Certain Dark Things || Book Three

xv. terrible reunions

Remus fell asleep almost the instant he found a compartment for himself and sat down.

He couldn't help it; the full moon was two nights away after all, not that many would take notice of such a thing. Mostly potioneers would these days, or lunarologists, diviners—or women picking up a copy of Witch Weekly to read their horoscopes. Remus had never set much store by the stars but sometimes he thought on the sheer power every revolution of the earth held upon his life and wondered.

Muggle fiction suggested werewolves could actually feel the moon, as if it held true, tangible power over their being—but that was superstitious nonsense, like most werewolf lore. To suggest werewolves had lore meant they had culture, and Remus was steadfast in his denial of such a thing. It was a curse, not a way of life. The moon held no power over Remus until it rose full above the horizon. His reaction to it otherwise was psychosomatic; he knew it would be time again to weather the transformation and no matter if he retained a sound mind or not, his bones still broke, his skin would tear, his limbs would contort. He'd end up a screaming, howling mess.

The full moon neared and Remus grew wearier and wearier until he could barely stand the fatigue.

He should have gone to Hogwarts earlier in the week, he knew. It would have been the responsible thing to do—but Remus had left his tasks to the last minute in a fit of self-doubt and recrimination, allowing Dumbledore all the time in the world he needed to renege on his appointment. However, the Headmaster never appeared on Remus' doorstep again no matter how long Remus sat and stared at the door. The only owls he received contained vital information for his new post, requests and advice for lesson plans, needed signatures, etcetera. Albus had even forwarded several historical periodicals to which he could submit a few articles or topics of research. Hogwarts professors needed to stay published and relevant in their fields, after all.

So Remus spent the vast majority of his remaining summer holiday with his head in a book or visiting the national Tome Archival and Depository kept by the Ministry beneath the Radcliffe Camera. He'd visited once many years ago with his mother, so he noticed right off how many of the shelves, including those in the sections relevant to his studies, had been purged of their books and scrolls. Dumbledore had said times were darker than the media would have him believe, and so Remus wasn't overly surprised by the sudden dearth. After all, the best way to control a population was to spread ignorance and control information.

He kept his articles tame but insightful enough to garner back page listings in the periodicals; he maintained a low, unassuming profile, lest someone dig deeper into the identity of R.J. Lupin. Still, it was with some wonder and excitement that he looked upon his first published piece in the Journeyman's Journal. Then, the melancholy rose up and overcame Remus because he had no one to write to, no one to celebrate with. Just him and a dram of Ogden's Best.

Being busy and procrastinating on his move wouldn't have been a big deal if not for his furry little problem, as Sir—as certain people used to refer to it. Magical means of transportation—such the Floo, or Apparating, or the use of a Portkey—had serious consequences on his weary body during these few days of the month. He could have flown, of course, but that would be exhausting for its own reasons. Albus had offered the suggestion of taking the Express and Remus had jumped at the opportunity.

Dozing in his seat, Remus remained distantly aware of his surroundings: the call of voices, the scuttling feet, scraping trolley wheels, and when the train set off, the windows' rattling as the carts went along the track. The door to his compartment came open and he heard what sounded like a few boys entering, their conversation stilted and hushed as they took their seats and tried not to wake him. Rain thumped against the glass by Remus' head, the sun hidden behind amassing thunderclouds, and the occasional word broke through the tired haze in his mind— "Quidditch," "Mum," "Scabbers," "Charms," and "Potter."