[What Remus is doing right now is reckless, he knows. Rash, stupid, unnecessary: it's not his concern, and there are others who are far more qualified to do the job in any case. There are other things he should be doing, responsible things, things he's paid to do. If he were wise, he'd be getting on with those things and and he'd be leaving this to someone else.
But he's not wise. Not today. Not now that he's heard the rumors that have been making the rounds, first in Hogsmeade and then, slowly, trickling in narrow streams like rain leaking under the door, into the school itself: there is a black dog wandering around the outskirts of Hogsmeade. It's not a Grim or a wandering spirit, it casts a shadow in moonlight so it must be a flesh-and-blood animal. It doesn't belong to anyone in the village; it just seems to have appeared out of nowhere to hang around that old haunted shack with the boarded up windows. A big, shaggy dog with luminous pale eyes.
Remus knows what that means. He's the only one who knows. For the present moment, he's the only one who can do anything about it. And he must do something.
So here he is, nearing the end of a low, lightless tunnel so hauntingly familiar that it feels like he's never really stopped smelling the leaf mould scent of it somewhere at the edge of his perception. His wand rests against his palm in the long sleeve of his robes, currently hidden but close to hand in case of surprises. His body blends in perfectly with the deep shadows and his feet make no noise as he walks, but that isn't all: no one who wants to remain undetected around a dog should stop at making himself impossible to see or hear. There are also spells to still the vibration of the ground under you, to mask your smell, to eliminate the sound of your breathing and your heartbeat and the rustling of your clothing. Remus has cast all of these on himself so that he has at least a small chance of approaching his quarry unawares.
He stops for several moments in front of the old trap door, now warped and ill-fitting due to age. It's already been opened, but he can't make out any sign of life on the floor above it. Slowly and with caution, he climbs through the entrance and into the shack.
And here it is, practically unchanged in the fifteen years since he saw it last. The "Shrieking Shack," as they used to call it, a name so ghastly that the people of Hogsmeade avoid it to this day. Confusing shadows are just visible in the deep gloom - the asymmetrical shape of a chair lying on its side, one armrest dangling free; the legs of an overturned table sticking straight up like those of a dead bug; the rotting remains of a curtain sagging down from the wall and bunching up against half of a smashed cabinet. The smell of dry rot is heavy in the close, stuffy air, and the dust on every surface is so thick that it completely hides the old blood stains.
Surely, he thinks to himself, surely even he would not have the audacity to hide in this place. The thought is almost intolerable, tugging at the strings of his already pounding heart like it is preparing to eviscerate him all over again, like no time at all has passed since the day, twelve years ago, when he'd found out what kind of person his supposed friend really was. There had been four of them here, once, as close as a group of friends could possibly be, optimistic and bold and utterly confident in one another. Would he really come back here to sully that memory, to wait for the moment to commit one more murder amongst the departed spirits of those he betrayed?
He doesn't have to wonder for long. There, on the floor and leading up the stairs, is a pattern of shapes in the dust - the footprints of some big, four-legged animal. He feels slightly sick as his gaze sweeps up the stairs after them - but he can't turn back now. He knows what he has to do. Silently, he pads up the stairs and into the small room at the end of the upstairs hallway. He draws his wand and steps through the doorway.]
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