Arms stretched out, giving thanks to pain
Spotlight looking down, I'm ashamed
Kneeling with my forehead to the ground
I can't help but flinch before I'm found

Remus walked quickly. He could already feel the pull of the moon. Its presence was a demanding stain on his consciousness, calling to him, beckoning like a lover. He knew he was in for one of his worst transformations ever. These rifts in his human life were making the wolf take out its pain on his own body during the full moon, and the most recent confrontation with Sirius had wrapped tendrils of self doubt so deep in Remus' heart that he was afraid of the change like he hadn't been since the first year he'd been bitten. He was afraid that not wanting to come back would make it harder to become human again. He thought it might be a good idea to do some pre-transformation penance with a razor-blade. Not because he felt an urge, but because it might appease the wolf. His thoughts were amazingly cool and collected as he gathered up his "supplies". He rolled a change of clothing, a razor blade from an exact-o knife back home, and a roll of stained bandages into a thin blanket. He's have to hide the razor and bandages somewhere before Madam Pomfrey came to clean him up in the morning, but he knew what to do now. Having a plan, even if it was one that should have frightened him, made everything easier to handle. He clutched the bundle close and ducked between shadows until he ended up in front of the Whomping Willow. He estimated an hour before sunset, and he could add an extra ten minutes or so before the moon rose enough to cause his transformation. That gave him plenty of time to do what he was planning and clean it up again. Not that it would actually matter after he became a werewolf. He would just end up spilling more blood. The entire shack was covered in it after so many months.

He darted between the branches and pressed a knot in the bark that made the tree freeze until he dropped down into the tunnel underneath. The tunnel was narrow, and he had to bend his head to fit, but it was still a work of art, or perhaps just magic. The roots of the tree had been reformed as the walls and ceiling of the tunnel, winding around and providing convenient handholds. Not that Remus needed them anymore. He could find the tunnel and walk it in his sleep. It was just over half a mile to the entrance of the Shrieking Shack, but Remus was in a hurry tonight and he decided to run. When he nearly collapsed towards the end of the run, he was reminded why Sirius was the one who played Quiddich while he cheered from the safety of the sidelines. Although when Sirius was playing, not even the sidelines were safe.

Remus saw the stairs leading up to the trap door in the Shrieking Shack and pushed it open. He went through the first room and locked the door behind him, before surveying his monthly territory. Dumbledore had reinforced the room with magic, so that he wouldn't break free of his prison and make things dangerous for the townsfolk. The headmaster was already going against all rules to bring him to Hogwarts.

He unrolled the bundle of clothes and set about laying everything precisely. The blanket was stored carefully out of his way, his clothes were tucked on a shelf in the corner, and the razor blade and bandages were laid out in front of him on the floor. He thought for a moment and then pulled his shirt over his head, deciding to undress now rather than later. It would be part of his payment to the wolf.

Shivering, Remus picked up the razor. He brought it down to his wrist first, touching it along an old scar, gradually pressing harder until several beads of bright blood welled up behind the blade. Smiling a little, feeling numb and more in control than he had felt all week, Remus slashed a flurry of quick cuts onto his shoulder. It was bliss, in an odd form of the word. He hated the things that drove him here, hated having to do it, but the act was more soothing than anything else he knew.

Maybe it was just because he'd trained himself to like it, to need it even, but slicing his own flesh was much less frightening than having a real conversation with Sirius. It helped him see things clearer, and it calmed him when his nerves were frayed. Lately he realized he'd been seeking the comfort of a knife all too frequently, but this revelation didn't make him want to stop. It made him feel content, because here was one thing he controlled, one thing he directed. They couldn't hurt him half as bad as he could hurt himself. The power over his own life was dizzying.

He cut across a vein deliberately, but lightly enough to make sure he could stanch the flow of blood. Lifting his wrist to his mouth he drank the warm stream of red liquid like it was wine. He liked the taste of blood, sometimes he even craved it when he was human. It made him hungry and gave him a sense of dejavu that was oddly comforting. He was deeply aware of the symbolism involved in this little rituals he'd developed, but he knew most people wouldn't be so understanding. Sirius' response had surprised him a little, because his friend had seemed pretty accepting of his addiction. He had expected Sirius to rant and scream and cry, not give him a sad look and run away. At least afterwards Sirius had seemed able to accept it. It gave Remus hope. He felt as guilty over the cutting as he did over his "disease", and Sirius' attempt to understand meant more to him than anything. A couple more slices of the razor and Remus knew he was done. Blood was running down his arms in tiny rivulets, and he knew he would start to feel sick in a few moments. He grabbed the roll of stained bandages and wound one around his wrist tightly, hoping to stop the flow of blood before his transformation. Only now did he realize how much he needed his strength to hold on to his sanity during the change; every little bit made it easier to avoid submitting to the wolf's will. His weakness could mean his end. If he didn't keep control it was far too easy to let the wolf take over, and then nothing, not magic, not physical barriers, could keep him contained. He had spent his entire life since the bite hiding from that very possibility, and now he was scared again. Sighing, his limbs feeling like lead, he dragged himself into a standing position and hid the evidence of his transgressions, ignoring the blood still dripping from his wrist in a steady rhythm, once every couple of seconds, drip.....drip.....drip.....drip. Each red drop was a little bit of strength sapped from his body, and just like every time before, he was regretting his penance. Just as he moved back to stand in the centre of the tiny room, he felt the first painful tug of the moon on his soul. The first clouds of silver began to blanket his vision. Remus fell to his knees and doubled over in agony, then arched his throat and let out one piercing howl at his heavenly tormentor.

Sirius didn't know why he had even come here. He had been waiting by the Whomping Willow for ten minutes now, and the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon. He felt like an idiot. What was he doing here anyways? What did he hope for Peter to accomplish that he couldn't do on his own? He had already made his decision about Remus, and he didn't think this was a part of it. He had no business messing in Remus' life anymore, and he thought he knew what, or rather who, this had to do with already. After all, what else had he been interested in lately? Even Peter would have had a hard time missing that much.

Finally he saw Peter's thin figure across the grounds, his eyes just barely able to make out the bleach-blond colour of his friends hair. "What kept you so long?" he called when Peter drew a little bit nearer.

"I had detention," came the soft reply. He frowned, but didn't say anything. In truth, Peter had been acting a little strange lately. He chose to ignore it for now, in favour of finding out why he was even here at all.

"So what was it you had me come here for?"

"You'll see. Follow me. The Whomping Willow isn't nearly as vicious as it looks, at least not if you know how to handle it." Sirius watched as Peter dodged between two flailing branches and upon reaching the trunk, groped along the tree until he hit a knot. The knot sunk in a bit and the tree suddenly froze; its branches terrifyingly still. Peter motioned Sirius forward frantically, practically shoving him into the tunnel Sirius had never noticed before. It disappeared between two roots and looked like a harmless shadow from a distance. Amazingly, the passageway was tall enough for him to stand with his head bent over. In his mind, Sirius was already devising a slew of new pranks involving this passage. He had never been the type to waste resources when they presented themselves.

"Where does this lead?"

"Like I said, you'll see soon enough. It goes to the village, but that isn't where I'm planning on going up tonight."

"Peter, I want to know where we're going."

"It's a seven minute walk. People say it's haunted, and I didn't know what they meant, until I heard it for myself, last month, during the full moon. Guess what night it is?"

"It's full moon, of course. So you think there is something worth sneaking out of school for in the Shrieking Shack?"

"You'll see."

Sirius would have growled, but the path chose that moment to get decidedly narrower. For an instant he felt like he was walking through thick putty, or peanut butter. It only lasted a second though, before widening back out again, and he realized it must have been a gateway through the magical barrier erected around the school. He knew it wasn't much farther now to their destination. He decided to be patient. Knowing the end was near made it much easier to handle the waiting. Suddenly Peter put out his hand, stopping Sirius, and pushed at the ceiling. To Sirius' surprise, the roof of the tunnel was actually a door leading to the Shrieking Shack. He pulled himself up, helping Peter to stand, and then looked around. He was in a shabby room with one window and a door leading off of it. The door was what interested him right now. Peter smiled to himself, but Sirius barely took note of his friend's behaviour at the moment. All he cared about was finding out what was worth coming here for. Peter showed him a hole in the door, just big enough to press your eye against.

What he saw was a shock. Remus was kneeling, naked, in the middle of the room, arms covered in bandages and blood, his back to the door. Suddenly Remus let out a sharp cry and twisted. A silver beam filtered in through the high window of the room.

Moonlight.

Sirius watched, paralyzed, as Remus curled into a ball and then threw his head back in what could only be deemed a howl. The sound was haunting, sending chills running through Sirius' body even as he watched, transfixed. Remus thrust his hands out in front of him, screaming as claws burst from the tips of his fingers, spattering blood on the ground in front of him. He convulsed again, his bones beginning to change, breaking and reforming under his skin. Sirius' own body screamed in time with Remus', his mouth falling open, a plea frozen on his lips, just as Remus was screaming over and over into the deafening silence of his surroundings. Sirius was horrified as hair began to spring through Remus' soft skin, dripping blood from each bristling tuft. He was helpless as Remus tore at his own face with his newly sharp claws, rending strips from his now half-werewolf body. It finally clicked in Sirius' brain, and a low cry tore itself free, ripping and shredding at him just as Remus was ripping and shredding at his own hide. The room was filled with the sound of crunching bone and endless screams. Peter was backed against the furthest wall, his eyes wide, taking in the scene he had wrought with a mixture between horror and unnatural glee.

Sirius' keening cry was cut abruptly short as the wolf swung its head around and met his eyes directly, a shock travelling through both man and beast. "No." Sirius whispered. "No….no…NO!!!"

The wolf snarled, its fangs and muzzle covered in dried blood. Sirius wondered vaguely how much of that was Remus' blood the beast was covered in. Sirius had a very hard time associating this thing with his Remus. Events were going way too fast for him; each one seemed like a snapshot, rapidly flipping through the pages of his mind. He reeled backwards, breaking the staring match between the wolf and himself, scampering as far away from the door as he could go without tripping over Peter.

"No! God, please, no. Why? He doesn't deserve this. It isn't fair!" he repeated to himself over and over, wrapping his arms around himself, tears beginning to form in his eyes. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. It was all wrong. All he could see in his mind was the way Remus' pale-perfect throat had strained with the volume of a single howl, the way the blood had contrasted so starkly against the milky-light colour of Remus' skin.

He hurt. Somewhere inside, things had gone farther than he could handle. He wanted to curl up alone and cry; cry for Remus, cry for the wolf, for himself, and for the loss of another chance, the loss of something that should have been beautiful and perfect. He saw the wolf possessing Remus' body over and over again, violently usurping his will, his beauty, his pride. He was unnaturally aware of the beast in the room next to the one he and Peter were huddled in, but it was still too surreal. It seemed more like everything had broken inside, and now he just had to figure out why, to start to put the pieces back together. Everything still flashed in quick pictures in his mind; moments, frozen in time; frozen in horror.

He felt Peter's hand on his shoulder and started away from the touch. It returned, along with his friend's voice. Peter sounded odd, emotions staining to contain themselves behind the mask he was wearing. "We need to go Sirius. We can't afford to get caught."

Sirius nodded, but didn't move, he didn't think he could stand if he tried. "You knew. You knew, and you never told us." It finally fit together, every last strange thing he had takenfor granted over the last months.

"No, I didn't know, but I suspected." Peter said, managing to contain his own feelings behind the face he had kept firmly in place for the last two years. He felt in control now, like he finally had some power over the Marauders. It was intoxicating. He knew it had been right to wait for the moment when everything was perfect like this. Now he decided the game. He was tired of being pushed around and stepped on by people who thought they were so much better than him. He wasn't really that much less important than them, he just tended to keep his abilities more contained. He was the power no one saw, and he had never understood exactly what that meant until now. He and Remus had had a lot in common that way, until he had revealed his secret tonight. Peter felt no remorse. He felt gratified. He deserved to give as good as he got, and he deserved to win. It wasn't that he didn't think he was in the wrong, he knew he was; it was just that he didn't care anymore. He'd been thoroughly disillusioned as to how far some people were willing to go to reap the rewards, and he was more proud than ashamed to realize that he had become like those people that had so intrigued him with their evil magnetism. As far as he could tell, there was no right and wrong.

There were victims, and there were the people who used them, and all he knew was that he was tired of being a victim. He had been used by too many people's good intentions to trust such things now. After all, as the muggle saying went, "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions."

Didn't it just prove that he was the smart one in the end? He didn't believe in any of the muggle bashing that Lucius and his sycophants practised; he thought that muggles were often a better lot than Wizarding folk. At least they were more honest about their lust for violence, their passion for chaos and destruction. Wizards dressed it up in prettier packages, but it was still war in its own right. The muggle obsession with death and immortality was something he understood very well. He needed his life to continue, if only through the acts he would be remembered for.

It was his own brand of truth.