the dead poets society was written in nineteen-eighty-eight by a woman named nancy h. kleinbaum. it was long after remus lupin’s time at hogwarts, and yet, remus lupin knows it well.
he knows it well because, in nineteen-seventy-four, nancy h. kleinbaum took up a position at hogwarts a mere year before fleeing to germany.
she was a quiet woman, objectively gorgeous, with a penchant for eloquence. her defense against the dark arts lessons were nothing short of entire novels detailing the intricacies of certain spells. it was easy to understand them with the way she taught. remus had never been the best at defense spells — he rather sucked at them, actually. shields came easily to him, and they were strong, and they did their job well. dueling? the most difficult task for young remus lupin to accomplish.
with her help, he’d managed to crack the code. it was never that he sucked at defense spells, but rather, that his emotions ran so rampant that he was entirely unable to control his magic. and this was a problem, because magic requires a certain amount of precision and care.
it was professor kleinbaum who’d first introduced remus to the idea of poetry. this isn’t to say he’d never thought of it before — he had, in great detail, many nights throughout his life. yet, it was nancy who’d given him the gall to pursue it officially.
it started as a group of four, not including professor kleinbaum. it was sirius, and remus, and james, and peter. four roommates with an equal interest in swallowing knowledge like water. sirius and peter and james and remus, a ragtag union of four boys with more emotional instability than a faucet’s flow.
then came regulus black, per sirius’ request. and with regulus came evan rosier, and where evan rosier went barty crouch jr. followed. then came pandora rosier, and marlene mckinnon, and lily evans, and travis crowley, and margaret emily. and soon enough, a silly group of four boys looking to stabilize their magic became a sort of secret club full of young wix seeking an outlet. a reason. a reprieve. whatever the reason might be, creative writing seemed to be the answer.
and it was, for a very, very long time.
sheets upon sheets of parchment, nights upon nights spent crammed in a classroom, all scrawled in outpourings from swollen hearts incapable of holding all there is to hold. it forced a bond, one greater than the test of time. a bond beyond the grave. a camaraderie for the storybooks.
“lupin,” regulus had said one wintry day in third year. “it’s come to my attention that this club of sorts was your idea to begin with. why is it that you never share your poetry with us?”
this was a loaded question. in short, remus didn’t share because remus scarcely wrote. and what he did write… it’s not quite suitable for a young school student. it’s even less suitable for sharing before a professor. not that professor kleinbaum would have minded, of course. she’d preached the importance of secrecy and transparency of the small society from the beginning — “anything you write is as much a part of you as the hair on your head. i can’t very well punish you for possessing hair, can i? so how may i provide punishment for the other pieces of you?” was her motto.
“i’m not much of a writer,” remus had confessed guiltily. it had been months by this point. months spent listening to the crying voices of his classmates. months spent hearing the bitter wails and the soft confessions of his closest companions. months he’d spent sharing not a single word, not a single thought. “what i do write is… in bad taste. it’s written simply and without structure. it seems quite ridiculous to share something i can’t bring myself to be proud of, no?”
“no, actually,” was travis’ instant response. it was not said unkindly, yet remus felt oddly attacked. “not a single person in this room is proud of what they write. how can we find pride in the things that cause us harm? we find just as much shame in our writing as you do, captain.”
it was silly, the way the younger students had taken to calling remus captain. it stemmed from a poem written a century before by walt whitman, authored in the wake of an american president’s assassination. it had seemingly struck a chord within youthful hogwarts pupils; they’d sworn, at the time, that they’d follow remus into death, and he’d thought them ridiculous. it’s rather ironic that decades later, it would be remus following them and not the other way around.
“i don’t see why you can’t share even one, moony,” sirius had said, ever the calming presence. the original four boys — marauders, as their secret map proclaimed — had taken to calling each other silly code names built for pranks. they’d stretched beyond that, though. they’d expanded into classrooms, mealtimes, even private moments in the dorm. quite silly, in all honesty, but a badge worn with honor, because remus had once been a part of the greatest friend group of all time.
“yeah, c’mon, moony. one couldn’t hurt,” peter goaded, a grin on his pudgy little face. at thirteen, peter had seemingly found the courage to contribute to public conversations. he was quite the snarky bastard in amicable solace, yet he became meek around others. by the beginning of third year, however, his blushing and stuttering had faded a good bit. remus liked to think it was a product of the friend group’s consistent and overbearing positivity towards their smallest, but he could never be quite sure.
“i suppose,” remus had responded then. and so he’d read a poem aloud to an entire group of teens and preteens with reddened cheeks and shaking hands.
it spoke of the moon, of the animalistic instincts buried within his flesh and bones. it spoke of his desire to become one with the weeds, to fade into soil and sprout a tree from his remains. at least then, he’d written, i will have earned the clay from which i was crafted.
there wasn’t a dry eye within that secluded classroom that night.
decades later, once remus has lived long enough to oversee the final departure of his adolescent secret society, he will mark that night as the first night of his existence. he began not with his birth, but with a poem, shared in confidence and never spoken of again.
fourth year began, and with it began the teenage angst. their little club continued to meet, despite the absence of professor kleinbaum. she’d been merely a catalyst for a strong beginning, a step in the right direction. it was entirely remus then. entirely him, with the weight of eleven lives on his shoulders.
by the beginning of sixth year, only ten remained.
travis crowley did not return for the following school year. he would not return for any after. in some tragic turn of events, travis had been abducted and found abandoned beside a king’s cross station. some suspected it to be a death by his own hand, but most suspected it as what it was — travis was a muggleborn wizard, and everyone knew what that meant.
“i’m not sure i want this anymore,” regulus had confided in remus after a rather lengthy meeting. they’d spoken over a shared cigarette, smoke billowing out of the classroom window, twin burning in a pair of blackened lungs.
“what do you mean?” was remus’ response.
“i’m meant to take the mark come my sixteenth birthday. i’m not sure i wish to anymore.”
regulus’ eyes, the same sharp grey as his brother’s, swam with unshed tears. he and evan and travis had been a trio, nearly as unstoppable as the self-proclaimed marauders were. the only thing stopping them, naturally, was blood purity. regulus and evan both descended from a long line of purist culture, and thus were strictly forbidden to consort with travis’ sort. it didn’t stop them, of course, much like it hadn’t stopped regulus from associating with peter or remus or lily or even sirius.
“why don’t you escape? follow sirius to the potters,” remus had suggested through a mouthful of grey. regulus had scoffed at this, waved a hand, a bitter twist to his mouth.
“mother would be less than pleased. she may even slaughter me before i step a single toe out of grimmauld place. it would be easier to kiss a bloody dragon.”
“why didn’t you leave with sirius? i’m sure he would’ve been more than willing to bring you.”
“that’s one thing you don’t understand, lupin,” regulus had whispered, cigarette dangling from his fingers, tears dripping from his chin. “it was one or neither of us. if i had left, sirius would still be rotting in that house. it was him or i, and i chose him. i’ll always choose him.”
later that school year, when regulus was freshly sixteen, he stopped rolling up his sleeves when he read from his journal. he no longer smiled. no longer laughed. no longer wrote of his love for kittens or the debt he owed to his beloved brother for being the only parental figure in his life.
that was when remus knew that regulus had sealed himself to a fate worse than death.
a few short months after that, margaret followed in his footsteps. she was no longer a member of their secret society. she no longer lost herself within stanzas and prose. she’d lost herself to the dark, and this time, remus had no explanation for it.
“i don’t think i like boys,” marlene had whispered brokenly near the end of sixth year. remus merely patted her back, leaned their heads together.
“i don’t think i like girls,” he’d offered in return. and marlene had smiled, broad and wide, gesturing to the red spot only barely peeking over his collar. it fit the exact dimension of sirius black’s teeth, and he wore it proudly. it is an accomplishment to triumph in the warm rays of sirius black’s affection, after all. sirius hung the stars and crafted the moon from dust, and remus would be a fool not to wear his stains with pride.
“never would’ve guessed that on my own, thanks,” she mused. remus scoffed and gave the back of her head a slight slap, then knocked their knees together with a flush on his cheeks.
“i didn’t want you to be alone in your confessions, is all. you don’t have to like boys to be normal, marlene. we’ve got no control over who our hearts choose to love, and that is what makes you frighteningly ordinary.”
and that was that, really.
in the first weeks of seventh year, lily finally succumbed to the charm of one james potter. not that it was any hard feat — james was as charming as he was brilliant. it was only a matter of time before the two of them admitted to their obvious enchantment of one another.
“lily is actually mine,” james had breathed in awe one night, hidden away behind the door of their dorm room. “i think i might be the luckiest bloke alive.”
“i’ll have to challenge you on that one, mate,” remus mused from his rightful place in sirius’ arms. “i think i might be luckier.”
“oh shut it, saps,” peter chuckled from behind his bed curtains. “it’s quite rude to boast your happiness in front of the singles of the world.”
“as if you aren’t shagging half the castle, wormtail,” sirius scoffed. “half the birds in hogwarts are dying to marry you by now, i’m sure. i believe it was mathilda wright who sent you an engagement ring via owl only this week, wasn’t it?”
“you lot know i’m strict with my studies,” peter cried, indignant.
“yes, yes, you tell us all the time,” remus dismissed, waving a hand through the air with a grin on his face. “you can’t commit to a bird until you’ve taken the minister’s seat. we’re all well aware of your personal restrictions.”
it was silent for a moment, then james wistfully sighed, “lily evans. how lovely.” and then there was laughter echoing off stone walls and aching cheeks.
by the following summer, lily evans and james potter were engaged. and so were remus lupin and sirius black, despite the illegality of their union.
“father’s forcing me to take the mark, y’know,” evan rosier uttered one winter afternoon. he gestured to his twin sister across the classroom with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “haven’t told pandora yet. i’m not sure i want to, actually. she’d be in harm’s way, and i simply won’t allow it.”
“i’m sorry to hear that,” remus whispered, a frown tipping his lips. “know you can always find me, yeah? i know these things are impossible to escape. you’ve always got me, if no one else.”
“thanks, captain. try not to curse me too harshly on the field. i’d like to keep my looks, if you don’t mind,” evan had murmured, wearing a bright smile despite the clouds looming over his head. he was a lot like james in that way — always bright, always smiling, impossible to distinguish. a cheerful lad with a soft spot for snails, of all things.
“only if you promise to teach me your famous stinging hex,” remus had negotiated, sharing evan’s grin as he lit his own cigarette.
“do you think i’ve gone mad?” asked barty crouch jr come early spring. remus merely snorted, amused.
“anyone would be a fool not to. you are mad, barty, but i find that all geniuses typically are,” remus had hushed, tipping his head toward the hefty pile of parchment in barty’s hands. all details of barty’s life work, which consisted of a lengthy plan to take his father’s seat as the minister for magic. not all of it was legal, of course, but in remus’ experience, no perfect plan truly is.
“you think i’m a genius?” barty guffawed, pink staining his cheeks.
“i do,” remus answered simply. “i also think you’re incredibly passionate. and incredibly kind. and fiercely protective. you are mad, but that is not always a negative trait. it was born not of your genetics, but your love. you love harder than anyone i’ve ever known.”
“i do, don’t i?” barty sighed rhetorically. “perhaps you’re right. perhaps the love has driven me to insanity,” he cast a fond glance to evan, sitting only a few metres away, “because i’d follow him to the darkest pits of hell and back with zero hesitation.”
“i’d do the same,” remus whispered, as his eyes caressed the jovial smile trapped on sirius’ cheeks.
“perhaps you’re a bit loony yourself, captain.”
remus chuckled to himself, taking a short sip of his tea, a sheepish grin stretching his lips.
“i don’t think that’s a question anymore, barty. it’s a fact more certain than the sun rising in the morning.”
hogwarts staff had a habit of consistently overdoing major events. like the welcoming dinner at the beginning of the year, for example. or the farewell dinner at the end of term, for another.
graduation was no exception.
chairs upon chairs upon chairs, all gathered within the great hall, housing parents and professors and students alike. remus’ parents were absent, of course. lyall couldn’t be bothered to make an effort, and without him, hope had no way of traveling into the wizarding world. effie and monty were there, though, cheering loudly enough for all three of their sons, adopted or birthed.
sirius had been one of the first to receive his certificate, seeing as his surname was relatively early in the alphabet. it seemed the entirety of the great hall came alive with their applause. remus would be next, followed by peter, then james. there were quite a few students graduating that year, despite the damage the dark lord had done on their school’s population. not many returned for their seventh year, whether it be out of fear or by death.
remus had done it, though. he’d finished schooling. he’d seen it through. and he was only a few steps from officially completing it. he took those few steps, casting a grateful smile to albus dumbledore as he accepted his certificate.
“o captain, my captain!” came a bellowing voice from the crowd. remus spun on his heel, catching the dark curls of the black heir. he bore tears in his eyes, and his mother was tugging his sleeve with a face so red she may as well have been spouting steam from her ears.
“o captain, my captain!” followed evan rosier, feet firmly planted on his chair, a mirror image of regulus.
one by one, the secret poet society stood on their chairs, shouting their loyalty with a passion so fierce remus was in tears as he exited the stage. pandora, james, peter, barty, lily, sirius, marlene, even margaret. all standing with pride, all embracing their oath to follow him to his dying breath.
the face he least expected to see in the crowd was nancy h. kleinbaum, but there she was, a proud smile on her face and tear tracks maiming her cheeks.
they did follow through with their vow after all, remus muses to himself as he draws in his final breaths. because even now, in his final moments, he can still recall all those days and nights, all those words and tears, shared within an abandoned classroom. they truly had followed him to the end.
a bond greater than time. a friendship into the afterlife. he can only hope they’ll be waiting for him on the other side of life.
and if any person were to read that book, the dead poets society, they’d never know it was written about a group of rowdy schoolchildren with too much passion for their hearts to handle.