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

Altercations

"I like silence, for I've learned that not everyone who listens to you can understand your soul."

-via Kavya Dixit

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Hogwarts, 1971 (First Year)

Dinner had been a blur to Remus—a blur that he hadn't bothered notice until Ivan Strix and Naomi Ganders, the Gryffindor Prefects, corralled him to the common room. Remus and his classmates appeared to have agreed to avoid each other casually. He did not make any moves to start idle conversations, and the rest seemed content on doing the same. The only sense of the outside world he'd experienced was a pair of faded, steely eyes watching him now and then.

He didn't mind; strangers always stared at Remus. From his scruffy, ochre hair to the scars swelling past the collar of his jacket, even down to the way his legs stuck out from him like two long tree limbs. Nevertheless, Remus's appearance alone made people want to stop, even if only for a second, and stare.

If it hadn't been from the years of conditioning, all of the prying eyes would've grown exasperating. Still, Remus let himself grow agitated at times when a sea of faces would all be trying their darndest not to look at him—to ignore the deathly glow of his skin and the tired lines tracing his face only a man of years should have. They'd all done a poor job of trying, always drawing their brows in trepidation, crooning to each other endlessly. By the time Remus had made it to Hogwarts, he'd learn to tune it out and disregard it. It wasn't worth the trouble he might get from the wrong crowd, according to his father. Wizards didn't like his kind, and stirring up conflict at a wizarding school was not on Remus' agenda.

There was enough difficulty as it was, seeing as Muggles frequently asked his parents, "Is he alright? Should he see a doctor? He looks ill."

And it was always the same excuses. "No, ma'am. Poor Remus is just getting over the flu. No, sir. Remus here's just a bit tired – we've been out shopping all day. No, no, he's quite alright. I promise."

But Remus had never been 'alright.' The bones within him were tired and aching. He felt heavy as if he were trudging through swamp waters in his school robes. The Wolf taunted him from the confines of his conscience. If Remus had stubbed his toe, a low, guttural growl would sound from the back of his throat. If he'd dropped his plate on the floor, spilling his dinner everywhere, a burning ferocity would flow through his body for a split second. It whispered nasty things in his ear in a language only they shared:

If they want a monster, I can give them a monster.

That's the least he owed himself; a release of some sort because it was wearisome being Remus. One night to just disappear from the world—from himself—and let something else take control.

Who's to say that he didn't wish he was normal? Looking around at other boys his age, Remus felt underdeveloped. Take Sirius, for example. How could an eleven-year-old be chatting up an entire table with as much energy and humor as he? Those who'd been listening were enraptured by some silly story of something called a Doxy, eyes wide and eager to soak in more of his words. And James—he'd already started networking throughout the upper-classmen for Quidditch.

And though he tried his hardest to be happy for these boys, even the little snarky git, he envied them.

"What is wrong with you!" A voice snapped Remus out of his thoughts.

Their Prefect, Ivan Strix, blew smoke from the ears, nostrils flaring as Naomi attempted to neutralize the situation. "You could've caught my robe on fire!"