Disclaimer: What you recognize belongs to J. K. Rowling. Tilia and the answer to "why Remus seems to have no family" in the books are mine. Warnings for major angst and a fatal Death Eater attack, though hopefully the latter is not too overdone.
Nine: Scars
The basement, for it could only be a basement, was dark, unfurnished, and cold. Remus was sitting against one damp wall, facing a window high above him on the opposite wall. He had his eyes closed, but tension was written in every line of his body, as though he was waiting for a predestined lightning bolt to strike. And in a way, he was.
A silver patch of light appeared, and grew longer as the moon rose higher, reaching with inexorable fingers towards the werewolf waiting for it. Remus stood, shaking, and Harry realized he shook from fear and tension in anticipation of what was coming; the transformation had not yet begun. Harry suddenly wondered if the memory would somehow be altered or influenced by the transformation; a transformed werewolf could not generally remember much without Wolfsbane. He was uneasy, unsure he wanted to see inside a werewolf's head, but certain that he had no choice.
Remus fought the transformation, struggling to stay human, to remember—to remember—
Harry couldn't see. Colors were swarming before his eyes: red rage, white pain, and black fear. He began to feel slightly nauseous as they spun faster and faster; he couldn't believe that Remus dealt with this every month on top of the physical pain he must be in, considering his cries. And then the werewolf's howl rent the air at the same time a door banged open behind Harry. His vision cleared, but the quality of the memory around him was grey and fuzzy, like a badly developed photograph.
Harry turned to follow as the werewolf flew past, catching a glimpse of frenzied eyes. Four masked and hooded men stood shocked at the top of the stairs as the werewolf flung himself out of their reach, heading for the broken, open door and the night beyond. Harry was compelled to follow; behind him, he heard the Death Eaters shouts, and a woman's screams. The werewolf ran on, heedless, enough of him still human to know that he could not spill human blood, and yet enough of him a wolf to be searching for prey.
There were foals in the stables, helpless little things. The wolf could smell them, and Remus was powerless to fight it. The werewolf plunged on, and Harry was drawn along in the wake of the blurry remnants of the memory.
A man stood in the stable door, indistinguishable beyond that. The wolf hesitated, dancing on the spot for a moment. The wolf's need for blood warred with Remus' fear of it. The wolf won, gliding forward, and heaven help the hired hand who barred the way.
As the werewolf darted forward, the stable hand struck at the lithe, grey form with the first weapon that came to hand. It was a horsewhip, used mainly as a noisemaker to startle the animals only, never to actually hit them; the resounding crack was normally enough. The man had never actually made contact with anything other than air, and the sensation of rawhide meeting wolf's flesh disgusted him. Four times, the man was forced to strike at the werewolf before he turned and fled, bleeding from four long cuts down his back.
Harry followed the spectral shape of the wolf as he ghosted among the trees, either unwilling or incapable of leaving the farm that had been his home. Something in the wolf's eyes had changed; somehow Remus had gained a stronger hold.
Two sapphire pinpricks appeared suddenly beside the werewolf, and Harry recognized with a jolt that the blue points of light were eyes, Tilia's eyes. Moony sat, and the shape of a black fox was discernible against the grey flank of the wolf. It was Russet's presence that had called and calmed the werewolf.
Moony stood again, eyes blazing as the four Death Eaters left the Lupins' house and Disapparated without setting the Dark Mark above it. Russet whined as Moony stalked towards the house, the scents of blood and death in his nostrils. She followed behind him, crowding him a little in discomfort. He flicked his tail at her in annoyance, and she fell back, whining insistently. It was obvious that she did not want to go any further. The werewolf walked on regardless.
The smell of blood overpowered both quasi-canines as they entered the sitting room through the ruined front door. They looked around as they paused; Russet sat abruptly, trembling and whimpering. Moony stepped silently forward, threw his head back, and howled. It was heart-wrenchingly, achingly mournful, and Harry felt tremendously sorry for Remus on top of his nausea.
For one glance at the room illustrated quite clearly why the Death Eaters had not set off the Dark Mark. They had made sure the blame for the murders would fall on Remus. It was quite sickening.
There was a soft rustle as Tilia threw caution to the winds and resumed her human form. "Remus," she sobbed. "Oh, Remus." The werewolf looked at her with human eyes, and Harry knew that it was her presence alone that had somehow overridden the werewolf's bloodlust and kept Remus grounded in his humanity.
Tilia spent the rest of the night repairing what damage she could so that, when the sun rose, it shone on a scene that was unmistakably the result of the work of Death Eaters.
The scene convulsed with the influx of sunlight, and Harry's vision swam again with black and white. It was almost worse to see now in proper focus and color. Remus was curled up on the floor, resolutely looking away from the Death Eaters' work, tears pouring down his face.
Tilia approached him slowly and knelt gently beside him. Fresh tears began to course down the tracks left by her tears at midnight.
"You shouldn't've been here," Remus said. His voice was hoarse.
"Dumbledore received information that your parents were going to be attacked. He sent me to warn you all, but he was too late. I was too late," Tilia said, her voice pained. "Remus, I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault," he said harshly. "It's mine."
"No, Remus, it's not," Tilia said, alarmed at his willingness to blame this on himself.
"It is," he spat. "They wanted me because I'm a werewolf. They've been owling me for months. I never wrote back, never told anyone. They threatened me, but I didn't think to tell Dumbledore. I was afraid he wouldn't believe that I had not elicited their recruitment, and now I've proved I'm no better than—don't touch me!"
He pulled away from Tilia, who had moved to look at the cuts on his back. They were bleeding again, aggravated by the transformation. She stared at him uncertainly, fear coursing through her. She clenched her hands to stop their trembling.
"Remus, you're bleeding," she said quietly.
"I don't care," he replied flatly.
"Yes, you do. You wouldn't blame yourself if you didn't care," she continued in that quiet, controlled tone that belied the worry and fear in her eyes. Remus looked away, unable to deny the truth of her words.
"Please, let me look at your back," she pleaded.
"You've already seen it," he said pointedly.
"Remus," she said exasperatedly.
"Fine," he snapped wearily. "Clean it, bandage it, but do no more."
"But, why?" she asked, appalled. "If that's all I do, you'll have those scars forever."
He glared at her in a manner that brooked no argument, and Tilia nodded with a sigh, and did as Remus asked. When she'd secured the last bandage, she carefully wrapped her arms around him, and he sighed, allowing himself to succumb, for once, to his emotions. He sank into her embrace and clung to her.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's just—" He couldn't find the words to say thank you, nor could he find, at the time, the words to articulate his guilt and sorrow. Tilia understood, and gently placed a finger to his lips to let him know that he needn't speak.
Remus still bore those scars, Harry knew, and now he knew where they came from. Those scars were an outward sign of all the emotion that Remus had been unable to express in words or actions. They were his self-imposed penance for a crime he did not commit, for a condition he neither chose, nor could refuse or control.
And, thankfully, the scene dissolved.
A/N: I know I never ask for reviews, but I'd like to know if the perspective in this chapter worked because at the time I was writing it, it was a bit of a departure for me. Concrit is welcome. Thanks.