Althea's Cottage, November 1982

…This is my last night in Macapá, and I will begin my journey along the Amazon early tomorrow morning. I wish you had reconsidered my offer, Althea. I think you would have enjoyed canoeing off into one of the Amazon's tributaries, and discovering the amazing plant and wildlife. My guide has already told to me of some of the magnificent creatures I'll see—I'm excited to see the scarlet macaws and the brilliantly colored poison dart frogs, but I doubt I want to see an anaconda. My guide had informed me that, last year, one enormous anaconda had killed a small dog he had owned. I must remember on the full moon to stay away from the river. I do hope you enjoyed the bird I sent the letter with—it's a toucan—doesn't it have the most fantastic beak? I asked the man would it be anymore to send it, but they don't use owls here. It reminds me of the time we traveled to the zoo with Afina; however, here I'm not separated by a cage or glass from the exotic animals.

I am unsure when I will write next, as there will be no place for me to post the letters. I believe there is a center in Manaus, but I will arrive there in a few weeks or so. I'll send your Christmas presents then because, honestly, I'm not sure if I'll be able to post again until March.

Send my love to Afina. I'm looking forward to her first letter in English. Now to you, take care of yourself, Althea. Now, I think this letter is long enough, as it is five pages. I'll write more about my journey as soon as I can.

Regards,

Remus

Take care of myself, in what way, she thought as she folded the letter and stared at the toucan in her kitchen. Now, what am I going to do with you, she thought as the bird hopped along her kitchen table. You'll have to stay just long enough for Afina to see you then you go back. Yawning, she stood from the kitchen table and Apparated to the manor house. Gran had insisted that Afina live with her while Althea sorted out the wreck of her life. At first, she protested, but after Gran found Althea passed out on her kitchen floor after a night of heavy drinking, the fate of Afina's home was decided. Althea would be more of an older sister or aunt to Afina and not a replacement of her mother.

Althea's stomach tightened as she was about to enter the drawing room—she had to prepare herself for Gran's assault on her character. Gran sat in her favorite chair absorbed in her needlepoint, and had not noticed Althea's entrance.

"Good morning, Gran," Althea said quietly, walking closer to Gran.

Gran sighed, paused from her needlepoint, and looked up at Althea. "Althea Rosemary, what brings you here this early—it is before two in the afternoon, you know," she remarked, placing her needlepoint on the table next to her.

Althea frowned as Gran inspected her further.

"Dressed, I see, and not smelling like a vat of alcohol—what's the occasion?"

"I received a letter," she replied quietly, looking at the floor. "I'd like—"

"From whom?" she interrupted—her eyes narrowing.

Althea sighed. "From Remus, I'd like for—"

"Oh, now there's someone who has his priorities sorted out," she interrupted again and Althea's frustration grew.

Yes, Althea thought, clenching her fists. I should be more like Remus, shouldn't I? I should be doing something useful with my life. But don't you see, Gran? He's running away from the same things as me. How can one be bloody useful in a jungle? He's trying to lose himself, Gran, we just have different methods.

"Gran, I want to take Afina to the cottage to see the toucan," she replied quickly so Gran could not interrupt her again.

Gran raised an eyebrow. "A toucan?"

"Yes, a toucan," she sighed, looking at Gran. "The letter Remus sent came by toucan. She saw one when we went to the zoo together and was fascinated by it. I want to show her before it begins its flight back to Brazil," she explained and folded her arms. "Now, a short walk to the cottage isn't going to end in some catastrophic incident, is it? I know she'll be delighted to see it."

Gran frowned as she evaluated the offer. "Only if I can come along," she replied shortly and stood.

Althea laughed quietly. "Right, so you want to see the toucan, too, then?"

"It's not a matter of wanting to see the bird, Althea Rosemary. It's a matter of your sanity," she explained, walking toward the staircase.

Althea's eyes widened at the accusation. "My sanity?" she repeated disbelievingly. "What, are you joining the campaign to commit me to St. Mungo's?" she sneered, resting her hands on her hips.

Gran sighed and shook her head. "Althea Rosemary, you quit your job, you sleep until the afternoon, you smell of alcohol—you're unfit," she explained, placing her hand on the staircase banister.

"Unfit," she muttered angrily, frowning—her hands falling heavily to her sides. Mrs. Black had called her unfit. "Maybe if you hugged me once and awhile and said, 'Well done, Althea,' then maybe I wouldn't have turned out this way," she continued, looking at the back of Gran's perfectly combed hair.

Gran tightened her grip on the banister. "Do not blame your faults on me," she replied, looking at the stairs. "If you don't straighten up, Althea Rosemary, you'll end up like Madam Doula."

Althea shivered at the mention of Madam Doula. Upon her return, she had learned of the awful fate of the Longbottoms—tortured to the point of insanity. She also learned the fate of Madam Doula, driven insane by the news of the countless children she assisted now dead or orphans. Another Healer had told her that he found Madam Doula near death after an apparent overdose of poppy juice and Firewhiskey.

"You'd like to see me there—St. Mungo's—wouldn't you?" she asked, walking toward Gran.

"Althea Rosemary, you know that isn't true."

"Oh, come on!" she replied, throwing her hands up in frustration. "You haven't wanted me here since I was eleven. Just admit it, Gran, you never wanted me, and you don't want me here right now," she explained as she reached the staircase.

Gran slowly turned to face Althea. "No, Althea Rosemary, you listen to me. You are just like your father. He dumped you on my doorstep when you were eleven and left you here with me. I was the one who raised you, Althea Rosemary. Now you, you dump one child with a Muggle family, and now, you leave me with another," she replied heatedly, pointing her finger at Althea.

"You know I had no choice with Prudence," she replied through gritted teeth.

"You had a choice! If she were my child, I would never have given her up. It just proves—"

"Proves what? That I'm unfit?" she yelled and ran her hands through her long hair. "To hell with it, don't bother her. I'm leaving," she muttered, walking away.

"Yes, do what you always do—run away," she replied condescendingly.

"Just die already!" Althea shouted back and Apparated.

Althea returned to her cottage and collapsed on the kitchen floor. That bloody woman, she thought as she started to cry. I wanted to show Afina a toucan, which is gone now, I wanted to show her a toucan, and Gran thinks I'm going to steal her. Bloody hell, when did I lose this woman's trust, she thought, wiping her eyes as she stood.

"I don't think I ever had her trust," she muttered as an owl flew in with the Daily Prophet. "Oh, let's see what's in here today," she added as she took the Daily Prophet. "Anything to take my mind away from that old woman?"

Althea made a face at the courtroom photographs of the front page. How could anyone resist such a salacious story? The man who obviously accepted the load of gold and a weak excuse of an Imperius Curse from the Death Eaters that tortured Althea and murdered other pregnant witches had a son who was very much the Death Eater. Althea raised an eyebrow at the deranged devotion upon Bellatrix's face. You'd think they've exhausted every angle, she thought as she walked toward the sitting room. Althea threw herself upon her sofa and read about further trials for Death Eaters. She felt a small twinge in her stomach for Sirius did not receive the same courtesy of a sham trial.

"Probably because one of them was Barty Crouch's son," she murmured and let out a quiet laugh of spite.

…The search for Death Eaters intensified after the arrest of the four that were later convicted of torturing the Longbottoms. However, upon recent interviews, the Ministry believes the majority of recent persons of interest were indeed under the awful Imperius Curse. Therefore, the sentence to Azkaban, if any, would be approximately six months….

"They can lie, you know," she said aloud and threw the Daily Prophet across her sitting room.

The paper slid against the hardwood floor, leaving a trail of pages as it came to rest against the wall.

"I'll clean it up later," she muttered, frowning at the paper pile.

Althea threw herself back onto her sofa and stared at the crack in the ceiling. It's gotten longer since the last time I looked at it, she thought, resting her arms behind her head. Anyway, I wonder what the Imperius Curse feels like though. I wonder if you know or even feel it. It might explain how bloody stupid I was for believing everything Sirius said to me…but St. Mungo's cleared me. Healer Young couldn't hide his horror that I might've loved him…and I don't know why I've kept his things. When she returned home from Themiskyra, she collected the rest of his things, photographs, letters, and anything else associated with him, and stored them in the Northfield attic. She should have thrown them away or created a large bonfire to destroy all of his belongings; however, she could not. Why am I hanging on to such rubbish, she thought, sitting up from the sofa. He's not coming back, he's never coming back, and I don't want him back. He can rot in that hateful prison for all I care. However, I would like to see him though, before he dies, so he knows his betrayal was for nothing. He followed Voldemort, wanted me dead, but here I am. I want to see him just as he is about to die. I think that would be the perfect way to send him off to the afterlife.

"It might scare him to death, I think," she spoke aloud—a small smile formed across her face. "But what to do now?" she asked, scratching the side of her face while looking at the coffee table.

She had to keep her mind occupied or she would start drinking, and ten o'clock in the morning was too early. She would meet Sophie later that night, anyway. She smirked at the Muggle tabloid upon the coffee table. Posh Slag Shag—they've really outdone themselves, she thought, looking at the photograph of two women below the fold. Sophie, with a large grin, sat upon the pavement—her miniskirt around her hips—as Althea, laughing, slid down the side of nightclub wall. Lady M and Lady A had stopped reprimanding their granddaughters over their sexual escapades (although the public drunkenness could be too much to tolerate). To Althea, she reckoned that for Gran, anyone was better than Sirius Black.

"I reckon I'll read—it's better than drinking."

Leaning forward, she grabbed her father's last journal that rested next to the Muggle tabloids and started to read. Over the past six years, periodically, she would turn to her father's journals for answers. Most of his journals were filled with small anecdotes about his travels, his opinions on his daughter, and some small news of his research. Through her searching of countless papers and journals, she finally discovered her father's last journal three days ago. She had yet to start reading it as she had not been sober enough to, but today, she decided would be the day she started to read her father's journal. Resting her back against the sofa, she opened toward the middle of the journal and started to read.

…I received a letter from Minerva detailing another unfortunate event of my daughter. It seems she hit a boy with an abnormally thick book in the library. Upon hearing the opening sentence, I realized it must have been the same boy she had the broom shed accident with near the end of her fourth year. Unbelievable, that I alone had to pay for the damages inflicted upon the broom shed. He was the one that dared her, and Althea is too stubborn to back down or to steer her broom….

Althea smiled as she remembered the broom shed incident of her fourth year. Sirius and I spent three days in hospital after that, she thought, stretching her legs out before her. Angry at some remark Sirius had made, Althea had called him a coward, which was worse than any hex or jinx she could have performed on him. To prove he was not a coward, he challenged her to a game of Wizards' Chicken. Althea agreed, and the two rode their brooms—each waiting for the other to fall off, or turn his or her broom so as not to hit the broom shed. However, the stubbornness of the two prevailed and neither turned, nor fell of his or her broom. They hit the shed almost at full speed with the broom shed wall splintering from impact. Althea and Sirius, both unconscious, were rushed to the hospital wing and spent three days recovering.

…I wondered the cause of the latest incident until I arrived at the third paragraph—the stupid boy had kissed her. I am at a loss for the reasons, except one, of which I hope couldn't possibly be the reason. I wasn't very awful to Diana during our time at Hogwarts, but I did tease her a bit—in an attempt for her to notice me. She did and I became less stupid; however, I pray that this is not what is happening here. Although, I never dared Diana to fly into a damn broom shed! Is this the ritual of children today?

Althea is such a perceptive, sensitive girl, and I'm afraid some of our travels might have swayed her toward more liberal sentiments. I fight not to find it amusing that she willfully disregards her grandmother. In some respects, she reminds me of George, and I am sure it pleases my dear mother.

Althea could do so much better—especially a better family. I doubt the affections of my daughter could be swayed, though, and after another night in infirmary, I hope he realizes as well. Except, it would be highly amusing to see the reaction on his foul mother's face the next time I see her poking her nose about at the Ministry….

"The Ministry?" she asked quietly, frowning. "Daddy wasn't near the Ministry until February," she muttered, flipping through the journal.

She turned to the beginning of the entry and found that it was dated London, September 15, 1975. Maybe he was in London for the weekend—called back for testimony of some sort, she thought, turning to another journal entry.

London, December 12, 1975

I have been in this country for six months now, and the separation that I feel from Althea is unbearable. However, she cannot know that I am back in the country—it is too dangerous for her to be anywhere near London or anywhere near me. The disappearances are constant now, and I could not bear putting my daughter in danger. I know if she knew I have returned, she'd do anything to see me—something very foolish. I keep reminding myself she needs to stay with her Gran and at Hogwarts, but this distance is dreadful. She is growing up so quickly, and in her last letter, she had told me of the lovely trip she took with her boyfriend to Hogsmeade. Now that frightened me, my own daughter having a boyfriend—an excellent student and prefect, my Althea was proud to tell me. Remus Lupin, the son of Healer John Lupin—the Head of Creature-Induced Injuries—a gentleman I am quite familiar with, whose son (how does Althea manage?) was brought to my attention in the case to allow him into Hogwarts—

"Oh God, you do think I'm a right little daughter," she breathed and winced. "Well done, Althea, shagging a werewolf."

I wish to meet him though, to give him the fatherly approval. I have been an awful father, but I have to protect her from what is about to come….

Althea frowned. "That entire time he was in England and he didn't visit me once," she said softly, holding the journal tighter in her hands.

Swallowing hard, she continued to read her father's journal entry:

…At the Ministry today, of all people, I met Pulcheria Oswin. I haven't seen her in ages, since our last meeting in Romania over a year ago. A very beautiful woman, and I was delighted she accepted my offer of dinner tonight. I wonder if we will be able to rekindle what we had in Romania….

"Ew, Daddy, no," she responded, making a face.

Althea turned the page, shuddered, and picked another spot, farther into the journal, to read:

London, February 7, 1976

Only my Althea could find so much trouble. She frantically wrote me over Christmas Holiday with news of a run-in with a werewolf. Had the protections I advised upon failed? At the time, I thought it an accident, but now I know it deliberate

"Daddy, it was Remus," she murmured and swallowed. "An accident."

As I had expected, the fright had transformed her; however, much to her relief and much to her horror. She continued to ask me questions of her transformation, answers to questions I was neither ready to give, nor could give to her. However, I have relented, and I have decided to send Althea the journal containing the secret to her transformation. I am not sending it to her for her benefit; rather, I am sending the journal to her for its protection. The journal contains sensitive material that if to fall into the hands of the evil, would cause infinite harm.

I have discovered I have been betrayed, and it is only a matter of time before the followers of that aristocratic impostor murder me as they have done to countless others, including Althea's mother. I should have known she would betray me—how could I have been so stupid! I immediately knew once I saw the Dark Mark on her forearm that Pulcheria had sold herself to that bastard. So many researchers have done so—afraid of the consequences. I noticed the Dark Mark when her sleeve slipped as she was reaching for a book. She does not know that I know of her betrayal, but her betrayal will be fruitless as the research is safe.

Now I know that I am in the right for keeping my daughter away. I only wish I could see her again and admire the young woman she has become in my absence….

Althea abruptly stood and forcefully closed her father's journal. She killed my father, she thought, the muscles of her body tightening. That bitch killed my father. Althea screamed into the silence, allowing the book to fall from her hands. She covered her face and fiercely sobbed into her hands. How she would kill for one last time to speak with her mother, or her father, or Lily, and now, Miriam. He was in England…all that time. Althea gasped for breath and coughed. I would've done everything to see my child one last time. Suddenly, Althea's stomach reeled as she realized she was no better than her father. Would Prudence feel the same? Would Afina? I've abandoned Prudence and now I've abandoned Afina, she thought, smoothing her hair away from her face. Bloody hell, I am a mess.

"I—I need to become a better person for Afina's sake," she said, determined. "No more drink, I'll dedicate my days to her education and adjustment, and I'll care for her as a real mother should," she added, rubbing her upper arms. "I've let myself suffer too long."

Determined and invigorated with her newfound purpose, Althea first picked up the thrown Daily Prophet, and as she was about to toss it into the dustbin, she noticed something that chilled her body:

Pulcheria Oswin Book Signing Today at Two

She reread the headline to make sure if it was true, and it was. Pulcheria Oswin would be at Flourish and Blott's to promote her latest book Wanton Werewolves at two that afternoon. The sadness she felt for her father was instantaneously replaced with overwhelming fury at this escaped murderess. Althea knew what she had to do—she would expose this Pulcheria Oswin for the Death Eater that she was—the Ministry would be happy to have her in Azkaban…even for six months. Althea looked at her clock and noticed it was five minutes until one. She had little time to prepare before she had to leave. She had to look her best if she was to expose a murderess.


"She is the most amazing author," the woman in front of Althea said to the woman standing next to her. "She puts the whole world of Dark creatures into perspective."

Perspective, Althea thought, as she picked up Pulcheria Oswin's latest book. She sensationalizes the plight of the werewolf into some hideous creature that deserves subhuman recognition. Sneering, she opened the book and started to read from a few passages as she waited for Pulcheria to sign her book. Immediately, Althea's nails dug into the leather binding as she read Pulcheria's writing, refuting her father's evidence and the evidence of countless others. How could anyone believe such rubbish, she thought angrily, male werewolves kidnapping women and forcing them to have their children, so there would be new generations of werewolves? What awful lies! And this—this—'Many of us remember the awful story of the Weymouth Werewolf of 1827. A horrified husband found his wife and four children murdered where they slept—everywhere the telltale signs of the werewolf. Thankfully, the werewolf, Rufus Stubb, was apprehended and was immediately exterminated.' Why don't you finish it, huh? Why didn't you include that this man was wrongly accused during the hysteria of the early nineteenth century? The husband took advantage of this hysteria and later confessed to killing his entire family! The only evidence when they found the poor man was bloody chicken bones after the man raided a chicken house. He was later exonerated! 'Furthermore, I, like many others, believe that stricter regulation, if not cleansing of the werewolves, will only alleviate the current problem.' She's calling for the extermination of werewolves—that bitch!

"Oh my God," she whispered as she continued to read.

The short, pudgy woman, with an enormous, bright pink bow in her hair, turned around and smiled. "I see you're affected by the book as well—powerful stuff," she said, clutching two of Pulcheria's books: Wanton Werewolves and Vicious Vampires.

"Right, powerful," Althea muttered—frowning—staring at pictures of how to determine a werewolf during the rest of the month.

Absolute rubbish more like it, she thought, closing the book.

"The part about the male werewolf carrying off the young woman absolutely frightened me!" the other woman explained and shivered.

"Are you sure this sort of thing is true, though?" Althea asked, pointing to the book.

"Without a doubt," the toad-faced, pudgy woman replied quickly. "Look at the amount of evidence Ms. Oswin has provided—remarkable piece—remarkable."

"Remarkable, indeed," Althea replied sardonically, opening the book to the author's biography. "It is written here that she has never personally met with a werewolf, but she writes as if she has met one or more—"

The pudgy woman laughed, which unnerved Althea. "One does not need to meet a werewolf to know it is a sadistic, bloodthirsty, carnal creature," she replied with an air of superiority.

The tall, thin woman next to her gasped, and brought her hand to the side of her face. "I've heard they're wild," she whispered knowingly. "I had a friend who had the unfortunate circumstance to sleep with a werewolf. She hasn't been the same since—the poor girl."

"Really?" Althea replied with mock seriousness—she attempted her best to hide her smile. "I've heard it's the best experience—especially the night before a full moon," she explained and bit her lip as the two women gasped.

"That's what she said in her book! The women become blinded to such things! That's how they keep the women and the women have their werecubs," the tall woman replied excitedly.

The muscle underneath Althea's right eye started to twitch. I can't believe I'm listening to this, she thought, stepping forward as the queue moved. She wanted to hex both women out of their stupidity.

"Also," the pudgy woman began, "that is why werewolf sweat is a highly prized aphrodisiac."

Althea coughed to stifle her laughter. "I've never heard of such a thing," she replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, but it's in here! Page six hundred and thirty-three!" the tall woman said eagerly. "I don't know what I'd do if I ever met a werewolf—"

"Hope they're not sweating?" Althea interrupted, smiling as both women frowned at her. "Oh, look—it's your turns," she added happily and the two women turned around to face Pulcheria Oswin.

Althea sighed and rolled her eyes as the two women heaped their sycophantic compliments and blind praise upon Pulcheria Oswin. In between the two, Althea saw the bent head of Pulcheria signing the pudgy woman's book. It will be my turn next, she thought as the two women giggled ridiculously at a joke Pulcheria made. Althea clutched the book tighter. Would she expose her now? Who would believe her? At one time, just a passing remark that someone was a follower of Voldemort was enough for trial and even Azkaban. Althea needed more evidence—she needed to see the Dark Mark. She had never seen such a mark upon the skin and wondered if it looked like that hideous creature she saw in the sky. Why hadn't her father described it? However, Pulcheria was wearing a long sleeve robe, and Althea was not sure if the Dark Mark would be there. Could one hide it? Althea needed Pulcheria to reveal casually some information about her connections, and to do so Althea would lie.

"Next?"

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and examined the brown-haired, middle-aged witch. So this is the woman that murdered my father, she thought, staring into the brown eyes of Pulcheria. Pulcheria smiled and held out her hand for Althea's book. Briefly, her grip tightened on the book before she handed it to Pulcheria. I wonder if she smiled when she betrayed my father, she thought darkly as Pulcheria opened the book. 'Look, my Dark Lord, I brought him to you. See! His research will die with him.'

"Your work is fascinating," Althea lied, moving closer to the table.

"Why thank you," she replied, taking her quill from the inkbottle. "I do take pride in my research."

"Oh yes," she continued, "you most definitely should. Your work on the problem of Dark creatures is inspiring. I am researching them myself…I spent the year in Transylvania."

"Really?" she replied, interested.

Althea nodded. "Yes, in a small village in Northern Transylvania," she replied—a small energizing feeling flowed through her body. Pulcheria might just believe this lie.

"Transylvania. I spent some time there—I was in Romania at the time, but a year? I'm intrigued," she added, leaning closer. "I could imagine how dangerous it had been."

Althea smiled sweetly. "I barely escaped with my life."

Pulcheria's eyes widened slightly.

It's working, she thought, smiling more as Pulcheria continued to speak in amazement that Althea survived in a place full of Dark creatures. I don't believe this, but it's working.

"I would like to continue to talk with you—a fellow researcher on the subject of Dark creatures. Maybe you could enlighten me on a particular debate we've been having in the community," she said quietly, twirling her quill. "The signing is almost over and my flat is short distance from here," she explained, dipping her quill in the inkbottle again. "I'd love to continue that discussion with you there."

This is almost too easy, she thought, staring at an eager Pulcheria. She will befriend me, learn to trust me, and in the end, I will send her to Azkaban.

"Oh, that would be lovely," Althea replied with feigned admiration.

Pulcheria smiled. "Let me sign your book, then. Now, what's your name?" she asked—her quill poised to write.

The blood drained from Althea's face. If she told Pulcheria her name was Althea Morrigan, the ruse would be over and Althea's attempts to imprison Pulcheria would end. Quickly, her eyes darted from book spine to book spine looking for a name. Over Pulcheria's head, she spotted two books, one by Monty Kelly, and the other by Dryden Derry.

"Kelly Derry," she replied, combining the two names.

"Well, Kelly Derry," she began—handing Althea the book, "it will be a pleasure to talk with you."

"Most definitely," Althea replied, smiling, and turned to walk away.

Now I'll have the evidence to send you where you belong, she thought as she reached the door. You will be in Azkaban, and everyone will know your crimes. As Pulcheria Oswin signed the books of the rest of the fawning customers, Althea would wait and conjure up stories about her time in Transylvania. She had to convince Pulcheria that indeed she had studied and met with Dark creatures. I hope this bloody works, she thought, resting the back of her head against the brick building. If not, I'll never have this chance again.