Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
Lupin Cottage
February 9th, 1971
The nightmares began after Greyback’s attack. At first, it was only her father. Then came the others—soaked in crimson, tangled with a dark-haired boy.
A dark pool of Remus’ blood spreads across the toy-littered wooden floor, crawling toward her where she stands frozen in the doorway. The floor creaks beneath her step. The moment her bare foot touches the blood, it crunches like frost, ice-cold against her skin. A shiver wracks her frame. The darkness is suffocating—so thick she can barely see. But there, on the bed, she can just make out a crumpled form.
She makes her way across the frozen floor, her feet sticking with every step, as if the blood itself is trying to hold her back. The pain doesn’t come when she reaches the mattress. It comes before—when his eyes, empty and unseeing, lock onto hers. A strangled sound escapes her lips, but she keeps moving. She climbs onto the mattress, gathering the limp body into her lap. Her hands shake as she cradles his head, carding her fingers through his curls. Every movement sends a fresh ache through her chest. Her breath stutters. Her tears fall unchecked.
The boy in her arms is dead.
Remus.
No.
Remus, please—please, no.
No. No. The curls are black, not brown.
No. That’s not right.
Remus.
No.
She rocks him, breath shallow, broken, the scent of blood thick in her nose. She knows him. She knows him. She just can’t—
Remus. No, not Remus.
No. No. His skin is darker, his lashes longer, the weight of him in her arms both familiar and wrong.
The curls are black, not brown.
Her stomach lurches. That’s not right. She knows that’s not right. But she can’t seem to place why. She can’t—
No.
No.
No.
She squeezes her eyes shut, rocking back and forth, her breath shattering against the silence. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. It can’t be real.
When she opens them—
Bright green stares back at her.
Green, not brown.
She jerks awake, gasping, her chest rising and falling too fast. The darkness of her room presses in, the air thick, heavy—real. Not a dream. Not the blood, not the green eyes. Just her room. Just her bed.
Her fingers clutch the threadbare quilt, knuckles white. The same dream. The one that never fades. The one that has haunted her for years.
The pull in her chest is unbearable. The urge to climb out of bed, to slip down the hall, to curl into Remus’ warmth. To feel his steady breathing beside her. To pretend she is safe. Like she used to.
But she doesn’t.
Tomorrow is the full moon.
And she won’t take that from him. Not his rest. Not the little peace he gets.
When she was younger, the tears would wake her, and he would always hear. He would come to her room, slip under the covers, his hand finding hers in the dark. He never asked what she dreamed about, and she never told him.
But that was okay. Because he had bad dreams too.
She squeezes her eyes shut, drawing in a slow, shaky breath—trying, failing, to steady herself. But the moment her lashes flutter closed, the dream surges back. The blood, still wet. The boy, still lifeless. Green eyes, still locked onto hers, empty and accusing.
It’s not Remus.
She knows that—when she’s awake. When she can think, when she can breathe, when she can look at her brother and see him, alive. Whole. But in the dreams, she doesn’t know.
That’s what makes them unbearable.
The grief is real. The pain, the fear—it’s all real. And in the dream, there is no distinction. It is Remus. It is always Remus. Until the moment she wakes, gasping, and reality comes crashing in, unraveling everything she thought she knew.
And yet, the details keep coming.
Year after year, piece by piece, they’ve formed a picture she should not recognize—wild black curls, brown skin, green eyes. And there, slashed across his forehead, a scar—white and jagged, like lightning frozen mid-strike. It doesn’t sit neatly like a symbol; it fractures across his skin in thin, branching lines, twisting and splitting like veins of a storm.
She knows she knows him.
But she doesn’t.
And still—she grieves. She mourns him like she would mourn Remus. She wakes with the ache of loss, a hollow space carved inside her chest, as if she has lost him again and again and again.
Because deep down, in a place beyond reason—
She knows this boy is dead.
It infuriates her—this knowing and not knowing. The answer feels close, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of her tongue that refuses to come.
She has scoured every book she could find on dreams—worn pages on divination, cryptic theories on the subconscious, old wizarding texts claiming dreams are glimpses of the future. One of the oldest forms of magic. A tangled mess of symbols and half-truths.
She devoured it all.
And decided it was a load of codswallop.
Not a single page held an answer that felt real. That felt like truth.
Her fingers tangle into her wild curls, gripping tight, nails pressing hard against her scalp. Frustration coils in her chest, hot and restless. She squeezes her eyes shut, but the question still burns—a brand against the inside of her skull.
I will figure this out.
One way or another.
She exhales sharply, forcing her hands to relax, untangling her fingers from her curls. Her head throbs, exhaustion settling deep in her bones, but she pushes it aside. There’s no use in driving herself mad over something that won’t change—not tonight.
Eventually, she must have fallen back asleep, because when she opens her eyes again, sunlight spills through the thin curtains, casting long, golden streaks across her bed. Her limbs feel heavy, her mind sluggish, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like cobwebs. She blinks hard, rubbing at her face before dragging herself upright.
She picks up her book, tracing the edges of the worn pages with her thumb as she moves to the soft cushions of the bench nestled in the alcove of her window. She just needs a distraction. Something solid. Something real.
Time slips away as she reads, the steady rhythm of turning pages lulling her into focus. She doesn't realize how long she's been lost in the words until the sunlight shifts, no longer streaming in at an angle but pouring down from directly overhead—midday.
The door pushes open.
"Really, Hermione? Reading again?"
Hermione glances up from her book, arching a brow as her brother leans lazily against the doorframe. Remus—all sharp angles and restless energy—grins, his curls falling into his eyes, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Tucked under his arm is his rugby ball, the leather scuffed and softened from years of play, the white stitching barely holding together.
"I like to read," she replies simply, flicking a page without looking up. But after a beat, she huffs and adds, "And don’t act like you have room to talk. You’re just as much of a bookworm as I am."
Remus groans dramatically, dropping his head back against the doorframe like he’s been mortally wounded. With a lazy shuffle, he trudges across the room and flops onto her bed, the rugby ball tumbling onto the mattress beside him.
"Yeah, but it’s the weekend," he argues, as if that alone is reason enough to question her choices. "Why don’t you play with friends? Or come play some rugby with me?"
Hermione snorts, closing her copy of Charlotte Sometimes and placing it neatly on her desk.
"We’re freaks around here, remember?" she quips. "And you know I can’t play rugby to save my life."
She glances over just in time to catch the small, knowing smile on his face.
"Sure, sure," he sighs, stretching out on the bed in mock exasperation. But she knows he isn’t really offended.
People in the small village nearby had always whispered about the Lupin family. Hope had tried, once, to enroll them in Muggle primary school, wanting them to learn the basics—math, science, reading. But it hadn’t worked.
Remus was too afraid of scrutiny. Hermione had already taught herself everything she needed to know. And then there were the other things—the strange happenings that followed them, the sideways glances, the murmurs about Remus’ scars.
Eventually, Hope gave up, pulling them from school entirely. She taught them herself, kept them safe, kept them hidden.
Since then, parents in the village had warned their children to stay away from the Lupin siblings.
"Cursed."
"Demon-marked."
The words followed them everywhere—whispered behind cupped hands, muttered under breath when they passed. Hermione didn’t care. She had no interest in making friends anyway.
But Remus did.
And that made all the difference.
The village boys still tormented him when they got the chance. It had started years ago, but now—after the transformation—it was worse. The anger sat closer to the surface, sharp and restless, and Remus had been in his fair share of fights.
He wanted to be good. He tried. But there were only so many times he could listen to the taunts before something inside him snapped. And when he lashed out, it only proved them right—proved that he was what they called him.
"Demon-marked."
Hermione tried—Merlin, she tried. She told him over and over that being at home, with her and their mother, should be enough. That he didn’t need anyone else.
But she knew—deep down—that there was something missing. A space in his heart she and their mother just couldn’t quite fill.
Hope had been a blessing, keeping them busy, distracted, safe.
But it was not the same as being chosen.
"What did you come in here for, anyway—other than to pester me?"
Hermione slips away from her small desk, settling onto the foot of her bed, tilting her head slightly as she studies him.
Remus lets out a dramatic sigh. "Mam’s making me wash the dishes."
Hermione raises a brow. "And?"
Remus turns his head slightly, his big brown eyes widening into their most pathetic, puppy-like state. "Go on, ’Mione," he whines, sitting up straighter. "I hate washing dishes. And you’re brilliant at it. Full moon’s in a few days, innit? You know how rough I get before."
He blinks at her. Slow. Innocent. Begging for sympathy.
Hermione narrows her eyes.
"You’re a proper knob for that!" She reaches out, smacking him on the arm.
He winces, grinning. "Don’t you go using the moon on me. I know you, bach. You’re just fine. And!" She levels a firm glare at him. "Just because I said I liked it doesn’t mean I’ll jump at the chance to do your chores."
Remus sighs, defeated—then perks up. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he rummages inside his pocket, pulling out a handful of her favorite sweets. He holds them out, grinning.
"Peace offering?" he tries, voice dripping with feigned innocence.
Hermione snorts. "Bribery seems more fitting," she says, but grabs the sweets anyway.
"Just this once." She jabs a finger at him. "And don’t think this means this is going to become a thing. I’m not doing your chores for you."
"Best sister in the world, I swear down." Remus beams, nearly tackling her into a hug.
In spite of herself, Hermione barks out a laugh. He really had become her best friend.
Remus then jumps off her bed, snatching up his rugby ball once more. "I’m off out, if Mam asks," he calls over his shoulder.
Hermione waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, go on then."
He flashes her one last bright grin before dashing down the hall.
Hermione exhales sharply, gathering her riotous curls into a ponytail, fingers struggling against the strands as they slip free from her grasp. They never stay put. She huffs, tugging the band tighter one last time before standing up from her bed.
She hadn’t meant to agree to doing Remus’ chores, but he bribed her good and proper, didn’t he? Now she had no excuse.
Slipping her hands into the pockets of her skirt, she steps out of her room, ready to head to the kitchen—
But she stops.
Remus is standing just outside her doorway. Frozen. Stiff. His breath held too tightly in his chest.
She opens her mouth to ask why—
Then she hears it.
A shouted curse. A thick, ugly slap.
Hermione’s stomach twists as the sound echoes down the hall. She doesn’t need to see to know.
Another thunderous tirade erupts from Lyall, his voice raw and vicious, words dripping venom, the walls straining under the weight of his fury.
Remus is still frozen, his hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles have gone bone-white. Hermione swallows hard at the tension in his frame, the way he’s locked in place—rigid, bracing for something unseen.
She reaches out, brushing her fingers along his knuckles, feeling the sharp edges of his clenched grip. A silent plea. A reminder that he is here, that she is here.
Slowly—**too slowly—**his hands unclench.
But then, another slap. A muffled cry.
And Hermione feels her heart crack.
This is happening. Again.
She fights the instinct to rush forward, to do something, to make it stop—but she knows. Interfering will only make it worse.
She sucks in a breath and reaches forward again, brushing her fingers along Remus’ fists. Another silent reminder. Another silent plea.
Remus relaxes, just barely.
Then another slap. A brutal, ringing sound that bounces off the walls.
Hermione shuts her eyes, swallowing a sob.
She knows.
She knows if they step in, if they try to help—
He’ll hurt her more.
A piercing scream rips through the house.
Hermione’s blood runs cold.
She jerks her head up—just in time to see Mam cradling her arm, blood dripping freely from her skin. The broken beer bottle in Lyall’s hand glints in the dim light.
Everything stills.
Hermione doesn’t breathe.
Lyall sways where he stands, blinking slow, unfocused. Reeking of drink.
Mam is trembling, her breath hitching, her free hand gripping the torn fabric of her sleeve as though she can will the bleeding to stop. Her wide, glistening eyes flick to her children in the hallway, but she doesn’t speak.
Then—
Remus moves.
One second, he is frozen beside her. The next, he is between them, his hands spread wide, his chest rising and falling too fast. Hermione stares, her own breathing faltering at the sight of him.
His brown eyes bleed into gold.
Not soft, honey gold. Burning, molten, wildfire gold.
She’s never seen him like this before. Remus has always been quiet, careful. Even near the full moon, he has always been passive, in control, trying to be himself.
But this—
This is something else.
This is fury.
This is power.
This is protection, unshaken and unyielding.
"Stop hurting her," he says. His voice is steady. Commanding. Final.
Hermione’s arms prickle with chills.
Lyall lets out a harsh, slurred laugh, swaying on his feet. "Look at you, boy. Think you’re some kind o’ hero, do you?" His words are thick, sloshing in his mouth, his tongue too slow to keep up. He raises the bottle again, points it at Remus like it’s a weapon. "You’re nothing but a fuckin’—"
His voice turns sharp, ugly.
"Goddamn, stupid fucking werewolf!"
The words are venom, spit flying from his lips, his face twisted with rage. His hand lifts. Swings. Cracks.
The force of the slap sends Remus sprawling.
He crashes to the ground, head slamming against the floorboards, a strangled gasp breaking from his throat.
"It’s your fault!"
Lyall stumbles forward, seething, spitting hatred.
Mam gasps, shoving herself between them, her voice breaking. "Lyall, stop!"
Her hands shake as she grips his shirt, trying to push him back. He doesn’t budge.
"Hit me instead! Please! Not him— Please, Lyall, hit me instead!"
Lyall shakes her off with a grunt, stumbling backward. His eyes are glassy, confused, lost in his own rage.
Hermione is frozen. She can’t move. She can’t—
No, no, no.
She watches the two people she loves collapse under a man she once called her father.
And something inside her snaps.
Nobody hurts them.
Nobody.
Her vision blurs, rage curling hot and blinding in her chest. Her nails dig into her palms. She is ready to run, to fight, to throw herself at Lyall with everything she has—
But before she can move—
Remus is already on his feet.
And he is glowing.
The air pulses. Magic crackles through the room, thick and suffocating.
Lyall stumbles, blinking hard like he’s just noticed the shift in the air. His anger wavers for half a second. A flicker of something else in his bloodshot eyes.
Fear.
Hermione gags at the weight of it, how thick and raw Remus’ magic feels in the air, pressing against her skin like static before a storm.
Then—
Everything condenses.
Remus’ golden eyes burn. His accidental magic locks onto a single point. A bullet. A target.
Lyall flies backward.
His body slams into the shelf behind him.
The crack that follows is unmistakable.
Mam screams.
And everything stops.
Hermione snaps out of it first. She launches herself forward, catching Remus as he sways. He is too pale, too clammy, too drained.
"Remus, Remus, are you all right?"
He doesn’t answer. His gold eyes fade back into brown.
And then they cloud with horror.
Hermione follows his gaze.
Behind her—
Mam is sobbing.
Lyall is unmoving.
The blood behind his head is spreading.
Remus starts shaking. Hermione presses him into her chest, as if she can shield him, as if she can take it back—
But it’s already too late.
He knows what he’s done.
He will never forgive himself.
And he will never stop believing he is a monster.
Lupin Family Cemetery – March 13, 1971
The funeral was brief and cold.
The only family he had left were his wife and children. And he had no real friends anymore. Lyall Lupin had become a hateful man, after all.
Hermione didn’t want to be here.
He had caused enough turmoil, enough pain, enough destruction. She didn’t owe him a thing.
But still—
Mam had helped her into the stuffiest black dress she had ever worn. Hermione had wanted to complain—but then she’d seen the look in Mam’s eyes.
And she’d bit her tongue.
There were still bruises hidden beneath her black robes. It was the day after the full moon. And Hermione decided not to add any more weight to Mam’s shoulders.
After the accident, Mam had fire-called St. Mungo’s.
Lyall was declared dead before the Aurors even arrived. A cracked skull. Blunt force trauma.
Mam had explained it so stiffly, so distantly.
“He came home drunk. He slipped on the wet floor. He hit his head against the shelf.”
She just kept repeating it—
"It happened so fast."
A quiet, broken mantra.
The medics had asked few questions. Hermione had seen the doubt in their eyes. She had tightened her grip on Remus’ hand, afraid—afraid that someone would look at him too closely.
Afraid they would see the magic still burning beneath his skin.
Afraid they would realize what really happened.
A werewolf child with accidental magic.
That would have made things so much worse.
But the healers had also glanced at Mam’s wounds. Had seen the obvious signs of abuse.
And they had said nothing.
Now, the funeral was long over.
Mam stood just off to the side of the fresh mound of dirt, thanking the visitors in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.
Nobody shed a tear for Lyall.
And that was almost sad.
Because he wasn’t always like this.
Hermione remembers the man who raised her. The man who would pick her up and spin her around. The man who kissed her scraped knees when she fell. The man who taught her about magic, about Hogwarts, about his adventures as a young wizard.
Hermione remembers the man who picked her up and spun her around, who kissed her scraped knees when she fell, who taught her about magic and Hogwarts and all the adventures he had as a young wizard. But he had always been prideful. And he had always been filled with hate.
It just wasn’t directed at them—until after the accident.
Mam hasn’t spoken about it since. Not about the funeral. Not about what happened that night. Not about any of it. When they arrived home from the hospital, she had held onto their hands so tightly, fingers pressing into their skin, as if she was afraid to let go. She didn’t release them until they had walked past the kitchen, past the magically cleaned floors, past the remnants of what had happened there. Not until she had pulled them into her bedroom, sitting them down on either side of her on the bed.
Then she had wrapped them in her arms. And she had cried.
Hermione knew it wasn’t out of sorrow. It was relief. And she hated herself for feeling it too.
For wishing, for years, that he would die. For finally getting what she had wanted.
For still not regretting it.
"Come on," Hermione murmurs, nodding toward where Mam waits by the grave.
Remus doesn’t move.
Hermione frowns, glancing up at him. His blue eyes swim with tears, his face pale, lips pressed together too tightly.
But it’s his expression that makes her stomach twist.
That utter, unnatural remorse—too heavy, too much—for a boy their age.
"I bloody killed him, Hermione."
She stills.
Remus hadn’t spoken since it happened. She had worried, terribly, endlessly, but she knew—he needed space.
Mam never blamed him. She never said the words aloud, but Hermione knew. She knew from the way Mam stayed close without smothering him, the way she never flinched from his touch, the way she cried into their hair when she thought they were asleep.
Her actions said enough. She never held him accountable.
And neither did Hermione.
"It was an accident, Remus," Hermione insists, grabbing his hand.
She squeezes tight—a silent plea, a silent promise.
"It is not your fault."
A tear slips free. Remus blinks furiously, his throat bobbing.
"You saw what I was capable of," he whispers.
His voice is small, shaken, ashamed.
"Maybe… maybe I was always gonna end up like him."
Hermione’s stomach drops.
She knows. She knows he isn’t just talking about Lyall.
He’s thinking about the wolf.
The thing their father called a monster. The thing that already lives inside him.
"No."
Cold fear grips her chest, tight and unrelenting.
"No, Remus, you are not like him," she exclaims, voice sharp, desperate.
"You are not evil."
"But you've seen—"
"Any witch or wizard would have done the same under duress," she cuts in.
Her voice is firm, steady, leaving no room for argument.
"Especially a child. Especially one who was never taught how to control it."
Remus shakes his head, his breath hitching.
"I didn’t mean—"
His voice breaks.
A sob bursts free from his lips, and the dam shatters.
"I didn’t mean to kill him. I promise. I promise."
"I know."
Her own voice trembles now. Her eyes burn, tears slipping down her cheeks at the sheer raw guilt on her brother’s face.
"Mam knows, too, Remus. Nobody blames you."
His shoulders shake. Hermione reaches for him, pulling him into a fierce, unrelenting cwtch.
She whispers the words into his ear, into his skin, into his soul.
"Nobody blames you, bach. Stop blaming yourself, too."
Mam approaches.
She takes one look at them—at Remus, shaking, at Hermione, trying to hold him together—
And she falls to her knees.
Not caring about the dirt or the cold or the onlookers. Just her son.
She opens her arms, and Remus launches himself into her embrace.
Mam cradles him like she used to when he was small, newborn, fragile.
"Oh, fy machgen annwyl," she whispers into his hair, her voice breaking on a sob. "Fy nghalon i." (Oh, my dear boy. My heart.)
She drops soothing kisses onto his curls, whispering words of love and comfort.
But it only makes him cry harder.
Hermione steps back.
She watches Mam hold him.
And before they turn to leave, before they go home—
She lets herself look down.
Lets herself stare at the dirt-covered mound of her father’s grave.
Her throat burns with tears.
Not grief. Not guilt.
Just anger.
Just hatred.
Just a promise.
She vows to the stars, to the moon, to everything that will listen—
That she will never, never, let Remus feel lesser than again.
They leave the cemetery in silence.
Mam walks ahead, her fingers still tangled with Remus’. He holds on tightly, shoulders hunched, as if letting go might break him apart.
Hermione lags behind.
She doesn’t know why.
Her feet drag, her breath slow, her hands balled into fists inside her cloak pockets.
The wind howls through the trees, biting at her cheeks, cutting through her black dress. But she doesn’t shiver.
She looks up.
The sky is overcast, thick with clouds. No stars. No moon.
She wonders if that means anything.
She doesn’t know.
She only knows this—
She cannot change what happened. She cannot take away the weight pressing down on Remus’ chest, the guilt bleeding into his bones.
But she can carry it with him.
She can make sure he is never alone in it.
She lifts her chin, blinks the cold from her eyes, and quickens her pace, falling in step with her family.
And as they leave Lyall Lupin behind—
Hermione swears to herself that this is where he will stay.