The light was a painful shade of red, but he knew that if he opened his eyes, the dull throbbing in his temples would very quickly turn to needles of agony stabbing his tender brain. He moaned and turned over, burying his face in the pillow. Flashes of the previous night came swimming to the surface of his mind.

Erised, he remembered. And firewhiskey. Far too much firewhiskey.

And he had dreamed about Sirius. But such a strange dream it had been. Not at all the sort he was used to; neither the burning passion of days gone by, nor the dark, nightmarish scenes in which a laughing Sirius betrayed and killed them all, over and over again, each time leaving Remus a little less alive, a little more alone.

He turned his head away from the window and risked opening a single eye. It hurt, and the room took its time coming into focus. His brows drew together in puzzlement at what he saw. There was a gently steaming goblet sitting on the nightstand beside his bed.

Potion, his brain told him. That was it. Snape must have brought his potion while he was asleep. Damn. The thought of that man seeing him in this state gnawed at him. He was sure to hear about it later. Well, there was nothing to be done about that now.

Very slowly, he sat up. The room promptly set to spinning around him. He closed his eyes again and put both hands to his head, as if to keep it in place.

God, I hope I can keep this down, he thought, making a face and reaching for the goblet.

But when he brought it to his mouth, the smell of the potion was not right. Remus's eyes popped open again, and he peered suspiciously into the goblet. He breathed in deeply through his nose, dimly recognising the scent. It took him a moment to place it.

It smelled of rich chocolate, fresh ginger, honey, a mixture of spices and some other things, including what Remus thought might be powdered dragonbone.

"It's a secret," Sirius had said to him once, long ago. "Drink up, Moony; it will make you feel better."

Dr Padfoot's Patent Hangover Cure, they were going to call it. Yet another in the line of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers that the Marauders has planned to sell and get rich, once the war was over. But the chocolate - Sirius had made it chocolate-flavoured just for him.

It had not been a dream, after all. Sirius had been here. Remus glanced across the room to the cabinet where he kept his small supply of herbs, spices, and various other ingredients. The cabinet doors stood open, and the countertop was littered with bits and pieces, powders and leaves.

He knew from personal experience that this was a quality product which always brought good results. But how far could he trust the man who had made it? A madman and convicted mass-murderer? A betrayer of friends and lovers? And yet, if Sirius had wanted to kill him, he could easily have done so last night, without Remus making much of a fuss. He sniffed the potion again. No, it smelled just the same as he remembered it.

His head ached fiercely; he would have to take something for it, and he didn't think he had anything lethal in his cabinet.

Only one way to find out, he thought.

He lifted the goblet to his lips and drained it. The warm, rich potion flowed through him, sending soothing tendrils through his body from the moment it touched his tongue. Within seconds, his head had begun to clear, and in under a minute, he felt as good as he had all week.

As he set the empty goblet down, he noticed that it was not the only unexpected object on the nightstand. There was also a small, wooden box tied with a black silk ribbon. Tucked into the ribbon was a scrap of paper with his name on it. Remus pulled it out and unfolded it.

Give me a chance to explain. I swear, it's not what you think.
-S

With trembling fingers, he untied the ribbon and fumbled the top off the box. Inside lay a tiny dog, roughly carved out of wood. Remus gently picked the carving up and cradled it in the palm of his hand. He noticed that the dog had something in its mouth. Remus carried it over to the window for a better look at it in the weak winter sunlight. What he saw caused him to make a tiny, involuntary noise, low in his throat.

Between its jaws, the dog held a lock of black hair.

Remus looked at the dark curl blankly. Why -? There were so many spells that could be done to a person with such a key ingredient. Spells of revenge, of location, of love. One of the first things young witches and wizards were taught at this very school was that they should never entrust anyone with such a token. It could too easily fall into the wrong hands, with disastrous results. To break that injunction was an act of madness - or of absolute trust. And if what he remembered of last night was anything close to what had actually happened, Sirius had seemed as sane and rational as he had ever been.

Remus's train of thought was interrupted by a knock on the door. Guiltily, he dropped the little dog into the pocket of his robes before saying, "Who is it?"

"I've brought you your potion," said the grudging voice through the door.

He sighed and crossed the room, opening the door only just far enough to allow Snape to pass him the smoking goblet.

"Thank you, Severus," he said. "You may tell Professor Dumbledore I shall not be at supper tonight."

He closed the door on the Potions master without waiting for a reply.

After he drank his potion, Remus spent the rest of Christmas afternoon pacing his rooms, trying to make sense of it all for the thousandth time in twelve years. He had to admit to himself that it just did not add up. If Sirius really was a crazed murderer, then his behaviour of the previous night made no sense, anymore than his behaviour right up to that dreadful events for which he had been imprisoned in the first place.

Remus would swear on everything he held sacred that he had known Sirius - really known him - better than anyone, and as well as one person could know another. Never once in Remus's presence had Sirius been anything other than, well, if not utterly sane, at least not unhinged. His only madnesses, Remus had been certain, were a wicked sense of humour, and irrepressible high spirits.

But if Sirius was sane, he could not have done what he clearly had done. And if, supposing for a moment, he had not been the betrayer, who had been, and where was the proof? Someone had to have done it, and there was no one else.

Sirius had been James's best friend. James had made him their Secret-Keeper. Lily and James had been betrayed and murdered. An entire street full of Muggles had seen Sirius kill Peter and a dozen innocent bystanders in cold blood. These were facts. He had seen the devastation for himself.

He simply could not see any other way it could have happened. It didn't make sense, but there was only one person he could ask for the answers he could not seem to find for himself, and that was Sirius. But how could he trust the man? He didn't see how he could. There had been no trial, and Sirius had never confessed to anything. He would probably say he hadn't done it, whether he had or not.

Remus shook his head. He had been going around and around in the same senseless circles for years. Perhaps if he had ever managed to completely convince himself of Sirius's guilt, he could have eventually got on with his life. But it just hadn't made sense, nor had he been able to come up with any compelling evidence for his innocence. Remus had lived the last twelve years of his life in bondage to doubt, unable to move forward, unable to undo or make sense of the past, living the gray existence of one whose life has lost its meaning.

If he was honest with himself, he knew that regardless of whether Sirius was innocent or not, he wanted him to be innocent - wanted to find the evidence to convince himself that it had all been a mistake, and that their love had been real. It was dangerous to think like that. It put him in a position of wanting to trust someone who, by all accounts, was not worthy of the least shred of trust. By trusting Sirius, he could be putting not only himself, but Harry and all the other students in the castle, in danger.

What he should really do was go to Dumbledore, confess everything, including the secret of the Animagi, and hand over the lock of hair. His fingers curled impulsively around the tiny, carved dog in his pocket. He should turn towards the door now. He should walk down the corridor. He should go to Dumbledore's office. But he couldn't. It was weakness, he knew, but he just could not make himself do it.

Sirius's actions of the night before, insofar as he remembered them, had said one thing very clearly to Remus: whether or not Sirius was guilty of the crimes laid to his account, the man still, on some level, loved him. It was a love Sirius might find it easy to betray, but Remus never could.

Please, God, he begged silently, let someone else be the one to do this thing. Let someone else catch him. Don't let it be me.

But that wasn't it at all. He didn't want Sirius to be caught and given back to the hell that was Azkaban. Not only could he not be the one to catch Sirius; he could not countenance anyone else doing it either. Every time Sirius came into the castle to see him like he had last night, he risked capture, and Remus couldn't bear to have that on his conscience.

The full moon was two nights away, and somehow he was sure Sirius would take the risk again, whatever his reasons, to lend the wolf the company of his own canine presence. Remus could not allow it - could not be the bait that drew Sirius into the castle. But there was somewhere else he could go.

The Shrieking Shack still stood in Hogsmeade. The Whomping Willow was still in place, grown larger and more violent than ever. He could tell Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore that, while the potion helped, he had still made a mess of his rooms, and request the use of the Shack again. It should be a simple thing.

If Sirius meant to come to him again, at least that way he would not come near the castle - near Harry. He should be able to follow Remus's scent easily in the cold winter air.

Feeling weak and shameful and guilty, Remus went to find Poppy Pomfrey, fingers resting on the tiny wooden dog in his pocket.