The Sun and Her Moon- Remus Lupin

To wear my heart on my sleeve, or bury it in my mind

The full moon not only haunted Remus, it ate away part of his soul as it waxed and waned. He could feel it in running through his veins before it even hit— like a bottomless pit of anxiety that drowned him as if he was swimming in thick syrup. For no matter how hard he wished, no matter how much he prayed to every mythical muggle and magical god he could think of, with the certainty of a clock, as the moon grew his humanity would shrink.

Perhaps it was Novembers harsh drag— the way November seemed to be heavier then the rest— that put him in such a bad head space the days leading up to the fool moon.

November is the harshest of them all isn't it?

It looms promises of joyful and saving times up ahead, well stomping us down with its drear and dread. November is the type of months that makes mothers go crazy, and fathers spin with rage. If November was a weapon it would be a large mallet,
repeatedly smacking you in the stomach till all you could do was lay down and try to catch a breath.

It's in November that summer feels a world ago, and spring seems a century away. November wishes to freeze our souls in foggy skies and frozen ponds— aims to drown us trapped under surfaces of ice.

November is nor friend nor foe, November is the equivalent of what reality is to the animals brain— a splashing, evasive, alarming call that we all are merely human, predisposed to the pushes and pulls of emotional turmoil and the tiredness aching in our bones that longs to rest in a way that isn't always waiting for an easier tomorrow.

So Yes, just like the frozen ground, the burrowed birds, the resting bears and the sleeping chipmunks, Remus Lupin hated November.

It was the month the wolf in him felt the most animalistic. As if by the mere whiff of that winter turning air, all the parts of him that could grab onto his humanity faded away when the full moon rose.

He sat in class, very much aware that he should be listening to what Mcgonagall was saying but overwhelmed by the tightness in his chest. The shakiness of his bouncing leg as he felt his body warm— the call of his wolf waiting to come out.

It was three days to the full moon, and though usually the week leading up was rough, nothing compared to his transformation in the winter months. When everything in him seemed dead, unable to contain the wolves emotions. The classroom felt suffocating, as if each moment he continued to sit in his plastic chair it made his brown feel more foggy, his body more tired.

Why did it have to be him?

He hated the selfish parts of him that wished he could pass his curse onto someone else.

Oftentimes he pictured what would happen if a magical genie came to visit him, the way they do in muggle children's stories. He'd picture himself wishing to undo his curse, imagining how free and clear his brain would feel without it.

It's ironic isn't it? That even in the magical world people still wish for forms of godly intervention in there life.

"Mr Lupin... Mr Lupin!" Mcgonagall's voice was a slap in the face, bringing him back to reality.

He turned his head to see all eyes turned to him, Mcgonagall's standing in front of his desk as her eyes
beamed down. He could feel the sweat heading off his forehead, whipping it off with the back of his hand. Leg continuously bouncing up and down.

"Can you answer the question for the class?"

From the moment little Remus was sat down at the kitchen table over seven years ago, with the news that he would actually be able to go to Hogwarts he made himself a promise. A promise that he had never whispered out loud to anyone, in worries if he did they'd see past his fraudulence. He promised himself, he would always be at the top of his class— that he'd prove his worth through grades and assignments, terrified that if he didn't he'd be sent home. That if he didn't succeed, one day the Ministry and the Teachers would decide he was a bother, and he wasn't worth the trouble of a werewolf attending school.