Mischief Managed Y2 Part 2: The Truth of the Tournament

Chapter Sixty-Two: Might Not Make It

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Even with his friends tailing Fiona, Remus knew she could lose them whenever she chose to do so. It left him feeling very nervous about going to the Whomping Willow, casting glances over his shoulder to such an excessive point the matron actually commented on it. She usually let his paranoia be, having learned the hard way she couldn't talk him out of fearing other people would find out. Or maybe the fact Remus' roommates had found out about him in less than two years gave Madam Pomfrey pause and left her without her usual reassurances. Remus sort of wished she would have berated him about worrying too much and nag him about how dumb his peers are so he had nothing to fear. But she didn't or if she did he didn't notice, much too busy leaning on every sense he had to feel if Fiona was following them or not. 

By the time the reached the shack Remus had only succeeded in giving himself a massive headache in his attempt. It came as something of a shock to take note that the extent of his 'superpower' senses was actually quite amazing, especially this close to the full moon. When he tried to focus the whole world seemed to come alive. At least it left him mostly certain the demiguise hadn't been anywhere near them. But the tiny 'what if' plagued his mind after the matron left. The shockwaves of agony as bones began to break soon left him to succumb to what he knew would be a bad moon.

Sure enough he didn't wake up until he was already in the hospital wing, one look at the matron's face confirming it had been every bit of a disastrous night as he was sure it would be. He was dosed up on pain medication and a potion was replenishing the blood he lost, making him feel sort of feverish and hazy. But Madam Pomfrey's quiet unusually intense fussing over him left him more worried than normal.

"That bad?" he asked, ignoring the scratchy pain of attempting to speak in more than a whisper brought after a night of howling and screaming. Clearly the wolf hadn't calmed down at all, not that it ever seemed to nowadays.

"You just rest, dear," she hushed him, gently placing another cool rag across his forehead. There was something in her tone though that led to a different kind of fear consuming him.

"What happened?" he asked, voice cracking with the pain he could never seem to completely avoid after a full moon. He tried not to panic over if the visions of blood tugging at his memory were of him ripping into himself as usual...or Fiona.

"It's nothing you ought to worry yourself about. Now close your eyes. You need your sleep. Even if you are allowing your friends to see you I'm certainly not going to if you don't cooperate," she tsked, though it lacked her usual sternness.

A hand touched his sweaty head and he flinched, inhaling sharply and letting out a cry. "Did I hurt someone?" His tone begged her to tell him he was wrong as tears cascaded down his bruising face. The matron's eyes widened and she sat down on his bed, pulling him into a hug.

"Oh you silly boy, of course you didn't! I don't know how I can convince you that once you are in the Shack no one else can reach you," she reassured him, and he allowed himself to lean into her, inhaling the scent of pepper-up potion and linen sheets that always seemed to accompany the matron. Unless they know how to get past the Whomping Willow, he silently corrected her. But her horror at him even thinking such a thing reassured him that Fiona had not found him last night. But there was still something wrong. She seemed too emotional somehow, much more touchy-feely than she usually was with him. His heart hammered rapidly in his chest and he bit his tongue to keep from demanding she tell him what was going on. By the time she pulled away he had concluded either one of his friends died last night because they had underestimated the Abreasalt and Digore students who were after the orb or that Voldemort, after being quiet for a while now, had somehow all but secured his win for the war.