Chapter 1
The flat smelled of damp and stale cigarettes, with a faint undertone of something sour that Remus had long since stopped trying to identify. Piles of old newspapers leaned precariously against walls, some yellowed with age. Bags of clothes, receipts, and unopened post cluttered the hallway, making it nearly impossible to move freely. The kitchen was worse, plates piled high in the sink, the surface sticky to the touch despite Remus’s last attempt to clean it. This was home. It was suffocating.
He scraped the last tin of beans into a small pan and stirred absentmindedly as they began to bubble. The bread was nearly stale, but it would do. The toaster, an ancient relic with a dodgy lever, refused to work. He flipped the slices on the gas hob instead, holding them steady with a fork until they charred slightly at the edges. Beans on toast again. It was quick, cheap, and enough to keep his stomach quiet.
“Here,” he said as he placed the plate on the coffee table in front of his mother. She didn’t look up, her thin frame curled into the corner of the sofa, the blanket she’d had since he was a child pulled tight around her. She stared blankly at the muted telly, its fuzzy image flickering faintly in the dim room.
“You need to eat, Mum,” he tried again, softer this time. “It’s not much, but... just a bit, yeah?”
No response. She hadn’t spoken all day. Maybe yesterday too, he’d stopped keeping track.
He perched on the edge of the armchair opposite her, his plate balanced on his knee. He shovelled the food into his mouth quickly, chewing with a mechanical rhythm. He needed the energy for later, and beans weren’t the worst option. Protein was protein, even if it tasted like metal.
“You know,” he said between bites, not expecting an answer, “I can’t keep doing this. You’ve got to start trying. Just a little.”
Her eyes didn’t waver from the screen.
He finished his plate in silence, licking the remnants off the fork before placing it on the coffee table. He glanced at her plate. Untouched. Typical. He stood and grabbed it, taking it back to the kitchen. He dumped the food into a bowl for the stray cats outside. They appreciated it more than her.
By the time he was ready to leave, the flat had grown colder. He pulled on his jacket, stuffing his bus fare into his back pocket. His boots, worn and scuffed from too many miles and too little care, sat by the door. He laced them up, trying not to think about the mess he was leaving behind. The only thing worse than staying was coming back.
“See you tomorrow, Mum,” he muttered, though he knew she wouldn’t reply. He paused in the doorway, staring at the flat’s interior as though it might change if he looked long enough. It never did.
The night air hit him like a shock when he stepped outside. It was cleaner than inside, though the streets were far from pristine. He breathed deeply, trying to shake the feeling of the flat clinging to him. The cold helped.
The night bus was empty except for a man asleep at the back, his snores rattling through the silence. Remus sank into a seat near the middle, resting his head against the window. The glass was freezing, but it grounded him. Outside, the East End’s streets blurred into indistinct shapes under the flickering yellow lights.
The bus ride was one of the few moments he let his mind wander. His thoughts were scattered, but they always circled back to the same places. His father, who was god knows where, and his mother, who was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Sometimes he hated her more than his dad. She was still here, after all. Still breathing. But the woman she used to be, the one who sang while she washed up and could charm anyone with a laugh, was gone.
He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling of the bus. The low hum of the engine filled the silence. His fists clenched unconsciously as his thoughts drifted further, to things he’d buried deep. His father’s “friends,” who lingered too long when they visited, their eyes sharp and assessing. Fenrir Greyback had been one of them, his presence always accompanied by a subtle tension in the air that Remus couldn’t explain. He shut his eyes tightly, willing the memory away.
The fight was in the basement of an abandoned warehouse, the kind of place you didn’t stumble upon accidentally. The air inside was thick with sweat, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of blood. The crowd was loud but faceless, pressed close around the makeshift ring.
Remus scanned the crowd as he adjusted the tape around his knuckles. The faces were all the same: men too bored, drunk, or desperate for their own thrills. He wondered what they saw when they looked at him. Did they see someone like themselves, down on his luck, trying to scrape by? Or did they see a spectacle, something to watch and forget the moment it was over? He hated their shouting, the way they cheered for every punch, like it meant nothing. Maybe to them, it didn’t.
His opponent was already in the ring, bouncing lightly on his feet. He was taller than Remus, with a cocky grin that made Remus’s stomach churn. His hair was buzzed short, and a fresh scar cut across his left cheek. He looked like the kind of man who enjoyed a fight too much.
Remus stepped into the circle of light cast by the single overhead bulb, ignoring the jeers from the crowd. The first punch landed hard, right against his ribs. It was a good hit, but Remus barely flinched. He’d been hit harder before. He countered quickly, his fist connecting with his opponent’s jaw. The crowd roared.
They circled each other, testing the waters. His opponent feinted left, then swung right, catching Remus on the side of the head. Stars burst behind his eyes, and he stumbled, feeling the burn in his cheekbone where the blow had landed. He could already tell it was going to bruise, the pain radiating across his face.
The hit only spurred him on. He lunged forward, driving his fist into the man’s gut. He doubled over, gasping, and Remus took the opportunity to land another punch, this time to the side of his face. The crowd erupted, their cheers deafening in the small space.
The fight was brutal, every punch sending shockwaves through Remus’s body. Blood dripped from his split lip, and his knuckles were raw and bleeding, the tape doing little to protect them. But he kept going, fuelled by the thought of the money waiting for him at the end.
The final blow came suddenly. Remus caught his opponent off guard with a left hook, and the man went down, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The crowd roared louder, their cheers ringing in his ears like static.
Back in the shadows, he accepted the cash wordlessly. The man who handed it to him didn’t look up, his focus on the next fighters stepping into the ring. Remus tucked the money into his pocket and slipped out the back door.
The bus ride home was different. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind the dull ache of bruises and cuts. He sat near the back this time, slumping low in the seat. The bus was emptier than before, the streets outside quieter. He pressed his cheek against the window, wincing as the bruised bone protested. The cold soothed it a little, but not much.
He watched the city pass by, the neon signs of late-night shops casting garish colours across the pavements. He thought about the crowd again, their faces blurring together in his mind. He wondered if they’d forgotten him already, if he was just another fighter to them. He wondered if he’d ever be anything more.
By the time he got back to the flat, the sky was starting to lighten. He let himself in quietly, the door creaking slightly on its hinges. He paused in the hallway, listening for any sound from the living room. His mum was still on the sofa, her faint breathing the only indication she was there.
He slipped off his boots, carrying them in one hand as he crept past her. He didn’t want to wake her, didn’t want to face the dull, vacant look in her eyes. But it wasn’t her he was ashamed of, not this version of her. It was the memory of who she used to be, the woman who would have been horrified to see what her son had become.
In the bathroom, he ran his hands under cold water, wincing as it stung the open cuts on his knuckles. He scrubbed the blood off as best he could, the water turning pink as it swirled down the drain. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked worse than he felt, his face pale and bruised, his lip swollen.
He turned away quickly, shutting off the light as he left the room.
He dropped the cash on the kitchen counter before collapsing onto his bed. The springs dug into his back, but he was too tired to care.