speak softly, my love
1968
The moon shines her pale light down onto foggy london streets. Cracked beer bottles and stolen cigarettes litter the pavements, strewn about like forgotten promises, hidden under the blanket of the night. Everything is hidden at night. A hunched figure is prowling these streets, a figure with sharp teeth and wide, yellow eyes.
Sir! - What a long nose you have!
All the better to smell you with, my dear.
Sir! - What large eyes you have!
All the better to see you with, my dear.
Sir! - What large teeth you have..
A hunched figure is following a scent on these streets, padded feet quiet against the cobbled streets. He listens for soft breathing and freshly washed sheets. He is looking for revenge. The streets are empty at this hour, their only companion the howl of an English wind. The figure is squinting, clawing, snarling. He stays with the trees, under the cover of their leaves. Their dark will protect him. (It always has) Vision is nothing but a hazy red for him, but his nose leads him through the maze of London, down rubbish dumps and under flickering streetlamps. His nose - thats the weapon. He can see the boy with his nose, see the son of that bastard-
Pause.
He sees the open window, and finds him. If that young boy ever believed in God, that wouldve been the time to send an Angel. (But God was not listening, as dying Gods sometimes don't)
The following morning, Police find unidentifiable clawmarks and a boy with bites gouged into his skin - they have some questions. As soon as he wakes, one officer is sent to investigate.
‘Whats ye’ name, son?’
‘Remus. Remus Lupin.’
His life will never be the same again.
-
1971
Remus’ letter snapped through the letterbox like whiplash. He could hear the flutter of an owl as it flew away, leaving soft, brown feathers in its wake. Silently, He crept to the front door, hallway shrouded in shadow. The letter was a beacon. A beacon of many things.
The carpet was threadbare under his feet, the flickering living room light casting a long, sadly-tinted shadow onto his path. A deep breath, a few finger twists and a self-reprimand later, the letter was in his trembling hands. It was most possibly the nicest thing Remus had ever owned; heavy, expensive paper, embossed with a deep, dark red stamp. His name in swirling, flawless font - Remus J. Lupin
It was beautiful. But, more importantly, It was his.
His mother had told him, of course, who his father was. Lyall Lupin - wizarding world big shot. His father, to him, was a figure with a beard and a fistful of money in his hand. He was always 'too busy' to stay long anyway. Remus saw him on the occasional weekend and maybe at Christmas, if he was lucky. He didn't hate his father, far from it. He hadnt been old enough to understand what hate quite was, yet.
This letter was, to Remus, a way to escape. He’d dreamt of it since his Father had told him about Hogwarts on one of his rare visits - how it was the best time of his life, how many friends he’d had and how magical it all was. Ever since, all Remus had wanted was to leave the smoginess of London (which didn't help his asthma) and go the beautiful Castle his father had always depicted to be so life-changing. Maybe Hogwarts could help him get rid of his sickness, too. Maybe he wouldn't be so much of a burden.
So, he’d waited, and endured. Remus Lupin was nothing if not patient.
And it led to him, here, standing in a shitty little hallway with a beautiful letter in his hand, dreaming of all the things he’d be just as soon as he could leave. He could be someone. Something. He would be strong and clever and have friends. Just like his Dad. He just had to figure out how to tell his mother. Maybe-
The light in the hallway went dark. An ominous silhoutte loomed over him.
‘Whatss’ you got there, boyy?’ His speech was slurred, and Remus could smell the beer on his breath from where he stood. If Remus’ small, little, eleven-year-old heart could hate anyone, he would fill it with as much of the stuff as he could for His mothers boyfriend.
‘Not summat’ nice for me, ‘tis it?’ The oaf of a man sent Remus a leering grin, tripping as he ambled over.
‘No. This is mine’
His face changed instantly, twisting from a drunken smile into an ugly scowl, deep lines scoring his already pock-marked face.
‘Don’ speak to me like tha’!’
He was the worst man Remus knew. Grease-spotted shirt, bleary eyes, shaven head. Hands that punched. Voice that shouted. Mouth that spat.
‘Remus!’ His mothers shrill voice drifted from the living room. ‘Come here please!’ The smell of cigarettes drifted like poison gas from the door, snaking its way round the room like a death sentence.
Remus shut his eyes, wishing (not for the first time) that he was someone else.
Carefully, he sidestepped the Oaf (who liked to be called 'Paul', apparently) and crept quietly to his mothers side.
'Mum?' He hates that his voice is so small. So afraid. His mother had never been quite the same after Lyall left her; Remus had often caught her spending hours just staring blankly into space, or putting salt into her tea. 'Mum!' He shook her gently, brushing a soft blonde curl from her face. Hope smiled placidly at him.
'Hello, Darling' Her words were soft and airy, and for one, single second, Remus could see the woman Hope Lupin used to be - full of life and love and laughter. All that his father had left behind was a shell.
'Stop causing a fuss with Paul, would'ya? You know how much i need him.'
And the illusion vanished. All that Remus saw was a broken woman.
'Okay, Mum. I'll try.'
'Thanks, love. You- You know I love you, yeah?'
For a whole minute, Remus debated whether to answer with the truth or what would make her happy, but when he went to answer, Hope had already fallen asleep again, peaceful face at odds with the sadness that usually graced it during consciousness.
His voice so quiet, it was almost inaudible, Remus spoke to an empty room.
'I know, Mum. I know.'
Remus J. Lupin knows he is still not wanted. He cant help but wish, though.