The Marauders: Year Two | #Wattys2016

Gunhilda of Gorsemore

Gunhilda of Gorsemore

Sirius Black lay awake beneath the canopy of his bed, one arm bracing up his head, the other flung across his chest, deep in thought as the night passed by. The light of the full moon danced across Remus's empty bed.

It had been a week since the news of Mr. Parry had reached Hogwarts. Professor Blythe had not yet returned to her post as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, though she had been seen at the faculty table during a couple dinners and breakfasts, ending the rumors that she'd been sent off to Azkaban, at least. McGonagall, who continued to teach session in Professor Blythe's absence, was no more giving of detail than she'd been that first day, however, and the students of Hogwarts were no closer to knowing the truth of the matter at hand than they'd ever been. They spent many whispered conversations in the Common Room or at the table in the Great Hall speculating about what was going on with Professor Blythe, but none of the theories seemed to solve the mystery.

Sirius wasn't thinking about Professor Blythe, though. Rather, he was thinking once more about Remus, out there in the Shrieking Shack. He sighed and shifted his weight, his eyes turned to the frame of the window, at the edge of the moon's orb peeking 'round the towers of the castle, the pale blue light gleaming in his eye. He hated the full moon nearly as much as Remus did, by this point, for it meant that he would not sleep. Guilt filled his stomach and churned within him too thickly for that, though he wasn't sure precisely what it was that he, Sirius, felt guilty about, other than the fact that it was not him out there in the cold, howling at the moon. He ran his fingers over the silver scars that marked his arm and frowned, pained at the idea that Remus may be inflicting pain upon himself out there right at that very moment, without a soul about to stop him.

If only there was a way, Sirius thought, to stop him the wolfish instincts from taking over, some way to keep Remus being Remus once he'd turned. But he could clearly recall the bloodthirsty glistening in the wolf's eyes the month before and he shivered. There didn't seem to have been any words that could still the wolf's madness within. He was too far gone to understand reasoning and pleading, Sirius thought. The only way to speak to him would be to speak in the tongue of an animal and that, obviously, was quite impossible a task.

He clutched his duvet from the foot of the bed and pulled it closer 'round his chin.

The first rays of dawn were creeping in the window when Sirius awoke from a light snooze that he had fallen into, rousing with the slightest sound. James was up and pulling robes from his trunk. "What're you doing?" murmured Sirius.

"Quidditch practice," James whispered. "Derek wanted us on the pitch first thing. Go back to sleep."

"I can't sleep," Sirius replied, struggling to sit up, a bleary mess, "I'll go with you."

"You just were sleeping," James replied, "I know you're worried about Remus, but you've got to sleep." He fastened his cloak 'round his shoulders and tucked his heated gloves into his pocket.

"I'll sleep when Remus gets back," Sirius answered, and he threw his feet out of bed and grabbed his own cloak. He hadn't even bothered changing into pyjamas the night before and his shaggy hair was even more unruly than James. "I've got to get my mind off it. Watching a spot of Quidditch and getting some fresh air will do me good. Plus, maybe I can take notes for what to do next term this way," he added, shrugging.

"Alright, but it's going to be really cold out there," James warned.

Sirius shrugged, "Bah. The cold doesn't bother me."

Sirius wished he still had the same feeling about the cold an hour later when he was sitting in the stands of the pitch, watching as Derek had the team flying laps and practicing shooting quaffles in the rings at Andy Woodhouse. It was freezing up in the stands and Sirius pulled his cloak 'round himself tightly, but the wind was whipping at a good pace and his nose was pink and stuff from the chill of it. He was very thankful when Hagrid came bumbling up into the stands with a thermos of hot tea and a bag of cauldron cakes. "Thanks Hagrid," he shivered, holding the warm cup between his numb fingers.