After the Bite
He stepped forward, wand clenched tightly in his fist outstretched. It was a moment before he saw anything at all, for the orb was small and pale, blending easily into his surroundings. His wand hand reached out, fingertips slightly straining against the wand, as if to touch it, though he knew he could not.
The moon swung high in the sky that night, mocking him effortlessly after the bite. Clouds passed over and off it gradually, slowly, constantly, and so his transformations were many, punctuated by breathless moments of lucidity. He was too small—too young—too innocent: so alone; and yet…
He hated the Shrieking Shack from the moment it was conceived, hated the Whomping Willow with its flailing branches eager to intimidate him, terrify him. But he went, faithfully, fearfully, even more afraid of what was to happen beneath the roots, not for others' safety but his own. He supposed he belonged in Hufflepuff, happy to save his own skin, far from brave at heart; funny that it was not he but Peter playing traitor to the Order years onward.
The guilt puncturing his excitement could not overpower the relief he felt at escaping to the forest. Animagi after four years but not he.
The Wolfsbane Potion was a relief; Snape's expertise was not. He was sure old Snivellus had poisoned it at first but drank even with the risk. No harm was done; the potion had worked. He called the man Severus after that, hoping it wasn't too horrible an insult to James's memory.
If only Prongs could see him now, curled like a cat on his couch, door locked, whimpering like a human at the pain of it. But there was no Madam Pomfrey to save him; he'd live with the soreness lasting days on end because there were no bites, no wounds, to heal. Not visible ones, anyway.
He saw the boggart first when he was twelve in Defense Against the Dark Arts and was sure the secret was done for; only the Marauders made the connection, and he was sure not to take Divination the next year. He was glad of it later on: Peter said the professor was horribly dull, that crystal ball gazing was the worst of it, and he laughed in spite of himself at the irony.
He laughed now, quietly to himself, so the students wouldn't realize: he wasn't a professor for nothing. They had found the orb by now, were watching him intently; he mustn't hesitate, mustn't let them get the impression that he, their teacher, was incompetent himself. So he pretended again, pretended as he always had, and told himself, it wasn't a moon, it wasn't a moon, even as memories flashed before his eyes.
"Riddikulus," he said lazily. And he was done.