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Roy wakes to find his muzzle pressed against a cold floor. Dust falls in brightly-lit patterns, gleaming a dull yellow. A dozen questions shoot through Roy’s mind, dulled by the wolf, until the figure next to him moans and twitches, answering all of them at once. He blinks, then switches back to his human form and pushes himself up on his knees.
He makes a little sick noise in the back of his throat. He can see Hughes’s muscles, bulging and wrought from the strain of the transformation, through his skin. Mottling purple and red spreads across his back like someone has taken a paintbrush to a sodden piece of paper and let the pigment seep across, pervasive and beautiful and wrong . He doesn’t even notice the leg, not at first.
Heart pulsing urgently, Roy shakes Hughes’s shoulder. When Hughes doesn’t stir after the sixth shake, Roy takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Hughes,” he murmurs.
Roy rests his thumb against a patch of particularly deep purple just above Hughes’s shoulder blade and presses . Hughes’s eyes shoot open and he gasps, choking on it. His eyes dart around wildly before settling on Roy. They are rimmed red and raw, and Roy realises after a moment that the transformation has been so terrible this cycle that there is blood clumping Hughes’s eyelashes together like cheap mascara. It is another moment before Hughes truly becomes aware, and Roy wishes he’d savoured the relief as Hughes emits a keening groan. He twitches his leg up towards him, then bucks against the ground with pain, and it is then that Roy sees it.
There are ways that legs are supposed to bend, that is: forward and at the knee, perhaps backward if one is double jointed. This is not bent at the knee and is not bent forward. Roy gulps. “It’s going to be alright, Hughes,” he mutters.
“Roy?” chokes Hughes, then cuts it off with a strained ‘ugh’.
“Yeah,” says Roy. “I’m here.” He doesn’t say ‘now’, doesn’t say he’s here now , because that would involve acknowledging that he had not initially been where he was meant.
After a few feeble coughs, Hughes slinks his eyes over to meet Roy’s. “You getting me out of here?” he asks, and Roy pretends he doesn’t hear the undertone of begging in his words.
“Soon,” breathes Roy. “I just have to – figure out…”
“Apparate?” Hughes croaks, voice tapering off altogether at the last syllable.
Roy shakes his head frantically. “You’ll splinch,” he says, “or I will.” He closes his eyes and tries desperately to calm himself. Portkeys are too unreliable, and Roy doesn’t want Hughes to hit the ground. “We’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way,” he concedes, reaching for his wand.
Hughes whimpers. “The students,” he protests.
“They’re asleep,” says Roy.
With no further ado, he conjures a stretcher out of thin air. He shifts Hughes onto it, knowing that even the gentlest touch cannot be gentle enough and opting instead for efficiency. He swallows down a wave of guilt when Hughes makes a tearing noise from the back of his throat, a scream cut short, as Roy carefully deposits his leg onto the stretcher.
Roy raises his wand and floats the stretcher. He sees Hughes’s Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down and worries for a terrible moment that his friend is about to be sick, but then he rolls his head to face the ceiling and closes his eyes, panting. Roy floats him down the passageway to the Whomping Willow, glancing around furtively for seventh years on early morning strolls to dispel their NEWT anxiety or first years up to no good. Satisfied that the coast is clear, he tickles the small of the tree and it quiets, so he brings Hughes up to meet him.
The castle seems a long way away from here, though Roy knows it can’t be more than half a kilometre. He takes a deep breath and steels himself for the rest of the journey. Hughes is quiet, mostly. He makes gentle, anxious noises every so often when Roy’s concentration falters and the stretcher jolts slightly. Roy wishes he could say something, but he can’t bring himself to speak. He wasn’t there, he reminds himself, and that’s a betrayal.
He opens his office door quietly, without magic. He wishes he was Hughes, who can break a charm to cast a charm, then reattune his efforts again without missing a beat. He snorts. He had barely scraped an Exceeds Expectations in his Charms NEWT, almost wasn’t allowed to take the subject at all. Still, he thinks, glancing down at Hughes, he had a good tutor and a solid Confundus Charm.
At Roy’s laugh, Hughes sluggishly turns his head and raises an eyebrow. “What?” he croaks.
“Charms,” says Roy, because that’s all he has to say.
Hughes cracks a tiny, wincing smile, and Roy – just for a second – feels better. And then Roy deposits him on his bed as gently as he can, and it isn’t gentle enough. Hughes grunts, clenching his fists in the sheets.
“Sorry,” breathes Roy.
“S’fine,” says Hughes faintly, apparently more focused on breathing.
Roy doesn’t contradict him for now, focusing his efforts on gathering supplies. Content with his armful of medical assets, he sits down next to Hughes. “Are you bleeding anywhere I can’t see?” asks Roy out of habit, though he has not yet even covered Hughes with a blanket.
Hughes shakes his head, eyes closed again.
“Okay,” murmurs Roy. “I’m going to work on your deeper cuts first – the gash on your right side.”
It’s a nasty gash. While it isn’t pulsing blood, thank heaven for small mercies, it has been making its presence known slowly but surely by pulling apart if Hughes even tries to move his right arm. Roy twists the cap on the jar of dittany, scooping out an ample amount onto two of his fingers, and moves towards Hughes’s wound. A hand catches his wrist, and he looks down.
“You okay?” he asks, suddenly anxious.
“I can smell that,” rasps Hughes. “It’s dittany.”
“Yes,” says Roy, and moves to continue.
Hughes’s grip around his wrist tightens. “That’s expensive stuff,” Hughes protests.
“Good thing I can afford it,” Roy says bluntly. “Now, hold still.”
Roy works at the edges of the wound first, hoping to close it from the outside in. Hughes grunts at first, at the sting of the dittany against the gash, but it soon begins to close, and Roy sees him relaxing as the wound shrinks and shrinks.
“There,” says Roy. “That won’t even scar!” He’s wrong, of course. Cursed wounds always scar – but it is not nearly as serious as it could be, and he would feel grateful if it wasn’t his fault in the first place. “I’ll do your forehead next.”
He works through Hughes’s wounds systematically, going from deepest to shallowest until they are all closed, leaving at worst red, raw lines across his skin and at best nothing at all. He supposes not all the wounds are cursed and self-inflicted. Some must be from falls and others from the wolf’s straining to escape the Shack. He sits back.
Hughes’s eyes open to little slits. “That everything?”
“Nearly,” says Roy. “I just – your leg… I can’t…” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I might have to take you to St Mungo’s.”
Hughes’s hand returns to Roy’s wrist, gripping desperately. “Don’t,” he begs, and Roy kicks himself for thinking Hughes sounds animal in his pain and desperation.
“Maes, I…”
“ Please , Roy.” Hughes opens his eyes as far as he can. Roy stares into them, sees how they are bright and helpless, and remembers the terrible nights Hughes had spent there as a Hogwarts student, forced into loneliness and prey to Ministry propaganda.
A spike of fury pummels in Roy’s chest, and he nods. “Alright,” he says. “I won’t send you to Mungo’s, but I might have to bring someone here.” He rubs his forehead. He can’t ever do right by Hughes, and it hits him like vertigo.
There’s a harsh knock on the door, and for a second Roy isn’t sure he remembers how to stand. “I’ll answer it,” he tells Hughes. “Rest.”
“That’s the plan,” says Hughes, and meets Roy with a mock-salute. It doesn’t make Roy smile, not today.
Roy staggers towards the door and cracks it open to reveal Edward Elric, decked out gloriously in a pair of Hogsmeade’s Finest pyjamas, complete with three enchanted bobbles swinging down from strings at his chest and creating sparks when they hit each other. He is holding a thick book under his arm. “Ed,” says Roy, relieved not to have found a first-year, at least. “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah,” says Ed, frowning. He glances down at the book he’s holding. “Inferi and Zombies – do they vary at all, other than in creation?”
Roy pinches his nose and sighs. “Edward,” he says.
“Yeah?”
A wildly inappropriate idea strikes Roy, and he decides it must be worth it if it relieves just a little of Hughes’s pain. “You – you’re good at Charms.”
Ed shrugs. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess. Can you help with my question?”
“Later,” says Roy. Ed rolls his eyes and huffs a little, but Roy grabs his wrist and pulls him into the room before he can say anything. “I need you to help me.”
Roy steps aside to show Hughes to Ed. Ed stops. This is the first time he’s seen Hughes so soon after a transformation, and even if he was not so clearly injured, Roy supposes that the way his jaw seems too broad for his face and his muscles pulse every so often under his skin must be startling. Hughes turns his head to meet Ed’s eyes and splits his mouth into a pained grin. “Hey,” he croaks.
Ed opens and closes his mouth. “Uh – hey.”
Roy clears his throat. “He has a broken leg and I can’t – I can’t fix it.”
“He’s terrible at Charms,” whispers Hughes conspiratorially, offering Ed a wink.
Ed snorts. Roy steps forward. “Take a look at it,” he snaps perhaps a little too sharply. He shifts the blanket up Hughes’s leg as gently as he can to show Ed the damage. Ed stands and scrutinises it for a moment.
“This is probably a job for a healer,” he says.
Hughes pulls Roy’s sleeve and stares up at him, pleading. Roy, who feels that Ed has given an excellent suggestion, sighs. “Can you fix it?” he asks.
Ed looks between Roy and Hughes, taking in the edge of panic under Roy’s harsh façade and the way that Hughes has his head tilted against the pillow. “I…” he starts. The muscle behind Hughes’s mangled tibia pulses visibly under his skin, and Hughes makes a choked noise, bucking his head further against the pillow and panting through the spasm. Apparently, this is enough for Ed. “I’ll fix it,” he says.
Roy’s shoulders relax, sending his figure forward just slightly. He stares at Ed, who is staring at Hughes’s leg. He’s just looking, and Roy doesn’t know why, so he stares harder. Ed spins. “I can’t work with you staring at me like that!” he snaps.
Roy, feeling helpless, shrugs his shoulders. “What can I do?”
Ed rubs the bridge of his nose, crinkling his eyes shut. “You could get an ice pack and a cloth for his face,” he suggests.
Roy moves as quickly as possible. He fills his sink until an inch of water covers the bottom, then freezes it and breaks it. He realises after a moment that he has forgotten to turn the tap off, and the ice begins to crack and melt under the warmer water. He curses more loudly than is warranted, discards the ice, and starts again. This time, he turns the tap off with such force that the faucet creaks.
“Shut up,” he tells it, and gathers the ice into a tea towel.
He wets a flannel and returns to where Ed is peering more closely at Hughes’s leg. “I’ve got it all!” he announces.
Ed doesn’t respond, so Roy walks over to Hughes and puts the ice pack on his face. Hughes swats at him. “Roy,” he complains. “I can do that myself.” He reaches up and adjusts the ice pack. Roy sits and twiddles his thumbs, pulling different shapes into the wet flannel until Hughes looks over at him. “Buddy?” he asks. “You doing okay?”
Roy stares down at him. “You have a broken leg,” he points out.
“Yes,” agrees Hughes, “but I’m not using a flannel as a glove.”
Roy realises after a moment that he should probably clean Hughes’s face. He stands and moves forward. “Can I?” he asks, gesturing with the flannel.
Hughes waves the hand he isn’t using for the ice pack, and Roy begins to dab at the dried blood and sweat on Hughes’s face. He looks almost normal when Roy is done, his skin clean. It’s the slight swelling that gives it away.
Finally, Ed turns. “Okay,” he says. “I think you should knock him out,” he says to Roy.
Roy squints. “Knock him out ,” he repeats, then shakes his head and retrieves a small vial of sleeping draught from his stocks. “Hughes,” he says firmly. “Time for you to sleep.”
Roy helps Hughes sit up enough to take the potion (the ice pack falls onto his chest in the process), and he and Ed both wait until Hughes is asleep. Once they’re sure he’s out, Ed glances up at Roy. “I’m gonna do it,” he says. Then, he whips his wand out and Hughes’s leg arches and breaks back into position with a murmur from Ed that Roy doesn’t quite hear and a loud snapping that Roy absolutely does hear. A second later, Ed murmurs something else, and there’s a faint crackling from the vicinity of Hughes’s leg.
Ed spins around to face Roy, sheathing his wand in one swift move. “He’ll be sore for a few days,” says Ed, “but it’s done.”
As the tension eases from Roy’s back and shoulders, guilt seeps into its place. He gives a half-hearted smile and swallows. “Great, thanks,” he says. “Um, 15 points to Ravenclaw.”
Ed gapes for a moment. “That’s it?”
Unsure of what to do, Roy steps forward and claps a hand onto Ed’s shoulder. “Good, um, good work, Ed.”
Ed glances at Hughes, who is still deeply asleep, then back at Roy. “You’re not gonna explain what happened?”
Roy shrugs. “Full moon,” he says shortly.
Ed wrinkles his nose, which says more than enough, but he speaks anyway. “You could have just taken him to St Mungo’s and let them treat him properly,” he says.
“He didn’t want me to.”
“And?” says Ed, crossing his arms. “You’ve done it before.”
Roy rubs at his temples. “I thought we overcame your nosiness when you were a second year.”
Ed quirks one eyebrow up. “And yet,” he says drily. He sighs and leans onto the back of Roy’s desk chair, flinching when it spins and sends him off kilter. “Is there some kind of danger?” he asks.
“No!” says Roy. “No, nothing like that. It’s just – Mungo’s isn’t very…” He snakes his tongue around his mouth, searching for the word. “It isn’t very accommodating towards werewolves. I just thought Professor Hughes could do without me letting him down again.”
The corners of Ed’s mouth quirk up and he leans forward, unable to mask his enjoyment in finding a clue. “Again?” he asks.
Roy gives a heavy sigh, dropping into his desk chair so heavily that Ed careens backwards and steadies himself on the bed. “I was late, alright? Sundown had gone on an hour before I got to the Shack.”
Ed stares at him flatly, unimpressed. “Why?”
Roy thinks practical magic is wasted on Ed when he could learn the theory and be a very impressive Ministry Judge, given that information is seeping out of him voluntarily. “I had a Slytherin first year – she’s struggling with Transfiguration and – you know what those sorts of Pureblood families are like: if she doesn’t get perfect marks on all her end of year exams, she’ll have a meltdown. I had to sit with her and organise some tutoring and support for her with Professor McGonagall.”
Ed stands up straight and starts to pace. “You feel guilty because you were being pastoral, which is part of you job ,” he states.
Roy does not respond.
Ed scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re a dumbass.”
“Five points from Ravenclaw.”
There’s a faint murmuring from the bed, and both parties snap around to look at it. Roy gets ready to bustle over, then Hughes turns his head and opens his eyes. “10 points to Ravenclaw,” he says sleepily. He fixes his eyes on Roy. “You are a dumbass.”
“You’re feeling better,” says Roy.
Hughes chooses to ignore the comment, staring at Roy through half-lidded eyes. “Okay,” he says. “You’re arrogant, then.”
Roy sputters. “What?”
“Have you ever seen a Hufflepuff during exam season?” he asks, and Roy wonders if he should remove Ed from the room to save Hughes’s rep with the students. A glance at Ed, however, reminds him that Ed doesn’t gossip about teachers unless it’s a jab at a lack of empirical methods, and he decides he’s too tired to displace him.
“I went to school with you,” Roy reminds him.
“That was fine,” Hughes handwaves blearily, “I coasted through my classes, I didn’t have to worry.”
In his corner, Ed snorts. Roy whips around to glare at him, and Ed promptly closes his mouth. Roy decides it’s too much trouble to comment on the way that the corners of Ed’s mouth keep twitching up.
“I’m just tryin’ to say,” says Hughes, rubbing his eyes, “that you’re not the only one who’s been trying to keep students together.”
Roy blinks. “So… You’re stressed.”
“Ding ding ding,” mutters Ed, just loudly enough for Roy to hear him.
“Ding ding ding,” agrees Hughes. He pulls one of Roy’s throw cushions from behind his head and aims weakly at Roy. The cushion lands at Roy’s feet and he looks up and raises his eyebrows. “You really think you’ve got to be perfect or everything will fall apart?” he says. “You are a Slytherin.”
Roy clears his throat. “You’ve known that since we were 11,” he says. “But I was still late, and I might have helped a little.”
Ed rolls his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that, Professor,” he says in a bored voice.
Hughes snickers from the bed, and Roy can’t help but feel profoundly like he’s being mocked. “More to the point,” says Hughes, “if you hadn’t been late…”
“…You might not be hurt,” interrupts Roy, prompting another eyeroll from Ed, and the use of a much harder, better-aimed projectile than Hughes’s pillow. “Ow, Merlin’s Fishnets , Elric.”
“Let him finish,” says Ed, crossing his arms and pretending with little success that he isn’t rather proud of his shot. Perhaps he’ll try out to be the new Ravenclaw beater, he muses.
“Thank you, Ed,” says Hughes. He seems to be sinking into his pillows from exhaustion, and Roy feels a little sorry for interrupting. “Let’s say you were on time,” he murmurs, swallowing harshly against a huskiness until Roy summons a glass of water. He sips on it gratefully, then pushes the glass away. “You’re on time, and a little first-year has kittens over what her parents will say or do if she doesn’t get it right. We come back to the Castle, and that first-year never comes to you for help because that night was the only time she felt brave enough. She withdraws, doesn’t get any better at Transfiguration, and suddenly everything else is harder for her because there are basic magical concepts she doesn’t grasp. A talented student falls through the cracks.” Hughes closes his eyes, clearly struggling to stay awake.
Roy shifts from foot to foot, he can see the point, but even so… “You still got hurt, though,” he murmurs.
“And?” interjects Ed. “We fixed it. We couldn’t have fixed the little girl. Magic can’t do that.”
Hughes gives Ed a little smile. “Thanks,” he murmurs.
Roy sits down again. “Neither of you is going to let me brood, are you?”
“Nope,” says Hughes, letting his eyes drift closed. “Not today.”
Roy sighs and shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. “You’d better rest, then,” he says. “And, Ed, bring your textbook over to the desk.” He summons some parchment and a quill. “Explain and evaluate three differences between zombies and inferi as proposed by Lovborg and Willoughby, and we’ll go from your answers.”
Hughes drifts to sleep to the sound of a quill scratching against parchment and the rustling of parchment, and wonders when Al will potter in yawning with mugs of tea and his homework. He’s hurting and he’s exhausted and he won’t be right for a few days, but he’s one of the only men in the world who can lay claim to two families and say with complete honesty that he adores them both, and that’s better than any elixir.