Fact #12: Remus was working on a large-scale, high-level Arithmancy project.

Last year, Professor Craff had tasked her third-years Arithmancy class with a project. She hadn't picked the project for them: rather, she'd asked them to pick something that they were passionate about and go from there. The project wouldn't be due until their fifth year—right before OWLs—so she'd wanted them to choose something that could be completed within three years.

Arithmancy in and of itself was all about predictability. It was the science of magic, more or less—the whole idea was to experiment, over and over again, and find out which factors contributed to the outcome of a magical force. The idea was to add random numbers to those factors, figure out the randomized "magic" factor, and more or less do trial-and-error until there was enough information to create a highly complicated number chart, whose combined information could predict the magic's outcome in different conditions.

Remus, who was constantly tormented by uncertainty over the upcoming full moons, had decided to create a number chart that predicted the exact time of transformation and transformation back, how violent he would be as a wolf, and how many days it would take him to recover. It was a complicated project with lots of factors, and it had never been done before, but—if he did it correctly—then it would help a lot of people.

Once Professor Craff had been killed, Dumbledore had hired Professor Leek, who was awkward, lanky, brown-haired, and an absolute genius when it came to arithmancy. He'd worked professionally in the field, specializing in long-term projects that required more time than existed in the world.

Since there were not enough full moons to collect data in Remus' probably-short life, Leek was helping him to create a simulation of the event—a highly-advanced procedure that would essentially generate the data of hundreds of full moons for him. Then, all Remus would have to do was find the links, and, through trial-and-error, complete a fully functional number chart that perfectly predicted the outcome of each full moon.

Unfortunately, creating a simulation was proving to be very, very difficult. The idea was to extract a memory of a full moon, except removing every single factor that they had to test. For a while, Remus would have to convince himself that he possessed a memory of a blank canvas: a Shrieking Shack without weather, temperature, clouds, or even himself. Later, he'd have to develop specific spells to change each factor, and then he could test whatever he wanted.

But Remus hadn't managed to create that blank canvas yet, even though he'd gotten started on developing the spells. Last year, Dumbledore had told him that he was "too stressed" (whatever that meant), and Remus had been ordered to take a break.

Fortunately, he was allowed to start up again this year, which meant three things: first, it meant that he was unable to keep his nose out of an arithmancy book. Second, it meant that he was watching memories of full moons after every single on and religiously taking careful account of every factor he could think of. Third, it meant that he spent about an hour a day in front of a Pensieve, trying to conjure up a blank-slate memory of the Shrieking Shack.

"I don't understand why you're doing that," said James. "My project is a lot better."

James intended to make a map of the entire school for his project, which meant that the Marauders had been breaking into forbidden places quite a bit last year. Remus rolled his eyes. "You only like your project better because you break the rules to do it," he said. "Mine will help people."

"Like who?"

"Like me, mostly. I want to know what to expect. It'll be much easier to schedule things when I know how many days I'll be out after the full moon. And, if I know exactly what makes transformations easy or hard, I might be able to minimize the damage. It'll also… help Aurors and werewolf hunters, because they'll know exactly what time to expect attacks and exactly what time the threat is over."

"You're trying to help werewolf hunters?" Sirius asked, incredulous.

"I mean… kind of. I'm trying to help people. I want to save them from… from a fate like mine, you know?"

James hopped over to Remus and ruffled his hair; Remus shrugged him off with an impatient sigh. "So how do you feel about Sal, exactly?" James asked.

Lying to the Marauders was a lot easier than lying to Professor Dumbledore; after all, Remus was already used to lying to them, and he knew how they ticked. "I think he's a good man," said Remus. "All werewolf hunters do is deal with threats. They don't seek out werewolves to kill; they respond to community complaints. They save lives. You have to remember that not all werewolves are like me, Prongs, and someone has to keep them under control."

"So he really is the right kind of bloke?" asked James.

"Yeah. I think so."

"All right." James settled back onto his bed and began throwing a rubber ball against the wall. "He seems cool, and I want to like him, but I thought I'd check with you first."

"You don't have to check with me to like someone."

"Fine. Hey, you know, maybe someday someone will find a cure for lycanthropy, and then you won't even need that arithmancy project of yours."

"Not going to happen."

"Well, perhaps someone will find a way to relieve the symptoms," said Sirius.

Remus turned around and stared at Sirius. James, Sirius, and Peter had been keeping Mandrake leaves in their mouths all month—again—and Remus needed to find another way to get rid of them without suspicion. He hated this Animagus project of theirs. "I don't think anything will be able to relieve it," he said, and then he turned away.

Being a werewolf was far too complicated for Remus' tastes.

Fact #13: Remus was rather attached to his parents.

It was no surprise, because Hope and Lyall Lupin were wonderful people indeed. They had fallen in love as polar opposites: a chronically anxious, studious wizard and a laid-back, go-with-the-flow Muggle. Remus had grown up with the best of both worlds.

His parents told him all sorts of things about his early childhood. He'd started doing magic at age one, much to his poor mother's surprise and dismay. He'd been a bit of an unruly child, and he hadn't shown any interest in reading, learning proper grammar, or sleeping. He'd chased girls with sticks, he'd hated sitting still, and he'd worn his poor parents to the bone—in a good way.

But Remus didn't remember any of that. Call it trauma, call it a major biological change, or call it a bad memory… but Remus' first memory was February 16, 1965. He'd been five years old, nearly. On that night, Fenrir Greyback had broken into his room and bitten him.

Remus' father had paced, stepping over Remus' blood, rambling that he probably wasn't even the same person anymore, afraid for Remus' present and future. Remus' mother had screamed at him to fix it, because he was the one with the wand and the knowledge, and couldn't he fix everything?! He was a wizard, after all! Remus' father had protested, and before Remus knew it, he was on the Knight Bus, head in his mother's lap, and his father was worrying himself thin and chewing his fingernails, horrified emptiness in his eyes.

Everything had changed after that, of course. Remus turned into quite the sedentary and friendless boy. He'd lost his wild streak, mostly due to the fact that he was ill and in pain just about all the time. He'd learned to read. He'd slept a lot. He'd endured transformation on top of transformation until the color drained from his cheeks and the blood drained from his veins, over and over, every month, until the life left in Remus was so diluted that sometimes he wondered if there was anything left at all.

Through it all, his parents had been there. They'd been his company, his only company, for six and a half years straight, and they'd never abandoned him. Remus' father taught him everything he needed to know, and Remus' mother provided him with all the hugs and food he could ever need. They'd read him books, they'd washed blood out of his hair after full moons, and they'd been his stable constant as he moved from home to home, living a life of lies, secrecy, and pain.

But it hadn't been easy, and Remus had always known that. Once, when Remus was six, he'd wandered into the kitchen for a snack. There sat his father, sitting at the table, head resting in his arms and hands entwined tightly into his hair. There was a mug of tea next to him, but it was still full and completely cold. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," Remus heard his father whisper, and then Remus had found it prudent to sneak back into the sitting room and pretend to be asleep on the couch.

When Remus was seven, he'd walked in on his mother in the bathroom, but she hadn't been bathing. She'd been leaning over the tub, tear tracks on her face, surrounded by toilet paper she'd used to wipe her nose. "I'm sorry," said Remus, and she'd scooped him into a hug. They'd never spoken of it again.

When Remus was eight, he'd found a photograph of his parents' wedding. His mother's hair was thick and and in a gorgeous updo. His father was neatly shaved and smiling broadly. They looked full and healthy, and color and vigor danced in their eyes. They were surrounded by family and friends whom Remus didn't even remember meeting. Then Remus had looked up at his real-life parents, sitting on the armchairs. His mother's hair was thin, and her cheekbones were prominent. His father had permanent worry lines, and there was stubble all along his jaw that was never well-shaved.

They were thinner and paler, and both of them looked worn to the bone—in a bad way.

Remus knew the statistics. He knew how many parents gave up their children after they were bitten by werewolves. He knew how many young children didn't make it through the first transformation. His own parents were a rarity—two extraordinary people who had sacrificed their lives for Remus—and Remus would be thankful forever.

Besides, they were just lovely people. They were funny and sarcastic. Remus' father had a pet Boggart named Garrison, and Remus' mother had enough banter to last the whole day. Remus genuinely enjoyed spending time with them.

Anyway, that was why Remus didn't think he'd ever understand his friends and their confusing attitudes toward their parents.

Sirius hated his family. Remus didn't understand fully, but he could sympathize. They were Pureblood maniacs, intent on banning Muggle-borns from Hogwarts, and Remus knew firsthand how awful Sirius' father could be (after a rather unfortunate encounter with him in his second year at the annual Werewolf Registry).

And James… well, James was even more confusing. James seemed to love his parents, but he acted as if he didn't on occasion. "Mum keeps sending me all these letters," he'd complain. "I don't want to write to her right now. Why doesn't she understand that?"

Remus happened to know that his own mother often stayed up all night during a full moon and wrote long, rambling letters to both himself and to Madam Pomfrey. "She loves you," he said. "She misses you."

"Yeah, but can't she do that without writing me all these letters? I'll see her over the holidays, anyway. Probably. Not sure if I'm staying here yet or not."

"I think it's nice," said Remus.

"Yeah, well, I think it's annoying." James saw Remus' face, which was probably slightly stricken, and rolled his eyes. "Aw, come off it, Moony. I love her. You know I do. I just like complaining about her, because that's what kids do about their parents."

Remus frowned. He got annoyed with his parents sometimes, yes, but it was only ever for things that actually made sense to be annoyed at—things like coddling and overprotecting and…

Oh.

Yeah, never mind. Remus was just as bad as James was.

Later on, he composed an extra-long letter to his mother, both because he desperately wanted a bit of comfort after his prickly contact with Manard and because he wanted to comfort her. His letters to her had been getting shorter and shorter as his time at Hogwarts went on, and he wanted to make sure both she and Remus' father knew how very much Remus appreciated them.

And that night, once he had finished the letter, Remus nearly cried himself to sleep. He'd grown up on a steady diet of predictability, and the Marauders had brought spontaneity into his life. It had been overwhelming at first, then refreshing, then incredible… but now, Remus' life was starting to become overwhelming once again. Perhaps it always had been, and the part where it had felt right had been a mere illusion.

No. That couldn't be the case. Once he got away from Manard, got his friends to stop trying to become Animagi, and figured out his project, then things would be predictable once again. Things would be routine, and Remus loved routine. Yes, once he did all that, then things would be bearable.

Maybe.

Routine: Remus laughed and talked with his friends all the way down the corridor on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts. The Banter of the Day was about how Peter had tripped and fallen directly into McGonagall, and his face was still bright red, much to James and Sirius' delight.

Routine: They approached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Routine: Remus felt something large and birdlike scoop out his internal organs. Probably anxiety.

Routine: Manard stood at the door. When Remus walked in, Manard stared for a moment too long, said, "Very nice to see you, Remus," and then smiled. Remus tried not to shudder.

Routine: They sat down in their respective seats—Remus next to Evans, and the other Marauders in the back—and Remus wished Evans a good morning. She responded in kind.

Routine: Remus took his textbook, quill, and some parchment out of his satchel.

Routine: Manard walked to the front of the room—clack, clack, clack—and sat on the table next to the blackboard, cane propped neatly beside him. The lesson began.

It was all routine (or at least, it was going to be), and routine helped Remus get through difficult situations. It helped on the full moon, and it helped even now. He could do this. Easy-peasy. All he had to do was walk into the classroom, sit down, and keep quiet.

"Today, we'll be learning about Red Caps," said Manard. "Again, I'd like to remind you that we'll be moving extraordinarily quickly this year. Lots to cover, since Professor Dilley didn't follow the accepted curriculum last year and completely skipped over Dark creatures. I'm passionate about Dark creatures, of course, and I want to make sure you all know how to deal with them—especially if You-Know-Who uses them in the upcoming war, which I am certain that he will. So I'll be assigning quite a bit of homework, I'm afraid."

There were loud groans, especially from Remus' friends in the back.

Manard smiled. "I'd like to issue a polite reminder to James and Sirius that they need not worry, as I'm told they never do their homework anyway."

Oh, Remus hated Professor Manard. He hated how smooth and fun and not-awkward he was. He hated his good sense of humor and ability to act like a good and decent person. He hated how much his own friends seemed to like the man, and he hated how much Evans smiled at every joke he made.

But Remus would sit, and he would keep quiet. That was routine, and that was all he had to do.

"Technically, Boggarts are first on the third-year list," said Manard. "I'm waiting until I can find one, though, so that I can give each of you a hands-on lesson. I hear Questus did that for the third-years in your first year, and Professor McGonagall tells me that it was a raging success."

Remus gritted his teeth and looked away.

"Red Caps," said Manard, "are dwarf-like creatures that live where blood has been shed. Can anybody give me a location where Red Caps are likely to invade?"

Hands shot up into the air, and Remus hated Manard for inspiring more class participation than Remus had ever seen. He kept quiet, though. It was routine. It was all he had to do.

"Battlefields," said James.

"Precisely!" Manard wrote it on the board. "Good, good. Their favorite location is large-scale massacres. As long as there was blood, that is—large fires, for instance, won't attract Red Caps."

Remus squirmed. He could feel his friends looking at him. A quick glance at Manard told him that Manard absolutely knew what history Remus had with fire-related massacres, and Remus quickly looked away. Deep breaths: in through his nose, out through his mouth. Keep quiet, just as he did every time.

"Anything else?" said Manard. "Come on, now, people. I'm sure you can think of something that's not so gruesome."

"Hospitals," blurted Evans.

"Exactly!" said Manard, writing it on the board. "There are cleaners at St. Mungo's whose job description includes getting rid of Red Caps every morning. Wizards will also take it upon themselves to banish Red Caps lurking around Muggle hospitals, too. What else?"

"Car accidents," said a Ravenclaw boy.

"Indeed. Crime scenes, too, are quite common Red Cap draws. What else?"

"Castles," said a Gryffindor.

"Good. They tend to hide near dungeons or ancient execution sites. They have such an ability to recognize blood that they will flock to places where it was spilt hundreds of years ago. The more blood that was spilt, the longer the area will remain prone to Red Caps. Fun fact: werewolves tend to follow the scent of Red Caps when there are no humans around, on the off chance that a place with past blood spilt will happen again in the future. They're clever creatures, werewolves."

Manard did not look at Remus, but Remus felt as if he were.

"Anything else?" asked Manard, tapping his cane slightly on the floor.

Sirius grinned. "Playgrounds."

Manard laughed. "Yes, injuries very commonly happen on playgrounds. Kids losing teeth, breaking bones, scratching themselves on branches… yes, Red Caps prefer fatal wounds, but they'll flock near playgrounds when they're the best option. Do you make a habit of frequenting playgrounds, Sirius Black?"

The class laughed, and Remus' friends did, too. Remus couldn't quite muster a laugh, so he merely smirked at Sirius, who was feigning anger.

"Red Caps," said Manard loudly, and the laughter died down, "can also be found on some construction sites, in mines, and at the bottoms of large cliffs and canyons. They hide well, but they like to bludgeon innocent people walking past if the person seems particularly vulnerable. That's how they got their name—according to legend, they dip their caps in the blood, although it's a practice that has never been formally observed.

"But most hexes will do away with Red Caps, and they're only about three feet tall, so they're not as dangerous as they seem. If they decide you're vulnerable enough to attack, they'll only be able to reach your shin. They're not really dangerous unless you're wandless and lying down—then they'll get your head. Granted, a blow to the shin might be devastating for someone like me." Manard gestured to his cane, and there was some hesitant laughter. "It's all right," said Manard. "You may laugh. Making fun of it makes it seem less horrible, doesn't it?"

That was how Remus felt about his lycanthropy, mostly, but not right now. Right now, the only emotion he was capable of feeling was resentment toward Manard.

"Now, I have a Red Cap in this very room, actually," said Manard, which Remus already knew (its scuttling and distinctive scent had been bothering Remus for the whole class). "It's a young one, so it won't be able to hit very hard. Apparently, it thinks none of you to be vulnerable, because it's been hiding the whole time. Your task before the end of the day is to find the Red Cap and force it back into the cage underneath my desk. Remus, you're closest. Do you mind taking out that empty cage?"

Remus nodded and ducked behind Manard's desk to remove the cage. He stayed there for a moment, reveling in being hidden from Manard's gaze, and then he picked up the cage, opened it, and put it at the front of Manard's room.

"Remember, the Summoning Spell does not work on living creatures," said Manard. "On your marks… get ready… go!"

Students hopped out of their chairs and scattered all over the classroom, searching under desks and tables. Remus made his way over to his friends, who looked thrilled. "This is fun!" said Peter.

"Utterly brilliant," said James.

"Fantastic," said Sirius.

"Yeah, it's a great lesson," agreed Remus, trying his best to keep the hatred out of his voice.

Manard stepped up behind them. "I'm glad you think so," he said, his voice right next to Remus' ear, and Remus gritted his teeth and tried to smile. "Now, Remus… don't worry, no one is listening… I am aware that you probably know exactly where the Red Cap is right now."

"Er. Yes," said Remus slowly.

"Don't let's ruin the fun for anyone else, all right?"

"Okay," said Remus.

Manard winked at him before hobbling off—clack, clack, clack—and Remus watched his friends running around and looking for the Red Cap, begging Remus to give them a hint (but Remus didn't, because he was too afraid).

It was Mary Macdonald who eventually found it, with the help of her best friend, Sylvia Wallace. Together, the class shot mild hexes at it until it scurried into the cage, and then Manard closed it with a clack.

They celebrated, Manard clapped for them, and then he awarded Mary Macdonald and Sylvia Wallace one book on Red Caps each. "They're very good books," said Manard. "Extremely thorough. I expect the both of you to do very well on the Red Cap portion of your final exams."

The students left class that day laughing and talking, and Manard bade goodbye to each of them as they left. Remus couldn't help but glare at Manard for a moment before he left the classroom, but Manard only smiled back and winked again. Remus hated both the smile and the wink.

"It actually must be nice, having a DAD professor who knows everything there is to know about werewolves," mused Sirius that night in the dormitory. "He's nice, he's sensitive about it, and he knows exactly how to help you best."

"He'll probably know all of your symptoms come full moon," said James. "I noticed he speaks more quietly than the other professors. Maybe that's for you, since your hearing is so sensitive."

Remus had noticed that, too, though he doubted it was for him. "He's more quiet than you lot, at least," he said, and James threw a pillow at him.

Constrain, lie, rinse, and repeat. That was the routine now, and routine was the only way that Remus knew how to get through a difficult situation.

Thank goodness the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position was real after all.