Broken Glass

```````````` Prologue ````````````

Remus winced as he heard the front door slam, signaling his father's departure. He remained stationary, crouched by the foot of his bed until he heard the crunch of gravel outside as his father's Muggle car pulled out of the driveway. Once the headlights streamed past his curtained windows, Remus made an attempt to stand. He staggered, feeling a bolt of pain course through his leg. He shifted his weight, making his way to the bathroom down the hall while the ache in his leg continued to throb.

As he stared into his reflection, he saw the same gaunt face he always did. The defined chin and high cheekbones gave his face an angular appearance. His tawny brown hair, mussed from the previous ordeal, stuck to his forehead with drying blood. With the exception of the blood stains and bruises, Remus' reflection would have been that of a handsome young man, with eyes that betrayed the experience of the emotional battlefield his life had become. Now, however, his face was decorated with swollen red markings, his father's parting gifts. By morning, he knew they would turn an unpleasant shade of purple. This knowledge had been garnered from experience.

He began to nurse the new souvenirs of his most recent argument with his father. I never should have let him find out, he told his bruised reflection silently. His parents had already made their contempt for their son known, repulsed by Remus' infliction, lycanthropy. The disease that he had been plagued with since childhood. Then, they saw him as a monster, and now they saw him as a freak.

He tossed the once white linen towel into the sink, letting the faucet run until the water steamed. He watched the towel soak, slowly turning the water a faint pink. It was hard to believe that it was his blood. He supposed he should have come to accept it by now, but every time his father became destructive, Remus felt that it was becoming increasingly worse.

He remembered the incident that had marked the beginning of this new chapter of his life. It was a vivid image, still too raw to dwell upon. The memory was one of crushed hopes, betrayal, and confusion. The simple act of remembering seemed to cause a new wound to form, this one not appearing on his body, but the pain was even greater. He knew no amount of nursing would make the incessant ache in his chest disappear. That particular wound was still too fresh and would remain that way, Remus assumed, forever.

I never should have let him see, he thought again. Those words had become his newly adopted silent mantra.

Remus stumbled back to his room, each step making the pain in his leg intensify. It felt as though his bones were made of jagged glass. He numbly wondered if anything was broken. He collapsed onto his bed, unable to stand on his own power. His eyelids suddenly became too heavy as the room began to spin. The possibility that he had a concussion was becoming more and more likely.

The ache he felt in his leg had gone from a dull throb to a blinding white pain. He let his eyes close, no longer having the will to resist, and felt himself being dragged away from his own body. He unwillingly gave in to the memories that were threatening to envelope him. Unseen hands groped at him from the darkness, forcing him into shadows.