Ten kilometers outside of Berlin, Lobo and Remus checked into a shady inn with a German name, although Lobo and its English-speaking clientele referred to it as "The Blighted Bite."
After stowing his old, name-labeled trunk in the room they were sharing, they headed down to the bar for drinks. Although Remus would have infinitely preferred to call it a night, tracking Lobo's movements and taking stock of the werewolf population going east seemed more productive.
Most of the patrons in The Blighted Bite wouldn't be out of place at The Hog's Head—it catered to the dark cloaked, the hooded, and the apathetic toward cleanliness. Lupin was slightly surprised to find, in his father's shabby old robes, he looked positively affluent in this setting, although nothing to attract attention.
What did attract attention were two curious people sitting at the bar, calmly sipping water. One was a man with a curly brown beard and eyes, the other was a woman with death-white skin, snow-white hair and impossibly blue eyes. Both had dreamy, otherworldly expressions on their faces, but it could not have been more apparent that they were a couple, and that the three white-haired children playing on the dirty floor were theirs.
"'Evenin'," Lobo said, nodding to the man, who was sitting next to him. Lobo leaned in close to say quietly, "You're goin' to see him, arencha?"
The man turned and looked at Lobo serenely, as though beckoning him to continue. Lupin was reminded of Dumbledore's calmness, coupled with the wife's otherworldly blue eyes.
"You're goin' east to see the rest of our kind, and him," said Lobo, nodding vigorously.
"Yes," replied the man, not blinking. "That is my family's intention."
Lupin was startled; Somehow Lobo had the ability to detect other werewolves, and he had singled out this man—were the wife and the children also infected? He also noted that the man had an American accent—he was not European.
"Name's Lobo, and this is Romulus," Lobo said, pointing out Remus with the name he had given Lobo.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," replied the man. His voice was smooth and unearthly, but monotone. "My name is Roger McClintock, and this is my wife, Kooa. These are our children you see behind me, Ootek, Simon, and Belle."
"Your accent is interesting," said Remus. "Are you American?"
"We are from the Arctic," replied Kooa. Her voice was much less human than Roger's; it seemed to be made purely of ethereal wind.
"Canada," added Roger, nodding.
"And you are—werewolves," Remus said in a low voice. But instead of anger or irritation at his voicing of the fact, they looked content at the recognition. They rolled up the sleeves of their white robes, revealing pink marks on their arms.
Remus was reminded of pictures he had seen of African tribesman branding. Both had startling white skin and what, on close inspection, were scars, but made so carefully that they looked like odd, pretty tattoos. He realized with horror that these were ceremonially procured bites.
"From the—forgive me, I do not know the equivalent in your common language—but we are from a clan," said Kooa.
"We live in the far north, where there is much snow," clarified Roger.
"But you're looking for him?" insisted Lobo.
"Yes," replied Kooa tranquilly. "We seek to understand his intentions. We represent our entire realm and have been sent as envoys."
"Do you know the way to him?" asked Lobo. "'Cuz, I know the way."
"No," replied Roger. "We have remained here for four days. But it was fate that we should meet. Don't you agree, Kooa?"
Kooa nodded.
"Yes," she said serenely. "There are no accidents. Our family will follow you to find our purpose." Her head turned slowly to her children playing on the floor. At once, they looked at her as well, abandoned their games, stood up and followed her up the back stairs to the rooms.
"Until tomorrow morning," said Roger, nodded to Lobo and Remus before following his wife and children. The family had an air of unfathomable cold that did not endear them to Remus.
Lobo scoped the bar, looking for more werewolves, but seemed unable to find any. He finished several drinks before going upstairs. Remus remained soberly, monitoring the patrons.
After locating an owl to send Tonks' letter, he went back to his bed to sleep.
It had only been three days and Remus could not remember being in such a somber and cold mood in the past three years. Even when Sirius died, he was surrounded by people he loved and who he hoped felt some affection for him. And Tonks had been there—Tonks, his personal Patronus against all the sorrows in his life.
Now, for company, he had Lobo and the Clan. Lobo was a wolf for hire—he had been home-schooled in magic after his bite, and his power was feeble, having been apathetically educated by mediocre wizards. His loyalty was to Greyback, who he had met in Britain before following him to the continent. Although Lobo was nowhere near as vicious as the chief werewolf, nor did he take any delight in causing pain, he supported the ideology of building the werewolf population. Lobo was much more like Remus than Remus cared to think about; both were looking for a place to belong.
The Clan, as Remus had secretly labeled them, were unlike anything Remus had ever dreamed of.
After a three-hour bus ride to a dark forest and a two-hour hike through that forest, the company stopped at a crossroads for the night at the insistence of Lobo, who claimed to know where he was going.
"Is that magic?" asked Roger, for the first time breaking his monotone voice to express astonishment as Remus' frustration at the bulky size of his suitcase was satisfied by a quick "Reducio!"
"Yes, of course," replied Remus, frowning at Roger. "It was a Reduction Charm."
"How do you do it?" he replied, picking up the trunk, which was now the size of a loaf of bread. He examined it carefully, as though looking for a wire.
"Are you a Muggle?" replied Remus, carefully studying Roger's face. Only his eyebrows knitted in a quizzical expression. "That is to say—a non-magical person? Do you know any magic?"
"No." Roger held out the tiny trunk for Remus to take. Remus was also surprised; he had never met a Muggle werewolf before. Since it was a cursed affliction, he took it for granted that this was not an illness, like dragon pox or spattergroit, that claimed victims exclusively magical.
"I see." Remus looked at the trunk in his hand. It was not normal for him to marvel at his own handiwork, but it must have been a marvel to behold from Muggle eyes. The tiny buckles, the handle that could be held with two finger, and the tiny Romulus J. Lostkin inscription that Remus had already altered by magic were nothing short of a phenomenon. "I am a wizard," he said softly, touching the edges of the trunk before stowing it under his arm, "and magic is my common practice."
Roger said nothing, but looked rather frigidly toward Remus. It was an all-too common expression that Remus saw on the faces of people who recognized him. In only an hour, he could see that the Clan—Kooa and the children as well—were avoiding him, walking on the other side of Lobo whenever possible. They had not been particularly chatty before, but all communication with Remus ceased.
You might have thought I just told them that I was a werewolf, thought Remus, slightly amused but mostly bitter.
In the long silences, Lupin chose to think about who he was working for. Often he thought about Harry and how he was holding up after Sirius' death. But Harry was very brave and so like his father. Then there was Neville Longbottom, who had secretly been Lupin's favorite student; he had fought beside Harry competently and Lupin thought he'd never been prouder of the boy. Hermione, of course, was that brilliant girl with such promise; he hoped someday that she would be the Minister of Magic, or the Headmistress of Hogwarts. And all the Weasley children, who felt like surrogate nephews (and niece) to Lupin, because of the unexpected sisterly affection he received from Mrs. Weasley and the kindness of Mr. Weasley. Luna Lovegood—Lupin couldn't remember being more sympathetic to a student—it wasn't as if he couldn't remember being called 'loony,' albeit for different reasons…
But mostly he thought about Tonks and what she was doing. Did she miss him? There was no way an owl could find him, and he longed to hear the young witch's voice, or to know what color her hair was today. At midnight he didn't sleep. Nymphadora, Nymphadora. He slowly mouthed the forbidden name, relishing the way it seemed to round gentle curves in his mouth when he said it. He loved it. He could guess why she hated it—it was so gentle and feminine—maidenly and motherly all in one. It did not suit the punkish Auror that could never be bothered to wear perfume or engage in any sort of vanity. But it really was her, deep down—the sweet, vulnerable Hufflepuff that cried on his shoulder and kissed him quietly after funerals. Nymphadora.
And deep down—farther than the poor werewolf wanted to delve—he could feel a sick fear mixing with unbridled affection, spewing up against his heart. She is yours to protect. Can you protect her from yourself?
"Tonks?"
Tonks looked up from the ground as she rubbed her head, walking down the hallway. The Auror chided herself for not watching where she was going properly. She found herself on the first floor, near the entrance hall.
"Wotcher, Sam," Tonks said, smiling at him, then at Professor McGonnagal, who was leading him. McGonnagal could manage only a tight-lipped spasm in return. "All right, Professor?"
"Dumbledore has given his permission for Sam's memory to remain intact," McGonnagal replied. "He instructs you to return him to his place of residence and ensure his safety there."
"Can do, Professor. And I know it's none of my business," Tonks said, looking up at the ceiling. "But isn't that Ministry business, deciding who can and can't have their memory?"
"Typically. But these are atypical times, Miss Tonks. If you'll excuse me." And with no other farewell, she swept off up the stairs again.
Tonks and Sam were now walking out of the entrance hall and out onto the grounds; Tonks traveled the well-remembered path to Hogsmeade with Sam keeping up credibly.
"I really can't believe all this."
"That's all right," assured Tonks. "My dad's fathers were Muggles, and until he was eleven he had no idea his was a wizard himself. He threw away three Hogwarts letters before he was convinced that it wasn't a joke. Of course, when Dumbledore showed up at his house and made the begonias overtake the cherry tree in the yard…" Tonks laughed at the thought but Belton looked at her with a sense of longing.
"It's not fair, is it?" he asked, frowning. "That you wizards have—all this power. I mean, we—we Muggles are just a bit of a joke, aren't we? It's a wonder that we aren't all killed already, or farmed like sodding livestock."
"That's not true," Tonks protested. She waved to Hagrid, who sat outside his hut, poking at a fire. He waved cheerfully back. "That's Hagrid over there, and he can't use magic, but he has a way with nasty beasts."
"Hagrid's the size of a bulldozer."
"A what?"
"A bulldozer?" asked Sam, his eyes widening. "It's a machine, it moves around dirt."
"See, that's another thing that's great about Muggles," Tonks said cheerfully. "They make all these gadgets and do-dads that help them without magic." Tonks bit her lips thoughtfully and gave Sam a half-smile. "To be honest, most witches and wizards would be rather useless without their powers. Some wouldn't know how to feed themselves or tie their shoes in the morning without a spell or two. We rely on magic, probably too much. We don't evolve, we don't develop—all we do is make more spells and more potions. We'll come out with a new broomstick every once in awhile, but look at me-" (she grabbed the front of her witch's robes) "-I'm wearing the same kind of clothes my great-grandmothers wore a thousand years ago."
"Seriously?" he asked
"Yeah, really," nodded Tonks enthusiastically. She could see the smoking chimney stacks of Hogsmeade. Everything seemed a little dark and hazy; all of the windows were shut and no one was walking on the streets. "Muggles—they've made buildings hundreds of meters tall, they've got those aeroplanes—and I've heard, but is it true, that they've put men on the moon?" asked Tonks eagerly.
"True," replied Sam, smiling now. "We did do that."
"And looks at us wizards—we've got magic, but so what?" asked Tonks. "We're in hiding. And you know why the Dark wizards want to kill Muggles so much? It's probably because, deep down, they're scared. More and more, there are wizards like my dad, who are born to Muggle parents and have Muggle ways before they come to Hogwarts. The Dark ones don't want change—they say they don't want mud blood—but really, they just don't want new blood."
"Oh, I understand much better now," said Sam, pensively staring into the village as they approached it. "Like—Palestinians and Israelis?"
"What are those, types of rocks?" asked Tonks, trying to appear intellectual as she stuck out her wand arm to call the Knight Bus.
"Not exactly," replied Sam. "They're-"
But he was cut off by the sound of 'BANG!', a flash and the appearance of a purple, triple-decker bus.
"Knight Bus," explained Tonks to a stupefied Sam as she tossed a Galleon to the disembarking conductor, who promptly embarked once again. "Brockdale."
"Not going there, Miss," the conductor said with a firm headshake. "No matter how much gold's comin' to our pockets."
"Do you have an aunt, somewhere?" whispered Tonks. "Grandparents?"
"My friend Monty has a flat in London," suggested Sam. "Kind of dingy, but he'll take me for a few days before I can get back to Brockdale. It's in Charing Cross Road."
"The Leaky Cauldron, then," said Tonks to the conductor, who nodded.
"The Leaky what?" asked Sam. "You know what? Never mind, I don't need to know."
The bus was mercifully more empty than the last time Tonks had used it half a year ago. The chandelier looked slightly more wobbly and the beds seemed to slide around more. Tonks took him to the back and sat in the same seat she had the night of the mass breakout. Sam unknowingly took Lupin's seat.
It was the first chance they'd had to properly relax and let the bus work its magic. Perhaps instinctively, Sam followed Tonks' rhythmic breathing, sucking in when the bus began to squeeze between lanes, cars and buildings, and exhaling as it let go. He turned and looked at her.
"I never thanked you properly for saving me," he said, an earnest look on his face. He had freckles that reminded her of Weasleys, but there was no trace of a red hair among his dusty blond ones.
"It's my job," said Tonks modestly, but smiled nonetheless.
"All the same, even Life-savers or whatever you're called have to eat. Can I make you dinner?" he asked sheepishly.
"Oh!" asked Tonks, flustered. "That's really nice, but—I don't want to make trouble for your friend."
"Nah, he'll be thrilled, he'll love your hair," he said appreciatively, glancing up at the pretty pink spikes.
"Well, I guess I'll have to put protective Charms on the flat anyway," said Tonks with a half-smile. "Why not?"