Dawn Epiphany
And with the truth of early morn,
A daring plan of friendship's born.
Remus looks half-dead.
That is Sirius' first thought, when he and James sneak past Madam Pomfrey the next morning under James' Invisibility Cloak. It will have to be a quick visit, he knows—Peter can put on a convincing enough act of terrible illness only long enough to distract the matron for a few minutes.
But it doesn't matter; a few minutes will be enough, at least, to show Remus they're there for him as much as they can be.
Their friend is moon-pale, and lies unmoving in the bed, as though he doesn't dare to move lest the freshly-healed wounds concealed beneath the bandages on his arms (and, Sirius is sure, beneath his robes on his legs and torso) protest in piercing voices of pain.
"Remus," he whispers tentatively, unsure of what to say. After an instant, he settles on, "You all right? At least sort of?"
A stupid question, one he regrets as soon as it issues from his lips. No, Remus is not all right, and he never will be. The moon will hurt him this way for as long as he lives, barring a far-distant miracle.
The slight figure in the bed makes a guttural sound that could be either a groan of pain or a grunt of affirmation.
James takes it as the latter. "Hey, Remus," he says brightly, in as loud a whisper as he dares. "We brought you Chocolate Frogs!"
Beside him, Sirius feels James' movement as the other boy hunts the sweets out of their hiding place in his pockets. They have been only ever-so-slightly softened on the journey, and he reaches out from beneath the protective folds of the Cloak to set them, moving sluggishly and leaving smudgy brown footprints, on Remus' nightstand.
"Thanks," Remus manages. His voice is low and raspy, as though he has had laryngitis, or half lost it from screaming. "I'll eat them later."
Normally, he would stuff at least one in his mouth right away. Sirius feels a surge of resentment against the moon for putting Remus off his food. "I guess you're not going to class today," he hears James say lamely. "We'll give you the notes and stuff after dinner tonight."
Sirius thinks schoolwork, to one in Remus' state, probably counts as cruel and unusual punishment, but his friend, ever the studious bookworm, looks faintly thankful.
"That'd be nice," he croaks. "Give me something to do—it's awfully boring in here, and Pomfrey'll want me to stay at least another day."
"We can as easily bring you a book," he offers with as much cheer as he can muster. "You can copy the essays off me or James, if you want. We don't mind."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees James nod fervent agreement, and Remus half-smiles and shakes his head a fraction of an inch. Sirius expects his next words to be an adamant refusal, but they aren't.
"Thanks for being here," Remus says quietly, still hoarse, but smiling fully this time. "I know it can't be much fun when I'm laid up like this."
"It doesn't matter," he and James say at once, both knowing that their friend isn't fully convinced they're telling the truth, but needing to say the words anyway.
At the other end of the infirmary, Sirius can hear Madam Pomfrey shooing Peter out, and the brisk clicking of her shoe heels as she comes to Remus' bed. He and James tiptoe backward and flatten themselves against the wall.
The matron folds back the sheet covering Remus and appraises his condition with a critical eye before Summoning a smoking flask of indigo-hued potion and Vanishing his bandages to daub it on.
James gasps quietly at the sight and grips his hand hard enough to crush the fingers together; Sirius can only stare at their friend, horrified. The wounds have closed, but there are huge, jagged scars running up Remus' arms and legs and sides, all too obviously from the wolf's teeth and claws.
He fights the urge to be sick, his stomach twisting into knots that feel as though they're tied around glittering shards of broken glass as he imagines in spite of himself how they had to have got there, the tearing of flesh and flow of blood…
Already, the potion is causing them to shrink and fade, first to pink and then to white that scarcely shows against Remus' own pallor. But they are there, nonetheless, and all three of them know it.
Sirius and James back out of the infirmary silently, Remus' eyes following them, asking the silent question: Does it matter that you saw? Have I frightened you away?
There isn't time now to answer. They are late for Transfiguration, and James whisks off the Cloak and stuffs the fine, shimmering cloth into his pocket as they race down the deserted corridors.
They are lucky this time: it seems they have gotten away with the lateness, for McGonagall is not sitting at her desk. He and James exchange looks of relief and slide into their seats, getting out their books and endeavoring to look busy.
Then they look up at the distinctive sound of a meow, rather more agitated than it should be, and realize that they are indeed in a great deal of trouble. They have overlooked the tabby cat that has just sprung to sit primly atop their professor's chair, holding them frozen with a piercing blue-gray gaze surrounded by spectacle markings.
There is a sudden pop, and then it is McGonagall there, her eyes narrowed behind her own wire-rimmed spectacles and her mouth drawn into a thin, grim line. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Black, Mr. Potter. If you are late again, it will be a detention." She rises in a swirl of emerald robes and begins charming more notes onto the blackboard as she continues her lecture—something about transfiguring inanimate objects into animals.
Sirius is not paying attention; there is the faint stirring of an idea at the periphery of his thoughts, growing gradually until it reaches the forefront, half-formed and waiting to be elaborated upon. For that, he knows, he will need James' contribution.
He scribbles a note on the edge of a bit of parchment, passing it to James when McGonagall's back is to them. Remus said werewolves are dangerous to humans, right?
In a moment, James' reply, crumpled small, is pressed into his hand beneath the desk. Obviously. How'd you think he was bitten in the first place?
Sirius ignores the question. Well, he writes back, suppose we weren't human and we went down there with him—what then?
James' glance in his direction is curious, and the feverish scratching of his quill, Sirius knows, is not note-taking. The answer returns.
It'd be okay then, I guess—you're not talking about anything really stupid like getting ourselves bitten on purpose, are you?
Sirius is not. Even if he and James were that self-sacrificing, and Remus would agree to it, it would do him no good to have another two insane werewolves down there, helping him to rip himself apart. No, he replies via another parchment scrap, I'm talking about becoming Animagi—you know, like McGonagall. Could we pull that off? It might really do him some good—we could stop him biting and scratching himself open like that.
James' face lights up, and he fidgets in his chair until McGonagall turns around again, though not before giving them both a suspicious sort of glare.
We're the cleverest students here. 'Course we could, if we tried—it's illegal, though, so it'd have to be a big secret, like the carry-to-the-grave kind, and it could take ages. Dunno if Peter could manage it—you know he has trouble with big spells.
That is something of an understatement. Peter has trouble with most spells, but he is tenacious—maybe he could do it, if they both gave him enough help. Sirius writes a note to James saying so, just as McGonagall turns and pounces on them, Summoning the note out of James' hand and burning it with an Incendiary Charm, then taking another five points from Gryffindor.
"The next note you pass in this class," she warns in a hiss, bending over their desks so her face is inches from theirs, "will be read aloud, regardless of how humiliating it is. Do I make myself quite clear?"
They nod meekly, pasting on charmingly innocent smiles that they know McGonagall doesn't believe for an instant, and pretend to pay attention to her until the class ends and she dismisses them.
They have to go their separate ways after that—it is a free period, but James has an essay to finish for Charms before it is due after lunch, and Peter, who hasn't finished his either, rushes after him. They will not have time to discuss the project today, not until evening, at least.
Sirius considers returning to the infirmary, but decides against it—Remus will not want to be seen again today, not after this morning, and anyway, he ought to rest a little. There will be time to visit tomorrow.
So Sirius goes to the library, to see if he can find anything at all about the particulars of the Animagus transformation outside of the Restricted Section, because he can't forge the signatures on one of their pilfered permission slips half so well as Remus can, and he doesn't feel like being chased away by Madam Pince today.
There is a great deal of work to be done. But someday, Sirius promises himself, they will be able to change, and give Remus a proper pack, and keep him whole.
Finite Incantantem.