Remus Lupin: Harry Potter Fandom: 10 years old
Author: Bitterfig
Title: In Bed with the Wolf
Age: 10 years old
Chapter: 2/8
Character: Remus Lupin
Fandom: Harry Potter
Ratings: PG-13
Warnings: Weird creepy snake pit medical stuff , mature themes
Beta Reader: Nzomniac
5 Years Old
Ten Years Old
“We haven’t actually tested it on a subject, yet,” the doctor told them. “But it’s seems promising. Muggle’s have been using electro-shock treatment for thirty years. If lycanthropy is caused by a disturbance within the brain, it could be an effective treatment. It might be what we’ve been looking for.”
“What if it isn’t?” Olivia Lupin asked. “What will it do to him if it doesn’t make him better?”
“It’s not going to hurt him,” the doctor said calmly. “The worst thing that can happen is some short-term memory loss. This is low risk compared to some of the experimental treatments he’s received.”
“If you were willing to try this, Remus, it might help,” Mr. Lupin said hesitantly.
“Please, Remus,” his mother wailed. “It could help. You could be normal again. You have to let them try.”
“All right,” the boy said.
The werewolf had attacked him three years before when he was only seven years old. When his parents started taking him to doctors, looking for a cure, they promised it would always be his decision. He learned quickly enough how to make the right decisions, the ones they would have made themselves. He learned not to upset them by being afraid or by crying when the treatments were painful. He tried to make it easy for them, or at least a little easier.
He had taken away everything they had, everything they were. He knew this.
They no longer sat--he with his whiskey sour, she with her gin and tonic--and talked about books the way they used to. They were as awkward as strangers except when they talked about him, and then they were fluent as they had once been with each other. Has Remus been taking his pills everyday? I think he’s losing weight again, that’s dangerous--the transformation’s already so hard on him. His wrist hadn’t healed yet from where he was gnawing it last month. The Healer can’t help. We can’t chain him like that again; he gets too crazy. Do you think it’s starting to affect his personality? I’ve read that sometimes the wolfish traits can start to seep through. It was in the Prophet this morning that they’re considering legislation that would allow the Ministry to quarantine all werewolves--they’ll take him away. That’s not going to pass; they’ve tried it before. It won’t pass. There’s a doctor in Liverpool who’s been doing some work with lycanthropy. It sounds promising. Can we afford it?
The treatments never worked, but they let his parents hope so he endured them. Herbs, potions, and charms were not so bad, but there were also terrifying Dark magic ceremonies, and grotesque experimental hybrids of Muggle technology and magic governed by skewed logic. Treat lycanthropy as if it were rabies, a course of injections; treat it as cancer to be burned away with radiation; and this latest idea, treat it as madness to be shocked from the system.
He lay on a table, straps crossing his body, wires attached to his forehead. He waited. The treatments themselves were usually not so bad. It was the time before. There was always a time before where he had to wait alone in a room, usually tied down with no one to be brave for and then he was afraid. So afraid it seemed unbearable and he thought he would go wild like he did on the nights of the full moon, tearing against his restraints till they broke or his arms and legs broke. He’d done it a few times, early on when he was a little boy.
He’d found a way to calm himself. He would imagine a figure standing beside him, a girl in a red cape who shone from the inside out with a gentle light. She took off her cape, took off the rest of her clothes. Her white dress and her corset, her long lace-up boots. Then she lay down beside him and pulled her red robe over them both. He imagined this lying on the table, waiting for the doctors to come and start the shocks. He imagined this, weeks later, chained in the basement waiting for the transformation to see if they had worked, if the transformation would take him.
It did, as he knew it would.
Title: In Bed with the Wolf
Age: 10 years old
Chapter: 2/8
Character: Remus Lupin
Fandom: Harry Potter
Ratings: PG-13
Warnings: Weird creepy snake pit medical stuff , mature themes
Beta Reader: Nzomniac
5 Years Old
Ten Years Old
“We haven’t actually tested it on a subject, yet,” the doctor told them. “But it’s seems promising. Muggle’s have been using electro-shock treatment for thirty years. If lycanthropy is caused by a disturbance within the brain, it could be an effective treatment. It might be what we’ve been looking for.”
“What if it isn’t?” Olivia Lupin asked. “What will it do to him if it doesn’t make him better?”
“It’s not going to hurt him,” the doctor said calmly. “The worst thing that can happen is some short-term memory loss. This is low risk compared to some of the experimental treatments he’s received.”
“If you were willing to try this, Remus, it might help,” Mr. Lupin said hesitantly.
“Please, Remus,” his mother wailed. “It could help. You could be normal again. You have to let them try.”
“All right,” the boy said.
The werewolf had attacked him three years before when he was only seven years old. When his parents started taking him to doctors, looking for a cure, they promised it would always be his decision. He learned quickly enough how to make the right decisions, the ones they would have made themselves. He learned not to upset them by being afraid or by crying when the treatments were painful. He tried to make it easy for them, or at least a little easier.
He had taken away everything they had, everything they were. He knew this.
They no longer sat--he with his whiskey sour, she with her gin and tonic--and talked about books the way they used to. They were as awkward as strangers except when they talked about him, and then they were fluent as they had once been with each other. Has Remus been taking his pills everyday? I think he’s losing weight again, that’s dangerous--the transformation’s already so hard on him. His wrist hadn’t healed yet from where he was gnawing it last month. The Healer can’t help. We can’t chain him like that again; he gets too crazy. Do you think it’s starting to affect his personality? I’ve read that sometimes the wolfish traits can start to seep through. It was in the Prophet this morning that they’re considering legislation that would allow the Ministry to quarantine all werewolves--they’ll take him away. That’s not going to pass; they’ve tried it before. It won’t pass. There’s a doctor in Liverpool who’s been doing some work with lycanthropy. It sounds promising. Can we afford it?
The treatments never worked, but they let his parents hope so he endured them. Herbs, potions, and charms were not so bad, but there were also terrifying Dark magic ceremonies, and grotesque experimental hybrids of Muggle technology and magic governed by skewed logic. Treat lycanthropy as if it were rabies, a course of injections; treat it as cancer to be burned away with radiation; and this latest idea, treat it as madness to be shocked from the system.
He lay on a table, straps crossing his body, wires attached to his forehead. He waited. The treatments themselves were usually not so bad. It was the time before. There was always a time before where he had to wait alone in a room, usually tied down with no one to be brave for and then he was afraid. So afraid it seemed unbearable and he thought he would go wild like he did on the nights of the full moon, tearing against his restraints till they broke or his arms and legs broke. He’d done it a few times, early on when he was a little boy.
He’d found a way to calm himself. He would imagine a figure standing beside him, a girl in a red cape who shone from the inside out with a gentle light. She took off her cape, took off the rest of her clothes. Her white dress and her corset, her long lace-up boots. Then she lay down beside him and pulled her red robe over them both. He imagined this lying on the table, waiting for the doctors to come and start the shocks. He imagined this, weeks later, chained in the basement waiting for the transformation to see if they had worked, if the transformation would take him.
It did, as he knew it would.