Chapter 1: Until Gravity Bends

The world, as we know it, only exists as so because of the decisions made before us. The path forks endlessly - a spider web of decisions and indecisions, action and inaction in equal parts. The beat of the butterfly's wing perturbs the air currents and across the continent, a tornado begins to twist even once the creature has long since ceased to exist. A lone pebble drops off the shoreline and leaves ripples spilling across the clear water in its wake.

"For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;

For want of a shoe, the horse was lost;

For want of a horse, the rider was lost;

For want of a rider, the message was lost;

For want of a message, the battle was lost;

For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost;

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail."

Mum used to tell us this proverb whenever we tried to rush into things, reminding us not to forget our coats 'for want of a nail'. Being prepared for all eventualities was something of Mum's hobby, and she never ceased to remind us of it. She would recite the poem so much that by the time I could form sentences, I could also spout it back to her.

Later, it would come to mean less of 'prepared-ness' and more that every action had its consequence, no matter how small.

Perhaps, in one When, Hope never took a walk in the forest to clear her head. Perhaps the muggle woman never stumbled across a boggart. Perhaps my father never got permission for his expedition into the valleys of Wales, and so never heard her scream. Perhaps, the weather was simply so awful neither of them ever set foot outdoors.

But on the day they met, Hope Howell had stepped out on a smoke break and gone for a gander in the forests nearby to vent her frustration at being one of the only girls at the office and Lyall Lupin was on an expedition in the valleys, studying the formation of Boggarts for his thesis. And Hope had stumbled upon a black shape in the trees. Lyall heard her scream and came barging through, wand raised at the ready and promptly turned the shifting black mass into a field mushroom.

Their wedding photos often featured a tiered cake, topped by a lurid red and white mushroom, which guests had my mum to thank for.

The rest, as they say, was history.

I was born in a hospital in Merthyr Tydfil, the closest town to mum's native village of Crai in the Powys county of Wales. Naina would later explain that even though our village had a midwife, she did not trust that hoity-toity woman one bit, not with her coin purse, not with her dog and certainly not with the birth of her grandchildren. Taid and Dad had been fussing in the front of the car, trying to keep one eye on the road and the other on my very pregnant mum, whilst naina and Mum got talking about names. I heard the story a lot growing up, and every Christmas it would all spill out again, with good natured ribbing at the men's expense, of course.

I was born first, bald and squalling and red-faced. Ugly as anything, taid would say with a fond grin and a ruffle of my hair. Here, my dad would pointedly disagree, before being shot down over being unable to see through his sobbing at the time. And when the hospital staff were just beginning to clean mum up, the next contraction started.

Remus was born after, very much a surprise baby.

We spent most of our first few years in Wales, in the magicless village my mother grew up in, surrounded by the rolling hills and the deep lakes. Living with naina and taid, our grandparents, was nice. They ran the local pub with the help of our Uncle Huw, mum's older brother and we spent many an afternoon napping in one of the window booths, warming in the sun.

Dad was often busy, trying to secure employment at the Ministry now that he'd received his Mastery and in between being hassled by his bosses and pouring cups of tea and coffee, we were lucky if we caught glimpses of him before bed. Mum was the one to coo over our first words and feed us mashed vegetables, kissing our foreheads and chubby cheeks.

Dad loved us though, even at that age I could tell. On his rare days off, he would spoil us rotten, chasing us through the garden whilst we giggled and tried to hide. When our laughter finally quietened, he would sit us on his lap, a twin on each knee and tell us about the other world we were part of - one we had to keep secret from the rest of Mum's family. His eyes would brighten and his face would look warmer, and less haggard, and it would seem like the very magic he spoke of spilled from his lips.

The Howells, Mum's family, disapproved of Dad I think. There were pointed stares and even more pointed remarks. Naina would sigh loudly, brows furrowed, about lousy men who couldn't even afford a house to keep his bairns in, whilst taid patted our cheeks and told us not to worry about it, a stony look in his eyes.

Remy and I didn't think much of it. We were far too busy investigating the tadpoles in the lake and looking for shiny stones on the shore. Or looking for worms to show Mum, which always made Uncle Huw laugh raucously over her reddening cheeks, pink squiggly things that wriggled in our palms, squishy and wet.

Our favourite game was our magic game.

Most mornings, after breakfast, we'd march out into the back garden, stomping in our wellie-boots over the marshy land, squelching mud underfoot as I dragged Remy behind me, hand in hand. By rights, I was always the Princess-mage and Remy, my knight-wizard, and together we fought against the fluffy-tuft-tails and yellow-lionfaces that sprouted across the garden, vanquishing them through our mysterious magic powers.

It had been a day like any other. We'd been crawling through the undergrowth, mud slick on our clothes and in our boots. Remy had hidden behind me when the dragon lionface had emerged, a bright yellow burst of flowers hidden behind naina's rosebushes, against the rickety fence.

I brandished my stick in front of me, eyes narrowed.

"M'gonna protect Remy!" I yelled, dashing forwards.

It happened almost in slow motion. The ground was already wet from rain and my boots were slippery against the mud and roots on the ground. Remy's hand was still fisted in my coat, his other holding his own slightly smaller stick bravely.

My footing slipped-

-the ground was flying towards me -

something wrenched me backwards -

my arms pinwheeling for balance and -

- we fell.

There was a moment of brief silence as we both blinked in shock. And then the pain registered. In saving me from my faceplant into the mud and the dragon lionfaces (bright dandelions), Remy had yanked me hard enough to send us both reeling backwards into naina's rosebush.

Remy broke the silence with a piercing wail, flailing to fall back on safe ground. His face crumpled into tears, red scratches and embedded thorns in his hands and face.

"'urts! 'urts!" He sobbed.

I crawled after him until we were both back in the mud, hands hovering unsurely. "S'okay, Remy!"

My brother only cried louder.

My throat tightened, the backs of my eyes stinging. We were just playing, I hadn't meant to get Remy hurt! I was supposed to be the one fighting the lionface, not my brother! I crouched down by his side, hands reaching for the first thorn I could see. It wasn't in embedded very deep, and only the size of my nail. With a few flicks of clumsy toddler hands, it was out.

There weren't any more thorns on him, and apart from a few scratches he looked okay. But he was still crying, little gasps in-between choked off wails.

My stomach twisted horribly at the sound. I had made it better, hadn't I? By pulling those sharp things out? It shouldn't hurt anymore! My mouth tasted sharp and sour, like unripened apples too tart to taste pleasant. Remy's sandy hair was matted with mud and leaves, his arms crossed in front of him like he was afraid the bush was still going to attack him. His face was all scrunched together despite the red scratches that crisscrossed his nose and cheeks, beads of blood pooling on the surface. My brother.

Something below my skin, roiling and bubbling, surged.

Naina found us only a few short moments after, tucked behind her prize-winning roses and covered in mud with the torn remnants of our coats scattered around us. There was a sizable dent in the bush now, from where two bodies had collided into it, our hands littered with threadlike scratches of red.

But all that was left of Remy's tears were the dry tracks on his face, a line of lighter skin against the mucky soil and on his lips there was a smile instead, the skin on his face dirty but unmarred.

She shrieked a little at the mess we'd made of ourselves and ushered us in for a bath, fussing over the mud and the state of our clothing.

It was my first taste of Magic. The first irrevocable proof I had that Daddy's stories were right, and we were magic too.

I tried to quiz him about it when he got home. It had felt eager and warm, like turning your face towards a sunbeam until you had the warmth in it down to your bones. I didn't know the words to explain it to him, but in between my excited squeaks of "Magic! Magic, Daddy!" and clingy Remy hugs, I think he got the message.

"Accidental magic," He'd chortled, kissing me fondly, "My little witch!"

"P'incess-mage!" I strongly disagreed.

"Ah," He hugged us both close, "A protective Princess-mage and her steady knight-wizard, is that right?"

A few months after that, Dad's luck changed. The papers he'd been writing had finally been accepted by the international journals and seemingly overnight, Lyall Lupin had become inundated with offers of work and employment. Some of them were from the Ministry, others from as far afield as Japan and the Continent.

I wonder what would have happened, if Dad had gone for a job in Tokyo, or for the ICW, instead of opting for the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for the British Ministry of Magic? So many things would have changed, we might have been raised knowing different languages, I would befriend different people, everything from the magic we practised to the food we ate could have changed. Another of those action and inaction ripples.

Instead, we stayed in Britain - still in Wales, but out of Powys county and into a little cottage on the edge of one of the bigger cities instead, far closer to London than we had been previously. Naina and taid had been disappointed, but opted to visit often, with Uncle Huw driving out at least once every other week.

Our new house had, what some people might call, character. It was very modest and very traditional, with thick thatched roofs and lattice across the windows, trails of ivy growing around the front door. The walls were painted a sunny yellow and the windows gleamed in the morning's light. There was a little paved path that twisted through the wild grass and flowers all the way from gated-entryway to the front door.

"What do you think?" Dad had Remy in the crook of his arm, but he was looking towards Mum, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "It's a little messy right now, but-"

I fixed my arms around Mum's neck, as she smoothed down my hair, fingers trembling. Her voice was thick when she finally spoke. "Lyall, I love it!"

We still shared a room, but it was bigger now, with enough room for a set of beds on either side, bracketing a window and a heavy chest of drawers. There was a toy chest against one wall and, when we opened it, Remy and I found all our toys safely packed within.

The move into the new house brought other things with it too.

Whereas before, we mainly played by ourselves in the garden in the pub whilst everyone else was working, now we took trips outside and played with other kids in the park. Mum spent less time looking harried at maintaining the peace between Dad and her family and cleaning tables, and more time sitting in the garden with a thick pad of paper and a pen in her hand, her smile warm and her laughter infectious.

Dad, too, looked more relaxed. I'd never realised how tense he was until we moved out of Crai village. He had always been a quiet man, but in our new home he became less so, more inclined to speak freely and make noise without too much of a care.

Now that we were four, Mum had decided we should begin to learn how to read and write. She would sit us down for about an hour each day, and teach us to trace our names onto thick parchment with waxy crayons. Remy loved it, his eyes lighting up and a happy flush painting his cheeks every time our parents complemented his handwriting or when he sounded out a word correctly. He would sit there happily engrossed in the way the wax would trail across his page or drag another book out from the shelf for Mum or Dad to read.

On the other hand, I had to be bribed with sweet treats and threatened with no dessert to comply to sitting still for something as boring as handwriting!

The summer sun would be shining and I'd see a glimpse of something glittering in the tall grass in the fields surrounding the cottage and I'd be off, racing out the door with a cheeky "See ya!" I was always caught before I made it passed the gate but it never stopped me from trying - there were puddles to stomp in, the fields to explore and new things to collect.

Both Remy and I liked collecting things.

My twin brother preferred books and stories and pictures, records of events written down. He had a little stack under his bed for stories Mum would write us - not Dad's Magic stories - but they were some of his favourites nonetheless.

I preferred shiny things, interesting things. Parchment, I had no use for, unless it had cool pictures. I piled all my trinkets into an old shoebox, filled with interesting bits and bobs from our adventures outside. There was a brassy penny, perfectly shiny in the way that new coins always were, that I had found in the park one afternoon. A glossy green river stone I'd found in the brook out on a walk with Dad and Remy. A speckled feather full of browns and whites and blacks that was the softest thing I'd ever felt. And a dented silvery ring, it's metal dull and no longer gleaming, that I'd found in a ditch by the roadside.

It wasn't that I was particularly dumb, or at least I hope not, but Remy and I, for all our twin-like tendencies were different. I loved getting muddy and the cold rain on my face, even if I had to face Mum's tutting and fussing afterwards or get put in bed with a cold. Remy loved reading and he loved his stories. Oh, he could always be convinced to play and he would enjoy it, but given the choice he would often opt for the books inside than a jaunt around the park.

There wasn't really a village park to play in, so to speak. There wasn't a village at all. Our new house was one of a few that dotted a winding road that led from the motorway. The cottage was actually sandwiched between two farms, as if it were some sort of groundskeeper's lodging. We owned none of the surrounding lands, but the owners to either side of us all had kids and were more than understanding of our trespassing, as long as we stayed off the crops. The largest farm, which everyone had since affectionately termed the 'Park', was some thirty minutes away on foot, meaning we had to be carried there or risk falling asleep before we arrived. It had been nicknamed as such because it belonged to a childless couple whose children had long since moved out and left their old games and toys out for the rest of us to play with, in a grassy plot by the hay bales.

There was a tall, tall oak tree with a proper treehouse resting in its heavy boughs and rungs nailed into the trunk to create a sturdy ladder. There was a strong tyre swing which if you took a running start at it, loped you over a deep ditch so it felt like you were flying as the ground dropped beneath you. And an old rusty tractor, that no longer had its wheels or most of its gears, but the steering wheel worked perfectly fine and doubled as a good climbing frame when scaling the trees got too monotonous.

It was still a muggle settlement, so every time we got close to the Park, whichever parent was chaperoning us would make us recite our rules. Rule Number One was no leaving the park without telling an adult. Rule Number Two was look out for your twin - but really, that one could have gone without saying. Rule Three, was the most important, no magic in front of the muggles.

Despite having to be careful, we made friends fairly easily. We were the new kids, and some of the youngest, but as long as we didn't try to upset the hierarchy the other children didn't mind overmuch. Most of the other kids were older than us, and tolerated us with rolls of their eyes and patronising smiles, nudging their younger siblings forward.

There was only one actual kid our age, a freckle-faced boy with chubby cheeks and a strong lisp who introduced himself boldly as "Rhys".

Remy shuffled slightly behind me, hand gripping the edge of my sleeve warily. I strode forwards, tugging him with me. "I'm Ro, and this is my twin Remy!" I stuck my hand out, we were new and though the other kids weren't hostile, we lost our novelty after a while. It had been my idea to ask Mum to take us out, so it was only fair that I was the one who did the talking-part too.

He mouthed the words to himself, cheeks wobbling. "Hey! That rhymes!"

"No, it doesn't." Remy muttered behind me.

I tried valiantly not to grin. "It's like a tongue twister, though - Ro, Rhys, Remy…Remy, Ro, Rhys." I snickered. "Try saying that five times fast!"

And that was how we made our first friend.

Rhys turned out to be older than us by quite a few months and was forever obsessed with things that rhymed even if they did not. He was always piping into conversations with "Hey! That rhymes!" whenever he could, even with Remy bickering back that it most certainly did not.

The older kids liked to commandeer the tree house, slyly standing at the top of the ladder so we couldn't get in. And the rope swing and the tractor were a little too big for us to clamber in without help so mostly we chased each other around and rolled on the grass, flinging bits of grass clippings and scattered hay at each other.

Remy joined in sometimes, flinging hay and giggling madly, but most of the time he was content to follow behind us, clutching his newest book and playing the long-suffering dragon who was sick and tired of guarding the squabbling king and princess-mage. I would have worried more about his lack of interest in Rhys' and my roughhousing if it wasn't for Carys, a bookworm of a girl a few years older than us who had promptly decided that her new favourite thing was to read to my four year old brother and coo over him.

When we weren't spending our days at the park, or under Mum's eye, clutching our crayons in preparation for joining the nearest Primary school; we were dragging Mum out to make daisy chains in the garden or draw on the public path in coloured chalk and giggling at our designs.

Dad came home in the evenings in time to help keep us occupied whilst Mum made dinner. Every evening, Mum would glance at her watch with a secretive smile and say "It's nearly five o'clock!" and without fail, Remy and I would drop everything and be dashing for the front of the fireplace before she'd finished speaking. We would sit on the couch, facing the fire, eyes fixed on the flickering flames and bouncing in excitement.

And every night, the fire would flash into a luminous green flare and the shape of a tall, lanky man would tumble through, trip on the hem of the carpet and land sprawled on the floor beneath the couch.

And every time he returned home, we'd grin from our perches. "Welcome home, Daddy!" in synchrony.

It became routine to watch him flick his wand and the soot disappear in order for us to tug him onto the couch for stories and what magical things he'd encountered at work that day. Mum would laugh at our reactions, laughter tinkling over the sounds of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.

It became so routine, that deviating from it remained the one of the most memorable moments of my childhood.

It was a Sunday in October. By the time we'd woken up that morning, Dad had already left for work. Mum had shooed us out of bed and disappeared back down the stairs. Remy and I proceeded to stumble over each other and each other's toys on the way to the bathroom, sharing a sink when we brushed our teeth and when we finally wound our way down to the kitchen, Mum already had toast and the strawberry jam, that Rhys' Mum had brought over last week, ready and waiting on the table. The countryside out the window was dark and grey, a thin drizzle visible even from where I was sitting.

"Can we go outside?" I asked hopefully, maybe Mum hadn't seen the rain yet. Across the table, Remy shot a glance to the window and then back to my face, nose wrinkling.

Mum ruffled my hair, and I pouted. "A thousand years too young to trick your mother, Ro."

"A thousand?" I stared plaintively at my jammy toast. "The rain'll all be gone, then!"

"S'cold." Remy pointed out, around a mouthful of his own breakfast, jam smeared on his cheek.

"But puddles!"

It was an point we agreed to disagree on often.

Mum laughed at us both, pressing kisses to our cheeks and swiping the jam of Remy's face with a napkin. He made a face at her as she did so. "Maybe later," She conceded, "How about we get some writing done and then we can bake some cookies for Daddy to have when he comes back? And we'll think about the puddles again after that?"

We spent the rest of the day indoors, the rain never abating, a solid film of grey falling from the sky. The house was warm though, from the heat of the oven and the ever present glow of the fire. It smelt of cookies and gooey chocolates that made my mouth water and my stomach grumble. Eventually, after a lunch of thick broth and buttery rolls, Mum let us out in our raincoats and wellies to stomp in the puddles for a few moments. I wheedled Remy from his nook in the window until he conceded with a slight grin and a puffed "Oh, fine." trying to hide that he didn't mind as much as he said he did.

We stomped out in matching boots, the autumn rain light enough that it didn't hamper our fun but still constant and cool, meaning we were ushered in sooner than I'd liked, soaked and clutching our bellies with laughter. Mum rushed us into the bath, already running and bobbing with the little wooden boats taid had made us for Christmas.

"Mum," I asked as she helped me towel dry my hair, my voice muffled by the heavy cloth. "Is Rhys coming to play tomorrow?"

He was five now, older than us and despite playing with us regularly enough to be our friend, loved to point out that he was older now and so what he said, obviously was true. Which caused Remy to point out Rhys' rhyming failures even more pointedly.

Remy groaned, already shrugging into his jumper, sleeves trailing. "He's gonna try and rhyme everything!"

I snickered. "Yeah, but you're smart! So you always know when he's wrong!"

"Doesn't mean it's not annoying." My brother mumbled, yawning into his hands.

"Well, yeah, but he's our friend!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

We spent the rest of the afternoon begging Mum for the cookies, even though we'd promised to wait until Dad got home, and Remy going back to his nook to read whilst I skittered around the house, exploring and looking for more shiny things to put in my box. Sometime in-between then and the countryside getting darker, I fell asleep on the stairs, face pressed into the steps.

Mum woke me gently, chuckling quietly. "C'mon, Ro, it's time for dinner."

Sleepily, I slumped my way down the stairs after her, holding her hand. Remy was already at the table, eyes twitching towards his closed book left on the arm of the couch regretfully.

"Whe…Where's Daddy?" I mumbled, rubbing my eyes.

"I think he's going to be at work a little while longer yet," She put a steaming plate of cottage pie in front of me, roast vegetables piled up next to it. Cauliflower - I pushed it to the very edge of my plate in distaste.

"Is he gonna be back soon?" Remy asked suddenly.

"Going to." Mum corrected. "And I'm sure he'll be back as soon as he can."

There was really no way Mum would know for sure though. After all, our only means of communication was the house telephone, a plastic mint-green contraption with a funny little dial that you had to turn to get it to work and kept on a little table in the spare room. A muggle telephone, which of course, Dad couldn't use at work or even find at work - not a functional one anyways. There were communications spells, of course, but they surprised Mum every time, who never expected to hear a voice where nobody was, funnily enough. And we didn't own an Owl.

I'm sure Mum must have worried whenever Dad stayed out late, her husband off in a world she could not contact or even approach, no way of knowing what had happened to him if he was ever hurt. This never occurred to me when I was younger, and I doubted they occurred to Remy at the time either. Beyond a fission of unease, I went back to eating my dinner and avoiding the cauliflower on my plate with a grudge and soon forgot about asking where Dad was, in favour of Mum's cooking.

It was several hours later, in fact, before we heard the sound of the Floo activating and Dad came home. Remy was already heading up to bed and I was chugging the last of my milk, the remnants of my cookie scattered across the table.

"Lyall!" Mum gasped as Dad tumbled bodily through the flames. He righted himself, toeing off his boots sharply, a dark expression on his face, muttering jaggedly. I barely caught a glance of his scowling face before Mum was ushering me up the stairs. "You and Remy get ready for bed, I'll be up to tuck you both in later."

Usually, I'd argue that I wasn't tired yet, or that we needed at least three stories before bedtime, but something in Mum's face, tight and her eyes slipping back towards where Lyall Lupin was pacing, made me nod uncertainly and trek up the stairs instead.

Remy was waiting on the landing, peering over the banister. "Was that Dad?"

I nodded, reaching for his hand. "Mum says we should brush our teeth."

His eyes lingered on the patch of hallway we could see from the top of the stairs, and then he nodded and let me lead him towards the bathroom. We were both quiet as we stood over the sink, ears straining to hear what was going on. Over the sound of our brushes, Dad's voice was loud enough to be heard, frustrated and tense, Mum's voice a soothing murmur heard only barely beneath his sharp tenor.

We washed our faces and headed for our room.

"Dad didn't get to try our cookies." I said, as we separated to crawl into our beds.

Remy's face was drawn contemplatively, "Is he upset?" he asked suddenly.

I considered it briefly, before dismissing it. "I don't think so? We weren't naughty at all today."

"Except from when you splashed me."

I pointed right back at him, "You splashed me back!"

"Only 'cause you did it first."

"That wasn't naughty." I frowned. "I was playing."

"Mum did say not to."

I stuck my tongue out.

Across the room, he giggled back, snuggling further under his own sheets.

Mum and Dad both came up a few moments later, holding hands. Their eyes were red-rimmed and they were holding each other tightly. Dad was still dressed in his work robes, his black and navy uniform marking him a member of the DMLE, with the purple and white crest of his Department sewn over the breast pocket. His usually neat hair was wild and unkempt and his rolled sleeves exposed a few bruises and scratches, like he'd gotten into a tussle.

"Daddy?" Remy's voice hitched worriedly.

He let out an explosive sigh before coming to sit on the side of my brother's bed, carding a gentle hand through the mousey-brown coloured hair all three of us had. "Sorry, I'm late," He said, voice thick in his throat. Remy and I exchanged nervous glances, we'd never seen Dad this upset before. "I had a bit of a bad day at work."

I reached out a hand for him, his large palm engulfing mine warmly.

He squeezed it gently and then bent to softly kiss our brows. "Daddy loves you both, lots and lots and lots." He rose as Mum bent down to repeat the motion.

"Love you, darlings. Sleep well."

They didn't read us a story that night, merely tucked us in and then Dad cast his twinkle-light spell and Mum flicked the lights off with little fanfare. With all that had gone on that day, writing and reading, and baking and stomping, and exploring and splashing, and our stomachs full from dinner and cookies, and warm in our beds, we still drifted off - exhausted from our day.

Maybe it was because we didn't get our story that I woke again, later that night. The rain was lashing against the windows, and a strong gale howled sharply beyond our house and through the farms surrounding it. The soft lights Dad had casted still illuminated the room, bobbing softly like boats on calm lake, pale lights drifting high above us against the ceiling.

Remy was still fast asleep. His face was soft and slack, cheek pressed into his pillow and one arm wrapped snuggly around his blanket, clutching the knitted lines close to his chest.

I rolled over to face the wall, shutting my eyes. Had I been dreaming before I woke? I searched lazily for the tail of the thought, if it had indeed existed, before giving up entirely. The bed creaked beneath me as I twisted, my duvet wrapped around my ankles, tasting hair in my mouth. I scowled and pushed my hair away from my face, uncaring of the tangles my hands caused.

I pushed my blanket off my legs, letting my bare ankles dangle in the cold air, one splayed off the edge of the bed. The duvet was too warm, and I was sweating in my pyjamas. The air was icy on my toes, a hint of the winter to come, goosepimples rising across my shins. Curling my feet, I stuck them back under the covers, with a huff.

I froze as Remy let out a soft sigh, his eyelashes fluttering.

I waited for a moment, holding my breath. He shifted, wriggling further into his bedsheets and then his breathing deepened once more. Tentatively, I sat up in bed, wrapping my knitted blanket around me like a cape, mindful of waking Remy. The storm outside was so loud - would there be thunder soon?

The floorboards were cold and worn smooth beneath my bare feet as I stood. There was some cream downstairs, and plenty of cookies left still. But downstairs would be dark and cold…no twinkle-lights to help me navigate the stairs. And, if it was raining this much…my eyes fell towards the windows…who knew if we still had power? There was nothing worse than thinking you had light, only for the switch to click uselessly.

And Mum would definitely notice any cookies missing tomorrow morning - she was keener than any hawk and would undoubtedly concoct some sort of horrible punishment as a consequence - like spending an extra hour on writing properly or something equally as -

I paused. Outside the wind was still whipping viciously through the trees, the rain hammering at our roof and against the glass, smearing the view of the night beyond, but for a moment I thought I'd heard something. I stepped forwards, heel-toe, heel-toe, across to the window. It was probably nothing, I breathed shakily.

My reflection dimmed the closer I got, replaced by the black tendrils of branches whipping on the moors and an inky darkness that looked like it had swallowed the world whole. It must have been something in the wind.

There was a scratching sound, close by, low down.

I flicked my gaze down before I could stop.

Yellow eyes.

Then it was right in front of me, shattering the glass in one leap so fast, I hadn't even seen it move. There was a flash of something right before me. Force slammed into my torso. And then it was the wall that I felt slamming into my back.

Pain exploded across my vision. Smatterings of white stars that bled.

I looked down, blinked, confused. My legs felt funny, all numb and tingly. They didn't work. My pyjama bottoms were red now.

There was a hulking shape in the centre of our bedroom. Coarse hair sprouting down its back in grotesque tufts. But it wasn't facing me.

I blinked again, slower and heavier.

The muscles in its back rippled, and a meaty arm reached down into the other bed, claws slick with blood.

Small and helpless and daddymummysomebodysave

The shape lent down, stooping low. But it wasn't facing me. I tried to sit up properly. One hand fluttered uselessly against the ground, the other reached where the skin of my stomach should have been.

Clumsy fingers touched it. It was warm, warm and wet and slick, where my shirt should have been. Something felt loose in there. My hand shouldn't have been in there.

I tried to lift my head.

It wasn't facing me.

The white spots were bleeding black now, sparking and gushing across the room. The monster had my brother by the shoulders, stooped over his bed.

Remy's mouth was stretched agape, it probably hurt his jaw. His eyes were too wide in his skull.

For a brief moment, our eyes met.

Remy-remynonononNONONO

The monster lunged.

Rem-

A/N: hello! Yes I have sinned and commited that horrible practice of writing an OC fic! I resisted for so long! It's written in the style of an SI-OC but I've get to decided if Ro is or not! Title and chapter title from Surefire by John Legend. Stay tuned for more to come!