At eleven years old, Remus Lupin felt bewildered by much of the world. His life, thus far, had existed primarily between the collection of walls that comprised his family’s home in Cornwall. Twice a week his mother took him to visit the local grocer where they bought meat, cheese, vegetables, and sometimes a bottle of wine, which Remus was not permitted to drink, though he rather enjoyed the illustrations on the label. Once a month, he and his mother rode in the family’s ancient old Land Rover into Charlestown where they each got haircuts and visited the library. These were always exciting trips for Remus, first and foremost because, apart from visiting cousins in the North, they were the only times when Remus got to be around other children.
His father went to work each morning before Remus awoke, and returned, usually, just before supper. His father was kind and quiet, much like Remus himself. Still, Remus always felt slightly nervous around Lyall. He hadn’t devoted the time yet to determining why, but perhaps it was because Lyall, in his quiet way, exuded an atmosphere of anxiety. His speech was breathy and mild, and he possessed the habit of tapping his fingers softly but rapidly at his side.
Remus’s mother was cheerful and attractive, if a little harried. To Remus, she was radiant. It was she, after all, who spent long days in the Cornish countryside entertaining her lonely son, her unfortunate, pitiable son. She never let on that she saw him this way, and he was grateful, but he knew even then, knew quite well, that it was no ordinary or blessed thing to be a werewolf.
At eleven, Remus’s world was small. But in its confinement, it was marked by strangeness and by secrets. What was quotidian for him was the stuff of nightmares for others-- for more than half of his life, he spent one night a month under careful lock and key as his skin erupted and his bones broke themselves under force of cursed magic, rearranging into something ghastly and brutish, something bloodthirsty. The wolf.
Already his identity as a person of magical blood made him different, set him apart from most people, from his mother. But the wolf ensured that no one, not even witches and wizards, could accept him. He knew this in the instinctual way that a child knows who is safe and who is dangerous.
And so, the things that others took for granted—friends, laughter, lightheartedness—bewildered eleven-year-old Remus Lupin. So much so that when, in the summer after his birthday, his parents informed him that come the fall he would be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he couldn’t make sense of their words. When he finally understood their meaning and ascertained that this was not an ill-conceived scheme, he was too overcome to feel very much.
Months later, it was in a similar state of overwhelm that he passed through the barrier at Platform 9 3/4, hugged his mother and father goodbye, and boarded the scarlet steam engine headed for Hogwarts School and away from everything he’d ever known. The platform had been wild and noisy, bursting with more activity than Remus had encountered anywhere in the sleepy Cornish coast. Children shouted happily, owls screeched and hooted, and smoke from the Hogwarts Express climbed and curled through the animated crowd. It was only once he was alone in a train compartment, lulled by the heavy wheels turning steadily beneath him, that Remus felt the weight of what was happening. He, Remus Lupin, was to live at a magical school for young wizards and witches, the very same magical school that had educated his father, his grandfather, and countless other witches and wizards across Britain. These exuberant, carefree children roaming the train, now strangers, were to be his classmates, and, if he were very lucky, his friends. The thought set off a feeling so powerful in his chest that he saw the need to squash it immediately. Get a grip, Remus, he told himself.
He'd just begun to refocus his attention on the shifting landscape outside his window when the compartment door burst unceremoniously open. Or rather, it was thrown open, quite carelessly, by a boy with untidy brown hair and a handsome face etched with a look of great relief.
“Here Peter,” he called behind him, “this one’s mostly empty. Do you mind if we join you mate?” he asked jovially, turning to Remus.
“Not at all,” Remus responded sincerely. He hadn’t been avoiding other students on purpose—he was only shy. The messy-haired boy summoned his friend called Peter, a blonde, stout boy who appeared to be quite shaken, and the two of them entered the train compartment. Peter collapsed noisily onto the bench next to Remus as James sat across from them, offering a handshake with, Remus noticed, a manner of comfortable grace.
“James Potter,” he said, smiling.
“Remus… Lupin, that is,” Remus stuttered, extending an arm. James had a firm handshake for a child, Remus thought. He didn’t know children shook hands with one another at all actually, but then again, he didn’t know very much about other children.
“Pleasure to meet you. You saved us from a bit of a situation. Peter here got himself tangled up with some Slytherin upperclassmen, nasty gits. I’m afraid my tongue didn’t help either,” he said, grinning mischievously.
“Not even to school yet. My mum’s going to lose her head,” Peter murmured.
“Your mum will be none the wiser, Pete. Unless you plan on writing to her to let her know. Besides, you haven’t done anything wrong. Slytherins are always looking for trouble, but picking on first years should be beneath even them.”
“You’re first years too, then?” Remus asked. He’d been attempting to gauge the ages of his new companions. They didn’t look any older than he did, but James seemed far too confident to be his same year.
“That’s right. Couldn’t come soon enough. I was going mad this summer counting down the days ‘til now. I can’t wait for the sorting, can you?” On the contrary, Remus felt that he could wait. He was aware of the sorting process, and for him the idea of being publicly placed into one of the old, storied Hogwarts houses was not without ample anxiety. Mostly, Remus was afraid the hat would reject him altogether, unwilling to commit the heresy of placing a werewolf, of all ludicrous things, into one of the four noble houses. He evaded James’s question.
“Where do you think you’ll go?” he asked instead.
“Gryffindor. I’m sure of it. All the Potters have been Gryffindors for ages, minus a rare Hufflepuff or two. What about you lot?”
“I’ll probably be a Hufflepuff,” sighed Peter, who looked only slightly less disheveled than he had upon arriving in the compartment, “I’m not smart or brave or, what is it… cunning? So, I don’t see where else that leaves me.”
“Hufflepuffs are good stock. Nothing wrong with being loyal. I’d take them over Slytherin any day,” James said in enthusiastic consolation. Peter looked cheered.
“My dad was a Ravenclaw. I suppose that could be nice,” Remus offered. He didn’t think himself particularly clever, but the truth sounded too pitiful to voice—that he’d be happy enough not to be sent home.
“Ah, fancy yourself an intellectual then,” James smiled, to Remus’s immediate embarrassment.
“No—no, I only meant—”
“Only joking mate. Takes all kinds in the end anyway, doesn’t it? Imagine if the whole world were Gryffindors. There’d be no one to use their head. In fact, I could have benefitted from some Ravenclaw good sense earlier with the Slytherins,” James laughed.
“What, er, what happened exactly?” Remus asked. Both Peter and James began to respond, but at that moment, the compartment door was flung open yet again. On the other side stood a tall boy with jet black hair and large, striking gray eyes. His angular face was positioned into a hard look of disapproval, or was it anger?
“Can I join you then?” he asked, glancing around and spotting the empty seat next to James. His accent was that of a posh Londoner, Remus recognized, though his tone was casual, careless.
“Certainly mate. James Potter. Who are you?” James asked, extending his firm hand to the newcomer.
“Sirius,” the boy responded, shaking James’s hand before joining the three of them, his uneasy eyes glancing casually but noticeably behind him down the corridor.
“Sirius?” James repeated, “That wouldn’t be Sirius Black, would it?” his tone was still friendly, but Remus detected a note of suspicion.
“It would,” Sirius said, his handsome mouth lifting into a tiny smirk, a challenge.
“Hmm. I’d have thought you’d be with the other ancients and nobles. Or whatever it is that you lot like to call yourselves.”
“I was. Until they started peeving me off. You want to chuck me then?” Sirius responded lazily, “A bit biased, no? For a salt-of-the-earth Potter?”
James roared with unexpected laughter. The conversation had quickly gone above Remus’s head, but he had some idea that James and Sirius must know each other indirectly. The wizarding world was like this, he knew, though he’d never seen it—small, enmeshed, full of old families, prejudices and loyalties.
“You can stay, Black. Just know there are at least a couple of blood traitors in here. Don’t want you to be caught with the wrong company unawares,” James said, his eyes dancing with something between amusement and surprise.
“Suits me,” Sirius shrugged, and Remus saw the surprise flare in James’s expression. The Blacks, then, must be one of the families his father had warned him about. Old, arrogant, supremacist, and definitely not a friend to young werewolves. A shiver chilled Remus’s spine.
Peter, who had been quiet since the arrival of Sirius, now spoke up.
“My mum says the Blacks own half of the wizarding world,” he mused, quite tactlessly, Remus thought. James seemed to have a similar reaction. He looked, for once, momentarily speechless. Sirius too looked embarrassed, but he shook his head, and responded in the same lazy manner.
“Yea well, got to have something going for us, I guess. Ask Potter here how much of the wizarding world his family owns. I suspect he’ll tell you the other half.”
“We’re comfortable,” James replied, the laughter returning to his eyes. There was a silence in which everyone seemed happy to let the subject drop. Talk of money made Remus uneasy, as his family had almost none. Whatever they did have was spent on his care and treatment, a fact his mother attempted, unsuccessfully, to hide from him.
“Who’re the two of you, anyway?” asked Sirius, nodding at Remus and Peter.
“I’m Peter Pettigrew,” the blonde boy answered, seemingly unaware of his recent faux pas.
“Pleasure, Pete,” Black responded, “And you?” His gray eyes fixed on Remus, and the smaller boy blushed slightly under the intensity of his regard.
“Remus Lupin,” he said quietly, feeling—absurdly-- found out somehow, as though Sirius could learn more about him than he should simply through eye contact. He hid his gaze quickly, feeling a blush creep up his neck. Sirius only nodded, then turned his attention to the window, where the countryside was becoming wilder and rougher.
“How much longer do you think?” Peter asked.
“Can’t be much. I’m ready to feast,” James sighed, “I hope they serve treacle tart. Mum and dad say it’s the best anywhere. Our elf Millie, bless her, can mend or clean anything, but baking isn’t her strong suit. Confuses the salt and sugar too much. Granted she’s about a hundred years old,” James said pleasantly.
“That’s what’s on your mind hours before the sorting, Potter? Treacle tart?” Sirius laughed in amusement, his eyes still at rest on the passing scenery.
“Sure. What else?” James replied, “Or do Blacks have more serious considerations than the rest of us? How to impress the headmaster? Who to suck up to for first year flying privileges, perhaps? Although, now that I mention it, that might be a good thing to know,” James mused.
“That would be Madame Zaaiman. Good luck there—she’s a bit of a tyrant, I hear. And favors Ravenclaws. But no, I meant the sorting. Aren’t you curious where you’ll end up?”
“Ah, yes, the sorting. We’ve already discussed. I imagine Gryffindor, though I could make do with Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, I suppose. My mum and dad insist there are no bad houses, which I reckon is mostly true, though I’d be hard pressed to get along with most of the Slytherin lot. No offense mate,” he added, casting a furtive glance at the other boy.
“None taken,” Sirius said flatly, “I expect I’ll be in Slytherin though.” He looked a bit miserable, Remus thought. He found Sirius to be highly interesting, if intimidating. He didn’t seem bothered by James’s snipe about blood traitors, and he clearly felt torn, at best, about being sorted into the house most known for blood supremacy and dark magic, the house that was probably, if Remus had to guess, exactly where the Black family would want him to go. Still, there was something cold and aristocratic about him. Something closed and formal, unlike the mirthful, generous fashion of James Potter, which itself spoke to a kind of patrician privilege.
The two of them, James and Sirius, seemed mature, worldly. How would the likes of these boys respond to knowing that a werewolf sat opposite them? It doesn’t matter, thought Remus, because they can never find out. He felt glad to be witness to the banter, to be included in proximity despite having little to add. He was grateful for the company of the three other boys. He even dared to imagine that perhaps they wouldn’t mind waving to him in the corridors of the castle when school started. It would be good to recognize friendly faces. But Remus had understood the desperate, pleading warning his parents had given him over the summer. No one, absolutely no one, could know his secret.