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Remus’ first full moon at the Potters’ did not go as he’d expected. Or as he’d hoped.
They set a room up for him in the attic, set with a bed, good sturdy walls, and finished with a silencing spell. Good, he wouldn’t disturb the poor Potters; they’d been so kind to him, the least he could do was try not to inconvenience them further.
There was no silver, thank God, not like St. Edmund’s, but there was one draw back that Remus could argue was almost worse.
Restraints.
They didn’t actually look all too horrible. They were grey, metal cuffs with fabric padding on the inside, 2 for his ankles and 2 for his wrists. Remus knew it was probably a good idea in theory, to protect himself and the Potters. But Remus knew better. The Wolf wouldn’t like it. It always scratched and writhed and fought, more often than not injuring itself (and by extension, Remus,) when it got either too frustrated or too bored.
It didn’t help that Remus was claustrophobic. Extremely claustrophobic.
He never really figured out why. Maybe it was due to St. Edmunds’, where his room was barely bigger than a closet and had been made to squeeze in at least 6 other boys a pop, or maybe he just… was. It could be hereditary. Doesn’t matter -- this was going to suck either way.
He tries to put on a brave face when he’s led into the attic room as the sun sets on the night of the full moon. The facade instantly shatters when Moody begins to secure the restraints with a sympathetic grimace.
Remus’ chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster, his vision blurring with tears. He knows logically that thrashing about won’t help but his limbs move of their own accord, struggling to wrench out of the biting grasp of the confines.
“No, fuck, no- James! James! Euphemia, somebody, help!”
He sobs, the sound ripping its way out of his throat without his consent. He can't breathe.
It’s pathetic. He’s acting like a child, and in reality it’s not going to fix anything.
He doesn’t know when Moody left, locking the door behind him, or when his body stopped producing tears because he’d cried his tear ducts dry, or when his throat went hoarse and dead from his screams and sobs.
He eventually succumbs to the transformation and the pain of the wolf that month is nothing in comparison to the panic.