Midnight Vigil
Wax and wane, time marches on
From revelation into dawn.
Sirius Black thought the full moon was beautiful, once—or not beautiful, exactly, because he is a boy, now twelve years old, too old to call anything except a girl beautiful without being made fun of, called 'pansy' and other names—but it was nice to look at, perfectly round and gleaming with pale silver-white light.
But tonight, it is not beautiful; it is hateful, seeming almost to mock him as he watches it rise, and he knows he will never again see it the same way he did before. Remus showed them another face of the moon, besides the one they knew—explained when they confronted him, eyes cast down and voice even quieter than usual, that he could not see it through the same eyes they did, and that he never would.
The little signs had been adding up for more than a year. Remus was always pale and sickly, disappeared once a month on the dubious excuse of needing to visit a deathly ill relative, never showed up in Astronomy when they studied the full moon, and could hear things they never could, no matter how hard they tried. But it was still a shock when he confessed to being lycanthropic, tones even as ever, but tinged with equal parts fear and shame.
How could he hold something so vicious inside him? Sirius cannot reconcile himself to the idea that Remus transforms each month into a wolf—that he has transformed, now that the moon is up. Remus is much too gentle ever to become anything with fangs and claws; the idea is completely ridiculous, and he would almost wonder if his friend had been lying.
Almost. But Remus never lies—well, sometimes, but only out of necessity—and he has seen the crescent-moon curse scar marring the flesh of Remus' upper arm, and some of the old scars that the fangs and claws have left behind, fine white lines, hardly visible against his pallor unless pointed out, but there, nonetheless, crisscrossing his arms and hands.
And there will be more made tonight. He shivers, drawing the quilt more tightly around him as he stares out the window, keenly aware that Remus' bed, across the room from his, is empty. "James? You awake?"
The answering whisper from the bed adjacent is small and soft, almost a hiss in the darkness. He can hear James' bedclothes rustle as he turns over to face him. "Yeah. You can't sleep, either?"
"No." They lapse back into their separate silences, and Sirius continues to watch the moon, climbing slowly in the dark, star-studded sky. It is not fair that he and James and Peter can see it through human eyes and Remus cannot. He and many others are trapped tonight, howling helplessly in pain because they have lost their own voices.
He knows no more of the matter than what Remus has divulged, slowly and reluctantly and in spare detail. But he knows enough to realize that his friend is alone and hurt, when by rights he should be in his bed, whispering with them in the dark over the low drone of Peter's snoring.
There is a funny tightness in his throat when he thinks about it, and for a minute, he is afraid he may cry, which will never do, because he never cries. Crying is for babies who can't do anything better than make useless noise. When you are old enough to know that, you are bloody well old enough to do something that will actually help the situation.
But there aren't spells that will help Remus, are there? Magic can't always fix everything, and lycanthropy fits into the narrow category of things no one, no matter how powerful, can do anything about.
"Sirius?" James' voice, still quiet, and a bit drowsy. "Are you asleep yet?"
"No." Sirius is unlucky enough to be nearest the window, and even if he turns away from it, he can see the moonlight shining on his pillow, reminding him that Remus is a wolf tonight, and will be until it sets. "Have you thought of anything we can do?"
James knows that Sirius is talking about Remus—he's always very good at figuring out what Sirius is thinking, which is one of the reasons they get on so well. "Nothing that'll stop it," he whispers ruefully. "Dumbledore would've already done everything there was to do."
That's true, but it isn't the answer Sirius wants. He doesn't think he can stand another night of Remus not being in bed where he's supposed to be, because it makes him feel too miserable to sleep, half sorry for Remus and half angry at himself for being sorry, because he knows Remus hates pity. "Yeah," he answers lamely. "But…"
He doesn't need to finish; James knows what he isn't saying. But that's not good enough. "We can sneak past Pomfrey tomorrow and visit," James suggests. "I've got the Cloak, and we can give Remus some of the Chocolate Frogs my mum sent. Chocolate always makes him happy."
Giving Remus chocolate seems like a futile gesture, but it's all they can do until they have more time to figure out something else. "All right," he agrees with a sigh. "You tell Peter at breakfast; he can distract Pomfrey long enough for us to get in."
He can already see this becoming a routine: get-well visits in the mornings after, keeping Remus company in the infirmary and carefully not saying anything about how unhealthy he looks, covered in bandages. It is a good plan—or rather, it is something good friends do—but it still feels too close to giving up.
And Sirius Black doesn't ever give up, just the same as he doesn't cry. He sits up and glares defiantly at the hateful moon. He'll find something that will help, he resolves, jerking the curtains round his bed shut. If it is the last thing he does, he will find something.
Finite Incantantem.