Chapter Text
The children of Blackthorn Hill grew up with stories of the Darkwoods. Passed down from stern whispers to wandering ears, many assumed that these tales, this folklore, had been elongated and embellished, drawn out to administer fear in toddlers, or entertainment for adolescents. Sure, the Darkwoods existed, there was no doubt about that, and whether the tales were true or not, the message behind them was clear : Don’t venture too far. Don’t go hunting alone. And never, never, on a full moon.
Bolder ones claimed they had seen him , the King of the Beasts, as he was colloquially called. Coarse, shaggy fur, black as pitch, black as the sludge scraped up from the depths of one’s soul, with thick ropes of muscles that constricted and undulated under an impossibly wide expanse of back. The worst part, though, was that face: sharp, mercurial eyes that they said were so terrifying, a single second of eye-contact left one in a state of permanent stupor, unable to move, speak, react, frozen in constant fear. And there was the snout, too, that hideous snout, thick and scarred, lips curled up into a sneer, white canines flashing.
The village of Blackthorn Hill had always lived in some strange limbo with the King of the Beasts and his Darkwoods. He and his subjects never bothered them. Well - unless a hunting trip went too far, not excluding the reckless actions of the occasional prideful teen. The peace between them was tentative, and unofficial, but it worked.
But that was until the owl came, spat out its parchment on the long table held by the village council. With its feathers, threadbare and black as grime, its broken, hooked beak, and its bloodshot, rolling eyes, they needn’t guess twice where it had come from.
***
Remus woke to the sound of his Mother’s prized cockerel crowing shrilly. A drunkard, starved with lust. He sighed dejectedly, allowing himself to sink into his crooked childhood bed - much too small now, for his tall, gangly frame, and wishing desperately that he could close his eyes and allow sleep to welcome him back for just a little while more…
But no matter. There was work to be done. With great effort, he heaved himself up, sighing in relief at the familiar crack of his joints, rippling throughout his body. The moon was new - his favourite phase, because the wolf was silent, fast asleep. He braced himself for the coming weeks, when the moon would start to wax. He would feel it soon, the restless pull of his muscles as the moon grew fuller, the faint buzzing of the wolf inside him. He grimaced, then shook it off. He still had time.
He went downstairs, was blasted with that familiar scent of musty books and stale coffee, the home that had raised him for the better part of seventeen years. He sidestepped a growing tower of old tomes his father had collected from a fair a few weeks back, nearly knocking into the rickety, old piano he sometimes played at dinner time. It was almost too worse for wear, Remus decided, observing the spiders scuttling across the soundboard, that one key that was permanently pressed down. It was another one of his father’s fantastical splurges, the kind where his mother would put her hands on her hips and sigh, now what are we going to do with this, Lyall? But it had served them well, had held and protected many fond memories of his childhood in its near-rotting wood.
His mother was seated at the rocking chair already, cup of tea in hand, and hen tactfully named Henrietta perched on her lap. Through the open window, sunlight bleeded into her white-blonde hair. She beamed up at him as he approached her. Henrietta glared at him possessively through those amber, beady eyes.
His Mother leaned over and cradled his cheek with a small, calloused hand, “My beautiful son,” She smiled, “Good morning.”
She always called him that, despite the fact Remus hadn’t been anywhere near beautiful for the past seventeen years.
“Morning, Ma.” He turned around to administer a heaping portion of scrambled eggs on a chipped plate, “Pa not up yet?”
“No, he wants to sleep in, the lazy slug! I tell him he needs to move around more, just because he’s all skin and bones doesn’t mean that he’s healthy. I told him he should start going on walks, maybe help me out on the farm.”
Remus’ mouth twitched, thinking about his reclusive father, with his pince-nez glasses and musty tomes. He only really left the house out of necessity - for tutoring, and only willingly if it were to a neighbouring village’s second hand fair. There he’d find more eclectic, impractical junk to squeeze into their insufficiently sized cottage.
“You know he’ll never do that, Ma.”
“Yes, you're bad like him in that regard.” She winked at him, “Say, love, shopping list’s on the counter. But I’ll need you to get some more bread as well, alright?”
“Yes, Ma.”
*
The village was on the other side of the hill, separated by the valley. But it wasn’t too far a walk, not really. Remus’ father was often travelling in and out of it for work, and they always took the cart down with his mother’s eggs and fresh produce to sell on Sundays. They lived far enough though, Remus considered, that the howls, the moans, the screams that shook their dilapidated little cottage once every twenty eight days could easily be written off as the common sounds of the Darkwoods, and not from the Lupins’ son chained up in the cellar.
Not a far walk, then. But still, without Félipe, a walk down the hills and up again was something a little bit like torture. The final throes of summer were always the worst in Blackthorn Hill, and the August morning was no exception. Remus rolled up the sleeves of his blouse, hoping to save himself a little from the merciless sun beating against the cotton of his clothes, wiping away sweat already gathering at the back of his neck.
Finally in the town, Remus observed these familiar, crowded houses and their narrow, cramped streets. All constructed with hammered-to-death wood and ancient cobblestones, these streets had raised him, for nearly his entire life. He waited, breathing in that familiar scent of breakfast, emanating from chimneys, the sound of hushed, still chatter that was never really above a whisper in the stale air of the morning. He closed his eyes, waiting a beat, then two, waiting for the real morning to start, as it always did.
Then there was the slamming open of shuttered windows as neighbours called down their greetings, the creek of wagons and the braying of donkeys as they trudged through the roughly paved stones. The village had woken up, and it was time now, for everyone to head back to their assigned role, to succumb to the ordinary machinations of everyday provincial life.
Remus was used to this moment, when the village people emerged from their shuttered doors, exchanging their good mornings with passersby. Many greeted him, asked him something small, about his mother, his father, the animals. After all, it was only a tiny town, untouched and uncared for in the eyes of the King. These same people had known Remus ever since he had arrived here at five years old, watched him grow into the towering, lanky young man he had become. They loved his mother’s eggs, her vegetables, her wool. His father taught many of their children. But he knew, every time their eyes slid away from his torn up, scarred face, when they smiled sheepishly and edged away, that he would never truly fit in here, not really. It was like their little cottage, separated from the town by the valley. Close enough to be included, to be called a part of Blackthorn Hill, but distant enough that you were never quite acknowledged, an apparition passed through, separate from the action.
It was always best to bring a book with him at these times, he had found, from quite an early age. And that was why his nose was buried in Amadís de Gaula , drowning out the ear-splitting shrieks of fishwives, the heated conversations between hagglers. It was easier this way, to feign ignorance, enrapture yourself in daring adventure and star-crossed love than to be hyper-aware of the snide gossip as market go-ers considered the newest scars, fresh and peeling on your face, wondered about their origins. To avoid tight-lipped smiles and insincere politeness. Remus was used to it by now, these small-minded people with their small lives and small gossip, too busy chasing these small thrills to really think about anyone but themselves, or how their words may affect their object of discussion.
But no matter. Let them gossip. Let them tease him for his clumsiness, or for his bookishness, his poor knack for social interaction. It was when they would start to get suspicious, when they would start getting wary, when they piece things together that had been so carefully patched before, that was when he would start to worry. He was twenty-two now, and the wolf was getting bigger and stronger each month, despite the fact he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t feed it, twenty-four hours before the transformation. Last moon, he had already made a dent in the bars. His body had been left shattered. He wasn’t sure how much time he had left, really, what, exactly, would give - himself, the wolf, or the weighty steel bars and padlocks that kept him contained in his carefully constructed prison.
He tried to shake the nausea that came with thinking about his future, tried to go back to Amadís, the adventure, the life he would trade for in a heartbeat. But it wasn’t helping now. He had already let his mind wander too far.
“Lupin.” He jumped. He recognised that harsh, grating voice, and then really wished he didn’t, resigning himself to his fate as it pulled him out of his anxiety-induced coma. His eyes traveled up, past the huge, tree-trunks that could hardly pass as calves, the impossibly thick, almost obscenely thick muscle of its owner’s thighs, up onto the broad chested man, blouse ripped at the sleeves to display an alarming pair of biceps, bigger than Remus’ entire waist. His eyes scanned over the scars that decorated each inch of exposed skin. So similar to his own, and yet so much more dashing, rugged-looking, much more intentionally placed, as was expected of Blackthorn Hill’s most decorated monster hunter. He let his eyes travel up, up, into the rough eyes of Fenrir Greyback.
“Greyback.” Remus snapped his book shut, placing it into the straw basket he had brought to carry his mother’s groceries. He really, really, didn’t have the patience for this today.
Greyback pushed him back down with one monstrously enormous palm. He smiled down at Remus, or, bared his teeth menacingly, more like. As though Remus were a blue prime rib, ready to be demolished.
“Need me to carry your things?” Greyback gestured to the basket, “Scrawny boy like you, can hardly imagine how you’ll be lugging all of this back down the hill and up again.” He smiled wider, bearing his sharp talons that could hardly be called teeth. They say that he sharpened them himself, adept at ripping out monsters’ throats. He squeezed Remus’ bare forearm. It was hot, and Greyback’s colossal palms were hotter still, and yet Remus couldn’t help but shiver, “Need to build some muscle, kid. You’d think walking those hills would do it for you. Maybe you should be coming up to town more often.” He grinned.
Remus tried to push down the hot, prickling nausea he felt whenever he was forced to indulge this man’s presence. He hated the way Greyback looked at him, like maybe he’d want to hang him up as some prize game, like the rest of his mounts of monsters. But Greyback didn’t know he was a werewolf, not yet. This man was all instinct and sensual pleasures. He wasn’t smart enough. There was no way he could resist toying with his food for this long. Remus edged away.
“I think I can manage.” He tried for a smile, “Thank you, though.”
“Hey be careful, alright kid?” Greyback bared his teeth again, “They say the monsters are closer than we think.”
*
Remus all but ran home after that, his conversation with Greyback spinning in his head. He hadn’t stopped until he reached that familiar rickety gate, blood pulsing, mind reeling. The monsters are closer than we think? What did he mean by that? Was it just a warning ? Monster hunters were always wary, always uttering premonitions like that. Was Greyback even capable of subtext? He thought of Greyback’s predatory stare, those glinting green eyes, lips curled up in something between a smirk and a snarl. Easily, it could mean I ’m on to you, I know what you are . Greyback was always staring at him, wasn’t he? Remus had felt it, since he had come to this town, before he had even known his name. He’d felt those eyes smirking at him, felt that large hand patting his back. And he was their best hunter wasn’t he? With that penetrating stare, of course he’d be able to unmask Remus’ weakly concealed secret.
He petted Lilith before heading inside, trying to ground himself from this awful, dizzying feeling, sinking his fingers into her coarse, bristly fur. She would need a bath soon, he thought, observing her muddy calves and hooves. He’d do it tomorrow, after he milked her.
The squeak of the old door was almost comforting as he came in, and he was grateful he had had the foresight to set down the straw basket on a stack of old books, because he would have dropped it after looking up and seeing that there were about three more old men cramped in his kitchen (and living room) than he expected.
Remus froze. What was the Mayor of Blackthorn Hill doing in their unassuming old cottage?
He locked eyes with his father, who was watching him sternly, eyebrows furrowed in a way that seemed to say, let me handle this.
“Remus.” The Mayor edged closer to him. He was watching him with those soft, brown eyes he always did when watching the children, jostling each other in the market square. He pushed up his half-moon spectacles, falling down his nose and fixed Remus with a kind stare, “I’m glad you’re here, but now you are, I’m afraid I’m at a loss for words.” He turned his hands out solemnly, “I’m afraid there’s no good way to say this.”
“I told you no.” Lyall said evenly. But there was an edge to his voice, a slight quiver that Remus recognised whenever he was near to losing his temper, “I believe you are leaving now, thank you.”
“Your son is an adult now, Lyall, and perfectly capable of making his own decisions I should believe.” That was Slughorn. Remus didn’t know him all that well, but recognised him from his ruddy cheeks and jolly, round body. Despite being on the village’s council, he never seemed all too fond of Blackthorn Hill. His father always called Slughorn a terrible snob, hammering on about how he deserved better than some backwater village. He looked up at Remus with a patronising smile, “Well, get on with it, Albus. Time is not on our side, that’s for sure.”
Dumbledore watched Remus carefully, “You are familiar with the tale of the King of the Beasts, yes, Remus? I would expect so from a well-read young man such as yourself.”
Remus balked. What did this have to do with anything? “I grew up with the story, sir.”
His mother sidled up to him, then, put a hand on his shoulder, “You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, love.”
He frowned. What exactly about the old tale of the Beast King, which may or may not be true, had his parents so tense?
“What’s going on, Ma?”
“I’m afraid we’re not in a position to accept your request, Mrs Lupin. You see, the situation is very dire. Remus if you will join me at the table? This is quite a serious matter.”
Their table was a small round one shoved into the kitchen corner, three mis-matched rickety tables crowded around it. Not nearly enough space for three village elders and himself. As they dispersed Remus caught sight of a fourth, very unwelcome guest. Few people in this world did he loathe more than Severus Snape. He didn’t even bother to suppress the instinctual urge to smile. Severus smirked back.
HEED THIS PROCLAMATION
His Majesty, the King of the Beasts, as he is so often called by his loyal subjects, requests the gift of one male suitor, aged between eighteen to twenty-five years of age. Such offering will be greatly appreciated by His Majesty, lest the subjects of Blackthorn Hill wish to succumb to the dark forces which surround them.
“You see, last night this proclamation was sent to the council. I know you read well, so I will allow you a moment to let this sink in.”
“No,” Lyall snapped, “Absolutely not. Do not do this, Albus.”
Dumbledore only shook his head.
Remus looked up, “This is a joke, then.”
“Not a joke.” Slughorn interjected, “If you had seen the owl, you would know that it was no ordinary creature. And this parchment, this quality. It would only come directly from the royal family. Not to mention the carriage…”
“Carriage…” Remus frowned. His mind was spinning.
“No, unfortunately my boy, this is very, very real.” Said Slughorn, “The entire village is in danger if we do not find an adequate male suitor. “
“Which you will not find,” Lyall said drily, “In this house. “
Remus’ eyes widened. He turned to Dumbledore, “You mean…?”
“Yes, my boy. The council has taken a vote, and it was you whom we agreed would be the most suitable choice.”
Remus recoiled, “No.” He said stonily, “No, I refuse.”
“I’m afraid that is not your choice to make.”
“Not his choice?” Hope seethed, “I don’t see any of you offering up your sons to be used like - only the gods knows what this… beast wants with him!”
“Mrs Lupin,” Slughorn smiled queasily, “We were hoping you would be able to see reason.”
“No, you see reason,” Lyall started, “Have you forgotten the service we have done to this village? Without my tomes you would have never found wards adequate enough to protect this place.”
“Yes Lupin,” Snape senior said snidely, “Your wards have indeed protected us. But that does not absolve you of your other crimes, namely the monster you house in this very cottage.”
“You mean my son.” Lyall glowered, “Well that’s just foolish. Remus has never hurt anyone”
“They will never be safe, Lupin. Not for you, not for us, not for him.” Snape senior continued, “There is talk in the town. Many folk are getting suspicious. And when they do figure it out – well, who’s to say they won’t turn on you? You know your son is growing, and the beast inside him grows too. I was telling the council that just last full moon, your son was very close to breaking free from that cellar we had so carefully warded. My son, Severus, has testified with evidence. There is no use in denying it. “
“This village is vulnerable, Lupin. We cannot continue to harbour a monster any longer.” Slughorn nodded solemnly.
“We have paid you back in full for your service, and then some.” Dumbledore added quietly, “I’m afraid our generosity can only extend so far.”
“We’ll go, then.” Hope sneered. She was already turning away, gathering the straw basket of groceries, as though she were about to run off right this second, “I will not turn my son into some kind of sacrificial offering, or sex-slave. Whatever it is you’re suggesting. Never and certainly not for an ungrateful village like this.”
“Is that truly wise, Mrs Lupin?” Dumbledore asked softly, “You have already ventured through the Darkwoods before. You know what it has cost you.” He nodded at Remus, “Who is to say that your travels will not find you suffering at the hands of many, many more Darkwoods?”
“Not to mention your status as fugitives.” Snape Senior helpfully supplied, “Would that life be any better? Camping out in the dark woods? Evading the royal guards? Perhaps this time you will become a whole family of werewolves.”
They faltered. Remus considered it. His parents were getting older, and they’d never been athletic, by any means. Sure, his mum worked hard on the farm, but more and more was Remus taking on more of the work. More and more was he suggesting she make a start on dinner, and he move the hay bales. His father, too. He rarely walked to the village, always using Félipe. And yet, more often than not was he sleeping in, or dozing on the couch after a full day of work. They’d hardly survived the first time they ran. Even then, he thought, feeling again that familiar tingle at the side of his hip, the side of his bite. Even then, the cost had been too heavy for the three of them to handle.
Snape senior watched the three of them with nothing short of a cruel sense of glee. He and his son knew Remus’ wolf better than any of the other members of the council. Having manufactured the locks themselves and placed the wards, the two of them were well acquainted with the horror of his transformation, the danger of it. Remus wasn’t surprised that they couldn’t look at him without thinking monster, monster, monster.
He spoke up, then, “I’m afraid we have forgotten to mention one small thing, one small way in which we believe we can be able to recover your son. This King of the Beasts will not be aware that the young man offered to him is in fact a werewolf. We believe that perhaps this can be used to our advantage. Perhaps the full moon is just what we need to eliminate this beast once and for all.”
“You…” Lyall snarled. He threw off his jacket, leapt over the table and wrapped his hands around Snape Senior’s neck. Severus shouted, trying to pry said hands off, but Lyall only smacked him away.
“Enough, Mr Lupin,” Dumbledore faltered, “Enough, I say.”
Remus stood up then, stared straight forward, “I’ll go. I’ll do it. On one condition.”
“Yes,” Slughorn smiled, nearly genuinely, for the first time, “What is it, my boy?”
“You’ll keep my parents safe. Ensure they will stay protected, as long as they are here in Blackthorn Hill.”
“That is done.” Dumbledore nodded solemnly, “We thank you for your bravery, Mr Lupin.”