He was a monster.
That’s what Remus had been told since he was bitten; since he was a child. He was told that he was a danger to society; that people needed to be saved from the likes of him — from creatures like him, who were by nature destructive, by definition defective.
He was a restrained sort of fellow, anyone would tell you. He had to be careful and tame his own urges, never let his frustration show or anger run rampant as the other kids did, even when the approaching full moon made his nerves thrum under his skin — especially then. Anyone who knew him knew he wasn’t as wild and free as the other kids. For the human it was fine — Remus the boy was, for the most part, a temperate personality. But the Wolf wasn’t, and he forced him to be. Because how dare he not be ashamed of being this... this beast? Did he not care about the harm his kind inflicted upon the wizards everyday? So, on full moon nights, Remus chained himself harder than was necessary or healthy for him, as penance for the sin of existing this way. He had to prove his humanity by being ashamed of his lycanthropy.
When he started attending school, he led a quiet, solitary existence — the exact opposite of what might be expected from someone like him. His mother had said it was for his own good — that even if his secret got out, he might have a defense: I may be a werewolf, but I’m not like the others. I’ve never been volatile or dangerous. That someone else might vouch for him: he’s different. The others are vile and deserving of the unmitigated cruelty and persecution inflicted upon them by wizardkind, but not him. Please, spare him.
It worried him, sometimes, the fact that his innate nature was not as tranquil as he pretended to be. Having been bit so young, he never could tell how much of his anger was animalistic, and how much was simply human. He’d encountered his fair share of enraged men — his father, for one — and they’d seemed as deranged and violent in their fury as any “dark creature” he’d heard of. And yet, when crimes were committed and murders convicted, the newspapers reported the sentenced wizards as “unpredictable” and “powerful,” but the werewolves as “rabid” and “ruthless”. Expressing anger, he’d long since learned, was a luxury he was not allowed to have.
He was, at the same time, not nearly as hardened as the other werewolves, whose edges had already been hacked at and made jagged by the general prejudices and lawful discrimination the wizarding world subjected them to on the daily. They would look at him, soft and studious and attached to his human friends, and spit the word “sensitive” like it was the worst thing for a cub to be. And perhaps it was, because how could he hope to survive the world he’d been born in? Head in the clouds and nose in a book, his sweater vests were among their matted hair what a well-groomed pet was in a back alley surrounded by feral street cats. They would look at the cuff marks on his wrists and sneer at him for allowing himself to be chained. They made it feel like the only alternative to restraint was to go on a rampage.
There HAS to be another way, he’d yell into his pillow on sleepless nights. But there wasn’t, so every full moon he suffered in isolation and scratched and clawed himself bloody rather than risk hurting anyone else, even on accident.
• • •
But that was before James and Sirius and Peter. That was before the Marauders.
When they had first found out his secret, he’d had a panic attack and run away to the Forbidden Forest for hours. When he’d finally come back to the dorm that night — eyes red, cheeks tear-stained, throat hoarse — it was with his head held high in defiance, anticipating a fight that did not come. Instead, they had presented their acceptance as something that was never in question (how could you even think we’d hate you for it, Remus, are you kidding, that’s the coolest thing ever) and been so aggressively supportive he had almost wept.
He still didn’t involve them in his transformations, though — still didn’t tell them how painful they were; couldn’t bring himself to talk about how scared he was every single time, when he should’ve been used to it by now; couldn’t accept their help the days leading up to it; or bear their fussing over him the day after. It had felt like ingratitude, asking for anything more than tolerance. Their unexpected friendship was already more than he deserved. He wouldn’t be a burden, wouldn’t bother them with the gruesome details for fear it would put them off; that witnessing it in person would change their minds, making them realise he was a monster, after all. A broken boy and a twisted creature.
(And wasn’t it funny, the way the world had trained him to think? To be more concerned with others’ perception of his agony, than his own experience of the pain.)
But the Marauders didn’t stop there, of course. Had to break school rules and wizarding laws and all magical protocols to become animagi in secret, probably younger than anyone in history, and for no reason he could fathom.
Did they really go to such extents for... him? He found that impossible to believe. James and Peter were childhood friends, and James and Sirius were... well, James and Sirius. Their loyalty to each other was justified. Remus, however, was an outsider. All of them liked him well enough, he knew, but part of him had thought he was in the group only because they shared a dorm, or because... because he was useful. He had creative ideas and the magical proficiency to execute them, and so he was allowed to tag along.
But now he was, for the first time in his life, well and truly not alone. For the first time, Remus let himself be followed into the abandoned shack where he sequestered himself, let his deepest shame be witnessed — and instead of pointing their wands at him, they threw the doors open and set him free.
They saw his body crack and contort as he transformed, heard his guttural screams of excruciating pain, and instead of calling him a monster they called him brave. Then they turned into animals themselves and escorted him back out to the world.
Safe as animagi, they frolicked together in the dewy overgrown grass and cold breeze of the Forbidden Forest till dawn, then helped him recover the following day from the easiest transformation he had ever had. The Wolf wasn’t as aggressively savage as he’d been taught to believe — he just wanted to roam unchained and free.
Remus didn’t remember much from his nightly sojourns as the Wolf, but he remembered the feeling — wild, untamed, liberated at last. Running, running, as far and fast as he pleased, experiencing for the first time the enhanced strength and latent power of his other body. And when he howled, there was another voice howling right beside him. When he awoke, there was dirt under his fingernails instead of blood.
He couldn’t make much sense of the Wolf’s memories, but he remembered the feeling of being part of a pack. Of being protected and having something to protect. Out of the darkness at last, his secret did not seem so shameful anymore, nor his condition so lonely. He was the reason their group now had secrets that bound them together forever — he was the reason they became Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.
For once in his life, things had taken a turn for the better, and it was the most unexpected twist in the world.
Because, you see, never before had he felt like he fit in. Never before had he felt not just accepted, but also appreciated; never before had he experienced friendship — the way James exclaimed, “Brilliant!” when Remus solved the logistics of another inventive prank; the way Sirius barked “Moony!” and seemed amused and impressed instead of disgusted and afraid on the rare occasions Remus let his temper fly or suggested a scheme undeniably diabolical. Peter laughed at the snarky comments he muttered under his breath, so he started speaking just loud enough to be audible to all four of them. When he mustered the courage to let some of his barely contained vitriol slip into his sarcasm when dealing with bigoted arseholes like Snape or Malfoy, all three of them whooped and cheered. With this lot, it felt like he bared his fangs and found them being praised for their sharpness (and not as a weapon to be utilized, but rather as just another facet of their friend). They encouraged his biting viciousness against bullies, then turned around and appreciated the empathetic restraint he brought to some of their more callous pranks. With them, he didn’t feel the need to choose: wizard or werewolf, scholar or fighter, Prefect or Marauder — he could have it all.
With them, he could complain about his condition without being ashamed of it; express anger at the allegiances of his brethren without them disparaging his whole community in response; be discontent about his prospects without being told to be grateful, Remus, you still have more than what most werewolves can only hope for.
If he woke up tomorrow and all of this turned out to be a dream; if he woke up tomorrow and found out that magic was, in fact, not real and his whole life had just been a massive hallucination — he would still look back at the Hogwarts chapter and be more surprised by the fact that he had ever been this happy, that he’d managed to find friends who loved him this much — than by the fact that he was a werewolf.
• • •
Ever since he’d set foot in Hogwarts, Remus had kept people at an arm’s length. It was to save them from himself, and himself from the inevitable abandonment. But as the years went by, that changed. James was so warm and so daring, and Sirius so gifted and so reckless, and Peter a steady presence, that he no longer feared for them. With their support he had, slowly but surely, learned how to let people get close.
The problem was, Remus was also beginning to fall in love with a heart as fragile as his own. There were signs that Sirius felt the same — during impromptu 3am chats when neither of them could sleep, talking softly and sitting closer than they usually did, knees touching and hands occasionally brushing, as if the silence and darkness of the hour gave them the permission to behave in ways they didn’t dare to in the light.
He considered saying something. There were some moments when he almost did, moments when they looked into each other’s eyes for a little too long and with a little too much emotion, moments when the words came up to the tip of his tongue, ready to take flight — only for him to swallow them down as soon as the moment got too intense, at which point one of them would look away with a nervous chuckle and a brotherly clap on the back, and come morning they would mention none of it to the others by some unspoken agreement.
The problem was, Remus feared for himself now. For his own heart. Hope was a dangerous thing for a creature like him to have. He had let himself get attached, and if Sirius rejected him now, he didn’t think he could bear it.
And yet. And yet, despite the experiences of his life, despite knowing this was a bad idea, Remus let his foolhardy heart get its hopes up again. In the private realm of thought, he let himself imagine a day when he’d go up to Sirius and just lay his heart bare, offer it up for Sirius to cradle or to break. His daydreams often took a turn for the worse after this, Sirius turning away or flinching in disgust or gently telling him no and consoling him as he cried. It felt like tempting Fate to imagine Sirius taking his face between careful, warm palms and kissing him till he couldn’t breathe. But in the end, that’s the direction Remus’ imagination always went — no matter where he was, whether having dinner with the Gryffindors in the Great Hall or a study sesh with Marlene, Dorcas and Lily at the library — he sat and mentally practised the once-in-a-lifetime confession over and over, let his courage build up, up, up. He could feel the day was not far when he’d finally have enough to do this in reality.
• • •
But then the war happened, people picked sides, and fear of his kind spread across the wizarding world along with accounts of their deeds as servants of Voldemort. Their reputation worsened, mistrust among the Order grew with whispers about a traitor, and all signs pointed at him. Remus decided to make himself scarce, to take missions more dangerous than anyone else, farther away from everyone else, in a desperate attempt to, once again, prove his innocence and harmlessness while maintaining his usefulness as a spy and soldier.
He considered, in the face of death and the end of the world, to confess his feelings before it was too late. When the nightmares prevented him from sleeping and the exhaustion kept him from getting up, he laid in bed and wondered if he still had a chance at all. The old fear kept flaring again and again — how much happiness was he allowed to have? What did he deserve?
No. Not knowing was better. He’d rather have Sirius as a friend than see the pity (or worse, suspicion) on his face when he rejected him. Because then he wouldn’t have the hope to hold on to — the grim reality would ruin the (perhaps delusional) film reel that he played over and over in his mind to lull him to sleep: him stroking Sirius’ hair as they slept entangled, Sirius kissing him back in the early hours of the morning. And in the bleakness of the war, Remus needed all the hope he could get. He needed to believe that no matter how fraught things were right now, in their heart of hearts they both envisioned the same future.
So he assured himself that maybe after this was all over, he’d force himself to muster the courage. He’d force himself to bare his heart, bruised and battered thing that it was, for the first and the last time in his life — and accept whatever verdict he would be given regarding its worthiness.
• • •
Things never did play out that way. You might have heard the saying: “Man plans, God laughs.” Remus had always known that whoever was directing his life was a sadistic bastard, but he hadn’t known just how cruel, how bloodthirsty, how merciless they could get.
Because on that horrible, fateful day he received the news, the world rejoiced while his heart shattered into jagged pieces and cut his lungs till he couldn’t breathe. He watched everyone celebrate while his life and hopes and every last shred of joy went up in flames, leaving him with nothing but the jarring certainty that he would never be whole again. There was no healing from this kind of grief, no possibility of trust after this kind of betrayal.
He slid down the wall and fell to the floor, arms clutched tightly around himself as if trying to hold his broken pieces from falling apart.
His throat hurt, from the crying and from the grief, and why did emotions have to be so physical? He reached out for the well of strength, of bravery, of any goodwill for this world or God or life inside him, and came up empty. There was nothingthere.
No shred of joy left, not a drop of hope, no reason to believe there was a point to life and earth and humanity and living, it was all just useless, so fucking pointless, and why, why did it have to be them, why did Siri— why did he have to hurt him like this, he hated him, Remus hated him, it would’ve been better if Sirius had fucking died in battle, anything would’ve been better than this —
He reaches for the well inside him for the strength to get up, and there’s nothing there. The world cannot fill him up. There is a sudden vacuum where his heart used to be, and as he gasps for breaths that do not come, he worries if it’s possible for his entire being to collapse inwards.
He feels some fundamental force bleed out of him. It’s funny, how everything hurts so much he feels like he’s dying, yet not a drop of blood falls from him. If any organ other than his heart had taken this shock, it would’ve been torn to shreds. But his heart, it keeps on beating, as if he wasn’t just robbed of all reasons that made him want it to.
• • •
After James and Lily’s dea—
Afterwards, he continued to believe in God only because he needed someone to despise. Someone to rage at, inside his head, someone to curse, because the thought of cursing the only other Marauder still alive threatened to send him back into the dark pits it had taken him months to claw his way out of.
Because it was impossible not to think about him every full moon, when the Wolf howled at the absence beside him, whining at the loss of the playmate he had made the mistake of getting used to. And now he was paying the price of that arrogance, of moulding his life around people as if they would never be snatched from him, of thinking Fate wasn’t still at his heels just because she had granted him a few years’ reprieve.
Five years later, Remus finally began to move on. He had thought the worst thing in the world was getting his heart knifed to the hilt by Grief. He was mistaken: it was Time slowly pulling the knife out, and leaving him to bleed.
It was Time forcing him to heal, stitching over scabs he wanted to keep scratching, making him dread that he’ll forget. Dread not being able to remember the sound of Sirius’ barking laughter, the exact shade of green of Lily’s eyes, James’ quietly reassuring voice, and dear, innocent Peter.
• • •
In the years to come, an older Remus Lupin would sit in his ratty old armchair by the fireplace and imagine what could’ve been. In another universe, in another time period, maybe there’s a version of them that’s happy. Where had it all gone so wrong? Maybe he should’ve met them a few years earlier. Maybe he never should’ve met them at all. Maybe he should’ve confessed his feelings to Sirius, given him a reason to stay on their side. Maybe he should’ve noticed when his low moods went from melancholy to malicious and killed him before he could kill the Potters. Or maybe, there was nothing that could’ve changed anything. His fears had been right: this was the only ending he was allowed to have.
He had been so close to proving himself and everyone else wrong. To proving that he could have a good life; one not tainted by his status or condition or sexuality or insecurities.
He almost laughed: he had looked at his cards, handed by a dealer who primed him to lose, in a world that wanted him dead, and actually thought he could escape tragedy. Most people thought him lucky — he’d defied all odds, one of the few left standing while most of the Order was dead — but he knew better. He had been cursed, once again, with suffering. The world would move on, and he would wake up, every single day, and try not to get crushed under the weight of remembrance.
In the end, though.
In the end, he never did learn how to let himself be loved.
But that was okay; there was no one left now to love him anyway.