â - a memory that may or may not have happened
Dated:Â 23 January, 1978Location:Â The Lupinâs Cottageâ - a memory that may or may not have happened
Remusâ eyes shot open, a feverish sweat clinging to his skin as he sat up in bed. His head was spinning, eyes dark and full of fear. The werewolfâs skin was burning up, but the air in the small bedroom was freezing, a winter breeze playing at the ends of white curtains. Remus blinked for a moment in the dark, his eyes hardened as he stared in front of him, as if heâd seen a ghost.
Despite the January chill, the window was wide open. Remusâ hands were shaking as he pushed his blanket to the side, swinging his legs to the side of the bed to stand. His bare feet didnât feel the chill on the old wooden floors, and he felt as though he was in a daze as he moved towards the window. He wasnât sure if he was breathing; the moment didnât feel real.
Tremblings fingers tracing along the chipped paint on the edge of the windowsill, Remus stood in the small opening, golden eyes looking out in the silent winter night. The moon was nearly full, casting a cool glow on the sharp angles of the werewolfâs profile, his face stony and pale. In the distance, he narrowed his eyes at a tall, dark figure standing at the edge of the tree-line. It was almost possible to believe that it wasnât realâ a trick of the mind, maybe, little more than the play of shadows in his feverish mind. That is, until the figure moved.
It stepped forwards into the moonlight, the sharp line of pointed teeth in a crooked smile causing the werewolf to grow pale. Remus didnât blink. He didnât breath. The figure just stared with that nightmarish grin, eyes wild, dark and hollow. He wasnât sure how long they stood like that, staring back at one another. It was as if the werewolf was trapped in his body, stuck watching himself from a distance, frozen out fear or perhaps something else.
When Remus finally dropped his gaze, he was alone, hands stiff from the cold and cheeks stinging in the harsh coastal breeze. Reaching a shaking hand up to his face, he was surprised to find tears there, and he brushed against his skin once, twice, and then over and over, until his cheeks were raw. The werewolf swallowed painfully, the memory of the moment suddenly colliding harshly with reality as he fumbled to close the window with wide eyes.
The next morning when he woke, it was easy to pretend that it had never happened. His window was shut. He could hear the sounds of his fatherâs footsteps in the hall nearby as he got ready for work. Everything about the moment was painfully normal. And yet as he stared at the window at the end of his bed, he couldnât shake the feeling of those dark, hollow eyes staring back at him behind a wide, crooked grin.
