5 Dec 2021, 05:29
Branded
wordcount: 480
Cross was staring at his reflection numbly.
An unfamiliar boy was staring back at him. It looked like his reflection. The same lanky frame and unruly hair. The same almond shaped eyes and freckled nose. The boy in the mirror was very nearly Cross. There was just o n e thing wrong.
A hideous twisted scar, which ran from one eyebrow to his cheekbone, splitting his face in two. The wound had very nearly missed his eye, shredding apart the skin in its path.
Consciously, Cross knew what had happened. He remembered the night. Remembered his friend's weight crushing his chest, the screams from his parents. Warm blood flowing down his face, the feeling of claws raking across his cheek.
But that memory seemed so far away. So unreal. It seemed like part of a night terror. A dream you experienced once and woke up in a sweat, vowing to lock all your doors and windows from then on.
"That's not me", he said numbly, tips of his fingers just barely brushing against the scar. The skin's texture felt all wrong. Bumpy and rough. Too cold and dead to be his own.
But it was him. It was him for the rest of his life. It was his skin, his scar, his brand. A mark that everyone who'd passed wizard preschool could identify.
Claw marks. Ones that couldn't be healed with normal magic.
Ones that signaled him as a monster.
There weren't many things that couldn't be fixed with magic. Being a werewolf, unfortunately, wasn't one of those things. And the marks left on the human body by a werewolf also fell into that category. It didn't take an Auror to guess what the claw scars on his skin meant. And he'd only just realized that.
Everywhere he went, people would know. If they didn't, it wouldn't take long for them to figure out. It made sense now. The long looks he'd received from all his teachers, the hushed whispers and bits of conversation he was just a little too far away to hear. It had taken Knight point out the scar for the ball to drop.
Cross swallowed hard. The boy in the mirror looked sick. He looked tired. He looked angry. He looked like a monster just waiting to snap. Rage and sorrow and bitterness boiled up in Cross' throat. This was him. For the rest of his life. This was what people would see. Not the hard work, not the busting his ass on hours on end just to try out for quidditch, not the humor or the stories he told. This. The scar. The savage beast. The thing lying in wait. The danger.
He didn't make the conscious decision to pull his fist back.
But when shards of mirror started raining down around him, it felt right. So right, he nearly didn't want to stop.
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