XII.

1.

Bones kinking, twisting, cracking, lengthening and shortening, taking new angles. Internal organs compressing, altering, moving space by grudging space to new locations within. Pounding of the heart in transition, one beat, two, another and another tortured beat, the blood spreading a dire message of cursed modification to every tissue of the body with each infected pulse.

Beat … beat… Listen and remember…focus…beat…

Muscles tearing loose from their accustomed moorings and blood vessels snaking out toward changed paths. Skin in flux, burning white-hot in the fire of transformation. Sweat bursting from every pore and the fine facial bones of the skull shattering and then reforming, changed.

I always wonder if this time it will just kill me.

Beat…beat…

But it never does. I've survived every time and I will again. And I am still me

And you are still you. Can you hear me? Can you? Speak to me.

You can, you know. This is only pain. There is a life beyond it. Go around. Follow me.

Beat…beat…beat…

"Can he do it?" Alastor Moody asks Albus Dumbledore. "Can he really? I've never heard of this technique before."

They are standing in a hired room above the bar at the Hogs Head Inn, an establishment where Dumbledore has certain connections that help him ensure secrecy for such meetings as this. The room is small and drafty, squalid and dark, but it is quiet, private, and serves their purpose. A single candlestick burns at the side of the one bed in the room, and casts shifting shadows over the broken form that lies in this bed. Remus Lupin sits in a wooden chair at the bedside, leaning forward toward the man in the bed, one hand laid lightly over the pulse-point at the man's throat. The light from the candle does not quite reach Lupin's face; most of it is cast into deep shadow. What little Moody and Dumbledore can see of his expression is utterly blank, a perfect cipher. His eyes, half hooded, glitter vacantly at intervals in the flickering candlelight.

"Only because, so far as I can determine, it is unique to him, Alastor. How many skilled wizards do you know who are also werewolves? And how many of those are Remus Lupin?"

"Then it's an outgrowth of a Dark Art, in essence. No wonder you've kept it so secret."

"We have kept it secret to save the lives of other victims, Alastor. Voldemort will not so carelessly discard those he has harmed alive should he ever learn that we have some hope of communicating with them. Sometimes, at least. And this is no Dark Art. It is a mercy and it is fueled by Lupin's compassion as well as his essential humanity. His learned ability to retain his identity under the worst and most prolonged duress. It is also fueled by his pain, which, as I understand it, he uses as the central tool of his technique. He has found a way to turn his own affliction toward the common good, and every session like this costs him much. I would not have you insult him."

"No insult intended," Moody replies brusquely. "Heaven knows the Ministry itself is not too finicky to use the Dark Arts here and there, these days. It's getting damned difficult to tell the Death Eaters from the Aurors, anymore. Besides, can Lupin even hear us right now?"

"Ask him, once he's finished with Rosier. I imagine he'll have a few questions for you, too. As do I."

Moody flushes a dull brick red. The color in his skin does not touch the scars on his face, which stand out like pale brands.

"I didn't even know we'd captured Rosier until three hours ago and I can't tell you who's been at him for the simple reason that I don't know," he says. "Not yet, at any rate, and not that it matters, in the larger scheme of things. The Ministry is breaking down, Albus. We've both known this before tonight. And Unforgivables have been used in interrogations before now."

"Is there anything that isn't breaking down in this conflict? Will there be anything left whole at all, when this war is over? Yet I've never had to ask Remus to attempt to reacha mangled Death Eater before. He's offered what succor he can only to our own people in the past. Evil is evil, regardless of who commits it, or to what purpose. Oh, yes. He'll have questions for you, Alastor."

"And I'll answer them as best I can. I'm prepared to do that. I only want my questions answered. Why have so many of our prisoners begun to suddenly drop dead for no apparent reason, over these past few months? Before they can be questioned – before-"

"Before some misguided members of our own side can attempt wrench the information out of them by force? As they have clearly done with Rosier here?"

"I don't yet know who's done this to him. Whoever used the Cruciatus - that could have been our own people, I'm admitting it's possible, even likely. The other things? To be quite honest, all that looks more like filthy Death Eater work to me." Moody's runneled face screws itself into a stark grimace of distaste. "I'm fairly certain it wasn't Aurors that crushed his hands or pulled his left eye out. We're not that far gone. Yet."

"Yet it's the Cruciatus that has rendered him incapable of any normal communication, is it not so? The effects of the curse are what Lupin is attempting to bypass, not the physical injuries, grievous though they are." Dumbledore sighs deeply, and runs a weathered hand across his brow; Moody notices for the first time how terribly aged he looks. Then Dumbledore shakes his head.

"How, Alastor, can we hope to defeat Voldemort if we are Voldemort?"

Moody stares at Dumbledore for a moment, his eyes filled with a weary cynicism. He shakes his own head and utters a sharp snort of laughter.

"Ah, Albus, what a credit you are to your old school house. Blindly optimistic right to the bitter end. How can we hope to defeat Voldemort at all?"

The light in Dumbledore's blue eyes as he answers is less of a twinkle and more of a hard shine; it is not at all comforting or reassuring. "There is always hope, Alastor. Never think otherwise. Hope is the stony outcropping on which all our hearts eternally snag."

"Snag and dash to bits, more often than not," Moody agrees grimly. "But you're right, of course, Albus, as you so often are. Why else would I have brought Rosier to you if I hadn't hoped that Lupin might … be able to question him?"

"And mercy for a young and dying man formed no part of your hopes? You had not hoped, in part, that his passing might be eased?"

Moody sighs, watching Lupin's still and silent form at Evan Rosier's side. Lupin's posture, for some reason, reminds him of that of a chaplain's, performing final rites for the mortally ill.

"I have no more taste for blood, it's true," Moody admits. "If I ever had any to begin with."

Both men fall silent and turn their attention back to the candlelit tableau at the bed. Death Eater and Order member side by side, engaged in one last magical ritual, united beyond enmity, or so Moody and Dumbledore hope, by the universal human condition of mortality.

Beat…beat…

Rosier? Evan Rosier? Listen and remember. Follow me.

Beat…

Who? How …where …where are we?

The space beyond, I think we might call it. You've heard of the 'land beyond the forest'? This, in a way, is the land beyond the flesh. Beyond all the pains of the body. Here, no more harm can befall you.

No harm. I'm safe here?

Yes. Quite safe. The beating of your heart is slowing. Can you hear it? You are approaching the greatest safety any of us will ever know. Beforehand, you can rest here, for a time.

Rest? Am I dying, then?

Yes, Evan. You are.

Beat …beat…

Oh. Oh, yes, I hear it slowing down. Not so bad, actually, is it? I needn't have made such a fuss over it. Could have saved myself a lot of bother if I'd known.

This…'bother' you speak of. Can you tell me who has hurt you so badly?

Everyone, I think. I'd refused, you know. We were supposed to kill Regulus, and I-

Regulus Black

Did you know him?

I…yes, slightly. I know his brother better.

Sirius? Oh, yes, the nutter – the blood-traitor. But I didn't want to kill Reggie. I'd gone to school with him; he'd been one of my mates. I asked not to be included in that mission. They sent someone else after all, and he wound up just as dead. And I wound up being punished for 'softness'.

Who …punished you?

I don't know. Three of them, and they kept their masks on. When they were done, they left me for dead. Or for the Aurors to pick up.

And then you were found? By Aurors?

Yes. And that was bad too, because they wanted to know …they wanted …well, I don't actually recall what all they wanted to know, just now. Funny. It seemed so important at the time.

You were questioned? At the Ministry?

They used the Cruciatus on me. Hardly a surprise; we'd been told they'd begun to do that whenever they took one of us alive. I should have used the Nihiliatus, but I …I just couldn't.

Nihiliatus? What's that?

The Suicide Curse. A variant of the Killing Curse? I've heard He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named developed it himself. I don't know about that, but it's a fairly new curse. We've all been taught how to cast it, just over the last six months, in the event we were captured. It's painless – quick and clean – but I …I just didn't want-

This Nihiliatus. It can be performed without a wand?

Oh yes. It'd have to be, wouldn't it? Captured Death Eaters aren't allowed to keep their wands, are they?

What's the focusing agent, then? How does it work?

Pain. Pain is the wand. You recall the greatest physical pain you've ever known. You recreate it – a perfect sense memory.

But that would be difficult. The human mind is not structured to recall the physical sensation of pain.

But it can be done. You've used the same method to bring us both here, haven't you?

Yes, but I …I am something of an expert in regard to pain.

Nevertheless, it can be learned. But you are right, that is the hardest part of it, learning to produce the sense memory. Once that's done, the rest is easy.

What is the rest?

The incantation. 'Nihilium' and then-

You must pronounce the incantation? Clearly?

Not necessarily. As long as you yourself can hear it in your mind's ear, it provides the needed effect. You can whisper it, mumble it. Whatever.

And then? What else?

You perform the hand movements as you make the invocation, as you imagine the end of all pain. You point. Your temple, with one finger, then your chest, then your eyes, with the fingers forked. Head, chest, eyes. Brain, heart, soul. You can sketch the movements with your fingers if your hands have been secured. Brain, heart, soul. If it's performed properly, death is instantaneous. Like the Avada Kedavra.

Beat…beat…beat…

It's hideous. How can you all have consented to learn this deadly thing?

Our Lord wished to save us needless suffering. It was his gift to his servants.

So his gift to you was death. How appropriate. Why didn't you use it, then?

I …I just couldn't. I'm only twenty-one years old. I don't… didn't…want to die. Can you understand that?

Beat…beat…

Yes, Evan. I can understand.

Yes. You're young too, aren't you? I know you, I think. Lupin, isn't it? You were at Hogwarts, a year ahead of me. I remember you.

And I remember you, Evan. You used to like numbers and signs, didn't you? You were vice-president of the Arithmancy Club in fourth year.

Ah, yes, I was. That's a long time ago now, isn't it?

A world away, it sometimes seems. And yet not so very long ago in years. I do understand, you know. You and I are not so terribly far apart.

Silly of me, really. I'm dying anyway.

Yes. But not in pain. Not anymore. And not alone.

Yes. Thank you. Not alone. And it's not so bad. Not like I thought it was going to be. You'll stay with me though, won't you? I'm…I'm still…a bit frightened.

Oh, yes. I'll stay with you. And it's all right, you'll see. I've been here, with others, before. It won't take long, and it won't hurt, dying won't. It's easy.

Yes. I think it is. Not at all difficult. One wonders, of course, what comes after, though …

I don't know about that, Evan. You'll know a great deal more than I, shortly. But I think it might just be rest. Like the way that you feel after a long, hard day of work is over and you know all your tasks are done. Don't you imagine it could be like that?

Yes …yes, I suppose. That would be …I think that would be nice, if it was like that. I could do that. Like knocking off the job. I'm so tired of this war, anyway.

So am I. So are we all, I think.

It's stupid.

Yes.

What got into us? Ah, well, never mind. What - what should I do now?

Just wait. I'm right here with you. Not much longer, I promise.

No. Not much. You're right. I can hear it – the way my heart is slowing down. Only a beat or two more, now, I think.

Yes. We'll listen together. Just a bit more.

Well, good-bye, then, Lupin. Thank you. You're not a bad sort, really.

Nor are you, Evan. Not now. Good-bye. Safe journey.

Beat…beat…beat…

Beat …beat…

Beat…

Beat.

2.

"He's dead," says Remus Lupin, slowly raising his head.

His face looks pale and gray and the shifty light of the candle picks out the gaunt hollows around his eyes and the lines around his mouth.

Dumbledore comes swiftly to his side and clasps his shoulder, staring into his face.

"Remus. Are you all right?"

"No. May I have something to drink?"

Moody joins them quickly and offers Remus his hip flask. "Here you are, Lupin. Old Ogden's. Take all you like."

Remus upends the flask and swallows a hefty draught. He shudders afterward.

"Disgusting," he says softly, voice roughened. "How can you stand to drink this swill, Moody?"

"An acquired taste, I expect. But it'll do in a pinch. Were you able to learn anything? Did he tell you anything?"

"All in time, Alastor," Dumbledore interjects. "Give him a moment. Remus, come away from the bed now. Come along, my boy, up you get."

He helps Remus get to his feet and supports him with an arm around his shoulders as he leads him toward a table and chairs in a far corner of the room. Remus sinks into one of the chairs once he gets there and forces down another gulp of firewhiskey. Moody pulls out another of the chairs and sits across the table from Remus, watching him intently. Dumbledore keeps his hands on Remus until he is certain he won't slide out of his seat in his fatigue, and then takes the last chair beside him. Remus scrubs his hands across his face, shaking slightly.

"It's awful, isn't it, what you must do to accomplish this," Dumbledore says to Remus. "How I regret asking you to do it. I regret it every time. It must be terrible."

Remus somehow manages a wry smile.

"I was the fool who developed the technique in the first place, wasn't I? I'm the one who first came to you and asked you to let me try it. Here, Moody, here's your flask. Thanks."

"It's nothing, laddie," Moody says, a bit gruffly. "I only wish I could offer more than grog."

Remus glances at him sharply, his eyes bright in his slightly grayed face. "You can. You can offer an explanation. Rosier was questioned by Aurors at the Ministry. He was Crucioed until his mind broke, after he received the other injuries. When did you people start training your agents to use Unforgivables? And who allowed their use on a badly injured, dying man?"

Moody bows his head for a moment, making a show of accepting Lupin's implied rebuke. The he looks up and faces Lupin's intent gaze without flinching.

"Well, I suppose you could say ever since Barty Crouch began to suspect that the tide is turning against us. That Voldemort is winning."

"It's appalling," Remus says flatly.

"So it is. But what would you have? The Death Eaters themselves do as much, and worse. If I'm not mistaken, it was the boy's own allies who tore him to pieces before we ever got to him, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Remus confirms quietly.

"Well? Did he tell you who they were?"

"He didn't know. They remained masked, and he apparently was not familiar enough with his attackers to recognize their voices or mannerisms. It was a disciplinary action, he'd-"

"It is as we thought then," Dumbledore interjects. "Voldemort keeps his organization mostly in the dark in regard to one another. No one Death Eater knows the identity of many of the others."

"Yes," Moody says. "This is confirmation of that. You say it had been a disciplinary action, Lupin?"

"Yes. He'd evidently been one of those ordered to murder Regulus Black. He'd refused that duty, since the two of them had been …they'd been chums at school."

"Did you learn who did commit the murder, then?" Moody asks. "Sirius might like to know, after all."

"Do you really think so?" Remus replies, eyeing Moody coldly. "Do you honestly think it would help or comfort Sirius in any way to know who murdered his only brother? I didn't ask."

"Well, but, he might-" Moody starts to argue.

"Please, Alastor," Dumbledore interrupts. "Let us take it as a given that Remus here knows Sirius a bit better than we do, at least in this. And this is a side issue after all, isn't it? What else was Rosier able to tell you, Remus?"

Remus heaves a shallow sigh and clasps his shaking hands before him. "He was set upon by three Death Eaters whom he didn't know. They abused him, tortured him, sent up the Dark Mark, I assume, and then left him out in the open, either to die or to be caught by the Ministry. Either way, they clearly expected his outcome to be … unpleasant."

He shudders, and for a moment seems to be lost in the memory of the pain that he found in Evan Rosier's mind. Then Dumbledore and Moody are suddenly and forcefully aware that he is back. He fixes Moody with an icy stare.

"And his death was horrible, wasn't it? Aurors picked him up, and he was interrogated. With extreme force, it seems. Eventually he passed beyond the ability to answer any questions put to him. Which leads me to ask a question of my own, Moody. Why, given that Rosier was dying and no longer able to provide any information at all, did you decide to bring him to Albus? To me? What prompted this decision? It can't have been easy to spirit a prisoner out of the Ministry, after all. What did you hope to learn?"

"All right," Moody replies, stolidly. "All right, Lupin. You seem to have guessed in any case. I wanted to know why he was still alive, despite the treatment he'd already received." He casts a glance at Dumbledore, who nods his consent.

"Over the past few months," Moody continues. "Many of the Death Eaters we've taken alive have simply died before they could be questioned. Just… died. With or without 'extreme force', as you put it. No marks, no cause of death, no reason that we could see. But Rosier had suffered horror after horror, and he was the first in months who had not just died."

"He didn't want to die," Remus says softly, almost as though he is speaking to himself. "He was only twenty-one. I knew him at school myself, slightly. He was very young. He wanted to live."

Dumbledore and Moody glance at one another across the table. Dumbledore raises his eyebrows and Moody makes a minute nod to him. Dumbledore turns toward Remus.

"Remus?" Dumbledore asks quietly. "Are you saying that Rosier could have chosen death, had he wished? That he had some means of self-destruction already in place?"

"They call it the Nihiliatus," Remus answers. "A little something Voldemort whipped up, apparently - a variant, Rosier thought, of the Avada Kedavra. His 'gift' to his followers. A safeguard against coercion for them, additional security for him. It's a suicide curse."

Moody's dark, beady eyes widen in triumph and his fist crashes against the table.

"I knew it!" he growls. "I suspected it! The bloody coward! Terrified of dying himself, but couldn't be happier than to hide behind his servants, teach them how to bow out when the going gets rough. And every one of the damned fools obediently doing their precious master's wishes!"

"Not quite every one," says Remus sadly, beneath his breath.

Dumbledore nods briefly to Moody. "Voldemort has always had an …incomplete understanding of death. He is not, as you see, Alastor, completely devoid of weaknesses."

"Then we need to exploit it." He wheels on Remus. "So how does it work, Lupin?" Moody asks, excited. "It'd have to be wandless, yes? Is there a spoken incantation? Special motions? Any other details? Did Rosier tell you?"

"Yes," Remus says slowly, again, almost as if he is musing to himself. "Yes, he did. He told me everything."

Dumbledore has begun to stare at Remus intently, but Moody does not notice this.

"Well, then, Lupin?" he asks, still excited. "What else did you learn? How is the curse cast? How can we prevent it?"

Remus regards him for a moment, almost as though he has only just begun to see him.

"I'm not going to tell you," he answers. "Unless, of course, you'd like to try a quick Imperius or Cruciatus on me?"

Moody rises from the table so abruptly his chair falls over and crashes to the floor. Once again his scars stand out palely from the reddening flesh of his face.

"I have never used any of these vile curses on anyone, Lupin. Not ever. How dare you imply-"

Dumbledore has risen right behind Moody, and quickly moves to stand between the infuriated Auror and Lupin.

"Now, Alastor, Remus is not suggesting that you yourself have-"

"I am, however, suggesting that he cannot prevent their use within the Ministry," Remus interrupts evenly. "And until he can guarantee that the Aurors will pursue their goals without resorting to torture, I see no reason to provide any further information on this matter at all."

Dumbledore stares intently, once again, at Lupin, while Moody frankly gapes at him.

"What do you think this is, boy?" he demands. "Where do you think you are? Do you think this is all some sort of game? Do you think Voldemort is likely to abide by these prissy little rules you'd like to set down? This is a war! It's ugly and dirty and people get hurt!"

"I myself would not define avoiding a descent into utter savagery as 'prissy', Auror Moody," Lupin replies bitingly. "But I am not particularly concerned with your opinion, either. I will not provide the Ministry with a way to make torture more convenient, and that is my final word."

"Lupin … you …" Moody sputters, enraged, and then turns on Dumbledore.

"Talk to your tame werewolf, Albus," he snaps. "He seems to have forgotten his place."

Now it is Lupin's turn to rise from the table, his face still ashen but set.

"I have not forgotten the place your precious Ministry would like to accord to people like me, Moody. Werewolves, that is. The 'Lycanthropically Afflicted.' Or is it 'Dark Creatures' this month? It's so hard to keep up with the periodic reclassifications."

"Oh – oh, yes. Yes," Moody growls. "Now we come to it. You and your bloody moral high ground, your righteous indignation. So superior to the rest of us. But do you have any idea how many sources of vital intelligence you may well be cutting off with all this high-minded rubbish? Have you got any idea how vastly important the information you're withholding might be?"

Moody lowers his voice to a harsh rumble and smiles bitterly. "But you don't care about that, do you? Because you're not really in this at all, are you, Lupin? You never have been. Your heart's not in the fight. Win or lose, what difference does it really make to you how things go, in the end?"

"Alastor!" Dumbledore cries. "That's not-"

Remus goes white and his fists clench.

"I've risked my life daily since I was eighteen to defend a society that would just as soon see me dead! I've risked everything I've ever cared about to fight for a world that cast me out when I was four fucking years old. I've been 'in this' from the beginning, and with absolutely nothing to gain. Can you say that, Moody?"

He turns to Dumbledore. "Or you, Albus? Can any of you? The Order of the bloody useless Phoenix! My God, Moody, and you have the gall to tell me this isn't a game! Don't you ever talk to me about loyalty or commitment!"

"Remus, no one is questioning your-" Dumbledore starts to say.

"Bugger that, Lupin!" Moody shouts. "You're STILL sitting on information that we need to-"

Remus lunges around Dumbledore so quick he manages to get a handful of Moody's collar.

"You want information?" he asks, also shouting. "Talk to Rosier, then, if you can. Take his corpse back to the Ministry and see if you can mince the answers you want right out of his cooling flesh. And while you're trying that, remember that YOU asked ME to do what I could with him!"

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" Dumbledore roars and steps in between the two men. "Both of you! That is quite enough! This is everything Voldemort himself could ask. Alastor, calm yourself. Remus, sit back down. Both of you, do as I say. Now."

Remus jerks his hands off Moody and steps stiffly away from him. Now it's Moody who gazes at Remus as though he has never really seen him before.

"Remus…Alastor …" Dumbledore goes on, softly. "Remus, I can't pretend I'm not appalled by the direction the Ministry has taken, and I would never ask you to compromise your -"

"I can speak for myself, Albus," Moody interrupts quietly. He makes eye contact with Remus. "Apology on the table, Lupin. Sorry I questioned your loyalty. I won't again."

"Accepted," Remus puts in quickly. "Let's just … forget it. It's not important. I … I know you don't really believe …forgive me, I …am not myself just now."

"Certainly you're not," Dumbledore quickly agrees. "How could you be, after all you've just experienced? Who among us is himself in this dark time? Alastor, by the same token, I strongly doubt that Remus here believes that you are personally responsible for every single ill that besets the Ministry of Magic."

"No, no, of course I don't," Remus puts in. "I'm sorry I acted as though-"

"Accepted, Lupin," Alastor says with a small grin that looks rather gruesome on his battle-scarred face. "Just a case of nerves. Gets a bit sticky out here in the trenches – happens to all of us. Myself included. Care to see if you could force down another tot of …whadayoucallit – 'swill'?" He pulls out his flask.

Remus also produces a small, slightly wintry smile. "Not unless you can transfigure it into a half-way decent cup of tea, thanks."

Moody snorts, amused, while Dumbledore sets his hand on Remus' shoulder.

"Sit back down, Remus. You're still exhausted and shaken. I want you to be careful on your way home. You're Apparating, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'd planned to. Sirius was going to meet me at-"

"Yes, that's all right, then," Dumbledore interrupts quickly. "There, that's it, just sit down; you'll need to gather your strength a bit before you go. Now, am I right in believing that this …suicide curse … is not actually something that could easily be prevented? Even if you told us everything you know?"

Remus ponders on this question momentarily. Eventually he looks up at Dumbledore, eyebrows raised, and answers. "Not easily. Maybe not at all. It's wandless magic, to start with, and … and the most important aspects of the spell are purely mental. The focus is a state of mind, the sheer determination to die. Certainly I'm not at all sure how I'd go about trying to stop it, if that were my intent. It wouldn't be just a matter of disarming and basic binding spells."

"Alastor, I trust you are taking note of this?" Dumbledore asks.

"Indeed I am. If it's partly a trance-based manipulation, then we're sunk. Those are the very devil to control. Why didn't you just say so, Lupin?"

Remus smiles ruefully. "You didn't ask me that, Moody. And I am a bit …cranky… just at the moment."

"Well, you certainly don't look like you have a temper on you, laddie, I'll give you that. So, what can we do, Albus? Any ideas?"

"Perhaps we might suggest to Barty Crouch that his best hope of keeping his prisoners alive lies in convincing them they will not be treated as badly by the Ministry as they will by their master."

"I don't relish the idea of trying to convince Crouch of anything." Moody mutters darkly.

"But that is a discussion for another time, I think," Dumbledore says. "I want Remus to go home and get some rest. Do you have anything you'd like to add, Remus? Anything further you can tell us?"

"Only that …only that Evan – Rosier … he died well. He wasn't some sort of monster at the end. I think someone ought to say that for him, someone ought to know that about him. The Death Eaters are… they're people we went to school with, people we all know. They're us."

"Yes, Remus," Dumbledore confirms gravely. "You are quite right. They are us. That's the tragedy of it."

The small, dingy room is silent for a moment as the three wizards consider their individual tragedies, united in a moment of that regret for which there is no cure, and accompanied by the dead. And then the moment breaks: there is some bustle as Lupin prepares to Apparate out, and there are last-minute apologies for words said in the heat of anger, and last-minute farewells, and eventually Remus stands in the southeast corner of the room, takes his bearings, and vanishes.

There is a harsh cracking sound as air rushes in to fill the space he has just vacated, and the two older wizards are left alone.

"Well, Alastor?" Dumbledore asks, after a time. "Are you convinced?"

"Yes, completely. He's a good man, even if we'll never be certain we can tell him what to do and expect him to just do it without asking some damn hard questions first. And frankly, no spy would ever have told me I could go bugger myself as distinctly as Lupin did. That may have convinced me more than anything else. I wish I hadn't lost my temper with him."

"You are more accustomed to foot soldiers who are willing to follow orders. But Remus is a far more valuable asset, in my opinion."

"Does he know that there's someone in their circle who's giving the Potters' movements to Voldemort?"

"I have no doubt that James will have confided it to his closet friends by now. It would not have immediately occurred to him that one of them could be that person. Yes, Remus knows there's a spy, I should think."

"But you haven't told him that you suspect Black. Is that wise, Albus?

Dumbledore sighs deeply. "Perhaps not. But it is kind, at least until I am certain. He will not want to hear such awful news. Sirius Black is his dearest friend."

"And more as well, if all the gossip is true. But if you're right, and Black is the spy, then Lupin is endangered simply by being so close to him. Shouldn't you at least warn him of your misgivings?"

"I doubt he'd believe me. I can scarcely credit it myself. And as you've seen, Remus is a young man who sorts out his own path. No. We'll give it a little longer."

"Watch and wait. Constant vigilance. I hope you're right, Albus."

Albus Dumbledore looks tired and worn and worried in the dim candlelight.

"How strange," he says. "I am hoping that I'm wrong."