Author's Notes:
Sorry about how disjointed this is! It's something of a here-to-there chapter, but the next one will be more continous. As you will see, this is where the crux of the plot becomes revealed. Enjoy, and I promise to break the cliffhanger as soon as possible!
To my reviewers, thank you so much. Your kind encouragement means the world to me, and I'm glad you like my characterization of Tonks and Remus. Any criticism will be gladly received.
Chapter Four: Into the Underground
Slamming her apartment door in his face, Tonks screamed at Remus, "You're so goddamned indecisive!"
As Remus stooped exhaustedly to pick up what little luggage he had, she opened the door again, knocking his suitcase over. "And I'll see you tomorrow to meet Dumbledore. Down Street, remember."
"Yes, Tonks," Remus said, picking up his luggage again. Looking disgusted, she slammed the door in his face again, so hard that dust fell from the ceiling, adding yet more grey and white to Remus's already fading brown hair.
At the end of the hallway, out of sight of the nosy landlady, her white hair still in curlers, Remus apparated, too tired to care if he scared the entire floor with the pistol-like crack as he disppeared.
Once at Grimmauld Place, Remus negotiated through the truly filthy entranceway to the kitchen, where he made tea. Strong tea. Had it not been so close to full moon, he might have taken a swig of something a touch stronger, but alcohol invariably destroyed the efficacy of wolfsbane.
"Indecisive," Remus muttered to himself. "Since when does having a conscience mean – I'm fifteen years her senior, goddamnit!"
Grimmauld Place, of course, offered no answer except the tinny whistling of the tea coming to boil.
Still muttering to himself, Remus grabbed the kettle, a filthy mug he just couldn't bother to clean, and drank, alone. The darkness of the house pressed all about him, thick and unwelcoming. Even Kreacher would have been welcome – abuse received and abuse given, they'd have kept each other angry company. Anything was better than being so dismally silent.
It was a long and lonely night; Mundungus staggered in drunk at a quarter to twelve and collapsed on a sofa in the dilapidated parlor; Remus simply holed up on a chair in the study, too tired to find a bedroom he could bear to be in. Insomnia kept him drowsing but unasleep for hours, replaying the disastrous morning after until he wanted to smash everything pink and stamped with the "Weird Sisters" insignia.
Sleep finally came to him, at four in the morning, when he could hear the birds outside stirring themselves awake.
He only stole a few hours of rest, however; his internal clock had him up and making what he knew would be the first of many cups of tea at only 7:00 in the morning; noting Mundungus's after-ale grogginess, Remus found a bottle of Hethelfrutha's Hangover Helper and administered it liberally to Dung's usual pick-me-up of pumpkin juice and raw egg.
It was all he could do – be quiet, helpful, and go about his business normally, as if he weren't about to embark on what was probably the most dangerous mission of his life.
Remus simply sat in the dimly-lit kitchen until the great grandfather clock rang ten o'clock; then he stood, grasped his wand, and strode out the door, leaving Mundungus still groaning on the couch. A quick walk out into Grimmauld Place's dismal courtyard, and then apparition.
Remus couldn't help noticing that Tonks looked unusually peaky – a little paler than usual, and her hair an ugly mouse-brown shade she rarely favored. "Tonks…" he began, but stopped at another glare from the witch, and fell into step silently.
Dumbledore was waiting for them at a corner, attracting fascinated stares for his violet robes and teal wizard's hat; Remus had dressed a more conservative brown, and might have been mistaken for a don, had he been in Oxford; Tonks always went in muggle clothing when not on auror's duty.
"Well! Remus, Nymphadora, how lovely to see you. Shall we?" He led the way, striding boldly, the tips of his dragonhide boots showing from under his robes; Remus followed a pace behind, uncomfortably aware of the silent auror beside him. She was looking damned near murderous, and Remus couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore's cheerful affectations mightn't drive her to just that.
Taking a seat at a small café, and totally oblivious to the stares of the muggle waitstaff, Dumbledore motioned for the other two Order members to join him, and then began to peruse the menu, as if this were merely a social event, and not a top-secret Order meeting.
Quietly, as though he were talking about the weather, he began, "As I told you before, Remus, your line of work will be very similar to Severus's. As I'm sure you know, the 59 registered werewolves in Britain are hardly the only lycanthropes in the country; the Ministry suspects as many as one hundred, though there may be more. Many live in London, as I'm sure you know, while others inhabit the Forbidden Forest as best they can – though fatalities there are high even for werewolves. Your job, Remus, will be to gather as much information as possible on the activities of the illegal werewolves living in Britain. Any questions so far?"
Remus shook his head, and Tonks, for all her previous hostility, was staring hard at Dumbledore, fear and worry underneath her taught features.
"Good. Remus, we are currently on Down Street in London. Though I somehow doubt you are an expert on muggle transportation, it is a fact that many of the stations on the London Underground, once busy, have since fallen into disuse; indeed, some of these subways and platforms were used as bases for the Muggle Government during their second world war. One of them is located perhaps a block from where we are now sitting."
"That station is locked, and has been locked for years. Every so often the muggle government will unlock it briefly, but no ordinary wandering muggle can enter this station. It has fallen into disuse, and few even know of its continued existance, save as a red brick façade and home of a newsstand. They do not know that, underneath their very feet, a community of creatures they think imaginary monsters, eke out their existance."
"How do you know this?" Remus breathed, keeping his tone as light and casual as he could to match Dumbledore's assumed nonchalance.
With a twinkle in his eye, the wizard actually pulled up his violet robes, exposing a pink and knobbly knee, wrinkled in the extreme. "It is a funny thing," Dumbledore said, "but some eighty years ago I received a very special scar. Not quite like Harry Potter's, of course, but it has its uses. A complete replica of the London Underground, as it existed circa 1920; and as befits all magical scars – well, I looked into the possibilities of using it to track the goings-on underground, pardon my pun."
Remus stared, transfixed, at the tiny diagram etched in white on the great wizard's knee. "Professor Dumbledore, pardon me for saying this, but there is no-one but you who could possibly have something so fantastic on their thigh."
Dumbledore winked roguishly, but quickly became more serious. "Aside from the location of this band of outlaws, I know nothing. I do not know whether they will accept you for what you are; I do not know whether they will attack you. I know nothing of their political allegiances – simply that the Ministry knows nothing of them. Remus, you know what risks you take by doing this? I must send you, but I cannot until you fully understand –"
"I understand," Remus said, trying to restrain the fear that bloomed inside him. He was Gryffindor, after all, or had been; fear was to be faced, mastered, overcome, defeated. Tonks, however, looked utterly petrified.
"You're fine, throwing him to the wolves? You're fine with this?" It was bizarre and ironic to hear these angry words, from the obviously anxious young auror, come out in a casual, nonchalant tone of voice – they couldn't attract attention, and Tonks knew enough not to shout as he was sure she wanted.
Dumbledore looked as pained as he ever did, and regarded Tonks over the top of his spectacles for a long time before saying, "If I do not send Remus, then whom?"
Tonks fell silent, though she looked as if she might cry from fear. Impulsively, Remus reached out to grab her hand, holding it tight against him for a moment. Through tears burgeoning in her eyes, she smiled at him, and then brushed them away angrily. "This is stupid," she muttered. "As if I could stop you from doing what you wanted." She then reached into her voluminous pockets, rumaging for something hidden in her cargo pants.
"There!" she said happily, thrusting a two silver sickles onto the table.
"Tonks?" Remus said, unsure. Dumbledore looked intrigued himself.
"Hermione Granger showed me how last time I was at the Burrow. I could see she was bursting to know why, but I can keep a secret. Protean charms," she said, pleased.
"I'm still not sure what…" Remus said, trailing off at the broad smile on Dumbledore's face.
"My dear Nymphadora," Dumbledore said, "How clever of you! Yes, these will be very useful, since overt communication with the Order might well be too dangerous for your cover, Remus. Tonks, do explain?"
"They're charmed so that if you need to talk to us, you can set a date and a place to meet by changing the serial code here –" she tapped the bottom of the coin – "and the Gringotts motto here."
Remus couldn't help but grin himself. "Hermione Granger, you say? Brilliant girl, cleverest witch her age I've ever known."
When Tonks had finished her lemon sherbet with caramel sauce and whipped cream, Dumbledore had licked the last speck of fudge brownie from his whiskers, and Remus had licked the last trace of vanilla ice cream from his spoon, it was time to go. As they stood, Dumbledore grabbed hold of Remus's shoulder, and then gasped in pain when the blackened hand made contact. "Remus – before I forget –"
"What is it?" he said solicitously, steadying the old wizard.
"You are a spy," Dumbledore said simply, "A spy, and not a preacher, not a missionary. I know you will be tempted to help these people, but you are a spy. You must find a way to Greyback, you must win these werewolves' trust – remember, you are a spy. Information must always take precedence, however painful. Go well, my son."
Feeling as though he were receiving a benediction from a priest, he grasped Dumbledore's hand firmly and shook it, before the headmaster pulled him into a one-armed hug. "Two blocks down to the left. Alohomora, deceive the newspaper man."
Remus turned, and walked away, feeling oddly calm. He had nothing with him but his wand, Tonks's silver sickle, and the clothes on his back; he was utterly free from everything. Even his suitcase was still at Grimmauld Place. It was liberty, but a curious sort – unhappy, but free. He was reminded of a muggle song Tonks always played – as he remember, she quoted the singer often – "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."
And then, suddenly, he was back in the physical world again as Tonks grabbed his arm, bringing him to a stop.
"Before you go down there, into that hellhole, you know –" she was shaking her fist at him, almost, her hair suddenly bright red – "that I love you. If you die, I will drag you back from the grave and kill you myself. If you get hurt, you answer to me. I am not going to lose you, I am not going to lose you like –"
Like Sirius. "Tonks, I am not going to die," Remus said, though he didn't believe it entirely himself.
"You'd better not," she said, and then kissed him, hard, predatory, and walked away.
Remus stared at her retreating back, at the hands shoved deep into her pockets, and the hair, so suddenly red and now fading again back to that ugly mousy brown.
Then, like all other emotions, he sublimated his love and fear and desire, and strode purposefully toward the red stone façade, a vivid antique against the grey-washed buildings surrounding it. The news stand stood empty but for a curious salesman; the door, a blue sign fixed on it, was locked and dusty. He tapped the handle surreptitiously, whispering an unlocking charm, and strode inside.
Immediately, he was struck by the cold, the dark, and the dust. Out of sight of any muggles, he whispered an illuminating spell, and the tip of his wand lit up the darkness around him for twenty feet – the fleeing shadows showed a rusted lift door and the top of a staircase, spiraling down into the darkness. As he walked toward the staircase, the whistling sound of a train below shattered the stillness, and dust motes rose with a sudden gust of air.
When all was still again, Remus approached the staircase, and began to descend. With each step lower, he felt his heart rise higher and higher in him, until he thought his fear and panic would spill out of his mouth. The thick dust on the stair muffled all sound, until only his beating heart and breath broke the silence.
Then, as he reached the bottom of the stair, and gazed into the labyrinthine subway tunnels, a voice called out, "Who the hell are you?"