Disclaimer: Of course I don't own Harry Potter. Is this even necessary?

A/N: So angsty… It's also horribly cliché. Sorry, just needed to get it out of my system. Enjoy! (This is my first piece of fanfiction in a long time. I may be a bit rusty…)

Responsible Remus

By Ryyne

Remus sneezed, and his fine hair flew into his face. His hand waved the air furiously in front of him to disassemble the dust cloud that had risen when he had opened a particularly old box.

Trust a man with a werewolf companion to hide all the silver in the attic, Remus thought wryly. Or just be rid of it altogether. His eyes caught a dull glint, underneath various moving black-and-white photographs and expensive china. Hullo, what's this?

He extracted a gray spoon using a rag, so that his skin would not come in contact with the (likely) silver utensil. It was an awfully dusty spoon; how could he be sure it was silver? If it was pewter, well, that could rather mess things up. He blew softly across its surface, and small dusty particles floated happily away. Carefully, warily, he brought a fingertip near the curved surface, and brushed his bare skin quickly against the metal. A momentary burning sensation at his finger, and nausea pooling in his stomach – silver. Remus wrapped the instrument delicately in the rag, as if it were a precious heirloom, or a hidden Dark object. It was precious, to Remus, and Dark, as well. It is the intention that makes a spell or item Dark.

The spoon was not ordinary; nothing in the Black family was ordinary – from a psychotic elf to a psychotic mother to a psychotic cousin; the Blacks had a long history of being mental. Not exactly ordinary, indeed. The utensil was not mentally inept, however, but it was extremely intricately designed (probably the reason why it was kept in a box in the attic for so many years). Remus examined the spoon closely. The usual convex circle at the end was elegantly pointed; instead of being the normal plebian roundness. A curvy, complex designed wove its way around the stem of the spoon, at times engraved and at times enameled with color. Remus smiled warily, the corners of his mouth quirking into a tight, eccentric expression. This would do, certainly. Even if it was a cursed object – all the better, then, really.

Remus went downstairs, clutching the stair railing as he descended. Five hours until the full moon graced the sky. Remus' knuckles were a stark white, and blood rushed to his sensitive fingertips. A nagging ache was beginning in his back, his shoulders were unnaturally tense, and everything was too bright, as a result of his dilated pupils. His eyes looked like black, volcanic stones rimmed in gold.

Slowly, Remus retrieved a small, pewter cauldron from a shelf, and set it upon a lit burner. He waited for the underside of the cauldron to grow red from heat, and dropped the spoon in unceremoniously. Remus watched as the spoon gradually became misshapen, melting slowly. Leaning back in his chair, he brought his gaze upon the dusky sky, and waited. A piece of scratch paper rustled from the breeze coming through the open window.

He could hear Sirius' voice in his mind. Rem! Please! You've been at that essay for hours now, please, please, please can we go outside?

Remus' lips moved, forming words, but not voicing them. No, Sirius; I really ought to finish this now. It's worth a quarter of our grade. Besides, why won't Prongs go with you?

He smirked. He knew Sirius' response by heart. "Oh, honestly, Moony," Remus said aloud. "You're just so responsible." The word left a rancid taste in his mouth; bitter, and full, something that would never go away.

Which was true: Remus could never stop being responsible. Monthly transformations nearly caused him to go mad with worry; what if he accidentally bit someone?

Remus, I'm sorry, really, I am! Sirius' deep voice cried in his mind. I swear, I never meant that to happen! Snape just…he just… Sirius trailed off, humiliated.

Sirius, that was completely reckless and negligent of you, Remus remembered saying. Sirius's voice bit back at him with a harsh, curt tone:

Well, I'm so sorry, Remmy. Not all of us can be perfect Prefects.

Sirius, would it kill you to for once in your life be –

Responsible? Sirius mocked.

Remus buried his face in his hands, his hair in wild disarray. The silver spoon was now a small, lumpy puddle, the edges of it sizzling. It was somewhat reminiscent of the moon, Remus thought absentmindedly. Oh, how he used to wish that the moon never existed; at Hogwarts, he would lie awake at nights, staring at the sky, the moon in the corner of his vision. Experimentally, the young Moony would close his left eye, and the moon would disappear along with his peripheral vision. The eye opened – and the moon reappeared. Closed – and it was gone again.

Remus could spend hours engaged in this fantasy game of his. It was pure escapism, that's what it was; but still, it was an efficient tactic. At least, until Remus found another escapist fantasy: Sirius. Sirius, the only one who could make him forget the moon, even when it was three-quarters full, bulging, swollen, floating heavily in the night sky.

Sirius, the betrayer; or so he had thought.

Remus clenched his jaw with cold fury, and picked up his wand. Gently dipping it in the molten silver, he stirred calmly.

Ah, Mr. Lupin, what a pleasure. Eternally twinkling blue eyes peered at him, through him, over half-moon glasses.

Professor Dumbledore, sir, Remus remembered his strong and focused manner of speech clearly. You requested my presence?

Yes, I do believe I did… Mr. Lupin, you are aware of the recent – circumstances – surrounding – ah – Mr. Black? It was a rare thing indeed for Albus Dumbledore to do something so human-like, so fallible, as stuttering, but Remus hadn't taken any hallucinogenic drugs for four years, by then (solutions with over 85 percent concentration wolfsbane had gotten exponentially expensive, due to stricter Ministry laws over controlled substances). No one would ever believe him, of course, if he recounted the tale of the time Albus Dumbledore stuttered.

Remus glanced at his cauldron warily. He wasn't sure he even believed himself, considering the… circumstances. My, but Albus always had a way with semantics.

Yes, … I am aware, Sir.

Well – Dumbledore cleared his throat delicately – As a result of the current situation, I would be honored if you might consider filling the newly-vacated DADA position of Hogwarts.

Remus had gaped at the man, while simultaneously leveling a barely-concealed look of suspicion at him. He had looked quite like a peculiar cross between a fish and a wolf. Finding his voice after some struggle, Remus replied, more weakly than intended, Of … course, Professor.

The eyes resumed their twinkle. Thank you, Remus. And, after a pause: I must tell you; Harry is most desperately in need of a guardian who is – Dumbledore stopped abruptly. If he was a normal man, he would have blushed.

Their eyes had met in a singular moment of complete understanding. Responsible.

Remus, lost in his thoughts, didn't notice the sky darkening to dusk, or a silver coating hardening permanently on his wand. That year had easily been the happiest year of Remus' adult life.

Sirius, the innocent.

Remus could recall vividly the sensation of Sirius' long arms wrapping around his body in a desperate embrace. Both of them were silently asking of each other, Is this real? Is this a dream? Is this right? And Remus broke the hug quickly, feeling vulnerable and defenseless.

Sirius was the only one who had ever been able to remove Remus' meticulously constructed barriers. To make the werewolf – the Dark Creature – laugh, or cry, or even love. Sirius was the first person Remus had ever loved, and the first Remus had ever hated, with ever fiber of his being. Sirius was the beginning, and the end, of everything Remus had ever encountered.

Sirius, the traitor; to Sirius, the innocent; to Sirius, the dead.

But he had never stopped being Sirius, the lover.

Remus filled a glass with the liquid silver. Harry would find him later, he suspected. Harry nearly always came to check on Remus at the full moon.

Oh – Harry.

No, Lupin, Remus told himself. Don't suddenly become mature now, don't you dare.

But – Harry, another part of him insisted. It's a year till he's of age. He's your Respon—

Sibility? Remus snarled. "No.

"No. I'm not the token guardian anymore, damn it. I'm not the poor, but oh-so-dependable werewolf." He looked at the moon, rising beneath the clouds.

"Responsibility." He smirked. "Fuck it. In fact, fuck you all."

Raising the cup to his lips, he felt the metal coat his throat and the heat of it pool in his stomach. Then – into his arteries and veins; poisoning his lupine blood.

And for the first time in his life, Remus did not transform during the full moon.

Harry, two hours later, found his mentor lying, cold, on the floor of the kitchen. Breathing hard as a result of his furious rush from Hogwarts, he dropped down next to the former werewolf's body, and let the small note in his fist flutter to the floor. The textbook font was slightly blurred by tears.

If a werewolf's mate dies before the werewolf in question, the creature is unable to take a new one. Experts are not sure whether this is out of love for the lost mate (See page 23, concerning emotions of the Dark Creature), or out of an ancient natural mechanism that binds the werewolf to a lifetime of monogamy. This theory holds promise, for it is in accordance with the same natural mechanism that eternally ties the wolf to its first romantic or sexual encounter.

Not only is a werewolf unable to take a new mate, but may also slowly lose its mental faculties. Usually, the ability to reason and rationalize is compromised first; another indication is the hearing of voices inside one's mind or even seizures of fantasy (see page 68, concerning Dark Creature intelligence and sanity; esp. schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and manic depressives). Eventually, the creature pines away to nothing, and dies; or remains mad for the rest of his life. In the latter case, it is more common that the werewolf takes his own life after going insane. Whether this is due to mindless self-harm or planned suicide, is unknown.

Scrawled under the print was the elegant script of his former professor:

To Harry –

I want you to know that I've always loved you; maybe not as much as Sirius did, but I considered you as my surrogate godson nonetheless.

I ask you one favor.

Don't save me.

Love from,

Moony

P.S. Padfoot says 'Hi' too. From wherever we are.

P.P.S. And – I don't know if you ever knew, but obviously you'll be able guess this from the textbook excerpt I inserted. I loved, no, love your godfather. Very much.