Then
“i did not mean to be cruel. i swear i am good i am good i am kind. i have love inside me. some place far far away.” sarakleijn
The pale light of dawn bled through the frayed canvas. Remus wakes up squinting.
He lay on the cold ground, his cheek resting against the packed dirt. There were no beds, not for anyone but the uppermost leaders, so this wasn't unusual, but usually, he fell asleep in his sleeping bag. His back regretted this choice immensely.
The air was damp, carrying the smell of smoke and decay from the campfires outside. His limbs ached. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his movements sluggish and deliberate.
He felt like he'd been hit by a stampede of Abraxans.
His hands were filthy, the dirt caked into the lines of his palms and under his nails. The knuckles were red, scraped raw from clawing at the ground in the dark. His throat felt tight, his voice hoarse from the tears he'd muffled into his cloak. He rubbed at his face, his fingers brushing against the puffiness beneath his eyes.
At his feet, scratched into the dirt, was the date: October 31.
The numbers stared back at him, unyielding. He couldn't bear to look at them any longer. With a sharp motion, he scuffed his boot over the marks, smearing them into meaningless streaks.
The hollow space inside him didn't diminish. If anything, it grew.
Remus wanted nothing more than to fall apart, screaming to the heavens why it wanted to take everything from him, strip him of every single person he loved, but he couldn't. He could already hear the sounds of the camp filtering in, pulling him reluctantly back to the present.
A distant argument over food broke out near the cooking fire, voices raised in anger before a sharp slap silenced them. Somewhere closer, a child whimpered-a sound quickly stifled by a harsh command. The camp's rhythm churned on, indifferent to Remus's state of mind.
Remus forced himself to his feet, his joints protesting as he straightened. His cloak hung limp around his shoulders, its edges frayed and mud-stained. He caught sight of his reflection in a shallow puddle just outside the tent-a ghost of himself, haggard and pale, his eyes ringed with shadows that went deeper than a single night.
He tried to muster some sort of emotion about it. What young man wanted to look like a corpse? Unfortunately, he had the feeling that his outsides reflected his insides perfectly.
The sun climbed higher, its pale rays doing little to banish the shadows clinging to the camp. Remus rubbed at his face again as he left his tent, the damp air biting at his exposed skin. Around him, the camp stirred to life, or something like it. He wasn't sure life at the camp could be considered living.
The morning haze clung to the camp like a sickness, thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the faint tang of blood. Remus moved cautiously, weaving through the clusters of makeshift shelters and smoldering fires. His goal was simple: breakfast. If he timed it right, he could grab something from the central cooking pit before the stronger wolves descended like vultures.
But timing wasn't his only problem. The camp wasn't just a battlefield of survival-it was a crucible of pride and cruelty. And Remus, scrawny and human in all but curse, was an easy target.
He approached the cooking pit, its embers glowing faintly beneath a rusted iron cauldron. A few pieces of charred meat sat on the edge of a cracked plate nearby, grease pooling in the corners. His stomach churned, but hunger drove him forward.
Just as he reached for a scrap, a heavy hand slammed down on his wrist.
"Touch that," a low voice growled, "and you'll pull back a stump."
Remus froze. He recognized the voice before he even turned-a lieutenant in Fenrir's pack, known for his brutality and lack of imagination. Thane. The man loomed over him, his bare chest marred with jagged scars, his yellowed teeth bared in a grin that was anything but friendly.
"I'm not trying to take anything," Remus said evenly, his voice quiet but firm. "Just one piece."
Thane's grip tightened, twisting Remus's wrist until pain shot up his arm. "One piece?" he mocked. "You think you're owed something, you pathetic little scrap? You're lucky Fenrir even lets you breathe the same air as us."
Remus's teeth clenched, but he kept his expression neutral. "I'm not looking for trouble."
Thane snorted, the sound guttural. "Trouble? You're nothing but trouble, Lupin. Weak, sniveling trouble. You think you're better than us, don't you? With your quiet airs and your human pity." He spat the word like venom.
"I don't think anything," Remus replied, his voice taut. He tried to pull his wrist free, but Thane's grip was like iron.
"You're right," Thane hissed, leaning in close enough that Remus could smell the rot on his breath. "You don't think. You don't act. You just exist-useless. A leech."
The words dug deep, but Remus refused to flinch. He knew showing weakness would only make things worse.
Thane, however, wasn't looking for a reaction. He was looking for dominance. Without warning, he yanked Remus closer and struck him across the face with the back of his hand. The blow was sharp and unforgiving, sending Remus stumbling to the ground. Pain blossomed along his cheekbone, hot and throbbing.
The camp around them barely noticed. A few wolves glanced over, their expressions ranging from indifferent to mildly amused. This was routine.
Remus pushed himself up, his movements slow, deliberate. Blood trickled from a cut on his cheek where Thane's ring had bitten into the skin. His vision swam for a moment, but he steadied himself, meeting Thane's gaze with a calm that belied the fire smoldering inside him.
"You going to cry now?" Thane sneered, looming over him. "Go ahead. Show everyone what a weak little bitch you are."
Remus didn't reply. Instead, he wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving Thane's. He didn't look defiant-just tired. And that, somehow, cut deeper than any sharp retort.
Thane's grin faltered. "Go on, then," he snapped, gesturing toward the bone pits at the edge of camp. "You want to earn your keep? Get moving. There's a sack waiting for you."
For a moment, Remus considered fighting back-not physically, but with words sharp enough to wound. But he knew better. This wasn't a battle he could win. Not here. Not now.
He nodded once, his jaw tight, and turned toward the pits.
As he walked away, he felt Thane's eyes on his back, burning with hatred and disdain. The cut on his cheek stung with every step, a fresh reminder of how precarious his position was.
The laughter followed like a taunt, but Remus neither slowed down nor sped up as he picked up the sack.
The camp moved with its usual grim efficiency, like a beast devouring itself. Fires smoldered in scattered pits, sending thin, acrid smoke curling into the pale morning sky. Wolves huddled in groups, their voices low and guttural, punctuated by bursts of laughter that carried no joy. The stronger ones stalked the clearing, their movements sharp and predatory, while the weaker clung to the edges, skittish as prey.
Remus kept his head down, weaving through the camp with the practiced ease of someone who had mastered the art of being invisible. He didn't need to look to know what was happening around him: shoving matches near the cooking pit, the snarls of frustration as someone's scrap of meat was stolen, the sounds of scuffles that began and ended in breaths too quick to count. It was all normal here.
He heard the fight before he saw it. A sharp crack, like bone meeting bone, and then a muffled yelp. The sound pulled his gaze to the left, where a wiry boy was crumpled on the ground, clutching his ribs. Another wolf, larger and older, loomed over him, his expression twisted with amusement.
"You think you deserve my food, runt?" the older wolf growled, kicking dirt at the boy's face. His foot lashed out, catching the boy in the side. "Pathetic."
The boy didn't reply, didn't fight back. He curled in on himself, his thin arms shielding his head as the kicks continued. Around them, the others watched-some with disinterest, others with faint grins. No one moved to stop it.
Neither did Remus.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to stay still. He could feel the tension in his muscles, the instinct to step forward, to stop it. But he didn't. He couldn't. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he turned his gaze away.
"Don't look," he told himself. "You can't afford to look."
The boy whimpered as the older wolf grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hauling him upright. "Next time, you'll think twice," the wolf sneered before shoving him into the dirt. The boy didn't try to rise.
Remus's stomach churned, but he kept walking, his steps quick and deliberate. He felt the eyes on him as he passed, the faint snickers from those who saw his retreat for what it was. Cowardice. Weakness.
The stench hit first, a rancid mix of iron, rot, and damp earth that always made Remus gag. He always tried to tell himself it wasn't so bad, only to be nauseous every single time. It was like a slap in the face.
The bone pit was hidden away at the camp's edge, a crater surrounded by crooked, leafless trees. The ground around it was barren, the soil scarred and stripped of life as if even Gaia refused to be complicit in the horrors it concealed.
Remus stood at its edge, his arms weighed down by a burlap sack slung over one shoulder. The sack sagged, bones clinking dully with each step he took closer to the pit. It was his turn to clear the debris of the pack's last hunt.
A crow perched on a low branch nearby, its beady eyes fixed on him. It let out a single harsh caw, mocking him before taking flight into the grey sky. Remus watched it go, wishing he could fly away too.
The pit stretched out before him, wide and yawning. He didn't have to look down to know what lay at the bottom. He'd seen it before: a tangled mass of discarded offal, bones, and remains, stripped clean by scavengers and time.The bones were the most visible as they jutted out at awkward angles, their pale surfaces marred with gnaw marks.
Scraps of cloth clung stubbornly to them, reminding him who the bones belonged to. Not that he could ever forget.
He dropped the sack beside the pit, the sound muffled by the damp earth. For a moment, he just stood there, the cold wind tugging at his threadbare coat, staring into the abyss. The pack's laughter echoed faintly in the distance-a brutal, hollow sound. They were celebrating something. Or someone.
He doubted the victim felt celebrated.
His breath fogged in the air as he crouched, emptying the sack with methodical precision. A broken ribcage. A skull missing its jaw. A scattering of small, delicate bones he tried not to identify. He worked mechanically, his hands moving on autopilot, his mind retreating somewhere far away.
Then his fingers brushed against something cold and metallic, tangled in a strip of shredded fabric. He pulled it free, the motion sluggish. His limbs had gone cold and numb.
It was a little piece of metal. Remus rubbed at it, wiping the dried blood and black fluids until he could see what it was.
A locket.
The chain was broken, but the clasp still held. It was small, tarnished with age and grime, but it was unmistakable. He thumbed it open, the hinge creaking in protest, and found a faded photograph inside. A woman with dark hair and a warm smile holding a young boy with mischievous eyes. The image was half-washed away, but the joy on their faces remained.
Remus's chest tightened. He didn't know them, he couldn't have- but the scene felt achingly familiar. A mother and child, frozen in a moment of happiness before the world turned cruel. His fingers closed around the locket, his grip trembling. The metal cut into his palms as he tried to distract himself and failed.
His vision swam as he stared at the locket, the implications rushing at him like a wave he couldn't brace for. He hadn't thought-hadn't wanted to think-about the lives behind the bones he was discarding. It made them human. It made them people. People who were just trying to live.
Bile rose in his throat, sour. Images flooded his mind.
He could see them clearly, though he had never met them: a woman clutching her child, her breaths ragged with fear as shadows closed in around them. The boy's cries pierced the air, sharp and panicked. The woman stumbled, her arms tightening around him as though sheer will could protect him.
But the snarls grew louder. Closer.
The scene in his mind shifted-became sharper, crueler. He could almost feel her desperation, the rasp of her whispered assurances drowned out by chaos. He imagined her last act, throwing her body over the boy, shielding him. And then- screaming, until they felt abruptly silent.
The locket slipped from his fingers, landing in the dirt with a soft thud. Remus doubled over, clutching at his stomach as the nausea overtook him. It was good that he was so close to the pit-he vomited into the refuse pile, stomach aching when there was nothing to vomit up.
His throat burned with the effort, but he kept heaving, his body wracked by spasms even after there was nothing left to give. Each breath he dragged in was shallow, trembling like the air itself resisted entering his lungs.
It wasn't just grief-it was revulsion, rage, and despair twisted into a knot so tight it threatened to strangle him. They twisted inside him, a knot of emotions so tight it felt like a noose, tightening with every heartbeat.
This is what you've become, a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you're complicit in.
No. No! I didn't choose this. I didn't–I'm a spy! I'm don't-I'm not like them!
The denial faltered, shattering under the weight of the truth. His nails dug into the dirt beneath him, and his trembling hands clenched into fists.
But the evidence was all around him. The refuse pile loomed before him, the stench of decay seeping into his skin. He thought of the pack, their laughter echoing cruelly, Fenrir's voice praising their brutality.
I'm not like them.
But wasn't he? He hadn't stopped them. He hadn't fought back. He hadn't even left. He was here, wasn't he? Watching. Existing among them.
And wasn't that enough?
The thought struck him like a blow, robbing him of breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images were burned into his mind now-the woman, the child, their final moments.
The locket glinted faintly in the dirt, catching the weak light.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images wouldn't leave him. They filled the darkness behind his eyelids, growing sharper with every breath. A face. The woman. What if she had dark eyes, like his mother? What if she had green eyes, like Lily's? Blue like Alice?
The child's eyes-the same mischievous eyes frozen in the photograph- haunted him most of all. They reminded him of someone, though he couldn't place who. Was it Harry? Was it James? Sirius?
It didn't matter. The outcome was the same. He didn't care because they resembled anyone. He cared because this was horrible. He cared because the bones in front of him were so small and fragile.
Tears blurred his vision, but he didn't let them fall.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
A sob caught in his throat, but he choked it back, his hands clawing at the dirt as if he could ground himself through the pain. He wanted to scream, to rage, to tear down the entire camp and everything it stood for. But he couldn't. He could do nothing but sit there, hunched over at the edge of the pit, as the weight of the locket pressed down on him like a stone.
He wasn't even sure how long he sat there, staring at the dirt where the locket lay. Minutes? Hours? Time felt meaningless.
Finally, he forced himself to move. His hands, still shaking, reached out to pick up the locket. He couldn't leave it there. It wasn't right. He wiped the dirt from its surface, his fingers brushing against the photograph inside one last time before he closed it and tucked it into his pocket.
The bone pit loomed before him, silent and unyielding. The stench filled his nose again, a harsh reminder of where he was and what he was surrounded by. He looked down at the sack of bones still waiting to be emptied, his stomach twisting at the sight.
He thought of the woman and the boy. He thought of the pack celebrating their latest kill, their laughter echoing through the camp. He thought of Fenrir, his teeth bared in a twisted grin as he praised the hunt.
He turned the sack upside down and poured the bones.
I want to rot, he thinks.
The camp buzzed with its usual cacophony-clashing voices, low snarls, and the occasional sharp cry of someone too weak to keep what was theirs. Remus moved through it like a ghost, head down, shoulders hunched, doing his best to avoid notice.
He failed.
"Well, well, if it isn't Fenrir's little pet," a sharp voice rang out, cutting through the din.
Remus stilled, his stomach twisting. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. Her voice was unmistakable-low, lilting, and dripping with contempt.
She stepped into his path, her smile sharp and predatory. Nadine. A mid-level enforcer with a penchant for cruelty and an appetite for control. The camp avoided her for more than her temper; her attention had a way of becoming possessive, and the weak rarely escaped her sights unscathed.
"Always skulking, aren't you?" she purred, circling him. Her hand brushed against his shoulder, and though the touch was light, it made his skin crawl. "No wonder Fenrir keeps you around. Someone's gotta remind the rest of us what pathetic looks like."
Remus kept his gaze on the ground, his hands tucked into his pockets to hide their trembling. She took his silence as an invitation.
"Or maybe it's something else," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "I've seen the way he looks at you. Always so... protective." Her grin widened, and she leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek. "Does he let you off easy because he feels bad for you? Or is there another reason?"
Her fingers brushed the edge of his cloak, a mockery of affection. "Maybe he thinks you're pretty. You know how Fenrir likes his trophies." The words were quiet, meant just for him, but they carried enough weight to turn his stomach.
She tilted her head, studying him. "You don't fight. You don't hunt. You just... exist." She smirked, stepping closer, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body against his. "So tell me, Lupin. What do you offer?"
Still, he said nothing. His silence emboldened her, her hand darting forward to snatch at the edge of his cloak. She pulled it back, revealing the faint bulge in his pocket.
"What's this?" she asked, her tone mocking. Her fingers moved deftly, slipping into his pocket before he could stop her. She pulled out the locket, holding it up like a prize.
"Oh," she breathed, her smile widening. "How precious." She dangled it from the broken chain, letting it spin in the dim light. "What is it? A keepsake? A little piece of humanity to remind yourself you're better than the rest of us?"
She tilted her head, her grin turning razor-sharp. "Or maybe it's just a crutch. Something to cling to because you can't handle what you really are."
Remus's jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes down. That only seemed to amuse her more.
"You're such a coward," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "Can't fight, can't speak up, can't even protect this stupid little trinket." She let the chain slide between her fingers, holding the locket up to the light as though inspecting it for flaws. "What's in it, anyway? A picture of someone you couldn't save? How tragic."
Her hand tightened around the locket, and Remus flinched. It was small, barely noticeable, but she caught it. Her smile turned wicked. "Oh, you do care," she purred, taking a step closer.
The distance between them vanished as she pressed into his space. Her free hand caught his jaw, tilting his face upward. "You're so weak," she murmured, her voice low and intimate. "So soft. It's almost...appealing."
His breath hitched, but he didn't meet her gaze. Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone, tracing the bruising cut Thane had left earlier. "I could ruin this face, you know," she whispered. "Or... I could keep it." Her smile widened. "Wouldn't that be something?"
Her hand drifted lower, brushing the collar of his shirt. "You've got that look about you, you know. Like you want someone to tear you apart."
Her words hung in the air, heavy and cloying, as she leaned in closer, her voice a whisper against his ear. "Is that it, Lupin? Are you waiting for someone to break you?"
He didn't respond. He didn't move. He heard the little clinking sounds the locket made.
And then he looked at her.
His gaze snapped up, meeting hers, and the smug smile on her face faltered. His eyes were empty-bottomless pits of exhaustion and despair, devoid of life or resistance. They weren't defiant or frightened or pleading. They were nothing.
And yet, in that void, there was something profoundly wrong. Something that made her breath catch in her throat.
She tried to hold her ground, but his emptiness pressed against her like a physical force. Her grip on his jaw loosened, and she stumbled back a step, though she quickly masked it with a sneer.
"You think that look is going to scare me?" she snapped, her voice sharp but unsteady. "You're still the same pathetic little-"
"Take it," Remus said quietly, cutting her off.
Her brow furrowed. "What?"
"Take the locket," he repeated, his voice unnervingly calm. "If it means so much to you." His eyes, though, said a different story. Take it and regret it.
She hesitated, her fingers twitching against the chain. His eyes hadn't moved from hers, still hollow and unblinking. The nothingness pressed down on her, suffocating and inescapable.
"Keep your fucking junk," she spat, throwing the locket to the ground. It landed in the dirt with a dull thud. She stepped back, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.
"Not worth it," she muttered, loud enough for the onlookers to hear. "He's not worth it."
She turned sharply, stalking away with stiff shoulders and quick steps. The crowd that had gathered dispersed, their attention shifting elsewhere.
Remus bent slowly, picking up the locket with trembling fingers. He wiped the dirt from its surface, his expression unchanged.
As he stood, he felt the eyes of the camp on him again. Not mocking this time. Not indifferent. Just... wary.
The clearing buzzed with the feverish energy of violence. The crowd pressed in a tight circle around the pit, their shouts and snarls echoing like a choir. In the center, two young wolves fought savagely, their bare hands clawing and fists swinging, teeth bared as blood slicked their faces. The others roared their approval, cheering for the strong, jeering at the weak. Blood soaked the dirt floor of the pit as another fighter hit the ground, their cry swallowed by the pack's frenzied roars.
This happened every month, a bloodletting or sacrifice that built up the mood for the turning. It was an attempt to celebrate the cruel and painful transformation they all underwent. Remus hated it, but some part of him almost understood it—what else could they cling to in a place like this?
Around the edges of the pit, the stronger wolves postured, their movements sharp and predatory. The weaker ones hovered fearfully, attempting to move inwards but failing. They tried to avoid the snapping jaws of their betters.
Remus, of course, stood alone, a figure without allegiance, someone whose presence here invited scorn.
(But at the same time, there was no other choice but to come. Remus only tried not to attend once. It was the first and last time he'd tried after Fenrir had him pulled here by his hair.)
Above it all, Fenrir Greyback sat on his crude throne, carved from raw, splintering wood and draped in furs. His heavy hand rested on the arm of his chair as if the scene below was an everyday amusement, his eyes glinting with the dark satisfaction of a predator watching his pack tear itself apart for his amusement. For sport, like he was the god of revelry, they tore themselves apart to please.
Besides him stood his chosen lieutenants.
Closest to Fenrir was Thane, that hulking brute of a man with shoulders broad enough to rival an ox’s. He toyed with a crude blade in his hands, the metal dull and nicked but still deadly in the right grip.
Next was Arnos, smaller in stature but no less dangerous. His wiry frame was taut with coiled energy, his movements sharp and deliberate, like a viper waiting to strike. A long braid of silver hair hung down his back, its sleekness incongruent with his sunken, predatory eyes. He seemed to watch everyone at once, his lips curling faintly in what could only be described as disdain.
On Fenrir’s other side loomed Ravena, whose scarred face made her beauty more feral than striking. She carried herself like a predator always on the hunt, her smile as sharp as the knife strapped to her thigh. Her dark hair was tied back haphazardly, stray strands falling into her piercing gaze as though daring anyone to meet it.
And furthest back, half in shadow, stood Syras. He was the quietest of them, but his presence seemed to drain the air from the space around him. His gaunt face and sunken cheeks gave him the look of a corpse brought to life, and his pale skin was almost luminescent beneath the firelight. Syras’s long fingers twitched at his sides as though itching for violence, and his soft, rasping voice, when he spoke, had been known to unsettle even the most hardened wolves.
Remus stood on the periphery, his eyes fixed on the chaotic swirl of bodies. He had been lingering on the edges, half-hoping to escape notice. He tried to stay invisible, shrinking into himself. But then Fenrir's voice rang out, low and deliberate, cutting through the noise like a blade.
"Lupin."
The single word cut through the noise like a blade. It was commanding, and the crowd fell into an expectant hush.
Remus froze where he stood, his body stiffening instinctively. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter.
Heads turned toward him, eyes gleaming with curiosity, malice, and something darker. Remus's stomach tightened, but he didn't hesitate. Hesitation only made things worse. He stepped forward, his gait stiff, his heart hammering in his chest.
When he reached the throne, Fenrir's grin widened."Closer," Fenrir said, his tone almost sing-song, like coaxing a stray dog. He gestured to the ground beside him, his fingers curling in a slow beckoning motion. "Kneel," he said, his tone light, almost playful like they were sharing some private joke.
Remus hesitated, his breath catching. He could feel the weight of the pack's collective gaze pressing down on him, eager and cruel. The crowd loved a show, and Fenrir was the best at delivering one.
"Kneel, Lupin," Fenrir repeated, his voice softening, though it only made the command more menacing. His hand reached out, fingers brushing Remus's shoulder in a gesture that dared him to defy the man. "You wouldn't want to disappoint me."
The murmurs began before Remus's knees hit the dirt. They rippled outward, growing sharper with every cruel laugh.
"Look at him. Fenrir's bitch."
"Does he fetch too?"
"Bet he does more than that. Look at that pretty mouth!"
The dirt bit into his knees, cold and damp, but he didn’t react. It was better not to react. Fenrir shifted in his throne, leaning forward with a satisfied hum, his grin wide and predatory. His hand reached out, tangling in Remus's hair with a familiarity that made bile rise in his throat.
He kept his head bowed, his hair falling forward to shield his face, but he could still feel the sneering eyes of the pack on him.
"Such a good boy," Fenrir said. The grip wasn't painful-yet-but it was firm enough to make it clear who was in control. He tugged lightly, forcing Remus to tilt his head back just enough to meet his eyes.
Their eyes met, and Fenrir's smile deepened. "Don't look so sullen. This is an honor."
Well, it felt like anything but that to Remus, but didn't respond. He knew better. Fenrir didn't need words to humiliate-the act of being here, kneeling at his feet, was degrading enough for him. But not for Fenrir.
"You're always so quiet, Lupin," Fenrir mused, his voice loud enough for the others to hear. "I like that about you. So... polite. So obedient." His fingers tightened slightly, the grip turning possessive. "But it makes me wonder... is it restraint? Or are you just this pitiful?"
The crowd snickered, and one of the lieutenants—Ravena—called out, her voice dripping with derision. “Bet he’s just soft. Look at him, all pretty and proper. Like a little doll.”
Fenrir's grin sharpened, and he chuckled low in his throat. "A doll," he repeated, his tone soft and contemplative, like turning the word over in his mind. "Is that it, Lupin? Too fragile to join the hunt? Too delicate to take the teeth and claws?"
Remus didn't answer. His gaze dropped to the ground, his stomach roiling.
Fenrir leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, though the intimacy of it made it feel more like a threat. "But I know better," he said. "You've got fire in you, don't you? That little spark that thinks it can defy me."
Remus didn't respond. He kept his gaze steady, his expression carefully neutral.
Fenrir's grip tightened further. "Don't be shy," he said, his voice low but carrying the edge of a threat. "Answer me."
"Yes," Remus said quietly, the word bitter on his tongue.
His hand tugged harder, pulling Remus's head back just enough to make him wince. "It's adorable, really. Like a cub baring its teeth at a wolf."
The crowd laughed again, some of them nudging each other with gleeful whispers.
“Careful, Fenrir,” Thane jeered. “Pull too hard, and your little lapdog might whimper.” His tone was dark but eager like he wanted to see him put in his place. Like he craved it.
Fenrir turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in mock admonishment. "Oh, I don't break things," he said, his voice smooth and dark. "I shape them. Mold them. And when I'm done..." His grip on Remus’s hair tightened just slightly, enough to jolt his attention back. "They belong to me."
The words sent a shiver down Remus's spine, and his fists clenched in the dirt. He didn't fight back, didn't flinch- his body was still as stone. But when Fenrir tilted his head to get a better look, his dark eyes found something unexpected.
There, in Remus's gaze, was a void. Not defiance, not submission, but something hollow, like the dying embers of a once-roaring fire. The sight gave Fenrir pause for a fraction of a second, his grip on Remus's hair loosening slightly.
But then his smile returned, wider and crueler. He gave Remus's hair a final tug before releasing him, his hand brushing against his cheek in a mockery of affection. "Good boy," he murmured, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "You're learning."
Remus stayed kneeling, his face impassive, his hands pressed against the dirt to steady himself. The crowd roared their approval, the noise rising in a tide of jeers and laughter.
Fenrir leaned back on his throne, clearly pleased with his performance. "Let the games continue," he announced, waving a hand toward the pit. The wolves surged forward, their attention shifting back to the brawl, but Remus remained frozen at Fenrir's side, his body rigid.
"Stay," Fenrir said softly, almost an afterthought, as his hand drifted to rest on Remus's shoulder. "I like having you close." The weight of it was oppressive, and Remus could do nothing but obey.
Around him, the violence resumed, but he didn't lift his head. The pack cheered, the fire crackled, and Fenrir's laughter rumbled low in his chest. And through it all, Remus knelt, the locket pressing cold against his skin.
The fight in the pit reached a savage crescendo. Blood sprayed in an arc as one of the combatants landed a crushing blow, sending their opponent crumpling to the ground. The pack roared in approval, the sound primal and deafening.
Fenrir barely glanced at the chaos below. His focus remained fixed on Remus, kneeling silently beside him as though the violence in the pit were merely background noise. For a monster like him, maybe that’s all that was-noise.
With a sigh as casual as it was calculated, Fenrir leaned closer, his hand still resting heavily on Remus's shoulder. His grip shifted, fingers brushing absently against the nape of Remus's neck.
"You know," Fenrir began, his tone softer now, almost conspiratorial, "they don't like you."
Remus's stomach twisted, already sensing where this was going, but he didn't respond. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his fists clenched against the dirt.
Fenrir hummed thoughtfully as if savoring the silence. "Oh, they tolerate you, sure. You're useful...when I say so. But let's not pretend, Lupin. You're not one of them."
Remus's breath hitched, though he quickly steadied it. He couldn't let Fenrir see the crack in his armor.
"They look at you," Fenrir continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "and all they see is a broken thing pretending to be strong. A man wearing a wolf's skin. They hate it." His fingers tightened slightly. The tension in Fenrir’s voice coiled like a spring. “Do you know why?”
The crowd erupted as one fighter smashed his opponent’s face into the dirt, blood pooling dark and thick. Fenrir didn’t spare them a glance. His question hung heavy in the air.
He didn't wait for an answer.
"They hate it," Fenrir said, his voice growing sharper, "because it reminds them of what they were before they belonged to me. Weak. Lost. Just like you."
The accusation settled over Remus like a shroud. His jaw tightened, but he didn't lift his head.
"I could make you fit," Fenrir murmured, his voice low and coaxing. "No more pretending. No more crawling alone in the dark. Don’t you want that?"
The words were spoken with the false warmth of a snake oil salesman, but the zeal beneath them was unmistakable. Fenrir's fingers tugged lightly, tilting Remus's head just enough to force eye contact. The pack's laughter and jeers faded into the background, leaving only the intensity of Fenrir's gaze.
"I could make you belong," Fenrir murmured, his voice so low it was almost intimate. "Would you like that, Lupin? To finally stop pretending? To finally stop being...alone?"
The words hung like a noose. Remus’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs, but he didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. He knew the game Fenrir was playing, but the worst part was that some small, desperate part of him wanted to believe it.
When he didn't answer, Fenrir sighed, the sound theatrical. "Ah, but you're stubborn," he said, his voice brightening again, the amusement returning to his tone like a knife sliding back into its sheath. "That's alright. I like that about you. It makes breaking you all the more satisfying."
The pack roared as one of the fighters in the pit delivered a brutal blow, sending his opponent sprawling. Fenrir clapped his hands together, his grip on Remus momentarily forgotten as he turned his attention back to the spectacle.
"Ah, now that's what I like to see!" he exclaimed, his voice full of approval. "Strength. Dominance. That's what it takes to lead a pack."
As the victorious wolf in the pit raised his bloodied hands, Fenrir's attention shifted back to Remus, his grip tightening briefly on his shoulder. The pack's cheers died down, leaving an expectant silence as all eyes turned toward the alpha.
Fenrir leaned forward, his smile lazy but sharp as a blade. "See that, Lupin?" he murmured, his voice dripping with false warmth. "That's strength. That's what it means to be a wolf."
He turned to the crowd, gesturing grandly with his free hand. "Strength is what holds us together! Without it, you're nothing. A burden. A liability." His gaze flicked back to Remus, his eyes gleaming. "But you already know that, don't you?"
A ripple of laughter coursed through the pack, cruel and cutting. Ravena stepped forward again, her voice loud and mocking. "He's a burden, all right. Just dead weight dragging us down. Or maybe not so dead, eh, Fenrir?"
The pack howled with laughter, and Fenrir grinned, clearly enjoying the performance. "Careful, Ravena," he said, his tone indulgent but warning. "He's not as useless as he looks. Lupin here has potential. He just doesn't see it yet."
"Potential for what?" Ravena sneered, rage mounting in her voice. "Polishing your boots? Cleaning your scraps? He's barely a wolf. He's-" She stopped abruptly, her gaze darting to Fenrir's hand, which had moved to the back of Remus's neck.
Fenrir's fingers curled into the hair at the nape of Remus's neck, tugging gently but firmly, forcing him to look up. The motion was slow, almost tender, but the intent behind it was anything but. "He's mine," Fenrir said, his voice low and possessive. "And you'd do well to remember that."
The pack fell silent. The shift in tone was palpable, the air thick with tension. Ravena inclined her head, her sneer faltering. "Of course, Fenrir," she said, her voice tight. "Just having a bit of fun."
Fenrir smirked, his grip on Remus loosening slightly but not letting go. "Oh, I'm sure you were." He turned back to Remus, his expression softening into something almost...fond. "Don't mind her, Lupin. She's just jealous. They all are, really."
The laughter resumed, quieter this time, tinged with unease. Fenrir's hand drifted to Remus's chin, tilting his face toward him. "You've been quiet today," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "What's on your mind, hmm?"
Remus's heart pounded in his chest, the weight of Fenrir's gaze unbearable. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak. "Nothing," he said, his voice barely audible.
"Nothing?" Fenrir repeated, his brow furrowing in mock concern. "Now, that's not true. You've had a rough morning, haven't you?" He gestured grandly toward the pack. "Let's see-Thane roughed you up, didn't he? Disciplined you. And then there was the bone pit. You stayed there for a long while." His tone turned almost conversational. "Did you find anything interesting down there?"
Remus's throat tightened. He didn't answer.
Fenrir sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "You're so ungrateful, Lupin. I give you a home, a purpose, and this is how you repay me? With silence?"
The pack murmured in agreement, their whispers punctuated by cruel laughter. "Say something, Lupin," someone jeered. "Fenrir's asking nicely!"
Fenrir chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "You see, Lupin? They're rooting for you. They want to hear you speak." His grip on Remus's chin tightened slightly, forcing him to meet his gaze. "So, speak. Tell me about your day."
For a moment, the world narrowed to the two of them, the pack's jeers fading into the background. Fenrir's eyes bore into his, unrelenting, and Remus knew there was no escape. "It was fine," he said finally, his voice flat.
Fenrir tilted his head, studying him like a wolf examining wounded prey. "Fine?" he repeated. "That's all?"
"Yes," Remus said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Fine."
Fenrir's grin widened, his teeth bared in a predator's smile. "Good boy," he said softly, his voice dripping with mock affection. He patted Remus's cheek, the gesture humiliatingly familiar. "See? That wasn't so hard."
The pack erupted in laughter again, their cruel amusement echoing through the clearing. Remus kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his jaw clenched tightly. Fenrir's hand lingered on his shoulder, a constant reminder of his power.
But as the pack's laughter grew louder, Fenrir leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper only Remus could hear. "You'll break eventually," he murmured, his breath hot against Remus's ear. "And when you do, you'll thank me." His teeth brushed the tender skin of his neck, and for a harrowing moment, Remus was four years old again, small and terrified.