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).

4. IV The Joining of the Houses

[Remus:  Chapter 4]

IV.  The Joining of the Houses

He had seen the boy before--he was sure of it.  After all, they were in the same year, and they had been attending Defense Against the Dark Arts classes together for the past month, sitting just a few seats away.  Yet no matter how desperately Remus strained his memory, he couldn't remember anything at all about Severus Snape, except that (1) he was a Slytherin, and (2) due to the vindictiveness of Professor Haggley, they were going to be working together for the rest of the term.

"As it seems some of you--"  The bearded old wizard glared at Sirius and James, who were too annoyed at their new partners to even try to look innocent.  "--are incapable of paying attention when partnered with members of your own houses, I am confident that this new arrangement will be most beneficial to everyone."  Tugging at his long grey beard, Professor Haggley began to walk up and down the aisles, directing pointed and approving glances at the newly-formed pairs.  "Besides, this ridiculous feud between the houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin has gone on long enough.  It is all well and good to compete on the Quidditch field, but that is where the animosity should end.  You are really not as different as you like to think."

Frowning at the snorts of laughter that followed this announcement, Professor Haggley marched back up to the front of the room and lowered himself into his desk chair.  "Think it's funny, do you?" he asked, smoothing at his spotless grey robes.  "Well, then, I suppose we will have to do this the hard way.  For your first assignment in these new pairs--"  The old man's lips twisted into a positively wicked smile.  "--I ask that you each write an essay, at least one roll of parchment in length, comparing and contrasting yourself to your partner.  You may cover the topics of interests, best subjects, likes, dislikes, favorite books, favorites spells, or even favorite and--" The smile went a bit crooked.  "--least favorite professors.  This essay must be handed into me by Wednesday's class period, and if any foul language is used, Mr. Black, I guarantee you, you will be scrubbing the infirmary floors by supper."

A groan worked its way around the room.

"But, Professor!"  It was James, sounding more irate than Remus had ever heard him.  "This is Defense Against the Dark Arts.  What's some bloody essay on Slytherins got to do with the Dark Arts??"

Haggley raised one bushy grey eyebrow.  "My dear boy," he said dryly, "if the rift between Slytherin and Gryffindor remains for much longer, I daresay we will have to contend with all manner of dark arts.  And as I would hate to see any one of you injured by a ridiculous and pointless feud, I will do whatever is in my power to ensure that you learn something about one another." 

Another groan.

"If you do not understand that," Haggley continued in a sharper voice, rising irritably from his chair, "then understand this.  The Dark Arts is not just a hobby someone enters into, thinking it may make him a success at parties.  No.  It is entered into for a distinct purpose, and for every witch or wizard, that purpose is a bit different.  If you can understand what path has led a person into the Dark Arts, then that equips you with the sort of insight that may just save your life.  Do not underestimate the importance of psychology, Mr. Potter--any of you.  No one simply is evil.  There is always a road that takes them there, and if you can find a map of that road, then you can be prepared for whatever they might throw at you, because you understand them."

There were no groans this time, only silent, startled stares.  Then Professor Haggley pressed his palms to the desk and sank back into his chair, and the squelch of leather seemed to snap the students out of their trances.  There was some looking around; Peter, seated at the table in front of Remus with Lucius Malfoy, glanced back at the smaller boy with a grimace.  Remus tried to offer a reassuring smile, but he certainly didn't envy the other boy his partner. 

"Well," said Professor Haggley with renewed cheer, "you may use the remainder of the class period to begin your essays.  And do not think that just because I am not looking at you that I am not listening to you.  I will be grading your quizzes from last week, but I will also be listening very closely for any hint of animosity between you."  He smiled again, and Remus couldn't help but think how similar the grin was to the one James got when he was plotting something wicked.  "If you cannot compose a simple essay together, then you may bond while serving detention.  It is your choice."

And with that, a pyramid of rolled parchments materialized in front of Professor Haggley, and the class was on its own.

~*~

Conversation was long in coming.  For the first five minutes, the newly-paired Slytherins and Gryffindors sat in awkward silence, casting occasional furtive glances at one another but saying nothing, perhaps hoping silent protest might convince Professor Haggley to rescind his assignment.  Haggley, however, seemed entirely unconcerned, scratching at last week's quizzes with an old quill and humming softly to himself. 

Finally, Remus sighed and turned to his partner, giving himself a moment to study the boy before plunging into their assignment.

Tall and gangly for an eleven-year-old, Severus Snape sat rigidly on his stool, thin white hands folded on the tabletop, chin slightly raised as if to peer over the heads of the students in front of him.  His robes were newer and finer than Remus' own, the velvety fabric giving further emphasis to the boy's bony arms and shoulders, and his hair--dark and slightly scraggly, a stark contrast to his pale skin--fell nearly to his shoulders.  He had a long, hooked nose, giving the impression of some vicious bird of prey, and his eyes were dark and narrowed, the stare beneath them surprisingly intense. 

Remus swallowed.  "Maybe. . . we should get started," he said.  His voice was soft, barely above a murmur, but in the otherwise silent room, it rang like a shout.  He winced, but couldn't help noticing the approving smile Haggley granted him over his pile of parchments. 

And just like that, the silence broken, other voices began to fill the air, and Remus could breathe a bit easier.  Drawing his gaze back to Severus, he found the other boy regarding him almost curiously, and took this seeming lack of animosity as encouragement.

"Where would you like to start?" he asked, dunking his quill into the ink well.

Severus stared at him for a few additional seconds, those dark eyes narrowing steadily, then he gave a ghost of a smile and shrugged.  "It's a ridiculous assignment," he said, casting a scornful glance at Professor Haggley.  "And all that rubbish about psychology . . ."  The boy's eyes blazed suddenly, and when he spoke, his voice was low and fervent.  "There's only one way to fight the Dark Arts, Lupin, and that's by learning what they do so you can do it to them first.  Unfortunately, none of the staff members at this school seem to be willing to admit to that--"  Snape's voice was rising now, so much that several students had turned to listen.  "--or else they care so little for their students as to give them pointless assignments when they should be teaching them how to defend themselves against evil forces instead.  When I am a professor here, you can be sure that things will be very -- different."

"I've not doubt of that, Mr. Snape," said Professor Haggley mildly.  He hadn't even bothered to look up from the parchments he was grading, but his long grey beard was twitching slightly, as if his teeth were grinding together.  "In any case, the assignment stands.  And as much as I would hate to force Mr. Lupin to suffer alongside you, I will not hesitate to give you both detention if you continue to give impassioned speeches in my classroom."

Snape flushed angrily, but said nothing; when he turned back to Remus, he looked ready to kill.  "Very well," he muttered.  "I suppose the sooner we begin this ridiculous essay, the sooner we will be done."

"Er . . . yes."  Remus managed a wincing smile.  "So, where would you like to--"

"My full name," interrupted Severus, facing front again with a maddeningly-bored expression on his face, "is Severus Oliver Snape.  I am eleven years old, and if I am forced to sit through many more classes like this, I shall die of insufferable boredom before I reach twelve.  My favorite classes are Potions and Transfiguration, my favorite book is The Big Book Of Grisly Wizarding Deaths by Marshall M. Fleetwood, and I do hope you're writing this down, Lupin, because I'm not going to repeat myself." 

Startled, Remus grabbed up the discarded quill and hastily dabbed it into the inkwell, then scribbled all Snape had said in rushed, compact cursive.  Without bothering to see if he'd finished writing, Snape plunged onward.  The boy talked for what seemed an eternity, detailing a few nasty spells he was fond of, sharing his opinions on the inadequacies of the Hogwarts staff, and then finally drifting into a short critique of the Ministry of Magic, which apparently was where an uncle of his worked.  Remus wrote it all down, his fingers cramped and burning from the dictation, but he did his best to tune most of it out.  It wasn't until this last editorial that the smaller boy found his attention drawn back in. 

Through the blur of words, a few crept in:  "--werewolf situation a few months ago."

Remus dropped his quill.  Blinking, he snatched it up from the floor and turned back to Severus, who was regarding him with a peculiar, curious sort of frown.  "Erm . . . sorry, could you say that last again?"

Snape lifted his bony shoulders and gave a long-suffering sigh.  "I was merely saying that the Ministry of Magic is full of idiots and xenophobes, and if you need any proof of that, you need only look at how they handled that werewolf situation a few months ago."

Had it been any other topic, Remus might have sat there wondering how any eleven-year-old could possibly be so well-versed in current events, or possess a vocabulary that seemed more fitting of a seventh year student or perhaps even a professor.  But this topic . . .  He swallowed with some difficulty, and somehow managed to keep his voice from shaking.

"What happened?"

Snape sneered at him as if to say, You haven't heard? but, apparently pleased at having a receptive audience to his opinions, explained anyway.  "There was a werewolf hiding in the Ministry itself," he said with some amusement.  "Right beneath their noses, all that time.  He was a member of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures--head of the werewolf division.  That's how he was hiding it, by going 'out to look for werewolves' every full moon.  Nobody questioned if he came back looking scratched up.  It was a huge scandal when he was found out."  The sneer grew a bit wider.  "It was in all the papers."

Remus' mouth felt dry, and he hurriedly put his hands into his lap so Snape wouldn't see them shaking.  "What did they do to him?" he managed.

Severus turned to him and, locking him in his dark, narrow-eyed stare, murmured, "They killed him.  Not officially, of course.  Officially, he was dismissed from the Ministry and told never to come back.  But before he could even pack up his things, somebody came along and put a silver bullet in his heart.  The Ministry started a formal investigation, but it didn't get very far, because no one cared.  Even if they won't admit it, most of the Ministers probably thought he deserved it."

He felt hollow, as if someone had torn out everything inside of him and buried it deep in the earth.  He knew he should keep his mouth shut, that saying anything, showing any sign of how deeply this news was affecting him, would be terribly dangerous, but the words seemed to leave his lips of their own accord.

"They killed him," he whispered.  "Just because he was different . . ."

"It's ridiculous," Severus agreed, and for the first time, Remus looked at him with an inkling of respect.  "Centuries ago, Muggles were trying to kill our kind, because they thought that just because we could hurt them, we would.  It's the same bloody thing here.  You'd think someone would learn."

Remus was still sitting there in silence, feeling tingly and vaguely sick, when Professor Haggley announced that class was dismissed. 

~*~

Self-absorbed as they often were, his friends noticed almost immediately that something was bothering him.  Defense Against the Dark Arts was their last class before lunch, so they were making their way towards the dining hall when Remus realized that James, Sirius, and Peter were all studying him curiously.  Of course, he couldn't blame them; he was naturally quieter than the rest of them, having spent too many years as an outcast to leap directly into the social limelight, but today, he was being even more reserved than usual.  He tried to wrestle his thoughts away from the Ministry werewolf, to think about lunch and class and Quidditch, but he couldn't seem to stop himself now that he had started.

There was an image in his mind, one that had formed as Snape was explaining the situation to him in class, and now he couldn't seem to banish it from his mind.  He saw a gentle, kind-faced man, probably with a few fading scars on his cheeks and arms, walking into his office, and beginning sadly to pack his things into a box.  And then the door flew open and someone he knew, someone he trusted--

"Remus."  Something caught his arm and tugged him to the side, so that he just narrowly missed walking into a pillar.  A quick glance over his shoulder saw Sirius' fingers around his bicep, Peter and James frowning at him from slightly behind.  "Are you all right?"

"That greasy Slytherin you were stuck with didn't say anything to you, did he?" James demanded fiercely.  "If he did, I swear I'll--"

"No," Remus said quickly, forcing as much reassurance into his voice as he could muster.  "No, I'm fine.  I just . . . I don't feel well."

"You can't keep using that same excuse, you know," Sirius said in a low voice, so low that Remus doubted James or Peter could hear.  "One of these days, you're gonna have to tell us what's really bothering you."

He glanced up at the taller boy, feeling his heart pounding a little more quickly at the thought of talking about what was actually troubling him, and somehow managed a small smile.  "Nothing's bothering me, Sirius.  I'm probably just getting sick."

"Didn't you get sick around this time last month, too?

Remus missed a step and almost stumbled; when he glanced back at his friend, dreading the expression he might see on his face, he was relieved to find nothing but curiosity and concern.  Sirius didn't know.  At least . . .   Remus swallowed.  He didn't know yet.

He was just opening his mouth to answer, considering telling the other boy that he had some rare tropical disease that cropped up every month around the same time, when he noticed Sirius' expression completely change.  When he followed the boy's glance to find out why, peering through the sea of students all taller than himself, his mouth dropped open.

There, hobbling through the corridor like a mummy with a cane, was Professor Iodan.

"Bloody hell," James breathed.  "Is she mad?"

It did, indeed, seem as if Professor Iodan had gone mad.  There was no sign of her long, strawberry-blond hair; it was hidden beneath a mass of tightly-wound bandages, if indeed it had survived the blast at all, and all that showed of her face was one eye--her left--the lower half of her nose, and her mouth.  The only part of her body that was not wrapped up was her left leg, which had somehow escaped the torment that befell the rest of her, and due to that healthy leg, she was able to hobble through the corridors with just a cane to support her.  Had it not been for her long, stylishly-cut turquoise robes, embroidered with the initials "I.I.," Remus doubted anyone could have identified her at all.

Students were stopping to stare openly at Iodan as she crept along, parting before her like the proverbial Red Sea.  It was a moment before Remus realized that she was hobbling towards him.

...at least, he thought she was hobbling towards him.  Iodan did come to a halt just in front of him, glancing at him with one slightly-bloodshot blue eye, but then the eye flickered to something just behind him:  Peter.

"Msstr Pttgrw," she managed, the bandages apparently keeping her jaws tightly clamped.  "Ll -- xpct -- yuu -- n -- m -- off'ss -- n -- twnty -- mnts."

Peter blinked at her, glancing helplessly at his friends, but they only shrugged. 

Remus, whose parents had always had a fascination with Muggle movies, thought she sounded a lot like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, and had he been a bit bolder--or thought anyone would understand him--he might have commented that perhaps she was trying to say, "oil can."  As it was, he kept his silence, and a moment later, Iodan limped away.

Peter grimaced.  "Did, um . . . . did any of you guys understand what she said?"

"Not a word," said James, shaking his head.  "Do you think this means we have to go to Potions?"

Sirius made a face.  "She wouldn't try to teach like that.  She couldn't.  It'd be--"

James clapped a hand on the taller boy's shoulder.  "Mad?  Kind of like, I don't know, hobbling through the halls with a cane the day after you've been in an explosion?"

"Well," Peter sighed, "I guess I'll see you guys in Potions.  I'd better go find out what she wants before she gives me detention again.  See ya."

Remus lifted his hand in farewell, and Peter slipped into the flood of passing students and started back the other way.  Once he'd vanished from view, James grinned and leaned close to the other two. 

"Betcha anything Iodan wants him to make up that lab," he said with a nod. 

Sirius shook his head.  "She's mad."

~*~

Despite Professor Iodan's hobbling return, Potions that day was a library study hall, although how long it would remain one was yet to be seen.  Peter didn't show up at all, leading the three of them to believe that perhaps Iodan had demanded he make up the assignment that had been destroyed in the blast.  How this could be done without ingredients or a lab, however, they had no idea. 

McGonagall had stressed that they use this time to work on homework from other classes or to read silently, but few paid attention to this; there was laughing and talking, earning some irate stares from those students actually in the library to work, and James and Sirius invented some strange game in which they tried to levitate balled up pieces of parchment into empty quill-holders.  They invited Remus to play, but the smaller boy just wasn't in the mood; once they'd gotten involved enough in their levitating not to miss his presence, he slipped away to roam the shelves.

His head was buzzing, and although he had eaten almost nothing at lunch, he felt as full and nauseated as if he'd just returned from a feast.  The library shelves rose high above him, some of the books rattling as he passed, some cackling or whispering, but he didn't stop to look at any of them. Past the front room, where the ceiling was low and there were study tables for students, the library became positively cavernous, the ceiling arching startlingly high to accommodate level after level of shelved books.  It made him feel very small--moreso than usual, at least. 

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.

And just like that, he knew it was over.  This was the end.  He had said the word--he had said that word--and now that he had said it, somehow, everything would come crashing down around him.  Malfoy would be hiding behind that shelf, listening, and piece everything together, or Sirius would be standing just out of view, having been coming up behind him to see where he'd gone to, or . . . something.  Something would happen to damn him for speaking that word, and he would say goodbye to Hogwarts before he had even completed his first year.

"Werewolves, eh?" said the librarian with a smile, and while he was still contemplating the many ways in which the world could come crumbling down on top of him, she turned and started off in the opposite direction.  Numbed but not knowing what else to do, Remus followed, and a few moments later, found himself standing in front of a huge, dizzyingly-high shelf of tattered books.

"Right here, dear," the librarian told him with a smile.  "Everythin' ya ever wanted to know about werewolves, and some things ya probably didn't.  Was there anythin' . . . in particular ya wanted to know, or were ya just lookin' for some general information?"

Remus opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out.  The shelf was immense, and every book on it, every single book, was about werewolves.  Every single book!  For the past two years, he had read everything he could find on the subject, even those books high above his own reading level, but he had never seen so many all in one place.  Could there really be this many books about werewolves?

Knowing he had to reply somehow, he jerked his head up and down in a nod, and the librarian gave a chortle and started to walk away.

"If ya need any more help, just holler," she called over one shoulder.  "I'll be around."

Once she had gone, Remus drew closer to the shelf and, almost reverently, ran his fingertips along the spines of some of the books.  They were all very dusty, as if few of them had been removed since being placed here, but he didn't care.  He didn't care that they smelled musty and mildewed, or that some of them had titles like HOW TO KILL A WEREWOLF BEFORE HE KILLS YOU and CHOOSING THE RIGHT SILVER BULLET and THE WAR ON WEREWOLVES.  He didn't care, because here, right here, was a shelf of books about him, about people like him.  And even if he had to read a thousand books by authors who hated all werewolves and thought they should be killed on sight, it would be worth it if he could find just one book written by someone who didn't.  Swallowing against a suddenly dry throat, Remus sat down on the floor and started the search for that book.

~*~

Time blurred.  As he had suspected, many of the books--particularly the older ones--were less than helpful.  They detailed ways of killing werewolves, ways of injuring werewolves, ways of distracting werewolves, and ways of restraining werewolves.  One, called IF YOU LOVE ME, YOU'LL KILL ME, made him feel ill just looking at it; it was a book geared towards the parents of werewolves, and urged them not to allow their children to suffer when it was better and "more humane" to simply kill them, thus sparing all involved the pain of the following years. 

When a child is bitten, the book stated in chapter one, it is as if he has contracted a fatal and very contagious illness.  While in the grips of this illness, he will live a life of suffering and anguish, and will indeed possibly spread this suffering to others, who will in turn spread it to others.  It is natural to want to believe that that is not the life that awaits your child, that he will be better off alive than dead, but in truth, it is selfish to keep him alive.  Even if he never tells you, know that he is suffering, and that as long as you keep him alive, you keep him in misery and allow him to be a danger to others.  If you love him, you will not let him live like this. 

And then, in no less than ten consecutive, fully-illustrated chapters, the book gave ways of how best to kill that poor, miserable werechild.  Despite the myths concerning silver as the only viable tool, there were apparently many other ways to get the job done.  Werewolves, the book explained, could indeed only be killed by silver when in wolf form, but when in human form, they were just as susceptible to other types of damage as if they had never been bitten at all. 

One popular method is suffocation, preferably when the child is asleep.  He will drift off painlessly, still wrapped in the warmth of his dreams, and will never even have to know what is happening to him.  In order to ensure that the child does not wake before this can be done, it is advised that a very soft pillow be used, and be pressed to the face as gently as possible, blocking air from the nose and mouth in a way that

Disgusted, Remus snapped the book shut and pushed it off his lap.  It hit the floor with a resounding thump, and for a moment he just stared at it, breathing heavily and giving thanks that his own parents had never read such a thing.

Wearily massaging the bridge of his nose, he pulled the next book down from the shelf and dropped it into his lap.  He had already looked through at least twenty books, having started at the bottom left and worked his way across.  Those books that had offered no help at all, he'd piled to his right, those books that had been slightly helpful, he'd piled to his left, and those that he would have enjoyed burning and them stomping on, he threw in random directions and glared at.  So far, there were seven such books, the most recent of which was IF YOU LOVE ME, YOU'LL KILL ME.  He was just opening the latest book, wondering what he might find inside, when he became aware of footsteps approaching.

He stared around at the mess he'd made, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, but only managed to get two books back onto the shelf before the librarian stepped into view. 

"Just thought ya'd like to know, dear," she said with a smile.  "It's nearly time for supper, and I do believe some friends of yours were lookin' for ya."

Remus blinked.  "Nearly . . . "

"Supper," the woman repeated.  "Ya been sittin' here for hours, ya know.  Oh, and don't worry 'bout puttin' all those back.  They'll find their own way.  They always do.  Will ya be takin' any with ya?"

Surveying the books he'd piled, none of which had offered much more than what he already knew, Remus shook his head.  As he stood up, however, he realized he still held the latest book in his hands and reconsidered.  "Is it all right if I take this one?"

The librarian reached forward to draw the book out of his hands; she spent a moment admiring the dark green leather cover before nodding.  "Go ahead.  I'll just mark ya down.  Name, dear?"

He considered giving a fake name.  He wanted to.  But instead, he sighed and said, "Remus Lupin."

The old woman drew a wand from her robes and scribbled his name in the air; the letters glittered once, revolving lazily, and then were sucked into the book he'd selected.  The librarian returned the book to him, then, her eyes lingering just slightly longer than necessary on his face, and then she turned and walked off.  Remus stood there, alone and lost in thought, for several minutes before burying the book in his satchel and starting back the way he'd come.

~*~End Chapter Four~*~

Notes:

December 21, 2002:  Happy Almost-Christmas, everyone!  And to those who don't celebrate such things, happy December 21st!!  Ahem, now, anyway...it seems I have more people to thank and respond to. ^__^.  So, super huge thanks and fruit baskets to evil spapple pie, Lunatica, StarCat13, Nev, Skittles, Bobbi, Flying Heart, Balail, Kitai, NK, Chiara, Kalina Quantum, silent-wishes, ForceMuette, and shadow priestess!  I appreciate all of your comments verrrrrrrry very much; thank you SO much for each and every one of them. ^__^. 

And now, to answer some questions...

Q:  "Why would Sirius accept the excuse that Remus was attacked by a wolf YEARS ago, if he had fresh wounds on his arms?" (Nev)

A:   Well, this will certainly be mentioned somewhere later, but I'll enlighten you now since I have it in my power to do so. ^_~.  Each time Remus is injured throughout the course of his transformation, Madam Pomfrey attends to his wounds, healing them as best she can and then sending him along on his way.  Occasionally, these healings do not leave scars, but often, given that even magic must have limitations, they do—thus, what Sirius sees on Remus' arms are scars.  They don't look particularly fresh and certainly aren't bleeding; they're simply...scars.  *nod*

Q:  "Something caught my eye in the end of the chapter:  "—James and me, I mean.  And probably Peter."  I hope Sirius meant that in a good way – like, 'Peter's a nice person but doesn't always remember to watch his mouth about other people's secrets' – and not in a 'there's something fishy about Peter' way." (Chiara)

A:  Sirius did, indeed, mean it in the "Peter's a nice person" way.  The Marauders are best friends, and despite what happens later, I really don't believe that Peter was a bad person when he met James, Sirius, and Remus.  I just really don't think those three would've been very inclined to befriend him and accept him into their inner circle if he were, and so...well, I try to portray him as a fairly likeable--if slightly daunted by the intelligence of his friends--kind of kid.  Later, of course, things will slowly begin to draw him out of that role, but I really don't think that Peter entered into the service of Voldemort with the intention of hurting people.  His primary defense when questioned about it in Prisoner of Azkaban was "He would've killed me!" or something to that effect.  Although sacrificing his friends to save himself was less than noble, I don't think it was spurned from any desperate desire to "turn to the dark side."  ^_~.  ...okay, anyway.  Peter Pettigrew rant now over.  ^_~.

Any more questions, just stick them in your reviews which—by the way, again—I appreciate tremendously. ^__^.  ...oh, and has anyone noticed yet that Snape's initials spell out S.O.S.? ^_~.

...and now, because I just finished Chapter 5 about ten minutes ago, here's a preview:

~*~Chapter 5:  Rescue~*~

Remus frowned.  "But why would Malfoy want to blow up the Potions lab?  And if he did, why would he do it when Professor Iodan was down there?"

When Peter seemed unable to answer this, mouth flapping as he struggled to sort through the logic, James gave a shrug and laid down his fork.  "Probably he didn't know she was down there.  I mean, classes were over for the day, and I'm pretty sure there was a staff meeting going on then, too--although why Iodan didn't go to that, I don't know."

"Oh," said Peter with a fervent nod, "I know why she didn't go.  It was all she could talk about while I was trying to get my lab done."  The boy glanced nervously around again, and this time, his voice was hushed to the point that they could barely hear him when he spoke.  "The staff meeting was about one of the students," he said, his eyes wide.  "A werewolf."

Something jolted into Remus' stomach; his heart was suddenly hammering in his chest, and he felt very cold and small, as if he lay curled at the bottom of an icy lake.  He thought his heart would smash out through his ribs as Peter continued.

"A werewolf?" James breathed; all traces of mirth were gone from his face.  "There's a werewolf at Hogwarts?"

~Ryuen