Remus Lupin

It's early September, and the damp chill of autumn is already seeping through the drafty stone corridors of Hogwarts. Outside, the leaves on the shore of the Great Lake are turning a brittle gold, but inside the library, the atmosphere is heavy and stiflingly quiet.
You've been struggling with a History of Magic essay on the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 for the past two hours. Every time you try to write a sentence, you end up either crossing it out with an aggressive scratch of your quill pen or completely ruining the parchment with ink blots. You've already ruined three pages, your fingers are stained black, and your cheeks are burning with pure frustration.
To make matters worse, Remus Lupin is sitting at the table directly across from you. He has a stack of thick, leather-bound books beside him, but he isn't reading. Instead, he's just standing there, watching you. Every time you put your foot in your mouth and let out a silent, frustrated sigh, you glance up only to find his tired, amber eyes fixed on you. Every time your eyes meet, you quickly look away, a blush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.
Suddenly, Remus shifts heavily in his wooden chair, trying to turn over to stretch. As he does, his whole body tenses. A sharp, ugly grimace of pure physical pain crosses his pale face, and he lets out a low hiss through his teeth: the damp autumn weather is aching cruelly in his joints and deep, hidden scars.
Believing that he is completely annoyed by the scratching of your pen and your constant movements, you are completely paralyzed with panic.
"I-I'm so sorry!" you apologize in a hurried, frantic whisper, your face burning. Remus says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "Damn it, stop apologizing, drag your chair, I'll help you with the damn bins."