The night is dark. Blue eyes are at the window. Remus sees them, but he doesn't believe they're there. Like the bogeyman, if he closes his eyes hard enough, if he wishes them away, then they must not exist.
The night splinters with the tinkle of broken glass. Blue eyes are at his bedside. He feels the hot, acrid breath, engulfed in the fumes of death, and flesh, and rot. The snout splits into a grin, revealing rows of jagged teeth and a blood-lust that he can recognize, even at not-quite-five years old.
The night is rumbling: low, echoing sounds, the antithesis of his pounding heart. Blue eyes are all he can see. Trembling hands clutch the blanket, hugging it to his chin: a shield against the world. Breathing staggers—sharp, quick gasps—and then he holds it, as if that will disguise him.
Dad always says there's nothing to fear in the night, but he knows it's there in his soul, like a parasite gnawing at his emotions. It's in his spine, shooting shivers down his body—immobilizing, paralyzing.
Then he feels it: ripping, tearing, and branding his skin. Waves of flames billow up from his leg, engulfing his body. There's something warm and wet under him, seeping into his clothes, staining his skin, but he's so cold. The black reaches for him, menacing, suffocating, and he fights against it. There is no opposing it as it encases him in icy binds.
The last thing he sees are blue eyes in the night.
...oOo...
He screams.
It comes out in low, guttural tones, so much like a beast that the sound turns his stomach, but he can't stop it. There's no holding it back. His body breaks in crescendos of pain—skin stretching taut to the point of tearing, bones shattering in muted pops and cracks, skin prickling and itching as hair sprouts.
He's alone. Always alone.
His parents had had the usual teary-eyed, red-faced expressions, hands trembling as they pulled the door closed hours ago. He heard it loud and clear in the quiver of their voice, saw the way they averted their gaze, understood what their mumbled apologies meant. They fear him.
They aren't alone.
Everyone fears him, as if he has chosen this life, as if he can help what he is. He hates it, the monster he's become. Even as his world is saturated with blood-lust, even as his senses devolve into a simple human/non-human categorization system, he rages against it.
What could he do? What would he do?
Both are questions he can't answer, and that's what terrifies him the most. He can hear them outside the door: one crying, one cursing. It's almost over now, and he's slipping, losing grasp regardless of how hard he tries to cling to consciousness.
He screams.
A part of him wonders, Will it always be this way?
...oOo...
"What if...something happens?"
It's not the question his father wants to ask, but he phrases it kindly because Remus is there. They all know what he means. There's only one thing a beast can be expected to do: murder.
"I assure you, I have taken the necessary precautions. Remus is more than welcome to attend Hogwarts. It is my job to care for all the students, and you have my word that I take my duty rather seriously."
It's unheard of, and Remus is well aware that every other headmaster would have eagerly dismissed him. But not this one. In those twinkling sapphires, as their eyes meet, he discovers something unexpected: trust.
What if the headmaster is wrong?
Remus is shaking enough for the both of them, has enough foresight for the both of them. It's a mistake. They all know it. Mom fiddles with her fingers and smooths the wrinkles of her robes; Dad stares at the floor with unprecedented fascination. He's dangerous. He can't control it and never could. After all this time, he is the monster.
What if someone discovers what he is?
A werewolf doesn't belong among wizards.
...oOo...
He can't control it.
It shakes him to the core like an earthquake, and his body cracks and splinters in response. He's dying—if only it were that easy—and being reborn, and all the while they're watching him. He wants to tell them to look away, but the words come out as low, beastly rumbles. They insisted on this, begged him for it, but what must they think of him now?
Remus is afraid to look, afraid of what he'll see. When he does, they don't turn away. Peter trembles, but he's always like that. James smiles and flashes a thumbs up. Sirius says something about looking better this way. But then he's slipping, even as he tries to warn them, losing himself to the transformation.
Even as the wolf takes over, he can sense them: three living creatures near him. The wolf is disinterested in them; they aren't humans and not worth its time. But they're there. When he wakes in the morning, confused and disoriented, they're still there. They're smiling, like nothing happened, like he isn't a monster. He's just Remus, the fourth Marauder.
For the first time, he realizes that he does not have to bear the burden alone.
...oOo...
They're dead.
The realization washes over him like a misty rain, chilling his skin, drenching him in sweat. In two days, the only four friends he had in the world were snatched from him.
He's alone. Always alone.
An eerie quiet has swallowed Godric's Hollow, and it matches the black hole in his chest as he walks among the rubble. He hadn't been there, not for any of them, and they hadn't trusted him enough to be honest. They hadn't trusted him.
The realization is a knife to the gut, leaving him wounded and bleeding, waiting for someone to save him. He knows no one will come, and he knows he can't save himself. So he sits among the debris, head buried in his hands, and he cries.
A part of him wonders, Will it always be this way?
...oOo...
The nightmares start.
Blue eyes. He can feel the blood pooling under him. Dad is screaming; Mom is crying. The cold settles over him; he knows the Dementors have arrived.
For a moment, he hesitates, allowing pity to get the best of him. They weren't so different, werewolves and Dementors. One's lust for happiness was matched by the other's lust for flesh. They were both monsters, and perhaps it did not wish to be one, either.
With a flick of his wand, he casts the spell to drive it away. When he is finished, he finds two sets of eyes staring at him. The third is coming to, so he gives him some chocolate and offers some reassuring words.
The nightmare is just beginning.
He takes in the round, boyish face and black hair—so much like his father. He gazes into the familiar green eyes—just like his mother. The boy is frightened, looking to him for answers. Remus wishes he had some; he has none. He's never had any. The realization only leaves him with more questions.
Why did he believe he could do this?
A werewolf doesn't belong among wizards.
...oOo...
She's dangerous.
He knows this, but he's never been one to shy away from peril. The more Remus pushes Nymphadora away, the tighter she clings to the flicker of hope that they might have a future. Something must be wrong with her. Something's obviously wrong with him.
He says it's not possible; she says it is. He says they can't; she says they must. He says never; she says always. But even though she exhibits every ounce of the Black temper, she is all that is light in the world. She is too young, too rich in all that life has to offer; he is too old and too poor. Beauty and the beast is nothing more than a Muggle fairy tale.
She says, "Look at what they have," and he does. The young couple has everything he has ever wanted. It's beauty in the face of destruction; life despite of death; love, even for a monster. She takes his hand, and his resolve starts to fray.
He is reminded that he does not have to bear the burden alone.
...oOo...
"What have I done?"
He wants to break something, but this isn't his house, and his father is watching him closely. It isn't enough that he's had to suffer the curse, but now he has committed an egregious sin; he's passed it on. Werewolves were never meant to breed.
"They're better off without me."
"You don't mean that, Remus."
"I do!"
He whirls towards the man, snarling, angry, and he suddenly understands the animal that has been in him all this time. But his father doesn't flinch. There is a strange shimmer to his eyes, and Remus understands what it is as the tears start to fall.
"I'm sorry," the old man whispers. The crying lends a soft quiver to the voice, and he can't remember Dad ever being this way. After all this time, has he managed to destroy him, too?
"It's my fault. He attacked you because of me. You're this way because of me. I couldn't protect you. All the hardships you've faced in the past are because of me, but I am not going to sit here and let you throw your future away because of me, too. Remus John Lupin, you will go back and beg your wife's forgiveness, and you'll be an amazing father. You'll be the father I wish I could have been."
For a change, he notices how frail and gray the old man has become, how beaten down and defeated. He leans into a hug and absorbs his guilt; it belongs to them both now. They've both been foolish.
"I would be honored to be even half the father you've been."
For the first time in his life, he realizes that he has never borne the burden alone.
...oOo...
I'm sorry.
The two words ricochet around his mind like a soundtrack to the war he's caught up in. The war he will die in. When he walked out that night, leaving his child in the arms of his mother-in-law, he had said the usual things: I'll be back, stay safe, I love you. What he meant was, "I'm sorry."
His vision is blurred by the flash of spells and the sting of sweat. A familiar feeling breaks over him, one he knows all too well. Hands, sweaty, grip his wand tightly. Muscles tense. Breathing staggers—sharp, quick gasps. Heart beats loudly in his ears, the antithesis of the cackle that peels from the Death Eater's lips.
Remus sees the flash, but he's too slow to dodge. He knows what's coming. Ever since he was not-quite-five years old, he was intended to be a sacrifice to the Dark; now, he is a willing sacrifice for the Light.
As the spell catches him in the chest, his only regret is never having said, "I'm sorry."
The ground beneath him is cold. The Death Eater is standing over him now, lips peeled back in laughter as he delivers the final spell.
The last thing he sees are brown eyes in the night.
...oOo...
"Do you fear me?"
Remus regards the hooded figure before him, but he doesn't answer. Fear? He's known it before.
The night is dark.
He screams.
What if something happens?
He can't control it.
They're dead.
The nightmares start.
She's dangerous.
What have I done?
I'm sorry.
Nymphadora is beside him, that stubborn, beautiful woman. Teddy is at home. He's safe. He's not a werewolf. He will know the love of his grandparents. They will speak of his father, the werewolf. He will hear stories of his father's bravery without ever having to know the truth. Lyall will have a second chance at protecting the boy he loves, and Remus has faith that this time he'll succeed.
The voice comes again, deep and raspy like leaves skittering over a tombstone.
"Do you fear me?"
"No."
Author's Note: Written for the QLFC season 3, round 4. Emotion prompt: 'scared' (forbidden word). Also written for the Diagon Alley II "In Tribute to the Fallen". Thanks to my lovely betas: Shane and my partner in crime, Sol.
Update: Score: 10/10.