'We ought to keep him imprisoned until the next full moon. Can't you see the odd shape of his pupils, his pointed fangs, his sharp claws?'
'Lyall, we cannot keep anybody imprisoned within the Ministry, without a solid proof of their guilt.'
'I will not allow anybody with obvious physical signs of Lycanthropy to run around free! Werewolves are soulless, evil monsters, deserving nothing but death!'
The entire court room of the Ministry goes silent.
A young man with perfectly clear, bright blue eyes' iris and slightly horizontal pupils, clenches his hands on both edges of the accused's chair.
An old wizard, leader of the ongoing trial, clears his throat.
'Mr Lupin, Wizengamot is no place for insults and racial slurs. I will have to ask you to leave.'
'But, Your Honor...!' Lyall Lupin snaps.
'No discussion, Mr Lupin. Leave the court room immedietly.'
Lyall clenches his teeth and stands up from his seat, heading towards the door. Passing by the blue-eyed youngster, he shoots him a hateful look.
'We are really sorry about that, Mr Greyback.' the judge says as soon as Lyall steps out. 'Of course there is no proof whatsoever of your participation in the attack on those Muggle children. Therefore, you are hereby released. Before you leave this room, I have to put a certain procedure into practice. I will ask you to sit still for a couple of minutes.'
He nods towards a heavyset Auror, who stands up from his seat and approaches the blue-eyed young man with his wand outstretched.
'Obliv...'
'NO!'
The young man dodges fiercely to his left, knocking the accused's chair down.
Having avoided the memory-erasing spell, he jumps forward to the door, moving unnaturally fast, on his all fours. He kicks the door open and runs away, followed by wide, shocked eyes of the judge.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The Brat won't wake up.
His blood is sweet and warm. Not too thick, not too watery; perfect.
Lyall Lupin, a pathetic excuse for a Wizard, doesn't deserve to have his son Blessed.
Fenrir has already decided; the Brat is going to die.
Bleed to death.
The Brat is already doomed, at the moment when Fenrir slowly bites through his neck's major artery.
Blood squirts from the wound like water from the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the Ministry atrium.
Nice, warm, delicious.
Suddenly, Fenrir lets go of the Brat's neck and pulls his head away; Brat has just woken up.
A pair of bright green, terrified eyes look straight at Fenrir.
The Brat doesn't scream.
Granted, Fenrir had casted a silencing charm on him beforehand, but the Brat doesn't even attempt to scream or cry. He doesn't open his mouth. He only stares.
Fenrir licks the blood from the Brat's neck. It keeps squirting from the open wound.
The Brat is going to watch himself bleeding to death. He is going to die with his eyes widely open.
Suddenly, the Brat makes a clear attempt to say something. Not to yell, but to speak.
Fenrir raises his eyebrows.
'Finite.' he mutters, waving his wand at the Brat, lifting the Silencing Charm.
'Why did you do that?' The Brat asks in a clear voice, mature beyond his years.
'To punish your Father, Brat.' Fenrir answers sincerely.
Something unexpected happens as soon as he utters those words.
The Brat's green eyes darken, and his skinny face winces painfully at the mention of his Father.
'What did my Father do?' he asks in a surprisingly deep, grave voice.
Fenrir looks at the Brat with curiosity.
'Something very bad. Something irreversible.' he explains. 'He insulted my entire species right into my face. He called me and my Family- Werewolves - soulless, evil monsters. According to him, we deserve nothing but death.'
Another unexpected expression appears on the Brat's face. At first, his eyes light up with anger. Then, when he turns towards Fenrir, he looks at him almost... apologetically?
'My Father hates Werewolves.' the Brat admits. 'Not only Werewolves, though. He hates all of the... people, that aren't fully human.'
Fenrir understands; the Brat is too young to know such term as "half-breeds", but he made his point.
'What about you, Brat?' Fenrir asks curiously.
'There's no need to call me a Brat. I'm Remus.' the Brat says with a reproach.
'Whatever. Do you agree with your Father, Remus?'
Remus shakes his fair head.
'No. My Father doesn't know any Werewolves. Not even one. Why hate somebody without knowing them?' he says with a surprising maturity. 'That is what my Mother used to always say to me.'
'What happened to your Mother then, Brat?'
'She died, and I'm Remus.' Remus reminds.
'I'm sorry about her, Remus.' Fenrir mutters sincerely.
'Can I know your name?' the boy asks after a while of silence.
The Werewolf looks at him reluctantly. Why would the kid want to know his name?
'Fenrir Greyback.' he answers finally.
Silence. The blood stopped squirting from Remus' neck, but it stills flows in a slow-pace. The boy's face gets progressively paler.
Fenrir makes a decision.
'Eh, for fuck's sake.' he mutters, pressing his wand against the boy's neck. 'Episkey.'
The wand closes and the blood stops flowing.
'Your pathetic excuse for a Father will now have to live under one roof with a Werewolf. With a creature that he hates so much. Will that be a sufficient punishment for him, Remus?'
The boy for the first time looks seriously confused.
'You mean, that... that I'm, now...?'
'Yes, you have been gifted with a Blessing of Lycanthropy. You may rejoice. Your Father may despair.'
Fenrir looks at the boy, waiting for his words to sink in.
'B-but...' Remus says. 'You said you wanted to punish my Father for what he'd said. Why turning me into a Werewolf? Why not him?'
Fenrir tilts his head back and bursts into hoarse laughter. This laughter reminds a dog's barking.
'Kid, Lycanthropy is a Blessing. The greatest Blessing imaginable. If I Infected your Father , that would be a reward for him, rather than a punishment. Your Father does not deserve Lycanthropy. He doesn't deserve to be one of our sacred species.'
Remus looks at Fenrir questioningly.
'Why is it a Blessing?' he asks.
'Because it makes you a superior being.' Fenrir explains. 'You said you didn't share your Father's prejudices, which is good. You won't hear that from your Father, but being a Werewolf is a Blessing, not a curse.'
'Why does it make me superior?' the boy inquires.
'Close your eyes.'
The boy closes his eyes obediently, and Fenrir conjures wandlessly a bunch of matches.
'I'll now drop some matches on the floor.' the Werewolf says. 'You'll listen carefully to the sound they make when they hit the floor, and tell me the number of them. You may not open your eyes.'
Fenrir drops the matches and Remus smiles.
'That's easy. Sixteen matches.' he says confidently.
'Open your eyes.'
The boy opens his eyes only to see, that his answer was correct. Indeed, there are exactly sixteen matches laying on the floor.
Little Remus touches his ears, amazed.
'When I focused my hearing on the falling matches, I heard them so loudly and clearly, like a bunch of rocks falling on the floor.'
'Do you realize, that I didn't put any light on, when I entered your room?' Fenrir goes on. 'The night is cloudy; no moon and no stars can be seen. And yet, you can see me very clearly, you can even count small matches scattered on the floor.'
Fenrir's eyes widen.
'I can see in darkness!' he exclaims.
'That's not all.' Fenrir continues, amused by the boy's fascination. 'Perfect hearing and perfect eyesight are not the most important skills you've just gained. Focus on your nose for a moment. What scents do you feel?'
Remus lifts his nose up to the air and sniffs greedily.
'I smell blood.' he says slowly, touching the fresh scar on his neck. 'The scent is very distinct, I would never think that blood may smell so intensively... I smell also freshly cut grass...' the boy indicates the open window. '...and moist soil... and night wind, and the Bandman's cowshed... But the Bandman's cowshed is far away from here!' he exclaims, looking at Fenrir. 'Wow, all those scents are so distinct, so intensive... and seem to be so close, even though they're far from here... and also... there's one more scent.'
Fenrir looks at the boy questioningly.
Remus indicates the Werewolf with his small index finger.
'I smell you!' he declares.
'Is it a pleasant scent, or a nasty one?' Fenrir asks with a smile.
Remus thinks upon it for a moment.
'A familiar one.' he answers finally.
Fenrir's light blue eyes widen.
'If you say so, Cub...' he mutters, confused.
'Cub?' Remus repeats.
'You're a Cub now. A Werewolf Cub.' Fenrir replies.
'Your Cub?'
Fenrir gasps. He is... taken aback by this question.
'...Yeah.' he answers finally. 'I guess.'
They both go silent again.
Fenrir stands up.
'I'll be going already, Cub.' he says, heading towards the open window. 'I made sure to come here while your Father works on a night shift, but it's already beginning to dawn. He can be back any minute now...'
Fenrir notices in surprise Remus' small hand holding tightly his leather coat.
'What's wrong, Cub?'
'Don't go.'
Fenrir feels surprised yet another time that night.
'What is it? Are you feeling unwell? Do you want some Blood Replenishment Potion? Or perhaps some Dreamless Sleep?' he asks.
'None of that.' Remus shakes his head. 'My Father won't accept me as a Werewolf Cub.'
Fenrir feels a cramp in his stomach.
This is a major flaw in his plan. Lyall, a foolish, ignorant man, is now going to torment and abuse his Infected kid. Blood ties are going to lose their value, in the face of his stupid prejudices.
He is going to disown Remus in the best case, and throw him away from home at worst. He won't be able to look at the boy without disgust.
During full moon nights, he is probably going to toss the boy into a basement or come up with something even worse.
Fuck.
'Forgive me, Cub.' Fenrir says with a genuine remorse in his voice. 'I know that your Father is a pathetic asshole, but I cannot take you with me. I'm unfit to be somebody's Father. I cannot take proper care of a cub.'
Fenrir turns away with a heavy heart and climbs on the window sill, preparing himself for the jump.
However, he feels a tight embrace that stops him.
He looks down to see Remus' thin arms wrapped around his midsection.
'Don't go.' the Cub repeats quietly. 'He's going to kill me.'
An ice-cold cramp grabs Fenrir's bowels like a giant hand.
He turns back towards the boy; the suffering in his bright, green eyes is unbearable to watch.
'Oh, for fuck's sake, Cub.' Fenrir sighs finally and grabs Remus under his arm.
They jump together out the window and soundlessly disappear in the shadows.