Neville recognised the book Remus was holding as soon as he spotted it; he didn't even need to get close enough to read the title. And he was even on the verge of saying something about how he was excited to see it again when he realised, or remembered, that Remus was probably not looking at it the same way.
"I remember learning from that book," he said, more subdued than his original instinct. "Seems like it was a long time ago now."
"A lifetime ago, it seems," Remus agreed, smiling when he saw Neville, once his student and now his fellow teacher. "The bookshelf seems to want to educate me on werewolves this afternoon." He gestured towards it with a wry grin.
"It always seems to want to tell us things we don't need to hear," said Neville awkwardly. "I think just about everybody knows more than that book does now."
Angua came up to the shelf to look for a book herself. After scanning a few titles, as they were all clearly werewolf this, werewolf that, she rolled her eyes.
She pulled a thin hardcover down. The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by A. Wolf. It was even illustrated. Oh, very clever. She thought the bookshelf might even have the jukebox beat, for all it loved to play Werewolves of London for her. Whatever London was.
Remus noticed the book the woman had taken from the shelf and nearly rolled his eyes. It was possible the shelf was still giving werewolf books for him alone, but perhaps not. There was one way to find out.
"It seems to like to give me these charming reminders of what I once was, prior to the island," he commented, gesturing with Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
Angua's gaze shifted from man to book and she froze for just a moment. Her eyes returned to his. "What sort of beast were you? And if your retort is a beast in bed I'll warn you now, I know ten different ways to kill you with my bare hands," she said with a completely straight face.
"That sounds more like something my friend Bill would say, not me," Remus replied, chuckling. Although really, he was somewhat certain Bill would manage something a bit less ridiculous. "I am - was - a werewolf."
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"I remember learning from that book," he said, more subdued than his original instinct. "Seems like it was a long time ago now."
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She pulled a thin hardcover down. The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by A. Wolf. It was even illustrated. Oh, very clever. She thought the bookshelf might even have the jukebox beat, for all it loved to play Werewolves of London for her. Whatever London was.
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"It seems to like to give me these charming reminders of what I once was, prior to the island," he commented, gesturing with Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
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