If Remus closed his eyes, he could pretend to be nine years old again.

Where had he been at nine? In a different house, that was for sure. They had been in their house on top of the hill, next to the pond that contained a single Grindylow, near an abandoned house that would one day be occupied by Professor Questus. Every day was a Saturday. Remus existed in between full moons, and the most excitement in a day was when his father returned from work and they ate supper together as a family (and maybe, if it was a good day, played a game afterward).

Remus passed his days studying the most random of topics. Latin, nineteenth-century poetry, sheep… he would sit in bed and read, trying to forget his bleak future. Those days were filled with avoidance—a werewolf trying to live as if he were not a werewolf—a very sad boy trying to live as if he were happy.

Remus sighed, and his bed creaked as he sat up. He pulled a book from his bookshelf (Famous Poetry of the Nineteenth Century) which Peter had given to him in first year. He'd try the poetry again. He would try avoiding things. It had worked before, if only for a bit.

"Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam," he read, and then he stopped.

Did he really want to return to those gloomy days? Did he want to forget all about the Marauders, if only for a moment? Would he really cut off everything good if it would help him cut out the bad things as well? What was he doing? What was his goal?

There was a light tap on Remus' door. "Remus," said his mother, "supper's ready. Afterwards, I was thinking we could play a game, if you're up to it."

"Of course I am," said Remus, putting away the book.

Remus' new house, which the Ministry had given his family after their old one had been discovered to be the old home of Salazar Slytherin and seized by the British Museum of Magic, was lovely.

It had a large dining room right next to a window, from which Remus could see a million stars due to the lack of trees and light in the area. There was a piano, a pool, and—most importantly—a strong cellar. It was isolated, but homey. It was beautiful.

But it was lonely.

Remus couldn't help but worry about his parents. Making friends hadn't exactly been their goal for the past decade or so, when they had been caring for their ill and oft-murderous child. Now, they were alone most of the time—just the two of them—alone in this huge, empty house. And whenever Remus' father went to work, Remus' extroverted mother was left to her own devices for hours at a time, five days a week.

"What have the two of you been doing?" Remus asked, taking a sip of his milk.

Remus' mother smiled. "I've gotten a job," she said.

Remus nearly knocked everything off the table. "You're joking!" he said excitedly. "Here? How?"

"Your father Apparates me there before work in the mornings. It's very convenient."

"Is it at a school, like your last two jobs?"

"Nope! I'm selling insurance, just like I used to do before you…"

Silence.

Even though the Lupins were much better at talking about the Incident-That-Must-Not-Be-Named, Remus still found that his parents were often reluctant to be the first ones to bring it up. Remus sighed and supplied the phrase for them. "Before I was bitten."

"Yes."

"So this means… I mean, this is a long-term job—a full-time job—one with promotions and all that. Right?"

"That's right."

Remus sat back, a smile spreading across his face. "We're here for a while," he said.

"I hope so."

It was a beautiful thought, but a strange one. Remus had moved from house to house for years, never staying in the same place for more than a couple of years. The house on the top of the hill had been his personal record, besides the house in Cardiff that Remus didn't even remember. But here he was, in a house that was permanent (or at least semi-permanent). It was their house. This was really and truly the Lupin residence, and Remus would be here… well, maybe forever, if he couldn't hold down a job long enough to leave his parents' home. A terrible and guilty thought, but a possible one.

Sometimes there was fear in forever, but sometimes there was also comfort.

"So I'm home alone for most of the holidays?"

"Some days, yes. We think you can handle it."

"I absolutely can."

Remus' mother stood up and kissed the top of Remus' head. "You're so big," she murmured. "Nearly fifteen."

A flash of a memory wormed its way into Remus' head. "You're so big," his mother had said, tickling a young Remus while he laughed on the couch. "Nearly six years old already!"

That had been one of the first times Remus had laughed since being bitten, and it hadn't lasted very long at all.

"I suppose so," said Remus with a tight-lipped smile. "I'm taller than you are, at least."

Remus' mother laughed and shook her head. "You're never going to let me forget that," she said. "Why don't we play a game now? Chess? Checkers?"

"I prefer checkers. I'm better at it."

"Fair enough."

The days passed slowly, and Remus found himself wrapped in routine. The feeling of routine was like a familiar cloak, draped over the shoulders of everyday life. It was a comfort, a constraint, and merely a way to keep the day from being totally naked.

But routine was also be a curse. It was a never-ending loop of the same old tasks and responsibilities. It was a prison of Remus' own making, where the walls were made of habit and the door was locked from the inside.

Still, Remus kept trying to make the prison livable. He would change it up from time to time—perhaps eating lunch a half-hour early, or perhaps writing his Arithmancy data in a different color—and, even though routine was still a prison, it began to feel a little like a home. A horrible home, sure, but at least it was comforting, familiar, and relaxing.

A couple of days into his routine, he heard an unexpected knock on his door, and the scent of his father flooded the room. That was strange. His father wasn't supposed to be home early.

"Come in," he said cheerfully, putting down his quill.

Remus' father entered, a strange but not unpleasant look on his face. "Hi, Remus. Do you have time to chat?"

"Sure. Why are you home from work so early?"

"Well, I received an owl from Professor Dumbledore, and I requested to leave so that we could talk about it."

"Ah. Erm… would you like to sit down?"

"Please." Instead of sitting on Remus' bed or leading Remus to the sitting room, however, Remus' father sat on the floor across from Remus and crossed his legs. "So… Dumbledore says that you've given him permission to notify Mallory about your condition."

"The girl with the Egyptian curse? Yeah, Madam Pomfrey spoke with me about it."

"Oh. Okay. Well, he told her and her family this morning."

"How did they take it?"

"They don't mind at all. They have experiences with nasty curses, and they know that the curse does not the person make."

Remus' spirits lifted a little. He would have never admitted it, but he'd been worrying about Mallory for quite some time. "Okay. Why are you telling me all this?"

"Well, her family is moving to Britain so that Mallory can attend Hogwarts with traveling across the world. They need somewhere to stay until they land jobs, and our house is much larger than we've ever needed it to be. I was wondering if we could ask Mallory and her family to stay with us."

Oh.

Honestly, that made Remus a little uncomfortable. People he'd never met, staying with them for this long? That was hard. Remus could put up a front while he was at school. He could pretend to be normal for the short-term. He could be kind, patient, and as human-like as possible for the few hours he was in public.

But if Mallory lived with them—saw Remus in the morning—in the evening—on bad days—all the time? That would be like Remus' first year, when he had to hide constantly. He still remembered how exhausting it was before he was comfortable around his friends. After his friends found out, it had been far worse—indeed, Remus had despised the awkward stage of having to pretend it wasn't so bad as it really was, while still being awkwardly exposed. That was how it would be with Mallory's family: awkward, exposed, terrifying, with an uneasy silence and taut tension that never quite left the atmosphere.

"I knew you would hate the idea," said Remus' father. "It's perfectly all right if you'd like to decline. I've already stopped by your mother's office and asked her, and she's in support, but you're the most important voice here. You'll already have to speak with Mallory in January, and I know how uncomfortable you are with being stared at."

"I… erm." Remus felt his face go red at the mere prospect of new people, in his home, staring at him, asking him questions all the time, and impeding upon his routine. He didn't have a good feeling about this at all.

"You're allowed to say no, Remus," said Remus' father gently. "This isn't a big deal. If you don't want them here, then they'll find somewhere else. They haven't asked to stay with us, and Dumbledore hasn't asked us to house them. This is completely my idea—and it's only because I feel like our families have a lot in common, and I want to give them the same help and comfort that I wish we'd gotten from my own family in our times of need. But it's just an idea, and there's no pressure. I only came home early so that I could get back to the Winthrops as soon as possible."

Remus looked at the ceiling and contemplated. He'd been feeling a little hopeless lately, just as he usually did after spending enough time with Manard. He was worried that it would progress to what he was feeling before—the deep, dark hopelessness that made him want to stay in bed and never come out again.

Madam Pomfrey's remedy had been easy. Something loud, something unexpected, something stupid, and something fun.

Inviting Mallory's family to his home for the holidays was certainly the second one. It had real potential to be the third one. It was possible that it could lead to the fourth one. Perhaps not the first one, but Remus was sure his friends would take care of that if he saw them at all over holidays.

"Will they be coming after the full moon?" he asked. At least then it would only be a few days, and they wouldn't see him ill.

"No. They would come day after tomorrow. I'm sorry this is so short-notice, Remus."

Remus sighed. Something stupid, he reminded himself. Take risks. Do things. If the routine is hurting you, then break the routine. What would a Marauder do?

"They can come," he said, tearing his gaze away from the ceiling and back to his father. "I don't mind. It would be nice if they could go somewhere else the day after the full moon, though."

Remus' father's face broke into a smile. "Thank you," he said. "I'm sure they'll be very appreciative—and so will your mother, who's desperate for some friends who know about your condition."

Remus nodded silently.

His father scooted across the gap, now directly next to Remus, and pulled him to his shoulder. "I know," he whispered. "I grew up in the wizarding world, too. I know all about the prejudice, the shame, and the fear. I understand, Remus, as best I can for someone who has never experienced it firsthand, and I'm really, truly sorry that you have to endure it so."

"It's not your fault," muttered Remus, who could usually tell when he father was feeling guilty.

"It is partially my fault, even though I didn't do it on purpose. I was the one who insulted him. I was the one who should have been punished for it, and…"

"No, Dad, no one should have been punished for something so small as that. You think I should go on a murderous rampage every time someone snubs me? It's not your fault."

"It wasn't malicious, no, but it was stupid—like unlocking a tiger's cage and expecting to walk away unharmed."

Remus couldn't help rolling his eyes. "We have this conversation at least twice a year. I don't blame you, and despite your best efforts, I never will. I blame Greyback. That's it."

Remus' father shook his head. "You're one-hundred-percent your mother, you know."

"Hm." Remus thought of all the times he'd been stuck in his own circle of self-blame and self-loathing, ignoring his friends' claims that he wasn't dangerous, running away from his problems because he thought he was the source of everyone else's, blaming himself for every mild inconvenience that came their way, even when (mostly) unfounded.

"I don't know about that," he said, smiling sheepishly at his father.

That weekend, Remus' mother cleaned the house from top to bottom.

"Remus, dear, would you help me wash the carpets?" she asked Remus multiple times, and every time she did, Remus would reply, "You've already washed them."

"Yes, but they're dirty again!"

Then Remus would shrug and wash the carpets, because he had nothing else to do, anyway. He'd been doing schoolwork and working on his Arithmancy project all week, and he was sick of both activities.

"She did this before you were born, too," Remus' father told him while Remus' mother was scrubbing the kitchen counter. "I kept telling her that a mere infant couldn't possibly judge us for having a messy home, but she wanted to be certain that everything was perfect nonetheless."

"I need to be doing something," Remus' mother called. "Otherwise, I'll just go crazy."

Remus' father sighed, stood up, and firmly guided her to the couch. "I think we're all going a bit crazy," he said with a smile. "Why don't we just sit here and listen to some music, yes?"

And so Remus' father played some music, and the beautiful harmonies were nearly enough to drown out the worries looping through Remus' brain. They sat and listened, and listened some more, and when the time came, Remus went to bed with music in his head instead of visions of werewolf-hating monsters—monsters like Manard—living in his home.

It was the last day before the Winthrops' arrival, and Remus was getting antsy.

He was getting so antsy, in fact, that he found it necessary to write to his friends in the enchanted notebook that James had gotten him in first year. Each of the Marauders had an identical book, and the books were charmed to remain identical—that was, whatever was written in one book also appeared in the others. Remus didn't often have much use for such a book, since the Marauders spent almost every waking moment in each others' presence, but today it felt necessary.

Is anyone here? he wrote, and then he stared at the page for longer than was necessary, just in case one of his friends happened to pick up the notebook.

Nothing.

Remus sighed and put the notebook back down. His parents were both out shopping, and Remus had elected to stay home alone—he feared he would have enough prying eyes tomorrow, and he wanted to enjoy his last few moments of privacy. He was content here, to be himself, to be separate from the (perhaps imagined) confused stares of strangers at his slight and pale form… but he was also inordinately lonely.

He decided to take a walk around the garden. There wasn't much else to do, after all. He knew his parents wouldn't like it if he went outdoors without permission, but he didn't really care. It wasn't not allowed, after all, and Remus could handle himself just fine.

So he walked, reveling in the freezing air hitting his skin and the crunch of the frost-bitten grass below his shoes. It was a cold, dreary day, and the grey sky was the color of the tufts of fur that Remus sometimes found on the basement floor…

But no mind. He would not think about that.

He paced in the cold until his toes felt numb, and then he went back indoors, made himself a warm cup of tea, and put on Peter and the Wolf. Peppy violins filled the air, and warm tea filled Remus' stomach. He presently decided that being alone was all right sometimes.

He picked the notebook back up and began flipping through it idly, reading his friends' familiar handwriting with a sense of nostalgia. He made it to the back of the notebook and nearly dropped it in surprise upon noticing that he had not been the last to write in the book.

As the sounds of French horns filled the room, Remus shut off the record player and ran to his room to find a quill. How are you? James had written in the notebook, and Remus wrote back, I'm all right. I have something big to tell you.

Beautiful copperplate cursive scrawled across the notebook—Sirius' handwriting, of course. Are you pregnant?

Remus rolled his eyes. No.

Dating someone?

No.

Getting married?

Not even close.

So what else is there? wrote Peter.

Remus took a deep breath, flexed his fingers, and then wrote everything he knew about Mallory. He wrote about her curse, how it affected her, and her issues finding a school. He wrote about her parents. He wrote about his own (and how lonely they were). He wrote about the plan to invite Mallory over in a mere twenty-four hours, and then he wrote about how terrified her was—how much his mother was cleaning the house—how embarrassed he was to be around anyone else who knew he was a werewolf, much less to live with them.

After he was finished writing, there was a long period of silence, and then Sirius wrote, Wow.

Wow is right, responded Remus. Quite a bit is happening right now, and I'm tired of thinking about it. What have you all been up to?

For the first time ever, Remus was almost happy to hear about their Animagus attempts. Fear over the distant future, even a much greater fear, was so much better than fear over the near future.

AN: I realize I've been being a tad less consistent recently. Hang in there! I'm busy, but I'm still loving posting this :)