Title: In A Strange Land
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter world or its characters. J. K. Rowling does.
Summary: What did Remus Lupin do after the Potters died and Sirius went to Azkaban? This is one possibility. OC's pov.
We never heard much about your Lord Voldemort when he was at the height of his powers; luckily his influence never reached my country. By the time we got to know about him, he'd lost his power and most people thought he was dead. But some of the magical community there got together to discuss the matter, and we discovered that there wasn't a wizard or witch in the whole of Canada who knew a damn thing about the Dark Arts. That was a bad situation, because who knew if this Voldemort might rise again, or some other like him, and next time direct his attention across the ocean? So we raised some gold, and called for a volunteer, and that was how I, Allan Bellefontaine, came to be sitting in a classroom in Durmstrang college on a cold sunny afternoon in September 1982.
The mature students – adult witches and wizards specialising in the Dark Arts – were divided into four classes according to language. Being fully bilingual, I could have gone into the French class, but opted instead for English where I felt more at home. Our teacher was Professor Reichenbach and as he came into the classroom I heard him mutter something to someone who remained outside.
He looked haughtily around the room, then beckoned to a student in the back row.
"Come out here, Mr Lupin," he said, "I require you to assist me. Stand here and face the class."
The student he called on was a skinny guy about my age, with longish brown hair starting to turn grey. He stood very still, looking straight ahead.
"Today you will begin to learn about beasts and Dark Creatures," Reichenbach said, "and we are very fortunate this year to have among us, indistinguishable from a human, an example of – what, Miss Cooper?" He barked the last words at a young witch in the front row.
Nervously, she stammered "A – a vampire?"
Reichenbach laughed unpleasantly, and waved his arm towards the window. "A talented vampire, to be standing here uninjured in this ray of brilliant sunshine!"
Some students laughed, and one called out "Werewolf."
"Correct," said Reichenbach. "Some of you may have heard the ways by which a werewolf can be known while in human form. These are by no means universally reliable. Observe: Mr Lupin's eyebrows do not meet over his nose. Hold up a hand, please, Mr Lupin – his index finger is not longer than his middle finger, nor is there hair growing on his palm. In fact, Mr Lupin bears no visible signs of lycanthropy. I happen to know that he completed seven years' study at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and only a handful of his fellow students ever discovered he was a werewolf. I had the doubtful pleasure of teaching him Potions during most of those years. Secrecy, concealment – that is the Hogwarts way. It is not how we do things at Durmstrang. Here, we require such creatures to be identifiable – you can come in now, Hugo."
The door opened and a short, squat man entered, wheeling a portable brazier. An iron rod protruded from the hot coal. Lupin's eyes widened, but he remained immobile.
"Your arm, please, Mr Lupin," said Reichenbach. "No, the right arm. The left may be required for other purposes at a later date." A few of the students exchanged knowing smiles at this. I had no idea what that was all about.
Reichenbach took Lupin's right hand and pushed his sleeve up, exposing his forearm. "You may proceed, Hugo," he said.
The short man took the rod from the fire – it was a branding iron, of course – and pressed the brand on Lupin's forearm. I couldn't see it clearly from where I was sitting; it might have been a star inside a circle. Lupin's lips were pressed together with the effort to remain silent and still. On Reichenbach's instructions, the short man left the room, taking the equipment with him.
Many of the students were shocked and looked away. The witch who had thought Lupin was a vampire buried her face in her hands. A burly, red-faced man called out "Professor, is it true that the werewolf transformation is very painful? Would that be why it didn't struggle or scream, because it's so used to pain it doesn't feel it any more?"
This was intolerable. I stood up and shouted at him "You don't speak about him like that! He's not an 'it', he's a man! He's more of a man than you'll ever be!"
Reichenbach smiled. "That will do, Mr – er – Bellefontaine" – he spoke my name with a little sneer, managing to make it sound both cumbersome and ridiculous – "you may sit down."
Lupin, who was looking straight at me, lowered his eyes and his head in a barely perceptible nod. I sat down, obeying him, not Reichenbach.
Reichenbach turned to the burly man. "Mr Bellefontaine is, despite his uncouth manner of expressing himself, correct," he said. "Mr Lupin is a student at this college, and as such is entitled to the same rights as any of you, except for the necessity of confining him at the full moon. Anyone who discriminates against him, or treats him with disrespect because of his condition, will answer to me."
I was staggered by the hypocrisy of this. To brand a man, in public, and then talk about respect! Reichenbach went on: "To answer your question, yes, the werewolf transformation is by all accounts extremely painful. However, that is not the reason Mr Lupin did not flinch or cry out. I have observed many brandings, and some werewolves made a tremendous fuss. Few have endured it with Mr Lupin's fortitude. You may resume your seat, Mr Lupin."
Lupin hesitated for a split second, and his eyes flickered towards the door. Then he quietly returned to his seat. I guessed what had been in his mind; he thought about going out of that door and never coming back. But no doubt he had been sent, as I had been, to learn all he could about the Dark Arts and return home to teach others. He was not free to follow his inclination.
I spoke to him later, at the evening meal.
"That was totally out of order, what he did to you," I said.
"I'm afraid that was only half of it," he answered. "I've been suspecting – and now I'm sure. Next to my bedroom there is a very small room, with a metal floor and walls. That is where I am to be kept at the full moon. The ceiling is very high and I think – I know – it's an observation platform."
"You mean you'll be watched?" I was horrified.
"And you will be one of the watchers," he said.
I couldn't believe it. But it turned out to be true. At the full moon the whole class was called on to go to the floor above Lupin's room, and to observe through the transparent ceiling of his cell. We saw and heard everything: the agonising transformation, then the caged ferocious beast pacing around its cell and finally turning on itself, biting and scratching, and screaming in pain and rage.
Some of the students were in tears before the night was over, but nobody was allowed to leave before morning. The second transformation seemed no less painful than the first, and Lupin was unconscious at the end of it. He lay on the floor, totally naked, helpless, covered in bleeding wounds. Then, having learned something of what it is to be a werewolf, we were allowed to go.
I sought out Lupin as soon as I could. The wounds healed quickly, or so he told me, and he was used to it.
He seemed, then, to make light of the whole episode, but over the next few months, as I came to know him better, he told me something of the shame and outrage he felt, knowing that the whole class – all four classes, in fact – had witnessed him turning into an animal. We were never again compelled to watch a transformation, but it was permitted to anyone who wished to do so, and a few did every month, watching Lupin's suffering for their own entertainment. I despised those people.
We became friends, Lupin and I; we studied together and helped each other – though most of that was one-way, he being a far better student than I. His enthusiasm for the work communicated itself to me and our discussions gave me insights into magical arts which I would never have discovered on my own. It wasn't all work; we explored what little amusements Durmstrang and its environs offered, we took long walks in the college grounds, we played chess and did puzzles and drank Butterbeer and talked. I told him a great deal about myself: my family, my big sister and kid brother back home, my happy childhood, my job in a Quidditch supplies shop (I have no interest in Quidditch whatever, but it's a job); and in return, he told me very little, while seeming to talk quite a lot.
I learned things about him, all the same. He was full of contradictions: a Dark Creature, dedicated to fighting for the Light; a knowledgeable student of the Dark Arts, who yet preserved a quality of innocence; a man with a tragedy hanging over him, the nature of which I never knew (at first I thought it was his lycanthropy, but it was more than that) who was still hopeful, cheerful, possessing a dry, ironic humour that made him the best company I had ever known.
I had little other company at that time, because my friendship with the werewolf made other students wary of me. The staff had made it clear that open hostility to Lupin would not be condoned, and in fact there was very little, and that confined to occasional sneering remarks which we easily ignored; nevertheless there was a barrier between us and our classmates, caused by their suspicion, anxiety, even outright fear in some cases.
Perhaps their feelings were understandable. They had all seen the transformed werewolf and he was a terrifying sight. Doubtless they imagined the viciousness of the wolf spilled over into the man. But there is the potential for violence and cruelty in all humans, and it seemed to me that in Lupin such instincts had been drawn off into the wolf, to be given expression one night in the month, leaving him for the remainder of the time more rational, more controlled, gentler, more fully human than the rest of us.
During our study sessions I found myself often neglecting my books to look at him while he concentrated on his reading. He was not the handsomest of men, but his face was pleasant and kind. His eyebrows – which did not meet over his nose – were thick and dark, his hazel eyes large and clear. His nose was too big, and his lips thin, but his frequent smile lit up his whole face like a welcoming lamp in a window on a dark night.
Yes, if that sounds as though I was falling in love with him, it's true. In fact I think I loved him from that moment I saw him in his cell, naked and vulnerable, and I longed to take him in my arms, to hold him, comfort and protect him. Or perhaps it was before that, when he stood defiantly in front of the class while Reichenbach tormented him verbally and physically.
I began to indulge in fantasies in which we lived together, in my little flat in Montreal. We set up a Portkey in the uninhabited forests of Canada, where he could go every full moon and run wild without meeting another human and without needing to hurt himself. I almost persuaded myself that this was possible.
It was nearly a year before I dared to show him my feelings. Nothing very risky; I just came up behind him while he sat reading, put my hand on the back of his neck, and said something like "I really like you, Remus." (Yes, we had progressed to first names by then.)
He pulled away instantly, with a strangled "No!"
I said "Don't try to tell me you're not gay, because I know you are."
He smiled slightly then, and said "No, I won't try to tell you that."
I said "It's me, then, you don't ……"
Quickly he said "I'm sorry. I over-reacted……stupid of me……I wasn't thinking……I do like you, I like you a lot, you're the only friend I've got in this place, but ……"
"I get it," I said. "There's someone else."
He hesitated, then slowly nodded.
"I should have known. Good-looking guy like you wouldn't be single. Only – you never seem to get many owls, so I thought maybe ……"
"He can't send owls from where he is."
So this was the tragedy that stared out of his eyes sometimes when he thought no-one saw him. It was all connected with this man, whoever he was, who was someplace from where he couldn't send owls. Perhaps he was another werewolf, one who had bitten or killed somebody, and was consequently locked up for life? But Remus's guarded look told me I was walking a line. The least hint of prying, any suggestion of nosiness on my part, and the shutters would come down permanently. I didn't want that. If he couldn't be anything else, I wanted to keep him as a friend. I spoke slowly, carefully.
"I really hope things work out for you," I said. "And we can still be friends, yes?"
His lovely smile brightened the room. "Of course," he said. "Friends, always."