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

Ludicrous

"I long to be more than I am."

-via Ben Maxfield

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Hogwarts, January 1977

Remus was warm. No. He was beyond warm. He was morbidly hot. His nightshirt clung to his sweat-riddled skin, and wisps of his hair gripped the back of his neck. Every breath he took felt like watered-down oxygen, heavy in his lungs. The odor – the rancid stench – of charcoal and acid fulminated in the air, prying open his nostrils and assaulting his senses; he grimaced. He was barefooted, the soles of his feet bumping against pebbles and debris.

He was in the room again – the dark, windowless room. He'd been there several times, of course, only in his dreams. With every sequence, something new was discovered, and these nightmares became more of a puzzle than a nuisance. An edged pipe to break the bindings or a nightshirt to keep out the chill. Once free of his bondage, he was able to remove the handkerchief that was wrapped around his eyes.

There was an elaborate setup to these dreams; he wondered if his mind was testing him. There was nothing that wasn't there for no reason. A bloodied night shirt, a jagged, rusted pipe that leaked water, and a small, hand-held piece of scrap metal easily made into a shiv. Once one part of the puzzle had been solved, Remus moved to the next.

The serpent like voice hadn't visited since that morning in 1974, not even for the cordial "hello." At first, Remus would wait. He sat, waiting like a pig for slaughter, for a year until he realized that the stranger wouldn't be making any reappearances and soon decided that, if these dreams were going to be so damn repetitive, he might as well get to exploring.

Something in him, though, beckoned him upstairs. He noticed in this particular dream something he hadn't before. On the far-left wall was a small door, just big enough for someone as skinny as him to crawl through. The latch, however, was broiling hot. Droplets of sweat pelted against the rusted metal, sizzling and popping as it evaporated.

This was the only way out, Remus decided. He had to get out. His brain was screaming, "Get out. Get out. Get out now. Get out of here. This place is bad." The place gave him the heebie-jeebies, and, with the way his adrenaline was pumping, his gut instincts might have been right.

But how to get the damn door open. How do you open sweltering, padded doors?

Footsteps echoed behind him, slow and deliberate. With each patter of leaking water, the clicking of heels bounced off of the walls. Remus's arm hairs stood on end, the goosebumps rising not shortly after. His insides roiled with tension and fear – something deep down telling him that this was all wrong, that this was not the place to be – to get that damn door open now!

Without thinking, he grasped for the handle and yanked as hard as his body could allow. Pain reared through his arms, the skin on his palms sizzling as he cried out in pain. It couldn't have been worse than the tag, he thought, but it was a close second. He gripped his left wrist, grinding his teeth to bear the pain. Had to get the door opened. Had to. Just had to. The footsteps were inching closer by the second, the tension in his stomach tightening like a knot. He grabbed for the handle again with his right hand, not hesitating to yelp in agony.

Tremors ran through his body, up and down his arms and through his core. He could barely hold his hands up, too afraid to see the sight of marred flesh. He swore under his breath; there was no way he could open the door now. He was stuck in a room – a terribly frightening room – with death nearing him by the second.