Blood On Your Hands
.................................................
A large basin stained a rich hue of purple sat just out of reach of the length his shackles afforded him. His cracked lips, parched and dry, quivered as he stared, transfixed, at the jagged crack scrawled against the surface of the pottery. He willed it to stretch further for the fissure to penetrate deeper, but it remained a silent and mocking witness to his plight. He blinked, taking in the unchanged object, his badly bruised face devoid of emotion.
Time was a blur, marked only by the scuttling of ants across the thick, damp soil beneath him. One insect, a tiny diversion from the monotony, drew his burning gaze away from the source of his anguish. His tired, dull eyes watched with a detached fascination as the little black dot tickled him. It ventured determinedly up his bloodied skin, reaching the top of a scabbed knee.
With a small thumb, he squished the living creature mercilessly, turning it into a black streak. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of consuming the twitching remains of the tiny creature on his thumb, his dire hunger driving him to the foolish notion. But he quickly dismissed the thought, convincing himself that he hadn't yet reached that level of desperation.
At least his belly had stopped shouting at him a long time ago. Now his stomach just coiled so tight it ached, one such cramp sending his arms across his abdomen tightly as if that could somehow soothe him. In sheer desperation, he stretched towards the vase again, chains jangling with the movement, muscles straining as he reached trembling hands darkened by drying mud towards the only source of colour in the underground cell.
He silently pleaded for it to break, his mind wandering to the possibility of finding a twig on the ground, a feeble attempt to convince himself he owned a wand. But he knew it was futile. The only time he had ever touched a wand was when his father had lovingly placed him on his lap, allowing him to marvel at the smooth wooden object. The unwelcome memory elicited a soft cry from him, his heart tightening with emotions too complex for his young mind to comprehend.
But magic didn't need an object to channel it, as he would learn years later. In this one such incident, the flair of despair in his pounding chest sufficed. Without understanding, the little boy wielded the mysterious power he had been growing increasingly afraid of with each new visit from the large, hairy man with jagged teeth. The invisible force caused the break to grow, spiderwebbing across the surface until the whole thing ruptured; rather than clear thirst-relieving liquid, a thick red substance splattered everywhere. The child recoiled too slowly, unable to avoid being speckled with blood.
"NOOOO!" he wailed, bone weariness and boredom forgotten in favour of flailing wildly. "NO! NO! NO!" Great heaving sobs escaped him until his cries summoned the deep groaning sound of the trap door opening. All outer movement ceased while his heart raced in a foolish attempt to flee its prison. Dark spots clouded his vision as the ominous thumping sounds of someone descending the stairs grew louder.
Although he knew from experience there was nowhere to hide down here, he found himself scooching back with each step the ginormous man took towards him until his back was pressed against the creaking boards his chains attached to.
"Well, aren't you a talented one, little snack?" The husky chuckle that followed sent shivers down the boy's spine that had nothing to do with the neverending chill the underground cell held.
A shooting flair seemed to explode in the room, white-hot and blinding, and with it, the little boy briefly remembered that he wasn't so young anymore. But the clarity vanished as brilliantly as it had come, and once more, he was left stuck in this hell he both longed to remember more of and dreaded doing so down to his bones.
The squeak of fear that escaped him as the blurry figure stooped and latched onto him with bruise-causing strength went ignored. Nor was his whole body shivering mentioned as the 'shadow man' roughly dragged him towards the blood.
Shoved hard, his tiny hands shot forward, catching himself as they splattered onto the warm, damp, red substance pooling around the broken container. Unable to pull away due to the tightening hand on his shirt collar, the boy's brain seemed to screech at him, a painful static rising to the front of his mind. A fuzzy buz that grew louder and spread further. It soon infected everything around it, swarming over the whole cursed memory, lacking the power or speed to drown out Greyback's words that chased him out of the nightmare.
"You better get used to having blood on your hands, little snack. You'll be drenched in it when I'm done with you."
.................................................
Remus gasped for breath, heaving lungfuls of air with the desperation of a previously drowning man breaking the water's surface. He would have preferred suffocating beneath waves instead of doing so in the dark and oily memories that seemed determined to take hold of him over the isolating and endless summer.
He wrenched himself up from his sweat-covered bedroll and squinted at the shards of sunrise leaking through the bleak, boarded walls of the Shrieking Shack. In the dim light, he raised shaking hands to his face, inspecting them closely.
"It was just a nightmare." His voice cracked with lingering paranoia as he repeated the necessary mantra that had become a twisted solace for him. It provided grim assurance, which he needed more than ever, thanks to that haunting day at Kings Cross station—an abandonment cutting deeper with each passing hour, where he stood alone and distraught, waiting for a father who never came. The world outside had moved on, but he suspected his chains of disappointment would forever keep him trapped in that moment.
His gaze shifted to the small, threadbare blanket, twisted into a makeshift nest. Nestled atop it perched a silver figurine dragon egg, its smooth surface gleaming faintly in the muted light, radiating a serenity he could only dream of experiencing in this wretched place. "I'm sorry, Hope," he whispered, his fingers trembling as they brushed delicately across the surface of his solitary companion, the one constant source of solace amidst the tumultuous summer.
Admittedly, he probably sounded more than a little loopy. He shouldn't be conversing with an inanimate object, even one received during the Digores' entrance performance last year. The replicas had been mere trinkets meant to relay clues for the next Triwizard Task, not living creatures. But the bitter truth gnawed at him: his 'defective toy' would never hatch, consequently not disappearing with the others. But it didn't matter, even if it meant he was mental, Remus loved his dragon who had provided him a lifeline through many lonely, sleepless nights.
"Pup, you are late," echoed the warm, familiar hum in his mind, jolting him into action and sending him scrambling out of the Shrieking Shack. Heart racing, he directed a spell at the Whomping Willow's knot as he darted toward the Forbidden Forest, his legs bruised and his baggy clothes a tattered mess. He supposed he should have taken the Night Bus to Hogsmeade and stayed in the Shrieking Shack at the start of summer. But pride and shame had delayed his arrival by weeks, a decision he now regretted.
As Remus sprinted across the castle grounds, his pulse quickened with more than exertion. Whenever he emerged from the tree's tangled embrace and ventured outside, he risked discovery. The ever-present terror of being caught loomed over him like a dark cloud, an unwelcome passenger on his reckless escapades. He knew for a fact Hagrid, at the very least, presently inhabited Hogwarts' grounds. But the reward of spending the day with his wolves and roasting the rabbits they brought to sustain him outweighed the looming threats.
As he neared the forest, fighting the urge to look back, he drank in the warm rays washing over his face—a stolen solace before dense tree cover swallowed him. He'd only glimpse the unfiltered light the next time he risked leaving the gloomy shack. Returning from the Forbidden Forest under the cloak of night proved much safer.
Therefore, each new day began with a weary rise at dawn, a careful stealth to spend the entire day in the confines of the forest with his wolves, and an inevitable return as darkness enveloped him—a cycle marred by horrifying nightmares invading his sleep. His stupid brain insisted on making up scenarios to torture him with because they weren't memories, merely nightmares. He couldn't afford to think they were anything but tormenting dreams, not when he had to focus on surviving first and foremost.
Once he reached the trees, he slipped off his trainers and socks, hiding them under foliage. Each step into the underbrush meant it grew harder not to succumb to the judgmental inner voice reminding him that he was becoming something he despised—a monster. He could practically hear his uncle's taunting support over Remus ‘embracing' how he was nothing more than a feral wolf child. But he couldn't afford more wear and tear on his shoes. So he navigated the uneven ground barefoot, mindful of his tattered clothes, which had already made him the target of either glances of pity or disdainful glares.
"Skipper," he called out, slowing down to survey his surroundings as familiar anticipation surged through him. When he first arrived at the Shrieking Shack, he had barely taken a breath before hastening into the woods despite the whirlwind of guilt over the wolves' unfortunate involvement in the tournament's last task. But his crippling loneliness and clawing need for connection had immediately triumphed over his shame. Solitary summers, with only books for company and the responsibility of caring for his father, were as familiar as breathing. Yet the exhausting, stressful weeks spent struggling to survive and isolating himself to avoid unwanted attention had produced a persistent gnawing emptiness within him.
The nosy patrons of the Leaky Cauldron had sent him fleeing Diagon Alley far too soon, and Madam Linda's blatant concern at the Three Broomsticks had been the last straw in his foolish attempt to blend in. Apparently, adults did not take too kindly to an unsupervised child sequestering himself in his room. And while he had initially hoped to find work among the chaos enveloping the wizarding community, even with his dramatic growth spurt, passing for a short sixteen-year-old was no small feat. Remus had known it was only a matter of time before a Ministry of Magic Official was sent to question 'Robyn Lurin.' But the werewolf hadn't let himself get caught. His resourcefulness had kept him one step ahead, and he had gotten very skilled at keeping everything he owned on his person at all times, thanks to the expandable bag the train conductor gave him.
The crack of a twig caused him to drop to a crouch, scanning his surroundings closely. "You have more than your eyes, pup," Asher's past reminder rang in his ears. A bit begrudgingly, he allowed himself to expand his senses. When he tapped into the meditative breathing he had learned, calling attention to the sounds around him, the difference was striking this close to the full moon when his werewolf abilities peaked. One minute, it was like he was staring at a black-and-white painting, and the next, someone had removed the film, revealing the artwork had been vibrant and colourful all along.
A strong pine aroma flooded his nose, making it a true challenge to smell anything beyond that. Chattering birds in the trees and several creatures walking three kilometres away did nothing to help him locate Skipper. Yet if there was one thing the wolves had been teaching him these past few days, it was the importance of using all the weapons in his arsenal. He couldn't afford to miss a single detail.
So Remus intensified his focus, plunging into a part of himself he habitually shunned: the wolf. He forcefully dispelled the lingering tendrils of darkness from the previous night, blotting out the heavy worry that had taken up permanent residence in his chest alongside the suffocating guilt. The dull ache pulsing through his muscles and the throb in his head, persistent reminders of his imminent transformation, were both ignored.
There!
He was growing more accustomed to the musky scent of the wolves, particularly when the jarring tang of blood mingled with their natural odour. Skipper must be carrying a fresh kill. The young wolf's lack of stealth and inexperienced clumsiness set him apart from the more seasoned pack members, giving Remus a critical advantage.
The soft crunch of twigs heralded the predator's anticipation, which the werewolf swore had a unique aroma, primarily when it emanated in such high amounts from the impatient pup. Crouched low and poised for action, Remus swiftly rolled away just in time as Skipper's lithe body lunged playfully at him. The tension shattered as the air filled with the silence of their near collision. Finally evading getting barreled over and pinned, Remus straightened, a spark of disbelief flashing at his success.
He turned to Skipper, excitement touching his cheeks, while a pride he probably shouldn't be feeling chased away some of the darker emotions, like the boulder of self-loathing he didn't even attempt to chip away at. Remus deserved the shame; otherwise, summer would have been spent with his father instead of surrounded by 'beasts' who understood him in ways humans never had.
"You did it, wolf brother. You aren't a clumsy, noisy pup this time!" Skipper yipped, his delight infectious, the thumping of his tail echoing the rhythm of his joy. Remus let out a choked laugh as the young wolf playfully reared onto his hind legs, pressing his damp, furry paws against the werewolf's chest. The 'not some pathetic house pet' pup ran a slobbery tongue across Remus' cheek, tail still wagging wildly.
"Ugh," he groaned, shoving the wolf off him, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face. "How is that supposed to be my reward?" he teased, though it was sometimes a hit or a miss whether Skipper understood some of the nuances of their language barrier. Whether the young wolf comprehended the friendly jab or not, they were interrupted, both jumping at the appearance of an older grey wolf moving with a deliberate silence towards them.
Even with heightened senses, the younger creatures had only noticed the visitor when he stepped confidently into their line of vision. Remus could always intuit when Skipper was 'hunting' him, but the day he detected Asher's approach—unless the elder wolf willed it—would mark the day he would never be caught off guard again.
"The reward lies in embracing your true self while learning the skills you need to thrive here," Asher replied, not for the first time reminding Remus of Dumbledore. Ignoring the discomfort that such a statement stirred within him, Remus dipped his head respectfully. The wolves had taken him in with open paws, effortlessly accepting him as an honorary member of their pack. Therefore, he would just have to grapple with the bitterness of his oddness privately. He never wanted the wolves to accuse him of "yipping and snarling like an unruly pup" ever again.
"I can't stay here forever," Remus replied, still puzzled about how accurately the wolves perceived the passage of time. He struggled to grasp if they understood why he could spend so much time with them. The thought of leaving them, of returning to a life that felt so alien, churned within him a tumultuous brew of longing and dread.
Skipper whined softly, lowering his head in disappointment, a familiar sight every time Remus tried to articulate that sentiment. While a minuscule part of him wondered what life would be like if he relinquished everything to stay with the pack indefinitely, he ultimately knew he couldn't. After all, he had "his pack," as Asher called them—the people he couldn't wait to reunite with.
He would be utterly lost without them.
Living amid the wilderness, primarily communicating with wolves and...a dragon egg… had undeniably begun to fray the edges of Remus's sanity. Yet summer was drawing to a close, with only a month and a half left to endure. Though uncomfortable and rough, his current living conditions were preferable to spending galleons he couldn't afford on shelter while neglecting essential nourishment.
Finding sustenance was never a challenge with the wolves. As if to emphasise this, Skipper scampered off, returning triumphantly with a giant rabbit dangling from his jaw, showcasing the pack's touching hospitality. Turning away from the young wolf and the offering meant for him, Remus choked back a wave of nausea.
Yet, as they say—beggars couldn't be choosers—and provided he roasted it over a fire, he tried to convince himself that it wouldn't make him any more of a beast than he already was. "Thank you, Skipper," he forced himself to articulate, his voice a strained whisper swallowed by the shadows of the encroaching night. The remnants of the grisly nightmare lurked at the edges of his mind, making it particularly difficult to accept the lifeless rabbit this time, and that was without mentioning what he'd have to do tonight.
He fought against the involuntary shiver coursing through him as Skipper relinquished the small, cold body into his grip. The slobber, tufts of torn fur, and dark gouges of bite marks made him want to cry.
But this was survival. He was only doing what was necessary until school started again. Suppressing his inner wolf—an incredibly restless creature lately, snarling and clawing the moment Remus relaxed—he obediently followed Asher to the pack. From the beginning the wolves had proved to be seasoned mentors, and they guided him through the labyrinth of his emerging abilities with endless patience.
Throughout the day Remus navigated the lessons designed to stretch his limits: practising the subtle art of communication with the pack, mastering the nearly silent stride required to glide through the forest, learning to match the wolves' 'slower' pace and honing his skills to track the myriad scents swirling in the natural world around him. As always, they emphasised training him in the stealth required to stalk 'prey' and the navigational skills necessary to avoid getting lost. Remus bore all of it without protest, ignoring the shame of acting like a wild creature with the same desperation he ignored the victorious howls of his inner wolf.
He even endured the merciless wrestling practice, aiming to last more than a few seconds against Skipper, that left him breathless and aching beneath the pup's weight. In hindsight, that lesson probably should have been skipped today. Though fierce in their loyalty, the wolves could not quite fathom the all-encompassing agony that consumed the werewolf's body as the full moon approached.
The memory of being toppled by Skipper for the hundredth time, alongside an anguished cry he could no longer suppress, was a bitter reminder of his place among them; he didn't entirely belong anywhere. At least the pack had helped him back to the forest's edge without complaint, their eyes now reflecting sympathy and befuddlement. They had also made clear, on several occasions, they couldn't grasp his frantic need to keep his distance.
The thought of spending a night cuddled between their soft bodies, nestled within one of their dens, was an unbearable temptation. Although it would've eased the suffocating weight of his unrest, he simply couldn't allow it, needing to draw limits for what remained of his dwindling sanity. He…just couldn't risk it. Especially not tonight. If he hurt one of them, he would never forgive himself!
As a result, he trudged across the sprawling grounds of Hogwarts, each step dragging him further away from the forest, resolutely ignoring the concerned gazes of his companions. It was safer this way… for them, at least.
Deep down, uncertainty gnawed at him; he wasn't entirely sure he would survive the impending full moon without the matron's care in the morning. The air was thick with humidity and despair as he kept his back to the wolves, feeling the weight of his uncertain fate resting heavily upon his shoulders. Part of him yearned for someone to spot him on the way back to the Shrieking Shack, but he reached the secluded haven without incident, collapsing face-first into the meagre pile of ratty towels and sun-bleached blankets he had 'scavenged' throughout the summer.
Of course, there was a proper bed tucked away deeper within the shack, but at some point last year, he had ruined the mattress in several ways he didn't want to ponder on for too long.
"I'm going to have to hide you, Hope, but don't worry, I'll recover you in the morning." If I don't bleed out, he added to himself privately—no need to upset her.
In addition to his makeshift bedding, he'd traded several galleons for pain potions and the expensive healing salve he had once used on James' Acromantula wounds. He carefully considered where to stash them, needing to ensure they remained untouched until morning. The trick was finding somewhere he wouldn't disturb once he transformed but close enough that he could reach his crucial supplies come morning while in a great deal of pain.
"What do you think, Hope?" he asked, already feeling the first pull of the moon digging its hooks into him. A shudder rippled through him as he hurriedly stowed the delicate items behind a cabinet, casting colloportus on it. Remus knew he should be putting the unhatched dragon in the same place, the safest place, but having the comfort she brought him was almost as vital as the medical supplies and his wand.
The struggle against the inevitable transformation was a recurring battle, but the fear wound tighter around his heart this time, nearly suffocating him. But what choice did he have? It's not like the monster can return 'home.' He laughed bitterly, the sound echoing maddeningly off the empty shack's claw-marked and blood-stained walls. Remus grimaced, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. If he hadn't been 'Loopy Lupin' before this summer, he had undoubtedly cemented the status by now.
Sighing, he stripped out of his clothes. Almost forgetting, he fished a Bludger-sized styrofoam container from his cloak pocket, a relic from his time at The Three Broomsticks, meant for leftover food. Shuddering at what he'd have to do, he set the ominous vessel far away from his other supplies, carefully placing it on the counter before crouching down.
While it wasn't a perfect solution, he figured blockading a cabinet was the best he could do. So he stuffed Hope, his clothes, what he would need to avoid dying from his injuries, and his wand inside before barricading the space with multiple chairs. The meagre precautions would have to be enough. He didn't want to consider how he might break his wand should the wolf, for some reason, find the desire to claw its way through a tangle of crisscrossing chairs. Not that it would matter. If the wolf succeeded, Remus wouldn't live long enough to stay bothered by it.
Almost finished with his preparations, he wrapped a trembling hand around the large container he had kept shoved in his pocket since his adventure with the wolves today. Remus' hands had been shaking a lot this summer, a stark contrast to his usual steady grip. The tremors seemed to be caused by stress and worsened by his lack of sleep. Even should he subtract the persistent nightmares as the cause of sleepless nights, Remus simply had gotten too spoiled from the sleeping draughts he'd gotten in the habit of taking each night while at school. The matron would have a conniption could she see him now, for many reasons, but definitely over the darker-than-normal bags under his eyes.
That almost pushed him to the brink of another shattered laugh. Instead, he bit his lip, forcing himself not to let his fractured emotions spill over. Crying wouldn't solve anything, and he needed to stay focused despite the pounding fear in his chest. However, Remus couldn't hide how his responsibilities were crushing or deny the overwhelming potential for things to go wrong. A dry sob threatened to escape, and he fought against it, spending a precious minute blinking rapidly to hold back the burning tears.
For all the hurt his dad had caused him and all the bitter feelings Remus had been harbouring since the start of summer, at least the man, until now, had never let the werewolf go through a full moon by himself. Tonight would be his first transformation done entirely alone, from start to finish.
The young werewolf had done everything he could think of to prepare. Ever since he realised he could use magic without getting in trouble while on Hogwarts' grounds, Remus had been cutting his skin open and casting the same spell Pomfrey had used on him many times. It's not like he could forget the wording, hearing it every month as he did, but it was a complex bit of magic. At least Remus had now reached a point where the self-inflicted wounds actually closed...temporarily.
A stabbing agony sent his knees buckling. He collapsed, a howl jerking past his lips. Remus didn't even have the state of mind about him to feel embarrassed. He curled tight, waiting for the ripples of pain caused by grinding bones to ebb. The werewolf didn't have much time. Racing himself, he popped off the lid of the container. It was cruel, the nightmare he had dreamt last night, almost like his brain was taunting him.
It's your best chance at survival, he reminded himself. And he knew all about surviving in horrible circumstances, didn’t he…. Painstakingly, he forced his thoughts away from Greyback. Instead, he focused only on how Madam Pomfrey, or any of his friends, would kill him if they knew he was doing this as he dipped his hands into the blood he had drained from the rabbit today. Remus ignored the way the room seemed to spin. Gritting his teeth, he wasted no time smearing the blood across the wall furthest from the precious cabinet the wolf had to avoid at all costs.
It has to be good enough!
Frantically, he spread the substance all over, and when he hit the floor hard for the final time that night, bones breaking and back arching, it was with hands still coated in blood.