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Sirius’s birthday was the first of the year — and the first proper birthday Remus ever truly experienced with friends. He was shaken awake by James and Peter, who were both whispering urgently and far too cheerfully for the early hour.
“Come on, Mate, wake up,” James hissed, shaking his shoulder. “We’re going to surprise Sirius.”
It took Remus several groggy seconds to gather himself, but eventually he slid out of bed and padded across the cold dormitory floor after them. The three boys lined up at the foot of Sirius’s bed like a very poorly rehearsed choir.
At James’s signal they launched into the most atrocious rendition of Happy Birthday that Remus had ever been subjected to. The singing was so off-key it could have stunned a troll.
Sirius shot upright, eyes wide, hair a wild black halo around him. Before he could even protest, James whipped out his wand with a flourish and—
—birds exploded into being.
Tiny, chirping, fluttering birds filled the air, circling Sirius and adding their shrill chorus to the chaos.
(Later, Peter would ask — baffled — “Why birds, James?” And James, shrugging with a ridiculous sort of pride, would reply, “They’re festive, aren’t they, Pete?” Peter would let it go, but Remus knew the truth. Birds were the only thing James had successfully taught himself to conjure in the last two months — and he had practised relentlessly, just so he’d have something special prepared for Sirius’s birthday.)
Now Sirius had both hands clamped over his ears, overwhelmed by birds and terrible singing, and he was laughing — great, loud, barking laughter that filled the room like sunlight.
James laughed too, then leapt right onto Sirius’s bed, nearly collapsing the mattress. He threw his arms around Sirius in a half-tackle, shouting,
“Happy birthday, mate!”
Peter stammered his own congratulations, beaming proudly.
And then it was Remus’s turn.
Sirius looked up at him, smile still wide and bright — a smile meant just for him — and Remus felt heat rush to his ears so suddenly it almost hurt. His breath caught, like someone had briefly stolen it from his lungs.
What on earth was that supposed to mean?
But he managed a small, shy smile back, and that seemed to be enough.
Because Sirius’s grin somehow grew even wider.
And Remus realised, with a quiet shock, that birthdays — when celebrated like this — could actually be magical.
__
November the third was the first time the fog around Remus lifted for a feeling other than the pure, corrosive rage that had hollowed him out every time he dared to feel anything at all. November the third was the day Remus Lupin truly began to grieve.
He had already bought most of Sirius’s birthday presents a few weeks earlier — a few new parts for his beloved motorbike, now vanished along with its owner. An old jumper of Remus’s, worn and soft, enchanted so it would never lose his scent; Sirius had once admitted, half–teasing and half–pleading, that he missed his smell whenever they were apart. A hand-crafted star map, charmed so that the Moon and Sirius moved across the sky together, always side by side. And, lastly, a ridiculous, enormous heap of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, because Sirius found them hilarious.
Now the gifts lay spread before him, untouched, as he sat on the sagging sofa at three o’clock in the morning.
He was waiting.
He wasn’t quite sure for what — or for whom.
Perhaps for Sirius to walk through the door, smirking, loud, alive.
But Sirius would not come home.
Remus knew that.
His mind, rational and brutal, knew the truth. But his body — his heart — Moony — every part of him cried out for Sirius with such unbearable longing that, for dreadful moments, it almost eclipsed the loss of James and Lily. Almost — and he despised himself for it.
He despised himself for ever trusting Sirius Black.
Despised himself for loving him.
Despised himself for still loving him, even now, when that love tasted like ash and betrayal in his mouth.
His hand shook. With a sudden, broken snarl, Remus lashed out with his wand.
The framed photograph of him and Sirius — laughing in the sun, arms tangled around one another like they had all the time in the world — shattered against the wall.
The empty Firewhisky bottle followed, exploding into glittering fragments.
A raw, animal sound tore itself from his throat.
“Happy bloody birthday, you motherfucker,” he spat, voice cracking and soaked in grief.
“I hope you suffer.”
And the worst, most unbearable part was this:
He didn’t mean a single word of it.
He only wished Sirius would walk back through that door —
and give him a reason to forgive it all.
__
Throughout the school day, James Potter managed — twice — to convince the entirety of the Great Hall to burst into Happy Birthday for Sirius Black.
Both times, Sirius went scarlet right to the tips of his ears…
and both times he grinned like the moon itself was shining just for him.
He complained loudly, theatrically —
“James, you absolute menace, I will hex your eyebrows off!” —
but his eyes sparkled, and Remus could see how much he loved every second of it.
That afternoon, they celebrated properly.
Down by the Black Lake — even though it was bitterly cold, the November wind cutting right through their cloaks — they piled onto the grass as if it were the height of summer. James had insisted:
“He deserves outside air on his birthday!”
Sirius, sprawled dramatically across a blanket, rolled his eyes.
“Yes, thank you, James, for this delightful hypothermia.”
Peter, shivering so violently his teeth chattered, thrust a neatly wrapped package into Sirius’s hands.
“I—I hope y-you like it,” he stammered.
Sirius tore it open — and then froze.
“A book?” he gasped. “Peter, you’re turning into Remus!”
Remus bristled. “What’s wrong with books?”
Sirius winked at him. “Nothing at all — when they’re yours.”
He flipped through the pages — a collection of broom designs, enchantment suggestions scribbled in magically moving ink. Sirius’s face softened in a way only his closest friends ever saw.
“It’s brilliant, Pete,” he said — and he meant it.
James, of course, had nothing so practical.
He dumped a gigantic stash of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans into Sirius’s lap — enough sweets to fuel a Quidditch team.
“Happy birthday, Pads!” he declared proudly. “May your stomach never recover!”
Sirius laughed, a full-bodied, wild sound — joy bursting from him like sparks.
__
Remus’s eyes flickered open as the phone in the living room began to ring. Sirius had insisted on having the blasted thing, and had forced Lily to ring him on it regularly, just to prove it was “modern” and “cool.” Remus had always loathed the contraption more than anything else in the world.
Now he wished he had smashed it to pieces months ago.
But some small, vile, desperate part of him wondered—
could it be Lily? Calling to wish Sirius a happy birthday?
No. Lily was dead.
But what if—?
He pushed himself to his feet, limbs trembling. Every muscle in his body ached like it was burning from the inside out. He lifted the receiver to his ear.
A familiar voice, bright and careless, flowed into the silence.
“Hello! Mary MacDonald speaking. I’m moving house and found this number scribbled in my notes. Who am I talking to, please?”
She sounded so light. So blissfully carefree.
The sound of it made Remus’s stomach twist.
“Mary… it’s me. Remus. Did you really never write names beside any of those numbers?”
“Remus?” she repeated. “Sorry, but—who? Do we know each other?”
She sounded genuinely puzzled.
“Are you serious?” The words cracked out before he could stop them.
For one horrifying heartbeat, he feared she would laugh and say,
‘No, Sirius is in prison. He betrayed you.’
But she didn’t.
“I’m afraid I don’t know any Remus. Where did you say we met?”
Remus swallowed hard. His vision blurred. The room spun.
“Nowhere,” he rasped. “My mistake. I’m sorry. Goodbye, Mary. You can throw this number away.”
“I—” she began, but Remus had already hung up.
Mary had done something.
Mary had escaped.
She had fled everything she had ever feared.
She had forgotten.
His knees buckled beneath him. He sank to the floor as his world tilted and darkened around the edges.
And then—
light.
A great, radiant shape formed before him, casting golden brilliance across the room. For a fractured moment Remus thought it was Padfoot—Sirius’s Patronus bursting through the dark like salvation.
It wasn’t.
It was a lioness, fierce and shimmering, and she spoke with a woman’s voice.
“Hello, Remus. If you’re hearing this message, then I have already had myself Obliviated, and I shouldn’t remember you anymore. Please do not come searching for me. Please don’t try to make me remember. I made this choice for myself, and I’m sorry that I’m leaving you behind because of it.”
Her voice trembled—brave and terrified all at once.
“I am so endlessly sorry, but I cannot live with it all weighing on me. I will build a new life—
a Muggle life. My family will remember me, but not my magic. I will be safe. I will be happy, and I hope—truly, desperately hope—that you will be too.”
Remus’s breath caught in his throat.
“I’m frightened of forgetting you, and Lily, and Marlene, and everyone else we loved. I’m terrified of letting go of everything we endured… but I am far more terrified of holding on to it.”
The lioness flickered, edges dissolving.
“In the deepest part of my heart, I believe I will still recognise you.
I will miss you.
I love you.
—Mary.”
And with that, the Patronus—the very last magic Mary MacDonald would ever cast—
faded into nothing.
Remus felt hot tears sting his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move.
He was alone.
More alone than he had ever been in his life.
__
It was silent in their dormitory, but Remus could not sleep. He sat upright in his bed, parchment spread across his lap, trying to focus on his Charms homework, when he heard soft footsteps outside the door.
“Remus… are you still awake?”
It was Sirius’s voice.
Remus froze for a moment, then shook his head, only realising that Sirius couldn’t see him through the tightly drawn curtains. Slowly, he levitated the curtains aside with his wand.
There he was. Sirius, in his pyjamas, holding a small bag of sweets.
“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the empty space beside Remus, on the other side of the bed.
Remus nodded quickly and slid a pillow across. Sirius lowered himself down with a quiet sigh, settling into the warmth of the shared space.
“What are you doing?”
“Homework. Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Why aren’t you asleep?”
“I… I’m restless,” Remus admitted, though he did not mention the nearly full moon hanging high in the sky, casting silver light through the window. Sirius did not press, merely nodded, understanding without asking.
“I am too,” Sirius said after a moment, and Remus’s heart skipped a beat. He wondered if there was more behind those words, but dared not ask — and Sirius did not offer more.
“Do you want some of the Chocolate Frogs?” Sirius asked, nodding at the bag in his hand.
Remus’s eyes widened. “But those are yours! James gave them to you!”
“I know,” Sirius replied with a shrug, “and I’m very grateful. But I know how much you love them, and it’s too much for me to eat alone anyway.”
“Didn’t you just tell James and Peter that you weren’t going to share them?”
Sirius shrugged again and held the bag toward him. “They don’t need to know.”
Remus hesitated, cheeks warming, but Sirius added softly, “I prefer the Bertie Bott’s anyway.”
With a small laugh and a growing blush, Remus took the bag from him.
“Thanks, Sirius.”
“No problem.”
A brief, comfortable silence settled between them.
“Now that I think about it,” Sirius said after a pause, “Remus… may I have one of your Chocolate Frogs?”
Remus laughed and handed him one from the bag, taking one for himself.
They stayed awake for hours that night, talking about everything — God, the world, the stars. Sirius told him the story of his star, tracing constellations and planets with his finger across the ceiling, his voice full of wonder. Remus listened, utterly absorbed, feeling something stir in his chest he did not yet dare to name.
He did not fully realise it at the time, not in that perfect, endless evening.
But that was the night.
On the third of November 1971, he fell — irretrievably, utterly, and with all the wild, reckless force of youth — in love with Sirius Black.
__
It was freezing and pitch–black outside when they finally threw him out of the pub at the end of the road. Remus was drunk — but nowhere near drunk enough to drown the wolf snarling inside his ribs.
He couldn’t go back to the little flat. Not tonight.
Not ever again, if he could help it.
The couple upstairs had welcomed a baby boy a few years ago — a child who, by cruel coincidence, shared a birthday with Sirius. Remus could not look into that flat and see echoes of a future he would never have. A family he and Sirius had once whispered about in the dark, laughing as though the world would never turn against them.
He had thought, more than once, of following Mary into oblivion — letting the memories fade into merciful nothing. But unlike her, he had no anchor. No family who would remember him kindly.
All he had left were memories — vicious, aching things — but they were all he possessed.
So he kept walking.
Faster.
Into the woods that swallowed the end of the lane, into shadows where no one could see him fracture.
He had thought about following James and Lily too, about simply… ending it. But he could not die knowing Sirius would outlive him.
So it was just him.
Only him.
And he was expected to keep going.
He couldn’t.
Rage roared through his chest, violent enough to make him fear that Moony — teeth and hunger and grief — would rip free from his skin. But the moon tonight was a thin, cold crescent, miles away from full. Full moon wasn’t until the eleventh — circled in red ink on the calendar Sirius had bought them, with a tiny heart drawn beside it. Sirius had always been proud of that: never forgetting the moon, never forgetting Remus.
Tonight was the third of November.
On the third of November, there was no moon to blame.
Just Remus.
Just his pain.
The fog that had numbed him for days was gone. Every feeling he’d fought to bury struck at once — claws out, merciless.
His knees buckled.
He stumbled and collapsed into the cold, wet earth.
He didn’t get back up.
Flat on his back, he stared up at the stars.
He found Sirius — the star — glittering in the void.
Or maybe he imagined it.
Maybe he needed to imagine it.
In his mind, the star drifted slowly toward the moon; the two lights travelling together, inseparable — just as the enchanted star map had promised.
But the sky remained still.
Unforgiving.
“Happy birthday, you bastard,” he whispered into the darkness, hot tears sliding down his temples into his hair.
On the third of November 1981, Remus Lupin began to mourn.
And until the day he died — on the second of May 1998 —
he never stopped.