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

Treachery

"An honest heart speaks from its soul,
that's how we know it never lies."
-via Unknown

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Lupin Cottage, December 1979

Remus roamed the fields of Walter's Ash dressed only in trousers. His marred skin, worn and ragged from the years of abuse, shimmered under the winter sun. A layer of snow crunched beneath his bare feet, toes an unsettling shade of purple; he could not feel them. His chest and face were red, beaten from the winds of December. The tawny, near brown, wisps of hair atop his head were damp from the clusters of snowflakes falling from the blue sky; didn't snowflakes come from clouds.

He peered through his lashes at the sky, dazzled by the magnificent shades of blue mixing with one another. There'd been not a cloud in sight; the winter sky expanded for miles, disappearing only behind the mountains in the distance. It was mid-day; his parents had gone to work – his mother into the city and his father to an Order meeting.

Remus grimaced.

A figure was approaching him, the crinkle of snow beneath their feet rolling over the surface of the frozen meadow. Remus watched, their raven cloak startling against the white landscape. It was as if a small fragment of the night had fallen from the sky – sore and bleak to the eye. This figure, who evoked a painful throb in his chest, was broad and tall, like the oak tree to the east. Their hood covered most of their face, though the hint of a frown peeked from under the fabric. Remus felt his skin crawl; something was not right.

They stopped feet away from him, warm breath spilling from their parted, red lips. Remus stood stoic in his spot; if possible, his toes would have curled.

"Young Lupin," they spoke.

Remus felt a shiver scurry through his bones, rattling them within his skin. This was the voice of his past nightmares, the slick and cool voice that had haunted him for years. This was the voice of Tom Riddle – of Voldemort.

"Riddle," Remus said.

Voldemort removed his cloak, revealing a smooth, hairless head and flattened face. His eyes, once a murky shade of blue, now appeared bloody in color and dark in attitude. What had once been a proud Roman nose had been replaced by serpent-like slits, thin and menacing. Veins covered his skin, blue and heavy against the pale shade of skin poking out beneath the cloak. If there'd been anyone who appeared more ragged than Remus, it was Riddle. He appeared sickly and thin. It was as if his faced had been blurred by brushes, the Tom Riddle he'd once seen in pictures now gone forever in a haze of body modifications; it was horrific. Riddle's long, skeletal fingers were clasped around his wand, knuckles white from the cold.

"You remember me," Voldemort remarked.

"Who could forget?"

"Don't I look different," Voldemort asked. Remus just nodded, too afraid he might speak out of turn. "I thought it might evoke motivation for my cause. Our cause."

Remus felt his heart thrumming against his ribcage, not so painful yet. His breaths were controlled and even. Winter air spilled into his lungs, rubbing achingly on his vocal chords.

"And who could forget someone such as yourself," Voldemort asked, lips pulling into a daunting smirk. He circled Remus, a vulture preparing itself for a meal, humored by the evident tension rolling across Remus' frail body. "So, your friends have abandoned you?"

Images of Sirius and James danced in the background of his dream, their smiles and carefree laughter taunting him in his plight. They wrestled just as they used to, James' broad figure tackling a delicate Sirius to the snowy ground.