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

A Spark

"Sometimes, you have to be quiet enough to hear the crackling inside of that fire that still burns."
-via J.W.

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Lupin Cottage II, March 1971

Remus didn't always like the peace that followed transformations. Perhaps it was the hollow, cold echo of dawn at Walter's Ash or the silent stream of fog from beneath the door to the shed. With the lack of windows, morning sunlight solemn spilled across his dirtied skin, and the metal doorway barred any twittering made by the neighborhood birds. All that entertained him was the trickle of cold, rusty water from broken pipes, the overwhelming tidal waves of loneliness, and the stickiness of wounded flesh with every movement. After nearly five years of this, the shed had lost its charm. He once enjoyed the serene, barren landscape of this place in the early mornings. Still, a twinge of bitterness was always left behind.

Of course, after a rather sore shower and a well-deserved breakfast, such sentiments were replaced with a foreboding sensation of impassiveness. For hours, Remus couldn't help but curl up on the couch with a bag of crisps and a fizzy soda to lose himself among the plot of some tenacious television show on the air for too long. An imprint had made itself on the cushion after so many months of channel-surfing, and the cupboard was always stashed with the snacks Remus needed to recharge for the next transformation. Without these days, sometimes weeks, of rest, Remus would find himself ever so weary and in need of someone more advanced than his mum.

His father had told him that his mother would have some sort of hernia if Remus had been caught eating oily crisps on her brand-new sofa. Then again, he said the same thing about the orange sodas on the carpet. Three stains later, and his mum had never made any snide comment on his cleanliness. Not that Remus wanted to upset his mother; it wasn't as if he had meant to drop the glass those times. Remus loved clean carpets just as any other young boy would!

Then he wondered, "Do young boys care about carpet?"

He was just about to hastily throw another crisp in his mouth when his mother let out a yip of surprise, a dull thud sounding in the kitchen.

"Bloody birds," his father mumbled distantly, moving around the room for a moment before quietly retaking his seat.

Remus had assumed another owl had come from the Ministry. It wouldn't be a surprise seeing as the only mail they ever received by owl was for his father. Lyall worked for the wizarding government, and there had been a surge of attacks lately. His father's appearances around the cottage were few and far between, leaving his son with only a passing glance or a slight nod. Remus knew that he was tending to important parent things and tried his best to stay out of the way.

This owl was different, however. A tight knot twisted in the bottom of Remus's stomach, an aching urge to sneak into the kitchen and eavesdrop on the low whispers now snaking around the cottage roiling within him. Remus placed the crisps bag on their side table gently, careful not to rouse the plastic and alert the adults. His feet socked they may have been, shuffled soundlessly across the carpet; his fingertips pricked delightfully. The reigning echo had come from his mother.

"This isn't going to change him, Hope," his father snapped. His mother huffed, fiddling idly with a pan she'd scrubbed clean quite a while ago. Clutched in his father's hand was a letter with neat, loopy handwriting. Remus was too far away to read much of the print, but he recognized the name, Albus.

"No, but it would give him a chance to feel normal, Lyall," his mother said.

"He isn't one of us," Lyall barked. "He isn't one of me – he is his own... he is–" Remus felt his chest constrict, unable to ignore the way his father's lip curled in... disgust?