#development: remus

[ohhedamylexa]

au·gu·ry /ˈôɡ(y)ərē/

[ohhedamylexa]

He gets seven days, nine hours, fourteen minutes and twelve seconds of hope. It flutters dangerously in his rib-cage like a new bird afraid to take flight, and yet despite his reservations it grows and grows with each passing breath his magic lies dull and dead. Whereas once he might have felt the thrum of something deep and instinctual inside himself, whereas once he might have felt a tingle in his fingertips of magic - there is nothing.

He’s caught, strung out between the space of the last full and the remaining days before the next.

He takes precautions. Padlocks and isolation in exchange for his now useless wards and charms. Wolfsbane is a luxury not often afforded and now lost as well. Yet still, that hope grows bolder. It bounces from rib to rib until he feels it pressing hard and insistent against his heart, nearly alive and ready to burst out of him.

But it’s not hope at all. It’s a wolf.