A/N: The title of this chapter comes from Dorothea McKellar's famous Aussie poem, "My Country". Look it up, it's gorgeous.

"So who are you trying to impress today, Padfoot?" James drawled, flipping his messy hair forward in a graceless mimic of his friend's habitual mannerism.

Remus looked up from his History of Magic text to catch sight of a decidedly odd expression on Sirius' face before it transformed into a refined look of boredom, which was directed at a smirking James.

"I don't have to work to impress anyone, Prongs," Sirius said dryly, rolling his eyes, but from across the room, Remus noted that he didn't meet James' gaze afterwards.

"But you looked like you were totally focussed on the book in Moony's hands, mate," James laughed, gesturing towards the watching Remus, who looked back to Sirius in vague puzzlement. Since when was Sirius interested in studying for History of Magic? True, OWLs were only months away, but catching Sirius studying was a rare experience akin to catching Father Christmas with his hand in your stocking.

"Well, look, you know, it's just possible that I experienced a fleeting moment of existential guilt for not having picked up a book this year, what with OWLs and all," Sirius said defensively, earning a disbelieving snort from James.

"What kind of fleeting moment makes you stare at Remus' book for five minutes without blinking?" the bespectacled boy grinned, glancing around the Common Room. "Is it Marie? Is she into the intellectual types?"

"If she was, wouldn't she just pick up a Ravenclaw?" Remus put in with a raised eyebrow. "Anyone from Gryffindor with half a brain is in the know about Sirius' particular studying habits."

"Or lack thereof," Sirius murmured gloomily, but James appeared to remain unconvinced.

"Fine, tell me later then," he sighed, resting his head back on his arms as he reclined before a nearby fireplace. "I'll just go back to dreaming about Mum's plum pudding with brandy butter…"

"I can't believe it's nearly Christmas," Peter said, looking about at his friends with wide eyes. "It feels like we just got off the Hogwarts Express."

"No way, mate," Sirius responded, still looking vaguely discomforted. "I feel like we've been stuck in this institution for a full five years."

Remus rolled his eyes, but refrained from commenting. It was true that a certain cheery atmosphere of bells and carols and powdery snow had begun to infiltrate the castle, but the festive season was no excuse to fall behind in the extremely boring study of the latest Goblin Revolution.

"You know what," Peter said suddenly, attracting Remus' focus back to the conversation, and pulling Sirius' languid gaze, "Tomorrow night is a full moon."

Remus sighed, closing the book over his finger, removed completely from his studies. "Don't I know it," he said mournfully. It was easier to succumb to the attractions of self-pity amidst holiday cheer.

"What about it?" Sirius said, sounding bored. Or maybe not quite bored, Remus thought. A note of something bordering on wariness was present in his voice.

Peter perked up excitedly, prodding James on the belly as he did so. James yelped. Everyone ignored him.

"Well, come on! I've finally managed to master the change," he whispered eagerly, earning an extremely strangled smile from Remus, who was still subjected to a veritable wreath of emotions when reminded of his friends' efforts.

"I'm not sure 'master' is the accurate verb to use in this situation," Sirius muttered unkindly. James glared at him, and raised himself to the effort of participating in the conversation.

"Pete, you've been great with the change ever since we gave you some pointers, right, Sirius?" he said, a hint of anger in his voice. James, the eternal protector, the teenager of surprising (selective) maturity that Lily Evans was never privy to.

"Right," Sirius said with false brightness. "So you're saying we should actually do it this time? Help Remus with the transformation, you mean," he said much more quietly, his dark eyes serious as he gazed around at his three friends.

James nodded grimly. "Me and you, we would've been able to do it last full moon, but Pe- now we're all ready, and it's safer with the three of us, anyway."

Remus' knuckles turned white as he balled sweaty hands into fists.

So difficult to listen to the excitement of Peter, the erstwhile flippancy of Sirius, James' talk of 'safety'. So terrible to sit there and listen to the final preparations for what could be tragedy seated in the lofty throne of friendship. But there was nothing else to do.

Even in this scene of heart-felt loyalty and camaraderie, even while Remus' heart swelled with an unending gratitude for his friends' noble efforts, he would never be able to shake off his deep-seated guilt. By all means, the jolly season was alive in the vibrant scheming of three Marauders. Jingling bells and all that charming muggle drivel. But ultimately, a full moon was no Christmas star, and all it led to was danger.

"You all sure about this?" he all but whispered, barely hearing himself above the thrumming of his rocketing heart.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Sirius hissed, throwing himself across his squashy armchair in anger, gripping hard into the cushion. "Do you think we just spent the past three years working our wands away just to rub this opportunity in your face or something?"

From his peripheral vision, Remus saw James raise his head and stare at Sirius, but the lycanthrope himself could do no more than stare at his hands twisting in his lap. It was the moments like these that erupted every now and again that reminded Remus that his friendship with Sirius had never returned to what it had once been. Despite awkward conciliation, carefree humour and unquestioned loyalty had evaporated between the pair.

Peter laughed nervously, a breathy, unappealing sound. "Come on Sirius, you can't pretend that you're not a little bit scared about running around with a werewolf."

The hostile pause that followed this statement seemed to have a profound effect upon poor Peter, who hastily added that nothing would stop him, personally, from joining the others under the full moon.

"Don't feel you have to, Pete," James said simply, before Remus could open his mouth and dare to risk upsetting Sirius further. "Moony wouldn't mind, and neither would we."

"Moony would probably feel better if we all just stayed in and sang bloody carols," Sirius growled. Remus could feel the heat of his scathing appraisal spread across his pale face in a growing flush.

This was terrible. Sirius didn't seem to comprehend the depths of Remus' gratitude for their achievement of animagus status. He didn't understand that, for once, law-breaking had opened an eternal glow into what was sometimes a very dark outlook. At the same time, there was no way that Remus could justify himself in explaining this to his friends. To do so would be to directly ensure the occurrence of their moonlit ventures.

Remus was determined not to direct his friends into danger. There was only a certain threshold of guilt that could be crossed before hysteria began to be an uncomfortable presence in all thoughts.

Thank Merlin for James Potter.

"Why don't you just stay here and whine some more, Sirius?" he snapped, leaping to his feet and confronting his white-lipped friend. "You think Remus isn't giving you enough credit for the fact that you now own your very own set of fleas?"

Remus, cringing internally but still forever grateful to James, peered anxiously around the Common Room to see if any unwelcome attention had been caught by the rather loud conflict. Thankfully, it appeared that the late hour had seen most Gryffindors traipse up to bed at some earlier point.

Watching the tension build between the infamously inseparable pranksters eventually galvanised Remus into action, and he ventured forth with what he hoped was an appeasing explanation. It was certainly true.

"I just don't want anyone to get hurt on my account," he mumbled, feeling quite useless, and painfully undeserving of his friends. "I am unaccountably grateful for Sirius' newfound collection of blood-sucking insects. I am terrified of how the werewolf will react to your animagus forms. You all deserve much more appreciation than I could ever give you."

When Sirius next spoke, his words were muffled, like he was talking with his face pressed into his hands.

"We're going with you tomorrow night."

"Indeed, we are, my precocious Padfoot," James said breezily, seeming to accept this pacifying remark in all its heated resolve. "Moony, you've known all along that we were going to test this out, so prepare yourself for company."

Remus laughed emptily, pressing his fingers against his eyes, feeling nothing but Sirius' glare and the cold advance of guilt-driven fear.

Remus always, unfailingly, felt terrible on the morning before a full moon. He was so wearied by his affliction, so sick and strung out with guilt and a raw anticipation garnered from a sleepless night that he found no more protestations passing his teeth.

Let them risk their lives for a brisk, moonlit jaunt with a Dark Creature. Let them play around with a monster who could not distinguish friend from foe. It's not like anything he could say would change their minds, anyway.

After breakfast, during which Remus could not summon the energy or inclination to take even a bite of toast, he was led by his friends – notably including a concerned, scowling Sirius – to whatever class was first. He barely even noticed Snape's open, sneering appraisal of his deadened appearance as he stumbled past the Slytherins' table on the way to the Entrance Hall.

The day passed painfully, each aching hour drawing Remus closer to the dreaded transformation. He could almost feel the physicality of the moon's sway over his body from beyond the horizon.

At last, with one last wearied glance of warning and gratitude and anxiety to his equally anxious friends, he allowed himself to be taken by the arm by Madam Pomphrey, who tutted over his poor state.

"Look at you, even more tired than normal, poor dear. Perhaps a sleeping draught is due next month. Step over the tree root, there, dear."

Remus complied, the chill air and gathering darkness lending him a nervous energy that pricked up his senses and seemed to ease his fatigue. After being deposited by Madam Pomphrey into the narrow tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow like normal, he turned back and attempted to offer her a grateful smile.

"On you go, dear, and remember to remove your clothing before the transformation this time. There's only so many pairs of extra robes I can bring you."

And on through the tunnel, its cramping space so horribly familiar. At the end of the tunnel, the staircase, and then the room itself. Dumbledore had described the Shrieking Shack to Remus' parents as a type of sanctuary, the humane alternative to a cage. Remus viewed this description of a cruel joke, even through his overwhelming appreciation for the headmaster's kindness.

A haven of destruction, torn drapes, broken furniture, splatters of dried blood, cushions gutted of feathers and feathers strewn across dusty floorboards, this room was a stifling cage of misery and despair. Although Remus retained no memory of his time as a werewolf save for the physical scars, his human self dulled and blinded by the full moon, he nonetheless waited and awoke in this room of torture. His instincts here were the same as the wolf's.

Here, he was trapped.

Dully, weighed down by the utmost weariness, Remus stumbled across to the familiar sagging mattress and began to remove his shoes. Laces undone, he scuffed his feet out of his sneakers untidily, tugged off his robe with difficulty, and moved on to his shirt.

After three buttons, he stopped, panting lightly. He felt a sheen of sweat break out across his forehead. It took so much effort to undress himself. Madam Pomphrey never seemed to understand that it wasn't just Remus' odd compulsion to destroy his clothes every month.

Finally, he continued. Shirt dangling off his shoulders, he paused again, feeling extremely nauseous. He bent his head into his lap and groaned quietly. It had been a small consolation up until this night that none of his friends had ever seen him so utterly helpless. Even vomiting in the Hospital Wing had seemed to carry more dignity than a complete inability to undress himself.

"You want help?"

An uncertain voice darted across the dusty silence of the room, low and almost tremulous. Remus could barely even force himself to nod. He hardly registered the absolute obscenity of an unsteady Sirius Black, a Sirius Black whose voice could break at merely the sight of his utterly vulnerable friend.

Heavy footsteps thudded cautiously along the wooden floor towards the bed, and Remus allowed his eyes to close, barely flinching when cold fingers gently tugged his shirt off. A slight hiss from Sirius accompanied the touch of icy air on Remus' scarred torso, which cropped up in goose bumps.

"Oh Moony," Sirius almost groaned, his fingers still grasping the shirt, "how can you expect us to stay away when we might be able to stop you from tearing yourself apart?"

Exhausted, and oddly detached from himself, drifting in a state apart from his Self as the moon glowed more strongly against the dim horizon, Remus could make no verbal response. As Sirius brushed the pad of his forefinger along the ridge of a raised scar, Remus slumped wordlessly against his friend, instinctively pressing his face into the warm folds of robes and body heat.

"Prongs is outside the door with Peter," Sirius seemed to be explaining, but Remus only registered low vibrations, which were comforting, like the purring of a cat. "I managed to convince them that Padfoot will be able to control you, the werewolf, I mean, at first, at least."

"Werewolf…" Remus moaned dully into Sirius' robes. "Go, go, please…"

Like a child, Remus felt his body being gathered up, wrapped in the muscular embrace of a protector, held to the warmth even as he felt himself surrendering to the cold face of the moon. Hot tears burned uselessly beneath his eyelids, and with the last stores of his strength, he grasped at Sirius' hands, and pressed them to his face. A luxury, a natal comfort, to cling to a finger, flesh and blood, a human being, salvation amidst the oncoming storm.

"Sirius," he whispered once, desperately, before he was finally torn apart.

Light. Piercing, cold light, assaulting bleary eyes through paper-thin eyelids. Pounding head. Heavy body. An aching, rising pain…

"Whereeurgh," Remus gurgled incomprehensibly, moaning as the expected pain followed this daring attempt at articulation. He lay motionless on what his heady brain could only assume was the sagging bed, waiting for the expected nausea and burning agony that unfailingly greeted him hand in hand.

They never came.

Dizzy, confused, Remus remained very still, scarcely daring to draw deep breaths, or wiggle his extremities to check that they were present. Finally, he rolled his head heavily across the mattress towards the source of the light, shivering involuntarily as his body reacted to the frigid room. He felt vaguely disoriented. He couldn't remember ever having woken up on any surface nearly so comfortable as the mattress before…

"Wh- aargh!" he choked hoarsely as his streaming eyes alit upon antlers which unmistakeably belonged to a mound of sleeping deer barely two metres away. Bizarrely, a slumbering rodent appeared to be curled on the middle of the stag's silver coat. The tearing agony that seared his throat allowed Remus the unfortunate insight that he had not somehow evaded all the pain of transformation.

A low chuckling began abruptly from somewhere across the room. Remus found himself unable to twist his neck to meet the eyes that were watching his befuddled actions.

"Sirius?" he whimpered, scarcely caring about the pathetic strain in his voice, the infantile sense of vulnerability he was undoubtedly exuding.

Just as abruptly, the laughter ceased, and, just like the night before, Remus heard the hurried thudding of footsteps, bare feet on a dusty floor, which stopped right beside the mattress. Two knees thudded promptly to the floor, and Remus was greeted with two anxious grey eyes right before his own.

"How do you feel, Moony?" soft lips whispered from much too close, and Remus, still removed from normal cognitive functions, disoriented and dizzy, felt the rush of foreign air against his icy skin, and closed his eyes without a murmur.

He stirred slightly as warm arms wrapped tightly around his narrow chest, relieving some of the cold even as the erstwhile twinging of new cuts erupted into a merciless stinging. A crate of butterbeer and several kilograms of chocolate could not have provided Remus with a more profound warmth or satisfaction.

James was alive. Peter was alive. Sirius was undeniably alive, and, despite familiar aches and the burn of fresh scars, Remus himself felt like he might really be able to live with his lycanthropy after all.

It was just a pity that he'd managed to rip himself out of another pair of unsalvageable trousers.

A/N: Ah, the first true hints of imminent fluff – finally, this story may be consolidating its slashy basis! But I suppose we'll have to wait and see what happens next, eh? ;) I hope that some of my dear readers may find satisfaction in knowing that, yes, romance is entwined in the plot of this story.

Yeah, maybe a little early for a Christmas-y fic, but here's to longing for the holidays. Hey, if Myer can start putting up Christmas decorations now, I can start writing about it. ;)

Let me know what you thought of the Marauders' first moonlit venture! Personally, I just love the angsting and the uncertainty and the ultimate solidarity that defines the four friends. (For now, at least.)

Question: Who wants to help Sirius undress Remus in the Shrieking Shack? Rowr.

And, hmm, what have I forgotten? Oh, right:

REVIEW!

xx Froody