Disclaimer: To be blunt: I don't own shit. To be more specific: All things Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros, and all things Anita Blake belong to Laurell K. Hamilton. Worlds' End is from the Sandman comics and belongs to Neal Gaiman.
A/N: First I want to give a big thank you to my two betas – aurora borealis and my mum. ;)
This was originally meant to be a Christmas gift for my good friend Fata Morgana, but it was delayed…
Merry Christmas, dearie!
A/N 2: It's been over a month since I finished this, and I still haven't posted it... it'll make a great birthday gift for Vin as well, though (three months late - I am terrible!), I know how much she loves a certain werewolf... ;P
Happy belated Birthday, Vin!
A/N 3: Almost another month. Now I am posting this!

Worlds' End
by Waterfall

Somewhere, outside of time and space, you may find an inn. Its name is Worlds' End, and the patrons of this inn hail from every place imaginable – some are from worlds beyond human imagination. Most of them only stay for a short while; having strayed off their path they wait for a chance to find it again. And by waiting, they sometimes experience things that change their lives for ever…

- : -

Outside, a snowstorm is raging. The inn is quite full tonight; all the tables are taken, and all the chairs and benches packed with people. All, that is, except for the table furthest away from the fireplace. It is occupied by a single man, and at first glance there is no reason for why he is alone. His lean, thin frame, amber coloured eyes and salt-and-pepper hair gives him a gentle, almost fragile appearance. But any person coming too close will feel a push, a prickling against the skin that speaks of danger and wilderness. So the man is left alone to sip his mulled wine in peace and think of brighter days long past.

As the door opens a bell rings, announcing the arrival of yet another customer. He brings with him a cold wind full of snow, a dark-eyed scowl, and an almost overwhelming presence. Brushing the snow from his brown hair and coat, he walks over to the counter. The woman behind the desk smiles at him, immediately taken by his appearance.
"Could I borrow the phone?" he asks her politely, taking great care not to encourage her in any way even though her interest in him is plain to see. She notices but continues to smile, even as she shakes her head and answers.
"I'm sorry; we don't have a phone here. It wouldn't work anyway; the warp in time-space around here is hell on the electricity."
Now the brown-haired man is confused as well as irritated, although he hides both emotions well.
"My car broke down and I can't fix it on my own. I certainly can't walk anywhere in this weather!"
"You'll just have to wait then." She shrugs. "Even if you could find anyone with a phone – which I doubt – it wouldn't work. When the storm has passed you can return to your car."
Sighing, he turns to look for an empty seat. For a moment his eyes meets those of the lonely stranger, and something passes between them.
"All right," he mumbles distractedly. "I'll wait. Do you have any coffee?"
Laughing, she finds him a cup.
"Of course! This may be the middle of nowhere, but we still have coffee."

He sits down without a word, hanging his coat over the back of his chair. When he is comfortable he places his elbows on the table and looks up. Their eyes meet again and time freezes. Amber and brown battle for dominance and slowly both pairs of eyes turn yellow.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Without breaking the gaze the original occupant of the table speaks.
"Your coffee will get cold."
"Let it," the other man answers, his voice more a growl than anything else.
"We could end up staying like this all night."
"And what do you suggest?"
"A truce. After all, this is no more than a temporary meeting place. We'll probably never see each other again."
The suggestion is considered, and then accepted. They look away; one with a smile, the other with a frown.
"My name is Remus Lupin," the amber-eyed man says, still smiling.
"Richard Zeeman."
Hands are shaken, not without caution. As one, they then return to their drinks.

"I must admit that this is an interesting coincidence," Remus remarks after a while. "To meet another werewolf here, in this place."
"Not really. Lately, they seem to be popping up everywhere. My pack…"
"Pack?"
Richard looks up, clearly surprised.
"You don't have one then? Most weres prefer that to being on their own."
Laughing softly, Remus shakes his head.
"I have met three werewolves in my life – four with you, Mr. Zeeman. Not all have been friendly."
"Call me Richard."
Silence falls over the table as the two drink again. This time it is Richard who breaks it.
"So… not many wolves where you live, then?"
"No, and thank Merlin for that. As much as I despise the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and their Werewolf Registry, I must admit that they have managed to keep attacks to a minimum. Although it has greatly reduced my chances of getting a job…"
"Tell me about it. If my employers had known I would have been fired in an instant, even though discrimination against lycanthropes is illegal. No-one would want a monster teaching their kids."
"True. Even though other monsters are much, much worse..." Remus breaks off, shaking his head. "It isn't easy to fight a war when your nature automatically places you on the enemy side in people's eyes."
"A war?"
"I'd rather not talk about it. It's all I think about, back home. It's all everyone thinks about."

Richard regards the other man, recognizing the familiar signs of loss and exhaustion. Familiar, because he sees them every time he looks in the mirror; every time he looks at those he call his friends.
"I'm not a stranger to these things. A… friend of mine has a tendency to get involved in things that very quickly become bloody battles." And she isn't the only one, he admits to himself, but he is in no mood to talk about the mistakes he's made with his pack. For a moment he considers the human ability of self-deception and self-justification before he pushes the thought away.
"I have lost most of my friends in this war," Remus admits. "My best friend was killed not long ago. Now there's really no one left."
"At least you lost them to your enemy. I lose my friends because of what I am. A monster." His voice is bitter as he repeats what he's told himself a hundred times.

But now Remus reacts, with a fierceness that is almost frightening. He sits up straight and his eyes flash with determination.
"You are no monster! What we have is a disease, an illness that was given us by accident and coincidence. A monster causes pain and fear for the joy of it. Whatever accidents that we may cause will be a source of grief to us, and so we do our outmost to prevent them. Inasmuch as the wolf rejoices in the hunt and the capture our human minds know that it is wrong and we feel guilty."
"But I enjoy it," Richard whispers. "The beast, the power, the hunt, the kill… the feeding. I enjoy it even in human form; the beast is always with me."
"Yes, it is. But tell me; would you truly give it up if you could?
"In an instant."
Remus shakes his head, the fierceness giving way to thoughtfulness.
"Don't be so sure. I thought so myself, until Sirius – my friend – died. Then I started wondering. If I had kept a looser rein on my beast, maybe… maybe I could have saved him. Foreseen what happened; been fast enough to stop it from happening."
Richard shakes his head in disbelief, but stays silent as Remus continues.
"From what you have said it seems that your beast is much more active than mine. I understand how difficult that must be, but don't throw it all away if you get the chance – at least not without thinking about it first. The beast that you hate so much might save your life one day – or the life of one you care about."
"It already has," Richard tells him. "Several times, in fact."
"Well, there you go."
"But that doesn't make up for those I've hurt – or worse!"
"Of course not! It doesn't make it any easier to live with. But you will be a werewolf as long as you live – you have to accept it. Anything else will kill you."
"And is that such a terrible thing?" Richard's voice is wistful, almost longing.
"Not for you, perhaps. But what about your friends? Your family? Those you might save someday?"

As Richard closes his eyes as if in pain, Remus reaches out and grabs his hand. For a moment a power like an electric current flows through them both, and Remus gasps. The feeling is obviously new to him.
"I've been where you are now. I wanted to die; I even tried to kill myself. But my friends held on to me and gave me a reason for living. You belong to a pack of werewolves, of people like you. They know what it feels like; what it's like to be free… and what it's like to be trapped inside yourself. I just had my three friends, and although they could run in the forest with me they never completely understood what it was like."
His voice breaks, and for a moment they are both silent.
"It's strange," Richard muses. "I've always thought that it was the beast that had me trapped, not the other way around. You may be right, though. I don't think I've ever felt freer than when I'm running through the forest at night."
Remus nods.
"It's true. And to think that for years I've denied myself the pleasure… shut myself in… caged myself."
"How can you stand it?"
"There is a potion that I take. It calms my beast and keeps my human mind in control."
"Then why do you stay inside? There is no danger if you're not governed by your instincts."
"Simple – I've been afraid."
Richard's bitter laugh make several of the patrons turn their heads to glance at the odd couple.
"Everyone are afraid of the werewolves… even the werewolves themselves."
"Then perhaps it's time to stop being afraid?"
"My beast is strong… I'll always have to be on guard."
"I've been too guarded, I think. As long as I take the potion there is no reason why I shouldn't take mine out for a run once in a while."
"I'd give much for that potion…"

Once again silence settles over the table. But this time it is a good silence; a contemplative silence. Their hands are still clasped, both of them relishing in the feeling of the other; the feeling of companionship and friendship.