the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 102: Sunk

Hush now, baby, baby, don't you cry,
Mama's gonna make all of your nightmares come true,
Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you;

Mama's gonna keep you right here, under her wing,
She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing,
Mama's gonna keep baby cosy and warm;

Ooh babe, ooh babe, ooh babe,
Of course, Mama's gonna help build the wall...

- "Mother" Pink Floyd, 1979

When he was six years old, Remus watched as his father took a dog behind the family barn and shot it.

They'd left that morning to hunt foxes near Oxfordshire. Remus hadn't gone, he was too young. Instead he'd gotten to stay and have tea in the garden with Giles and his mum, but he'd seen them leave; twelve of his father's best hounds, all trained to perfection, along with several colleagues from work. There had been excitement in the air, jovial handshakes interlaced with the incessant barking of dogs all desperate to be freed from their kennels. Only one of the dogs appeared weary enough to give pause. A juvenile called High Strung, aptly named for its skittish nature, had just been deemed fit for a first run. Normally this would have taken place on private property, with a fence and game birds and all the like, but Lyall wanted to test the dog's limits. The breeding bitch had been brought all the way across the Atlantic, desired for the sleekness of her black coat. Back home she'd produced champions, and when her first litter was born on English soil, it was clear that High Strung was that champion. They praised him for his strong legs, the nobleness of his face. Surely he'd be the perfect hunting animal—he'd win awards!

But then came the accident.

Unused to the sound of a gunshot, High Strung bolted first chance. One of the men foolishly tried to grab him, but the ground was uneven; they caught the side of a ravine. Both master and dog fell.

The man was sent to hospital for his injuries, but the dog they brought back to the estate. There was no hospital for living investments, or at least not ones so far gone. The handlers had taken one look at High Strung's shattered pelvis and declared him a dead dog breathing.

It'll be lame forever, Lyall. Best to put the beast out of its misery.

He's my dog, I'll do it.

Remus didn't understand; when he heard his father's answer he felt a swell of pride for having such a responsible father. Lyall didn't know that Remus had followed him from the garden, that he was watching as he pet the dog's flank and set a pistol to its skull.

Goodbye, poor beast.

* * *

Monday 12th March 1979

"Moony?" Sirius' uneasy voice drifted through the door; "How's it looking?"

Remus didn't answer at first. His eyes were glued on the mirror that hung over the chipped bathroom sink. Lee pulled his punches—that's what he'd told Sirius. A lie, then. Barely a day later, and the skin over his stomach looked like the flesh of a bruised apple.

"Not that bad, actually," he called, dropping the hem of his shirt. Good thing too; Sirius came striding in a moment later with a tie in either hand.

"Black or navy, do you think?" He held either tie up to his throat. "I know black is more traditional, but personally I think nothing screams 'I hate my dead son-of-a-bitch dad' more than looking miserable in navy blue."

Remus pointed weakly to the black, and Sirius sighed, tossing both over his shoulder.

"Almost ready to go then? You've been in here for ages."