As Remus sat in the dormitory, waiting for his friends, he remembered an incident that had only occurred a couple of days prior. He hadn't thought much of it—it had seemed so inconsequential—but now that he had heard his friends talking about him in private (how angry he was, how "funny" he was acting, how emotionally turbulent he was, et cetera), he remembered with perfect clarity.

Remus had been with his friends, eating lunch in the Great Hall. Peter had asked Remus how his day had went, and Remus, like a moody teenager, had bitterly responded, "Just as all my days go."

Sirius had asked what he'd meant by that.

"Well, obviously, Padfoot: terribly. I'm never going to have a normal life. I'm terrified of everything, and I have to keep this horribly unpleasant secret all the time. I hate my life, and I honestly wouldn't be that disappointed if a creature that we're working with in Care of Magical Creatures eats me alive today after lunch."

Remus cringed. He hadn't meant much by it, but he'd been having a bad day. He'd fallen asleep in History of Magic (something that he usually prided himself on avoiding), and his mind had conjured up terrifying, terrifying dreams of fires and wolves and people finding out that Remus was a werewolf. He'd been a bit grumpy when he'd said those things.

And, as Remus thought about this, he remembered another incident: this one had occurred just that morning, in fact. James had been telling Remus about his Quidditch game (as he was wont to do), and Remus had said, "It's a good job your limbs work right."

"What do you mean?" James had asked, crinkling his eyebrows together like he often did when he was confused.

"Some people can't be athletic, even if they wanted to, because Madam Pomfrey insists that they're 'overexerting themselves'. And it's true, because if some people played Quidditch, they'd miss a whole week of practices every month and would be in pain all the time. Some people can't do things like that."

"I didn't know you wanted to play Quidditch, Moony," James had said, and his eyebrows had knitted closer together—probably out of concern this time instead of confusion.

"I don't," Remus had said, and then he'd kicked a rock. "But it's just another thing I can't do because I'm a werewolf."

And then Remus remembered yet another incident. He'd woken up in the middle of the night with a nightmare, and James had wandered to his bed and tapped Remus on the left shoulder.

Remus had jerked, now completely awake. "Don't do that!" he'd snapped. "James Severus Potter, you know that I don't like people touching that shoulder!"

"My middle name's not Severus," James had said, obviously stung. "I'm sorry. You looked like you were in distress, so I woke you up."

"Yeah, because my life is awful, and I can't let go of things that happened almost nine years ago, and I'm scared of hurting you, and I want to go home sometimes, but it's not like that's going to help, because nothing ever will," Remus had babbled. "Doesn't mean you can go scare me like that."

And then Remus' mind was flooded with another scene. He'd been revising in the dormitory with Peter, and Peter had forgotten the incantation to the Repairing Charm. "Reparo," Remus had said. "Reparo, Wormtail. Repair-o. That was the first charm we learned in Transfiguration! How could you forget?"

And then Peter had looked at Remus sadly and apologized, and then Remus had frantically apologized back, and then they'd been caught in a fit back and forth of apologizing that had ended up making them both laugh.

But Remus still felt bad.

Point being: Remus could see what they were saying. He had been snappier lately, even if he hadn't realized it. He had been more morose. He had been a little scary sometimes. Those were all fairly unpleasant things to be, and Remus didn't want to be any of them.

He'd been feeling so strange lately, truth be told. He knew he had a temper—it was the lycanthropy's fault—but he'd always been decent at keeping it under control. Usually, he only had to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth... and then it would be fine. But recently, Remus' emotions had been completely haywire.

Remus' friends still hadn't arrived in the dormitory (still waiting for the staircase to return to its original position, no doubt, or taking the long way all the way around the castle), so Remus decided to sneak out and ask Professor Questus' advice, because he always knew what to do….

Wait.

Never mind.

Remus groaned. He supposed he'd just wait here, then, until his friends arrived and confronted him. Remus was determined to solve this before they made it into too big of a deal.

Why, oh why, was life so complicated?

Knock-KNOCK, knock-knock KNOCK,

knock-KNOCK,

knock.

That was James—he always knocked like that. "Come in, Prongs," said Remus wearily. "You know, you don't have to knock. I always know you're coming. My hearing is excellent, you know."

"But it's fun," said James. He ambled into the room, Sirius and Peter trailing behind him. "How're you doing, mate?"

"I'm fine." Remus did not like James' tone—it was pitying; condescending; as if James thought Remus to be an injured, fragile creature that would shatter into a million pieces at any moment. But Remus wouldn't get angry.

"You sure?"

"Yes, Prongs, I'm sure." Remus didn't like James' implied distrust of his words. Why couldn't James just believe him the first time? But Remus wouldn't get angry.

"Full moon's getting closer. How're you feeling?"

"Fine." Hadn't he already asked that? But Remus wouldn't get angry.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Remus wouldn't get angry. He would not get angry. He wouldn't.

"Is there anything we can do? We thought you might be lonely or something."

"Do I look lonely? I'm not lonely."

Remus cringed; his tone had been a bit short. He breathed. He would not get angry. "I mean, I love every second of time that I spend with you, but you're free to do whatever you want. It's a big school. You have other friends. I have things to do on my own."

"Want to go out to the Forbidden Forest tonight?"

"After what happened to Craff?" asked Remus. "And Donna Gibbon last year? No, I'd like to stay here, thank you very much." He was bordering on sarcastic, so he tried to tone it down. He would not get angry. He would not.

"Want to play Exploding Snap?" asked Peter.

Remus looked at his friends, and he was disappointed to see that pity painted every feature of their faces. Remus hadn't gotten angry, but he also hadn't done a very good job convincing them that he was okay.

He sighed. "Yeah," he said. "That sounds like fun."

For the next two hours, they played Exploding Snap, listened to Dave Hippo records, and laughed themselves silly—and, at the end of the two hours, Remus felt like himself again. He did not need babysitters, but he had to admit that the squishy dark feeling that had been sticking to the inside of his lungs receded whenever his friends were around.

And Remus did not get angry… even when Sirius beat him at Exploding Snap. Six times.

Well, he got a little bit angry, but it was the good kind.

The full moon arrived, and it was the last full moon before Remus would head home for the holidays. It was currently the morning of, and Remus felt awful.

He woke up at around five (which counted as sleeping in for a full moon day), but he woke up with a horrid nightmare of fire. He hadn't had these nightmares before the massacre in the spring.

He sat up and tried to ignore the window, leering over him, reminding him that he was never safe—usually, the window didn't bother him as much as it had in his first year, but it did tonight. "This is all your fault, Professor Questus," he whispered to the window. Predictably, there was no response.

What would Questus even say to that?

"You think I did it on purpose?" he'd probably say. "You think I went and died in a fire just because I wanted to torture you? Come on, Lupin. Don't be an idiot."

No, he wouldn't say that, because Questus could recognize that somebody could be at fault without intending to be so. He would say something like, "Don't be so sensitive. The Dark Arts wait for no one—even sickly, nightmare-ridden werewolves by the name of Remus Lupin."

Yes, that was what he would say. And then Remus would say, "It doesn't matter what the Dark Arts do or don't do. The fact is that I hate nightmares and I like to complain."

And then Questus would say, "Fine, complain all you want. But don't expect me to listen without arguing or offering solutions. I never really saw the point of that."

And then Remus would say, "I just need to talk about things."

And then Questus would say, "I agree completely. Talking is important. Talk away. But I'm still going to offer my own thoughts, because frankly, I usually know what I'm talking about. And what's the point of bouncing ideas off of a person if the person doesn't offer intelligent conversation back? That's the equivalent of talking to a wall. I'm sure there's a reason you came to me instead of a wall."

And then Remus would let him talk, of course, because Questus' thoughts always, in a roundabout way, made him feel better. And then they would talk for hours, and the conversation would be scintillating and interesting and wonderful and a little uncomfortable all at once. And then Remus would feel better by the end, because putting things out into the open always made them better. Yes, he would definitely do that, if Questus were alive.

But he wasn't.

And the only person who came to Remus' rescue after hearing his ragged breathing and rustling about was James Potter, who softly pulled open Remus' curtains and said, "All right, mate?"

Now that was the exact opposite of Professor Questus, and a laugh bubbled up in Remus' throat. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "Nightmare."

"About what?" said James, sitting on Remus' bed and pulling Remus' curtains closed behind him. "Budge over," he complained. "You're taking up the whole bed."

"Well, it is my bed," said Remus.

"Technically, it's the school's bed."

"The school is renting it to me."

"Key word being 'rent'. You don't have ownership."

"I have temporary ownership."

"Not really. Come on, Moony, stop stalling and tell me about it. You haven't had one of those nightmares in a while."

Remus sighed. He didn't really want to talk about it—not with James. No, he wanted to talk about it with Professor Questus, who didn't pity and told Remus that he was being stupid until Remus himself categorized his own worries as 'stupid', which meant that they no longer bothered him.

At the same time, though, he did want to talk about it, and here was James. So he did.

"The attack last spring," he started, "has been on my mind for ages. Not just because of Professor Questus… though that's always hard. Every time I think I'm used to it, I forget that he died and…" Remus was surprised to find himself blinking back tears. "Today… or yesterday; I don't know what time it is… I was feeling a little bit odd, and I needed someone to talk to… so I thought to myself, "I'll just stop by Professor Questus' office," because that's what I did all of first year when I felt like that. And then I remembered."

James nodded, sympathetic.

"And then, when I woke up from my nightmare, I was trying to think of what he would say. I used to talk to him so much, James. I sat in his office whenever I was stressed in first year, because you all didn't know about my being a werewolf and I couldn't tell you… and we had duelling lessons… and then I talked to him the summer after for hours and hours and hours. And I wrote him so many letters. And we talked over Christmas and Easter holidays and… I talked to him so much, and now I can't at all. It doesn't feel real, even though it's been months. About half a year now."

"No one's expecting you to be over it."

"I know, but I… it's been so hard, and I want it to be over already. I never thought I'd have to go through this."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, my lifespan's not very long, is it? I've just always known that I'd die before my parents. Before you lot. Before most of the Hogwarts staff, too. Werewolves don't live very long, so my life expectancy is quite short. Technically, I'll surpass it next year—though werewolf lifespans are so unpredictable that it doesn't really mean anything. Still, I never thought that someone close to me would die first. I'd never had to worry about that, because I'm the tragic casualty."

James was frowning. "You won't die young. We're going to make sure that doesn't happen. We'll fix it."

"I doubt you can." Remus shook his head. "And I don't mind, really. I keep dreaming about the fire, you know. The kids in particular. There were children in that town, you know. Professor Questus is one thing—he was an Auror for decades, so he basically volunteered to throw away his life. Besides, he was dying anyway. We talked about that sometimes, too."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Neither one of us expected to last ten more years, so there was a bit of solidarity there."

"Moony! You'll live for ten more years! Definitely!"

"Dunno about that, James. But it doesn't matter. My point is: Questus I can deal with, but the fact that children died makes me sick. That's not fair. They didn't sign up for this." Remus became silent for a moment. "Children… don't expect things like this to happen, and then, when they do… they don't know how to deal with them. Everyone deserves a childhood."

"Right."

"I didn't expect the werewolf to come through my window," said Remus quietly, "but one moment, I was just about to fall asleep, and the next moment a werewolf was on my chest, and its claws were everywhere, and the window was broken and… and it was raining, I remember, and… and I thought I was going to die. I didn't even really know what death was, at that age, but I was pretty certain that I was going to... and I could only think about how scared I was and how scared my parents were—I'd never seen them afraid like that—and I can't believe anyone would willingly do that to a child."

James frowned. "You've never talked about that before."

"I usually don't." Remus had never talked about it with anybody but Professor Questus, but now Questus was gone, and Remus was losing his filter. "I'd never done anything to deserve it. It wasn't even my fault, and now I have to deal with it for the rest of my life. And I never got to… to have friends, or run around outside, or go to school, or… even see anyone but my parents, really. Not like most kids."

James frowned, and Remus stared determinedly at the window before continuing. "I've been a bit of a git lately, haven't I?" he whispered. "I know I have. I've tried not to, but…"

"No," said James emphatically. "It's not your fault. You're under a lot of stress. You're grieving, you're ill, the full moons haven't been easy, you're busier this year than you've ever been, you live in a new house, your parents are acting funny, too, and then the thing happened with Craff, and… you've got a lot on your plate. I know."

"Still. I shouldn't be pushing my troubles onto you."

Remus was still staring out the window. The nighttime clouds were gorgeous—all big and fluffy and illuminated by the waxing moon—and he could see the branches of the Willow swaying ambivalently in the background... yet both items, though picturesque, caused the dark and squishy feeling to invade Remus' lungs once again.

Suddenly, there was a hand on Remus' shoulder—the right one, not the left. It was James, who was awkwardly patting Remus' back. "I know you haven't had many friends," he began, "so you probably don't know exactly how they work. It's all right, though. Professor Potter is here to save the day once again."

"Professor Potter?" scoffed Remus. "Oh, do go on. I'd love to hear this."

James grinned. "Of course you would. Every word that comes out of my mouth is brilliant."

"Yeah, of course."

"Of course. So here's the thing. Life is basically a play."

"A play? Are you quoting Shakespeare?"

"What? Who's Shakey-pear?"

"Shakespeare… James, we learned about him with Professor Pensley last year. She never shut up about him. We read Shakespeare out loud in class, remember?"

"Oh, that bloke. I wasn't really listening to Pensley."

"Probably for the best. Anyway, he said that 'all the world's a stage'."

"Well, I'm not quoting Shakey-pear. Pretty sure Shakey-pear was quoting me, whoever he was. Anyway. Life is basically a play, except it's all improv. And you're playing a character in public. So you have to say things that are in character, right?"

"I… I suppose."

"Friends and family are people who you're comfortable with. So they're the people who you can stop acting around. They're backstage. You get it?"

"Erm, no."

James rolled his eyes, but he seemed more amused than annoyed. "Remus, we don't care how you act. We've known you long enough that we know who you are, no matter what. We like you, and that's not changing. Just because you've been stressed and grumpy lately doesn't mean that you have bad intentions. So when it's just us, you don't have to pretend to be calm and decent and perfect and well-mannered. Just stop acting and be however annoying you want to be. The rest of us do it."

Remus blinked. "That's… surprisingly helpful and nice, for you."

"I'm always helpful and nice."

"You told me to abandon my moral standards to kill a cockroach for you."

"Don't remind me. You did eventually do it, though."

"Don't remind me."

Remus glanced at James for the first time—he'd been strategically avoiding his gaze—and they grinned at each other. It felt good to smile at long last.

"You mean it?" Remus asked. "You really won't hate me if I get snappish sometimes?"

"Well, Padfoot's snappish all the time, and I don't mind him."

"Fair, that," Remus conceded. "I'm really sorry. My emotions are all haywire right now. I'm not sure how to process everything quite yet."

"Take your time," said James. "Wanna stay up for a bit? You can help me with my Muggle Studies homework. I don't really understand pens."

"Sure." Remus hopped out of bed, followed James to the common room, and the two of them fell asleep there after a long night of learning about Arithmancy, Runes, and pens.

AN: Missed Sunday's chapter. Sorry about that!