Chapter VI – Right Around Moonrise
This is another half-and-half chapter.
Remus is wondering what to examine first. He wants to know how big this place is. He wants to follow that dusky yellow light at the top of the stairs. He's curious as to this mishmash of furniture. All sorts of odds and ends. He tries to imagine where the bits and pieces came from. At the moment it's all like a great playhouse. Only no one can play under these circumstances. It's all very weird.
He feels rather wrong-footed. Usually this wait is a horrible time while his insides are curling up and dying of terror. It also used to be the time for near-hysterics when it came time to go down to the cellar. It was, anyway, until – one night when he was fast dragging his mother into hysteria as well – his father stopped it. His father was almost a Squib, but this was one of those times he managed to set off a goodly explosion about one centimetre from Remus's ear. After one good rap to get his son wide-eyed and quiet, his father told him (Remus was seven then) that he was far too old for this. Much to his mother's dismay this all made a deep impression on her son, and she was often to be found muttering darkly about the stupidity of having married into the infamous, godforsaken Lupin reserve. "It's not natural," she would tell her husband, as angrily as if she, as a Muggle, was not living with a wizard and a werewolf, chained to unnaturality. "When facing something like this children are supposed to cry."
Sometimes Remus did while waiting alone. But tonight he is nowhere near it. For he still only half believes the transformation is going to take place. It seems only natural that the transformations cannot fit into this new life. And what you cannot – quite – believe cannot – quite – be dreaded.
He decides he's most curious about that floating light, which is nor lamp nor candle nor bulb, but simply a round glow of light, and goes up the stairs – step by step, ever so lightly, for no reason he could really explain. But then, there's no one to have to explain it to.
When he's about two feet from the dusky yellow light, with a sort of startle, it scoots back. Briefly he tries to give it chase, but soon realizes, with a hint of laughter, that however it's been enchanted he will not be able to touch it. Now, when he gives up, he soon discovers that it is following him – though at a safe, almost wary distance. He turns around again, sharply, and the light darts back – ashamed to be caught. He laughs at it. The laughter sounds only semi-ghastly.
There are all sorts of rooms here. Remus wonders who once lived here. The whole house is actually in Hogsmeade, which rather unnerves him, and Dumbledore said there wouldn't be any silencing, because no one would guess at what the noises are, and meanwhile they'd be scared enough to stay well away, which would best protect the safety of all involved – Remus shoves these thoughts out of the head. The 'infamous, godforsaken Lupin reserve,' though less marked in him, does not like the idea of everyone hearing him screaming and howling. Anyway – these are all bedrooms up here, and some are still vaguely set up as such. One has a large bed. Madam Pomfrey told him there would be such and suggested rather strongly that he lay down to wait, but the mere thought of lying still makes him feel sick. Six – seven bedrooms in all. Remus himself comes from a small and by necessity often reclusive nuclear family of three, but just two years ago they went to visit his cousins. His parents thought that he would be overwhelmed, and perhaps he was a little, but it was an overwhelment that he very much liked, and it was a great disappointment when his mother and Aunt Christabel fought and they left early. The Sedleys have five children, some others who are sort of adopted or staying for the summer or something (Remus never really got their relation straight), and Nicky's friend who did everything but sleep with the family, and that too one night out of six, and, come to that, each one of them had friends who often camped over, for Aunt Chrissy's was very agreeable. What a fortnight! No, he did like that, just as he now loves Hogwarts.
In bedroom number four (Remus already has them numbered in his head from left to right), there is a bureau. The light follows him diffidently into the room – ever useful, that light, for all the windows have been boarded up. He cannot resist opening each drawer in turn, even though there's nothing there, not even mothballs – although everything is old, it's actually been made quite clean, and the house is not dusty at all. Still, the first two drawers have dividers. The second drawer is a rather unimaginative two-by-two affaire, but the first – divided into sixteen hexagonal sections, some of them padded with crimson velvet – for earrings or something like that. Remus loves the first drawer. It's so cleverly geometrical and has all sorts of little trick compartments. He might be socialable on one end, but on the other he has years of isolation that have given him all the habits of any lonely child, and one month at a flamingly magical boarding school isn't enough to undo his long love for little boxes and keys and knickknacks.
He gives a sudden, violent twitch. And then, with great mental trickery, forgets it.
Downstairs again. The light stays at the edge of the first-floor landing. He thunders down the stairs as noisily as possible, as if to annoy prim imaginary newspaper readers in the farce of a living room. Is there a kitchen? It would be interesting if there were – there is. In the first pantry there is a little family of dormice. He watches them for a moment.
Then he finds he has no desire to open the others. There's nothing there, there's nothing anywhere, it's all emptiness, and it's dark. He really almost wishes that trapdoor hadn't sealed shut, he really rather liked better that lovely long tunnel. It was much more distracting.
He's bursting into shudders and all sorts of painful nerves are beginning to twist…
---
Everything bare – there's not a trace of tangy bitter life anywhere around him, save himself! It's with irritation that he lopes around this unnatural place, and fury that he only finds himself bumping his snout into barriers (which, incidentally, ouches). On the other side of that barrier – argh! Remus can scent it, there's grass at any rate, it's the real world! Who was so cruel as to enclose him? It's a great injury – cannot be tolerated – will not be tolerated, even as he experiences these feelings he's scratching at the walls. It hurts! but he hurts already, existence is pain, especially existence without blood – he cannot stand it anymore, he will not stand it, how can he think to get out without that which makes existence not tolerable but at least gloriously intolerable? Impatiently he scratches his underbelly and licks.
And then with rage charges the wall. Nothing is worse than that blood – in some way so right, so reminiscent of the blood he knows he loves although he has never in fact tasted it, it's half-right, it's almost perfect, but then that maddening contamination! He's furious, furious, running around without aim, only on lunatic hopes. The ground has just thrown him back. Furious, he charges the same spot of ground, it's against him, just as the rest of the world, all ganging up against him to conquer him, who shall not be conquered. Charge! Remus struggles to slip and scrape up the ground – it's up, like a hill, but nothing, nothing like a hill, his claws keep snapping on them as he comes down hard upon the ridges – half of the claws break, and at each he howls in fury.
But he's terribly determined. He does made his rather bloody way up that unnatural ridge-ridden ground, only to be nearly blinded by the light (which merits another chilling howl). He despises that light! It's supposed to be night, it's supposed to be dark, it always is, what's the light for! He tries to pounce on it. It darts away. Still, the general principle was sound. He pounces on a scratchy armchair and returns the scratchiness fifty for one. The chair is the manifestation of injustice in all existence! He destroys it, or halfway destroys it, before losing interest. He hungers again – still – unbearably. It's too cruel, he will have it, he will nothave it, he ought to finish up the job on that chair, but first – contorting on the floor, wildly, with all ill coordination, he feeds on himself – but briefly, for again, that cheat, the very blood within him is all a cheat. Now he is the manifestation of injustice in all existence – he despises himself. He's pleased when he rams into the wall again, dazed only for the moment. Oh-h-h-h, his snout! But there is pain all around, and that is – bad, very bad, but everything is bad without proper blood – he's scuffling about with no direction. There is a wooden thing, a dead truncated tree. Already his claws are so worn, bloody and sore and raw, but, merciless to himself as to anything, uses that rawness to give that deadwood what-for. The top drawer falls out, on his head. It's unbearable. He must get out. He charges the wall, the pain doubles, the only solution is to charge again, he must get out, out – !
Here's been only half an hour this side of moonrise, but that's enough of this, I imagine.