Hesitant footsteps echoed, bouncing along invisible walls. Every footstep was soft, light. The footsteps belonged to a young boy, no more than twelve. He had been here before; he knew that. He did not know specifically when, how, or why he was here, but he knew to keep walking through the sea of dark, to answer the voice that sobbed his name.
So he continued, even as the darkness pressed in all around him. This was not ordinary darkness. It was thick. Dense. It was the black where you could wave you hand an inch from your eyes, and you could not see it. It was the kind of darkness that made you wonder if your eyes were actually closed, because it dulled all your senses. A darkness that made you wonder if you were dead. It made you want to scream and cry, but you couldn't because you had no voice to scream with, and no eyes to cry with.
Of course this was all running through the boy's mind, and so he franticly quickened his pace, and followed the cries of pain and sobs.
Buried deep in his unconsciousness, the boy knew exactly what would happen next, and what it would mean for the future, but this knowledge was far deeper than he could reach, and so it remained ignored. Instead, he focused on the impossibly silent howling of the wind, whose howls he could only hear in a hidden part of his mind. He could not feel it's cool, harsh breeze, but knew it was there nevertheless. It was something like a thought you had had, and could only faintly remember the outline of the thought, yet you knew it was there all the same. However, he could not properly acknowledge it. The calling of the sobs was more important.
He stopped.
The boy reached his hand out, and needed only to brush the tips of his fingers along the cool metal of a brass door knob that lay in front of him, and the door swung open of it's own accord.
The boy felt himself being roughly shoved in through the doorframe by dozens of what-felt-like hands.
The bodiless hands pushed him forcefully, their long, gnarled fingernails scraping, tearing at his flesh. He was vaguely aware of pain, and something warm and thick, sliding down his left cheek, yet the feeling was far away, as though a part of him were dead.
Suddenly, a person appeared in the center of the room, and the outline of the figure seemed to radiate a pale glow.
This person as small, thin, with light brown hair, and pale freckles dotting wide-spaced on his arms, few on his face, and stuck-out awkwardly against the sickly-pale of his skin. The freckles accompanied the many scars along his arms and upper torso, and even a few on his thin face. His scarred form was bare except for a pair of patched jeans, and his face was hidden in his arms, which were drawn protectively around his head.
And suddenly, the first realized he was no longer looking at the other boy from afar, but was now inside him. He realized then, that the freckled boy was him. Now, he was screaming, tearing at his head, suddenly overcome with pain as the invisible hands slapped at his bare torso, and as a familiar prickling sensation, like thousands of needles, crept along his body, and he screamed as he felt the flesh on his back begin to rip apart-
"Remus! REMUS!"
He was jerked from a dream, a horrible, terrifying dream he could no long remember, by shouts.
'Remus?' He thought distantly. The name sounded some-what familiar.
Wait.
Wasn't that his name?
Remus became vaguely aware of a blurred figure in front of him, and of an intense stinging on his left cheek. He also noticed something warm –water perhaps? – streaming down his cheeks.
He clapped his hands to his ears and moaned. All this noise was painful to his sensitive ears.
"Stop," He groaned, letting out a whine that resembled a wounded dog. He wondered impatiently who these people were, and why the woman had not come yet.
The woman….
She always came whenever this happened. A woman with chestnut hair, and soft, pale eyes always camewhen something like this happened. She would hold him, and whisper soothing words into his ear. She would press a damp cloth to his forehead, and sing to him as she rocked him back-and-forth.
'Mother,'Where was she now?
Remus moaned again, and began to whimper, his whimpering sounding strangely like a wounded dog as he leaned over, trying desperately to hide from all those loud voices and blurred shadows.
He heard a soft whine escape his lips.
"Ma-mama." Said his voice. It was tiny, choked, threatening to spill over with tears.
His teeth chattered, and Remus became aware that he was trembling, and felt relief wash over him as strong arms embraced him, curling themselves protectively around him.
'S'alright,'" Whispered a voice that sounded as though they were teetering on the edge of panic.
"Peter's fetching Madame Pomfrey. She's com'n, and it'll be fine." Murmured the same voice as it rocked Remus in the same manner that the women -mother- did. This person was not mother, but they managed to comfort Remus during the few conscious moments he was able to have, until he promptly fell victim to sleep again, his body utterly exhausted.
(I'm surprised how well this chapter turned out, considering I wrote it at 1:30am in the morning.. Reviews are greatly appreciated, especially constructive criticism.)