Cover art by Charles Frizzell
Far far away, no voices sounding
No one around me and you're still there
Far far away, no choices passing
No time confounds me and you're still there
/The Black Ghosts/
NEW MOON
Maybe it was just the steepness of the hill, but the old man in the ridiculous purple robes seemed to have appeared out of nowhere along the dirt road. The farmer, who had been observing him since the very moment of his apparition, squinted at him in annoyance, still unsure whether he was a bogeyman or a ghost. Upon closer inspection, though, he seemed neither. The man even halted at his call, presented a very respectful bow, and revealed where he was heading to.
The farmer adjusted his braces and made a show of noodling around before he responded.
"…Goathland? Yea, mis'er, just further down t'road. One mile, two miles as t'crow flies. Ya might want'a change, though. That robe o'yours is 'ardly made for such a journey…."
The stranger, who knew exactly where Goathland was located and that his billowing robes were about to endure a thorough dip in the mud, bid him a heartfelt thank you and left, an incongruous shadow against the red haze of sunrise. What the farmer could not see was that the figure halted in the next bend of the road, adjusted the pointy hat on his head, and murmured a couple of indistinct words – from that moment on, his robes remained miraculously untouched by the wallows of yesterday.
Now that no one saw him, the traveller picked up speed, the length and surety of his steps somewhat irreconcilable with his old age. The sky slowly brightened around him, and the air became very warm for a morning in Yorkshire.
Any sane person (wizard or muggle) would have preferred other means of transport to their own two feet padding along a mud-stained dirt road; yet as it happens, the lone traveller in the ridiculous purple robes was called Albus Dumbledore, and Albus Dumbledore did everything for a reason.
The wards have been working impeccably for thirty-five full moons (and counting). They were the most effective of protective nets… Remus Lupin had never encountered such before, until he had made friends. Friends were no more than shields, though – the scorn and rejection of the world merely splintered off them (and sometimes, they left marks). The wards, on the contrary, formed a soft nest around his dwelling, an impenetrable circle of vigilant magic. They blocked out all sorts of unnecessary things, like news, responsibilities, or people.
Remus Lupin's was a life of solitude and no great adventures, to be sure, but there was no reason for one of his kind to be insatiable – he had everything he needed. A cottage, a well, a garden. Summers were stifling hot and winters freezing cold, days were silent from the lack of future, nights were filled with noises from the past, and full moons were terrible; but, as Remus Lupin had learned at the tender age of twenty-one, such was life.
However, despite all secrecy, barriers, and precautions, it was a knock on his very own door that woke Remus Lupin from an uneasy nap on the 31st of July 1993, although he had absolutely no idea that it was the 31st of July, let alone 1993. His very first thought, in fact, was directed at his wand – ten-and-a-quarter inches, cypress, unicorn hair, now where in hell is it?! – then, his second thought argued that it might not be the best idea to challenge the one who just destroyed the most powerful magical aura he had ever performed. His mind, though, had no time to draw any conclusions, since the door of his cottage opened, and in came a wizard who had no fathomable reason, no right, no chance to be there at all.
"Ah, Remus," said the newcomer jovially, and leaned against a rickety shelf, endangering his supplies of lemongrass and salamander blood. "A true pleasure to see you, my friend. It has been too long… I quite like the beard, though."
After having stared at his guest wide-eyed, open-mouthed for several seconds, Remus Lupin could finally manage a shaky, dumbfounded, stuttering response.
"Headmaster – I… I didn't think… when… how… Professor Dumbledore… why?"
"Just Albus will do," said Dumbledore with a bright smile, and offered him his right, heartily and casually, as if greeting a favourite nephew. Remus took the offered hand, suddenly all too aware of the dirt under his nails and the callous skin on his fingers, but the other wizard showed no sign of noticing those.
They stared at each other for a fleeting second.
"You must excuse me for having startled you this way," said Dumbledore skilfully, "but my owls did not seem to reach you – they kept coming back."
"Yeah, I – I haven't been available for quite a while," Remus fought the groundless impression of having to excuse himself for some dubious prank. "I have, kind of, withdrawn, you see."
"All too understandable," said Dumbledore as he took in the modest accommodations of the cottage. "I have always liked the countryside myself. In my modest opinion, there is nothing quite like Scarborough… but it seems like we agree on that."
Remus blinked, completely unsure where this conversation was heading to. "I… Prof… uh, Albus, I wish I could offer you Firewhiskey, or something, but I'm afraid I'm a bit out of stock, and… I don't really have anything to…"
He swallowed the end of the sentence, which would have contained the somewhat agonistic admission that he couldn't even afford Firewhiskey if he sold his entire property. Dumbledore, however, just glanced at him over his moon-shaped eyeglasses and smiled.
"How about that gorgeous cherry tree on the roadside? You have no idea how I have longed after such a feast."
Remus suspected that this claim was, if not strictly untrue, then at least a little bit exaggerated; nevertheless, when Dumbledore gracefully glided back into the garden and on to the gate, he followed. A strange pair they must have been, as they passed the gateway (the wards were nowhere) to tamper with the cherries. Dumbledore conjured a basket, and proceeded to fill it, in a Muggle-ish way, with his own two hands. Remus joined him, rearranging his thoughts along the line of repetitive movements, and waited patiently for his former Headmaster to reveal the purpose of his visit.
He had to wait until the basket was full, the sun rose to an uncomfortable height in the clear July skies, and his back became covered in sweat. Flies started to gather around their ankles to feast on overripe cherries.
"Looks like it's going to rain," the old wizard finally offered.
"That would be the fruit-flies," Remus studied a bulky cleg that landed on the cap of his shoe. "These are just drawn to rotten things."
"Aren't we all?" said Dumbledore cheerfully, and he studied the now-full basket. "Well, I say we have our breakfast. Why don't we just sit outside and talk?"
"Of course," said Remus. He figured that he did not have a choice, not really.
They found a shadowy spot under the great oak that had served as a magical focus for his wards while they still existed. Remus waited patiently for Dumbledore to speak, but the old man just leaned back and enjoyed his cherries with a zest for life that he could all but envy.
"How did you find me?" Remus finally blurted out.
"I have my ways," Dumbledore winked. "But I must congratulate you – it gave me quite the headache. I've rarely had a headache these days."
Remus's dumbfounded glance was met with an expression of… well, this was Dumbledore, after all, so Remus did not quite dare to call it mischief; nonetheless, it was an expression that suggested that no answers would be offered unless questions were asked.
Remus decided to play on. "And why did you find me?"
"Ah," Dumbledore nodded, as if hearing such inquiries were the greatest joy attainable in physical existence. "The how and the why. Always so pragmatic. Always assuming there is a how and a why."
Remus studied a particularly big cherry before savouring it. "You have your reasons. I know it."
"And how do you know?"
"It is not a how," said Remus victoriously, "but a why. In the very unlikely scenario that you looked for me without having reason for finding me at all, just for the sake of looking – then, you would have contented yourself with the assumption that I didn't answer owls and I didn't want to be found. And you wouldn't be here now."
Dumbledore nodded, smiling.
"…besides, have you ever done anything without a reason?"
Dumbledore's smile became wider.
"A fair question – and one I cannot safely answer. All right, I confess I am here for a reason; but if you are so sure of knowing that, then you must have already guessed the reason itself, too."
"You need something from me."
"Excellent!" Dumbledore clapped his cherry-red hands enthusiastically. "Can you guess what that is?"
"…I don't have the slightest."
"Well – since a certain Tom Marvolo Riddle applied for the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, quite a few years ago – unsuccessfully so, I must add – I struggle every year to find a new candidate. Some say that Riddle cursed the position, but worry not, my friend… only one of the staff died this far, and out of his own, ah, unwise ways. So, Remus, in brief terms, I am here to offer you a job. A job that fits you, if I may mention."
Remus raised his head slowly, gradually, aware of each fibre of his muscles as they moved upwards.
"That was not nearly one of your best jokes."
"Oh, it was not a joke at all," came the challenging response.
"Headmaster," said Remus, almost menacingly, "have you forgotten what I am?! I wouldn't… there isn't… there is absolutely no way this would work! Ever!"
"Ah, that," Dumbledore made a small gesture with his hand, as if shooing off a fly. "Your… (what was it…?) little hairy problem will not be a problem at all, Remus. Not anymore. You see, with the Wolfsbane potion…"
"Yeah," Remus snapped, "with the Wolfsbane potion that is impossible to produce with my humble skills in brewing – even suggesting that I could lay my hands on its excessively expensive ingredients…"
"That will not be a problem, either," countered Dumbledore patiently, "since our Potions Master will be more than happy to provide you with the concoction every month, which he will be brewing himself."
"You - you have a Potions Master who can brew Wolfsbane?" Remus stuttered, unwilling to hope, unwilling to notice the lack of conditional.
"As I have said," Dumbledore nodded, "the scene is entirely fit for you to return to Hogwarts. Unless, of course, if you doubt the capacities of Severus Snape."
"Sniv…Severus Snape is your Potions Master?!" Remus suddenly found it difficult to breathe. "But he was… how can you trust him?! He was… wasn't he…?!"
"Severus Snape was a Death Eater, yes," Dumbledore was looking at him very seriously. "However, he switched sides well before the fall of Lord Voldemort. He was a double agent, providing crucial information that saved the life of two members in the Order of the Phoenix. There were some that he could not save, but his efforts were considerable… I would trust Severus Snape with my life, and so could you."
That earned a bitter laugh from Remus. "If he saw me, he would probably try and murder me in my sleep. Or brew me a rapid-acting poison instead of Wolfsbane, and I wouldn't even notice…"
Dumbledore sighed.
"Severus, despite having kept his exceptionally snarky attitude, is a different man today than the one you knew. And you are different, too. The Severus I know today is my trusted colleague, who, in fact, promised to brew you Wolfsbane if you were to come back." Dumbledore's eyes were lost in some unfathomable distance. "People change, Remus. That is, among other things, why I am here today."
Remus furrowed his brows. There was a change in the air between them; there was something heavy and elusive lurking in the kingdom of unspoken thoughts… something dark, something menacing…
"This is no job offer, is it? Not entirely."
"Not solely," Dumbledore corrected pleasantly. Then, he loured. "Remus… when was the last time you read the Daily Prophet?"
There was it, again… that palpable tension…
"Maybe a year ago… I've withdrawn, as I told you… why?"
"I don't like to be the harbinger of dreaded news, but…" Dumbledore conjured a copy of the day's Prophet from one of his many pockets. "Well, see it for yourself."
Remus took the newspaper and smoothed it out. A ghastly, skeletal face stared at him from the front page; a face that was horribly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. And the eyes…
Remus proceeded to read the headlines ("BLACK STILL AT LARGE") and fought some strange, nauseating feeling that made his stomach curl and his back sweat. His heart was suddenly beating very fast.
Calm, he commanded himself, composure. It was not the time of the month to lose it. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Albus Dumbledore, for Merlin's sake!
"So you want me to do… what? Hunt Black down? Is the Order hunting him down, instead of the Ministry?" The sheer determination in his own voice almost made him dizzy.
"No," Dumbledore raised a finger, "absolutely not. The Order is not doing anything, at the moment. I want you to be there with me, in Hogwarts… for several reasons."
"I will not go after Black, if that is what you're hinting at," Remus said, every word a dagger in his guts. "That will not change the past. But if he seeks me out… if he has the misfortune to cross my way…"
"I fear that you might have to confront him at the end," Dumbledore sighed. "In fact, the Minister for Magic and myself have good reason to believe that Sirius will try to break into Hogwarts this year."
"Why would he do that?" Remus growled, wishing quite fervently that Dumbledore would stop using Black's first name. "He cannot be entirely mad if he managed to break out of Azkaban."
"Cornelius Fudge believes that he is after Harry Potter," said Dumbledore measuredly. "And I, for once, happen to share his suspicions."
Harry. The name sent something down along his spine, something that felt like thunder and ice. How could he have forgotten about Harry?!
Remus raised his eyes to stare into Dumbledore's, pale, yet determined, the lines of his precocious face hardened into marble, into granite.
"I will be there," he declared. He had never been quite so sure of anything in his life before. "I will. And I will stop Black. He will never lay as much as a finger on Harry while I'm around." He frowned, realising the unlucky reference he made. "He won't… I won't let it happen."
"And you'll be a good teacher, I'm sure," said Dumbledore, switching back to his sunny mood within the blink of an eye. "Thank you, my friend. I knew I could count on you."
Remus hoped so, he really hoped so; questions popped up and down in his head like Filibuster's Sparklers, but he swallowed them all. They were unimportant, insignificant. He would figure everything out… he was needed at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore had a task for him: that was all that mattered now.
"I – Headmaster… Albus, I'm grateful for your trust."
"Don't mention it," Dumbledore made a light shrug. "I will be expecting you on September the first, then. We will talk in my office after the feast – Severus will be there, too, mind you – and you'll make a very useful acquaintance who will help you acquire any tool, accessories or even magical creatures you need."
"Yeah… yeah, thanks," Remus attempted a self-confident nod, but his gesture didn't feel very convincing.
Dumbledore smiled at him, but his eyes were hard behind the moon-shaped glasses.
"One last thing, Remus," he said softly. "This may prove terribly difficult for you… but, if you can think of anything… anything about Sirius that might help us find and catch him – I know I can trust you to deliver me any information as soon as possible, am I right?"
"Absolutely right, Headmaster," Remus swallowed. Now, that he was Professor Remus Lupin at Hogwarts (it rang quite weird, really) it seemed once again appropriate to use the title.
Dumbledore extended his hand. "I will give you time, then," he said. "See you at the feast!"
"See you," Remus repeated absentmindedly, and shook the hand once again. When he suspended the rolling river of his thoughts to give Dumbledore a last wave, the wizard was nowhere; and he was left alone with himself, and the lurking wolf inside, and the doubts of them both.
He would tell Dumbledore everything, of course. He would tell him about Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs and their escapades, even the ones he'd never found out. And then, he would proceed to the true revenge, and pour EVERYTHING out, to the last morsel of information. He would tell Dumbledore that Sirius had posters of Muggle girls in his room, and that he, Remus, secretly thought that it was very brave of him. (He wished he had one, too). He would tell Dumbledore that Sirius liked his coffee black (and made terrible jokes about it); sometimes bitter, sometimes sticky with sugar (he used to make jokes about that, too, albeit somewhat better ones). He would tell Dumbledore that Sirius had a flying motorbike, only that once, it refused to fly, and they fell, and there was mayhem; and that the citizens of Little Whinging might still have local legends about the giant black dog and the graceful stag storming out of a confectionary at midnight, because something caused an accidental fire; he would tell Dumbledore that it was truly Severus's fault, that one incident in sixth year; and that Sirius could play a guitar, quite well, in fact… who knows, such knowledge might come handy sometime. He would also tell Dumbledore what Sirius's worst memory was… although he might have acquired worse ones, since then; after all, he, Remus had thought he knew him truly well, but apparently, he did not know him at all… And he would ask Dumbledore not to let the Dementors do the kiss on Sirius, even if they had received orders… because… well, it would not even be a punishment, right? He had already proven he had no soul – anyway, there were worse things than a Dementor's kiss, maybe, and Remus Lupin wished all those things to Sirius Black, all of that and worse, everything but the Dementor's kiss –
Sleep came hard that night; and the next day brought heavy rain. Then drift, too.
Good thing the cherries were already collected.
Author's Notes
There is a Harry Potter plot I've been sitting on for over a decade, then one day, I decided to write it...
...and lo, it becometh The Operation Sequestrum series. To check out the "Table of Contents", please visit my profile and/or sequestrumdotgportaldothu (I've been trying to devise a way to show a link since forever... sorry about the clumsiness).
Lucy Dawlish is an OC who has gone through quite a number of changes over the years. As of now, she is the daughter of the Auror John Dawlish. She started Hogwarts in the same year as Bill Weasley and Myron Wagtail.