Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

I Couldn't Sleep Last Night

"The things that we bury can tell you a lot about who we are. The difference between a garden and a graveyard is only what we choose to put in the soil."

-Rudy Francisco

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Hogwarts, September 1972 (Second Year)

For new werewolves, the first few years are crucial for their development and discipline. The demon strain that causes Lycanthropy causes various changes, such as waves of uncontrollable aggression, inability to control rage, suicidal anger, and despair, especially those with no support from a pack. When overwhelmed, many turn violent—against others or against themselves, leading to a high suicide rate and a high rate of domestic violence.

Sirius glanced around the empty library beneath James's invisibility cloak, a light glamor drenching his surroundings. Madame Pince had vacated her usual desk hours ago; the pull of exhaustion and hunger begged her someplace else, leaving Sirius to his devices within the restricted section. Half of the texts were novice at best; Walburga owned first edition copies of most of the literature if she hadn't already donated it to the school. Yet, Sirius wasn't prepared for the vile, cruel literature on Werewolves. It was just terrible.

Like vampires and other Dark Creatures, many werewolves belong to a group: in their case, a pack. Wolves naturally organize themselves into packs to maintain stability and assist with hunting.

Sirius didn't like the way these books portrayed Remus. He was more than just some ferocious, untamed animal! Several passaged wrote about things that meant nothing to Sirius – chatter about Alpha's and Beta's, things Sirius didn't rightly understand because Remus wasn't animalistic. He was human, at least for the majority of his life. Remus didn't belong to a pack. His friend had no "eat or be eaten" mentality, none that he had witnessed. These books in the library were implying that Remus was a dog, nothing more and nothing less. He was incompetent and feral, worthy of nothing the world could provide. These books made him sick.

If he was that uncomfortable, how did they make Remus feel? An old memory from nearly a year ago was fabricated behind his weary eyes; Remus promptly covering a copy of this very book before Sirius could get a good look at it. The same title and cover exactly.

It was time to get some rest, but how could he sleep? Time passed now in such an agonizing manner, Sirius wondered if he could resist sneaking down till morning. Remus could've been hurt, or worse! Remus was plain, despite the circumstances, that he didn't want Sirius around.

I will kill you, he'd growled.

Sirius needed to take that warning with caution. With a dramatic sigh, Sirius made a move to return his books to their original shelves. Dust littered the cloak, leaving a tiny outline of Sirius barely visible to the naked eye. A book caught on the fabric of his pajams as he went to leave, sending it hurtling to the ground with a loud thud.

He was tempted to just leave it. Madame Pince would eventually find it and put it in its proper place, and Sirius needed to get to his dorm to grab a blanket and other things before Filch started his rounds. Sirius had managed to calm the tremors in his body to dull thumps every now and then, provoked only by the mental image of Remus crying in pain. The memory was fresh, and he could relive it as much as he wanted to. Finally, however, he decided the only thing he could do, and stay alive in the meantime, was to wait. Wait, research, and prepare.

Charging headfirst back into that shack would get him killed. Remus had been right when he told him he'd been hardheaded those weeks ago. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Sirius could make rash decisions in the heat of the moment.