The Order of Mischief I (Marauders)

1.16

"So tell me, what do you think?" Phoebe asked, as she sketched the last lines for her masterpiece onto the roll of parchment she was using. The pair were tucked away in a warm corner of Professor Flitwick's classroom, by the window. The early winter light shun through and declared that it would soon snow in a few days.

"You're good," Remus commented in a calm and quiet tone. The scribbling echoes of his pen had come to a pause, just as the Ravenclaw's heart did. Her hand stopped moving and she was stunned, suddenly aware of how she made little to no effort to hide the drawing she produced.

"Hmm?" Phoebe uncertainly hummed, before looking up to find the tall boy staring at her artwork. Her fingers clenched the feathered quill tightly as he studied the art. She was biting her lip before she decided to change the topic of conversation, with a fast-paced sense of urgency in her tone, "I was asking about the essay. What do you think of it? Did I do good?"

"Huh? Oh, right, yes. Umm, yeah, it's good." The boy with pale scars awkwardly muttered, his words fast and confused. His eyes met hers and Phoebe could not help but smile with pride. Remus only complimented work he actually approved of, and he had a tendency to be rather blunt with his feedback. Although a few days ago, James, Peter and Sirius had sat him down to tell him to be a little more generous with his compliments and criticisms whenever talking to anyone outside of their friendship group. But all Remus Lupin had understood from that conversation was that sometimes it was important to sugar-coat the truth, otherwise everyone would start crying over the smallest of things.

"Remus?" Phoebe called out, smiling as she stared at how he barely paid attention to her essay, he was eyeing her artwork. He did not respond to his name, so she handed the sheet to him, letting him recognise her efforts and the details of his face. He was too stunned to speak as he held the roll in his hands, his finger tracing over the many lines. He could feel the lines that dented the page too hard, a sign of her determination to perfect his portrait and to make it as identical as she could.

"This is me?" He whispered uncertainly.

His friend was certain that she was not meant to hear him, but she answered regardless, "Of course. It's you. That is how you look."

"These scars," the boy touched his face, "they look like that?"

His words had robbed her lungs of any air as she watched his eyes hate the marks that covered his face. She would clearly never understand the reason, or discover the truth, if he had his way, and she would let him keep it from her if it made him feel comfortable. But whatever the explanation was for each scar on his face, she did not like how he did not like them. A small and soft hand traced the grey cuts on the page, "I think they look pretty."

He looked up at her, incapable of fighting the rage that bubbled in his veins, "They are ugly and you are a terrible liar."

He was accusative and harsh in his tone, yet somehow, calm. He could not help his temper, especially not since the full moon had just passed. He was tired and had barely any energy left, and anytime he felt vulnerable or insecure or uncertain, he would snap into a fit of rage to protect himself. Remus could not help it, it was how he had survived his childhood, and how he intended to continue living. The young boy was certain there was no other way for him to live, not when there never would be anyone who would understand how each transformation had felt and how lonely it could be. He could endure the pain, he had been doing so for a long time now. But for some reason, he felt more suffocated when he would climb out of the shack and would be greeted by his friends when he lay in the infirmary. He was always grateful that Madam Pomfrey would keep his roommates away until he had gained consciousness and approved of their presences.

Phoebe looked at him, still calm as ever, "Remus, I promise, I am not lying. Your scars are beautiful to me."

He sat still, speechless and uncertain with what the appropriate response would be. But he was grateful that she had no intention to let him speak until she had made her point - her words bought him time to think of a decent answer. The dark-haired girl continued to talk, "You should not think of it as anything less than what they are, Remus. They are scars, memories of your past, present and perhaps future. They don't seem to be going, and perhaps you should be okay with that. I know I am."