XI

A Black Night

If she ignored the dementors; the reason they were there; and the efforts she was going to protecting against them, Hermione could almost have said life returned to normal for the next month-and-a-bit. Also the fact she was still flitting through time at will. But that had become her normal. As had a sense of looming danger after the basilisk last year, and the adjustment to not being able to see the year before, so actually, the dementors were pretty well in keeping with the average Hogwarts experience. A disturbing thought.

Things with Harry were not quite as steady. They had literally kissed and made up, but there was something lingering; a hesitancy to talk about anything too deeply; a moment of awkward silence whenever they found themselves alone together. Times when Hermione would have touched him before - just a nudge, mind - and times he would have done the same for her - gently guiding her hand was something she hadn't realised he was doing regularly until he wasn't.

Every bit of physical contact served as a harsh reminder. Every thought and memory of Harry was still tainted, no matter how much they chatted and laughed together. She had written him a valentine, jumping on the excuse to put her emotions to paper, but she doubted she would have the confidence to give it to him come the day; it would only complicate things. Is this why Lavender says boys and girls can't be friends without something more between them?

All in all, it was not helping her patronus effort. If she could just-

"Miss Granger," Flitwick grouched, "is my class boring you?"

"Yes!" she shouted as she bolted to attention. "Oh, uh, no sir. No." - then, feeling bad for lying to a teacher - "Maybe a little?"

"The general counter-spell is a most useful charm, Miss Granger. Although," he chuckled, "would I be correct to suspect your boredom stems from already knowing this?"

Hermione gave him a sheepish grin, because yes, she absolutely did know finite incantatem. Not learning that spell would be like learning to drive and only asking how the brakes worked once you were doing sixty down the highway. Not to mention the charm suited her perfectly; it called for little finesse, but a lot of willpower to overcome the intent behind the spell being countered.

"Well then, if you can demonstrate the charm perfectly on the item before you, I shall not deduct any points for poor behaviour, hmm?" Flitwick challenged.

Hermione flicked her wand. The spell put up quite the fight, but it was cut off from its caster, imbued with a limited font of power; victory over it was inevitable. She paid more attention to the way its aura flared as it died than what she was doing. Attention broken by Flitwick's incessant clapping.

"Wordless magic! Excellent, Miss Granger, truly excellent; little wonder you were dozing off!"

Hermione had nothing to say to that, not having intended to show off; it was simply easier not to say the words sometimes. For complex spells, or to add a little power, certainly, but in everyday use she no longer saw the necessity. Am I that far ahead of my peers? I suppose five hours extra per day must be adding up by now…

The lesson continued without her involvement, and soon she was packing her things away, hanging back to wind her turner (Flitwick was one of few teachers in the know, because, as Minerva put it, it was impossible to bring such a heavily charmed object into his classroom without him picking up on its presence), and setting off for her next session with professor Lupin. As ever, it was an effort not to ask herself how it had gone, only this time she had two such questions on her tongue.

Then again, why ask when I can go find out?

Stepping out the door, she mentally braced herself in the bust corridor and drew her wand. Technically, the rules were 'no casting in the corridors'. She had stopped caring about that rule around the time she stopped being able to read it off Filch's noticeboard. Also, it only banned casting, not failing to cast, which was the most likely outcome ahead of her; while the charms Flitwick was teaching third years may have been trivial, her extra-curricular work was anything but.

"Protego," she murmured, with a slow lift of her wand.

The result was weak. Totally intentional. No need for anything stronger, so what does it matter if this is near my best? The hard part was not the strength, nor the consistency, which was good as its power and solidity flickered like a candle in a stiff breeze. The hard part was…

"Protego. Protego. Protego."

…layering them side by side without the previous casts dissipating. For now, she only aimed for four: One directly ahead, four foot high and one wide; one off to either side, the same dimensions; and one across the floor beneath the others - the step-checker, she called it.

They held, for all of five seconds, before the left shield winked out and refused to come back. With the others threatening to do the same, she had to make do without. Still, this is progress. Now to test it…

She walked forward, slow and steady, pushing her power as she went, sweeping her wand through the air before her like a cane, motion mimicking intention, until - There!

Something was pushing back against her right shield.

"Oi!"

Someone.

"Sorry," she said, stepping round them - which I can, because I know they're there! - and ignoring whatever they were grumbling about to focus on the spell. It was draining her, both mentally and magically, faster than she expected, but it was also working! The concept was proven; all she needed now was to turn four (three) wavering shields into a stable dozen, score, hundred - dare she imagine a thousand?

Losing herself in such dreams was enough to collapse the charm entirely, but she would have had to drop it momentarily anyway to have anything left in her for a patronus attempt. No, I am not stretching myself too thin. Merely allocating resources in an efficient manner for maximised effect, is all. And you can't argue with the results!

She held a hopeful skip in her step all the way to meet Lupin. His being a little late did nothing to impact her mood; his reason for it was intriguing enough he was forgiven instantly.

"Your last session?" she asked, not sure she'd heard him right.
"Indeed," he said as he walked around the room, "I believe you know Ms Stimpson, and no doubt you've bumped into Ms Winters as a fellow Gryffindor. And there are several others all eager to learn the charm."

I should have known Patricia wouldn't do nothing. And Madeline would want to learn; every time she gets near a dementor must be horrific for her.

"I guess it makes sense I'm not the only one."
"Ah, but you were the only one to ask me in such a… convincing manner."

Hermione put hands to hips and ground her teeth - a terrible habit her parents weren't around to see developing. "You would have taught me if I hadn't?"

"No. No, I thought you too young. Still do, to be frank, but I sincerely hope you prove me wrong. And I appreciate your continued discretion regarding my 'little furry problem'."

"Eh," she waved off his unneeded gratitude, "not as if I'm the only one keeping mum by now."
"To my knowledge, you are the only student aware."

"What? But… how?" She wasn't meaning to insult his efforts to hide it, but… "It's so obvious."

"To an astute mind, I suppose it must be. To a less inquisitive child? To a child raised to believe all werewolves are little more than savage beasts, who cannot imagine ever holding a civil conversation with one? But, we're getting distracted; you are here to learn. Speaking of, I have a new technique for you to try, regarding your memories."

"Really?"

She was happy to drop that tangent, especially when it meant learning instead.

"Ms Winters has also been struggling to harness a memory - why, she does not say, not that it should matter for either of us - but she has had some success focusing entirely on her state of mind instead."

"That sounds…" - sensible - "why is that not the norm?"

"Most people struggle to manipulate their own emotions to a sufficient degree, and recalling a happy memory is the simplest way around this obstacle. I had heard of masters of the charm bypassing the memory through experience, but never of a student skipping the step entirely. However, if you would like to try…?"

Trying began with meditation. As much as she hated it, Hemione didn't complain; rather than calming and emptying her mind (as if), she racked her brain, drawing up all the memories she had been using, then did her best to disseminate her emotions from the scenarios. In each feeling, she sought to lose herself. To that end, she formed in her mind a room, which a solitary bathtub dominated. Stripping off her current feelings and apprehensions, she climbed in and let herself sink beneath the water; the water which was liquid happiness, glee, excitation, satisfaction, hope.

Hope. Her chest tightened and her magic stirred. The other feelings were still bogged down in memories, but there was something different about hope; it was not stuck in the past - could not be stuck in the past. It was future happiness, turning back through time to drag itself into being. Self-fulfilling. To hope for success was to create success by way of hope.

I can use this.

Before the feeling could slip away, she brought her wand to ready and drove forth all the magic she could into it, hoping it would be enough. She found a little more hidden away and put that in too; shouted the incantation to the heavens - if she was loud enough, might the echoes still linger when the hope was fulfilled, there as a cry of triumph?

Triumph!

Something pulsed within the forming spell; where previously the magic had always gathered in her wand like it was corked, it now spilled forth. A mixture of relief and exhaustion had her on her knees, but she didn't mind the way the stone hurt, because it was all right. It was fine; everything was going to be fine. The air was caressing her, pulling her to her feet once more; there was a crackle of building energy in the atmosphere, promising action. A gentle tingling on her forehead telling her tomorrow would be a better day.

"Wonderful!" Lupin cried out. "Absolutely wonderful work! Now, see how long you can keep it up."

His intrusion was too much: The calm shattered; the plug was rammed back into her wand; she was seriously damned tired. And just like that, the sensations were gone.

Lupin was congratulatory all the same. "A non-corporeal patronus; well done Hermione. A touch unstable, barely visible, but you got the feel just right. No doubt you'll be casting the real thing in no time."

It isn't enough. Fuzzy feelings won't scare off a dementor; won't save my friends. I need to do better. I can do better.

She lifted her wand, but a hand pushed her arm down and she hadn't the strength to fight it.

"Enough for today," Lupin said soothingly. "That was excellent, but you're exhausted. You end up in the infirmary for magical fatigue, Poppy will never let me hear the end of it."

Hermione protested, but Lupin was having none of it, and to be honest he was right; she was fighting the urge to lie down right there in the middle of the classroom. And I have a turn to complete after this… I wonder if Flitwick will mind me sleeping at the back? He could conjure some cushions; some great big comfy cushions I could lay my head on and-

Lupin caught her on the way to the floor and she jerked awake in his arms.

"Alright there Miss Granger?"

"Fine, fine," she mumbled. "Tired."

"Take a seat," he urged, summoning one over. "I have a pepper-up lying around here somewhere, that should keep you on your feet until you get to your dorms."

She shook her head. "I have history fourth period."

"You can sleep through that. Merlin knows I used to."

There was something wrong with a teacher encouraging a student to sleep in class, but Hermione was not in the mood nor state to disagree.

A mangy black dog slunk out from beneath the whomping willow and turned his nose to the castle on the hill. So many scents, so familiar and yet so different, and far too many missing; he had hoped, desperately hoped, that returning might return those precious memories to him, but it seemed they were as gone as a scent upon the harsh highland wind.

Maybe he wouldn't kill the rat right away; maybe he would tear those treasures from his mind first. How unfair it was that he got to keep them, he who had brought them all to such an end, while the faithful hound was thrown into a cage with nothing. A cage we deserved.

The idea drove him on almost as fiercely as the presence of dementors patrolling at his back. What they were doing here, at a school - what they were doing near Prongs' son - he would find out, and then there would be a reckoning. Such a reckoning.

But first, the rat. The rat dies!

Gaining entry was easy; under cover of night he followed the scent of that ugly ginger cat he keep bumping into, which led him through a pane-less window round the back of the greenhouses. From there a secret passage led most of the way to the tower; to his quarry. The Fat Lady would be the challenge; she had denied him before, denied him his right and screamed bloody murder so loud he had to slash her to silence it.

The man in him hoped she was alright.

The dog didn't much care if she wasn't.

They needed that fucking rat.

At the entrance, he found the destroyed portrait gone, and another in its place. An armoured man slumbered therein, leant upon the hilt of his greatsword as he snored. The dog knew his name; it was somewhere in there, lurking under all the fog, swirling around elusive as a fish refusing to bite. No matter. No time. Get the rat.

He barked his frustration and startled the guard to wakefulness.

"Wha-huh. Who goes there? What dastardly knave stalks this dark hour?"

"Woof."

"Ah! Aha! Just a hound," the façade of a man proclaimed leaning closer. "Dost thou also guard these halls, faithful friend of men?"

Faithful? Friend? These words sound wrong together. Tainted.

"Woof."

"As I had thought! And well that ye do; a thieving moon is high, and so the unscrupulous drag thyselves from thine hideaways, out to terrorise good folk."

The dog had not noted the moon; rats didn't care, so why should he?

"Aroo?"

"Indeed; I oft question the minds of those, such as would impose sick immorality upon another. But hark; I have a geas for ye. Wouldst thou join me a while, here to stand guard this station, and protect the innocents beyond? 'Tis a most noble calling."

The dog whined and scratched at the wall beside the painting. Let me in! Let me at him! So close. So close I can smell his stench! So close!

"Ah, wisht thou entry? Knowest thou then, that I am bound by oath to bar all who know not the words of passing." - the knight tapped a gauntleted finger against his chin - "And yet… a hound about at such an hour… such purpose in thy gait… why, I have not seen such resolve since the good baron and his best were apart! Does thy master lie mayhap beyond this gate? Art thou called to his side?"

Idiot! Let me in!

"Woof! Woof!"

"My sincerest apologies good creature; let this lowly knight not stand one moment longer in the way of the loyal and the brave. Attend thy master with blessings upon ye!"

The knight bowed low, and the portrait swung open. Finally! The dog was through in an instant, bounding with vicious joy, only to skid to a halt as he took in the room beyond: A fire burned in the grate; a fresh scent of mankind and a hint of vanilla filled the air; the scratching of a quill came to an abrupt stop.

"Hello?"

Like a stag caught in the light of Filch's lantern, the dog froze as he studied the threat. A girl; young of age; uncertain of voice but dangerous of posture, tensed and with wand already to hand; hair massed in unruly curls and eyes… covered in cloth?

"Who's there?"

The dog couldn't believe his luck; he was encountered, but not discovered. He starting creeping for the boys' staircase, hoping the girl would assume she was imagining things.

"I'm not going to tell on you for being out."

Good kid. No-one likes a rat. Almost to the stairs…

"Come on, I know you're there. No offense, but you stink like a wet dog."

-Hands upon him, rough and uncaring. Manacles clanking between his wrists; a hard shove into a dank cell.

"Eugh. This one stinks o' wet dog. Couldn't they clean 'em up 'fore sending 'em to us?"

The door slamming shut; freedom taken away; the cold closing in, bringing with it the memory of what he had done: Of his failure-

Sirius Black ran on two legs to the stairs; ran from the memory of twelve years' regret; ran toward redemption. The girl didn't matter now he was in. The pain couldn't touch him through his shield of rage; his promise of violence. She could raise the alarm if she liked, but the rat would be dead before anyone came. After that… after that, let the dementors have their meal. Sirius Black the man died twelve years ago; with his revenge complete, there would be nothing left for them to take.

Live to hunt. Live for the pup.

"Fine, be like that!" the girl called behind him as he mounted three stairs at a time, counting the steps and the seconds until the moment he had dreamt of those past twelve years.

So close.

He burst into the room, smashing the wooden barrier aside with a pulse of pure, murderous intent. From one stride to the next he was the hound again, on the hunt and thirsting for vermin blood. No good being stealthy about it; the rat had an unnatural sense for danger, even when he slept. It was the only thing Wormtail had ever been good for as a marauder; without it, he would have been cut adrift for sure. Without it, none of it would have happened. Damned coward.

The thrill of the hunt claimed him. Leaping over beds, tearing through sheets, following the stench of fear and treachery wherever it led him. Barking over the startled cries of the boys in the dorm. Listening for the scurrying of a dead man. Hearing it.

Hearing it.

Find it.

Find him!

FIND!

KILL!

A hand in his face; flesh in his way; the sweet taste of blood in his mouth. A flash of grey making for the door. No!

Must close the door… need hands… need the man body. Become the man, ignore the pain, silence the voices - silence them once and for all when we kill the rat! A mad scramble for the door. The rat is so fast; the man's legs are weak; they betray us.

Stumbling. Slamming the door. A pained squeak; a tail pinched in the frame and torn free. The worm-tail stays, but the traitor is gone.

Gone.

Gone.

A crowd of angry, frightened boys cowered in the corner, wands raised and ready to strike. Threat. The door blocked his escape; the door as much a traitor as the rat. If only we'd had a wand.

…Wands raised…

A growl bubbled in Sirius' throat as he advanced on the boys. He saw the terror in their eyes; in the way their hands trembled. Weak. They wouldn't stop him. They wouldn't have survived the war, not for all their wands and magic. Need it. Take it.

One stepped in front of the others - the redhead. The boy with the rat. The boy who sheltered a criminal. A bite lay on his arm; blood in Sirius' mouth. Sweet; so much sweeter as the dog. He rolled it about his fangs, the growl turning to a snarl. The harbourer should suffer; should know what he had done. He's an innocent. He would take the boy's wand; would win it in a fight, then it would be his. Then it wouldn't betray him. The boy; betrayed as we were.

"St-stop. Not another step, you hear," the boy challenged. A proper Weasley. Fabian would have liked this one. "You want to hurt my friends, you gotta go through me!"

The dog grinned, viciously.

Fine; he did ask for it.

Dog and man in agreement; in motion. United by purpose and violence, moving as one like they did before, back when things were good and life worth living. A spell flashed off the boy's wand, struck a foreleg, turned it soft as jelly. A liability as a leg. Merely useless as an arm.

The man came out mid pounce, turning a savaging to a tackle. Down they both went in a tumble of limbs, scattering the boys like bowling pins. The man was weak, but the boy was a boy, and untested; unbroken.

Still, he held tight to his wand, only releasing it when the man bit down like a dog. More blood; more sustenance for an ailing body. Meat! The twisted temptation to drink a little more. The sweetness intensified as his tongue began to lengthen, his teeth - No, we need the wand!

Grasping; grabbing; wrenching free. The flush of power as it resists its new master. The smouldering resentment as it submits.

Sirius rolled away and brought his new wand up to face the children. One of them, emboldened - there's the Gryffindor spirit! - cast an expelliarmus. Sirius brought up a silent protego to block it.

The wand disobeyed. His power flowed and fluxed and tore free, free, FREE! The explosion hurled him back to slam against that thrice-damned door. The boys were cast against the opposite wall-

Pettigrew slashed his wand behind him. A rippling wave flicked from his wand to strike the pavement; a great crash rent the air and the muggle crowd was cast all about, dead before they hit the walls-

A terrified hound bolted from the room, eyes fixed forward lest they see what carnage the man had left in his wake. The girl met him on the stairs, coming up. He could go right through her - Just a girl! - right round her, bouncing off the wall (not dead, not living), spilling out into the common room. No sign of the rat; no chance to look. Gone. Slipped through our fingers again! Failed again!

Shouts from up the stairs; a house rousing to alertness. The alarm going out.

Flee.

Harry heard some sort of a ruckus coming up from the dorm below, which was impressive given how little sound carried through the floors at Hogwarts. He pressed his ear to the floor, but it had fallen briefly silent; when he returned a moment later with a cup, he didn't need it; the next crash carried up through the stairwell, followed shortly by a startled shout.

In a flash he had his wand to hand and was heading down the stairs. The landing outside the third years' door was covered in wood splinters, so he dashed inside. Three wands met him as he skidded to a halt; Seamus had to fling a spell wide to avoid hitting him. Given the state of the room, Harry couldn't blame him.

One of the beds was busted up; another was happily on fire, though the flames were not spreading. The door was half-gone, explaining the wood splinters. The boys were stood around, somewhat aimless now they'd lowered their wands, and in the middle of the room, laid out in a puddle of blood on the floor, was Ron Weasley.

With Hermione crouched over him, because why wouldn't she be there?

"He bit me, 'Mione, he bit me!"

"Hold still," she commanded, not that Ron was actually moving. She picked up his arm and ran her hand down it, gasping when she came to the injury everyone else could see; the deep bite marks around his wrist.

"He bit me. Oh, Merlin."

"Who bit you? Who was it?" - Ron chose to cry instead of answering - "Well? Who bit him?"

"B-Black," Dean mumbled. "It was Sirius Black."

"This wound… it's not a human bite pattern," Hermione said, half to herself.

Seeing no-on else was interested in getting close enough to help, Harry went over and knelt on the other side of Ron. Hermione sniffed the air and cocked her head.

"Harry?"

"How do you do that?" he asked.

"Can you do this later?" Ron said, near hysterical. "He bit me!"

"Yes, right," Hermione muttered, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a plethora of stuff. Quills, pens, and bags of who-knew-what were dumped on the floor until she found the bottle she was after. "Pour this on the wound. All of it."

Harry took the bottle and did as she said. The wound started closing up right away, but not cleanly.

"What's that gonna do?" Ron sobbed. "Why bother? Just let me die."

"You are hardly dying, Ronald," she scoffed. "Why would you want - oh."

She raised a hand to her mouth, then quickly removed it - must have caught a whiff of the blood all over it.

"Not a human bite," Harry said, recalling her earlier words. "It was Black?" he demanded of Seamus.

"Yeah. Yeah, he was… I mean, he was this big dog, then a guy, then a dog again, it was crazy."

"Not a dog," Ron moaned. "A wolf."

Harry sat back on his heels, finally understanding the other boys' reluctance to get close to Ron's blood. It was a bit late though; he had it on him, and Hermione… Hermione was covered in it - she even had some wiped across her jaw.

"A werewolf bite? What do we do? Hermione?"

She answered by addressing the other boys: "Go get professor Lupin."

"Lupin? Why?"

"Because he's - just get him! Now!"

The anger creeping into her voice had them running - or was that relief at being able to get even further away, to a distance where they wouldn't smell the sickly tang of iron hanging in the air? Harry turned back from watching them leave to find Hermione was leaning even closer, running her wand across the bite while Ron tried to pull his arm away. Her frown told a worrying story.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked. Apart from the obvious.

"I'm trying to heal the wound, but the lingering intent from Black is nasty, and it's fighting me."

"But you can beat it, right?"

She deflated as she shook her head. "I wish I could. I really wish, but intent this strong? Short of stopping the bleeding, there's nothing I can do."

"No!" Ron screamed. "No, that's not fair! It's not fair, why can't you save me? I saved you!"

Hermione threw his arm back at him and stood up, taking a step away. Her wand stayed trained on him, but Harry got the impression it was with very different intent.

"Don't you dare, Ronald Weasley," she hissed.

His eyes boggled. "But, but I-"

"Shut up. Shut up!" She dug around in her pocket and pulled another bottle, which she threw to Harry - her aim so off he barely caught it. "Make him drink that."

"What is it?" Ron asked, but he didn't fight when Harry poured it down his throat. Seconds later his head lolled to one side, and he started to snore softly.

"Dreamless sleep," Hermione explained. "No need us all suffering."

"Hermione… what did he mean-"

"Don't. Just, don't. We need to clean this blood off, it might be infected." - she started scourgifying herself - "Please tell me you don't have any open wounds?"

Harry checked himself even though he knew he didn't. He was about to point out the spots of blood she had near her mouth, when she beat him to it - her tongue flicked out and cleaned her lips on reflex. He watched in horror as she smacked her lips a few times; grimaced at the taste; and realised what she'd done.

...

"Shit."

Harry was torn. On the one hand, he wanted to be helping in some way. On the other, he didn't want to stay too close to a potentially infectious Ron, nor a Hermione who was self-inducing vomiting over in the corner. He was relieved when Professor Lupin and Madame Pomfrey came charging into the room and took over.

Pomfrey stopped to layer several charms over herself, forming a shimmering barrier on her skin and a viscous bubble around her head. Lupin rushed straight over with no regard for his own safety and starting inspecting Ron's wound, waking the boy with a spell.

"What is the matter with Ms Granger?" Pomfrey asked, glancing at the sorry sight.

"She got some blood in her mouth."

The way the matron's face fell was crushing. "And you? Any infection risk?"

"I don't think so. Will she be alright? It was just a drop…"

"Yes, Harry," Lupin said, firmly, "she'll be alright. Either way."

Rich of you to say; you're not the one who might be a werewolf.

"What we need to know," Pomfrey said, going over to give Harry a check before moving on to help with Ron, "is how Black was able to transform without the moon. It may have lowered the risk of transmission."

"He wasn't in lycanthrope form," Lupin answered. "This bite is from a dog - albeit a large one."

"It was Black!" Ron protested. "We saw him! And, and he was a man sometimes."

"Don't worry, I believe you," Lupin assured him with a comforting hand on his shoulder - Ron flinched at the contact on his behalf. "Now, this dog: tall as a man's hip; black shaggy coat; with golden eyes?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"That was his animagus form."

"Animagus?" Hermione called from her corner. "So he isn't a werewolf?"

"He wasn't when I knew him."

"You're sure?" Harry quizzed; the Prophet said there was a wolf at Hogwarts, and that didn't seem like a lie.

"Yes," Lupin and Hermione said in unison. Weird.

"However," Lupin continued, "I do not know what he has gotten himself into since then. He may well be lycanthropic now, and if so… his animagus form, being canine, is likely infectious."

"We must assume he is until we know otherwise," Pomfrey said. "This room is now under quarantine."

Harry baulked, but did think to ask; "what about the other boys?"

"Already shut in my office," Lupin was quick to answer. "Reporting no injuries, but they will need to be checked and cleansed."

With a flick of his wand he launched spectral silver through the nearest wall; Harry caught a glimpse of a tail forming before it was gone.

"I've informed Albus; the hallways from here to my office must be scourged."

Pomfrey nodded. "Then we have it contained."

"If there is anything to contain."

Lupin cleansed himself thoroughly of Ron's blood, then moved over to Hermione. He vanished the vomit from her robes and hooked an arm around her, helping her to get seated on a bed. Harry took that as a sign she wasn't infectious and made to go over, determined to show his support as much as the professor was, but a raised hand and tired look stopped him.

"Best you don't, Harry. Lycanthropy is infectious within a minute of transmission."

"But you're not worried?"

"I have… I have certain protections in place already."

"Can't you put the same on me?"

Hermione giggled, and Lupin smirked.

"Is he always this clueless to the danger he's signing up to?" he asked her.

"Actually, he is being unusually responsible right now," she said, her voice strangely flat. "If I were the one bitten, he'd probably have tried sucking the infection out."

"Does that work?" Ron asked, eyeing his wound thoughtfully.

That set Hermione off completely; her whole body was racked with manic laughter. She fell back onto the bed and curled into a ball, cackling.

Lupin raised an eyebrow in concern. "Poppy, is she-"

"Going into shock? Possibly. Move aside please."

Harry was left stood in the middle of the room, useless, as the adults sorted things out. That made a nice change; usually it was up to the kids around here. Usually his near death experiences ended with him somewhere between unconscious and dead. He didn't know what to do with all the energy pent up in him; how to stop the shaking in his hands, or the growling in his chest. Hunting down Sirius would have done it, but no, he was stuck in quarantine; stuck in a room with two maybe-werewolves. He'd barely escaped being one himself - probably.

What if he did have a cut somewhere; would a papercut be enough? A splinter? There were shards of wood everywhere. Blood splatters all over. Stains on his clothes were that blood hadn't quite been scourgified away. They were fading now, though, along with the rest of his vision; darkness creeping in around the edges.

So this is what shock feels like? I don't like it. I don't like it very much at all.

He would come to, as was becoming habit, in the infirmary.

A/N

Not gonna lie, kind of blows my mind that someone likes this enough to be rereading it already. That you're enjoying it the second the time is possibly the greatest compliment you could give.
This chapter was interesting to write, because the idea came to me as I was writing something else, and I am not a pantser by nature.
And, of course, say it with me now... Sorry Hermione.