Remus was still, frozen, numb. His eyes were red and wet with tears, but that was the only indication that he was even hearing any of this. He'd never hurt anyone before. He'd come close — he'd gone after his mother once, he'd almost gotten to Severus Snape — but he'd never bitten someone. Never turned someone. He chained himself up, he locked himself away, he let the wolf claw and scratch at himself and he took the wounds that the wolf wanted to give to other people.
Maybe if he'd told someone, maybe if he hadn't been such a coward and hidden himself away, those people would have lived. Maybe if he'd said something and they'd gone out and found the person he'd turned, they could have prevented all of this. But Remus had been so afraid for his own safety and privacy that he hadn't been willing to step forward and admit to something he wasn't sure of in the first place.
And now...
His hands were shaking. He glanced off toward the wall, up at the ceiling. His instinct was to bolt, to run away, to find a dark corner and hide. He knew what happened to werewolves who did this. Neville knew what happened to werewolves who did this.
"I don't know anything about what happened that night," Remus said, his voice hollow. Something in him disconnected, to preserve his own emotions. Walls went up, and he sounded like a ghost of himself. It was another lie, a little softer than the last, but anyone who knew anything about werewolves knew that the human stayed conscious on the full moon even if there was no control.