Breathe in. Breathe out. Just breathe.
Just once. Only once. Once. Once every twenty-eight days. That's not too bad. Right?
He tries to keep calm, really he does. It's just really difficult.
The full moon is tomorrow night. He isn't so sure if he can make it this time. That's the only thing that's constant; every time it seems to get worse. He gets more schoolwork each year, increasing the stress, making things that much harder.
He knows he shouldn't let homework worry him so much; Madam Pomfrey has told him more times since he first met her that he should keep calm before the full moon than the amount of hours James and Sirius can pull off skipping detention in a month. And that is a lot. But if he doesn't do the work, then he's simply a waste of space- he needs those perfect grades, he needs them for his future, to get somewhere. If he doesn't, he'll just be another werewolf. And he doesn't even know what werewolves do for a living. What kind of job could they actually get? He knows of packs, of mobs of werewolves who live together, travelling through Europe, but…he doesn't want to do that. He wants to live somewhere he could call a home, and go to work, and be able to see his friends. He'd also like to have a girlfriend, to not work off minimum wage, and to have a right to vote in the election for the next Minister of Magic. But he is a werewolf, and therefore those are ridiculous dreams.
So, other than those three essays, two texts, and five spells he's supposed to write, read, and perfect, he's on track. He may even succeed in getting a job that was paid higher than the minimum wage, for his kind. Perhaps. But then, he still needs two more inches on "Elfish Occupations of the 17th Century", and he still has no idea what he can add to his miniscule writing. He needs to stop panicking. Deep down, he really wants his mum.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Just breathe.
He looks up from the dark wood of one of the many solid, round library tables, scattered with half finished essays on curling parchment, and thick heavy textbooks with print smaller than his own handwriting. James stares back at him, disapproving and concerned. He ignores it and scratches his most recent scar, hot and itchy and just above his knee, through his thin trousers.
The want for his mother is no longer 'deep down'. It's sitting on the surface, bobbing with the rough waves from the storm.
James won't look away. He doesn't approve of his marathon study sessions that make sure that he won't fall too behind during the full moon, but he really doesn't understand the pressure he's under to keep up, the fate that he can choose. James just sees a very sleepy, stressed Moony on the verge of a panic attack, feverishly delving through his brain, finding any fact on elfish welfare. Which, according to James, is not a topic which should warrant any worrying. But this is the James who won't need perfect scores (which he'll get anyway, most likely) because James isn't a werewolf. There. That difference which changes so much between them. And now he only has to write about two more lines, then he can start revising the different categories of the fatality speed of brewed poisons.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Just Breathe.
"Mate, you've finished that essay. I've written 'alf as much, you just need to stretch out that writin'"
Sirius' voice. The way he'd refuse to finish speaking his words, as he didn't want to sound too much like the rest of the family he came from. That defiance was the definition of Sirius, the way he'd stand up to almost anything and everything he was brought up to learn and love, to believe in. Remus rubbed his hands through his hair. These thoughts were far too deep for the day before; his headache pounded just like the muggle music Sirius claimed to love. He carried on glaring at the wobbly words. He needed that one line. Then he'd be done.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe in.
A strong, firm hand grabs his arm. It would hurt, if his entire body wasn't already aching, a dull, never ending pain that made him want to just sit there and cry even more.
"Moony! Remus, c'mon now. We're going. Pete's going to pack up your stuff for you, alright? And you're going to sleep, and be Poppy's-"
"Little angel!" Pete and Sirius joined in, grinning with eyebrows waggling. Remus gives in and allows James to pull him out of his seat, tugging his arm round his shoulders. Sirius does the same on the other side, as they practically drag him past the bookcases. He almost feels a sense of relief. He knows that after the, moon has finally goes (for this month, at least), it'll be over. And James will have copied any notes from Transfiguration, Sirius from Charms, and Pete from Herbology. And then they will explain patently to him that only those with supernatural powers (he is a werewolf, after all), can write down information that isn't to do with "Reasons Why James Potter is Amazing" or "What Makes Lily Evens so Different", as well as the occasional, riveting, highly competitive noughts-and-crosses tournament. These rambling explanations would then helpfully finish with "But if you want to catch up, 'e was goin' on 'bout somethin' from the…six'enth century? Or seven'eenth? Mentione' welfare a few times, not sure what crea'ure 'e was on about, though. Coul' of been the…I dunno actually-James? Any clue?…", at which point Remus would try and appear disapproving, but would be unsuccessfully hiding loud laughs that would escape, ignoring his body, and Madame Pomfrey's, wishes to not move one inch.
The wooden floor of the library ends with Remus' thoughts on History of Magic essays, and are replaced with the cold stone of the corridor. He feels so tired, all this walking. James seems to read his mind, and helpfully pats his sore back.
"This time in a few days time, you'll be drinking hot chocolate and be back to your essay, or novel, rather."
Yes. A few days time. Breathe in. Breathe out.
He could live through that. He feels his friends arms tighten around him as they lead him into the hospital wing, towards Madam's comforting words, and hot baths, and careful bandaging, and silky hot chocolate, and towards the future, with Peter's gentle questioning of "Where does it hurt?", and Sirius' confusion of "Why do you write so much in those essays? You make me look like I've practically done nothin'!" and James'…and with James just being himself, taking his mind off of things and making sure he didn't work too hard. And then he would get full marks on his essays, because somehow his dissertation on Elfish Occupations of the 17th Century would gain, miraculously, those extra words needed in a slightly larger and messier scrawl than his own. But perhaps his friends were more important than those essay results, anyway, he reflects sleepily.
As Sirius and James watched their friend drifting to unconsciousness, they both fought the urge to cover his feverish form properly with the blanket, or to make patronising exclamations of "Awwww…!", as his chest rose and fell, as he breathed in, and out, in, and out.
In, and out.
A.N: Well…hope you enjoyed. This is the first piece of fiction I've tried writing in agesss, and even longer since I considered putting it up on line. Please, please please please, please give feedback if it's not too much trouble- I really want to improve.
~Nynfadora. =)