thirteen

⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆

Once Dumbledore had confirmed that Sirius Black was no longer within the ancestral walls of Hogwarts, everyone was free to leave the Great Hall, albeit they headed straight to their common rooms. When nobody was looking, Wren had snuck away from the crowd and snuck through the cold hallways to the library.

It felt as though her mind were about to explode, a million thoughts buzzing around with no way of escaping. She was exhausted, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep until she got some answers; After much questioning, Snape had proven useless and so she had resorted to what she knew best - books.

The library was rather creepy at night, eerily quiet and shadowy from the towering bookcases and moonlit arched windows. There was an uneasy gurgle in the pit of Wren's stomach, but she chose to ignore it.

She lit her wand with a lumos spell, running a hand across the many books spanning the shelves, searching for any book that mentioned blood curses in the title.

Thick dust from the unread books coated her fingers, stray particles floating through the shimmer of her wand's light. The floorboards were creaking under her weight as she placed one foot in front of the other, squinting her eyes as she scanned the entwined gold titles of the leather-bound books.

She froze when she found one titled 'The Dark Magic of Blood Curses' - the soft leather a deep forest green. She pulled it from between other books, not bothering to fix the one that fell into the gap.

A navy blue arm chair is positioned perfectly against the large, arched window, which Wren sits down in. Her legs are sprawled over the arm, as she angles the book so that the moonlight refracting through the window lights the page perfectly.

Her eyes scan the pages, looking for anything that could help her save her mother, searching through chapters and chapters for even a phrase of hope.

The sun was starting to rise, orange rays of light bouncing around the otherwise empty library. Wren could feel her head throbbing from where she had been reading for hours, and her eyes hanging heavy from lack of sleep. She felt as though she had just been reading gibberish, flicking through the pages but not quite able to take any of it in.

Her eyes were getting heavier and heavier with every word that she read, just about to close fully and drift off to sleep when something piqued her interest. She straightened up as she read through the page with intrigue.

The blood curse cure.

This is a subject in which Wizards and Witches have been studying for generations, ever since Grindelwald created the first ever blood curse.

Potion masters and Healers believe to have figured it out after countless trials and investigations.

It seems no amount of power or magic can aid in the reversal of a blood curse - there is no cure.

The only way to break a blood curse is with the original caster, who must, through free will and consent, transfer the blood curse onto somebody else. Thus freeing the person previously trapped.

The one condition, however, is that the new owner of the blood curse has to share blood with the previous owner.

Wren slammed the book shut, not wanting to read any more. She pressed a hand to her cheek, wiping away the tears that had been falling as she read. The hollow feeling in her chest was indescribable, almost as if every ounce of hope had been squeezed out of her.

She felt utterly empty - even her headache had been replaced by a feeling of numbness. The only thing reminding Wren that she was still alive and not a corpse rotting in the rising sunlight, was the heaviness of her heart. It felt as though someone's hand was clasped around the organ, holding it tighter and tighter with every beat.

Her father was in prison, and her mother was dying, and there was nothing that she could do about it.

She was the last of the Winslow bloodline, and yet she suddenly wished she had never been born.

*

"Do you think that I'm evil?"

Wren's words caught Remus off guard as he blinked back at her. They were lying in his bed, Wren's head previously resting atop his bare chest, though now she was looking at him intently.

"Never." He found himself searching her eyes for some sort of explanation as to what she meant.

"I think I might be." She whispered.

"Wren." He flipped her over onto her back so that he was leaning over her, clasping her face between his hands, "If sunlight were a person, it would be you."

"But." Wren's eyes flickered down to the scar on her arm. Since Remus had seen it in the corridor the other night, she no longer felt the need to hide it from him.

"That." Remus placed a kiss on her scar, causing her to flinch, "Does not define you. Your blood doesn't define you."

Wren's gaze faltered, as she thought about what Remus had said. The elder man rolled back over onto his back, his hands sitting comfortably under his head.

It was quiet for a moment, before Remus spoke, "I'm a werewolf."

"What?" Wren propped herself up on her elbow so that she could see him better.

"Don't make me repeat it." His voice was only a whisper.

"Once a month, I become.." He mulled over the right words to say, "Not human."

Wren's hand rose to rest against his cheek, her thumb rubbing gently across his stubble.

"If you are evil, Wren." He continued, "Then I'm the devil."

"You are not." Wren started, turning his head to look at her when he tried to look away.

She repeated his words from earlier, "That does not define you."

It suddenly all made so much sense - the scars littering his body, the disappearing for a week once a month, the mood swings and personality changes.

"Most people would think I'm a monster."

"If you're a monster," She again chose to repeat his earlier words, "Then I'm the devil."

She couldn't understand why he thought his words didn't apply to him also. It hurt her that he thought so little of himself. She lowered her head, placing small kisses on the faded scars scattered across his chest.

"If moonlight were a person, it would be you." She muttered between kisses.

Remus hated the moon, feared it, but being compared to the moonlight, especially by someone who adored it so much, was the most caring thing anybody had ever done for him.

"I feel safe in the moonlight, guided almost."

He suddenly felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his chest. Wren knew. And she didn't care.

The girl squealed as he flipped her over onto her back again, his lips now exploring her supple skin with soft kisses.

"Wren Winslow." He groaned to himself, as he made his way down to her thighs.

*

Remus ran a trembling hand through the soft curls of his hair, noting the way his forehead felt almost tacky. He could feel the stream of light reflecting from the moon burning into his back, his chest bare as he leant over his office desk, hands firmly gripping onto the edges.

Splinters from the wood dug into the creases etched on the palms of his hands, carving away at his already scarred skin. He felt the forthcomings of an animalistic growl gurgling in his chest, having to drop his head to suppress it. His condition meant for a rather painful night every full moon, but it also meant for mood swings, aching gums and searing headaches throughout the rest of the month.

The office was pitch black besides the moonlight peeking through the paned glass window, casting grievous shadows across Remus and the room.

He took a swig from his crystallised tumbler of firewhiskey as he sat himself down, the legs of his chair scraping against the wooden floorboards under his weight. His limbs felt heavy, as if they weren't his own - bruised and scarred appendages that he had ripped from other people during his psychosis.

The cubes of ice clinked against the glass of his tumblr as he poured the rest of his drink down his throat, basking in the way it burnt. On the desk before him was a silver, circular mirror, which he angled towards his chest.

The image reflecting back at him made him feel physically sick, having to force himself to keep looking. Raw scars covered nearly every inch of his bare skin, outlining the muscles in his abdomen and chest. Some were much deeper than others, reddened bruises peeking through the gashes of torn flesh.

He picked up a folded section of linen cloth, golden twine neatly embroidering the letters 'S.B' in the corner. Pouring clear ointment onto the cloth, Remus pressed it onto one of the many scars, seething as the oil seeped into his skin.

He bit down on his forearm, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to take his mind off of it, trying to think of anything else besides the roaring pain. Remus had a vast collection of ointments and healing potions, many of which wouldn't have hurt nearly as much as this one. He simply chose not to use them. As he moved the ointment soaked cloth from scar to scar, he kept wracking his mind until it settled on a memory that seemed to ease the pain instantly.

Remus grabbed onto the girl's hips, pulling her towards him as he buried himself inside of her. She whimpered, Remus' grip tightening to keep her steady as she faltered.

He allowed his fingers to roam her body, brushing against her silky smooth skin. He brushed the stray strands of her hair from her back and shoulders, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck as he continued to push into her.

The girl straightened up so that her back was pressing against his chest; Remus was momentarily encapsulated by the sweet scent of vanilla. His left hand rested on her stomach while the other made its way teasingly up her torso, grabbing roughly onto her throat as she moaned.

His lips explored the soft and supple skin on her neck, teeth nibbling as he kissed. The girl's head was thrown back, resting against his shoulder.

That sweet scent of vanilla alone was enough to distract his mind, his hands moving to grab onto the arms of his chair. The skin covering his knuckles turned white, as he now tried to take his mind off of Wren.

He was finding it difficult to think about anything else considering the hardness of the one appendage that felt like his own. He pulled a new bottle of firewhiskey from the bottom draw of his desk, pulling the cork off with his teeth and taking a swig straight from the glass.

He had sworn to himself and, in so many words, to Wren, that he would forget all about that night. But all it took was a simple glance at that brunette hair that his hands had grabbed on to, or a small whiff of vanilla as she walked past, for his obsession to come back.

Wren had occupied his mind nearly every night after they met, and now after all this time they had spent together, especially the other day before Harry had interrupted, he expected her to be on his mind forever.

He blamed it on his condition - the night he had met Wren was not long before a full moon and Werewolves had a tendency to become attached, especially when feeling emotional.

Their situation had been mulled over in his head more times than he could count. Teacher, student, teacher, student. It was wrong on so many levels, and yet it just felt so right.

He couldn't help the anger that was coursing through his veins, as he picked the small silver mirror from his desk and launched it across his office. It hit the far left wall, glass shards smashing across the wooden floorboards.

Remus recalled telling Wren that the night in the pub was the anniversary of a friend's death, which it very well could have been - he had mourned many friends throughout his thirty years. It wasn't quite the death of a friend he was mourning this time however, and more so the death of himself.

It was that night 29 years ago that Fenrir Greyback had turned Remus into what he hated most.

⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆