Then
"there are no multitudes within me. it's just me in here and i'm cold." mothercain
The Patronus Charm was supposed to be practical. It was a quick way to share information discreetly when parchment and owl feathers would've drawn too much attention. People didn't usually think a glowing embodiment of a soul could be more subtle than letters, but then again, most people didn't have to cast it enough to understand how fluid a charm it was.
Dumbledore had though, and he'd taught the Order's youngest members himself, weaving the spell's history with its importance, specifically the messenger spell aspects of it. Many of Remus’s contemporaries managed to reach the vapory stage, which was decently alright for verbal messages as long as they were short. Remus (and a few friends) were able to push until the corporeal stage.
Yes, it relied on happiness for fuel (which eventually turned out to be a problem) and a shield against darkness, but as a tool it was invaluable.
Hidden in the damp, crumbling cave, Remus watched his wolf run in circles, the silvery light illuminating every jagged corner and leaving eerie shadows. It was strange, seeing something that he'd hated about himself reflected in something so beautiful.
His wolf was lean and intelligent-something entirely other, something that he drew from his very soul. It was alive and it moved with energy he could no longer muster up.
He'd hated it. He'd always hated it– the curse had stolen so much from him. His childhood, his career, his life–the beast never left! Everyone assumed it appeared during the full moon and disappeared otherwise, but every werewolf knew the truth. The curse was always there, clawing away at the barriers in his mind. It just overpowered him during the full moon, leaving scars he couldn't heal and memories he couldn't fight.
But right now…he couldn't hate it. Not when its glow lit up the cave, not when it stalked protectively in front of him, tail swishing in irritation.
Not when, in a fucked up way, it reassured him that he was still here. That he was still Remus.
The wolf slowed, circling back toward him. Its luminous form dissolved into mist, leaving the cave in darkness again. He let out a slow, shaky breath, staring at his hands. They were steady, but he didn't feel steady. He hadn't for weeks.
He'd been walking around for days like this, staring at his own hands, feeling his own heartbeat, but sensing something was misaligned, like he'd accidentally slipped into someone else's body.
Like he'd stepped into someone else's skin. He knew who he was and, maybe more importantly, where he was. Fenrir Greyback's camp, hidden deep in foreign woods, away from anything resembling safety.
Given everything that entailed, his mind was a mess. For months, he'd had trouble sustaining his Patronus, making him even more useless as a spy. Remus had steadily worked through memories of his childhood, his time at Hogwarts, his time with the Order. As time went on, all of them began fading in potency. Without happiness, without true joy…he could no longer attempt the charm.
But now flashes of another life played in his head, letting him see beyond the hell he was in. The life was…softer. Kinder.
Warm, dark eyes filled with mirth. Sunlight filtering through a small window. The scent of herbs and the quiet hum of traffic. Someone's arms around him, steady and grounding.
It was surreal, to say the least. His life hadn't been peaceful for a very long time. Having your bones reshaped monthly since childhood meant you got accustomed to incredible amounts of pain on the regular, but that didn't necessarily mean you liked it or found it comforting. This memory–or whatever it was–held a contentment that he couldn't reconcile with his reality.
How could someone like him, always running, always hiding, know that kind of warmth? That kind of peace?
He'd once thought he could count on his friends—James, Sirius, Peter. Even Lily. They'd been his family, his home, his very lifeline in the chaos of the war.
But bonds like that didn't hold under pressure, not when suspicion wormed its way into the cracks.
He hadn't wanted to see it at first, the way their glances shifted, the way silence lingered too long after his words. But it was impossible to ignore by the end. The war twisted everything and turned trust into a fragile thing.
Even Sirius—Sirius, who had once been closer to him than anyone—had grown distant, his sharp smiles curling into something darker, something edged with doubt.
Remus didn't want to dwell on it now. Those memories were heavy enough without the strange flashes of another life, another version of himself, weighing him down.
These memories weren't his. Not really. They were someone else's. But they felt more real than the cave did. Realer than the frost that bit his skin, the screams from the distance ringing in his ear.
He clenched his hands, trying to ground himself, but the sensation lingered. He felt like a man out of place and out of time. It was like those flashes—those glimpses of a life he couldn't have possibly lived—were dragging him away from himself. Making him a stranger in his own skin.
Remus sighed and leaned against the cold stone, his wand slack. He watched the moon's faint glow outside the cave, obscured by branches and shadows. A sick reminder of what waited in the coming nights.
The wolf had been his cage for so long.He hated it and resented every moment it forced its claws into his life.
But now? Now, with these memories shivering through him, the wolf was the only thing grounding him. Its instincts, its anger—it was all familiar. A tether to who he was, even as the rest of him unraveled.
He didn't want to think about the camp outside—the twisted caricature of a community Fenrir had built, its every edge sharp with violence and desperation. He didn't want to think about the faces of the others, lined with fear, suspicion, or cruel amusement.
But most of all, he didn't want to think about how far he'd fallen. How the memories of another life made him ache for something he'd never had and never would.
He closed his eyes and curled into himself. But he knew someone, somewhere, was living a better version of his story.
The tent flap rustled, and the oppressive stillness snapped. Remus didn't need to look up to know who it was; Fenrir's scent came before him—pungent, primal, and overbearing. His bulk filled the entrance, casting a shadow over Remus, making the already cramped tent feel like a tomb. Remus forced himself to sit straighter, brushing his sleeve over his face in a weak attempt to hide the tremor in his hand.
"Daydreaming again, are we?" Fenrir sneered, his voice heavy with disdain. The rasp of his tone scratched at Remus's nerves. He stepped inside, ducking slightly, but not enough to avoid brushing against the low ceiling. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, like a predator drawing out the kill. "I thought I'd beaten that out of you by now."
Remus's back tensed involuntarily, the memory of that "lesson" sharp and fresh. The bruises faded, but the ache remained—a constant reminder of Fenrir's "affection." He clenched his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms. "I'm just tired," he murmured, keeping his tone neutral.
Fenrir snorted, the sound full of mocking amusement. "Tired," he echoed as if the word itself were the most absurd thing he'd ever heard. He crouched, closing the distance between them in a flash. "You'd better not be tired of me , Lupin." His voice was a growl now, low and menacing. "You know what happens to those who think they can slip away."
Remus was too tired to flinch. He kept his eyes on the threadbare floor, the weight of Fenrir's stare pressing down on him. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, his voice controlled despite the icy dread curling in his gut.
"Good." Fenrir's grin widened, all teeth and no warmth. He bent closer, and Remus could feel the heat of his breath on his face. "Because the pack doesn't take kindly to the weak, and you—" He jabbed a finger into Remus's chest, just hard enough to bruise. "—are barely holding on."
The accusation hung heavy in the air.
Fenrir straightened, towering over him once more, his satisfaction evident.
"But you're useful," he said, almost as if it pained him to admit. "Your healing touch keeps the pups alive." His lips curled into something like a sneer. "Though you might want to remind yourself who you owe that talent to."
The remark hit like a whip, and Remus finally raised his eyes, meeting Fenrir's predatory gaze. The anger simmering beneath his skin felt like it was going to boil over, but he forced it back, keeping his expression impassive.
"Thank you," he said flatly, the words hollow and bitter on his tongue.
Fenrir's grin faltered for a second like he'd expected more groveling, but he recovered quickly. He let out a low chuckle, stepping back toward the entrance. "Don't thank me yet, Lupin. You've still got plenty to prove." He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "And remember—daydreams won't save you. Only loyalty will."
The tent flap closed behind him, and the air grew still again. But the tension lingered like Fenrir's shadow had rooted itself into the space. Remus let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his barely contained fear.
Daydreams won't save me, he thought bitterly. But they're all I have left.
He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the rough wood of his wand.
The pack hated him almost as much as they needed him.
"You think you're better than us," one of the older wolves sneered, his tone laced with venom as Remus tied a makeshift bandage around the deep gash on the wolf's leg.
Remus didn't look up, focusing on cleaning the wound. "I think I'd rather not waste my energy on pointless arguments," he said flatly.
The wolf snarled but didn't strike. No one dared—not when Fenrir had marked Remus as his. That, more than anything, kept the pack at bay.
The body of the last wolf who'd tried still haunted his nightmares. There wasn’t much of it left to be sick over, but that was almost worse.
"You're soft, Lupin," another voice chimed in, bored but sharp with envy. One of Fenrir's lieutenants leaned against a tree, picking at his teeth. "You're not one of us. You're just here because Fenrir likes his toys."
As if they weren't all toys to Fenrir.
Remus stayed silent though, his fingers steady even as the words twisted something inside him. They weren't wrong. He wasn't one of them—not truly. But he also wasn't anything else anymore.
There was nothing outside the camp for him either.
And that's what burned most of all.
Before he could respond, Fenrir's voice boomed across the clearing, low and commanding. "What's this, eh? Trouble?" The other wolves scattered like leaves in a storm, their movements quick and instinctual.
Remus stayed crouched in the dirt, exposed and alone under Fenrir's piercing gaze. He was always left to fend for himself.
Fenrir grinned, sharp and predatory, his teeth flashing like a wolf preparing to bite. "You've been quiet lately, Lupin," he said, circling him with mock concern. "Not restless, are you? You know what happens to deserters."
Fenrir was very fond of “testing” Remus’s loyalty. He knew Remus hated it here, so his decision to stay made the monster suspicious yet pleased.
"I'm here, aren't I?" Remus said evenly, his voice void of emotion, even as his stomach churned. Emotion was a weakness Fenrir delighted in exploiting.
Fenrir's smile widened, but his eyes held no warmth. "That's my good boy," he said, clapping a hand on Remus's shoulder hard enough to bruise. The force of it drove him an inch deeper into the dirt, a not-so-subtle reminder of who held power here. "Always so obedient."
His eyes flicked to the makeshift healing supplies strewn nearby. There was a cruel kind of curiosity in his expression, the kind that always set Remus on edge.
"Still playing healer, are we? I thought I told you to only help the pups." Fenrir drawled, crouching just enough to loom even closer, invading the already-cramped space between them.
"You really enjoy this, patchin' up the pack like a good little pet. You always were soft." He tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. "Maybe I should break a few ribs, just to see if you've got the stomach to fix me."
The pack would have laughed. They always laughed when Fenrir turned his sadism into a spectacle. But there was no audience now, just them in suffocating silence. Everyone else had hid a safe distance away.
Remus didn't flinch, though his throat tightened. "If you need me in one piece," he said, his voice carefully measured, "breaking me seems counterproductive."
That earned a low chuckle. Fenrir's hand moved from his shoulder to his chin, tilting it slightly, just enough to force their eyes to meet. His nails scraped against Remus's skin, a mockery of tenderness. "That's what I like about you, Lupin. Always thinking ahead. Always holding on to that little bit of humanity like it'll save you." He leaned closer, his breath hot and rank against Remus's face. "It won't."
Fenrir let go abruptly, causing Remus to fall back, and rising to his full height and dusting his hands like touching Remus had dirtied him. "Keep at it, healer," he said, his grin baring too many teeth. "You'll be useful when the next batch comes in. Assuming they survive."
The words stung more than they should have. He turned his back on Remus, sauntering off like a king surveying his kingdom. "Good boy," he called over his shoulder, loud enough to echo through the clearing.
Remus stayed frozen for a moment, bile rising in his throat as he struggled to steady his breathing. The weight of Fenrir's touch lingered on his skin, as unwelcome as the sneering stares of the pack. He could feel their eyes burning into his back, their hatred barely veiled beneath layers of grudging reliance.
Quickly, he gathered what remained of his dignity and approached his tent. Each step felt heavier than the last, the hostility in the air pressing down on him like a physical weight. This wasn't new—it never was—but Fenrir's mocking laughter echoed in his ears long after he left.
As Remus reached the edge of the camp, a piece of conversation cut through the low murmur of the pack.
One voice rose above the others, carrying across the clearing like a sharp blade:
"Did you hear about that wizard up north? The big one? They're saying he's gone."
Remus froze, his hand tightening reflexively on the flap of his tent.
"Yeah," another voice replied, rough and amused. "Some kid, they said. Took him out like it was nothing. Fucker got offed by a toddler!"
"November 14," someone else said with a low, mocking laugh. "Two weeks since that lunatic bit the dust. Thought he was unstoppable."
The air around him seemed to thicken, the words sinking into his chest like stones. He forced himself to take a step forward, willing his expression to remain neutral as he moved closer to the shelter of his tent.
"They're calling it a miracle," a gruff voice added, spitting the word like it left a bad taste. "Idiots. Miracle, my ass. The Ministry's just happy they don't have to fight him anymore. Like they'll treat us any better now that he's gone."
A round of laughter followed, bitter and sharp. Remus felt his legs move on autopilot, carrying him the last few steps into his tent. The flap fell shut behind him, and he sank to his knees, trembling.
Up north.
Gone.
A kid.
His hands shook as he scrawled the date into the dirt floor: October 31, 1981.
He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as he stared at the date scratched into the dirt. He couldn't cry—not here, not now. But his chest tightened, his breaths coming faster.
The date terrified him, his breath catching in his throat. His mind spun, piecing together the pieces of memory that had been haunting him for days.
October 31st. The night Voldemort fell.
The night Harry became an orphan.
The night his friends died.
The breath left his lungs in a shuddering gasp. His vision blurred, and he doubled over, clutching his head as the weight of it all crushed him.
They were gone. They had been gone for two weeks! James. Lily. And Harry, oh, Harry, what had become of him? Where was he? Where was James's boy?
The tears came before he could stop them, hot and bitter, streaking through the grime on his face. For months, he had carried the burden of these fractured memories—glimpses of a world that felt more real than the hell he lived in. But now, they weren't just memories. They were signs, warnings of what he'd lost. Of what he couldn't save. Of what he couldn't prevent from coming true.
He tried to steady his breathing, but it was no use. The grief clawed at him, raw and merciless, dragging him down until he was choking on the sobs. He muffled them into his ragged cloak.
For so long, he had believed he could endure anything. The war, the pack, the curse. He had survived betrayals and losses he couldn't name without breaking. But this? This knowledge that somewhere, a child he knew and loved was alone in a world that had already taken everything from him?
It was too much.
He slumped against the ground, his fingers curling into fists against the dirt. He thought of the Marauders, of James's laugh and Lily's fierce kindness. He thought of Sirius and Peter, the friendships that had once made him feel whole. And he thought of the cracks, the betrayals, the suspicions, the silences, that had torn them apart before the end.
For a moment, he let himself feel it all. The weight of their absence, the fury at their distrust, the ache of a child's cry that he would never hear.
When the tears finally stopped, he felt hollow, staring at the moon through the torn canvas above. It was almost full.
The wolf stirred within him, restless and angry, but for once, he welcomed it.
It was the only thing he could feel.