Now's a great time to remind yourself that this work is a little more intense. I'm not going to warn every possible trigger before each chapter because I don't like the idea of spoiling things, but I'll take a quick little pit stop here to remind you that possible future icky things include violence, blood, and lots of talk about poor mental health... and this chapter may include one or more. All right, pit stop over!

Remus had known that Manard didn't like him—he'd known that from the very start—but he hadn't known that his hatred was going to be so personal, so potent. This felt completely different, and Remus was genuinely afraid of the man. One wrong move, and Manard could snap… and Manard was a Ministry worker, a werewolf hunter, far more powerful and knowledgeable than Remus. A snap could end very, very badly.

So, now that Manard had revealed his hatred for Remus to be so emotional and dangerous, Remus had developed a few new habits.

1. He spent as little time in the Great Hall as possible. Manard was always at the staff table during mealtimes, and even when he wasn't staring at Remus, Remus could practically feel his eyes on him. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, so Remus always ate as quickly as possible and then returned to the dormitory.

2. Whenever he had to go into the corridor for any reason, he made sure he took his friends with him. They were confused by all the back-and-forth, but Remus happily ignored their questions.

3. Whenever the topic of Manard came up, Remus went very quiet for fear of letting something slip. Remus was usually rather quiet, so this tactic worked well.

4. During Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, Remus did not raise his hand, did not chat with Evans, participated in the lesson as little as possible, and stared at his desk until his vision started swimming.

The strategy was not very effective in the sense that Manard still hated Remus as much as ever, but the simple act of doing something about it made Remus feel like he was in control… if only a little.

At the very least, it was a routine, and Remus could appreciate a good routine. All he had to do was stay away from Manard as much as possible…

Easier said than done.

After class ended one day, Remus knocked on the door of Manard's classroom. It was about two minutes before Manard opened the door, which was enough time for Remus to nearly lose his nerve—when the door opened, Remus had already taken six steps back and was considering running down the corridor as quickly as he possibly could.

Manard stared Remus down. "I wasn't expecting you," he said.

"I… I know. I just… may I come in? I had a question."

There was a moment during which neither of them spoke. Manard stared at Remus, and Remus cowered. Some Gryffindor he was.

Finally, just as Remus was about to change his mind and leave, Manard nodded. "Of course," he said. "Come in."

He stepped away from the door, cane clicking against the floor, and Remus entered. With a deep breath, he closed the door behind them. It was only the two of them in the classroom now, and Remus wondered once again why he was doing this voluntarily.

"What's the question?" Manard asked. "I'm always happy to help out a student." He smiled mockingly, and Remus tried to hold back a grimace.

"I just…" Remus squeezed his eyes shut. "About what you said the other day… I was wondering. Just thinking."

"Right."

"And I… wanted to know… how…"

Manard sighed. "Spit it out. I thought you were a Gryffindor, not some measly Hufflepuff."

"How…" Remus sighed. "I was wondering how you know what Greyback's handwriting looks like."

Manard fell silent momentarily, and then he started laughing. "My, my. That really bothered you, hm? You must have been sitting on it for… what? A good couple of days? Delightful."

"I want to know how you know all that about Greyback," said Remus, feeling a little bit braver now out of pure spite. "You seem to be very knowledgeable about his every quirk, and I don't believe that Greyback and I are similar in the least bit, besides the fact that we're both werewolves. If you think you can torture me with that information, then I'm going to require some proof."

"Of course you do." Manard was still smiling. "You're logical, and you like seeing things laid out for you: lists, steps, and routines. You like facts over theories. Don't you?"

"Not really. Not always. But in matters like this, it's the only way I can wrap my head around something difficult or unpleasant."

Manard leaned forward. "And knowing you're so similar to the most savage werewolf in Britain is both difficult and unpleasant, isn't it?"

"No, because I don't know. The possibility is difficult and unpleasant, but I can't possibly know for sure unless you prove it to me. And… respectfully, sir, I don't think you can."

"Fine." Manard stood up, and with the hand that was not holding the cane, he beckoned for Remus to follow him. "We're just going into my office," he said. "If you could get the door for me, that would be wonderful."

Remus sighed, but he did as he was told and opened the door. He didn't want to make Manard angry—not now, not today, maybe not ever. "You know, Professor McGonagall told me that most professors don't take students into their offices very often."

Manard froze. "Did she suspect something?"

"Yes, but I think I dissuaded her."

"Good." Manard kept walking—clack, clack, clack. "It's a necessary precaution, I'm afraid. As much as I don't want you around my personal possessions, I also don't want someone to surprise us."

"I'll hear them coming down the corridor."

"Not with what we're doing."

On that ominous note, Manard sat at his desk and motioned for Remus to close the door. "I must say, I didn't expect you to come to me with this concern," he said. "You seem to have been avoiding me."

"I was… but I can't go to anyone else. It would arouse suspicion."

"Too true." Manard pulled out a silver basin from underneath his desk and sat it on top of the wooden surface. "Do you know what this is?"

"It's a Pensieve," said Remus, awed and afraid.

"Correct. How did you know?"

"Professor Dumbledore gave me one in my first year. He said it would help with nightmares if I cleared my head before bed… and it did, but I've stopped using it every night since then. I don't get as many nightmares anymore." He'd had a couple recently, but he didn't see any reason to mention that.

"How very fortunate," said Manard, who had been the cause of said recent nightmares. "Well, a Pensieve is good for viewing memories as well as releasing their hold on one's mind. I've had plenty of face-to-face interactions with Greyback, and I figure the best way to prove to you what he's like is to show you."

Manard pulled a phial from a shelf, poured the silvery liquid into the Pensieve, and then levitated it to Remus' lap with a flick of his wand. Remus hesitated. "What are you waiting for?" Manard asked, lips curling upward. "Unless you don't really want the facts after all. Unless you're afraid that I'm telling the whole and honest truth…?"

"I'm not," said Remus, and he brought the Pensieve into his arms, took a deep breath, and submerged his face into the liquid.

He was standing in the woods, across from a much younger Manard. This Manard looked to be in his mid-twenties—if Manard was thirty-six now, as he'd mentioned in his first class, then this had to have been around the time Remus was bitten. This Manard did not carry a cane, and he was wearing heavy-duty boots and carrying his wand in a holster.

It was light outside, but the canopy of trees cast ominous shadows on the ground. From the shadows, a figure emerged. Remus couldn't stop the slight gasp from escaping him—even almost ten years later, he knew this person. He recognized the scraggly hair, the sheer size of him, the course skin and ripped robes. Remus forced himself to keep his eyes open, even though he wanted more than anything to close them.

"Greyback," said Memory-Manard calmly. "We meet again."

"Indeed," said Greyback.

Similarity #1: Greyback's voice was rough, just like Remus', except significantly rougher. That didn't bother Remus too much. It was just a werewolf thing; nothing more. He filed it away in the back of his head.

Manard removed the wand from his holster and trained it on Greyback, who pulled his own wand from his pocket, totally unbothered. "Who did you kill?" demanded Manard, and Remus noticed for the first time the blood dripping from Greyback's chin, stained on his clothes, smeared on his cheek. He was surprised he'd missed it, but Remus was never very observant without his enhanced senses, which of course he didn't possess in Manard's memory.

Greyback inspected his fingernails, which were also caked with blood. "Didn't," he said. "He lived. Assuming his parents don't let him die, he'll be fine."

"That doesn't make it better," Manard sneered. "That makes it worse. You've stripped him of his humanity—presumably a child, since you mention his parents—and you'll try to integrate him into your army…."

"I doubtless will. I do love the children. What are you going to do about it?"

Spells flew, fast and furious, and Remus noticed Greyback's wand hold.

Similarity #2: Remus held his wand in a four-fingered fist, with his thumb and index finger resting straight and against the wood. So did Greyback. Greyback's wand movements reminded Remus almost of his own—something about the exact style of flicking—but it was all coincidence, wasn't it? Professor Questus had done all that, too, and so did Remus' father. It was just an efficient way of holding a wand and casting spells.

There was a flash of red light, and then an explosion. Remus instinctively ducked, even though he knew he wouldn't be harmed by it; Manard, however, flew six feet away and landed in a bush. He'd dropped his wand, and Greyback picked it up with a sadistic grin.

"End of the line, Salvis," he said roughly, and then he pointed his wand at Manard…

…and then lowered it.

Remus looked around, perhaps a little cruelly disappointed that Greyback hadn't done something awful to Manard. He supposed that was Similarity #3—both Remus and Greyback wished harm to befall Sal Manard, but Remus suspected most anyone would if they knew Manard well enough.

About a minute later (long enough, at least, for Sal to sit up and rub his head, glaring at Greyback with a touch of fear), a child emerged from the bushes, all wild hair and large brown eyes. "What's going on?" he whispered. "I heard noises, and Mummy's trying to sleep. She's poorly. Why are you holding that stick?"

"No," said Manard, standing up abruptly. "Don't—Greyback, do not…"

Greyback grinned, exposing a set of terrifying fanglike teeth. He didn't even look human. In the blink of an eye, the child was in Greyback's grasp, and blood was trickling down his neck…

"That wasn't murder, what I did to that child last night," announced Greyback, holding the wand to the terrified child's temple. "That kid will be fine. Worse for wear for a couple of months, but fine—do you know why? Because you're wrong about werewolves. They are not human, but they are people. Just like you, except significantly stronger. You are wrong. That was not murder."

Greyback grinned one more time, and Remus felt a sudden prickling crawling up his back; a warning to look away, to leave the memory, to help somehow… "This is murder," said Greyback, and then there was a horrible crack and the child was on the ground, brown eyes empty.

Remus removed his head from the Pensieve, sweating horribly. He turned to look at Manard, who was reading a book with a serene smile. "What was that?" asked Remus, voice wobbling. "That wasn't… that wasn't what I asked for!"

Manard frowned and looked at the empty phial. "Hm. Must have mislabeled it." Then he looked up at Remus; from his expression, Remus knew immediately that the phial had not been mislabeled. "All right?"

"No, I…" Remus shut his eyes tighter—tighter—tighter, until bursts of color erupted behind his eyelids. He could still see the dead child. "That boy was about the same age as I was," he whispered.

"Almost exactly," said Manard, returning to his book as if Remus were not suffering right in front of him. "You were fifty-nine months old when Greyback attacked you. He was fifty-eight. Talked to his poor family right afterward, of course—Muggles. They were distraught, as anyone would be."

Remus was shaking, and his mouth filled with hot saliva. He was going to be sick if he kept thinking of the memory; he was certain of it. He sat as still as possible, running through his favorite poems, thinking about sheep, thinking about Bufo, but nothing was helping…

"Isn't it interesting to think that the very blood in your veins is partially composed of Greyback's D.N.A.?" Manard commented lightly, and then Remus dashed out of the room and vomited into the girls' toilet.

"I hate him," Remus said aloud. This was Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, so no one else was around (and fortunately, Remus did not hear Myrtle's telltale weeping).

He stared at the toilet water and tried to ignore the bruising hardness of the tile floor against his knees. He'd been kneeling here for an hour now—he'd only vomited once, but he still felt ill. "I hate him," Remus repeated. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him."

The him in this particular scenario could have been Greyback or Manard—Remus' wasn't entirely sure. Both? Either? Perhaps some other people could be thrown into the mix; after all, Remus was kneeling on the floor of a bathroom with the lingering taste of vomit in his mouth and a lingering image of a dead four-year-old in his mind, and his professors had not noticed that anything was wrong. No one had. Not even Remus' best friends.

Remus didn't want them to know, of course, but it still hurt that no one had noticed… well, they had, especially Dumbledore and McGonagall, and then Remus had lied to them again… but still. Remus wanted someone to blame.

Well, that was easy. He had two people right at the front of his mind, ready for the blaming.

"I hate him," he said again, this time referring to Greyback. Greyback's leering face crawled into his mind; first slowly, then all at once—Remus scowled and brought his fist to the marble wall of the stall and slammed it into the stone with all his strength. Remus wasn't very strong, but it was still enough to bruise his hand. "I hate him," he repeated, this time referring to Manard and his stupid, self-assured smile—Manard and his dumb yet hauntingly clever prejudice.

"Oooh, who?" responded a voice.

Moaning Myrtle. Remus groaned and cradled his bruised hand. "It doesn't matter," he said.

"If you say so." Myrtle flew under the stall door and smiled at Remus. "You're looking handsome today," she giggled. "I haven't seen you in so long. You should visit more often."

Myrtle, as a teenage ghost, was stuck in the unfortunate phase of being a hormonal teen girl with a massive crush on fifty percent of the boys who entered her bathroom. Remus—sickly, pale, and emotional—was, unfortunately, her type. "I get busy," he said.

"I'm sure. I didn't want to interrupt you when you lost your lunch earlier. Of course I've done the same thing, and none of my friends visited me when I was ill, either." Myrtle sighed wistfully. "Some friends they turned out to be. Hardly visited my grave at all."

"I'm not ill," said Remus.

Myrtle flew closer until her large, translucent eyes were right in front of Remus' own. "Who do you hate?" she asked. "For me, it's Olive Hornsby. She made fun of my glasses, and I died right here while crying in the bathroom. It happened in that very stall. Isn't that dreadful?"

"Yeah."

"Who's your Olive Hornsby, Remus Lupin? What did she make fun of? Was it your gloves? Your hair? Your eyes? Your pale complexion? The ruggedly handsome bookish look you have?"

"It was nothing," snapped Remus, now very annoyed. "I'm leaving, Myrtle. Go find someone else to torture."

And he left, ignoring the queasy feel of his stomach and the bruises on his knees and right hand.

He hated her, too.

He hated most everything right now, actually.

He was starting to feel a bit violent, actually—a bit murderous—a bit like Greyback, perhaps—and as Remus contemplated this, the queasy feeling multiplied by tenfold and he found himself in a completely different bathroom (boys' this time), kneeling by a completely different toilet.

While walking back to the dormitory to lie down, Remus sensed that Manard was somewhere nearby. Sure enough, half a moment later, Remus heard his name being called. He turned around slowly.

"Are you all right?" Manard asked in faux concern. "You look a bit nauseous. Why don't you come to my classroom and have some tea to settle your stomach?"

Remus had been clutching his stomach without even realizing. He removed his hands, which were shaking generously, and spat, "No."

There was a brief moment of silence, during which Remus realized that there were multiple students and staff members in the corridor, including his friends, Professor McGonagall, and Filch. He swallowed hard and tried to save himself.

"I mean. Yeah. Sorry."

"It's all right if you don't want to, Remus," said Manard, eyebrows crinkled kindly. "It was only an offer. Perhaps you need to lie down in your own bed."

Remus was going to be in so much trouble. "No. I want to. I just… it's been a rough day, and… yeah."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Remus hesitated in a manner he hoped was believable, and then he nodded. "Yes, I would, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't. Always happy to help. Here, you look unsteady…"

Manard placed a hand on Remus' shoulder and led him away, and Remus look straight at the ground and tried not to let the disgust show on his face. Once safely inside the classroom, Manard shut the door and led Remus back to his office.

"I can't believe you showed me that memory," Remus mumbled.

"Oh, please. You don't really have that weak of a stomach. Worse than a snapped neck happens to you every single full moon. You're just being dramatic."

Remus hugged his middle. "It's not the gore. It's… well, I don't know what it is, but…" He hugged tighter, focusing on the feeling of his ribs poking into his forearms. "I feel ill."

"Well, I'm not sure what you want me to do about it."

"Could I have that tea you offered?" Remus whispered.

"No."

"Why not?"

Manard smiled. "Because I don't like you very much. Now, why don't I finish answering your question for you? The last memory was mostly useless, but I think I have a better one. No dead children, I promise. Cross my heart."

"I don't think I…."

"What?" asked Manard, leering. "You don't want to know the answer anymore? You're content to stay in this sick state of half-knowing, half-suspecting, half-hoping? You're afraid of what you'll find? You're afraid that you and Greyback really are one and the same, two peas in a pod, an apple and a tree that are frighteningly close together?"

"Maybe," Remus said quietly.

"Well, there's only one way to find out." Manard removed the Pensieve and pointed his wand at it; immediately, it grew to twice its size. "Come here. We're going together."

"I don't want…"

"Remus. Remember when I said I could do far worse things than dropping your satchel in ink?"

"Yes."

"Let me put it this way, then, now that I know you have a mostly-functional memory. You do this, or else you find out exactly what those 'far worse things' are. Understood?"

"…Yes."

"No. Try again."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Manard poured another phial into the Pensieve. Noticing Remus' stare, he smiled and said, "Don't worry. It's the right label this time, I promise."

"Okay."

"Come on, then."

Remus came closer.

"I was lying, by the way," said Manard. "There is actually some violence in this one." He gestured to another Manard lying on the ground, holding a heavily bleeding shoulder and rocking back and forth in agony. "But it's mine, so I figure you won't mind—I reckon you want to see me hurt right now."

Remus did, but he would never, ever admit that.

"Greyback did that while transformed," Manard continued. "One of my colleagues scared him off before he could bite me and kept him occupied until sunrise, but I did receive quite the scar. He should be coming any moment now. Killed my colleague, unfortunately."

Remus peered into the trees, waiting for the dreaded, awful face to appear that was sure to haunt his nightmares for months to come. Even though Remus had been expecting it, however, he still jumped massively when Greyback emerged.

Manard chuckled. "Calm down, Remus. It's just a memory. He can't hurt you. You're perfectly safe."

"I know," Remus stammered, but it didn't feel like he was safe—not when Manard was standing next to him and the awful image of Greyback was standing across.

"I killed your friend," Greyback told Manard.

Memory-Manard nodded, tears in his eyes and blood still flowing openly from the wound (despite a rudimentary attempt to staunch it with a jacket). "I know. I heard."

"I'm not going to kill you." Greyback grinned ferally. "If enough saliva managed to make its way into that wound, then you'll be a werewolf. Wouldn't that be fun? I'd love to wait and see."

"I'd kill myself," spat Memory-Manard. "I'm too honorable to watch myself become a killing machine."

"You could lock yourself up."

"It's not actions; it's intent. Even though I wouldn't end up killing anyone while locked up, I'd still have the intent. That would make me a murderer."

Greyback was responding, but Remus wasn't listening; Manard was speaking directly into Remus' ear, and it was eclipsing all other noises. "Look at the way he's standing," said Manard gleefully. "Right foot slightly in front of the left, weight on right foot, wand in right hand with elbow very slightly bent. Do you see that?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now look at the way you're standing, Remus."

Remus looked down. Weight on right foot, slightly in front of left, wand in right hand, elbow bent— "Oh," said Remus, moving his feet together and crossing his arms. He wasn't convinced, though. It was a very normal way to stand.

"Yes, but that's not all." Manard sounded as if he was having far too much fun. "You see the wand grip? Similar to your own."

"Yes, I noticed."

"Good, good. Very observant of you. And you see how his hair is parted?"

Remus reached up and felt his own hair. Sure enough, it was parted almost exactly the same way, although the style, neatness, and length was wildly different.

"And look at that thing he does with his nose. Sniffing. Searching. Nostrils almost constantly flaring."

"I don't do that."

Manard smiled. "Yes, you do."

"That's just because we're both werewolves. Nothing else. Nothing more."

"If you say so. Now, listen to his voice. You hear that elongated vowel?"

Remus listened. "No."

"Perhaps because you do the exact same thing."

Remus sighed. "You've heard of the nature vs. nurture argument, yes? Because almost every single thing you're pointing out is nurture, not nature. You're arguing that we're similar because he's the one who bit me—which I never confirmed, by the way—and that would be nature. All of this is nurture, which just means we were coincidentally raised in similar manners. In a similar area. By similar people. Whatever."

"Whatever, sir," Manard said mockingly. "You're describing Muggle genetics. This is exceedingly Dark and ancient magic, so I'm not sure why you think it would work the same way as Muggle genetics."

Remus sighed. "All right, then. If you have nothing better, then I'm leaving."

"Wait," said Manard. He grabbed Remus' wrist and took a few steps toward Greyback. "Look at his eyes."

As much as Remus hated being near Greyback, even a Memory-Greyback who wasn't even present, he did. "They're brown," he said.

"So are yours."

"Mine are hazel."

"No, they're not."

"Yes, they are. You can see the green if you look really closely."

"Fine. I don't care what you call it. The point is that the two of you have extremely similar eyes. Identical, really. Look."

Manard pulled out his wand and lit it up. By the wandlight, Remus got a good look at Greyback's eyes… and they were indeed very similar to Remus', sort of. A little.

"See?" whispered Manard. "And you can't tell me that's nurture over nature."

"I've had these same exact eyes since far before I was bitten. We're not related."

"Might as well be. His blood runs through your veins."

"Technically, it's his saliva."

Remus had no idea why he was being so cheeky—it might have been the stress, the lingering nausea, or just pure hatred for every single person by which he was surrounded. No matter the reason, Remus realized that he had gone too far when Manard gave a cry of frustration and yanked Remus backwards, causing him to fall onto the forest floor.

"I'm trying to help you, you know."

Remus felt tears rise to his eyes. He should never have come to Manard—there was a certain danger that came with accompanying a provoked man to a painful memory, closely watching his worst enemy, and—what was worse—reminding the provoked man of said worst enemy just by existing.

"Let's go back," said Manard, fuming. Remus removed his head from the Pensieve first, not wanting to be alone with the injured Memory-Manard and the terrifying Memory-Greyback.

"As for the handwriting," said Manard, stepping away from the Pensieve, "Greyback sent this letter to a man he'd bitten. It's the general location of his werewolf pack. The Ministry looked for the pack for a while, but we never found anything—I'm sure there are some anti-human charms and such."

Manard pulled a laminated piece of parchment from his desk and handed it to Remus. Remus studied it.

Surprisingly enough, it did look like his own handwriting.

There was just something about it—the L's at forty-five-degree angles, the slant of it—Remus' handwriting was thinner, lighter, straighter, and neater, but Greyback's handwriting most certainly resembled it in some ways.

"I studied that handwriting for years," said Manard, "so I recognized it immediately on your essays."

Remus sighed. "Thanks for showing me, I suppose," he said, "but I'm not really convinced. I think it's just coincidence. Besides… erm, I don't even think it was him who bit me."

Manard smiled. "It was. You've all but admitted it several times today. And I don't care if you're convinced you're like Greyback—the fact is that it is true, and whether or not you're convinced will not change that. Now go back to your dormitory, and try not to kill any innocent four-year-olds on the way."

Remus left, fuming. He hated Professor Manard.

It wasn't until he was lying in his bed that night, halfway asleep, that he realized that maybe—just maybe—he was slightly convinced.

He didn't sleep well that night.