Someone Like the Moon

The ancient school was a lonely castle under an unwavering moon. She was an amalgamation of many generations of additions, appearing half-hazardly planned, towers rising vast and tall as if competing against each other. She was nestled deep within forested mountains; vibrant green as far as your eye could see. If you sought out this place you would not find it. The forest would not be impartial to your arrival; those who tried found themselves lost for days, the reason for their journey forgotten.

It is only in a small village nearby where you can begin to learn the goings-on of this mysterious castle. A train arrives late at night at the end of a long summer, where many small cloaked individuals disembark, and the quiet of this village is at once disturbed.

The endless darkness of the forest is broken by laughter, like moonlight, and stories are exchanged hurriedly among the students: their world quickly narrowed down to the friends in front of them. They were the life of the castle. She would await them in patient anticipation. 

They did not all come from her world of magic: it had become something exclusive, something people thought needed to be hidden away. It was not something often discussed between the students: those that came from outside simply kept quiet their amazement. Clusters subtly formed in the crowd, more obvious as years went by. Between these groups, eyes narrowed just as often as smiles were shared. But suspicion would very often be met with a desire to protect.

It was a shame, she thought, believing herself to speak of unity; the traditions of her construction not so far from the world it sets itself apart from. She arose first in timber, then as construction evolved, grey stone: local, average, the long-closed quarry now a vast lake of the deepest blue. The material was worked to form the highest of arches, becoming weightless in the receding detail cut into its depth. It was in this traditional manipulation of stone that power and prestige were coveted and those not from the castle’s world would be reminded of structures from home, not so dissimilar, places of worship they’d once stepped inside in awe or in brochures advertising a far-away kind of education they wouldn’t ever think to consider for themselves. They would wonder how their worlds were different in many ways but not in this one. This was something lost to everyone but the castle, for she remembered how there was once no division at all.

The reminder of this grew stronger every year as the world of magic grew darker. Her walls would be reilluminated with the soft flickering of candlelight as the students filled the halls, the castle once again becoming the set to which the beginnings of their lives would play out on. She would try to look past the underlying unrest. They would sit in the colonnade overlooking the courtyard, pretending to finish last minute pieces of homework, gossiping loudly about who is taking who to Hogsmeade. Sometimes, the ones in the yellow uniform would meet with others to discreetly swap small packages for shiny coins and the corridors would be filled with an earthy smell. She prided herself on creating this small bubble of a world and treasured each friendship she witnessed emerge.

The buzz of the new school year affected all but one: a lanky tousled-haired boy with scars who was tucked up asleep in the Hospital Wing. The castle knew this boy well. He was the first in the castle to be touched by the moon, and for this reason she attempted to care for him. The moving staircases knew when he would reach them, he never had to wait; he stumbled upon secret corridors and perfect hiding spots when he needed them; the paintings asked him how he was, gave him advice, and told him to avoid the Fifth Floor bathrooms when the plumping broke. He always accepted this with a tired gratitude, as with everything, believing it to be no unusual experience.

Remus, as she eventually knew him to be called, was much like him. At night, they would both watch the moon. Remus would eventually fall asleep, after giving up on an essay, instead having drawn a constellation and turning it into a dog on the corner of the parchment. She would watch the moon the whole night, feeling it illuminate her in such a soft way as it travelled through the sky, before bleeding into the day, and the sharp loss she’d feel would be lessened by the happenings of the students.

She longed for Remus to not struggle so much with who he was. She loved the moon and saw her in him. The moon had always wished that the boy would not view her as an enemy— the castle knew this to be so; that the moon brought only magic, the intense kind that lay rich yet dormant in forests where no wizard went. An ill-appreciated thing, thought the castle, and detested that it was within her walls that it was taught to be so.

The forest surrounding her was deep with this kind of magic. It was a delight then, the first time Remus was not alone during his transformations, the first time he was not locked up. She knew the moon was equally pleased, for the boy was finally experiencing the magic of the forest that was so essential to his being as a werewolf. He would heal quicker, the transformation would be less painful, and his mind less clouded.

She watched these boys that cared for Remus, that had delighted her moon so in their embrace of the forest and therefore also of her magic. The castle learned how they embodied what she loved about the school: there were layers to their friendship, with misunderstandings and light jokes at the surface but when it mattered they were quick and unconditional in their love for each other. They explored the school buildings for fun, playing chess loudly or pouring over a table of books to help write each other's essays. Like every student before them, they made the castle their own.

That was important to her. She had been created through insurmountable sums of money and wealth and emerged despite deep-rooted disagreements on her design: the number of classrooms debated until the fundamental idea of the school itself was questioned and the opposing opinions became relentless and uncompromising. The castle was ununified in its ambition, with students residing in such differing living quarters, each representing the ideals of founders that would eventually be forgotten. It was nonetheless an awe-inspiring feat. She would signify the greatness of the world of magic for centuries to come, and if it was not this impact she could be proud of, it was in the home she would become for each generation of wizard.

You see, wealth built the castle but it did not give it life— that was the loving hands of hundreds of generations. The long process of construction, then the unprecious habitation and occupation of what was built. It was that first physical touch of local workers— for in these times those that are now called Muggles were as part of the magic world as any other— and the passed down knowledge of masonry, of stone being extracted, shaped and carved: careful, painstakingly, both with and without magic. The wizarding world had always existed on the periphery of the Muggle world; learning from techniques and ideas, giving inspiration back of its own. It was a growing paranoia, one not entirely unjustified, a fear of the repercussions of being perceived as Other, that the world of magic slowly crept to reside in the shadows.

This collaboration of magical and non-magical knowledge slowly wrought the castle into being. She remembered it as a love given open-handedly, no expectation of anything in return. It was a sacrifice from the forest, of thousands of trees grown under the moon, lush with her enchantment, oak becoming everything from beams to desks and promising to be durable, strong, while inevitably being carved with hearts and initials and a PROFESSOR SLUGHORN IS BORING, I HATE THIS CLASS: graffiti that would easily outlast the lives of those who carved it, but the love and memory of their experience would be embodied forever in the knotted wood. These things would live forever in the heart of the castle, and to the students they would be split-second reminders of the many that came before them.

Every year was different and there was always something new and exciting for the castle to observe. Technology advanced much faster in the outside world. Students began to arrive with the buzzing electromagnetic static of small electronic devices— something called a radio — the crackling noise interrupted sometimes to play much nicer melodies. The static was horrible and she could not understand the appeal of such devices. They seemed to hardly work. 

Once, as the radio was playing in the dormitory of Remus and his friends, it burst into an upbeat song, one that seemed to electrify the air with sound itself. Remus leapt off his bed, exclaiming loudly, “Oi, Sirius— it’s Bowie!” and he and the other boy would sit side by side, not saying a word, listening with grins on their faces.  “Press your space face close to mine, love…” the radio would sing. The words of the song struck her: the sun was going down, and the castle was thinking of her moon.

That had been sometime in their first year, when they had all been getting to know each other. Remus had not quite yet become sure of their friendship, afraid of being vulnerable, believing that if they knew about him that his entire world would collapse. It was a slow process, and it was only in small moments— bonding over a Muggle musician, not-so-subtly plagiarising each other's homework, sneaking out late at night to go to the kitchen— that Remus’ worries slipped away, only momentarily forgotten, but allowing him to begin to learn that it was okay not to be untouchable.

A year later they discovered his secret. The horrified reaction he expected never came: in some miraculous way that he still found hard to believe, it had brought them closer, solidifying the four of them as those-four . They had been practically inseparable, but their friendship was far from perfect. He was very aware of their differences. In fact, he felt like he was deeply in their debt for their acceptance of his lycanthropy. 

Remus told himself he should’ve known it wouldn’t last forever. It was the second moon of their fifth year, and the three other boys had, spectacularly, become Animagi at the end of the previous term. This bestowed the four of them with a greatly heightened sense of pride, a false sense of invincibility— a blissfulness he had shared in, for the first time excited at the prospect of his transformations. The process of becoming Animagi had become something of an escape for them in their fourth year, with the news of dark magic attacks becoming increasingly frequent. It had all felt like a means of taking action.

The snide remarks on a person’s blood status became almost a daily occurance. It started to feel less like isolated insults and more like the war manifesting within the castle walls itself. The bolder two of his friends had always navigated the castle with a casual arrogance: pure-blooded yet fiercely defiant in their defense of those who weren't. Remus sometimes thought it was not always their fight, bullying powerless kids who were merely repeating what they’d been taught at home. He kept quiet, however, because who was Remus to convince them otherwise, especially when they’d done so much for him?

It was inevitable, then. A threat returned with a dare: quietly dangerous in its suggestion, embodying a careless yet unadulterated hatred. The greasy-haired boy in a green tie— who they’d always fought the most viciously out of them all— made his way down to the whomping willow, and Remus had almost killed him.

Later, Madame Pomfrey would tell him what happened, and he asked to refrain from any visitors. He only half paid attention as Dumbledore spoke to him: words of reassurance that everything was fine, words he didn’t believe. The day went by in a blur: he had insisted on going to class, ignoring his friends’ pleas to talk to him. This was easy when he was distracted by spiraling thoughts, eyes unfocused, not really hearing anything that was said to him. When his last class, History of Magic, came to an end, he scurried out of the classroom with a wave of relief. The feeling quickly twisted into dread when he spotted Sirius standing in the corner. The other boy cornered him, grabbing his wrist, which Remus pulled away from as if it was fire. Sirius gave him a pleading look. “Please, Remus—” he began, but Remus didn’t hear the end of it. He ran, the corridors feeling like they were closing in on him. He couldn’t breathe— instantly regretting the running— he was taking great gasping pants of air. Not hearing Sirius behind him, he stilled, and tearing his hands through his hair, he began to pace in a circle.

“FUCK!”

He needed to punch something. He tried to take deep breaths, count how many stone bricks there were between the floor and the ceiling, but it was hopeless. He had trusted Sirius, who had acted on his own self-indulgent whim. He prioritised a one-up on a stupid fucking feud over Remus’ entire future. Remus had almost killed someone. His eye caught on a statue in front of him and he kicked its stone base, cursing as his toes were enveloped in a sharp pain. The monument was almost glaring at him with its singular wide eye, and he had a deep feeling of being watched. Bloody stupid statue too , he thought, exasperated, and without thinking, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at the stone sculpture.

“Dissendium!” he yelled.

It was a spell they’d just learned in Charms: apparently some sort of cleansing spell, meant to dispel negative energy. When Remus had tried it on his Prefect badge in class, it created a small explosion. His badge was somehow left intact, leaving him disappointingly unexcused of prefect duties.

This time no explosion came. His rage was met with a jarring silence, a sudden disappointing anticlimax, staring at the statue of the witch as if she had personally told him he was being ridiculous. Maybe it was bestowed with the spirit of Professor McGonagall, which made him feel slightly ashamed.

A couple of seconds passed, and then with a loud jolt, the statue started moving. Remus was left dumbfounded, surprise dissipating what was left of his anger, as it swivelled to the side, revealing what seemed to be some sort of stairwell. It was unlit, and he couldn’t yet see where it led. He took a step back, glancing along the corridor uneasily before looking back at his new discovery. It was miraculous there were no other students around: usually he’d expect both his tantrum and the castle’s new revelation to be the latest gossip by now.

He looked into the passage, contemplating what he had to lose. He was unwilling to go back to the common room and so, with his rational thinking apparently gone, he followed the steps down into the darkness.

Unbeknownst to Remus, this was the castle reaching out to him. She felt the rising unease of all the students and knew it affected him in a deeply unique way— guilt and fear mixed inextricably. Remus would read about the most recent attack, the Prophet’s latest headline, and he would think about how he was a dark creature too. He would project his classmates’ disgust and fear of these creatures onto himself. These fears had ebbed at him for as long as he knew what he was, growing with every piece of dark news, and last night they had become a stark reality.

The castle’s ancient magic was deeply embedded in protection, and as such, creating an unrestricted means of access from the grounds worked decidedly against her defensive charms. The physical aspect was less difficult, merely involving reopening and rerouting an old tunnel. It perhaps should have been considered a bad idea, but the castle’s concerns had rather fixated on the one boy with the connection to her moon. She thought it was not simply enough to protect Remus. For one, he was a werewolf. Shielding him from outside dangers was pointless when he faced his transformations each month and the internal struggle that came with it. She could not protect him, but there was one way she could indubitably spark some joy.

The stairs brought Remus down three stories and opened into a narrow corridor. After the running, and the recent moon, it was a struggle— but he was pissed off, and therefore he was not going to be stopped. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he discovered the walls were a completely smooth, natural stone. They were decorated in a mural, faint and fading as if painted hundreds years ago. It reminded him of the tapestries in the common room: there were scenes of creatures in a forest; interiors of the castle and their habitation by students; an image of the castle under a full moon. And— a sudden chill came over him. Beside the castle, under the moon, was a werewolf.

He looked away quickly, feeling sick. It was just a coincidence, surely. He hesitated for a moment, overwhelmed, and he considered going back, telling others— well, maybe only James. He’d done nothing to deserve Remus’ anger and everything to deserve his gratitude. They could move past last night: forget it all, have an exciting adventure together. 

It was wishful thinking. He couldn’t just start pretending Sirius didn’t exist. Anyway, he didn’t feel like he had the energy to explain the situation. Even if last night hadn’t happened, he could hardly tell him he discovered a secret passage and didn’t explore it. No— Remus was alone, and he resolved that this was how his life was always destined to be. 

If Remus ignored his thoughts and aching joints, it was almost a nice walk. The mural continued the whole way— werewolf-free, thank Merlin. Fifteen minutes in, the pain of his joints was becoming extremely hard to ignore. He had barely recovered from the moon, the shock of the nights’ events rendering his physical pain almost forgotten. Cursing his self-inflicted independence and beginning to wonder how much longer he’d be walking for, it came to a sudden end: a simple wooden ladder led to a trap door, soft light cascading downwards through cracks in the frame. He scratched his head. The castle would never cease to surprise him.

Climbing the ladder, Remus pushed the trap door open carefully above him. Poking his head through, his mouth dropped open wide in shock. What the actual fuck , he thought. He was in the stockroom of what was very-apparently Honeydukes. He turned back at the passage, not truly believing it, before taking in his surroundings again, quite literally in heaven. 

Remus liked to think he was above stealing. It seemed disrespectful to his parents— they worked so hard to provide for him. Sure, he felt a considerable difference between him and his classmates— he’d tried to shrug off his lack of money for the last five years, skipping the Hogsmeade visits more often than not. He told them he never wanted to buy anything because he wasn't hungry, or his quills were basically brand new, or, “the library has books, Sirius, why would I want to buy one?”. His parents had given him money for the Hogsmeade visits— but they’d vastly underestimated the price of things, and he preferred saving it to be able to buy his friends Christmas gifts.

Remus looked around hungrily at the seemingly endless stock of chocolate and sweets around him. Next summer, he would get a job. He would be able to buy whatever he wanted. He shot down a sharp surge of irrational anger at his friends, never having had that problem. It reminded him again of their differences, of the trust he never should’ve put into them— into Sirius.

But now he was met with an opportunity that seemed too good to pass by. He really had been craving chocolate. And, what the fuck— after last night's events, he deserved it. It was surely only a matter of time before Severus revealed his secret and he was kicked out of Hogwarts, and this wouldn’t matter then. With only a small amount of guilt, he listened for any footsteps and finding none, he slipped an array of chocolate bars into his bag. He pledged in the future to be Hogsmeade’s most loyal paying customer. That future role required a thorough understanding of their selection, he justified. He took mostly plain milk chocolate— a reliable favourite, but he didn’t want to deplete the stock of any one item too much— so he grabbed some more interesting flavours too: caramel sea salt fudge, milk chocolate honeycomb, dark milk pretzel toffee. 

His journey back was far easier with the taste of chocolate on his tongue. It was so ridiculous, he thought, and laughed out loud at the absurdity, his angry outburst rewarding him of all things. He thought about how he’d normally be rushing back to show Sirius, James and Peter, and he was struck by his aloneness. He didn’t think he could have told them anyway— they wouldn’t understand the stealing. But what else could the passage be for, though, really? Remus couldn’t help but believe it was meant to be.