Remus couldn’t breathe. Anxiety and shock clawed at his chest, suffocating him. Last night’s full moon had been agonizing, more so than usual, and now his body bore the familiar marks of his transformation—scratches and bruises that throbbed with every movement. As if the physical pain wasn’t enough, the ache in his heart threatened to overwhelm him.

And then there was you, standing in the empty infirmary, a book clutched in your hand. His gaze was drawn to the cover: a dead wolf’s skin, the title stark and accusing in red capital letters—Lycanthropy: The Disease and Its Sufferers.

Remus’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath hitching for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, to offer some denial or excuse, but the words stuck in his throat. His eyes darted to the book in your hand, the damning title glaring back at him.

You knew.

Merlin, you, the person Remus had a horrible and embarrassing crush on, knew that he was a monster, a werewolf. His throat constricted, his mind racing through a thousand scenarios, each more damning than the last. His hands trembled slightly as he fought to keep his composure, his gaze dropping to the floor.

He had to say something, anything, but no words came. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the world around him. How could he face you now?