The Marauders: Year Three | #Wattys2016

The Broken Boy Wolf

The Broken Boy Wolf

Remus had stopped bleeding sometime after the moonlight died and he'd turned back into himself. As his mind lifted from the fog his wolfish howls had quickly turned into boyish screams as the sensations returned to him. He may not have been bleeding any longer, but the bones and wounds were not quite healed, either. He couldn't move - his body twisted grotesquely on the floor of the Shrieking Shack by the old, unused stone hearth on a torn and dust-covered blanket - one of the ones Sirius had brought out back at Christmas. Tears streaked his face, but the only thing he could move was one of his arms - the one pegged beneath him. The other flopped about pointlessly, dislocated from his shoulder.

Remus tried to pull himself along over the wood floor, but the pain it sent through his body was such that he nearly passed out and lay breathlessly, not even three feet from where he'd started. There was no hope of dragging himself to the trap door, not to mention back to Hogwarts. His wand seemed miles away, sitting up on the table in the kitchen, along with his other things. He didn't know what to do, so he laid there, having smeared himself along through the pool of blood he was laying in. The pain was blinding and he could feel his spine was twisted funny, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about un knotting himself and he sobbed and wailed and cried out, begging for someone to help him, but nobody came.

Nobody would come, he told himself, nobody could hear him except the people who lived in Hogsmeade and none of them would dare come near the Shrieking Shack.

He passed out from crying and the pain sometime in the early morning and would come to now and again throughout the day, a fresh wave of horror and fear filling him up each time. The sun was beating down on the Shack and the rays that snuck in through the cracks in the boarded windows made dust motes shine gold as they rose up from the floor and he felt dizzy with thirst. He was sure he was going to die there on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. He imagined the golden dust was angels coming to collect him and he cried out for his mother.

By midafternoon, the golden dust motes seemed to be teasing him and he became angry with them. "Just take me with you already if you're going to!" he yelled at them.

It was evening before Remus woke to the feeling of a hand gently touch his face.

This is it, he thought.

He weakly opened his eyes, unable to focus. "M - m - mummy?" he murmured, trying to see through the bleariness. There was a woman's face looking down upon his. She gathered his head up into her lap and he smelled a mild soap and mint and tea.

"It's going to be alright, Remus," a voice said gently.

There was a flash of bright white light and Remus could have sworn he saw a cat squeeze it's way through the cracks in the window.

"Mummy?" he whispered again.

"It's Professor McGonagall, Remus" she said softly, and now he noticed the voice was lilting with a thick Scottish accent. It was the accent that made him truly realize it wasn't Hope Lupin. McGonagall was running her fingers gently along his jaw, "I've got you, boy."

Tears fell across his nose, spilling over his cheeks. "Please," he whispered.

"Help is on the way," McGonagall whispered. She waved her wand and conjured a tea cup. "Aquamenti," she said and she held the cup to Remus's lips, "Drink," she commanded gently.

Remus felt the water on his lips, falling into the cracks of his skin. He was so weak all he could do was let it fall, but trickles of it hit his tongue and slid into his throat and he was thankful for it.