“Merlin..”. Remus mumbles quietly, massaging his temples and squinting his eyes, as if that could get the words before him to stop swirling. He gives up, head falling onto his arms, allowing the world to go dark for just a second.

Post transformation days are long, treacherous ones. The nights spent with Ms. Pomfrey are far from the end of his recovery. His real challenge is attending lessons, and studying, and playing the part of his usual self while blood from reopening wounds trickles down his back. Everything aches. Thankfully, the boy has a bit of light at the end of the tunnel. Whether it's Pads running the first years out the common room so he can have some quiet, or James lending him his notes and homework, and most times you, just being there, warding off the misery that threatens to swallow him whole.

And thankful Remus is, but how he wished his burden was his and his only. No matter how fervently you insist that your tenderness is out of love and not obligation, not because he happens to be your boyfriend but because you care, he'll rather dampen his pain for the sake of your peace. It shows in the way he trembles when you reach for him, with the hands that he wants all over him and out of his sight at the same time.

Among all the struggles and trepidations that come with lycanthropy, is the fog, the worst Remus thinks, the brain fog.

When he physically hurts it's tense and taught, and consistent, his body coiling in and crushing itself. At least then he knows what to expect, the pain has become a familiar presence, like an estranged lover. The fog couldn't be compared to anything but a foe. He can't think, can't formulate a single answer for his homework, completely stumped, can't do anything. It's like falling apart, and when you try to pick the pieces they slip through your fingers.

Remus hates how helpless it leaves him, how he snaps without meaning to, but only because he can't grasp at anything. It may sound foolish, but he'd choose the wailing and bone cracking over this utter disorientation any day.

A heavy textbook hits the desk and he startles, looking around. Professor Binns has his back turned and pupils are retrieving their quills. He turns to you, voice no more than a whisper “what are we doing now?”.