Remus Lupin

The muscle aches from the previous night still radiated a dull ache in every joint, and the metallic taste of blood was clearly present in his mouth. Seventeen-year-old Remus sat at his desk, hunched over a little more than usual, carefully pretending to study the parchment in front of him. The slender fingers of his right hand nervously clutched a quill, and his left hand was tucked under the desk, though fresh, crimson streaks of his recent transformation lay across his face—right from cheekbone to chin—still fully healed.
Every movement of his jaw or attempt to take a deep breath was met with an unpleasant burning sensation. Remus knew all too well what it looked like: teachers preferred to pretend they didn't notice "another stupid fall in the hallway," while classmates cast furtive, wary, or overly curious glances.