Remus Lupin was a normal child until the day he went to the store to buy licorice for Sora. That day took place when he was seven, walking home from school, thinking about that particular girl in his class, the one who he was certainly destined to marry, the one who loved licorice more than even chocolate.
The store was a small one, a little dirty, with its name in red light-up letters on the side. Remus had exactly ninety-five cents in his pocket. Entering, he found the licorice, put it on the counter, and paid for it, still too short to look the cashier in the eye when he said thank you. He headed out the back door to cut across the park. If he could get home in the next ten minutes, his parents would still be at work. He wouldn't have to tell them about his gift for the pretty girl in his class. Crushes were Remus's least favorite conversation topic, especially around his parents. He darted across the street, carefully, after looking both ways.
The park was his favorite place to be. It was where he played, memorized math facts, explored, wondered, cloud-watched, and even star-gazed, if he could sneak out at night. He thought of it as a safe place, a place to go when his parents argued or he was in trouble at school or was just having a bad day. He didn't take well to being cooped up indoors, and loved skies and trees and mist and creeks.
There was nobody else in the park that warm day in October. Remus hurried along the edge of a small grove of trees, clutching the package of licorice in his skinny arms. He made up a tune and began to hum it, just about to sing when the wind was knocked out of him and he went sprawling. Long claws sank into his back and side. Gasping, he curled into himself, and as teeth ripped his arm, he realized that he hadn't heard a bird sing since he had left the store. Whatever was attacking him was large, grey-furred, and odorous. Remus screamed, but terror and pain choked his voice until all that he could do was sob. He lay like that for a very long time and didn't realize the thing had gone until a raven cawed in the tree above him. And by then he was too weak to move.
His father found him, unconscious and bleeding into the grass, and screamed until an ambulance came.
The hospital could do nothing for Remus except drug him. His father, looking frightened and serious, said something to the doctor. The doctor gave him a blank look, smiled, and nodded. Remus was swept up in his father's arms; they turned on the spot, and the room melted away.
The new room was larger, brighter, and full of golden orbs that seemed to emit light. Remus lifted one arm, tried to touch one. It flinched away like something alive. He laughed, but it hurt to move that much. His father looked tense but said, "Welcome to Saint Mungo's, dear."
A man in lime green robes strode up to them. "I'd get him to the first floor as soon as poss-" He snapped his fingers, conjuring two stretchers as Mr. Lupin fainted.
"It's doubtful that the scars will ever heal," said Healer Spicer. "And there will be some... nasty side effects."
Remus's mother gasped and rushed forward to clasp her son's hand. It had been five days since the attack, and once Mrs. Lupin had Apparated and Mr. Lupin had been revived, neither had left the room where Remus slept. He had since woken, and was examining his bandages.
"It has been determined that your son has been bitten by a werewolf." The Healer met three gazes: Mr. Lupin's disbelief, Mrs. Lupin's terror, Remus's confusion.
"A... werewolf," said Mr. Lupin softly.
"We knew it might be," Mrs. Lupin said.
"I assume you are already familiar with the effects of lycanthropy?" Healer Spicer asked.
Mr. Lupin bowed his head. "Yes."
"Then I must have you sign these forms. The top one is for registration in the-"
"Excuse me," said Remus, "but what is lycra- lyconth- what do I have?"
The three adults looked at him pityingly, then at each other. His father spoke first. "Remus, people who have lycanthropy transform into a wolf one night a month. There's no cure, and it's a very painful process."
Remus leaned back into his pillow, feeling his mother's hand on his shoulder, not really seeing anyone. So the rest of his life would be regularly interrupted by wolfishness. That wouldn't be too bad. "Can I communicate with real wolves when I'm like that?"
Healer Spicer looked startled. "I would assume so, though I've never heard of a study on the subject."
Remus's father leaned forward, his expression gentle. "What you have to understand is that there is extreme prejudice against werewolves in the magical community. So many have been shunned entirely from society. They live in hiding, only with their own kind. Poverty levels are higher for them than for any other minority. So are suicide levels." Mrs. Lupin glanced warningly at her husband. Her grip on Remus' shoulder was viselike now.
"We haven't yet traced the attacker, but we are searching our archives." Healer Spicer stood up. "If you could fill out those forms before tonight. Questions can be posed to my aide or sent to me by owl. You will be free to leave once Healer Dawes delivers the medications."
"Are you okay, Remus?" His mother asked once the Healer had left.
"I think so," he said. "I suppose the wounds won't heal?"
"Never entirely," she replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You'll have those scars forever."
His father sat on Remus's other side. "It's too much for a seven-year-old child."
"I can deal with it," said the tiny boy with the puncture wounds and torn skin. He sat very still. "Will I still be able to go to Hogwarts?"
There was a pause. His mother hugged him. "I don't know."
On the other side of London, a boy of about the same age stood on the roof of his house. The house was the size of a small castle. In his hand was a clear glass marble, which he was turning red, then purple, then blue. A breeze swept through his short, neat black hair. His bare feet gripped the shingles, which sank and leveled a little to keep him from falling. He shivered, and his cotton shirt lengthened and changed until it was a wool coat. He stood, holding his marble, for an hour.
"Sirius?" The speaker pronounced the name like Cirrus, like the cloud. Only one person did that. Sirius turned slowly to face the window he had climbed out through. The smaller boy was leaning out the window, frowning at his older brother.
"Hi, Regulus." Sirius turned away. "I'm watching the clouds." He wrapped his arms around his torso.
"Mum and Dad don't know you come up here. Can you come in? I need you to get down a book for me."
Sirius was concentrating on the marble in his hand. If he bent his mind in the right way, he could make it glow. "Get Dad to reach it for you."
"No," Regulus said from the window.
"Why not? He's taller than I am," Sirius looked at the moon, almost full, risen early. Dusk was just creeping over the horizon.
Regulus hesitated. "Dad scares me." When Sirius didn't respond, he added, "Mum scares me."
Sirius Black faced him suddenly, framed against the sinking sun. His coat flew around him and the marble in his hands glowed white. "Do I scare you?"
"No." Regulus said obstinately.
Sirius combed his hair down with his fingers and walked over to the window. He leveled the roof in front of him as he walked. "Okay, Reg. Where's this book you need?"
The five-year-old led him into the next room. "Up there."
"Here you go, Reg." Sirius handed his younger brother the book and wandered downstairs. He almost bumped into the house-elf, Kreacher, who muttered, "The Mistress and Master would like to speak to you in the drawing room," before tottering upstairs. Sirius wondered how much longer it had to live. Must be older than Mum. He walked down the hall to the drawing room, which was an entirely useless room inhabited by more than its fair share of doilies. His mum and dad were sitting at a small table with an extra chair pulled up. He sat in it.
His dad held a sheaf of papers. His mum leaned forward. "Sirius, we've noticed that you have an exceptional talent for magic." Sirius was silent. "You seem to be able to do any small magic you want to. For example-"
"Where did your coat come from?" His dad interrupted.
Sirius sighed. "It was my shirt. I changed it."
His dad nodded. "Can you change it back?"
Sirius looked at his coat and did the stretch with his mind. The coat shrunk and became his shirt again.
"Remarkable," said his mum. "Most wizard children can do magic without realizing it when they are in stressful or threatening situations. You can perform it at will."
"From what we've seen, it's a large variety of spells, too." His dad said quietly.
"Obviously, you have a lot of potential." His mum watched him carefully. "I think that once your magical education is supposed to start-or maybe earlier-we should hire a tutor for you. No need to send you off to that school when you could get a better education here."
"I don't think so," said Sirius, sliding off his chair. "I'd like to go to Hogwarts. I don't want a tutor. Besides," he added, "I need to make friends my own age. Here it's just Regulus and that Kreacher." Sirius already had a tutor for math, English, French, history, and science. He very rarely saw other children.
"I'd think your mother and I have a better idea of what would be good for you than you do yourself," said Sirius's dad. "Hogwarts has a reputation of letting in those who may not be... fit for the education. We don't want you getting in with the wrong crowd."
"No," said Sirius mildly as his mum's eyes narrowed, "I think I'd rather go to Hogwarts than stay here."
He left the room.