Title: What About the Moonlight?

Author: R.J. Moony

Rating: R

Pairings: Maybe eventual RL/SB, depending on how it goes...it's kind of writing itself, you see.

Warnings: Depressed, suicidal werewolves. Cutting. Blood. Underage smoking and drinking. Illegal drug use. Possible slash. TRIGGER! PHYSICAL CONTACT! (Haha, therapy joke.)

Summary: Not all Remus' scars are made by the wolf.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own the song "What About the Moonlight?" I don't even own this plot bunny. I got the idea from a picture someone drew. ( http/www.sandrasartgallery.de/Comforts.htm ) And she's not even a puppy shipper, so she might get mad coz I think this'll end up as slash...but this thing just took hold of my mind and ran away with it so PLEASE don't yell at me anybody...you'll damage my fragile self-esteem or whatever, haha.

A/N: Dedicated to my therapy buddies, especially to Caitlin and Kiley, being as they've actually read the HP books...or some of them, in Caitlin's case, but she still gets a dedication coz she's one of my best friends and I love her and this all kind of makes me think about her so yeah, CAITLIN I LOVE YOU!

Anyway, let's get to the story...gotta bring the mood down...it's not a happy one...well, so far...

Chapter One

Remus has his fair share of scars.

Of course, there is the scar, the one that started it all. That one snakes across his left shoulder, a crescent moon on each side. There is no ignoring this scar, no writing it off as just another one of his many; it makes sure to stand out by almost-glowing a bright silver-white, instead of the faded pink most of his scars become. This scar marks him, sets him apart. If anyone were to see, they'd know. They'd know right away what he was. Sometimes, in his more morbid moods, he thinks of it as his own personal Star of David, condemning him to be shunned and– he is certain– eventually killed by the rest of wizard kind. Then when the mood passes he feels guilty, for at least he can hide (and has hid) what he is if he wants, and not be forced to wear it on his sleeve. Not yet, anyway, but there has been talk in the Ministry...

There are other scars, not nearly as deep but almost, that criss-cross almost every other area of his flesh. They usually come in rows of three, one under another under another. These scars appear fresh after every full moon, but do not stay for good; by the new moon, they are gone. One of the ironic perks of being a werewolf, he thinks. The full moon has just passed, and the wounds, by conventional logic, should still be open and bleeding. But they are as faded and pink as if they'd been there for three months, instead of three days. He hates the marks that the wolf makes. Not him, but the wolf, for he refuses to believe that he is part of it or it is part of him. The scars were not made by him. Not these ones, anyway. Not the ones that fade.

He makes sure the scars he does make do not fade, will never fade. He studies them now, bright red lines across his wrists. Some are shallow, so faded he can barely pick them out from the others; these were the first tentative ones he'd done, right after receiving the silver blade he'd acquired last summer at the Retreat. The Retreat was some hippie/new age attempt to help young werewolves "deal". It was supposed to help them find a "more positive outlook" and "healthy coping skills" so that they could "feel better". The Retreat hadn't done any of that. Remus' roommate had helped with the last part, though.

Accalia was a muggle-born from the States. She was barely three years old when she was turned; she had been attending the Retreat since she was twelve. A year older than Remus, she wore a lot of black leather, and always smelled heavily of marijuana and cigarette smoke. She was like an older sister to Remus for the two months they'd spent together...she'd shown him everything.

"The pot helps you forget. The squares calm your nerves. The razor offers you escape."

She had grinned as she pulled the thin piece of metal out of her pocket, showing her wolf's teeth. Remus' eyes were glued to the blade as it glinted in the sunlight that shone through the open window. Never had he felt so repulsed by yet so drawn to something.

"See, it's easy. Just drag it across your wrist– like this– and presto! Instant release. The more blood drawn, the better– the closer you are to escape."

She'd leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, a slight smile on her lips: a wolf content. The blood blossomed from the cut on her outstretched arm and flowed down her wrist, drop after drop adding to a small pool on the floor.

"The edge is coated in silver, so it stays open, and so it scars. The scars are very important. They're...reminders or sorts. Reminders that not everything is sunshine and daisies, and that the world stops being rose-tinted once you take the glasses off."

Remus mirrored her position now, locked in the Seventh Years' dorm high up in Gryffindor Tower. He'd taken off the glasses a long time ago...they all had. Being a young werewolf means you don't stay young very long. You learn life's lessons hard, fast, and without guidance. It's a brutal existence. The people running the Retreat, though well-meaning and good-hearted, just couldn't understand; once you receive the bite, all that's in your future is poverty and exile. It's hard to find the positive in that under any circumstances.

Remus had been trying, he really had. He didn't want to believe that a werewolf's life isn't worth living. Callie'd wanted to believe that too, so bad; she'd said so one night, in an alcohol-induced emotional fit...but now...

Remus' blood dripped on an open piece of parchment laying on his bed, some of it running off onto the sheets. Remus didn't worry about stains; he knew the words of the parchment by heart, and blood was easily removed with a simple spell. Words that Callie had written, and a spell she had taught him...but Remus would not cry. Hopefully, with a little luck, all her pain would soon be ended. There should be no sorrow in that.

He wondered if she felt any pain now, lying in a coma at a muggle hospital. Was she still here? Or had her soul already left? Could she feel any of those terrible machines muggle doctors used? Was she scared? Did she regret it?

"I'm not afraid of death; this life is what scares the shit out of me."

No fear. No regrets. Remus knew that. The one thing she was probably regretting right now was that she had chosen the witch's noose, instead of the werewolf's silver bullet. The latter would have done the job properly, but Cal detested guns and wanted to go out in style, anyway.

"Let go, Remus, just let go...it's the greatest feeling in the world when you finally do. It's like nothing can touch you, like you're invincible and on top of the world...you just float until you know the time is right, and you can really leave all this behind...no more pain, no more wolf, no more blood, no more scars. Let go...I'll be waiting for you on the other side."

He considered her words, written in the suicide note her parents had found and sent him, along with an update on her condition. Let go...he looked down at the still bleeding gash on his wrist, by far the deepest he'd ever done. The blood had now soaked the entire parchment red and was threatening to do the same to his sheets. Let go...it sounded so easy, and it was. Suddenly Remus didn't care if the blood stained and everyone saw it. Let go...he felt dizzy, and it was good, the room spinning in such a way that he began to giggle. Everything suddenly seemed so funny, because it wasn't his problem anymore– he was going away from all this, and leaving someone else to handle the mess. He'd be the one waiting for her...

Somewhere in the swirling din of colors, sounds, and sensations, he thought he saw/heard/felt someone call his name, but the darkness took over before he could decide if he cared.