Remus Lupin is four years old when he is forced into becoming a monster.
The Lupins, a small family of three, had been in their back garden, enjoying the sunny weather that had become so sparse that year. The month of June had been a long stretch of damp and drizzle, and with the first glimpse of sun, at least half of those living in the neighbourhood had brought their BBQ's out from the darkness of the shed.
Lyall and his wife, Hope, had been sat together on the patio, using the plastic chairs that they continually claimed to only be a temporary furnishment, but had remained since they had bought the house a solid five years ago. Once there had been a set of five, along with a matching table. Now two had been broken beyond repair, one had a jagged hole in the back that Remus would likely catch himself on, and the remaining were turning a dirty grey and had mud lodged into all visible cracks. The table had long since vanished, a mystery that neither Lyall or Hope had managed to solve.
Their only son, Remsu, was playing in the grass in front of them, kicking a football against the fence despite Hope continually warning him about it.
"You must do something about it." She turned to Lyall, who was smiling in the direction of his son, affectionate and loving. "He's going to knock the fence over at this rate."
The fence in question had already been very obviously slanted away from the house, and with each connection of leather and wood, the gradient seemed to only become less steep. Perhaps if Hope had any faith in her husband's abilities as a handyman she would have been less concerned. It would not have been too difficult to fix with the right tools. She had watched her father perform the task many a time when she had been a young child. However, she had long since accepted that Lyall had very little skill in general chores when he was not allowed to use magic.
"Don't worry Hope." A comforting hand was placed on hers, a soft smile directed her way, and all the tension and nervousness seemed to slip. "He's more likely to lose the ball than break down the fence. And even if he does, we'll just get someone in to fix it. It would give us an excuse to get it sorted at least."
"But we'd have the whole garden open to the public. It's dangerous Lyall. What if someone were to come in whilst Remus was playing in the garden and snatch him away." Hope replied, concern etched on her features. Her son's safety was of the highest importance to her, though she couldn't ignore that they didn't quite have the funding to afford to get the fence fixed.
The sound of his name drew the attention of the young boy who, so distracted by why his parents were speaking of him, sent the football flying straight over the edge of the fence, into the park on the other side. A glance to the fence, a glance to his parents, a glance back at the fence, then finally settling on a sheepish, apologetic expression as he turned back.
"At least he didn't knock down the fence." Lyall mumbled, pushing himself up and walking in the direction of his son. "Let's get the gate open so you can bring the ball back. No more kicking at the fence though." A nod and a bright smile from Remus in confirmation as he raced to the fence, waiting for his father to unlatch so he could run out.
The moment the gate was open, Remus was out like a shot, head turning this way and that in search of a flash of white among the greenery. Stood holding the gate open, Lyall turned to his wife, giving her a small shrug. It was already dark, he noted, watching above as the moon began to peek through the clouds above, a perfect white circle illuminating the world below
From within the park, Remus had since found the football rolled into a bush, and was struggling to pull it free, whilst also avoiding the thorns that threatened to dig into his bare hands. Tugging it harshly, it dislodged, causing him to tumble over and land on his back. Brushing his hands free of dirt and leaves, Remus stood, looking for the figure of his father to find his way back home.
Walking forward, the howl of a wolf caught both his and his father's attention. Curious, Remus turned to look in the direction of where the noise had come from, for he had never seen a wolf before. In contrast his father began to make his way from the gate entrance, calling for his son.
"Remus!" It was the first time that Remus had heard his father sound panicked, and perhaps that was scarier than the wolf possibly stalking him. "Remus, come here! Remus!"
It was then that the wolf made itself truly known, stepping from the bushes that Remus had previously been searching through, and prowling forward with teeth bared and drool dripping to the ground beneath. Greying skin was pulled tight over its bones, deep scars marking near every visible patch of skin, thinning hair hanging in patches. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the eyes, so definitely human in their piercing blue, but still somehow animalistic in the way they looked over him. Empty, soulless, hungry.
Remus could not look away. No matter how many times his father shouted his name, he found his eyes fixated on the creature in front of him. Every step he took back was matched, the animal gradually getting closer. It was no more than a metre in front of him when it launched itself at him, needle teeth stabbing into his shoulder, ripping through his t-shirt.
The sound of his father shouting and swearing. His mother's terrified screams. The irony tang of blood mixing with the rotting scent of death. In that moment, those were the only things Remus Lupin knew.
—o—O—o—
Sirius Black is five years old the first time his mother ever raises her hand to him.
It had occurred after his mother had invited the Malfoy family around for dinner. Not an unusual affair. Being purebloods with very significant beliefs in blood purity the two families were near constantly organising meetings to speak about future marriages between their bloodlines and boast about heritage. It was rare for the younger generations of the families to be invited to these events however.
Sirius truly had no idea how to act in the situation. There was a large age gap between him and the other children sat at the table. His cousin, Narcissa, was the nearest to his age (excluding Regulus), and she was a whole five years older than him. Had Regulus been sat near him, he may have found himself a partner in conversation to keep him out of trouble, but his mother had decided to sit him next to Bellatrix and Lucius, both of whom chose to speak over his head as though he were not there.
Andromeda sat across from him, offering the occasional soft smile whenever she was given a break from the on slew of questions thrown her way by the adults sat at the table. Most of these questions involved her plans for Hogwarts, which she would be going to in the next year. Some involved her opinions on Lucius Malfoy, likely setting her up for marriage between the two of them in the future.
"I don't really know him." She'd answered, voice soft and a smile playing across her features. "We haven't had a chance to talk outside of family events like these."
Sirius hid his smile by lifting up one of the chalices to his lips, directing his eyes downwards as he took a sip. It was a blatant lie had he ever heard one. He could recall speaking to Andromeda when she had come round for Regulus's fourth birthday party, and how she had described Lucius as a "self-righteous prat."
Her answer, however much an aversion of the truth as it was, served to please those at the table. Abraxas had turned to his wife with a pleased smile, giving her a slight nod, whilst aunt Druella had placed a hand on Andromeda's shoulder in a rare display of affection.
"You would be heading to Hogwarts later this year, if I am correct? You'd be in the same year as Lucius, and likely the same house if we keep up the tradition in both our families." Abraxas noted. "I'm sure there'd be plenty of time for you to get to know one another whilst you're there."
"Hopefully." Andromeda's voice with layered with a sweetness that was both sickening and so obviously fake to Sirius, yet none of the adults mentioned it at the table, though his mother's frown gave away that she had noticed it.
"Who knows, you may even go on to bring together our families." He continued, waving his fork around in a manner that made Sirius concerned that he would lose the piece of steak loosely pierced on it. "Keep the bloodline pure. That's what's important."
"Why?"
The simple question drew all attention to Sirius, who looked incredibly confused, and the slightest bit terrified. There was a deep scowl set on his mother's face, a fire of warning burning within her eyes.
"I'm sorry Sirius? I don't seem to understand your question?" Abraxas said, giving Sirius ample opportunity to fix his phrasing and change his mind about the question. Of course, Sirius was not known for his hesitance and forethought, but rather his impulsivity, leading to him continuing with his train of thought.
"Why is bloodline purity so important? Everyone's always going on about it. What does it matter who marries who?" He asked, and the fire in his mother's eyes only burned brighter. At this moment Sirius realised the great mistake he had made, but it was not due to his mother's reaction, but rather his father's dark eyes staring directly at him.
"Well I am surprised Orion, Walbruga. I would have thought you to teach your children the importance of purity."
"We did." His mother forced out through teeth clenched so tightly Sirius feared they would break. "It seems that the lesson has not sunk in."
"Perhaps he needs it going over again?" His aunt Lucretia offered, though there was no kindness in her words. A sort of mocking tone, directed towards his father, was present, leading him to clench tighter onto his fork and knife, his knuckles whitening. "You see, Sirius, there are muggles in this world who have stolen magic from wizards who are rightfully deserving of inheriting it. These mudbloods weaken the magic in our world. They weaken us. And there are those blood traitors who would wish to bring them into our world, teach them our ways, corrupt the hierarchy. Do you understand?"
Her tone was condescending, and though she smiled, it was shark like and predatory, giving him no other option but to nod along as though she had answered his question. It was enough of a response for her, and most of those in the room, with the conversation slowly rising back to its original tempo. The only person who had not re-joined the conversation was his mother.
It was subtle, the small twitch of her head in the direction of the kitchen. Subtle enough that only Sirius noticed it.
He stood, lifting his chair up so as to avoid the scraping sound of wood dragging along the floor, and made his way in the direction his mother had gestured. Around the table (ignore the stares), through the archway (don't look at them), to stand in the corner beside the oven.
Five minutes. That was how long he waited for his mother. Five minutes exactly. At least that's what he had counted. When she came in, long black skirt billowing behind her, brows brought close together, mouth downturned, Sirius felt his heart drop straight to the floor. He wanted to run, hide, never return. His mother would shout, and scream, and the Malfoy's and Black's alike would hold no pity for the five-year-old boy terrified of his own mother.
"How dare you?" She had hissed, gripping onto his shoulders and bringing him close to her face. Close enough that he could feel the spittle hit his cheeks, but he was smart enough to know not to move to wipe it away. "How dare you embarrass me and your father?"
"I'm sorry." He practically whimpered, which did little to tame the storm that was his mother's anger. No, it only served to add fuel to the fire.
"Sorry!" The shriek caught him off guard, making him flinch away from her. "What good does being sorry do for us now!"
Sirius could only shake his head, trying to stop the tears threatening to spill, knowing it will only worsen his mother's mood. He is of the Black family, and men within the Black family do not shed tears because they have been punished.
The slap catches him off-guard. It is sharp, sudden, and strong. There is enough force behind it to send him sprawling to the floor. A sharp gasp from behind, but he does not look at his mother's face, for he does not wish to see the anger and hatred he expects. He hides the tears that stream down his cheeks, tries to ignore the heat rising from the right side of his face.
"Go to your room." His mother whispers, shock evident in her tone. He follows her orders without question, sprinting up the wooden stairs, knocking his knee against the sixth one up, carries on anyway. A small part of him hopes she won't hit him again. A small part of him acknowledges that there had been some shock at her own action. A small part of him disappears the seventh time she slaps him.
—o—O—o—
Peter Pettigrew is not yet born when his father doesn't come home from work one day.
It's in the middle of winter, and Cynthia Pettigrew is sat on the couch, eight months pregnant, looking through baby names for the little boy she will soon have. Her husband is due back in a few hours, so she has no need to worry for his safety, yet there is a feeling of wrongness that lingers around her.
Nerves, she attempts to chalk it off as being. Just another symptom of pregnancy she had not been warned of. It could be added to a long list including back ache, pickle cravings, and a strange metallic taste in her mouth that seemed to come and go at random. The problem was, no matter how she tried to rationalise the reason, it did little to calm her down.
Half an hour before her husband was due she took to pacing around the living room, worn trainers dragging along the rough carpet. Her thumb was in her mouth, teeth nervously gnawing at the nail. It was an old habit she had once thought she had grown out of, but the sudden bout of fear had thrown her back to her old comforts.
Five minutes later she had to sit down, tired out from her small exercise. Lying back on the couch, she lay a hand on her stomach, rubbing softly at where she could feel her baby to be. A soft kick brought a smile to her face, momentarily forgetting the worry plaguing her mind.
"You've got me all worn out now, haven't you?" She spoke, feeling only slightly ridiculous. There was a time, back when she'd first found out that she was pregnant, that she'd sworn she'd never be like one of those mothers who constantly spoke to their stomach as though the baby could hear them. She'd found it irritating, and overall rather stupid. A normal baby couldn't understand you when it was out of the womb, let alone when it was inside.
Of course then she'd gone to have her first ultrasound, and finally understood why exactly women spoke to their stomach's in that manner. Inside was a tiny little creature, with tiny little fingers, and tiny little toes, and a tiny little heartbeat. A life that she'd helped create, a life that she would always love.
There were three quick knocks at the door, drawing Cynthia's attention away from the child in her stomach. Originally she though it to be her husband, Peter, coming home from the ministry. Looking at the clock on the wall, she felt a slight bit of disappointment swell upon realising he still had twenty minutes yet to arrive, and there was little to no chance he would be home early. His job at the Ministry, though well-paid, required him to work long hours that kept him away from home. It had been less of a problem prior to Cynthia's pregnancy, when they had both been able to spend small snippets of time together on their lunch break, but since her maternity leave they would spend an hour together before one of them decided to head off to bed.
With great effort she managed to pull herself off the couch, slowly making her way to the door whilst rubbing the arch of her back in a desperate attempt to dull the pain. Another frantic knock, and annoyance flared, but dulled soon after. "I'm coming!" She called in the direction, hoping whoever was behind the door had enough patient to wait for her.
Swinging the door open, she was greeted by one of the men she recognised as working with her husband. Webber or Lees? She couldn't quite remember, they both looked far too similar and she had only ever met them twice. From what she could recall, Webber was the more serious of the two, whilst Lees was much more joyful, though had a permanently exhausted air about him.
"Mrs Pettigrew." The man held out his hand for her to shake, a gesture she returned quickly. There was a sadness in his eyes, regret and pity shadowing it closely. "I'm sorry, but you must come with me. There's been an incident at the Ministry."
"An incident? What do you mean by that?" She asked, reaching for her coat, before stepping outside and locking the door behind her.
"I can't explain the situation here, I'm sorry." The man answered, that pitying look still clear in his features.
"No." Cynthia stated simply, stopping in her tracks. It took a few more steps for the man to realise that she was not continuing, and by that time he had reached the muggle car in front of him. "No, I'm not getting in that without knowing what's going on. I want you to tell me everything now."
"I can't Cynthia. I'm not allowed to, and even if I was, I don't know all the details."
"The details about what? Why aren't you allowed to tell me? Why have I been called to the Ministry, I mean, I'm pregnant for Godsake!" A sudden realisation hit Cynthia in that moment, cold and sudden, as though she had been splashed with ice water. The blood drained from her face, leaving her looking sickly and grey. "Something's happened to Peter."
"Cynthia please-"
"He's dead." It was stated so simply, as though she were not asking a question, but simply reccounting a fact. Blue eyes turned to him, staring straight through him as though searching for an answer. "He's dead, isn't he?"
A gulp. A nod. A quick glance down. "I'm sorry-"
She ignored him, moving to the car, before sliding into the front passenger seat, coat folded in her lap and eyes staring straight ahead. The man placed a hand on the top of the car, swearing to himself, before moving to sit in the driver's seat.
Awkward. No other word could be used to describe the car ride over to the hospital. Both remained in silence, neither knowing what to say to the other. No words of comfort could be spoken, as they would only act as empty promises. Lies would be of no use, too easy to detect given the situation. It was a cruel mercy when the car was finally parked, and Cynthia was able to escape the suffocating silence in search of her husband. Or rather, in search of the body of her husband.
Richardson stood outside the front doors, dressed in a dirty suit, with hair unkempt. It was a far shout from the man her husband had introduced her to. As she moved closer he opened his mouth, likely to offer some form of apology or comfort, but Cynthia did not give him the chance to speak.
"Where is he?" Business like, or at least an attempt of it. The façade of confidence was broken when her voice cracked. Richardson offered no attempt to hide the information as the other man had done, placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her through the white walls of the hospital.
"He was hit by the killing curse." He explained, keeping his eyes away from her face. "A man came in, ranting and raving about muggles and...mudbloods. Peter…he tried to calm the man. Rationalise with him, and it might have worked. But he saw Lyle. Your husband, jumped in front of him. Caught the spell right to the chest."
Tears sprung to the corners of her eyes, and a hand was placed over her mouth in an attempt to muffle the sob that nearly escaped. It took all her will power to not stop in the middle of the corridor, fall to her knees, and just scream. It took willpower, and the realisation that her husband would not want to see her damaged over him. She would remain strong, for his memory.
They arrived outside the morgue soon enough, where two witches stood on either side of the entrance. The taller of the group moved to step in the way, about to refuse Cynthia entry, but Richardson raised a hand to stop her from continuing the action. "She's his wife." He explained, and the witch immediately stood back, eyes directed straight at the wall in front of her. A wave of his hand, gesturing for her to enter first, followed soon after.
A deep breath. A hand on the door. A gentle push. And then her husband's body, still in the clothes she had seen him wear to work that very same morning.
A step inside. Then another. Take another breath to calm herself. Now she was by the table, staring down at his body, barely able to recognise the man she had married without the smile on his face. Reaching out for his cold hand, she flinched ever so slightly at the coldness of his skin.
She had never seen a dead body before. Even when her mother had died in her sleep, her father had made sure that neither her, or her siblings, would catch a glimpse of what death personified looked like. A blanket over her body when the healers had arrived, no visits to the hospital, a closed casket at the funeral. Staring down at her husband, she was grateful for her father's care. Seeing death was enough to break the body and mind of even the strongest witch or wizard.
—o—O—o—
James Potter is seven-years-old when he first begins to realise that his heritage could be used to get him things he wants.
He had been staying around a family friend's house. His parents were off travelling, and had asked their neighbours to take care of James whilst they are away. The Mills family had readily agreed, mentioning that it would be good for their children to be able to spend some time together. James noticed the way his father looked suspicious towards the family, aware that maybe their intentions were not entirely selfless, but his father agreed anyway. There was no time to ask another family, or employ a babysitter, as they would be leaving in less than two days' time.
He had been sat playing with Amelia and Jonathon Mills, who were six and eight in respect. Amelia was the nicer of the two, willing to give James her toys whenever he asked nicely, and even sharing her desert with him at dinner. In contrast Jonathon was much colder towards James, calling him names when his parents weren't around, and refusing to let him handle the toy dragon's that were much cooler than any of the ones in his own home.
"You're too young to go near them." Jonathon had claimed, very loudly. "How do I know you won't break them?"
"I won't break them, I promise." James had cried out in return, reaching for the red dragon in Jonathon's right hand, only to have it pulled from his reach rather suddenly. Overbalanced, he fell to the floor, knocking his chin rather painfully and causing his eyes to water.
"I don't trust you." The older boy had near shouted, only to realise that his parents may have been able to hear him. "Look, you're even crying about it. Like a baby. Even Amelia doesn't cry when I don't let her have my toys." His voice had quietened, but the overly prideful tone was still present. Hearing Jonathon call him a baby hurt, and with the back of his sleeve, James quickly rubbed his eyes.
"I'm not crying! I'm not a baby!" He exclaimed, clenching his fists and scowling in the direction of Jonathon. James was confused. His parents had told him that, if you asked someone nicely, then they would always share. It was simply good manners, and James had been asking nicely, so Jonathon had to share. It wasn't James at fault in this situation, it was just Jonathon being horrible. "Just let me play with it for a little while."
"No!" He snaps back, pulling both toys close to his chest, and turning away from James, back acting as a barrier. This doesn't deter him, however. Instead James races round and tries to pull the dragon away from the older boy, small hands clenched around the plastic neck, ignoring that it's beginning to hurt. He wants the dragon, and he is going to have it.
A tug of war ensues, with neither boy willing to give up their hold on the toy. Jonathon understands to some extent that he should just give up, and let James win, but he is far too stubborn for that. James in turn grasps that there are plenty other toys he can play with, and he does not need the dragon in Jonathon's hand, but he wants it, and that is enough for him to keep holding on. It seems to last for only a minute, when Jonathon decides he has had enough, and gives a sharp tug to free the toy, sending James toppling over.
The older boy turns away, moving to place the toys in his chest, and lock them away so that James cannot get a hold of them. It is at this moment that James sees his opportunity for revenge, and reaches for the nearest toy. A small unicorn, silver and white, probably one of Amelia's, who has spent all this time quietly playing tea party with her dolls in the corner, sparing only a small glance over to the two arguing boys.
Lifting the unicorn in his right hand, he aims at the back of Jonathon's head, and throws it as hard as he can. It should be a perfect shot, an act of revenge. James does not think of the repercussions, only the satisfying result.
Only the toy sails past the right side of Jonathon's head, not coming close to even hitting him, and collides with the back of Amelia's neck.
There is silence, the room filled with shock at the event that has just occurred. Neither of the boys move as they watch Amelia slowly place a hand to the back of her neck. Emotions flash across her face. Hurt. Sadness. Anger. And then she screams.
It is a long, loud wail, drawing the attention of both Elizabeth and Marcus Mills from downstairs. The sound of shoes slamming against the stairs is nearly drowned out by Amelia, as is the panicked shouting of both parents.
Marcus enters the room first, slamming the door open. His eyes glance over the room, settling on Amelia, and immediately he is down on his knees beside her, holding her close and trying to calm her. Elizabeth comes close behind, repeating Marcus's actions, asking where it hurts and what happened. Once the sobs have slightly died down, the couple look at the two, and before Jonathon even has a chance to breathe, James had answered.
"Jonathon threw it at her." It comes out in a single breath, and upon hearing the accusation Jonathon spins around to glare at him.
"No I didn't!" He cries out. "James threw that unicorn at her because I didn't share my toys with him!" There is anger in his voice, overlaid by a pleading tone, begging for his parents to believe him. "It wasn't me!"
"You can't go around trying to blames James for your mistakes." Marcus reprimanded, looking at his son in a disappointed manner. "You need to take responsibility."
"But I didn't do it!" Jonathon sounded close to tears, voice choked and eyes shiny. It did little good for him though, Marcus simply shaking his head.
"Go to your room Jon. Think about what you've done. You can come out when you're ready to apologise to both James and Amelia." It was quiet after, Jonathon looking between his parents and James, as though expecting him to admit to his actions. James simply looked away at the wall, keeping his eyes off the family.
He stormed out soon after upon realising James wasn't going to apologise, slamming the door behind him on his way down, almost stomping down the stairs. Elizabeth let out a soft sigh, before turning away from Amelia who had long since calmed down. "I'm sorry James. Sometimes he can get a bit rowdy."
Guilt welled up in his throat, and for a second he thought of admitting to what he had done. The Mills had turned round and left though, meaning he sat alone on the floor, unsure of how to act. From outside he caught a snatch of what the couple were saying.
"-as though the Potter's son would act in such a manner. I can't believe Jon would act like that!"
Though his parents were never around nearly enough for James to be happy, their name stuck, meaningful in every household. People recognised the Potter's. It made him important, and that was all he really wanted.
—o—O—o—
A/N: Thanks for reading! This is the first chapter of the first fanfiction I've ever written, and I do hope you've enjoyed it. Any advice or critique you have to offer I would be very grateful to hear. This could rang from spelling mistakes, to grammatical errors. I also feel the need to mention that moments in this story will diverge from canon. At points this would be intentional (e.g. I am aware that where Remus was bitten differs), but it may also be that I've slipped up and forgotten parts of the story. It has been a while since I've read all the Harry Potter books in one go, so please excuse my lapse in memory.
Again, thank you for reading, and I'll see you next chapter!