Remus J Lupin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onewizardwolfpack) wrote2012-01-29 08:56 pm
onewizardwolfpack) wrote2012-01-29 08:56 pm
First Loop
Remus had been keeping an eye on the moon. He had arrived to a sharp sliver of a crescent, barely there, no more than two days out from a new moon, and he had watched that crescent wax into its first quarter with a removed sort of unease.
He'd been told, over and over, now, that magic didn't work on the island, that old curses were rendered null. He'd been told, but he was having difficulty believing it. It seemed too good to be true. Living day to day without magic was a special kind of misery, one he'd never anticipated having to experience, but if it meant the transformations were over, for good... He wasn't sure it was a fair trade. It was difficult to say. Intellectually, he didn't think it was. When he awoke in the morning to no wand, no magic, getting out of bed seemed more daunting than usual, and it was rarely something he did with much enthusiasm, anyhow. Maybe once the cycle was done he'd be able to judge. Maybe once it sunk in that he was no longer what he had been.
Only he'd been one for so long. He'd been a werewolf before he'd been a proper wizard. It was as much a part of him as his magic, he'd come to accept that. So while he believed what he was told, because no one had any reason to lie to him, he certainly didn't feel it in his bones.
Until the moon neared full, and he didn't feel it, literally, in his bones and his blood and muscles, and then a desperate, wild hope had begun to flutter around in his chest. He kept an eye on the moon when it was pale and visible in the day time, and stood outside- always under the canopy of trees- to watch it glowing, luminous and white, at night.
And he felt nothing. There was no pull, no slow build up of energy. Being too near the sea for too long back home had made him feel disturbingly connected to the passage of the tide, and connection was not something he'd been looking for, but here, next to so much ocean, he felt nothing.
And then the moon was full. He knew, when he stood from the simple wooden chair he'd gotten his hands on and set his book down, it would be there, already hanging in the sky. He let out a long, slow breath, standing in the warm light of the front room, then stepped out into the thick night air and the pale moonlight.
A field of tall grass, so tall it was over his head, surrounded him. Not far off rose the shadows of old trees, and above them was a navy blue sky, so dark it was nearly black, as the very last vestiges of the sun faded behind him, leaving a wash of red by the horizon. The stars were already out in force and a full moon was rising up from behind the gnarled black shapelessness of the forest.
He hadn't had this dream in years, and it hadn't been so vivid since he'd been in school. It was quiet, not even the sounds of a village shifting from its work day to its weekend evening audible in the far reaches of the field behind his house. He turned, small fingers brushing along the grass, absently tonguing the place his first baby tooth had fallen out, to look back toward his home. He could see the roof, but he was too small to see much else. His mum was there, getting dinner ready, unaware that he'd wandered so far. His father was home, or was about to be, and would probably set to reading or doing work at his desk. Remus wasn't exactly sure what his parents had been doing, when he'd been bitten. He just knew they'd been so close, but not nearly close enough.
In fact, turning was a mistake, because he knew what would happen when he turned back. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he heard them, the softest of footfalls.
Still human.
Remus Lupin, age 6, turned away from the sun as it set on August 31st, 1966, to face his future.
When he would confront Fenrir Greyback as an adult, the man, if he could truly be called such, would still be imposing. Possibly some of that was left over from this first impression. He was huge, so tall and broad that he blocked the fading silhouette of the forest. The sweet, end-of-summer air smelled suddenly of carrion, and everything in Remus told him to flee, to fly. He didn't though, fear and perhaps fascination holding him in place, coltish little legs locked rigid, eyes round and apprehensive in the dark. He knew this part, he didn't want to see this again, didn't want to feel it. It was so damned real.
"You're the Lupin boy," Fenrir said in a voice like gravel, his own eyes winking in the dark like headlamps. Remus felt himself shaking and couldn't reply.
"I have a message for your father," Fenrir continued, grinning in the dark as the moon came up from behind the trees. Remus could see his teeth. They were changing. Or they were always like that. It was impossible to say what had been real and what fear had made him see. A 6 year old's eyes were ruled significantly in part by a 6 year old's imagination. A twenty six year old man's eyes, though, should have been able to see more clearly.
He couldn't though. He took a half step back, chewed up canvas loafer snapping a few spades of dead grass.
"Don't run," Fenrir said, and either his shoulders hunched or he curled over, but either way he looked like he got bigger.
"Yet."
Remus turned and bolted. A burst of adrenaline flooded his bird like frame and he sprang forward to run, uselessly. From another perspective it would have been embarrassing- he hadn't even outrun Fenris's reach in his human form. The hand caught the back of his shirt and pulled him back, throwing him roughly to the ground, and all the air was gone from his lungs and his head suddenly ached something terrible. A nail scratched his cheek and Fenris caught his head to push his chin up. There was an unyielding pull and his shirt ripped, and that hurt Remus's neck. He didn't remember being so dizzy for all of it. There was the scratch, so sharp that in the moment after it didn't hurt, and then it stung fiercely, of a nail dragging along the skin of his shoulder. It made everything clearer and Remus whined, a soft, panicked sound. Greyback didn't chuckle so much as growl, but it somehow implied amusement.
"Now," he said, crouching back, nails long and getting longer, eyes burning awfully in the dark, "you can run."
Remus rolled onto his stomach, his hands level with his shoulders, and pushed up with all of his strength. He ran, grass scratching his face, breath hitching in his throat and burning in his lungs. There was a terrible ripping sound behind him and the groan of something animal. The sun was gone and he had no idea which direction he was running in. It didn't matter, though. It couldn't have mattered less.
He didn't know which direction Greyback appeared out of, how the wolf knocked him to the ground, how it managed to pin him with one huge paw pressing down on his back like a stone slab, but then its jaws were closed over his shoulder, ripping, tearing in, and it wasn't just the excruciating pain of the sheer physical trauma but something worse, something in the wolf's saliva, and it felt like lava, like poison, racing through his veins. His scream- because he had screamed, had forgotten, actually, that he had- cut off as his throat tightened. The pain was blinding and seemed to last forever, and then he was seeing stars, the actual stars, and the big, bright moon he'd gone out to look at in the first place, and he heard Fenrir tip his head up to it and howl.
He'd been told, over and over, now, that magic didn't work on the island, that old curses were rendered null. He'd been told, but he was having difficulty believing it. It seemed too good to be true. Living day to day without magic was a special kind of misery, one he'd never anticipated having to experience, but if it meant the transformations were over, for good... He wasn't sure it was a fair trade. It was difficult to say. Intellectually, he didn't think it was. When he awoke in the morning to no wand, no magic, getting out of bed seemed more daunting than usual, and it was rarely something he did with much enthusiasm, anyhow. Maybe once the cycle was done he'd be able to judge. Maybe once it sunk in that he was no longer what he had been.
Only he'd been one for so long. He'd been a werewolf before he'd been a proper wizard. It was as much a part of him as his magic, he'd come to accept that. So while he believed what he was told, because no one had any reason to lie to him, he certainly didn't feel it in his bones.
Until the moon neared full, and he didn't feel it, literally, in his bones and his blood and muscles, and then a desperate, wild hope had begun to flutter around in his chest. He kept an eye on the moon when it was pale and visible in the day time, and stood outside- always under the canopy of trees- to watch it glowing, luminous and white, at night.
And he felt nothing. There was no pull, no slow build up of energy. Being too near the sea for too long back home had made him feel disturbingly connected to the passage of the tide, and connection was not something he'd been looking for, but here, next to so much ocean, he felt nothing.
And then the moon was full. He knew, when he stood from the simple wooden chair he'd gotten his hands on and set his book down, it would be there, already hanging in the sky. He let out a long, slow breath, standing in the warm light of the front room, then stepped out into the thick night air and the pale moonlight.
A field of tall grass, so tall it was over his head, surrounded him. Not far off rose the shadows of old trees, and above them was a navy blue sky, so dark it was nearly black, as the very last vestiges of the sun faded behind him, leaving a wash of red by the horizon. The stars were already out in force and a full moon was rising up from behind the gnarled black shapelessness of the forest.
He hadn't had this dream in years, and it hadn't been so vivid since he'd been in school. It was quiet, not even the sounds of a village shifting from its work day to its weekend evening audible in the far reaches of the field behind his house. He turned, small fingers brushing along the grass, absently tonguing the place his first baby tooth had fallen out, to look back toward his home. He could see the roof, but he was too small to see much else. His mum was there, getting dinner ready, unaware that he'd wandered so far. His father was home, or was about to be, and would probably set to reading or doing work at his desk. Remus wasn't exactly sure what his parents had been doing, when he'd been bitten. He just knew they'd been so close, but not nearly close enough.
In fact, turning was a mistake, because he knew what would happen when he turned back. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he heard them, the softest of footfalls.
Still human.
Remus Lupin, age 6, turned away from the sun as it set on August 31st, 1966, to face his future.
When he would confront Fenrir Greyback as an adult, the man, if he could truly be called such, would still be imposing. Possibly some of that was left over from this first impression. He was huge, so tall and broad that he blocked the fading silhouette of the forest. The sweet, end-of-summer air smelled suddenly of carrion, and everything in Remus told him to flee, to fly. He didn't though, fear and perhaps fascination holding him in place, coltish little legs locked rigid, eyes round and apprehensive in the dark. He knew this part, he didn't want to see this again, didn't want to feel it. It was so damned real.
"You're the Lupin boy," Fenrir said in a voice like gravel, his own eyes winking in the dark like headlamps. Remus felt himself shaking and couldn't reply.
"I have a message for your father," Fenrir continued, grinning in the dark as the moon came up from behind the trees. Remus could see his teeth. They were changing. Or they were always like that. It was impossible to say what had been real and what fear had made him see. A 6 year old's eyes were ruled significantly in part by a 6 year old's imagination. A twenty six year old man's eyes, though, should have been able to see more clearly.
He couldn't though. He took a half step back, chewed up canvas loafer snapping a few spades of dead grass.
"Don't run," Fenrir said, and either his shoulders hunched or he curled over, but either way he looked like he got bigger.
"Yet."
Remus turned and bolted. A burst of adrenaline flooded his bird like frame and he sprang forward to run, uselessly. From another perspective it would have been embarrassing- he hadn't even outrun Fenris's reach in his human form. The hand caught the back of his shirt and pulled him back, throwing him roughly to the ground, and all the air was gone from his lungs and his head suddenly ached something terrible. A nail scratched his cheek and Fenris caught his head to push his chin up. There was an unyielding pull and his shirt ripped, and that hurt Remus's neck. He didn't remember being so dizzy for all of it. There was the scratch, so sharp that in the moment after it didn't hurt, and then it stung fiercely, of a nail dragging along the skin of his shoulder. It made everything clearer and Remus whined, a soft, panicked sound. Greyback didn't chuckle so much as growl, but it somehow implied amusement.
"Now," he said, crouching back, nails long and getting longer, eyes burning awfully in the dark, "you can run."
Remus rolled onto his stomach, his hands level with his shoulders, and pushed up with all of his strength. He ran, grass scratching his face, breath hitching in his throat and burning in his lungs. There was a terrible ripping sound behind him and the groan of something animal. The sun was gone and he had no idea which direction he was running in. It didn't matter, though. It couldn't have mattered less.
He didn't know which direction Greyback appeared out of, how the wolf knocked him to the ground, how it managed to pin him with one huge paw pressing down on his back like a stone slab, but then its jaws were closed over his shoulder, ripping, tearing in, and it wasn't just the excruciating pain of the sheer physical trauma but something worse, something in the wolf's saliva, and it felt like lava, like poison, racing through his veins. His scream- because he had screamed, had forgotten, actually, that he had- cut off as his throat tightened. The pain was blinding and seemed to last forever, and then he was seeing stars, the actual stars, and the big, bright moon he'd gone out to look at in the first place, and he heard Fenrir tip his head up to it and howl.
no subject
Strangely, that didn't panic him. Between magic and the island's tricks, he had half a dozen ideas as to what could have happened in the span of a second, in the blink of any eye as he took another step along the boardwalk on his way home. Half a dozen ideas, none of them good, none of them he could confirm quickly, but at least he had some ideas. There was an odd comfort in that.
There was also an odd comfort in the wand stuck in his back pocket. Harry was getting lazier and lazier about carrying the hawthorn wand, but today had been one of those days when he remembered and felt better having the bit of wood close at hand. He didn't know if it would do any good here -- wherever here was -- but he reached behind him to finger the handle as he cautiously exited the room.
A child's bedroom, by the look of things.
"...Hello?" he tried, calling down the hall.
no subject
He blinks, the world changes, and it hits him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
So long he's been without magic that it's the first thing he notices: Something that for his entire life had been so intrinsic, so naturally part of him, now supercedes sight and sound and touch, not a tingle but almost a weight, the inborn pressure of potential. It knocks him back in his chair, thin chest jaggedly rising with startled breaths.
Oh god, he thinks, gray eyes wide open. It's happened. He's gone. Gone from the island, gone from that improbable life and even less probable scrap of happiness.
The first thing he sees, though, when his eyes finally take in his surroundings, jolts him from that deduction. A moving photograph, small but lovingly framed atop a sturdy, chaotic desk, a little boy with cheeks so chubby Sirius almost mistakes him for a stranger. The Remus Lupin Sirius knows has been gaunt since age eleven.
The rest of the room reveals itself in pieces, layers pulled back too slowly. He's been here before, he realises. Only the once, and it had looked different then, more worn and with the cold bleakness that spoke to a family resigned to its fate. Now, here, there's a warm cosiness to it right down to the scent of dinner wafting in from the kitchen.
But there's something else. Dank and cloying, the dim but distinct scent of the future.
Harry's voice spurs him up, chair knocked back with a clatter before he sprints from the room, pieces notching together in the din of his brain. The blot of dark, messy hair brings him up short, rounds him back, mouth open to speak, only to be cut off by the unmistakable sound of a howl coming from the back yard.
"Stay in the house," he grits out, and takes off again, guided more by instinct and scent than any flimsy memory of the place, out the back door with a slam. A leap from the back porch and he lands on four feet.
There's no hesitation, no time to revel in how good it feels or malign how unprepared he is, how thin. He's little more than a black smear across the yard before he disappears into the grass.
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And that was the only clear thought Harry had before he head a clatter and Sirius appeared. Harry blinked owlishly at him, and then they heard it.
Harry had heard a howl like that only once before.
Harry didn't have a single clue in hell what was going on, everything coming together too fast, jumbled not falling into place. But the thought of obeying his godfather's order didn't even cross his mind. He followed two steps behind Sirius, clenching the hawthorn tightly, and fell into a sprint once out the door.
He couldn't keep up with Sirius, but he could follow.
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Greyback probably just liked the taste.
The werewolf lifted its muzzle to look into the dark, in the direction of the wizard house. He could smell person, and he could smell dog, and he disdained both. Neither could touch him, and they were too few, besides. And too late.
He may have technically possessed two minds, but they were of one on more matters than not. The boy was his, now, would always be his. He had a moment to spare to gloat.
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He doesn't think, now. He reacts.
His back is up the moment he skids to a stop, lips curled in a vicious snarl. Greyback looms over the tiny damaged body like a monolith, a black silhouette against the moonlight. He's so much bigger than Sirius, stronger. It doesn't matter.
Sirius is going to fucking kill him.
Jaws slathering, claws sunk deep in dark summer soil, Sirius jerks his head with a snap of his teeth. Daring. Challenging. Ordering with all the untempered fury of having watched one of his best friends suffer for nearly a decade.
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"STUPIFY!" he bellowed, flinging a spell at the great black beast, the looming figure lit by moonlight still several yards ahead of him.
(Moonlight. Werewolf. Padfoot. Family. Lupin. The pieces clicked into place as his feet beat a straight path along the soft earth.)
He was out of practice. The spell grazed the great beast's shoulder, glancing off the tough, magical hide.
"CONFRIGO!" he shouted with a slashing motion, all the closer now, all the less likely to miss.
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The dog was hardly of consequence, but the blood in Fenrir's mouth was still warm and the wolf, when confronted with the chance, wanted more. It had forgotten it's task was done, until thew newly bitten made a sound. It wasn't quite a whine, just a quiet, desperate noise of pain and struggle.
Where there was one wand there would be others, and the dog smelled wrong, smelled like magic. It wanted to pull the black dog apart and piss on its corpse, wanted that strongly, but it recognized that this wasn't the moment. It wasn't reason. The knowledge was as much instinct as everything else it did. The werewolf surged into the grass and disappeared from sight.
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Greyback was fast, faster than Sirius had a hope to be, however, and mere moments after taking off after the werewolf, Padfoot skids to a stop inside the little clearing again, drawn back by loyalty but not without a considerable measure of regret. He's human again in an instant, bare knees grinding into dark earth as he reaches shaking hands for the twisted up little body curled on the ground before him.
"Remus," he says, voice strained with urgency, eyes wide. "Remus! No, no, no, no— This can't happen, not again, not— No." He glances up at Harry, gray eyes flashing bright and wild in the moonlight, and then looks back to the boy whimpering in the dirt. The sound that comes out of Sirius is high and keening, a wretched whine as he curls over the bloodied body and pulls it in against him.
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Then the creature turned away and had exactly one second to breathe before he realized Padfoot was taking off after him. Thankfully the dog turned back, but that was the only shred of relief.
Harry came to a staggered stop before Sirius and Remus, his wand loose in his hand. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He saw the small body, wet with blood, but he didn't. He saw a full grown man, old before his years, laying on the floor of a great hall.
He shook his head, took half a step back, eyes glassy and unfocused.
Not again. Not again.
no subject
His gaze, unfocused though it was, drifted down from the moon that had held him enthralled to the dark head bowed over him.
There were two people there, neither of whom should have been.
What was happening?
"S-" Talking wasn't an option, apparently. It hurt far too badly, and he could barely feel his own boy around him, but he needed to know what was happening, and he needed to know why.
"Sir...i..." he tried again, but his throat closed up and then he passed out.