November 11th, 1975
James ran his fingers through his hair. "I feel really shitty. I just got distracted."
"It's fine," Sirius said flatly.
"I'm sorry to you, Remus," James said. "You've got a crap week ahead of you. I should've thought. I'm really, really sorry."
"It's okay, James," Remus said, smiling weakly over his tea. "And we can't mark off the two weeks around it as crap. That'd mean most of my bloody life is shit." James stopped at that. Sirius looked at him. Since the other night, Remus had kept his head firmly in his homework, and avoided talk of anything that wasn't school as best he could. He relented for the news, because he wasn't an idiot and kept up, and the weather, because he anything else was unthinkably impolite, and the weather often segued into match conditions for the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game on Saturday, and nobody in the school could stop talking about that. With the Gryffindors off on the wrong foot, everyone was eager to take the measure of the other two teams, to determine if Gryffindor really was doomed to go on as they started and if Slytherin would secure the Cup.
Peter too kept quiet. Sirius couldn't blame him. If he'd been Peter, he would've been scared shitless. But he wasn't Peter. The blood didn't frighten him, nor the death. They were just bloody rats, after all. And though he'd hoped Regulus would be deemed too young and too daft for it, he couldn't be surprised, could he? It was just how Mother would want it. Cold, unflinching, quick, obedient, efficient. That was her constant criticism of Bellatrix; Bella preferred the means over the end. What the means and end were was never explicitly said; it wasn't a conversation for the dinner table, or the parlour, or before bed or so early in the morning. Sirius wasn't an idiot. He read the Prophet. The ends were all the same, but when the means were grislier, he thought of his cousin.
Speaking of family. Squawks announced the arrival of the owls, who swooped down, carrying envelopes and packages and many rolled copies of the Prophet. Sirius scanned the sky, and quickly found a large parcel, carried by three owls, one of whom he recognised.
"Look out," he said, getting to his feet. James flung his arms out over their plates, Peter shoved as much food into his mouth as possible, and Remus took his plate and sat it in his lap. The parcel dropped. Sirius grabbed it, folding slightly at the impact. He flung it onto the table, and it bashed like a thunderclap against the wood. A nearby first year squeaked. The girls looked up. Evans arched an eyebrow.
"Did he send you the whole library?" James grinned, a hand in his hair.
"Is it for the map?" Peter jumped to his feet, crumbs raining from the corners of his mouth.
"Wormy!" Sirius admonished, looking at him sternly. Peter flushed.
"What?"
"You needn't announce our project to the whole hall," Sirius said. James nodded approvingly.
"We don't want anyone stealing the idea, do we, Pete?" James smiled, patting him on the back. Sirius flicked his brows upwards.
"It is, though, isn't it? The books from your grandfather's library?" Sirius inhaled sharply. Remus looked up from his raspberry jam toast, one brow furrowed. The bags beneath his eyes were prominent, a bruised dark purple. He'd been getting less sleep; Sirius had noticed him stirring behind the curtains of his bed when he'd gotten up for the bathroom in the middle of the night, and James had mentioned that Remus had been awake when he'd headed off in the early hours for Quidditch practice. The moon was over a week away – at this point in the cycle, Remus usually slept normally, though not as long as he did on the new moon. Sirius slipped back into his seat, eyes trained on him.
"I assume so, unless someone has got me a late, unwanted birthday present," Sirius said. A small envelope was attached to the parcel; he broke the Black seal and skimmed over its contents. Grandfather's handwriting had a shaky, spidery quality to it that Sirius didn't recall; but it had been a long time since they'd corresponded. Arcturus Rasales Black spent most of his time these days pottering about making potions and generally doting on his great-grandchildren, who were still babies but had supplanted Sirius and Regulus in his affections.
"Who's the ill-timed well-wisher?" James asked pleasantly, pouring himself more pumpkin juice.
"No, it is Grandfather."
"Does he come bearing knowledge and maps?"
"He comes bearing hopes that I might achieve twelve O. and write to him more often."
"Hm. Pete, could you pass the margarine?"
Remus grew more talkative in Charms, earning them a few points for answering questions. He partnered with Sirius, and they charmed each other's uniforms bright, ridiculous colours. Peter worked with James, and kept accidentally overpowering his charms, so it took three of them to change James' trousers to black from a fervent, vomit orange. Muggle Studies saw Marlene join them, even if she sat as far away from Sirius as possible while still being part of the group, and Professor Clearwater gave them newspapers from overseas to read through.
"Godric, he's dreamy," Marlene said, drawing on her hand with a yellow tie-fighter, or whatever it was called – some muggle writing implement thing.
"Gough Whitlam?" Remus asked, frowning as he looked up from his newspaper. They were supposed to be noting any terms they didn't understand, and then either try to guess them rom context, or consult with a muggle-born or Professor Clearwater himself. Marlene scrunched up her face.
"Who? No. Ew. Professor Clearwater, I mean." Sirius snorted into his copy of The Calgary Herald. Marlene's eyebrows disappeared behind her fringe. "What?"
"I just find Peter's newspaper illuminating, is all," Sirius grinned. Peter turned scarlet and fumbled with The Sun, frantically flicking away from the women on page three. "Do you think Professor Clearwater checked the content of these newspapers?"
"We have to experience muggle culture in full, no censorship. It's actually good that he didn't check," Marlene said. Sirius exchanged a look with Remus.
"Basketball," James said disdainfully, shaking his head.
They scooped up a quick lunch and bounded up the many, many stairs to the Fat Lady, where James panted the password, on account of being the only one of them not rendered speechless by their burning lungs, and then dashed to their dormitory. Sirius had thrown the package on his bed that morning, in their hurry between breakfast and first period. Remus retrieved their notes from their previous map-planning session and the four of them convened on the bed. Peter handed out their food. Sirius carefully, carefully tore into the brown paper wrapping.
Three large tomes had made up the parcel, each of them at least fifty years old, though courtesy of the enchantments of the Black Library, all appeared recently purchased, dustless and without age or wear and tear. Only their styling and the first page gave away the truth of their publication date.
"'Map-making of the Nineteenth Century'?" Peter read excitedly. "That'll have something for sure!" Sirius took the book from the top of the pile and gave it to Peter. His round face lit up.
"You go through that one, then," he instructed. "Don't even think about tearing a page, or you'll be paying to replace it."
"I won't," Peter promised quickly, beore throwing open the cover and scanning the table of contents. Sirius clicked his tongue, and then stiffened. It sounded like Mother. Merlin's fucking sakes.
"'The Untellable Secrets of Britain's Unplottables'," James read, the title of a black hardcover.
"It sounds like a magazine article," Remus frowned. "One from a slow news day, at that."
"We hardly keep tabloids in the Black Library," Sirius said sharply. "Grandfather wouldn't have sent me rubbish." The only member of his family he'd ever seen reading anything resembling a tabloid was Aunt Druella, and that had been when Andi got married and she'd been convinced that it would be splashed all through every magazine. Sirius thought she'd been a little disappointed when there was no mention of her daughter anywhere. Remus took the book from the pile, mouth in a thin line.
"Okay," he said.
"Is he nice? Your grandfather?" Peter asked cheerfully, rifling through the old book's pages. Many held colourful drawings. No signs of anything helpful yet. He obviously hadn't deemed the word-finding spell of any use. He was their friend, but Merlin, if he couldn't be awfully thick.
"He's fine," Sirius said. James nodded strongly, grasping his hands together.
"Right, well, why don't we - ?"
"Fine?" Peter asked, looking up. Sirius inhaled sharply.
"Drop it, Pete," James said, kindly, patting him on the shoulder.
"Yeah, bugger off, Wormy," Sirius agreed, unkindly. Peter blinked, his round face the picture of confusion. Sirius bit his tongue. Then James laughed, loudly, and slapped the both of them on the back. He turned the discussion to how on earth the worms had ended up in Peter's bed and Peter went red and protested his nickname but laughed too. Sirius took the final book and opened it.
Magic pulsed through him at the very first touch. The book was thick with it; every inked letter sunk heavily into each page. Across the room, the needle on Remus' muggle record player quivered ever so slightly. It had been reinforced with charms so that it could play the rare few wizarding records that existed, and so it didn't explode upon coming within twenty miles of the school. It was rather impervious to ambient magic.
"Merlin's beard," James said, looking at him curiously. "What the hell is that?" Sirius ran his finger along one line. Handwritten.
"A gift for Licorus, from his dear brother Eduardus, on the occasion of his forty-seventh birthday," Sirius said, studying the dedication at the front of the book.
"Where the hell did you read that?" Remus asked, leaning over. Sirius tapped his finger on the long-dried black lettering. James and Remus were silent for a moment.
"Mate, where'd you read that?" James repeated, slower. Sirius rolled his eyes, and hit his hand against the book. Ha ha.
"In this note. Godric's sake, the handwriting's not that loopy."
"What?" James said.
"You need to get your glasses checked." Sirius shoved the book towards him. James shoved him back. Sirius hit him with the book and reached for his glasses with his free hand, and James grabbed the sleeve of his robe, trying to pull him off-balance. Remus cleared his throat.
"We can't see anything there, Sirius," he said. "It's blank."
Peter was roused from his map-illustration trance at that. He was like a kid, all excited about the pictures. They were fifteen, seriously. "Is it invisible ink or something?" he asked. "I can see why you don't get on with your grandfather, then. That's kind of mean."
"If it was invisible ink, I wouldn't be able to see it, would I?" Sirius said, slamming the book cover shut. He glared at it. It did nothing. He thought back to the last time he'd been in the library, the odd sorts of enchantments and habits some of the books had had. Some screamed, some insulted you, some sang. Some were charmed with age restrictions, which had annoyed him to no fucking end. It was censorship! Regulus had said something sensible, the twat. Hadn't made him feel any better. Now, he studied the hard cover, the embossed letters. "Aha," he said.
"Aha?" James tilted his head to one side, glasses coming askew. Sirius flipped it in his hands.
"Only a Black descendant can read it," he said firmly. "Or a descendant of Licorus Black, I suppose. Me." Remus cursed softly under his breath, and shook his head. James squinted at him, and then peered at the book.
"How long ago did he live? I'm sure I've got some Black blood in me somewhere," James insisted.
"Not his," Sirius said. James threw his hands in the air, sighing in mock-exasperation.
"Well then, mate, I reckon that means you have to do all the notes from that one. Read it cover to cover. It's a damn right shame, it is, what I would've done…ah, well, better get some Quidditch practice in!" James grinned brightly. Sirius snorted.
"Fuck off." James clapped him on the shoulder and jumped up off the bed. Sirius flopped over, banging his side on Remus' knee, who flinched back as if he'd been burned. Sirius laughed, and Remus quirked him a half-smile.
"Looks like we're in for a day of study," Remus said, eyes lit with something that might've been mirth. "You'll have to continue when we go off to class."
"It's not that bad," Peter said cheerfully. "I'd rather be here than in Runes, you know. I mean, this is great, isn't it? We can make a proper map. How handy will it be?" Sirius shrugged, drumming his fingers on the cover. Remus' lips were still caught in their odd smile, his knee barely an inch from Sirius' long dark hair. Sirius stretched his arm out.
"True enough, Squirmy Worm," Sirius agreed. These books held far more potential than some stupid class. Sirius firmly believed education was best had outside the classroom.
November 13th, 1975
He just couldn't take it. The halls rung with the excitement of first years finally settling into school, and the necessity of revision was stressed more and more during class. The previous two days had been somewhat better than those before – since the books from Sirius' grandfather had arrived, they'd all sat down and read together, combing through the texts to find any sliver of information with the potential to assist them. No more sneaking off. They sat on James' bed and talked and shared quills and ink and notes and yet, somehow, there was still a funny hollow in his stomach and a panic swirling in his wrists.
Too much, all at once, after a couple days mainly on his own. Even getting what he wanted wasn't satisfactory. He'd begged off with a stomach bug (James regarded him with narrowed eyes and offered to accompany him, but eventually let him go) and gone to the prefects' bathroom. His official reasoning was that a nice, long, hot bath would ease the cramping in his stomach. In actuality, he barricaded himself in one of two stalls and chain-smoked. 'The Untellable Secrets of Britain's Unplottables' levitated in front of him, to his left, and a piece of charmed parchment hovered to his right, covered in tiny, angled words. He sat on the tank, hunched slightly, his feet on the lid and knees high. His long, skinny frame didn't lend itself well to the position. It was the only spot, though. He wasn't inclined to have a fag in the bath. Harder to butt out. Harder to avoid getting caught. Harder to explain.
See, Remus wasn't a smoker, not really, not to anyone who knew him. He'd smoke at a party or lounging out on the grounds with his mates or in a dark bit of Hogsmeade, but he never lit up in the dorm or snuck one in a quiet corridor between classes. He didn't need any more health issues, he said, and James nodded and stalwartly agreed. He didn't have the spare money, and Peter told him earnestly that it was a good idea to save up, considering, you know, after school, and James had shot him a dirty look. Only Sirius believed neither excuse, instead claiming that Remus just didn't want to get into trouble with the teachers. Reckoned he was a bit of a swot. That was true. He wasn't big on pissing off people who'd gone out of their way to help him, and Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster certainly had. He could only imagine what Madam Pomfrey would say. It'd be a kick in the guts, given how much time she spent healing him, to know he was filling himself up with smoke and tar and tobacco and giving himself a persistent wheeze just for the sake of it.
And so he sat in the loo, hoping that if anyone entered, they stuck to the pool-like bath. There were only two stalls anyway, one designated for each gender, though there were sanitary bins in both and nobody really bothered to pay too much attention to the labels. The only real risk of any mess came from the Quidditch captains, and they were usually happy to use whatever the closest bathroom was as opposed to traipsing all the way to the prefects' bathroom for the sake of a little extra shine and sparkle. They mainly swum laps around the giant bath or soaked in the warm water after long, gruelling practises (after games, they were too busy celebrating or sulking).
He'd gone through four cigarettes before he heard the door open and shut.
He froze, midway through a sentence, ink dripping and pooling on the spotless floor. Steps echoed across the tiles. He curled his shoulders. Jesus Christ, couldn't he just be left alone? Just for a minute? Remus ran through the list of candidates for who was outside, and the potential outcome. McLaggen – fucked. Vickers – maybe fucked. Brown – fine, he was shagging Dale's sister, he couldn't've had too much of a problem with a bit of smoking. Jugson – utterly, utterly fucked. Vane – he'd probably ask for a drag and cough it all up over himself. Meadowes – no clue. Could go either way. Wilkes – fucked. Longbottom – maybe fucked. Rhysfield – fucked, but in a better way than McLaggen or Wilkes fucked.
"God's sakes."
Evans - fucked, worse than all of the rest, because she'd be disappointed.
"Hello?" The footsteps drew closer. He gave his fifth fag, newly lit, a mournful look, and then stubbed it out against the wall. Ash crumbled onto the floor. The stall door rattled. He flinched, eyes wide.
"I'm – I'm pissing!" he invented wildly.
"Remus?" Lily said, incredulous. "No, you aren't, your feet aren't on the ground. Get decent. Alohomora!" The door swung open. Lily stood there, red hair cascading down her back, wrapped tightly in a bathrobe. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Slowly, she peeked, and relief flooded her face as she relaxed. Remus' cheeks burned. He dropped his cigarette butt into the sanitary bin.
"This is an invasion of privacy," he said weakly. She blinked at him.
"You're smoking in the prefects' bathroom. The prefects' bathroom. You know, prefects, a bunch of people selected as the most likely to obey the rules and dob others in. If you must do it, it's frankly quite stupid to do it here," she told him, hands on her hips. He slid off the toilet's tank and snatched his things out of the air. Her green gaze didn't leave him. He stuffed them back into his bag.
"You know," he mumbled, "if they do choose the most likely to dob, I don't know why they didn't choose Peter."
"I suppose they fancied you had a better chance of standing up to Potter and Black than he did," Lily said, voice cool. Remus shrugged, and slipped out past her. Fucking hell. He started towards the sinks, hoping to clean the stains off his hands. Lily caught his robe.
"Oi," she barked, spinning around. Remus paused by the basin, hand hovering over the tap.
"Are you going to take points?" he asked, squinting one eye.
"No," she said firmly. "But you owe me an explanation as to why you, Remus Lupin, apparently the non-smoker of your dormitory, is hiding out smoking in the stupidest place to smoke in the entire castle." Apparently satisfied that he was listening, she dropped his robe and folded her arms across her chest. Remus turned the tap on, and plunged his hands under the cold water.
"I had a bad day," he murmured. His hands shook under the icy onslaught.
"Mm." Unsatisfactory answer. Remus turned off the tap and wiped his hands on a plush towel.
"I needed to get away from them. It was a bit much," he tried again. Her face softened slightly.
"And the cigarette?" There wasn't really an answer. Not one that'd work for her, anyways. What could he do, offer her one? Here, Lily, have a drag and you'll get it. He shrugged. She sighed, but stayed planted. Jesus.
"Helps, a bit. Clears my head," he mumbled. She lifted her chin.
"I thought it gave people headaches."
"Only when they're not used to it."
"So much for your lungs and your wallet," she said, rolling her eyes. The corners of her lips twitched. He hoisted himself onto the sink, leaning against the mirror. "You know, you don't have to hang with them just because they're in your dormitory. And if you want peace and quiet, you don't have to steal off into the bathrooms to get it. You can talk to other people." Other people weren't his mates, though. Not as much. He said nothing. She continued doggedly. "Me. Some of my friends might be loud -"
"Oh, yes, Mary's ever a bother," he murmured, mostly to himself. She caught it, and laughed, a full laugh that rose in her chest and made her pink-toned face glow. He could see why James liked her. Why Glen Vane did, why so many did. If she'd been his type, he probably would've too. Not that he knew what his type was. Older women, Sirius had said cheekily, when Remus had explained there'd not really been any girls who caught his fancy at Hogwarts.
"I mean it, Remus," Lily said, and put a hand on his knee. He shifted. It was probably meant to be comforting, but he just had the urge to kick her away. "I'd rather you talk my ears off than go about killing yourself with those." He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Thanks," he said quietly. Instead of nodding, or sending him off, she rubbed a circle against his knee with her thumb. It hit the raise of one of his newer gashes, inflicted on the last moon, not yet entirely faded to pink. She exhaled a laugh.
"I'll take it Potter's already made the joke I've thought of?" she said.
"He would've if he knew," Remus said. Lily dropped her hand away, going red in the cheeks. She shook herself. He relaxed.
"You're a bit of an enigma, you know. If you weren't a prefect, I bet you'd be bombarded with little admirers just like Potter and Black are."
"I'm thankful I'm a prefect then. Only good thing to come of it," he told her.
"Mm. You're not counting the bath? I think it's lovely, really."
"Yeah, that too, I guess. The compensation's nearly too much. Who needs to be paid when you get a bath and a free pass from groupies?" She smiled at him brightly, and he found himself smiling back. He didn't match her wattage, though.
"Well, you seem a bit better now. With all due respect, please bugger off, Remus. I'd like to take a bath." He jumped off the sink. His satchel swung into his sore hip, and he swore.
"I'll be off," he said quickly. "Enjoy your bath." She thanked him, and he sped away from the bathroom. His feet returned him to the Gryffindor tower, and he was too tired to seek refuge elsewhere, so up the stairs he went.
The scar on his knee pulsed, awoken from its dozy, slow-healing slumber. The concern behind her eyes had lodged itself between his larynx and the soft part of his throat. Would she tell anyone, about the smoking? Would they all turn to him, eyes sharp, thinking liar, you fucking liar, what else do you lie about, is your mum even sick? Had he run off too quickly, made her think that he thought she was repulsive? Had he sounded ungrateful, for the position of prefect? He didn't hate it, not really, it was just – another responsibility he had to deal with. Something else on his plate. He curled his fingers into his robes. He felt nauseous. His wrists tingled, and he could feel every nerve in his stupidly long, skinny fingers. Only Dale was in the dorm, blissed out. "Do you have any munchies?" he asked, straining to lift his head of the pillow. Remus dumped his bag on the lid of his trunk. "Chocolate. Top drawer," he said sharply. He threw himself into the adjacent bathroom and locked the door.
It was insatiable. He recalled his words to Lily in technicolour. Only good thing to come of it. Yeah, that was all. That and the fucking bath. Not something to put on his resume, something that would maybe, maybe do the slightest job of cushioning his lack of employability. What else did he have? God, he was useless. And he was running about whinging about a position most people wanted. It had been a joke, it had been, but what if Dumbledore had heard him say such a thing? It wouldn't have been funny then. He wouldn't have laughed. His wrists stung, and he shrugged off his robes and rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. Horizontal scars slashed across his forearms, not yet in the process of fading. You're a fucking idiot, Remus Lupin. All he'd wished for was for his bloody friends to stop sneaking around, and now they had and here he was, wanting to cut himself up because they were all too much now. Too loud, too fucking nice. No wonder they'd left him alone lately. He stared at his sunken face in the mirror. What do you want? What would make you happy? What would make you stop? Insatiable. Like the wolf, clawing at itself, howling, destroying anything in its path, hungering, hungry, always hungry. Always wanting more.
That did it. He fumbled with his razor, kept in the cupboard under the sink, and pressed the sharp edge into his skin. Blood burbled at the opening. Each cold bite of the blade bought release. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back. It rushed through his chest, through his stomach, relaxing his shoulders out of their tightened hunch. The world fell away. He made neat little lines down his left arm, relief flooding him. When he was done, he washed off his razor and his arm, hiding the former back under the sink. The water stung the new wounds. He found James' roll of bandages – for his Quidditch injuries – and misappropriated a bit of it to wrap his arm. With his right hand, he washed his face in cold water. He caught his own eye in his reflection. Water dripped from his brows and the end of his nose.
God, you're pathetic.
November 15th, 1975
Hogwarts buzzed, free from the haze of hangovers that had hung over the Gryffindor-Slytherin game. House spirit, particularly amongst the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, was at a high. Enchanted books flew through the corridors, bellowing their support for Ravenclaw, while the Hufflepuffs gave out baked goods and complimentary badges that squeaked the names of the Hufflepuff team members. Peter had scraped together all the sickles in the bottom of his trunk and put bets in where he could. Ludo Bagman and Connor O'Neill were running the largest pool, offering complimentary brews with any bet over a galleon and ten sickles, though many tipped the concoction in the garden instead of drinking it. They'd regret that later, after spending a fortnight trying to coax the plants back to life in Herbology.
Peter wrapped himself up in yellow (James had helped him get the hang of that colour-changing charm), as did Remus, but James and Sirius had their gold on Ravenclaw. Better strategy, they reckoned. Peter was mainly won to Hufflepuff by the stream of pies and pastries. Bagman boasted that there was over fifty galleons in the pot. Sirius thought it was probably closer to thirty, as everyone would keep their bets low so they didn't end up with one of O'Neill's drinks. James said that Bagman wouldn't lie, he was a good bloke, but Sirius didn't know him, and said anything was possible with a bookmaker. Peter had no clue. His parents didn't gamble.
The Daily Prophet was tossed aside at breakfast; even Remus had foregone the news and his schoolwork to discuss the match. Even Mary Macdonald was listening intently. Quidditch fever had a way about it.
"People are underestimating Gamp, I'm telling you," James said seriously. "Would the odds ever have looked like this under Brocklehurst? No. And that's how I'm going to make money while the rest of you lose it. Hufflepuff doesn't have a new keeper, do they? And we all remember Smith's efforts last year. I know, I scored – fifteen goals against him?"
"Wow," Lisbete said, gazing at him. She clutched his arm. He beamed at her.
"We remember, Potter," Evans said dryly. "You only went on about it until the holidays."
"The point is," James continued, "Gamp's a solid Chaser. He'll get a goal past Smith nine times out of ten. I'm telling you. And Dorothea Wilkes – she wasn't on the pitch long last year, but she's good, not to be forgotten about, just because she's only now coming out of reserves." Peter thought of his sickles. Damn it. He stirred his cereal, which was starting to flake and melt into the milk.
"Isn't it mainly about the seekers?" Mary asked mildly. Her blonde hair frizzed out around her round, pale face. Sirius had once said that if Peter was a girl, he'd be Mary. He grimaced.
"That's actually a common misconception, but you raise a good point," James smiled. "The seekers. Well. We've not seen much of Wood, I'll give you that – but if he's got half the talent of his cousins, then I've no doubt on my bet."
"My ears are burning!" Kelsey Wood shouted down the table.
"Only good things!" James yelled back.
"Suck-up!" Kelsey retorted, before returning to her previous conversation. James ruffled his hair, and ploughed on in his analysis.
After breakfast, they headed down to the pitch, taking their seats on the western side, opposite where most of the Slytherins were. A lot of them had chosen to support Ravenclaw, and James swore.
"You know, Pete, you might have a win in you today," James said, scowling across the stands. Peter beamed. So there was some proper merit to supporting Hufflepuff, outside of the free food.
"Do you want my scarf?" Peter offered, already loosening its woolly grip on his neck. James waved his hand.
"No, it's alright, thanks Pete. I'll stick to my spells." James tucked his charmed blue tie beneath his bronze jumper. "It looks more yellow than anything else, right?"
"Yes," said Peter.
"No," said Remus. He folded his arms across his chest. "Stick to your spells, James, go on."
"So long as nobody thinks I'm a bloody Slytherin," James huffed, pulling the tie back out, back to supporting Ravenclaw.
"They won't." Peter whipped his head around. Snivellus Snape stood in the row above them, the black sleeves of his robes turning his arms into great big bat wings. His greasy, stringy hair hung past his chin. He sneered at them. "Nobody would ever mistake a fool such as you for one of us."
"What the fuck are you doing here, Sniv?" James stepped forward. Peter fell in behind him, fumbling in his pockets for his wand. James, even in ridiculous, blue-and-bronze knee-high socks over his trousers and a charmed tie dangling over his jumper, cut a fierce figure. Not someone to cross. Peter gazed at him, and in doing so accidentally met Lisbete's eyes. He looked away.
"I have every right to be here," Snape insisted, sticking out his neck like an old tortoise.
"Do you, though?" James ran his fingers through his hair, smiling widely. It didn't reach his eyes. "I think it's more of a Gryffindor space, Sniv. Don't you have a Death Eater to suck off or something?" Snape flushed red.
"Don't you have to go suck off Bagman to get your winnings?"
"I still don't know who the fuck that is," Sirius whispered. James laughed derisively.
"I don't, actually, Snivy. See, I have enough money to take care of myself – my dad had a job, you know, because he actually gives a damn about me, and didn't want me prostituting myself out for dark magic." Peter laughed loudly, and James grinned at him. Peter laughed harder, clutching his sides. Merlin, Snape was a prick, wasn't he? The Slytherin's face went redder, and he strongly resembled a tomato. Or a porlock's arse.
Snape whipped out his wand. "And with what grades are you going to get a job, Potter? Being a grade-O prat?" Peter sniffed, shaking his head. Then he snuck a sideways look at James, who didn't seem to notice his bit of support. Bugger. He was too busy with Snape.
"Actually, I was going to use my Outstandings in Transfiguration…and Defence…Care of Magical Creatures…Merlin, what else do I get Os in? I can't keep track," James gloated. Snape's lips were pressed tightly together.
"You've had some in Astronomy, and Charms," Peter supplied helpfully. "You're great at Muggle Studies."
"I am too," James beamed. Peter smiled smugly at Snape, whose eyebrows burrowed between his eyes like nifflers in a mineshaft.
"Anyone can wave a wand," Snape spat. "It takes no precision, or skill, or technique. I expect Pettigrew could even manage a charm or two if he ever got his fat head out of your arse."
Peter's face burned hot. He balled his fists and pushed forward. Remus grabbed the back of his robes. James closed the gap between himself and Snape.
"Fuck off, Snivellus, do us all a favour and take a dive off the Astronomy Tower, why don't you? Pete's got twice the fucking balls and brains of you, you little fucking weirdo." James took a fistful of Snape's tattered robes. James stood a full head taller, and his shoulders were twice as broad as the slimy little git's skinny frame. Snape spat in his face. James growled. Peter shook with rage. He rolled his shoulders furiously, trying to get Remus off. Remus wrapped an arm around his chest, locking him into place. Peter squirmed furiously. Snape's eyes raked them up and down.
"Didn't know you were a poof, Lupin," Snape smiled. "Is that where you're off to every month?"
"Rictumsempra!" There was a lash of purple light. Snape began to laugh manically, his legs spasming, his chest heaving erratically. Only his eyes remained sour, staring beadily as tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Does that give you something to laugh about, Sniv? Is that funny?" Sirius demanded, joining James. James dropped Snape bodily. Snivellus didn't get up, but kept laughing, overcome by the hex. Remus let Peter go. He took his spot on James' other side, grinning down at Snape. See, Peter had something Snape would never have. Friends. Friends were something you got if you were actually likeable. And who the fuck would like Snape?
"Is he always that awful?" Lisbete piped up.
"Only when he's himself," Sirius grinned. "Now, do you think if I add in a knee-reversal hex, he'll piss himself? He hasn't yet, I'm a bit disappointed. Give us a show, Snape, why don't you?" He kicked him in the ribs.
"You don't have to wait long, he'll cream himself, now," James said. Peter looked up. Lily Evans pushed through the crowd, her face bright red, a Hufflepuff scarf looped around her neck, wand in hand. She pointed it, and Peter jumped back.
"Finite Incantatem!" A bolt of red light hit Snape in the chest. He stopped laughing immediately, and crumpled. After a moment, he came back into consciousness. Lily offered him her hand, but he ignored it, pushing himself up. Without so much as a 'thank you', he stormed off, shoving first years out of the way.
"I've always admired his manners," Sirius said thoughtfully. Lily scoffed loudly and shoved the tip of her wand against Sirius' chest.
"Evans!" James shouted. He reached for her wand arm. She elbowed him without taking her eyes off Sirius. "Oi, Evans, leave off."
"Leave off?" Lily demanded. "Do one, Potter, I know what I saw." Her eyes blazed.
"He was asking for it," Sirius said darkly. Lily narrowed her eyes. Peter took another step back, falling behind a very pale Remus, who wrung hands together frantically.
"What, because he came into your line of sight?" Lily asked sharply.
"He was in the Gryffindor stands. Why would he be here? He was probably snooping around so his mates could figure out how best to blow up anyone who doesn't agree with torturing muggles!" James said. Lily rounded on him, pointing her wand. He froze.
"Perhaps he was here because I asked him to be, Potter. I know you can't be nice to a girl without wanting to shag her – or if she's over the age of twelve – but that doesn't go for everyone."
"I'm fourteen," Lisbete said quietly. Everyone ignored her. Peter sent her a sympathetic smile.
"And besides, not all Slytherins are Death Eaters. They're a fringe group of terrorists. If you do have any brains, Potter, you should use them and do the maths. The Prophet says there's no more than twenty of them – there are a lot more adult Slytherins in the world than that."
"Leave off it, Evans. Snape's gone, no permanent damage done. It's none of your business."
"None of my business? He's my friend, Potter. Would you 'leave off' if someone was going after Peter?" Lily shrieked.
"You leave off whenever one of Snape's little purist friends calls Mary Macdonald a mudblood, don't you? You ignore that just fine! It's a public service, taking Snape down a peg, given what he gets up to!" James shouted. Others began to look over.
"What, so you're a vigilante group? Doing it all altruistically? That's a load of shit, James Potter. And what about you, Remus?" Lily fixed him with a steely gaze. Remus stared. Peter ducked his head. "Are you going to say anything, take any points, you know, show a little solidarity against bullying as a prefect?" Remus said nothing. Lily glared. "Don't let Potter and Black walk all over you. Don't be a coward." Remus dropped his eyes. Lily fixed her gaze on Peter. Peter swallowed.
"I'm really sorry," he started. "I didn't do anything. I didn't touch him. I didn't pull out my wand or anything." Lily shook her head, and pressed her lips together.
"Come on, Peter," she said, almost sadly. "Just – come on." Peter frowned. She sighed. "Fifteen points each, Potter, Black. I'll be writing you up, with Remus' help or not." Lily glared at Remus, turned on her heel, and stormed off, similarly to Snape.
James messed up his hair, not nearly as bright as he'd been prior to Lily's entrance. Lisbete stroked his arm. Sirius shoved his wand back in his pocket, face stormy. Peter looked out to the pitch. The Ravenclaw team formed a semi-circle around the centre of the pitch, facing off against the Hufflepuffs, all in butter yellow.
"We didn't miss the start!" he said cheerfully, and took his seat.
November 18th, 1975
Hufflepuff, of the four houses, was least prone to boasting. That didn't mean they forewent celebration. It was contained at least to the Great Hall and the greenhouses, where yellow-and-black banners and garlands had been bewitched to the walls, and groups of plants taught to cheer for the house of the badgers. If some of the boys had had their way, Ravenclaw would've retaliated with singing owls and complex riddles or arithmetic problems guarding doors and passageways, but Florence Diggory stopped that. The buck stopped with her. The prefects had power to give and take points, but the fifth year ones, at least, were gently guided by what Flo advised or did or didn't do. When she decried those plotting pranks against the Hufflepuffs, Dorcas found herself taking a point from each of the would-be jokesters for 'anti-social behaviour', and then Glen sternly worded them up. Even the older students bent to Flo's will, encouraged when she sat amongst them and sung their praises, sought their advice, told jokes and in turn provided a shoulder to cry on. Flo was never too busy to help somebody with their hair, or their homework, or to bring food for them from dinner when they were cramming for an assignment or hurriedly doing homework. Dorcas unwittingly became part of Flo's entourage and arsenal. She found herself in foreign dormitories, advising on divinatory techniques, and ferrying books to and from the Hospital Wing. She also accompanied Flo for a check-up after the freak oddity of the other day. Dorcas fixated on the windows and tried not to think too much about the burning in the pits of her stomach.
Tuesday came and found Dorcas a sweaty mess as the afternoon wore on. They finished the day in the greenhouses with the Slytherins. Dorcas had always worked alongside Flo and Cynthia, but generally as a silent pair of hands, mumbling monosyllabic answers to whatever they inquired after. Cynthia chattered away, constantly referencing some other conversation they'd had, some other joke Flo had made, and Dorcas managed to follow the thread of conversation, her mind darting back to each event and each previous remark. For much of Herbology, she forgot what awaited her after the lesson's end.
Florence had a way with the plants, applying just the right amount of pressure in her massaging, watering all the right spots. Her dark hair was scooped back in an elegant bun. Her dragonhide gloves didn't hinder her dexterity one bit. She was thorough but efficient with their work, kind and charming yet funny and honest in her words. When she spoke to Dorcas, her face glowed like the sun. Radiant. Dorcas could've stayed in that greenhouse forever, watching her work. Class ended too soon.
The three of them left leisurely, enjoying the sunset, and Cynthia flicked her blonde hair and rambled about how much homework awaited her. It wasn't until Florence confidently answered the bronze knocker's riddle and the door to their common room swung open that it hit Dorcas.
"Oh," she said, sinking. Florence paused in the doorway.
"Are you okay?" she asked, face already moulded into concern, eyes big, lips drawn tightly, eyebrows wilting. God, Dorcas just wanted to follow her in. They could spend another afternoon together, lost in the mundanities of school.
"Yes, I just – I have somewhere to be," Dorcas said.
"Oh! Your tutoring, right – I'm glad that's back on for you. Do you want us to walk you there?" Dorcas' throat constricted.
"No, no, that's okay, thank you, no, I'll be okay, that's all – um, have fun. Or, not, with the – good luck, with all the homework." She cringed inwardly. Florence smiled. She must think I'm an idiot.
"Thank you, Dorcas. Good luck." She rounded all her vowels perfectly, but it never sounded posh, never made you feel insecure. There was a distinctive warmth to her voice that made you want to confess all your deepest secrets. Human veritaserum.
"Good luck!" Cynthia chimed in. Dorcas strengthened her stance. No need to turn into a puddle just because somebody was being nice to her.
"Thank you," she said quickly.
The path to the North Tower echoed with Dumbledore's voice and the panic in Professor Nicholl's eyes. Dorcas trained her gaze on the floor, dodging groups of chattering students strolling back from class. One of the first years from her house waved hello, and she gave them a strained smile in return. A third year stopped her and asked if the knocker was giving out difficult riddles today. For the life of her, she didn't know why Florence hadn't been made a prefect. Perhaps she had been offered, and rejected it; Dorcas had never asked Glen when he'd received his badge, to take note of its arrival in comparison to hers'. But why had Dorcas been the next choice? She might've got better grades than Cynthia, but Cynthia copied whatever Flo did, including being helpful and friendly and kind and pretty. Dorcas, meanwhile, was an insular loser who fucked up even what she was supposed to be good at – Divination.
It was with a frown that she climbed the ladder through the trapdoor and into the Divination classroom. Professor Nicholl was not at her desk but in the middle of the room, levitating a new candle into the chandelier. Dorcas softly shut the trapdoor and stood by the professor's desk.
"Good afternoon," Professor Nicholl said, guiding the candle into a snug fitting.
"Good afternoon, Professor," Dorcas said in a small voice. Once the job was done, Professor Nicholl crossed the room and sat on the fuchsia pouffe on the other side of the desk. Hardly practical for work, Dorcas thought. A lime green bandana, marked with yellow starbursts, held her hair back. Dorcas knocked her knees together. Professor Nicholl smiled.
"I'm glad you came back," she said softly. Dorcas didn't look at her. "It's very important work. You're the only one with an aptitude for it that we've found. You're miles ahead of most of the seventh years in Divination, and you've not yet taken your O. ."
"Thank you," Dorcas mumbled, chest very hollow. Others being worse didn't make her any better. It didn't change what had happened to Flo. She could still scarcely believe that her parents hadn't been written to, that nothing more had happened. The castle had been sent into pure terror, for a moment, and then been expected to move on without another spare breath. Flo didn't talk about it at all. Not when Madam Pomfrey checked on her, not when wide-eyed first years asked for the story, not when Glen pulled her aside and whispered to her. Nobody got cross with her about it – who could ever be cross with Florence Diggory? – and so she continued to skirt around the topic.
"I do mean it," Professor Nicholl said, dropping her smile. Dorcas nodded. "Good." She stood up once more, stretching out her fingers. A knuckle cracked. "Now, you received my letter?"
"Yes." It had raised more questions than it answered.
"Once more: you consent to coming to this location?"
"I do," Dorcas said solemnly.
"Good, good." They went to the fireplace, and Professor Nicholl lifted the lid of a terracotta jar on the mantel. She took a pinch of floo powder. "Now, repeat after me, very clearly."
"Yes, Professor." Dorcas reached into the jar. Professor Nicholl threw the powder into the fire. The flames turned green.
"Sparrowspout!" Professor Nicholl said. The fire roared, and she spun away up the chimney. Dorcas swallowed, and mouthed the word. Then she sprinkled the emerald powder into the fireplace, and stepped inside. Heat pounded her from all sides. The classroom disappeared behind a wall of green flame.
"Sparrowspout!" she shouted. The crackling grew deafening, and then the floor fell away. She used both hands to keep her satchel firm against her body. A brick wall slammed against her shoulder; and then she was shooting through a slim metal chimney, the sides burning so hot they were almost cold. Soot fell into her eyes, but she didn't dare close them in case her satchel came loose and she didn't feel it; there was so much happening that it would be easy to miss.
Finally, she arrived, and staggered out of the floo. The room appeared to be part of an aviary; two large cages ran parallel to each other and hugged the sides of the room. They were filled with tiny birds flying in frenzied circles. The cages were large enough for someone to step inside, and grew dark towards the back, where there were shelves holding boxes stuffed silly with straw. Professor Nicholl stood at the end of the narrow walkway formed by the space between the cages.
"You made it," she said warmly. Dorcas brushed the soot from her robes. "Follow me, then." Dorcas squeezed through to the back of the room.
Professor Nicholl opened a tall wooden door, and a scalding sienna sunset poured into the room. The birds twittered loudly, shrieking in their grey and blue choirs. Professor Nicholl led Dorcas across a high sandstone walkway. She looked out over the low walls. The coast wasn't far away, choppy grey waves lashing at a rocky headland. Dark clouds suffocated the horizon, the sun screaming over their fluffy tops, clinging to life. To her left, in the east, were never-ending flat, green fields, spotted with sad sheep.
"Do you know of Dedalus Diggle?" Professor Nicholl asked, flicking her wand and opening the door at the end of the bridge between the two towers. Dorcas frowned. He was something of a cautionary tale amongst the Ravenclaws, a boy who had locked himself in the Owlery for a week and refused to leave in the name of intellectual pursuit, which wouldn't have been so bad if he'd still allowed people to send or receive owls. Somehow, he'd managed spells to keep even the teachers out. The Headmaster at the time had been in the Transylvanian Alps consorting with vampires and had been uncontactable. On the eighth day, a group of Gryffindors and three teachers had broken down the door by force, and as soon as the Headmaster returned, Diggle had been expelled. It was a reminder that they could tend towards selfishness too easily in the name of curiosity. If you were called a Diggle, a swift attitude change usually followed. The man still made the front page of the Prophet on slow days, ever the eccentric, but –
"We aren't in Kent, are we?" Dorcas said, looking out a window towards the sea. Most of the Diggle stories came from Kent, where he had stubbornly insisted on living amongst muggles. The papers were scathing, calling him an Obliviator's nightmare. She and Professor Nicholl descended a set of spiralling stairs.
"We aren't," Professor Nicholl confirmed. "We're at one of his projects, actually. Not far from Blackpool. I know what you must think of him, but he's a good friend of Dumbledore's. A good friend to us." Us. Who was 'us'? Professor Dumbledore, and Professor Nicholl, and – her? Were there more of them?
They emerged from the tower into a hallway, lined with ghoulish tapestries of avian creatures. She followed Professor Nicholl into a small dining room. The evening sky shone through the arched windows, the first stars marking the advent of night. Bone mobiles hung from the ceiling, forming the skeletal shape of various creatures, charmed to move as though flying or running. A rectangular table, seating only six, skewed across the room, dividing it diagonally. Professor Nicholl sat down at the table. Dorcas did the same. It was then that the oddity really struck her; after two months at school, she was suddenly whirled away from northern Scotland. It was easy to forget the world outside of that little pocket of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade existed; letters didn't do it justice. The train rides home at least provided an adjustment period, watching the world shift and change outside. The floo trip was just too short, too jarring.
Professor Nicholl summoned a teapot and some chipped cups, pouring some for them each. The tea was bitter, just how Dorcas liked it.
"You are happy to continue, aren't you?" Professor Nicholl asked softly. Dorcas coughed. Her professor looked at her with careful, curious eyes. Dorcas dropped her gaze, and then swallowed her tea and her nerves.
"You've said that it's important, and that I'm the only one who can do it," Dorcas said, doing her best to keep her voice even. "I don't have a choice." She'd never been one to fight or causes, not one to take up banners and delve into whatever the latest issue was in the papers or amongst her peers. She was happy to stay out of it, to lose herself in Divination homework and Astronomy assignments instead. It was simpler. Mostly. She'd been questioned about her lack of participation. Shouldn't this sort of thing, fighting for justice, be up her alley? Merlin knew she'd faced all kinds of injustice before. She just wasn't made for fighting. It wasn't that she didn't agree, she usually did, but God, she didn't want to make a banner, she wanted to hide up in her bed until she could come downstairs and find that the world had become a better place without needing her to drive it. Dorcas Meadowes was not a fighter, or a crusader.
Dorcas had never been important. Other people could better form the words she might've stumbled over, could do the hard yards in her place. The only things she was good at were soft subjects, head-in-the-clouds things. Sure, she was a prefect, but one of six amongst the Ravenclaws and one of eight in the year. She could always get somebody to cover her. She was replaceable, in a way that not even Quidditch captains were. People (except Flo, always except Flo) had long since stopped asking her to do anything. She wasn't any good and she wasn't interested.
This was big. For the Headmaster to be involved, it had to be. For Professor Nicholl to be involved. For Flo Diggory, the best-loved girl in their year, rivalled only maybe by Lily Evans, if you were of a Gryffindor persuasion, to be mentally attacked and for them to plough on anyways as if it'd been a scratch. And they (Professor Nicholl, the Headmaster, others?) wanted Dorcas to help. As if it was something that she could do. That only she could do. She didn't have to design creative placards or shout or march or talk. She just had to See.
It was a shame she'd fucked it up. The one time she actually mattered.
"You do," Professor Nicholl said, looking disquieted. "You don't even know what it's for." Dorcas looked at her with large eyes.
"It's a good skill to have, isn't it? The world needs more people with this sort of skill. That's what it's for." Isn't it? Isn't it? Who is this for?
"I'm glad you want to do it," Professor Nicholl said, not sounding glad at all.
She spread their tools out across the table, which were notably limited. It was all up to Dorcas. She closed her eyes, and tried to see things that weren't in her dormitory, things that had nothing to do with one Florence Diggory. A headache formed at the forefront of her mind. She gritted her teeth and worked around it. Flo was persistent, swooping back into her mind each time she felt herself teetering on the edge of something good, something useful.
"I can't," Dorcas said, flinging her eyes open. Sweat beaded across her hairline. "I – I keep getting distracted. The perfume – I keep smelling it." A lie. It wasn't the perfume but her bun, all dark hair swept back behind her head, the way her face glowed in the late afternoon light. It knotted her stomach something awful. It came back to her, vivid, vibrant, the moment she lost concentration.
"Dorcas," Professor Nicholl said, "the threat to the other students is greatly diminished. I promise you. That's why we're so far away. There's no ambient magic connecting you. It would be – extremely, extremely unlikely for anything to happen. Unprecedented." Had the incident with Flo been precedent, then? Had it been likely? Did they actually think it through properly? It felt like betting on the weekend's Quidditch match. At least most punters actually thought about the teams, the strategies, the possibilities.
They worked until the sun vanished entirely. Dorcas achieved nothing but getting herself an awful headache. Professor Nicholl said nothing about disappointed but Dorcas could tell, she could tell by the silence, their quick departure, the slump in her shoulders. She waited around in the infirmary to grab a draught for her headache and then returned to the tower and wished it would all go away, no matter how important it made her, how necessary she was. She'd never been one for rising to challenges.
She climbed under the covers and shut her eyes, trying to draw her thoughts away from Dedalus Diggle, and Sparrowspout, and Professor Nicholl, and 'us', who 'us' could be, and boxes and the shadowy replay of every interaction she'd ever had with Florence Diggory, which was prone to take over in any gaps the other thoughts left. Instead, she burned a vanilla candle and closed the curtains around her bed, destroying the floral stench of the dormitory, and recited the names of constellations until sleep found her.
November 19th, 1975
The Hospital Wing was remarkably full for a Wednesday. A group of seventh year boys had transfigured the endless mud puddles outside to chase one another around. It had ended with three mud-monsters attempting to suffocate their prey, and the boys had ingested a copious amount of mud. Those who weren't ill were likely receiving a fearsome telling-off by Professor McGonagall, from what Remus could tell. A younger girl had been bitten in Care of Magical Creatures, a boy from first year had slipped on the stairs and tumbled down two flights, a potion gone wrong had burned holes in someone's hands, and the most recent patient of Madam Pomfrey's had flown into a parapet.
While not pleased, per say, by the misfortune that seemed to be ravaging the school, Remus was happy to be left alone. He'd come in at lunch time and gone to his usual bed in the very corner of the Infirmary. Madam Pomfrey gave him a little food and a lot of water and closed the curtains around his bed to allow him to rest for the night ahead. It promised to be an especially odd one, given the eclipse – last time, back in May he'd lost two days afterwards. His bones ached, and his gums decided to throb furiously, perhaps preparing the fangs that would sprout at nightfall. He'd bought along activities, and tried to keep himself occupied. He'd read a bit of 'Helter Skelter', a book about an odd group of American muggles who'd murdered an actress and several other people. His mother had purchased. He was surprised she'd had the stomach for it – Hope Lupin wasn't the sort to linger on the nasty parts of the papers for too long. His Transfiguration essay sat on the side table, draft due at the end of Friday. When the seventh year boys came in, he put it aside. He typically wasn't a keen eavesdropper. It was rude, and it didn't benefit him to be in everyone else's business. On the afternoon before a full moon, though, he couldn't help it. His ears were sensitive to the tiniest of noises, and loud cursing was impossible to ignore. It gave him something to tell his friends when he returned that wasn't the transformation. It eased the ache in his stomach that throbbed when they talked about something he'd missed out on.
The stomach ache had grown persistent, lately. Regardless of what his friends were doing. He'd gone through two packs of cigarettes in a week, and trying to source more would only raise questions. He never smoked that much, not even around the moon. His left wrist was thoroughly fucked, but so neatly done that he couldn't lump it in with the rest of his scars. He could only hope Madam Pomfrey kept his mouth shut. What would she say, to see him like that? Ungrateful little brat that he was. He could've gone for a smoke now. Eavesdropping didn't rival it. Not even close.
He spent the afternoon trying to distract himself from the pain and the faint metallic taste of blood on his tongue and the urge to smoke or cut himself open. He picked up 'Helter Skelter' half a dozen times and put it down again, vision blurring too much to focus on the words. His fingers trembled when he tried to write his essay. He threw it down. He thought wryly that he ought to be awarded top marks in Transfiguration regardless of what he wrote, given that he transformed into a dark creature once a month. Go on, someone beat that – human transfiguration at fifteen? At five? Not bloody likely. Not even Professor McGonagall had managed that.
Hands were fixed, bites were soothed, mud was siphoned out of lungs, and the Hospital Wing emptied out by the time the dark crept in. He curled up on the bed, wishing away his screaming joints. In the quiet, he could feel the pulse of a second heart, stirring. His neck cramped. The nights lengthened as winter approached, and the wolf was now restless from midday, which was really fucking unfair, if you asked him. Madam Pomfrey appeared at the end of his bed and disillusioned them both. As they hurried down to the Whomping Willow, they passed full classes of students. The sun was due to set around four, and class wouldn't finish for seventy minutes after that. His friends were in class learning how to identify monsters, and he was about to turn into one.
The passage seemed to go on forever, today. His knees hurt. He trembled as they climbed into the shack. He laid down on the bed, head pounding. Cold seeped through the walls, and the mattress felt like a block of ice. The tips of his fingers quickly turned red and numb.
"Goodnight, Remus," Madam Pomfrey said quietly. They both knew it would not be a good night.
"Goodnight," he croaked, rolling onto his side. Without looking at her, he could picture the sad, sorry look she was giving him. The trapdoor shut. He longed for sleep. For unconsciousness. Just, for once, a fucking break.
Remus Lupin tore himself apart as his missed Ancient Runes class came to an end. He did not get the mercy of unconsciousness. The wolf was tired, too, but could not sleep. How could it, in this weather, when it felt like the world might fall down? How could it, when it wanted to run, it wanted to find better shelter? How could it, with no pack to curl into?
That night, the shack shook only with rain, though the screaming of the relentless winds barrelling through Hogsmeade was joined by the tired, lonely howls of a tired, lonely werewolf.