Until the Screaming Stops
SUNDAY. SEPTEMBER 5, 1971. FULL MOON.
Remus Lupin will be little more than a shadow by sundown.
The muscles in his back are shrieking. His spine is painfully stiff, and his knees burn. It doesn’t make sense to him that bones can burn. But his do. His knees feel as though they’re being licked by flame.
His plan– forged perhaps a bit too optimistically– had been to slip off to the library and get ahead on schoolwork, same as Saturday.
Professor McGonagall assured him his grades wouldn’t be docked, but he’d wanted to be absolutely certain. After all, Remus isn’t meant to be here in the first place. He knows better than to give any of the professors cause to boot him.
But, when he arose on Sunday morning to a feeling like every muscle down his back was being stretched like saltwater taffy, it became clear he’d be doing no such thing.
It isn’t always so terrible: the morning before a moon. Sometimes, his condition is kind to him, and he gets off with nothing more than some achy joints and a click in his jaw. Once, he’d even been able to help his mother weed the garden. Other times, he winds up the way he did today. Pained and feverish. Too weary to do much other than lay in bed and wait while the aches swell to an excruciating crescendo as the sun ambles across the sky.
He hadn’t expected his absence at breakfast to be noticed.
That, in hindsight, had been quite foolish of him. His roommates don’t tend to leave him alone for more than a few hours at a time. Bar Sirius Black, of course. That boy has stayed quite far from Remus since the train. Which suits Remus perfectly fine. He’s not here to make friends. And even if he were, he wouldn’t pick some broody posh prick to pal around with.
If he were to have friends, Remus might want to be friends with someone like James. That boy is a firecracker personified. He’s bright, and loud, and chock full of the energy eleven-year-old boys are meant to be filled with. Remus envies that a bit. He wonders, maybe, if he hadn’t been bitten… well, there’s no point in dwelling on that.
The point is this: James Potter is the type of friend Remus would want if he wanted friends… which he does not. But James Potter very clearly does. So, it should come as no surprise to anyone that after James Potter returns from breakfast and catches wind of Remus’ fever, Remus’ Sunday is spent tucked into his crimson canopy bed with two eleven-year-old male nurses checking in on occasion.
The worst part is Remus feels too rotten to even put up a fight. He just slips in and out of fitful sleep, broiling beneath a mound of blankets.
At some point, James had placed a damp rag over his head, claiming his mother calls it a cure-all.
Remus resolutely did not think of his mam. He did not think about her cool, bony hands caressing his face when he was sick. He did not think of the wet washcloth she’d drag across his scarred skin after Da had stitched him up. The cloth was ultimately useless, of course. But it was a comfort to them both.
He did not think of Hope Lupin when James Potter’s small hands draped that rag over his forehead. He did not. But it becomes impossible not to when, at noon, he stirs to the smell of cawl cennin.
Remus opens his dry, stinging eyes to the pale, pink face of one Peter Pettigrew. The boy is sitting at the edge of Remus’ bed. Outstretched in his pudgy hands is a steaming bowl of soup.
“Here.” Peter offers softly. “You weren’t at breakfast. You should eat.”
Remus rubs at his red eyes, his tired, moon-addled mind moving too slowly to properly process his roommate’s words.
“You said you’re Welsh, yeah?” Peter gently places the bowl in Remus’ lap. “I thought it might be easier for you to keep it down if it was something from home.”
Something in Remus’ chest stirs. He’s pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with the moon.
“It is Welsh, right?” Peter suddenly sounds nervous. “The soup, I mean. Or are you not Welsh? I’m sorry. I just-”
“No.” Remus croaks, lifting a shaky hand. “It’s Welsh. I’m Welsh. It’s perfect.”
Peter puffs up, grinning proudly.
“Thank you,” Remus says. The thing in his chest grows and squirms. It feels something like gratitude.
Cawl cennin. He misses his mam.
“Eat.” Peter pats Remus’ shoulder and hops down from the bed. “You’ll feel better.”
He does.
***
They insist on walking him to the nurse. Which Remus thinks is perfectly ridiculous. He’s tired and achy, not faint. But nurses Potter and Pettigrew won’t hear it.
“Should we bring you a blanket?” Peter asks, wringing his hands.
“They’ll have plenty of blankets in the hospital wing, Pete.” James is walking a few steps ahead of the other boys, making faces at his reflection in the suits of armor. He turns around to answer his friend. “Besides, he’s got a fever. He shouldn’t be under any blankets in the first place. That’s what mummy says.”
“I know. But maybe just to hold?” Peter turns to Remus.
Remus shrugs, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He tastes copper. Banging. He’s getting an early start at tearing himself to shreds.
How should he answer Peter? This is why he didn’t want them to come along. This is why he hadn’t wanted to talk to them in the first place. He settles on silence. The shrug seems to suffice for Peter.
Remus considers himself lucky that it had been Peter to ask the question, not James. James is not the sort to be satisfied with silence.
As the boys round the corner, Remus catches a glimpse of Madam Pomfrey at the entrance to the hospital wing. She’s waiting for him.
Dread pools in his stomach. It suddenly all feels terribly real. For the first time since he’d been bitten, Remus is about to go through a transformation away from home. He shrivels.
James, too, takes note of Madam Pomfrey.
“Must be the nurse.” He points at her. Pointing is rude. “Come on, then.”
James bounds up to the doors and into her line of sight.
“Good afternoon.” He says politely. The switch in his nature is so abrupt it nearly makes Remus dizzy. Maybe he is dizzy. He's suddenly nauseous with nerves.
“That’s ‘good evening’ by now, I reckon.” Madam Pomfrey corrects.
“Good evening, then.” James smiles. “You’re the nurse, I presume?”
Madam Pomfrey nods. “I am. Can I help you?”
“My friend is sick.” James points back in the direction of Remus and Peter. Remus is limping, doing his best to catch up to James and get the boy to leave, so Madam Pomfrey can do whatever she needs to do before sundown. Peter is walking beside him, tutting sympathetically each time he winces. It’s thoughtful, but it’s also incredibly unhelpful.
When Pomfrey’s gaze meets Remus’, a look of understanding dawns upon her face. Pity, too. Remus tries not to think about the pity.
“I see.” She says, “Well, you did the right thing bringing him here, boys.”
Remus feels as though he can hear his joints creaking with every step he takes. Perhaps he can. The Wolf can hear things from miles off.
“I’ll see what I can do for him.” Pomfrey continues. She places her hand on Remus’ shoulder. Her touch singes. “You boys run along. Dinner should start any minute.”
“Do you want anything from the great hall, Remus?” Peter asks. “Lamb?”
Remus’ stomach churns.
“I’ll fetch him supper myself, Mister…"
“Pettigrew,” James answers. “And Potter.”
“Right,” Pomfrey studies the two. “Potter and Pettigrew. I might have known.”
Before Remus even has a chance to wonder what she means by that, he’s being ushered through the great double doors of the hospital wing, and his friends– roommates– are obscured from view. The doors shut with a clang.
After a few moments, Madam Pomfrey enters again. She presses the back of her hand to Remus’ forehead.
“How are you feeling?” She asks.
“I’m alright.” He lies.
She frowns. “It hurts already?”
‘Hurts’ is quickly becoming an understatement. Remus says nothing.
“You might have come in earlier.” She walks swiftly to a cabinet and begins rummaging. “I could have given you something for it.”
It wouldn’t have helped. Da’s tried it all.
“I’m alright.” He repeats. His voice sounds hoarse and small.
She continues her useless rummaging. Remus begins to itch.
“Please.” He says a bit louder. She ceases her search. “Please. I just want to go.”
Pomfrey presses her mouth into a flat line. For a moment, it seems like she might deny him. But, finally, she nods once. “Very well.”
She closes the cabinet and walks briskly back to the double doors. “You can walk, yes?”
Remus nods. She hums. Remus deliberately chooses to interpret it as approval rather than disbelief.
“Follow me.” She says and sets off. Remus limps after her.
Madam Pomfrey does not attempt to coddle him again. She walks deliberately, with a quick step crafted through years of responding to emergencies. Remus does his best to keep up. She doesn’t even look back until they’ve made it outside. He appreciates it.
“It was kind of your friends to walk you down.” She says, smiling ever so slightly. Sadness swims in her gaze.
Remus shrugs, eyes cast downwards. “I suppose.”
“Is something bothering you, Mister Lupin?” She asks, then adds, “Apart from the obvious.”
Remus nearly laughs at that. He might have if he didn’t ache so terribly.
“Is it that Potter boy? Is he giving you trouble?” Pomfrey halts to look at Remus straight on.
Remus shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”
Not the sort of trouble she means, anyway.
“Then what is it?” She asks. Her face is hard and stern, but her voice belies a sort of sincerity her eyes do not. “Spit it out. Not much time to chat, you know.”
“They’re just my roommates,” Remus says. “The boys who brought me.”
She raises a brow.
“I’m not,” Remus takes a deep breath. He flinches at the way it shudders. He feels pathetic. “I’m not interested in friends. I’m here to learn.”
Remus had hoped that if he said it out loud, then it would feel true. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel true, and it most certainly doesn’t sound true if the pity that washes over Pomfrey’s face is any indication. Remus doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t want anything. He just wants to get through this year. Is that really so much to ask?
As the itch in his skin grows more insistent, he thinks maybe it is too much to ask. He thinks he might settle for making it through the night.
To his surprise, Madam Pomfrey chuckles as she begins walking again.
“I don’t know that it matters whether or not you’re interested in friends, Mister Lupin.” She casts him one final sidelong glance. “You’ve got two.”
Remus feels warm. Whether it is simply the fever rising or a creeping blush is unclear.
Soon, The Whomping Willow looms over the pair like some sort of awkward, gangly teenager. It moves ever so slightly, even in the dead air. Like it’s breathing. Madam Pomfrey extends her arm to keep Remus from walking too close. He frowns. It’s becoming difficult to stand still. The itch has become so intense that it almost burns.
Pomfrey bends down and picks up a smooth, flat stone. “Do you see that knot?” She asks, pointing to the trunk of the gnarled tree.
Remus nods, not trusting his voice. He wants to scratch his skin off.
Pomfrey chucks the stone at the tree. It bounces off the knot, and the tree suddenly stops breathing. It becomes perfectly still. Petrified. Stripped of its defenses, the tree looks ugly and pathetic. Remus averts his eyes.
Pomfrey hikes up her robes and crouches down into a hollow at the very base of the tree, obscured by the hulking thing’s warped roots.
“Quickly, please.” She calls back to him. “Not quite sure how long it stays stunned.”
Remus, not exactly fond of the idea of being beaten to death by an angry tree, scrambles into the hollow after her. He finds himself in a long dirt and stone corridor. It’s terribly dark. The only light in the entire passageway comes from Madam Pomfrey’s lit wand.
“Stay close,” she instructs. “And watch your step.”
Remus feels every bit the child he is as he grips tightly onto the fabric of the healer's robes, trying desperately not to stumble in the dark.
At the very end of the passageway stands a single wooden door. At a flick of Pomfrey’s wand, the door creaks noisily open into a basement of some sort.
This, at least, is familiar. Transforming in a pitch-black basement. Nothing Remus hasn’t done a million times before.
Not without mam.
He bites down harshly on his tongue as if to chase away the thought.
“Here we are.” Pomfrey stands up to full height and dusts off her robes. She inspects the surroundings and frowns. “A bit bare, but it should do for tonight. Don’t you think?”
Remus wishes he’d taken up Peter’s offer to bring his blanket. He nods.
“There’s a cot up the ladder.” The nurse informs him. “A few other rooms, too. The whole place is warded and locked up nice and tight. You’ll be safe here.”
That word. Safe. It burns him.
No. He wouldn’t be safe.
But everyone else will be, and that’s what matters, really.
“I hope you’ll grow to feel…” She pauses, clearly searching for the correct word. Remus bristles. “Comfortable here, Mister Lupin. As much as possible, at least.”
He doesn't respond. What would he even say?
“That’s all,” Madam Pomfrey says. She hikes up her robes again and turns towards the exit.
Panic flares bright and painful in Remus' chest. He grabs her wrist. “Wait!”
He doesn’t know why it stings so severely when she jumps. He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t appreciate the mournful lilt he's picked up in her voice several times tonight. Yet the flash of fear he just caught on her face makes him want to scream. He’s being impossible. That’s what Da would say. He can practically hear Lyall’s voice say it.
He blinks up at the healer, watching as her face settles back into an unreadable mask. What does she see when she looks at him? Does she see the monster he will become in a few minutes?
“Mister Lupin?” Pomfrey prompts.
Remus trembles.
“Could you stay?” The voice that leaves his mouth is not the voice of a monster. It is the voice of a terrified child. “Just… just on the other side of the door? Just until I’ve…”
Hope always stayed. Always. She sang lullabies for her son until the screaming stopped.
Madam Pomfrey’s stony face melts a little. She nods wordlessly. Remus releases her.
Once the room has been sealed properly, Remus removes the clothing he doesn’t wish to rip. He does his best to fold them neatly, but it's difficult when his hands are shaking so violently.
With that final task complete, he takes a deep, shuddering breath and curls up on the floor. The wooden door feels cold and almost damp against his flushed back.
It’s all coming to a crescendo now. The itch. The burn. The ache. The ringing in his ears. The rattle in his lungs. He tastes copper. He’s not sure if it’s real.
It’s coming.
“Madam?” He calls. His voice quivers. Something inside of him tells him she's left. He wouldn't blame her if she had... he'd seen the fear on her face. In truth, Remus thinks he'd be scared of himself too.
“Right here.” Her voice replies from the other side of the door. She doesn't bother to mask its somber tone. Remus doesn't mind.
He cherishes the sweet semi-second of comfort her reply gives him. Then it starts.
It's always a toss-up as to which bone will be the first to cave in under the weight of The Wolf. On good nights, it might start with his hands or his legs. Tonight is not a good night. Tonight, his skull is the first thing to split. Unbearable pressure, piercing pain, momentary blindness. His whole world is a sickening array of white-hot pain and terrible noises. A symphony of grotesque grinding sounds. The cracking of his spine is drowned out by his hammering heart and his anguished cries.
There is one blessing, however small it may be; it passes pretty quickly tonight. There are only about fifty seconds between when the screaming starts and when the howling begins.