A/N Hello. So I'm Vellichora, and I wrote this fic without my other half. My goal is to document the Marauders years at Hogwarts here from my perspective, making it as in character and realistic as I can, it will be angsty at first but I promise later it will be a mix between funny and lighthearted and heavier stuff, and there will be Wolfstar. So don't read this if that offends you in any way. This is the first fanfic I have ever actually posted, and I'm only posting the first chapter but I have more if you guys like it. Thanks!

Disclaimer: Since I currently haven't got my newest shipment for Polyjuice Potion ingredients in, I am not JK Rowling. Sorry to disappoint.

-O-

Chapter 1:The Early Years from the Perspective of One Remus Lupin

It was cold. It was cold and a chill had settled over the sweet muggle neighborhood, the neighborhood with charming muggle cottages with flowers in the gardens and kissing gates covered in lovely climbing vines. The moon had risen, cutting through the evening, observing the scene with cold eyes made of starlight and moonstone. A small child of six had slipped from his bedroom. Curious gold eyes shone and soft steps fell on the hallway floor. Following the angry whispering. Standing on tiptoes, peaking up through the old, iron key hole, ears perked to hear the elusive sounds.

"Hope, I can't have you going out into the woods anymore. And certainly not taking Remus. It's dangerous! Greyback is out there, and he is out for my name!"

"Lynell, I understand. I won't leave, but I can handle myself."

"NO, Hope! You are a muggle, and I don-"

"REALLY, LYNELL? You KNOW that I hate that! I don't need magic to defend myself, you have NO FAITH!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. It's just that I'm worried. Please Hope."

The voices continued quieter, but sharp as ever. The little boy, Remus, sniffled. There was a lot of tension within the Lupin house at the time, and to the young child he didn't know what to make of it. With nobody to turn to for comfort, he was lost. As the voices again grew in violence, tears began to threaten to break. He needed out. He ran. He ran out the door, into that cruel, biting wind, into the darkness with only the moon and pools of cold electric light from muggle street lamps. He ran until he collapsed next to the hedge, legs drawn to his chest. He breathed shuddering breaths, tiny arms wrapped around knobby knees. Beautiful golden eyes shimmering with suppressed sadness. Sandy brown hair falling into them. He sat for no more than ten minutes, before he let his arms loosen and his legs splay out. In a sweet, melodic voice he sang softly under his breath, so only the wind could hear.

"Golden tresses frame your face,

And your pillow's soft as silk.

Here the moon is standing by

Like a pool of milk.

Let the dreamboat come along,

And take you for a ride.

You can choose your favorite teddy bear,

And carry him inside.

Sailing through a starry sky,

Holding onto teddy tight.

Know that mummy is still close by

Through the whole dark night.

Have a taste of sparkly star

And drink a sip of moon.

And when you feel that you have gone far

Then sail to your room."

His momma had always sung that song to him, smiling at him as he fell asleep like he was all she could see. It brought comfort, just like the moon it sung about. He looked up to the sky, where it hung as if suspended from a string. To a child, it seems so, so close. Close enough to brush an outstretched hand against if one stood on their tiptoes. Reassured by its gleam, he stood up shakily and brushed off the front of his favorite red shirt. He liked red.

That was when he heard it, rippling through the calm like a stone thrown into a mirror still pool. A soft snarl, a snarl of contempt, like the sweetness of the small boy was poison. Like a predator with it's heart ripped out long ago. Cold, cold like the air, cold like the moon. And then it was there, a wolf, body set like a bear, tall as a horse, shaggy fur black as fear, with gleaming fangs and cruelly intelligent human like eyes. It was slim, ribs poking out, and unkempt, and gray furs speckled it's nose. Feral. Images like a movie, a movie on fast forward, flashed before the cowering child's eyes.

The slam of a door being flung open, the scream of a mother, dirt filled his mouth as he was flung to the side, she was leaping in front of him, eye to eye with the wolf, eyes fear filled, his father was behind her, but too far. Too far to help, too far to do anything but watch, watch as his stars go out, his earth stops spinning, and his moon falls from its strings. And Remus, too young to help, too young to do anything but watch, watch as his lullaby stopped, watch as red earned a new meaning, watch as the moon turned from something loved to something of great fear. But the woman was just a obstacle, now gone, and did not stop the wolf. The thing. The monster. Blood. Red. The moon. The moon did nothing but watch, as if it had planned it all along.

There are no photographs of Remus. The boy, now seven, who should not have understood fear, true fear, fear that no adult could begin to understand. But he did, and he felt it every night, every time the moon, crescent or half, or worst, worst of all full, rose. On full it was the worst, bones tearing, blood flowing, red, the color he hated more than anything. There were no photographs. They were trivial now. The only ones left were pictures of a different family, one with a beautiful, strong willed muggle woman with golden hair and warm nutmeg eyes. One with a tall man with sandy hair and a shy, but happy smile. One with a small boy, wonder in his eyes, bright red shirt on backwards, sandy hair flying and grin splitting his little face. That wasn't Remus. Or maybe it was. It was different then the Remus now, but maybe the Remus now wasn't the true one. He was just a monster after all. The notion reassured itself, as every time, under the kindness of his father, he saw the speckle of fear in his eye. It didn't matter. He wasn't the same as the man in the photographs either. They were only photographs, after all.

Friendless. A new town, a new house, a house with hallways dark and unfamiliar. A new house every few months. Skipping from town to town, as the noises were noticed, and Remus's odd behavior began to be questioned. He didn't ever have friends. The only friends he ever had were in dreams, smiling and happy. His dream friends all looked like young versions of his mother and father, perhaps as he knew no children his age for his dreams to base them off of, and they would play and play and play with him, until come morning. Then they were just dreams again. Forgotten come afternoon. No friends. Ever. Too dangerous. Besides. Who would want to be friends with the strange now eight year old boy with amber eyes and a wolfish stare? Who would want to be friends with the boy holding a book to hide his face? Hide his face so that nobody might be able to see what he was. A monster. Who would want to be friends with a monster?

Nine now came, a birthday lit by the light of the full moon. A birthday spent under heavy binding spells done by his father, a birthday spent with bones breaking to become longer, fur, twisting, matted and sprouting from all over his small frame, skin stretching, blood flowing like water, screams of anguish as his mind was taken over by his other side. The hidden one. The monster. A birthday of terror that would make the horrors of a war veteran seem childish, like being scared of the dark. A birthday without balloons and presents and no joy, and of course no friends. Never friends. Come morning there would be more scars. The wolf was hungry. The wolf wanted flesh and blood. And well, there was no flesh and blood but his own. Scratch, scrape, bite, tear, fur between his teeth and claws, blood on the floor. And come morning there would be his father, sad, weary, terrified, a shadow of himself, a shadow of the man in the photographs. Come morning he would be nine. And he couldn't bring himself to care. Nine was overrated anyway.

He had forgotten the lullaby. He heard it now. Heard it from the shadows outside his father's room, from the hallway so different from the first, the time so long ago when he had listened as well. Soft, sorrow choked singing in his father's deep, quiet voice. The lullaby. He left. He was a coward. He couldn't hear the sound of it being sung, with the echo of his mother's voice seeming to hide behind it. Couldn't remember, even though he was now ten. A sip of moon, a taste of sparkly star. He never looked through the keyhole. If he had, he would have seen his father. His father holding a old photograph. One of those photographs. And singing. Singing the forgotten lullaby for the golden haired muggle maiden smiling up at him.