Prewett had drawn himself up short when the dark boy had appeared at the bottom of the stairs with Lupin. But he'd only nodded to the order and had stepped nearer to that door -- a flick of his wrist had it unlocked and flying open so that Jalil could take Remus through, and once the boy was laid down on the bed, Sirius stepped closer. "I can." Assured quietly as he stepped nearer to that bed, eyes turning down onto Remus. He'd passed out, and that was some small mercy, but Prewett smoothed his fingers over that thinner arm and his eyes narrowed some, then he looked over at Jalil.
"He's been shot." Oh yes, Prewett knew all about guns. He'd had to learn, thanks to Harry. It was a long story. "What happened?" But even as he demanded that answer he was smoothing his fingers along the smooth, bloody torso of the werewolf, then up to his shoulder, where he pressed both hands. He wasn't a medic, but he could heal them enough that he wouldn't bleed out. It was hard to fix wounds on a werewolf because of their physiology. They didn't heal the same way.