“Remus,” Sirius repeated, and Remus felt blood rush through his veins again. The pace of his heart began to slow down, and the wall that had momentarily deafened him, crumbled down. Shakily, the boy put down the quill, and his pale, scarred hands flattened themselves against the table.

Carefully, Remus looked up to meet a pair of six curious eyes.

James, his voice full of wonder, whispered what by now was obvious, “Werewolf.”

Lupin said nothing, James stared, and Peter squeaked. But it was Sirius’ reckless, and gleeful, “That is bloody wicked!” response what made Remus snap.

“That is WHAT?”

The sound of steps approaching made Remus looked up from his pinnacle number calculations, to find a stomping Hestia Jones looking at him, and appearing angry enough to defeat a chimaera. All by herself.

He felt his brow crumple into a frown.

“Listen, Lupin,” Jones hissed, before Remus could think of a greeting, “If you don’t tell Sirius Black to stop leaving dung bombs outside my common room, I am going to shove my Quidditch boots so far up his nose that he’ll have to go to St. Mungo’s to get removed.”

And then without another word, she stomped off.

“You sure Jones said no dung bombs?”

He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Prefects had no curfew, but Sirius did and as a result, Remus wound up accompanying Black to this entirely ridiculous affair. “I’m sure, Sirius.” He dared not to ask what had his friend brought instead—the brown package Sirius was now gingerly placing outside the Ravenclaw Common Room looked forbidding enough as it was.

“She’s going to skin you alive, y'know,” Remus said, as Sirius stood up.

He snickered. “Your concern is touching, Moony.”

“And your lack of it is embarrassingly disconcerting, Padfoot.”

Entry 95,

Mary McDonald is glaring at me.

She’s been murdering me with her eyes for two hours and 3 minutes now, and I’m not sure why. When I dared to inquire her if everything was alright, she snapped something at me. Whenever I stare back, though, she blushes bright pink. It’s quite disconcerting.

I must not look at her. It is not very gentlemanly to make a lady uncomfortable on purpose, even if the mere sight of her flushes is giving me the weirdest feeling.

I’m looking at her again.

I never noticed what a lovely skin she's got.

With whom Remus did his prefects rounds with did not depend on him. Because of this he sometimes found himself strolling down the corridors with Narcissa Black; it was not uncomfortable as some may think it was. As far as Gryffindors and Slytherins went, it could be worse. Truthfully, they were almost friendly.

“Is he happy?” She inquired quietly, during one of their shared rounds, “With the Potters?”

Knowing who she was talking about, Remus weighed his words carefully. “He's not unhappy, I don't think.”

Narcissa gave him a long, hard look. Then nodded grimly, seemingly understanding the boy’s words.

The letter was clutched on the boy’s scarred hand, as he stared blankly out the window. Comforting hands both patted his back sympathetically, and squeezed his arms, but he was unresponsive. Perhaps this was what being a Gryffindor meant; it was not about being invincible, but to pretend you were.

He did not think he could, and the thought alone frightened him.

“It’ll be okay, Remus,” Peter whispered, breaking the silence and sounding braver than he usually did.

“I know,” Lupin said after a while, but thinking that he in fact did not, and neither did Peter, James or Sirius.

She’d gone from glaring, to completely ignoring his existence. This was troublesome because he’d taken the equally troublesome habit of staring at her whenever she was around; it had all began just seconds after realizing what a lovely skin Mary McDonald had. Truthfully, Mary McDonald had a lovely everything.

Indeed, it was very troublesome.

“Mary,” Remus said, sounding oddly formal as he occupied the seat opposite hers. Her nose wrinkled, and Merlin, what an adorable nose. And freckles—lots of freckles. “Talk to me.”

Mary’s tone was haughty, and it drove Remus a little crazy. “I have nothing to say.”

It was a hot July morning, and music was blaring from the single muggle device the Lupin’s possessed. Sunshine was streaming from the window, and a shirtless Remus Lupin was laying on the floor of his bedroom. His hands were folded behind his head, and his eyes were closed; when the lanky youth wasn’t smiling serenely, he was singing along to the cheerful song coming from the tattered radio.

When the door of his room opened, and a woman who bore a striking resemblance to him spoke, one of his lids opened.

“When are you cleaning this place, Remus? It reeks.”

A pair of students walked down the corridor side by side, a comfortable silence settling between the two. Although the corridor was spacious, they walked close together. Every other step, nervous hands would softly brush against each other.

Step. Brush. Step. Brush.

Tingles.

Another step. Another brush.

Change of rhythm.

Brush. Brush. Brush.

Intertwine.

At the girl’s bold move, embarrassment assaulted him in the form of a flush. But it was not enough to stop his fingers from giving the hand entangled with his a gentle squeeze.

It was as daring as Remus could be in a moment like this.

Sirius’ mood is at odds with mine, and I wait until his happy chattering ends. When it happens, it is not because he wants it to, but because he has caught up with my expression; at least someone does, for I cannot even feel my face. He demands to know what is the matter, and I find that I cannot say a word.

My airways have closed.

“Remus?” He repeats, and I swallow hard.

“It’s Regulus.”

Even now, after everything that’s happened, Sirius sways on the spot. I steady him, and I hear him mutter ‘Reggie’ over and over again.

They stood outside the entrance of the shop, and a sense of wrongness crept under Remus’ skin. It looked dingier and darker than he remembered, as if someone had painted it with mud. The single window of the establishment looked greasy, and its curtain appeared to be unwashed.

Sirius rolled up his sleeves. “We’ll probably have to knock down the door—”

“Maybe duel someone to get in,” James cut him off with unveiled excitement.

“Or,” Remus murmured, reaching out for the door and opening it easily, “not.”

Peter laughed, and James drawled out, “That is just pure laziness, Moony.”

The smell of firewhiskey filled the small place; it came from the seemingly sleeping girl sitting in the middle of the room. She was wearing battered white pajamas, and upon close inspection, she didn’t look a over eighteen.

“Boiled as an owl, is she not?” Peter inquired, as he and James inspected a dusty closet.

“She’s not responding to my advances,” Sirius declared, touching the inside of her wrist to find her pulse. “So she must be.”

“Or perhaps she’s a woman of good sense and taste,” Remus whispered quietly, taking the girl’s small hand and squeezing it gently. “Miss?”

The coffee table teeming with pastries had been set aside, and two boys were spread on the living room carpet. The one with glasses had his arms folded behind his head, while his companion kept his hands atop of his own stomach.

“Dad reckons he needs his space,” James murmured.

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Remus pointed out.

Potter’s comment was barely audible. “I think I heard him cry last night.”

“Sirius will be fine, James.”

“Are you sure, Moony?” He inquired, after a long moment.

No. But James didn’t want Remus' blunt honesty; he wanted reassurance. “Yes.”

“Peter reckons you can’t ignore me forever,” Remus muttered through the corner of his mouth as he fed wood-lice to Professor Kettleburn’s bowtruckles.

“And what does Peter have to say about you lying to me?” Remus thought her tone was unnecessarily catty. He frowned as a scared browtruckle began to back away, and wondered if he ought to do the same. “You said you didn’t date, and you dated Jones!”

Understanding sunk in. In a rare moment of cheekiness, Remus snickered, “This shouldn’t please me as much as it does.”

Mary promptly dumped a bucket filled of wood-lice on him.

A cheerful muggle tune was coming from Lupin’s muggle radio, and both James and Remus sang along to it. “What did you say their name was?” Sirius demanded moodily, eyeing the muggle radio the way one may look at a scorpion.

“The Beach Boys, right, Moony?" James provided, oblivious to Sirius’ foul mood.

“So they live on the beach?” Sirius scoffed, "What kind of fool lives on the beach with this weather?"

Remus rolled over and lay flat on his stomach. “Not everyone lives in England, Sirius. Besides, it’s just a name—like Celestina Warbeck.”

“I hate Celestina Warbeck, Remus.”

“You don’t think he did it, do you, Remus?”

I don’t move. My hands are encircled around the untouched and now cold cup of tea, as they have been for the past thirty minutes. I am frozen.

The entire world is as well, to me. Broken, too.

My gaze lifts on its own accord, and I stare into her dark eyes, the only two things that now seem and feel real to me. Though feel, I think, it’s not what once was to me—I can no longer feel myself.

I feel hollow.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

The three point five miles walk that separated Remus’ house from Lily Evans’ was excruciatingly long that day. Remus was not entirely opposed to exercise himself, but James had decided to tag along, and this proved to be a nuisance. Potter’s efforts of ‘fitting in’ consisted on loudly discussing muggle topics he was familiar (such as music) and unfamiliar with (such as politics).

He also decided to cross the street. And almost got run over by an enormous blue truck.

When he returned to the sidewalk, pale-faced, Remus slapped him across the face.

“ARE YOU A BLOODY IDIOT, JAMES POTTER?”

The only sound is the both comforting and familiar sound of the shuffle of pages as air weaves against the volumes. Madam Pince barely pays him any mind; rare are the days when Remus doesn’t show up for study, and sometimes, only sometimes, he thinks he sees her smile at him as a sign of recognition.

Frowning, he bends down to look more closely at his Arithmancy calculations. The sound of someone joining him deepens his frown, and Remus sees her silently occupy the seat next to his.

Her pinky tapping his is her greeting, and he hastily looks away.

The mark war left on us is irrevocable—bright red, and pulsing. We were torn apart, stripped off what made us whole, and without hope of getting it all back.

We're all damaged.

Especially him.

His face is streaked with tears he does not seem to be aware of, for he’s laughing like the mad man I never knew he was. And yet, between his chortles, he’s looking right at me, claiming innocence.

As if I can help him.

Even if I could, I wouldn’t.

When I speak, I sound far away. “I hope you rot in Azkaban, Sirius Black.”

“Put some heart into it, Reggie.”

“I am!”

This isn’t true, but I pretend to be busy with the newspaper. Sirius’ been trying to teach his brother how to dance like a muggle, but devoid of muggle music as we are, his attempts haven’t been successful.

Flushed, Regulus grumbles, “I give up. Not like we’ll ever be doing it.”

“I might.”

Uncomfortable silence follows Sirius’ words, and the younger boy gives me a look that is both panicked and helpless.

“Don’t think you should, Sirius. It looked like you were having a seizure,” I murmur cheerfully, and thinly, Regulus smiles.

She likes me. She likes me and wants me to kiss her. I am petrified at all these revelations, but I am thankful that my hands are not sweaty, for they’re now cupping her cheeks. A flush that I never thought would be caused by yours truly attacks her face when my skin meets hers, and I have to bite back a smile. I am so pleased it is revolting. I hate myself.

Really, though—I can say no. I should say no. I must say no, for this is madness.

No, no—this is suicide.

I don't say no.

“When are you taking Mary out?” James bluntly inquired, as they emerged from Professor Slughorn’s office down the dungeons. Remus, who was clutching a bottle of his monthly potion to his chest, nearly let it fall.

After employing a word his mother would have frowned upon, he murmured quietly, “It’s not like that, James.”

James didn’t say anything for anything for a while, but when he did, he sounded uncharacteristically serious, “Your life doesn’t start where your Furry Little Problem ends, Remus. You know that, right?”

Remus said nothing. With a sigh, James carelessly draped an arm around his shoulders.

You’re curled up in a ball, and your eyes start to itch the way they do when you eat peanuts. The hard wooden floor is pressed against your cheek, and you’re trying to hold it all in, but it hurts too much, so you yelp and cry out—and that’s when the worst comes, for nothing is worst than dry sobs shaking you as if you were a house, and your sobs an earthquake.

And yet the tears that wet your cheeks are not your own but your friend’s, as he bends down to rest his hand on your shoulder.

It took Remus Lupin two years to realize that Hagrid’s inability to remember that not everyone was his height was useful. Had this not been the case, the groundskeeper would not have planted bushes big enough the pair of gangly teens from anyone’s view. And had this not occurred, watching James make a fool of himself would have never happened.

From their hiding spot, Remus and Peter watched as James took a determinate step towards the most dangerous tree of them all, only to be stopped by Professor McGonagall’s warnings.

Peter groaned, and Remus, uncharacteristically, snickered.

“Pay up time, Wormtail.”

So many times he’s bitten his tongue during the perfect moments in which the words would have flowed perfectly, explaining that of which he’s terrified anyone would find out—them, especially. More than once he has promised himself that he will, that he will obey their ‘No Secrets' policy and be honest.

Everything is always planned inside his head, every word memorized, even the potentially needed dramatic pauses, loaded with hesitations of his gasping breath in between. But when they curiously say, ‘What is it, Remus?’ his mind goes blind and he can’t remember what he’s been aching to say.