Chapter Six

Good Doggie

Fenrir continued to attend the support group as though nothing had happened, but he knew they knew something was up. He rarely spoke now; he just sat at the back and stared at the walls. Sometimes he'd listen to what they said, about new developments in the law. Because that was all he cared about these days. He became obsessed, sitting up all night, filling scrolls and scrolls of parchment with notes. He'd gathered quite a collection of books, some of them about law, some of them about werewolves, some of them about the attitude towards other non-human beings, and he read all of them from cover to cover, again and again.

He spent New Year's Eve alone. He lit a fire and sat in front of it, mesmerised by the dancing flames. Their heat flickered across his face but he shivered anyway. On the first of January the Daily Prophet was delivered by owl, as it always was. The front page headline declared that this would be a great year, particularly for those investing in the toad trade, but at the bottom of page six, there it was. It was almost a footnote, it was so small. But it might as well have been the front page headline, thought Fenrir miserably.

Hiker Killed on Saddleworth Moor.

He was so tired.

He did not return to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. It seemed stupid to. He knew Fortescue couldn't have known what he had done – there was no way he could have known what he'd done – but he couldn't bear to face him. Fortescue was good, he was kind, and Fenrir wouldn't have been able to look him in the eye. He was only human. He didn't know, Fenrir thought bitterly, how it felt. How much his life had changed in six months. Six months that felt like a lifetime in themselves.

His wages stopped. He hadn't had any contact with his parents since Christmas. He had sat down one evening and begun to pen a letter, but he hadn't gotten past the first sentence, and he'd crossed that out so much that the tip of the quill had ripped through the parchment. He gave up. He had no money coming in. The only gold he had was in Gringotts, a tiny pile – so he visited Diagon Alley the one time, taking it all, bypassing the ice cream parlour.

He kept it in a pot under the stairs. He bought milk and meat and bread, but that was all, and sometimes he didn't even buy that. Sometimes he just sat and gazed at the fire. The flames looked so happy.

/

He became so absorbed in his obsession that he began to stop attending the support group. Artemis called to see him once or twice, and Fraser wrote him a letter which Fenrir supposed must have been strongly-worded (or maybe caring, or possibly both; he couldn't really remember), but then they stopped. He'd smiled at Artemis, benignly, and looked through her, and told her he was fine, thank you very much, and had decided to see how he got on without the group. He supposed she must have told the others not to call round. Fenrir never replied to Fraser's letter.

Not attending the meetings made time seem hazy. He kept odd hours, staying up until dawn and then crawling out of bed at three in the afternoon to continue his work. Sometimes he didn't sleep at all. All the days seemed the same; they began to run into each other one endless slick of time.

His calendar got lost under the scattered parchment that littered his floor.

/

He began to transform without realising it. It started as an ache in his stomach, but that was perpetual these days. He was holding a cup of tea when it happened, looking at the steam rising from the surface and contemplating something stupid – like what sort of sandwich he was going to make tomorrow. Because he thought he was getting better, he really did. He was starting to organise his material, and think about what he would say when he had the opportunity to present it to Mr Hanson again.

But he realised the fingers curling around the cup were lengthening, and he heard the bones crack. For a moment he thought he might be hallucinating, because he wasn't sure if he had had enough sleep, but then the pain ripped through his entire body and he yowled in agony. The cup dropped to the floor, staining the parchment and scalding Fenrir's feet, though that was the least of his worries.

I need to get out, he thought vaguely, clawing at his carpet and trying to pull himself towards the door in between screams. He had the idea that remaining in his house would be worse: his plans were there, the plans he'd worked so hard on, and money, and food… He reached the door and tumbled into the street, half-formed, his ears pricked, his fingernails bleeding. He tried to make it to the house at the end of the road and he was sure he was almost there, but it was so dark…

/

He woke up to birdsong. It was really lovely, he thought, and for a moment he was sure he was dreaming. The sunlight was just beginning to struggle through tree branches: it was a beautiful spring morning in a forest clearing. Moments later, he realised he oughtn't to be in a forest clearing, and adrenaline rushed through him like a shot. He sat up too quickly, the blood rushing to his head, making him feel ill.

And, of course, he'd done it again.

He had his arms wrapped around something, small and heavy. It was covered in blood, wearing a tiny pink jacket and blue jeans. He slumped against a tree, furious with himself, as well as feeling nauseous. The little body had a mop of hair on top. He reached out a hand, and as gently as he could, he brushed the thick strands away from its face.

It was a little girl. She was white as paper, her eyes closed, blood clotting around a gash in her forehead. Fenrir gave a shuddering gasp, and shut his eyes, holding her closer.

"It's not fair," he whispered, to no-one in particular.

She was so warm. He grimaced. He could feel her heart beating; it made him so uncomfortable.

His eyes snapped open. The girl was still breathing. She was dreadfully injured and horribly ill, but she was alive.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," Fenrir whispered, laying her on the ground. "You're still alive. You're beautiful! I'm so sorry." He looked up from where he was crouched. He knew that before long he'd hear the sounds of men and dogs, looking for the little girl. They wouldn't know what he was. They wouldn't know what she had become. For a moment, he considered taking her with him – he would be able to provide her with proper care.

But you can't even take care of yourself.

Feeling utterly hopeless, he did the only thing he could think of. He knew it wasn't subtle and he knew there would be a fuss made, but what else could he do?

In the earth beside the girl's head, he scratched out the word werewolf with his fingernail. She was a Muggle and Muggles didn't believe in werewolves, but he couldn't not let them know. What they did with this was up to them. He rocked back on his heels, clutching desperately at his hair. What could he do? What could he do? Was there anything he could do? He didn't want to take the girl, he didn't want to steal her, but he didn't want anyone to get hurt. Just leave, said a voice inside him. Leave her and forget about it. Was that really his only choice? He looked around, desperately, as though searching for someone to appear from the trees and give him his answer, but no-one came.

"Help me!" he screamed, out of desperation, and a nearby flock of birds took flight, their wings beating the air as they rocketed off with frightened screeches, and then all was silent again.

And then footsteps began to sound beyond the trees, and Fenrir had to get away as fast as possible.

/

It was only after Disapparating that he realised how the girl may have been better off if he'd killed her. The way werewolves were treated… Many people would certainly believe you were better off dead than having to live with that.

Still, he reasoned, as he stood blankly in his shower, I didn't kill her. I'm not a murderer. And he stepped out of the shower, with a renewed passion, one he hadn't felt for months. The girl didn't have to suffer. He would make sure of it. He would make the world a better place for werewolves, and especially for her. One day, she would thank him. She would know how it felt to transform, and she would understand that he wasn't to blame. And he would thank her, for giving him his life back.

So he set back to work with a renewed fervour. Within days, his project was completed and ready to go. It was the length of a novel, the pages covered on both the front and the back, and the evidence it held, Fenrir thought, was possibly the most compelling argument for werewolf equality anyone would ever read – if he did say so himself.

He got himself an appointment at the Ministry of Magic, and waited for it patiently. When he entered Mr Hanson's office, the latter raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Walden stood awkwardly in the corner, looking as though he really wanted to step out of the window. But Fenrir beamed at them both, and set about using presentation techniques he'd researched and practised to perfection.

"You do present a very compelling argument," said Mr Hanson, "but I believe we have already discussed the difficulties with categorising werewolves?"

Walden flinched, as though Fenrir was going to leap forwards again. But Fenrir just nodded, and explained again the possible changes.

He was called back for several meetings after that. Eventually he was offered a temporary position in the office of the Werewolf Support Services – "a sort of PR, if you like," smirked Mr Hanson. Fenrir liked that very much.

/

His office was tiny, though he preferred to call it 'cosy'. He'd bought a comfy little armchair for behind the desk. He had proper filing cabinets for his notes now, and owls actually came with letters for him. He'd constantly be invited to meetings and 'events'; people wanted him to speak on behalf of werewolves, apparently, although it seemed that what they really wanted to do was make disbelieving noises and patronise him. But he kept a level head.

Sometimes he saw Artemis in the corridor, or at meetings, or at lunch. It had been slightly awkward at first (Fenrir had avoided her, ducking behind statues and hiding behind pamphlets about dragon scale rot), but after some time they were back on friendly terms. Fenrir apologised for leaving so abruptly.

"It wasn't anything personal," he said, "and I'm very sorry. I just felt like I needed some space. To get my head sorted."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "As long as we know you're healthy and happy. The others would like to hear from you, though."

He didn't want to disappoint her, so he popped in once or twice, just to say hello, and tell them about the progress he was making. They all seemed fairly happy, if a bit miffed at his abandonment. He felt guilt over that, just a twinge, but he didn't really have time to attend the group regularly any more – when he wasn't writing letters and filling out forms, he was sleeping, or spending time with his co-workers. There were three members of the Werewolf Support Services who had a similar job to him, although Fenrir wasn't exactly sure what they did. All he knew was that he took care of the business he needed to, and they took care of the business they needed to. They were all fighting for werewolf equality, and needed to devote time to their jobs instead of worrying about the others – at least, that was what Wayne told him. Wayne had explained the roles several times, but Fenrir remained baffled, as did Myron and Ophelia.

Wayne was a Squib, but what he lacked in magical skills he made up for in knowledge. He was really supposed to be working in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, seeing as he'd gone to a Muggle school, but they'd shunted him down to Werewolf Support. Wayne wore thick glasses and had short, bristly, black hair. Though it didn't suit him, he said he kept it shaved to avoid unnecessary tatting. He had tried to give Fenrir hair advice – "Yours is so curly; it would be easier if you just got rid of it…" – but the three of them had laughed at him, and told him to please be sensible, and to have another beer.

They drank a lot of beer when they were together. At the end of the week, more often than not they'd head down to the pub, and then spend long evenings at one or another's house, talking about anything and everything. Fenrir finally had friends – people his age, people he could identify with – he hadn't had that since he was at school.

When he asked them why they didn't attend the support meetings, they giggled and exchanged shifty looks and explained that Myron had had a falling out with Artemis long ago.

"None of my friends go, anyway," Myron shrugged. "It's just not cool, you know what I mean?" Myron had an air of confidence about him that was captivating; when he talked, everyone paid attention. He was the one that mostly got saddled with proactive campaigning: standing behind stalls at conventions and things like that. Ophelia was almost in love with him; everyone knew it, but Myron pretended not to notice. It was this infatuation they were talking about one night at the pub, two years having passed since Fenrir's last huge mistake.

Myron and Wayne had stayed late at the Ministry. They had some business to take care of, which neither Ophelia nor Fenrir were very interested in at all. It was the full moon that evening, and they both knew they had only a couple of hours to relax, so they'd decided to use them for actual relaxation, rather than strenuous paperwork.

"Do you think he's using the workload as an excuse not to spend time with me?" asked Ophelia, nervously drumming her fingers on the table beside her wine glass. "He's been really distant lately, I think he's trying to get away from me. He probably thinks I'm really clingy or something."

"I'm sure he doesn't," said Fenrir, taking another sip of his beer. "We have had a lot of work to do recently. He's probably just busy."

"Still," Ophelia pouted, "I'd rather he didn't put it in front of me. Oh, Fenrir, don't look now, but there's a woman over there checking you out."

Fenrir raised his eyebrows. "Is there?" When Ophelia nodded, he slowly turned around, under the pretence of looking for the toilets, and his eyes came to rest on a woman sitting at the bar. She looked vaguely familiar, and quickly glanced away when she saw him looking. She was wearing a purple velvet dress, teasingly low-cut, and had chestnut curls cascading down her shoulders. She was alone. "I think," said Fenrir, turning back to Ophelia, "I am going to go to the bathroom." She smirked.

He got up, headed towards the toilets, and checked the woman out from the back. All good there, he thought, but as he was standing behind her, she turned her head, looking to see where he'd gone. Their eyes met. "Ah," said Fenrir, and he saw Ophelia laughing from the corner of his eye.

"Hello," she said, and gave him a little smile.

"Hello," he said gruffly, and there was an awkward moment of silence before she said, "It's Fenrir, isn't it?"

"Huh?" said Fenrir. "I mean, yeah, it is. I'm sorry, do we…?"

She smiled apologetically. "You used to work in an ice-cream parlour in Diagon Alley. It's not that I… I mean, Fenrir's the kind of name that sticks in your mind."

"Right," nodded Fenrir. "Of course. And you're, um…"

"I'm Leona," she said. "You gave me a free ice lolly once."

"Of course! Leona… Lupin, wasn't it? With the broomstick, and… and the little fella. How is he, anyway?" Fenrir did not know why he was enquiring as to the wellbeing of Leona's son, only that he had vague thoughts about getting on her good side.

"Remus? He's doing well, thanks. He's just learnt how to play Exploding Snap, so I don't envy the babysitter at this moment in time." She gave a little laugh.

"Are you out for any special reason?"

"Well, it's our anniversary, so, we thought a night out, away from Remus and his spontaneously combusting card games would be the perfect way to celebrate it."

"An-anniversary?" said Fenrir, and he felt something inside him deflate. Damn.

"Yes, our sixth."

Fenrir opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn't sure what. It may have been a polite excuse, or a prying question, or a pathetic joke in order to save face, but whatever it was was interrupted by the very topic of conversation, who, at that very moment, came bounding from the toilets into their midst. "Speak of the Devil," muttered Leona, as a tall, sandy-haired man with a firm chin and a loud laugh slung his arm over her shoulder. He was obviously drunk.

"Alright, there?" he said to Fenrir, who took a couple of steps back, away from the man. "Not flirting with my woman, I hope?"

Leona shrugged his arm off her shoulders. "No," said Fenrir, as she said, "I can talk to whoever I like, John."

"Who's this, then?" asked John Lupin, as though he had not heard her, staring hard at Fenrir, as though he was trying to keep him in focus. When neither of them answered, not knowing what to say, he took an unsteady step towards Fenrir, and prodded him in the shoulder. "Who're you?"

"I'm Fenrir," said Fenrir, "and I was just leaving." He tried to step away, but Lupin grabbed the hem of his robes.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Hang on a – hang on a minute. I've heard that name before."

"Let go of me."

"No, you're, you're…" He turned back to look at his wife. "This is the crazy werewolf from the ice cream shop."

Fenrir felt his muscles stiffen. He was frozen to the spot. Leona looked at him apologetically, embarrassed. Then she looked back to her husband, and said, "He's not… Just let him leave, okay?"

"You know my wife?" asked Lupin, ignoring her again, and turning back to Fenrir, who spluttered, not knowing the right answer. "'Cause – 'cause she told me that there was a werewolf in an ice cream shop one day… and… and now you're TRYING TO FLIRT WITH HER." Half the bar fell silent.

"No, I'm not…"

"You are, but you can't, 'cause you're…" He lifted his hands and placed them one on either side of Fenrir's face. "'Cause you're a dog, that's why. A bloody stinking dog." He looked straight into Fenrir's eyes, and began to laugh. Fenrir's jaw tightened. His blood felt like it was boiling.

"John!" Leona leapt from her seat and grabbed his shoulders. "John, you're drunk. Let's go home. I'm so sorry about this," she said to Fenrir, as she pulled him away. "I'm so sorry."

"No, wait, wait," said Lupin, pushing Leona off him and turning back to Fenrir, who was standing silent, shaking, trying not to retaliate. He's just a drunken fool. "We can play a game, right? Dogs love games. And I love… dogs." Fenrir's hand curled into a fist. "Shots!" announced Lupin.

From behind him, Fenrir could see Leona, and she looked terrified. He wanted this man away from him, and he knew he wasn't feeling right, and he should leave and get his head together, but at the same time all he wanted was another drink, smooth out the situation.

"Yeah, alright," he said, and Lupin pronounced the rules. Fenrir was too busy actually ordering the shots to listen, but he was sure they wouldn't have made sense anyway. When he tuned back in again, Lupin was rambling about a Muggle invention called a 'tin can'.

"Ready?" asked Fenrir shortly. Lupin reached for his glass at the same time Fenrir did, and started to down it, but as Fenrir had the glass halfway to his mouth, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"We have to go now." It was Ophelia. "It'll be dark in a couple of hours."

Fenrir paused. He'd forgotten about that. Full moon tonight. He wondered briefly if anyone else in the pub realised. They didn't seem to. Those who had gathered round and were cheering Lupin on probably knew neither that he was a werewolf, nor that he would be transforming later tonight. "Just fifteen minutes," growled Fenrir from the side of his mouth. "I just want to… show him…" And they began their game.

He was dimly conscious of Ophelia watching. He could see her from the corner of his eye, and he could see Leona, standing far back, hiding her face in embarrassment. But after a few shots, he didn't care. It was only when Lupin slammed his glass back on the table and stumbled backwards, looking for all the world like he was going to pass out, did Fenrir stop drinking. He stood clutching the table trying to focus on the sandy-haired blur.

"Um… stupid… stupid… mongrel," said Lupin, stumbling forwards, and leaning on the bar. He propped himself up with his elbow, and waved a finger in Fenrir's face.

"I'm not… not a mongrel." Fenrir lurched forward, his hands outstretched, going for Lupin's throat. Somewhere in the background, he saw Leona panicking, and then a blur that might have been Ophelia, whispering something in her ear. Leona began to hurry towards the bar.

Fenrir's nails missed Lupin by inches, and Lupin laughed. "'Course you're not, you're… you're… um…" He paused, trying to think of the word, swaggering around the counter to where Fenrir stood. Fenrir picked up the nearest punter's bottle, unaware and not caring that it was still half-full, preparing to swing it at him. Lupin's hands reached out, his fingers grabbing for the front of Fenrir's shirt, and he patted him on the stomach, mumbling, "Good doggie…"

"Gettoffme," growled Fenrir, swinging the bottle, hitting Lupin on the back, hard enough to bruise. Lupin stumbled backwards half-laughing in pain. Leona, by this time, was standing just inside the circle of people who had surrounded them, and she grabbed her husband, and whispered something urgently in his ear. Lupin's grin widened.

"Pedigree," he said. "That's the word. I've always… always wanted a ped—pedigree… pooch." And he stumbled forward again, reaching out as though to grab hold of Fenrir's hair.

"I'M NOT A DOG," Fenrir roared, taking a swing at him and punching his nose. Blood immediately started to trickle from it, red and oozing.

"Fenrir!" Ophelia's voice was in his ear again, sounding scared. Her arms were around him, pulling him away. "Fenrir, we have to go, now."

"Not… Go…" growled Fenrir, enraged, struggling against her hold. "Show… him…" But she was strong, stronger than any human could have been, and she managed to pull him across the room, out of the door. They stood in the cold, grey street, her trembling with shock and fear and cold, him with anger. "Let me go," he mumbled. "Not finished…" But she forced him against the wall of the building opposite.

"You idiot," she snarled. He stared at her, panting, until he'd calmed down and stopped struggling. "You're not up to Disapparating, are you?" He grunted. She rolled her eyes. "Come on, then," she said, taking his hand in hers. "We have to get home."

Everything went black. Fenrir felt as though he was being crushed inside a giant nutcracker; he thought his head might implode. There was no air. And then, suddenly, they landed on solid ground once more.

"Wait…" Fenrir looked around; Ophelia was already tugging on his sleeve, pulling him to the left. "We're not… this is… Where are we?"

"You need to get inside," said Ophelia breathlessly, and Fenrir realised they were in his street, outside the empty house. "We don't have a lot of time." She sounded anxious, but Fenrir couldn't register it. All he registered was the fact that he was miles away from where he should have been; he should have been beating John Lupin to a bloody pulp.

"No…" he said, as Ophelia took the covering from the window. "I need to be… I should go…"

"Get inside!" she said, sounding hysterical now.

He shouted something back at her, and she retaliated. And he kept shouting at her. He didn't know why, he just knew that he was furious. Furious with her, furious with himself, furious with John Lupin, and he had to fix it. He didn't know how long they argued for, he couldn't remember aiming a punch at the side of her head, and he didn't remember turning and running, away from the house and into the street. He didn't know how he was able to Disapparate, but he did, and he found himself once again outside the little pub.

He smirked, and began to swagger unsteadily towards the door, but a crunching pain in his gut stopped him. Instead, he staggered into the nearest alleyway, and threw up all the contents of his stomach. He was still standing, forehead pressed to the wall, head spinning, when it happened again. He doubled over, screeching, his stomach twisting in ever-tighter knots.

It had started. Ophelia wouldn't be able to follow him now, she wouldn't be able to stop him, he thought. But he quickly realised that he wouldn't be able to do what he wanted, now that he wouldn't have fists. He tore off his robes, scrunched them up, and stuffed them behind a skip. Then his shoulders hunched and his hands curled involuntarily. He rolled on the ground, shrieking, and closed his eyes. Everything went black.

When he opened his eyes, he expected to be lying naked somewhere, but that wasn't the case. He was in the same alleyway, he was sure of that, but it was as though he was looking at it from behind a pane of smoked glass. He was caught between two hazes; between the drink, and the wolf. He was only vaguely aware of what was going on. He was seeing the world through the eyes of the wolf, powerless to make any decisions, but his head felt to woolly to do so anyway.

The wolf's nose twitched. It could smell something, something Fenrir recognised. It was mingled with the booze and the rubbish and the vomit lying in the street. It was human.

The wolf turned, and crept towards the end of the alley. A burst of light and noise as the pub door was thrown open. The wolf crouched behind the wall, as a man stumbled into the street with a woman on his arm, jabbering in a language that sounded all at once familiar and foreign.

The man and his lover vanished into the darkness, and the wolf crept into the street. There it was again, that human smell. The wolf sniffed the ground, and then, without warning, its hackles rose, and a snarl escaped its black lips. Fenrir recognised the smell; he hadn't registered it the first time, but now it was so clear. It was the smell of Lupin. The wolf threw its head back and howled.

And then it leapt forwards, paws outstretched, heading down the road, following the scent. The pads of its feet thudded on the ground; it was deserted, virtually silent but for the occasional click of the wolf's claws on the hard ground. The smell was faint, but it was still there, leading all the way back to Lupin's house, leading all the way back to him.

They were already at their house. They were standing there, on the doorstep, in the darkness, a yellow glow emitting from the open door. She was supporting him; he couldn't stand up straight. A shadowy figure appeared at the door. A voice, just a voice. The wolf crept behind a bush. Leaves rustled.

What was that? the voice asked.

But she didn't care. She took him inside, and all three of them disappeared for a moment. The wolf crept closer, into the shadow of the wall of the house. To where the scent of him was stronger. And then the door burst open again. There was a blast of light, and a flurry of movement. The wolf's ears flattened against its head, its shoulders rising.

Goodbye, someone was saying, and thanks for your help.

There was laughter, and an apology, and the sound of gold changing hands. And then, all of a sudden, there was a new scent. It was fresher than the others. It smelt of milk and soap and freedom.

Footsteps.

Remus, come back, someone laughed. The footsteps came closer.

Don't worry about him, he's just exploring.

The world's so different when it's dark.

Yes, indeed, thought Fenrir, who was vaguely lucid. The footsteps came closer.

A young boy's face peered at him from around the corner. The light of the moon shone off his hair, making it gleam, making his round little face seem to be glowing. I recognise this one, too.

Doggie? The word came from the boy's mouth. What are you doing there, Doggie?

It took Fenrir less than a second to make the decision. Any longer, and he probably wouldn't have. Any longer, and he would have fought the wolf. Even in his drunken state, he would have fought it. He would have turned and run, with his tail between his legs, but he didn't. Because at the back of his mind, a thought had formed. Lupin loved dogs, did he? Wanted a pedigree pooch, did he? Well, Fenrir was about to make his day.

Good doggie. The boy reached out a hand to pat the wolf's muzzle. It stuck out its tongue, licked the skin… and then it sank its fangs into the soft flesh of the boy's arm.

A scream split the night. There was the sound of more footsteps, hurried this time, shouting, and the screaming.

(Remus!)

The screaming made Fenrir's ears ache. He was dimly aware of what he was doing, realised now that it was irreversible, but too late. A flash of light, red hot, shot from somewhere; where, he didn't stay to find out. It hit the wolf's shoulder as it turned to run, singing the fur. Fenrir could smell burning flesh, hear a yelping, hear shouting, and the child's crying. And the footsteps were following the wolf, pounding on the ground behind it. More flashes of light were behind shot, but the wolf was faster than the woman and it dodged every one, tumbling into a ditch and out of sight.

The moon disappeared behind a cloud. Everything was dark. Only the wolf's harsh panting disturbed the silence of the night. The woman's footsteps died away; she'd gone back to her son.

An owl hooted, and then there was silence once more.