Slytherin's Warning

Nigh Full Moon
by Hubert Cornelius

Nigh full moon, you hanging globe
Floating light to the dark places
Sometimes lovely, and yet cold
See fright on all the upturned faces

Floating light to the dark places
Touch the denseness of the forest
See fright on all the upturned faces
when light stretches on the moors

Touch the denseness of the forest
where eyes are blinking from the shadows
When light stretches on the moors
and follows where a lone wolf goes

Where eyes are blinking from the shadows
and see this cursed and wretched creature
and follow where the lone wolf goes
as wind ruffles matted fur

See this cursed and wretched creature
most days a man but now a beast
As wind ruffles matted fur
'til sun rises in the east

Most days a man but now a beast
and once a friend, now one can't trust
'til sun rises in the east
you may be cruel, but come you must

Once a friend, now one can't trust
Nigh full moon, you hanging globe
You may be cruel, but come you must
Sometimes lovely, and yet cold

--page 1, Full Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature

The next few days, Draco only left his room to use the toilet. Lupin always knocked on the door and told Draco if it was time for breakfast, lunch, tea or supper. Draco never responded. He knew he ought to be gathering intelligence, gaining the werewolf's trust somehow, anything to further along his ultimate goal, but he didn't know quite where to begin. And while he was very curious about what was happening in the rest of the world--was Potter already dead? Had Hogwarts fallen?--he didn't want to see the werewolf, and certainly didn't want to talk to it.

So he sat in the room, looking at the walls without really seeing them, thoughts going around in circles. Dumbledore, the rabbits, the Dark Lord aiming the yew wand directly between Draco's eyes....

One morning, though, instead of leaving Draco's breakfast outside the door, the werewolf knocked three times and entered the room. Draco glared at it. "What are you doing?" He noticed that the wolf seemed to be wearing the same clothes as before, then realized he'd been effectively preventing it from getting to its wardrobe. And the various nightshirts he'd been using all belonged to it as well. As Draco made that realization, he had to fight back a shudder. Somehow, though, he managed to maintain a neutral expression.

"I need to speak with you," it said. "Today is the 20^th."

"And?"

The werewolf gave him an unreadable look. "And so tonight is the full moon."

Draco felt like the blood in his veins had turned to ice. The full moon. How could he have forgotten? "So you're leaving?" he asked, not bothering to conceal his hopefulness.

"There's a room beneath the kitchen. I've used it before. You need not fear that I'll somehow get out. I just wanted you to know. And...." Here the werewolf seemed to falter.

"What?"

A brief hesitation, and then the wolf switched into a lecturing tone, one that Draco remembered from class third year. "You'll recall that magic is ineffective against werewolves. That's why a room to contain a werewolf can not be constructed magically or conjured into existence."

Draco hadn't really remembered that, but it made sense, so he sneered and said, "Of course."

"It then follows that silencing charms placed around the room would be useless." Lupin paused to let that sink in, before clarifying, "You will be able to hear the wolf, quite clearly. And as the wolf will be able to smell you, I fear it will be even more violent than usual."

Draco shivered at the thought, but then wondered, "If the wolf is truly subdued by Wolfsbane, why would that be?"

"You're starting with an assumption," the wolf chided. "I don't have access to the Wolfsbane potion. In the past when I was provided with it, it was brewed by Severus, which is hardly an option now." Draco must have paled, because the werewolf added, "The room will hold me. Trust in that, even if it doesn't sound so tonight. I used it before the invention of Wolfsbane, and afterwards on moons like this one, when I didn't have access to the potion. It will be all right. I just wanted you to know what was happening."

"Can I have your wand?"

"No, I'm afraid not." The wolf looked sympathetic but firm.

"You don't trust me," Draco accused. Merlin, the very idea of facing a werewolf with no wand....

"Well, there is that, but that's not the only reason. I seal the room's door from the inside, so I need it. And I doubt you could use my wand in any case. I truly am sorry." The words sounded sincere, but Draco didn't believe them.

The wolf turned to leave. In the room's doorway he paused again and said, "I realize it's been a difficult few weeks for you. However, I must remind you that you can't spend the rest of your life in that room. Waiting around will not help you in the long run. Consider that." He closed the door behind him. Draco wished he had something to throw at it.

With that beginning, the day could not be anything but interminable. A dozen times and more Draco stood, resolving to run somewhere, anywhere away from here. Each time as he stepped towards the door, he faltered. If he left now, he faced the prospect of being outside when the moon rose. How could he even think of leaving? And yet, how could he possibly stay?

It went without saying that he couldn't eat anything. The very idea made him ill. He'd enjoyed frightening stories of muggles and other monsters as a child and a hundred such tales now went through his mind. He remembered all too clearly the illustrations of the grotesque beast lunging forward....

He knew he'd get no sleep this night, so he tried to nap during the day. But his sleep was fitful, and he woke with a start at every small noise. He stared at the clock on the wall, mesmerized by the slow yet constant progression of the second hand, the minute hand, the hours. With a thought the faded cloth block out the midday sun, and Draco huddled under the blanket, squeezing his eyes closed. His own heartbeat felt unnaturally loud. "I might die tonight," he thought, and was surprised at his own calm.

After waking from a particularly vivid nightmare--he'd been able to see the brown-red stains on the werewolf's claws--he gave up on sleep entirely. He imagined what he would say to his mother if he could see her one last time. Much of the conversation featured him pleading for forgiveness, and her melting and giving him the smile that only he received, saying, "My Dragon, I will always forgive you. Come home and together we shall make a Death Eater out of you."

At length, wanting to know if dusk was imminent outweighed his fear of finding that it was, so Draco glanced at the window. The cloth covering it window obligingly rolled away and Draco looked out. But it was the wrong angle to see the moon and he certainly wasn't going out into the main room. So he just watched the sky turn darker with infinite slowness; the blanket twisted under his clenched fingers. Then the werewolf screamed.

Maybe it had been groaning and crying before, but to Draco the sound was sudden, making his pulse thrum faster and faster until he gasped for air. And once the screaming started, it kept on and on and on, and the worst of it was that it sounded human still. Draco could hear an echo of his own screams under the Cruciatus.

Then the tone of the screams shifted--perhaps he'd only imagined it but it was almost dark now and there was a monster down there. But even the animalistic quality to the cries didn't help because the scream--the howl--it was like the rabbits and no matter how many times he cast Silencio he could still hear it, still see the rabbit writhing and jerking for his pleasure.

Once the werewolf stopped shrieking its pain the sounds turned angry. Savage, wild, the barbaric howls were completely unlike the histories and programmes on Draco's Wizarding Wireless. Draco swiped at his eyes and thought about hiding under the bed. But the bed would not protect him from teeth or claws. There was nowhere to go, not now.

And then the muffled thumping began, as the wolf hurled itself against the walls of its prison again and again. Each time sounded impossibly close and Draco held his breath--was it getting closer? Slowly he released the breath and drew another shuddering one, staring at the door.

And on and on went the night, as long as Draco had ever lived. The shrieks of rage, of pain, of bloodlust, all washed over him and melted into each other. He tried counting to himself, manually ticking off each second, but as he was about to whisper, "nine," the screaming abruptly stopped. Everything was silent, time balanced on the edge of a knife, the sky framed by the window inky and fathomless.

Draco began to pronounce, "ten," and as he did the air split with a savage howl directly beneath him. He could hear the crack as the animal's head hit the floor just below and in that moment lost control of his bladder, warm liquid gathering in the sheets. He'd never been so ashamed, not even when he was brought before the Dark Lord in disgrace, and did not dare leave the bed even now as his urine turned the sheets cold and sticky. As the pounding and howls continued, Draco whispered over and over, "Why why why why why--" Why did you send me here? But the door held, and the wolf did not break through.

When the pounding stopped the snarling continued, but several seconds now passed between each howl, as though the wolf had burnt off its own rage. Something seemed very significant to Draco, though he couldn't have named what, when he recognized a broken sound as distinctly human; not the product of canine vocal chords, at least.

He hadn't even noticed the sky growing lighter, but now the meaning of the pale grey morning registered--the moon was passed and he was as safe as he had ever been in this hovel. Nevertheless, it was several minutes of steady breathing before he could let go of the blanket and move his still-trembling legs. He showered until the water turned cold, relishing the way his shame was pounded away. He thought of nothing, washed away the cold sweat. He'd survived....

When he emerged it was nowhere in sight. One of the rugs on the floor was pushed to the side, revealing a closed trapdoor. Hungry now, Draco wandered into the kitchen and grabbed some pumpkin juice and a muffin, before retreating to his room. Without his wand he had no way to clean the soiled sheets, so he sat on the chair and ate slowly, savouring each bite.

He was still on edge, jumping at every little sound, so it was not surprising that he heard the trapdoor creak open an hour or so later. Draco braced himself, waiting for the knock on the door that he eventually realized wasn't coming.

He wanted to go outside. It wouldn't be remotely safe and he didn't want to go past it--yet he stared out the little window and wanted anyway. He wanted to fly, wanted to cut through the light drizzle until he couldn't feel it. There was something for facing one's fears, he thought, because although he was still acutely conscious of his own frailty, at the same time he felt bursting with life. Fear might cripple him, but it could not kill him.

Put like that, it sounded a little silly, but Draco could not deny the thrill coursing through him. It was a little like the adrenaline high he felt after making a spectacular dive on his Nimbus 2001. Not that he ever wanted to spend such a night again. It was of the utmost importance that he find a way out of this situation before the next full moon (preferably sooner).

Unlike some people--Pansy, for one--Draco had never made a habit of skipping meals, not even when he had Quidditch-related pre-game nerves. After not eating at all yesterday, the muffin didn't come even close to filling his stomach. The food here was hardly outstanding, yet Draco found himself looking forward to lunch. But for the first time since his arrival, lunch didn't come. It irritated him--after endangering and terrorizing him all night, it seemed like the least the wolf could do would be to get lunch ready on time. On any other day, Draco would have waited at least a few hours, but not today. So, with some trepidation, Draco opened the door.

As the main room had no dividing walls, Draco saw Lupin right away. The werewolf was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the room near the sink. He was shirtless, and his entire upper body was covered with wicked-looking slashes. Lupin held a scrap of cloth and slowly wiped away the blood from one of the claw marks. More blood welled up immediately in the cloth's wake, and Lupin patiently folded the cloth over and ran a clean side of it over the wound again.

Each movement was slow and gentle and deliberate, almost hypnotizing. Draco stood frozen in the doorway, unable to look away. Lupin's face was drawn and pale, and as he touched the wound a pained grimace would pass over his features. He clearly hadn't heard the door open, and Draco didn't know how to react to the other's pain.

Should he ignore it and get himself lunch? But to do so he'd need to practically walk over the injured man--the injured werewolf, he reminded himself, not a man. But the thought was uneasy. None of the childhood stories he'd recalled the day before ever mentioned the werewolf hurting itself. He could almost believe there was something different about this full moon, something out of the ordinary. That usually the werewolf did not emerge so battered.

But the patient, even strokes of the bloody cloth, the other cloths on the floor, already used or ready to be used; they all revealed that this was the norm. That every month, Lupin did--this--to himself.

Draco backed into the bedroom as quietly as he could and eased the door closed. The thrill of the morning and of being alive seemed muted now, his hunger temporarily forgotten. Those ugly scrapes, skin hanging off the edges; it brought home the violence of the beast. If it had broken out, the damage it could have done to Draco's body.... But he couldn't seem to muster up righteous anger about the danger he'd been in.

To a certain extent he thought of the wounds and imagined how nearly they had happened to him. But more than that, his mind kept returning to the expression on the werewolf's face, the one that said the pain and blood-soaked cloths were old, familiar rituals.

Almost unconsciously, Draco started pacing around the small room. He didn't quite know the direction his thoughts were going, just that he felt unsettled and uncomfortable. He scowled when he happened to glance up and unexpectedly bright light from the window hit his eyes. No sooner did he squint against the glare, though, than the faded cloth fell across the window.

Draco turned at the wall to pace in the other direction when it hit him and he almost stumbled: the charms to the room were designed for a convalescent, for someone in bed, weak and unable to muster the energy to cast charms to cover the window. For someone leaning on a makeshift cane, perhaps, and without a free hand to open the door. For someone unable to go to the kitchen and make food but who nevertheless needed nourishing food that was easy on the stomach. Bland soup, for instance.

Draco didn't know whether the werewolf himself had cast the charms on the room or had someone else do it, but either way it was clearly made with mornings like this one in mind. His stomach suddenly growled, reminding Draco why he'd opened the door in the first place. He told himself that the wolf didn't expect him to starve, surely, and likely wouldn't even remark on Draco making himself something to eat.

As he walked towards the door again, though, Draco wondered if the werewolf would demand its room back. He was surprised to realize that if the wolf did ask, he didn't know what his answer would be.

This time when he opened the door, Draco made no effort to be quiet. So as he came into the kitchen Lupin put the cloth down and pushed the cloths into a pile to the side, clearing a path for Draco. He was undoubtedly still in pain, but his usual expression of reserved calm settled onto his face, and he said neutrally, "Good afternoon."

Draco very nearly blurted, "How can you say that? You look horrible!" but instead made a noise in his throat that Lupin could take as agreement if he wanted. "Getting something to eat," he added unnecessarily as he opened a cupboard. Strange to be so near an injured person and not inquire after their health--but Lupin knew that Draco hated him so it would be odd if Draco was polite....

"Yes, of course, help yourself," Lupin said, and Draco darted a quick look to make sure the other man--no! werewolf!--wasn't being sarcastic. But Lupin's expression was sincere, and to Draco's surprise, there was even a hint of approval in the steady gaze.

Given the state Lupin was in, it seemed very odd, so Draco felt justified in asking, "What are you smiling about?"

Lupin shook his head slightly. "Nothing really. Just--I'm rather impressed. Sharing a building with a transformed werewolf is no easy task. Few people would be as composed as you the next day."

Draco didn't feel composed at all. He felt awkward and uncomfortable and almost obscenely healthy next to the man on the floor. He glanced at the thick sandwich he'd assembled and without thinking offered, "Want me to make you one?"

Surprise flickered in Lupin's eyes for a moment, so quickly Draco might have imagined it. "No, but thank you."

Draco retreated towards his room, but paused before the open door. "This--this is normal?" he asked, not quite sure what he meant by "this."

Lupin seemed to understand him though. "For a werewolf without access to the Wolfsbane potion, this is indeed normal." Some of the vague turmoil Draco was feeling must have shown on his face, because Lupin added, "The goal of the werewolf is to destroy, as violently as possible. In the absence of another living creature, it will in its rage harm itself."

Draco managed a jerky nod and went into his room. As he closed the door, he heard Lupin say, "You might want to stay in there in case someone from the Order comes to check on me. But I hope you will come out here for dinner tonight. I will be better then, I assure you." Draco doubted the latter very much.

But as he bit into his sandwich, he found himself considering Lupin's offer. Could he sit down to dinner with a known werewolf? Maybe... maybe he could.