The Last Marauder
"He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man." ~ Dr Johnson
It was in the small hours of a muggy July night in Islington, North London, and the stormy sky glowed a dull orange from the light pollution.
Around twenty minutes' walk from the bustling hub of King's Cross station was a small square lined with poplar trees, whose leaves rustled in the mild evening breeze. The hum of city traffic was muted in this side street. The houses were rows of uniform, three storey Georgian terraces with white painted arch blocks above their front doors. The doors were painted either glossy black, pillar box red or military grey, as if there were some set palette for acceptable door colours in the area. The first floor windows of the houses all had decorative black balcony railings in front of them, and a few had flower boxes stuffed with begonias.
The stillness of the Summer night was disturbed then by a hooded figure stepping out from behind a parked lorry at the end of the road. The figure walked swiftly and silently up to the railings between house numbers 11 and 13. As he did so, the walls seemed to shiver and flex back, and another house suddenly appeared in the gap for him, thin and crooked. Unlike its tidy yellow-brick neighbours, this house was all filthy brick and grimy windows - as if it had been banished to a timewarp sometime back in the smoggiest half of the 20th century and forgotten about.
The hooded figure gave one last furtive look around, before climbing the stone steps to the front door.
The man drew a wand from his pocket and swished the end of it, causing the door bolts to slide back, and the door to click open to darkness. The wizard listened in, but all was completely quiet. Before he could take another step, a low voice growled out his name and something shifted in the shadows at the end of the hall. A terrible figure rose up out of the carpet, a gaunt wizard with a long grey beard swept forwards, his eye sockets empty black, his wasted papery skin wrapped around a mouth open in a silent scream...
The hooded man hopped back in surprise, firing off a defensive curse, which shot straight through the spectre, and hit the kitchen door jamb with a bang, causing splinters of wood to spray into the air. The spooky figure continued to glide forwards, but now the man had twigged what was happening, and had lowered his wand. He hissed sharp words at the advancing shape instead until it finally imploded just before him in a silent plume of dust.
The man swore, and brushed the dust off his robes.
Amazingly, he hadn't awoken the miserable old Hag's portrait, which was a miracle in itself. He gave a flick of his wand and the oil lamps in the entrance lit up, giving a jaundiced hue to the old, peeling wallpaper.
Stepping in, he wand-flicked the door shut behind him, the multiple bolts sliding back into place, and turned toward the staircase. He cast a silencing charm on the floorboards, and as he began to climb, he activated another oil lamp halfway up the stairs. The dim light flickered, casting sinister shadows on a staggered row of wizened House Elves' heads, mounted to plaques on the wall. He paused once again to listen. Apart from a grandfather clock ticking away deeply to itself in a distant bedroom, all else was silent.
Everything seemed dustier upstairs, like the place hadn't been disturbed in months. It had been more than a year since Sirius Black had died, after all, no one in the Order had really favoured staying overnight in his family's abode since that tragic day.
Everything he saw was covered in a film of dust. Except –
The wizard paused and stooped to examine the ball atop the topmost stairpost.
The wooden top of the newel post was shiny and free from dust, as if someone had recently rested their hand on it. The wizard illuminated his wand tip and moved in for a closer look, finally reaching out a long-fingered hand to pick up several coarse, grey hairs clinging to the side of the newel.
Before the man even had the time to think about what the hairs pinched between his fingers might mean, the silence was shattered by sudden thudding and claws scraping on floorboards.
The wizard whipped around to fire off a hex, but it was already too late - a dark, ragged, panting shape had already slammed into his side, knocking him down the stairs. He gasped, grabbing wildly at the bannister on the way down, he managed to stop himself from falling - just- thanks to his fingertips, but in doing so he lost grip of his wand. He heard it bounce and clatter uselessly down into the hallway...
The nightmarish shape was atop him in a second, laying its full weight across his back, giving a hoarse warning growl. The man shuddered; he remembered the unmistakable stink of the beast's breath.
He had been in this situation once before, many years ago. With this very same creature.
But this time there would be no James Potter around to save him.
x-X-x
Earlier that evening a very pale and agitated Remus Lupin had paced through the rooms of Grimmauld Place alone. He had hoped going to the last place Sirius had lived would help calm his wracked nerves, but it wasn't helping.
Placing the almost empty firewhiskey bottle on the table, he slumped down heavily on a dining room chair, put his head in his hands and groaned.
The first night of the full moon was five days' away. It would be his first transformation without the comfort of Wolfsbane potion for over three years. He would need to take every precaution, if he did not, his instincts would lead him to run to the pack he was spying on for the Order – and then hell and bloodthirsty murder would be let loose.
Fenrir Greyback running loose inside Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy. Severus Snape…
Albus had died two weeks ago today, by that man's hand.
Remus shuddered as a wave of nausea passed over him.
He had trusted the Slytherin, because Dumbledore had said to trust him. He had thanked him for every batch of Wolfsbane he had brought him. He had placed his trust in Severus Snape while his friends had not...and it turned out he had been wrong to do so. Dumbledore had trusted a cold-blooded murderer.
Remus could hear his heart thudding, and he clenched his hands tightly. He had been taken for an utter fool, and it burned.
Oh, how it burned...
Remus gave a sharp yelp of surprise as all the muscles in his back suddenly and painfully contracted. The tautness then spread down both of his legs and into his toes. He leapt up, hobbling across the room with the pain of the cramp, eyes widening with alarm as he recognised the pains for what they were.
It wasn't full moon - it wasn't even dusk. He wasn't even prepared...
Remus stood ramrod straight, his breath becoming hoarser and hoarser as he fought hard against the spasms that always marked the first signs of a transformation. He could feel his anger was gradually rising, and although he could delay things a little by slowing his breathing and thinking of the nice, peaceful beach holiday he had when he was five years old, he was ultimately powerless to stop it from happening once it had started. He began to snarl, but the noise began to sound more, and more distant to him, as the man who was Remus Lupin gradually lost the battle to the creature inside.
As the beast's spine began to curve, it stooped over with a terrible keening moan, bronze eyes flashing in the half-light.
x-X-x
The first thing he was vaguely aware of was the morning birdsong outside the window. He felt a draught and instinctively felt around to pull bed sheets back over him, only for his searching hand to touch bare wood instead. He mumbled and turned his head groggily, there seemed to be no pillow, he was laying on something cold and hard. His head and neck ached and his back felt stiff.
A spasm of fear jolted through him and his eyes snapped open.
Stretching in front of him were dusty wide oak floorboards, skirting boards, and grimly patterned wallpaper, exactly of the sort that lined the walls of Grimmauld Place.
It was Grimmauld Place.
Remus sat up in a cold sweat. How had he got here? He couldn't remember... This wasn't even an Order meeting house anymore.
He was also completely naked. His wand and clothes were nowhere in sight.
Oh Merlin...
Accioing his wand (fortunately it was only downstairs) he rose with a groan and headed toward the nearest bedroom to find something to wear. The long cheval mirror in the bedroom made him only too conscious of his nakedness; his thin, heavily scarred body almost glowing pale in the frail light seeping through the tattered curtains. He found an old green dressing gown and wrapped it around himself.
Where did he leave his clothes? There could be only one conclusion to this; he had obviously transformed unexpectedly. If he had, well…the prospect was truly terrifying. He padded barefoot into the hallway and listened.
Silence.
Thank Merlin the house was empty...
He glanced down the stairs then and noticed something shining back up at him on the bottom stair. He stepped closer; it was another wand – still emitting a glow from a lumos spell.
Remus frowned as he paced downstairs to collect it. The wood of this wand was almost black. The shape of the wand was also very familiar to him, he had seen it many times over the years.
With a thrill of pure dread, Remus bent down to pick it up.
"Nox." He whispered to it. The wand's glow faded away.