remus imagined a calendar, he always imagined a large glowing circle marring one of the clean boxes.

It was always the worst on notable dates. Remus had just about every full moon around every notable date memorized, and now, in March of 1974, he had a very clear memory of sitting in front of his window, tracing the fateful circle on March eighth, 1974, a mere two days before his birthday. That had been 1967—a whole seven years ago.

In 1967, Remus had expected to spend his fourteenth birthday on the sofa, plagued by recent memories of blood and destruction, but a current Remus knew better. He would not be alone on the sofa. He would be alone in the Hospital Wing, devoid of his parents' loving gazes, devoid of any sort of birthday cake, devoid of the kind of comfort that only home could provide… and what was more, his friends probably wouldn't even visit. They were busy with Animagus nonsense, weren't they?

Remus thought that—maybe—possibly—perhaps—they really would remember and visit him. After all, the Marauders never forgot birthdays. James and Sirius had brilliant memories, and Peter and Remus both cared plenty enough to remember a few simple dates. Alas, on the morning of March eighth, Remus found himself sitting in the Gryffindor common room alone.

For every month since James had found out about Remus' lycanthropy, he'd accompanied him to the common room and sat with him at four-thirty in the morning when Remus inevitably woke up. As Remus shivered on the couch, hugging his knees and trying not to think about how awful he felt—as Remus tried to breathe, in through his nose and out through his mouth, but sometimes it was difficult to remember how to breathe at all—as Remus tried to sip some tea, because he knew the nausea would only get worse and he would not be able to have any sort of meal until after the full moon—as Remus suffered—James always sat with him, telling him silly stories of Quidditch and Marauders, effectively distracting Remus so much that he nearly forgot about his fear.

James put on a warm fire. James brought Remus tea from the Kitchens. James fed Bufo so that Remus would not have to do it later. James was a good friend, and Remus was sometimes so thankful for his full-moon-morning support that sometimes he thought his heart would burst (although, to be fair, that might have been the nausea).

Today, March eighth, was the full moon. James never missed a full moon, because he was an extraordinarily light sleeper and always seemed to wake up whenever Remus so much as tossed and turned. But today, March eighth, was the full moon—and when Remus opened his eyes, James was not standing next to his bed like some sort of creepy murderer.

In fact, James was gone. Vanished. Wasn't even in his bed. Neither were Sirius and Peter.

Remus groaned and clutched his chest, which felt scarily compressed. With effort, he sat up and pulled the curtains aside. Perhaps James would meet him in the common room. It didn't matter what sort of Animagus things they had to do, did it? James knew that Remus was suffering, so of course he'd be there… he had to know how much his company on full moon morning meant to Remus, because he wouldn't do it otherwise, would he?

But when Remus wandered down to the common room, carrying his satchel on his left arm (James usually carried it for him), no one was there.

When Remus started doing his Charms homework, even though it hurt to focus on anything, no one was there.

When Remus accidentally spilt ink on the couch, no one was there.

He lifted his wand and murmured a cleaning spell, but it didn't work. Nothing worked. Remus simply wasn't feeling well enough to properly focus on magic, and it took him eleven tries. It would have taken James only one.

Remus waited for half an hour, but he heard nor smelled nothing that signified his friends' presence. At five-thirty am, he made his way to the Hospital Wing—it took ten times as long as it usually did with James by his side, casually supporting him, but Remus managed to get there.

"You're early!" said Madam Pomfrey as she opened the door. "You typically arrive with Potter around seven or seven-thirty."

"James isn't here," said Remus, and he tried his best not to sound bitter. It was rather difficult—not because he was bitter, but because he was still panting from the long walk without James by his side. It was difficult to control his emotions when he could barely breathe.

Also, he was a tad bitter. Just a tad.

Madam Pomfrey examined Remus' morose expression with surprise. "Potter… isn't here? Where is he?"

"I don't know. But none of my friends were in the dormitory when I woke up. I waited in the common room for a while, but they never came…" Remus suddenly began coughing violently. "Sorry," he choked. He hadn't meant to snitch.

Madam Pomfrey dropped a cap in the jar for his apology, but she didn't look angry in the slightest. "Oh, dear," she said, and she helped Remus to his bed. "Well, I'm sure they'll be here to visit you later."

"I'm not sure they will, Madam Pomfrey," said Remus, because he actually did know where his friends were—or, at least, he had a very good idea. They were likely sneaking out to the greenhouses to nick some more Mandrake leaves—now that Remus was no longer around, they would surely succeed, and then all of Remus' plans and sneaking this month would be void. He'd have to find another way to remove the Mandrake leaves directly from their mouths, which was much more difficult than simply nicking them….

But Remus' worries were interrupted by Madam Pomfrey, who was fussing more than a newborn babe. "You look awful," she said. "Awful, Remus. Have you been eating properly? Three meals a day at the very least?"

"I think so," said Remus, but then he remembered that no, he hadn't. He'd skipped supper just the other day to visit Rowena without detection—sneaking into the Divination classroom was much easier during lunch. "Professor Lavindeep loves his lunch," Sirius had once told Remus. "He eats in the Great Hall every time—he's the one with the massive handlebar moustache and the brown hair. There's no way he'd go to the classroom during lunchtime."

So Remus had been skipping lunch every so often and chatting with Rowena in the library. But he'd kind of had lunch, because Rowena made him paint-tea, so Remus had been correct. He really hadn't skipped meals, he'd just cut down some of his lunches to nothing but a cup of paint-tea.

"I'm feeding you half the Hogwarts food supply tomorrow, I swear," grumbled Madam Pomfrey. "Look at your wrists, child. They could fit through the head of a pin."

Remus shrugged halfheartedly. "It's all right, Madam Pomfrey."

"It's not! It's literally not! You look as if you'll topple over any minute now."

"I'm lying down. How could I topple over?"

"None of that cheek, Lupin. Can you sleep?"

"I don't think so. I'm exhausted, but I don't think there's any way I'll sleep… I'd ask for a potion, but I won't be able to keep it down."

"Read a book for a while, then. You'll go to sleep eventually… especially since you're likely horribly sleep-deprived! Have you been taking care of yourself at all?"

"Yes, of course!"

"That was a rhetorical question. I already know the answer, and I'm afraid you've gotten it wrong." Madam Pomfrey sighed and patted Remus' head; Remus scrunched his nose and moved away. "Look," she said, "I know things are hard. I know an unfathomably terrible thing happened last summer, I know you're feeling ostracized and despised after what happened last month, and I know you feel even more so now that your friends are visiting you less frequently… I'll have a chat with them about that later, I think."

"Please don't."

"I'm not doing it for you, if that makes you feel better. I want to make sure they're okay. My point is… I know things are hard, but they will be significantly harder if you don't sleep, eat, and take breaks from schoolwork every once in a while. You're keeping yourself very, very busy, and all work and no play can be hazardous to your health."

"But…"

"I know you like staying busy, but it's not helpful here. Give yourself enough time to sleep."

"I do sleep."

"Not nearly enough. And, talking of sleep, I'd like you to try your best. Go on. Get as much as you can before tonight, yes?"

"Fine," grumbled Remus, burrowing deeper beneath the covers, and he hardly even complained at all when Madam Pomfrey dropped another cap in the jar for the forbidden word.

The morning after the full moon, Remus realized very quickly that something was wrong.

He still had all his limbs. He had managed to sit up without much of a problem, so he wasn't paralyzed or anything. He could still see… but wait. Where was his heartbeat?

Remus pressed two fingers to his wrist, but he was too numb to feel anything. Was he even alive? Had he died? He still felt fairly solid (though numb and exhausted), so he didn't think he was a ghost, but where was his heartbeat? He couldn't hear it!

He couldn't hear the birds outside, either… or the leaves rustling on the trees outside… or the voices of the people in Hogsmeade… or the wind… or anything. He couldn't even hear his own breathing.

He sucked an experimental breath in as loudly as he could, but he could not hear it. He clapped his hands once, which would probably hurt later, but he could not hear it. Madam Pomfrey entered the room, and she was saying something, but Remus could not hear her.

"Er, Madam Pomfrey," he said, even though he couldn't hear himself one bit. By the looks of it, he'd interrupted her, but at least he had her attention now. "Bit of a weird question, but… can you hear me?"

She said something.

"Madam Pomfrey… I… I'm guessing you can hear me… I can't hear me, though. Or you. That's a problem, isn't it?"

She stared at him for a moment, and then she nodded in a very exaggerated sort of way. Obviously, Remus could imagine her saying. She said something else.

"Still can't hear you," Remus said.

He sat in silence for a while as Madam Pomfrey healed his wounds. He was still a bit dazed from the transformation back, so the absolute and sheer panic of not being able to hear didn't hit him in full blast until he was back in the Hospital Wing.

Hearing was sort of Remus' thing. He was good at hearing. He was great at hearing. He was used to being able to hear every single tiny thing… every heartbeat, every breath, every footstep. That was why ghosts scared him so much, and that was why he'd been so uncomfortable around the Founders at first. Remus was used to navigating with his senses of hearing and smell, and now his hearing had been reduced to nothing… it felt like Remus wasn't even alive. It felt like nothing was alive. Having a good sense of hearing was like a promise that Remus was safe, and now everything felt dangerous—the lack of noise was louder than noise itself—he could feel his heartbeat in his chest and ears but he couldn't hear it—he was sure his breathing was annoyingly loud, but he wasn't sure...

So, currently, Remus was panicking in his bed in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey was feeding him potions, but Remus was afraid to move, and was he even breathing? He couldn't tell. After a while, Madam Pomfrey put both hands on Remus' shoulders, shook him violently, and handed him a Dreamless Sleeping Draught.

Remus took it, and then every single remaining sense disappeared.

It was the last day he would be thirteen, and so far, it was already rubbish.

AN: Tuesday (Sept 19) was Hermione's birthday! Also, my apologies for the late chapter (I was busy). Next one comes out Sunday evening EST as usual!