Remus

by Shunyata Ryuen

From a timid, friendless first-year to a master of Defense Against the Dark Arts: a chronicle of the life of Remus J. Lupin, from his first year at Hogwarts to his last (and beyond).

3. III The Plight of the Werewolf

[Remus:  Chapter 3]

~*~

III. The Plight of the Werewolf

"Iodan was making me make up that quiz I missed--you know, the one about color-changing potions?"  Peter was lying on his side on the bed, head propped against his hand; Sirius, James, and Remus sat perched on the edge of Remus' mattress, listening to the tale with rapt attention.  "Well," Peter continued, "about halfway through, Iodan realized that there wasn't enough marshweed powder, so she went down the hall to get some more.  While I was waiting there for her to get back, though, I saw somebody run past the door.  They were really running, too--I couldn't even make out who it was, they went by so fast.  Anyway, so I went out into the corridor to check it out, and I only made it a little way down the hallway when one of the labs blew up."

Sirius and James glanced at each other; their eyes were wide, showing whites all around. 

"What happened then?" James breathed.

Peter sat up, clasping a hand over his bandaged arm as if it had suddenly begun to pain him.  "The blast knocked me down," he said, speaking in low, whispery tones as if telling a ghost story.  "When I got up, Iodan was yelling, and my arm was . . .  Well, I guess the blast broke a lot of vials, because there were chemicals seeping out all over the hallway floor, and some acid got on my arm.  It ate right through my robes.  Pomfrey said that . . . that if I hadn't gotten up when I did . . . " 

He shook his head, and for a moment, there was no sound but the muffled rumble of voices from the common room. 

"Anyway, Iodan was pretty banged up.  I heard Madam Pomfrey tell Dumbledore that it might be weeks before she can teach class again."

"So it wasn't an accident," Remus heard himself murmur.

Peter shook his head solemnly.  "I don't think so.  McGonagall told me not to tell anybody what I saw, since I guess she's afraid kids are gonna panic if they find out . . . but, hey."  He grinned.  "I had to tell you guys."

They sat in silence for a few moments, brows twisted up in thought.  It was James who finally broke the silence, turning to Sirius with a thoughtful frown on his face.

"What do you think?  Think we should still check it out with the invisibility cloak?"

Before Sirius could respond, however, Peter shook his head.  "You can't.  McGonagall's left all the paintings with instructions to start howling if any students go by.  And even if that cloak does work, you can't get out into the hallway, because the portrait hole's all sealed up.  It won't open except from the outside until McGonagall takes off whatever spell she put on it."

James, reluctant to admit defeat, shrugged his slim shoulders.  "We could always hide by the door with the cloak on, wait for somebody to open it from the outside and then slip out."

Sirius shook his head.  "No.  It's not worth it.  What if somebody bumped into us?  Or what if we didn't get the whole way out the portrait hole before it closed?  And what about getting back in?  We should stay here.  Besides, there's probably not much else to find out that Peter hasn't already told us." 

That said, Sirius shifted his gaze to Remus, a touch of concern twingeing at his expression.  "How're you feeling, Remus?  Any better?"

Suddenly finding his friends' attention focused on him, he gave a little start and nodded.  He was feeling better; he was no longer shivering, and although that sense of evil still plodded darkly through the back of his mind, he felt stronger with his friends around him.  "I'm okay," he said firmly.  "I guess I was just a little shaken up."

"You were," said Peter with a bark of laughter.  "I thought I was bloody dead."

They all laughed, and Remus felt the tension drain from his shoulders.  No matter who or what might have caused the explosion, there was nothing any of them could do about it now.  Clearing his throat, he hopped down from the bed and went to the window.  A light October rain was falling, trickling down over the panes and making the world outside seem blurry and dim. 

"Well," said James brightly, "as long as we're stuck in here, we may as well make the most of it."

Sirius raised an eyebrow.  "What've you got in mind?"

~*~

Two hours and seventeen games of Exploding Snap later, McGonagall reappeared with a welcome announcement.

"Professor Dumbledore has decided that it is now safe for you students to enter the halls again--but please," she said sharply, as a sudden roar of voices threatened to drown her out, "avoid visiting the site of the accident or even venturing downstairs at all.  Additionally, until Professor Iodan is out of the hospital wing, all Potions classes will be converted to study halls, to be served in the library.  Oh."  Her thin lips curled into a smile.  "And it is time to eat."

A cheer rang through the common room, and immediately, the students began to clump towards the portrait hole, talking so loudly that Remus longed to press his hands to his overly-sensitive ears.  Sirius must have noticed him wincing, because the boy placed a hand on his shoulder, peering at his face in concern.

"I forgot to ask you," he said over the din.  "How's your mum?"

They had been walking down the stairs, attempting to merge into the bustling crowd below; Remus stumbled at the question, just barely managing to catch himself on the banister.  "Ah--"  He tossed Sirius a slightly sheepish smile over one shoulder.  "She's fine.  She's . . . she's doing better."

Sirius frowned a little, but then nodded.  "That's good.  You were gone for longer than you said you would be, so . . . well, we thought maybe something had happened."

They had been friends for a month, and yet still, hearing that touch of concern to Sirius' voice sent a tingle up Remus' spine. It seemed so strange, to finally have people he could count on, to finally have people who would stand by him no matter what might--

The thoughts broke off, and something cold and painful settled in his stomach.

He was just deluding himself, wasn't he?  He was a werewolf.  A werewolf.  No matter how kind Sirius and James and Peter were to him now, if they were to find out . . . if they were to realize what a monster he truly was . . . they would leave.  They would desert him, just as the boys who had been with him when he was bitten had.  At the start, of course, they'd been fascinated by him:  how often was it that a child got a chance to be friends with a real life, honest to goodness werewolf?  But that had worn off quickly, and one by one, his "friends" had left him for stabler, more normal children.  He had been left all alone. 

It is the plight of the werewolf, one of the thousand books he'd read on the subject had said, to be always and inevitably alone.  They are shunned by those who do not understand, and feared and reviled by those who do.  It is, indeed, in the werewolf's best interest to be slain early, as a life led in that sort of misery is really no life at all.

He had never allowed himself to believe those words before.  Now, realizing how attached he had become to his new friends, and how truly agonizing it would be when he lost them, he wasn't so sure.  Was it really worth it, pretending that he could be a normal boy when it was so clear that he was not?  Was it really worth it, putting himself through this again and again, suffering the heartache and the loss until his weakened body finally just . . . gave out? 

He and Sirius had reached the common room floor; heart clenching suddenly in his chest, he spun and pushed past the taller boy, starting back up the stairs.  Peter and James were already far ahead of them, just about to crawl out through the portrait hole.

Sirius frowned after him.  "Remus?"

"I-I'm not feeling well," he called, gripping the banister tightly to tug himself up the stairs.  "I think I'll just go to sleep . . . "

He didn't wait for Sirius' reaction.  Heartbeat thrumming in his ears, he reached the top of the stairs, hurried into the dormitory, and pushed the door shut behind him.  His breath was coming in harsh gasps, a result of the exertion of racing up the stairs, and his heart seemed in danger of pounding right through his rib cage.  He knew that he was overreacting, that there was really no point in trying to avoid the eventual heartache, because it would come.  It would always come, and even if it might be easier to push away his friends, doing so would only make now less pleasant, when really, it was only later that needed to be so.

. . . still.  He really was feeling ill.  Although he had hurt himself many times before while in wolf form--the scars that lined the flesh beneath his robes were proof enough of that--he couldn't remember ever having caused such a savage wound.  Despite being healed, his arm still throbbed occasionally, and the rusty scent of his own blood still swam sickeningly in his nostrils. 

He collapsed onto his bed, drawing a pillow up over his head and trying to shut out the world.  He barely noticed when the tears began to fall, but for the moisture that was suddenly on his cheeks, and when the sobs came, they were ragged and soundless; all he could do was weather through them. 

~*~

It was still dark when he woke.  All around him were the warm, sleepy sounds of the other boys--the soft hiss of breath, the rustle of blankets, the occasional dreamy murmur.  And . . .

His eyes snapped open, staring out into the darkness as a new sound met his ears.

It was very soft; he doubted he'd have picked up on it at all had he possessed the ears of a normal eleven-year-old.  But there it was, all the same, and after how many times he himself had wakened from nightmares, breath coming as raggedly as this, he couldn't bring himself to ignore it.  No.  Someone was in pain--someone needed waking.

Frowning into the starlit darkness, Remus pushed the blankets back from his body and slipped out of bed; the floor was maddeningly cold beneath his toes, but he paid no attention, and a moment later was creeping towards the sound as silently as if on a hunt.  Gasp-gasp-gasp--a new sound joined the harsh intake of breath:  a low moan, almost a sob, that froze Remus in his tracks as effectively as if he'd been Petrified. 

It was Sirius.

Dismissing the need for silence, Remus hurried to the taller boy's bedside and stood beside it, chest clenching painfully as his heightened night vision brought the scene into focus. 

Sirius lay on his back in the bed, blankets tangled around his legs, fingers clenched so tightly to the sides of the mattress that his knuckles had turned white.  His features were twisted in anguish and fear, his head shaking back and forth, back and forth, as if vehemently denying whatever it was his dreams were showing him, his entire body trembling beneath the weight of that denial.  The moans sliding from his lips grew increasingly more desperate as the seconds ticked by.

Knowing that Sirius would be mortified if any of the other boys saw him in such a state, Remus lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress and reached for his friend's shoulder.  Just as his fingers grew near to it, however, the taller boy began to thrash, twisting away, arms flying into the air as if to fend off an attacker.

Remus leaped up from the mattress just in time to avoid being punched.  Sirius' moans had turned to words, now, and low and muddled as they were, Remus could make out every one.

"Mum . . . no . . . please . . . no . . ."

Features tensing in determination, Remus sank down onto the mattress again and--ducking carefully around Sirius' flailing limbs--leaned over the other boy until he could get one hand on each shoulder.  Once he had, he pushed with all his strength, shoving Sirius flat onto the mattress, and said, in one quick, sharp whisper: 

"Sirius.  Wake.  Up."

Sirius stopped struggling so abruptly that Remus nearly lost his balance.  Once he was no longer in danger of toppling to the side, he brought his eyes back to Sirius and found that the other boy's features were smoothing, his thrashing limbs now resting, limp, at his sides.  Relieved, Remus sat back, carefully removing his hands from his friend's shoulders as he did so, and started to stand up.  If he could get back to his bed before Sirius regained consciousness, then the taller boy would never have to know his part in this, and would certainly never have to know that he'd seen him beneath the nightmare's hold.  He was just turning away, ready to creep back to bed, when Sirius' voice stopped him.

"Remus?"

Shoulders stiffening, he turned back.  Sirius' eyes were open now, gazing up at him in confusion--but it was a very conscious kind of confusion, and certainly not one that could be tricked into thinking his presence merely a sleep-inspired hallucination.  Sighing, Remus lowered himself again to the mattress beside Sirius, keeping his voice soft so anyone else who might have woken wouldn't overhear.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.  "You were having a nightmare."

Sirius stared up at him for a few lengthy seconds, flecks of starlight swimming in his eyes, saying nothing.  Despite there being no logical reason for such a reaction, Remus was suddenly terrified that Sirius was going to be angry with him.  It might, after all, have been an affront to the taller boy's pride, for someone to have witnessed him in such a weakened state . . .but of course, if he hadn't woken Sirius, the entire dormitory might have witnessed it.  Did Sirius realize that?  Or would he forget such minor details in the face of this obvious invasion of his privacy? 

Remus swallowed, telling himself firmly that he was overthinking things again, and waited as Sirius gathered breath to speak.

"Did I . . . "  The boy's brow was deeply creased, and he seemed to be having difficulty forming the words.  "Did I say anything, Remus?"

There was a need to Sirius' voice that he didn't understand; he inclined his head a little, choosing his words carefully.  "You . . .  said something about your mother.  That was all, though."

Sirius frowned, shaking his head as if this didn't make any sense at all--then he sat up and disentangled the blankets from his legs.  Without a word, he crawled from the bed and started for the door, and unsure of what else to do, Remus followed. 

As he pushed the dormitory door quietly closed behind him, Remus noticed that Sirius had reached the bottom of the stairs and was heading for the fireplace.  Once he reached it, the eleven-year-old folded his arms over his chest and sank into the tall, red leather arm chair that faced the flames. 

For a long moment, Remus stood there at the top of the stairs, staring at the tangles of dark hair visible over the top of the chair, and waited for something to happen.

He had always known Sirius to be something of a brooder; while James was unfailingly cheerful, and Peter prone to fits of wheezing giggles, Sirius--who was inclined to his silly, happy-go-lucky moments--tended to subside into somber, seemingly unprovoked silences from time to time.  From what he had heard that day in the lavatory, as well as what he had pieced together over the last month, Remus knew that Sirius' father had recently passed away, and for some reason that Sirius himself didn't seem to understand, he blamed his mother.  This inexplicable placing of guilt seemed to drag at the dark-haired boy, and Remus couldn't help but wonder if perhaps that had extended into his dreams.  It would certainly explain what he had heard.

As it seemed Sirius would be perfectly content to sit in his chair all night, silent and swallowed up in whatever dark emotions were haunting him, Remus took a very deep breath and spoke. 

"Sirius?"

There was a rustle, as of the other boy's head turning in his direction, but nothing else. 

Remus started to move cautiously down the stairs; his words were so soft that he wondered if Sirius could hear them at all.  "What were you dreaming about?"

And indeed, there was silence for such a long time that he thought that perhaps the other boy hadn't heard, that he would either have to repeat himself or give up on this line of questioning altogether.  But then, just as he stepped from the last stair to the floor, Sirius cleared his throat.

"I don't know," he said in a low voice, and Remus thought he sounded more confused than angry.  "I can never remember."  There was a short pause.  "Do you remember, when you wake up from nightmares?"

Remus crossed the distance between them before answering; Sirius watched him, dark eyes swimming with reflected flames, as he settled himself into the other arm chair by the fire. 

Feeling ridiculously small in the huge chair, Remus brought his knees to his chest and studied his friend.  "I can remember," he admitted quietly.  The fire crackled suddenly beside them, a new log of wood materializing to replace the one that had just faded into ashes.  "But I suppose . . . I mean, it's probably different for different people."

Sirius was silent for a moment, presumably thinking that over. 

Then he said, very softly, "You were crying last night."

Remus stared at him in shock and embarrassment, his back suddenly going very rigid.  "How did you--"

"I saw you," Sirius said quietly.  "You didn't think I was just going to leave after you ran off like that, did you?  I came up to see if you were all right."  Pause.  "Was it because of your mum?"

Remus looked away, hoping Sirius hadn't seen the flicker of anguish as it twisted his features.  What could he say?  How could he explain that it had never been about his mother at all, that he had been crying because of him?  Because of Sirius, James, Peter--his friends, and how heartbroken he was that he was going to have to lose them?  He swallowed, struggling to bring himself back under control; he wasn't sure what he was going to say until he drew breath to say it.

"It wasn't--" he began, but he never got to finish the sentence.

He had been sitting curled in the chair, legs to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees--only now, too late, did he realize that that posture had drawn the right sleeve of his robe back to the elbow, revealing the patchwork of scars there that shone like silvery threads in the firelight.  Sirius was staring at those scars now, his eyes dark and startled, his mouth working without sound, and although of course the damage had already been done, Remus hurriedly pushed the sleeve back into place.

Sirius stared at him for a long time, and then he stood up, circled the chair, and stopped just in front of the smaller boy.  Despite knowing what had to come next, Remus couldn't move; his muscles were frozen into inactivity, and he barely seemed to be breathing at all.  He could only watch as Sirius reached down and, with surprising gentleness, took one thin arm into his hands and slid back the sleeve.  Sirius gazed silently at the scars for a few moments, his eyes widening at the sight of the newest and largest, on the inside near the elbow.  Then, he released that arm and lifted the other, doing the same and finding the same.

Remus tried to swallow, but found his throat too dry.

When Sirius finally spoke, his voice was very low, and oddly, tremulously calm.  "Who did that to you, Remus?"

It startled him, how badly he wanted to tell Sirius the truth.  But in the end, common sense won out over silly, naïve desires, and he settled for a distanced version of the truth.  "A-A wolf."
Sirius, clearly, had not been expecting such an answer; his lips bent in a frown, and from the crease in his brow, he was trying to decide whether to believe this or not.  "A wolf," he echoed.

"Yeah," Remus continued cautiously.  "I was . . . attacked.  A few years ago."

His heart was hammering painfully in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears.  What if Sirius figured it out?  What if that was enough, if that one word--wolf--was enough to bring all the clues together? 

Sirius was frowning, and for a breathless moment, Remus was sure that he had figured it out, that now was the moment he'd been dreading since this friendship had begun--but he soon realized this was not the case.

"It's weird," Sirius said, and it sounded almost as if he were talking to himself.  "My mother--"  He lifted Remus' arm again, tracing a finger over the long, thick scar near the elbow.  "She was attacked by a wild dog--right after I was born.  Her arms are just like yours . . . "

Abruptly seeming to realize what he was saying, as well as the fact that he was effectively caressing his friend's arm, Sirius took a quick step backwards.  His cheeks were scarlet.  "Er . . . sorry.  Anyway, ah . . . we should probably get back to bed . . . " 

Her arms are just like yours . . .

Struggling not to let his shock show, Remus leaned forward in the chair and let his feet drop to the floor so he could stand.  "Sirius," he called softly, and watched as the taller boy paused just short of the dormitory staircase.  "Can I ask you a . . . well, a sort of weird question?"

The dark-haired boy's back went suddenly rigid, and when he turned around, there was a strange, closed expression on his face, as if he were doing his best to keep any hint of emotion from his features.  "Yeah?"

"Um . . ."  He swallowed, trying to think of a way to phrase his suspicions without sounding like he'd lost his mind.  Somehow, Does your mother happen to disappear once a month and then come back looking like she's been in a fight? didn't seem a viable choice; he was still straining for the correct phrasing when Sirius turned and started back up the stairs.

"Hey, uh . . . why don't we talk about this tomorrow morning?"  The dark-haired boy gave a forced yawn.  "I'm really tired, and. . . yeah.  So, I'll see ya at breakfast, Remus."

For a moment, he almost told Sirius to wait, but realized as he opened his mouth that he really had no idea how to ask what he needed to ask.  That, in addition to the fact that it was possible to actually be attacked by a vicious dog--not all who claimed to such a story could be werewolves, after all--made him nod, a close-lipped smile drawing at his features.

"Good night, Sirius," he said.

Sirius paused, fingers drumming against the banister, and twisted his head to look back.  His dark hair, tousled from sleeping, clung to his neck and cheeks; with the firelight casting a shadow on his sharp, handsome features, he seemed ages older than eleven.  "Whatever it is," he said quietly, "you know you can tell us.  James and me, I mean.  And probably Peter."

Remus sighed, curling himself back up into the chair and wishing it were true.  "I know," he replied; the silent ache that had driven him to tears earlier was gnawing at his chest.  "Goodnight, Sirius."

After one last, evaluating glance, Sirius turned away climbed the last of the stairs; Remus had twisted to stare into the depths of the fire, watching the flames swarming over the blackening log through the iron mesh of the grate, so it was only by the click of the door closing that he knew Sirius was gone.

~*~End Chapter 3~*~

Monday, December 16, 2002:  Monstrous thanks and gifts of chocolate and roses to the nineteen reviewers of chapter 2:  Evil spapple pie, WildfireFriendship, Skittles, Bobbi (wai, thanks for reviewing!  I love your humor fics! ^__^.), Sagara Sanosuke (hi, Sano!), Lunatica, Camlost, Nimue, NK (thanks again for the artwork! ^_^.), Elusive Kat, Quinn (thank you so much for your long, thoughtful reviews! ^_^.), Nev, Fae, silent-wishes, Flying Heart, JaimynsFire, Meg, August DuMonte, and white owl!  *showers you all with gifts*   I appreciate your comments very much, and believe me, they really kept me going while I was suspended this last week! ^__^.  Anyway, here's a preview of chapter four, which will feature—at last—everyone's favorite nasty Potions master, Severus Snape—although, erm, he's not in the preview.  But he's in the chapter.  I promise. ^_~.

~*~Chapter Four:  The Joining of the Houses~*~

He had been walking for perhaps five or six minutes, taking short, brisk steps that echoed dully against the walls, when a dark figure stepped into his path.

He came to an unsteady halt, peering into the dimness with narrowed eyes . . . and then the figure moved closer, and he saw that it was a round, kind-faced old woman:  the librarian.  He wasn't sure of her name, but she was only a few inches taller than himself, with thick white hair tugged back into a bun, and old brown robes covered in splotches of ink.  She smiled at him kindly, hands folded in front of her, and Remus noticed that she was missing one of her front teeth.

"Can I help ya find anythin', dear?"

No, thanks; I'm not looking for anything.  That was what he should say--he knew that was what he should say.  And yet try as he might to force the words to come out, they stayed stuck in his throat.  He drew a difficult breath and opened his mouth, hoping the movement might assist him in speaking them, but it didn't; it only made things worse.

"I'm looking for a book on werewolves," he said.

~Ryuen