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

Hopeless, Hopeful, Hope Howell

"It's like a fire broke out in my lungs, and the only way to put it out is to stop breathing."

-via Aya Naim

A/N: Y'all, the tea in this one is piping hot. I feel like we don't know enough about the Lupin's – so here ya go. Just for reference, this is in Hope Lupin's POV. 

The song above is the one she's singing in the kitchen.

Warning: Violence and Graphic Descriptions of War, Mental Health Crisis

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July 1974 (Summer before the fourth year)

The ringing never stopped. Not even the screams or the cries of falling airplanes could drown out the hissing in her ears. Hope opened her eyes to find miles of sand outstretched before her, not an ocean in view. Dunes tipped over as boots clamored away from gunfire and detonations; she could see their mouths open, crying out for help or praying one last time for redemption, but she could not hear them. Blood trickled over the soldiers' skin, drenching their uniforms and dyeing it crimson. Hope wondered if her clothes were stained red—if her skin was tinged pink but not from a fickle blush or too much rouge.

Hope tried moving, tried to pick up her feet and carry herself away from this scene. The images of chaos and death flooded her senses, but the toll in her head still rung true. Perhaps it was better this way, better than she could hear them wailing in agony. But, by the looks on their faces, the unhinged jaws, and screwed shut eyes, the silence was a reprieve.

When would it end? This war, the pain, the suffering? No matter how much Hope willed herself to move, she was fixated in the middle of Normandy Beach, in her off-white nurse's uniform and low-rise heels. The winds from bomb drops had sent her hat flying in another direction hours ago; yes, she'd been there for what felt like hours. The sun, hidden behind plumes of smoke and clouds, raced across the sky and drenched her eyes in the darkness.

And that's when the ringing ceased.

Most of the men around her were dead. Some passed from the gaping wounds in their shoulders, necks, or stomachs, while others were shot point-blank. Many bodies that dusted the shoreline were missing limbs or other extremities—one was found without his head. She remembered a boy—he all but fabricated in front of her—that was found with one leg hanging by weak tendons. As a nurse, she knew there would be no saving the limb. As your average woman, she knew there would be no surviving that blood loss.

Moving in closer, Hope was able to make out the words he cried.

"Mum," he screamed, refusing to bite down on the stick as they cauterized his right leg. The one with his knee still attached swung frantically, blood-spewing on nearby onlookers. It was terrible. "Mummy! I want my Mum."

It could have been her twisted imagination, or perhaps a demon tempting her to the brink. The voice contorted and changed tones, willing itself to maintain familiarity with her. That voice that echoed over the chaos of the beach reminded her oddly of...

"Remus!"

Kicking off her shoes and thinking nothing of the risks, Hope broke out into a run across the beach. Bullets planted themselves in the ground—an airplane above with machine guns rained hellfire upon whoever was left alive on the front—but it didn't matter. The soles of Hope's feet were lacerated and punctured by knives and demolished machinery, and a trail of bloody footprints followed her with every move. But she didn't care.