A/N: Hey, y'all! Have some FenrirLyall. Hella angsty. I'm so sorry. But like… I really want to make this longer one day and explore this concept. So let's hope this makes sense. XD

Religious Education Task 2: Write about a heavy snowfall.

Word Count: 2018

WARNINGS: Mentioned character death, blood, heavy angst. Because werewolves.

Thanks to Lucy for beta-ing!

Enjoy!

The half-collapsed cabin wasn't much of a shelter, but it kept Fenrir out of the wind. It was good enough.

Outside, snow continued to fall. He wasn't sure how long the storm had been going on, but the sounds of the mighty winds were enough to make him glad he'd found this place. It wasn't perfect—he was still freezing, despite the blanket around his shoulders and the fire in front of him—but it was better than being caught in the blizzard.

The wind howled again, and Fenrir shivered. Not for the first time, he longed for his wand to cast some sort of heating charm. Unfortunately, it had snapped the night he'd been bitten, crushed beneath the monstrous weight of the werewolf.

Fenrir pitied the person now, whoever they'd been. Three years as a werewolf, and he knew the pain of transformations and the slow slipping of his insanity well.

That was the true reason for his isolation. These days, the wolf—the voice in his head, his second soul—bled to the forefront of his mind with terrifying ease. He'd begin talking as Fenrir Greyback, blink, and then realize that he was someone else entirely. If he was alone… no one could get hurt.

He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and stared into the flickering flames that were contained by a bucket. One night at a time. He just had to make it through one night at a time.

Fenrir's eyes grew heavy. For a while, there was nothing but the deafening howling of the wind outside, but then—a faint cry. Someone was shouting.

Fenrir got to his feet, his heart beating wildly. If this was the Aurors, then he had to go now. But if it wasn't… then whoever was mad enough to face this storm must be desperate for something.

Fenrir squinted through the darkness and snow. His blue eyes swept the area, and after a few minutes passed, he could make out a dim silhouette.

Indecision gripped him; should he leave now in case this stranger was coming for his neck, or should he stay and help someone who might be in trouble? Years ago, the choice would have been easy to make, but Fenrir had met other werewolves during his nomadic wanderings. He knew the sorts of horrors the Ministry liked to reserve for anyone they considered less than.

The person was approaching steadily, though, and Fenrir found that his feet wouldn't move. Humanity had won out this time, it seemed. He tried not to feel too bitter about that.

After what felt like centuries, the stranger reached the cabin. Fenrir realized with a jolt that the man wasn't wearing his coat—it was thrown over the man's shoulder protecting a bundle that Fenrir couldn't see properly.

It was dark enough that Fenrir couldn't make out the stranger's face, but the man didn't seem to have any qualms about approaching him. For a moment, the two men merely stared at each other, waiting for the other to reveal himself first. Finally, the man reached a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out a wand.

"Lumos."

Light filled the area, and Fenrir stumbled back. His guard was up again; wizards and werewolves didn't mix, he'd discovered.

The man held his wand up, and Fenrir didn't quite shield his face in time before the light illuminated his features. There was a beat of silence, and then—

"Fenrir?"

Time seemed to slow. He knew that voice—he hadn't heard it in so long, but it was impossible to forget. His mouth went dry.

"Lyall?"

Fenrir's heart thudded in his chest. How many nights had he longed to hear Lyall say his name? How much further had the chasm between them deepened? To see him now, when Fenrir was at his lowest, was bittersweet at best. But Fenrir didn't fear Lyall.

"Come inside," he called out. "It's not much warmer, but it's out of the wind."

The other man looked immensely relieved, and Fenrir felt stung. He wondered how much the Ravenclaw had expected him to change since his bite. Although, Fenrir couldn't pretend that he was the same person he'd been when he'd loved Lyall Lupin.

Once they were seated around the meager flames, he turned to the wizard. Lyall's hands were still holding the bundle to his chest, and Fenrir looked at him curiously. Lyall's blue eyes caught his gaze and Fenrir watched as the man blushed. Slowly, he removed the coat over the bundle, revealing…

Fenrir leaned back against the cabin wall, his eyes staring resolutely at the ground. He scoffed. "Got married, then, did you?"

A strangled sound escaped Lyall's lips, and Fenrir looked up to see the anguish written across the other man's face. "I… I was." Lyall looked at the little boy in his arms, pale and shaken. "His mother… she… I couldn't save her."

There were no words to explain the sick swoop of his stomach as he pieced together the reason behind Lyall's visit.

"It wasn't me," he snapped, jumping to his feet. It made sense now—the fear in Lyall's eyes, the way he carefully held his son away from Fenrir, the reason he'd sought him out at all. "I didn't kill her," he said, though he very well might have; the thought made him sick, "and I can't find whoever did!"

Lyall's blue eyes were panicked, and Fenrir cursed himself because he knew what wizards thought when werewolves raised their voice. He was painfully aware that Lyall was the only one of them with a wand—and he knew how skilled Lyall was with his.

He was backed into a corner, and he winced as he thought about what this act of revenge would be to the world: nothing worth noting, not even murder. Just one less monster breathing.

"That's not what I want!" Lyall shouted. His eyes were wide, and the boy on his shoulder stirred. The child was pale and looked half-frozen; Lyall tried not to look too closely, afraid of the resemblance the kid might bear to his father. "Fenrir, that's not why I'm here."

He should be relieved, but to his dejection, he realized that he couldn't quite believe Lyall. The facts weren't measuring up right. "Then why?" His hands balled into fists. Anger was replacing his fear; he was so tired of being afraid. So tired of being afraid of the people he used to love. "I loved you for years, and then I was reduced to—to this"—he spat out the word, disgusted with himself—"and I was suddenly nothing to you. Why have you come seven years later, if not to kill me?"

He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. It was as empty as he felt. "I remember what you said," he told the other man hollowly. "Soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death. I can't avenge your wife. I can't bring her back, or protect you, or any such bullshit. And you know that, so why did you come?"

Lyall's voice was small—it didn't suit him. "I didn't know where else to go." Tears were forming in his eyes, and Fenrir didn't know where to look. The strongest man he knew was falling apart right in front of him. "We were—we were in our home, a small house in Cardiff last month… my son was in bed…"

Fenrir began to feel uneasy. He'd been in Cardiff that month, and a terrible, terrible thought began worming its way into his mind…

How much of his memory had the wolf stolen?

"I don't know how it got in."

Fenrir winced. It. A word he heard all too often these days.

"And then Hope… she… Merlin." Lyall's mouth snapped shut, his face ashen. Fenrir's chest constricted. It was difficult to stand there and watch Lyall's anguish—even though the years apart had separated them—but he knew how any attempt to comfort would be received.

A shuddering breath in, and then the other man continued. "She was so brave. Hit it across the back with the fire poker before I got there, knocked it off of… but then it… and she was. She was gone."

Fenrir's eyes locked onto Lyall's, panic gripping him. He remembered the morning after that night, remembered waking up with a new scar across his back and blood in his mouth. He'd thought it was a deer—he'd eaten plenty of deer. But there was one more vital part of the story. "Knocked it…" He cleared his throat. "Knocked it off of what?"

Lyall let out a dry sob, and Fenrir knew.

The boy was sleeping against his father's shoulder, too pale, tawny hair dampened with sweat… he looked so small. He remembered that fever that plagued him the days after his first full moons. He recognized that sickness.

Fenrir balled his fists, bit his lip, clenched and unclenched his jaw. He'd bitten a child. He'd bitten a child who couldn't be more than five, who'd miraculously survived their first moon. Suddenly, Fenrir couldn't see anything but the boy. He couldn't hear anything beyond his own labored breathing. Horrified. He was horrified. He'd committed an irreversible sin.

"I can't take him in," he told Lyall harshly, trying desperately to place the guilt somewhere else. "I can barely feed myself. You'll have to find someone else."

His heart was beating wildly, and he tore his eyes away from the boy. He'd alienated this child from his family. There was no doubt in his mind that the Ravenclaw was trying to give the boy up; Lyall had proven long ago that he could never love a werewolf.

His arms tightened around his son. "I don't want to let him go!" he practically growled. "I want—I want you to take us both in."

"What?"

Lyall's shoulders slumped. He brought a hand up and dragged it tenderly along his son's cheek, impossibly gentle. "I know what I said," Lyall whispered. "But… but Remus isn't those things." He lowered his head. "And I realized… maybe you aren't, either."

A scoff escaped Fenrir before he could stop it. "It's a little late for that apology," he hissed.

"I know. But I'm begging you—you understand this, Fenrir. You know what it's like, and you know how to avoid detection." He looked back over at the werewolf, desperation coloring his voice and features. "You're Remus' best shot. I can help with money… but I can't raise him on my own."

He almost said no. This boy—Remus—represented his transition from man to monster. Fenrir wanted to be as far away from him as possible. He wanted to pretend that he'd never held this child between his jaws—that he'd never torn apart his mother.

But then Remus stirred. His eyes fluttered open, glassy with fever, and Fenrir was startled to realize that they were amber; not inherited from Lyall, then. In fact, they looked much like Fenrir's did. And for a moment, just a moment, Fenrir let himself wonder what if.

Lyall never had to know that he was the one who'd ripped the rug from under their feet. He didn't have to know that Fenrir was slowly losing his mind, didn't have to know that this wasn't safe. He didn't have to know that Fenrir was more wolf than man these days. They could all pretend. Fenrir would help protect the boy, teach him how to escape the worst pains of the transformations, and he could finally be with Lyall again. He could have that piece of himself back.

Lyall Lupin would no longer be the one who got away.

It was the closest Fenrir would ever get to a family.

He looked back at Lyall, who was watching him worriedly. He'd never have to know.

A quick nod from him was all that Lyall needed. The wizard sagged with relief, looking like the world had just been lifted from his shoulders.

Outside, the snow continued to fall. Flake by flake, it covered Lyall's footprints, leaving only a smooth surface in their place. Erasing every trace that he and his son had ever been there at all.