Remus had been completely and utterly alone in his moonstration for so long that the mere possibility of another Were walking through the same halls was enough to put him into coma.
From shock, of course.
He was proud of himself to know that he did not do that. Any sort of unconsciousness was embarrassing enough to make sure he kept his breathing steady.
Or, he supposed, steady enough.
Being a Werewolf didn’t exactly come with the perks of controlling the human side of one’s brain when shifted. So, of course, because Merlin himself hated him, Remus acted like a feral animal.
Drool dripped from his maw, his breath coming out in hot puffs of air against the cold onslaught, his claws twitched at his sides.
Then he smelt it. Smelt her. The Were opposite him was female.
And, due to the fact that the minute his nose twitched, she bolted to the other side of the shack, he supposed she knew that he knew.
He didn’t chase her. Not yet. That time would come, he would find her when he was in the right mind. Not a beast with half a conscious thought every minute. Yeah, great plan, no flaws whatsoever.
Remus could, shockingly enough, remember most of the events from that night.
And, because he had conscious thought once again, he was brought to question the idiocies in whose idea it was to put two Werewolves in the same space. Let alone a girl.
No, of course, Remus was not afraid of women.
He’s afraid of meeting a female Werewolf when he’s also a Werewolf because Merlin knows he can’t control his actions in such a state. He doesn’t know much about lycanthropy in others, but he’s got to bet that she doesn’t know how to control hers either.
He had to find McGonagall and yell at her for hours for ever letting such events occur.
The minute he had the strength to get out of his hospital bed, that is.
Months had passed, and he still hadn’t found the girl.
A part of him wondered if this was just one big, sick joke. The only reason he knew it wasn’t was that her scent lingered in classrooms, teased him in busy corridors, and she stayed on the bottom floor of the shack every full moon.
He hated this. Not knowing. But he couldn’t exactly go up to girls and ask to sniff their hair, now, could he?
That would be weird. He may be desperate for answers, but not weird, or a creep.
So he just sat bitterly in classrooms, listening to teachers drone on out of spite.
Sirius had noticed the disdainful look in his eyes first. And so he had received the story first. James was next, a week later, puzzled on why he stabbed his chicken at dinner with more vigor than necessary. Lily after that, thankfully gave him advice about girls.
None of which worked, because he already felt he knew the mystery Were like the back of his scarred hand. His mind longed for her, blood sung for her, body ached for her.
Merlin, even Peter had asked if he was feeling alright.
The answer to that was a sharp “No!” and then several apologies later.
What was he doing to himself?