𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍; 𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐫.

𝐯𝐢: 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑—𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋—𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆. Every full moon, for the entirety of her friendship with Remus, he had only transformed one night: the night of the one true full moon. Not the nights before, and not the nights after. 

But when James had sat up, and Amara had conjured some ice for him to place on his eye, and calmed him down a bit, he began telling her what happened. The boys had been playing Exploding Snap, all together, to celebrate Remus's release from the Hospital Wing that night. The strewn chocolate wrappers and cards supported this, and Amara played with a crackly purple wrapper as she continued to listen.

Early into the night, Remus had transformed into a werewolf. James recounted, dully, with a blank and hopeless look in his eyes, how he'd thrown his head back and howled and dove at Peter. He spoke of the terror and how it wasn't supposed to happen—how Sirius immediately morphed into his Animagus form and attempted to subdue him. James had quickly followed suit, but been promptly knocked out when Remus had drove his little metal alarm clock repeatedly into his face. 

He could tell her nothing else. 

"I assume," James said, fingers pulling at a loose thread in the red carpet, "that Sirius and Peter either managed to knock him out and take him out under the Cloak, or that he has been running rampant through the school." He sighed heavily and dropped his head into his hands. "Mar, we are so fucked. A werewolf, loose in the school. So fucked."

Amara frowned. "Then how about we get up off our lazy arses and go look for him?"

"It's hopeless," James muttered. "I can barely stand. How am I going to fight a werewolf like this?"

"You're not fighting a werewolf," she replied. "You're saving your friend. I'll go alone, if I must. Where's the map?"

He only shrugged; so Amara, swearing profusely, rose and began to rifle through drawers and under all the beds, until she triumphantly pulled the parchment from under Sirius's folded sweaters. 

"I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good," she said, smartly rapping it with her wand.

As the ink began to grow on the page, twisting and darkening to form the corridors of Hogwarts, Amara scanned it desperately.

"Come on," she muttered. Her eyes fixed upon the little dot that read Remus Lupin, then sighed in relief. "He's in the Shack, James. I dunno how, but Sirius and Pete must've gotten him there."

There was no reply from James.

Amara glanced at him and winced. "Oh, James," she murmured, drawing closer to him and examining his seemingly unconscious form. The blow to his face must've been extremely rough. She sighed and arranged him, laying his head on a pillow and fixing his limbs into a more comfortable position. 

Fortunately, it wasn't relatively close to morning—so Amara would have plenty of time to help. She allowed herself one last, sorrowful glance at James before she left for the Shrieking Shack.

She had no Cloak—perhaps the others, in an attempt to conceal Remus, had taken it (how exactly they had kept a werewolf under it was by no means apparent to Amara)—so with each rounded corner, each crossed threshold, she was hesitant. Each staircase, each archway, each doorway: all were approached with baited breath and wand at the ready. 

Amara feared she was too late. Sirius was a capable force to hold Remus back, in his worst moons, but without James, and without her, he was no match. Not alone, anyway. She loved Peter; she really did. But a rat wasn't much use against a nearly full-grown werewolf.