Prologue - November 1981
There were three times in Remus Lupin’s life that he felt he truly hated Mary Macdonald. None of these instances were her fault, not really. He always accepted that eventually, once the pain subsided and rationale took over.
The first occasion was in third year when Mary excitedly announced to their row in second-period charms that she and Sirius were ready to “take the next step.” Remus, who had been unaware any kind of initial step had even taken place was left dumbstruck, resentment curdling in the pit of his throat. See, Remus had thought he and Sirius were in agreement that all the girl stuff James and Pete had begun spouting was stupid, and to be revisited at a much, much later date. Frankly, it was inconsiderate of Mary to breach his and Sirius’ unspoken agreement by proxy.
The second occasion was in the middle of sixth year when Mary asked him outright about his own feelings about Sirius. Despite no longer being as oblivious to his own emotions as he was at fourteen, he still wasn’t ready to disclose said emotions with anyone else; not when he and Sirius had just gotten back to how they’d used to be. In his opinion, it was tactless of Mary to bring up, and so he ignored her until the Gryffindor party the following Saturday at which she’d called him a stubborn twat, offered up half her zoot, and sworn herself to secrecy.
And then, November chill gnawing at his calloused hands, he feels the familiar bubble of loathing return once more as Mary, looking far beyond her twenty-one years, tearfully and methodically dismantles his entire world from the living room of his Camden flat. His mind is beginning to disorientate, only processing every third word.
Lily. James. Peter. Dead. Sorry. Halloween. Sirius. Traitor. Azkaban. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
He thinks he might be shaking, but he can't quite tell. At some point, he realises he has been moved to his bed. He leans his head into the gentle hand that rests on his temple, subconsciously starving for kindness in a world that had left so little room for any. He refrains from opening his eyes but allows himself to be soothed by the dulcet tones that accompany the warm touch, despite the fact he knows neither he nor the speaker truly believe them.
“It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”
That's the thing about Mary Macdonald. She never intended to be the consistent bearer of bad news. It's never been a burden she's taken on willingly, but instead out of necessity. No one else trusts Remus not to go mad, no one else trusts him with the truth - he can see that now.