PMS: Pre Moon Sickness

Disclaimer: To my dismay, the characters except Sapphire STILL aren't mine.

PMS: Pre Moon Sickness

Chapter One

Oh, yeah! Go me! I haven't thought about him for an entire six hundred forty-seven seconds. I rock!

Technically, that is envisaging him just now. I developed a strange affinity to him several months ago. I cannot let anyone discover it. What would they say? I'll tell you what they'd say: That he's my friend, my male friend, and that my attraction is totally inappropriate.

I commence peering at him in admiration again. He is sitting on the window ledge of the dormitory. My best mate usually sits there, but James is in the kitchens with our short chubby companion getting us snacks. I prefer it when he sits there instead of James because Prongs leans against the windowpane and discusses his plans for our next prank. The individual that is currently holding my attention quietly sits there and gazes out of the window as if he can witness attributes no one else can rather than having his back to it. One slim leg is bent and pressing against his chest; the other leg is dangling off the sill. His arms rest folded atop the bent knee in silent contemplation.

He reflects instances within his mind frequently, yet rarely tells us what he's thinking about. He probably shall refrain from informing me if I ask, yet I inquire anyway as I always do if only to hear his quiet, melodious voice serenely proclaim it is naught for me to be concerned about.

"A knut for your thoughts?"

"Hmm?" He jerks out of his reverie. His stare shifts from the outside world to me. I want him to consider me his world. Many girls pray someday I shall consider them with that notion filtering through my mind. Unfortunately for them it is reserved for him. I only flirt with them for meaningless fun when there is nothing more entertaining to do. He deserves my love, and ultimately the love of someone more sensitive and compassionate than I am. He has so much suffering to cope with, and what does he do? He invariably assists other people despite the fact that he realises if they knew the cause of his agony they would shun him for it. That is what results in him being so beautiful...His perfect arse doesn't hurt either.

"Not cheap, eh?" I grin with my façade of an easy joking manner that was the only aspect that kept me sane in my hellhole some people refer to as a household. "How about a galleon for your thoughts?"

"It's nothing." Inwardly, I sigh. Didn't I tell you he would say that? Sometimes being correct all of the time is tiring.

"Don't tell me 'it's nothing.' You've got that faraway look on your face that means it's something serious."

"Sirius? You mean I'm thinking about you?" he quips.

I wish. "Hey, I'm the only one that's allowed to make lame puns with my name!"

His lips, his smooth sweet lips, curl upwards into a smile and I yearn to taste them more than ever before. I speculate that he has a specific smile just for me. Of course, that is more than likely one of my hopeful meditations. He unquestionably has the best sense of humour of anyone that I know. Not sadistic, as my Partner in Crime and I are said to have, simply pleasant. However, the smile fades and he becomes grave. "You really wanna know?"

He's truly going to share his private musings with me? He scarcely does that with anyone. I perceive his trust in me as the highest of compliments. I cross the room in four quick strides and stand beside him to show him he has my support if he requires it.

He glances up at me and my stomach does the familiar flip that his scrutiny causes. "It's just that..." His soft tone trails off and he is mute for so long that I doubt he is going to continue. Then, he queries, "What colour are my eyes?"

"What?" I goggle at him in complete bewilderment.

"What colour are my eyes?" he placidly repeats. How he manages to remain perpetually calm is something that I worship about him. Probably since I am aware that he works so tirelessly at it. He loathes being powerless to command the wolf during transformations, thus possessing self-control in his human form is immensely important to him.

"You don't know?" Not much fazes me, yet the very concept of lacking the knowledge of one's own eye colour is incredulous and outrageously depressing.

He shakes his head and his silky hair slides against one of his ivory cheeks. The left one; I can tell because of the thin pink scar on it that I desire to skim with my tongue. "You know my lycanthropy makes me colourblind. I can see that my skin is white and when I was young Mum would brush my hair and she told me it was light brown, but no one ever told me about my eyes."

I attempt to conceal my discomfort, though he is so observant I feasibly am unsuccessful. "You sure you want me to describe your eyes, Moony? They're supposed to be the 'gateway to a person's soul,' and I'm no poet. That's your thing."

"I'm sure," he confirms with undeniable certainty.

"Okay..." I select my words carefully knowing that he, with his excellent memory, shall presumably recall whatever I declare for the rest of his life. I despise responsibility when it comes from professors, though in this case I am honoured. "When you first wake up and when you're composed, which is most of the time, they're light blue, so I guess that's what most people would say they are, but they're wrong. When you're upset, such as before, during, and after full moons, they're dark azure-grey like the sky before a storm. You might expect your eyes to look that way if you are angry. Well, when you get mad they turn penetrating ultramarine, like the depths of the ocean, with hints of amber-gold. Although, they're an even deeper navy when you're lost in thought. They've got a turquoise, almost green tinge, on the rare occasions when you're feeling as mischievous as the rest of us. When you're happy they're cerulean with an overlying silver gloss like moonlight on the lake. The last is my favourite, but the mischief is a close second."

He blinks at me in mild surprise. Damn. Even a person that is not as insightful as him could comprehend that my feelings for him are not purely lackadaisical. He stands up and is so near to me I can feel his body heat creep across my skin. My heartbeat begins to accelerate. He vocalises nothing.

Usually, I am skilled at breaking silences, thus I add in an effort at comedy to lighten the awkward situation, "Told ya I was no bard. If you'd wanted a chat-up line that would've been easier:

Do you work for the post 'cause I could've sworn I saw you checking out my package?

You've got the whitest teeth I've ever wanted to cum across!

Do you wash your knickers in Windex since I can see myself in them?

Let's go to my place and do things I'll tell everyone we did anyway.

I could fall madly in bed with you.

Come here and get a taste of England's Most Wanted!

You should stop drinking 'cause you're taking m home.

Are you a hands-on learner? I am and I'd like to learn about you-" I cease speaking abruptly when his finger covers my lips. There is an expression on his handsome face that I cannot identify, which is odd since you must have observed how intently I've analyzed him.

"Padfoot, I-" The doorknob clicks open and he closes his sensual mouth. We avert our gazes from each other uncomfortably. I love my mates, though I want to throttle them for interrupting him.

"What do you mean I'm feminine?" demands a bespectacled boy as he deposits a sack of desserts on the nearest unmade bed. That means it cannot be Remus', for his is flawlessly tidy at all times, even when he sleeps in it. I hunger to sleep in there with him to mess it up.

"Well, you were giggling," the small lad following behind him squeaks apologetically.

"Haven't you ever heard of a masculine giggle?"

"No. I assumed there wasn't one."

"You know what happens when you assume; you make an ass of u and me."

Peter scratches his head, perplexed. The other laughs at him good-naturedly. Next, he cognizances me. "Padfoot, I was giggling, as Wormtail puts it, since I've got an idea."

"You do?" My comical personality replaces the vexation, and I turn to the window. "I think a pig just flew."

"That's a pathetic retort. Now, here's my idea: We put itching powder in the Slytherins' Quidditch robes."

"You've had better, but it's not bad. I'm in. You know Head Boys shouldn't do things like that."

"I'm in too!" squeals Peter.

"What about you, Remus?" My closest mate regards my love interest. "What's wrong? You look like someone died or that you're out of chocolate. They're pretty much the same in your case."

He is still focusing on the floor. "Nothing."

"Yeah right." James rolls the hazel eyes behind his glasses in obvious disbelief without prying for more information as I did earlier. "Come on. Let's sneak to Hogsmeade and get the stuff."

I head towards the exit with James and Peter when I recognise that he isn't following. "Aren't you coming?"

"No, thanks." He has to include the 'thanks.' So polite. Typical Remus.

"Why not?" prompts Peter.

"I've got things to think about." Oh no, I've distressed him, and so close to the full moon! I'm a git. I really am. A sexy git, but a git nonetheless.

"All right." Peter easily accepts this explanation.

"Want us to get you anything?" James offers. He's a nice bloke in spite of his self-centeredness. Evans ought to give him a chance; she's missing out.

"No...You could answer a question for me."

"Anything, Moony," assures James whilst Peter nods in agreement. Where is the beautiful werewolf going with this?

His eyelids gently shut. "What colour are my eyes?"

"I dunno." Peter shrugs. "Open your eyes and I'll tell you." He's never noticed the hue of someone's eyes that he's known for over six years? That's pitiful.

James bestows Remus with a quizzical look. "Uh, they're light blue. Why?" I knew most people would say that! I'm a genius!

The eyelids reopen. "Thank you. I understand everything now." Does he? He doubtlessly does. Why did I have to fall for a smart person?

Shit!