A/N: I'm glad I didn't drive too many people off with my ignorance of foreign countries. Hrm... nothing much's been happening... school is going very well, it's actually fun, which is something I hadn't counted on. Maybe being deprived of it for 4 years improved my opinion of it.

There was nothing particularly interesting about the writing of this chapter: it just happened, easily and painlessly. Sure, it's good when that happens -- but it's also kind of boring. *shrug* Well, the story isn't boring, at least. As a matter of fact it has far more action than my other stories...

Well, enjoy!
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Chapter Two: Bad Moon Rising

I see a bad moon risin'
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
I see a bad town today

Don't go round tonight
For it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise

I hear hurricanes a blowin'
I know the end is comin' soon
I feel rivers overflowin'
I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don't go round tonight
For it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise

Hope you have got your things together
Hope you are quite prepared to die
Looks like we're in for nasty weather
One I is thinkin' for the night

Don't go round tonight
For it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise
-- Bad Moon Rising' by Creedence Clearwater Revival

Helen's days in Hogsmeade were some of the strangest and most ethereal days she had ever experienced. Poppy Pomfrey's healing salves (or as she called them, potions') were just short of miraculous; Helen couldn't even remember how much pain she had been in that day she had gone out in the snow. It all seemed so long ago. She asked Poppy once more about McLeod, when she woke up on Friday afternoon; but the nurse told her that she didn't know of any place by that name, and Helen was simply left to wonder.

Poppy explained to her all about magic, and how the wizards of the world had their own government and history, that had been kept secret from the non-magic -- or Muggle' -- community for thousands of years. She muttered all the while about how the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was going to be terribly angry with her for breaking some clause or other of the Muggle Secrecy Act, and how a squad of Obliviators would probably come and erase Helen's entire memory of her stay at the wizarding town; but still, the nurse seemed happy to have someone to talk to. It seemed that at the school where she worked, she hardly ever had time to simply sit around and chat with the other staff. She went on and on about some mysterious war the teachers were always going off to help with, and about how regiments of older students were being trained to fight.

Helen had a hard time accepting everything Poppy told her, and when she was finally deemed to be fit enough to go downstairs to get something to eat, she watched her surroundings with wide, incredulous eyes. She spent an entire hour watching the kitchen staff cook using magic -- levitating pans all around, tapping the stoves with their wands to get them the right temperatures, conjuring sauces and magicking the dishes to wash themselves. It was so amazing that Helen all but forgot about Allan...

By Sunday, all that remained to remind her of the way she had been mistreated was a small, pale scar where his ring had cut her cheek. When questioned, Poppy had said it would be gone by the next day; and it was.

To Helen, this change of fortune was almost too good to be true. She rarely talked to anyone, refusing to answer Poppy's questions about what had happened to her before she had come here, but she still had plenty to wonder at. Each day brought new customers, and Helen took to sitting at a corner table during the afternoons, to watch them all. Most were normal humans, but Poppy, when she visited to check on how Helen was doing, was able to point out a few oddities -- this man was a wizard, but this other was a warlock, who used more refined and sophisticated magic than wizards; that woman over there in the corner was actually a hag; the young, pale boy ordering what looked like red wine was one of the rare vampires who opposed the Dark Lord,' the being who was apparently the leader of the bad side.'

Helen found it hard to imagine a world where it could really be so clear-cut: the good guys versus the bad guys, black and white, no questions asked. She quietly accepted everything Poppy told her, but inside she wondered... had anyone tried to negotiate? What was this war being fought over, anyway? This Dark Lord sounded a lot like Hitler, but even Hitler had been leading a country of repressed, mistreated people to what he claimed was their freedom. Sure, he had taken the wrong path, used the wrong methods, but underneath all the horrors that he had committed to the world, he had had a point... hadn't he?

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On a dreary-skied Tuesday almost two weeks after she had arrived in Hogsmeade, Helen ventured a question to Poppy, who had come to check up on her' once again -- though Helen suspected she had really come to talk.

Who was that man who brought me in here, anyway?

Poppy was startled out of her thoughts, as she absently watched the hag in the corner (a regular customer) wolf down a dish of something that Helen didn't want to think about. Looking into Helen's eyes critically, she shook her head.

His name is Remus Lupin, she said shortly. He's... been a patient of mine for years now. I'm afraid I have a strict policy of client confidentiality, she added quickly, when Helen opened her mouth questioningly. Especially in that poor boy's case, Poppy murmured under her breath.

Helen was now dying to know what was wrong with him -- it was a natural trait of hers; she had always been overly curious, and sometimes too nosy for her own good. But she chose to keep quiet this time, seeing as she had no real reason for wanting to know.

Well, then, said Poppy a moment later, standing up from Helen's table. I had better get back to the school. There's a Quidditch match starting in a bit, and people are always falling off their brooms, or getting elbowed in the face... honestly, I don't understand what they see in that sport... Poppy bustled away, tsking. She called a goodbye to Madam Rosmerta, the most popular waitress, over her shoulder; and then she was out the door, leaving Helen alone to her thoughts.

Helen was feeling rather restless today; she'd been inside this building for nearly two weeks, and the only thing keeping her from going outside was the fact that she didn't have any cold-weather clothes. She'd been lent a pair of wizard's robes by Rosmerta, who had said that her Muggle-style dress would probably startle the customers; but it was no better than her own clothes for keeping the cold out.

She eventually decided to find Rosmerta and ask if she had a coat Helen could borrow. It was almost the four o'clock tea break for the waitresses, anyway; she shouldn't be too hard to catch.

Helen couldn't say that she liked Rosmerta that much, but they wore the same size, and they had exchanged a few words here and there. Rosmerta, Helen felt, seemed a bit insincere; a bit modeled. She's probably never had to deal with any Lewises or Allans in her life, Helen thought bitterly as she spotted the tall, slender woman walking towards the kitchens, looking a bit frazzled as she wrenched off her four-inch turquoise heels and let her feet breathe.

Helen approached her just as she was pouring herself a cup of hot water from the stainless steel kettle that had been set on the stove. Rosmerta looked up, her expression irritable; she'd let her pretty facade drop for once.

What is it? she snapped, picking out a tea bag and dropping it in the cup, expertly holding onto the hanging tab with two fingers and leaving her other hand free.

I was hoping I could go outside today, said Helen mildly, but I haven't got my coat. Do you have anything I might borrow?

Rosmerta hmphed. she said, with a derisive hint that Helen was meant not to miss. I don't have a coat. You can use my cloak -- it's there by the door. It's the purple one.

Helen thanked her, to which Rosmerta did not reply. Turning to the kitchen door, she saw a row of pegs on the wall that she hadn't previously noticed. She quickly spotted Rosmerta's cloak, hanging right next to the door -- it was a violent, electric shade of purple that made Helen's eyes hurt to look at. Somehow it seemed fitting that it belonged to Rosmerta. Helen slipped it off its peg and left, throwing it awkwardly over her shoulders; it was lined with purple-dyed fur, and was very heavy.

With a sense of freedom and finality, Helen pushed open the front door of the pub and stepped out onto the curb.

The cobbled street and the roofs of all the buildings were lightly dusted in the kind of powdery snow that makes for very messy snowball fights. Helen allowed herself a small smile as she breathed in the crisp air; it was pleasant now, instead of painful. She walked down the street for a few blocks, peering in shop windows at the many oddities used by wizards -- brooms, for instance. She could imagine them to be useful as transportation, but for sports?

Helen couldn't stay outside for very long, having somewhat overestimated the strength of her recovery; but the fresh air provided a perfect atmosphere for her to stand and think. Looking up into the steel-gray, cloudless sky, she wondered... how had she gotten here? She was beginning to doubt that there had ever been a town called McLeod where she had taken her Christmas vacation with Allan. In fact, after such a quick, nearly painless recovery from... from what Allan had... done...

No, she thought grimly, she could not dismiss Allan as a dream. There was definitely a missing link somewhere -- she had been in McLeod, but something had happened that Wednesday she had gone out into the woods, something that had altered the world, though she didn't know how.

Helen turned her thoughts away from this mystery and tried to concentrate on something else. A gray, blurred fragment of memory surfaced in her mind: that man, Remus Lupin, who had lent her his cloak and brought her help when she needed it most... she wished she could find him, thank him. What was it Poppy had said? He's had a hard life... he always tries to take on too much...'

Helen smiled slightly. This Remus sounded a lot like her.

An involuntary shiver took her by surprise, and she realized how cold it was. Looking back down to earth, she hastened inside the Three Broomsticks -- the pub that, at this rate, seemed to be becoming her new home.

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Over the next week, the conversations Helen listened in on at the bar turned darker and more nervous. Shops were closing up all down the street and across the town; a rumor of war spread throughout the atmosphere. Poppy's checkups' ceased, and Helen was left to fend for herself. Rosmerta had given her an acid green cloak of her own, but only very reluctantly and with a pointed aside about poor helpless Muggles who had to be coddled. Helen got the distinct feeling that Rosmerta had been ordered to give Helen the cloak by her boss, the innkeeper: a pudgy, generally easy-tempered woman who could turn into quite the formidable opponent when crossed.

Helen walked outside for a brief time every day, getting herself reaccustomed to the cold; she explored the sweets shop thoroughly, and longed to try some of the dozens of different types of chocolate, though she had no money to buy it with. She was surprised when Honeyduke's did not close down like all the other stores. Apparently it was a family business, and the owner declared to anyone who would listen that they had never closed, even in the midst of the Dark Lord's previous reign; and they weren't about to start giving in now, before they'd even been attacked.

Helen's understanding of this Dark Lord,' and the war everyone was so intent on, remained vague and patchy. Poppy had explained very little, and Helen was not really on speaking terms with anyone else. All she gathered was that there was some hero, Harry Potter, who was expected to fight and destroy the Dark Lord for good. For some reason, Helen could swear the name Harry Potter sounded familiar -- but what was strange was that she knew she had never heard it before in this place; so she must have heard it in the place she had come from before, the place where McLeod existed. She was terribly confused by it all, and she tried to avoid any thought of McLeod for that very reason.

But besides the usual gossip of current news, Helen learned quite a lot of the Hogsmeade town history by listening into the more tourist-y conversations. Someone looking at a wizard brochure (which spoke enthusiastically about the locations it showed off, and flashed ads across the bottom of its pages) had commented on some places that had served as seats of various revolutionary governments, restaurants that had won culinary awards, and shops that had been visited by famous wizards and witches. It sounded just like every historical town -- only with magic involved.

For instance, on her way to her own corner one Friday morning, Helen passed a table occupied by what was unmistakably a young son, his mother, and his grandmother. The grandmother seemed to be a local resident of Hogsmeade, whose daughter and grandson had come to visit her; at least that was Helen's conclusion from their talk. The grandmother was holding the boy in her lap and telling him a story, and he was listning wide-eyed, while his mother smiled and tried not to laugh and ruin the effect.

-- big house down the road. You seen it? The little boy nodded, mouth open; and his grandmother leaned down as if she were departing some great secret. Well, that great big old house was built years and years ago, but no one would ever live in it, see -- so it started to attract ghosts. The little boy gasped, and his mother bit her lip to stop from smiling. The grandmother's eyes twinkled. On every full moon you can hear them shrieking and rattling their chains... but they never come out, no. If that door were ever to be opened, all those ghosts would come out, and they would come, and get you... a little morsel, eh... The boy started to laugh happily as his grandmother tickled his chest.

Helen's throat tightened, and she walked quietly away, trying not to think of her own family.

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That night as Helen lay still in her bed, trying to get to sleep, she thought she heard the howling of a pack of wolves -- they were near, so very close to her....
But she tossed uneasily, and told herself it was a dream.

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Helen was nervous in her room for the next two nights, and did not leave the inn during the day; the vision of the grandmother, her eyes gleaming gleefully, telling the story of the haunted house down the street, was vivid and fresh in Helen's mind. But on the second night, her tenseness was not merely brought on by the troublesome memories of her own dysfunctional family, or the disturbing dream she'd had two nights ago; there was something in the air, something calling her...

Something that needed help.

She couldn't explain how she knew it, but she did. Someone was in trouble.

She got out of bed, shuffling along silently in her nightclothes. At first she thought of going into the second-floor bathroom, to get a drink of water in the hopes that it might ease her nerves; but she hesistated and turned back at the door. Walking to her window, she pulled aside the curtains and opened the shutters, instantly shivering in the cold air that swept inside.

She leaned forward against the sill and looked out, wrapping her hands around her arms and rubbing vigorously to keep them warm. The town lay spread out beneath her, a myriad of twinkling lights from torches left out on stoops, or candles lit in windows. It was much dimmer than even the darkest night in Gloucester, Helen's old home. The ground seemed almost to reflect the stars in the sky above, like a dark pool.

The stars themselves were bright and clear, with no clouds in the sky to block their light. An enormous, mother-of-pearl moon shone down on the rooftops, providing an almost unreal-looking setting. The lone shack on the hill three blocks away was clearly visible in the moonlight; it looked distorted, somehow, like it had had an extra room attached to it. It took a moment for Helen to realize that it wasn't a strange growth; it was scaffolding and tarp, protruding from one wall, where someone was apparently doing some construction.

And the house started to attract ghosts...

Perhaps that was what she felt; ghosts. Helen laughed uneasily at the thought, and began to close her window.

She had just turned away when she heard the first scream.

At every full moon you can hear them shrieking and rattling their chains...

Helen looked nervously over her shoulder at the closed window. She listened hard, and sure enough, there came another howl of agony -- but where Helen had thought that a shrieking ghost would sound, well, more ghostly, this scream sounded disturbingly... human.

A third cry made her jump with fear; but underneath that predictable reaction, she was starting to feel concerned, and slightly shocked. That was, beyond doubt, a human voice out there -- so why was no one making a move to help?

Against her better judgement, Helen grabbed her black robes and pulled them on over her nightgown, then flung the green cloak over her shoulders. She pushed open her door and tiptoed into the hall, feeling her apprehension building to an extreme. Blood thudded in her ears, and she hadn't felt this much adrenaline rushing through her veins since... since she had touched that icy metal... since she had nearly given up hope, and taken her own life...

The stairs creaked, and she jumped. She shouldn't be doing this. She should go right back to her room; should burrow under the nice, warm covers of her bed, and ignore the way her conscience took her stomach by the metaphoric lapel and shook it until it rattled and clenched with guilt...

No, she couldn't stand that. Not again. That was how she had felt when her sister had died; like she should have done something, should have gotten Margaret some help before it was too late...

The scream was muffled by the walls of the building this time, but it still made Helen's blood run cold. She wondered what she was getting herself into. If no one else was coming to the aid of whoever was in pain, shouldn't that say that they knew something she didn't? Maybe the villagers were aware of some danger that, if she had known it, would have convinced her to turn back now and drop the matter.

But she opened the door anyway, so scared and yet so absolutely determined, that she had disconnected herself from her body; at this point she was certain that she had not told her hand to move, but it turned the knob despite the little voice of fear screaming at it to stop.

Helen turned left, and began heading towards the center of town, where the shack rested on a steep rise surrounded by an iron fence. She broke into an ungainly sort of half-jog at the sound of an extended, wailing sob; and as she turned the corner, she saw it, its condensation-damp shingles glinting in the silver moonlight -- the place the villagers called the Shrieking Shack.

Helen's steps faltered. In the dreary gray light of a winter's day, the building seemed to frown uninvitingly. At night, however, the Shack looked much more menacing; illuminated like some cave of untold horrors out of the darker breed of fairy tale. Helen hesitated, unsure she could go through with this -- but the cry came again, sounding so pained and yet so sorrowful that the emotion went beyond words; it drew Helen onwards with an aching tug at the deepest, most private levels of her heart.

Her cloak billowed back as she clambered over the fence and up the hill, allowing the cold air in; she shuddered and snatched the fabric closer around her. At long last she came close enough to the shack to touch it, if she reached her arm's length; she could hear someone breathing in heavy, ragged gasps inside, as if struggling to ignore their pain. Helen took a step forward unconsciously, and touched the wall.

she called in a quavering voice.

A quickly stifled yell made her jump back. She could have sworn it had had more than just pain in it; it had been fearful as well, warning her against something...

Helen looked around quickly and the construction site caught her eye. Dashing over, she pulled aside a stack of timber, straining her back and arms until they burned just to shift the pile a few feet. The tool box she had hoped to find was there, behind a support; even wizards couldn't build houses completely by magic. A splinter caught the skin of her arm as she reached in, drawing out a bead of blood; but Helen ignored it and came up with the first heavy thing she could find: an iron crowbar.

She couldn't force her way under or through the tight maze of wooden scaffolding, so she half-stumbled to the nearest boarded window instead, and dug the crowbar between two slats, pushing down with all her might. Her breath was coming in gasps, but she pushed harder, trying to wrench the board off.

If that door were ever to be opened, all those ghosts would get out...

She could feels nails loosening --

She thought she heard another moan, but it seemed deeper this time; gravelly, more like a growl. Her mind was going in circles now, and for a moment she had no idea what she was doing. She wanted to be back in her room; she wished she'd never heard anything, never even looked out the window... but she had to repay Margaret... a life for a life...

A screech of rusty metal said she'd gotten a nail loose, and as she shoved for one final time, putting her entire weight on the crowbar, the wooden plank crunched and splintered outward, broken.

With the resistance suddenly relieved, Helen's weight overbalanced her and she tumbled forward onto the frost-crusted grass. She fell hard onto the crowbar, which she still held in her white-knuckled hands; the wind was knocked out of her, and she lay still for a moment, stunned at what she had just done.

There was a soft snarl from inside the house. Helen was reminded of what she had come here to do, and she scrambled to her feet, ready to try for getting off another board.

She was barely upright when something slammed into the wall from the inside. Helen staggered backwards, as it penetrated her whirling mind that the howls were no longer even vaguely human...

The board she had splintered tore apart even further as whatever was inside the building threw its weight against the window once again. Helen raised her crowbar, unsure of what to do; but she had no time to think, because the board could not withstand a third blow --

The window burst apart; Helen shouted and raised her arm to her eyes to ward off flying fragments; searing pain tore into her forearm, yanking her down --

She opened her eyes just in time to see those of an animal staring back, fierce with anger. She screamed again, but it was too late; the creature had sunk its teeth deep into her arm, and now it was pulling away -- it was going to tear a piece of her off with it --

Without thinking, she raised the crowbar in her free left hand and hit the creature as hard over the back as she could. It opened its mouth in an angry howl, and she yanked her arm away quickly; she rolled over, trying to get away, to put some distance between them so she could get to her feet and raise the crowbar to use as a weapon...

And as she flipped onto her back, she caught sight of the moon. Round, pale, full of malice; glinting down on her in her moment of fear and danger, unmoved.

Helen rolled onto her knees just as the beast leapt forward to strike, but as she lifted her crowbar, something tore through her head like a fiery claw; pure agony overwhelmed her; pain like she'd never felt before. A scream burst out of her and she dropped her weapon, putting both hands to her head, trying to hold it together as it felt like it was flying apart --

She recognized her own screams -- they were the same as those she had heard from the shack earlier --

Nearly passing out from the pain, Helen fell forward onto the grass; the attacking creature's momentum carried it right over her back, though she felt its claws ripping into her robes as it landed near her feet. Snarling, it dropped low onto its haunches and slunk around her, waiting for a chance to strike.

Helen could no longer pay attention to it; she felt her joints shrieking as they shifted of their own accord; nerves scraped together, causing a feeling like a thousand hot knives piercing her limbs in a hundred different places. Her clothes tangled around parts of her that she never knew existed -- a tail? -- and a burning, itchy sensation, like sunburn that's been thoroughly scratched, spread down her neck and across her back.

At the same time, her thoughts grew less concerned about the unrelenting pain and more worried about the other creature -- she was angry with it for hurting her -- a snarl escaped her throat, and for a split second she was shocked at the sound; but in moments, her mind had become completely free of any sane, human thoughts.

Struggling to stand, the animal that had been Helen whipped and craned her neck around until her sharp white fangs caught on the fabric of her robe and cloak. She ripped and clawed at them until she had managed to disentangle herself. The other creature watched curiously, baring its teeth as it stayed low to the ground.

And as they sprang at each other, tearing with their heavy, deadly paws, the moon hung unfeeling in the velvet-black sky, surrounded by hard pinpricks of light, like ground glass; and for ever more would a woman named Helen Corana Levine loathe the sight of it.
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Bad Moon Rising' belongs to whoever it belongs to, a record company or something, but it most certainly does not belong to me. It's by Creedence Clearwater Revival and can be found on the album Chronicle.' Its most memorable appearance (at least to me) was in the film An American Werewolf In London, where it played over the really cool and gruesome transformation scene (Rick Baker rocks!).