Chapter Text
This was not good. This was not good at all, specifically for one Remus Lupin.
Sirius and Peter were at the Potters' house, spending Christmas with James. Both James and Sirius had tried to convince Remus to come down, but he had said he wanted to spend Christmas with his family, although he would do anything to be able to go. The thing is, there was a full moon over the break. This may not be a big deal for most young witches and wizards, even a pleasurable sight, but not for twelve year old Remus Lupin. Not pleasurable at all. Because quiet, teacher's pet, Remus John Lupin, happened to be a werewolf.
The full moons Remus spent at home were spent in his basement, a bare, concrete, dust place he loathed. The exits were charmed to not let anyone in, or more importantly, anything out. As a wolf, Remus could not control what he did, or who he hurt. He could barely remember what had happened, why he made the scars that littered his skin. But with the correct safety measures, everyone would be safe, and no one would find out about the secret Remus hid below his scarred flesh.
There is a certain inhuman fury that comes with being a wolf. And when that anger, the need to hurt, to cause pain, to taste blood, has nowhere to go, it inflicts upon itself. Brutally. And that is why Remus, at the age of twelve, has more scars than anyone in his year, if not the school. Most of the time they don't bother him, aside from a few stares and hushed comments. Even so, he hated them. Oh, he loathed the white lines that danced across his skin. They made him feel different. His mother had always said there was nothing wrong with being different, that it makes you special. Remus did not want to be special. He wanted to be able to talk to kids his age and not see their eyes shift to his hands and widen. He didn't want people he talked to to go off and have "private conversations." He wanted to take class and learn his friends' greatest fears were spiders or the dark, not him. You would think people would realize werewolves are people too, or at least have some sympathy, but that was never the case.
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“Dad?” Remus croaked as he slowly opened the door to his parents room. His father looked up from the book he was reading. Lyall Lupin was a tall, bookish man, with the same honey brown hair as his son, now slightly grayer, and soft hazel eyes. He dog-eyed the page from his book, and quietly set it aside.
“Is it time?” he asked, fixing his square-framed glasses into place. He had been there, when Remus was bitten. Not there, there, he would be a werewolf -or dead, like his mother- too if he had been, but in the house. Sleeping peacefully a floor below, book in his lap. He had awoken at the sound of his son crying, but it was too late. There was blood, so much blood. He quickly healed the wound in the flick or his wrist, but the damage was done. He held his son and wife in his arms, soothing his back as he cried. Cried over the losses he was cursed with. Cried because his wife was dead, and son was a werewolf. Cried because his life would never be the same.
Remus nodded tentatively. He hated what was about to happen. He hated how much it hurt, and how disgusting it made him feel. He hated overhearing in class about how much safer the world would be if werewolves were exterminated. He hated the jokes his own friends made. ‘At least she's not a werewolf’ and they laughed like it was an unimaginable concept to them. One might say Remus was a hateful child, but can you really blame him, with the cards he has been dealt?
His dad opened the door, it creaking as he did so. But before Remus could walk down the bare stairs, his father pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Good luck Remus.” his father whispered. Remus let go and walked down the stairs, not knowing what was about to happen, how it would change his life forever. Not knowing that for years after he would look back on that moment wondering what in the world he did wrong, what he could have done differently. Not knowing, but of course, how could he have?