A/N: Always and forever, thanks to SortingHat47, and to Zarathustra for all their hard work. Thanks to allycat1186, Liv Naravul, and Wolviesfan for their fabulous reviews and for supertramp and the others who put this on alert. Thewlis-filled dreams for remuslives23 who constantly puts up with my whining and complaining!
Disclaimer: Again… Did Remus die in DH? Yes. Thusly, I didn't write it.
Also… should mention I sorta kinda lifted part of a Thewlis line from "Kingdom of Heaven." You know, I'd probably go to confession a lot more if my priest looked like Thewlis… ANYHOW…
Chapter 8: Numbed
Friday, 14 June, 1985—6:46 a.m.
"Hey."
Shove off, Gerry.
"Lupin?"
So help me, if he asks me how I feel, I will rip his throat out.
"I've got breakfast for you."
Remus groaned. That was about the last thing he wanted right now.
The boy entered the cage with an exorbitant amount of noise, placed the tray next to Remus then stood gazing down at him. "Do you need help sitting up?"
I need help out of here! "Not hungry."
"Bill says you have to eat. You have to take these healing potions too. He says you still have to take care of the animals."
"If I eat, it'll just come back up."
"What?" Gerry asked, not understanding Remus' mumbling.
Remus turned his head so he could see the tray with the one eye that wasn't swollen shut. There was the typical glass of juice, some sausage and toast, and two small glass bottles. If the bottles contained the stuff they had given him before, they were potent healing potions. If he took them, he'd be pain-free while he took care of the other creatures — that would be good. But did he want to help the people who were keeping him here?
Parsons will hurt me if I don't take them. He hated himself for the thought. I don't want to be weak. I don't want to give in. But immediately on the heels of that thought was: I don't want him to hurt me worse.
What did he have to lose if he didn't take the healing potions? He'd lost his freedom. He was losing his free will. He was obviously losing his courage too. Fine Gryffindor you are. Haven't you hurt worse after the full moon? Yes. He had.
The Clabbert squealed once. Even after only a week, Remus recognized its hungry cry.
Who would feed them? Gerry? He'd been doing the best he could since Hector had gone, but the animals had been in pitiful condition.
Remus bit back a curse. He knew he was going to take the potions, whether or not Bill threatened him. He wasn't going to let his fellow inmates die of neglect.
He knew from experience that broken ribs were going to hurt no matter what, so he gathered all his strength, gritted his teeth against the expected agony, and pushed himself onto his elbows, and then up onto his knees.
Blood thumped in his ears, and he felt his stomach flip. He swallowed hard: Can't vomit what's not there, but his stomach was most assuredly trying to evict something. He heard Gerry's voice, but he had no idea what the boy was asking him. After a long moment, he felt it was safe enough to open his eyes; or at least the one good eye. He gingerly touched the swollen skin around his left eye. He couldn't help wincing. Still, he was up, and from the feel of things, he was going to stay up for a little while longer. At least his ribs had stopped screaming at him.
Gerry had the two potions in his hands. He had already removed the stoppers from both of them, and presented one of them to Remus, who accepted it with trembling hands.
"Cheers," he said, lifting one corner of his lips sardonically. It burned going down, and he gasped for a cooling breath as he handed the empty bottle back to Gerry. The potion was more potent than before. His stomach again tried to rebel, but he forced it back into submission. Before he could think about it, he grabbed the second bottle and downed its contents.
DAMN!
The bottle slipped from his fingers as Remus doubled over, bracing himself against the ground with one arm. He knew the potion was working, but the movement of broken bone, battered muscle and bruised skin was agonizing. It seemed to last forever, the potion overriding the body's natural healing tendencies: forcing blood vessels back into shape, bone to merge with bone, skin to knit over gaping wounds.
Remus drew a deep breath, and let himself flop over onto the floor. Newly healed ribs protested, but their complaint was nothing in comparison to what it had been before.
"Are you all right?" Gerry asked tentatively.
"Never better," Remus whispered, easing his left eye open; a little blurry, perhaps, but definitely an improvement.
"Are you ready for your breakfast?"
"Can you give me a minute?"
Gerry looked nervous. Remus could only guess the pressure that Bill had put on the boy to make sure the werewolf was up on his feet as soon as possible.
"I'll eat, I promise. I just need to — rest for a minute."
Gerry finally nodded curtly. "I'll let Bill know you're better." He reached down to pick up the bottle that Remus had dropped on the floor, then left the cell, making as much noise on his exit as he had on his entrance.
Remus again inhaled deeply, enjoying a few pain-free moments. It wasn't long until his stomach calmed to the point that the sausages actually smelled good. He turned onto his belly, then stretched just enough so that his fingertips hooked the lip of the tray.
"Wolf."
"Good morning to you, too, Bertie."
The centaur flicked his tail. "You are better?"
"For now." One sausage disappeared.
"Beware Scorpio."
"You've said that before."
"A scorpion stings when he fears being crushed beneath a heel."
"I don't think he has much to fear from me." Remus bit into a second sausage. "Especially now."
Libertas stepped away from the bars, again effectively ending the conversation.
A few minutes later, Gerry returned, a pitcher of water in hand.
"I brought you some water," he said. "I thought that juice might not be enough."
Remus nodded his thanks, and held out the glass. Gerry filled it nearly to the brim.
"Did you tell Bill I was better?" Remus asked before lifting the glass to his lips.
"Yeah. He was happy."
"Happy?" the werewolf repeated, almost alarmed. Bill and 'happy' went together as well as Remus and the full moon. Thinking about how it could only mean trouble for him,
Remus took a drink of the water. He observed Gerry's intense stare at the same instant he noticed the faint bitter aftertaste.
He flung the glass away from himself. "The water's drugged!"
Gerry took a step backwards, edging closer to the door. "It's just to calm you down."
"I've seen what it does! You're not doing that to me!"
"Bill says…"
"I'm not drinking it!"
Gerry gulped. "You know it's going to be bad if you don't."
Remus rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension that was growing. It was going to be bad. If anything, Gerry was understating the situation. "I know. Look, tell him I won't try to escape." He saw the uncertainty in Gerry's eyes, and pushed a little further. "If you can't do that, then lie for me. Tell him I drank it."
He absolutely hated that he was begging. It grated on him in ways he never thought possible. Was he really that proud? Yes, he realized, he was. It was all he had left, and Bill Parsons was going to rip that from him as well. "Lie for me, Gerry. Or tell him I'll do whatever he wants, but I'm just not taking that potion. I can't." His voice faltered on the last word, sounding like a whimper.
Gerry slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry." His regret was real, Remus could tell. Unfortunately, it did nothing to help the situation. "He'll hurt me if he finds out," Gerry added in a whisper.
Remus didn't doubt that.
Bill Parsons stood outside the cage, looking in. The werewolf sat on the floor, legs bent, his knees drawn up to his chest by his encircling arms.
"I hear you won't drink the water," Bill said, noting how the Dark creature's shoulders had tensed when he had stopped in front of the bars.
"No."
"You have no choice in this."
The werewolf took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. "Yes, I do. I actually have two choices. I can take it willingly — or not." He actually smiled — smiled — as he said the last two words.
Bill's eyes narrowed. Was the thing making fun of him? "Then, your choice is to — what?"
The werewolf unfolded himself and stood, his right foot slightly behind his left so that his body was angled towards Bill. The carnival owner recognized a duelling stance when he saw one, though how the beast was going to duel without a wand was beyond him.
"Look, the sooner you accept the way things are around here, the better off you'll be," Bill pointed out, stripping his jacket off, and laying it beside the cage door carefully.
"That depends on your definition of 'better off.'" The werewolf shrugged.
Parsons brought his wand up slowly, letting the creature see it, letting him know exactly who had the power around here. Then he aimed it straight at the werewolf's chest. "Petrificus Totalus."
The creature sidestepped it.
Behind him, Bill heard Jack mutter something under his breath.
Undeterred, Parsons sent a Stupefy at the werewolf. The animal threw itself on the ground then quickly got to its knees, almost immediately prepared for the next curse. Bill was ready and flung another Stunner off in his direction. Again, the werewolf dropped to the ground to avoid the hex, and seemed to be waiting for the carnival owner to hurl another spell at him when he rose up into a crouch.
"Fast bugger, ain't he?" Wally mumbled.
"He is at that," Bill agreed. He opened the cage door with an Alohomora, and stalked in. The werewolf kept both eyes on him, waiting for his next move.
Bill motioned to Jack to move to his left, Wally to his right. Gerry hovered in the doorway, a bottle of potion marked 'Torpeus Draught' in his hand.
"This is your last chance, wolf," Parsons said, jerking his chin in Gerry's direction.
The werewolf didn't take his eyes away from Bill.
Jack and Wally knew what to do. They'd had to do this before with stubborn creatures. They both rushed toward the wolf-man, forcing him back against the side of the cage. The werewolf hissed and swore loudly at the impact with the silver bars. Welts began to rise where skin had come in contact with the silver.
"Keep him there, boys," Bill said.
That, however, was easier said than done. The werewolf twisted violently in Wally's grip, then ducked under his arm. Wally tried to grab the werewolf's arm again, and with his other hand, reached for the belt loops on the creature's jeans. The werewolf's knee accidentally banged into Wally's thigh, knocking him off-balance. Jack, realizing that his cohort's grasp had slipped, tightened his grasp on the creature's arm and reached for hair — always a quick and easy way to either cause pain, create a distraction, or regain control. The werewolf yelped, then rammed into Wally purposely. The bigger man went down, unintentionally entwining his legs with the werewolf's, taking him to the ground as well. Jack threw himself on top of the creature, yelling for Bill.
The carnival owner leaned over the creature, smiling. "Willingly or not, huh?"
There was hate in the werewolf's eyes — but no fear. Not yet, at any rate. The muscles in his jaw were clenched tightly, and Bill knew if he tried to force the potion down the creature's throat, half of it would wind up on the floor, or on the carnival workers.
Certain that his two employees would be able to hold the animal down for a short time longer, Parsons went outside the cage door and picked up his jacket. It only took a moment to retrieve the two items he needed from the pockets.
"You know what this is, wolf?" he asked, going back to lean over the wolf. He held up a Muggle syringe in front of the werewolf's eyes. He saw the creature's eyes widen with horrified recognition.
He motioned for Gerry to come nearer, then removed the protective cover from the needle.
The werewolf began to buck and squirm, trying to dislodge Jack, and to jerk his arms away from Wally, who had them pinned to the ground.
Bill weighed the creature with his eyes and took the bottle from Gerry's hands. He slowly drew in a sizable amount of the potion into the syringe from the bottle.
There was definitely fear in the wolf's eyes now.
"Hold this, Gerry," Bill ordered. The teenager held it tentatively between his fingers, and Bill threw a warning look at him to hold it tighter.
Again, the werewolf tried to throw Jack off of him, but Bill held out the second object so it could be easily seen by the creature. The animal froze. "I could Imperio you, you know. But, I know that you would fight it, and you might throw it off fairly quickly. I could Stupefy you, but I think I'm going to enjoy this a whole lot more." The werewolf shuddered, but whether it was at Parson's tone, or the small silver-bladed knife in his hands, Bill didn't know. The carnival owner smirked.
The American knew there were spells to make seams dissolve, or to make clothing vanish completely, but the fact was that those were spells that he wasn't very good at. He didn't need them much, so he didn't practice them. Besides, in this case, it was a lot more satisfying to wedge the tip of the knife between the werewolf's hipbone and his clothing, and then saw away.
Between clenched teeth, the werewolf whimpered softly and winced when the silver touched skin, instantly raising welts, or when the blade pierced skin, bringing blood to the surface. Other than that, the creature was still, realizing that any movement at this point might embed the knife blade deeper into his body.
"Good boy," Bill said. Jack, who was now straddling the werewolf's legs, chuckled. Gerry, however, looked a little green around the gills. "Oh, hell, Gerry, I'm not hurting him. Not really."
The boy looked uncertain about that.
Finally, there was enough of the wolf's hip exposed to satisfy Bill. "You should be thankful I didn't just strip you completely," the carnival owner remarked, his face inches from the werewolf's. "There have been some very curious ladies coming through. I told Bentley we ought to let you start satisfying their curiosity. You'd be worth a lot more to us that way, you know." He grinned.
He snapped his fingers and held his hand out to Gerry, who gently laid the syringe in Bill's palm, with an almost apologetic glance at the werewolf.
"For Pete's sake, boy, get over it. He's a fucking animal. It's not as if he's human, or anything." And with that, Bill jabbed the needle into the somewhat fleshier area of the werewolf's hip. The creature cried out a single word — "No!" — and tried again to fight, but Parsons had anticipated something of the sort. He slammed his knee down on the werewolf's chest, knocking the wind and the fight out of the thing.
In the time it took to count to ten, the potion was completely injected into the werewolf. Bill spelled the creature's clothing back together with a simple stitching charm that had always proved useful for repairing canvas, and motioned for Jack and Wally to get up and leave the cage. Now free of the bodies and hands that had held him captive, the werewolf curled up into a ball.
Bill smiled tightly. "Gerry, give him about half an hour, then he'll be ready to help you out. He won't give you any trouble. Will you, wolf?"
He was laughing as he left the cell.
Saturday, 15 June—9:48 a.m.
The tank was filled with water that was clean and clear, but the mermaid inside was lying in a huddled lump in the corner.
Dully, she watched the young man as he placed the fish on a tray on the edge of the tank—just as he had twice a day for the past ten days. She mourned the loss of the brightness of his blue eyes. He had been the only thing here that had seemed to understand her, and now she didn't even have that. They had taken the spark from him, as they did all the beings that came here — especially those who had any intelligence to speak of.
He turned to go, but hesitated, looking at her with confusion, as if he should remember something, but for the life of him, couldn't think of what it was.
She stretched her hand out and placed it against the wall of the tank. She couldn't tell why she had done it. But he almost immediately put his hand against hers, looking pleadingly into her eyes as if hoping she could tell him something — anything — about what they were doing here.
But then the dark-haired boy came in and told her blue-eyed caretaker that they had to move on. He gave her one last regret-filled look then turned away from her.
She sank down into the very bottom of the tank, knowing that today would be her last day in this tank. She wondered how long the blue-eyed one would last.
6:18 p.m.
"Don't forget to bow to the hippogriff," the dark-haired boy said.
He stared at the boy uncomprehendingly.
The boy sighed and pointed to the next cage. "The hippogriff. Make sure you bow before you go in."
Oh. He stared at the creature inside the bars. Now that he was looking at it, he remembered that he was supposed to bow to it. Otherwise, it wouldn't let him near. He glanced down at the talons on the animal's front legs. How could he forget something so simple? He had fed the hippogriff this morning, hadn't he? Everything was so hazy… as if it were all a dream….
He gained eye contact with the hippogriff and then bowed. It hesitated for a moment before nodding its head approvingly, and he stepped into the cage.
He pulled a dead rat from the bucket and tossed it to the hippogriff. It caught the rodent midair with a sharp snap of its beak. Impressed, but wary, he tossed the rest of the rats, varying the arc slightly with each throw, if only to provide some kind of excitement in the hippogriff's day.
He didn't know why or how he knew that was important.
7:30 p.m.
The dark-haired boy brought him a pitcher of water, for which he was very grateful — his mouth was as dry as the tanbark right outside his cage. He noticed the water had a strange taste to it, and he thought he should be alarmed by that, but was too thirsty to care.
The horse-like creature across the aisle had attempted to talk to him, but his head felt too thick to comprehend what the animal was saying. It was only a short time before the beast gave up on him.
It was a bit of a relief, actually. He didn't know what to say. He nursed the water for as long as he could, but it was still gone within an hour. He didn't seem to mind the odd tangy aftertaste after all.
Sunday, 16 June--6:54 a.m.
The dark-haired boy looked worried. "The mermaid died last night," he announced as he put down the metal tray. "Bill isn't happy."
Bill? The name brought the feeling of dread, but no real recollections. No, that wasn't quite true — there was the fleeting image of a man's face, and the memory of pain and fear. He had been reaching for the tray, but now he drew his hand back to his side.
"It's alright," the dark-haired boy said. "He knows you didn't do anything wrong."
His forehead wrinkled in worry, but the boy again reassured him that it was alright, and pushed the tray closer.
He ate quickly, ignoring the boy.
Footsteps in the corridor made him look up, and a man appeared outside the bars. His mind made the association quickly and with certainty. This was Bill.
His stomach lurched, and he scrambled backwards, further away from the other man. He stopped just short of the bars behind him — he already knew what they'd do to him. He'd found that out last night.
Bill laughed. "Gods, Lupin, if only you could see yourself. You're no better than an actual wolf now."
"He's worried you're mad at him about the mermaid," said the dark-haired boy.
Bill looked surprised for a moment. "He said that?"
"No, not exactly."
"Then what — exactly — did he say?"
"Nothing, but when I said you weren't happy, he looked upset."
Bill looked at him sharply, then back at the dark-haired boy. "Gerry, don't go getting attached to him, you hear?"
Gerry sighed. "I know, sir."
"Now, the two of you get moving. I need that mermaid exhibit cleared out before we open."
"Yes sir."
Gerry tried to get him to eat something more, but his stomach was too fluttery. He did drink the orange juice, and thought that the juice had the same aftertaste as the water. Again, he had the vague thought that he should be bothered by that, but couldn't remember why.
11:34 a.m.
He and Gerry were sweeping out the enclosure which had held the mermaid when the feeling of overwhelming sadness came over him.
The mermaid was dead. She had been kind to him. But there was more to it than that. Images flickered through his brain, and his broom came to a stop.
"Dead," he muttered.
Gerry looked over at him, a puzzled look on his face. "Yes, the mermaid's dead."
The boy seemed to be waiting for him to say more.
"James is dead," he said, suddenly putting a name to one of the images
"Who's James?" Gerry asked.
He shook his head. "I don't know." And yet, he thought perhaps that fact had once meant everything to him.
Tuesday, 18 June—6:51 a.m.
Gerry shook his shoulder lightly. "Lupin. It's time to wake up."
Lupin? Who was Lupin? Oh, that was his name. He remembered that now. He started to untangle himself from the blanket, and yelped softly at the pain that shot through his hip.
"What's wrong?" Gerry asked, worried.
Lupin touched where the pain had been — and still was. "Hurts."
Gerry bit his lip then made a vague pointing motion. "Unzip, then. Let's see."
Unzip? Oh. There was a moment of trepidation before Lupin stood and unbuttoned, then unzipped the fly of his jeans, as if he was doing something he shouldn't be doing. Gerry helped him push his jeans and underwear down just enough to see that the cuts on his hip from Bill's knife were red, puffy, and leaky with infection.
"Shit," Gerry muttered. "Stay here. I'll get Bill."
Lupin grabbed Gerry's arm. The speed of it surprised them both. "No," Lupin said. "Not Bill."
"It will be alright. He won't hurt you. He'll just heal you up. I promise."
"No." He shook his head. He knew what to do; he didn't need Bill. He just needed… he just needed…. The fuzz in his head kept him from remembering the name of the stuff he needed. He vaguely recalled someone — dark-haired, like Gerry, but with gray eyes — had scratches, though worse than these, and they were worried about telling someone. What was it they had used? It had worked. But what was it? The back of his neck ached and he kneaded it anxiously. Another dark-haired boy — James, the one that he knew was dead—had been there, saying something about…
"Murtlap. Murtlap… essence."
Gerry blinked. "Murtlap? Are you sure?"
He nodded. Now that he had said it, he knew it was the right thing.
"Wait here then."
Lupin settled back on the thin straw-stuffed mattress. He felt the centaur's eyes on him from across the aisle.
"Wolf," the centaur said quietly.
"Horse," he shot back, without quite knowing why.
The centaur smiled, which seemed wrong, somehow, as if he didn't usually smile. "At least they didn't take that away from you," the centaur said inexplicably. Then they heard Gerry returning, and the centaur backed away from the bars.
Friday, 21 June—8:05 p.m.
Alastor Moody knocked on the door, but stood slightly to the side as he did. The magical eye focused on the windows overlooking the front garden, searching for the movement of curtains. There was the sound of a lock turning, and the Auror turned his attention to the door instead.
"Moody!"
"Alatza."
"Is there news?"
"Do you mind if I come in first?" Moody asked pointedly.
"Of course, please." The man stood aside to allow the Auror to enter. The vestibule was tall, with a large light fixture dangling from a thick chain.
"Impressive," Moody commented, looking up at the light.
"It was imported from America, from an opera house in Boston.… Never mind that now," Pindar Alatza said, shaking his head dismissively. "Let's go into my office."
He led the way through a drawing room to the right. Moody heard the footsteps and muffled laughter of children, though he didn't see them. They were, no doubt, the children that Lupin had been hired to tutor.
Pocket doors at the back of the drawing room slid open to reveal Alatza's office. Maps of the world and at least six individual countries were mounted on the wall, and the mahogany desk was designed to inspire awe, and to point out that the master of this office was wealthy, powerful, and not afraid to use either money or prestige to get his way.
"Please, sit down." Alatza motioned to a chair and went to a small side table. "Would you like a glass of wine?"
"Why not?" Moody shrugged. "I'm not officially on duty right now."
Alatza poured the wine and both he and Alastor drank deeply from their goblets before the merchant sat down and asked again, "Is there news?"
Moody straightened and took a deep breath. "There is, but it's all bad."
"Lupin's not —" The man cut his own sentence off, but looked at Moody with dread.
"No, he's not dead," Moody stated. "At least, not that I know of."
"Then, do you know where he is?"
"No."
Pindar's frustration was evident in the way he shifted in his chair. "Then what news do you have?"
"I think I've found one of the men who kidnapped Lupin."
Alatza leaned forward. "Who is he?"
"A man by the name of James Winning. Does that name sound familiar to you?"
"It does somewhat. Where —?"
"He used to work in one of your warehouses. He was fired last year for stealing."
Pindar Alatza sat back, rubbing his moustache with his forefinger. "Now that you mention it, I do remember the incident."
"You remember it?"
"Mr. Moody, I take care of my employees. I give them the best wages I can. It makes them loyal and less likely to steal. It's rare for us to have a thief. I remember Winning — or at least the circumstances surrounding his firing." Alatza shook his head. "He admitted to it. There was nothing to do but fire him."
"Well, he apparently held a grudge over it, because he got paid twenty-five Galleons to help kidnap your tutor."
"Who paid him?"
"That is something I'm still trying to piece together, but everything so far is pointing straight to Carmichael."
"Have you questioned the bastard yet?"
Alastor shook his head, clenching his teeth together to keep from muttering the curse that was on the tip of his tongue. "He's left the country. He left by a Ministry-approved Portkey on June seventh, supposedly to track a rogue werewolf in Czechoslovakia. When I asked their Ministry officials to find him, though, they couldn't. They think he went over the border into Poland."
Alatza digested this all in silence, and sipped at his wine. "How do you know Winning was involved?"
"He was seen in the Leaky Cauldron with an unusual amount of Galleons on him and an even more unusual story about capturing a werewolf that had savaged someone in Reading. Now, there hasn't been a report of anyone getting hurt by a werewolf in Reading in years. I went down there and waited until he was pretty deep in his cups, then asked him about it. He finally admitted that he had helped steal something from your estate, and that's where he really got the money."
Moody held up a hand to forestall the comments that he knew were going to come after Alatza's initial wordless exclamation. "He didn't say you specifically, or mention your estate by name. He had a long, involved story about being wrongly fired, and he was all too happy to get back at his former employer. He was hired specifically because he told them he knew the layout of your estate."
"He's never been there — that I know of," the merchant protested.
"No, he hadn't, up until then. He lied to them, and they didn't find out until it was too late to do anything about it. I told him he was lucky he got paid at all. He said the money was to keep him quiet about where he got the money and what they stole. Frankly, I'm surprised they let him live at all."
"Did you ask him what they took?"
Moody snorted derisively. "Of course I did. He said it was something only valuable to you," he paused for dramatic effect, "and to your children."
Alatza cursed slowly and steadily for a good minute, and the Auror let him do it without interruption. The man wasn't saying anything that Alastor hadn't said in the past two weeks.
"Did he tell you who hired him? Or who else was involved?"
"No. And I didn't push him too much yet. I want to wait until I know exactly where Carmichael is. If I show my hand too soon, Carmichael will catch wind of it and disappear. No, I need to know exactly where he is and have all the evidence I can get before go after him."
"Did he say where they took Lupin?"
Moody sighed. "No. But I'm not sure he knows exactly. He just said it was somewhere out in the country. Thing that bothers me is he said that whatever they stole had already been bought by someone."
"How can someone buy a werewolf? Why would they want to?"
For the first time in their short working relationship, Pindar Alatza saw Moody look visibly upset. "The Darkest wizards have been known to use werewolf blood, fur, and other — parts — in potions and things. Werewolf blood and fur is heavily regulated by the Ministry for research purposes only, so the black market is the place to get those things."
"So you're suggesting Remus was purchased so they could sell him off in pieces?" the merchant was shocked, and his voice thundered through the room.
"It's something we have to consider," Moody affirmed.
The merchant rose and strode to the window, where he stood, hands in his pockets. Moody was silent.
"I told you I'd offer a reward," Alatza said.
"Yes. I've made that clear to all the Aurors."
"Double it."
Moody quickly swallowed the rest of his wine. "Are you sure?"
"Maybe it might be enough to get the attention of one of the bastards who sold him. Go back to that — idiot, Winning," Alatza spat. "Maybe he'll give in to the thought of more gold and open up."
The Auror rubbed his thumb along the initials etched in the goblet. "I think you should wait on this."
Alatza spun around. "Why? Every day is another day closer to the full moon. They may decide they don't need him beyond that. After they've gotten everything they can from him, that is."
"But too much attention now might make them want to get rid of him sooner," Moody pointed out.
The merchant took a deep breath, then shook his head. "No. Speaking as a business owner, I think I'd wait until after the full moon. If I've already paid for a werewolf, and expected to recover the costs of it, I'd have to wait for the transformation and get as much as I can."
Moody's eyes narrowed, and then he finally smiled mirthlessly. "I hope whoever is on the other side of this thinks like you, then."
"Me too," Alatza admitted.
11:24 p.m.
Gerald Bentley stood, cigar in hand, staring at the werewolf sleeping soundly in his cage.
"Last visitor just left," Parsons said, coming up next to him.
Bentley grunted in acknowledgement.
"Last group in said they hadn't been here before, but had heard about him." The American raised his chin in the werewolf's direction. "And it's only been a little over two weeks since we got him. If that's any indication, our profit margins are going to rise in no time."
Again, Bentley made a noise of assent, but then added thoughtfully, "Bill, are you sure it's necessary to drug him?"
The other man sighed. "Let's not go over this again —"
"When you drug the others, it's not as obvious. They're still on their feet. This one…" Bentley let the sentence trail off.
"Ger, he's going to keep trying to escape. He's not going to let a few beatings stop him. We both know that. He's trouble, and this is the only way to control him."
"Can you lessen the amount you give him?" Gerald asked. "So he isn't sleeping when the people come around? A sleeping werewolf isn't going to help the profit margins. They want to see him moving or — something."
"They want to see him transformed, is what they want," Bill pointed out. "If it really bothers you that much, I'll start cutting back on the Torpeus Draught, but I'm going to wait until after the full moon. Maybe a month of it will be enough to get it through his head that he's stuck here —"
"And maybe he'll be more likely to cooperate," Bentley mused.
"Exactly." Bill shook his head. "You know this would have been so much easier if that damn Carmichael had just gotten us a stupid werewolf."
"Yes, well, this is the one he brought us," the other man said. "And we'll have to deal with him at least until we get our money's worth out of him."
"Speaking of getting our money's worth," Bill said with a gleam in his eye, "I've got an idea that I wanted to talk to you about—"
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