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Tags: pg remus/sirius mwpp ruled by the moon
Published : 3 years ago (Wed, 16 Nov 2005 04:12:16 PST)
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RULED BY THE MOON
Chapter 3
Title: Ruled by the Moon
Author: Me, ![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) nellie_darlin
Disclaimer: Not mine. Jo's.
Pairing/Characters: Remus/Sirius (unrequited so far!)
Rating: PG (at the moment. It will rise.)
Genre: Everything! Tis Lupin's Life!
A/N: Many millions of thanks to lyras and _angels_touch_ for the beta-ing, and their endless patience with my vacillating and sometimes shocking writing habits. Feedback is adored.
Summary: Being an account of the life of Remus J Lupin, Esquire, from his first day at Hogwarts to his last on this earth. In many chapters. Also starring Sirius Black, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, and the various inhabitants of Hogwarts and the wizarding world.
Teaser: Looking back on it, Remus remembered his first year at Hogwarts as a series of – well, firsts, lingering in his memory like glittering beads strung on a necklace.
Chapter 3
Of Vows and Discovery
Looking back on it, Remus remembered his first year at Hogwarts as a series of – well, firsts, lingering in his memory like glittering beads strung on a necklace. The first time the four of them were hauled up in front of McGonagall (after a spectacular series of Halloween-themed pranks that filled the school with foul-mouthed bats, charmed the suits of armour to sing rude songs, and left ten students in the hospital wing, including Peter who had laughed so hard at McGonagall’s look of mingled horror and admiration that he had fallen downstairs and sprained his wrist). The first time Remus saw Hogwarts after a snowfall, a sight so beautiful he felt the breath catch in his throat and an odd pain grip his heart. The first time Remus flew on a broomstick, an experience he heartily disliked and tried to avoid as much as possible.
It was a year of discoveries as well. The joys of the Hogwarts Library, for example, and the certain happiness you only get after a large, delicious meal; the satisfaction of a productive lesson and the mindless fun of a game of Exploding Snap; the heady exhilaration of effecting a prank and the intoxicating mix of fear and excitement that came from breaking rules and sneaking around.
Most of all, Remus discovered for the first time what it was like to be normal. For days on end he forgot about his secret, and when he thought about it at all, he pushed it into the back of his mind and did his best to ignore it. Gone were the days when he lived from moon to moon reliving the pain of the last one and trying hard not to think of the one to come. Gone were the days when he felt like a freak and despaired of ever having friends, gone were the days when he thought he would go mad from his mother’s fussing and his father’s guilty looks and their sudden explosive rows when the tension overwhelmed the locks they had put on their emotions.
At home the air was full of sadness, of weariness, of despair; money troubles were never far away, and Remus knew that his father blamed himself not only for their poverty but also for Remus’s condition which had exacerbated it, looking as drawn and haggard after a moon as Remus did himself. At home he felt mad; but at school, when your best friends were Sirius Black and James Potter, both of whom spent every day teetering on the edge of complete lunacy and often falling right in, it was hard not to feel incredibly and boringly sane. Even Peter, prosaic, unimaginative, boring Peter, seemed to live in a slightly different world to normal human beings, especially after supper when he was dozy and half-asleep (once answering the question, “Hey, Pete, what’s a bezoar?” with a happy “Blancmange!”)
That is not to say, however, that as the year went on Remus became any more comfortable with his condition; the truth was that however normal and sane Remus Lupin was twenty-nine days out of thirty, it didn’t change the fact that once a month he was bundled out of Hogwarts to a rickety wooden shack where he turned into a ravening, flesh-eating monster. He was terrified that his friends would find out. If he had been a good liar before he came to Hogwarts, during that first year Remus became a master at it (although he never got used to the misery he felt when he lied to his friends), spinning tales of coughs and colds and weak lungs and insomnia to account for his monthly absences and the week of irritability and tiredness and the shadows like bruises under his eyes. His friends became slightly in awe of him, treating him like a fragile and precious object that could break at any second. Even Sirius, the surprisingly affectionate and touchy-feely Sirius, who liked to curl up with Remus and rub his face in the scratchy wool of his jumper, never fought or tussled with Remus as he did with James, although occasionally he looked like he wanted to. He was even anxious whenever Remus coughed or stumbled or showed any signs of pain, although he was quick to cover up any girliness as soon as he’d made sure Remus was not about to expire.
Indeed Sirius and James were so protective of Remus that it was on his behalf that they carried out their first mass-prank on the Slytherins (somehow slipping stolen Babbling Beverage into their pumpkin juice at breakfast, in retaliation for a cowardly attack on Remus by a group of bored Fifth Years). It was a dubious honour, since it landed James and Sirius in detention for the entire Spring Term, but Sirius’s look of outrage when he heard what had happened was worth every bruise and hex-mark. And Remus never realised until James pointed it out many years later that one of the main reasons Sirius hated Severus Snape with such a passion – quite apart from his standing for every pureblood prejudice and piece of elitist propaganda that Sirius had renounced – was the malicious satisfaction Snape got from tormenting Remus. Remus could deal with teasing, even insults, by retreating behind an impassive mask and ignoring the taunters, but Sirius suspected that he minded more than he admitted. The problem was, he was right. And Snape was good at tormenting Remus, knowing instinctively where Remus was most sensitive.
The worst attack, coming early in the New Year and just after the full moon when Remus was at his most exhausted and vulnerable, left him a shuddering, gasping ball of misery curled on the bathroom floor, trying to control his sobs so no one would hear. He was terrified that someone would find him (particularly Sirius, who had called him a girl for much less than this) but at the same time ached for his mother’s comforting embrace and soft, loving murmurs. He couldn’t decide therefore whether he was mortified and relieved when Sirius came clattering in, shouting, “Calm down, Potter, you girl – it’s only an essay- bloody hell! What happened to you?”
Remus decided to be both mortified and relieved, and there was a moment of almost comic indecision while his body tried to simultaneously hide and pretend he wasn’t crying, and crawl towards Sirius. In the end, his pride won. He struggled into a sitting position and wiped his nose on his sleeve, his body tensed and ready for the derisive laugh and careless mockery with which Sirius greeted most displays of weakness. But to his complete astonishment, it never came. Sirius merely sat down next to him and wordlessly offered him his handkerchief, then waited patiently for Remus’s stifled sobs to abate, making a bar of soap zoom around the room to pass the time.
When Remus could finally speak he tried to apologise.
“Blow,” Sirius suddenly ordered, cutting him short.
“What?” Remus replied, even more surprised, if that was at all possible.
“Blow your nose, then speak. Urgh, that was disgusting, Remus! What are you, an elephant?”
“You told me to,” Remus replied, feeling silly.
“I told you to blow your nose, not start a sodding hurricane.”
“I’m sorry,” Remus said, smiling weakly. “And- I’m sorry for crying.”
“Did you cry?” Sirius said, airily. “I didn’t notice.”
Remus felt his misery begin to dissolve in the warmth of Sirius’s smile. “Thanks,” he said, in a small voice.
“S’nothing. Anytime. All righty, elephant, hop up. Here, let me help you – Merlin, you’re as heavy as an elephant too! Where do you put it?”
Remus looked down at his skinny frame. “Dunno,” he replied, truthfully – did being a werewolf make you heavier?
“Well, never mind. Just don’t expect me to carry you anywhere. Think how terrible I’d look with a hunchback! Stop grinning, you. It’s not funny. Ooh, I’m hungry. D’you suppose we’ve missed supper? Not that you need it, fatty.”
~*~
Many times over the next few years, Sirius would ask himself why he was friends with Remus Lupin. Every time, he would be stumped for an answer. According to the fundamental laws of the universe and Black-dom, Remus was the kind of person Sirius would shun like the plague. He was quiet, studious, unfailingly polite, and preferred reading to galumphing and fighting and blowing things up. But there was something, some unknown, unfathomable, inexplicable thing about him that fascinated Sirius. He found, even as naive twelve-year-old, something enchanting in Remus’s rare, crooked smile and even rarer laugh, something achingly vulnerable in his fragile, awkward, delicate body that aroused in Sirius protective instincts he never knew he had.
And Remus was interesting – really interesting. Of course, he was boring at the same time, and it couldn’t be healthy to read so much, but he was patient and wise and comforting and listened like no one else and always asked the right questions, and when it came to pranks it was a good thing he read so much because he never minded reading through heavy grimoires and crumbling spell books for new and outlandish spells, and although he grumbled he always let Sirius test charms on him despite potential horrible side effects.
The day Sirius discovered Remus’s mischievous, iconoclastic, dry sense of humour, he couldn’t have been more excited if he had struck gold. He was never entirely satisfied with a joke unless Remus smiled; he loved poking and prodding and needling Remus until he gave that exasperated but affectionate laugh and delivered one of his sardonic put-downs. He hated to see Remus unhappy - when he found Remus huddled on the cold tiles of the Gryffindor bathroom, he’d felt sick. That night as he lay in bed, sleepless, he thought of Remus and his smiles, and he thought of the broken figure that afternoon, and realised the strength of his friend, and knew that even that strength had its limits. He made a vow then to protect Remus from pain, from attacks like Snape’s; he swore to make Remus laugh, to make him realise his worth, to erase those smudges under his eyes, to banish that twist of unhappiness that lingered on Remus’s lips when he thought no one was looking. To the young Sirius Black, there was nothing unusual in these vows: Remus was his friend, and he would do anything for his friends. That there might be something more than friendship in his concern for Remus never occurred to him. As it was, Remus was his friend, and he’d vowed to protect him. That was all.
When he realised the reason for Remus’s frequent absences, for the exhaustion, for the livid scar across Remus’s stomach that he’d caught sight of one day by accident, and that puckered scar on his arm; when the whole horrible truth came out, his resolve was only strengthened.
~*~
It happened like this. In the Spring of Second Year, they started studying Dark creatures in Defence Against the Dark Arts. They studied Red Caps and Boggarts, Kappas and Grindylows, Hinkypunks and vampires. As the days passed and the creatures grew in size and ferocity, Remus grew more and more agitated. He knew what was coming. Sometime soon, Professor Hellard would teach them about werewolves, and he could only hope that his classmates would not put two and two together. It was a vain hope. Sirius was already overly curious about Remus’s absences, oddly unsatisfied by his explanation that his mother was ill and he had to visit her. When the day Remus had been dreading finally arrived, everything fell into place for Sirius.
“Today,” Hellard said, stalking into the classroom and starting the lesson as abruptly as he always did, “we will be tackling werewolves.” As he talked, he flicked his wand at the blackboard and the surface was immediately covered in writing and diagrams. “Fascinating creatures,” he continued, his stocky frame expanding with enthusiasm. “Absolutely fascinating, and so many questions – are they man or beast? Do they become more wolf-like with time? Do different werewolves have different degrees of ferocity? Can they exert any control over themselves while in wolf-form?” Glancing idly over to Remus preparatory to launching a note, Sirius noticed that Remus had gone pale. He seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, shrinking into his seat, and he was biting his lip. Worried, Sirius crumpled the note he had just written and wrote a new one.
Are you all right?
He watched as Remus casually bent and picked up the note. The voluble Hellard, fairly taking off with excitement, never noticed as Remus unfolded the parchment under the desk. A minute later, a curt response landed on Sirius’s desk.
Fine, thanks.
Rebuffed, Sirius shrugged, but he sneaked a covert glance at Remus. He had his sphinx-like face on now. Sirius was more worried than ever. He was just starting a rude reply when Hellard descended on him.
“Mr Black! Are you paying attention?”
“Erm – yes?”
“Good! This is a fascinating part of the course, after all, and essential should you ever come across a werewolf in real life! This knowledge could save your life!”
“Sorry, sir,” Sirius said, but he was more interested in an angry hiss that had come from Remus’s direction. Hellard turned away, and Sirius looked again at Remus: his face was impassive, feigning interest, but his fingers were tapping the desk, a sure sign something was bothering him. What could it be?
“So,” Hellard continued, “this diagram here shows the difference between the wolf and the werewolf. Can anyone tell me what it is?”
You’re not fine. You’re upset.
Remus twitched when he read the parchment, and when he wrote the reply, he nearly broke his quill. The small ball was flung with such great force that it overshot Sirius’ desk and it was only his quick reflexes that stopped it from being intercepted.
I’m FINE, Remus had written in large, angry letters. Stop bloody interfering, Black. And shouldn’t you be concentrating on the lesson?
Well then, Sirius thought, angrily, be like that. I don’t care.
“Mr Black! How can you kill a werewolf?”
Shit, shit. “Erm… silver?” he guessed, grateful to the lurid horror stories he'd devoured as a boy.
“Indeed, indeed! Silver is the key. On its own it does not kill the beast, merely causes pain and irritation, but as a bullet or dagger it will be fatal. No other method will work, short of complete dismemberment. That is, no other method will work while the werewolf is a wolf. While in human form, we assume they can be killed normally, although this has not been proved; understandably no one wants to test this theory.” Hellard chuckled; Remus went green.
A Ravenclaw witch put up her hand.
“Yes, Miss Jones?”
“Excuse me, sir, but you’ve told us how to recognise a werewolf while in wolf form. How can one recognise one while in human form?”
Hellard beamed at the girl, who blushed; Remus was now looking distinctly unhappy, although he was still trying to maintain a facade of calm. “Excellent question, Miss Jones, excellent, but without a satisfying answer, I’m afraid. Muggle literature has all sorts of silly myths about the werewolf, that he has hair on the palms of his hands and so on. This has been disproved by research. The answer is that while in human form, there is nothing to indicate that he is a werewolf.”
“So how can we tell?”
“The simple answer is: we can’t. There is no general rule as there is for the werewolf’s wolf form. But there can be some clues. There will be the original bite, for example, although the werewolf will do his best to hide this; there will be scarring, since the werewolf turns on himself during his transformation, desiring the taste of flesh; there will be the monthly absences, of course, on the nights of the full-moon; and there will be a general air of illness and tiredness. They tend to shun civilisation, and often live alone…”
But Sirius heard nothing more. Realisation had hit him like a Bludger. He slowly turned to look at Remus, seeing him properly as if for the first time. Dazedly, he followed with his eyes the fine scar that ran from his right ear to his collarbone. He felt suddenly dizzy, and slightly sick.
They’re protective of me. I was – ill, when I was little, and they never got over it...
Why do you have bruise balm, anyway? – I-I’m clumsy...
Where’ve you been? – Hospital wing. I was ill.
Where’ve you been? – Hospital wing. I felt sick.
Where’ve you been? – Home. My mother’s ill.
The frequent absences. The tiredness. The refusal to change in front of the others. The scar on his left arm that he said came from a broken window.
They’re protective of me. I was – ill, when I was little...
I was – ill, when I was little...
I was – ill...
Prologue | one | two
three |
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