Hogwarts, June 1995
Bertha Jorkins. The silvery wisp of the plump girl with blonde hair and the scowling face floated in her mind just as it did in Dumbledore's Pensieve. Althea let out a small laugh through her tears at the feigned guilty looks of the teenage Sirius and Althea. How was I to know he'd hex her as well, she thought, pulling her knees to her chest. She opened her eyes—her tears blurred the sunlit lawn of Hogwarts.
"Enough," she murmured and, with her handkerchief, discretely dabbed below her eyelids. "No more tears."
Althea curled her toes, digging themselves into the warm, thick grass. The leaves of the beech tree rustled above her head. Often when her mind was troubled, Althea would seek out solitary respite in nature; however, after such a morning, the gentle breezes or the welcoming sunshine upon the Hogwarts grounds could not ease her mind. Prudence and her three friends—barefoot—splashed about the shore of the lake. It was as before, wasn't it? The four girls were oblivious to the turmoil that surrounded them. Althea sighed, resting her chin upon her folded arms. Most were oblivious of what was to come. Her hand clutched the handkerchief—the silver embroidery of Sirius's initials peaking through her fingers. Lily never felt as strongly. Jane lived in dreams and superficialities. Sophie had yet to form such a strong attachment. Yet, at fifteen, Althea could feel such a fierceness of affection toward Sirius. What made it so? No man had such an affect on her. No person. She thought of former lovers with indifference, embarrassment, or warmth, but never the turmoil that bubbled within her at Sirius's memory. He felt as intensely for her as she for him. She furrowed her brow to suppress Sirius's memories—such a stupid spell to cast! Now, Sirius sought to be as it was before and used the powerful Empathy Charm to influence her. She wasn't as naïve as before. She had witnessed grave, terrible things. How could she hide when she knew what was to come?
"What am I to do?" she whispered, twisting the handkerchief in her hand.
She thought of Memory Charms. As Sirius slept beside her, she would have him forget the impending uncertainty and the two would travel abroad—just as Prudence wished. Still, it would not be a life of freedom. The anxiety of Sirius the fugitive would be an undercurrent difficult to rise above. Despite carefully crafted lies, it was possible to overcome Memory Charms, and Sirius was powerful enough to do so. He would wonder about their frequent travel, her reluctance of public places, and her deflective answers—she was, as Sirius mused, a terrible liar. He would never forgive me, she thought, if anything happened to Harry. Althea's attention focused upon her daughter, who tossed the black curls from her laughing face. It was how Althea imagined Prudence's life—a girl free from worry or the darkness that encompassed her parents—a life consumed with friendship, burgeoning interest in the opposite sex, and her only obligation to her Hogwarts' classes. I want you to have more of this, she thought as Prudence splashed Genevieve.
"But at what price?" she wondered as Genevieve returned a splash with equal force.
Hogwarts was no longer safe. She frowned—was it ever, really? Sirius proved just how easily a person could infiltrate Hogwarts, and Pettigrew had lived inside its walls for years. A sick feeling swelled inside her stomach at the thought of Pettigrew observing her from the shadows and nooks of the corridors, rummaging through her office, and lurking about her quarters. He, no doubt, learned of Althea's habits, through which he easily lured her to the Forbidden Forest. Realizing Prudence alive, he could and would do the same. Althea inhaled deeply through her nostrils, curling and extending her fingers. Dumbledore was not dismissive of her concerns, but he seemed disinterested. He was preoccupied with the Pensieve before him—of Bertha Jorkins silvery memory and her own recollection of the woman. When Althea shouted for him to forget about Jorkins and to understand her concern over the Triwizard Tournament, Dumbledore stared at her with that same calm expression that infuriated her so. Phineas Nigellus accused her of madness and sought to bait her in a one-sided shouting match.
Althea thrust her fists against the warm earth. Are we to continue, she thought—the girls, having enough of the lake, rested upon the grass to tie their shoes. Are we to ignore the danger…to go on in ignorance? Althea unfolded the handkerchief, her fingertips tracing the silver script. Prudence lay sprawled across the grass—her face, peaceful. Althea's stomach turned at the uncertainty before them. Prudence would remain innocent and unaware of the struggle between mother and father—of the well intentioned, but misguided Sirius—and, once more, the burdensome decision rested upon Althea. It was selfish to keep Prudence at Dunwell—to isolate her from friendship and to limit her magical education. She would not rest easy in such isolation, especially with hesitant answers and half-truths. Moreover, would those protections that Arcturus placed truly protect her? Magic had loopholes. Prudence plucked a small, yellow flower at her side and brought it to her nose. Distance had protected Prudence before, and distance could protect Prudence once more…distance from Althea, from Sirius. Althea furrowed her brow and inhaled a shaky breath to stave her tears.
"Edwina and James were right," she murmured, "so right."
Althea blotted the tears from her cheeks. There was little alternative. Why must we have such little time? She let out a quiet growl of frustration at the helplessness and cruelty of her situation. Just granted such open contact with her daughter and now it must end. There was little doubt that Prudence would return to Edwina and James Parker. Such a distance from Althea would keep Prudence safe—it kept her safe the eleven years before her return to the magical world.
In the distance, Prudence quickly sat up. She surveyed the grounds with a sense of boredom—a look inherited from her father. Althea furrowed her brow. He would do anything to find you, she thought as Prudence blew a curl from her eyes, anything to keep you. Althea inhaled an unsteady breath. Prudence, upon noticing Althea, gave a quick, eager smile and waved. Althea weakly returned a wave. Satisfied, Prudence returned to haughty observation.
"I, alone, will protect you."
The long, thin leaves upon the drooping branches of the Whomping Willow rustled in the slight breeze. Althea adjusted her shawl, pulling the silken fabric tightly about her. The sound of the softly hooting owl in the distant darkened trees would soon lull her into a stupor…
Althea scratched the tip of her nose, the silver chains about her wrist clinked as she did so. She growled and shook her wrists in a futile effort to remove them, but the chains only clinked louder. How long will I be chained in this bloody room, she wondered, pulling her knees to her chest. Oh, but it's just as lovely as a Michelin-starred hotel! She forcefully chipped away at a blue tile, but with very little progress. Sitting upon a bare blue and white tiled window seat, Althea further curled her knees to her chest. It once had fine blue and white silk pillows, but Althea had torn them apart in a rage two weeks ago. She glanced to her right, surveying the further destruction of one month's confinement in Alexandria: shattered wall sconces and lanterns, delicately painted wood furniture in pieces, and books and papers ripped and strewn about the tile floor. Sister Margaret did say I was improving nicely…whatever that meant.
Althea's gaze returned to the large window and the courtyard below. It had been over a year since she held a flower. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply—her lungs painfully at capacity—the sweet, potent fragrance of the flowers below. It was early afternoon and, in a few moments, the sun would reach its maximum through her large window that encompassed almost the entire outward white stone facade. She would await its rays and the burning, stinging feeling the prolonged exposure would produce upon her skin. Progressing nicely. A faint cool breeze caressed her nape and she sat to attention; she was not accustomed to a bare neck. She had wished Sister Margaret or one of her attendants would use a charm or salve to grow her hair, but all refused. Althea, with her legs crossed and her eyes squinted shut, had attempted to will her hair to grow, but to no avail—it remained in an odiously cropped curl. Maybe her magic was gone. Azkaban was capable of rendering a witch powerless. How else could she explain her lack of Animagus transformation when she had done so easily prior to imprisonment? Oh, she tried in Azkaban, spent an entire day—maybe—in an attempt to transform. She had a gleeful fantasy of transforming herself, flying out between her bars, and in to Sirius's cell. She flung herself from her bed, only for her human form to be met with the damp stone ground. Sirius finally questioned the noise, which provoked Althea into a rage. Once more, she felt the muscles in her arms tense, her blood cool, and her heart almost thumping out of her throat. Her hands became claw-like as she relieved their explosive row. Such displays of hatred and filth instigated the dementors.
Althea shrieked, opening her eyes. The room was still. Upon the opposite support hung the framed photograph of mother and infant daughter. Althea quickly looked away. Was that her consolation prize? A job teaching a useless subject at Hogwarts? And with such a cruel twist! Her daughter, believing herself Muggle-born, would see no need to sit for such a class. I don't want to improve myself, she thought and sneered. Another woman is raising my daughter—my daughter! Althea thrust her arms at her sides—the chains clanked against the tile. She'd think—Althea sighed loudly—if it weren't for that little bitch none of this—
Althea smacked herself across her face. How could she think that? Althea raised her palm to her abdomen—the humble white linen shift covered the burns left from those terrible curses. What would you think of me?
Shuffling steps alerted Althea to her visitor. She groaned internally at Sister Margaret's gentle, but persistent knock.
"Right," she sighed, and turned her attention toward the doorway, "come in, then. I won't throw anything at you today…I promise."
Sister Margaret, in flowing pale blue robes, entered Althea's sunny prison. Althea raised an eyebrow at Sister Margaret's healthy distance from the ex-convict.
"Dressed today—"
"Oh, this lovely white monstrosity? Forced to, really—"
"You look well, Althea," Sister Margaret said over Althea.
Althea quieted. In the doorway, she noticed a figure fidgeting in the shadowed hallway.
"A visitor, then?" she remarked, leaning forward from the window seat. "Who from my past this day?" she asked and held up her wrists. "Take these damn things off, will you?"
Sister Margaret shook her head. "He will see you as you are," she said and beckoned for the figure to enter.
Remus Lupin, with trepid footsteps, entered. His head bent, his mousy brown hair covered his eyes and obscured his thin, pale face. It was longer than she remembered and his clothes were haggard. She felt slight indignation that he would not wear his finest clothes to greet his oldest, dearest friend; however, with his appearance, they just might have been.
"Will you not look at me, Remus?" she asked, craning her neck toward him.
Remus slowly lifted his face. Once his pale eyes met her form, he swallowed…repulsed.
"Althea—"
"It's not a bloody question, Remus."
Remus inhaled a ragged breath. He forced his calmest and most placating smile.
Rage licked at Althea's insides. He forced such a smile when Mrs. Parker tucked the pink blanket beneath Prudence's chin… grasping Althea's arms tighter as he did so.
Althea leaned back and let out a guttural noise of disgust. "Don't you dare smile at me, you fucking half-breed."
Remus blinked, bemused.
Sister Margaret smiled sympathetically at Remus. "Do not take it to heart, it is common—"
"What?" Althea laughed as Sister Margaret spoke with Remus. "It's the truth! A bloody half-breed," she added, throwing up her hands at Remus—the chains rattled and clinked (Remus appeared mildly horrified). "Maybe over tea he'll tell you the story of how it happened. It's a real tear-jerker," she added and then turned her attention toward Remus, whispering loudly to him, "She enjoys that sort of thing."
Sister Margaret nodded at Remus. "I will leave you…if you would need—"
"Thank you," he murmured, "and thank you for your kindness—"
The old woman smiled.
Althea's gaze followed Sister Margret from the room. She noticed that Remus had not kept that safe distance between them.
Once alone, Althea spoke, "Come to help me?"
Remus was silent.
"Or come to congratulate yourself?"
Remus stepped forward. "That isn't—"
"It frightens you, doesn't it?" she said and licked her bottom lip. "What I've become…you've spent your entire life running from murder and I embraced it—"
"I came because Gran—"
"God, Remus, you're so predictable!" she bemoaned, throwing her head back. She paused, briefly forgetting her argument as the sunlight breached the whitewashed walls. She lifted her head. Remus was pale. "Out of duty, I suppose."
"I came for you," he said with some force.
Althea laughed. "Guilt!" she replied, slamming her palms against the tile. "D'you believe you could've stopped me? Held me back as you had done to take my child from me!"
Remus lowered his head and sighed.
"You disgust me—"
"I disgust you?"
Althea unleashed a ferocious scream and leapt from the window seat—the chains digging into her wrists—toppling into the stunned Remus. The metal tore at her flesh as the two struggled. I disgust you, I repulse you, she thought, and—having pinned him below her—smiled wickedly, almost maniacal, at the trail of scarlet upon her arm. She reached for her blood, coating her fingers, and held it above his face.
"Althea," he begged.
Althea relished in the terror that she could elicit in him. "I disgust you," she whispered within inches of his face. She dragged her bloodstained fingers across his tightly shut lips. "Taste me—"
Remus growled, throwing Althea from him. Althea landed near the window—her back slammed against the wall. She laughed cruelly.
"Isn't that what you want?" she asked as Remus hurriedly wiped the blood from his lips and chin.
Remus went to stand, but Althea grasped his legs and pulled him downward. He landed with a thud within inches of her bed. The two snarled and growled as Remus struggled to free himself from Althea. At the flash of skin, Althea lurched forward; her teeth sank into his flesh. Immediately, with the power of his bitten hand, he threw her backward. Althea fell upon the tiled floor, laughing.
Remus, gagging, cradled his injured hand. "Do you realize what you've done?" he asked wildly.
Althea allowed the metallic tasting droplets to pass her tongue. She swallowed. It was euphoric. An exhilarating flush came in waves over her skin and Althea writhed in the intense pleasure. Her broken nails clawed at the tiles, and she moaned—arching her back. Soon, she felt large hands lifting her from the ground, and they did not let go.
Remus stood and was quiet. His face appeared much older than twenty-five years. He looked around him at her quarters and shook his head. His eyes focused upon Althea and he spat on the ground before her.
"Manipulative bitch," he said as Althea attempted to jostle forward, "I've hurt you? I've put up with your tiresome theatrics for years—"
Althea arched an eyebrow.
He lifted her chin toward him. "You want me to taste you?"
Althea swallowed.
"The next full moon I will, without hesitation," he promised, letting go. He stepped away, sneering. "I don't know why they let you live," he said, reaching under his frayed collar. He produced a small silver locket and, with a faint grunt, pulled it from his neck. "I'm through…to hell with Gran…and to hell with you."
Remus Lupin threw the locket at Althea's feet. Without any hesitancy, and with the most deliberate footstep, he left. Once alone, Althea sunk to the floor for she felt a small pinch in her gut—a feeling foreign for many years. Guilt. The silver locket with the broken chain rested before her. Althea sniffed, taking the weathered locket into her hands.
"Why would you…?" she wondered and pressed the locket's clasp.
Althea let a small gasp escape at the photograph of the trio. Her eyes hungrily took in the happy face of Remus and Althea, who held the newborn Prudence. Feeling the obnoxious sensation of tears welling in her eyelids, she forcefully shut the locket. I should have died, she though, tightening her grip upon the locket. Remus is right. Althea screamed and threw the locket at the remaining unbroken and unlit lantern…
Althea sighed with mild annoyance. You're late, she thought, lifting her face toward the waning moon. Soon, she heard muffled footsteps encroaching toward her on the dewy grass. Althea did not turn around; instead, her stare remained transfixed upon the enormous, looming tree before her. There was an uneasy silence between the couple.
"Althea—"
"How did my father die?" she asked.
Remus Lupin inhaled a sharp breath.
Althea faced him. The robes Afina had created were already worn and frayed at the sleeves. With his hair unkempt, he appeared exceptionally pale and sickly in the moonlight.
She took a step forward. "How did my father die, Remus?"
His expression was one of mild distress. He clasped his hands behind his back and shifted his weight to his heels. His lips remained firmly shut.
"You know, don't you?"
Remus was silent, but after a moment, he nodded. "Althea, let's not—"
"I want to hear it," she said, folding her arms, "from you."
Remus unclasped his hands, and shoved them into his robe pockets. He refused to meet her firm gaze. Althea slightly tilted her head to its side. That you would keep it from me? Would it have changed their friendship if he had told her? She knew it wouldn't, and she knew him not to be her father's murderer, but she felt unease at Remus's hesitancy and seeming guilt.
"Remus—"
"Werewolves," he answered—there seemed an instantaneous agitation in his mannerisms. He looked about him and added in a whisper, "It was werewolves, all right?"
"I'm not accusing you—"
He sighed heavily. "You might as well," he said, and swallowed—his face full of disgust. "It was meant for you," he continued and pointed to his chest. "I was meant for you."
"What do you mean?"
Remus's knowing eyes focused upon the silhouette of the Whomping Willow behind her. "The Winter Fête."
It felt as if a knife was plunged deep into her abdomen. She let out a high-pitched gasp and grasped her side.
"The Winter Fête?" she whispered.
For years, she believed it an accident, and neither Dumbledore nor her father disclosed any malevolent inkling otherwise. It was not until she read the account in her father's journal that Remus's escape might have been deliberate. Was it by chance that Althea met with Remus on the night he was released from the Whomping Willow? Was it a lucky happening for the perpetrator? Or was she followed, studied by those that would seek to destroy her father? Often, she would take solitary walks around Hogwarts and its grounds at nighttime. Newly fallen snow would have made a difficult escape.
Remus reluctantly nodded. "It wasn't an accident that I was let out of the Shrieking Shack," he explained gravely. "You were to be a message to your father."
Althea looked to the small space of earth between them. "How long have you known?"
Remus was hesitant.
"How long have you known?" she repeated, not looking up.
"During the war," he answered and Althea bit the inside of her cheek. "I didn't want to upset you," he said, placing his warm hands upon her shoulders. "You—you would've done anything…and I couldn't—I couldn't have you like me—"
Althea looked up.
Remus inhaled a ragged breath. "They were good people, Althea," he said. "They were used just as I had been…they would never—never…" He paused, furrowing his brow. "I loved you and I would've killed you. Please, don't—"
"I sought revenge upon my father's death long ago," she said, closing the space between them. "What peace did it bring me?"
Indeed, what peace? The rage at the brutality and uncertainty of her father's murder did not lessen with the knife plunged in Plucheria Oswin's abdomen. It festered until the putrid emotion consumed her, and—unhinged—her fate was Azkaban.
Remus's face was thoughtful. "Why bring up—"
"I saw my father's murder."
Remus stopped, his mouth agape.
"He was murdered in the abandoned Underground," she explained, his fingers gripping her shawl. "There were two, I think."
"You saw his murder?" he asked—she could feel the dampness of his skin against the satin fabric. "How is that possible?"
Althea brought her hands to his chest. Will you believe me, she wondered, rolling a loose thread between her thumb and forefinger.
"It was Voldemort."
Remus paled. "Voldemort?" he repeated, his fingers trembling against her skin. "It's true, then?"
Althea nodded and curled herself into his arms.
"I thought Padfoot mad," Remus whispered, his palm stroking her spine. "An Inferius possessed by Voldemort?"
"Yes—"
"I hadn't witnessed him so shaken…not since that night…" Remus gently secured his embrace of Althea.
Althea sniffed. Remus smelled of soot, his library, and peppermint. "My mother's death," she began, focusing upon the stubble on his chin, "I'd cast it out, but I remembered it…all of it. Remus, he murdered my mother, personally…. He knew I was in the cupboard, he told me so…regretted what I'd become."
"You've spoken with Dumbledore?"
"Of course," she murmured, "but the tournament will continue—"
"Continue?" he questioned, pulling away from her.
Althea nodded.
"It is the perfect opportunity—"
"I know," she sighed and furrowed her brow at the buttons upon his robes. "Peter is helping him…it's the only way—it wasn't like this before—"
"We must keep you safe," he said, lifting her chin.
"Not you as well—"
"How can I not? Twice you have been singled out—"
"And twice they've failed," she said, removing his hand. "Prudence," she began, curling and extending his fingers, "Prudence is my priority…I must keep her safe."
Remus let out a low, lingering sigh. He seemed to have anticipated such a conversation. Might he have had a similar conversation with Sirius? His appearance bore the faintest wince.
"I know what you did—well, you and Gran," she began, gently flicking a loose button upon his robes. "Misleading them by magic. "
Remus was quiet.
"Memory Charms upon Muggles," she added and clicked her teeth.
Althea slipped her fingers beneath his frayed collar. Remus straightened at her touch. She felt the metal chain warmed by skin and lifted it, exposing the tattered silver locket with the Lupin family crest to the moonlight. She pressed its clasp and heard Remus hold his breath. The photograph had not changed. The young Remus sat beside Althea, who held the infant Prudence.
"Sirius would hex you if he knew you wore this."
Remus slid his fingers underneath Althea's hand and grasped the locket, closing it. His look defiant.
"Will you protect her?"
"I love her."
AN: Thank you so much for reading. Please do not hesitate to leave a comment or review. I am so sorry it's been so long for an update.
