Sirius didn't like pity.
He had a good share of both bad and good in life; unloved by his blood relatives but accepted enthusiastically by friends he would give up the world for. People called him arrogant – he was. They called him cruel, impassionate, blasé – he was all of that. Sometimes he had to be, but then again, often it was just a combination of habit and the infamous inherited Black pride. People cursed him, hated him, admired him, even envied him, and he didn't really care. But nobody dared pity him.
Sirius Black had no place in his life for pity.
He put up a face for the world, so the world could not touch him. He layered his vulnerabilities – yes, he had vulnerabilities; honestly, he was human after all, wasn't he? – under rash carelessness. As far as everybody was concerned, the trials and strife of Sirius Black's life failed to have any kind of outward effect on him.
He realized, as he stood in front of Remus' bedroom door, that Remus did not like pity either.
No self-respecting individual did, according to Sirius, but where Remus lacked in self-pity, he made up for with rash martyrdom and self-deprecation. He would stomp himself to dust, regard the carnage dispassionately, declare that he deserved it, then shrug and amble away for others to make what they liked of the ordeal.
But in any case, Sirius thought to himself, the mutual dislike for pity counted for something, so it was safe for him to put himself in Remus' shoes and decide ultimately how he should approach the situation.
It was a delicate situation. Remus was strongly averse to anybody seeing him in his weakened state, and it was a mark of how desperate a situation the current one was that he had allowed his closest friends to wait on him during this full moon. Sirius had no mind to topple the balance, and clucking after Remus would most certainly not do him any favors with regard to this endeavor.
And besides, Sirius couldn't cluck. He was a great black dog, for merlin's sake.
This was rather too much pondering in Sirius' opinion. Make it as you go along; that's how he functioned. He pushed the door open and popped his head in.
"Evening, Moony," Sirius called, closing the door behind him with his foot. Remus' room was not much to look at, but it was a decent enough amount of space given the number of possessions he had, which was not much. The furniture included an old wardrobe backed up near the wall, a wooden desk stacked with books, two rickety chairs, and a single bed placed as far away from the window as possible. The flimsy curtains were drawn tightly to barricade the room against light. The neatly folded jumper and trousers on the battered chair in the corner told Sirius that Remus had already changed into his transformation robes. Adjusting his eyes to the sudden lack of light, Sirius squinted in the general direction of the bed.
There was no evidence of anybody else's presence in the room save the lump of mattress on the bed and the thick mop of brown hair protruding onto the pillows. Setting the large cup on the dresser, Sirius sat on the edge of the bed and poked the bundle of sheets with a finger.
The bundle stirred and emitted an almost indistinct groan.
"That's the spirit, rise and shine mate, the moon's waiting," Sirius said. The mop of hair shifted and a pale, drawn face peeped out from the mess of blankets and pillows. Remus opened a single bleary eye and fixed it on Sirius.
"iss up al'ready?"
"An hour more," Sirius checked his watch, "But you ought to drink up that terrible concoction you call tea before the nausea settles in."
Remus buried his face in the pillows once more. It wasn't unusual for him to be drained of energy just before the transformation, but he normally didn't have to make much of an effort to sit up in bed and drink his customary beverage.
"Get up, you," Sirius tried again. Remus didn't budge. Furrowing his brow slightly, Sirius pushed back the damp fringes from Remus' forehead and immediately withdrew.
"You're burning, Moony. That's got to be at least a hundred and twenty," Sirius muttered, his eyes widening. He got to his feet immediately, and quickly brought a large dish of water from the bathroom. Balancing it on the mattress, he grabbed a towel, immersing it in the cold water, and started cooling the sick boy's forehead, trying to avoid wetting the bed. Remus closed his eyes and allowed Sirius to sponge his face a bit, but his cheeks remained flushed and contrasted with the deathly pallor of the rest of his skin.
There was a usual progression of symptoms leading up to the moment of transformation, but the fever didn't settle in until half an hour before the moon was due, and even then, his fever was normally tamed to about a hundred or so. The tremors started about fifteen minutes before the change. Sirius felt Remus shudder, and worried whether he had undermined just how bad it was going to be this time.
"Where's e'rybody?" Remus muttered, once he was sufficiently awake.
"Peter's gone to get some dittany. Your mum's left a message on the…erm…voice box. She said that she was fine and told you to 'give-her-a-ring' as soon as you're alright," Sirius added, remembering the episode a while back with the talking box that had given a few warning chimes before it exploded with Mrs. Lupin's voice; it involved an upsetting of the first round of tea, a lot of yelling and instinctive cowering under furniture and a terrified James whacking the offending object with a hairbrush and shouting that he didn't have a sodding ring to give it, and bollocks, how the hell was it planning to wear a ring anyway?
Remus nodded weakly.
Sirius continued his exertions for another ten minutes till Remus' fever reduced to a safer temperature, before helping Remus sit up in bed and handing him his tea.
Remus touched his thinned lips to the rim, taking the barest of sips before lowering the cup. His voice was a scratchy whisper when he spoke. "Where's James?"
"He's getting the room ready. Borrowed some enchanted plants from James's backyards and few dozen stones and things. It won't be like…err…before, but it's not too bad either," Sirius said quickly. He felt his stomach squirm a bit at his slip. Mr. Lupin normally took over the task of enchanting the basement interior to make it resemble a somewhat dense patch of forest. The stones and plants kept the werewolf occupied and helped ease its torment, if only a bit. It had taken a larger part of the day for James and Sirius to secretly haul some of the Potters' potted vines and large stones through the fireplace and into the basement, not to mention, avoid Mrs. Potter's rising suspicion as to why the two boys were emptying her yard of its natural contents, but by the time they were done, the basement was cluttered enough to ensure that Remus didn't have to bang off of stone walls the entire night.
Remus didn't seem to have noticed that Sirius had nearly mentioned his deceased father. Instead, he fixed his gaze on his tea, his hands trembling. "Sirius, I don't want you all there tonight."
"What are you talking about?" Sirius asked sharply.
"I don't want you there," Remus croaked, "It'll be fine, you don't have to be there. I've been doing this at home for years anyway."
"Before we became animagi, you mean," Sirius corrected, "But now we're here, and it's no different from how we do it at Hogwarts. Drink up, you're nausea will start to settle in ten minutes."
Remus was undeterred. "Don't want you lot in trouble."
Sirius snorted. "Yeah Remus, trouble really bothers us. Look, you realize that this time is going to be…different. We're trying to work around the protective charms, so you'll need us there to keep you in check. And it doesn't look like it's going to be easy for you tonight. Your fever is half an hour premature."
"I know it won't be easy this time," Remus said quietly, "And that means it won't be easy for you lot either. I don't want any of you hurt. And your parents will wonder. Just, stay away tonight, okay?"
"No," Sirius said curtly, "We're not backing off because of a few scratches."
"I'm going to hurt you," Remus said, a hint of agitation edging its way into his voice, "And I'd rather not wake up with the reminders of that on your faces. Understand, Sirius, I'm not…this time…I don't want to…"
"We're not leaving you alone in there."
"I want to be alone."
It was the tone that made Sirius peer at him curiously. Remus spoke with a quiet firmness, and a hint of a plea in his unwavering voice. A plea, Sirius realized, to understand Remus' motives without having to pry it out of him. What with the stress of what Remus had been going through the past few days, the wolf was bound to be more agitated and on the surface than ever before. It was only natural, because whatever emotions Remus pent up as a human always tended to channel themselves as violence through the wolf. And more often than never, when no other creature was available, that violence was directed to the wolf itself.
Remus needed the boys now more than ever to keep him in check, and Sirius was determined to do his part in making this time's transformation as easy as possible. But somehow, he understood Remus' wish to go through with it alone, his wish to let himself go and let his feelings out without witness. The more he howled tonight, the more bones he broke or flesh he tore or blood he spilled, the better he'd feel afterwards, even if the blood and bones and flesh happened to be his own. Better, even, if it was his own, because then it would help keep his mind off of the dull pain that had permanently taken residence in his chest. The careful mask of collectedness, the control he fought so hard to hold on to with the tips of his fingers, was slipping. It was only time before he would crack. The wolf knew no control, no composure. As a wolf, he didn't need to fight to mask anything. He needed this.
Sirius looked at him long and hard.
"And the protective charms?"
"We've got chains in the basement," Remus whispered. "You just need to hook them up. Father enchanted those years ago, though we've rarely used them, only when it was just Mum in the house."
It was Remus' acknowledgement of his father, the first time since that terrible day, and the way he was gripping the cup with strong resolve, almost as if he was, in a grim, twisted way, looking forward to this, that finally caved Sirius' resolve.
"We're going to check on you though. Every half an hour or sure, just to make sure…" just to make sure what? That Remus wasn't hurting himself? But wasn't that what Remus was hoping to do?
The truth of the matter was that he feared for Remus' very life. In the face of the daunting decision of what to voice out, Sirius decided to remain silent.
"Fair enough," Remus agreed.
"Alright," Sirius bowed his head slightly, "We'll get them ready then. Finish your tea and take a nap. I'll wake you when it's time."
Remus clutched Sirius' sleeve briefly in a gesture of gratitude as he moved to get up. Sirius gave him a weak, half-hearted smile, before gathering the towels and the empty cup from Remus' hand and quietly exiting the room. He caught a glimpse of Remus lying back down in his bed, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched in a grimace of pain, before he shut the door softly behind him.
Unhappy with this new turn of events, and still unsure about whether he made the right decision, Sirius returned the cup and tray to the kitchen, before making his way to the basement with the wet towels. The Lupins' basement was a level below the rest of their house. Remus' house was akin to Remus himself. It was warm and inviting, somewhat quiet, but peaceful and harmless. The basement, though, was stowed away behind a door and buried levels below, as if trying to conceal itself, like a reflection of the nature of the secret it was charged to keep. A door behind the stairs led to a cramped, downward corridor floored with rickety steps, which ended at a landing where another door marked the entrance of the basement.
Sirius gingerly made his way down the steps and paused at the bottom to decipher the noises coming from the other side of the entrance. He could here the clip-clop of heavy hooves plodding across stone floor. Eyeing the door with slight distaste, he rapped it sharply with his knuckles.
The hooves continued their trotting without a pause. Sirius turned the brass handle and pushed the door open a few inches.
"Prongs?"
The sound of hooves became more distinct as whatever was making it approached closer. Forgetting it had antlers, the animal tried to swing its head around the door to peer through the crack. There was a sudden thump of something hard on the wall next to the door and an indignant noise of pain. Sirius snorted quietly to himself in amusement. The distinct mammalian noises blended into soft swearing and a lot of shuffling around, before the door was swung open completely.
James was gingerly rubbing his head as he held the door open for Sirius. He scowled at Sirius' wide grin, "Tripped on a stone."
Sirius's grin only widened. "Of course you did."
James crossed his arms defiantly over his bare chest and leaned one shoulder on the doorframe, "Need something?"
"Yeah," Sirius said, stepping into the musky basement. The room was the only part of the Lupin household that Sirius found unhealthily hostile. He felt a sense of claustrophobia whenever he was inside, and he blamed that mostly on the looming rock walls. The ceiling was high, nearly in level with the second floor, and it gave the impression of being trapped at the bottom of a well. There was a single window in the room, just touching the junction of wall and ceiling, and piercing beams of moonlight lit four neat little square patches on the cold, uninviting floor. There was a distinct mustiness in the air. The walls were splattered, in some places, with dried blood, like some kind of grotesque reminder of the purpose this damned room served.
It was, Sirius thought, as he shivered from the abnormal chill, probably what the inside of the wolf's mind would be like - desolated, grey, and smelling of salt and blood. But it didn't belong here, not in this house. Remus didn't belong here.
But the wolf did. The entire room spoke of it.
James had done a pretty decent job, Sirius noted. There were large vines placed at strategic corners of the room, hiding all the darker nooks and crannies. Stones were scattered along the sides and the feet of the plants. They'd made sure to get bigger rocks; the wolf often got the smaller ones lodged in his wounds.
It was a sick mockery of freedom.
Not that he'd need it now, Sirius though grimly, as he spotted the wrought iron chains in the corner of the room. It took everything in him to stop himself from howling in frustration as he bent to pick them up.
"What do you need those for?"
Sirius picked them up and gingerly turned them around in his hands. They were heavy and ended in two handcuffs made of thick, hard metal. The wolf couldn't break them. He stepped over stones and carried them to a crevice on the opposite wall. Sirius slid the metal plates on the other ends of the chains into their respective slots. The plates glowed blue briefly, before hardening in the stone. He gave them a good tug, just to make sure, before dropping them unceremoniously onto the floor. They clanged onto the stone floor, and the sound reverberated around the room unpleasantly. He turned towards James and grimaced.
James' eyes widened, "We aren't using those, are we?"
Sirius eyed them, feeling worse by the second, "Remus wants to. He doesn't want us here tonight."
"Of course he doesn't."
"I think we ought to leave him to it this time," Sirius added softly.
James gave him a look of incredulity, "And, what, let him chain himself to the wall of his own basement?"
It sounded so much worse when James said it. He eyed the chains with a mounting sense of nausea threatening to make him wretch. It was wrong, so wrong, and he didn't need the look in James' eyes to realize it.
"He's asked us to James…I think he needs to be alone this time."
"It's his way of punishing himself. You know it. It's one of those sick notions he has where he deludes himself into thinking he deserves to be treated like scum. It's bloody crass," James spat.
Once again, James was demonstrating his knack of blatantly voicing out the uncomfortable truth. Internally, Sirius felt himself vehemently agreeing, but Remus' face flashed in front of his eyes and he knew he'd have to go with it this time. "It's not that. Not this time. It's been mounting inside him…he needs to let it out tonight."
James looked at him hard. There was nothing for Sirius to hide, but he still had to fight to hold the gaze, trying to convey his fervent loathing of the way things were turning out.
"He needs to hurt something. Himself. Drown the pain. Stupid bloody masochist," James closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Sirius ran a hand over his tired face. A masochist was exactly what Remus was. Twisted. Maimed. And they couldn't fix it.
When they had first met him, he seemed unremarkable, almost drab. Invisible amongst the healthy, socially enthused crowd of first-years, Remus Lupin would have passed completely unnoticed, which Sirius had a feeling was exactly what Remus had intended, if not for his brilliant academic record, which the teachers lost no time in informing the entire form of, after the first round of tests were conducted. With an uncanny nose to sniff out the unusual, Sirius had only to take a good, long look at the Lupin boy to realize that there was something very, very off about him.
James, easily the most socially stimulated child of his age, never had a problem holding conversation with Lupin, with anybody actually, and after having a long-winding talk about the finer points of the stinging hex they had only just mastered in Charms that week, he had marched Lupin up to Black, grinning in his mad Potter way, and declared that they had tapped into hidden talent.
And Remus Lupin hovered by, peering hesitantly through his dark fringe as James prattled away and Sirius merely gazed at him incredulously. He caught a wind of what James was trying to say, though, when he caught Lupin's look that day during DADA, one stormy grey meeting one unreadable blue one, and had a sudden epiphany that James had a very good point to make.
Remus Lupin was unreadable.
Almost, anyway.
But Sirius Black, owner of the world's best poker face and master of decrypting even the most unfathomable expressions – both survival skills required as a denizen of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Blacks – was relentless, and eventually, he had all three of his fellow Marauders satisfactorily decoded and filed away under respective tabs in his head.
James, he had figured, was by far the easiest, since every thought of his almost always made it out of his mouth the exact instance it had formed coherently in his head. Sirius liked this, his blatant honesty and as such, James was pure in thoughts and intention in a way Sirius himself never could be, because though everybody thought them eggs of the same basket, Sirius was as dark and veiled and stony as James was pellucid and candid and open.
But it was when James had stormed out of the dormitory one day, angry, furious, after a heated argument that the sirens in Sirius' head blared threateningly. James did not like to get angry, and in concurrence with this sentiment, he avoided it if he could. For James, being annoyed and being angry were opposite poles of the emotional realms. When James was annoyed, his nose twitched and his hand found its way into his hair and he scowled playfully, the hint of a smile only an elbow-in-the-rib away. But it was those exceedingly rare moment when James was livid, when his mouth snapped shut, and his eyes withdrew into a dark emptiness so unlike him, and the temperature in the room dropped down a few degrees, that Sirius felt he had sorely underestimated the difficulty of deciphering James Potter.
Peter was remarkably easy as well, and according to Sirius, not really worth the effort. When he was nervous or scared, he bit his lips, when he was sad, he sniffled, when he was happy, he squealed and when he was angry, he balled his fists and pouted. Coaxing Peter out of whatever emotional plane he was drifting along that minute was as easy as whipping out a snack that corresponded to the mood you wanted to draw him into.
Remus Lupin took a long, hard time to crack, but crack he did, for nothing went past Sirius' beautiful scrutinizing eyes. From the moment Lupin revealed his identity as a werewolf, Sirius found that a lot of unexplainable observations were shed light upon. Each of the Marauders dealt differently with Lupin's "furry side" as they had come to call it, and from what Sirius could deduce, the werewolf was not as dormant as they had assumed. It was there, masked by Remus' mild-mannered expression, lurking behind the clear, serene blue of his eyes, and flitting in the shadows that his fringe threw across the pale, scarred face. It was not far from the surface either. When Remus got angry, he shouted, and spat, and sometimes Sirius wondered whether it was Remus' long fingers or the wolf's claws that lashed out. He had only once seen Remus angry. Sirius had glimpsed the silent battle of wills when Remus let slip the iron control he usually had over his thoughts and feelings. His exhaustion was not only physical. There was a darkness that, for all the good Remus personified in the world, Sirius knew still existed in the depths of his mind. He knew, because he had it too.
They had to half carry a nearly unconscious Remus from the room when the time came and they set him down on the stone floor of the basement. Almost mechanically, Sirius and James clamped the chains over his ankles as the tremors wracking his body came in hard waves. They had seen this so many times, tried to reconcile with the horror of it, tried to forget the whimpers that had Remus biting his lip and drawing blood, but they hadn't been able to, only managing to keep in their nausea and reel their minds into concentrating on the task they were set. Sirius couldn't afford to think, he couldn't act on the impulse that was screaming at him to blast the iron chains cutting into Remus' flesh into a billion pieces. He clipped them shut numbly, his brow dripping with sweat. From beside him, he could see James' hands were shaking, and it gave Sirius a twisted sense of comradeship that helped him bite down on his building desire to howl his anguish into the night as Remus was doing now, his bones cracking oddly, dislodging and reforming into predatory limbs.
They tumbled out of the room as the howls grew deafening, throwing the doors shut tightly behind them. The moment they made it to the sitting room, James dragged himself to lie on the couch and buried his face in the plushy arm, his shaking hands twisting in his own hair. Sirius chugged down a glass of water to suppress the gag reflex and leaned heavily on the wooden banister a few feet away.
There was a long spell of silence. They could hear Moony in the room below, and they tried to shut out the painful sounds he was making. Sirius lifted a shaking hand and wiped his forehead with the back of it, before sauntering towards the kitchen.
There was casserole left by Mrs. Lupin in the muggle fridge in the kitchen. Afraid of damaging the microwave and secretly slightly apprehensive about injuring himself, he decided that he really didn't mind eating it cold. He wasn't very hungry either, for that matter.
Sirius had set the table for two when James walked in. The tips of his hair were wet, and Sirius guessed he must have doused his head for a good long time in the sink, quite what he felt like doing if he trusted his feet to carry him there without failing him midway. The casserole was almost frozen, but James didn't protest when he sat at the table, and they ate their dinner in silence, shivering collectively as Remus gave another chilling howl.
They'd never quite heard Remus howling this dreadfully before, mostly because whatever transformations they had witnessed were when they were in their animagus forms, and Remus didn't howl quite as much then. And when he did, it never sounded this…wounded.
It was not something Sirius wanted to hear again soon.
It was completely dark out by the time Peter got back, and he shuddered visibly at the noises in the background as he shrugged out of his coat. The dittany he managed to fish out in the market was not a lot, but perhaps a lot more than they could have hoped for. Nodding at James, who was trying to post a letter to god-knows-who, he walked up to Sirius, eyes wide and whispered, "That bad?"
Sirius gave a quick nod.
"It's a good thing we got a hold of the dittany then."
"It is. I don't want Mrs. Lupin seeing…this."
Peter nodded frantically in agreement. He looked past Sirius' shoulder questioningly at the pot of casserole.
"Sit, food's on the table," Sirius said.
Peter looked relieved. The expression disappeared though, when he noted the sate of the casserole, which was definitely more thawed than when James and Sirius had started eating, but still stiff and chilled.
"No way of heating this?" Peter asked.
"Not unless you can work the heating wave. Micro box. Er, whatever it is."
"No, I suppose not then," Peter said, piling his plate with food and pulling it glumly towards him.
The room had started to light up.
If it could be called a room, in all its gruesome, claustrophobic glory. But it had started to light up anyhow, which banished a good number of the shadows that had been lurking about in the nooks and crannies all night. Dawn was fast approaching, and if the inhabitants of the room were awake, they would have been relieved beyond expression.
But such was not the case, and the small rat in the corner of the room was curled in a furry heap, fast asleep, its tiny lungs expanding and contracting rapidly. It did not notice, therefore, when the light, slowly and subtly brightening as the minutes crept by, seeped through the panes of the small high window and illuminated the darkest corner of the basement, where a mangled animal lay motionless on the floor. The rat did not see the immediate effect the light had as the fur receded rapidly from every patch of skin it touched.
In fact, the rat did not notice anything for a good ten more minutes, until the dark creature, splayed and tangled amidst hard metal chains on the other side of the room, started to whimper.
The rat opened one bleary eye.
The soft whimpers, too yielding to believe them of the bloodthirsty animal in the corner, slowly roughened and grated until they blended into clear, human moans.
The familiar anguish that underscored every syllable of the noise made the little rat's eyes fly wide open. It took one good look at the source of the sounds and, with a squeal of terror, took off scuttling towards the door.
Hardly a minute later, an extremely harrowed Peter, dressed haphazardly in crumpled trousers and a wrongly-buttoned shirt, burst into the dimly lit sitting room. His voice was on the edge of an unintentional squeak when he cried out imploringly.
"Prongs, Padfoot! Get up!"
The fire in the hearth flickered halfheartedly, but otherwise nothing moved. Peter took in the scene quickly, and then made for the sofa. He stood at the arm of it and poked the large lump of mattress fervently.
"James! Prongs! Please wake up!"
The lump of mattress did not oblige and with a small sigh of despair, he hurtled to his knees in the centre of the room, where a large black dog was fast asleep on the worn carpet in front of the fire. Peter knew Sirius often resorted to his animagus form when things got too much – something about it being easier to itch behind his ear. Padfoot was curled up in a ball, so tight that Peter swore that Sirius' intention was to concentrate his mass to the extent that he would just disappear. His paws were slumped over his eyes and his tail was curled under him.
"Padfoot," Peter whispered loudly. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and thus he was sanctioned permission for what he intended to do, which otherwise would win him a string of profanities and painful warts on him bottom to last him weeks.
Peter gingerly lifted one soft, floppy ear from the dog's head, and tilted his head down.
"OI PADFOOT."
The dog jumped two feet in the air with a deafening howl that, for all its decibel level, still failed to have any effect on the occupant of the sofa, and the dog whirled on Peter, teeth bared and hair standing on end. But Peter was already crossing over to the kitchen in a flurry, his voiced laced with panic, "I'm getting the dittany Sirius, please, please wake James!"
The dog, still hunched and tensed, followed the boy's movements with weary eyes. Ears ringing painfully, Sirius shook his head as memories of the night jogged back into his heavily fogged head. He willed himself to snap out of his sluggishness as Peter's words and tone triggered his mind to full consciousness.
He glanced to his left towards the sofa, and with one large bound, he was at the edge of it. He eyed the lump of mattress for a few seconds, contemplating the best ways to stimulate it into existence, and banished the first few colorful ideas that popped into his mind on the grounds of self-preservation. Making up his mind, Sirius propped his front paws up on the edge of the sofa, gathered a mouthful of the blankets with his teeth, and leapt backwards, pulling it in one almighty wrenching motion.
He did not wait to see if his tactic was successful, did not see the cocoon of blankets unfurl and dump its contents unceremoniously onto the ground, but immediately bounded into a side room, ignoring the loud yell and stream of curses flying his way as a tousled James Potter found himself in heap of mattress and his own long limbs on the none-too-soft floor. The curses continued as he struggled hastily, yanking the bedspread off of himself. Eventually, he gave up trying to free himself and instead turned and stretched backwards towards the side table, groping for his glasses. Once he found them, he slammed them onto his nose, blinked a bit, and then wildly struggled to get to his feet. Dislodging the vice-like grip the blankets had on his ankle with one last kick, he grabbed his wand and turned to find Peter emerging from the kitchen with a bottle, ashen-faced, and Sirius bolting from the adjacent room, pale and sufficiently dressed.
"Well?" Sirius demanded, tossing his head to flip is hair out of his face.
The look of frantic terror on Peter's face told them everything. All three boys immediately ran towards the basement, down the steps, flung the door open and hurled into the damp, musty room.
It took all of Sirius' self-control to keep himself from making any noise. All the same, he drew a sharp breath through his teeth and bit his tongue.
They had to carry an unconscious Remus up all the steps and onto the sofa, while Peter flung open the curtains and threw a clean white sheet on the makeshift sick-bed as James and Sirius lowered Remus down. It took hardly two minutes, but the early morning chill took its toll on Remus' bare form and he was already shivering and stone-cold by the time Peter rekindled the dwindling fire in the hearth.
Sirius took a step back to asses the situation. The first thing that hit him was the blood – there was so much of it, tainting the skin and the sheets in shades that Sirius wasn't even aware blood came in. There was the crusty brown bordering the drying wounds, the bright red that swathed the boy's face and the dark, wet liquid that was seeping through the deep gashes that were still open and very much fresh, spilling from cuts that perhaps touched his internal organs.
They got to work immediately, Peter holding up marvelously as he tipped drop after drop of dittany across the vast expanse of wounds that tore open Remus' flesh. James bandaged the injuries deftly and almost emotionlessly, only betrayed by the shaking of his fingers as he worked. There was a tense, dreadful silence, and they dared not break it, instead communicating taciturnly. Sirius was grateful for this. He did not want to risk opening his mouth, currently sealed shut with white lips pressed firmly together. The unpleasant feeling in his stomach was far from surfacing but he didn't want to try his luck.
Sirius had sorely underestimated the entire ordeal. But what had he expected, really? He had known there would be blood, and a lot of it. He was well aware that it would be messy this time and that the injuries would be much worse. He hadn't been disappointed on either account. What was it that had caught him unawares? The reality of the situation? Or maybe it was the fact that the body in question that had been subjected to inhuman torture belonged to one of his best friends.
He wanted to bolt from the room, let James and Peter deal with it, and he hated himself for thinking that. This was Remus, they were always asking him to pull through, month after month, and he did, every time. His own patronizing words on fighting things out and braving the hard times came back to him. If Remus found the will to emerge, heavily scarred albeit with a wry smile adorning his lips, after having to live through the curse of every full moon, Sirius felt he could, no, had to, pull through as well, no matter how much it disturbed him to see his friend like this – broken, unconscious and vulnerable.
In the past few months they had come to witness a new and hidden side of his transformations that they had never glimpsed before. As animagi and accomplices to his monthly episodes, they got to see, first-hand, the precise and instantaneous effects of the moonlight on the cursed human body, and to say in the least, it was not pretty. Sirius recalled that James had been sick in Hagrid's pumpkin patch early the next morning, the first time they left Remus in the shack to transform back and the night's memories came back to them.
Yet even then, the next they would see Remus was when he was tucked safely in bed in the hospital wing, usually in the evening since all four boys slept heavily whenever they got a chance throughout the day. Only once had they gone to visit him in the morning, in second year, and it was enough to render them slightly alarmed. He looked weak and like one good knock on the head would shatter him to pieces. Madam Pomfrey was, to say, pretty disgruntled as she reminded them that they had been warned not to visit so early on, but she reassured them by saying that the blood-replenishing potion would bring back some color in his cheek by evening.
They had never once had to deal with the immediate aftermath of his transformations. They had never seen what Remus looked like at the crack of dawn as the last rays of moonlight were outshined by the piercing rays of the sun, nor had they ever been particularly keen on guessing.
And they had had a good reason, if what Sirius was seeing was anything to go by.
Sirius found himself wondering fearfully if this was what Remus always looked like right after a transformation, and found it hard to believe that, at school, Remus would normally be up and about in two days. At home, Sirius had no idea how Mr. and Mrs. Lupin dealt with the full moon.
And now it was only Mrs. Lupin to look after him, unaided by magic and unable to do anything for him. How could Remus be expected to go on like this? What if more nights came like this one, where Remus was too hurt to even be conscious? Muggle medicine was useless on werewolf wounds. How could anybody in Remus' place be expected to cope up with so much?
It was unfair, the entire thing was unfair. It was unfair that Mr. Lupin was killed, and yes, Sirius did believe he was killed, he wouldn't buy the stupid excuse that it was an accident. It was unfair to expect a boy who looked so invalid and battered and beaten to stand up two days later and go about his life in wait for the next round of fresh torture to reopen wounds and strike him down again. It was unfair to expect Mrs. Lupin, rendered helpless by her inability to perform magic, to struggle single-handedly with the crushing burden that was thrust ruthlessly on her shoulders.
It was so bloody unfair.
It was a good half an hour later when they finally carried him to his room. He was still unconscious, and James, Sirius and Peter dressed him quietly, which proved to be a little difficult as they tried to tug his clothes over the heavy bandages without upsetting them. They then tucked him in bed, made sure he wouldn't lose any digits to the cold, and quietly shut the door to let him recover in peace.