James Potter was engaged in a very un-James-Potter-esque activity: He was sulking. Remus had only encountered the fearsome Potter Sulk on a handful of occasions, and they had all been Quidditch related. Usually, it was the mercurial sway of Sirius's mood they chased, occasionally Remus's own sour disposition, and rarely Peter's, whose darker tempers were of a quieter, more gloomy variety, so that they often went unnoticed to all but Remus himself. Generally, James was unflappably affable, which meant none of them quite knew what to make of the sullen-faced boy sitting slumped over their table in the Three Broomsticks, temperamentally swirling the foam of his butterbeer with a finger. So they handled it the way the group of teenage boys knew best: They ignored him.

"Round two!" proclaimed Sirius, merrily distributing four frothing mugs to his friends. "I tried to convince Rosie to give us some firewhiskey, but she's more stubborn than she looks. Ah, well."

Remus fished in his pocket for some coins.

"Put those away," said Sirius in a bored voice.

"But you got the last round!"

"No, my horrible parents did. I like spending their money frivolously. It gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. Prongs, you haven't even touched your first drink."

James merely grunted.

"Fine." Sirius turned towards the crowds of students threading their way through the pub. "Oi, you."

"Lois Perkins," muttered Peter.

"Right, Perkins," said Sirius carelessly, "— yeah, you. Here, have a butterbeer on me."

Lois Perkins, a fourth year girl who reminded Remus vaguely of a rabbit, stopped in her tracks, gazed wide-eyed at Sirius for a moment, then accepted the butterbeer with stammering thanks before hopping off, giggling with her friends.

Remus sighed deeply. "See, this is why you have a reputation."

"I have a reputation?"

"Yes, you do."

"As what?"

"Teenage heartthrob," said Remus.

Sirius snorted into his butterbeer, spraying flecks of foam across the table. "Fuck off."

"No, it's true," said Peter. "April Wallace spent most of last term sobbing over you."

"Who the hell is April Wallace?"

"You snogged her after the Hufflepuff match last year," said Peter with a slight edge to his voice. Remus knew that Peter had fancied April Wallace something awful.

"Oh." Sirius set his mug down with a clank and wiped his mouth in an almost exaggerated display of carelessness. Remus had noticed how he did that. When they were all together, when Sirius was in the spotlight, he adopted intentionally impolite behavior — chewing with his mouth open, slopping butterbeer on the floor, kicking his feet up on the table — but when he was alone or distracted, when his guard was down, his manners reverted to a pristine display of pure-blood politesse, like he didn't even notice he was doing it.

Remus was more than a little curious about his friend's upbringing, but he knew better than to ask. Sirius didn't talk about his family. Remus knew the basics, of course — hated his mum, hated his dad, hated his cousins — but the intricacies of a childhood of pure-blood privilege remained a secret Remus couldn't help but find intriguing. He didn't ask though. Remus understood about keeping secrets.

Sirius seemed about to retort when they were all distracted by the buxom form of Madam Rosmerta, the landlady, squeezing past their table to deliver a tray of drinks to a company of aged warlocks. "Ta," growled the oldest, accepting his cherry-topped fizz with what he evidently thought was a flirtatious tilt of his fur-trimmed cap.

Madam Rosmerta, a very attractive witch with ample curves, pretty curls, and a charmingly minxish face, was the subject of many a schoolboy fantasy around Hogwarts.

"Rosie!" cried Sirius as she retreated from the warlocks' table.

"No whiskey, Black. I've got enough on me plate without being slapped with charges for serving minors."

"Not even a sip?"

"The Ministry would have me arse."

"Lucky them, it's a bloody fine arse."

She slugged him on the back of the head. "Cheeky!"

"Anyhow, I wasn't going to ask you for whiskey. Just wanted to order another round of butterbeer."

"Another?" Rosmerta raised her eyebrows. "You've just started these. Guzzling butterbeer won't get you drunk, you know. It'll only make you sick, and that's a mess I don't need to be cleaning up, thanks."

"Oh, it's not for us. For the girls over there."

"I should've known! Which one?"

"All of them."

"All of them? Ambitious lad, aren't you?"

"Oh, but don't say it's from me. Tell them it's from my good friend Remus here."

Rosmerta took off for the bar, laughing and shaking her head.

"What? No! Don't do that! Rosmerta! Rosmert—" Remus groaned while Peter and Sirius sniggered. "I hate you, Snuffles."

Sirius sipped his butterbeer serenely. "Okay. You've got to come up with a better name than that."

"Says the idiot who came up with 'Moony.'"

"Moony is an excellent name. Would you rather be Snuffles? Mr. Tuft-tail? Sir Whiskers?"

Peter laughed.

"Watch out Peter," said Remus darkly. "Snuffles will be naming you next."

"If you ever manage to transform," said Sirius.

At this, Peter flushed pink and Remus shot Sirius a reprimanding look, which Sirius blithely ignored. Remus wished he wouldn't put Peter down like that. He could tell Peter was already discouraged by the whole ordeal. It had been hard enough for James and Sirius to become Animagi, let alone poor Peter. "Shut it, Snuffles," said Remus.

"We're not calling me Snuffles."

"Hey," said James suddenly, his eyes slipping back into focus from whatever irksome sight he'd been surveying across the pub. "I've embraced Prongs."

"Oh, look," said Sirius. "It's alive."

"Hmph," said James. Then, unexpectedly, he made a disgruntled noise and said, "It's stifling in here. D'you want to go for a walk or something?"

No one did, but they all shrugged and agreed because James had suggested it. After a few moments of bundling up, the boys were back outside in the blustery cold. They strolled along High Street with no real intent to their destination, but soon Remus realized with a lump in his throat that they were climbing the sloping path towards the Shrieking Shack.

It sat perched on the hill, as though looking down in scorn upon the village, its garden overgrown and choked with weeds. It was always strange for Remus to see the house from the exterior; he alone knew what really went on inside. He felt a gnawing sensation deep within his stomach. The full moon was in a little over a week…but he didn't want to think about that.

"What are you doing, Prongs?" said Sirius.

Tugged from his thoughts, Remus turned and saw that James had wandered over towards the creaky fence that encased the Shrieking Shack and was gazing contemplatively at its boarded-up windows. He didn't respond.

"Prongs?" Sirius tried again.

"Hm?"

"What's with you today?"

James shrugged. "Nothing. I was just thinking."

"Care to share with the class?"

James tugged his hat down over his ears then turned towards them, leaning against the fence. A flicker of his usual grin appeared on his face and they all relaxed a bit. "I want to do it this moon."

"Do what?"

"What do you think, Remus? Come to the Shrieking Shack. Transform with you."

Remus froze. "But — you're not ready."

"We've been talking about this for years. 'Course we're ready."

"But Peter can't change yet."

James gave an unconcerned wave of the hand. "He can come next time."

Peter didn't say anything, but Remus knew this stung. For a floundering moment, Remus tried to convince himself that his concern was for Peter's feelings, rather than the overwhelming terror the prospect spawned in him.

"Look," said Remus, a bit desperately, "why don't we just wait until after the holiday?"

"Why?" demanded James.

"We just — you can't — we can't screw up. There's no margin for error here!"

"You worry too much," said James dismissively.

Remus bit his lip. He wanted to snap that James didn't worry enough, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Besides, he could hardly count this as a surprise. They'd told him they wanted to transform and come to the Shrieking Shack with him, and he'd supported it. He'd been so enamored with the idea of his friends' acceptance that he hadn't stopped to think about what it really meant. Or rather, he hadn't let himself.

But now, standing outside the shack, gazing up at the walls of his monthly prison…the idea was absurd. He was a werewolf. Sure, in their Animagus forms they were safe from his bite — he couldn't transmit his lycanthropy to other animals — but he could still scratch and maim…and what's to say he wouldn't? Look what he did to himself every month! He didn't want to do that to his friends.

And they had no idea. They had no idea what a werewolf really was. They probably just pictured him as a normal wolf, running around the Shrieking Shack bumping into things. Maybe they thought the wolf was still Remus, with just a tad more bloodlust. But he wasn't. He wasn't Remus at all. The wolf was something that lived inside him, dirtied his blood and his body, but it wasn't him…and when it came out, Remus was gone. What if…what if after the meeting the wolf, that's all they'd ever see? He wouldn't be Remus anymore…

James was still talking. "—and I've got it all figured out. This is what we've been trying to do since second year. I don't want to wait any longer."

"One more moon," Remus pleaded. "Please, just — wait until after the Christmas holiday."

"Why?"

"Because I am asking you to!" cried Remus, and his voice cracked in desperation. They all stared at him. Remus felt his cheeks burning, but he held James's gaze.

"Fine," said James after a moment. "Okay. Fine. We'll wait one more moon."

"Thank you."

James tugged on his hat again and shrugged. Then, to everyone's relief, he seemed to make a conscious decision to return to his normal, cheerful self again. "You know," he said brightly, "'Prongs' is actually starting to grow on me. Moony, Snuffles, and Prongs…has a bit of a ring to it." Grinning, he threw an arm over Remus's shoulder and began leading him back down the sloping path to the village.

"We're not calling me Snuffles!" hollered Sirius from behind.