Seven Moons of Varying Severity

February 16, 1965

Hope sighed. 

She could tell it wasn’t easy for her husband to concentrate with a four year-old wired on sugar sprinting beside him. Lyall sat at the dining table, struggling to digest the information in the letter in front of him while Remus bounced around, giggling as he ran.

“Hope!” he called exasperatedly, and she grinned sheepishly at what she knew he was about to say. “All in one night?”

“That’s what you get for leaving the candy out where he can reach it, Lyall,” she said pleasantly.

Remus was by no means a hyperactive child. In fact, he was alarmingly calm, studious and proper. He liked to eat his food with a spoon and fork. He liked sitting by the fireplace with a book and a mug of hot tea, mimicking the way his father would sip without taking his eyes off the words. He liked to join them on their Saturday morning walks. Remus would walk between them, content and quiet, holding his mother’s hand.

That child bore no resemblance to the one in front of her now, who was running circles around the kitchen and roaring, for some reason. 

Lyall set down his paper with a sigh. He reached one long arm out, snatching Remus up around the waist and pulling him into his lap. “Why are you roaring?”

“I’m a lion!” Remus said. He growled again and buried his tiny incisors in Lyall’s neck, nipping at his jaw and earlobe and hair like a wild animal.

Lyall gave Hope another exasperated look. “He’s been reading the muggle picture books.”

“He likes the animals. And anyway, it’s good for him to know about regular beasts and magical ones. How often might he run into a lion at Hogwarts?”

“ Never , Hope.”

“From the stories you tell about that place, I don’t believe you.” Hope set her dish cloth on the counter and gathered Remus off his father’s lap. Immediately, Remus started chewing on her apron. “At least when he crashes, he’ll—Remus, that’s enough—he’ll sleep like a stone. What’s in the letter?”

Lyall glanced back down at it. “Greyback, again. The department’s still upset about that hearing—”

Hope clamped a hand over her son’s ear. “Oh, not in front of Remus—”

“You asked me!” he said indignantly, but he was smiling. He poked her in the thigh. “How long until he crashes, then?”

Hope rolled her eyes. “I’ll put him down.”

“No!” Remus said, eyes wide. “I don’t wanna sleep!”

Hope brushed her fingers over his eyelids. “You’re already getting tired, love. Mummy’s going to read to you before bed, how about that?”

“About lions!”

“And monkeys and bears and peacocks,” she said, listing his other favorites with a pointed look at her husband. Lyall chuckled. “All the coolest animals.”

Hope’s trick never failed. She hadn’t even gotten to the page on peacocks when Remus’ eyes finally slid closed, his chest rising and falling with heavy, sleepy breaths. She tucked the book into the shelf by his bed and kissed him softly on the forehead. She loved these moments. Remus was small, even for his age. She loved his little nose and fluttering eyelashes and the stubby fingers on his hands. She thought of Lyall’s gangly limbs and her own stunted height and wondered which of them he’d grow to resemble. He already looked so much like Lyall.

Shutting the door quietly behind her, Hope rejoined her husband. He’d relocated to the living room and was now lounging on the couch with one socked foot propped on the ottoman. The letter was still in his hand.

Hope sat down beside him and tucked her feet up on the couch. “The department’s upset?” she prompted. 

“Yes. Scamander’s got opinions about werewolves, you know—fat lot of good those opinions do when it comes down to it. I told you about the hearing—”

“Fenrir Greyback’s hearing.”

“That’s the one. You should’ve seen the man. Dirty, scowling…I saw him up close. He sharpens his own teeth, Hope. He went after children. Muggle children.”

Hope blanched. She didn't recall him mentioning the teeth-sharpening bit last time he talked about the hearing.

“Scamander seems to think they’re harmless, werewolves. He says they ought to have rights like any normal man. I don’t see the sense in it. It’s not like being an animagus—”

“Remind me what that is,” Hope sighed, settling against his shoulder.

“Shape-shifters. You can follow a rigorous process to gain the ability to transform into an animal, but it’s not the same thing.”

“Why haven’t you done that?”

He sighed. “Because it’s rigorous. ”

Lyall often did this, teasing or begrudgingly dealing with her “Muggle-ness.” It was all in good fun, since she loved learning more about his world and often asked him stupid questions or said silly things to get him talking about it. Lyall was intelligent, often giving her more information than necessary to explain something. But this was not one of those times; tonight, he was thinking about werewolves and nothing would distract him.

“Anyway,” Lyall continued. “The difference is that a werewolf bite fundamentally changes a person. There’s not much research on it, but enough evidence suggests that contamination gives you a thirst for blood, regardless of the moon’s phase. Why else would Greyback position himself to kill, just before the full moon?”

“You think he did it on purpose?”

“I know he did.”

“You know,” she said, snuggling up to him. “Some men are just terrible. Maybe he’s always been terrible.”

Lyall gave a defeated sigh. She hated when he got like this. He had such a passion to do right. Then the one time he’d actually spoken his opinion about something, he was disregarded without a second thought. She wanted to find the Minister of Magic and tell him off for being a prude, but she couldn’t very well march straight into the Ministry.

Hope inclined her head and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re not terrible, though.”

He wasn’t looking at her. He didn’t even acknowledge the affection, his eyes fixed on the floorboards. Hope pulled away from him. “Why is this bothering you so much? You haven’t spoken about it in days.”

Lyall glanced at her. “Because it’s the full moon tonight. And Greyback got off scott-free, that's why.”

This line of thinking thoroughly unsettled the pair of them. They decided to head up to bed early, and Hope couldn’t resist poking her head inside Remus’ bedroom just to get another look at him. The lamp in the hallway cast a beam of light across his little face, his wispy hair. She thought of the muggle children who’d been found dead, mauled by a savage werewolf. She thought of their poor parents. 

When Lyall took her hand and pulled her to the bedroom, Hope decided to ban werewolves from her mind for the rest of the evening. 

~ ~ ~

In the years, the months, and during all the full moons that followed, no shriek ever came close to the one Remus gave that night.

Hope knew she’d wonder for the rest of her life how it happened—whether Remus had seen the thing and screamed, or if he’d screamed from the pain—but it didn’t matter. When she’d finally managed to break past the door Lyall had closed on her, the werewolf was already retreating, leaving behind a boy half-dead, blood seeping into his sheets and his sleep shirt from the wound on his waist. Once it was over, Hope stared at that wound. She imagined in every excruciating detail how the werewolf’s massive jaw had unhinged, saliva dripping from its fangs. How it buried those fangs deep into her son’s body. How, upon seeing Lyall enter the room with his wand raised, it struggled to unclench and retreat, teeth catching and peeling the flesh back as it squirmed back out of the window. 

She would wonder how long Remus was conscious before the blood-loss put him to sleep. Had he felt the pain at all? Had he seen the wolf’s eyes, wide and yellow and glowing? 

And that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was this: when she and Lyall brought their son’s body to the bathroom, where the gory horror of it all was illuminated under a fluorescent bulb, Hope noticed something. Spittle, on her son’s face. Thick saliva speckled with dirt from the creature's jowls. Before it struck, the thing had hovered. It watched her son and it decided to bite. How long did the werewolf stare before it struck? What sorts of things did it pour over in its dark and twisted mind, or did it simply savor the opportunity to watch a child’s last moments of peace and innocence?

Now, as Lyall walked the perimeter of the house casting spell after spell, Hope clutched her son’s hand and cried and begged him to wake up, and prayed that beneath those fluttering lashes she wouldn’t see the werewolf's eyes.

~ ~ ~

March 18, 1965

The sound of Lyall’s footsteps creaking on the wooden steps of the back porch snapped Hope back into consciousness. Her head flew off the dining table, palms slamming down against it, and she rushed to the door to admit him.

Remus was asleep in his arms.

“Oh god,” Hope sobbed. “Oh my god.”

Lyall didn’t protest when she pulled Remus into her own arms, cradling his little head in her elbow. The dark rings under his eyes were a telltale sign of how little sleep he got last night. She’d heard, the whole night through, a hoarse and high-pitched howling that only served to worsen the images that penetrated her imagination. Lyall wouldn’t let her see the transformation this time, but she knew she’d get the chance eventually. This would happen every month. Every month for the rest of their lives. 

She hated herself for it. She felt like it was her fault. It wasn’t, but she felt it all the same as she cradled Remus’ limp body against her chest. 

“He’s a little scratched up,” Lyall croaked. “I—I think he was throwing himself at the walls.”

“Oh my god,” Hope whispered again. She pulled away to get a better look at her son, whose arms and chest were patterned with little scrapes and bruises. A particularly large gash under his arm was steadily leaking blood.

Lyall took a breath. “But he’s alive. He’s alive, Hope.”

She dashed to the living room and laid Remus down on the couch, where she’d already spread out a towel. “You can heal him?” she demanded. “You can fix these—”

“Yes,” Lyall murmured. 

He knelt down beside her and pulled out his wand. While he murmured quiet spells, Hope dragged her palm across Remus’ forehead. He was a little too hot. Could be running a temperature.

After a few minutes, no trace of damage remained aside from the large gash, which Lyall frowned at. 

“Heal that one!” Hope said urgently. “It’s bleeding, he’s bleeding, Lyall—”

“I tried,” Lyall whispered. “But it’s not…”

“What do you mean?! You did all the rest!”

Lyall’s frown deepened. “It’s a magical wound.”

“But how could it…” Hoep trailed off and met her husband’s eyes. The only thing in the basement that could cause magical wounds was—

“Remus,” Lyall said suddenly.

Hope’s eyes snapped wildly back to her son. His eyes were open and cloudy with exhaustion as he blinked up at the ceiling. One arm rose subconsciously to touch the wound on his side, but Hope grabbed his hand at once before he could stick his fingers into it.

“Remus,” Lyall repeated. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Remus said throatily. “Sorry…”

“No, love, why are you saying sorry?” Hope asked.

“I don’t know.” Tears sprung in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know, I’m sorry…”

Hope didn’t hesitate to throw herself on top of him. Careful to avoid his chest, she gently wrapped her arms around his tiny shoulders and pressed her mouth against his ear. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say sorry. I love you, Remus. I love you .”

Behind her, Lyall’s own soft sobs filled the room.