Mischief Managed | Marauder One-Shots

A Temporary Summer Secret

TRIGGER WARNING⚠️
This chapter contains a lot of negative self talk and is written in a toxic, depressed perspective. If you are sensitive to this topic or are struggling with something similar, I suggest you skip the chapter.
Every single one of you matters.
Stay Strong.
All my love,
- E xxx

...

- REMUS -

Head spinning, mind racing, self hatred filtering -
My body crumpled beneath me, a corpse of shattered bones. I stared into the pitch black darkness, letting It consume all of my sense as the image of Sirius's smirk, Peter's sheepish smile and James's infectious grin flickered through my mind like a roll of film. Their faces flashed before my eyes, faster, before a blood curdling scream ripped from my lungs; and I let the creature inside of me take over completely.

...

My eyes snapped open, a rush of sudden panic flooding through me. My body lurched upwards before I'd even processed my surroundings - deep, raspy breaths loosing from my raw throat. I spluttered, retching onto the cold hard surface below me, the familiar clink of chains restraining my every movement. The fragile bones supporting the foundation of my skeleton faltered, causing me to collapse in a heap upon the floor of my dusty basement. Goose bumps piercing my naked skin like a blanket of ice, slowly, and then all at once. I panted heavily, wincing at the sensation similar to sandpaper being dragged down my esophagus agonisingly slow. Every ginger movement ached, a sudden, sharp and unpleasant sting shooting through my face. Slowly I rolled onto my side, dodging the padlocks, forcing myself into a strained sitting position. My body convulsed in sudden sporadic shivers, causing me to glance down where my limbs quivered.
"Shit." I breathed, scanning the mauled flesh of my thighs, and the raw cuts that caressed my pale, shivering skin. It was more - much more than usual. They tore along my calves, twining around my quadriceps - becoming lengthier near my groin but thankfully dodging the most important part of my body - and trailed all the way up my stomach, almost like a strange pattern. They stung, but barely. What hurt was my face; as if someone had sliced a sharpened blade over my nose. I hesitated briefly, wondering if it were broken. Padfoot and Prongs had gotten enough shattered noses over the years that I was sure they'd celebrate my first one. My trembling fists clenched by my sides as I tore my eyes from the jagged slices embedded in my ghostly skin.
I hated spending too much time down here.
The suffocating darkness was like a ward of dementors, not even a mere window for me to glance at the skies, a sign of daylight, of salvation. I had no recollection of time, nor of how long was it until six am, when my Father would reluctantly drag his sorry arse down here and release a monster from his goddamn chains. Would he do it, and send a bloodthirsty, destructive beast into his home once again? Perhaps even look me in the eyes, his son? The chance of the latter was low, In fact I wasn't sure I could remember the last time he'd done so.
A low sigh loosed from my lips, and I felt a heavy sort of relief lift from my slumped shoulders. Another month - over.
Another full moon that had been different to any I'd ever experienced. It had been...traumatising. It had been much, much worse. This cycle had taken me by surprise so much that I was sure I was still in vague shock, staring into the darkness of my prison cell dazedly. Considering that I was not in the shrieking shack but my miserable old basement might have been a factor of why it had been insufferable. Although, it had never happened before. Every inch was boarded up, an inescapable lair of a tarnished soul. Satan's favourite form of torture.
I rolled my neck, my thoughts analysing last month's transformation and the drastic differences. How pitiful they seemed compared to now; July had been breezy in werewolf language. An hour shorter then usual, lacking any destructive harm, broken floorboards. Remus John Lupin's form personal form of heaven. How utterly depressing that thought was, but what could I do?
Last night was the one hundred and thirty sixth to be exact, recorded and engraved in each wall of this room. Just like Fiona in desperate wait of Prince Charming to sweep her away in his strong arms. I'd recognised years ago that no one, not even some princess, would come and rescue me like I'd hoped as a puppy. I wondered vaguely just how many more transformations I would experience before my footprint on this earth was erased. A hidden, feared part of me, buried beneath oceans and mountains of excuses - secretly prayed that I barely reach the one hundred and forty eighth. Give or take a few.