WOLF MOON
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February 12th 1979
THE ORPHANAGE
#175
After the ripping pain of the transformation, the Pack only had a moment to breathe the night air before the Alpha started nipping at their flanks, urging them on, and soon they were running again, the stars and moon above, the soft ground below, the paw-in-earth, wind-in-fur, canine rush spurring them on. Over hills, across rivers, through forests and around villages, hunting through the Yorkshire countryside, freedom running in their veins.
Remus joined the amalgamation of bodies, the great tide of wolves ready to feed, the running, pushing, shoving group that were so ready, noses high to catch the scent of blood carried with the wind. Someone howled in joy and they all joined in until the Alpha growled at them, and they were off once more, running and running and running until they were panting, tongues lolling and eyes rolling, paws sore and aching.
Then the patter of paws stopped. They were here.
The outskirts of a large town, the windows already dark, streetlamps on and faraway voices drifting on the air. Ahead of them was a larger building, grey bricks and wooden double doors. Remus received a single nod from Greyback, who took his half off towards the house on the corner. His eyes flashed once before his hulking form disappeared into the night.
Looking over his group, he sat high as their temporary Alpha. They'd discussed everything the night before. They knew what to do.
Some of the wolves found low windows to get through while Remus and three others pushed at the door. Come on, the human voice in him urged, JUST FUCKING OPEN!
Pushing, straining, and he couldn't bloody well get this wrong or he'd be tomorrow's breakfast.
They were in. A dark hallway. A spiralling staircase. Claws clicking on polished wooden floorboards. Other wolves smashing through the windows. They started spreading out, finding dormitory upon dormitory of sleeping children, and then there were shouts, and then there were screams, and then there was silence on the ground floor.
Up the stairs. The children were awake. Whispers. Remus was pushed into one of the dormitories by an older wolf. He snapped at her, but went in, knowing what he had to do. Four little girls were huddled in the corner, squealing with fear. How old were they? Four? Five? Six, perhaps?
Fresh meat.
Pink pyjamas. Pigtails. Gappy teeth. Wide eyes. Shivering with fear.
He stalked forward, knowing how his amber eyes gleamed. Knowing how drool dripped from his muzzle. Knowing he was ever so hungry. Even then, a part of him was sickened, was weeping inside, saying: NO. No, don't. Please, please don't. Could he? Could he ruin these lives for the sake of his own?
Oh, he was famished.
And the choice was obedience or death.
He turned for a second, seeing that Cadd had entered and was sitting there expectantly, a patronising look in his poisonous green eyes.
Remus turned back to the quivering children.
And to Cadd.
And back to the children.
And then he pounced, but not on the children, ending up on top of the burly form of Emil Cadd, who dug fangs into Remus's side. They fought, teeth and claws digging into every inch of skin, and spit flew from their snarling lips and blood seeped from their gaping wounds and all there was in Remus's mind was the fight: attack, attack, attack. Pain, blinding pain followed by brief triumph, being knocked back, then leaping forwards. It was a game of back-and-forth fighting, neither gaining the upper hand while they duelled.
Flesh under teeth and ripping. Warm blood on his tongue, but also trickling down his side. Pain, pain, attack, attack, attack. Snarling, growling, barking, howling, thrown back, lunging forwards again and again and again. Attack, attack, attack. Flashes of pain. Attack, attack, attack.
Then there was a commotion at the door and all the other wolves flooded in, and they leapt on him until all their weight pinioned him into the ground. He struggled, kicking and flailing and snarling, but he was stuck, weighed down by half of the Pack. For once, they ignored the children, who sat there waiting to be Turned and confronted their own brother.
Their brother, Remus Lupin, the pathetic mess of a werewolf.
Through scrambling forms, he glimpsed a pale-furred wolf sitting in the doorway. Lisa, her blue eyes sparking with disappointment, muzzle already soaked with children's blood. She shook her head sadly at him.
His view was blocked an instant later, with a set of fangs thrust into his face, biting inches from his nose. He kept struggling, but too much blood was on the floor and not enough in his veins. He was feeble, his eyesight fading, pain shooting lead into his muscles, and soon enough he could barely move, barely see, only suffer that pain. Pain, pain, pain and it was worse than ever before because he knew he deserved it. He deserved everything they doled out to him because he was a bloody great failure. Even Lisa thought so.
He scarcely remembered the next part. One moment he was bleeding out in the orphanage dormitory, and the next he was being dragged down the stairs, each step a painful hit shuddering through his bones. Down the stairs, bruises forming, then into the lobby, leaving streaks of blood behind him, the rest of the Pack following where he was lugged, eagerly waiting for his impending doom, occasionally bending down to have a taste of traitor's blood.
Pain so intense he couldn't even get to his feet when Greyback was there. Remus didn't know when the Alpha had arrived, just that he was there, and he was snarling in Remus's face, and he was growling and was very, very unhappy.
Down streets and alleyways, past rows of terraced houses and surely the muggles were awake by now? Aching, shuddering, so stiff he might as well be dead, eyes closing bit by bit.
Finally, to the river bank, and Greyback stood at the edge of the path and gestured with his head.
The river roaring, roaring, roaring like a pride of hungry lions.
He didn't even protest as they rolled him over the bank and into the river.
Dragging, rolling, splash!
Water, licking at his wounds. Reeds, tugging at him to return to his family. The depths beneath, telling him to give in. The river, carrying him to who-knows-where.
There were howls of triumph as the river bore him out of sight.
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February 13th 1979
THE RIVERBANK
Under the shadows of the sprawling horse chestnut, Sirius sat and examined the house. It was tall and thin with a powder pink door and wisteria snaking up the walls. The owners had been alerted and were shut in their most secure room, the lights in the rest of the house still a-glow.
It was well past midnight by now, the full moon shining from its peak, the stars veiled by a thin layer of cloud. Sirius found his eyes wandering in the wrong direction, at the river behind him, and he watched it, soothed by its steady current, the gently lapping water against the bank, the odd log floating down from upstream.
Only … was that a log? He lit his wand and peered at it.
Uttering a shout, he sent a spray of sparks into the air to alert the other Order members. They were gathered in seconds, and he pointed at the canine body floating down the river, the trickle of blood staining the water red.
With a series of spells, the unconscious body of the werewolf was laid onto the dirt bank, and as they crouched to examine the body, they saw the carnage.
Tremendous scratches—sure to scar—ran up and down the body, the fur matted with blood despite the bath the river must have acted as. Its eyes were closed, and ragged breathing barely raised its chest. Dumbledore started muttering under his breath, holding his wand to the worst of the wounds.
"We got the wrong house," growled Moody. "It's floated downstream from the other target."
"But we—"
Dumbledore shook his head. "We'll discuss it when we are somewhere more secure. Emmeline, please let the family in that house know they are safe for this month then go home. I'll contact you in the morning. Caradoc, do you have a spare room where you live?"
"I'm afraid not, Albus. I barely fit in my apartment—I doubt all of you and an injured werewolf would have any space to move at all."
"If it's alright, sir, I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind some more activity around the house," James interjected, his skin a shade paler than its usual caramel brown from the sight of the blood and the fangs on that thing. "They're getting rather weary on their own in that enormous house."
With a nod, it was confirmed, and Dumbledore instructed Caradoc and Alice to go home. Moody and Dumbledore seized the body and apparated with a crack. Sirius and James followed.
They arrived just outside the gate, and James, reluctant to wake his parents, let them in.
Dumbledore went to make a cuppa, and James started hunting out an empty room, leaving Moody and Sirius by the werewolf, which they had set on a sofa. There was a towel underneath it to prevent blood and river water from leaking onto the furniture.
Moody was already sending off patronuses left and right, pacing around the room with his leg clunking every step. The whistle of the kettle could be heard coming from the kitchen, light footsteps from upstairs. Sirius just looked at the bleeding body of the wolf.
He had never really encountered a werewolf before. It was different from drawings in textbooks and on the blackboard. It was different from pictures in newspapers and whispered descriptions in the Auror Office. This was a real Dark Creature, one who had probably killed people and Turned children and … a werewolf. This was a werewolf. Sleeping soundly, barely breathing, cut and scratched and bruised and so, so vulnerable that Sirius could no longer compare it to all the stories he had heard about werewolves. It just looked like a rather broken dog.
Why was it in this state? Surely Moody would know if anyone else had been on the case of Greyback's pack or if anyone would have the chance to catch a werewolf on the hunt. But those scratches were not the work of wands. Sirius could only imagine claws raking wounds like that, but why would other werewolves attack this one? Why had this wolf been targeted, ending up floating down the river Don?
They'd have to wait for it to wake and transform back before they knew anything unless something was revealed in tomorrow's news, though it was doubtful the Daily Prophet would have anything they didn't already know.
The night dragged on.
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February 14th 1979
THE MADHOUSE
Gasp. A sudden lungful of air, a hitch of the chest, eyelids struggling to open. He tried to move, but he found he was entirely immobilised. He tried to speak, but his throat felt like it had been lined with scorching coals.
Voices. Drifting, dancing, dangling above him. Footsteps, some clunking sounds, and hushed whispers. The Pack was never hushed; not in human form. They were vulgar and gruff. These voices … no. Something was wrong.
He attempted to move with more urgency, this sense of wrongness giving him more energy. He would fight if he needed to. If he could.
Suddenly: "Are you Greyback? Are you Fenrir Greyback?" A deep voice. Sharp. Loud. Too loud.
He tried to answer, to say No, I'm not bloody Fenrir Greyback. His voice didn't work. His jaw was numb, his throat still burning, so his mouth just opened and closed without a sound escaping his chapped lips. In fact, the effort is too much, and he started coughing, coughing, coughing, the sandpaper feeling scraping against his throat.
Burning in his chest. Fire creeping up his throat. His body lying still.
He tried again, this time to say GO AWAY, but all that came out was "Water." He sounded weak, pathetic, needy. He coughed again.
There was a flurry of sound—more whispers, footsteps, then a warm hand on his cold chin, tilting his head up, and then cool water on his tongue, soothing his flaming throat. He swallowed eventually (painfully) and lay still.
The voice again. "Are you Fenrir Greyback?"
Then Remus found himself doing a curious thing. He began to laugh. It was high and delirious, punctuated by coughs, but it was a laugh nonetheless. "No," he rasped, wincing as he feels rocks scraping the insides of his neck. "No."
Laughing. Laughing. Why was he laughing? Because he was captured or something and they thought he, Remus Lupin, was the mighty Fenrir Greyback. And that was absurd. He didn't know why, but somehow it was hilarious and he was laughing, laughing, laughing.
Then he was coughing, coughing, coughing, and it wasn't so funny anymore, and something was creeping up his throat. He lunged over, head over the edge of the bed he was in and vomited—still coughing, but retching too, despite the yawning emptiness of his stomach and a hand was on his back and something was lodged in his throat and was that blood he was spitting out?
There was more movement, and more voices, and more questions, but he didn't hear a thing because right then, everything blinked out.
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February 15th 1979
The man—boy, really—was tall, from what Sirius could see of him lying down, with blonde-brown hair soaked through with blood, and a body decorated with scars. He was coated in layers of dirt. And he was naked. Very, very naked, but of course Sirius wasn't looking.
He'd woken up briefly once or twice, muttering a few words or vomiting off the side of the bed, along with coughs and strained breaths and a few bouts of hysterical laughter.
They'd established nothing but the fact that he wasn't Fenrir Greyback, which they'd guessed anyway from his youthful features and the photographs Moody had brought with him. It had only been a half-hearted hope that he had been Greyback, anyway. For now, they took shifts, with one or two of them beside his bed at all times, and Moody was alerted every time he woke just in case he was conscious enough for questioning. Dumbledore had dropped in once or twice in the past three days, but mostly it was just Moody, James, Lily, Mrs and Mr Potter, Alice, Emmeline, Caradoc, and of course Sirius himself.
The Daily Prophet had contained some information—not only had the other house been raided, but an orphanage down the road had too. Several children were missing, two dead, though those who slept on the top two floors remained untouched. One child, when interrogated, had described a wolf about to slaughter them, before turning around and attacking its own companion. According to the little girl, all the wolves had converged on that first wolf, and he had been attacked and dragged out, none of the wolves returning after that.
Had that been this wolf? He was banged up enough for it, and it explained the river. Would the Pack have killed or Turned the rest of the children if it hadn't been for this werewolf? Was he to thank for the remaining living children in the orphanage?
Sirius sat alone by the werewolf's bedside, in a chair that looked far more comfortable than the lumpy bed. As he pondered, he studied him; it wasn't often you get to see a real-life werewolf sleeping peacefully.
"Can I have some clothes?" The scratchy voice shocked Sirius out of his reverie, and he turned his head to see the werewolf awake, struggling to open his eyes. "And ... I can't see. Why can't I see?"
"I … Yeah. Yeah, of course. You've got, uh, blood stuck to your eyelids. Do you want me to get a cloth or something for that?"
He looked surprised that Sirius had agreed, but he quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression. "Yes," he croaked. "Please."
Sirius stood and walked to the door. Thinking again and wondering whether it was such a good idea to leave him unattended, he simply called out, "Effie!"
In a moment, Mrs Potter came round the corner. "Yes? Is he … is everything alright?"
"Yeah, fine. He wants clothes and a cloth to wipe the blood off his face. Could you…?"
"Of course. I'll only be a moment."
Sirius went back into the scant little room that they had put the man/boy/werewolf in and sat back down.
After a moment of silence, he asked, "What's your name?"
The answer was a raised eyebrow. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I don't know how to refer to you in my head."
He hesitated.
"I'm Sirius,'' Sirius said.
He said nothing.
Just then, Mrs Potter came in. She smiled at the currently nameless man, who couldn't see her anyway. "How are you feeling?"
A shrug, as if he didn't know what to do with himself in the face of such kindness. "Sore."
She held a wet cloth in her hand, and before lowering it to his face, she said. "I'm going to wipe the blood off now. It's just a cloth." Slowly, ever so gently as if she was dealing with Sirius or James, she wiped at the blood on his chin, and then his cheeks, and then his nose, his temples, his forehead, into his hairline. Finally, she dabbed at his eyes.
He started to crack them open, bit-by-bit until his eyes were open and blinking rapidly, spinning around the room and taking every detail in. They settled on Sirius, and the wizard sucked in a breath. His eyes were twin amber searchlights. The type of eyes in comics that could only belong to a superhero from another world, as if molten gold had been dripped onto his irises, then covered in the sweetest honey. Clear, sharp, speckled with something darker. They were the eyes of a wolf.
"Thank you," the boy murmured.
"You're welcome," said Euphemia, setting the clothes next to him on the bed. "Here are my son's clothes. They may be a little small, but they'll do for now. You can keep them if you like."
The werewolf nodded.
Mrs Potter left, and the man looked expectantly at Sirius.
"Sorry," Sirius said. "I'm not supposed to look away. I'm supposed to be guarding."
He shrugged. "I guess you've already seen it. I'm not exactly covered. Do you mind … could you help me get up?"
"I … yeah. Of course. Would you like … do you want me to wash the blood off first? So it doesn't get on the clothes?"
"Uh…" The boy was eyeing the wand in Sirius's hand.
"It's just a quick spell. Doesn't hurt."
"Oh, yeah. Sure."
With a flick of his wand, the spilt blood was cleared, leaving still-healing cuts from the Full Moon pink and angry. The boy looked at Sirius's wand and the lack of blood on his body as if he had never seen magic before. Maybe he hadn't.
Settling a hand on his back and supporting him as he sat upright, Sirius got closer to him and saw the network of jagged white scars crisscrossing his shoulders and back.
Moving his long limbs awkwardly and wincing as he did so, he put a shirt on, then a jumper, and managed to stand for the boxers and trousers, then bend to put on a pair of socks. The clothes were James', so at least they were almost tall enough, but James was scrawnier than the werewolf, so the clothes were still ill-fitting in every dimension. Sirius was almost disappointed that the map of silver scars and the expanse of golden skin was covered.
"Remus," he said suddenly, looking up.
Sirius frowned. "What?"
"Remus Lupin," he said. "My name."
.
Remus felt very alone (but tried not to show it) among all of the strangers. These wizards and witches.
"Are you Fenrir Greyback?" Asked the same one who had questioned him before. He could see the man now and noticed—to his shock—that one of his eyes was mechanical or magical or something, whizzing around seemingly of its own accord. The rest of his body matched—it was a mismatch of his original hulking figure and of wooden limbs and missing chunks of skin and curious scars. Not that Remus could talk about scars.
"You've already asked that," Remus said. "Can I please have some more water?"
The man huffed and rolled one eye (the other had already been spinning for the last five minutes.). "Caradoc, would you mind?"
"Course not."
The blonde man left, and a minute later the door opened again, this time emitting a tall man with a long silver beard.
"Alastor," he said.
"Albus," came the reply from the mismatched man.
All attention in the room was drawn to this old man. He seemed to suck the energy from every corner towards him, until all eyes were on him, all thoughts around him, all authority passed from Alastor to him. Albus was in charge now. He walked through the small crowd of people before standing immediately in front of the bed, his eyes boring into Remus's.
At that moment, Caradoc came in with a glass of water, passing it to Remus, who sniffed it suspiciously, and upon deciding it was safe, started sipping at it, then drinking, then gulping until he'd finished it all, aware at all times that everyone was watching his every move.
"You must be hungry, too. After this, I'm sure we could find you some food." Albus said. "I'm Albus Dumbledore. You might have heard of me?"
Remus offered a nod, remembering the surname from a few of Greyback's mutterings and Cadd's rants. It was the kind of name he had only heard spat in disgust or hatred. It was also the kind of name that meant that in no situation could his forename be used instead of his surname.
"Who am I, then?"
"A wizard."
"Yes."
"A soldier."
"No."
Remus didn't say a thing. He couldn't remember anything beyond the fact that he was a powerful wizard who Greyback wasn't fond of at all.
"I'm a teacher."
He still didn't answer, not sure what to say to such a random statement.
"The point is that we're trying to help you." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.
Remus scoffed, managing to find his voice long enough to compose sentences now. "By taking me from my home and my family and then taking my freedom? You lock me in a cell and call that helping? If you want to help, send me back." His voice was low but accented by a deep growl, the close walls and surrounding people making him cagey.
"What is your name?"
"I don't see how that helps me!"
"What is your name?"
"I—"
"Remus Lupin." Came another, softer voice, upper-class and rather quiet. It was Sirius, the one who had been guarding him when he woke up (with the hair and the eyes and the cheekbones) who had given him clothes and cleaned away the blood. Giving away his name. The bloody idiot. The traitor.
"Thank you, Sirius." The man sighed. "Remus, you were found floating down the River Don, with nasty claw wounds covering your body. You were lucky to survive."
He winced, imagining the pack descending on him again, a flurry of snarling wolves and claws and fur and teeth and blood, then a splash and panic and darkness. Then waking. Waking and screaming and laughing. You better be ready, Lupin. You better.
"What we mean to say is that we saved you, Remus, and—"
"Stop."
"Look, all we want—"
"STOP!" He yelled, the anger rising again. "How dare you? How fucking dare you act as if you're my saviour, then keep me here like a prisoner with constant guard and interrogation and no word of who you are or what you're going to do with me! How dare you?! Send me back! If you're so fucking gracious, SEND ME BACK!" And he yelled and yelled, letting it all come back, not caring if what he was saying was nonsense or actual English anymore, just needing to yell and rage at those smiling (still smiling!) faces. He thought he must have blabbered some Welsh that he still remembered from his long-ago childhood, mangled strings of curses, some Latin phrases that Doc always muttered to him, and incoherent screams.
And he was sitting up, lashing out, and finally—finally—his audience reacted, some moving forward to push him back, a few drawing their wands. And an hour ago he would've been afraid but he was beyond caring.
Then he stopped. Stopped because although his mouth was moving, no sound emerged, and he was left gaping like a fish, and then just glaring.
Bloody wizards.
Dumbledore kept looking at him with pity. "You should know, Remus, that the whole situation of the river and the wounds seemed rather intentional. It is my belief that your pack tried to have you killed."
He shook his head, knowing it was true but refusing to acknowledge that to Dumbledore.
"I'm taking the charm off you now, but we would appreciate it if you didn't shout. The Potters have kindly agreed to let you stay in their house, and it would be rather rude to disturb their peace."
Remus felt nothing but saw as the man flicked his wand. It wasn't that he gave a damn whether he disturbed the peace; he just resolved to be difficult—that way, they might stop in frustration.
"Just a few more questions, Remus. Do you know Fenrir Greyback?"
"No."
Everyone shuffled. "Do you know Fenrir Greyback?"
"I just said no."
The old man sighed, "How about this: who is the leader of your pack?"
He shrugged.
"Lupin, you are acting like a child. This information could be life or death, don't you understand? Please work with us here."
Remus scoffed. "Yes, when you attack the Pack, there will certainly be death."
"Remus—"
"They're innocent!" His voice was loud again, insisting, needing his message to reach these oblivious wizards who saw nothing but themselves. He wanted to hurt them, wanted them to think, wanted to make them take a step back and look. "They are all innocent! There are children—some barely five years old—living in the pack. Will you kill them? TELL ME THE BLOODY TRUTH!"
And this time he didn't scream and thrash any more; he just sat there in stony silence, eyes fixed on the old wizard.
"No," Dumbledore finally said. "We would not kill innocents."
Remus's voice went deadly quiet. "And how would you judge who is innocent? What would happen to the survivors?"
"Whoever does not wish to hurt others will be deemed innocent. Once this is … assessed, the innocents will be welcomed into our society."
He scoffed again, shaking his head. "What, as your bloody tame wolves, with nothing but their own body to attack every month, who live in fear of being assaulted on the streets or executed by their own government, who have registry numbers burned onto their skin? I'd rather die, Dumbledore. I'd rather die than live in your fucking prejudiced society, and I'm sure every other member of the Pack would say the same."
"Remus—"
His voice carried the hiss of a basilisk. "Just shut up! Don't try telling me you're doing the right thing cos you bloody well aren't, and you know it. If you won't let me go, do me a favour and fuck off."
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February 16th 1979
THE MEETING ROOM
The Order met in the dining room of Potter Manor. As the hosts, Monty and Effie were sitting with them, and because of her closeness to the family, Lily had become involved too. Other than that, it was the first group that had gathered in The Foxhunt a month ago.
Moody tapped a pile of papers with his fist. "His name is Remus Lupin, and he was reported missing by his parents on January 18th, 1965. He was four years old at the time, so now he must be eighteen. His father works in the ministry, his mother in some sort of muggle job."
"We'll have to tell them," Dumbledore said grimly. "Maybe once he's calmed down a little."
Alice frowned. "Shouldn't they know as soon as possible?"
"They cannot," he replied. "If he does anything violent, they will be devastated. Besides, the Ministry cannot know that we have him. If one of the Death Eater moles finds out, we will never gain any ground with the werewolves at all."
"But—"
"Once he's not so … cautious of us, then perhaps it will be a splendid idea. Maybe he still holds sympathy for them. They are his parents after all." Dumbledore sighed. "Leading on, Fleamont, Euphemia … do you mind if we borrow your house and hospitality for a little longer?"
"Stay as long as you like," laughed Euphemia. "We're craving some action, and it's nice to have our sons around more often." She raised an eyebrow pointedly at Sirius and James.
"What about Remus?" Sirius asked. "What will he do? Just … sit there until he's willing to give us some information?"
Moody grunted. "Would you rather let him join a yoga class? Learn quidditch? We can't have a werewolf on the loose, Black. However human he seems. Besides, the more bored he gets, the faster the information will come."
"But—"
"Maybe, Sirius," Dumbledore said before Moody could interrupt. "Maybe."
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THE BATH
Once he could stand and walk, he was taken into the bathroom. They explained the controls and the various bottles on the side and then left him alone.
Alone. To begin with, he stepped up to the mirror and stared. He hadn't seen himself for a very long time. It had been years since they last stayed in a place with a mirror, and between then and now, Remus had only seen distorted images in the river when he washed, or the glass windows of various buildings.
He was … different to before.
He'd always made an effort to keep relatively neat, but his hair had always been an issue, and it was chopped in all the wrong places, crusted with dirt. His face, crossed with scars he hadn't realised were there, was equally obscured by mud. His body, once he took his clothes off, he had seen before from looking down at himself, but there were brand new scars and wounds wrapping around his torso and limbs. He looked back to the mirror to observe his face.
His eyes were duller than he remembered, as if someone had blown the light out of them like birthday candles. His nose was narrow and crooked, clearly having been broken several times before (which it had), and after scrubbing the dirt off in the sink, he could see his skin was rough and tanned from spending his life outdoors. With a further scrub, he noticed freckles climbing his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, little golden specks that made him seem far younger than he was.
Or perhaps, he mused as he ran the bath hotter (hotter and hotter), it made him look his own age.
He hadn't missed the grey at his hair roots. He hadn't missed the lines on his face.
The bath, as he sank into it, was heaven. He was far too tall and his shoulders slightly too wide for him to fit in comfortably, but he managed to submerge himself all the same, revelling in the warmth.
Blood and dirt came off him in folds when he took to it with a bar of soap, and he realised that this was years and years' worth of muck that he'd never been able to cut through in the hasty river bathing he had always resorted to.
It must have been an hour later (How was the water still warm? He asked himself, before dismissing the thought and deciding he didn't want to know, as the answer was most likely due to magic) that he pulled himself out with a grunt. He'd been given clean clothes by Mrs Potter, who was far too kind for Remus to be comfortable around her.
He dressed, and the clothes were warm, and they were clean, and it was the first time he'd been able to genuinely appreciate that maybe this Order wasn't so terrible after all.
(Though they were, of course. They were terrible in every way; he was certain of that, and he returned to that conclusion only two hours later when he found himself tired and alone and in a strange, far-too-quiet building.)
He looked in the mirror again, and now he was clean and he looked … well, he looked like them. Like ordinary muggles and wizards who lived ordinary lives in ordinary houses.
Unable to bear his own unfamiliar face, he went outside, where Sirius was waiting (had he really been there an hour?).
The young wizard looked up at him and his eyes widened comically. He gaped. "You look ... different," he said, looking alarmed.
Remus made a noncommittal sound and let himself be led back to his room.
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INTERLUDE
Sirius had grown up in a house of ice. Brought up by several nannies, each claiming the ability to knock some sense into him, and each becoming more crazed as the years went on.
'Knocking some sense' became 'beating some sense' became 'using the cruciatus to torture some sense'.
Needless to say, he had never liked the nannies. Every time he missed a note on the grand piano in the second lounge, she would cast stinging hexes on his fingers. The more notes he slipped up on, the less he became able to play until he was a quivering mess on the piano stool, begging for her to let him stop. Every time he pronounced the name of a long-dead ancestor wrong in his weekly recitals, his nanny would lock him in the library, not to return until he'd memorised the entire family tree. Every time he made a mistake in his French or Latin classes, another hour would be added to the class until his life was a neverending language class, the foreign syllables carved in his head until he could barely speak English anymore.
But never had he considered leaving, not until halfway through seventh year, when his mother had sent him a birthday card a month late. Why that had made him snap rather than hours of Unforgivables, he didn't know, but he had rushed to Dumbledore and declared his address was to be changed to the Potter household.
Dumbledore had just said to him: "Sirius, have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix?"
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February 18th 1979
THE CELL
Remus beat his fists against the door. By now, his knuckles were cracked and bleeding, his fingers bruised, his palms sore, but still he pounded on the wood, and still he yelled. They'd moved the guard outside the door, presumably to stop them getting hurt (as if Remus would waste his energy on wizards), and he knew whoever was outside could hear him, so he screamed and yelled until his throat ached and his mouth was dry as the Sahara.
"LET ME OUT! JUST LET ME OUT! YOU CAN'T KEEP ME HERE FOREVER!"
He slammed against the wood again and again.
No-one came. It must've been hours and hours he made as much noise as he could, but it wouldn't surprise him if the wizards had some sort of spell to block it out. Hopeless. It was hopeless against these people.
He sat against the wall, sucking a bead of blood from his knuckle, wiping a weary hand across his face. Sleep seemed like an impossibility while he was a prisoner; he had drifted off every so often in the last few days, but every time it was as if his body was betraying him—how dare it shut down? He needed to be awake, to be alert, to be able to protect himself. He recollected a thousand stories all about what the wizards would do to young captured werewolves.
Emil Cadd, spitting his words out with the force of cannonballs. "A room lined in aconite, chains of silver, locked up alone on the full moon…"
Fenrir Greyback, crooning bedtime stories to the pups: "Rape. Torture. Experimenting their evil spells on you until…"
Being dragged through richly furnished corridors, down a set of stairs and into a cellar, the click of a lock, a figure standing before him. The hiss as a lamp is lit, the room swathed in deep orange light. wolf skulls, piled up in the corners of the room, with little plants of aconite growing through the eye sockets. The stench of blood rising up around him as he takes in the claw marks on the walls, the floors, the ceiling. The man—the wizard—raises his wand and mutters an ancient word, the magic making Remus's head spin and twirl. Hours and hours of this: alternating spells causing pain or numbness or hallucinations. The burn of silver. The sting of monkshood. Blood spilling onto the floorboards.
"Remus?"
His eyes shot open, and for a moment he was still in the cellar with the skulls and the wizard. His head reeled from the dream.
"Remus, are you alright?"
He blinked once, twice, until the sinister figure from the dream became Sirius, looking at his curled form worriedly.
"Get away from me," Remus growled.
Sirius didn't move.
He snarled deep in his throat, baring his teeth. "Watch it: I bite."
The wizard just snorted a laugh but budged a step back nonetheless. "Isn't it a little uncomfortable down on the floor?"
He shrugged.
"Come on, you're going to get bored if you don't talk to anyone. I'll get bored too, and I'm really annoying when I've got nothing to do."
Sirius just looked at Remus expectantly. Remus raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
"Oh, come on. I'll bring gobstones or chess and we can play, alright?"
The werewolf shrugged again.
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February 25th 1979
THE LOUNGE
A week later and finally Sirius had been permitted (after a lot of whining on his part) to accompany Remus throughout the rest of the house. The lounge was first, a nice friendly atmosphere for an introduction, and he slowed down after realising Remus was looking at the photographs that lined the corridor. There seemed to be no particular order to them, varying in age and condition, but it would be immediately clear to anyone that these were the Potters. Sirius had spent a long time studying each picture, wishing that by knowing everyone he could be part of the family. Each person was clearly a Potter: smiling Indians with wild hair and knobbly knees and kind eyes.
"Are you coming?" Sirius asked, not expecting him to answer.
Sure enough, the werewolf merely shrugged, but turned from the photos and followed behind him. After the initial yelling, Remus had descended into a cold silence and hadn't spoken in days.
He took Remus into the lounge and gestured to one of the chairs by the fireplace. As he sat, Sirius summoned the chess set and set up the pieces with two flourishes of his wand.
Remus raised both brows in expectation.
"Look, these are pawns. They move forward like this. They can only kill diagonal. Rooks can…"
The explanation following was hurried and fractured, but complete. "Get it?"
The werewolf shrugged, then moved a pawn.
The gentle tap-tap of Remus' fingers on the knights and bishops and rooks as he moved them in a series of deadly strikes. Sweat beading where Sirius' hair met his face. The harsh rattles every second from the old clock above the fireplace, counting away one hour, nearing on two.
"Checkmate," came a satisfied hiss.
Remus had won.
.
.
There followed a silent week. Every morning, Sirius would take Remus to the lounge.
They'd tried draughts, and Monopoly when James and Lily joined in, but nothing transformed the usually sombre werewolf like a game of chess. He swore when his decent pieces were taken, grinned widely when it became clear he was winning, laughed when Sirius made terrible mistakes and ended every game with a confident exclamation of "Checkmate."
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March 1st 1979
THE INTERROGATION ROOM
The silence had weaved a fragile web, and now the two boys were caught in it, staring listlessly into the ceiling or walls, thoughts whirring unspoken around their heads.
The clock in the hallway struck noon with twelve strikes, the sonorous sound resounding through the house.
There was a smash from the other room and a faint "Shit!" from James as another glass tumbled from his hands.
The yells of the nearby market square filtered through the window, muggles who had no idea what really went on in the enormous house on the corner.
But in the little room with the lumpy bed and the uncomfortable chair, there was nothing. Sirius briefly wondered whether Remus was breathing at all. The silence was cold and bracing, like a dip in an icy pool, and Sirius was soaked through. Enough was enough.
"Where are the scars from?" He asked, his voice soft but shockingly loud amongst the quiet of the room.
Remus looked up. "What?"
"Your scars. Where are they from?"
He looked up as if the answer lay in the sky. "Fights, mostly. A couple isolated moons."
"Tell me about them."
And at that moment, Remus looked over at him, and Sirius felt for all the world like a child asking for a story from the grown-ups. For a moment the werewolf looked exasperated, but then he frowned, averting his golden eyes again. He seemed uncertain.
"Lorraine Blakesley," he murmured, lifting aside his collar and tapping a shallow bite wound at the base of his neck. "We have these fights, just for fun, and there's betting and stuff. A couple years ago I did it a lot, and I got good. I got really good. Until one day Blakesley stood up and said she'd fight me. I was arrogant." He looked down, laughing bitterly. "I was so arrogant. I saw this sixty-year-old woman and thought it would be easy." He stopped abruptly.
Sirius allowed him a second before he prompted him to continue. "And?"
"And she pummeled me. Even when I was on the floor, she bit at my shoulder there, and scratched with her sharpened nails and broke my leg and hit me and hit me until I passed out. I woke up two days later. She'd broken my ribs at some point, given me concussion too, and my leg was nasty. I was weak. The moon was that night, and if I'd spent it with the Pack I would've been torn apart."
"So what did you do?"
"They found one of those old pillboxes nearby and shut me inside, blocking up the door. It … well, it wasn't good." Remus seemed to be running the memory through his mind because at that moment he shivered. "You know those little windows? I could hear the Pack running off without me, and I could smell the prey out there, just past my reach. It was torturous. I threw myself against the walls trying to get out. Barely survived that night, and it took all month to recover."
"Oh," Sirius said.
"Yeah," he laughed, and then added under his breath as if to himself, "At least it kept Greyback off me."
"What do you mean?"
Remus jumped and turned as if forgetting Sirius was there at all. "What?"
"What do you mean, kept Greyback off you? I thought you didn't know him."
"I don't."
And that was that. Remus shifted until his back was to Sirius and said nothing more.
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March 5th, 1979
"Veritaserum."
Alastor Moody stood at the foot of his bed.
"You're going to drink it, Lupin. And then you're going to talk."
The werewolf only frowned, elevating a single critical eyebrow. A moment later, he opened his mouth invitingly.
The potion ran down his throat, dragging an icy trail behind it. He swallowed and felt it grow until the numbness had invaded his entire body—his lungs, his stomach, his heart frozen and cold and ever so painful.
Every exhale expelled the chill from his lungs into the room. He coughed, and the sound was harsh as if the ice was coating his throat. He shivered, his nerves screaming for a blanket, a fire
"What is your name?"
The voice was warm, a sudden flame in a desolate wasteland.
"Remus Lupin."
"Your age?"
He faltered. Icicles stabbed at his neck.
"I don't know," he whispered, and that hurt. It hurt not to know, not to be able to answer. "I don't know," he sobbed. "I don't know."
There was a mutter, and then he was addressed again: "Do you know Fenrir Greyback?"
He was not supposed to say. He's not supposed to say. But the flame flickered, the icicles poked in warning. A wind picked up and threatened to topple him over. "Yes."
"Who is he to you?"
He struggled for a moment for a word to encompass the enormity of Fenrir Greyback, and settled with, "Alpha."
What were they saying? What was the man saying? He was talking to someone else, and why wouldn't he come closer? Why couldn't he save Remus from the cold?
"Who are the Pack going to attack this full moon?"
"I don't know." Blinding pain.
"Do you have any idea?"
He took shallow breaths and wondered where he was. "Enemies of the Pack. Children. Always children."
"Have you ever bitten someone, Lupin?"
Lupin? Who was Lupin? "No." He choked on the words.
"Have you ever killed?"
"I don't know." The blizzard picked up. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know.
"Lupin, have you ever killed?"
"You've already asked that." That earned him a shard of ice in his mind, twisting and freezing everywhere it touched. "I think so," he said, desperation lacing his voice. "I think so!"
Muttering. Muttering. "Who are 'enemies of the pack'?"
"People. People we kill."
"What people? Who are they?"
He'd never been this cold, even after December in a sheep field. "I don't know."
The man sighed. "Who is in the pack?"
"Werewolves."
"Who? We need names, Lupin!"
"Me. Greyback."
A growl. "Name everyone you know from the pack."
"Me. Greyback. Emil Cadd. Lorraine Blakesley. Cecil."
"Cecil who?"
A flinch as the cold returned at full force. "I don't know."
"Who else? Some of the younger ones? The newer ones?"
"Jake. Kerry. No, not Kerry … Kelly! It was Kelly. Mike. Daniel. Liz."
"Come on, Lupin, I need surnames."
"I DON'T KNOW!" he roared, and somehow the explosion cut through the cold, if only for a second.
Silence from the man until, "Calm down, boy. Who else?"
"Doc. Aaron. Amelia. Penny. Lottie. Simon." His voice was icy sharp.
"Who else?"
"I CAN'T THINK! I CAN'T THINK PROPERLY!" He breathed, rasping and sore all over. "It's cold. It's so cold."
"Give him a rest, Moody," said another voice.
"I'm cold," Remus whimpered.
"Lupin—" came the gruff voice from before.
"Please. I want it to stop." He found himself talking freely now.
"Just a couple more names, Lupin. Give me one more name. Who are your friends?"
"L— No. Make it stop. Shit, it's cold."
"Come on. What's the name?"
"L... L...L—" He ended his answer with a yell.
"Spit it out!"
"NO!"
He could not lie to this man, but that did not mean he had to speak. The pain lingered, but shouting seemed to ward it away.
He gave the man the truth: "I don't want to say."
The man—was that Moody?—muttered grumpily to the other person. "It's wearing off," came his gruff voice. "Can we give 'im another dose?"
"Another dose will kill him."
Another grumble, a creak of the door, and Remus was alone in the cold.
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March 12th 1979
He didn't know why he did it.
It was in the days leading up to the full moon, and Lupin's movement squandered all of its predatory grace. He shivered uncontrollably, his limbs were stiff, and he spent more and more time lying motionless in his bed.
"What's going to happen?" He'd whispered to Sirius the night before.
Sirius frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The Full. Where am I going?"
"You're … you're staying here."
The werewolf froze, his eyes losing a little of their glow, his shoulders slumping. "Oh," he said and rolled over to face the other way.
The bed creaked as he moved. The curtains fluttered. The not-quite-full moon illuminated the little whitewash room. Sirius leaned forwards and reached out his arm, letting the tips of his fingers brush Remus's shoulder.
A flinch.
"It'll … it'll be okay, you know?"
The stony silence remained, grinding into the walls and the floor and the ceiling with its vicious persistence.
"We can heal you. Dumbledore's the greatest wizard on earth, and we've got Healers and Aurors and Potioneers here. We're not … not useless, and … surely it can't be that bad?"
His tawny curls flew in the slight breeze, but the rest of the werewolf was still. Sirius got the idea he was listening intently.
"And it's a lot cleaner here. Your wounds can't get infected, and you can rest up as long as you like. There'll be a long bath afterwards, hot as you want."
A twitch. He couldn't work out whether it was a good thing or a bad one.
So he continued. "And … we don't want you to die. It's not just the information, Remus. We don't … I've never killed anyone. None of us like death. At all. We want to help you … all of you."
Remus turned, his scars like silver in the moonlight. He didn't say a word, just lay there, his medallion eyes open just a slit.
"I won't let you die, Remus Lupin."
He placed a quivering kiss on the werewolf's lips, and left.