Title: Any Enclosure Is A Cage.
Author: Daria
Email: Category: Drama
Sub-Category: Angst
Rating: PG-13 (gore)
Spoilers: PoA
Summary: A look into one morning in the life of an overburdened six-year-old proves that even the most devoted parents are powerless at times.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made from this, and no copyright infringements were intended.

Any Enclosure Is A Cage

With a sudden jerk, he awoke. The surroundings were blurry and it felt as if someone had chewed him up and spit him out, but he was conscious. Mother was the first complete thought that arose, but the numb horror of recognition promptly erased her from his battered mind. This was the garden shed, he thought, and the smell was that of fresh blood. Was it his own? God, it hurt to move; he would not be moving. Where was she?

"Help", he wanted to say, but his throat could not produce the necessary sound and his lungs seemed deflated. Was he... Yes, he was definitely lying on his side. Had his arm been broken? Shuddering as a cold chill of repulsion swept over his body, the boy realized he was lacking clothing, as well - he could feel the grit of hardened dirt and rust beneath him. He seemed to be firmly attached to the floor, though. Maybe he was simply lying on his arm the wrong way.

Moaning at his attempt in movement, the boy found the strength to curl into a small, slightly twisted ball. It had seemed like the garden shed at first, but he must be dead - he felt, at once, cold, sticky, suddenly warmer, tired, aching. Had they thrown him out? Maybe he had been abandoned or cast into a cage. Hadn't cages bars instead of walls? "Any enclosure is a cage," he thought, reasoning with himself and slowly flexing the fingers he couldn't see.

"Remus? Are you.. Dear God. He - Edmund! He's awake! M-my..!" She hadn't left him! And father - father was coming, too!"My baby. My son - come here," said the frightened mother. Without any hesitation she knelt and gathered the limp, lifeless child from the filthy floor of the shed. He was like a rag doll, and it took Stella Lupin great restraint not to weep while she carried the boy across the flagstones of the garden.

She would have less trouble containing her anguish if she averted her eyes, but the terrified witch gazed downward at her son. His hair - her hair, same in color and softness - was matted about his beautiful face. His little mouth, slightly agape, was crusted. The rings around his eyes, so heart-wrenching when open, had grown so pronounced. And the blood-

"Here, my dear," Edmund Lupin urged, usually soft baritone quavering with either suppressed horror or pure terror. What lay before him should have been his son. Instead, the crumpled child so listlessly placed on the large canopy bed was devoid of any sign of life. Already the wizard's wife was sterilizing and wrapping the six-year-old's wounds. "Will he need a splint for that arm?"

Silently both witch and wizard administered whatever necessary medical tactics needed to cover the ghastly wounds. Wiping down every raw patch of skin, the witch hummed a low French tune. Her husband, large hands shaking, tried to painlessly part his son's tangle of hair, finding nothing more to mend.

"We shouldn't have added the silencing charm.." Stella was saying, gazing into her husbands glassy blue eyes, "I can't be sure how long he was awake before I broke the wards and opened the door." Edmund had both hands around his wife's arms, either for support or comfort. "Not long, I'm sure. It doesn't matter. We have him - he.. he's safe, now, Stella. Now calm down. He mustn't see us upset. Lord knows it will be enough to take in without-"

"Muh," the boy moaned, luminous, vacant amber eyes suddenly alert, though they couldn't seem to focus on anything in particular. It was hard to embrace him - every visible surface on the naked child was either bewitched or bandaged, and he was unable to wear clothes. "Hush, mon ange," the witch crooned, leaning over the boy to run a soft hand down the length of his slender face and carefully over his chapped lips.

"Le combat est par-dessus. Repos," Stella continued, delicately slipping a hand under his slight middle to draw him to her chest. Whimpering faintly, probably too exhausted to express his pain any better, little Remus awkwardly folded his aching arms against his chest and rested his shaggy head in the nape of his mother's neck. "Call the healer," she whispered.