All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Seventh Year : Victims

The wolf wanted out. He made that very clear.

The night started normal enough; the transformation went as smoothly as could be hoped, though it never got any easier to watch. They had already decided to stay in the Shack, per Remus’s wishes, and so the marauders had left the doors locked and the charms in place before they transformed.

At first, things seemed to be going alright. The wolf was a bit energetic, a bit wound up, but play-fighting and chase-the-rat seemed to be doing enough to keep him occupied. Padfoot had barked and wagged his tail, and they had raced in circles together around the room.

But as the night wore on, something changed. The wolf grew more and more restless, pausing to sniff at the air and howl. Eventually, he began to throw himself at the door, growling and whining and scratching. Prongs tried to block him, but that only seemed to make him more frantic. Padfoot tackled him, thinking to distract him with more play-fighting, but the snarl that ripped from the wolf’s throat in response was not very playful at all—nor were the jaws that locked around his leg, biting down too hard for it to be a game.

Padfoot wriggled free and growled, but the wolf only launched itself back towards the door. When he tried to cut it off, the wolf swiped at him, claws slicing through flesh, knocking him back into the wall. Padfoot whimpered as he slumped to the ground in a tangle of limbs, and Prongs cantered between them, snorting. Wormtail ran in circles on the floor, which wasn’t helpful in the slightest.

Just until sunrise, Sirius thought, vaguely, We just have to make it ‘til sunrise.

The next few hours were spent playing what felt like a dangerous game of chicken, in which Padfoot and Prongs would try to push or pull or coax the wolf away from the door, only to have him turn on them, snarling. They would then spend the next few minutes dancing away from the snapping jaws, until the wolf lost interest and returned to the door. By the time the sun finally began to rise, they were all utterly exhausted.

The transformation back was worse. It was like nothing that Sirius had ever seen before—as if the wolf didn’t want to leave, as if it was fighting to hold on. He panted and whined and howled on the floor, bones cracking, body shrinking.

The second that Remus had settled back into shape, Sirius transformed, rushing over to kneel at his side.

“He’s not waking up—Prongs?! Why isn’t he waking up?!”

James knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse; Peter hovered behind, chewing on his lip.

“It’s alright,” James said, after a moment, “He’s breathing, it’s alright. I think it’s just…taking a bit longer. For him to wake up.”

“Okay,” Sirius nodded, feeling slightly hysterical, “Okay, when will he wake up, though?”

“I—I dunno…mate, are you bleeding?”

Sirius looked down. Three stripes of blood were soaking through his shirt—after a moment his brain caught up, and he realised he was in pain.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Guys—” Peter interrupted, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, “Pomfrey’ll be here soon, if we don’t go she’ll catch us…”