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Lupin Remus is a thin kid in robes that are a size too big.

He has nervous ticks-he chews on his lower lip, and tugs at his sleeves and when he sits on the stool he can't stop bouncing his legs

"What have we here?"

says the hat once it falls over the boy's head.

"I've never sorted a werewolf before."

It's amazing how quickly the boy's thoughts tum cold.

There's a moment of anxiety until he reasons out that no one in the Great Hall can hear what the hat is saying to him and that anxiety is quickly filled with anger.

"Go on then,"

the boy says briskly in his head

"Sort me into Ravenclaw, since you know you're going to. I know I'm smart and bookish. The boys I met on the train even said so, when they saw me reading a muggle book"

This boy is compassionate and mild-mannered usually, the hat sees, but his insides are burning.

There's a maturity that shouldn't be there-as though every time his bones shift to make room for the monster he ages along with them.

The hat, feeling what this boy feels, notices dull pains in every comer of his body where the wolf has scared the skin broken blood vessels, and cracked the joints.

Along with the maturity there is a stoicism-this boy literally is always in pain, but he'd never say so, wouldn't even hint at it.

"With an attitude like that?"

the hat finally replies.

"I think not."

And it feels the boy's jolt of surprise when it bolts out;

"Gryffindor!"

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