Worth the Wait

Chapter Six: Blame

Summary: Greyback bites Remus, and Hope and Lyall both blame themselves.

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Remus couldn't wait until it was his birthday. He couldn't wait until he was the same age as his soulmate again. He knew that it didn't really matter if they were the same age (his mother and father weren't—he asked), but it felt important that they were. Like both of them being five years of age somehow made them closer than Star being five while he was still just four years old.

Closing his eyes really tightly, he concentrated on making time go by faster. A week was too long to wait. Five, five, five, he thought, willing it to be the tenth of March already.

"Remus," a voice whispered in his left ear. Remus didn't answer. His dad could wait until he was five, he decided. "Remus," his dad said again, this time with his fingers pressing lightly into Remus's sides. Remus tried very hard not to start giggling, but he couldn't help it as his dad started tickling him with purpose.

"Dad!" he laughed, opening his eyes and squirming in his dad's arms.

Lyall laughed as he shifted the child in his lap. "Did you do it? Are you five yet?"

Remus gasped loudly and struggled to stand up. "Am I?" he asked, his eyes wide. He started bouncing on his feet as his dad hummed and rubbed his chin with his right hand.

"Let's see," Lyall said. "Do you think five year olds are…" he paused, pulling Remus back into his arms. Remus looked at him with bright brown eyes and so much energy, Lyall couldn't help but smile as he leaned closer. "Ticklish?" he whispered before attacking his son once again, eliciting loud shrieks of laughter from the boy. "Well," he said loudly, over Remus's laughter, "I guess you're still four."

"Nooo," Remus giggled, involuntarily swinging his limbs every which way to bat away his dad's fingers. "I tried so hard!" He protested, gasping for breath as his father finally stopped tickling him. He could feel his dad's chest vibrate as he was pulled in for a hug. Remus smiled, delighted at his dad's laughter.

"A week's not so long, I promise," Lyall said, running one hand up and down Remus's back. "Besides," he continued as he gently pulled Remus from him so that they could look at each other. "Your mother likes that you're four years old. Give her another week, huh?"

"Hmmm, okay." Remus guessed if staying four years old for another week would make his mother happy, he'd stop trying to make time move faster. "No more time travel," he promised, holding out his pinky finger with all the seriousness he could muster.

"No more time travel," Lyall agreed, trying to keep a straight face as he made a pinky promise with his son. He felt his lips twitch and knew he was somewhat smiling, but Remus didn't seem to mind. "Now, why don't we go help your mum with dinner, hm?"

Remus nodded enthusiastically and threw his arms up in the air, waiting for his dad to pick him up and carry him to the kitchen where his mother was.

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Three days later, Lyall apparated a short distance from his home and walked home in a mix of anger and unease. Greyback, he thought. That was a name he would not soon forget. He was certain the disheveled and dirty man he had seen earlier in questioning at his job was a werewolf and, more importantly, the werewolf responsible for the death of two muggle children last month. The next full moon was tomorrow night, and he was certain that more children would suffer and die by the hands of that monster, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was unable to convince the ministry to detain Greyback, and Lyall could already see the blood that would be on his hands.

He shuddered as he thought about those yellow eyes, and how they turned from false confusion into something predatory as Greyback was escorted from the room to be freed. He could have sworn those eyes had locked onto him, and him alone. Were it not for the ministry standard to place memory charms on any muggles brought in for questioning, Lyall would have had no doubt in his mind that Greyback would come after him specifically for retribution.

A sense of shame flooded him when he remembered the words he spoke in anger—his careless generalization of all werewolves. But the blood and death of those two muggle children—one girl around ten years old and one boy around Remus's age—would not leave his mind. They had caught the werewolf responsible, he knew it. And they had let him go.

"Like a werewolf would even have a wand," he scoffed, thinking about the flimsy excuse that persuaded the idiot Hitchens that Greyback couldn't be anything but a muggle. And of course, Carter, the third committee member, was too overworked and too exhausted to do anything else but agree with Hitchens, leaving Lyall outnumbered.

Lyall saw his house come up in the distance, and paused in his walking. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down and erase all the lingering agitation and discomfort he felt with today's case. It wouldn't do any good to bring his work home to Hope or Remus. And it wouldn't be fair either.

A sudden image of Remus lying on the ground, his body bitten in several places, limbs awkwardly lying about, broken and with flesh hanging off flashed into Lyall's mind. He could feel the same nausea he felt when he first looked at the pictures of the two muggle children a couple of weeks ago. The boy had been about Remus's age, he thought, and turned and vomited. He felt his whole body sag with fear and exhaustion.

"Obliviated," he reminded himself. "Ministry protocol. Obliviated." He took out his wand and cleaned up the mess he made. "Remus is safe," he said to himself. "Remus is safe."

He started walking towards home again, a little faster this time, eager to see proof that Remus was still bright eyed and laughing and breathing. His fear was irrational, he tried to reason. Greyback wouldn't target him. Greyback wouldn't have even remembered him. Ministry protocol was to use memory charms on all muggles. Ministry protocol was to use memory charms. Ministry protocol.

Lyall ran the rest of the way home and used magic to spell the door open, too anxious to use his key. "Remus? Hope?" he called out, and was met immediately with shouts from the kitchen to his relief. He took a moment to compose himself before venturing into the kitchen.

Hope and Remus were both sitting on the floor, taking turns writing and drawing on Remus's arm. He noticed that Hope was also watching the oven, and the scent of roasted chicken hit him.

"Hi Dad!" Remus had briefly glanced up at him (with eyes that were alive with light and not glazed over like the dead) before returning his attention to his arm.

"They're talking about Remus's birthday and how he's practically five years old even though it's still days away," Hope explained, and Lyall let out a weak laugh at that.

Sitting down next to her, he planted a kiss on her cheek before reaching out for Remus. Alive, he thought as he held Remus in his lap. Safe.

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Hope felt like everything was moving in slow motion, and no matter what she did, she couldn't force her body to move faster or her brain to process things faster. She was the last one to Remus's room, and all she could see was blood. The window was shattered, and whatever evil shadow that had been lurking in the room had fled through it. Lyall was looming over their son, shielding his body from Hope's view as he cast spell after spell as she stood back, petrified. She knew better than to interfere and break his concentration.

The smell of blood was everywhere, and she could still hear Remus's scream in the background. Blood and screaming and pain. It felt like there was ice in her heart and lungs. She couldn't breathe.

Lyall was saying something to her but she couldn't understand him. He had something in his arms, but she didn't want to look. She knew what—who—he was carrying, but she couldn't look. Couldn't look at her son like that. What kind of mother could?

Lyall was speaking again. He grabbed her hand this time and she followed him to the chimney in their living room. Her stomach sank as she realized what was going to happen.

"St. Mungo's," Lyall said, and she understood. She watched him go first, green flames eating away the blood and pain and screaming.

She reached into the pot on the mantle and shakily grabbed a handful of floo powder. She stepped into the fireplace and repeated what Lyall had done. "St. Mungo's," she said before waiting for the whirlwind of green fire to surround her. She stepped out into the hospital reception area and resisted the urge to vomit. She hadn't thought she'd have to go back here ever again.

Memories of the last visit came back to her, inciting another fresh wave of nausea. She remembered the wand being pointed at her, and the potion vial she held in her hand as she left. She couldn't remember the doctor's—healer's—name, but she could remember the almost bored diagnosis and treatment he outlined for her. She remembered the unsettling way his magic had felt when it probed at her consciousness to confirm what Lyall and she had told him.

"Hope." A hoarse voice called to her right, and she turned to face Lyall. Everything was still happening very slowly for her, but it seemed to be the opposite for Lyall. He looked as though he had aged an eternity in her absence. There were no tears in his eyes, but there was a deep fear and guilt. He reached out his hand for hers with hesitation, as if there was a chance she wouldn't have taken it.

He led her down a white, sterile hallway and Hope noticed that the harsh, strict chemical scent of cleanliness that was present in muggle hospitals was missing. Its absence made her feel worse. She kept thinking back to the potion vial she was given. The one she placed on her nightstand table for a full two weeks before drinking. The one full of magic.

It's my fault, she thought vaguely. The shadow attacking her son. Remus's screams. Lyall's pain and grief. Her vision started to blur, but she didn't say a word to Lyall for fear of slowing him down. Tears were running down her face and breathing was getting harder and harder. Muggles aren't supposed to use magic.

She couldn't remember it happening, but the next moment that she was aware of her surroundings, she found herself seated in a chair while Lyall paced the floor in front of her. Remus was dying and it was all her fault. All she could think about were fairytale rules. About how everything magic came with a price, especially for those that didn't have it in the first place. Yellow eyes and sharp, dirty teeth stained with blood would haunt her forever.

"Remus?" she managed to ask, and Lyall stilled in front of her. He cautiously sat beside her and took her hand. She didn't look at him. She couldn't.

"I'm sorry," she heard him say. "I'm so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I never should have…"

Your fault, my fault, she thought as she started crying harder. Magic from the fertility potion had given her the most wonderful son. And now magic was taking him away.