Scary Things in the Mountains

Remus had always rather liked the outdoors. People, in general, tended to think of him as finicky and he supposed he could be, sometimes, about certain things - dirty socks, for example. But the outdoors was fresh and free and clean, and he felt more alive just being there.

Which was just as well, really, considering his position 400ft up the side of a mountainside. (Not a mountainside, the chirpy voice of Mrs Potter reminded him. It isn't a mountain unless it's 990ft from base to tip, and Castle Crag was measured at a meagre 951ft.)

It was the February half-term holiday, and somehow Remus and Pete had been roped into accompanying the Potter's and Sirius on their annual hiking trip.

The Cumbrian mountains, James had said in his best seducing voice, Can you imagine, Moony? It's not like you've been before.

And he hadn't. But he did live in Crosshills, a little village somewhere in the no-mans-land between Lancashire and Yorkshire, and he knew very well what hills looked like.

He was wrong, naturally. The humble fields of Lancashire and the marshes of Yorkshire couldn't hold a candle to the pure scale of Cumbria.

They had been in the Lake District for the whole of 24 hours, and out in the open air for roughly twelve. It'd been a long day. Long and exhilarating and completely refreshing day.

He sometimes wondered if it was another wolf thing - his love of the fresh air, the pure rush of being outside and free, not trapped indoors, or in a body that wasn't entirely his, or in a society that both despised and feared him, or trapped in any other capacity - but he'd never conclusively researched it.

Some things he wanted to enjoy without that constant reminder.

Remus had relished in every stretched muscle, every stride.

Had he been asked the night before, when they were still warm and cosy in the Muggle inn down in the valley by the lake and James and Sirius had sprawled on the rug by the fire and whispered plots and plans quietly enough to avoid waking Mrs Potter - who was dozing on the sofa - but loudly enough to elicit an encouraging wink from Mr Potter, weather he would be alone in his enjoyment of a good days exercise, Remus would almost certainly have said yes - with the exception of Mr and Mrs Potter, who had orchestrated the whole trip and must, logically, have some prior experience with the concept.

He would have been proven incredibly and utterly wrong.

He should have known, really, that the unending energy Sirius and James poured into pranks and mischief at school would translate wonderfully into reserves perfectly suited to any prolonged outdoor activities.

They bounded up the ledges, jogged across the flats and positively leapt over the crags. It was a race for them, Remus realised as he watched them dash up a series of worn almost-steps in the hillside with huge grins on their faces.

As much as Remus was enjoying himself, he wasn't enthusiastic enough to run the whole way. But those two did, with all the glee of a toddler. Well, he thought, with the voice in his head sounding suspiciously like his father, at least they'll sleep tonight.

The only one who wasn't relishing in the exercise was Peter, who was trailing behind fairly substantially. Remus had walked with him for a bit, before they had stopped for lunch, but Wormtail had gradually drifted even further behind. Mr Potter was beside him now, offering a string of encouragement that the smallest of the boys was doing just fine and reassurances that they would be stopping soon to set up camp before it got too dark.

Mrs Potter was humming jovially away to his left somewhere, and Padfoot and Prongs were laughing and panting and goading one another up ahead.

It was wonderfully familial, and it made Remus think of his own mother. If he tried really hard, he could remember her singing to him, before he was bitten; before she distanced herself; before she went mad. Of course, he could just be imagining it, and not remembering at all.

' I think this will do,' she said, and Remus realised they had hit a fairly flat ledge in the hillside. There was a sharp incline to the left which would protect them from most of the wind, and a small copse of trees to the right which made the scene look a bit like a postcard.

' Good spot, my lovely,' Mr Potter called, as he and Peter crested the slope. ' James! Sirius! Come give an old man a hand with these tents, eh, lads?'

' Peter, dear,' Mrs Potter said as he huffed towards a suitable place to collapse and catch his breath, ' Could you gather some sticks for me, love? There's a good boy. Not too big, not too small and as dry as you can find.'

Remus helped, and they got back in plenty of time to sit back and laugh at Padfoot and Prongs' shambles of an attempt at erecting a tent the Proper way. Mr and Mrs Potter - because Remus just wasn't comfortable calling them Arianne and Marcellus, despite their insistences - allowed the boys twenty minutes of indulgences in the ways of the Muggle, then fixed the heap of canva, poles and pegs into a two-man tent with a casual flick of their wands.

Mr Potter didn't let them try to build a fire the muggle way, though he refused them with a smirk that said he knew they could manage that just fine, and set it blazing with another swish of his wrist.

' How about a story? It isn't a real campfire without one,' Mrs Potter said, silently summoning a shrunk packets of flumps from her rucksack.

' Good idea,' Mr Potter agreed with an affectionate smile.

' Do we know any camp stories?' Mrs Potter asked, casting a quick engorgio and then opening her newly huge bag of treats.

' Not any old story, Mum!'

' Nothing boring,' Sirius concurred.

' What constitutes boring, dear?' Mrs Potter asked mildly, smiling and handing each of them a handful of pink and white marshmallows.

' I dunno.'

' When my Uncle took me and my cousins camping in Anglesey, he told us ghost stories. He scared my cousin so much she couldn't sleep, and kept me up all night.'

' That is,' James started, thoughtfully, ' actually, a bloody brilliant idea.'

' Nice one, Pete,' Sirius agreed, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder.

Peter beamed.

' Hmm,' Mr Potter mused, rubbing his chin in a mock-thoughtful gesture. ' Good idea. Good idea. What about the Story of the Warwickshire Werewol-'

' NO!'

Mr Potter blinked almost owlishly at James and Sirius, who both looked sufficiently abashed at their outburst, while Peter and Remus both burst into giggles. Overreaction much?

' It's just,' James started, a shade hesitantly, ' Werewolf stories are boring.'

' You liked them when you were little. Wouldn't sleep in your own room for days at a time, kept crawling into our bed…'

He trailed off thoughtfully, while everyone else - sans James, of course - chuckled mirthfully through their marshmallows.

' Well,' James said, giving them all a look that clearly said moving on, ' That was ages ago, Dad, and werewolves just aren't scary anymore.'

Mr Potter surveyed them all, as if waiting for a contradiction.

' Another flump, Remus?' Mrs Potter offered, smiling at him across the fire. There was twinkle in her eye that made Remus think, for just a moment, that maybe it wasn't just Mr Potter's intelligence James had inherited.

Mr Potter eyed them a moment longer but when they all nodded in agreement, even timid little Peter, he sighed and gave up. It didn't last long. They immediately started another argument.

' What about The Banshee in the Brecon Beacons?'

' Sorry, Mr P, but once you've done third year Defence, Banshees are just sort of funny.'

' Vampires in Venice?'

' Why do these things always rhyme?'

' Vampires aren't cool anymore, Dad.'

' Nah, if Old Sluggers has met one…'

' Well, why don't you tell me what you're scared of and we'll go from there?'

' Us?'

' Scared?'

' Never!'

Remus smiled. It was like listening to three of the same person, arguing with themselves. Maybe that's what the inside of Prongs' head sounded like. He didn't hear Mrs Potter approach until she crouched into his field of vision.

' What about,' she said, and immediately she had the attention of two interested boys and one sheepish looking man. ' What about a muggle story? Something different?'

She was granted a chorus of hums in the affirmative.

' Good, good. Come then, we'll do this good and proper. Gather round the fire, boys. And you,' she added with a positively cheeky glance at her husband.

When they were all settled, she placed herself at the metaphorical head of the table, between the fire and the biggest of the three tents, and cleared her throat.

'There was a Lord of worthy fame, and a-hunting he would ride, Attended by a noble train of gentry by his side.'

' Oh, it rhymes.'

' Shut up, Wormtail.'

' Hey, Mum? Where did you learn a Muggle ghost story?'

' As hard as it may be to believe, James, I do spend rather a lot of time in our substantially stocked library. And it isn't strictly a Ghost Story,' she winked at Remus. ' More a Literary Horror.'

' What's the difference?' Sirius asked.

' It isn't necessarily about ghosts, is all,' Mr Potter supplied before Remus could.

' Now, if I might continue? Ahem. And while he did in Chase remain, To see both sport and play, His Lady went as she did feign, Unto the church to pray.

' This Lord he had a daughter dear, Whose beauty shone so bright, She was beloved both far and near, Of many a Lord and Knight.

' Fair Isabella, Fair Ellen was she called, A creature fair was she. She was her father's only joy, As you shall after see.

' Therefore, her cruel step-mother, Did envy her so much, That day by day she sought her life, Her malice it was such.

' She bargained with the master cook, To take her life away, And taking of her daughter's book, She thus to did her say.

' "Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praise, Go hasten presentile, and tell unto the master cook,

' These words that I tell thee.

' And bid him dress to dinner straight, that fair and milk-white doe, That in the park doth shine so bright, There's none so fair to show."

' The Lady, fearing of no harm, Obeyed her mother's will, And presentile she hastened home, Her pleasure to fulfil.

' She straight into the kitchen went, Her message for to tell, And there she spied the master cook, Who did with malice swell.

' "Now, master cook, it must be so, Do that which I thee tell; You needs must dress the milk-white doe, Which you do know full well."

' Then straight his cruel bloody hands, He on the Lady lay'd, Who, quivering and shaking, stands, While this to her he said.

' "Thou art the doe that I must dress; See here, behold my knife, for it is pointed presentile, To rid you of your life."

' O then cried out the scullion boy, As loud as loud might be; "O save her life, good master cook, And make your pies of me!

' For pity's sake, do not destroy my lady with your knife. You know she is her father's joy, For Christ's sake save her life."

' "I will not save her life," he's say'd, " Nor make my pies of thee, Yet if thou dost this deed betray, Thy butcher I shall be."

' No when this Lord he did come home, For to sit down to eat, He called for his daughter dear, To come and carve his meat.

' "Now sit you down," his Lady said, "O sit you down to eat. Into some Nunnery she is gone; Your daughter dear forget."

' Then solemnly he made a vow, Before the company, That he would neither eat nor drink, Until he did her see.

' O then bespoke the scullion boy, with a loud voice so high, "Now if you will your daughter see, My Lord cut up your pie.

' Wherein her flesh is minced small, and parched with fire, All caused by her step-mother, who did her death desire.

' And cursed be, the master cook, Q cursed he may be! I proffered him my own hearts blood, From death to set her free."

' Then all in black this Lord did mourn, And, for his daughter's sake, He judged her cruel step-mother, To be burnt at the stake.

' Likewise he judg'd the master cook, In boiling lead to stand, And made the simple scullion boy, The heir to all his land.'

The was a moment when everyone just stared; a silence broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the sounds of the outdoors around them.

Then, Peter let out a single breathy sigh.

' Whoa.'

Update! Sorry it's a few days late, it took me ages to find a suitable ghost story to fit in here. This is called The Tale of Lady Ellen, and I found it in a book of Scottish Ghost Stories in my very own substantial library.

For any non-British readers, Flumps are just marshmallows. And for the British among you, Crosshills is in fact strictly in Yorkshire, but it's near the border and, shall we call it artistic licence?

That's it, really. Thanks for reading!