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Who: Remus Lupin
Broadcast:
When: January 14th, early evening

[Remus sits on the floor in James' room, back against the bed, holding the communicator in one hand. The other is tangled in his hair; he pushes his hand through the tangled curls again and again throughout this little speech. Still, he smiles pleasantly enough. This first part is easy, after all.]

Right, hello. My name is Remus Lupin, I've been here a few months, and I've noticed a bit of a trend among those taken. There's quite a few of us with-- well, abilities, for lack of a better word. Abilities that most human beings don't have. They vary, of course, but-- it's an odd consistency. I've met more people with magic than I usually do in a year. Something to think on, perhaps.

In any case: even if it's a meaningless connection-- something that has no significance beyond sheer entertainment value-- I'd be interested to hear what everyone can do. Whether you call it magic or alchemy or even if it's-- god, I don't know, if you have a talent for juggling, I'd be interested. I want to know more about what kind of company I keep.

[His smile fades, now, and he hesitates visibly.]

For example, I, ah. I'm a wizard. Wand and all. I can do magic, which means anything from transfiguration to charms to knowing what plants to use to brew a good cold remedy. It's hardly infallible, but it's certainly useful. And, ah . . .

I'm a werewolf as well. The sort that only changes once a month. It's lasted here, but I seem to have control over it. I take quite a few precautions, so-- so it won't be a problem. I'm not the only werewolf here, nor the only other supernatural creature, but--

[He shrugs. His face is pale, now, the little scars standing out sharply against his skin-- but he forces himself to keep talking.]

I'm used to keeping it a secret at home. And I'm sure others are as well. So I suppose this is a . . . a way to let everyone know. Even if they don't want to tell anyone else, they know they're not alone.

[His mouth twists in a wry smirk.]

That, and I'm tired of keeping it a secret.

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[His eyes widen in surprise-- but of course, ninety-seven, yes, that's about right.]

I have. Both sides of it, honestly-- my people took part in it, and my mother is-- you know, nonmagical, so I heard the more widely known aspects of it.

[A beat. He hesitates-- and then, a little nervously:]

Is it-- have you--

[Another hesitation.]

Do you grow less-- less paranoid, after a while?

[ Jim folds his hands on the table next to his cup, and he takes a breath. ]

Well — do you know about something called post-traumatic stress disorder? In our day it was called shell shock.

[He shakes his head. He's heard of shell shock, of course, but that-- that's for people who had to be in the trenches, in the thick of battle. Remus isn't so stupid to think he's not been affected by what's been going on, of course; they all have. All of them worn down, weary, tired; there's little to laugh about, and every day is exhausting.

But it's not shell shock.]

Remus.

[ Firm, but gentle, with an undercurrent of pay attention. ]

You might not have been in the kinda trench you're thinking about, but that don't mean there was anything less brutal. The paranoia, the [ he gestures with one hand, frustrated he can't find the words ] all of it. It's normal. You're not crazy, weird, or [ a brief pause ] broken. If anything, it's irrevocable proof you're a human being.

[His first instinct is to shrug that off-- that, despite the fact he'd asked. This isn't something you talk about, after all-- it's something that's just done, shouldered, dealt with in whatever ways you managed to do it. The war is necessary, and people are dying so quickly-- he can't just go around whining about how awful it is.

He doesn't think he's broken. Or-- well, he does, but not because of the war. But it's-- he shrugs sharply, heat rising on the back of his neck.]

Does it go away, then?

[ No, it's not something spoken about when there's hell on their heels and all kinds of things to worry about. But he's done his time, not talking, waking up on the floor smelling like too much whiskey, breaking everything he touches because of the fear and the bottomless wrath — he's done trying to bottle it in and pretend it's not bad enough for him to care about. ]

I can't answer that for you. Everyone's different, but — it gets easier with time.

[He nods sharply. Good, then. Good, it'll go away, this will all end. Waking up drenched in sweat, scrabbling for his wand, hearing voices that aren't there, terrified tonight's the night he's about to die, that he's going to be taken and Imperius'd into betraying everyone he loves--]

I thought it'd be a vacation here.

[ He can't help it — he laughs, maybe just wanting to let go of the tense line of conversation they've had. ]

What's this about magic?

[ Genuinely curious. ]

[A much easier topic. Remus rubs a hand over his face, trying to banish his misery and confusion, and reaches with his left to tug out his wand.]

As I said: I'm a wizard, as was my father. Not my mother, though, she was entirely-- I don't want to say normal, but you understand what I mean.

Nonmagical. Yeah.

[ He's peering at the wand with muted wonder. ]

So, what does it do?

[That earns a smile-- tired, yeah, but a genuine smile.]

Well, there's different branches of magic-- it'd be like asking a person what can you do, I mean, the possibilities are rather numerous. We're taught-- let's see--

[He sets the wand down on the table and ticks off on his fingers.]

Transfiguration-- that's the art of changing one thing into another; Charms-- adding certain properties to a creature or objects; Herbology-- finding the magic properties of plants and how to apply them; Defense against the Dark Arts, my personal favorite subject; Potions, which I think is obvious; and Astronomy, learning the stars and how that effects us, as well as mythologies surrounding them. Oh, and and History of Magic, but that's not a branch of magic, that's just a class. And it goes on from there-- some people specialize in, say, healing, or Divination-- although frankly Divination, even among wizards and witches, is nothing more than educated guesswork, but I suppose I ought to list it. Within each subject, there's numerous types of spells-- I could make this table float, for example, or change color, or . . . I could try to get it to change into an animal, but honestly, I'm not that good at Transfiguration.

[He lets out a little breath. Well done, Professor Lupin.]

[ Jim lets out a low whistle. ]

Ain't that somethin'. How long do you spend at school?

Seven years-- age eleven to seventeen.

[Which both is and isn't a whole lot of time.]

It's . . . I wouldn't trade my time at Hogwarts for anything. It's something else. Honestly, half the time I think I want to be a professor just to go back.

[He exhales softly. Talking about Hogwarts-- safe, warm, loving Hogwarts-- is infinitely preferable to anything else. Slowly the tension begins to drain out of him.]

[ Sensing this is a good line to tug on, ]

What would you be a professor of? What's it like there? I mean, if you can us nonmagical folks.

Defensive work-- Defense Against the Dark Arts, to be more specific.

[He brightens considerably and settles in, fingers curling comfortably around his cup.]

It's . . . it's everything. It's home. It's safety-- nothing has ever managed to break into Hogwarts. The headmaster, Dumbledore-- he's beyond wise, he's kind, he's-- he's the one who let me into school in the first place, who thought it was all right for werewolves to study alongside humans. And it's . . .

[How to describe it all? How to describe seven years of friendship, of warmth, of the wonderful safe feeling of belonging for once in his life?]

You feel normal. No matter who you are.