Fact #15: Remus' friends were liars.

They'd promised to stop trying to become Animagi, but Remus' excellent sense of smell told him that the Mandrake leaves were still in their mouths. They'd never taken them out. "We like the taste," said James when confronted, and Remus promptly blew up. The four of them got into a massive shouting match in a Soundproofed dormitory, and then Remus didn't speak to them for about twenty-four hours, during which time his friends finally—finally—removed the leaves from their mouths.

"Happy now?" grumbled Sirius. "Hours and hours, months and months—completely wasted. Just because Moony's afraid we'll add the wrong potion ingredient or something."

"It's a lot more complicated than that," said Remus, pouring himself a cup of non-plant-dissolving celebration tea. He hardly ever talked back to his friends, much less raising his voice like that, but saving their lives felt important. "I'll be as annoying as I have to be if it means you don't die."

"We understand," said James.

The next morning, Remus spotted Scent-Related Charms and other Wizarding Essentials under James' bed, but he thought nothing of it. There were no spells that got rid of scents. He'd checked. They would fail, and then the whole Animagus fiasco would officially be over.

Meanwhile, Remus worked on his Arithmancy project with vigor. His friends were right: he was only a couple of years away from average werewolf life expectancy, and even though those numbers were greatly skewed by unnatural deaths, Remus didn't want to waste time. He wanted to finish this project as soon as possible.

He met with Professor Leek that evening. "I've been trying to get that blank-canvas memory all summer," he said, "and I can get the weather to be perfectly neutral, but I still can't remove myself from the memory. I'm always in the Shrieking Shack, no matter what."

"Yes, that is the hardest part for a lot of people," said Leek. "I don't have any shortcuts, Remus. You just need to make yourself believe—make yourself really believe—that you have a memory in which you do not exist. Keep practicing. I'll watch them and tell you what you can improve on."

Remus did, and Leek told him that he needed to bring the temperature down slightly, make sure there were no clouds whatsoever, and ensure the Whomping Willow wasn't swaying its branches at everyone who walked near. Remus still wasn't able to remove himself, though, so every single memory that he conjured up was completely useless.

He cried out in frustration after his twenty-third try. "It's the only thing left I need to achieve," he said. "I've already created every single spell I need. I've already gone into every full moon memory I can recall and collected data. But I don't have enough—I need hundreds, maybe thousands, of full moons to collect this data, and I've only transformed one-hundred-eighteen times… well, technically double that, if you count both transformations, but…"

"You're counting?" asked Leek, stricken.

"Not really. Sometimes I sum the numbers when I'm bored. It's not hard—I went through ten in 1965, I've been through nine this year, and I've been through five regular years and three blue moon years. There's another one next month, you know. It's on Halloween."

"Oh," said Leek. "I'm sorry."

"I get more data, I suppose." Remus sighed and rested his head in his hands. "It's just so frustrating. I really want to finish, and the only thing stopping me from it is my stupid emotions getting the better of me."

"This is very difficult magic," Leek reminded Remus, just as he did every time. "No one expects a fourth-year to be able to do this—even most grown adults can't, and even some fully-qualified arithmancers don't. In fact, when arithmancers are working on a project that requires a simulation, we split up the work. Some people are better in certain areas, so they do those, and then we don't need to be experts in every single step. You're doing this all by yourself, which is highly impressive…"

"If I can even manage it, that is."

"Even if you can't! The work you've done as of far is highly impressive."

"I don't want it to be highly impressive," said Remus. "I want it to work. I don't care about personal glory; I just care about having accurate end results."

Leek was silent for a moment, and then he asked, "Why?"

"Because…" Remus sighed. "There are many reasons. It's difficult to explain, but I've found over the years that routine is the best way to deal with an impossible, painful situation. Things are so much better when you break them down into steps: you know what to expect, and it's more manageable when you look at it one step at a time. I take it one moment at a time, and each moment is carefully planned. First this happens, then this happens, then that happens, and then I'm done till next month. I don't have control over what happens to me on a full moon, but I do have control over a chosen routine."

"You want control?"

"Essentially, yes. Knowledge makes me feel more like I'm in control; more like I can plan for things. Professor Dumbledore told me in first year that he thought it was stress that made transformations worse, and it does… but there are other factors, too, so lack of stress doesn't make them better. Does that make sense?"

"I think I understand."

"So there's nothing I can do, and there's no way to know how bad the transformation will be. I don't know what to expect, and that makes me feel… small. Like anything can happen to me, and there's nothing I can do about it. Like being in the dark." Remus smoothed down his hair, anxious for something to do with his hands to diffuse the tension. "I just want to know," he said quietly. "It usually makes it easier when I know."

"There are disadvantages to knowing things, though. Since stress is a factor, then bad full moons might be worse if you know they'll be bad."

"I've already weighed that disadvantage, and I've decided I'm okay with it. Besides, the opposite is true: good full moons will be better if I can eliminate some aspect of stress going in. It'll all even out."

"If you say so."

Remus brought his wand up to his temple. "One more time," he said, but he failed seven more times before finally giving up and going back to his dormitory.

He'd try again next week.

The next week, however, brought too much distress to engage in an activity as mentally and emotionally demanding as arithmancy… and it was (of course), all Manard's fault.

Remus' Tuesday Defense Against the Dark Arts class started out relatively normally. Manard gave an annoyingly excellent lecture on Imps—Remus hated Manard's eloquence, he hated how he could so effectively command the attention of an entire room, and he hated how much he found he was learning. Manard was a genuinely good teacher, and Remus hated it.

"Remember to buy the books I assigned, if you haven't already," Manard reminded the students as they filed out of the classroom. "There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up, and I know the books can be found in Hogsmeade. Either buy them yourself or get a friend to buy them for you. We'll be using them starting next Tuesday."

Remus started to make his way out of the classroom, but Manard grabbed his shoulder before he could leave—the left shoulder, directly on the nine-year-old bite. Remus flinched.

"Didn't mean to startle you," said Manard with a smile. He released Remus' shoulder. "You need not attend your next class today."

"Why?" asked Sirius, who was standing directly behind Remus.

Remus sighed and did a quick scan of the classroom—fortunately (or unfortunately), it was empty save for the Marauders and Manard. "Aconite," he said.

Peter frowned. "What?"

"Wolfsbane. That's right, isn't it, Professor Manard? They're using Wolfsbane in Potions class, so I can't be there." At Manard's nod, Remus turned to his friends and shrugged apologetically. "This happens every so often. I learn the theory to catch up. Take good notes for me?"

"We won't," promised Sirius, and then they were gone.

Remus was alone.

Scratch that. Remus wasn't alone, but he wished he were alone, because the last person he wanted to spend time with was Sal Manard.

"I'll go back to my dormitory now," said Remus quietly, "and use this time to learn the theory. I think it's important to catch up on what I'm missing."

"Oh, I'll help you learn it later if you find you're having problems," said Manard with a wave of his hand. "No, I got permission from Albus to keep you here. I think we need to have a chat. Here, come to my office—it's far more comfortable."

Hesitantly, Remus followed Manard into his office and sat in a plush armchair. Manard closed the door behind them, and Remus felt a deep sense of doom settle over him as it clicked closed.

The office in question didn't seem like the office of a sadistic, bigoted git like Manard. It seemed very normal; almost peaceful. There were bookshelves lining the walls, filled with books on magical creatures and combative spells. There was a small knick-knack on Manard's desk—a silver bird that flapped its wings once per second, probably for keeping the time. A large map adorned one of the walls, and there were red pins stuck all over. On Manard's desk sat a mug of tea and a manila folder that looked oddly familiar.

"Do you recognize this?" asked Manard, gesturing toward the folder.

Remus did recognize it, of course, but he couldn't remember exactly where he'd seen it before. He shook his head.

"Well, it's the subject of our conversation today." Manard groaned slightly as he sat, gripping his thigh and screwing up his eyes in pain. "Ouch. Damn leg."

He flipped open the folder with one finger; Remus was starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he prayed he wouldn't vomit. "Remus John Lupin," read Manard aloud in a clear, almost-mocking voice. "March 10, 1960. Bitten February 16, 1965. My, my. You were hardly more than a baby."

"What are you…?" Remus blinked as equal parts fear and anger started to rush through his head at the speed of James on a broomstick. "That's my file."

"That's my file, sir. Indeed. I borrowed it from the Werewolf Department at the Ministry. There are some very interesting things in here."

"You're not allowed to read that! Aren't they sworn to secrecy? Anyone who handles my file is supposed to be sworn in!"

"Wrong. The Ministry swears people to secrecy regarding the information that you are a werewolf. I have a cousin who works in that department, and since I already knew, he was able to give me all the information I wanted. He made a copy of your information and delivered it the other day, just to satiate my curiosity. And my cousin, as the head of the department, did not feel the need to swear me to secrecy, since I'd already known about your lycanthropy through other means instead of being informed by the Ministry."

Remus hugged his middle. He knew the head of the Werewolf Registry all too well. "Your cousin is Dav Ragfarn?"

"Yes, indeed. My mother and his father were siblings, so my mother's maiden name was Ragfarn. Do we look alike?"

Remus wasn't sure how to answer that. They didn't look very alike, no—maybe in build and cheekbone structure, but Ragfarn's eyes were a light hazel color, and Manard's eyes were blue—Ragfarn had brown hair, and Manard's hair was pitch-black—Ragfarn had some stubble, and Manard was clean-shaven. They looked very different indeed.

"You act sort of the same," said Remus slowly. "You both pretend to be kind on occasion."

Manard laughed. "Oh, Ragfarn's not always pretending. He likes you a little."

"It's unsettling when you pretend to be kind when it's just the two of us," Remus dared to say.

Manard smiled, snake-like. "I know. That's why I do it. Now, back to your file… did you know that every single conversation that you've ever had in a Ministry setting is recorded and put into this file?"

Remus had known that (of course he wasn't able to miss the charmed quill scratching away during Registry Day), but he hadn't thought about it. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach grew exponentially.

"You didn't talk much at age five, did you?" Manard flipped a couple of pages and went silent; whatever page he was reading caused a smile to spread across his face ever so slowly, and it scared Remus more than he cared to admit. "But this is interesting," he said softly. "This is what I was meaning to talk with you about."

"What is it?" Remus asked, unable to stop himself.

Manard raised an eyebrow, still staring at the file.

"What is it, sir," amended Remus dully.

"That's better. It's just a conversation Dav had with your father after you'd left the room. Something about a run-in that a certain Lyall Lupin had with one Fenrir Greyback."

Remus' internal organs turned to ice. He knew this story.

"Hmm. 'Soulless, evil, deserving of nothing but death.' That's good. I might have to use that."

"Stop it," said Remus in a low voice.

"Stop it, sir. And no. It happened twenty-four hours after the run-in, eh? You were asleep in bed?"

"Please."

"Please, sir. And no." Manard leaned closer, dragged his eyes from the file, and looked directly at Remus. Remus couldn't bear it. "So it was Greyback who bit you," he mused.

"No. I mean, maybe. We don't… we don't know." Remus was stammering, and he hated himself for it. He and his father had lied to the Registry for years, saying that they didn't know for certain that it had been Greyback who bit Remus… but they knew. Greyback had come back a little while later to confirm it. They'd managed to escape giving that information to the Ministry, but Dav Ragfarn most certainly suspected. Everyone who knew Remus' father's awful story suspected.

"We don't know," repeated Remus. "He was probably behind it, yeah, but he could have ordered another werewolf to do it. It could have been anybody."

"There's a rumor that Greyback often visits his victims a month or two after the bite. That's how he recruits them, isn't it?" Manard's icy stare seemed to be burning Remus' skin. "Did Greyback visit you, Remus?"

"No," lied Remus.

Silence.

"I don't believe you," said Manard. "You really are a bad liar. I am astounded that you've managed to fool Albus."

"Look, it—it doesn't even matter, who bit me," Remus said desperately. "It doesn't change what I am."

"Ah, but it does. Werewolves tend to retain some traits from the werewolves who bit them, did you know? Personality traits… physical traits… viciousness… this changes everything."

Remus closed his eyes. "That's a myth."

"May I remind you that I am a werewolf expert? I'm a professional. I don't think it's your place to lecture me on myths and truth."

"May I remind you that I am a werewolf? I know far better than you do what it's like, sir, and I don't think it's your place to lecture me on myths and truth." Remus cringed. Snark was his knee-jerk reflex whenever he was feeling uncomfortable, and it had gotten him into trouble many times before. Judging by the anger growing on Manard's face like a particularly disgusting fungus, Remus was about to be in quite a lot of trouble.

"Greyback killed my wife," Manard hissed. "Greyback killed my wife, and by extension, so did you—"

"That doesn't even make sense!"

"I've met Greyback, and the two of you are exactly similar! The smile, the way you look at the sky before saying something horrible, the way you move your head when trying to pick up a scent, the way you're sitting, even your damn handwriting!"

Remus shifted in his seat, stricken. "You're lying," he said. "You're just trying to… to make me uncomfortable. You're lying."

"I would never lie about something as serious as this! My wife is dead, and it's your fault…"

"It's not my fault! I never asked for this!"

"I hate you," said Manard, low and dangerous, as if Remus didn't already know. "I hate you, and I hope you die a very gruesome death someday."

The bird on the desk continued to flap its metal wings, making a slight clicking noise as the wings hit the wood of the desk. Manard stared at Remus, who stared back, and the only sounds in the room were the clicking bird, two rapidly beating hearts, and labored, angry breathing.

And then…

"Professor McGonagall is coming," whispered Remus as her scent floated into the room. "She's about to enter the classroom right now."

Manard's lips twisted, but he didn't say a word. He put the file inside his desk, one-handed, keeping his eyes on Remus the whole time.

A moment later, the door to the classroom opened, and Remus heard McGonagall's heels clicking against the floor. Then there was a rapt knock on the door to Manard's office, and Manard scowled one more time before fashioning his face into a smile, brightening his eyes, and saying, "Come in, Minerva!"

The door opened, and Remus tried his best to smile. "Good morning, Lupin," said Professor McGonagall. "I heard Professor Slughorn scheduled a potion involving wolfsbane today, and Professor Dumbledore told me that you were staying here until the class ended."

"That's right," said Remus. He tried desperately to keep the shaking out of his voice. "Do you need me?"

"I do, actually. I read your Transfiguration essay, and it was quite interesting. I would like it very much if you could accompany me back to my classroom and answer a few questions."

"Oh." Remus looked at Manard. "Is that all right, Professor Manard?"

He sighed. "Oh, well, I'll be terribly bored without you, Remus. Do you mind asking the questions right here, Minerva? I'd love to hear all about this essay."

She shook her head. "I have some books in my room I'd like to show him, and there's also something private I'd like to discuss regarding his medical care for this year. But thank you for keeping him company."

Remus followed McGonagall out of the office, and he felt Manard's icy blue glare on his back the whole way down the corridor. As soon as the door to the Transfiguration classroom was shut behind them, Remus felt an immediate wave of relief and safety wash over him. He was inexplicably glad to be out of Manard's office, where every word was laced with poison and every stare felt like it contained a thousand daggers.

"What did you want to speak with me about, Professor?" he asked quietly.

She shrugged. "Oh, nothing."

"What? But… my essay… and my medical care for this year…?"

"I made that up."

"Why?"

"I wanted to get you out of there." McGonagall sat at her desk, across from Remus. "I'm not sure how he's treating you, and Professor Dumbledore mentioned that everything seemed to be going smoothly. But I wanted to make sure for myself, because something about that man rubs me the wrong way."

"What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I don't like to speak ill of my colleagues, but I don't trust him. He showed up here on such short notice, probably to keep an eye on Professor Dumbledore, and he won't stop asking about you."

"He won't?"

"No. To be fair, he talks about you far less than John Questus did in your first year, but it's… strange. He asks how you're doing in your classes, how you're settling in, how your injuries are after the full moon, how your friends act… I don't think I like it."

"There's nothing wrong with being curious. I'm the first werewolf at Hogwarts, and he knows firsthand how difficult it must be for all parties involved."

"Yes, but…" McGonagall sighed. "You're right. But there's still something there; something deeply unsettling… that may just be my imagination. He's treated you well?"

"Yes, Professor."

"What were you talking about in there? Professors don't normally take students into their offices—normally, they talk in the classroom when it's empty, like we're doing right now."

"Well, he doesn't know much about teacher norms and expectations yet. He offered me some tea. We chatted."

"About what?"

"It was like you said. He's curious about how housing a werewolf in a school of students works. He was fascinated by the fact that my friends accept me. He wanted to know how long I expected to be absent after the full moon. That was it."

"Hm. Those seem like questions that should have been answered earlier in the year, and some of them he already knows quite a bit about."

"We were just chatting, Professor. He's curious, and he has insight. I like those sorts of conversations."

"Well, if you say so."

"I do. I quite like him. He's very pleasant."

"Pleasant, yes…" McGonagall stared at Remus for a moment, and Remus took note of the fact that her stare, while scrutinizing, was so much kinder and warmer than Manard's had been. "Well, I am very sorry to interrupt, then."

"Don't be. It was kind of you to think of me."

"Very well. Now, while we have some time before lunchtime, why don't I go over the topic you 'forgot' to study? I won't change your score on the last test, but I would like to make sure you understand it."

"Of course, Professor. Thank you."

Remus was having some trouble focusing, but he managed to fumble through the lesson. The whole time, however, Manard's words rang throughout his head—even the damn handwriting—and he couldn't stop wondering how on earth he was going to get through the year.

He'd entered Hogwarts thinking it was going to be the best year ever, but it was very nearly shaping up to be the worst.