Thirty
The Last Full Moon
A battalion of spiders crawled along his scalp, or so the sensation seemed to Remus. He suppressed an involuntary shudder as he took a deep swallow of the cognac he’d poured to calm his nerves. Not that it was really helping, he noted grimly; it was all he could do to still the tremor building up in his limbs.
Shading his eyes, he stared morosely at the vivid ochre and pomegranate shades of the sunset spread out before him. The sun was a ripe strawberry iced with strands of lilac clouds as it worked its way ever nearer the ebony tree line. He could feel the moon’s presence at his back even though it had yet to crest the other horizon. Gritting his teeth, he resolutely refused to acknowledge it “ not this time anyway. He would have to succumb the next cycle, though, even if it meant missing the end of the year banquet. Minerva would understand; she always did.
A quick movement among the lower tree branches caught his eye. Had the bowtruckles finally returned to the sacred circle of mighty elms? he idly wondered. Long displaced by the Fidelius Charm that had blanketed the estate for almost two decades, Hagrid had predicted that they might think their previous stomping grounds were forever haunted.
Not that he pretended to understand bowtruckles, that was for sure. His closest personal encounter had been when Peter and Sirius had run afoul of a small colony in the Forbidden Forest. The wolf he had been that night could not have cared less; it had been intent on warm-blooded prey.
Remus recalled the events clearly. It had been a bitter January night. Not just cold by any stretch of the imagination; but a bone-chilling, mind-numbing cold that clamped its icy jaws around his gut and refused to let go. The moon was scheduled to rise unusually late so Remus had made the most of the bonus hour after supper to put the finishing touches on his Transfiguration essay that was due the next morning. There was always someone to hand it in for him.
The common room had been deserted as the others lingered over pudding in the Great Hall below. He could already feel the inexorable pull of the moon, that strange mixture of anticipation and dread which had made him unable to stomach more than half a bowl of thin soup. But despite the roaring fire and blessed silence, he’d been unable to concentrate and his three friends found him pacing restlessly before the row of mullioned windows in their tower dormitory. Beyond the dark panes, the foreboding silhouette of the Forbidden Forest awaited.
“Blimey, Moony, you’re like a caged lion!” Peter joked as he threw himself upon the unruly bed covers.
“I’m sure Pomfrey will escort you early if you ask,” James soothed.
“Give you time to get a fire blazing in the Shack’s grate before we join up with you,” Sirius suggested with a snide grin.
“And how exactly would you explain that?” Remus stopped in his tracks and stared his dorm mate down. “The place is supposed to be haunted by other-worldly spirits; without bodies, they can’t possibly feel the cold!”
“And you know this how?” Sirius challenged in an unhurried drawl.
Without missing a beat, Remus retorted, “When have you ever known the temperature in Binns’ lessons to be anything short of glacial?”
“He has a point…” Peter muttered.
“On a clear night like this someone might actually suspect the ruddy house was on fire!” Remus cried. With a heavy sigh, he leaned against his four-poster. His muscles groaned in protest but he drew them taut by force of will alone.
Through a lopsided grin, James volunteered, “McGonagall predicted there would be a ring around the moon tonight.”
The rest went unspoken as Remus considered that McGonagall’s prognostication skills were legendary “ at least when it came to weather matters. She claimed it was due to her arthritic knee; but regardless of the reason, their Head of House far outshone any of the Divination teachers Dumbledore had hired until he’d finally discontinued the subject all together.
“Think she’s right?” Sirius posed. “Care to make a wager?”
Peter’s eyes lit up immediately but Remus countered in a factual tone, “Ice crystals in the atmosphere. That’s what causes the ring.”
“My gran always said rings were magical,” Peter defended.
“We’re magical, mate, and you don’t see us holed up with such romantic notions,” Sirius scoffed. “Except for Prongs here.” He elbowed James playfully in the ribs.
“You’re just jealous because Evans never speaks to you,” James remarked.
“She only talks to you to say how much of a waste of space you are,” Peter sniggered at James’ expense.
“It’s a start,” James contended nonchalantly.
“Moon rings are supposed to predict that changes are in store,” Peter maintained.
What sort of changes? Remus pondered inwardly, more to take his mind off the sound of his blood surging in his ears. Springtime? Any moron could say that. Predicting when spring would actually decide to park itself in the Scottish foothills: now that was a gamble.
“It’s going to take more than that to make the lot of you lucky at love,” Sirius announced.
“Skill and finesse,” James prodded.
“Sure, that’s how I do it,” Sirius acknowledged. “But the rest of you are irredeemably hopeless.”
“Perhaps it will finally be Moony’s turn!” Peter put forth with childish glee.
“A she-wolf on the horizon?” Sirius considered sardonically.
“Too bad there’s an inch of snow on the ground or you could pick a wildflower bouquet for your courting ritual,” Peter deadpanned.
“And just what does a Rattus Insularis like you know about mating rituals?” Remus shot back sharply.
“Ooooh, the big guns,” Peter taunted as he danced out of Remus’ reach.
Crossing his arms insolently behind his head, Sirius supplied, “You must have really gotten under Moony’s skin, Wormtail. He insulted you with his vocabulary.”
It was nothing more than the good-natured ribbing they always employed, but tonight Remus’ mood was anything but indulgent.
“It’s your vocabulary that’s insulting, Padfoot,” Remus bristled. “Never met an expletive you didn’t like.”
“Doesn’t do much good to throw bon mots at the bourgeoisie when it flies over their heads,” Sirius returned calmly.
“What time were you supposed to report to the Hospital Wing?” James asked as he leaned over to address Remus directly.
“Seven.”
“It’s a quarter ‘til,” James replied.
With a curt nod, Remus practically threw himself down the stairs. His nerve endings already felt as if they were trying to worm themselves free through the pores of his skin.
One look at his clammy face and Pomfrey’s expression had darkened with concern. “Are you feeling all right, Remus?” At his reproachful look, she amended, “Anything out of the ordinary?”
He shook his head, not wanting to burden her with the usual minutia.
“It’s absolutely freezing tonight,” she rattled on aimlessly as she grabbed a stack of worn blankets.
Automatically, he muttered, “I can help.”
“Not tonight,” she desisted. “Holding the blankets next to my body keeps the cold from leaching through the front of my cloak.”
He nodded wordlessly as he tightened the woolen scarf about his neck. Nevertheless, the bite of cold sucked the air from his lungs as they exited the castle doors. It was only a short walk to the Whomping Willow, but Remus regretted not having shaved that morning as his facial hair was transformed into icy thorns against his skin.
“The moon won’t set until sun-up,” she warned as she accepted his neatly folded clothing from behind the scratched and pitted door inside the Shrieking Shack. “Wrap yourself up in those blankets if you need to.”
“Thanks,” he croaked mechanically as he sat on the edge of the derelict bed to await the inescapable. The cold didn’t bother him nearly as much as the darkness he knew was laying in wait. Already he could feel his blood howling within, his heart beating a staccato as ancient as the hills themselves.
He awoke to find his friends peering at him from his bedside in the Hospital Wing. There was nothing unusual about that. It took him a few disorienting minutes to realize that James and Sirius were seated on the edge of the next mattress, but Peter was actually tucked under the blankets.
“Please tell me I didn’t…” he moaned.
“No, no,” James hissed lowly. “Peter got into a scrape of his own making.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m going to regret asking?” Remus groused half-heartedly.
“Nothing to regret about a good tale,” Sirius returned with a wink. “Or should that be a rat-tail?”
“Don’t jostle the mattress, boys,” the officious tones of Madam Pomfrey came from across the room. “Peter needs to keep his leg still so the bones heal properly.”
“Should I double-check the immobilizing spell?” Sirius offered innocently as under his breath he added, “Send an extra tickle to the soles of his feet?”
“Hey!” Peter protested as chairs skidded to a halt at the foot of the bed.
“Sit!” commanded the matron. “Yes, in regular chairs like human beings. Pretend for once, if you have to.”
Remus bit his lip to keep from laughing then winced at the sharp pain. “What did you tell Pomfrey?” he whispered without moving his mouth more than a fraction of an inch.
“Sleepwalking,” Peter giggled as Remus’ heart sank at the sophomoric excuse.
“She’ll see right through that,” he warned lowly.
“She did,” Sirius admitted.
“But then she said it didn’t surprise her that growing boys like us would be drawn to a midnight snack,” James added.
“Handed it right to us on a platter,” Sirius confirmed with a hint of awe at his good fortune.
“She knows, Padfoot,” Remus growled.
“She knows we were lying, mate,” Sirius agreed. “But I warrant she thinks we were sneaking off to find you. Not that we were sneaking back…”
Peter’s tussled head nodded eagerly. “That’s when they managed to drop me right through the trick step --”
“And Sirius’ melodic curses wafted to Poppy’s delicate ears,” James finished with a smirk.
“Say, what was Poppy doing in the hallway herself?” Peter put forth. “Mighty suspicious, if you ask me.”
“It might have been, if you’d thought to confront her about it at the time,” Sirius admonished.
“He was in a haze of pain,” James offered in Peter’s defense. “She would just have told us she was patrolling the halls.”
“Except she never does that,” Sirius returned.
But their ruminations about what Pomfrey knew, didn’t know, or strongly suspected were cut short as the subject herself drew near.
“Enough visitation for now,” she announced. “Your assigned tasks await, gentlemen.”
“Bedpans?” Peter issued as he screwed up his nose in distaste.
With a self-satisfied smile, Pomfrey concurred, “I’m saving those specially for you, Mr. Pettigrew. Something to look forward to after your bones knit. But for your intrepid comrades, I have a more ambitious project.”
“And what would that be, ma’m?” Sirius offered with only the barest hint of chagrin.
“I have two whole cupboards of draughts and potions that need cataloguing and alphabetizing. Check the expiration dates carefully. Those with illegible labels need to be handled extra gently as we don’t know what’s in store. Horace will need to review those himself. If he can’t decipher his chicken scratches himself, he has other ways of testing their efficacy…”
Remus watched in awe as the petite matron goaded the school’s most notorious pranksters into action. He’d never noticed what a petty tyrant she could be; but then other than his swollen lip, he wasn’t feeling as bad from this full moon as he had in the past.
If Sirius and James relaxed into a rhythm, Pomfrey was at their backs to pester them with, “Careful not to drop anything. Caustic stains on the floor must be documented by the Deputy Headmistress herself “ who will likely feel the need to adjust House points in the bargain.”
After a few hours work, she surveyed their progress and assured that they could finish this cupboard and start on the next one tomorrow.
“What should we do with the bottles that are outdated?” James asked on his way towards the door.
“Nothing for now,” Madam Pomfrey instructed. “But when you’ve finished the first part of your task, you can then catalogue those for replacing and submit your inventory directly to Severus Snape for brewing. He’s working off some demerits of his own in Professor Slughorn’s lab.”
At their shocked expressions, she added extra sweetly, “You have the next few days to vie for the honor of dungeon delivery boy. If you can’t work it out among yourselves, I’m certain Remus will be only too happy to help you draw straws.”
Peter had not been able to stop himself from sniggering at the flummoxed expressions on his two roommates’ faces. A fatal mistake, Remus noted as he gave his battered lip a cautionary tweak.
Always on the alert, Pomfrey pivoted on her heel with a scowl. “Unless Mr. Pettigrew feels he’s much better suited to the task.”
“Not really, ma’m,” he stammered disjointedly. “I was…I didn’t mean…no, not at all.”
“We’ll just attribute it to the pain medication this time,” Pomfrey replied with barely contained satisfaction. “Choose carefully,” she warned the slightly deflated faces that were still hovering in the doorway. “Severus’ tongue can be quite acidic. Not to mention that he’s always on the lookout to recommend adjustments in favor of Slytherin House.”
As their steps echoed from the long corridor leading back towards Gryffindor Tower, Madam Pomfrey turned to the room at large. “I do hope they think twice about turning this into an opportunity for a prank,” she sighed. “Severus’ talents around a cauldron have earned him a considerable measure of respect from Professor Slughorn. Flaring tempers could set everyone back.”
Remus managed to keep his face impassive as she shared an economical smile with him. Peter had the good sense to feign sleep this time around.
In the intervening days, Peter was able to assist him with piecing together the events under the full moon. It was maddeningly slow at times as they had to wait until the overly attentive matron was out of earshot. Never had Remus berated himself more for locking away his wand when a well-placed Imperturbable Charm would have worked wonders.
He was still getting used to the disjointed nature of lupine memories at that age, nothing more than fleeting photographs in extreme close-up that would rise unexpectedly to accompany Peter’s narrative. The sharp crunch of the icy crust atop the softer down of snow as impatient paws made short work of the open ground. The dark fingers of tree branches lining the trails inside the Forbidden Forest. And always the pull of the moon, a bitter siren song that led him on and out and beyond his consciousness. He was one with the universe at times like these, but the man who fought for mastery over the wolfish instincts knew that Nature was cruel just as much as she was benevolent. He could never allow himself to totally succumb to his alter ego at the risk of losing his humanity along the way.
The ring around the moon had indeed made the entire landscape seem ethereal, Peter had explained, stumbling over the unfamiliar word despite Remus’ encouragement. Details stood in stark relief under the silvery moonbeams yet were washed of their daylight hues. A land in sharp contrast with the impenetrable blackness of solid objects such as houses, trees and fences.
The wolf had been in a playful mood, eager to romp and lead them all in a merry chase along the pristine snowscape, deeper and deeper into the forest until familiar landmarks assumed alien shapes. Before they knew it, they were trotting along the banks of a small stream that bordered the sacred grove of rowan trees. Remus recalled the spot from one of Professor Grubbly-Plank’s lessons. The stream was a grey ribbon wending its way through the colorless land, but it was uncertain whether the ice would support the weight of the larger animals.
The wolf had gamboled impatiently along the bank until it spied a fallen tree trunk spanning most of the stream. With the sure steps of a born aerialist, it had negotiated the icy bark with ease; and taking a giant leap near the end, landed gracefully on the distant shore. Sitting down on its haunches, its amber eyes had dared its playmates to follow as its tongue lolled out the corner of its toothy grin.
Prong’s hooves had been unequal to the task; but he had cantered brazenly onto the frozen surface itself, making it just past the halfway point when the sharp report of cracking ice shattered the stillness. He managed a few yards more before his massive body broke through to the frigid waters beneath. But being used to the cold weather, he kicked his way to shore without a second thought.
Recognizing that Wormtail was the sole creature that could cross the stream’s surface with impunity, Padfoot allowed him to slide off his back before attempting to follow in the wolf’s footsteps. As the jagged pieces of broken ice crisscrossed in ever-expanding patterns below, he prepared for the final burst of speed that would propel him to the far shore.
Concern for the homely rat made him turn at the last moment or perhaps it was the dark shadow that glided silently across the sky to momentarily blot out the moonlight. Wormtail was frozen in his tracks as he gazed up at the hungry owl bearing down upon him.
Padfoot’s warning bark clearly translated into “Move your ruddy carcass!” once it reached Wormtail’s ears. With his tiny heart pounding in his ears, the rat bounded across the snow, his small paws barely breaking the crust before they were reaching for empty air once more. He was no match for the skilled predator at his back, though, as he felt the gentle rays of the moon cut off by a deadly shadow that made the fur on his back stand on end.
In the far distance, he could hear strangled barking as Padfoot made to scare the bird away. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that the owl would easily out maneuver its four-footed pursuer. As the stand of sacred trees bolted into his line of sight, Wormtail knew that was his only chance for survival. With panic pumping through his veins, he darted for the gnarled roots and wormed his way between them. The bird’s sharp beak and curved talons pierced the ground just inches from where he’d found a tiny hollow.
Relentlessly, the owl kept at its prize as Wormtail’s tiny paws made to tunnel him deeper within the sheltering roots. With manic energy, he broke through to another empty pocket of air and he squirmed his way through. As he made a last ditch effort to dart up the massive trunk, the owl’s sharp eye caught sight of the sudden movement. Like a spotlight pinning his paler body against the dark wood, the owl swiftly changed tactics.
Padfoot was close enough to gnash at the bird’s tail feathers as it flapped a few feet off the ground and prepared for the final attack. Wormtail’s claws scraped at the frozen tree bark, the icy crystals burning as they made for treacherous footing. In a mad dash for survival, he managed to scamper ingloriously upward as the owl came within a hair’s breath of biting through his tiny neck. Far to the ground, Padfoot growled and jumped in impotent fury as the bird winged out of reach.
Wormtail’s feet finally reached the welcoming patch of moss that had grown in the shelter of a wide limb, but once again the owl dove for him with lightning speed. He could actually feel its rancid breath parting the hairs on his neck yet the bird drew back at the last possible moment once again.
In that extra second, the rat wormed his way into a slight depression at the limbs juncture and dared to cast a timid look over his shoulder. The twin amber suns of the owl’s night-adapted eyes glared balefully at him from where it hovered inches away. With an angry snap of its deadly beak, it veered sharply away.
Padfoot jumped on two legs against the tree trunk in triumph as the owl winged silently over the treetops in search of other prey. Likely it belonged to a student and would return to its perch in the Hogwarts owlery come morning.
On the far side of the stream, the stag playfully charged the frolicsome wolf as it pranced out of reach. Padfoot barked an all clear as Prongs shook his ruff in salute. Content that Wormtail had found a comfortable resting place, Padfoot once again ventured onto the slippery log that bridged the gap towards the other shore.
Weak with relief, Wormtail allowed his racing heart to return to normal as a soft drowsiness enveloped his weary limbs. Just as the pillowy cloud welcomed him, he felt sharp pellets raining against his face.
He opened rheumy eyes to a corrugated landscape that ran off at intersecting junctures. Before him, a veritable highway of bark led into narrower and narrower lanes as the summit approached. Yet part of the highway was moving towards him. Angry hisses filled the air as the bark pellets intensified.
In his haste, he’d forgotten about the bowtruckles, Wormtail considered with an inner groan. Cantankerous creatures that would as soon poke your eyes out as look at you. Unless at close quarters, they were normally no match for a human adversary, but considerably larger than a common island rat.
Think, Peter, think, he cried inwardly. What had Grubbly-Plank said to do when confronted with an enraged bowtruckle? That’s right, offer it a gift in homage. Some berries would do.
His tiny eyes darted in desperation until he located a fuzzy patch of mistletoe near the tip of the limb. With nimble paws, he scrambled along the wide highway until he reached his destination. In the distance, the bowtruckle had stopped to consider his actions with its hands on its hips. Was that a wry look on its conniving little face? Wormtail wondered.
Turning back to his objective, he selected a ripe bunch of opaline berries. Much to his dismay, he could barely get his tiny mouth around the stem. Biting down with all his might barely made a dent in the fibrous material. If only he had hands with which to snap the tiny stem, he whined.
Well, of course, he had hands, Peter the rat reminded his alter ego. Please, oh, please, let it work this time, he beseeched of whatever deity would take pity on an incompetent toerag like him. With a frantic mental incantation, he reverted back to human shape. He barely managed to grab the frigid tree branch between his arms to keep from sliding to the ground a good twenty feet below. The persistent ice was a burning river against the length of his body, but he ignored it. All he needed was snap a tiny bunch of mistletoe berries and present it to the fuming bowtruckle. Nothing to it.
With trembling fingers, he reached out towards the tangled mass before him. It wasn’t so easy to keep steady with only one arm, but he tightened his knees against the limb to compensate. Just a few more inches, he chanted inwardly. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his hand to relax, then with the exhalation he willed his arm muscles to lengthen. There! He could just reach it. Careful not to damage the berries, he snapped the stem sharply between his fingers -- and in the same heartbeat the branch on which he clung snapped in two.
He hit the ground with a resounding crunch that echoed among the bare treetops for miles. Numbness and fiery pain fought for dominance inside his brain as he lost track of his surroundings.
A wet tongue against his face revived him to a world hazy with pain. Warm brown eyes resolved themselves into cool grey as Sirius cradled his face in trembling hands.
“Peter, please say you can hear me! I turned back as quickly as I could.”
“I’m all right, I think,” Peter mumbled through bluish lips. “Hurts like hell, though.”
“Where?”
“Lower…my leg, I think.”
Sirius’ hands made a quick assessment but when they approached the left knee, Peter moaned in agony.
“Quiet,” Sirius’ voice was a bare whisper in his ear. “The wolf on the far shore, he’ll hear us. We’ll be prey all over again.”
Peter’s eyes grew wide with fear as the true implications hit him. How would they ever manage to restrain a werewolf who caught a whiff of human scent in the air? Injured human, the tastiest morsel of all!
He froze, not daring to tempt fate by looking towards the distant bank. The glacial grip of fear tightened its hold upon his bowels as the temperature seemed to drop another twenty degrees.
James had taken up the narrative at this point and described how the wolf’s eyes had blazed as it caught wind of an alluring scent. Even as a majestic stag, Prong’s coat had stood on end as the wolf threw back its head and howled a plaintive cry towards the moon. In the next second, it was scampering on all fours between the ancient trees and deeper into the forest. With a last glance over his shoulder, Prongs had galloped in pursuit.
He caught up to the wolf on the edge of a snowy meadow ringed with stark trees on all sides. Once again, the wolf stopped warily and inhaled deeply with its nose inches from the snow. With a lupine smile aimed towards its companion, the wolf dashed in frantic circles at small air holes which pock-marked the meadow’s surface. It would abandon one opening to pounce like an oversized jackrabbit towards the next. Only in one instance did a terrified field mouse break through to the surface and dash madly towards the next burrow, the wolf gamboling playfully behind.
Soon bored with this game, the wolf made as if to wander back towards the stream, but Prongs lowered his antlers in warning. With a shrug of its muscular shoulders, the wolf conceded to search out new entertainment further upwind. James admitted that he spent most of the night keeping the wolf from wandering too near the paddocks where Hagrid tended Professor Grubbly-Plank’s menagerie.
Sirius had filled in the facts from the riverbank as the wolf’s distant howl had unsettled them as well.
“They’re gone,” he’d whispered as Peter’s body trembled with a dangerous combination of fear and cold. “Prongs managed to direct the wolf’s attention elsewhere.”
“W-w-what if they come back?” Peter managed through chattering teeth.
“We’d best be gone by then. I’ll have an easier time transporting you back to safety if you resume your rat shape.”
“Not without my wand…can’t in that direction…like you and James manage it.”
With a wary look around him, Sirius slowly withdrew his own wand from his sleeve.
“But Remus said --” Peter sputtered.
“Sod Remus!” Sirius hissed. “I didn’t bring it for his benefit. And where the bloody hell would we be if I hadn’t?”
It took Peter a number of fumbling attempts before he succeeded in turning himself into Wormtail once more. Sirius followed suit and within moments Padfoot was gingerly picking up the injured rat in his mouth for transport to safety.
“In retrospect, I should’ve trekked the extra distance to the castle proper,” Sirius admitted lowly. “But all I could visualize was the closed trap door at the end of the tunnel and how my paws could not open the bolt.”
“You could’ve turned into human shape at that point,” Peter sniggered. “Put the rat into your shirt pocket like I’ve seen students do with their pets.”
“And then what?” Sirius turned a dark scowl in Wormtail’s direction. “Entrust your broken bones to Hagrid’s care? For that’s surely where the good matron would’ve sent me.”
“There’s a spell that forces another Animagus into human shape,” Remus had interjected at that point. “Seeing as how you had your wand.” He’d waved off Sirius’ hasty attempts to apologize for his earlier remarks. Remus had long ago conceded that his authority as House Prefect had little influence over the other Marauders.
“The spell’s in the manual,” James affirmed. “I’ll drill these blighters once we’re all back in our rooms.”
Remus nodded his approval as Sirius resumed his part of the tale.
So Padfoot had managed to push the door to the Shrieking Shack open with his nose and then laid Wormtail gingerly upon the faded mattress upstairs. Wrapping him up in a blanket did little to stop the shaking until the rat slowly drifted off into a troubled sleep. Once relaxed, Wormtail had naturally reverted to human form and Sirius was able to assess the damage to Peter’s leg more readily.
Was it his imagination, or did the sky look a little less black through the tattered curtains? he considered. James would return with the dawn and between the two of them, they could carry Peter past the Whomping Willow and up the front steps. Experience had shown that Pomfrey generally allowed an extra quarter hour after moonset before coming for Remus.
Bugger, it was almost as cold inside the decrepit building, Sirius remembered thinking as he drew the last blanket around his own shoulders. The morning star winked at him before dimming in deference to the first tendrils of smoky blue-orange. As Sirius allowed a deep sigh of relief to escape him, he was arrested by furtive movements on the powdery ground below.
With the breaking dawn, the werewolf’s eyes glowed a preternatural red as they bored into his. His heart hammering in this chest, Sirius backed slowly away from the window. But it was too late. The wolf’s song to its heavenly tormentor shattered the stillness as it caused the ancient windowpanes to rattle ominously.
“The direction of the wind had changed,” James explained as he took over, oblivious to how pale Remus’ face had become.
One minute the wolf had been happily teasing a frantic weasel through the undergrowth and the next it had reared onto its hind legs and tensed. Before Prongs could maneuver his body to intercede, the wolf was off in a loping gait towards the Shrieking Shack. Sensing that dawn was imminent, Prongs followed closely behind.
They broke out of the trees as the morning stars shown grimly from the horizon. In the silvery light, a thin trail of blood shone black against the snow. With deadly purpose, the wolf bent over the trail before howling its satisfaction. Deep in its breast, a menacing growl was growing in preparation for the ultimate hunt.
Prongs, too, had seen Sirius’ silhouette before the dawn’s reflection turned the windows into orange beacons. The moon hung heavy in the lower sky, determined to allow for a final skirmish before succumbing to the horizon.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Prongs threw his mass between the gaping front door and the snarling wolf. The porch was slippery under his hooves but he seemed to find his balance as he lowered his rack of antlers. The wolf looked at him quizzically for a split second before charging the barricade. With a sharp yelp of pain, it was rebuffed.
Snarling in hurt and anger, the wolf circled the small wooden porch to find an opening in the stag’s defenses. With headlong speed, it charged again, only to be thrown back once more. Howling with betrayal, the wolf slunk along the ground and tried to worm its way between the broken slats. The antlers caught it on the haunches and tossed its body into a snow drift.
It took a few moments for the stunned wolf to move, but it seemed like hours to James. He didn’t dare leave the half-opened door to come to his friend’s aid. Despite the fiery glow reflected on the surface of the snow, the wolf’s persistence was enough to convince him that the moon had still not set.
Limping slightly, the wolf paced in a semi-circle before the wooden porch. With a furtive look towards the horizon, it charged with lightning speed. It caught the antlers full in the chest and was hurled backward to land in a sodden pile against the broken fence posts. This time the wolf did not stir.
Still, the stag refused to leave his post. An eternity passed as he watched his breath form in silent puffs before his great nostrils. With the weak morning sun inching its way over the skeletal treetops, small bits of color slowly returned to the landscape. First it was the bright red splatters of blood upon the porch steps, then the russet tones of his hide contrasting with the inky blackness of his front hoof. He squinted against the diamond brightness of the snow, but the wolf remained an indistinct shadow.
A low moan -- all too human -- issued from the churned patch of snow where the wolf had landed. Not daring to delay any longer, Prongs became James as he raced to kneel at his friend’s side. Against the frigid expanse of crusty morning dew, Remus’ naked body curled in upon itself. The purple bruises along his hip and jaw stood in stark contrast to skin that threatened to match the color of the snow.
“Padfoot! Over here!” James yelled over his shoulder. “I need your help getting Moony inside before he turns blue.”
As they strained with the barely conscious form between them, James gave voice to the frustrations he’d felt during his defensive stance. “Why didn’t you stay in Animagus form? Animal blood wouldn’t have aroused the wolf in the same way!”
Sirius shrugged wordlessly. “Get a look at Peter before you pass judgment, mate. He can barely control his breathing at times.”
By the time they reached the stoop, Remus’ legs had unclenched sufficiently to stumble up the long staircase leading to the first story. He collapsed blindly onto the battered mattress as Peter rolled clumsily to one side. Wrapping Moony’s naked body in the blanket he’d been wearing, Sirius urged James to the other side of the bed.
With a grim set to his lips, he indicated the pulpy mass that was Peter’s right foreleg.
“Is it as bad as it looks?” James barely breathed.
“Don’t have time for an assessment if we want to avoid being seen,” Sirius urged with a hint of panic.
A curt nod from James was all it took as Sirius attempted to Levitate Peter. It was a shaky attempt due to exhaustion; but by taking turns with the wand, they managed to get through the tunnel without incident. They had just ducked out of sight behind the greenhouses when the creak of the Great Doors alerted them that Poppy was on her way.
“Earlier you said you encountered Pomfrey on the staircase,” Remus pointed out the inconsistency.
“That’s when she saw us,” Sirius clarified.
“So why wasn’t I with her?” Remus countered.
At their blank expressions, he emphasized, “If you avoided her when she was going out, then when she returned from the Whomping Willow she should’ve had me in tow.”
“Perhaps she’d already deposited you in the Hospital Wing,” Peter put forth eagerly.
“She wouldn’t have left him alone with his injuries like that,” James weighed in. “Sorry about the split lip, by the way.”
Remus waved off the apologies as inconsequential under the circumstances.
“She gave us the distinct impression she was on her way to an early breakfast,” Sirius volunteered. “Clever of her to put us off the scent like that. She even offered to send us up some snacks if we returned directly to our dormitories.”
“A basket of scones with pots of jam and tea were waiting for us when we got there,” James supplied.
“Then she did a masterful job of diverting your attention,” Remus shot back. “And just so we’re clear on this, you really have no idea who was exiting the Great Doors when you rounded the greenhouse wall.”
“Not really,” Sirius capitulated. “Didn’t seem prudent to look over our shoulders.”
No, they would’ve been easier to identify if that person had gotten a look at their faces, Remus considered with misgivings. In a bare whisper, he cautioned, “Need I remind you that your nocturnal excursions are entirely too dangerous.”
With a slightly affronted look, James maintained, “You didn’t think so when we took the tunnel into Hogsmeade village.”
“That wasn’t a full moon!” Remus hissed through gritted teeth. “What if that ruddy owl had hauled Wormtail away in its teeth?”
“Wouldn’t have happened,” Sirius countered with quiet determination. “We over-reacted, it seems.”
James caught Remus’ forearm in warning as Pomfrey took a quick look over her shoulder.
“Wormtail was foolish to revert to human shape is all,” James acknowledged under his breath.
“Show Moony the book,” Peter urged from the other bed. “He was asleep when you came by last night.”
From under his school robes, James presented Remus with an unfamiliar book.
“What’s this? The Gift of the Animagi?” Remus nearly choked on the incredibly lame pun. “It’s a joke right?”
“Only for Evans,” James acknowledged. “She’s always asking why we carry that thick Transfiguration manual.”
“This way he could flash the title without giving anything away,” Sirius acknowledged with a wry grin.
“Did she laugh?” Remus found himself asking of their ridiculous escapades.
“She took him for a fool!” Sirius guffawed. “It was pretty funny.”
“I take it Lily herself didn’t laugh,” Remus surmised.
“Not really,” James admitted as Peter joined in with Sirius’ unrestrained mirth. Indicating the book on Remus’ lap, he added, “Page 394. Easy to remember that, isn’t it?”
Effing coincidences, Remus thought to himself. He’d never forget that page in their Dark Arts Defense text as long as he lived. It had been the ultimate in humiliation, denial, and barely banked panic as their lesson had introduced the class to werewolves. How to recognize them and neutralize their threat. Now that was a joke! Remus fumed inwardly. Avoidance was the only real defense. Other than that, neutralization usually meant death or dismemberment for the werewolf in question.
Since most magical spells rebounded from werewolf fur, only a longbow or crossbow was effective without putting the other person close enough to risk contagion. Destroy one cursed beast just to create another; it was Nature’s way of guaranteeing that werewolves would survive despite society’s overt hatred and prosecution. Even though he’d not been called upon to give a practical accounting, it had been one of the longest and most nauseating hours of Remus’ young life as he’d sat woodenly at his desk.
Dumbledore had made a point of apologizing later as he gently stressed that werewolves were an inescapable part of the third year Dark Arts curriculum. Far better that those lessons be covered while Remus was present than to have his absence give rise to all sorts of conjectures.
Shoving those unpleasant memories into the back of his mind, Remus concentrated on the text before him:
Despite the hierarchy of predation in the natural world (often called the food chain), Animagi are no more at risk than their human counterparts. Just as a true animal diet is a revolting thought to most Animagi, animal predators seem to instinctively recognize the “oddness” of this particular prey and simply give them a wide berth.theorized that this is Nature’s way of insuring that a bird who consumed an Animagi worm would not explode when the morsels reverted to human shape inside its gullet.
Since the Animagi Transformation dissipates at death, it is
It is important to note that while the Predator Avoidance Phenomenon is widely documented, no living Animagus has volunteered to see if his dismembered parts will revert to human shape at death.
“So you see, Wormtail couldn’t make wizarding history even if he wanted to,” Sirius put forth.
Remus remembered smiling wanly as James tucked the book back into his satchel. There were no words to express how their spirited narrative had sent all sorts of disjointed images through his brain, teasers that ran together faster than he could identify them. He’d remembered the alluring scent of the field mice: redolent like allspice with a hint of warmth like cinnamon. But it was the memory of the final approach to the Shrieking Shack that had left him cold with fear. Those impressions were the clearest of all. Perhaps because they were the last before morning; or was there a darker, more visceral reason? The façade of the building had been like a demented face in the wolf’s memory: the upper story windows like taunting eyes, the porch roof like a stunted nose, the open front door a sneering mouth. It had lured him with its intoxicating song from the sheltering woods, promising that which was forbidden above all else.
Remus’ reverie was broken when Dobby arrived at his elbow to remove the discolored mug that had contained a supplemental dosage of Wolfsbane Potion. Not even the soothing effect of macerated mooncalf blossoms had helped this time; his body was just too close to reaching its endurance.
“Can Dobby get you anything else, Master?” the elf beseeched, his large eyes full of concern as he surveyed Remus’ ashen countenance.
Remus shook his head with resignation. “Nothing short of a cure will help at this point, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps if we went inside, it would ease the sensations somewhat,” Tonks suggested from the adjacent lounge chair. “You haven’t turned a single page in that book for the past half hour. Would it help if I read aloud? It’s not something the children shouldn’t overhear, is it?”
Remus flashed his wife an appreciative grin. “Right up their alley, in fact. Only catch is that it’s in French.”
Tonks made a playful grimace. “So you don’t want my lips to spew forth gibberish?”
“Mangled French is virtually impossible to follow, love.”
“Yet you always manage to keep up with your students.”
“They at least know the rudiments of pronunciation. And you, cherub, are hopeless when it comes to anything other than a dinner menu.”
Scrutinizing the sketch of the smirking schoolboy on the book’s cover, she tendered, “I don’t suppose there’s a scene where his parents take young Nicholas to dine at a café, is there?”
Remus laughed despite the queasiness in his stomach. “No, he restricts his terrorizing to the home and classroom in this volume.”
“A regular reprobate, is he?”
“Imagine Fred and George rolled into one compact package “ minus the magic, of course.”
“Do his parents run off to join the French Foreign Legion, then?”
“Perhaps in one of the later volumes,” Remus allowed, recalling that one of the sequels took the irrepressible rascal on various vacations.
With sudden inspiration, he considered what a great writing project that would make for his advanced students someday: write an original story about le petit Nicolas. Not that he had anyone beyond the second level at the present, but that would progress each year. Would Serenity be up for such a challenge? he pondered inwardly. She’d certainly enjoyed reviewing the first volume for him, assuring him that his upcoming third level could tackle it with a bit of guidance.
He was loath to load up any of his other students so near the end of term, though. Due to the mixed ages in his classes, many of them were facing O.W.L.s “ and even N.E.W.T.s “ in the upcoming weeks and were already starting to succumb to the added pressure. There weren’t any standardized examinations in languages “ not yet, as Minerva liked to remind everyone “ so Remus did his best to go easy on them for the time being.
As a second year, Serenity would not be facing her barrage of qualifying exams for another three years. She could easily tackle a challenging writing assignment. Why he’d even let her work on it over the summer term break if she preferred; she’d already agreed to continue as his student assistant. Grading the other students’ work couldn’t have presented much of a challenge, even though Remus did his best to tax her fluency by banning English from their everyday interactions.
Catching Tonks’ eye as she urged him to his feet, Remus asserted, “If anything, you’ve just given me a great idea for Serenity’s next assignment.”
“Really?”
“It’s time she impressed me with her sentence structure. Four years of French schooling have to count for something.”
“Just don’t dump the blame on me,” she joked in return.
There was no denying her husband’s enthusiasm and dedication to his teaching duties. She wouldn’t have minded having such entertaining classes during her school years although foreign languages hadn’t been an option at Hogwarts until recently. Just as well, Tonks concluded wryly, she would likely have gotten herself sent home for unabashedly flirting with her charming instructor.
They found Harry and Ginny lingering over tea and checkers in the dining room. Two extra plates of crumbs attested that Phoebe and Teddy had been present as did the two sets of abandoned game pieces.
Competitive tension filled the air as the two remaining combatants faced each other across a board strewn with multi-hued frogs. Adapted from the Muggle game of Chinese checkers, the wizard version used enchanted markers fashioned after vividly colored tree frogs. Unlike their real-life counterparts in South America which were often poisonous to the touch, these were ideal for jumping opponents’ pieces but tended to wander off if not currently engaged. Such was the case with the blue and mauve pieces which hopped disconsolately amid the discarded teacups while the green and yellow-spotted red ones fought for supremacy.
Instinctively sensing the disarray, Dobby arrived with a resounding crack and issued a sharp whistle. Immediately, the blues and mauves hopped into their empty tubes for safe-keeping. Tonks couldn’t help expelling a small sigh of displeasure, recalling from childhood that hunting down the errant pieces in the aftermath was often more captivating than the game itself.
“Wasn’t that a birthday gift from the twins to Phoebe?” Remus remarked with an indulgent smile.
“It was,” Ginny affirmed, never taking her eyes off the game. “But Rabbit was too impatient for Teddy to work his way through the words of the instructions.”
“I remember playing the Muggle version,” Harry supplied, “so offered a quick demonstration.”
“Doesn’t seem like it appealed to them much,” Tonks noted.
“They were just too restless to wait for Ginny and me to finish, is all,” Harry chuckled.
“No one wants to forfeit a game that’s already begun,” Ginny echoed a common phrase from the Weasley household.
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Remus affirmed as he picked through the tea offerings before Dobby put them away. Nothing appealed to him, to be perfectly honest, so he settled for an unadorned pumpkin scone. Tonks automatically poured them both from the herbal tea blend renowned for its digestive properties.
The carefree chattering around the game board created a pleasant backdrop as Remus retired to the main drawing room and settled with his book once more. So lost was he in the antics of the pint-sized rapscallion and his motley band of accomplices that he didn’t immediately respond to the furtive clattering on the front step.
“See to the children,” Tonks hissed as she laid a warning hand on his shoulder. Behind her, Ginny and Harry stood with wands drawn at the ready.
Remus didn’t need to be told twice as he bounded on long legs toward the wing housing the children’s bedrooms. Outside their doorways, he hesitated briefly to cast Imperturbable Charms to keep Rabbit and Spook from hearing any commotion. Not wanting to dart away like a coward, Remus inched his way back towards the drawing room, careful to keep himself unseen amid the shadows within the short corridor.
There was no mistaking the sharp rap of the door knocker as it started his heart to pounding loudly in his ears. They were not expecting visitors, never on the evening of the full moon. Why he’d watched Tonks cast the customary Fidelius Charm to make the estate disappear from view. The children had waved merrily to the departing owls entrusted with routine messages from the Secret-Keeper to the Headmistress and the Burrow. Was this the unforeseen emergency they’d been dreading since they'd settled here nearly seven years ago?
But most disturbing of all: how had someone “ or something “ wormed its way past ancient magic designed to keep enemies away? A quick glance at the opal orb mocking him from the deepest blue of twilight convinced Remus that this was not the ideal time to be receiving company of any sort.