Peter Pettigrew was no genius.

Years of running round with Sirius Black and James Potter had cemented that fact into his brain. They were geniuses—they never did homework or tried very hard in school, yet they did infinitely better than both Peter and Remus regardless. They were geniuses, and they were good at other things, too: flying broomsticks, being funny, saying all the right things, and gaining the attention of their classmates.

Peter couldn't say he wasn't jealous. He wished he could become a genius—wished it every night before bed, wished it while showering, whispered it to himself whenever he was alone. But he knew it was futile. Peter Pettigrew would never be a genius, and it was time he accepted that.

But Peter wasn't stupid, either. Specifically, he was very clever when it came to Noticing Things.

Peter didn't talk too much (he would be teased if he did), but that only opened up time and energy for Noticing Things. He noticed when James got a haircut. He noticed with Sirius hurt his finger, even though he didn't tell anyone. He noticed when Remus was feeling uncomfortable. He even noticed when McGonagall was having a bad day. After class, he'd asked her if she was okay, and she'd smiled and given him bonus points on his test.

Yes, Peter very frequently Noticed Things, and today he noticed that Remus was not looking so great.

The full moon was in about half a week, so perhaps it was that. But Remus didn't look ill-bad, he looked upset-bad… and upset-Remus was far scarier than ill-Remus.

He slept in that day, even though James and Sirius were being loud at six-thirty in the morning. When they dashed over to Remus' bed and ripped open his curtains, begging him to get out of bed and play a game of Exploding Snap with them, Remus merely stuffed his head under the pillow and said, "Not in the mood."

At breakfast, he picked at his food. James fussed, telling him that he needed to eat more, and Remus said he would—but as soon as James was distracted, talking to one of his Quidditch teammates, Peter noticed Remus inconspicuously Vanishing his food. Remus only did that when he was either very ill or very upset.

The first class of the day was Charms, and Remus didn't participate. He didn't even participate when Filius offered House points to whomever won a mock duel. Remus was quite possibly the best duellist in the school, and he always participated in mock duels… but today, he just shook his head when Filius asked him to participate, and then he watched the duel morosely with his head down.

Filius kept him after class and asked him what was wrong. The other Marauders were listening at the door, and they heard his response of, "Nothing. Full moon's coming up. Might be a bad one," loud and clear. His rare Welsh accent was slightly more prominent, as it always was when he was upset, as it had been nearly all week… so Remus was lying, Peter decided.

James and Sirius had noticed Remus' mood by now, but they were trying to leave Remus alone. Whenever he got into this sort of state, an evening by himself usually sorted it all out. But Peter, for some reason, wasn't sure that would help today.

That evening, when James and Sirius were flying broomsticks outside, Peter stayed in the dormitory and worked on some essays with Remus. He didn't miss how Remus was tactically skipping his Defense Against the Dark Arts and Astronomy homework—clearly, it was a werewolf-related issue.

About two hours of dead silence passed. After the first hour and a half, Remus had stopped working on his Potions essay and was now staring at a spot on the floor.

"Peter," he said quietly, and Peter looked up from his essay.

"Yeah, Moony?"

"I have a question for you, and I want you to be totally honest."

"Of course."

"Do you think I'm a bad person?"

Peter nearly started laughing. "Of course not. You're nicer than the lot of us."

"Nice doesn't always mean good," Remus said.

"Of course it does."

"No, it doesn't. A person can be nice and pleasant and fun… and also a terrible, terrible person."

"I dunno. I've never met anyone like that." Peter leaned forward. "Moony, you're upset. You've been upset all day. Is something wrong? You can tell me."

Remus looked up at Peter, and Peter could tell from his eyes that he was Not Okay. "No," he said.

"Nothing's wrong?"

"…Yes."

"Something's wrong?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Okay, but something is wrong."

Remus stood up so suddenly that he nearly pushed the desk over… and then he slowly, slowly sat back down. "I'm tired, that's all," he said. "Didn't get much sleep last night. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed and all that. It'll be better tomorrow, I'm sure."

"All right."

About ten more minutes of silence went by. Peter thought they were finished talking, but then Remus said, "Peter, do I scare you?"

"What? No. Why do you ask? Do I look scared?"

"No. Just making sure."

"Remus, is something wrong?"

"No. You've already asked that. But…"

"Yes?"

"No. Nothing. It's just that… well, it's coming on ten years."

"Of you being a werewolf."

"Yes. Yeah. And ten years is a lot. So I sometimes wonder… how much of my humanity I have left, that's all." Remus sighed, and then he stood up and made his way over to his bed. For a moment, he disappeared under his bed; he emerged about thirty seconds later carrying a large book.

"What's that?" asked Peter.

"Alexander Adamson wrote another book last summer."

"Oh." Alexander Adamson, Peter knew, was Remus' favorite werewolf advocate and speaker. Not that he had much competition: he was pretty much the only public werewolf advocate out there. But Peter happened to know that Adamson was a genuinely clever, thorough, and respectful scholar—he got his information directly from werewolves, bothered to speak with them extensively, and covered as much ground as possible all while humanizing werewolves as much as possible.

"The last one he wrote had a lot of historical and social information," said Remus, flipping through the book. "This one is more anatomical. Look." He opened to a page and set it on the desk in front of Peter. "This is drawing of a hypothetical human, and this is a drawing of the same hypothetical human ten years after being bitten by a werewolf. As the curse spreads, certain aspects change. In fact, so much changes that this page functions as a sort of index—see all the labels with page numbers?"

He flipped pages as he spoke. "The blood changes, for one. It takes a while for the curse to spread—basically, it travels to the heart through the veins, and then it changes the composition of the heart. So all the blood that the heart pumps from then on out is cursed. Cursed werewolf blood has a different composition from human blood—it's thicker, it has magical properties, and it's a slightly different color."

"Really?"

"Yes." Without warning, Remus plucked up a knife for cutting potions ingredients from the desk and drew it across his right index finger. He watched the blood bubble up with a sort of detached interest.

"Moony!" cried Peter, horrified.

"What? I do far worse than this on the full moon, you know." Remus swiped off some of the blood with his left index finger and stared at it. "My blood doesn't change on the full moon," he said. "Most everything else does except for my eyes—even parts of my brain shift and reform slightly. But my blood doesn't change, although more is generated during the transformation to fit the larger form. This is the same blood as is in a monstrous animal every full moon. This is the blood of a werewolf, not a human, and there has been nary a drop of human blood in my body for nearly ten years."

Peter took a deep breath and then grabbed the knife. Before he could lose his nerve, he pressed it into his own finger. It took a few tries, but he managed to draw blood on the third—not as much as Remus had, but that was probably a good thing.

Peter held his finger to Remus'. "See?" he said. "It doesn't look all that different."

"But it is. It's just microscopic."

"Aren't there microscopic differences between everybody's blood?"

"Of course."

"Then what's the problem? Besides, blood doesn't matter. We tell Sirius that all the time. Do you want to be the one to tell Sirius that he's going to end up evil and bigoted just because he's a Black?" Peter smiled. "If you do tell him, then do make sure I'm not around. I wouldn't want to be caught in the crossfire."

Remus smiled weakly. "I s'pose you're right. But you have to admit that it affects a couple of things. Sirius looks a lot like his father, doesn't he? And some of his habits are very reflective of his upbringing."

"So? Do you hold that against him? Does it mean he can't ever change?"

"I… I suppose not."

"Then stop worrying about it." Peter put the knife back onto the desk, far away from Remus' reach, and grabbed his hand—their hands were both a bit bloody, but it didn't matter. Peter was used to blood after visiting Remus after so many full moons, and he was also used to Remus when he got into introspective and self-destructive moods like this. It was a side effect of being best friends. "You worry too much, Moony," said Peter as kindly as possible.

Remus nodded, a faraway look in his eyes, staring at something that wasn't there. "I guess I do," he said.

"Now please heal my finger. You can cast the spell far better than I can."

Remus chuckled. "Of course."

Just then, James and Sirius burst into the dormitory, cheeks cherry-red from the chilly air and exertion, hair askew from the wind. "WHY IS THERE BLOOD?" Sirius shrieked, and then Sirius was halfway down the corridor, James was chasing him, and Remus was smiling—a real, genuine smile—for the first time all day.

Peter Noticed Things, and in his opinion, that made him sort of a genius in his own right.

Sirius Black was a genius.

He'd never done much reading or revising, yet he still managed to be near top of the class every year. He was better at charms than Remus and Peter were, he was right on par with James (except in Transfiguration, which was James' best subject), and he was a bit better at Potions than James was. He was witty, he was quick (both mentally and physically), and he was hilarious (if he did say so himself, which he absolutely did).

But he was really, really bad at Noticing Things.

Emotional things, specifically. Sirius Black was good at a great many things, but he could not read minds, and it seemed as if everyone always expected him to—especially James, who was one of the best mind-readers on the planet.

Sirius snuck out with James that night while Remus was sleeping—Sirius had suggested asking Remus and Peter to come along, but James hadn't wanted to. "Full moon's in a handful of days, so Moony needs his sleep," James had claimed, "and he'll feel all left-out if he wakes up and he's alone."

It was three in the morning now. Remus and Peter were still (presumably) asleep, and James and Sirius were having a midnight snack in the Kitchens. House-elfs scrambled around them, doing their best to cater to their every whim. Sirius was eating a steak, and James was munching on strudel with custard.

"Something's wrong with Moony," said James in a low voice.

Sirius sighed. He'd wanted this to be a fun outing, not a Let's-Worry-About-Moony fest. They'd had far too many of those ever since before they'd found out in second year. "Nothing's wrong with Moony," said Sirius. "Remember? We asked him if anything was wrong this morning, and he said he was fine. So he's fine."

"So he lied," insisted James. "Something's wrong, and it's super obvious. Haven't you noticed?"

"He's a little quiet, but he's always quiet."

"No! Something's wrong!"

"How do you know? He hasn't said anything!"

"I dunno, I can just tell!"

Sirius groaned. "I genuinely don't know how you know these things, Prongs. I don't see how you expect me to know when something's wrong with Moony when he won't tell us. I can't read his mind."

"Because you're dense and self-absorbed," snapped James. "You should know Moony well enough by now to know that when he says he's fine it means he's definitely not."

"Then what does he say when he actually is fine?"

"He says we're being annoying and he's tired. He complains more."

"What? How does that make sense?!"

"Because he only complains when he's comfortable. He says he's fine when he's not comfortable."

Sirius groaned. "You know, things would make a lot more sense if people just said what they meant. This is ridiculous. No one could figure any of that out from fine."

"It's pretty simple, actually," said James. "Moony's been lying to us since first year, and he speaks in pure sarcasm about sixty percent of the time. Just assume he's lying all the time and you'll be okay. So… what do you think is wrong with him?"

"How should I know? I didn't even know something was wrong!"

"I dunno. Do you think it's something to do with the Animagus thing? You think we really upset him that much?"

"I don't know. He didn't look upset."

"A sure sign that he was upset!"

"Wow, so he's upset every time he looks happy? During particularly interesting duels? While mucking about outdoors together? At your Quidditch games?"

"No, that's different."

"How?"

"It just is."

"Ha. Very eloquent."

"My point is… we're not going to stop the Animagus thing, of course. But we need to fix Moony somehow. He's really upset. It's like he's shut down completely, and it's rather frightening."

"What do you mean, shut down?"

"He's not talking a whole lot, but he's also not even reacting. Like he's distracted. I keep looking for something in his eyes, but it's like the lights are shut off and nobody's home, you know?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, that's just because you're an idiot."

"Gee, thanks."

"There!" James pointed at Sirius triumphantly. "You said 'thanks', but you didn't mean it. And earlier, you called me 'eloquent' when you very clearly didn't mean that, either. And we both knew you didn't mean it, but you said it anyway."

"Yeah…?"

"So that's what you have to do with Moony. Figure out context, and then assume he's lying in that context."

"Easier said than done."

James grinned, finished the last of his strudel, and then licked his lips and fingers with gusto. "I have full faith in you, Padfoot. You're a genius, after all."

Sirius sighed. "Right."

And the next morning, he watched Remus.

He watched him drag himself out of bed and sleepily get dressed. He watched him pull on his gloves. He watched him gather his textbooks and slip them into his satchel (which had somehow gotten covered with ink a couple of weeks prior, but Remus had cleaned off most of it). He watched Remus walk to breakfast. Everything seemed to be in order.

Except, that was, for the knowing I-told-you-so looks from James.

They ate breakfast, and Remus ate the normal amount. They went to Transfiguration, and Remus did all right. He didn't participate much, but he never did when the full moon was coming up. They went to Herbology, and Remus' Flitterblooms grew just fine. They ate lunch, and Remus ate a whole sandwich. They had a test in Astronomy, and Remus got an O. Remus' last class of the day was Arithmancy, and he came back looking just fine.

"I have to leave," said Remus that afternoon. "Meeting with Leek about my project. I'll be back in about an hour, all right?"

Then he left, and James turned on Sirius immediately. "See?" he cried. "I was right! Something is terribly wrong with Moony!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"You're an idiot!"

"I'm not an idiot! I just don't see how acting totally normally can signify that Moony is in terrible emotional pain!"

"Probably physical, too."

"How are you getting all this?" asked Sirius, throwing his hands into the air.

Peter stood up. "Prongs is right, Padfoot," he said quietly. "I talked to Moony yesterday. He says he's feeling a little down because of what's coming up in February."

"What's happening in February?"

"Ten years," breathed James. "I think we may have set something off by reminding him that his expected lifespan is technically ending in a few years. He's upset, Peter?"

"He's worried he's not as human as he used to be. He thinks he might be destined to be a bad person—if a person at all."

"That's ridiculous," said Sirius. "And he's been over that with tons of people, too. When is he going to learn?"

"When are you going to learn to stop being such a git?" said James scornfully. "He's upset, and we're going to help. Here's the plan…"

James Potter was a genius.

He was witty, clever, and had a top-notch photographic memory. He was attractive, great at flying, wealthy, and could think ahead like no other. He was attentive, emotionally attuned, and yes, a little bit full of himself. But who wouldn't be? James Potter was a genius, after all.

And the job of a genius—the duty of a genius, more like—was to help others, because geniuses were the best at doing that. After all, James was well-off, both financially and mentally. He hadn't been through traumas like his friends had—Peter had watched his last living relative die before being adopted by Mrs. Pettigrew, Sirius had grown up in a family of near-Dark wizards, and Remus had grown up amongst more physical pain that James could even imagine. James, on the other hand, was lucky.

And what better way to use his luck than to help his unlucky friends?

James had always felt an intrinsic need to fix things. Whenever he saw something big and awful that he knew was wrong, he wanted to swoop in and save the day. He wanted to manipulate the threads of destiny so that everything would work out in the end. He wanted to help.

But the difficult thing about being friends with Remus Lupin was that Remus did not seem to want help, which was absolutely ridiculous. For some odd reason, he seemed to want to marinate in his own misery, almost as if he felt he deserved it—and James wanted to fix that, too.

James would fix it all, because James was a genius!

When the morning of the full moon arrived, James was awake at half three (which wasn't even technically morning, in James' opinion, but he was willing to make sacrifices). An hour later, he heard the telltale shifting from Remus' bed that signified he was awake. James wasn't sure why, exactly, Remus always woke up around four-thirty on a full moon day—he supposed it had something to do with the physical discomfort that a full moon inspired in his friend, but he wasn't exactly sure. It could have also been the anxiety as the full moon approached. Remus just had difficulty sleeping the night before, and he didn't often see a point in staying in bed past four-thirty.

"Awake, Moony?" James whispered.

Such was their routine. James would take Remus down to the common room, and then James would fetch Remus some tea before the nausea set in (the only thing he would be able to stomach all day besides water, due to the heightened senses that would only get worse). Then James would talk, and Remus would listen. Sometimes Remus would pace by the flames; other times, he would sit on the couch, utterly sore and defeated.

Sometimes, Remus would talk, too. He would talk about anything and everything, confessing things in the haze of impending pain that he had rarely discussed before. James had learned things about Remus that he wasn't even sure Remus remembered saying come the morning after the full moon—things about grief, worry, pain, and the dark places that Remus' mind sometimes went when it was quiet.

"Awake, Moony?" James said again, but there was no response.

He knew Remus was awake; he heard his breathing, quicker and lighter than it had been when Remus was sleeping. So James ventured to get out of bed, wander over to Remus', and open the bedcurtains.

Remus was lying there, eyes closed, but he was not asleep.

"I know you're not asleep," James said.

"I'm not," Remus confessed, eyes still closed, "but I'd like to be. I'm trying very hard to go back to sleep, Prongs, and I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me be."

James wanted to argue, but how could he? Remus was finally doing something healthy for once. He was trying to sleep, and James knew for a fact that Remus didn't get nearly enough sleep—especially recently, because James had heard so much tossing and turning coming from Remus' bed during the last few days that he was amazed Remus could still function. Being an extraordinarily light sleeper was a blessing and a curse.

So James went back to bed and lay there, still awake.

Forty-five minutes later, he heard Remus' breathing slow. He'd actually managed to sleep again, which was impressive for the day of a full moon.

James listened to Remus' breathing for a while (he didn't know how long, exactly), and then he heard it catch. The breathing stopped, the tossing and turning started, and the blankets were pushed out of the way. It wasn't long before the breathing materialized into near-silent sobs, and then James was by Remus' side once again.

"Nightmare?" he asked.

Remus looked up at him with very red eyes. "Yeah."

"Let's go to the common room, all right?"

"No," said Remus. "I'm sorry, Prongs. I'm not feeling well today. Do you mind helping me straight to the Hospital Wing?"

James stared. "You never want to go straight to the Hospital Wing. You hate the Hospital Wing."

"I told you. I'm not feeling well. I'd like to take a Dreamless Sleep Potion before the nausea gets too bad."

James stared at him for a very, very long time. "What was your nightmare about?" he asked.

"Same as always," said Remus, already pulling on his socks. "Mind fetching my shoes and my satchel, Prongs?"

James did. "So murdering us? Or Greyback? Or fire?" he asked, because Remus' nightmares were mostly only about those three things.

"The first one," said Remus. "Forgive me, but knowing that the three of you are trying to sneak into the Shrieking Shack to keep me company during full moons does not exactly work wonders for my nerves."

"But we'd be safe if we were Animagi."

"Yes, indeed. You'd be safe… if you managed an extremely complex transfiguration at age fourteen, if you managed to keep the form while under extreme pressure, if you don't provoke me too much, and if werewolves truly don't attack non-human creatures, instead of simply attacking them and then refusing to eat them."

"Yeah, exactly. All of those things will be true, so you'll be safe."

Remus sighed.

"Besides, Moony, we said we'd stop trying."

"You're still trying, and we both know it. James Potter does not let go of things so quickly. Now, make good on that and do not let go of my arm, because I'm not very steady on my feet right now. Help me to the Hospital Wing before Sirius and Peter wake up, okay?"

So James did.

Something was wrong with Remus, and James was going to fix it… just not right now, because he was pretty sure Remus would kill him if he pushed any further.

Remus Lupin was no genius, but he knew how to lie to his friends.

1. Spend as little time with them as possible, because they'll know something is wrong if you do.

2. Talk to them as little as possible, because they'll know something is wrong if you don't.

3. Make up sentimental excuses, like "it's almost been ten years" and "I'm not technically human" and "I'm having nightmares" (well, the last one was true, but Remus would never tell them that it had been Manard's words that had triggered them instead of James').

4. Use his health as an excuse, because that was the only thing that James would respect.

5. Seek refuge in Madam Pomfrey, because she would be delighted that Remus had come to her early and let him sleep uninterrupted.

Remus was no genius, that was for sure, but there was a certain benefit in knowing how his friends ticked, and he would exploit it as much as possible in order to keep his secret.

After all, if he did not, then his other secret would be exposed, and Remus would lose Hogwarts—and Remus, who had lost everything once before, did not want to lose Hogwarts, too.