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

Recovery

"Moon drunk monster, beautiful and strange. Howl your melancholy question and tell me, which you dread more: the echo or the response?"

-Lindsey Rodgers

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Without a single visitor or clump of chocolate, Remus Lupin underwent his miserable treatment in the hospital wing for nearly a week before human contact was made with someone other than his nurse. It was an ordeal, to say the least. Maybe the school had been in over their head, or possibly just Madame Pomphrey, but mending Remus became quite the challenge. While Pomphrey would never give away otherwise, the overwhelm and tension in her shoulders gave away her disposition, and Remus withered in her presence. He knew she didn't mean to come off as astounded or distant. Though, the number he'd done on himself most likely didn't help, either.

The open wounds splattered across his arms and legs were easy enough to heal; a few salves and lotions in the wing's collection meant that the exterior damage was, in just a few days, all but erased. Of course, metallic abrasions sealed over the gushing, pink meat, leaving Remus feeling more self-conscious than he was before. It was just another opportunity for James to bully him, or for Sirius to stare. But that came with every transformation; the feeling would subside, he promised himself. James would become bored from the lack of response, and Sirius? Well, he'd get invested in something else as he always did.

Possibly his own reflection, if Remus were lucky, and he'd leave him be for the remainder of the year.

It had been the damage inflicted internally that worried the nurse and, if he was being truthful, Remus. Lacerations that tore across his stomach left tender organs vulnerable to disease and filth. Upon discovery, a segment of his lower intestine had poked from his skin, dangling dangerously from tendons. Blood pulsed from sporadic scrapes and cuts, leaving a bright red trail from his journey into the hospital wing. A single gouge had been made from the tip of his ear across the surface of his face, nearly missing his eye socket. It was, according to Dumbledore, a miracle that the Wolf had missed by a fraction of a centimeter.

"How are you feeling, darling," Madame Pomphrey entered the room, her trolley of elixirs and salves following suit.

It pained him to move even an inch, but Remus managed to turn his head and smile, "Much better than before. Thank you."

The old woman smiled, coming to a stop at his bedside. It was time for the routine to begin; time for Remus to feel a bit like a dog at the veterinary office for a checkup. Call him cynical, but it was the truth. Not that it was Pomphrey's fault. In fact, he had felt more like a real boy in his with her in the wing than he had all year. Less like an annoying bug or a meddling dog. But a little boy.

Madame Pomphrey rested the back of her palm against his forehead gingerly, a charmed quill and parchment taking notes on his condition.

"The fever has left your body," she said. "That's very good. How is your belly?"

She tugged at the blankets that engulfed him, noting the shivers that coursed through his body as the draft took over. It had been too painful to remove the bandages around his stomach thus far; the layers of crusted blood and scabs from stitching had dried into the fabric, making mobility a limited luxury.

Remus reached down and revealed his abdomen, unable to look down and see this twisted form of self-mutilation.

She observed it, eyebrows knitted tight, "I suggest we leave it be for the time being. Your body is doing a tremendous job at healing itself, and we wouldn't want to stunt its regeneration. Shouldn't be much longer."