Hide Your Fires- Wolfstar

This Year's Love - David Gray

Remus POV

Millicent arranges for me to leave before my brain has time to comprehend that, Oh my god, I'm leaving to live with werewolves. I'm going to see the man that bit me. I might die. I might never see my loved ones ever again.

I don't have time to see my parents. Although you might wonder why I'd see them after all these years, this could have be the last opportunity I had to say: I love you, in spite of your flaws. I forgive you, in spite of your shortcomings. I miss you, in spite of your shame. Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise that I can't see them; the Ministry was very strict about limiting the number of people who knew what I was going to do. The more people that know, the higher the risk of being compromised. I'm sure dad knows after that day with Millicent in my apartment, but mum? I'm not so certain. In case of my death, I've asked Sirius to tell them I love them, that I died without resenting them.

"You're not going to die, Moony," Sirius insisted with such stubbornness that I don't think the grim reaper himself would dare interfere with his plans to avoid facing his wrath.

"But still... It'd be a comfort to know that message had got to them if it becomes apparent that I won't be able to deliver it myself."

"You're not going to die!"

He became near hysterical at this point, so I dropped the subject. I'd given him the message, and I trust him to pass it on.

Here's my mission. A relatively simple one, superficially, given it's vagueness when written down.

Infiltrate werewolf camps. Gain their trust. Learn of their plans. Send mission reports.

Easy, right? I'll just waltz right into a camp at an unknown location with an unknown number of lunatics of unknown hostility and be like, Hey, I liked what you did at the orphanage. Want another pair of hands? Lunatic here is used in its purest form: luna, meaning moon, lunatic, meaning to go mad because of the moon's cycles. We are one.

The day after the battle at the orphanage, I'm stood at a train station, a single backpack with me. They told me to travel light. I know where the train goes, and that's about it. I have to await further instruction at the next location. It'll be like tracking mountain gorillas in Rwandan forests: we know their last known location, but they move around so often that it's highly improbable they'll still be there when I reach it. From there, it's just keeping to the trail: follow the trampled vegetation (the massacres), the signs of feeding (no need for an equivalent analogy here), and eventually, you'll catch up to the pack. Again, sounds easy, doesn't it? After that, I've just got to prove my loyalty and earn myself a place in their ranks. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

I feel sick constantly. I cannot do this, yet I have no other choice unless I want the bloodshed to continue. I'm simply terrified that instead of alleviating the suffering inflicted by werewolves, I'll actually end up abetting it, giving in to my killer's instinct, and I'll become nothing more than a feral beast. I'll turn more people than I save. I'll return after the war with blood stains that will never wash off. I will never be able to look at myself ever again for fear of facing the atrocities I'd inflicted. People will avoid me like the plague, well, more so than they already do. They'll whisper, That's that werewolf that was supposed to help but just ended up killing people like the rest of them. Sirius will leave me. He won't be able to handle being associated with me. He'll look at me and see in myself what I've seen my whole life: a monster.

Sirius is with me now, here to send me off on my merry way with the possibility of me never returning. He's putting on a brave face, but I heard him crying in the bathroom this morning before we had to leave. He cried all night, first begging me not to go, then begging me not to die when I'm away, begging me to write to him whenever it's safe, begging me to remember that he loves me no matter what. I wish I could cry, muster up a single tear, but there's a mental block hindering me from doing so. I think if I cry I may never stop sobbing and I'll drown on my own tears. As long as I don't outwardly express my fear, it simply cannot exist. That's what I have to keep telling myself, that I'm not scared. I'm doing the right thing. I'm not scared. I'm doing the right thing.