scribblerian

Six year old Remus sits and broods in his dark, silent bedroom.  He listens to his mother cry all the time.  He listens to his father pace - heavy boots on the creaky wooden floor.  And he sits in his bed, staring down at his blanket and feeling rather lost. Even now, months later, nobody knows what to do with him.  Society doesn't accept werewolves.  Werewolves are dangerous.  Werewolves are brutal and bloodthirsty.  He sits in his bed day after day, everyone speaking in hushed tones and peeking in on him as if he were dying.  And he wonders why. His parents had, of course, sent for all sorts of healers and philosophers and potions masters