Remus wasn't often too insecure about his appearance (he usually had much, much bigger things to worry about), but today, staring at himself in the mirror and wearing James' dress robes, he was.

The thing about James' dress robes was that they were spelled to fit perfectly, which was in direct contrast to the clothes that Remus usually wore, which were baggy and didn't fit at all. Remus usually wore robes at school, which were completely shapeless, or trousers and a too-big jumper at home, which were also completely shapeless.

But these robes, while not tight, had shape—and Remus was beginning to realize that he didn't exactly like his shape very much.

Nearly a decade of transformations had literally worn Remus thin. He went a day without eating once a month, which didn't help. His bones were fragile, and in these robes, they looked it. The bags under his eyes were accentuated by the color, and when Remus pulled off the gloves that he always wore, the scars seemed to stand out on his skin like a beacon. In these clothes, Remus looked unhealthy—which he was, technically, but it hurt to see it so clearly.

"Remus!" called Remus' father from downstairs. "Are you ready to leave?"

Remus hurriedly put the gloves back on, combed out his hair a bit, and then went downstairs. No, he wasn't. But it was going to be fine, right? He was excited to see his friends again.

He stepped into the sitting room, and his family stopped and stared. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe it was just Remus' imagination.

"Yeah, I don't really like them," said Remus quietly.

"Don't like what?" asked his mother. "The gloves?"

Remus looked down. "Er, no. No. The robes, I mean. Don't we have others I can borrow?"

"You don't like them?" asked Remus' father. "That's strange, because I like them a lot."

"You… what?"

"I'd like to fix your hair, though. Come upstairs." Instead of walking up manually, Remus' father grabbed Remus' arm and Apparated to the upstairs bathroom, probably in an effort to allow Remus' sore bones to rest instead of walking up and down stairs to no end.

"Those are some excellent robes," said Remus' father, grabbing a comb and beginning to comb Remus' hair. "What's wrong with them, exactly?"

"Nothing, I suppose. It's just…"

"You've never worn clothes that fit before." Remus watched his father smile a little in the mirror. "Speaking of, is James really exactly the same size as you?"

"No. The robes are magic."

"I see." Remus' father put the comb down. "Remus, you look great."

"I just look unhealthy! Look: I'm thin, and I look tired, and…"

"Maybe a little, but that's just part of your charm."

"No! I look like I'm ill, and I don't want people to treat me that way! And I can't believe that you—that I—that—"

"Remus, stop."

Remus ceased his panicked spluttering. He stopped talking, he stopped moving, and he stopped looking at himself in the mirror—instead, he stared at a spot on the mirror, wondering why no one had scrubbed it away yet.

"We see ourselves in the mirror every day, and we're engineered to find things wrong with ourselves. That's a great adaptation in that we can fix things before going out in public, but a terrible one when the things we're finding are unfixable."

"So maybe I just don't go out in public."

Remus' father laughed. "That's not a solution."

"Is there a solution at all?"

"No, not really… but it is important to recognize that other people aren't seeing you like you're seeing yourself. Other people aren't looking at you with the same mindset of looking for things to be fixed—they're looking at you like you look at everyone else. Did you notice that I had a piece of hair out of place this morning?"

"Erm… no, not really."

"Now that you do notice, do you care?"

"No."

"Exactly. But I, looking at myself in the mirror right now, see it and want to fix it."

"It's not the same. A piece of hair out of place isn't going to make people pity you."

"Remus, you aren't that thin."

"I am."

"No, you're not. You don't look like you're starving, and you don't look like you're dying. Any bystander would just think that you have an excellent metabolism, are growing rapidly in awkward places (as many teenagers tend to do), and probably skip a couple of meals every once in a while. You look fine."

Remus sighed. "Do you promise?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay," he said. He needed to make a decision quickly before he changed his mind. "Let's go, then."

Remus took his father's arm, and then the nauseous feeling of Apparition filled his stomach as they approached the party about which Remus still didn't know how to feel.


As soon as Remus felt the gravel beneath his feet, his head still spinning wildly, he heard the music coming from indoors and smelled the mingled, overwhelming scents of many people. "This must be the place," he mumbled.

"Remember," said his father, "if you want to come back, you use the Floo. There's no shame in leaving early if you need to."

"I know."

"Deep breaths if you feel panicked."

"What makes you think I'll panic?"

He gave a pointed look toward Remus' hand, which was tapping wildly on his thigh.

"That's… I mean, I'm… that's nothing. I'll be fine."

"I know you will."

One last kiss to the forehead, one last hug, and then there was another crack. The scent of Remus' father disappeared, and Remus' tapping hand remained.

He raised his fist, took hold of the ornate brass knocker, and knocked.

James appeared at the door, grinning broadly. "Moony!" he said. "I knew you'd be here. And you're wearing the dress robes I gave you!"

Peter appeared behind James. He was wearing dark blue robes that were just barely decorated enough to be considered dress robes. "You look great, Moony."

"Seriously? I think I look half-starved."

"Because you're wearing clothes that fit?" scoffed Sirius, who had appeared behind Peter. "You always look half-starved. The only difference is that now you don't look half-starved and ashamed of it."

Remus shrugged. Somehow, it made him feel a lot better to know he wasn't revealing something that people didn't already know. "I suppose," he said.

"Anyway, come on in," pleaded James. "We've got music and so much food. We're going to dance the night away!"

"I don't dance."

"You do now!"

"No, I really don't dance."

"You were fine at it when I taught you some steps in first year," said Sirius. "Don't worry about it."

But it was too late—Remus was worried. He let James pull him toward the ballroom (the Potters had a ballroom), and he marveled at the spotless, spacious floors and the high ceilings on the way there. "This is your house, James?" he asked, because he had never been to James' house before.

James laughed. "Of course not. This house belongs to a family friend—we're just using it for the party. My family's house is actually a tad smaller than yours, Moony."

"Really?" Perhaps it had been naive, but Remus had always imagined the Potters as occupying a huge mansion like the Blacks—after all, they were extremely well-off, and well-off families just didn't choose to live modestly. Did they?

"We're very wealthy, don't get me wrong," said James. "We probably could have afforded a house like this. But it's a lot to clean, and Dad prefers to use the excess funds for philanthropic purposes. He's donated tons to werewolf cure research, Moony, tons to Muggles, tons to women's rights and stuff, and tons more to whatever his obsession of the year happens to be. He loves all sorts of oppressed groups—squibs, Muggles, Muggle-borns, vampires, goblins, the like. So… yeah. We're comfortable, but well-off doesn't always equate to wealthy snobs like the Black family."

"Your father gives all his extra money to charity?"

"Not all of it. We've a summer home in Godric's Hollow and another on some island. We have a couple of parties a year, like this one. I get a lot of pocket money and pretty much anything I want. But the fact is, we have enough money that we couldn't possibly spend it all on things that we want. That gets boring after a while."

"Oh."

"And, talking of boring, I'm getting tired of standing around and talking about my family's money. The doors to the ballroom are right there. Are you ready?"

"I… no. Not really."

"Ah, stop it. You're ready."

Peter opened the doors, and the scents and sounds hit Remus in the face. He felt a bit nauseous looking at the massive, moving wall of people—people in green, blue, yellow, and red… people in purples and pinks… people laughing and people dancing. It was all too much.

"I shouldn't have come," Remus mumbled, clutching his stomach. "I haven't been to a party since the five minutes of your Quidditch party that I attended in first year, Prongs. And Slughorn's Christmas party in first year, too, I guess."

"Nonsense," said James. "This can't be worse than the Great Hall during lunchtime."

"The Great Hall doesn't have a live orchestra!"

"Actually, it's a string septet," said Sirius. "They're playing Magnacorum, which is my least favorite wizarding composer. Can't you get them to play something else, Prongs?"

"Not right now. Maybe later. Listen, Moony, I know this is hard for you, for some reason. I don't get it, but I want to sympathize, so we'll give you fifteen minutes to get over it. Let's find a corner to sit in, yeah?"

Remus inhaled through his nose, nodded, and let James pull him to a far corner. His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? He felt positive that he wouldn't have been this afraid a year ago, back when he'd felt like he could do anything, back before…

Before Manard.

Remus sighed as James guided him into a chair. "I'll get you some punch, okay?"

"Okay."

James disappeared into the moving crowd of people, and Remus wished with all his heart that he had the courage and ability to move with such confidence and precision. James wasn't afraid that the crowd would suck him in, nor was he afraid that the scents and sounds would overcome him and make his head explode. James was the epitome of courage and might. James was cool, collected, and funny. James was perfect, and Remus was so incredibly imperfect that it made his head hurt.

"You really do look good, you know," said Peter.

"Don't feel good," said Remus, realizing too late that maybe Peter had expected him to reciprocate the compliment. He bit his lip viciously. "I hate parties."

"Budge up," said Sirius kindly. "You're just getting used to it. In a while, you won't mind the noises or crowds one bit."

"I'm not sure about that."

"It's what happened with the Great Hall, isn't it?"

"I suppose, but that's different."

James returned with a fresh glass of punch and a plate of cheese. "For you," he said graciously, handing the plate and the cup to Remus.

"Not sure I can drink this. Sensory overload. You know how it is."

"You're being dramatic. Drink it; you'll feel better. Trust me. Don't tell anyone, but there's a small hint of a Cheering Charm in that punch."

"Well, now I'm definitely not drinking it. I don't do mind-altering spells or potions."

And indeed, Remus had (with the permission of Professor Flitwick) completely skipped the unit on Cheering Charms the year prior. Professor Flitwick had scheduled it for a full moon day, and he hadn't put it on the exam. Remus would always be thankful for his professors' accommodations for his strange lycanthropy-related preferences.

"Fine." After a furtive glance around the room, James pulled out his wand and mumbled a countercharm. "You can drink it now. We'll sit with you until you feel a little less overwhelmed."

"Thank you, Prongs. I really appreciate it."

"No problem at all. Later, I thought we could—"

Suddenly, a girl appeared nearby. She had long, blonde hair and light brown eyes, which were accentuated with dark makeup and pink lipstick. Her floor-length dress was shimmery and dark green, and her golden earrings matched perfectly with her necklace.

"Merlin's beard," breathed James. "That is one beautiful girl."

"Gorgeous," echoed Peter. "Look at her hair."

"She has nice eyelashes," said Remus.

James swiveled to look at him. "You should talk to her!" he said excitedly. "Go dance. It'll take your mind off things."

"I… erm. No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not getting married. Werewolves shouldn't."

"What do you mean you're not getting married? I'm not asking you to marry her!"

"I know, but… it's still flirting, kind of! What if she wants to date me? What will I say?"

"No offense, Moony, but she's way out of your league," said James with a chuckle. "You have too much confidence in your charisma. It's just one dance."

"No. I don't want to."

"Okay, fine. I'll show you how it's done."

James approached the girl, and Remus tried his hardest to listen to the conversation over the din. He caught her name—Evangeline—and then he caught James telling her that he was the son of the hosts. She smiled brilliantly, her shining lips sparkling in the light of the chandeliers—and then, as the string septet began to play their next piece, James and Evangeline began to dance.

Remus caught James' eye through the crowd. See? James mouthed. It's easy!

Remus watched them dance for a few tunes, and then James came back, out of breath and with rosy cheeks. "That was brilliant," he said. "She's beautiful."

"Do you think she would dance with me next?" asked Peter.

Sirius and James laughed, and Remus shook his head in annoyance. "Don't listen to them, Wormtail," he said.

Peter frowned. "No one's danced with me all evening," he said, pouting a bit. "James and Sirius were having a competition to see who could dance with the most girls before you got here, Remus."

"Mm. Who's winning?"

"I'm winning slightly," boasted Sirius. "See, James has the fact that he's the son of the hosts—but that only helps if they talk to him first. I have the looks."

"No one likes a lanky bloke with glasses as much as they like Sirius," said James sadly. "I mean, look at him. His skin is perfect. His hair is perfect. His eyes are perfect. He's the perfect specimen of a fifteen-year-old."

"Want to join the competition, Moony?" asked Sirius with a grin.

"Please. I have nothing going for me."

"Of course you do!" said James. "You're quiet and polite. You have excellent manners. You have a great smile. You're just the right amount of well-spoken and shy. You're very clever. You're funny. You—"

"If you like him so much, then why don't you dance with him?" asked Sirius, laughing.

"You know what? Maybe I will!"

Without warning, James pulled Remus to his feet and onto the floor. A waltz began to play, and James took hold of Remus' waist and hand. "Remember how?"

"No. Put me back."

"Nope. We're dancing, whether you like it or not."

Remus tried his best to mirror James' feet, but he kept stepping in the wrong direction. "Just step in the shape of a triangle," said James. "We're not going to make it too complicated. Forward, left, back. It's easy."

Remus tried to breathe.

"One, two, three," chanted James. "You're speeding up. Just listen to the music."

"I'm having some difficulty doing that at the moment."

"What is life without difficulty?" said James sagely. "Come on. Look, Peter's dancing with Sirius over there. If Peter can do it, anyone can."

"That's not very nice."

James guided Remus over to Sirius and Peter—one, two, three, one, two, three—and then James bellowed, "Switch!"

Everyone on the dance floor scrambled to find a new partner, and Remus reached for Sirius—but Sirius had found a girl, and Peter had found a girl, and so had James. Remus ended up with a middle-aged man, because apparently Mallory's bad luck had rubbed off on him.

"First time at a ball?" the man asked sympathetically.

"Yes. My friends dragged me here." Remus found he couldn't exactly keep time while talking, so he found himself speeding up considerably. "Sorry."

"No problem. I'm not a very good dancer, either, you know. My wife convinced me to come to this thing. I've picked up quite a bit after years of being dragged to these, though. Want to learn a few things?"

"Er, sure."

The man taught Remus a waltz with a little more slide to it, and Remus found it to be a lot easier than what James had been teaching him. When the partners were switched once again, Remus found himself with a woman, who taught him something else. Then, finally, he was with Sirius, who taught him yet another thing.

After about an hour of dancing, Remus was feeling a little more comfortable with keeping the tempo while also keeping a conversation. He had danced with a couple of girls his age, and they had all been rather nice instead of purely intimidating. They had talked about things like school and parents, and Remus had enjoyed the conversations very much.

Finally, though, Remus' limbs started to give way. It was too close to the full moon to be going through such strenuous physical activity, and he needed to sit down.

He made his way to the sidelines the next time someone called for a Switch, somehow avoiding all the people scrambling for a new partner. Groaning slightly, he sat on a bench, resisting the urge to rub his incredibly sore legs.

A familiar scent reached his nostrils, and Remus' heart dropped directly into his already-nauseous stomach. "Professor Manard?!"

"That's me," said the familiar voice—there was the familiar click of a cane—and then the disturbingly familiar man was sitting directly next to Remus on the bench. "How has the dancing been?"

"I… why.. how… why are you here?"

"I was invited, of course. There are perks to being a well-respected Pureblood Hogwarts professor and scholar."

"You're a werewolf hunter! You're telling me that Mr. Potter invited you? He's donated hundreds of Galleons to pro-werewolf causes!"

"He also supports the Werewolf Capture Unit, because they do good things. Werewolf hunters are merely preventing more terrible fates."

"I know, and I support them too, but… but not you!"

"Ah, well, most see me as a hero who tragically lost full use of my leg due to the many lives I saved as a werewolf hunter. It's the consequence of bravery, I suppose."

"You should probably find somewhere else to sit," said Remus, looking away from Manard's smugly confident face and back toward the dancing crowd. "There are plenty of benches, and we don't like each other very much."

"Exactly. I don't like you, and I want to annoy you."

"Of course. How could I forget?" Remus stared at James, who was dancing with both Sirius and a beautiful girl with very short brown hair.

"Have you thought about my proposition?"

"I really don't want to go to the Dering Woods with you."

"I know. It's not about what you want; it's about what will best help us to catch Greyback."

"The werewolf in the Black Forest said that Greyback's not looking for me after all."

"Then what do you think the note was, you stupid boy? The only explanation is that Greyback wants to see you, but it seemed out-of-character, so he didn't tell anyone else about it. It's simple."

"I…"

"It's not your fault you can't grasp these things, I suppose. What else can one expect from a werewolf? You're nothing but a dumb beast, really, and anyone who thinks otherwise is fooling themselves. And…" Manard chuckled. "You know, you look downright ill in those robes. You should probably stick to the baggy clothing."

Remus felt his face go red.

"There are quite a few professors at Hogwarts who hate you more than they let on. And the ones who like you—well, do they really like you, or do they merely like the idea of you? Remus Lupin, the white knight, come to destroy stereotypes and prove to the world what a werewolf can achieve. They want to believe you're sharp and talented. They want to believe you're kind and goodhearted. And, if they desire so deeply to believe these things, then how can they be certain that what they're seeing is true and not just an illusion? They can't."

Remus felt his face go even redder, but it wasn't out of embarrassment. No, Remus was angry.

"Do you know what, Manard?" hissed Remus. He had never addressed a professor without the proper honorific before, but it felt appropriate here. They weren't at Hogwarts anymore, after all. Manard couldn't very well give him detention, or take House points, or torture him... not here, not in a room full of witnesses. "I wouldn't help you find Greyback if you were the last wizard on earth. I wouldn't help you if my life depended on it. I wouldn't help you if my family's life depended on it. I hope the curse on the D.A.D.A. position is real, and I hope it kills you!"

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Manard smiled slowly. "And so your true colors shine through," he said, tapping his cane idly against the floor. "That temper of yours proves who you really are, Remus."

"You provoked me. I feel no guilt."

"The guilt will wait until tonight, when you're trying to sleep. Remus, I hope you realize that I can make your life hell. Feel free to come to my office and apologize anytime."

Manard gave Remus one last sickening smile, and then he stood up and walked away—clack, clack, clack—and Remus was alone once again to marinate in his anger.

Later, he discovered that Manard had been wrong.

The guilt didn't wait until he was trying to sleep. It came on about fifteen minutes after Manard had left.