Remus didn't end up in the common room alone with James again until the day of the full moon. James was diligently doing homework (which Remus still couldn't believe) and Remus was lying flat on his back on the common room floor and trying not to cry. It was four-thirty in the morning. "Feeling all right?" said James passively. "Wanna talk or something?"

"My everything hurts," mumbled Remus. He tried to stretch his arms, but they hurt too much. "My bones have turned to knives."

"Anything I can d—?"

"No, James, there's nothing you can do." Remus sat up, ignoring the stabbing pains in his every joint. "It's incurable, I'm in pain, I'm gonna be like this forever, there is absolutely no hope for the future, and everyone always asks that question, but every time I answer I'm reminded that no, there is nothing anyone can do. Ever." He groaned, suddenly feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry," he said. He started breathing. In through his nose. Out through his mouth.

"All right?" said James.

"Yes. Just frustrated. Temper's part of the package, you know—the whole werewolf thing. But it's so much worse before certain full moons, and this one is just… awful. I feel like graphically murdering anyone who so much as breathes too loudly."

"Yeah, I could tell."

"I'm sorry for being so snappish lately. I'm trying to control myself—I really am—it's just never been this bad, and I don't know why it's getting worse all of the sudden…."

"It's fine," said James. "At least it's only once a month for you. Sirius is snappish all the time; haven't you noticed?"

Remus tried to smile at the joke, but his face wouldn't move properly. "I feel terrible, James," he mumbled.

"Does snappish mean a worse full moon, then? Or will it be better, since you're sort of getting it out of your system right now? What's the forecast?"

Forecast? Remus had never heard that one before. "No forecast, I'm afraid. It's all horribly unpredictable. Sometimes I'll feel awful the day of the moon and then the actual full moon isn't that bad. Sometimes it's the opposite. Sometimes I'm snappish and frustrated. Sometimes I'm sad and quiet."

James nodded and tapped his quill against his lips. "That's annoying, mate. It'd be nice to know what's coming."

"Yeah." Remus lied back down on the floor and yawned, ignoring the stabbing pains in his every joint.

A few moments passed before James spoke again. "You know, Remus, the day that you left for summer holidays last year… the day you found out about the massacre and all that… the Prophet came. They published an article. Front page and all. I took it from Bluebottle before it could get to you, because I didn't think you'd want to see it. Do you want it?"

Remus thought about that. "Yeah, actually. But not right now. Maybe tomorrow when you come to visit me?"

"Okay," said James, far too enthusiastically. "Sounds good. It's not much, but…"

"I have a photo album of sorts with all the rubbish that Questus left me in that box. Most of it is the letters that we sent back and forth to each other—put them in chronological order and everything. I'll put the paper in there too, maybe." Remus yawned again, even though it hurt his jaw. "You know what? I'm exhausted. I think I'll be able to get some sleep today without a potion, actually. Would you mind getting me a bit of tea before the nausea sets in?"

"Sure!" James bounded off the couch and threw on the Invisibility Cloak. "I'll fetch it from the Kitchens," said James' disembodied voice. "Want a crumpet or something, too?"

"I can't stomach that right now, no."

"Be back in a jiff!"

And, just like that, Remus was left to his own devices. He cleared his throat loudly so as to get rid of some of the raspiness (it didn't work) and stretched his arms as far as they could go, even though stabbing pains traveled up and down his joints.

Remus hated full moons.

Remus was lying on his bed in Madam Pomfrey's office, like he had been for the past hour. He was reading the Alexander Adamson articles that Questus had left him in his will, but he seemed to be finding it a bit hard to concentrate.

"What are you reading?" said Madam Pomfrey. She was dusting her potions cupboard.

"Articles. They were written by some werewolf advocate that Professor Questus really liked. He left them to me."

"Mmm," said Madam Pomfrey. "Anything interesting?"

"The one that I'm reading right now has to do with the impracticality of werewolf execution."

Madam Pomfrey did not look thrilled about the subject that Remus had chosen for light reading directly before the full moon. "Remus…"

"Look," said Remus, interrupting her. "He wrote ask Lupin right next to the passage on mercy executions. Why would he write that? What did he want to ask me?" Remus sighed. "I'll never know. That's one of the hardest parts. There are so many things I want to talk to him about, but I'll never be able to do it. Every time I have a problem, I want to talk to him, and then I remember that I can't."

"You can always talk to me," said Madam Pomfrey. She sounded a little bit hurt, but Remus couldn't be sure. "Are you having a problem right now?"

"Besides the fact that I'm about to turn into a literal monster?" said Remus scornfully, but he immediately repented. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. That's the problem! I'm just… frustrated. All the time. And I used to just talk to Professor Questus when I felt like that, or write a letter or something... it was calming, and he always told me that I was being stupid, and that somehow helped. I can't do that anymore, and it's frustrating. I'm just really, really angry at everybody for every little thing."

"Like what?"

"Like James calling unwanted attention to me for no good reason. Like Peter telling James and Sirius something that I told him to keep a secret. Like Sirius not caring about my problems at all."

"Those all seem like perfectly legitimate reasons to be angry to me."

"No," said Remus. "No, I'm not allowed to disagree with them… or get angry with them… they've done so much for me, and they're such good friends. I couldn't bear to lose them, and they don't deserve my anger."

"You're allowed to be angry at people that you love sometimes. If they're really good friends, then they'll stay with you."

"For human relationships, maybe," said Remus very, very quietly—so quietly, in fact, that Madam Pomfrey didn't hear him (which was probably a good thing). "I'm sorry, Madam Pomfrey," he said a little bit louder, "but even if they're not going to hate me, rocking the boat still makes me a bit nervous. I know it's irrational, but… I can't… I can't lose them, too. They're the only thing I have. This past summer was awful, and they were the only ones who made me happy. I've already lost enough this year, and I want to be careful."

"You don't need to be careful. Being careful wouldn't have done anything to help the other people you've lost, and it also won't prevent you from losing your friends."

"Don't you think I know that?" snapped Remus. "Oh, erm... sorry."

"That's another cap in the jar," said Madam Pomfrey. "Don't apologize."

"I just want to know why I'm so frustrated this month," said Remus. "Everything is so unpredictable. I just wish I knew what was going to happen every month: my symptoms before the moon, the injuries I'd end up with, and all that. Being a werewolf is so incredibly predictable and unpredictable at the same time—in all the worst ways—and I'm sick of it. Professor Questus would have something to say about that."

Remus gazed at the ugly pink blanket from Questus, which he'd brought to the Hospital Wing. He'd been sleeping with it every night, in fact. It wasn't because of Professor Questus, not really—it just reminded him that he had friends and teachers and a family. The poor blanket had been passed around to the ends of the earth. Remus had used it during the night with the Greyback threat, and everything had turned out fine then. Dumbledore had made it for Questus (or bought it? Remus wasn't sure. He'd have to ask), and then Questus had died and left it to Dumbledore, and then Dumbledore had given it to the Lupins, and Peter had slept with it the night after the Visionvines when Remus hadn't wanted to think about Professor Questus, and James and Sirius had made fun of it… it had been so many places, and it was the only pleasant constant in Remus' ever-changing, unpredictable world.

"You might be feeling emotions of that sort because of grief," said Madam Pomfrey. "It's a tricky thing."

"I don't think so. Otherwise it mightn't be tied to the full moon."

"But it might. These things are unpredictable."

Remus shook his head and wrapped the blanket more tightly around his gloved hands. "No."

"Well, it might be something entirely different," said Madam Pomfrey. "You know, you'll be fourteen years old in March."

"Yeah…?"

"It's a very particular time."

"What's that supposed to mean? Of course it is. More than fifty people died. We already determined that wasn't the cause."

"Not that, Lupin. Your age. You're growing up."

"I know…?" said Remus, puzzled. "I know that."

Madam Pomfrey laughed. "Puberty, you oblivious child."

Remus shoved her away with all his pre-moon strength (which was next to nothing; it barely jostled her arm). "Nope," he said. "Mum and Dad already gave me that talk. Multiple times. Absolutely not."

"I'm only saying that things might get a little dicey for the next few years. I'm not sure how puberty works in werewolves."

"The same way, I'd expect," said Remus, crossing his arms.

"Yes, me too. Are growth spurts bad if they fall on full moons? I always thought that might be uncomfortable."

"I don't even notice them, Madam Pomfrey. My bones and muscles hurt constantly. I never know what the aches are from."

"The literature says that you might get more violent," said Madam Pomfrey. "Some of it, though, says that you'll get less so. We'll have to see, won't we?"

"I suppose," mumbled Remus. "Can we stop talking about that now? I'm a little bit..."

"You're tired," said Madam Pomfrey with a smile. She fluffed Remus' pillows and took Bufo off of his shoulder. "Perfectly understandable. Do you need a potion?"

"No, thank you."

"Good. I'll wake you at five-thirty."

"Unless my friends come. Wake me up if my friends come, please."

"Absolutely not. You are not waking up just to listen to James Potter chatter. You'll see him plenty tomorrow, I'm sure."

"But you said that they were good for me."

"To a point, yes. But sleep is better. To bed now."

"Will you watch Francine tonight? She'll need dinner. And she'll need breakfast tomorrow morning if I'm not up to it."

"Of course. And Bufo, as always."

"Thank you."

"I don't mind—and especially not Francine. Bowtruckles are more attractive than toads."

"I disagree," mumbled Remus. He wanted to argue more, but he was very, very tired: in fact, it only took him about three minutes and fifty-six seconds to fall fast asleep.

Remus was lying on his back in the Shrieking Shack, watching the light of the full moon filter through the window. He'd be transforming any minute now. It was a clear night, but the light wasn't any comfort—it was, in fact, a severe discomfort.

He knew that he should be preparing somehow for the pain that was to come, but he couldn't think how. It was going to happen no matter what, and he hated it. How was a person to prepare for the unpreparable?

He tried to savor his last few moments of being human before morning, but he found that it was very hard to savor his body when it was quivering and twitching violently and aching all over with no sign of stopping—the full moons were unpredictable, yes, but the worst parts of it were horribly predictable.

He didn't know exactly how violent he'd be, but he knew that he'd be violent enough to end up with scratches and wounds and probably broken bones and missing teeth or fingernails. He didn't know exactly when he would transform, but he knew that he would... and he knew that it would be very soon. He didn't know exactly how he would feel when the moon rose, but he knew that he'd want blood. And he didn't know how many days he'd be out afterwards, but he knew that it was going to be at least two.

Remus almost thought that the full moons would be more bearable if he knew what was coming; at the same time, however, knowledge of what was to come hurt sometimes.

He tried to breathe, but he wasn't quite able to get in enough air to make it worthwhile. His heart was beating rapidly. He held his breath... and then he went totally, completely still. It was going to happen any second.

He kept holding his breath until he couldn't anymore.

The full moon hadn't been that awful, actually, and Remus managed to walk all the way back to the castle with Madam Pomfrey without too much pain.

Well, there was pain; there always was. But it wasn't totally unbearable.

"You didn't cry this time," commented Madam Pomfrey. "You usually cry on the way back."

"I never cry," argued Remus. "My eyes leak. From the pressure. I always have tears in my eyes when I transform back."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Remus, I have no doubt. I heard you from Hogsmeade, remember? I know it hurts. You're allowed to cry."

The fact that people could hear him always made Remus very embarrassed, but he channeled his inner Professor Questus and tried not to care. "Agree to disagree," he said. "Do you think that…?" He was cut off by a sudden, violent coughing fit.

"Oh, dear," said Madam Pomfrey. "Let me find the source of that. Stay as still as possible."

Remus did—which was an immense effort, seeing as Madam Pomfrey hadn't given him a Pain-Relieving Potion yet. Although the pain wasn't as intense as it sometimes was (Remus didn't think that he had any broken bones at all this time), he was still unbelievably sore. No, sore wasn't the word. He was in pain—sharp, stabbing pains that hurt no matter how much better they were than what was normal. And it got much worse whenever Remus coughed.

Madam Pomfrey was rubbing his back now. Remus looked up at her; she was healing the worst of his wounds with a very focused expression. "Might I have a Pain-Relieving Potion?" he asked timidly.

She looked up. "You're crying," she said.

Remus rolled his eyes. Pain or no pain, his eye-rolling muscles were well-honed and quite functional. "I'm not crying! My eyes are leaking."

"Hmm." Madam Pomfrey reached across Remus to reach the Pain-Relieving Potion on the nightstand that Remus couldn't quite reach himself, what with his damaged arms and chest. "There you are. So you need a handkerchief?"

"No," said Remus stubbornly. "And would you Vanish the blood off of the pink blanket, please?"

"Well, I can't do everything all at once," said Madam Pomfrey.

Remus leaned back and waited very patiently for sleep to come. It didn't take long.

His friends arrived directly after classes and stayed until dinner. James had begged to eat dinner in the Hospital Wing with Remus, but Madam Pomfrey had claimed that Remus needed to "rest" (which was ridiculous. Remus felt fine, considering).

So here Remus was, alone, sipping some soup while reading the newspaper clipping that James had brought him. Sure enough, there was a front-page photograph of the barely-recognizable damaged town, smoke still pluming into the air. Remus stared at it for what seemed like hours before he could finally pick out enough of the surroundings to know which part of the town the photograph depicted. It was the street where the grocery store had once been. Mitchell's bookshop hadn't been too far away.

The most striking part of the photograph, however, was the glowing green thing above the town: a skull, with a snake protruding from its mouth and writhing creepily in the air. That hadn't been there when Remus had returned home at the beginning of the summer, but it was terrifying to know that the sky itself had been marked (if only for a short while). Remus had read about the Dark Mark—the mark that the Death Eaters used to proclaim their presence—and he'd seen it in the newspapers before, but it he'd never had personal ties to it before. The Dark Mark had always been a faraway fear, like serial killers or sharks; now, it was a personal, very real fear that stuck in Remus' mind like Spellotape stuck to a piece of parchment.

The Prophet reporters weren't known for being completely truthful about such instances, but even they had to report that Death Eaters had been the culprit. From what Remus knew, this particular issue of the Prophet was relatively accurate. It mentioned the Fiendfyre. It mentioned the fact that fifty-nine people had been confirmed dead. It gave the location. It mentioned the witness protection program (apparently allowed, now that the program had dissolved). It did not mention Professor Questus, but that was to be expected. He was only one out of the fifty-nine who had died.

Remus flipped the page. There were eleven obituaries, one for each of the wizards and witches who had died in the incident (none for the tens upon tens of Muggles). Remus read them carefully. There was a lady who was survived by her son, her husband, and her dog. There was a man who had loved to knit. There was a woman who had been a Prefect. He forced himself not to skip ahead and look for Professor Questus.

And, after just a moment of reading, there he was. Questus' obituary was short and impersonal, just the way Questus probably would have liked it.

John Questus, born August 2, 1920. Former British Auror of thirty years. Hogwarts professor 1971-1972.

And that was it.

Remus realized that he'd never known Questus' birthday. Then Remus realized that he'd never so much as seen Questus on his birthday. Questus had started teaching Remus a month after his fifty-second birthday, he'd been an Auror on his fifty-third (or recovering from being cursed, Remus wasn't sure), and then he'd died before his fifty-fourth. But Questus had been around for both Remus' twelfth and thirteenth birthdays—well, he'd written Remus a few letters around his thirteenth, at least. It was a depressing thought, even though Questus hadn't seemed like the sort to like celebrating his own birthday very much.

Remus sighed, put the clipping at the end of his letter album, and went to sleep.

"Do you have any homework you need to do?" asked Madam Pomfrey the next morning after Remus complained about being bored for the fifth time.

"Nope. Finished it with James. He's doing homework now, you know. Wants to pass all his classes very badly." Remus smiled and then reached into his bag for parchment, his lap desk, and a quill. "And I've already fed Francine. I even tried to pet her for half an hour, but she's not having it. There's nothing else to do, so maybe I'll just…."

Remus trailed off, and there was an abrupt, horrifying silence. He slowly withdrew his hand from his bag. "Never mind," he whispered.

"What's wrong? Did you… oh." Madam Pomfrey gave him a sympathetic look that bordered on pitying. "Oh, Remus, you were about to write him a letter."

"It's just habit," muttered Remus. He folded his hands on his lap; they suddenly felt very empty. Remus sort of felt empty on the inside, too. "I suppose I'll take a nap, then."

"I have no doubt that your friends will be along any moment now."

"Wake me up when they get here, please," said Remus, and Madam Pomfrey didn't even protest this time.

Dear Dad,

I'm in the Hospital Wing. I'm very, very bored. I always write to either you or Mum after full moons, but I used to write much longer letters to Professor Questus (don't be jealous please). My Hospital Wing stay just isn't the same without those games of dots and boxes that he always won. I swear he was cheating.

He was such a big part of my school-moon ritual that I keep finding myself falling into old habits. I almost wrote him a letter today before I remembered. And I accidentally wrote a P instead of a D after "dear"… that's what the ink blot is at the top. I'm really sorry. I knew I was writing to you, but it's just muscle memory to write a P at this point.

Who wrote his obituary? I saw it in the newspaper. Was it just the Ministry of Magic? I would have done a much better job. Check this out: Professor John Questus (imagine how he would have felt about "Professor" in his name!), born August 2, 1920: resident duelling champ, pessimist, grumpy old man, and a much better next-door neighbor than professor.

Remus read over what he'd written six times. His father had told him that he could always talk to him about sensitive subjects, just like Remus had done with Questus… but it didn't feel the same. It didn't feel the same at all.

Remus crumpled up the parchment and stuffed it all the way to the bottom of his bag. Then he drafted a much more mundane letter about his injuries, friends, and Madam Pomfrey.

He really did end up sending that one, and he got an equally mundane letter in response.

AN: Next chapter will come out on Christmas (EST)! I love how nicely it's lined up :D