Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I have no related ownership to the books.
AU: Remus is a squib. His mother reluctantly allows him to integrate into Muggle society, but when he is branded as a werewolf, Remus cannot exist without regulation. A fake Hogwarts letter propels him to the market and, unintentionally, to Knockturn Alley, where he witnesses a murder and recruited by Greyback into the pack. SBRL
Cyrilla Lupin stared at the chipped study table with contempt. The shoving and shrieking of the shelves reminded her of a foreign environment. Affairs of old and ancient do not always oblige to familiarity. Her neighborhood was one example. It seemed much easier to leave than to continue to stay. The sight of elegant women, ambling through the streets of Verdil Avenue—swanky garments swaying, batting eyelashes, flirtatious lips squeaky only incoherent stutters and giggles—infuriated the brunette. If she could, she would shake their pseudo-powdered persons!
She tried to chuckle, but the produce ranged lame.
No matter how she cursed those ladies, they were not the victims of ostracism. It felt like yesterday when she carried their lives; but now, how was she to raise a bastard child? This societal structure denounced her; her own kin had forsaken her. From now on, she thought, good fortune was going to be very difficult to find. All those years of waving a wooden stick to convince her peers that, oh, yes, she was a wizard. When her mother discovered she bore a squib, she sobbed and refused to leave her bedroom. Her father called the head house-elf, Mompsie, and relinquished the infant to her care before grabbing his coat and shutting the door.
Her mother thinned into a sickly atheistic, porcelain doll with blemishes covered with make-up and potions. Wrinkles often creased underneath her eyes and crinkled along her forehead. When her daughter commented on the squiggly lines, Mrs. Lupin rushed to powder her face. She treated her daughter as a pure-blood, but kept her distance. While the other children sparked with magical interest, she began to fret. One day, her daughter asked, "Mummy, why can't I do magic now? They are doing it!"
"Who are they?" she demanded, unsure of how she should answer.
"Everyone!"
"Well," she started, "everyone, my dear,cannot be talented." Cyrilla sniffed, and her eyes watered. Mrs. Lupin stopped. "Cyrilla, you are a late bloomer. They have the best talent that's why it takes so long to develop."
Cyrilla stared at her mother. "Really?"
Mrs. Lupin sighed with relief. "Yes. Just like a butterfly." She was rewarded with a brilliant smile. Cyrilla wiped her eyes and didn't stop beaming the whole day. In fact, she was so excited and pompous that she boasted to the neighborhood girls. They, in turn, spoke to their parents. Suspicion of the Lupin family's status spread aristocratic families. Master Lupin was the
family's pureblooded head, and Mrs. Lupin was neither pure nor muggleborn; she was simply a woman caught in the tangles of wealth.
As for Cyrilla, she worked endlessly with reading and studying subjects from Charms to Potions, to Ancient Runes, anything she could get her hands on in the libraries. Her father would bring home souvenirs of books, manuscripts, and scrolls to divert her attention; some were written in foreign languages, but Cyrilla hadn't bothered decipher them. She wasn't one for alien speeches, so she invited her father to translate word for word. He refused. After a strenuous trip, the least I request for is peace, he cried. Nevertheless, Cyrilla was adamant to read to the text. Mrs. Lupin willing aided her in her studies. And Cyrilla Lupin became quite the genius.
At the age of eleven as other children received their acceptance letters, Cyrilla eagerly sat by the window of her bedroom each early morning and night. Her mother retreated to her bedroom, now separate from Master Lupin's. She heard the humming of her child, the creaking of the chair as Cyrilla rocked to and fro, and Mrs. Lupin was filled with guilt. Days passed and still no letter. Cyrilla checked the table, peeked under the doorway, and even ran to each window, just in case the owl had gotten lost. Mrs. Lupin stayed in her room. Faint wailing could be heard outside the door, but Cyrilla was too busy to bother with her mother.
One morning, Mr. Lupin returned home from gallivanting abroad (at least, that was what the evidence pointed). He hooked his latest, coffee stained cloak over the diner table's chair, set loose leaflets on the mahogany table, and sorted through them. A few house elves scurried about their business, but he was too preoccupied to notice. Pippi, one of the younger house elves and the spawn of Mompsie, attempted to take his weathered, dainty cloak. The garment inched.
Pippi cowered.
Mr. Lupin glanced at the elf before delving further into parchments.
A migraine perpetrated his lack of concentration. Too frustrated to continue, Mr. Lupin retired to the master bedroom, leaving the house elf to arrange the scattered paperwork and clean the coffee stain permeating the wooden.
Master Lupin sipped his morning tea in leisure, in taciturnity. The day was young and morning dew still present on the leaves of the pear tree. The curtains were drawn. The windows of the living room revealed a sluggish rise of radiance, endowing the droplets to sparkle and…ah—drip.
Cyrilla sauntered into the room and abruptly stopped in front of him, shock uninhibited as she openly gaped. "What are you doing here?"
Mr. Lupin looked up. "No 'Welcome home'?" He took a snip.
"You look old," Cyrilla said dryly. "Are you really my father?" He took a mouthful, barely tasting the tea.
Without waiting for a reply, Cyrilla left the room in hostile strides. The head of the house had in fact aged many years before his time. His face was pallid, although not as severe as his wife, and his tuft of prominent, gray hair bowed and waved along his forehead. After years of enduring his wife's tantrums, John Lupin gave in. He had his curls smoothed with recent taste and locks dyed to his original shade. The gray continued to reappear; Mrs. Lupin continued to fuss. As Cyrilla got older, his wife left him alone and even ignored her own tresses. She still kept a decent image. Both had, but her figure and countenance were no longer immaculate. Her daughter, however, entertained them with her panache. Mrs. Lupin would immediately brighten, forgetting all troubles, only to expose a crestfallen expression following Cyrilla.
John found it extremely aggravating. After the birth of Cyrilla, his spouse outright refused to bear another child! She was bound to have another misfortune, Mrs. Lupin cried.
An excited squeal echoed—scuttles padding the floors, shuffling of thin sheets.
There was an upsetting silence with only the swallowing of fluid to be heard. John felt a metaphoric tremor run down his spine.
Cyrilla's jarring keen reminded John of his partner. He found her slumped with her heads resting on the wooden furniture. She lifted her head, angry tears streaming down her puffed cheeks. "Cyrilla, what is wrong?" He spotted a letter with tear blots, smearing some of the ink work. A notable stamp of Hogwarts and the assistance Headmistress's signature confirmed his inquiry.
He knelt down to brown orbs and placed a wrinkled hand on her head. "Come now, Cyrilla—dear—you mustn't cry over such a little thing."
She stared at the button on his top, her feet, and finger nails—anywhere to avoid eye contact.
"There, now, see? It--"
"Liar," she hissed. Before she could continue, she was once again overwhelmed by tears.
Her father stiffened.
"Cyrilla, let me see the letter," he said. John waited. Cyrilla held the letter a while longer, running her pointer along the edges. Without any hesitation she torn the paper in half and then ripped it to shreds as her father, recovered from his trance, restrained her from causing more destruction.
Footsteps lightly floated over the floors. Mrs. Lupin froze, a coffee mug cupped between her hands.
"Cyri—Cyrilla." Cyrilla struggled to loosen her hands. He looked over at his wife. "Martha, help me!" She made no inclination of moving.
"Stop this nonsense at once!"
Without a word, Martha Lupin locked herself in the nearest vacant room.
John Lupin pacified his daughter and left her by the sofa. He picked up his cup of tea and unconsciously tipped it, finally noticing there was nothing there. The cup was empty.
"Mompsie!" The house-elf materialized before him with a snap. "Yes, Master Lupin? What can Mompsie do for Master Lupin?"
He handed her the cup without a word and slipped on his overcoat, turning the door knob and slamming the door shut behind him.
The noise frightened Mompsie, and the fragile cup smashed in a heap upon the floor. "No—no, Mompsie terrible…!" Mompsie hunched around the cup. She felt that her kind Master would not return again. She selected a large puzzle of the porcelain and stabbed at her eyeball, collapsing to the ground. "Horrible. Mompsie bad." Chips of broken ceramic imposed themselves in the skin of a long-eared elf.
When Pippi and Toby found their mother, they share the most peculiar expression. Specialists said they were incapable of showing remorse against law, yet as the pair watch blood ooze from the body they suddenly felt overwhelmed.
The moment the door relented, the pale face of her mother stepped onto the intricate carpet as if she epitomized the structure of a Lady. Mrs. Lupin announced, "You will be homeschooled. If any pry, inform them that you will be taught by the finest instructors of which Hogwarts cannot contest."
Cyrilla was rendered speechless. "M-Mum, there is a way for me to learn sorcery?"
"There is none." Cyrilla felt a painful throb. Her mother continued, "Until then, tell no one of your predicament. A wand--"
"Is that all you care for?" Cyrilla whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer. She turned towards her mother in a ghoul like motion. "Then, what am I to do?"
Her mother carried on as if she hadn't spoken a word. "A wand will be made for you. It will be reasonably sturdy and--"
"WHAT WILL I DO?" Her voice developed into a hysterical shrill. "Are you going to lock me up here till I go mad?
Something stirred within Cyrilla, and she broke into tears.
Martha said nothing.
Even with her water works, Cyrilla consented. She would play the thespian to the social class and find a suitable, prosperous husband. He didn't have to be pureblood. Martha, herself, wasn't pureblood. John was an estranged one. Money kept him up. Muggle was not an option. Her daughter knew nothing about the Muggle world, too captivated by the Wizarding world. She would have to find a wizard man. Together, they would disappear. As a mother, she wanted her daughter to be happy. If all goes well, Cyrilla would be dead to the Wizarding community and live happily far away.
Right after her decision, Martha followed an awful stench. She found Toby and Pippi huddle against one another, staring wide-eyed at a decaying corpse. Martha hired a servant to dispose of the body and agreed to his request for a stable job.
Present
The packing had stopped. Cyrilla peered at the quivering forms of the house elves from the corner of her eye. Their petite figures and bulging eyes shift directly to her feet. When they caught her eye, both squeaked in chorus. Upon realizing their mistake, both glanced at the other, hesitation sculptured into their defined wrinkles.
"Well?" Her voice lowered dangerously, "What have you to say?" One stepped forward cautiously, stuttering a short reply, but the only works she could make out was "Toby and Pippi…w-worry about M-Mistress's health…"
There was silence.
Brows knitted together. The concern only proved to enrage her further; it served as an echo of her previous thought, a reminder of the bastard who ruined everything!
Misinterpreting her Mistress's motionless form, Pippi continued from behind Toby, "…the baby, M-Mistr--"
Without warning Cyrilla grabbed the closest house elf by the neck and slammed him into the polished floor. Her nails pierced the layer of skin. The house elf, recovered from the initial shock, pleaded with the woman whilst his fist pounded against his skull. Pippi had come to Cyrilla's side in an effort to soothe the frantic bawling. The screaming, which Cyrilla could no longer discern as her own, accrued to a raucous disturbance. A manservant entered the room, panting, and stumbled against the door frame in a slight, drunken stupor before quickly disengaging Cyrilla from Toby, but could not pry her right hand away from Toby's ankle.
Flashback to Present
Years passed and Cyrilla firmly accepted her fate. She dressed herself extravagantly with cheap and homemade materials, a replica of a luxury gown, if a connoisseur never observes the fabric, a pair of golden slippers with silver linings—her face was powdered adequately, and her neck decorated with fandangles. There were very few jewels in the household. After John left, he never came back. The mother and daughter were forced to sell excessive items to surreptitious peddlers.
The manservant's loyalty did not waver even as the pay was lowered. Cyrilla had suspicions that he was having an affair with Martha.
She took on various trades in Knockturn Alley. In the evenings after the parties, Cyrilla, disguised by her hood, went to trade the various plants she grew and homemade materials. They were far cheaper than store prices on Diagon Alley, so they were an enormous success!
At a Halloween event sponsored by her acquaintance, she met John Martin, a man a decade ahead of her. She was fifteen then. He was dreadfully romantic and clumsy. Cyrilla adored him, and he returned her affections. They became engrossed with their love and visited each other day after day…after day. The morning Cyrilla became of age, she waited anxiously for Martin to propose. Although she told no one of their involvement, she still felt the same pride being in his arms.
She wasted no time. Cyrilla left the petite manor and rushed to John's exquisite estate. A house elf responded to the ring and ushered her inside. She waited awkwardly at the door as the house-elf went to retrieve his Master.
John greeted her with a grin. She smiled prettily for him. His actions were odd, nervous and twitchy. He constantly rubbed his sweaty palms together. Impulsively, he asked her hand in marriage. No protocol or forewarning. "Oh—I have a ring," Martin searched through his pockets. Empty. He patted his clothing. "Oh—Err—one moment."
He left the entrance and rummaged through shelves. Cyrilla trailed him, peering curiously in. The room was elegant with sumptuous furniture, mosaic wallpaper and opulent, golden glows drifting through the window pane.
"Here it is!" John said.
He took her hand in his own and placed a small item, wrapped in a handkerchief, which she believed he had devised hastily. With her other hand, she unwrapped the handkerchief. "Wait—wait," he said, hindering her progression. "I haven't asked yet."
"Ask what?"
John proposed and then went off to fight for the war against Grindelwald. Cyrilla accompanied her demented mother to assorted duties. The days were dull, and Cyrilla no longer wished for luxury. She wanted her love back. Nightmares plagued her. Would John leave her like her father? Only then did she realize he shared her John Lupin's name.
At twenty-seven years old Cyrilla prepared the ceremony for her mother's funeral. The healers had contacted her while she was celebrating with other ladies. She immediately flooed to St. Mungo's Hospital. The healer told her that her mother was in a critical state. They informed her that her mother had been in the ward for two days, but she begged them not to notify her daughter. "Martha Lupin," he said, "did not want to alarm you."
Cyrilla didn't hear the source and refused to loiter until Martha became a convalescent. She departed.
Her mother hadn't passed away, after all. She cancelled the arrangements of seating and flowers. The grave manager required her to pay a closing fee. Elder women who cried and scowled at her for her nonchalant approach were apprehensive of her words. They believed Cyrilla had craved attention. She argued that her mother was in the hospital and guided them to Martha.
"Do you yearn for your Mum's death?" an especially wrinkled hag castigated.
Cyrilla exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Cyrilla's mum was welcomed by pitying graying women, intentionally disheveling their composure for her.
Ding.
"Can you get that, dear?" Cyrilla acquiesced.
She opened the door with a slight huff, wondering where those house-elves were. An outsized bouquet of exotic irises tied in a neat bow, held up by large hands, and long legs clothed in black trousers. Cyrilla couldn't seem to find a head. Guests came in numbers to cajole Martha Lupin.
"Please, come in," she said, feinting appreciation. "If you don't mind a company of elderly women, that is."
"How—?"
"Mother is doing fine," she interrupted and increased her vocal speed. "Disregard the previous comment. The company is wonderful. I said come in."
She swiped the flowers from his arms. The lanky figure had a chubby face dotted with spontaneous freckles and a large, straight nose. He had a disheveled mop on his head.
"Mum sent me," he said. "She's an old friend of Misses—err—your mum."
"Martha Lupin," she emphasized, "doesn't have any friends."
The freckled boy was named Aimeus. He settled at the manor almost more than she. Cyrilla ignored the young man and his advances. Overtime, she grew to respect him, and he loved her. Cyrilla was no longer an adolescent. Martin would want an experienced woman, she thought. Aimeus could be her practice. Cyrilla watched as Aimeus morphed into a handsome man with a thin but lean build and soft curls of pale blonde. He too was recruited to the war.
When the announcements of the war's end were printed in the Daily Prophet, Cyrilla was poking her deformed breakfast. She sprinted to John's estate.
The couple never officially married, but John invited Cyrilla and Martha to live in his manor. Cyrilla recklessly sold the manor house and unpacked, as if their relationship had already stabled. Martha hobbled into the room with her trunk, behind her Toby and Pippi, and the manservant whom name's Cyrilla could not recall.
Cyrilla felt very ill and her stomach felt bloated, and her mother caught her several times rubbing her belly whilst grimacing at her reflection. Soon, it was impossible for her to hide it from John. The moment John discovered he called for a doctor. The doctor smiled toothily at her, "Congratulations, Mrs. Martin," she frowned, "it is a baby boy."
Cyrilla didn't care for the gender of the embryo. "Mrs. Martin" reverberated on her conscious mentality. They have yet to marry. That night Martin and she bickered. She told him everything, and he left her for sleep.
Martin eventually forgave Cyrilla and promised to raise the child as his own. They still didn't have their wedding, but Cyrilla did not push the issue.
On March 10, 1960, a newborn with wisp of light, pastel hair whined and gave deafening cries, disturbing the other babies into hysteria. Martin felt like bawling with them. Cyrilla hit the pillows and closed her eyelids with a frustrated sigh.
No one slept that night.
Five years later
Remus Lupin startled his unsuspecting father as he returned home. The wrinkles concerning his face stretched to allow a conspicuous smile. Mr. Martin embraced him lovingly while the sandy-haired child squirmed for freedom. His father relented with a chuckle.
"Marty, I ate cookies today!" Since Martin was not his certified father or Cyrilla's spouse, he believed it was best to raise Remus with that approach; but he couldn't help but give Remus special privileges.
It had been three years and some months since they packed their luggage and personal belongings, a few memorabilia here and there, and Martha Lupin had unbolted the locks on the exit to find them gone with only official papers, bestowing the estate to Martha Francis Lupin, to trace them. She thanked her fortunes, and the jubilant grandmother fastened the documents inside her abode.
Martin kneeled to his eye level. "Oh? Did your mum buy them for you?"
"Mummy baked them!" Remus said, salivating almost from the memory. "She's the best baker!"
"Is she really?" Martin mused. The little boy leaped onto Martin and clasped his arms around his guardian's neck. Martin carried the mischievous youngster away from the entryway.
"Is that you, Martin?" Cyrilla called from the kitchen.
Martin leaned over Remus's ear. "What sort of cookie is your mum making?" Remus shielded his mouth and whispered, "Chocolate cookies."
"What did she put in them?" For all the boy knew, chocolate meant brown pastries, but so did burnt chow. "Can you remember?"
Remus tilted his head in contemplation. "Chocolate."
"Anything else?" Martin said, insubstantially peeved. Remus shook his head.
"Cyrilla?" he said a little unnerved. "Is everything alright?"
Cyrilla wandered over to the duo, platter of freshly scorched lumps; the smell was appetizing, but the image of smothering coals did nothing to seduce his brooding stomach. He wondered the significance of Remus's earlier mark about eating said cookies. "I find it very hard to believe that you ate cookies today, Remus. Are you sure you swallowed?" Martin playfully inquired.
"I'll have you know that Remus devoured them."
"Rubbish." Martin turned back to Remus. "Now, Remus, son, eating entails that you chew the food."
"You're being ridiculous," she said sulkily. "These are the bad ones. I was going to scrap them."
"I need to speak with Martin, Remus." Martin understood her hidden agenda. "Kitchen?" Cyrilla swerved and disappeared behind the corner, which lead to the kitchen. Remus, confusion written on his face, looked intently at Marty. The corner of his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. Remus smiled back.
Curiosity got the better of young Remus. He tugged on the gentleman's cloth. "What is it, Remus?"
"Why did Mummy cook moles?"
"Remus must become accustomed to Muggle people. You can't expect him to live in the Wizarding World. Wizards aren't fond of squibs, Cyrilla, and children can be awfully cruel. He's practically defenseless!"
"I lived in the Wizarding World. Do you see me using magic?" Cyrilla said. "Besides, we know nothing of Muggles."
Martin gently rubbed her shoulders. "Cyrilla, we can learn. Remus is young; children learn fast. He will adapt better than us. I don't want Remus to have to pretend."
"Where are we going to live?" Cyrilla tried, but Martin could tell her obduracy waned. "Because I don't plan on living in a hovel."
"We'll find somewhere," Martin stroked her locks. "We found this place, didn't we?"
"Yes, I supposed we did," she sniffed.
Martin smiled.
It was decided. The family would move to London and allow their son to integrate into Muggle civilization. It would be better this way. Squibs were treated as second-rate citizens and despised by purebloods even more so than Muggle-borns. Martin was neither a Fob nor did he care for propriety.
The carefree evenings didn't last. That day Martin had accomplished a terrible task. He had offended Fenrir Greyback.
Martin forbade any of the household from wandering outside after dark, especially on the night of the full moon. Remus was naïve. When he heard scratching noises and a flash of dark fur, he brightened. He had never heard of a werewolf, but he saw dogs when his mum took him to the park. The little boy ignored Marty's heed and chanced a meeting with his elder. He stood of his tiptoed and reached for the handle, but the tips of his digits barely graze the bottom of the lever. Martin had charmed the knobs to heights above Remus, anticipating Remus's quiet, rebellious nature.
He wanted to see the pup. Pilfering the stool from the kitchen and volumes of Charm Your Own Cheese and The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Remus stacked them tandem. He even made stairs and pillars.
The knob twisted and yielded. Remus hopped off the architecture, a breeze billowing up his night top, sending a shiver down his spine, and landed bare feet in the cold cement stairways. He whistled experimentally for the hound, but the effects were more of a raspberry.
He looked around and back before heading further down the steps. The gates creaked. It would have been easier if he used the yard door. Leaves and other uncomfortable earth stuck to his feet, and the crunch made him paranoid. With each step, Remus checked for signs of Marty and his mother. He took another step.
There was a strange growling, but before he could investigate, he felt razor-sharp teeth embedded in the flesh of his thigh. He let out a painful screech. A heavy weight had long since forced his body to the ground. Tears momentary blinded him. Remus screamed louder, tearing streaming freely down his cheeks. He didn't notice when the weight was lifted, and Martin started rocking him. He felt a pang from his head. He didn't notice when the leaves glued to his wet cheeks or the small cuts around his arms. His attention was centered on the chuck taken from his flesh, layers of muscles were uncovered and a thin sheet of skin shielded the white band; he felt the unbearable throbbing, and his vision dimmed from blood lost and nausea.
Remus awoke to the screaming of Marty's and his mother's quarrel. The other patients gave him a queer sort of look. A woman of eighteen distanced herself cautiously. Amber marbles took to following her across the room until he pin pointed a heart-shaped box. She collided against the patient's side table, groping the corners for support, never taking her eyes away from Remus in case he proved to be violent.
The package occupied his interest. Chocolate. In that cardboard box held assortments of chocolate. The lid, polished with red gerber, shined in the monotony, kipping cube. Remus heaved himself up, falling back with a cry from a ripping ache. Snapping jaws plunging into his thigh and snarling saliva burning his wounds, the furry animal so very different from the mutts he previously encountered. An unfamiliar wrap bound around his head. His hand trembled. Sweeping away his tawny hair away, he felt bandages tightened too well.
He looked back at the woman. Remus was frightened, and any human contact was openly welcomed. Hello. Or at least he aimed for a decent syllable, but it came out as a hoarse whine.
The red box plummeted to the tiled floor, and the woman skidded pass the vicious combination of man and woman.
A/N: I didn't notice I gave Cyrilla's father the name John until I started writing about her husband. I don't know when the war Grindelwald started and ended. I just know that Dumbledore was born in 1881, and Remus in 1960. Sorry. ;;
This is my first slash. I just hope it isn't too terrible. I just appealed for a Beta Reader, so there will probably be editing. Let's hope she accepts! I don't think the plotline will change majorly, though. Thank you for taking the time to read this!