A/N: Quite a different chapter, with a few different character perspectives. I'll go back to the usual four from the next one onwards, but it seemed appropriate here. Thanks so much for your comments!

Chapter 4: Here Comes the Flood

"Mummy?"

The witch sighed, blinking from her sleep, and rolled over to find her son next to her bed. His blonde hair and pale face caught the moonlight that drifted in through the window – she had been too tired to close the curtains before falling into bed that night. Another long day, and her husband away on business. Exhaustion easily took over on days like that. "What is it, my lovely?" she asked, fighting off a yawn.

His eyes were wide, frightened. "The screaming," he murmured, "it woke me up."

Screaming? She frowned, sitting up, and was about to ask him what he meant when a sound – a shriek, a howl – cut through the night, and his small body tensed. "Oh, darling," she said, and reached for him; he gladly hurried into her arms, burrowing under the duvet, protected from the noise by his mother's embrace. "It's okay. It's just the shack, remember?"

He nodded, voice muffled against her nightgown. "Just the ghosts, mummy?"

She let her gaze drift to the window again. The last time it had been bad enough to wake her son, he'd been only three. Now, nearing his fifth birthday, she knew that some explanations didn't cut it anymore. But truthfully, what else could she say? That their home, the place they should feel safest, sometimes felt like the least safe place in the world? That Hogsmeade was home to such furious, distressed apparitions that it made it near impossible to sell their cottage and find somewhere quieter? Apparently, the quietening of the spectres over the past year or so had been something they should not have taken for granted. Maybe, despite everything they told their son, there really was something to fear in this dark, cold corner of the highlands.

That howl, again. She felt an icy wash of fear down her spine.

"Just the ghosts," she whispered, rubbing his back in soothing circles. "Nothing to be scared of…"

James had led a charmed life, really. His parents adored him, he wanted for nothing, he had a group of friends who would do anything for him and who he would protect and support till his dying day. He was clever, and bright, and charismatic. For many years, he thought the scariest thing to happen to him was when he wandered away from his parents in Diagon Alley aged six and couldn't find them again for twenty minutes.

But in all his sixteen years of charmed existence, he hadn't truly known fear. Not until now.

A branch swiped at him, catching his cheek, drawing blood, but Severus did not care. All he could think was that he was so close, now, that finally the pendulum was swinging his way and he was not going to miss his chance to see those - those cretins, those bullying bastards get what was coming to them.

The knot performed as Black had suggested it would. Wildly-waving branches stilled, and he crept closer, seeing the gaping mouth of a tunnel that had previously been disguised behind the movement of the tree.

The tunnel was dark, silent but for his own footsteps. It crossed his mind that maybe Black had fooled him, that he would just end up somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, or off the grounds entirely, and his grip on his wand tightened.

He paused, to gather his wits, to consider turning back –

- and then an unmistakable sound, a scream that sent shivers down his spine, echoed off the rough, mud-strewn walls.

His eyes narrowed.

Sirius watched in surprise as James bolted out of the room. I've never seen him move so fast, he thought, almost amused.

He turned his gaze to Peter, taking in the familiar round face, now pale, the blood drained from it minutes ago at his friend's words, his eyes wide and horrified. Sirius frowned. Peter swallowed, hard. "Fuck," the boy murmured, then dashed out of the room after James.

Sirius stared out the open door, waiting for his mind to catch up with what had just happened. They were overreacting, surely? Christ, could no one take a joke these days? As if that oily git would go anywhere near the Willow, would ever dare to chance across Remus –

Remus.

"Fuck," he whispered, and was moving before he even realised it.

The moon pulled, pulled at a deep fury inside the wolf – wrenched and dragged and shattered to pieces until it could not hold itself back any longer, howls tearing from its throat, throwing itself again and again against the splintered wood of the trapdoor – nothing but the base instinct of where are they, where are the pack – and then the scent, that stench of prey, so close, and it washed over the wolf like blood, claws bared, ready to slash and rip –

The pack never arrived. The moon was relentless. The wolf could not find respite.

Time and space were a blur as Sirius pelted out of the tower, out of the castle, the cold night air hitting him in a frigid crash. He reached the Whomping Willow and found its branches still, creaking just slightly in the wind. No one else was there. Which meant…

A howl, barbaric and torn, rent the air.

Sirius dropped to his knees, and vomited.

He would see it, he thought, in every nightmare for months. That face, that utter terror distilled in dark eyes, face pale as it turned back to him, gasping and stuttering and wholly drowned out by the thump and thud and scratch of the wolf, smelling them there in the tunnel and trying frantically to get out, to rip them limb from limb.

"Snape," James hissed, his heart thudding so loudly and so desperately that he felt sure the wolf could hear that, too. "Quick, we have to – "

"You tried to kill me," the boy's eyes widened further, if it were possible, hands shaking as he raised his wand. "Tried to – to set your – your monster on me – "

James did not have the time or the patience to listen to this turd describe one of his best friends in this way, no matter how currently accurate it might be. He lunged forward with Quidditch-honed reflexes, grabbed Snape's sleeve, and hauled him back down the tunnel.

Another howl, like a scream from deep down in his bones, chased them back to the Willow.

There had been many times when Peter Pettigrew had wondered why he was in Gryffindor. Brave was not typically a word anyone had ever used to describe him before he arrived at Hogwarts, and, if he hadn't been sure that a hat could not make an administrative error, he would've gone straight to Dumbledore and asked to be sorted again.

These thoughts lingered at the back of his mind for years. Even when, in fourth year, Sirius – of all people – had said to him, "Pete, you're performing illegal, underage magic to better support your unregistered werewolf friend - how much braver do you want to be?", he hadn't fully believed it. But he started to consider that maybe, this was just how his valour manifested itself. Not everyone could have the bold and brazen bravery of James or Sirius or even Remus. Some people had to have quiet courage, surely?

This was what he told himself as he raced from their dorm, not out to the Whomping Willow, but to Professor McGonagall's living quarters, hammering desperately on the door until it swung open, his head of house frowning with concern, wrapped in a tartan dressing gown and trying to blink sleep away. "Goodness gracious, Mr Pettigrew, what on earth is the matter?" she asked.

Be brave, young Wormtail, he told himself. Be bold.

"Something has happened," he blurted out. "And now Snape's gone after the werewolf…"

Her breath stilled for a moment.

He'd never seen her look so frightened.

Sirius vomited for what feels like hours, but was probably only a few minutes. Nothing was left in his stomach now, and acid burned the back of his throat. The least he deserved. He slumped to the ground, the dull cold washing over him. He closed his eyes, and, not for the first time, wished he were dead. That maybe death could have come for him even an hour ago, before he opened his stupid fucking mouth and brought the whole fucking world down around him.

Brought his friendships down around him.

The thought made him heave again. That was how McGonagall found him, heaving, hunched on the grass.

"Sirius," she said quietly, urgently, and it struck him that he couldn't remember the last time she called him anything other than a pointed 'Mr Black'. Probably first year.

He lifted his head, finding her gaze through the blur of sweat and fear.

She took in the sight of him, the pitiful mess of teenage boy clumped on the ground, and something almost softened in her gaze. "Go, wait in the headmaster's office."

He nodded, and slowly stood, before something else drew his attention. Behind him, the silence was shattered by two scrambling figures, emerging gasping from the tunnel. Pale and bruised and shaking, yes, but James and Snape were okay – they were alive – they were unhurt. Sirius felt like he could vomit all over again, this time from relief. He stared past Snape to his best friend, trying to catch his eye, to communicate his own fear and pain and somehow, his regret, regret that raged like a wildfire in his gut.

But James wouldn't meet Sirius' gaze.

" – a werewolf, professor! They tried to feed me to a, a werewolf, they've been hiding under your nose this whole time!"

Dumbledore did not blink, did not move his gaze from the sallow-faced boy in front of him. His fingers were steepled in front of his chin, and he was settled in his chair as if playing a particularly challenging game of chess. You wouldn't have guessed that it was nearing midnight, or that he was having hate-filled invectives hurled at him.

James found he couldn't stand any longer, and sank into the nearest chair. He had avoiding sitting when he first arrived, as the only chair left was next to Sirius, his friend who was so desperate for his gaze, his reassurance, that it damn near radiated from him. He'd instead stood in the corner, arms crossed tightly in front of him, trying to steady his breathing back down to something calmer. It was not easy.

Snape had barely stopped rambling since they'd crossed the threshold of Dumbledore's office, trailing behind McGonagall like a funeral march. James had decided early on to try to tune it out, unless he was addressed directly; otherwise, he worried that the anger would boil back to the surface, and he might lose control. Something he'd been battling against since Sirius had sauntered into the dormitory, and said with a smirk, "Well, I had an entertaining journey back here."

He became aware that the headmaster was now looking at him, those blue eyes not twinkling with mischief as he was so used to seeing, but searching, sombre, for some kind of answer. "I'm sorry," James murmured, shaking his head to bring himself back to the room. "What did you say, professor?"

Dumbledore didn't seem angry that his attention had drifted; if anything, he looked more understanding. "I asked if you might tell your side of the story, Mr Potter. It does not do to only hear one perspective."

James' gaze flicked briefly to Snape, then to Sirius, before returning to the headmaster himself. "Of course, sir."

Dully, as if reciting a list of dates from a Binns lecture, he talked through what had happened. Sirius' laughter at the thought of Snape maybe getting bashed about by the Willow in the dark; his apparent lack of understanding that maybe, just maybe, the boy might have latched on to what he said about the knot; the frantic race through the castle, into the tunnel; finding Snape with his hand on the handle of the trapdoor, frozen in terror; the sound of the wolf –

His voice cracked at that part. He looked down, drew in a breath. "I got him out of there," he finished quietly. "Moony – Remus, was still safely in the shack when we left. The door was - it was splintering. But he didn't break through."

Dumbledore inclined his head in a brief nod. "You acted with great courage, Mr Potter."

"Courage?!" Snape repeated, his whole body tense, bristling with anger and indignance. "Him and his – his little gang have been hiding a werewolf, and tried to get me turned, or worse, killed – "

"I think you will find," the headmaster interrupted, voice calm but cool, "that the only person who has been hiding a werewolf is me."

Snape gaped at him, finally stunned into silence.

"It also seems, Severus, that you knew you were going somewhere you had no place going, purely to act on a vendetta you cling to," Dumbledore added. He turned his gaze to Sirius, sharp and knowing. "That is not to say that you were not helped along by a truly thoughtless act." Sirius hung his head, face pale. "But I feel safe in determining that it was not said in order to truly hurt you."

"But – "

"No one has been hurt this evening, and for that, we must be incredibly grateful," he continued gravely. "A great many things could have gone wrong, and lives could have been ruined irrevocably." He paused. "Mr Potter, for your quick thinking and undoubted bravery – 150 points to Gryffindor."

James didn't feel grateful. He just nodded.

"I think you should return to your dormitory, and try to rest," Dumbledore advised. "Mr Black and Mr Snape, I require your company a while longer."

James glanced at his best friend, taking in the misery, the guilt that mired his features. But he didn't acknowledge it, just stepped round and made his way to the door. "Goodnight, sir…"

Not that he thought he'd be able to even close his eyes.

The dormitory was quiet when Sirius returned, but no one was asleep. He paused in the doorway, heart thudding in his chest, taking in the scene before him: James sat on his bed, propped up wearily against the pillows, staring at the bedcovers. Peter was perched at the end of the bed, looking exhausted and out of his depth.

"Prongs…"

James looked up at Sirius' voice; he looked older, resigned. "Did he – "

"I'm not expelled," Sirius said quickly, stepping forwards, his voice cracked and quiet. "Detention, for the foreseeable. And…mentoring sessions, with McGonagall."

James nodded blankly. "Snape?"

"Same, but with Slughorn." Sirius shoved his hands in his pockets. "And Dumbledore said that if Snape tells anyone about Moony, he'll be out."

James nodded again, looked down at his hands. "Hopefully that's enough to keep his mouth shut."

Sirius was fairly certain it was – the look on the other boy's face at the not-empty threat had said a lot – but didn't say so. He knew he was on the thinnest of ice, could hear it creaking and cracking beneath him. He chewed on his lip a moment. "Look – I know you're angry with me, and you have every right – "

"I'm not angry." James looked up at him again, and it was true, he didn't seem angry – didn't seem much of anything at all. It was disconcerting from his best friend, who normally let every emotion play out across his face, no matter how ridiculous it made him look.

"You…you must be something," Sirius pointed out, glancing at Peter; the boy flinched, looked away, apparently desperate not to be drawn into this conversation. "Surely you're angry?"

"Not angry," James said again, quieter this time. "Sad. I feel – sad, Pads." He rubbed his face wearily. "You didn't think, didn't think about anything except how you felt, and you weaponised our best friend. Just because you didn't think."

Sirius swallowed hard. "I was just – the things he was saying – "

"You knew better," James interrupted at a murmur. "But you did it anyway." He looked up at Sirius again, a look on his face as if he were trying desperately to understand something, to break a code. "If Snape had got that door open before I found him…he could've died. I could've died, Sirius."

Sirius' stomach clenched at those words, and he knew that if he had anything left to throw up, it would be making an appearance now. "You wouldn't – "

"And then how would Remus have lived with himself?" James carried on, quiet, relentless. "If we'd been injured, or killed…they would have had to involve the Ministry. Remus could have been arrested, or executed – "

"Stop," Sirius' voice cracked under the weight of his friend's words, the weight of his own guilt. "James, please – I know I fucked up – just, please. Stop…"

James held his gaze for a long moment before breaking it. He looked at his watch, heaved a sigh so worn and frail it almost hurt to hear. "It's late. I want to be up to check on Moony in the morning. We should try to sleep."

Pete shuffled over to his own bed willingly, while Sirius remained, frozen in place. "I'll go with you. In the morning, I mean."

James met his gaze almost pityingly for a moment before he climbed under the covers, removing his glasses. "Good night, Pads."

It was a dismissal. He turned and made his way to his bed, wondering how he was ever going to sleep tonight. He would've preferred his best friend's anger, he thought as he slid between the sheets. Fury would have felt justified. Fury was something he was used to, something he knew how to face. But instead, he closed his eyes and saw in his head, like a series of wizard photos – James' blank, emotionless face; Snape's pale, terrified rage; Peter's wide-eyed panic; and Moony, alone in the shack.

He eventually fell asleep, tear tracks dried on his cheeks.

Poppy Pomfrey liked predictability. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy a challenge, of course, but in her line of work, if a situation became unpredictable, it meant more could go wrong. No, she much preferred knowing what she was getting herself into.

That was why, back in 1971, when Albus had told her she'd be caring for a werewolf each month, she had nodded, thanked him, and immediately taken herself off to the library. Her readings on the subject, however, did not match up to her practical experience when she met Remus Lupin for the first time in Minerva's office after the start of year feast. The books had told of monstrous viciousness, of barely-human beings who could not be trusted no matter what state the moon was in; meanwhile, in front of her was a scrawny, pale boy, scarred and shy and unwilling to meet her eyes for more than a few seconds.

It had taken him months to trust her. Each full moon, she would walk with him down to the Shack, trying to make idle conversation. The next morning, she would fetch him, and try to keep the pity and concern from her gaze. Usually, he needed to lean heavily on her as they made their way back to the castle. Sometimes, she would have to perform dozens of healing spells before he even had the strength to leave the Shack. But he was always polite, always murmured a faint "good morning" as she called out her arrival.

It had been a surprise, antithetical to her research, to find a marked improvement in his post-transformation state towards the end of his fourth year. Reading had told her that puberty, that change from boy to man, would have a brutal effect on the wolf as well. And yet, he seemed to be improving, barely needing more than a quick diagnostic spell and a few hours of sleep to recover.

It had lulled her into a false sense of security, she supposed. Maybe they had found the right combination of potions, and maybe he was just the sort of boy who could cope, she thought.

Until October 9th, 1976.

Dawn was reaching its rosy fingers across the sky as she crossed the grounds, a light frost crunching beneath her feet as she went. She'd heard about the ruckus the night before, of course - had personally checked over two of the boys in question, finding only a few bruises and a scratched face, thank Merlin - and was now considering whether Remus might want to take some breakfast before he slept, a warming cup of tea, perhaps. She felt a little parched herself; yes, tea would be just the ticket.

She should have considered it a warning sign when she entered the Shack, called out her customary, "good morning, Mr Lupin," and received no reply. Unusual, yes, but surely nothing to get too worried about. She checked the downstairs rooms and found no sign of him, then made her way wearily up the stairs, not noticing the blood that smeared the banister. Nothing untoward at all, in fact, until she opened the door to the bedroom where he sometimes rested until it was time to return to the castle, and saw him lying on the floor, drenched in his own blood.

"He wasn't even conscious," she told the headmaster later, the exhaustion and the fear finally catching up to her. "Much longer and I might not have been able to…"

"But you were," Albus reminded her gently, and pressed another cup of tea into her hands. "You were, and he's going to be just fine."

Unpredictability. She couldn't bear it.

Lily was not usually one to wake up early. She was of the firm belief that waking up even a minute before her alarm was a betrayal of the highest order, and she was often the last in their dorm to crawl out of bed, reluctant to part with the cosy nest of covers.

But that morning – or night, she thought resentfully, looking out the window at the still-dark sky – she had woken at four thirty on the dot, and could not seem to get back to sleep. After lying in bed for a while, bitterly thinking about the sleep she could be having, she finally hauled herself up, wrapped up warm in her robe and slippers, and padded quietly to the door. Might as well get some work done, if she had to be up.

She was not expecting anyone to be in the common room at this hour, and so startled slightly at the silhouette of a figure, slumped on the sofa and staring into the fire. Only when she was a few feet away did she work out that it was James Potter.

He turned his head, as startled to see her as she was to see him, and she frowned. He looked…terrible. Exhausted, yes, but also sad. Broken.

He took his glasses off to rub wearily at his eyes. "You're up early," he said, voice scratchy, worn down.

"So are you." She sank onto the sofa next to him, watching him with some apprehension. She had never seen him like this before. "Are you…okay?"

He shrugged, turning back to the fire. "That's a bit of a complicated one," he replied.

She paused, wondering why she cared to try and alleviate his troubles like this. She felt like she couldn't just leave him here, not like this. "Want to talk about it?" she offered. "I can cope with complicated."

He smiled a smile so unlike any she'd ever seen from him before – the vulnerability was overwhelming, the ache behind those hazel eyes. "It's not really my story to tell," he admitted. "But thanks." He paused. "Have you ever felt just…utterly let down by someone? Like you should be furious but instead you just feel…disappointed and sad?"

She raised her eyebrows. "You might as well be describing me and Sev," she pointed out, adding, "although I admit there has been some fury, too."

He winced, shooting her an apologetic look. "Right. Sorry…"

She shrugged it off. "It is hard to feel like that about a friend." She watched the flames dance in the grate. "I assume this isn't a friend you want to cut ties with?"

He sighed heavily. "He would deserve it," he murmured. "But I couldn't."

This had to be about Black, but she couldn't even hazard a guess as to what he could've done to send his best friend into such a maelstrom. "Well," she said softly, "you're allowed to feel let down in the meantime. And I suppose…work out what it is you need to make things better."

James was quiet for at least a minute. When he did speak again, he sounded older than his years, world-weary. "I'm not even the one who has to forgive him," he murmured.

She frowned, confused, but he didn't seem willing – or able – to say more. She glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece. "You look knackered," she told him gently. "Maybe you should try to get some sleep."

He followed her gaze, seeming surprised to find it the time it was, and nodded. "Yeah," he got up, and looked down at her. "Thanks, Evans."

"Of course," she murmured, holding his stare until he turned away. "See you…"

She listened as his footsteps faded up the stone staircase, and stared into the fire once more. She wasn't sure how she'd be able to focus on her reading now…

Remus had once confessed to his parents that he couldn't remember his transformations, not even the first one. He'd been eleven, about to head to Hogwarts, and when he started speaking he wasn't even sure why it felt like something to confess to. It just came out, blurted across the breakfast table, the fear behind the words like ash in the back of his throat. That was when he realised why: these transformations were so violent, so agonising that his mind could not process them, could not keep them in storage. That was the beast he was, and yet they were sending him off to school? To be surrounded by hundreds of other people, potential victims each month when he had no control, no memory, no mercy? It was a terrifying prospect.

His father had said nothing, just clutched his mug of tea and stared on uncomfortably. Difficult feelings like fear were not in in Lyall Lupin's comfort zone.

His mother, however, had shifted her chair until it was alongside his own, and wrapped her arm round his bony shoulders. "It's not you, though, is it? It's the wolf. That's why you don't remember it." Her voice had been so soft, so calm, enough that he would've gladly believed anything she said. "I'm sure it must be frightening, love. But maybe it's best not to remember. You remember coming back to yourself at dawn, don't you?" He nodded, and she gave him another squeeze. "I'd say that's the most important thing to remember. Professor Dumbledore promised to keep you safe. We have to put our trust in him that he will."

Remus had nodded, brushing his cheek to try to discreetly wipe away a tear. "I know…"

"Just think," Hope Lupin smiled warmly, "all the things you'll learn – all the friends you'll make. Oh, sweetheart. You're going to love it. Those will be the things to remember."

Six years later, when Remus couldn't remember waking up in the Shack, coming back to his human form, he knew that was a bad sign.

It was a mixture of pain – blinding, insistent pain – and the shriek of the wind outside that woke him eventually. Remus slowly opened his eyes, taking stock of where he was and how he felt. He was already in the infirmary, and the room was dimly lit, candles on the walls casting irregular shadows. Through the window opposite his bed, he could see that it was dark outside; he had slept all day.

How he felt was a trickier proposition to understand. The pain was quite unlike anything he'd felt for a while: his arm – his wand arm – was strapped to his chest and throbbed with dull spasms of discomfort. His face felt like someone had smashed something heavy into it. Something on his legs was agony, but being covered by the usual hospital wing linens, he couldn't see what it was, and he wasn't sure he wanted to peel back the sheets to look.

An uncomfortable turn of his head showed the bedside table was laden with potions – Skele-grow he recognised, along with the stronger painkilling potion he sometimes had to take, but there were also several others he wasn't familiar with. The ache in his head made reading the tiny labels, written in Pomfrey's meticulous and swirling handwriting, essentially impossible.

It was at this angle, though, that he noticed a figure in the chair by his bed. Slumped in the chair, his glasses askew, was James, eyes closed. If he was asleep, Remus thought, it wasn't doing him much good – he looked terrible. He hadn't seen his friend look that awful since…well, ever.

It was as if puzzle pieces were slowly, carefully slotting together, but he still couldn't see what the whole picture was. He only knew that it left a discomfited feeling in the pit of his stomach.

James' eyes blinked open then, and he sighed heavily, shifting in the chair to get comfortable before he noticed that Remus was awake. He sat up quickly. "Moony," he murmured, clearing the sleep from his voice. "You're up…"

"I am," he confirmed. His voice sounded like he'd been shouting half the night, scratchy, hoarse. "Not sure it's better than being asleep, to be honest…"

James cringed, trying for a reassuring smile. "I'll get Pomfrey, you're probably due some more potions by now…" He stood, stretching awkwardly and pausing to give his hand a squeeze. "Glad you're okay, Moony."

Remus frowned, or tried to, because moving the muscles in his face brought new pain. "Prongs…what happened?" he asked. Judging from the look on his friend's face, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know. "Is everyone okay?"

James looked towards Madam Pomfrey's office, as if the Medi-witch might bustle in and save him from having to say anything at all. But no one came, and he turned back to Remus, drawing in a slow breath. "Everyone's fine," he promised. A pause. "We…should talk about it tomorrow. When you're feeling a bit better." He hesitated. "Professor Dumbledore wants to be the one to talk to you."

That was the opposite of reassuring. "James," he croaked, surprised at the need, the worry in his own voice. "What happened?"

James hesitated, before lowering himself back into his chair and gripping Remus' hand once more. As he started talking, he lifted his gaze to meet Remus', and the exhaustion and sadness there seemed even louder than the words he spoke.

But, of course, he heard every word. He just wished he hadn't.

Sirius had managed only a few hours of unbroken sleep, lurching from his dreams of Moony and the shack and a blood-curdling fear that felt almost tangible, even on waking. When the sun came up, he dragged himself out of bed and into a shower, hoping the scalding hot water might bring some desperately-needed clarity, but everything remained muddy, blurred around him. He knew it was going to take more than a wash to cleanse this from him.

He'd passed through the common room – Evans had called after him from her position in front of the fire – and through the quiet corridors until he found himself facing the heavy wooden doors of the infirmary. It was there that he came to a juddering halt, his legs leaden, a visceral ache in his throat. On this side of the door, he was still just Sirius, just Padfoot - a nuisance, maybe, a moody shit, but a friend. Flesh and blood and someone who could be cared for, cared about.

On the other side of the door…well, he didn't want to open it and find out. Not yet.

He didn't go to classes that day, or go anywhere near the Great Hall or the common room. He didn't want to interact with anyone, to have to wear a mask, to have to see the disappointment and blame in his friends' eyes. He didn't think he could stomach it.

Outside, a fierce wind whipped through the trees, broke the surface of the lake, brought a cool that permeated through his robes. The weather seemed appropriate: wild, untethered, damaging. It also had the benefit of keeping most of the Hogwarts population indoors, leaving him to brood in peace.

Maybe peace wasn't the right word. His thoughts were spiralling, as if caught on the currents of the wind as well, the same words circling and sinking and rising like a broken chorus. You did this. You were always going to do something like this. This is just who you are. They were always going to see that darkness eventually.

He didn't cry. He didn't do much but try to steady his breathing, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for the axe to fall.

When the dull grey light had faded from the sky, leaving behind too-bright stars in their mocking patterns, he pulled himself up, dusted himself off, and made his way back to the castle. Once again, outside those heavy wooden doors, he stopped.

That was where James found him, an hour later. Slumped, now, against the cold stone wall, knees drawn up to his chest, drawn together like a small child and not a sprawling, aching, nearly-seventeen-year-old. He looked up quickly as the infirmary doors opened, watching his best friend – his brother – emerge.

James looked like a different person. Care-worn, tense, stilted. Sirius looked up at him and wondered if this, all of this, was going to be the thing that made James see who he had really been friends with all this time. A Black, through and through. Black of name and heart and soul and life.

James stopped when he saw Sirius, raking a hand through his hair – trying to delay the inevitable, perhaps. He paused. "You can't go in there, Pads."

Sirius hauled himself off the floor, took a step towards his friend. "I can sweet-talk Pomfrey if need be – I just, I need to talk to Moony – "

"Mate." James reached out, rested his hand on Sirius' shoulder. It was a small gesture, barely anything in the pantheon of expressions of love and friendship in their six years together, but it made Sirius want to curl up in a ball and sob. "He doesn't want to see you. I'm sorry."

He shouldn't have been surprised. Surely he knew better than that. And yet the words carried a sting, delivered a gut punch that could have blinded him. "He - " Sirius murmured, blinking. "You…told him?"

James looked uncomfortable. "He kept asking what had happened. He was…getting himself worked up, Pads. I had to tell him."

Sirius opened his mouth, but no words came. He shook his head, glancing back towards the doors as if he could see Remus there, beyond the oak and hospital curtains and linens, beyond the inevitable bandages and potions and healing spells that always hung in the air post-full, fizzing with kinetic energy, working to stitch up the wounds the moon had wrought. His friend, his Remus, lying there. Hating him.

James squeezed his shoulder, a gentle pressure that brought him back to himself. "Tomorrow's another day," he told him quietly. "Give him time."

It was a nice sentiment. Sirius just wasn't sure that there would ever be enough time to heal this.