Counting Sheep

2. Remus

Remus Lupin

March 10th, 1971

His head was pounding, as if his brain was trying to knock down his skull in an attempt to escape.

Remus couldn't blame it. If he were his own brain, he'd wanna leave himself, too.

Well, technically, I am my own brain, considering my brain is a part of me. . . .

Remus glanced over at the cracked alarm clock on his bedside table and sighed. Already overthinking everything, and it's not even seven in the morning. He groaned, sitting upright quickly and immediately regretting it. He brought his right hand up to his head, clutching his hair as the headache abruptly progressed in pain from his sudden verticalness. His left hand patted around his blankets, blindly trying to locate his little tin case of migraine pills.

For some reason, Remus always got horrific migraines in the few days leading up to his transformations, which seemed counterintuitive, because shouldn't he get them after he'd smashed his head against the wooden door of his basement for the entirety of a night?

With the next full moon in two days, today's headache was especially terrible. It felt like someone was pounding a tiny little drum in the recesses of his mind, causing an avalanche of pain. Remus considered banging his head against the headboard, but then remembered that he'd already tried that last month, and it didn't work. He stared, resigned, at the Remus's-forehead-shaped dent in his wooden headboard.

A light knock on his bedroom door brought Remus out of his stupor. He blinked, his vision having gone black momentarily.

"Happy birthday, Remus."

His mum smiled hesitantly at him from where she stood in the doorway, holding a large plate in her hands. For once, her mousy brown hair, its texture and color so reminiscent of Remus's own, was brushed and braided. Not too far behind her, partially veiled by the shadows in the hallway, was his dad. He'd shaved, Remus noticed, and his hands were devoid of his signature cigarette, filled instead with what looked to be paper plates and utensils.

Remus perked up. The second his mum had opened the door, his nose had immediately picked up the scent of carrot cake wafting from the plate in her hand. His favorite.

Remus's mum stepped into the bedroom, gait slow and careful as she balanced the carrot cake in her hands. She placed the large plate of cake down on Remus's lap, nodding towards the eleven flaming candles poking out from the orange frosting—a signal for him to blow them out. Remus's dad leaned against the doorframe, silent as he watched the proceedings. The wrinkles between his eyebrows were slightly less pronounced than usual.

The clearly-homemade cake was slightly misshapen, leaning more towards an oval shape than a circular one. It was plain; there were no other decorations on the surface other than the candles. The plate itself was chipped in the corner, too.

Remus didn't mind at all. He leaned over, attentively moved his blanket out of the way, clasped his hands, and closed his eyes.

What should I wish for? To not be a werewolf anymore? As if that's practical. For more books? No, but that's a bit materialistic. Aren't these birthday candle wishes meant to be less literal, and more abstract?

"Done, Remus?"

"No. Sorry."

He was taking too much time. Without even opening his eyes, Remus could feel the air in the room slowly sliding from tentatively warm to awkward. He pressed his lips together, wracking his brain for a random wish.