James sent the magic mirror by parcel the next morning, so Remus and Peter spent a few hours that night chatting with the other Marauders. Miles was speaking with Dumbledore, so they had a little bit of time to themselves (finally). Remus sympathized with Miles, really he did, but… it was hard, having such a constantly miserable roommate. It reminded Remus of his own misery.
So here he and Peter were, wrapped in blankets and huddled in front of the mirror. They'd turned the lights off (Peter had just been napping, and he said the bright lights hurt his eyes), so Remus had his wand lit for a little bit of light. On the other side of the mirror, James and Sirius were sitting on James' bed—James had a violet banner wrapped round his shoulders, and Sirius was wearing a hat.
"Some getup you've got there," said Remus.
James chuckled. "We've just been to see a Quidditch game," he said. "Puddlemere United—that's my team—against the Ballycastle Bats. Puddlemere swept. Won by a landslide! It was a glory to behold."
"It was tons of fun," Sirius said. "But it rained, so that's why James and I are wet. His mum did a Hot Air Charm when we got back, but James' hair is still a little damp."
"And my socks," grumbled James. "But it was worth it! What did you do with your first-year buddy, Moony?"
"Well, we've mostly been avoiding Miles," said Remus. "He seems to want to be alone. We talked a little bit… about werewolves."
James' mouth fell open. "Does he… I mean, did he… does he know, Moony?"
"No," said Remus hastily. "His mum was pretty anti-werewolf, though, remember? So he found that Alexander Adamson book that my parents gave me and figured that I was evil, because according to her, only Death Eaters and the like are pro-werewolf. So I just… explained it to him. It was all right. Wasn't it all right, Wormtail?"
Peter nodded. "Didn't give a thing away," he said.
"I wanna borrow that Adamson book when you're done," said James thoughtfully. "Wait. What's it called? I'll buy my own; then I can annotate it and all that."
"You don't need to do that," said Remus with a massive eyeroll. "Just borrow my copy if you really want to read it."
Unfortunately, James' memory was spectacular. "Werewolves: a Study," he said. "I've seen you reading it enough to know the title, even though the title is remarkably boring and unmemorable. I'll buy my own copy as soon as possible."
Remus groaned. "I love you, mate, but I feel like a bug under a microscope when you read educational books about werewolves and annotate them. It's awkward. You're always so over-the-top."
"Just making up for the rest of the population, which is consistently under-the-top when it comes to werewolves," said James. "What's so special about the book, anyway? Haven't you read it, like, sixteen times already? I don't understand why you of all people would need more information on werewolves."
"I don't," said Remus, wrapping the blanket more tightly around himself. "I just… it makes me happy, that's all. Adamson's book is just about the only accurate werewolf book there is. Most of them are horribly biased, and they're written with a sort of… maliciousness, you know? Just the way they're written, just the word choices… I can tell that they either hate werewolves or think of them as nothing more than mindless monsters. I don't like reading language like that. I understand why someone wouldn't like werewolves, but I don't like reading about it."
"I understand," said James, even though Remus was 100% certain that he did not understand, not fully, because it was not possible to understand what it felt like without experiencing it. Published books, written by very intelligent people, on the shelves of Hogwarts, in Diagon Alley, in Hogsmeade, in wizarding bookshops all over the world… they all seemed to be written by someone with a very particular vendetta against Remus, and it felt awful.
"Adamson's different, though," continued Remus. "His books are accurate, he's careful to get information directly from werewolves, and you can just tell when reading it that… that he doesn't hate me. Us, I mean. Werewolves. And seeing actual, researched, pro-werewolf stances in published text is something that I've never experienced before. I like reading words written by a scholar who doesn't hate me. Us. Werewolves. It's comforting. Different."
"That makes sense," said James. "I'll buy it as soon as possible."
"Prongs…."
"I will. I want to read it, and I don't want to ruin your copy. You know how badly I treat books. I turn them upside-down on their spines and fold over the pages."
"You know I don't care about that."
"I'm gonna get my own copy, Moony. I want my own copy."
"But—"
Remus had been about to protest more, but then James grinned, mussed his hair, and leaned forward—it was a classic James way of saying, I'm changing the subject now, and there's nothing you can do about it. Remus, who wasn't particularly fond of arguing with his friends, let James shift the topic of conversation.
"So what else have you been doing?" James asked.
Remus shrugged. "Not much. Oh…! Professor McGonagall and I are in a war against Peeves."
"Against Peeves? What do you mean?"
"He's been absolutely insufferable since we gave him those Zonko's products. Driving everyone insane. But poltergeists are drawn to easy targets, so McGonagall and I are trying to show him that we're not easy targets. We're hoping that, if we beat him at his own game, he'll tone it down a little with the Zonko's stuff."
"But we need Peeves for the map," said Sirius with a frown. "He's helping us."
"Maybe he's helping you, but he sees me as an easier target. He's following me around and bothering me half to death."
James didn't look happy. "You can't just stab Peeves in the back! He's basically our partner in crime!"
"He's been bothering me, too," said Peter. "He doesn't bother either of you much, because there isn't much to bother you about. Neither of you get embarrassed, you can both joke back, and the whole school is already on your side. But Peeves is horrible to me and Remus. Once he dangled me off the staircases until my face turned bright red, and then he called me Peter PepperGrew until I cried, and then he teased me even more."
"It's your own fault for crying over such a little thing," said Sirius dismissively, and Peter's face turned red once again.
"But that doesn't make sense," said James. "Moony's not really an easy target, so I don't understand why Peeves is pestering him so. I get Wormtail. No offense, mate, but you really are easy to tease. But Moony? Remus, you distribute insults as easily as Dumbledore distributes sweets… when you want to, that is."
Remus sighed. "It's because I'm a werewolf. Werewolf jokes are easy. I'm basically low-hanging fruit."
"Oh," said James. "I suppose that's true."
Sirius nodded. "Yeah, I could make a ton of werewolf jokes right now if I wanted to. For instance. Why is Moony so cautious all the time?"
"Why?" said James, wearing a goofy grin.
"He's not cautious. He's just were-y."
"Ahaha," said Remus sarcastically. "That was hilarious."
"What did Moony's mother say after he transformed into a murderous wolf?" said Sirius.
"I don't know, but I'm sure it's very offensive."
"She said it's just a phase."
"Wow. I'm laughing so hard," deadpanned Remus.
"Why can't Moony get married?"
"Because of the social stigma attached to my condition and the frankly depressing life I lead?"
"No, because you'd transform in the middle of the honeymoon."
"Real knee-slapper right there."
"What's Moony's favorite type of cheese?"
"Mmm. Parmesan."
"No, Muenster!"
There was silence as Remus buried his face into the pink blanket, holding back a groan.
"Get it?" said Sirius. "Because Muenster sounds a little like monster!"
"Yeah, I got it. I wasn't laughing for an entirely different reason. Those jokes were genuinely terri—" In the middle of his word, Remus suddenly started choking. "Terrib—" he tried, but he couldn't get the word out before the coughing returned. Soon, the coughing developed into a full-on giggle, and Remus was covering his entire face with the pink blanket and shaking.
"I knew they were funny!" crowed Sirius from the mirror. "I knew it!"
Remus threw off the pink blanket, now laughing freely. "They were just—so—bad," he choked. "So awful. Merlin's beard. Muenster? In what world is that a good joke?"
All four Marauders were practically wheezing now. Peter was doubled over, struggling to breathe. Sirius was laughing wildly, which made James laugh so hard that his breath fogged up the enchanted mirror, which made Remus laugh even harder, which made his chest hurt. "Ow," he said. "Okay, stop being funn—funny. Ow. I can't breathe."
"A werewolf," announced Sirius, "but not an air-wolf."
"Shut up," said Remus, hitting the mirror angrily (but, unfortunately, he was still laughing). "That's the worst joke yet. And you're just proving my point—Peeves makes fun of me more than he makes fun of you because I'm easy to tease. He gets a kick out of making wolf noises, I think. And since he was bothering me, Professor McGonagall and I had to do something about it."
"But he was our ally," James argued. "We need him."
"This will just make him easier to control. We're still fulfilling our end of the deal; we just need him to respect me a little more."
James sighed. "Fine. Do what you need to do."
"Oh, I will. And I'm going to enjoy it very much."
Remus had been enjoying a lot of things recently, actually. To accentuate that point: that night, as he was lying in bed, he had a dream that wasn't entirely awful and wasn't entirely good.
He dreamt that he was ten years old. That was all. There were no werewolves, and there was no broken glass, and Remus was healthy (well, as healthy as he had been as a ten-year-old werewolf). Remus dreamt that he, ten-year-old Remus Lupin, opened his eyes in the morning and went downstairs to eat breakfast. It was porridge, and Remus didn't much care for porridge.
He dreamt that he said goodbye to his father, hugging him tightly before he left for work. He dreamt that he and his mother played a quick game of cards at the kitchen table. And then he dreamt that his mother read a book on her armchair while Remus quietly looked at a Latin textbook, wrapped from head to toe in a fluffy blanket.
For lunch, Remus dreamt of cheese sandwiches. He dreamt of sitting in his room, pressing his nose to the window, watching the clouds pass, fogging the window with his breath and drawing pictures before it faded. Then he dreamt of practicing holding his breath, merely because there wasn't anything else to do. He dreamt of lying upside-down off his bed. He dreamt of watching a beetle crawl across the ceiling. He dreamt of memorizing poetry and reciting it in whispers to the wall. He dreamt of going back downstairs and playing another game of cards with his mother.
When Remus dreamt of evening, he also dreamt of his father coming home. He dreamt of supper, which was rather quiet (there wasn't much to talk about. They'd exhausted every subject at this point). He dreamt of reading in the sitting room with his parents, quiet and lamplit. Then, as soon as Remus dreamt of sleeping in his own bed, he woke up.
And it was then that Remus realized how much his life had changed since then… and how utterly relieved he was that it had.
He hadn't been a happy child, and he knew it. His parents had worried about him pretty much constantly. He hadn't had anything to do. His life had been incredibly monotonous, which was detrimental for such a young child. He'd been bored all the time—no purpose, no future, nothing to look forward to whatsoever. Now all that had changed, and Remus hadn't even realized how much it had done so until he woke up from that dream and noticed the unbelievably stark contrast.
Remus was a third-year in Hogwarts, with exams to worry about and friends to talk to. He would leave Hogwarts in a little more than four years, and then he and his friends had vague plans to go out and murder Voldemort. He had his birthdays to look forward to, and Christmas, and holidays from school, all of which were infinitely more enjoyable with friends by his side. He had things to work towards, things to do in his free time, time that wasn't free time, teachers, people who weren't part of his family and cared for him anyway….
He had a purpose, first and foremost, and that made all the difference.
Remus sighed contentedly and got out of bed, getting dressed as slowly and quietly as possible. "All okay, Moony?" James asked, who had fallen asleep directly next to the mirror and was still visible through the glass. "Bad dream?"
"No, not really," said Remus. He checked his watch; it was two in the morning. "Just going to take a walk."
"It's after curfew."
"Obviously, you idiot. I'm taking the Cloak."
"Without even asking permission? Cheeky. I should've taken it with me."
"Ah, shut up." Remus grabbed the Cloak and started making his way out of the room. Before he could get very far, though, he glanced back at the mirror out of impulse. James was still there, and he was giving Remus a long, searching look.
"Are you all right?" he asked seriously.
Remus smiled, totally sincere. "Absolutely," he said; with that, he threw the Cloak over his head, exited the dormitory, and shut the door behind him as quietly as he could.
He walked down the corridors, the stone floor cold through his sock feet. The Cloak brushed against the ground, but Remus (thanks to his brilliant senses) knew that no one was around to hear the slight swishes and footsteps. He didn't bother lighting up his wand; his night vision was impeccable.
It was so quiet, and Remus needed a moment of quiet. He needed a moment to think. He needed a moment away from his friends, because sometimes they were so amazing and brilliant and fantastic and perfect that Remus thought his heart would burst of happiness, which was a wonderful feeling that was also incredibly overwhelming. It had been a long year so far, full of emotions (both good and bad) that Remus had never expected to feel, full of a changing future that had been set in stone for so long, full of a strange presence of hope to which Remus was entirely unaccustomed, and full of chaos in the best and worst ways.
He needed a minute. That was all. He needed a minute to himself.
He crept down the corridor, stopping only when he sensed Albus Dumbledore walking toward him. Remus cringed and pressed himself against the wall.
After a few moments of agonizing patience, Dumbledore came around the corner and looked directly at Remus.
Remus looked back at him, but he didn't say a word. He didn't even breathe.
There was a long moment of silence, and then Dumbledore smiled pleasantly and said, "Midnight walks can be quite excellent for clearing one's head, can they not?"
Remus didn't respond.
"Of course," continued Dumbledore, still looking at Remus but nearly talking to himself, "they can also be quite excellent for doing the opposite—filling up one's head, but with the right sort of things this time around."
Remus didn't respond.
Dumbledore looked away, toward the wall, but he was still talking. "If someone else were out here," he said, "which I am sure is not the case, seeing as it is far past curfew… or before curfew, perhaps, depending on your point of view… I would remind that person that the temperature outdoors is beautiful this time of year, and point out the fact that there are no clouds in the sky tonight. It would be a wonderful day for a starlit picnic… if there were someone else, that is, which there is no one. I am merely walking alone, talking to a wall. Silly of me, hm?"
With that, Dumbledore walked down the corridor, away from Remus, humming a tune gaily. Remus recognized it as a song his father used to hum around the house: probably a popular one from a wizarding artist, but he couldn't quite remember the name.
As soon as Dumbledore was gone, Remus scampered to the Astronomy Tower and sat down on the stone ground, drawing his knees to his chest tightly and staring at the stars. Dumbledore had been right. It was a beautiful day—just enough breeze to tickle his cheeks, but not enough to be cold—and the stars were bright without the obscuring cloud coverage. Remus sat there, Invisibility Cloak discarded, watching the sky, for what felt like an eternity.
He was overwhelmed. He was just a kid, from humble beginnings, with a terrible curse, stiff joints, and too many memories (and, at the same time, not enough). How was he supposed to deal with all this? School, transformations, and a whole war? How was he supposed to have enough energy? It was all so much, all at once, all too terrifying, all at the same time. Too much. Overwhelming. Scary, frankly.
Remus gripped his knees more tightly, and then he took a deep breath and screwed his eyes shut. If he focused enough, maybe he could pretend he was back at home. No, not at home. In Professor Questus' house, sitting on an armchair with a mug of tea next to him, keeping an eye on the time to ensure he'd be back by supper. If he shut his eyes really, really tightly, he could almost hear the trees rustling outside. He could almost feel the threads of the couch beneath his fingers. He could almost smell the tea. And if he focused even harder, he could almost, almost, almost hear Questus' breathing.
"What do I do?" he asked Professor Questus, but there was no response. Remus tried to hang on to the memory—the fantasy—whatever this was—with both hands. It was just like what he had to do for his arithmancy project, wasn't it? He was imagining a place he'd been so many times before, except a little bit different. This was good practice.
"It's so much," he mumbled. "And—"
Suddenly, something akin to anger flooded his chest. "I need you," he snapped. "Why'd you have to go and die? I needed you, and I still do, and maybe that's why I feel so awful right now, because… because I need you. If you'd just used magic, this never would've happened."
No response. Remus could feel the fantasy slipping, so he shut his eyes even tighter—by now, he was seeing stars and hearing white noise, but he kept screwing them shut. "I need you because," he started, and then he stopped.
Because he needed someone to discuss werewolf things with? No, Remus had his friends now, and he knew that he could talk to his parents whenever he wanted.
Because he wanted to be told the truth without a trace of pity? No, Sirius had that covered. Remus could trust Sirius to tell him the truth, no matter how harsh the truth was. And Sirius never pitied—he was about as blunt as Questus had been.
Because he wanted someone quiet to sit with? No, Peter could help with that. Remus had previously relied on Questus for a quiet escape from the chaos, but now he had Peter, who talked so little and listened so much.
Because he wanted someone who tried to understand, who helped, who stood up for Remus when he needed it and urged him to stand up for himself? No, because Remus had James.
Because he wanted someone to help him with his homework? No, James and Sirius could do that. And Remus had plenty of reliable adults in his life now, so it wasn't that, either. Remus craved Questus' understanding—both of them had had to work hard in school to make up for lack of ingrained talent, and had seen tragic things at an early age… but Peter understood those things, too.
"I guess I don't really need you anymore," said Remus, and the realization hurt much more than it should have.
"But," he said, because there was certainly more to be said there, "I miss you. And I know you'd call me sentimental, and it would be terribly awkward, and I would regret saying anything at all, but I do. I miss you. And you were such a constant that… I'm afraid of losing other constants now. So. Yeah. Thanks for that."
Remus sat there for a while. The fantasy was fading, and soon he was left with nothing but the miserable knowledge that he was not in Professor Questus' house; he was on the stone floor of the Astronomy Tower, and there was no tea.
Wait. Remus still smelled tea.
He heard footsteps, and he turned around blearily and came face-to-face with Dumbledore for the second time that evening. Remus sighed and pushed the Invisibility Cloak farther into his satchel so that Dumbledore wouldn't see it. "I'm sorry for breaking curfew, Professor," he said.
"Curfew? Hm, I seem to have temporarily forgotten that word. I must confess that I often neglected my vocabulary studies as a child." Dumbledore sat down next to Remus, smiled, and handed him some tea. "Sickle for your thoughts?"
"I'm just sort of tired," said Remus.
"May I suggest that being awake at half two is the probable cause of such a sensation?"
"Not that sort of tired."
"Ah, I see."
"You may leave if you'd like, Professor. I'll be fine by myself."
Suddenly, Professor Dumbledore snapped his fingers. "Aha! Curfew! Yes, I remember what it means now. I do believe you'll be punished if caught after hours without the supervision of an adult… such as myself. Is my definition correct?"
Remus sighed. "Yes, sir."
"Then I shall sit here with you."
They sat in silence for a very long time, and then Remus said (because he really did want to talk), "I had a dream last night."
Professor Dumbledore didn't respond, so Remus kept going. "It wasn't a nightmare," he said. "It was more of a memory. It was just a normal day from a few years ago, when I was ten."
Dumbledore nodded, so Remus kept going. "You know how you don't notice yourself getting older?" he mused. "It's gradual, so you don't notice yourself looking a tiny bit different every day in the mirror. But then, when you look back at photos of yourself from years and years ago, the amount you've changed is starkly obvious. And you think to yourself, When did that happen? But it was happening the whole time, and you didn't even know it."
Dumbledore nodded again. "As a very old man, I am more than familiar with the phenomenon," he said.
"Well, my dream was a little like that. Everything seemed to be changing at once on that day I went to Hogwarts, but I never really realized just how different things were until I woke up from that dream and saw the then and the now side-by-side. A lot has changed."
"It has indeed."
"That should have made me happy, because most things have changed for the better. But instead, it just made me feel incredibly overwhelmed… because it's not just the bad things that have changed, it's some good things, too. And it makes me sort of afraid for how many other things can change in the future, you know?"
"Ah," said Dumbledore. "I think I see what's happening, Remus."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Nothing ever changed in your life for six years—some of the most formative years of your life, might I add—and now you're entirely unaccustomed to change in general. You'd found a way of coping with it through John Questus for a while, but now that's changed, too… and now you're uncertain and unsteady."
Remus sighed. "Maybe."
"And," said Dumbledore, eyes growing a little gentler still, "you're too busy."
"What? No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are. I did warn you earlier this year that, though keeping busy is a good thing, there is a such thing as keeping too busy. You're too busy."
"No, I'm fine."
"How much sleep are you getting?"
Remus frowned. "Not much, but…"
"My point precisely. People don't realize how important sleep is to the way we function. I suggest you leave off your Arithmancy project…"
"What?! But, sir…"
"Listen to me, Remus. I strongly recommend you pause your Arithmancy tutoring with Professor Leek, because it is too much mental exertion. You may keep collecting data after full moons, and of course you may start up again next year, but please do not stress about it. Take some time to yourself—exams are coming up, after all, and you'll want to be well-rested—and sleep. Eight hours a night, at least."
"That's a lot," Remus mumbled.
"The fact that you think so is a clear indicator that you're not getting enough. Forgive me, Remus, but you miss a full night of sleep every month, your body is constantly under tremendous pressure and pain, and you're stressed. Sleep is the best thing for you right now. You've too much on your mind."
Remus deflated. "Fine," he said. "Eight hours. Fine."
"Thank you. Now, it's about three in the morning—if you go to bed now, you should sleep until ten. Does that sound all right?"
"Fine."
"Good. And Remus?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Please feel free to talk whenever you should need it. It helps, does it not?"
Remus paused and took a deep breath. The night was still gorgeous, the breeze was still cool, and the stars were still bright—but now his problems felt a bit more manageable, his woes seemed a bit less pressing, and it was undeniable that his chest felt significantly lighter.
"Yeah," he said. "It helps."
