The Shrieking Shack fell into a taut silence, broken only by the soft creak of wooden floorboards and the distant howling wind outside. Snape's wand was still drawn, pointed unwaveringly at Sirius Black, though his eyes now flickered with turmoil rather than rage. The boys—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—stood frozen, and even Lupin, who had stepped between Sirius and Snape, seemed uncertain.
The truth had torn through the room like a storm, and now they all stood amidst the wreckage it left behind.
"Step aside, Lupin," Snape said, voice low but shaking slightly. "Or I'll treat you as an accomplice."
Lupin's hands were raised, palms open. "Severus, please. Listen—this isn't the same man you knew back then. None of this is simple."
Snape's jaw clenched, a dangerous fire in his eyes. "Don't you dare lecture me about simplicity. Thirteen years, Remus. Thirteen years believing he betrayed Lily."
Harry, still gripping Ron's arm, stepped forward suddenly. "Snape—Professor, please—he didn't betray them. Peter Pettigrew is still alive. He was the Secret-Keeper. Not Sirius."
Snape's expression didn't change, but something subtle shifted behind his eyes. A flicker of hesitation.
"That rat," Sirius growled, his voice guttural. "He's been hiding under their noses for years."
Snape slowly turned to Ron. "Give me the rat."
Ron pulled Scabbers close to his chest. "W-what do you mean? He's just my—"
"Now, Mr. Weasley."
Lupin gently nodded at Ron. "Please. You need to see this."
Reluctantly, Ron offered up the trembling rat. Snape flicked his wand, muttering an incantation under his breath. A swirl of magic coiled around the rat like smoke—dark and green—and in a flash of painful twisting and shrieking, Scabbers fell to the floor and began to shift.
Bones cracked. Fur receded. Fingers formed. And in place of the rat stood a trembling, pathetic man with watery eyes and thinning hair—Peter Pettigrew.
Hermione gasped and backed away. Harry's eyes narrowed in disbelief. Ron looked like he might vomit.
Snape stepped forward, wand unwavering. "So. The coward lives."
Pettigrew fell to his knees. "Severus—Snape—please, I never meant—It was the Dark Lord, he made me! You must understand—I had no choice!"
Snape's face remained unreadable.
"You had every choice," he said coldly. "And you chose yourself."
He turned to Sirius, voice low. "You were telling the truth. All these years…"
Sirius didn't smile. His eyes were hollow. "I don't want your forgiveness, Snape. I want justice."
Before Snape could respond, the walls of the Shack groaned as though in warning. A gust of wind screamed through the broken windowpanes. Something… shifted. A presence, dark and cold, sliding against their skin.
Then, without warning—a howl.
Low. Bone-deep. Terrifying.
Everyone turned to Lupin.
His face had gone pale. "The moon."
Snape whipped around. "No—"
But it was too late.
Lupin staggered backward, his breathing uneven. His limbs jerked, his eyes glazing with pain. A sickening crunch followed as his bones began to contort. The transformation was violent, his growl more animal than man.
"Get back!" Snape barked, moving between the children and the shifting werewolf. His wand moved with practiced urgency. "Harry, take them! Get out—now!"
But Harry didn't move. "What about you?"
"I'll hold him off."
Sirius was already transforming—fur bursting across his skin, limbs reshaping into a great black dog. He lunged at Lupin just as the transformation completed, slamming the werewolf into the wall with a thud.
Snape flinched as claws swiped near his face. He turned to the kids. "Go!"
They bolted out of the Shack, the night wind slapping against their faces as they stumbled into the dark. Behind them, growls and crashes echoed from within, each more brutal than the last.
Hermione grabbed Harry's arm. "We need to help them!"
Harry's gaze darted to the full moon above, his face tight. "We will—but not like this."
A scream tore from the Shack.
Ron glanced back, face pale. "Snape…"
Then something burst from the Shack's splintering door—Sirius in his dog form, bloodied and breathing hard, thrown violently to the dirt. Moments later, Lupin's monstrous form followed, eyes wild, teeth bared.
Snape staggered out after them, cloak torn and arm bleeding, but wand still raised.
"You want a monster?" he hissed. "Come and get me."
But before the werewolf could lunge again, another sound filled the air.
A whisper of death.
Dozens of Dementors, gliding in from the forest like phantoms, swarming toward them with their mouths open wide.
Hermione screamed.
Harry felt it—a cold, deadening pull inside his chest. His knees buckled. Memories rushed forward.
Not again—
Sirius was collapsing.
Snape, too, faltered, unable to remain standing. The Dementors were everywhere, pressing down, sucking the light from the world.
And then—on the far side of the lake—a light.
A single burst of silver. A stag. Blinding and proud.
Harry blinked as the world tilted—and the darkness swallowed him.