The Marauders: Year One | #Wattys2016

Blankets for a Werewolf

Blankets for a Werewolf

The day before winter holidays, the boys were in the dormitory, packing for the journey back to London. Sirius had been so busy dreading going home to Number 12, Grimmauld Place, that he had quite forgotten his plan to knick Remus some blankets until the very moment when Remus announced, "Well... You lot have a Happy Christmas... I've got to go."

"Happy Christmas," said Peter hurriedly, too busy packing and mentally preparing for the feast that his mum would be preparing to say a proper good-bye to Remus.

Sirius dropped the books he'd been packing into his bag - he was the only one bringing along homework, as he figured there'd be nothing much else to be done while he was locked away in his room back home. His Transfiguration text fell off the bed and onto the floor with a thump. "You're not going out there already!"

"I've got to," Remus replied. He held up the note from Dumbledore reminding him of the moon. "I should've gone last night so that nobody saw me sneak out, but it was too cold to even dream of it. That old shack hasn't got the best insulation."

"Blast!" Sirius exclaimed, remembering the blankets that he and James were supposed to have gotten for Remus over the last month. He smacked his palm to his forehead, "Bloody hell, I'm the worst friend in the world!"

Remus looked confused, "What?"

James looked guilty, too. "We were going to knick you blankets from the laundry room," he explained. "Clean ones, of course," he added as an after thought.

"For the Shrieking Shack," added Sirius, "So you wouldn't be so cold out there."

Remus smiled, "I appreciate the thought," he said.

"Thoughts won't keep you warm at night!" Sirius said in frustration.

Remus shrugged, "Some thoughts might."

Later that night, the dormitory was quiet once again with sleep and the light of the full moon streamed through the window, lighting up Remus's empty bed ominiously. Sirius sat in his own bed, hugging his knees, staring over the sleeping forms of James and Peter, at the place Remus ought to have been, and shivering, refusing to get under his own blankets in interest of feeling the same cold that Remus must be out there in the shack. He rubbed his palms over his toes. They were like icicles.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled. He couldn't stand the idea of Remus out there, half frozen like he was picturing. Quickly, he got up and went over to James, nudging his friend, "James. Wake up." But James didn't budge other than to roll over and pull his own blankets tighter. Sirius frowned, "James, get up, we need to get blankets for Remus." But stil, no matter how hard Sirius shook him, James wouldn't wake up except to mutter something about a quidditch pitch. Sirius sighed. "I'll do it myself, then."

Alone, Sirius snuck out of the dormitory and through the portrait hole to the Trophy Room, careful not to make a sound. He didn't run into a single soul on the way to the room. The light of his wand cast long shadows of the trophies in their cases across the walls, reaching up toward the ceiling. He stood before the frame of Scrimgeour's empty portrait canvas and muttered Beati Pacifici and ducked into the passage quickly. He felt a lot better about not being caught once the portrait had resealed itself and he was running down the dark passage.

He had not yet tried going down to the laundry room and he hesitated at the edge of the seemingly endless pit, standing next to the blue flame marker with a lump in his throat. Nervously, he inched closer and peered into the darkness that loomed beneath him. It seemed a lot more daunting now that he was here than it had when he'd thought of it before. He wondered at James's heroics months before, when he'd launched himself down that very chute without hesitation to attempt to rescue Peter. Sirius thought it may have been the most brave and reckless thing he could imagine.