A/N: Hey y'all! Long time… no see… Have some dark Fenrir?
Muggle Art Task 9: Write a fic with the setting Paris, France.
Word Count: 1200
WARNINGS: Off-screen character death, mentions of injury, manipulation, and just dark themes in general. Hinted pre-FenrirLyall.
Fenrir had taken him to Paris.
It was, truly, a beautiful city. Come nighttime, it was practically ethereal; bright city lights advertising Muggle shops and cinemas, men and women as small as ants dressed to the nines as they went on a midnight stroll, and the Eiffel Tower looming importantly in the distance. It was a city, Lyall thought, that promised great things. Beautiful things.
Lyall kept his hands gripped against the balcony railing but twisted around so he could peer into the flat behind him. Through the darkness he was just able to make out the silhouette of Remus on the bed, his little chest rising and falling steadily as he slumbered. Without the light of day, Lyall couldn't make out the bandages he knew were wrapped around his boy's small frame. He could almost pretend that they didn't exist—that Remus had never been hurt.
But then, if that were true, they wouldn't be in Paris.
Lyall's eyes drifted off of his son and over to the man sleeping behind him in the other bed. Fenrir Greyback. Something uneasy twisted in Lyall's gut; he had asked himself so many times over the last few weeks whether he was doing the right thing.
Hope's death still haunted him. Nights like these, she never left his dreams. That's why he was out there; trying to find some fresh air to breathe. Paris was nothing like Wales, though. Even the air was choked, dirty.
But the lights were beautiful.
Lyall exhaled slowly and hung his head. Fitting, wasn't it? He, too, was trying to hide all the ugly with dazzling things. Remus was five; Remus couldn't yet comprehend what his life would become. The stigma he'd face. The eyes that would watch his every move. The tongues spitting words they were too ignorant to understand.
A hot, familiar shame filled him. He didn't know which werewolf had attacked Remus that fateful night, he hadn't seen but a glimpse of the man's face the previous day, but he knew it was his fault. Just like Hope's death was firmly on his shoulders. With nowhere to run, Lyall had sought out Fenrir Greyback, the most notorious werewolf in all of Britain. He was the only person Lyall was certain could help his son.
And Fenrir… Fenrir hadn't attacked him like Lyall had feared. He hadn't stolen Remus away. Instead, he gave Lyall two options: Go with him to Paris, where Democles Belby was developing the Wolfsbane Potion, or get the hell out and figure things out on his own.
Lyall chose the first option.
And Lyall knew it was selfish, but he was determined to go to his grave without ever confessing to Remus that he'd condemned him that day in the Ministry.
Lyall's grip on the balcony railing turned painful. His knuckles whitened with the force of it and his palms ached, but he couldn't let go. They'd left so much behind. Would Remus remember Wales? Would he remember his mother?
A quiet, broken sob parted his lips. It was lost to the noises of the city.
"Why are you out here?"
Lyall whipped around. There in the doorway, looking disgruntled, was Fenrir himself. Once upon a time, Lyall would have attacked him for being a werewolf. He would have yelled, or run away, or something else horrible because he was afraid of the curse.
It changed things when Remus was bitten. Now Lyall didn't have the strength or will to be afraid anymore. He was just… tired.
Still, he was hesitant when he answered. "I was trying to get some fresh air."
Greyback leaned against the door and snorted, crossing his arms. "You won't get any of that here."
Annoyance bubbled up within Lyall; he was a Ravenclaw, back in the day. He knew that cities like this weren't like the countries he was familiar with. "I didn't say I was successful," he replied somewhat stiffly.
Fenrir cracked a grin at that. Lyall wasn't blind; he knew the other man was interested in him, although he hadn't mentioned it yet—which Lyall was grateful for. It was too soon after Hope, and he wasn't comfortable having that conversation anywhere near Remus. Objectively, however, he knew that Fenrir was handsome. A little rugged, maybe, a little unkempt, but still—handsome.
It made Lyall wonder about the future. He was smart enough to dread it.
Fenrir's hand landed between Lyall's shoulder blades. "You should go back to sleep." His voice was rough with sleep. Lyall bit his lip and glanced back at Remus, still slumbering peacefully, and he knew… he knew he had to ask the question that had been on his mind for the last few weeks.
"You never told me," he whispered, "why you're helping us."
Fenrir had helped them escape the country without Ministry detection. He'd set them up in a fancy flat with a beautiful view in one of the most famous cities in the world, a far cry from the small, run-down cottage Lyall and Remus had lived in before. Fenrir had promised to take Remus somewhere safe during the full moons, and by staying near Damocles Belby, he'd given Lyall the one thing he thought he'd never see again: hope.
Fenrir was giving so much without receiving a knut. Lyall knew there was something he was missing, knew that one day, the other shoe would drop and he'd be left to drown in the aftermath.
He didn't care. So long as Remus had a home, had a life, had the possibility of a future, Lyall would sacrifice everything. He only hoped that when Fenrir revealed the price of this plan, Remus would be left untouched.
For a long moment, Fenrir was silent. Lyall didn't look away from him; his stare never wavered. The minutes stretched on, and Lyall began shivering in the cold night air. Below him, the sounds of the city felt muted. Distant.
There were over seven million people in Paris. They filled the buildings and streets, choked the city, and could be heard at every hour in the day. And yet, Lyall had never felt so alone.
Finally, Fenrir looked away. His hand stayed on Lyall's back, though, and he shoved Lyall through the doors and back into the flat. "Practice your French, Lupin," was all he said before he crawled back into his own.
For a minute, Lyall stood frozen. The doors behind him were still open. Lyall could still feel the cold air, could still see the city stretch before him.
He looked back into the dark bedroom, at the monster he had to trust and his little boy sleeping only a meter away.
With shaking hands, Lyall closed the doors with a soft click. He drew the curtains, and the room was cast in total blackness. He blindly made his way to the bed he shared with Remus, then crawled onto the mattress and under the duvet. He pulled Remus to his chest, tucking the boy's head under his chin and wrapping his arms around his son, like he could shield him. Like he was in control.
Lyall pressed a kiss to his son's temple and whispered the only words he could.
"I'm sorry."
