Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

ACT I: The Wolf

"The fight is long, but the fight is worth it."

-via Ben Maxfield

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Lupin Cottage, Early March 1965

Hope Lupin watched her son sleep peacefully from the doorway, a soft smile present on her aging face. In his arms had been a small stuffed elephant – her name had been Ellie, much to his father's disapproval as it was clearly a boy – with torn, blue felt and a loose, pink button eye. His hands, small and fragile, clutched her to his chest; she rose and fell with his breathing. The rainwater against their tin roof didn't stir him one bit; the wind whipping against the windows had been nature's soft lullaby for Remus Lupin. Her eyes, bloodshot with exhaustion, flitted over his sleeping figure; her son was so at peace. His tawny hair was splayed across his sheets – he despised sleeping with pillows – and the thumb attached to his free hand was lazily stuck in his mouth.

She envied his tranquility. Envied the careless snores and soft hums as he dreamt. Slumber hadn't befallen her in recent weeks; her conscience was riddled with horrific possibilities. Lyall, the boy's father, had promised his safety. His agency – the Ministry of Magic? – had posted guards around their simple town of Clovelly, but had it been enough? Hope didn't exactly understand her husband's way of life. She'd gone along with it for years hoping she could grasp the concepts and customs he enforced to the best of his ability – yet this? Her little Remus endangered? Hope didn't know his associates or his boss. How could she trust that they looked after her son?

The shuffle of feet sounded behind her, a heavy hand massaging gentle circles into her rigid shoulder.

"Hope," Lyall whispered, careful not to wake his son, "you're not invincible. You need sleep."

Hope didn't need anything but the assurance that her son would wake up safe every morning. If her husband couldn't even promise that, then she took no risks.

"I'm fine," she muttered, shrugging him away and recoiling to the confines of Remus' nursery. She lowered herself into the rocking chair her brother-in-law had gifted her all those years ago, an old afghan of her mother's draped across the back.

While she'd sworn her sanity to her husband, it had all been a ruse. Hope Lupin was far from fine. She chewed her nails, leg bouncing silently on the green carpet. Her fingers had turned into bloody stumps, the nail polish now chipped and raggedy on what had once been her nails. The skin surrounding them had been gnawed painfully, hangnails of all sorts drooping away. The bald spot near her temple itched, but with nothing to scratch it with, she endured the annoyance.

Lyall watched from the door frame, brown eyes hooded and angry, but Hope simply ignored him as all bad things eventually disappear if you pretend they aren't there. He did go to bed only minutes later, mumbling under his breath about her paranoia and foolishness. She didn't care. Remus' safety was her only priority, and if staying up all night meant that he would survive another hour, then damn it she would do it.

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Hope stirred in her chair. Her spine ached, and a crick had made itself quite comfortable in her neck. There was the patter of little feet echoing through the room. It was difficult to wake; sleep beckoned her. She'd been dreaming of much simpler times – times they spent in London while Lyall was off on some secret mission. They enjoyed their alone time, she and Remus did. They visited an ice cream shop; Remus always got the death by chocolate sundae. The sun was warm against her skin, her red hair free and her smile wide.