What Shall We Do With a Drunken Werewolf?
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter world or its characters. J. K. Rowling does.
Summary: A silly story for Christmas. It is the Marauders' fifth year, and they are all staying at Hogwarts for the holiday. I am too lazy to think up four reasons for this, so just take my word for it.
"Go on, Remus, why not?" James asked coaxingly, a goblet of Firewhisky in his hand.
"You know why not," Remus replied. "I can't risk getting drunk, ever. I might talk too much, and somebody would find out I'm a you-know-what, and then I'd be out of Hogwarts without an OWL to my name."
"But you're safe here in the dormitory," said Sirius.
"Only the four of us here, and we all know about you."
"But I don't want to get in the habit of – well anyway, I don't like it. I like Butterbeer."
"Huh, what's the use of that?" asked Peter. "Nobody ever got drunk on Butterbeer. Nobody over five years old."
"Exactly. That's what I like about it."
"But it's fun getting drunk," said Peter. "Just a little bit drunk, anyway. You sort of lose yourself."
"I sort of lose myself every full moon," Remus said acidly. "That's more than enough for me. I'd rather keep my head the rest of the time, thanks."
"Not very nice for us," Sirius observed. "You sitting there all sober and disapproving while we make fools of ourselves."
"But I don't – oh what the hell, all right, you win."
James beamed and poured a large goblet of Firewhisky. Remus took a sip, licked his lips, then slowly and steadily drained the goblet.
"Yes," he said, "very pleasant. Can I have another?"
James raised his eyebrows and filled Remus's goblet.
Remus emptied it, and silently held it out for a refill. After the third goblet, he sat hunched over, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. His eyes filled with tears and his voice was slurred.
"You dunno what ish like," he said gloomily. "Ish a rotten life bein' a werewolf. I wish I wash dead."
James grinned. "So, you're like Peter," he said. "I wondered what sort of drunk you'd be. Peter gets depressed. I get stupid and giggly. Sirius gets aggressive ……"
"Just a minute," Sirius butted in. "Me, aggressive? Who says I get aggressive? I'll punch the man who says I'm aggressive."
Remus got up from Peter's bed, where they were all sitting, and walked unsteadily to his own. He knelt there, rummaging in his bedside locker. "Gotta find knife," he muttered. "Cut my throat. End it all."
"Don't think I ever got as depressed as that," said Peter.
Sirius got up and went towards Remus. "Don't talk crap," he began.
Remus turned and half rose. His face was hideously changed; his eyes narrowed, his nose wrinkled, his upper lip lifted in an ugly snarl that showed canine teeth which were very long and terribly sharp. Peter squeaked and ran out of the room, closely followed by James. Sirius stood his ground and held out an arm to Remus, saying "Hold on, get a grip on yourself, it's not time……"
Remus lunged forward, growling, outstretched claws ripping Sirius's shirt. Sirius backed away hastily, and the instant he was out in the corridor James slammed the door shut and put a Locking Charm on it.
The door shook as the enraged beast inside hurled himself against it, but it stayed shut.
"He can't use magic to get out," James said, "so if the door holds, he's trapped."
Again and again the door shuddered under the impact of the ferocious werewolf. The three stood, terror written on their faces as they listened to the snarling and howling from within.
"I hope he's not ripping all our stuff to shreds," Peter remarked.
"Just be thankful he's not ripping us to shreds," said James.
"But why? It's not full moon," said Sirius.
"It must be the alcohol. It's made him transform without the moon," said James.
"I didn't know – there's nothing about that in the books I've read about werewolves," said Sirius.
"I'll get Madam Pomfrey," said Peter.
"Better not," said James. "He'd kill her. He'd kill anyone, when he's like that."
The assaults on the door had become weaker and less frequent, as if the creature inside had realised his attempts were futile.
"Well, what can we do?" Peter asked.
"Nothing," said James. "The alcohol caused it, and when that wears off, so will the effect."
"But what if it doesn't?" Sirius asked, his eyes wide with horror. "What if he stays like that for ever?"
"He won't," James assured him. "He'll be okay in the morning, you'll see. Best thing we can do is try to get some kip, make the morning come faster."
A loud howl came from inside the dormitory, a lonely, mournful sound.
"I hate leaving him like that," said Sirius.
"Nothing we can do, mate. Come on down, and we'll all have a laugh about it in the morning," James said.
In the common room, they each took two armchairs and pushed them together facing each other. The makeshift beds thus formed were too short for even little Peter to lie at ease. James and Sirius found their knees jammed up awkwardly under their chins.
In the dormitory, the werewolf gave one last fierce howl, before removing the fake claws and fangs he had got out of a Christmas cracker. He stretched himself comfortably on his bed and grinned, thinking of the cramped restless night his friends would have on the common room chairs. It served them right, always pestering him to get drunk. They wouldn't try that in a hurry again.
Note: organised flame campaigns welcome. I can always do with a laugh.