rabbit
“Remus, I need some mischief. Wanna have a smoke?”
Remus sighs, leaning against one of the stone archways surrounding the open-air courtyard. A nearby torch lights the side of his face in a flickering orange haze; the only sounds in the night air are crackling flames, distant crickets, and an occasional student rushing to get to their common room before curfew. You’re antsy, pacing in front of Remus, cracking your knuckles- the interaction you just had with Regulus is wringing your gut out like a washrag. He raises an eyebrow at you, giving you a tired look.
“We should go to bed, mate. Not all of us can live off of two seconds of sleep.”
You groan. “You’re so lame.”
“I’m serious, let’s go. You shouldn’t be out here like this- and you shouldn’t go off alone.”
“Rem, I’m fine. Do you think the Dark Lord will come to visit Hoggy on holiday?”
Remus rolls his eyes. “I told Dumbledore I wouldn’t leave your side.”
You sigh, giving in and slowly pacing in the direction of the common room. Remus stays glued to you, glancing around occasionally.
“I’m being responsible. You’d regret it in the morning,” he says, crossing his arms.
“Probably. But, still.”
He chuckles as he approaches the Fat Lady, saying the password and slipping inside.
“Goodnight, killjoy,” you drawl, dragging your feet to the girl’s staircase.
“‘Night. Please try to sleep. You look fucking awful,” Remus says through a yawn.
“You too.”
You begin the trek upstairs, slipping your hand into your pocket. Your fingers meet silky cloth, and you freeze, a smile slowly growing on your face. You forgot to give the cloak back to Remus after he whipped it off outside of the hospital wing; you can just go on your own, it’ll be fine. You’ll be invisible, for Godric’s sake- you've snuck out as your animagus before and had a few close encounters with Mrs Norris- and jitters are still rattling in your muscles. Hearing the boy’s dormitory door close, you swing the cloak over your shoulders.
You’re not sure where you’re going- just wherever your feet land, just anything new to distract yourself. Your mind wanders as you slip out of the common room, and you try to calm down by reciting transfiguration theories in your head. Venturing into Voidguard the Volouminous’s Void, published in 1103 AD, established the term ‘void’ to describe the theorized space where transfigured matter byproduct goes…
Nevertheless, Sirius’s face, unfamiliar and expressionless, haunts your mind. A part of you debates on going to the boy’s dormitory and just explaining everything; the relief in Sirius’s eyes, the embrace he’d give you, his laughs of disbelief. That night in the hospital wing will be forgotten. You’ve ruined everything, an unwelcome memory of your own voice croaks, I feel like I’m losing my mind. His face crumpled for only a moment before turning back to stone. You squeeze your eyes shut. Merle Highchurch, renowned paladin and druid, was the first to record beast-to-object transfiguration in 104 BCE…
You idiot- there will be no relief, no embrace, no laughs- he’ll stay silent, stoic, unforgiving. You did irreparable damage, he’ll decide you were never worth the energy in the first place. You feel your stomach twist in on itself, and you clutch the cloak tighter. You know staying away from him is for his own safety, but you can’t help your brain’s rebellion. You can’t help the insatiable desire to daydream about his affection- his voice, his laugh, the way he moves. These thoughts taunt you like an empty stomach, like a dry tongue.
You rub your eyes and direct your focus on the lumos hanging above you, brightening it to inspect the halls. A few snoozing portraits give you hisses of disdain, but they seem distant, kilometers away- Godric, you wish Sirius was here-
“-enlisting students in war!” a posh, infuriated tone cuts into your psyche- you instinctively press your back to the wall, dismissing the lumos. With a start, you realize you’re next to McGonagall’s office. Her door is barely ajar, golden candlelight seeping into the black corridor. Securing the invisibility cloak, you sneak forward, eyebrows furrowed.
“Minerva, please,” Dumbledore’s typically placid tone is sharp, emotional. “Her fate is a dangerous one, our intervention will do nothing other than direct that danger, save lives-”
“How do you know, Albus?” she croaks, voice trembling. “How could you possibly be sure?”
“The magic, the energy, she has- without control, without any training… she will kill or be killed soon. You know just as well as I.”
Your stomach drops. You feel like you’re going to puke.
Dumbledore steps into partial view, revealing a sliver of his purple robes through the door.
“The knife- the letter opener, a few days ago-” there’s a pause while she takes a breath, “it would be like that? She would…?”
Dumbledore nods solemnly, rubbing his temple. “Frankly, I do not know. My research is in progress- pureblood families have a secretive tendency when it comes to records- but from my experience in our training sessions thus far…” he swallows. “Her magic is unstable, corrupted. Something dark grows inside of her. Something unknown.”
“Godric,” McGonagall whispers. “We- we could train her and send her somewhere far away- let her start again-”
“No.” Dumbledore’s voice is stern. “No, they will find her. She is a beacon of magic- it lingers in the air around her. She leaves a trail; she’s safest here.”
“She needs safety, stability- Godric knows she’s never had it-”
“She has that here. She will not choose to flee, Minerva.”
“She's too young to make such a choice by herself.”
“She is, indeed.”
You let out an involuntary gasp as a stabbing pain suddenly strikes behind your eyes- you duck out of the doorway, sinking against the wall, hands flying to hold your mouth shut. Desperately trying to stay silent, you curl in on yourself as you feel your brain split in two-
A cool breeze, a washing shore, a child’s laughter slowly distorted into a scream- the water is splashing, now, salt water on your face and in your eyes and stinging your hands- a fading pulse underneath your fingertips- tearing flesh under your touch-
The halls of your childhood manor. The familiar smell of stifling perfume, mothballs, rotting flowers- distant arguments echoing on marble envelop you. There’s the sinking, crushing feeling in your gut you remember well- your parents are fighting. You’re fleeing, running down the ingrained route to your room; this is a memory, you realize. A forgotten one, but a memory nonetheless. You desperately try to wake up, to break out of whatever this is, but as you see your child-sized hand pry the door open and slam it shut behind you, you realize you are merely a spectator trapped in your seven-year-old body.
There’s a knock at the door. Your parents don’t knock. The house elves don’t knock.
You creep forward to crack the door open, curiosity getting the best of you.
A tall, pale man stands in front of you. There’s something wrong with him- like his skin is stretched too tight, like something almost inhuman; and you can’t seem to focus on any particular part of his face. He’s in plain black robes, and his dark hair is cropped short. He looks down at you, expressionless.
“Who are you?” you hear your own voice tremble.
He smiles. It’s a horrific thing, you know that, but his face is nothing but static- there’s parts of your vision that are muddled, blurred. “I’m Tom. We are a lot alike, you and I.”
You feel your lips curl into a smile despite the eeriness of the stranger. Alike.
Everything fades away- you’re trapped in flashes of sensation, snippets of memory- freezing fingers gripping your arm- your insides tearing in half- your father’s muffled cries- the sound of your own screams- and a silver tiara tightly grasped in the man's hand. The midnight blue stones glitter in the candlelight.
You gasp awake, your eyes snapping open as you bolt upright. You don’t move far- you’re propped up in a velvet chair in front of an unfamiliar hearth.
You look around the room blearily, furrowing your eyebrows. You’re in what looks like a miniature library- there’s books lining the walls, stacked on the floor, balanced on tables. Velvet curtains and thick carpets layer the room. There's a wildly comfortable-looking bed tucked away in a corner, quilts piled high on top of it. Rain snaps against the bay window panes, thunder roaring in the distance. You stand to get a better look, and a ripped sheet of parchment falls out of your lap, fluttering to the ground. After glancing around and assuring yourself that you’re alone, you cautiously lean down to grab it.
Saw you on the map. Figured you’d want to avoid Pomfrey. Please rest
-S
Why was Sirius watching you on the map? Why did he carry you to… wherever you are? Godric, if you’ve somehow missed this room for the last six years, you’re going to kick yourself. The rain creates a perfect ambiance as you gaze at the bookshelves, itching to run your finger along a few spines. However, the reality of waking up in a strange location overtakes daydreaming about reading.
There’s only one exit: a solid-looking dark oak door that you push open slowly, peering outside. A tapestry of trolls in tutus hangs on the wall across from you, the green-grey figures snoring in a dogpile- the Room of Requirement can change? Since when?
As your mind swirls with theories, you hear a tell-tale gravelly meow nearby and slam the door shut. You sigh, closing your eyes and falling forward, letting your forehead thud against the stained wood. Your head spins. What the fuck was that… dream? It certainly felt similar to any legilimency lesson Dumbledore has taught you, but if it was a message from the Dark Lord, why did he show you a half-formed memory?
You remember now. The pain, the screaming. Tom. It feels like someone pulled back the curtain in your head, letting you peer in on something you’re not supposed to. Like you’re trespassing. You sink back into the chair, carding your hands through your hair. At least McGonagall and Dumbledore didn’t catch you.
Godric- the headmaster’s words echo in your head. She will kill or be killed soon. How long until soon? She will kill. Tom’s words, your smile… letting Remus into this was a mistake. Letting Sirius get so close was a mistake. James, Lily, Mary, Marlene… you feel tears well in your eyes as you’re haunted with the faces of people you’re endangering. If the Dark Lord can pry into your psyche like this, how can you be sure he hasn’t seen it all? Names, faces, locations, backstories. He’s got you pinned under his thumb.
You need to get out of here. You need to get air- you turn around, searching for the invisibility cloak, but strike out. Sirius must have taken it to sneak back. You feel stomach acid climb up your throat. Sirius chose this room for you. Sirius continues to take care of you, look out for you, follow you, even after the way you’ve treated him. He’s a good person, a great person- he’s nothing like the sneering kid he used to be.
You collapse back in the armchair. It’s absurdly comfortable, and the crackling fire is so warm, and the rain outside sounds more like a lullaby than a storm…
---
Fuck, fuck, fuck- your eyes are still clouded with sleep as you run to the transfiguration classroom, your dress shoes deafeningly hitting the stones in the empty corridors. Exams started fifteen minutes ago- you’re so fucked. You’re going to fail, she’ll never let you start so late, she’ll stop trusting you-
A portrait huffs haughtily as you run by, muttering something about youths and etiquette and punctuality. You ignore it, skidding around a corner, desperately trying to straighten your wrinkled uniform. This is going to be embarrassing, you mentally prepare yourself as you try to even your breaths in front of the classroom. Sweaty hand grasping the door handle, you ease it open. You wince as the ancient hinges creak. Peering inside, you see a few students grimace over their shoulders, but the majority are hair-grippingly fixated on the parchment in front of them, seated in neat, evenly-spaced rows.
Sirius is the first to swivel to meet your eyes. He looks exhausted- his skin is sunken, his hair and clothes are more of a mess than usual. He keeps his eyes fixed on you, hot and pressing and unreadable, even when you look away. Next to him, Remus raises an eyebrow at you, looking somewhat annoyed.
You keep your head down as you speed-walk to the front of the classroom, your eyes fixed on your shoes. McGonagall’s perfectly-hemmed crimson robes and pointed heels come into your sights.
“I- uhm-” you croak out a whisper, and with a blazing flash of embarrassment, you realize your eyes are beginning to water. You clear your throat, about to explain yourself, but a thin, warm hand grabs your shoulder gently and a thick stack of parchment is shoved into your grasp.
“I’m glad you made it. We’ll begin practicals at half-past. There’s an empty seat next to Mister Black. Good luck.”
You look up at the professor, expecting anger or indignation, but you’re met with a sad smile. It’s worse, somehow. You nod and let your feet carry you to the empty desk. It’s impossible to ignore Sirius’s eyes on the side of your face, even as you skim the exam questions. You glance over, your eyes meeting for a moment. He furrows his eyebrows at you, a silent question in his gaze: you alright?
You look away and try to clear your head of anything other than the test in front of you. Merle Highchurch, renowned paladin and druid… 103 BCE… Voidguard the Voluminous’s Void… She will kill or be killed soon. Your vision twists with vertigo, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Cracking them open, you watch as your quill blots the parchment, splatters of dark ink partially covering one of the questions. You swallow thickly, desperately trying to finish the exam as fast as possible. Your handwriting is practically illegible on the open ended section, but you can’t find it in yourself to care- every part of you is moving out of your control, answering questions without proper thought, relying on muscle memory as your mind twirls and twists further and further away from you. She will kill or be killed soon.
You circle the last answer just as McGonagall's voice breaks the eerie silence. She says something about beginning practicals, about sitting in front of her in groups of four for assessment- it takes every bit of energy you have not to let your head fall to the desk in exhaustion.
A familiar hand falls on your shoulder, and you glance up to see Remus’s concerned expression.
“What?” you croak.
“We gotta go, c’mon,” he murmurs, tilting his head to the front of the room. Peering around, you notice the majority of the class staring at you- James and Sirius are already at the front, sending confused looks over their shoulders.
“Oh,” you mutter, standing up, feeling heat rise to your cheeks, “sorry.”
Your eyes stay fixed on the back of Remus’s neck as he leads you to the front of the room. You feel like you’re watching yourself from afar- a ghost hovering three feet above your head, an observer to a stranger’s experience. You watch yourself sit down in front of McGonagall as she places a pair of slippers in front of each of the four of you. She says something that sounds like it’s underwater, and begins a stopwatch.
The boys next to you immediately begin to silently flick their wands in concentration. Sirius is the first to change anything- his slippers twist into a small, white bunny, its twitching nose and scared eyes bearing into yours. The professor’s praise falls on deaf ears- you can’t help a surge of pride from blooming in your chest at his spellwork. You shake your head, looking forward. Just as you twitch your wand, without any thought or effort, the plaid slippers in front of you are replaced with a oddly misshapen-looking rabbit. Your eyebrows furrow. Its legs are a little too long, its torso is too large, its eyes are too small; you blink in surprise, and something sickly twists the base of your gut- you inhale in shock- there’s something wrong-
Your rabbit, a dark mass of teeth and fur and wild red eyes, is across the table in an instant- the white bunny lets out a terrifying cry as the creature sinks unnaturally large, sharp, yellow teeth into its prey, again, and again, and again, each strike punctuated with horrific, animalistic screams- blood stains its white fur crimson, and the class gasps in shock around you-
Then they’re both gone. A smear of red remains on the table where the victim once was. McGonagall’s wand is raised, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and fixated on the remaining gore. The classroom is dead silent, the air tense and disbelieving.
The screech of your chair against the floor breaks the stillness. You didn’t mean to stand- but your legs are carrying you to the back of the classroom, out the door, as far away as possible. A part of you is left staring at the violent smudge of viscera where Sirius’s creation once sat.