Confrontation

Author's note: In almost all the fics like this I read, Remus is instantly accepted, so I wanted to do something different even though this isn't how I really see it happening. 

Fear. It was constantly squirming beneath his surface, lapping at the edges of his sanity. As a werewolf, Remus spent nearly every moment of his life suffering to varying degrees from fear: Fear of discovery. Fear of rejection. The loss of his precious friends. The looks in their eyes. Disgust. Hatred.

Every night Remus curled into a tight ball, thanking God he had yet to be discovered and praying he would be so lucky the next day.

Today had started out normal enough… True, his friends had been a little distant, but they had also been busy. He hadn’t given it much thought when besides meals and classes, he’d been left almost utterly alone. At the end of the day, he’d plopped into bed, giving his nightly thanks and fallen into a lite sleep—only to wake up to his three dorm mates, the only friends he had to his name, surrounding his bed looking ghostly pale and nervous.

They ripped back the curtains. He jolted up in alarm, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong; but with one look at their strained faces, he knew.

They knew.

Three wands were pointed at him with trembling hands. James standing at the foot of his bed, Sirius and Peter to the sides. Sweat rolled off Peter’s face in large drops. James had an almost lost look on his face. Sirius’s eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them.

Fear.

They were afraid of him.

The though hit him like a sucker punch. He closed his eyes, not wanting to look at their faces anymore. Distantly, he could hear himself start hyperventilating, see his hands shaking like frail leaves in his lap.

Then the babbling started.

“I-I’m sorry…I..I wanted to tell..But..I..I..Please..Just let me go home. I’ll leave first thing tomorrow. I’ll owl my parents immediately!”

His parents… His mother’s cool glares and crying jags. His dad’s over-tired, over-sad face, shoulders slumped in a stance of permanent defeat; neither had so much as pat him on the shoulder since he was bit. He’d stopped expecting physical contact ages ago.

His pleas were met by silence. He opened his eyes, and a gleam caught his eye. A silver gleam. His throat constricted.

Sirius. The first person to willingly touch him in years. The first of the Marauders to become his friend. Hell, his first friend period! One of the few people who ever managed to make him feel like maybe his worthless existence was worth living ,was holding a silver knife.

They weren’t here to drive away the monster—they were here to destroy it.

He didn’t want to cry. He knew more than anyone that tears were useless, but he couldn’t find the strength to hold them back.

Flashes. His parents loved him, held him. His parents loathed him, flinched at the sight of him. His friends laughed with him, gave him firm, one-armed hugs. They stood around his bed in the dead of night, ready to end him.

And he couldn’t find it in himself to blame them.

He knew he was sick.

Disgusting.

Freak.

Beast.

Monster.

He felt it deep within his bones. Even his inner wolf felt it; why else would the creature go out of its way to slash at every inch of its own skin within reach?