A Wolf's New Year
December 29th, 1971
The owl came swooping in just after breakfast on December 29th, a flash of tawny feathers and snowflakes. Remus, seated by the fire with a book in hand, looked up as it landed on the arm of his chair and extended its leg. He untied the scroll of parchment and unrolled it, instantly recognizing James’s messy handwriting.
Remus,
You have to come to the New Year’s party! My parents are letting me throw one—proper food, fireworks, and everything. Sirius is already here, and Peter says he’ll come if he can convince his mum. Don’t even try saying no. We’ll come and kidnap you if we have to.
Think about it. Don’t make me beg (I totally will).
Your pal,
James
Remus chuckled softly at the letter, but his smile quickly faded. December 31st. The full moon.
He sighed and set the letter aside, staring into the fire. How could he explain this to James without revealing everything? He couldn’t. And worse, he hated lying to him.
That afternoon, Remus sat at his desk, quill in hand, staring at a blank piece of parchment. He had already crumpled up three failed attempts at a response.
Finally, he scribbled a reply, keeping it as vague as possible:
James,
Thanks for the invite, but I can’t make it. Mum and Dad are dragging me to some boring family thing, and there’s no way out of it. Next time, yeah? Have fun without me.
Remus
He hated how dishonest it sounded, but what choice did he have? Tying the letter to the waiting owl’s leg, he watched it fly off into the wintry sky.
December 30th, 1971
As the hours crept closer to the full moon, Remus’s body began to feel the familiar tension, the restless energy that built in his limbs. But this time, something felt worse. He was already exhausted, his joints aching more than usual. His hip throbbed faintly, a discomfort he hadn’t noticed before.
The wolf was feeding off his emotions—he could feel it. The guilt of lying to James, the loneliness of being apart from his friends, the jealousy of knowing they were together while he was stuck here, preparing for another night of pain.
December 31st, 1971
On the morning of the 31st, his mother came into his room with a tray of tea.
“Feeling all right, love?” she asked softly, her eyes full of concern.
He nodded, though the lie tasted bitter. “Yeah, Mum. Just tired.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she didn’t say more, but he knew she understood. She always did.
The basement was silent and foreboding under the cold December moonlight. His father had reinforced it before the winter, the heavy wooden beams creaking as the wind howled outside.
Remus sat in the center of the room, his knees drawn to his chest, trying to focus on his breathing. He hated the hours before the change most of all—the anticipation, the knowing.
When the moonlight finally spilled through the cracks in the boarded windows, the wolf surged forward like a storm.
Pain ripped through him, starting in his spine and spreading outward, twisting his muscles and bones. He screamed, the sound raw and guttural, before it morphed into something more animalistic.
The wolf was restless that night, thrashing against the walls of the shack, clawing at the floorboards. It was fueled by Remus’s emotions—his anger, his sadness, his longing. He barely remembered the hours that passed, only the flashes of pain and fury.
January 1st, 1972
When Remus woke, the room was eerily quiet. His body ached in ways it hadn’t before—his joints stiff, his hip throbbing, his hands trembling as he pushed himself up.
His parents had already arrived, as they always had before, with blankets and potions.
“Oh, love,” his mother murmured, kneeling beside him. “Rough one, wasn’t it?”
He nodded weakly, unable to summon the energy to speak. She helped him sip a restorative draught, the warmth spreading through his chest but doing little to dull the ache.
“You should rest today,” she said firmly.
Remus didn’t argue, but as they helped him back to the house, the thought of his friends laughing and celebrating without him that night gnawed at his heart.
That evening, as Remus lay in bed, still aching from the transformation, an owl tapped at his window. It was Sirius’s handwriting this time, and his note was brief but to the point:
Rem,
James is sulking because you’re not here, but I know why. You’re a terrible liar, mate.
Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’re allowed to sit one party out. We’ll catch you up on all the chaos when we’re back.
Take care of yourself, yeah?
Sirius
Remus’s heart ached at Sirius’s words, but there was also a flicker of relief.
As the hours passed and the sounds of the village’s New Year celebrations drifted faintly through the air, Remus stared up at the ceiling, counting down the minutes until the break ended.