A small boy sits on a broken bed, crying mutely. The sheets are torn and slashed as though someone has tried to put them through a paper shredder. The room is dark and the only light comes from one single window, high up on the smooth wall, through which the last rays of the sunset are faintly visible through the bars. The boy’s light brown hair falls over his eyes as he scrapes away his tears on the corner of his patched robes. Suddenly, he looks up angrily, his tears forgotten, glaring at the concrete walls of his horrible prison. Across from the dilapidated bed, a flight of steps, also made of concrete, rises to a heavy door. He quietly walks to this door and presses his ear to it, straining for any sound. There it is, a sound of sadness and hurt to match his own. Someone on the other side is crying.

The boy silently sits back down on the bed. He waits, staring at his bare feet, noting the stark contrast between his pale skin and the dark grey concrete. He reaches down, absentmindedly tracing a scar on the back of his right leg, a scar that is shaped like a bite mark…

Remus Lupin waits.

He is young, perhaps no more than five or six, and still does not understand. Why have his parents, his beloved mummy and daddy, taken him down the twisting corridors and stairways to this torture chamber for the third time? Why have they left him, alone and confused, in this concrete prison? Has he done something wrong?

Remus thinks he knows. He has done something wrong. He can barely remember it, but in his nightmares he can see his leg bleeding, feel razor-sharp teeth tearing into his soft skin, hear his mother crying…

He knows it was his fault. It is why he is abandoned in this cell. It is his punishment, and he must deserve it. For if he was innocent, then his mummy and daddy wouldn’t let this happen. The pain… the terror… and then waking up the next morning, his arms and legs fresh with new scratches and bites.

His father had asked him about it once. “Remy, do you…” Daddy had faltered as Mummy’s lip trembled, as it did so often now. “Do you remember… anything? Anything that happened to you last night?”

Remus remembered pain. He remembered his body betraying him, twisting, writhing, changing. But how was a six year old to explain the horror, the agony, of transformation and the terrifying animal emptiness he felt afterwards? So Remus shook his head. No, he remembered nothing.

This lie must be another reason for his punishment. Lying is bad. Only bad people children lie to their parents, and Remus knows this. And so he waits.

The sun abandons Remus as well, leaving him alone in the frightening darkness. But Remus knows that there are no monsters under his destroyed bed. He is the only monster in the room. Slowly, the moon begins to rise, and Remus finally turns to look through the small window. He doesn’t have to wait long before the first jolt of pain whips through his frail body. “Daddy…” he whimpers. “Mummy...” He squeezes his eyes shut. The next time they open, the eyes are tinged with yellow and empty of humanity. A tortured howl escapes the small wolf, and the crying on the other side of the door rises to a hysterical sobbing.

Remus wakes in the morning to a sharp pain in his arm. He stares at the wound for a moment. He does not scream, or cry, or do anything else a normal six-year-old would. But, then, Remus Lupin isn’t exactly a normal six-year-old.

Slowly, Remus attempts to get to his feet. His legs shake under him and he quickly sits down on the bed. The sheets are now not much more than cloth confetti. His complete weakness and helplessness frightens him far more than the sight of his many scratches, but still Remus makes no sound.

Fresh sunlight streams through the barred window, illuminating the boy’s dishevelled hair. He pulls on his tattered robe and falls back onto the bed, his small reserve of energy spent.

The heavy door creaks slightly as an anxious face appears from the corridor. Remus doesn’t move. He hasn’t the will to even turn as his mother lets out a small cry and runs across the small room to her weary son.

“Remy, Remy, my poor Remy,” she croons softly, unshed tears making her eyes glisten. Remus doesn’t speak. His mind is numbed by the horror and pain. He stares at the high ceiling, eyes wide open but seeing nothing. Time passes sluggishly. At some point his mother leaves, only to return with bandages and potions that make his wounds sting as she applies them. She holds up a steaming goblet, trying to convince Remus to drink, but he doesn’t even move.

Sometimes he sleeps, his dreams littered with monsters and moonlight.

The days pass, or perhaps they don’t. Time has no meaning to Remus. All he knows is that little by little he is regaining strength. Strength enough to scream when he dreams, yet again, of a white orb hanging menacingly in the sky. He wakes shivering and drenched with sweat, his mother again by his side. This time he drinks the steaming potion, although his hands shake frighteningly. The warmth rushes down his throat, warming him and calming his trembling limbs.

Remus sleeps, and he dreams of the moon.