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Remus John Lupin - D.O.B. 10th March 1960 - Hb (F-Hb/M-Mg)
Asked to describe early childhood and the effect of lycanthropy on family life. Bitten 15th March 1964 by Fenrir Greyback Raised by both parents, predominantly homeschooled through early childhood. Frequently moved around within Wales to avoid questioning and growing suspicion (Remus was not registered as a child). Offered placement at Hogwarts by Albus Dumbledore. Remus was the first juvenile werewolf to complete formal wizarding education in the UK.
S. Do you remember the night of the attack?
L. Yes. Well, bits of it.
S. Would you describe it for me?
L. Well, I don’t know what to say. It was as you’d imagine. Quite frightening. I was just young. Greyback planned the attack. There was a newspaper article that quoted my father on new werewolf legislation. He worked for the Department for Dangerous Creatures. (N.B. relevant newspaper article attached for context)
S. It was a political attack?
L. I suppose so.
S. What did you understand of the condition, initially?
L. I didn’t know what a werewolf was, before the attack. I think my father felt quite guilty - I suppose that was the intention - he explained what would happen in a month’s time, but I don’t think I really understood until it happened. I remember being shut in the old coal cellar and crying.
S. How did the full moons affect you, when you lived at home?
L. Hmm. At first, it was frightening, and I dreaded them. I used to fight my mother something awful when it was coming time to go down. Especially in the Winter when the nights were longer. After a few years, it was a bit of a routine. It was never pleasant, but I did come to accept it, in some way. My father became quite skilled with a few handy healing charms. I used to really tear at myself from time to time.
S. There are a few references to self mutilation in the literature about werewolves. Do you have a personal opinion as to why it happens?
L. It’s hard to say. It would usually happen at the end of the night. I tended to think it was boredom. Frustration, maybe? I think, by that point in the night, he just wants to bite something.
S. You refer to your transformed state as ‘he’. Has it always been that way?
L. Yes. My parents talked about the wolf as though he were separate, and I preferred that. I didn’t act as myself, so it made sense to me then. I had a few friends in school who knew about my… problem. They referred to him that way too.
S. How did it impact your time at Hogwarts?
L. Well it’s hard to say, I only know what I experienced. I was just happy to be there. Very grateful to be there, actually. It was inconvenient when the full moon fell within the week and I’d miss a couple of days of lessons, but I was usually able to catch up. I did fairly well. My father was pleased. Aside from the full moons… well I was quite worried about people finding out. Sometimes I would get paranoid that my friends would tell, you know, if we had a falling out or something. Or that someone would figure it out. I think a few people got close but couldn’t prove it. The good thing about Hogwarts is that there’s so much nonsense going on, most people had more interesting things to think about than what I was up to a couple nights a month.
S. And when you finished Hogwarts?
L. Well. There’s too much to say. We were at war. I was fighting. There were a lot of werewolf attacks around that time, too. I registered myself when I was seventeen.
S. Did it help?
L. In some ways. I agreed to a degree of tracking, which meant I could be cleared from certain attacks. But I also had several stints trying to get in with local packs so we could head them off, and the Ministry was almost certainly compromised at the time, so it became a hindrance.
S. After the war, what did you find of your experience then?
L. When I was at Hogwarts, I developed a naive notion that it might not affect my life as dramatically as my parents and I had originally worried. I got this idea that I was like other people, that I could be like other people. Spend time with them, work with them, make friends with them… Fall in love with them. Have a family with them. When the dust settled, it became very clear that I had been far too optimistic. Perhaps it was because I registered myself - that was foolish - but I had apparently wasted my time, and the safety of all those students who had the misfortune to share the castle with me, only to amount to very little. Until this, I have worked in the muggle world. It’s quite pleasant to know that they won’t know about… about him. Even this - it’s difficult. I mean, it’s the only decent enough job I’ve managed to get for years, and it’s not really me that’s got it, it’s him.
S. It was a fear of mine, in asking for a werewolf like that, that I might be contributing to the dehumanisation.
L. I think it would be very difficult not to. It’s not just- I don’t know how to describe it. This is not that bad, really. I suppose it’s quite good? But it’s everything else too. It all stacks up. Hogwarts was the first time I could remember where people made judgements about me just for me. If I hadn’t known that feeling, perhaps everything else wouldn’t make me so bitter.

~ * ~

Ministry Speaks on Rising Werewolf Activity Across Wales and South-West England
The Ministry of Magic has been inundated with sightings of werewolves around England and Wales in the past few months, with many believing that known violent criminal and lycanthrope, Fenryr Greyback, has been out for blood.
With fear in the hearts of the wizarding public, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Dangerous Creatures has reviewed its policy and procedures for the identification, tracking and containment of werewolves.
Senior Officers Lyall Lupin and Rodger Scott have spoken on the matter, hoping to reassure the public that proper action is being taken.
“It is the department’s belief that with new, harsher standards for the Werewolf Registry, that we can begin to curb this recent spell of attacks and halt the exponential growth of the population.” Said Officer Rodger Scott, 32.
“For the greater good and safety of our community, family members and friends of those who are suspected to have been turned must do their part in reporting - allowing due process to occur. It is important to remember that, upon infection, the individual has been changed irrecoverably and nothing good can come of hiding an uncontrollable monster within a family home.”
Argument has been levelled at the strategies the Department has put forward, stating that the forcible detainment and registration of werewolves is an infringement on their human rights. In addition, there has been push back against the move to sterilise known werewolves, to ensure the population cannot breed.
Senior Officer Lyall Lupin, 30, has spoken out against these concerns with reassuring certainty.
“It’s important to remember that a werewolf is not a being, it is a beast. A dangerous, savage and uncontrollable beast. It is impossible to infringe on the human rights of a creature which has lost its humanity. More importantly, we must consider the rights of those unfortunate enough to reside nearby. Is their right to safety less important than the rights of a creature who cannot help itself, that cannot control its animalistic urges? I think not.”
~ * ~
I learned my lesson the hard way last night. ‘Moony’ - Remus’ wolf - has an intelligence about him, I’m almost certain. I just need to devise a way to prove it. I doubt it’s particular to Moony, but with access to only one werewolf (a blessing in itself) I shall have to leave it to the future to corroborate.
Despite whatever intelligence, it’s clear that instincts override character. Sliced right through my shoulder when my back was turned (my mistake, of course). Thankfully all claw and no bite - I must remember that I’m playing with fire. I cannot help but see Remus in there when I have spent the last two full moons with Moony but neither Remus nor my remaining unblemished flesh would appreciate that. He will be terribly upset at the news, but I fear it would be worse to keep it from him.
The weather has been very miserable recently, but I think the house suits it. The cold Spring mornings with the dew on the grass, just animals and a few sparse humans for miles and miles. It’s unfortunate that I cannot simply stay in Romley indefinitely, getting that comfortable Ministry paycheque to research whatever I can find in the New Forest.
Remus is reluctant to join me scouring for bodies (understandable) but is quite willing to do rounds on the creatures in the case on those days. Really is very capable with animals. I have plenty of questions I would like to ask about his nature and how the lycanthropy has influenced it, but even I am well aware that will require some tact.
Remus did have the good sense to look back on records of bog bodies to see if he could find any wizards amongst them - the hope being that we could find a ghost.
I wonder; if a body has a ghost, would it also have a hinkypunk?
Perhaps it’s a sort of Earth-given ghost. For those who pass on.
I should ask Remus if he has any aptitude for domestic spellcasting. There’s a decent amount of mold in the old bedrooms that could do with sorting out. Perhaps if he finds it equally tricky, we can go into the nearest muggle town and do it the hard way. I know for certain I could not exclude the draught without sticking the window, so perhaps there’s some muggle solution for that, too.
Circling back to bogs - I would be interested to know if the will o’ wisp/hinkypunk lives on if the body is exhumed, but the soul is never returned. It seems a touch cruel, but if I can find another corpse, I’d like to test it.
We have delved further into the moorland of New Forest - I suspect our friend was the only inhabitant of the one closest to our apparition point. There are no shortage of missing people recorded in the area. Unfortunate for them, but quite useful for me.
Personally, I would be quite content to search the woods the full week, but I suppose I should be more reasonable, since Remus will feel obliged to join me. I don’t quite know how to fill my time if not with creatures, however. And as much as Remus wants to repeat the concern - he is not a creature. No more than I am, at least.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Remus woke that morning as though it were his first day on Earth. His body was present, but his mind and memories seemed to be lagging behind in some in-between place, inaccessible to him. He felt the cold sheets against his shoulders and the slight draught coming in through the water-warped window frame, but thought nothing. He saw his own clothes, thrown carelessly on the stool by the desk in the corner, his shoes kicked off by the edge of the bed, but had no memory of putting them there. A man stood in the open doorway, leaning against the frame holding a mug in each hand. There must have been a dramatic shaft of morning light shining through a window and filling the hallway behind him. It gave the effect that his head was on fire.
Slowly, the context trickled in. His thighs and feet had that strange ache that was oddly pleasant - born from walking many miles the days before. Newt looked bashful, but that was not unusual, and held one arm out slightly - confirming one mug was for him.
“Morning.” It escaped him as a grunt, as he reached for a discarded undershirt to pull on and hide himself from Newt and the cold morning air. “What time is it?”He made to get up, but Newt crossed the threshold into the room (for perhaps the first time, now that Remus thought about it) and handed the mug to him. It was hot. Feeling somewhat like a child off from school with an illness, he leaned his back against the wall and warmed his hands around the offering - thankful he’d kept his underwear on to sleep. After a moment’s obvious hesitation, Newt sat down on the bed, a safe foot and a half between them.“Half seven.” He looked as though he hadn’t been awake much longer. Still in a rumpled undershirt himself and blinking sleep out of puffy eyes. “How are you?”It was the day after the full moon and the second time anyone other than James, Sirius and Peter had ever seen him transform. It was not unlike waking up after a night of heavy drinking with little memory of what you had done, but knowing it was likely something shameful.
“You weren’t hurt, were you?” He couldn’t even look at him, and instead stared into his mug of tea. It was a little darker than he would have liked it.
“I asked first.”Remus huffed, annoyed at the deflection. “I’ll be fine when I know I didn’t do something awful.” There was nothing he could do to make it sound less terse. Newt sighed and Remus felt as though he’d been slapped, even though the older man hadn’t even looked at him.
“You haven’t done anything-”“You’re being evasive.” He was furious now. Well, he wanted it to be fury. Most likely, it was fear, but he was not going to look any more deeply into it. He put the mug on the windowsill before he overturned it over himself. “Show me.”There was a moment of silence, before a slight rustle and Remus dared to look up. Newt pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and twisted away from him, exposing his shoulder blade.
“It’s just a scratch,” he assured. Perhaps sensing the bile rising in Remus’ throat.
It was just a scratch. Certainly not a bite. And honestly, not the worst damage he’d ever done. He wouldn’t pretend that he hadn’t given himself more gruesome injuries, and there were a frightening number of close calls in his more carefree days at Hogwarts with Peter, James and Sirius.
Still.
“I’m sorry.”
Newt put his shoulder away. “No need to apologise. It wasn’t you.”“I thought the jury was still out on whether we shared a mind?” He couldn’t help himself. There was a bitter anger growing inside of him, consuming his innards.“Remus,” he sighed again and Remus dropped his eyes back to his knees. “I would prefer if you’d respect that I’m a grown man who can make decisions about my own safety. Moony is not the first, nor will he be the last, creature I have worked with who I have become complacent around.”There was that silence again. Heavy and thick between them, teeming with every bone deep fear he’d had since he’d become aware of what the curse really meant.
Newt must have had some kind of immunity to it all.
“I don’t want to hurt people.” He confessed. He wasn’t going to cry. Not over this, again. He’d done his time.“I don’t think you ever have.”He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars and pressed his lips together to try and keep from embarrassing himself further.
“You don’t know me that well, Newt, but thank you.”There was a rustle, and Remus tensed in fear that Newt might touch him, but no touch came.
“You’ll have to prove me wrong, then.” His voice had a shy cheekiness that forced a laugh to bubble free from Remus’ tight lips without his permission. It was but a small wave that warned of a coming tsunami of unbidden relief and he turned at the sound of a small laugh and managed to enjoy the sight of Newt’s crinkled eyes as he chuckled to himself despite his recent roller coaster.
Their laughing filled the room this time and Remus reached for his now tepid tea for something to break the delirium.
“I should have warned you that you can’t turn your back on Moony,” he mumbled into the rim of his mug. “James did say he was a menace for it.”He caught a sly, triumphant look on Newt’s freckled face and raised a suspicious eyebrow at him.
“Something I said?”Newt looked quite pleased with himself and Remus suspected he’d written some hypothesis about him in his little brown book that had now been proven true.
“I knew that wolf had been tamed before.”
Another laugh broke free from Remus - easy as they were still lingering, ready to be triggered. “You can’t tame a werewolf. Not to correct the expert - but to be fair, I am a werewolf.”Newt shuffled on the bed, pulling his long legs up so he could cross them and turned to face Remus properly. Remus raised his eyebrows in anticipation of monster talk.
“Perhaps ‘tamed’ was the wrong word, but I read plenty of literature on werewolves recently, and that was the general consensus - that a werewolf cannot be tamed, I mean. But the whole issue I had with most of the published work that is publicly available is that the accounts are terribly biased and, of course, those are what we base our curricula on, and our policies on and-”“Right, Newt. I know, I’m a werewolf. Tell me about the taming thing.”The hand that wasn’t holding his mug fluttered nervously as he tried to mentally skip his exposition. Remus couldn’t help a fond smile.
“Right, yes. Well it was never clear to me how much a werewolf understands - can it remember something from one month to the next? Does it know what it is, or is it acting on pure instinct - for instance. When I saw your Moony for the first time, he looked at my wand and understood it. Or, I think he did. And I thought he seemed… lonely? Perhaps that was projection, or personification, but it had me thinking, how can something be lonely if it’s never had company?”He wasn’t looking expectantly at Remus, wasn’t asking for a confession, or accusing him, his family or friends of anything. And yet, Remus felt compelled.
“I have some information that might be interesting to you, but it’s very important that it doesn’t get out.”Newt’s green eyes were eager and shining in the watery morning light and he leaned forward, as though the secret might be whispered, once, and he would never have the chance to hear it again.
“Some friends… Well… You’re aware that werewolves don’t predate animals - only humans. Well that applies for animagi as well.”He stayed like that for a moment, even though Remus had nothing more to say. He couldn’t help his eyes jumping to his mouth (somehow also freckled?) as he smiled, thoughtfully.
“You mustn’t tell,” he reminded him, when he was still for so long Remus started to feel the first twinges of worry.
“Absolutely not.” Newt sat back up so he could fix Remus with a rare, direct stare. It was like looking into a stranger’s window. Not entirely inappropriate, but somewhat intrusive. “You had particularly good friends.”This time, he didn’t cry. It still ached, still burned like a hot coal lodged in his chest, but he didn’t cry.“I really did.”

~ * ~
It was a little ridiculous that they had lived in the cold, damp house for over a month before either of them thought to make it more comfortable, rather than simply endure it and complain. Remus supposed that was the curse of two men sharing a space. He thought back to the ratty little muggle flat that the four of them had shared, briefly, before Lily and James’ wedding. There had definitely been mice under the fridge.
He had never considered himself to be in any way domestically gifted, but apparently had more of an eye for it than Newt did. He was crouched on the kitchen countertop, listening intently to Remus’ careful instructions as he directed him in transfiguring the window frame quite carefully in an attempt to seal the draught.
Remus had always been quite good at transfiguration.
“Very fiddly work,” he mumbled. Remus snorted.
“You do fiddly work all the time. What about the Swooping Evil wing?”“Well, that’s different. That makes sense.”
(Remus failed to see the difference).“You might be the only person I know who finds transfiguring objects harder than biological transfiguration.”
Newt unfurled himself from the window and sat more comfortably on the counter top to test the sash mechanism. As he had promised, it opened, a little stiffly, and Remus tried not to dwell on how hot his face was growing at the strip of (somehow also freckled?) stomach that was exposed as Newt twisted around on the bench.
“Well, you get better at what you use, I suppose.
And I never even finished school-”“I’m sorry, pardon?” Remus had no notion of anyone who had not finished their Hogwarts career (other than the few who had died, he supposed). “You work at the Ministry.”Newt smiled wryly. “Yes, well. I’m quite good at certain things. And just because someone didn’t attend school doesn’t mean they haven’t learned anything. As I’m sure you’re well aware.”Remus wasn’t sure if Newt was directly referencing his early childhood struggles with muggle school, but it certainly felt like it.
“That’s fair, I suppose.” He sat with the revelation for a moment, unsure how to feel about it. There was certainly a bitterness that, despite having never finished his schooling and therefore the only NEWT he’d achieved was his own name, he’d somehow managed to find a place in wizarding society and a well enough respected job within the Ministry.
It would be unkind to make this triumph about his own shortcomings, so he swallowed that bitter taste.
“It’s difficult to know what to do with yourself after fighting, I’d imagine.” Newt's gift of dropping true, but uncomfortable statements was as accurate as ever.Still, that was something he wasn’t about to delve into with an eccentric magizooligist on this weekend afternoon.“Shall we do the sitting room?”They went around the windows and doors, sealing them against the outside air and making the place worthy of having a fire in the hearth. Remus found a tin of semi-congealed paint under the stairs and took it upon himself to touch up the flaky gloss after pulling as much moisture from the wood as he could manage.
Thankfully, there was little more talk of the death of their intended adulthood trajectories and they finished in the back bedroom, Remus pulling the bed frame away from the wall so they could see how effective his limited cleaning spells were at sorting out mold. On his hands and knees between the bed and the wall, he tried not to imagine how foolish he must look to Newt as he cleaned away another unsuccessful scourgify attempt.
“Maybe a banishment type, rather than a cleaning type?”
Remus jumped, not expecting Newt’s voice to be so close. He had stretched across the bed on his stomach so he could peer down into the gap over Remus’ shoulder.
“Christ, Newt.” He looked determinedly down at the skirting board to make sure Newt could see nothing more than the back of his head and certainly not his burning face. “Yeah, that’s a shout… How do muggles do this?”
He couldn’t concentrate with Newt’s face so close to his hair and, again, tried to push any deeper examination of that reaction to the back of his mind.
It had been long enough since anyone had been that close to him, so surely it wasn’t unfair to get a little flustered.
“That’ll have to do.” He retreated a little, before unfurling himself from behind the bed and revealing the slightly better state of the wall.
Newt kneeled on the bed, apparently content with the outcome. Remus was tall enough to be getting on with, but he had rarely been in a position to look down at Newt. A familiar but unbidden fizzing was set off in his stomach again, along with the sickening lurch of painfully tainted memories of being in this position several years ago.
“Your knees are dusty.”
The words took a second to register and he looked down to see that, as promised, his trousers were smudged with whatever debris had collected under the bed. He dusted his knees off, distractedly.
“Right. Erm.. actually, my arms too. Maybe I’ll just… take a bath or something?” Anything to not have to think about the horribly nostalgic, excited buzzing in his stomach that made his ears burn.
Quite without grace, he clambered over the bed and out of Newt’s room.
~ * ~
A bath, it turned out, was the correct antidote - the perfect solitary pool for stern contemplation. He ran it slightly too hot for human comfort, as though he could burn the memories of Sirius’ touch off his skin. Perhaps then, whenever someone showed him the barest hint of interest, he could stop reliving that dead feeling.
That, or he’d have to come to terms with the notion that it wasn’t the ghost of Sirius at all - but something entirely different.
The memory of Newt, twisted on the counter, forcing up the sash with both arms, the hair lit on fire by the afternoon sun and that dangerous slip of pale stomach, was burned into his eyelids. He sank as low as he could in the bath, his knees breaking the surface so he could hide himself up to his nose in the hot water. He couldn’t seem to wash away the image of his crinkled nose, laughing on his bed that morning, nor the wry look in his rusty green eyes.
He’d been here before. He knew when he was done for.
He lay there, crumpled like a discarded scrap of paper, until the water went tepid and there were goosebumps covering his thighs. He didn’t know if he was brave enough to let his solitude end, now that he was quite sure what he was afflicted with, but he could hardly hide in the bathroom forever.
There was a soft knock on the door and Remus startled so abruptly that a wave of bathwater splattered on the tile floor.
“I was just checking you hadn’t drowned.” It was muffled by the door but he was certain he could hear the cheeky smile in his voice.
“Unfortunately, I’ll live to see another day,” he grunted, spurred by the intrusion to stand up. As he’d feared, it was bitterly cold, standing there damp, and he swiftly took on the appearance of a recently plucked chicken. “Did you manage to get a fire going?” He called out hopefully, clambering out of the tub and rummaging through his discarded clothes for his wand so he could vanish the puddle of water he’d made. Apparently, Newt had already left after confirming signs of life and he was forced to peer down the staircase in his towel to see if there would be anywhere warm for him to retreat to.
(Never mind the burning in his chest that screamed of coming home at the sight of Newt’s head in a book that he glimpsed over the back of the sofa. Never mind that.)It was much more pleasant in his pokey little bedroom now that the incessant whistling from the il-fitting window had been repaired. Still frigid, since the warmth from Newt’s fire hadn’t sunk into the bones of the house quite yet, he began again the hurried dance of bundling himself into a thick jumper and wool socks before he lost the feeling in his toes. After a moment’s hesitation, he snatched his book from the desk. It would do him good to have something safe to look at.
He felt like a child, sneaking back downstairs when they’d been put to bed, as he slipped into the living room and sat, a little gingerly, on the opposite end of the sofa to Newt, revelling in the warmth of the fire. Newt glanced briefly up at him from under his hair and flashed him a swift smile before going back to his book.
Predictably, he could see a few diagrammes on the pages and discerned it was a bestiary of some description.
He let his own fall open across his crossed legs and fell inside, safe for a few minutes from thoughts of Newt’s strong arms and careful hands. Nose in a book, back hunched and accompanied by the soft snapping and popping of a warming fire was a beautifully familiar position to be in. As though he’d just stepped into his own past. Before things had fallen apart. He allowed himself to inhabit the body of his fifteen year old self for a few blessed, dishonest moments. A soft cough pulled him free and he looked up to see Newt, again offering him a mug.
When had he gotten up?He took the mug of tea - the same pale green mug he’d been presented with that morning - and watched Newt reclaim his place next to him on the sofa. Having surfaced from A House of Pomegranates and his own nostalgia, he had expected to be thrown back to a distasteful reality, however the present moment, with the heavy book on his lap, the hot mug in his hands, the fire snapping and Newt curled up soft and warm next to him, could hardly be described as unpleasant. In fact, it could hardly be described as too dissimilar from that cosy memory he was sure he’d always be desperately trying to experience again.
Tentatively, he unfurled his legs and stretched them out, just a little, across no man’s land, into Newt’s personal space. Keeping his gaze laser focussed on his mug of tea, as though Newt wouldn’t be able to sense him watching intently out of his peripheral vision. He could sense the slightest reaction, Newt definitely tensed, well aware that Remus was up to something, but then decided to play along. He didn’t bother with the same pointless guise of stretching. He simply entangled his legs with Remus’, as though it were no more unusual than brushing one’s teeth before bed.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It was a Sunday. A Sunday of the waning moon. And yet, here again in his doorway was Newt Scamander with a cup of tea for him.

Newt Scamander in the door with a cup of tea had come to mean he needed to brace himself to hear that he’d done something hurtful that he wouldn’t want to hear about.

Like maiming his (research partner? employer? housemate?) friend’s shoulder with a gouge which would be with him for the rest of his life.

Things such as that.

It was different in other respects, though. The air was certainly warmer. The lack of draught from the window by the bed had likely helped. And perhaps the weather was turning, or Newt had already been downstairs to light a fire, but he could feel his toes for the first morning since arriving at the cottage over a month ago.

He picked the sleepy crust out of the corners of his eyes, trying to be sly about it so Newt might not notice, and sat up, indicating to Newt to join him.

“Everything alright?” Stars burst behind his eyes as he yawned and Newt caught it, looking like a snake unhinging its jaw.

“Nothing scarring,” Newt quipped cheekily, once he had regained control of his face, and handed him the mug. The tea was slightly lighter this time and he wondered if Newt was a legilimens. Remus watched him sit on the other end of the bed, then pull his knees to his chest, cross his ankles and wrap his arms around himself. He reminded Remus of a dying spider.

“Just the tea?

“Just the tea.”

Newt was staring, blank and sleepy, at a spot on the wall beside Remus’ head, so he had to assume he was thinking about something. Feeling it was likely inappropriate and not in his best interests to humour his desire to admire Newt’s eyes, mouth or bed-tousled hair, he settled on his hands instead. Not entirely safe, but certainly safer.

And so he scalded his mouth with the tea and stared at Newt’s freckled hands. His mind wandered, without permission, to what must have occurred while he was still dead asleep, not ten minutes ago. Newt had awoken and… what? What did Newt do first thing in the morning?

Go downstairs into the cold house and make tea for him to enjoy in bed, apparently. And not even as a peace offering.

Just because he wanted to.

The little scars along his fingers stood out pale against the skin flushed pink by his hot cup. He remembered shaking that hand at the Ministry and noticing that they had similar scarring to their fingers.

He wouldn’t put it past the crups to take a nibble, but likely there were other interesting creatures in his past.

Dragons, maybe?

“What happened to your hands?”

It was just something to say, really. A route through which to wriggle in.

“My hands?” Newt glanced down at his own hands as though expecting that they had been recently amputated.

“The marks. Like mine.” Remus held out his own hand into the light cast from the window, so Newt could see the silvery irregularities left from many moons of the werewolf frustratedly chewing at his own paws before dawn. Newt leaned closer and he watched the other man’s eyes flicker as he committed Remus’ hand to memory.

“Quite similar, yes.” Little more than a mumble. He could feel the air move around his fingertips as he spoke.

Remus watched, with that same fizzy, excited fear growing in his stomach, as Newt reached out and took his hand, turning it over to better look. His fingertips were still hot from the mug and Remus wondered, madly, if the touch might mark him. If he might feel the imprint of it forever.

He needed to get a hold of himself.

“Some were burns, I can get a little careless - particularly with dragons. Some are bites. The crups have bad table manners, but they’re better these days. And sometimes I don’t listen when I’m told, or get carried away and learn the hard way.”

There was not a shred of resentment in his voice. The same way there had not been a shred of resentment when he had shown the gash down his shoulder blade. Remus wondered if he simply stored it in some dark, untouched part of himself, or if he was truly impervious to it.

~ * ~

They had an easy little routine. It was either reading, or referencing, or fixing enclosures, or listening to Newt monologue about some creature in his suitcase, or traipsing up and down the rolling hills at various times of the day and night, logging numbers of those little hypnotic lights across their muggle map. A brief trip to a nearby
library had them copies of several decades worth of lost bodies and disappearances in the local National Park.

Walking through the muggle town alongside him felt absurd, as though he hadn’t grown up in many such places. It seemed the past month or so of relative solitude, with only one (arguably quite strange) man for company had done something strange to his head.

Returning to the little house felt worryingly like returning home, a feeling that had been hard to come by since the war had fizzled out.

Spring had advanced far enough that even Remus could appreciate the beauty of a late morning countryside walk - he found the idea much more favourable if it would at least be warm enough for him to feel his fingers and toes.

With a neatly folded muggle map of the area and the names of the missing family locked securely in his memory, Newt forged ahead, untroubled by Remus lagging behind as he took in the sights.

It was a new location. While the boglands closest to Romley had been hidden within woodland, shrouded by the canopy and sheltered from the world, this one was sunken into an open moor. A low cover of mist drifted across the strangely purple grasslands and the open landscape gave them a sweeping view of the rolling hills and smattering of woodlands beyond. Remus tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and jogged to catch up with Newt. He was glancing between their map and the distance, his wand spinning in his open left palm.

“Quite the orienteer.” Remus commented, secretly glad that he wasn’t in control of the map. His mind wandered back to many of the friendly arguments the Gryffindor boys had had over the placements of various corridors and passageways on their enchanted map - usually instigated by Remus’ misplaced confidence in his own sense of direction.

“Lots of practice getting lost,” said Newt, offering Remus a lopsided smile that made his ears burn. “Not far now, though. We won’t see a hinkypunk at this time of day, but we should be able to confirm the bodies.”

The pleasant tingle of infatuation that had been dancing across Remus’ face and in his belly was instantly snuffed out by the reminder that they would be fishing in opaque water for old corpses. Newt was apparently unphased and marched off to the edge of the marked wetland, passing the warning signage without a second glance. Remus took a moment to pull himself together before tucking his trousers into his borrowed wellies and joining Newt where the land turned to sludge.

“Right, don’t come too far in - I’ll need a way back out.” He held his wand between his teeth as he shrugged out of his jacket and passed it to Remus. “More trouble than it’s worth to try and clean that.”

A light breeze slipped through the moorland and whipped Newt’s hair away from his face. He flicked his wand across the boggy marshland and Remus watched as the water lit up, as though illuminated dimly from below, with a few brighter spots congregated together only a few metres ahead.

“Is this how you found that dog?” He asked, leaning closer to try and see into the eerily greenish light struggling through the murky water. Newt nodded, conjuring a thick rope, lashing it around his waist and handing the other end to Remus.

“It’s a handy charm, I assume originally to help spear fish or the like. It latches on to abundant organic compounds, I believe. It does light up some vegetation, but still useful enough for hunting down bodies.”

Remus ‘hmm’ed, still a little sickened at the idea of what Newt might pull out, and wrapped the rope around his arm.

“I hope you’re not planning to drown.”

With the enthusiasm and misplaced fearlessness of a toddler jumping into a paddling pool, Newt flung himself into the bog, sinking waist deep into the silt. “Well no. That’s why you have the rope. Quite a bit deeper this way - it would be terribly naive to think I wouldn’t meet the same fate of the bodies we’re hoping to find.”

Remus tightened his grip on the rope.

After the application of a handy bubble-head charm, he disappeared under the surface - the murky water swallowing any evidence of him besides the soggy rope coiled in Remus’ clenched fist. He hunkered down, planting his feet in the soft ground, and waited. Alone on the surface with just the wide, blue eye of the open sky and occasional bird call to remind him that he wasn’t the only man on Earth.

The rope pulled taut and Remus hurriedly slammed a hand down into the soft ground to stop himself overturning head-first into the water. He gave it a questioning tug in return and some evil creature emerged from the depths. Blackened by silt and drenched to the skin, if it weren’t for the excited green eyes looking back at him, he’d have assumed something from the depths had taken run of his friend’s vessel.

“Did you find it?” He didn’t really want to know the answer.

Newt shook his head like a wet dog, smattering Remus with water, and clumsily tried to drag his waterlogged body to firmer ground. Apparently out of his depth and without foothold, Remus coiled the rope around his arm a few more times and tugged him in until he could reach out a hand for him to grasp.

His slippery hand gripped Remus’ like a vice and after a moment of frantic scrabbling, he freed his torso and waist from the waters.

“I think so, but I couldn’t pull it up.” He was breathless and Remus allowed him a moment to orient himself before he set about helping free his legs. “Wouldn’t go under in the dark - it’s like devil’s snare down there. Think something bit me.”

“

Bit you

?” Remus’ voice came out strangled and horrified - mind full of inferi.

“Probably a newt or something,” he grunted, scrabbling without grace onto mostly dry ground and untying himself. “Water’s freezing. Can’t feel my feet.”

He looked like a wet ferret with his clothes filthy and clinging to him. He’d lost a boot to the bog and just as predicted, there was some strange creature hanging off his ankle. Remus curled his lip in disgust, leaning closer for a proper look.

It was shaped like a snail shell, but soft and pulsating. He reached out a finger intending to prod it, but Newt caught his hand hurriedly.

“Don’t poke it, you might hurt it!”

Remus couldn’t help himself from one short disbelieving laugh even though he knew it would annoy Newt. “You must be kidding. It’s biting you. Looks like a massive leech.”

Newt picked up his own leg and forced it round so he could inspect the creature latched onto his exposed skin. “Not a leech. It almost looks like a lobalug, don’t you think?” Remus was flattered that Newt looked up at him as though genuinely expecting his expert opinion, but all he could do was shrug.

“Never heard of that. It just looks like a fat ugly leech to me.”

Newt was contorted around like a pretzel in his effort to get as close a look at the creature as he could manage without dislodging it. Remus watched him, not wanting to offend him but also feeling that he was not thinking straight.

“Um, so what exactly is a lubalog?”

“Lobalug. And they’re usually salt water dwellers, but it might be some kind of variant. The body shape is very similar, but the colours are slightly different. I’ve only seen them a couple of times - sometimes used as weapons my merpeople, on account of the venom-”

“Newt!” Remus tucked his hand in the safety of his jacket sleeve and shot out
to flick the creature off. It flopped onto the wet ground and Newt turned to him, scandalised.

“Remus! They’re quite delicate!”

“You

just said

they were venomous!”

Newt’s face was screwed up in annoyance and he made to pull himself to all fours to crouch down next to the little wet lump. Remus wasn’t quite sure what had gone wrong in the process, but he pitched clumsily forward, catching himself with his arms and humming with interest. Remus was past interest and verging on frustration. The image of Lily fondly but obviously annoyed as she followed a wobbly-legged Harry around the sitting room, waiting for him to inevitably bash his face off some piece of furniture appeared in his mind’s eye.

“Rather think it might’ve got me.” Newt mused, pulling his wand out from behind his ear and conjuring a tub and scooping the undulating little creature into its new enclosure.

“I’ll bet you were a handful for your parents,” Remus mused, imagining a bedroom full of woodlice and snails.

“You have no idea.”

Remus took the little tub from Newt and offered him his hand again, so he could pull himself up.

“Perhaps we call it a day? What does a lobalug’s venom even do, anyway? Hope you’ve got an antidote in that case.”

Newt took the offered hand and hauled himself to his feet. He stood unsteady on the marshy ground, testing his legs nervously.

“Well, the salt water variant - if I’m right in thinking it’s related, could be something else entirely - that one generally causes a gradual paralysis and reduction in fear and anxiety. The venom is diluted in calming draughts, you see. But in this instance, the lobalug feeds off other creatures magical activity. It draws them to the area it inhabits with the promise of a symbiotic relationship-”

He staggered forwards and Remus grabbed his bicep with his free arm. He continued talking, unbothered. “It renders their prey vulnerable and they then something bigger and more magical comes along to thrive and breed and shed magical energy in that area. Really quite a lovely relationship.” With Remus’ vice grip on one arm, he staggered happily alongside him, unconcerned by his own state or the panic in Remus’ face.

“Gradual paralysis? How gradual?”

Newt shrugged. Remus glanced down. His unshod left leg certainly looked uncooperative from the calf down, occasionally buckling uselessly under his weight and causing him to stagger.

“No idea. But I suppose it can’t be that fast, or you’d be carrying me.”

Remus quickened his steps to get them off the soupy marshland to somewhere he could safely apparate from. He wasn’t confident in his ability to apparate with Newt as a dead weight.

By the time he’d reached ground he deemed solid enough to apparate from, he’d resorted to hooking Newt’s right arm around his own neck and hauling him along like a sentient sack of potatoes. He was still talking into Remus’ ear about symbiosis, not in the least bit troubled by his now two uncooperative legs.

“I’ve got you by side-along, alright?” He warned, wanting to avoid a splinching. Newt stopped monologuing long enough to hum in agreement and Remus turned, cutting him off mid-sentence as they flickered out of the National Park.

Predictably, the disorientation of apparition had Newt slipping out of his grip and onto all-fours of the field in front of the little house. Remus hurried up the steps and deposited Newt’s coat and the lobalug in the entryway and jogged back, casting another sloppy drying charm so he could pull the other man up with both hands and half carry, half drag him up the stairs without leaving a trail of bog water in their wake. Depositing Newt on his own bed, he turned to the suitcase that sat on the small desk, fingers hovering over the clasps.

“You’ll have an antidote in here, right?”

Newt was slumped upright against the wall, feet dangling off the end of the bed, watching Remus’ hands on the brass fastenings - apparently processing the question at an infuriatingly dulled speed.

“Mmm, no.”

“What?” Remus resisted the urge to hit his head on the desk. It was like trying to ask a drunk man for directions.

“Well, might have a few bezoars. That’ll probably stop it progressing, at least.” Newt was rubbing his hands up and down his own thighs thoughtfully. “Yes, definitely spreading. Would you mind, Remus?”

Right. No legs. He wasn’t getting down the ladder.

“Um, yeah.” He had been in the case alone before, volunteering to feed the creatures in there on the days around the full moon when he’d rather not traipse the countryside for hours on end, but he had little idea where Newt kept potion ingredients.

“Should be in my shed. Got some boxes of useful things in the bottom cupboards.” He yawned, letting his head

thunk

back against the wall. Predicting he wasn’t going to get anything more useful from him for now, Remus set the suitcase on the ground and climbed in.

For someone who never finished Hogwarts, the suitcase really was a feat of magical engineering. Remus privately thought perhaps spellwork was a lot easier when the caster had little regard for the law.

It was pleasantly temperature controlled and softly lit in the little shed, surrounded by distant animal calls and the comforting shield of a magically erected structure. Shut off from the outside world, existing in its own bubble.

He jumped down the last few rungs and cast his eyes around the slightly disorganised little space. A small table littered with notebooks, loose paper and a few half empty mugs stood in the corner, and something resembling an eccentric kitchenette behind the ladder. A small unmade single bed caught his eye around a corner he’d never explored, but he resolutely focused on the task at hand, hurrying to the little kitchen and crouching down to rummage through the lower cabinets.

Predictably, they were stuffed full, with very few things in their original packaging and hopelessly disorganised. He shoved a few jars and boxes aside in a lame attempt at searching, before pulling out his wand and summoning for a bezoar.

A little cardboard box, edges softened by time and handling, jumped out from the mess and spat a little shrivelled stone into Remus’ outstretched palm.

“Nice,” he grunted appreciatively, slamming the cupboard door closed and turning back to the ladder. His gaze rolled again over the little table and he could not help but be drawn in at the familiar sight of his own name.

Distracted for a moment, he stepped over, brushing some sketches of what he now recognised as their hinkypunk friend to see what looked like an open journal. His own name jumped out at him, like an inviting little wave, dotted here and there across the open pages of scrawl. Again and again and again.

Remus. Remus. Remus. Remus.

He wrenched his attention away and scrambled up the ladder before he was pulled too far into his own nosy tendencies.

He resurfaced into the bedroom, head and shoulders out of the case, to see Newt’s feet dangling over the edge of the bed still.

“I’ve got it.” He called out, scrambling the last few steps up and over to the bed, trying not to panic at the lack of answer.

Newt, no longer leaning against the back wall, was slumped over on his side and quite still.

“Jesus Christ,” Remus grabbed at his arm, a little rougher than was polite, and shook him. His head lolled in a manner that made Remus feel ill, but thankfully, one green eye cracked open and Remus let go as though Newt was a live wire, heart pounding in this throat.

“Find it?” he mumbled, clumsily trying to push himself back up against the wall. Remus kneeled on the edge of the bed and manhandled him upright, trying not to let his worried impatience seep through into his grip.

“Yeah,” he opened his hand and Newt took the bezoar like an infant that had only recently learned he had control of his own hands and swallowed it dry.

“And you’ll be alright?” He would rather not have sounded so panicked, but it was a little late for that now. Newt yawned, his eyes drifting away from Remus’ face to stare off somewhere in the middle distance.

“Well, I presume so. Might have to wait a little while.” Remus capitalised (somewhat guiltily) on the other man’s lack of awareness and took the opportunity to commit to memory the exact arrangement of freckles across his nose and the little flecks of brown decorating his green eyes. “I like to think I’m hardy enough to metabolise some lobalug venom.”

Remus had no real reference point for whether or not Newt was being ridiculous, so he chose to believe him to preserve his own sanity (and tried to ignore the apparently innate inclination for his eyes to be drawn to Newt’s objectively pretty eyelashes).

They stayed like that for a few moments, Newt apparently asleep, slumped against the wall, and Remus crouched on the edge of the bed, drinking in the sight of him as though it might be the last time he saw him.

It was an odd role reversal. Newt reminded Remus of a cat in the way that he was not quite predator and not quite prey, but something in between, both capable and skittish, watchful but able. Though he had been more than willing to uncoil around him (he pushed the memory of their legs entangled together on the living room sofa from his mind hurriedly) it wasn’t as though Remus had ever caught him off guard.

No, it was usually him who was laid bare (whether literally or metaphorically) before the other man, hoping that he would have enough social tact to dance around the reality of it the next day to save his feelings. In fact, even in that moment, on the bed, looking unbidden at Newt as though he had any right to drink him in like this, the recollection of lying naked and reborn at the end of the full moon made his stomach churn.

He supposed he should offer the same courtesy he desperately wished for.

He rose from the bed, softening his footfalls on the floorboards so as not to wake him, and crept to the door. It groaned as he pulled it to, and Newt - eyes still closed - mumbled into the room a request that sent Remus’ imagination reeling.

“Don’t go too far.”

What

.

“You alright?”

Newt grunted his reassurance and let himself flop back down onto the bed at that same awkward angle, as if it were in any way preferable.

“Well, I might suffocate.” His words were muffled into the bedding.

Was he trying to find the most viscerally horrifying things to say?

“Excuse me?” Remus ran his sweaty hands nervously through his hair, wondering what Newt really expected him to do in that scenario anyway. He wasn’t exactly a healer. “Right. Okay, I see your point. The paralysis might spread.”

Then a pause.

“

Is

it still spreading?”

Newt shrugged and tucked his chin into his chest like a bird settling down to sleep. “Night.”

What the fuck?

He lingered in the doorway a few more moments before shaking off the anxiety and stepping into the hallway.

He needed to do something to busy himself. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about what to do if Newt died in the bed like a prone baby.

First, he decided to do something about the state of himself. Newt might be content with being a little grimy, but Remus was more than a smidge less outdoorsy and preferred not to have a permanent decoration of mud around his fingernails.

He drew himself a bath, shedding off his jacket and boots in the bathroom while he was there, before preemptively lighting the sitting room fire. He collected Newt’s coat from the floor and hung it in the entryway before locking the front door with his wand. Not that anyone would come by.

They were quite alone.

He poked his head into Newt’s room and found him how he’d left him (face-down and alive) before going to scrub the day off himself.

Clean and dry, he made his way across the landing, mentally cataloguing what might be in the loud old fridge. He could hear Newt snoring from the landing and took it as a nice confirmation that had not, in fact, perished.

The lobalug was still in its little tub by the front door.

It really was an ugly creature (though he did feel guilty for thinking it). It was no bigger than an average frog and glistened similarly. With no better idea of what to do with it, he placed it on the stairs with the intention of taking it to Newt’s case once he’d eaten. No doubt Newt would want to inspect it.

He set the kettle and a small pan of water boiling on the hob while he rummaged for something that might make plain pasta more appetising. Deciding that he would settle for transforming some milk into cream, he threw some garlic and parsley in and hoped for the best. Sitting alone at the table, he chugged a scalding cup of tea and resigned himself to a boring dinner listening to the fridge hum - the pressing weight of Newt dozing in the back bedroom leeching his attention.

On his trip to deposit the lobalug into the case he stood, stuck in the doorway, holding the little tub and watching Newt snoring into the mattress.

Perhaps it was a touch unkind to leave him like that. One boot on, one off, still in trousers, shirt and jumper thick with smears of muck. Slumped over on the bed as though thrown there, face squashed into the bed like an overbaked souffle.

It occurred to him, then, that

someone

must have returned him to his bed after the last two full moons. He certainly hadn’t crawled there himself. Left to his own devices, he would have stayed, shivering and drowsy where he’d changed for a good few hours before braving the journey to bed.

But he hadn’t been left to his own devices.

Like a child asleep in the car, someone had carried him up the stairs and tucked him into bed.

He hesitated. As much as it seemed the kind thing to do, when it came to transferring it from an abstract thought to a command his body had to execute, embarrassment wilted it. Instead, he turned resolutely to the case on the floor and took the little box with him.

If he couldn’t care for Newt, he’d do the next best thing and care for his animals.

There, lit by the warm light of the shed, were the papers on the table still calling his name.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I would be lying if I were to say “I don’t enjoy long walks on the moors with Remus Lupin.” Fortunately or unfortunately (it’s as yet undetermined) this is the truth of the matter.
I don’t think inherently it is a bad thing to enjoy going on walks in beautiful places with pleasant people - but another truth is that there are not many people I find myself able to tolerate for such an extended period of close contact. Even fewer who are willing to tolerate me (perhaps the wages help, in this instance).
There are not many people who seem quite genuinely interested in the things that interest me (and I know that it is genuine - because there has been revulsion at some and I do believe he would have expressed a general interest in all of the creatures if it had been false). It is difficult not to fall into the worry that my delight at having someone to share these things with will bring about far too much enthusiasm and in turn put me right back where I started - but there is little use in dwelling on it. And I would do well to remember that I have never acted as though any worry about my social ability has been cause to adjust my behaviour (as my brother would so bluntly point out) so why should it matter here?
I suppose I care more than usual about the consequences of my actions.
Circling back to bogs - I do wonder about the ethics of exhuming bodies (perhaps not enough to not do it, but still it does trouble me) and even if I am correct and there is some kind of “limbo” state - to borrow imagery from Catholicism - perhaps I should do things properly and submit the theory and the Ministry.
Unlikely I will take this route - but again, worth considering.
Remus is not handy with a map - I have learned this the hard way having wasted a full day wandering around several fields that did not contain so much as a river, nevermind a full bog. Perhaps wasted is not the word - I did enjoy the walk. We were lucky enough to find several bowtruckle trees and they permitted me to prune some branches for the small colony in my case. I hope they are pleased. Remus said that he had a friend who used to tease him for looking like a bowtruckle when they studied them in school. Personally, I don’t see a huge amount of similarity (other than that a bowtruckle does have humanoid qualities, but then they share those qualities with most people). For instance, bowtruckles are quite delicate but I would say Remus is fairly hardy - he did survive being infected with lycanthropy as a small child. Also sometimes bowtruckles have an unusual number of “legs” and, even as a wolf, Remus has the expected number of limbs. They are also known to be aggressive to some people if you don’t know how to handle them - and I think it would be unfair to say Remus is at all aggressive. In fact, I think that the knowledge that he has been forced to take on a form that is uncontrollably aggressive once a month for the rest of his life has perhaps made him more affable than he may have been otherwise. (Of course, this is my assumption).
Remus said that it was because he has long arms - which is fair. If I were held at wand-point and asked to pick an animal, magical or mundane (and no one would ever put me in this scenario) that would be most similar to Remus Lupin I might suggest an Antipodean Opaleye. First I must be clear that, though Remus also has very lovely eyes, he does have pupils. Also, of course, he is not a beast - despite what the Ministry might have to say about it. But, back to the Opaleye, I would think this is a better comparison because, as a dragon, many people when seeing it for the first time might assume that it is dangerous and want to kill it, or keep it locked away - but an Opaleye is not really dangerous to humans at all. It does eat sheep, and I have seen Remus eat lamb, so this is also true.
Another thing about the Opaleye is that it has a very striking appearance. Now of course, Remus is not iridescent or scaly, but I do think he is also quite striking. I know that he is also very loyal (even though he told me he was in Gryffindor and not Hufflepuff) because he fought alongside Dumbledore in the recent war, even though Voldemort and his supporters offered very tempting changes to quality of life for werewolves to try and convince them to fight alongside them. He is also loyal to his old friends and I think feels guilty sometimes that he is the last one left.
I would like to stay on the topic of bogs, but my head is full of werewolves (one in particular), so perhaps I will simply indulge myself. I’m sure I will have ample to say about hinkypunks at another time, but I must go where my interest takes me.
Remus said Moony has experienced friendship - or at least companionship - before. It’s a real shame (for multiple reasons, of course) that I cannot talk to the people in question, as they are all either dead or in prison. I would like to know if Moony recognised them from one night to the next. Remus thinks he did, but can’t be sure.
It was interesting that Remus said he has some memory of their escapades but it is spotty enough that he admitted it might be a false recollection, based on his friends’ retellings of the night for his benefit. Remus also mentioned that the friends in question would sometimes admit to “close calls” as he puts it, where they would narrowly avoid an attack by either distracting or overpowering Moony. This does agree with what I saw of Moony that first night. It is very easy for writers on the subject of werewolves to imply (and sometimes outright state) that a werewolf has no control over him or herself. (Remus’ own father held this belief also). It’s a dangerous notion to grapple with (that a werewolf is not entirely instinct and that a degree of rational thinking exists within it, that is) both because it implies that werewolves make a choice to bite people (I don’t believe this to be true, certainly the few I have spoken to have been horrified by this fear) but also (and much more interesting to me at the moment) that a werewolf can be trained. That it might have a personality or a preference.
I am not deluded enough to think that I will ever be able to safely turn my back on Moony and not have him jump at the chance to rip my throat out - lycanthropy is a parasitic-like disease that has its own agenda - but I do think (particularly if Moony maintains memories from one month to the next) that there could be a way to manage the impulse more humanely (and less dangerously).
I would rather not express this to Remus as it is now - a half formed wishful theory - as I worry he would take this as a suggestion he has made a choice in any hurtful or violent act that is in Moony’s past. I don’t believe this to be the case at all. Even in mundane animals that are not afflicted by such a strong curse, nature is hard to redirect. A retriever will run after a ball, a ratter will dig a hole, as sure as a niffler will have your watch and so on.
On the topic of nifflers - an unexpected joy I have discovered is watching Remus with the creatures in my case (and I do believe this is an appreciation for Remus’ actions as a man, not simply an interest in a werewolf’s affinity for other magical beings). The crups are quite fond of him. Perhaps we should go about naming them together.
I don’t know what I am going to do with them in adulthood. I can’t bring myself to dock them, but then how am I to pass them on? I would rather avoid a reputation as an illegal animal smuggler (though I suppose that is what I am doing…).
I do feel it more useful for safety (and therefore secrecy!) for the crups to be undocked so they can be differentiated from mundane terriers. Secondly, having just walked across expansive bogland where many a muggle has fallen prey to the sight of hinkypunks in the wild, I do believe they would be more than able to build a pleasant enough folklore around the phenomenon and call it a day.
I just do not think it fair that we must act as though things that are a little unusual must be filed down and softened to please the eyes of others. I should make it clear that this is not me saying that wizards should rule over muggles or any such nonsense - power has nothing to do with it. I simply become frustrated when the way human beings have shaped the Earth and built society around their whim means that a simple thing cannot just exist as the simple thing it is.
Perhaps I should circle back to bogs - certainly seems I could do with cooling off.
I do have use of the property and land until June - quite pleased with my own cunning as I don’t need near that amount of time to write up our hinkypunk discoveries - that gives me another two full moons with Remus before I no longer have pay to keep him and a place to house him. Time is slipping by rather quickly, in that respect.
Perhaps we can find a way to entangle our futures outside of “Ministry Business.”
On a different topic - Remus did say he was quite content to talk about his experiences in werewolf colonies during the wartime and his opinions about the Ministry’s difficulty with ‘being’ and ‘beast’ categorisation which will be incredibly useful to me, not only for any follow ups I am tempted to write on the topic of werewolves in modern wizarding society, but as leverage in the Department for Dangerous Creatures in a discussion about reorganising the werewolf registration and tracking systems.
It would be a shame (and a waste of Remus’ kindness and willingness to share such a stigmatised and vulnerable part of himself with a relative stranger) for nothing good to come of it.
I find him to be incredibly brave.

S: Please can you give an overview of the dynamics in the colonies of outcasted werewolves that you visited?
L: I think people have a misplaced idea that werewolf colonies are very animalistic. Whenever it was not the full moon, the dynamic was quite similar to the Order, strangely. There were a lot of deaths, threat of kidnap and also spies (such as myself) so people were quite standoffish and an anti-non-werewolf sentiment did develop in some groups. This sometimes included the Death Eaters.

S: Did you feel there was a sense of camaraderie at all, despite the paranoia?
L: Erm… In some smaller sub-groups, maybe. I think some groups of two or three got along more than others, and trusted each other. I wasn’t trusted, though - so it’s hard to say. I was never on the inside as it were. I do think there was some us-versus-them thinking towards wizards in general, and a feeling that the Death Eaters were a means to an end. That was talk I heard a lot. It’s not a nice life - living like that; outcasted, dehumanised, made into a weapon… It breeds resentment.

S: In light of that, do you think the message that the Prophet has been pushing - particularly during the war - about preventing werewolves from congregating was warranted?
L: Well… to a degree. Ah- I think it was fair during the war. You couldn’t even trust your own brother, let alone a werewolf.

S: Let alone a werewolf?
L: Well, you know what I mean.

S: Would you mind explaining?
L: Ah- well, it’s just that - I don’t think it’s unreasonable that people- I don’t know how to explain. Um… I suppose what I mean is that, I can understand why people, especially in wartime, would have a hard time finding trust in werewolves. Particularly ones that gather together. I think it’s a lot to ask that people take a risk against that prejudice in those times. Because we were actually changing and killing people.

S: We?
L: Well, not me. It was how I got chased out in the end. But as a group, you know.

S: I see what you’re saying. So if I can ask a follow up question - I say this because the Prophet hasn’t only said these things during the war. Do you think it’s a reasonable warning to make in general?
L: Out of wartime… Well it’s not really useful - whether or not it’s true. But the Prophet doesn’t exist to inform, it exists to sell itself. So I suppose that’s that.

S: Fair point. Moving on to the Ministry - as we’re both aware, there’s been debate for a long while over whether a werewolf is a being or a beast. Do you have an opinion?
L: I’ve tried not to think about it too much, to be honest. I um- I worry that I might not like the conclusion that I come to. I suppose I agree with the Ministry; being the majority of the month, and beast on the full moon. If you really want me to just choose one… Ah… Perhaps it’s best to be on the safer side and just say beast.

S: Why would you say that’s the safer side? Also I’ll state for the record, the “being” categorisation is for creatures which “ have sufficient intelligence to understand the laws of the magical community and to bear part of the responsibility in shaping those laws”. Werewolves exist in a grey area where, as you said, they are considered beings unless it is the full moon, then they are considered beasts. They are also officially recognised as sentient.
L: Well, I just worry that, if werewolves were categorised completely as beings, including on the full moon, that it might be er- used against us, for anything unfortunate that might happen over the full moon. I’m not entirely sure it’s a positive political move. Honestly, I’d be a touch suspicious of a Minister that was quick to make that change.

S: That’s not an unreasonable suspicion to have.
L: Er- thanks. I suppose the other option is to have a look at the split system as a whole. It’s not as though werewolves are the only creatures that have had problems with it. Centaurs have been a problem for the department for centuries too. I wonder how useful it really is to split things that way at all?

S: Since we’re talking about the Ministry, in your opinion is the registry, as it stands, beneficial for the safety and integration of werewolves?
L: Well, I think it’s better than having no registry at all. I do think it’s dangerous to have an undocumented and unknown population of werewolves in Britain. Not only for wizards and muggles, but also for the werewolves. At least, if you don’t have the facilities and you have any trust in the Ministry upholding your best interests, you can submit to being detained during the full moon. The problem is, well the Ministry hasn’t really had the best wishes of werewolves at heart, has it? I mean, my own father wanted werewolves to be mass sterilised.

S: Did he ever discuss why he changed his opinion?
L: Well, not directly, but it was quite easy to infer. I do think, like many people, his opinion was driven by self-preservation and fear. Greyback has only made opinion worse for us. At least before he was well known, I think most people accepted that though we were dangerous, it wasn’t a choice. I think after I was bitten, he felt that we were in danger. His role at the time gave him an easier time of coming round, I think. It er, might seem counterintuitive, but since he knew the policies and the opinion, he was under no delusion of what would happen to me, should the Ministry put forward all the legislation his department had been pushing. He often said he was more scared of what he would do to me than what I would do to him.

S: May I ask you about the sterilisation threat that was prominent during the 60s and early 70s?
L: Go for it.

S: Would you feel, if it came into law, that you would have been robbed of the opportunity to have a family? Or do you feel that (and I know some werewolves interviewed in the past have had this opinion) it would have been safer not to engage with it anyway - that sterilisation would have provided reassurance more than anything else?
L: Ah- that’s a difficult question to answer.

S: You don’t have to answer it.
L: No, I’ll try. Um… Well my friends, after we left school - they had a son, and at the time I remember being quite besotted and thinking a little bitterly that I might never have that. It would be unfair to say that the feeling was entirely down to lycanthropy, but it did play a role. Who would want to have a family with me anyway - sterile or not? I mean, as well - I don’t think it’s the only way to have a family. Fathering a child, that is. But it’s not as though a werewolf could ever adopt, so we’re back to square one in that regard. I’ve also, um… I’ve also never been in a relationship with a woman… so I don’t know how that would er- change things. I- maybe this should come out of the final, but I’ve started now. I wonder if men - or maybe just the man in question - like the danger or the risk of it all. If that was some of the appeal. I suppose some women might be that way too but… When I spend too much time thinking about it, it makes me a little uneasy. I don’t want a partner to hate Moony, but at the same time, I’m a little greedy, I suppose. I want all the love to be for me - like, for Remus. If that makes sense.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Remus traced a thumb over the drawing in Newt’s notebook, remembering the afternoon that he had fallen asleep reading in front of the fire and felt the hair along the back of his neck stand up in some mixed up combination of embarrassment and flattery. The drawings of his mangled body as a wolf, he could do without looking over again, and tucked them back into the pages of the journal, but the others did something strange to him.

He was both compelled to commit them to memory, but also to look away as though he was prying on something private (which he was) and shameful. He pulled out the portrait. God knows how he’d managed to pull it off without Remus realising he was doing it, but Newt spent so much of his free time either reading about beasts, looking at pictures of beasts or drawing beasts perhaps it was no surprise he had overlooked it.

Remus wouldn’t say he was unpleasant to look at. He was quite content that he had been blessed with a face that was generally inoffensive and trustworthy. Certain things annoyed him, on the days he felt more self-critical than usual. He wished he had more noticeable eyelashes, or perhaps visible eyebrows to speak of. He had spent too much time admiring the determined set of James’ thick eyebrows, or of Sirius’ long lashes, dark against his pale cheeks. In comparison, he felt a little washed out and bland - not even blessed with the sparkly blue eyes and cherubic cheeks that Peter had to go with the blond curls. Perhaps less of a long neck or a less prominent Adam’s apple, or a more interesting colour of hair might’ve improved him.

Looking in the mirror, he might think all of those things, but looking down at Newt’s drawing, it felt offensive that he might even suggest anything should be changed.

If Newt had thought his pale eyebrows and bony neck pleasant enough to commit to paper, then perhaps they weren’t so unfortunate after all.

Something poked at his shoe and he startled, clutching the assorted papers to his chest and looking down.

It was Newt’s niffler, Teddy, inspecting the metal eyelets of his boots.

He returned the papers as close to their original positions as he could recall and placed them back on the table before reaching down to pick up the little creature.

“I hope you don’t mind the substitute.” He commented, smiling at it as it caught sight of his watch peeking out from under the sleeve of his jumper. “Dad is indisposed.”

He left the little tub on the table and set off into the case proper, letting the niffler wriggle out of his grip and down his leg onto the floor as he picked up the minced chicken Newt had been using to feed the crups.

“Let’s do the easy ones first.”

He could see why Newt was so willing and able to let the time pass him by down in the suitcase. Admittedly it smelled a little stuffy, but the background noise of snuffling and twittering animals, along with the promise of no owls, knocks at the door, or unexpected apparitions was comforting. He stared down at the litter as they fought over their dinner, thinking absently that, when this was all over and he was back to wandering on his own again, a crup might make pleasant company.

The mooncalves were next, a small colony that were still quite shy of him, despite having seen him alongside Newt on several occasions. They poked out from behind the rocky structures of their environment with a tittering kind of curiosity that reminded Remus of the third year students back at Hogwarts.

The niffler’s nest was next, but Teddy was happy enough scampering along behind him - Remus suspected that it missed Newt’s company.

The swooping evil was still in its quarantine enclosure, though the wound to its wing was almost healed. It was cocooned and hanging from a branch when he walked by and Remus was quite relieved that he wouldn’t have to look at its gruesome skull head and instead could just deposit the small handful of chicken brain into the tank. He shuddered at the thought of it regaining its full health and sucking his own brains out of his nose.

Beyond the tank, in a loop that brought them a few paces away from Newt’s shed, was a false room, heavily warded, with a humidity that masked the nervous sweat that had sprung up on Remus’ back. The niffler sat a few metres behind him, not willing to make itself dinner.

He put a hand to the door knob and held his breath pulled it open, as though the sound of his breathing might tempt it to attack.

His wand was gripped in his hand so tightly his knuckles were white and he preemptively rifled through his mind for a happy memory, should it decide that his offering of pork belly wasn’t appetising enough.

The little room would have been funny, if the lethifold wasn’t the stuff of Remus’ nightmares. A single bed with no sheets or pillows was against the wall and little else. For some bizarre reason, the walls were papered. He crept forwards, eyes locked onto the dark space between the bedframe and the floor, his wand and the hunk of raw flesh at arm’s length. There was no movement, but the shadow looked suspiciously dark to him. Perhaps it was his own paranoia.

Not daring to take his eyes off the gap, he dropped the pork carelessly onto the bed and backed away as fast as he could while keeping his footfalls as quiet as possible. He backed out of the door and snapped it closed behind him, swallowing reflexively to try and push down the lump that was his heart, hammering madly in his throat.

It was something particular about the lethifold that upset him more than was reasonable, Remus thought to himself as he led the little niffler back to its nest and dug through the sack of feed for sunflower seeds (which seemed to be its favourite). Happy to be pampered, it crawled up onto his lap and picked the seeds out of his open palm, tucking them in its cheeks for later. He had developed quite the fear for monsters under the bed, boggarts in the wardrobe and creatures lurking in the shadows since that one night when the nightmares had been proven true. He still recalled, with sickening clarity, reading through a relatively tame children’s bestiary and seeing the entry for lethifolds.

He hadn’t slept in his own bed for weeks afterwards.

(Hypocritical as it was, as he was quite sure there were plenty of people who would be much more horrified to find Remus lurking in the corner of their bedroom on a certain night of the month).

Newt really was quite mad for keeping one in his case as though it were a Yorkshire Terrier.

His mind drifted to the transfigured earthen den in the field outside and part of him wondered if it was so unusual to want his own little spot in Newt’s case of treasures, where no matter how ugly, maimed and vicious he was, there would always be the promise of two visits per day from a kindly zookeeper and some tea and biscuits.

He let his mind drift in and out, comforted by the weight of Teddy on his lap and his contented snuffling, as the images of the last two months clicked together in a strange, undeniable jigsaw.

The first feeling - the undeniable shame and horror of

the morning after

knowing that he’d been

seen

in his entirety - naked and exposed, reborn in the daylight in that dazed, anxious and tearful post-transformation state where his mind barely troubled itself to hold on to a memory. But he remembered - with a white-hot searing clarity - the feeling of Newt’s hand on his ribs, burning like a brand against his flank. And maybe, if he sifted through the dazed blur of hazy shape and colour, he could recall the stumbling walk up the staircase, and the feeling of the other man’s grip under his arm - almost painful - and the childish acceptance of being man-handled into bed.

And in the light of that undeniable memory and the debt he had accrued, why was he so unwilling to make it even? Certainly, he had helped people many times before. He hadn’t thought twice, pulling James or Mary from the heat of a fight during the war after taking a bad curse or a stray

stupify

. Sure, some moments, mannerisms and likenesses reminded him of his old friends and comrades in the most benign form of longing, but he couldn’t deny that certain things (God, that evil slip of pale stomach) could not be written off as his general wish for things to return to the way they were.

And the strange sickening, buzzing feeling deep in his stomach whenever their eyes met, or their skin touched… Well. He could hardly pretend he had never had that feeling before.

He brushed his thumb over Teddy’s soft head, harnessing the comforting repetition as he turned his attention to Sirius - like turning his eyes to the blazing sun. Still raw, complicated and unprocessed, he couldn’t help but cringe away from looking too long.

It was long overdue.

And when he looked into the blazing sun of his past entanglement, there was the truth. Here were the same feelings again. Slightly changed, obviously - there was a giddy teenage excitement that Sirius had stirred within him that, in the light of the war and a few more years of age, Newt did not - but it was unmistakable non-the-less. The maddening desire to catalogue every inch of him was quite familiar. Rather than the ethereal, casual grace that Sirius had been blessed with, it was the careful hesitancy that Newt approached others (man or beast) that sent him spiralling. Rather than the objective regal beauty of dark hair against pale, unblemished skin, or the haughty confidence of a well-bread man it was the interesting little oddities that lured him in this time. The lopsided smile, the unbridled excitement and the liberal smattering of freckles - like stars - more appearing the longer you looked.

Denying it would simply be foolish. There was something burning in his chest for Newt Scamander. Perhaps it was infatuation, or obsession or love - parsing out the difference

was

too much to ask - but whatever it was, it was there and unmistakable.

He would feed the lethifold for Newt. He would wade through a bog for Newt. He would answer questions that made him confront the horrors of the recent past for Newt. And now that he really catalogued their time together, Newt would do all that and more in return.

That

was frightening.

Of course - Newt could just be a kind man - it was plain to see that he was more than happy to bend over backwards for any misunderstood beast. It was a real possibility that he was simply one more for the collection (and would that be

that

bad?). It would not be the first time he looked upon another with admiration and desire and received nothing in return. He was familiar with that. He had admired many men to the extent that it might have pushed the boundary of admiration into infatuation. There had certainly been a time where he had hero-worshiped James to the point of pushing his own morals aside just for a glimpse of his approval. Pining was safe territory.

Reciprocation was dangerous ground.

And it was the smallest of things that had planted that niggling worry. The constant cups of tea, the willingness to follow whenever he fled, the endless patience, the laser-focus of occasional eye-contact and the invitation

in.

Into the excitement of his interest, into the adventure on the moors. Into the little house in the countryside. Into the suitcase of worldly treasures that he was sat in now.

He groaned, weighed down by the heavy reality of it all, and ran his hands through his hair.

Regardless of the pain it might cause to touch the barely-healed wounds of a few years ago, he had to accept that he was in debt. And not only was he in debt, but that debt was to someone who would keep giving regardless.

And so he should really begin to repay it, no matter how frightening it might be to participate in his own life and stop just allowing things to happen to him, hoping that if they were going to hit him, that it would at least be a glancing blow.

He would run right at this one and, God willing, he would be met with open arms.

Teddy was gently unclasping his watch as he resurfaced from his well of dedication.

Rolling his eyes, he re-did the clasp and encouraged the niffler off his lap and back into its nest.

“You sit tight and behave yourself. I’ve got one last creature to look after.”

Before he could think too hard about it and psych himself out, he strode over to the little shed and made his way over to the ladder, collecting the rumpled quilt from the little bed along the way.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

He pushed up the lid of the case and took a gasp of the real world. Cool and a little dusty - quite apart from the dreamland down below. Newt was still slumped to one side on the bed, face down, legs dangling over the side. He seemed to be asleep, mouth hanging open and his neck at a painful-looking angle without a pillow under his head.

Remus pulled his eyes away from Newt’s sleeping face and set to work unlacing his one remaining (still a little soggy) boot and working it off, along with both muddy socks. With the easy part done, he stood up, hand on hips, wondering how he was going to tackle the rest of the problem. He supposed, in terms of logistics, the muddy trousers would be easier than the jumper. Of course, logistics weren’t the only issue at play, but he had already resolved himself to remove his own selfish hesitancies from the matter.

Determinedly pushing his own horrifyingly profound embarrassment to the back of his mind, he started undoing buttons, trying desperately not to keep checking Newt’s face as though he were scared of being caught doing something he shouldn’t. No need to feel like he was doing something improper - he would resolutely keep the rusty but still eager side of his brain wiped clean and pull this handsome and unconscious man’s trousers down in a purely platonic and caring manner. God, please let him be able to do that, at least.

Though likely much easier than the jumper would be, Newt was deceptively heavy and wrangling his long legs into a more sensible position while the older man sleepily wriggled away from his touch like a slug to salt was unexpectedly tricky. It was unfortunate that the only position he could put himself in to make it easier was to straddle himself across Newt’s thighs. Remus closed his eyes and physically bit back a groan of horrified despair at himself as his fingers brushed against the heat of Newt’s (evil slip of) pale stomach.

Jesus Christ.

Newt grunted in apparent annoyance at being bothered and his hands flicked vaguely, as though Remus were a fly that he could swat away. Remus took advantage of the writhing and yanked his unfastened trousers down as he tried to roll over. Now face-to-face with Newt’s backside - his attention captured by it like a car-crash - he scrambled down the bed some so he could wrestle the filthy trousers down past his ankles to finish the job and also put a safe distance between himself and Newt’s unexpectedly firm arse.

He threw the ruined trousers to the floor, intending to practice a few cleaning spells on them later (and inevitably give up and have to resort to the hard way) and surveyed his handiwork.

The bed was a mess of dried mud that had flaked off onto the sheets, now twisted underneath him, every time Newt moved. Newt himself was apparently back the way he liked to be - face down - and seemingly still without any meaningful use of his legs. The bite mark to his ankle was still weeping and evidently the venom was still doing

something

even if the bezoar had halted the progression. He was as drowsy and uncooperative as a drunk, and similarly uncoordinated. Determined to be asleep, he had turned his face away from Remus and flung one arm sloppily over his head, shielding eyes. Remus was undeterred - bolstered by the knowledge that he had completed the most daunting part and come through unscathed (aside from his burning ears) he took Newt’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back, giving him a little shake.

“Hey, sit up a bit?”

Newt groaned, screwing his eyes up as though he was worried Remus might try to physically pry them open. He couldn’t help but laugh - there was something undeniably endearing about his scrunched-up face.

“I have to get this off - it’s filthy.”

“‘M not filthy.” He winged petulantly, trying to turn away again. “‘M tired.”

Remus sighed, resolving himself to a lack of cooperation, and climbed back onto the bed, resuming his business-like position straddled over Newt’s legs and took one of his arms in each hand.

“C’mon, up.” He tugged, hoping that Newt might get the picture and help him out a little if he just went for it. Indeed, he allowed himself to be pulled upright and slumped forward straight into Remus, eyes half closed. The solid weight of him draped over Remus’ shoulders and chest was a touch more than his careful mind-wiping could overcome and he froze for a moment, frightened of where to put his hands and of what Newt might find himself leaning against.

Hopefully Newt was far too preoccupied with trying not to be awake to notice Remus’ heart thudding against his chest.

“Er, okay.” He flitted his hands nervously around Newt’s torso, arrested by adrenaline. “Okay, arms first, I think.”

Manoeuvring around the dead weight against him, he manhandled Newt’s arms out of their sleeves, savouring the feeling of his head lying heavy in the crook of his neck and his breath ghosting over his collarbone. Surely that wasn’t a crime? His hands were still inside of Newt’s jumper, the heat of his back burning against Remus’ fingertips and he was unable to resist stroking his thumb over the notches of his spine, pushed out tight against his flesh by his hunched posture. What he wouldn’t give to lean into his desires and pull him close, hands planted against Newt’s back with the sole wish to embrace him so hard that they might melt into one. And what he wouldn’t give to be pulled in, in return.

Not now, though. He wasn’t being selfish now.

And so he took the trim of his jumper and tugged it up over the back of his head, freeing him from it and making him pull closer at the assault of cold air - his freed arms falling by Remus’ hips.

“Er, you’re free to go.” He prompted, shrugging a little to see if jostling Newt’s head might liven him up. Instead, one hand just patted Remus’ thigh vaguely.

“Of course.” He would have to turn himself inside-out in sheer horror if it was revealed to him that Newt had been kidding him on this entire time.

He didn’t want to push Newt off, lest he just fall back, so he went down with him, extracting his arms from under him with some difficulty. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he rolled back over onto his stomach and buried his face into the bedding. Remus snorted and stood, bringing Newt’s shed jumper with him.

“Should have seen that coming.”

The bed

was

a mess, and he wasn’t deluded enough to think he was talented enough at cleaning spells to effectively vanish it, but he did reckon he could summon it, so at least Newt wasn’t lying in it. He took a stray sheet of paper from the desk and crouched in front of it on the floor before casting

accio

and directing the obedient stream of dried mud and silt into a neat pile on top of it. Pleased with himself, he folded it neatly and pocketed it to deposit outside later. The finishing touch, the patterned quilt from what was obviously Newt’s preferred bed, was still in a bundle next to the case. He shook it out and covered Newt with it,resisting the urge to tuck him in, lest he feel infantilised.

Newt shifted at the added weight and pulled it around himself, lifting his head an inch and blinking blearily at Remus.

“‘S from my case?” His voice was thick and low and Remus’ lips quirked of their own accord.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.” He dropped his head back down, but was still looking at Remus.

Well, looking at Remus’ legs. Or staring through them. It was hard to tell.

“Wolfsbane in the case.”

“What?” He heard the words, but his mind didn’t prescribe them any meaning. Newt coughed a little, perhaps to wake himself up, and looked up to meet Remus’ eyes.

“In my case, where the bezoars were, there’s wolfsbane. You’ll have to brew it - just the final step.”

His gaze drifted back to where it was comfortable, somewhere at his hairline, and he continued. “Should be plenty. It’s about five days ‘til the moon - should be just enough time.”

Of course. How had he overlooked

that

?

“Will you be down that long?” He resented the slight whine that was definitely audible in his voice and thought he saw Newt give a brief twitch of a smile.

“No idea. Better play it safe.”

That was… very pragmatic. Newt often surprised him with his strange dichotomy of strict order (the routines that he ground into his life at any opportunity - the morning tea, the feeding order, reading before bed)
contrasted against the apparent ability to go wherever the winds took him, vulnerable to the alluring call of whimsy (ploughing through bogs for dead bodies, spending the night with an unmedicated werewolf, keeping a suitcase full of illegal creatures). He didn’t seem the type to have things planned ahead to keep himself safe in daily life, but on the other hand, it could just be a convenient effect of his interest in beasts. After all, of course he’d have the four moons they had together burned into his mind.

“Right.” He nodded, turning back to the case to busy himself with that next most pertinent task. And a whisper, hopefully unheard, as he disappeared into its depths again. “Thank you.”

~ * ~

The routine in question that Newt had carved out for them, of eating something frightfully simple at the scarred kitchen table as the night darkened outside, of curling up on the sofa in front of the snapping sitting room fire. The last offering of tea before bed that for some reason felt as impregnated with feeling as though it were a bouquet of flowers. That whole routine.

Well it was much less alluring alone.

Of course, the night was more advanced than the usual time they began their evening parade, but he felt compelled to honour it - for some reason. He had no appetite at the late hour (and besides, his stomach was knotted with the aftermath of his own revelations and the recent feeling of Newt’s skin against his) but did feel that an hour in front of the dying fire with a book might settle him somewhat. He leaned against the kitchen counter, squinting at the text of

House of Pomegranates

in the weak kitchen light as the kettle boiled on the stove. He imagined himself as Newt, making tea for the strange awkward werewolf-man that lived in the damp little house with him with what he could only assume to be love, or at the very least, great care.

Even though Remus was well aware of Newt laying upstairs, likely quite content now that he’d been left alone to sleep, his absence was loud downstairs. He carried his tea into the sitting room and curled up as tightly as he could into the arm of the sofa, the empty space on the other side screaming to him.

Almost a week of no-Newt was an unfortunate reality - he felt bereft already and it had only been raised as a possibility. What was he to do with himself for the next four days without his enthusiastic companion? Certainly, there were tasks to complete, but everything seemed less appealing in a future where he was ticking them off alone.

He took a gulp to calm himself (yet again burning his tongue - when would he learn?) and tried to be stern with himself before he slipped into self-pity.

He had been alone before. He had been a lonely child moving from house to house with only his parents for company. He had enjoyed a brief reprieve of love and friendship, but he shouldn’t let that colour his capacity to be alone. He’d been alone for the last two years. It was just four days. He’d be fine.

Yet again, Newt drifted into his mind. The affronting truth of the little quip that he had no right to have dropped so casually ringing true in the silent evening.

How can something be lonely if it’s never had company?

Oh. So that was why it was so painful the second time around.

He extinguished the fire and poured the remainder of his tea down the drain, dragging his feet up the stairs to bed as he wondered to himself where this man even came from. He’d dropped out of nowhere into his life with no background, context or ties aside from a suitcase full of (likely illegal) animals. Surely they weren’t

both

alone in the world? He pulled the cold sheets up over his shoulders and fell asleep with his head full of Newt.

And jerked awake with his head full of Newt.

It was almost pitch black in the house, with just the dim light of the partially obscured waxing moon to light the rooms through the small windows. He must have had some anxious dream that had immediately slipped his mind, because his heart was hammering in his throat with a fury that didn’t suit the current activity. The house the deathly still and silent, not even the creak of old wood or the whistle of wind to prove to him that he wasn’t the only living thing left on Earth. He swallowed hard and rubbed the grit from his eyes, dragging himself upright and fishing for his discarded jumper to ward against the cold.

It felt like a curse, or an omen, that something would pull him out of his sleep thinking of Newt. He staggered out of bed, not yet awake enough to walk without leaning against the wall, and stumbled down the short hallway to the little room at the back of the house - trying to ignore the oppressive weight of silence pushing against his eardrums. The door was still ajar and he eased it open, careful to stop before the creak, and slipped in. What had he expected? It wasn’t as though the other man would be going anywhere under his own steam for a short while. Still, he felt relieved to see Newt sprawled face-down as he’d left him. He edged further into the room, close enough to lean over the bed and peek at the visible half of his face. Leaning as he was just a foot away, he was quite sure he could hear a softer version of the same snoring he’d been witness to earlier.

Should he be watching him? Should he stay in the room? He seemed no more incapacitated than your average drunk, and Remus had never bothered to hover around Peter or James when they’d gotten themselves into a similar state.

Still, he

had

said it might still spread. And it

was

true that he hadn’t brewed a true antidote. But he’d also been quite confident that it wasn’t an issue and it would simply come to pass.

But then, hadn’t he said that the venom was used in calming draughts - perhaps Newt’s confidence and nonchalance was entirely misplaced.

Feeling the panic start to rise again, Remus took a step back and a stern gulp of night air, trying to parse out whether he was allowing an irrational worry to spiral, or whether he should perhaps do something. After several long minutes of trying not to panic so aggressively that he might wake Newt up with his shuddering breaths, he settled somewhere in the middle, deciding he would levitate his mattress into Newt’s room and put up camp in the corner. He’d leave the older wizard to his own devices and trust that he knew what he was talking about. But at the same time, he would probably enjoy a less anxiety riddled sleep if he could hear Newt’s snoring.

The room was not really large enough for two single beds and a desk. He managed to wedge the mattress between the doorway and the foot of Newt’s bed, giving him a thrilling view of the underneath of Newt’s bed when he lay down. Thankfully, it was populated with nothing more than dust bunnies - not a lethifold in sight. Telling his mind quite sternly that there was nothing more he would do to appease the worry than lie in the same room, he screwed his eyes shut and willed sleep to come.

It must have obeyed his summons, because he opened his eyes to total confusion at the dusty floorboards before his late-night worrying came back to him. He sat up, cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his own behaviour, and peeked over the edge of Newt’s bed. He was met, unsurprisingly, with his feet.

Remus reached out one tentative finger and poked at Newt’s bare toes sticking out from under the bottom edge of the quilt. He twitched and snorted, and Remus - satisfied with this sign of life - stretched and made his way down the stairs to fill the vacant space in Newt’s morning routine.

Remus hissed as his bare feet made contact with the cold floor of the kitchen, but he resolutely went through the steps of making them tea and lighting the fire, imagining the ghost of Newt’s careful hands carrying out the tasks as he now did, many mornings before.

It was strange to be the first one awake and, now that he was the one carrying the two mugs up the stairs, he felt an unexpected appreciation of the effort that Newt went to (whether he did it knowingly or not) to make the little house in the field a place that he looked forward to waking up in.

He shouldered open Newt’s bedroom door - this time not bothering to hide the noise - and set the mugs down on the little desk.

“Newt?”

He wondered what magic it was that he always seemed to wake up when Newt appeared in his own doorway. Unless Newt just stood there watching him until he woke up.

Whatever trick it was, it seemed he didn’t have the same natural ability and would have to be a little more forceful. Not entirely disappointed with having an excuse to touch Newt, he turned the quilt down and shook his shoulder - cataloguing again the electrifying buzz of solid, real and warm

person

under his palm. Not just person.

This

person.

Anyway.

With a little manhandling and stern insistence, Newt grumbled himself awake and stared up at Remus as though it were only sheer willpower that was keeping his eyes open.

“Hello.”

His voice sounded oddly thick - perhaps it was that he’d just woken up. Remus tried to keep from smiling. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt as though he should keep a straight face.

“Are you better?” he asked, a little impatience slipping through. Newt looked a touch bewildered and made to sit up, but botched it - apparently forgetting his legs couldn’t be relied upon - and flopped like a fish out of water. Remus was sure he saw a blush appear under his freckles.

“Well, I feel less floaty in the head, but apparently I’m still a little useless. An improvement overall.”

Remus felt the grin asking to appear again and didn’t stifle it this time.

“Brilliant. I missed you.”

Before Remus had time to be embarrassed, Newt laughed good naturedly and pulled himself upright with more success. “It’s been a good while since someone has said that to me.”

Remus was once again struck by the matter-of-fact nature with which Newt could somehow deliver such words. Perhaps it was the extra few years, or maybe a fundamental difference in their personalities, that made him able to say such sad things with the simplicity of reading off a price tag.

“I brought you a tea,” he said, mainly to stop himself from spilling his guts out.

Newt beamed and Remus felt as though his soul had been set alight.

Remus took Newt’s usual spot on the other end of the bed and watched him tentatively sip at his tea, coughing on the occasional mouthful.

“I would have thought I was snoring. Didn’t I keep you up?”

Remus followed Newt’s gaze to the mattress on the floor and the abandoned pile of his own bedding. He buried his face in his knees, overcome with embarrassment, and wished he’d had the sense to put everything right before waking Newt.

“Are you embarrassed?” Newt said, as always without a hint of accusation, but Remus wished that a pit would open beneath him and swallow him whole.

Unfortunately, he was left curled up with his face in his knees on Newt’s bed, looking like a shamed child.

“Funnily enough, yes.” His words were muffled into his legs, but he wasn’t willing to look up.

Newt didn’t say anything. Remus could hear him valiantly choking down mouthfuls of tea and wondered absently if the muscle weakness was affecting his throat.

“I sleep in my case, mostly,” Newt confessed abruptly.
“Because… Um, well I don’t really know how to say…” He trailed off, apparently searching for the words. Remus was still, barely breathing, as though any movement might frighten away Newt’s train of thought. “I suppose it’s nice to be surrounded by things I love.”

An odd tangent to move to, but there must be some connection in Newt’s mind - certainly Remus wasn’t privy to it. He braved a peek over his knees. What a blessing that Newt much preferred to talk into the distance rather than fix him with the pressing weight of a direct stare. Without the threat of the other’s eyes, he carefully uncoiled himself, feeling that there was

something

there that he was being told, but perhaps he was too embroiled in his own loud emotions to hear the meaning. Newt glanced down when Remus shifted. Their knees were touching.

“Thank you for the tea.” He said, with the air of a man who wanted to say a lot more but didn’t have the right words available. “And for sleeping in the case.”

“I didn’t sleep in the case-”

“No- I didn’t mean… Not literally. Just-”

Their knees were touching. Through the quilt, but to Remus it felt as if he was being burned. Remus stared at the point of contact, feeling the weight of

something

pressing in on the both of them in the little room. The quilt rustled and then, quite unexpectedly there was the warmth of another’s face close to his. Too close and yet not close enough. That strange, excited, churning anticipation reared its head again and he felt simultaneously like he might vomit or laugh. Newt’s nose brushed against his, then pressed cold against his cheekbone as their lips met, warm and dry, soft and kind.

He was inhabiting a strange universe where two things were possible at once. Somehow they stayed like that for minutes - maybe hours - and somehow it was over in no more than a couple of loud and painful heartbeats.

And surely, they must have pulled apart. And perhaps their eyes had met - perhaps not. As soon as the eternal moment passed, his briefly silenced mind filled again with frantic buzzing and before he could comprehend whatever happened in the aftermath, he was standing in the hallway listening to the incessant swishing of his own heart in his ears.

Newt did not call out for him. And why would he? He’d just fled after a kiss. He dragged his fingers through his hair, tangling his fingers in it, pulling on it as though a little physical discomfort might push out the painfully loud buzzing of his own painful thoughts.

He needed to get out of the house.

Quiet and quick, not caring that he still smelled like bed and had not brushed his hair, he forced his feet into his boots and pulled on his coat, staggering through the door as if he were being chased and took several greedy gulps of morning air.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It was a pleasant morning, if he put aside his own turbulent feelings long enough to appreciate it. The crisp air was brisk enough to soothe the flush on his cheeks and the day refreshingly clean, with its bright Spring sunlight and residual droplets of dew on the grass.

Remus walked aimlessly away from the house in a familiar desire to exercise away his fear and confusion. It was well trodden ground, his monthly activity of walking until his feet were numb and his mind empty - forced clear by the bitter winds and soggy ground of the English countryside. At the boundary of the property, he clambered over the stile into the neighbouring field and apparated himself away to the first place in his mind - the New Forest moorland - where he could be sure to be alone with his thoughts.

He appeared in the same spot they’d left from the day before. He squinted into the distance, the golden light on the misty tree-lined hills reminding him fondly of a childhood trip to Eryri with his parents - camping in the wilderness. A rare glimpse of the carefree life they could have enjoyed - encased in the little enchanted tent at the foot of the mountain.

With the vastness of nature and the comfort of relative solitude slowly bleaching away his reactive hysteria, the empty space in his mind began to fill with firm truth.

He’d already fled - given the worst response he could give other than a slap. Or perhaps not. At least if he’d been violent, he’d have let Newt know in more certain terms what he thought. He grimaced to himself as he recalled his own erratic behaviour, but there was nothing that could be done now to reverse it. Once again, he found himself indebted.

At least this was a familiar predicament. He had always been burdensome.

The breeze lifted his hair and his mind wandered back to Newt’s strange inclination to permanently commit Remus’ (distinctly average) face to paper. The absurd reality of someone pulling a pencil across paper to immortalise his image was so earnest, so sincere, that it almost hurt. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the feeling - he had felt it many times before. Certainly, he was more inclined to wax poetic about those who captured his affections, but he recognised the same desire in a different medium. No, it wasn’t that - it was the concrete proof that someone harboured that desire for

him

. He could deny words said aloud, even actions that may try to prove it to him, but looking where he didn’t belong at that feeling made real on paper intended for Newt’s eyes only… Well that was a force to be reckoned with.

He sighed, head back, eyes boring into the pale, cloudless sky above as though he might be able to drink in some of the serenity.

With a quieter head and calmer heart, he found himself thinking about the day just gone on the moor. Newt had had plenty to say about symbiosis - too much for Remus to have retained it all - but it was a fun train of thought to entertain him as he wandered. Two mutually beneficial creatures. He had been in plenty of scenarios that he had thought were such, only to be proven a fool. One shone clear above all others, but he pushed his mind to stay on current matters.

He had often considered what, if anything, he brought to the friendships and relationships he found himself in. It was quite automatic for him to assume that he was simply accruing racking up a tab that he would never be able to pay. There was something about him, a waterproof coating, that made him impervious to kind words. It was a strange predicament. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe that the other person felt it to be true. More that they must simply have misunderstood - not seen him in the right light. That the other shoe would drop.

He gave

some

things in return. Newt paid him and he wrote up sampling data late into the evening. Newt paid him, and he was a wolf in the vicinity of him from time to time (and strangely, this was a trade that Newt thought was good and fair). Those things were straightforward.

It was the other things that were troublesome.

The cups of tea and the kindness and the laughter. The feeling of home.

He wasn’t sure he had the currency to pay for those.

It occurred to him then, that if Newt had seen something worth committing to paper in him that he had never appreciated in his own reflection, then perhaps there was a world where his own existence was enough to repay the debt. That there was no debt. That it wasn’t even a gift.

It was a fair exchange. Symbiosis.

A frightening and thrilling thought to reckon with.

It was with this in mind that he began to forage around in the mud and greenery for what he imagined Newt might select - looking upon the landscape with the magizooligist’s eyes. Everything became habitat. Fathoms beneath him filled with rich loam, or damp marsh, home to hundreds of insects and invertebrates - the sky above a path from one landing point to the next. He conjured an empty jam jar and started to fill it with the strange, stringy plant life that covered the marshy ground. Only when his jacket pockets were heavy with filled glass and the cuffs of his sleeves filthy enough to make Newt proud, did he begin his journey back, buoyed by a new sense of purpose.

The house was still quiet when he returned and he hung his coat up and carefully levitated his collection of muddy jars up the stairs. He crept after them, trying not to make unnecessary noise on the stairs. Despite his revelation, if Newt was asleep, he would rather he stay that way for just a while longer. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to complete his task unquestioned.

It seemed that he had been awake and bored for a while. The mattress on the floor had been quite neatly made (Remus recognised the standard Flitwick-style fold in the top sheet that gave away the charm) and papers had moved from the desk over to Newt’s bed.

He’d clearly tried to dress himself and had given up half way - top-half done and bottom-half abandoned. Slumped upright with his back against the headboard and wall he had the same bestiary he’d been studying the other day open on his lap. Several other books (including Remus’ copy of

House of Pomegranates

) lay on the bed, obviously summoned there.

Not bothering to hide the fond smile that had grown, unbidden, on his lips, Remus unlatched the suitcase still sitting on the floor and eased himself down, closing the hatch behind him. The chattering and rustling of Newt’s collection were welcome, as was the warm, still air and promise of company without social burden. Teddy was at the foot of the ladder, eager to meet him and likely excited for the potential offering of more sunflower seeds. Remus spent a moment greeting him before setting up in Newt’s strange and crowded kitchenette. He had work to do.

The lobalug was on the wooden table in its tub as he’d left it - looking slightly worse for wear without some muddy water to lurk in. Even trying to summon a childish sense of wonder that he knew must exist within him, Remus could not lie to himself and say that there was anything appealing about the creature - other than the fact Newt had an interest in it.

He supposed he would have to look at himself in the same manner.

It was no larger than his thumb, greyish-yellow with mossy green speckles that screamed

poisonous

in Remus’ subconscious.

Much more confident in his ability to transfigure than conjure, he unearthed a slightly rusted bucket and carefully transformed it into a glass tank, large and heavy enough to have the table beneath it groan in complaint. Teddy stood on the backrest of the single chair and watched with silent interest as Remus multiplied and carefully arranged the mud, vegetation and then bog water into the new tank.

Using the same handy spell Peter had once shown him to filter coffee, he hastened the settling of the sediment in the water and peered through the glass to admire his handiwork.

Undoubtedly, Newt would have done a much neater job - but he was quite chuffed with himself all the same. He carefully levitated the deceptively dangerous little creature into its new habitat and couldn’t help but smile as it sank gratefully into the water.

Perhaps Newt had felt a similar way when Remus had fled straight into the earthen den he had erected for Moony that first transformation.

He wasn’t quite sure where the distinction lay, but there was something different about being a beast in the eyes of the Ministry, and being a beast in the eyes of Newt Scamander.

And one was certainly more favourable than the other.

He offered an arm out for Teddy, who ran up it happily and perched himself on Remus’ shoulder - a welcome companion while he took on Newt’s usual rounds of the case with various chunks of flesh and bags of feed (thankful that the lethifold was not on a daily feeding regime).

Time passed unnoticed by him in the strange pocket universe that was Newt’s suitcase - where day and night were merely for the convenience of maintaining feeding schedules and not beholden to the changes in seasons. It was far too easy to let life slip away, particularly with the ever attention-hungry cruppies or the tempting pull of Newt’s writings (particularly when they pertained to him). He might be a beast, but there was some man in him. And that man had a streak of vanity like any other. Who was he to deny himself the excited flutter of seeing his own name written so sweetly in observations seen through the lens of what he now knew for certain was tenderness and a dash of yearning?

Time might not have been calling for him, but the promise of another sickeningly fizzy eternal moment - nurtured by Newt’s thoughtful observations of him, carefully written - was impossible to ignore.

It was with a boldness that he rarely enjoyed within himself that he clambered out of the shed and came face to face with Newt, still on the bed, but sitting forward - apparently having been watching the suitcase.

“You were down there a while - I heard the lid close. Is everyone alright?”

God, even in the state he was in, a little pale and lopsided with his recent incapacitation - teeth worrying his lip and eyebrows knitted with concern - he still had Remus’ chest burning. He took a daring step forwards, effectively closing the little distance between them, and shook his head.

“All fine.” Remus heard his own words as though someone else had said them. He was far away from the present moment, already in the next one - one where his hand was in Newt’s rumpled auburn hair, where his eyelashes tickled his cheek. Where the other man might feel his triumphant, self-satisfied smile against his own lips.

And then the moment rushed up to meet him and the fiction became reality. More impatient than he had intended, but just as sweet. There was his hand on the back of Newt’s head - hair soft under his palm, his fingers snagging in the occasional knot. There was the tickle of the other’s eyelashes against his cheek and the smile, impossible to suppress, pressed recklessly against Newt’s own.

Not soft and kind. He didn’t have the luxury of confidence. Instead, he was forced to fake it until it became reality - pushing himself upon the other in a desperate plea of ‘please, confirm to me that I was right to be brave’.
Newt pulled away and tipped his head forward, breaking their lips apart but resting their foreheads together as he planted a hand on Remus’ arm, gently directing him to sit down beside him. Remus opened his eyes.

Newt was looking at him - with that same lopsided smile that shorted out his thoughts.

“I had hoped that would be your answer.”

Remus snorted and kissed him again, the courage coming easy now. “Did you, now?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Well, I’ve met the consequences of my own foolishness (God forbid if Theseus were to find out about this development) but sometimes learning the hard way is necessary. Naturally, my mind is running away with concerns about what the Ministry might be compelled to do to the environment considering that I do believe we have found the cause for the disproportionately high numbers of muggle deaths in that area, but I should pull the brakes on that. I do hope that it takes more than a swish of a wand to change the ecosystem in a National Park - surely it will have to be appealed to the muggle government?
Perhaps I should write to Theseus and ask.
Or perhaps not… If he tells me something I don’t want to hear, then not adding the lubalug finding into the report will no doubt be something I won’t hear the end of.
Well, regardless of what Remus and I eventually decide to do about it, it’s interesting enough. I do love the strange versions of symbiosis that occur with magical creatures - particularly those that feed on magical energy, rather than slot into a traditional food chain.
Good job Remus was there to spot me. Would have been borderline embarrassing to have been taken down by a miniature variant of a lobalug and a few hinkypunks as a magizoologist. And since I’m now stuck here, bored out of my mind when I could be out collecting more sampling data, I might as well log some of the effects. Perhaps Remus would be kind enough to find me a reference text to compare.
First 2-6 hours (mainly reported, I don’t have a great memory of it)
Bezoar given after approximately 1 hour - noticeable halt in spreading of paralysis, but slight reduction in general muscle tone continues.
A disproportionate lack of concern or fear about the situation.
Poor general gross motor coordination
Reduced strength in arms and legs.
Paralysis that travels outward from bite site.
Puncture wounds were relatively deep compared to the width, and so closed fairly quickly.
Drowsiness
Hour 6-24
Increased drowsiness
Generalised floppiness/low tone (Remus described it as “like a drunkard”) including in the face i.e. snoring/drooling (how embarrassing to find this out after the fact!)
Uncooperative, but pacified enough to not be a “real problem” as Remus put it.
Remus said I mainly slept and did not do anything particularly interesting
Day 2-4
Well, I remember this, so it’s much easier.
I have been, and still am, more than a touch uncoordinated and a little dizzy on standing (this might be a side effect of the bezoar though, they’ve always disagreed with me)
Certainly still some lingering drowsiness and simple-mindedness, but at least I have the capacity to become bored now.
The paralysis has certainly worn off, but I am still waiting for the full strength to return to my legs. Quite alright for tottering around the house where I can hold on to a wall, but not exactly safe for stairs or indeed bogs.
Swallowing is still a little troublesome, but I would hardly say dangerous. Likely I am still snoring (my apologies to Remus).
Hinkypunks shed quite a bit of magical energy into the environment. Some creatures do more than others. Like a kind of magical pollution, I suppose is how I would describe it to a muggle. So honestly, I’m surprised that something such as a lobalug hadn’t occurred to me to be feeding off the remains. As much as I appreciate the little triangle of mutual benefit that’s been created in this environment, it does seem an unfair disadvantage to the muggles to have both been lured by the hinkypunk and rendered unable to save themselves by its symbiote.
Remus took himself down to the boglands the other day (I thought he had perhaps fled from my advances - Lord knows I can misread a situation quite spectacularly) and returned with a lovely habitat for our little friend.
I do believe this is one of the kindest things someone has ever done for me. Particularly as I know he finds the creature repulsive. Of course, the environment needs some adjusting - firstly there is nothing shedding magical energy for it to feed from - but the efforts are both appreciated and also not entirely useless. Sometimes Teddy tries to follow him out of the suitcase. I’m sure I will get flack from them for being MIA for several days, but at least they are content with the replacement.
Remus even fed the lethifold.
Now that I have the housekeeping out of the way, I will allow myself a moment of what I imagine would be described as ‘teenage girl wistfulness’ (which is ridiculous, as I am thirty-one and a man). I am feeling a little coy all of a sudden, but likely because Remus is across the room writing up our sampling data from last week. He has certainly been through my notes and journal - I asked him to retrieve them for me to alleviate some of the boredom and the drawings were in different places. It’s a touch upsetting to be in a predicament where he knows for certain how I feel about him and I am still hoping and guessing - particularly as it’s hard for me to trust my own judgement - but I will just have to be reassured that he came back and returned my advance.
And that he’s still here now. Choosing to sit upstairs with me even though the fire is downstairs. I have been telling myself for the past several weeks to just keep my thoughts and feelings to myself - after all, Remus has clearly lost plenty in the last few years and if I were to cause some entanglement that would rob him of… something else… then I would feel quite guilty.
But I am also just a man who can be selfish. And perhaps it’s not so selfish to just want to reach out and ask for the things you want. I don’t often fear rejection at this point - I am quite happy to be on my own, it’s safer and preferable, but I do fear that I will catastrophically misunderstand what I believe is a mutual attraction.
Do I have to ask myself what I hope to achieve with my advances, or is it enough that we both simply enjoy the moment? I am not one for imagining complex futures, but this lack of interest in where “things may go” has come up on other occasions as a negative.
And of course, there’s the issue of the werewolf observations. I was intending (and have been writing scattered notes for) to publish an essay on the topic which I (perhaps naively) hope will stir up some conversation about the way the Ministry tracks, treats and refers to werewolves in their published literature. Only if Remus is happy with what I want to submit, of course.
I do wonder if this view I have of Remus, warped by admiration, infatuation and an appreciation for an objectively kind, thoughtful and brilliant man will make that writing better, or worse. I did intend to come at the topic with a degree of objectivity, simply because any texts that are overly sympathetic are seen to be pushing some bleeding-heart agenda. (Of course, I am pushing an agenda - isn’t everyone - but I rather think it’s time that an agenda other than the current was pushed). The issue with objectivity and distance is that my primary complaint with most texts currently referenced, particularly by the Ministry, is of a lack of consideration for the humanity of the werewolf, and an entrenched feeling of otherness which is unconsciously parroted by plenty of authors. I do not want to be accused of having my scientific and political opinions swayed by my feelings (they aren't - I considered Remus a human being worthy of respect, time and listening ears before I wanted to pull him close and kiss him).
Perhaps Remus doesn’t mind at all. He’s certainly more resigned about that political situation regarding werewolves than I had expected. (I appreciate that the endless stretch of a lifetime of fighting for your rights is tiresome and many people wish for another to carry the burden at least for a short period, while they catch their breath.)
Perhaps I shouldn’t be thinking any such thing - I am vaguely aware that there are inappropriate and appropriate times to think certain things about a person (who knows why - certainly not me).
Of course, I am tempted to just ask, but having learned from past mistakes regarding straightforwardness in relationships, I will restrain myself. Funny that people like to talk about love and infatuation and intimacy and other such things in the abstract, but are often very against looking the thing directly in the eye.
I suppose I understand something of that. It’s a bit like looking into the sun.
Well, disregarding the human entanglement of it all, what an unexpected but enjoyable development for this trip. I could look at Remus Lupin all day quite happily, and how convenient that this desire can be fulfilled at almost any opportunity. It’s a shame I must close my eyes at night.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

He still had the bitter aftertaste of wolfsbane in the back of his throat when the moon broke the horizon. Sensing it coming, like the crushing weight of impending doom, he had shut himself in his own bedroom (now with its mattress neatly returned where it belonged) and shed his clothes - accepting that there would be nothing civilised about what was going to happen. No point in ruining a perfectly good shirt and trousers.

The floor was bare, and the cool wood felt unnaturally harsh against his naked body as he curled around himself, as if he could make himself small and insignificant enough that the moon’s searching eye might not find him.

Well, it found him, as it did every month. Remus gritted his teeth and held the grunt of visceral fear and tearing pain at the back of his throat - biting down on the noise like a block of wood. He had only transformed with wolfsbane once before. Lily had diligently brewed it for him in advance of a stint in a pack of outcast lycanthropes. He still wasn’t sure if it had been worth it. Unable to perform a convincing enough act of lunar bloodlust, he had been sniffed out almost immediately and the resulting fight had left him marked and frightened - sickened by the idea of having to live in the head of the animal he tried so hard to separate himself from.

It was those memories, of teeth and claws and snarling mouths, that flashed before his mind’s eye as his humanity slipped away and left him keening and whimpering on the bedroom floor.

He lay there as the panic subsided and settled into the strange in-between of inhabiting Moony’s mind without the all-consuming inhibition of his biological desire to pass on the plight of his own existence. It was difficult to think past the unnervingly loud sound of his own heartbeat - amplified by Moony’s twitching ears. Beyond that was the soft creaking of the house, the insistent wind outside, whistling against the chimney. Even quieter, just barely noticeable, were the sins of life other than he in the small house. The intermittent quiet crackle of the almost dead fire downstairs and the huff of Newt sighing in his sleep down the hall.

And he would stay here, like a good little monster, and wait until morning.

A distant clock ticked. The pipes groaned and floorboards creaked. Birds called across the wind.

Oh how lonely, to be so feared and unwanted. But much lonelier still, to be feared and unwanted for good reason. Oh how lonely to be frightful and pushed underground, and to have lived a life of solitude, only to taste the sweet nectar of companionship.

How cruel.

Remus had never really prided himself on his ability to hold the things he wanted at arm’s length. He was easily tempted. Tempted by banal things. Sweets, mischief, friendship, foolishness. Tempted by shirking responsibility for fun, by flights of fancy, by dangerous entanglements with well-bred pure-blood heirs despite common sense telling that it would all end in tears.

Things such as that.

And now, he was tempted yet again. The promise of acceptance, the kind hand against his flank. Some uttered reassurances.

He would examine at a later date where those memories even came from.

The night’s cold had settled into his bones and Moony’s legs were stiff by the time Remus had given up on his pledge.

He rose to his feet and Remus felt the movements of his own body (or was it Moony’s?) as though he were puppeting an incredibly complicated but horribly familiar machine from the inside. The world was a little less vibrant - he was reminded of standing between the orange muggle street lights at night - the world a wash of grey, brown and orange.

The dull click of Moony’s nails against the floorboards felt like gunshots in the quiet house, but Remus knew they could hardly be louder than a clock ticking. He forced Moony’s short snout into the gap between the door and the frame and slunk out into the hallway, as though off to partake in something illicit and shameful.

The front bedroom’s door was still hanging wide, like a gaping mouth. He stood on the threshold, fizzy with the clamour of new sensations. The brush of settling air against thousands of wiry hairs had the tiny muscles along Moony’s back rippling - too much for Remus’ mind to acknowledge without making him itch. He could hear a gentle thumping of the back door in its frame as the wind caught it every now and again. The rustle of sheets against clothes and skin as Newt fidgeted on the bed in front of him. The slight change in breathing and quickening heart of someone roused by the feeling of a predator’s eyes upon them.

“Remus?”

Moony flinched - the words were spoken softly, unusually deep by the effect of sleep and whatever paralysis lingered - but they cut through the night like a lightning strike and he took a step back, without thought. Then the rustling came again, metres away but as though right by his head, as Newt pushed himself up onto his elbows. His shadowed figure both frighteningly human and temptingly comforting to Remus (or was it Moony?).

“Moony?”

Remus glanced back down the hall at his own room (where he should have stayed - why did he insist on appearing in Newt’s room like a frightened child?) and back into the gaping maw of the front bedroom door.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more useful to you,” those next words were barely more than a whisper - as though Newt could see right into his mind. “Feel free to go where you please. Nothing has changed. Other than your form, I suppose.”

There was another moment or two of silence, Remus looking into the dark silhouette of Newt and Newt, presumably, looking back - waiting for acknowledgement.

When none came, the shadow retreated and the rustling began anew as Newt buried himself back in the familiar quilt.

A few tentative steps into the room gave Remus enough understanding of what he was looking at to see that Newt had not quite turned his back on Moony. That wasn’t to say he was being watched. Sheepishly, like a nervous cat, he inched forward until he was eye to eye with the wizard on the bed who was looking sleepily over at him, blinking slowly in the dim light. Remus wasn’t sure if it was he, or Moony (or if the distinction was idiotic) that noticed the casual position of Newt’s shoulders, sloped down and exposed - the long, vulnerable line from his jaw to his collarbone bared to the night.

He would have been suspicious that the exposed neck was an elaborate act to try and put him at ease, if it weren’t for the fact that Moony’s ears heard the easy noises of a defenceless and sleepy man with ringing clarity (some may say it was by design). The slight rattle of a positional snore and the gurgling of many cups of tea sitting in his stomach could hardly lie.

There was no concealed anxiety in this room.

(Other than the smell of his own fear that was assaulting Moony’s nose, stinging like acid at the back of his throat.)

Emboldened by using the wolf’s image as a convenient mask, Remus stepped forward again, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress and blinking questioningly at Newt’s half lidded eyes. Their faces were so close Moony’s lips twitched as Newt’s breath disturbed the air by his whiskers.

“It’s okay to feel lonely.” Again, just the ghost of a voice behind the words. “Not that I know what you’re thinking - I don’t mean to make assumptions. Just… I just wanted that to be clear. That if you feel alone, it’s alright to look for company.”

It was very difficult to keep strong his weak threads of self control when Newt said things like that.

Moony shivered. He wasn’t sure if it was anxiety, or the cold, but the involuntary movement seemed to break the seal and before he could second guess his decision, Remus was crouched on the bed - four paws awkwardly occupying the small space that was not taken up by Newt.

The image of Fenrir Greyback looming over his childhood bed moments before his life as he knew it was ripped from him floated unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t help but groan in horror, then again at the hope that the noise hadn’t sounded like a growl to Newt.

He gagged before he realised the sickening feeling was coming. That seemed to frighten Newt more than the looming form of the werewolf above him and he pushed himself back up before reaching out tentatively towards Moony’s head.

“Goodness, not you feeling out of sorts as well. Perhaps it was a brewing error?”

Newt’s mumblings and worried fluttering fingers were somewhat comforting and Remus would have laughed, if he was able to.

He had been frightfully careful when brewing the potion. The least he could do to repay Newt was to be sure that he wasn’t going to rip his throat out in the middle of the night.

No. It was definitely the horror of realising his own power.

It had always sickened him.

Moony’s breaths came in rough pants and he couldn’t bring himself to look into Newt’s face - instead fixating on the worn collar of the soft, ribbed undershirt and trying not to let his mind float away. As though he’d read his mind, Newt placed one gentle hand on the top of Moony’s head.

“Maybe you’re frightened?” Newt posited, gently brushing his thumb over one of Moony’s soft, whiskered eyebrows. “I look for the company of things that won’t judge me when I’m frightened, too.”

Remus absently wondered if knowing that Moony would not answer back had loosened Newt’s inhibitions too. Or maybe it was the knowledge that Remus in there, closer to the surface this time, that gave him the confidence to put a hand to the back of Moony’s head and pull the wolf in close, inviting him to hide his head under Newt’s chin - the other’s arms around his chest squeezing just hard enough to keep him safely in the little room, present and held.

He wasn’t sure how long Newt let him stay like that, tucked against his chest. He’d acclimatised somewhat to Moony’s superior hearing and no longer heard every breath the other took as though it were an unexpected wave crashing and breaking against him. Perhaps not having his nerves fried at every slight movement or sound had been a helping hand to calm him too. Regardless, Newt’s arms seemed to have grown tired and when they slipped away down to his sides, Remus, or Moony, or perhaps it didn’t matter who, had decided to spend that night - often so panicked and alone - up on the bed, snuggled under Newt’s arm, head lying heavy across the other’s shoulders with the comforting weight of his chin on his head.

If it were possible for him to wake up, then it must be so that he had fallen asleep - warm against Newt who had obliged to sleep on his back seemingly so Remus could use him as a human pillow - with the gentle brush of fingers through the thick wiry fur along Moony’s spine.

Remus wondered if he were the only werewolf to have ever been cuddled to sleep during the full moon. Surely the odds on that would be astounding.

He was on top of the covers, Newt trapped under them from the waist down, the darkness of what had a few hours earlier been the gaping maw of some unknowable beast now a safe retreat from the reality of every moon before and each one that may come after. Newt roused himself from his half asleep state and absently smoothed down the few whiskers of Remus’ eyebrows with his free hand.

“Did you know Moony twitches in his sleep like a dog?” he muttered, the words tickling Remus’ ear.

Well, he was hardly going to answer.

Instead, he peered into the gloom, listening intently and searching for what had disturbed him. The soft popping of the fire was gone, likely died out hours ago. The only smell aside from the mild lingering mildew was the sharp tang of Newt, on his fifth day of being relatively bedridden and hardly smelling of roses. No approaching strangers. Not even a mouse.

But the gloom was receding. On his second look, the details of the paper-littered desk stood clearer and the mysterious lumps dotted here and there revealed to be discarded jumpers and travelling cloaks. The gloom was receding, and with it, the night.

Few memories lingered once the night was over. Details were sparse, but emotions sometimes remained imprinted in his chest for him to feel over the next few days. Often a sickening loneliness, sometimes desperate panic - for a few short years, frantic excitement and a breezy freedom - but usually a hollow anxiety. Much more troublesome than many other worries he’d encountered over the years. At least with an exam, or his first meeting with the Order, daring to kiss Sirius Black down by the beech tree, or the memory of the werewolf blocking out the moonlight in his childhood bedroom, at least in those cases, the root was quite visible. Gnarled, unpulled and wriggling deeper, sure, but visible. The anxiety that accompanied the transformation, that strange sense of impending doom, the unknowable warning that death was coming, that the end was nigh, that he would never see the next moonrise… That was harder to handle. He couldn’t hope to rationalise that kind of fear.

But there in Newt’s arms, his heart quickening with the promise of the morning’s light, the empty terror never came.

Only the anticipation, the memory of his own fright born from the imprint in his own soul, could seem to reach him - cocooned as he was next to his talisman against the curse.

Or perhaps it was the wolfsbane.

It didn’t stop the discomfort of it all. It didn’t stop the ache that was left hanging over him as Moony was forced out by the threat of sunlight.

Newt’s hand was in his hair, the absent petting not dissimilar to the attention he’d given Moony’s soft head. Remus tried to fill his mind with it. Fill his mind with it, the way his mind had been filled up by the slightest sound or touch a few hours ago. Perhaps then, he could keep from having to think about anything too painful or complex a little while longer.

They stayed like that for a few moments, quiet and still, until Newt’s hand drifted from his head to his shoulder.

“You’re cold.”

He supposed he was. Now that it had been brought to his attention, he could feel that goosebumps had sprung up across his left side where he was exposed. He grunted in acknowledgement, not willing to do anything about it. A few seconds passed and Newt dislodged himself from underneath, snaking his left arm back and pulling up the covers in invitation. Remus could hardly refuse - and why would he? It was warm under there, the trapped heat from Newt’s body much more tempting than the cool, early morning air.

He wriggled under, enveloped in the warmth, and felt the muscles of Newt’s legs twitch as they were met with Remus’ cold feet. Feeling strangely cheeky all of a sudden, he purposefully pressed the cold tip of his nose into the soft, warm skin over Newt’s clavicle, earning a surprised gasp and breathy laugh.

Newt’s fingers danced across his face, blindly brushing against his cheek until he found his cold nose and rubbed it, trying to pass over some of his body heat.

“That was on purpose,” Newt accused, the words whispered into his hair.

The thought that this might be the first time he had ever laughed within half an hour of transforming passed across his mind and he snaked his cold hand across Newt’s ribs, feeling the skin twitch and tense at the light touch and settled his hand on the small of his back - brushing his thumb across the downy hair there and pressing his face into Newt’s sternum, hearing the soft echo of a quiet heartbeat reverberating around the cage of his chest.

They lay there for what might’ve been minutes or hours, Remus’ mind drifting between memories and blissful nothing as he continued the stroking of Newt’s back. He found he twitched less when his hand
was heavier, so he obliged - thinking of many similar mornings with Sirius and his long, light fingers trailing back and forth over Remus’ arm.

He didn’t imagine Newt would like that.

Strange how one could be in the same situation and yet enough small details were different that it felt entirely new.

In return, Newt’s hand disappeared from his hair and found the flat of his back between his shoulders and with a firm, predictable touch he pulled them closer with an almost crushing surety. Pressed that close, there was no secret to the contours of the other’s body. Long-limbed and wiry, like Remus, but unexpectedly strong, he was buried almost entirely under the quilt and guarded by the arm tensed against his side, the curve of a shoulder by his ear and the familiar entanglement of their legs - uncomfortably comforting, long shins and sharp knees locked together. Safe in the almost-darkness, he didn’t have to trouble himself with what may come next, or if his ears were burning red. Just the smell of Newt’s neck pressed against his nose, the warm quilt and the echo of the other’s heartbeat that was just audible where his sweaty ear was pressed against one equally sweaty bicep.

He had often thought that the moments after the moon were somewhat like being born - frightening and vulnerable, exposed and cold. Confused and disorientated, forced to acclimatise. Strange that this felt reminiscent - like the other side of the same coin. Warm, a little uncomfortably damp, bare and held in a quiet moment.

Too warm, actually. Though he was loath to let it end, he wriggled up and resurfaced, swallowing the cool air and he knew his cheeks must be bright red and feeling the strange sweaty stickiness of his right ear where it had been crushed between their bodies. He met Newt’s eyes and his freckled face cracked into an amused and lopsided smile before he could even light the spark of his own self-consciousness.

Giddy with desire and bolstered by Newt’s light-heartedness, he hooked a finger in the waistband of Newt’s shorts and yanked them down as far as his reach would allow. Again, Newt laughed, soft and short, and Remus caught it, lightheaded from the success of his own daring. Newt wiggled his hips - showing off his recently acquired below-the-belt coordination - and Remus pushed them the rest of the way down with a well placed foot.

And God, wasn’t it

nice

, wasn’t it electrifying, to be here again? Wasn’t it thrilling to have the hot, excited breaths of someone else against his skin, and his own thudding heart in his ears?

They were still nose-to-nose, laughing against the other’s lips. Newt’s gaze travelled from Remus’ red cheeks to his eyes.

It was less like staring into the sun - blinding and unknowable. More like peeking through a ground-floor window into the brief fleeting image of foreign life.

As quickly as he glimpsed it, Newt looked away and pressed a kiss at his temple before rolling onto his back and pulling Remus with him. For the second time that night, but for the first in this body, he found himself looming on top of the other, and once again, he found the other laying there beneath him, unconcerned and - this time - delightfully bedraggled. Head quirked a little to one side as though pondering what might happen next.

Really, it was just as dangerous. Certainly, he would not put his teeth to Newt’s throat and rip through the freckled skin. Certainly he wouldn’t drag him from the bed and tear him limb from limb. But he could hurt him in a hundred other ways.

Looming over him there, he trailed his eyes down Newt’s neck and knew that it wouldn’t take much to damage things beyond repair. That it wouldn’t take much to even black an eye, or break teeth.

Worse still, it would be frighteningly easy to walk away now. To stand and walk away, leaving Newt half naked and exposed, rejected and alone in the bed - wounded by the misjudgement of thinking he had looked into the soul of another and understood, only to be proven wrong.

Where did that unkind and violent part of his mind come from?

Newt’s patient gaze was upon him, waiting, as though it were just a moment that would pass. There he was, kind and unhurried, the object of his affections and the only person who had looked at him and actually seen him since the war had died out. There was part of him - maybe the part that was scorned by the carelessness and callousness of others - that wanted to hurt someone else enough to settle the score. To level things out. To make his own injustices feel repaid.

Newt trailed his knuckles purposefully along Remus’ ribs - light enough to feel painfully kind but sure enough not to tickle. He remembered that first, far more frightening morning after the full moon. Specifically Newt’s hand burning sure and white-hot against his ribs. And the burning, white-hot shame and unease that was born of being observed by another at his worst.

Newt had not been put off then. And wasn’t he here now, kissing back, smiling back, pulling him closer?

“I’m a grown man who can make decisions about my own safety.”

Well maybe he should honour that. Maybe he was safe to hand this unpredictable, beastly part of himself over to Newt. After all, he was the expert - no matter how man-shaped the beast in question might be.

He gave a shaky sigh and touched their foreheads together, collapsing down to his forearms, their chests meeting. He could feel Newt’s stomach hitch as he gave a small, gracious sigh.

“Don’t think too hard about it.”

The tension shed from Remus as though the huff of Newt’s breath had blown it away and he chuckled back, more in relief and agreeance than amusement. He rubbed his thumbs over the arch of Newt’s shoulders - the bumpiness of old grazes and a few pockmarks a comforting assurance of the imperfection that could only come with reality.

“I never want to hurt anyone.” The words forced themselves out, apparently uninterested in whether or not Remus was comfortable to admit it. Their lips were so close, perhaps he’d whispered them straight into his soul.

“I’m not scared of you, Remus Lupin.” A kiss. “Moony.” He could feel Newt’s eyelashes on his cheeks and the rumble of his speech against his chest. “You know that.”

He did know that. It had been frighteningly clear since the day that they had met.

He parted their lips and looked into Newt’s eyes. Rusty green almost consumed by black in the low, early morning light.

“I don’t want to be hurt either.”

Newt smiled, crooked and wry.

“Well, isn’t that the dilemma of the human experience.” He muttered, and let out another soft laugh, Remus felt it more than heard it. He wanted, then, to just melt into one. It was one thing to be close, to be honest. To be naked and perceived. It would be quite another to just… share another’s thoughts, see their mind. Know their soul.

To guarantee their intentions.

To know for certain if he were feeling too much, or not enough.

Well. He was about as close as he could be. About as close as he’d ever been to anyone. Heads together, looking through each other’s front windows, lips touching. Close enough to feel the asynchronous, unbothered tick in Newt’s chest - and surely Newt was well aware of the rabbit heart that he had caged.

He’d been closer before. He remembered those nights as though they were tattooed onto his eyelids. Pushed as close as two men could be by the pressing weight of war stretched endlessly before them and their entwined teenage years trailing behind. He’d thought he had known another’s mind - another’s soul - so exactly

then

.

Well.

He supposed that was, indeed, the human experience.

Perhaps the thin veil between him and Newt was something of a blessing. At least he was safe from delusion this time.

He was patiently waiting, laying under him and absently stroking his thumb back and forth against Remus’ arm, content to let the other rest against him and ride the gentle waves of his breaths until he could free himself from his own spiralling thoughts and had washed ashore at the present.

Finally, there he was. Deposited on the sand, resigned but peaceful.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Dear Remus,
Apologies for the delay on this (I feel I lost my head a little, and the result is a somewhat unprofessional variation in tone) but here is the first draft of the essay (and some last minute additions). Please feel free to annotate, redact and suggest additions (or ask me to shelve the whole issue entirely).
I look forward to reading your opinions.
Hinkypunk article is up in Magizoo Monthly, I'm assuming you will have caught it by now, but I can't help but mention it here anyway. Stand by for a summons to discuss the lobalug issue with the Beast Department in the coming weeks.
Feeling dreadfully bored and thinking whistfully of our jaunts as I sit here in the Department. How I wish to still be in the damp little house on the hillside starting my day with a cup of tea and your good company.
I'll be in Wales at the end of Summer (afanc trouble in the South West) - perhaps our paths could cross?
Yours with much love,
Newt

TRANSCRIPT
The Lycanthrope Remus Lupin As Observed by Newt Scamander
I have much to say on the topic of lycanthropes.

one lycanthrope in particular

I would like to give an overview of the current state of werewolf affairs within the magical world of Britain and Ireland.
In a world immediately following the rise and fall of yet another dark wizard who has used established feelings within the community about worthiness, purity and ‘deservedness’ for magic and all that the magical world offers, it is no surprise that, yet again, werewolves are under a harsh spotlight.
In any time where an ideology such as this begins to gain power and influence, those on the fringes of society become vulnerable to exploitation. The outcasting of werewolves (created by fear, upheld by legislation) has allowed for wizards and witches with power and ulterior motive to be able to leverage the promise of integration over these people in exchange for their unquestionable threat to society.

THANK YOU FOR THIS NEWT, WELL PUT

Werewolves come with many myths attached. One such is that they possess more strength, heightened senses, or raw magical power than the average witch or wizard (when in their usual human form). This is not the case. There is nothing that differentiates a lycanthrope from an unbitten human being outside of the night of the full moon.
(Note - wounds inflicted by a lycanthrope outside of the effect of the full moon do form cursed scars, but most crucially, they do NOT pass on lycanthropy, even when the wound in question is a bite).
However, less important is the truth of these myths and more so is who believes them and to what extent. Fear is sometimes a greater tool for control than raw power. It is interesting, when keeping this fact in mind, to notice who is pushing (or failing to dispel) these kinds of misconceptions. Certainly those with close ties to “You-Know-Who” were often known to perpetuate these myths, as is our current Ministry propaganda from the Beast division.
Of course, I am not saying that these two groups are one and the same, or even affiliated (or once affiliated… though arguably this is an avenue which needs enquiring into by someone with more tact and political neutrality than me) but what I am saying is that it is this propaganda that allowed “You-Know-Who” and their so-called “Death Eaters” to effectively mobilise colonies of outcasted werewolves to wizarding settlements between 1977-1980 using misplaced fear to quell dissent. Knowledge and truth are power, and if these settlements had been aware that they were up against what are otherwise your average witch or wizard, often without formal education or higher wizarding specialty training when outside of the eye of the full moon, perhaps more would have been willing to resist.
It should also be considered that some werewolves believe these lies themselves. And why wouldn’t they? They exist in out-dated Ministry pamphlets still available in libraries without addendum and in old school textbooks still within the Hogwarts library. It is interesting, in a world where a simple incantation can add an ‘N.B.’, that more care is not taken to update these texts.
Imagine an existence where you believe yourself to be naturally violent, dangerous and unable to integrate with normal society. It is unfortunate enough that some of these beliefs are true once every twenty-nine days or so, but it is even more painful when they are believed to be true the other twenty-eight. It is an unnecessarily guilt ridden existence. I don’t think it is a stretch to say that this is a major contributor to the isolation and suspicious ‘deaths’ of otherwise healthy werewolves that often occur within the first five years of surviving a bite.
It troubles me greatly that the Ministry feels that it is appropriate at all to have a magical being - a human being - registered as both being and beast. For many years, I felt that this was a blatant attempt to appease both sides which failed to make content those who felt werewolves were unreasonable vermin month-long and should be exterminated, and those reasonable people (such as myself) that saw the lycanthrope as a human being with an affliction that should not be stripped of their humanity. I will state that I do still feel that the beast/being joint identity is a reflection of this wishy-washy desire for the ministry to make a decision without really coming down decisively on one stance or the other, but that is not my main point. If the categorisation system fails to aptly describe its intended groups, then the system must surely be adjusted.
On speaking to Remus Lupin (in the context of an interview while gathering information for this essay), I was introduced to the concept that categorisation as beast is far more beneficial to the rights of the lycanthrope in terms of real-world safety in the short term for the individual. I will quote the conversation in question.

S: [...] Moving on to the Ministry - as we’re both aware, there’s been debate for a long while over whether a werewolf is a being or a beast. Do you have an opinion?
L: I’ve tried not to think about it too much, to be honest. I um- I worry that I might not like the conclusion that I come to. I suppose I agree with the Ministry; ‘being’ the majority of the month, and ‘beast’ on the full moon. If you really want me to just choose one… Ah… Perhaps it’s best to be on the safer side and just say beast.

S: Why would you say that’s the safer side? [...]
L: Well, I just worry that, if werewolves were categorised completely as beings, including on the full moon, that it might be er- used against us, for anything unfortunate that might happen over the full moon. I’m not entirely sure it’s a positive political move. Honestly, I’d be a touch suspicious of a Minister that was quick to make that change.

Now, it must be held in one’s mind, reading this, that a degree of societally bread and fostered self-deprecation may colour this opinion, but I do not believe that this means it should be disregarded. Particularly as Remus Lupin went on to say;

I suppose the other option is to have a look at the split system as a whole. It’s not as though werewolves are the only creatures that have had problems with it. Centaurs have been a problem for the department for centuries too. I wonder how useful it really is to split things that way at all?

I must say that I agree on both counts.
Who is it that made the wizard the arbiter of what and who is a ‘being’ or ‘beast’? And who is it that decided that those are two useful categories? It should be clear, once outliers begin to emerge and you have trouble placing creatures into one or the other, that the categorisation system itself is moot.
I cannot propose with certainty [actually I can, addendum below] what solution would be better, but I do believe that for those creatures who are willing and able to represent themselves, they should be offered to run, or at least participate in the running of, their division. Perhaps if this were the case, we would all benefit from solutions which might save our fellow men being used as pawns by those wielding the dark arts simply for the promise of a place on the outer circle of a new wizarding society.
On a similar vein, I must delve into the difficult and rather soupy topic of the mind of the transformed werewolf.
The current understanding is that the lycanthrope, when in their human state, is unchanged from who they were prior to the bite. Any personality changes are purely environmental, and not biological. That is to say that being bitten does not imbue the human with some desire for violence.
A notable quirk is a change in food preferences for some lycanthropes, such as for blood pudding or rare steak. Most important to understand is that they maintain their higher cognitive function and rationality. Any changes observed are as a result of the psychological pressure of suffering the affliction within our society, coupled with the trauma of the attack itself. Many lycanthropes suffer quietly with what muggles would call PTSD and seek no help for the matter due to negative consequences of revealing their nature.
The lycanthrope in question, Remus Lupin, is sure proof of this. By all accounts (and certainly mine), he is mild mannered, soft spoken, gentle and thoughtful. A touch self-conscious and prone to overthinking. Certainly not qualities that could be attributed to a transformed werewolf. I believe his demeanor is exemplified in the below interview quotes.

[...] I developed a naive notion that it might not affect my life as dramatically as my parents and I had originally worried. I got this idea that I was like other people, that I could be like other people. Spend time with them, work with them, make friends with them… Fall in love with them. Have a family with them. When the dust settled, it became very clear that I had been far too optimistic. Perhaps it was because I registered myself - that was foolish - but I had apparently wasted my time, and the safety of all those who had the misfortune to share the castle with me, only to amount to very little. Until this, I have worked in the muggle world. It’s quite pleasant to know that they won’t know about… about him. Even this - it’s difficult. I mean, it’s the only decent enough job I’ve managed to get for years, and it’s not really me that’s got it, it’s him.

I think people have a misplaced idea that werewolf colonies are very animalistic. Whenever it was not the full moon, the dynamic was quite similar to the Order, strangely. There were a lot of deaths, threat of kidnap […] so people were quite standoffish and an anti-non-werewolf sentiment did develop in some groups. This sometimes included the Death Eaters.

PLEASE BLACK THIS OUT, NEWT

Well my friends, after we left school - they had a son, and at the time I remember being quite besotted and thinking a little bitterly that I might never have that. It would be unfair to say that the feeling was entirely down to lycanthropy, but it did play a role. Who would want to have a family with me anyway? […] When I spend too much time thinking about it, it makes me a little uneasy. I don’t want a partner to hate Moony

PERHAPS MOONY SHOULDN'T BE NAMED IN HERE? FEELS PRIVATE FOR SOME REASON

the werewolf , but at the same time, […] I want all the love to be for me - like, for Remus.

I think it is plain to see, in these responses, how the context of wizarding society and their view of werewolves, can lead to changes in the self-image and self-worth of a lycanthrope - but also that the inherent nature of the person is not changed. Remus Lupin was bitten at five years old, so we may never know what he would have been like as an unbitten man - but there are other accounts of werewolves turned at much later ages that we can cross reference against, though they are hard to come across.
For Example, we can consider Interviews With Outcasts by Siegfried Larkan (1903) which includes a few notable conversations with anonymised werewolves.

“I left my family, almost immediately. It is one of my deepest regrets, but what can I do? I know the pain I have caused them - my husband and children - but the suffering they will endure is not worth my company, both during the full moon and the month at either side. I cannot enjoy a carefree moment. I am burdened, heavy, maimed. Not fit to be around the innocent. It’s better this way.”

The lycanthrope, transformed, is a different matter. It is notoriously difficult to guarantee an accurate account of the mind of a transformed wolf, as many a researcher would not dare to spend the moon with one without the assistance of wolfsbane (and still then, it is rare). There are the accounts of werewolves themselves, which offer an interesting look into this mysterious affliction, but these are limited to memory. Kindly, Remus has described how he recalls the mind of Moony

REMOVE, PLEASE

in his own words.

I do “remember” the experience, but not in the way I remember yesterday’s breakfast, or my first day of school. The best way I can explain is that, I believe memories are broken down into the story of it - the words you would use to tell it back, the narration in your own mind - then the emotion of it, and finally, the sensation.

I do not have a narrative memory of what Moony gets up to on the full moon, and I believe it is because he does not think in words or plan ahead. There are memories of emotions and sensations, then clues for me to piece together a narrative. Usually, I am unconcerned with the details of what he (or I suppose “I”) was doing - only if he had done something dreadful.

N.B. Inclined to disagree, though I appreciate I am not a werewolf. I believe Moony can experience rational thought but he cannot access the ability as the noise of the curse overrides higher cognitive function. Theoretical, but I think if the wolf is accosted in the minutes immediately post transformation then something of Remus can be reached below the surface YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT THIS. PERHAPS WE CAN MEET AND DISCUSS THIS SECTION IN PERSON BEFORE THE FINAL DRAFT?

For example, there was a particular full moon I remember very clearly. One of the first - I must have been around five, and my parents had kept me locked in the upstairs bathroom with my father sitting guard in the hallway outside. I was frightened when I went in, still with a loose grasp of what was going to happen and why I was being locked away. The sense of time when transformed is difficult, though better with age. When I was myself again, I had this lingering panic, like a blunt-force wound to the chest, and my head fuzzy with frustration and anger that I’d never felt before as a boy. My father later told me that I had nearly destroyed the bathroom door trying to break out to get to him.

They kept me in the coal cellar after that.

It stuck with me, because that lingering feeling of rage and frustration was entirely new. I think I had likely only felt the frustration of fumbling my shoelaces before that. I frightened myself. The idea that I was capable of that kind of violently negative and aggressive emotion. I had a lot of nightmares about hurting my family, after that.

In terms of piecing things together, sometimes I would wake with the taste of blood, and then have to work backwards to understand if it was my own, an animal’s, or someone else’s. Those were difficult. When I was a spy for the Order, I spent two moons with a pack of lycanthropes what were suspected of having been working with Death Eaters.

SORRY NEWT, THIS WILL HAVE TO BE REDACTED

The first was without wolfsbane - the second, with it.

The morning after the first moon I woke with blood in my mouth and this deeply exhausted feeling. It later transpired that I had fought another transformed lycanthrope over who knows what. He had the corresponding bite marks. Neither of us will ever know why.

Wolfsbane is an interesting addition to the question. As a relatively recent invention, and still fairly expensive to acquire and difficult to brew from scratch, it is not widely used by the British werewolf population currently.

AGREED

It does seem ridiculous to me that it is not considered a right that a werewolf may have access to such a life-changing potion, but this is simply another disadvantage of the beast and being differential with lycanthropy. The werewolf, as a beast, does not have the same rights as a human witch or wizard.

Shelving the politics of it all, the effect it has on the lycanthrope is a fascinating piece of the puzzle when looking at the “mind” of the werewolf. Often described as allowing the wizard or witch to “keep their mind” during the full moon but interestingly, does not stop the transformation. Seemingly, this element of the curse is unavoidable (with our current advances, anyway).

DO NOT GIVE ME UNFOUNDED HOPE, NEWTON

In the interest of organising my thoughts, I will first discuss (with as much objectivity as I can) the man, then the wolf, before moving onto the middle-being of the transformed werewolf under the effects of wolfsbane.

Observations of Remus Lupin across the phases of the moon (referenced across four lunar months)
The New Moon is generally understood to be the phase where a lycanthrope is the least affected by the lunar cycle, therefore making their demeanor “closest” to their pre-bitten or “natural” state. The below observations also apply for Waxing Crescent, First Quarter, Third Quarter and Waning Gibbous.

CAN'T KNOW IF THIS IS TRUE FOR ME. I WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT MAN I MIGHT'VE BEEN

Physically, Remus is relatively tall, long-limbed and fair skinned with dark blond hair. He is not unusually strong, or hairy (often characteristics mistakenly attributed to lycanthropes). Facial hair grows slowly,

WOW THANKS

and his body hair is fairly light. He has notably sparse and fair eyebrows. Remus’ fingernails are no longer than the tip of his finger. The nail from his left thumb and right ring finger are missing. He does not have a hairy or barbed tongue.

LUCKY FOR YOU, NEWT

Regarding silver, Remus finds it bearable to handle during the New Moon phase, but does say he dislikes it, and that it sometimes “stings” slightly. He likened it to handling nettles.
Particularly in the morning, I have noted clumsiness and carelessness in movements, such as tilting cups to spill, overshooting when pouring, asking for questions to be repeated and such small quirks.

YOU REALLY ARE OBSERVING ME...

Remus has decent eyesight and hearing - he does not see well in low light and is relatively unbothered by smells such as mold, animal enclosures, rotting bodies

I HOPE YOU DON'T TAKE THIS TO MEAN I AM FINE WITH SHARING A WORKSPACE WITH THEM, NEWT x

. That is to say, I don’t believe he could be argued to have an unnaturally sensitive sense of smell. His coordination is also reasonable. He appears awkward on unusual outdoor terrain, but I do not believe this to be a generally strange trait. I simply state it due to the unfounded belief that werewolves are somehow “wild” and “undomesticated”. Remus is clearly a person who is happy to be indoors.

SOME OF US ARE HOUSEBROKEN

Unlike some lycanthropes, he does not have a desire for raw meat. He has two and-a-bit sugars in his tea and likes chocolate digestives.

IS THIS DETAIL NECESSARY!?!

When injured, he seems to have an appropriate pain response and wounds (when left to heal the muggle way) heal at an expected speed. I witnessed several bruises heal unaided over the course of five days to a week (acquired outside of the full moon).
In terms of behaviour, I will save the reader a thorough description of Remus’ arguably pleasant personality and simply look at this topic from the often cited traits I have seen associated with werewolves.

YOU FLATTER ME, NEWT, BUT I'M NOT SURE THIS COMPLIMENT IS... ACADEMICALLY NECESSARY

Nocturnal.
Remus has a normal sleep cycle. He likes to oversleep. He does not fear or avoid sunlight
Loner/Unsociable.
Remus is certainly a quiet person, but I would not describe him as unsociable. He is not particularly talkative, but engages in conversation, listens actively and chats or asks questions to fill silence

YOU MAKE IT SOUND LIKE I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU!

. I have noticed Remus asking me questions about things I know him to be uninterested in, such as the natural environment of North Sea Lobalugs, and I assume this is out of politeness.

NEWT! I JUST LIKE HEARING YOU TALK!

Remus will seek out human company (for example, will join me to read in a particular room, or will move a task to the same room I am in for the sake of company, even if we are not having a conversation)

THIS IS NOT AN APPROPRIATE OBSERVATION, NEWT. IT IS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, NOT BECAUSE I AM 'APPROPRIATELY SOCIABLE', BUT THANK YOU

. He had several friends in school and talks fondly of them, has had a romantic relationship and desires a family. He has a positive relationship with both of his parents (one wizard, one muggle).

Violent/Aggressive.
I could simply state here that Remus is not violent or aggressive. Though this would be true, I don’t believe it would convey the degree to which I believe this to be so.
Remus Lupin is very obviously a mild-mannered and careful person. He is also deeply concerned about this particular view of lycanthropes, and will frequently overcompensate because of it.

CAN WE ALSO DISCUSS THE WORDING OF THIS SECTION? (NOT THAT I DISAGREE)

For example, he has described several instances when fighting in the recent war, where a more aggressive approach would have assured his safety, but chose not to engage and suffered violent consequences.

This concern also causes him to pathologise intrusive thoughts that, as far as I understand, are relatively normal and occur in most people from time to time such as “call of the void” and thoughts of violence (towards oneself or others). Remus Lupin is not a violent man.

THANK YOU FOR THIS

In the Waxing Gibbous, Remus does have some changes in behaviour that seem to be linked to upcoming transformation. For the most part, he remains the same and certainly does not change appearance, but he is morose and undeniably baleful. He appears lethargic, will sleep in later, take naps and lose focus or fall asleep during tasks. He becomes a touch lazy - untidy, unbothered and unwilling to embark on long or arduous tasks. He is less talkative, and drops polite attempts at conversation. Some of this I believe is pathological, but there is a morose quality to this phase of the moon which I do think is influenced by the societal view of werewolves and the undeniable truth of his affliction - he is too close to the reality to be able to deny or distance himself from it, and this fuels an unfortunate self-loathing and misery which is troubling to witness.

I WANT TO ASK YOU TO REMOVE THIS - BUT DON'T. I THINK YOU ARE CORRECT, AS MUCH AS IT PAINS ME TO ADMIT

“Moon sickness” has been noted in many other writings on lycanthropy as a purely physical affliction which is characterised by exhaustion, nausea and occasionally joint pain and headaches. Remus did confirm that he experiences this to varying degrees across the year. [[IT'S WORSE IN WINTER]] In particular, I did note nausea - witnessing Remus go pale, then retch or gag

DEPENDS WHAT HE'S DOING DURING THE WAXING GIBBOUS, IF YOU CATCH MY DRIFT

. Interestingly, this was apparently triggered by emotional or social situations, rather than smells or sights. For example, he touched the corpse of a dog and spent time willingly in a menagerie across a few Waxing Gibbous and Waning Crescent phases, but gagged when confronted with the idea of being observed transforming on multiple occasions.

I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU CAUGHT THIS

Remus’ “moon sickness” on the Waning side of the full moon is characterised by exhaustion and flu-like, shivery state, rather than melancholy and fear. It peaks in the six to twelve hours after the transformation and seems to have entirely receded by day two.
Regarding the full moon itself, I have many observations and I will organise them as follows;
Phase 1. Immediate pre transformation as a man - psychological and physical.
Phase 2. The transformation itself.
Phase 3. Immediate post transformation as a wolf - psychological and physical.
Phase 4. The physical qualities of the transformed werewolf, and its similarities to the man. Intelligence and human understanding, the shared mind and “call of the curse”.
Phase 5. Immediate pre transformation as a wolf - psychological and physical.
Phase 6. Immediate post transformation as a man - psychological and physical.

Phase 1 is characterised by a peak in the preceding “moon sickness” which is then overshadowed by what Remus describes as a “sense of impending doom”. He described the experience for me and I have included it below.

[ALL I CAN SAY IS - IT'S LIKE I'LL DIE. NOT THAT I'VE EVER DIED, BUT THE PANIC FEELS THAT WAY. MAYBE LIKE THE WAY DYING CATS HIDE BEFORE THEY PASS? I FEEL LIKE IF SOMEONE SEES ME, THEY MIGHT HURT ME - LIKE I'M AT RISK OF ATTACK? MAYBE IT'S PART OF THE CURSE, OR MAYBE IT'S JUST ME - I CAN BE PRONE TO CATASTROPHISING FROM TIME TO TIME]

Remus doesn’t change until he transforms. That is to say, it is not a slow process physically, even though there is an exponential psychological buildup over the course of approximately 40-50 hours.
Phase 2. Physically, the transformation itself happens over the course of about thirty seconds to a minute. Remus was not willing to let me witness him transform, and so I didn't, but the timings are easy enough to establish without seeing the transformation itself. The anatomy of the wolf is different enough that clothing is generally pointless and usually ruined.
The werewolf is approximately the same mass as the man.
The process is obviously painful and, as Remus cited above, frightening despite the wisdom of experience. I have attached some observational sketches of the transformed werewolf and will discuss some notable characteristics alongside Phase 4.
Phase 3. The werewolf, immediately post transformation, is in a vulnerable state where it is defensive, rather than offensive. This aligns with Remus’ experiences of the pre-transformation feeling of wanting to hide when vulnerable. (Interestingly, the wolf exhibited other cat-like qualities, such as stalking low). The wolf on all occasions witnessed, attempted to back itself into a defensive position in a corner and snarled threateningly, but did not advance to attack. I believe the animal feels it is “injured” thanks to the residual pain of the transformation, and behaves as such.

THIS IS STRANGE FOR ME TO READ, SINCE I'VE NEVER "MET" MOONY

Phase 4. We are all aware that there is little difference at first glance between a werewolf and a true wolf. Oft cited are the shorter snout, tufted tail and “human like” eyes. I observed all three in “Moony” though I think it is useful to note that, though the eyes have a more human quality than canine, they are not the same as the man’s. Remus has light brown, perhaps described as hazel eyes. “Moony” has amber eyes that are borderline inhumane in colour, though the pupil, sclera and iris ratio are certainly not canine. I also noted the feet to be slightly different from usual wolf paws - slightly elongated with an unusually long dew claw which has likely transformed from the thumb and big toe respectively. It also appears to me that the wolf has a marked downward slant in the lower back and a natural “crouch” in the back legs - rather like a German Shepherd.

PERHAPS MOONY HAS INHERITED MY POOR POSTURE?

Other physical qualities of note - fur colour similar to hair colour. “Moony” is similarly “fair” - a sandy, light brown colour. I must also insist here that there is a human-like expressiveness in the eyebrows and I am fairly sure I witnessed exasperated eye-rolling, though this could be personification on my part. The wolf “listened” when I spoke to it, tried to negotiate and threatened it. He also kept track of weapons (silver chain and wand) and exhibited a degree of self control.

I believe the self control was accessible because I caught Moony so close to transformation. I suspect the mind is the last thing to go SO DO I LOSE MY MIND, OR NOT, NEWT? YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO EXPAND ON THIS

Phase 5. This was particularly interesting to me. There is not much published at all on the werewolf experiencing its transformation (as not many people will ever witness it). I found that “Moony” experienced something similar to what Remus described.
Firstly, there was an aversion to the lightening sky. Please do not misunderstand and assume that I mean the light was painful. For one, it was not true sunlight but simply pre-dawn lightening. The wolf became somewhat panicked and seemed to retreat into darkness as though understanding that the coming daylight would end the night, and therefore its existence.
The question this brought to me here is, where does this fear come from?

I THINK MOONY THINKS IT WILL BE THE LAST TIME. I THINK HE THINKS HE WILL DIE AND NEVER COME BACK. I DON'T THINK HE CAN UNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT OF "NEXT FULL MOON"

Interestingly, Remus as a child was almost exclusively locked underground when transformed and so the wolf would never have learned that daylight heralded the change. However, in his teens

CAREFUL!

and early 20s, the wolf did experience the outside night. Therefore I must consider that this aversion and panic isn’t simply an inherent biological nature of the werewolf, but something that the wolf has “remembered” from previous transformations.

In addition, does the wolf understand that the moon will come again and that he will return? My suspicion is “no” but, as I say, it is only speculation.

YES, I AGREE WITH THIS

Phase 6. I did witness Remus transform back from wolf to man.

HOW EMBARRASSING

It is a difficult process to describe. First, the wolf tried to hide in a small space and became defensive and frightened again. He curled around himself protectively and this results in the man appearing in the foetal position.

The wolf screamed, keened and whimpered beyond what you might expect from an animal in pain. It is quite upsetting to listen to. I would liken it more to a dying cry.

SEE MY EARLIER AGREEANCE

The change occurs across the whole body simultaneously - that is to say it does not move from head to toe or some such. Similarly to polyjuice potion, the fur recedes back into the skin, rather than shedding, and the limbs warp without breaking, but the accelerated growth and shrinkage is clearly uncomfortable. I was reminded of the effects of Skele-Gro.

GROSS, I WISH I'D NEVER LEARNED THIS

The demeanor of the reformed man I can only liken to a postictal state. Certainly cloudy-headed and not able to conduct a thoughtful conversation. Remus was able to answer one or two simple questions, but anything more than that was fruitless. He was extremely drowsy and tender, both in the head and generally. Unable to stand within the first hour of transforming, he would have to be left to sleep where he lay, or assisted to move - manually or magically.

I DON'T KNOW WHETHER TO BE BASHFUL OR EMBARRASSED ABOUT THIS STILL TO THIS DAY

Wolfsbane.
I observed Remus Lupin under the effect of wolfsbane for one of the four full moons we spent together. Unfortunately, I was recovering from an injury myself and therefore unable to make the thorough observations I would have liked, but I did glean some interesting information. Of course, much of this has been described in other texts - it is much easier to acquire writing on werewolves under the effect of wolfsbane, despite how recent an invention it is.
Firstly and perhaps obviously, the wolf appears the same, physically, as it does without the potion. Remus also informed me that the pre-transformation sense of impending doom is still present - which is interesting and implies that it is not borne completely from the curse, but that at least part of it is learned.
Moving on the less obvious elements.
While it was quite clear that the aggression was completely removed from the werewolf, I would hesitate to say that Remus was completely able to “keep his mind.” Perhaps it is the effect of interacting in a form that is not his own, but the behaviour of wolfsbane-Remus did surprise me on occasion.
For example, Remus as a wolf was much more willing to seek out physical comfort when upset for whatever reason that human Remus had been. I also observed the transformed wolf under the effect of wolfsbane to be quite drowsy, more so than even human Remus at that time of evening (and naturally more than the nocturnal unmedicated werewolf). He slept most of the night.

NEWT, THIS PAINS ME TO SAY, BUT I WAS COMPLETELY IN MY MIND AND I JUST WANTED TO BE NEAR YOU - I JUST WANTED YOU TO COMFORT ME (DO NOT ADD THIS IN PLEASE) SO DON'T USE THIS AS EVIDENCE IN THE EFFECTIVENESS OF WOLFSBANE

Transformation back under wolfsbane was also interesting. The wolf woke in anticipation, but the fear seemed removed, despite Remus not being gifted this blessing some twelve hours earlier. It appeared to still be a painful experience and this brought about a proportionate discomfort/fear response, but I would not liken it to a dying animal as it was without wolfsbane.

THIS IS ACCURATE

This then leans into the possibility that the fear of death is part of the curse itself. Or perhaps the curse’s ability to overcrowd rational thought in the transformed wolf.

SEE MY PREVIOUS NOTES ON THIS TOPIC

As a magizoologist, I would love to be able to take these observations of one werewolf and cross reference them with other similar observations over the years, or perhaps even meet and work with another werewolf (if one were willing) to give credence to what are now simply observations of one lycanthrope and my own hypothesis and opinions.

YOU CAN, OF COURSE, DO THIS

As a researcher, I cannot help but look upon this man-turned-magical-creature as an object of interest. A Brilliant juxtaposition of kind and gentle man and an inherently aggressive beast and the strange space in the middle where wolfsbane lies. I cannot help but be fascinated at how the form of a human being can shift and melt like burning wax into a perfect predator. I wish to sample the saliva, to examine the blood. To see the bones, to know the mind.

OK NEWT, A BIT MUCH

That is my wish as a magizoologist.
But as a man, these wishes of my professional side turn my stomach somewhat. As a man, I cannot help but see another man.
I simply cannot express the degree to which I see a man.

NEWT, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY, BUT KNOW MY EYES ARE WET

Of course, my eyes are as able as the next person to see a human being, but I must be clear when I say that there is nothing beastly about Remus Lupin. I think it is deeply and unnecessarily cruel that we are operating in an age in Britain where the solution to the bane of this man’s life has been discovered and is commercially available, and yet is accessible only to those with enough disposable income to pay the high price of pre-brewed or for a skilled enough potioneer and ingredients.

Why should this person - a patient teacher, bearer of good humour, thoughtful and nostalgic and willing to walk uphill through adversity - be forced to see themselves through the dirty and ancient lens of bigotry? Particularly that which is tolerated and upheld by our own Ministry of Magic.

THANK YOU AGAIN FOR THE COMPLIMENTS. YOU NEEDN'T

I must insist upon immediate change. It is simply non-negotiable. The Ministry must either rework the being and beast categorisation, or make wolfsbane publicly available to all registered werewolves. This is the action of a humane and just government and the Ministry should consider this a call to be looked upon favourably in the close future - to be on the right side of history.
In a fair and just world, both of my wishes will be realised but I understand that if one asks for change, they must not ask for much lest the task be accused of being too burdensome.
However I am happy to carry the burden and fear I will not set it down until werewolves, particularly one Remus Lupin, are given the support and rights they deserve.

I LOVE YOU, NEWT SCAMANDER