The star still gleams faintly in that hellhole of a dungeon, in a cell where the light can't find him. He was never a religious man, never cared for praying like his Maman did, yet he kneels begging some deity, any deity, for his love's transformation to be milder. The winds howl a familiar call as he shifts into a black dog, memories fading and thoughts simpler. He paws helplessly at the salt-soaked bars of the cell, whimpering at the moonbeams peeking out from the low clouds. Maybe if he grovels enough, his Moony will somehow be alright, will somehow appear in his hazy dreams tonight.
The half-wolf writhes on the claw-stricken ground, floorboards groaning as he snaps and twists into grotesque shapes. He fights the pull of the moon, as he does, as he has for the last 16 years of his life. He locks eyes on the silver of the moon, hate and rage awash in the rotten cavity he calls a heart, hoping for some sort of starlight to overcome the moon. As he succumbs to the wolf, he thinks he hears the soft padding of paws and his traitorous heart skips 1, 2 beats. Maybe if he wasn't such a monster, his Padfoot would have stayed.