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

The Order of the Phoenix

"longing is the place of exile.
our love is a place of exile."
-via Mahmoud Darwish, The Hoopoe

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Lupin Cottage, June 1977

Half-man, half-beast; that's what he was. He stood on a stone floor in a dark room, a never-ending circle of black fire encasing him. It singed his skin, the fur. He cried; he howled. The halves of him, only barely combined, fought for dominance, their voices intertwining. Remus was half coherent, a part buried deep beneath the pride and drive for acceptance begging the pain to end. His hands were scalding – scorched to the bone. Blood dribbled from his fingertips where she'd declawed him, where she'd plucked each talon with her bony, frigid fingers like daffodils.

Bellatrix. He'd seen her darting in between low flames, crooked wand showering him with curses unheard of. Her abysmal eyes, deep and hollow, watched him from afar, yellow teeth bared as he whimpered. Her dress billowed around her ankles, the whispers from the flames dancing in the skirt. How had she not been burning?

"Stop," he cried. "Please. I'll do anything!"

"Anything," the room whispered, voice silky smooth.

He echoed, "Anything."

Bellatrix danced around him, laughing at who knew what.

"Little Lupin," she sang, voice shrill. "He's here to see you."

He felt it then. The trickle of anxiety and wariness, the pooling feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him to run. Sweat dripped down his forehead, the flames becoming unbearably bright and hot. He wished to wipe it away, but it stung the rawness of his injured hands. His eyes scanned the room, peered through the contrast of flame against nothing.

"Remus," that voice said. A hand rested on his shoulder, and a rush of emotions fell over him.

The smell of Lupin Cottage fell wafted his senses – lavender and baby powder. His mother's old perfume and Lyall's cigarettes. The soft scent of orange soda from the kitchen and cheese puffs from the television room. The feeling of that night – that night in 1965 – engulfed him. His bladder was full, and he knew he'd need to use the restroom at the end of the hall. Mother and Father were asleep in their room, and he didn't want to wake him; he would have to tiptoe.

He meant to step forward, move toward the bathroom, but his knees locked. Remus was frozen in time, the breath of a stranger cold against the back of his neck.

"Rest easy, Remus Lupin," they said.

Remus shivered, uncomfortable and a bit afraid to look over his shoulder/ This would reveal the stranger haunting his dreams, would reveal the terrorizing maniac that started this in the first place. Had he been ready? Would he face him?

He merely glanced down at the hand and the hand alone; it was pale and thin, much like a skeleton if you asked him. The fingernails were long and pointed, and veins ran prominent and dark under the patched of discolored skin. A ring was on the middle finger, silver with a green jewel, emanating something murky and powerful. It reminded Sirius of the Black Lake – mysterious and dangerous, too deep to fathom and too strong to wade through.

Movement erupted from the end of the hallway, catching Remus's attention. A cloaked figure idled through the hallway, heavy boots dragging dirt across his mother's favorite rug. His shoulders were broad and think, jutting out from his body like a wooden board; he was tall and brooding, a hood covering most of his face, but unable to hide his eyes. They may have been, at one point in his life, a lively shade of blue or gray, but they'd been jaded over time and now resembled graphite more than anything. They peered at Remus, curious and enthralled.