A/N & Disclaimer: A serious note! GASP!
When I started this story, all I had was the prologue. I wrote the prologue in minutes, and then found myself wondering, "How did Remus end up in this situation? Who is the centaur? How do I get them out of there?" And thus a story began.
Along the way, though, it became apparent that, if I rescued Remus (which, of course, I had to do), he was going to have some major problems. The whole thing with Libertas, for example. Surely, the man couldn't just kill someone who'd been the only friend he could talk to for three months, and then walk away from it without suffering some kind of reaction. So, I started to work out what was going to happen, what might happen, and so forth…
And during this process, my brother, who is a member of the U. S. Army, came home from Iraq after his second tour…
After my brother came home, he became a full-blown alcoholic, became more moody and volatile, and soon, almost before we knew it, had left his wife and children. He told us that he just had nothing inside to give any more. After a month of talking, yelling, coercing, pleading, and begging, he finally decided to seek psychiatric help. He was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—something that many military men develop after difficult tours of duty. Since then, he has received treatment, and is doing much better, for which we are all thankful.
But, as I researched this condition, I soon became aware that what I had envisioned for Remus was basically PTSD. The symptoms for this are all over the internet—and I'd bet a lot of you already know some of what to expect. But, could I get away with having Remus suffer from this? Could I make it believable?
Here's a man with a chronic condition that, because of prejudice and government legislation, makes it nearly impossible to find and keep a job. He becomes, for all intents and purposes, a soldier. He is more than likely trained to kill (remember: he tells Harry in DH: "At least Stun if you aren't prepared to kill!") He has friends and a purpose. And then, suddenly, in one night, it is all taken from him, and the one responsible for these losses is someone he has considered a best friend for ten years. What does a man like our hero do? I don't see how he could get over it in a matter of days, or weeks, or months.
So, jump four years from that point. This man, who is undoubtedly still grieving and angry and frustrated, suddenly finds himself in a situation not of his own making. He's lost his dignity, his pride, his freedom—and now he takes the life of a friend and is deliberately injured because of something that is inherently natural to him (using magic). I think it's likely he'd have some severe psychological problems.
So, I will warn you ahead of time that Remus may, in these next few chapters, seem to be slightly out of character with JKRowling's Remus. Considering what I've put the poor man through, however, I don't see how he could possibly respond any differently. His recovery process is somewhat atypical—I would venture to say the timing is all wrong, and he never does receive professional care from someone knowledgeable in PTSD. And keep in mind, he's twenty-five years of age, not thirty-three, as we see him in PoA. Eight years can make a huge difference; trust me! But he's got people who are very willing to help him—if he'll only accept it…
Chapter 14: A Hesitant Step Forward
Saturday, 7 September, 1985—2:05 p.m.
"Moony."
No. Leave me alone.
"Moony, listen to me."
"No."
"Remus, please, you have to—"
I don't have to. You're not here. You can't make me.
There was a familiar chuckle. "Gods, Moony, you're as stubborn as ever."
"Go 'way, James."
A feminine voice this time: "Remus—"
Not you, too, Lily. Please. It "…hurts."
"I know, love. But you can get through this."
Maybe I just…" …don't want to."
"How can you watch out for Harry for us, if you give up?"
Feelings of guilt washed over him.
The voice of Prongs returned. "Who else will take care of Padfoot?"
"Sirius. Can't… think… of Sirius."
"He loved us, Moony. He wouldn't have betrayed us."
But he did, he did, he DID. He took you away from Harry. He took you away from me…
Lily's voice was calm and soothing, and he could almost feel her cool hand on his forehead. "You can do this, Remus. It hurts. I know. But you're strong. You're brave. And we'll be with you. We're always with you."
He couldn't help the sob that escaped. "Lily… I can't."
"You can." Her whisper was firm and unyielding.
"You can." James echoed, equally uncompromising.
And she and Prongs were gone before he could ask them how…
The apprentice healer who was checking Remus' vital signs looked over at Moody, who had stationed himself near the injured man's head. "Who's he talking to?" she asked.
Moody's face could have been carved from stone. "The dead."
8:14 p.m.
He let the hands do whatever they wanted. He couldn't have fought them if he wanted to. He did have to admit that the firm but gentle bathing they gave him did make him feel more — human. He kept his eyes closed throughout the bath, however, and while they charmed off the beard. He wished they had used a blade for that. The feel of the sharp metal against his jaw and throat while he was in this state of helplessness would have been frightening, but the pain was starting to return again, strong and demanding. It made the possibility of the blade slipping a pleasant thought.
The two people who were taking care of him seemed to notice his distress. Before long, his jaws were forced open, and some kind of thick liquid was poured down his throat. It burned going down, but almost immediately, he began to feel the edge of the pain begin to dull. He gave a long exhalation, and then felt someone pat him on the arm.
"That's a dear," the woman crooned.
"Healer Weimer wants us to give him that potion now, too," said the man.
"Let's wait until we get him settled into bed," the woman suggested. "He should be comfortable for that."
They levitated him back into his bed, and he groaned as his hand bumped the edge of the little table next to the bed, sending him nearly to the brink of unconsciousness again.
"Sorry, dearie," the woman apologized.
"You know he may not even be able to hear you, Lucretia."
"But he may," she insisted. "Do you want to give him the injection, or should I?"
Injection? That word stirred something in Remus's memory — something unpleasant. He forced his eyes open.
"Oh, look who's awake!" the woman said. She was pretty, with dark brown hair and brown eyes which sparkled at him.
But over her shoulder, Remus saw the man — and the syringe in his hands…
The werewolf's heart began to beat more rapidly. "No," he moaned hoarsely. "Don't."
The woman smiled at him. "It's all right, Mr. Lupin. It's to help you —"
The man took a step toward the bed, and Remus went deaf to the Lucretia's words. His attention was completely focused on the needle, and all he could think of was Bill Parsons…
He slid over to the edge of the bed, as far as he could without falling off.
Lucretia was still prattling on, trying to calm him, trying to make him accept the needle.
But the man reached across the bed for him — and something deep in Remus's mind erupted…
9:46 p.m.
As Dumbledore passed the Welcome Witch, intending to go straight to the fourth floor, the plump woman was having a rather heated discussion with a man whose face was striped blue and purple.
"No, you cannot just have a potion to reverse the spell. A healer must examine you and determine if — Excuse me, Professor Dumbledore?"
The Headmaster turned to look at her, smiling as he did. He had learned long ago that these busy and very important women had a thankless job dealing with angry and frightened people, and he always tried to treat them with the utmost respect. "Yes, dear woman, how can I help you?"
She looked faintly taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Healer Weimer asked me to send you directly to his office when you came by. You'll find him on the fourth floor. When you get off the lift, just —"
Dumbledore nodded and held up a hand to stop her. "I know exactly where to go. Thank you very much."
She gave him a quick smile then turned back to the man with the striped face. "Now, you — a healer has to make certain that you aren't contagious…"
As the Headmaster went around the corner and down the hallway, the witch's voice faded behind him. He didn't think he would ever want the job of Welcome Witch. It seemed so full of tension. And yet, there were people that told him that they thought his position was stressful. "But it's so full of joy and endless possibilities," he would say. The creativity of the students was so inspiring; how could anyone not love it?
The lift door opened, and he turned immediately turned to the left and went all the way to the end of the hallway. The door to Healer Weimer's office was ajar, and Dumbledore rapped lightly at it before peeking in.
The large man looked up then rose quickly to his feet. "Herr Dumbledore! Herein! Bitte —Please! Have a seat!" He motioned with the quill in his hand to a simple wooden chair that had a thickly padded seat.
Dumbledore smiled. "I hope you don't mind an old man's indulgences —" and transfigured the chair into a large, overstuffed armchair.
The healer chuckled and waited for Dumbledore to seat himself before retaking his own place.
"I received your message. How is Remus?" the Headmaster asked, getting immediately to the point.
Weimer hesitated then sat back, folding his hands and resting them on his substantial stomach. "We have administered an antidote for the silver that entered his bloodstream. We have been treating his wounds with a number of potions that should fight the infection and the pain. Our staff were even able to bathe him and get rid of the beard. Auror Moody seemed to think it was something that needed to be done," the healer said with a smile. "Herr Lupin seemed to be resting — easier.
"One of my apprentices even noted that the infection had become — less. The red marks on his leg —?" Weimer made a motion that indicated the lines that had almost reached Remus' groin had receded a few inches.
"Yes, I understand."
"I felt, however, that he might benefit from a stronger course of action," Weimer said. "I decided to use what is called an 'antibiotic.' Have you knowledge of this?" At the Headmaster's nod, Weimer continued. "It fights the source of infection, and it can be injected. I have found that the Muggles have an effective method of doing so, using one of these." He reached into a drawer and placed an empty syringe on his desk.
The older wizard nodded again. "Of course."
"Apparently, your werewolf knows what this is as well," the healer said, with a sardonic smile. "And it has not been a good experience, judging by his reaction."
Dumbledore's eyebrows lowered and he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "What happened?"
"He panicked, and his reaction —" Weimer shook his head. "Well, I was actually hoping you could help us — and him." He stood up. "Let me show you."
He led the Headmaster nearly to the opposite end of the hall to a set of double metal doors set into the wall on the right. Painted and printed warnings on the doors warned that it was a werewolf containment area, and that unauthorized personnel were not permitted beyond that point.
"Was this necessary?" Dumbledore asked, already not liking this.
Weimer nodded, and touched the door with his wand. As the locks clicked open, he said, "Ja. You will see."
They went through the door, and Dumbledore glanced around as Weimer relocked the door. They were in a small hallway, with three rooms on each side. Only one door was closed. It was made of heavy steel and painted the ugliest green the older wizard had ever seen. Warnings told the reader not to enter the room six hours before or six hours after the full moon.
Again Weimer touched the door with his wand to unlock it. Dumbledore heard four distinct clicks. But, before he pushed the door open, the healer turned to the Headmaster. "I must warn you, Herr Dumbledore, that this may not be — pleasant."
The Headmaster made a graceful motion toward the door, and Weimer opened it with a flick of his wand.
This ward had been built for the specific purpose of containing any werewolf patients who happened to be there during the full moon. There was no furniture, no ornamentation, no decoration — only bare concrete walls and floor. In fact, the only thing in the room was a green woolen lump crowded into the corner to the right of the door. Only the sound of harsh breathing gave any clue that a living being was beneath the material.
Weimer walked cautiously over to it and hesitated for just a moment before bending down and pulling the blanket back. He motioned for Dumbledore to come closer.
Remus was lying on his right side, his face sheltered between his forearms. Dumbledore noticed that the stiff bandages around the werewolf's right hand were bloody, and some of it was fresh. He knelt beside Weimer and gently pulled Remus' left arm down and away from his face. His fingers brushed the younger man's cheek as he did, and he could feel the heat of fever.
"He turned wolf on us. Not the actual wolf-form, but in his mind," Weimer said quietly. "He became uncontrollable. We were forced to bring him in here so he could not harm himself further."
Dumbledore sighed. "I told them you were a fighter, Remus. I had hoped you'd be fighting the fever and the infection, not the staff." He looked at Weimer. "Obviously such a — strong — reaction is not — normal."
"It is der Extremfall — an extreme case, but not — uncommon." The healer seemed to be grasping for the right words. "It is not unexpected. He has been through much. He has been traumatisiert, if you understand."
"Yes, yes. I am sure," Dumbledore said quietly. He carefully touched a large red bruise next to Remus' left eye.
"There is another —" The healer indicated an area on his own jaw to the right. "He fell from the bed, and then a chair fell on him."
Dumbledore's fingers combed, just once, through the sweat-matted hair above Remus' ear. He was surprised to see silver strands of hair mixed with the brown. Though, he reflected, he probably shouldn't be, considering the brutal transformation process that made a werewolf's body age quicker than most others'. "What would you have me do?"
"Calm him," Weimer said simply. "We are trying to heal him; help him see this."
He laid his large hand briefly on Remus' bare shoulder then took his leave.
Dumbledore sat for several minutes just looking at Remus. With the beard gone, the younger man looked more as he had three months ago. He was thinner, though, which made his bones stick out more sharply. His fears were much sharper than they were three months ago as well.
Three months is all it takes to reduce an intelligent, talented young man to an animal.
Dumbledore closed his eyes at the thought. He found himself remembering the first time he had seen Remus Lupin. Remus had been ten years old at the time; pale, thin, and extremely serious. But during the quick talk they'd had, Dumbledore had seen the intelligence and the quick wit — and the half-smile that meant Remus was either amused or being self-deprecating. There had been no hesitation in Dumbledore's mind that the young werewolf should have a spot at Hogwarts.
As there had been no hesitation that he wanted Remus in the Order.
So where had he failed Remus? Had he failed Remus? Moody's words in June still rankled. Dumbledore had provided the boy with an education, had given him a purpose right after school in the Order, and had helped steer employment his way. Yes, he supposed he had helped Remus to isolate himself. But what else could be done? The war was over, the young man's friends were gone, his parents dead — and Remus suddenly found himself scrutinized and interrogated as the best friend of notorious killer, Sirius Black, and the only surviving friend of the Potters and Peter Pettigrew.
Remus had felt hounded by reporters, Aurors, and those who wondered: had he been part of the plan to betray the Potters? Had he known what Sirius Black was planning? Eyes followed him everywhere he went, he had confessed to Dumbledore one rainy night when they had met at the Leaky Cauldron, completely by chance. The Headmaster knew it wasn't just the near-drunken ramblings of a paranoid fool: he had seen heads turn toward them as they talked. He had heard the whispers. And judging by the brightness of the blue eyes and the tension in the jaw that no amount of firewhiskey could ease, Remus had heard them, too. And more besides.
What else could Dumbledore do at the time, but arrange an apprenticeship with a researcher far enough away that no one would hear the name 'Remus Lupin' — and wonder…
We all do what we must, Alastor. I cannot believe I did the wrong thing. If I hadn't sent him away, he'd have been dead in months. Weeks, perhaps.
He could almost hear Moody's growl: "Instead of nearly dead now?"
With a sigh, the Headmaster gathered his thoughts together and said, "Remus," but there was no response. He repeated the younger man's name several times, before there was finally a response: a slight lowering of the werewolf's eyebrows, which reminded Dumbledore of the look of concentration that Remus sometimes wore.
"Remus, come back," he said firmly, but gently. "It's time to wake up."
It was a long moment, but slowly, Remus' eyes opened.
"Hello, Remus." Dumbledore smiled at him, and took the younger man's uninjured hand between his.
Confusion was apparent on the werewolf's face as he moved his head slightly so he could see the older wizard with both eyes. "H-Head-Headmas— " He broke off, coughing, and then spent several minutes trying to get his breath.
Dumbledore laid a calming hand on the younger man's shoulder, speaking soft, comforting words, and trying to relax him as much as was possible, considering the amount of pain he was obviously in.
Once the coughing fit had subsided, the Headmaster again took Remus' hand in his and said, "It's going to be all right."
Before he could say any more, Remus' blue eyes met his, and the werewolf whispered, "Headmaster?" as if trying to verify that it was really Dumbledore.
"Yes, Remus, it is me."
There was the barest of whispers: "Safe —?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, it is safe."
Remus frowned and shook his head just once, swallowing hard. Then, with his eyes intently fastened on the Headmaster's, he asked, "— to die now?"
Dumbledore's smile faded. "No, Remus. You can't die now. We need you here."
A look of betrayal appeared in the werewolf's eyes and Dumbledore almost winced. "They — don't want me — either."
Though he feared the answer, the Headmaster had an idea of what to expect when he asked, "Who doesn't want you, my boy?"
"James and — Lily."
Alastor Moody had mentioned Remus' mutterings. The two men had both known it to happen: someone terribly injured, desperately ill, or otherwise presumably at the end of their life speaking to people who no longer inhabited this world. On rare occasions, those people recovered.
Neither Moody nor Dumbledore wanted to guess whether Remus was going to be one of those lucky few who pulled through.
"It isn't your time yet, Remus," the Headmaster said. "James and Lily know this. When it's your time to go to them, they'll be waiting. But it isn't your time."
"It hurts," Remus whimpered.
"I'm sure it does. But the healers have potions and things to help with that. You have to trust them."
The werewolf shuddered and closed his eyes.
"Healer Weimer said that you lost control of yourself, Remus. What happened?"
"I can't…"
"Tell me." Dumbledore kept his voice gentle, but spoke firmly.
He could feel Remus' distress in the increasingly violent trembling of the younger man's body, and the tightening grip on his hand.
"Is it so terribly bad that you can't tell me what happened?" Dumbledore asked in the same quiet tone.
Remus seemed to shrink into the blankets.
The Headmaster waited a full minute but still received no verbal response. Finally, he laid his hand on Remus' shoulder. "I know it's difficult. But we're only trying to help you get better."
A light sheen of sweat stood out on the younger man's face. Then, very quietly, barely more than a breath: "No needles."
Dumbledore considered all of the things he could say to Remus, and then finally said the most truthful thing that he felt the younger man could accept. "I can't promise that. But, if Healer Weimer needs to use one of those needles, I will be here with you."
The blue eyes opened and seemed to search his intently. By the look of doubt on the younger wizard's face, he was searching the Headmaster's eyes for some trace of sincerity, some reason to believe and trust the older man's words.
Images suddenly began to skate through Dumbledore's mind: Bill Parsons, with a syringe in his hand; an Erumpent; a hippogriff. There was the quickest flash of a centaur, and guilt flooded through the link between the two wizards. There would come a time when the Headmaster would have to confront Remus about the centaur — who he knew was dead — and the werewolf's plea that he 'didn't want to do it.' But for now, there was enough to deal with: the images were becoming more intense, more frightening. It wouldn't have been difficult for someone just barely skilled in Legilimency to know that Remus had been physically restrained and then injected… But with what?
Dumbledore drew in a deep breath. Sometimes one just had to ask to get the answers one needed. Keeping his eyes fastened on the younger man's, he asked, "Remus, what was in the syringes that Parsons used on you?"
Fear. Fear so intense and immediate that it would have probably brought Albus to his knees if he hadn't already been on the floor. The werewolf's eyes snapped shut and the link abruptly ended. Outside the door, a bell chimed — Dumbledore recognized it as a warning charm that told of an extreme change in a patient's condition.
The door flew open and Weimer rushed in. "What has happened?"
"I asked him about the syringes." Dumbledore shifted to give the healer room to kneel next to his patient. "Remus, open your eyes. Look at me."
Weimer reached for Remus' wrist, but the werewolf jerked his arm away and opened his eyes. "Verdammt!" the healer snapped.
The older wizard glimpsed the golden tone that seemed to glitter among the blue.
The werewolf shook his head quickly, as if he was trying to clear it. Then, very slowly, seemingly against his will, he shifted his gaze from Weimer's face to Dumbledore's.
"Remus, calm yourself. Remember who you are." The Headmaster placed his hand on top of the younger man's. "Take control, Remus."
The werewolf's eyes darted away, slid past Weimer, and focused on the door. Dumbledore felt the tension in the muscles rising and knew what the younger man was thinking. "The door!" he said to Weimer urgently.
The Healer turned and motioned at the door. It slammed shut.
Remus looked up at Weimer with such a look of hatred and despair that even Dumbledore pulled back quickly. The gold was more obvious now.
"No, Remus, control yourself!" Dumbledore said. "Do not let the wolf control you."
Weimer slowly extended his hand, speaking quietly as he did, "I am not going to hurt you, Herr Lupin. I only want to see…" His fingertips touched Remus's wrist. The werewolf watched him warily. "His heart is beating too quickly," the Healer said in a quiet aside to Dumbledore. "And his breathing is not right. If we cannot calm him, we will be forced to sedate him —"
"No!" Dumbledore said forcefully. "Not yet. We can do this. He can do this. Remus, do you hear me? You must take back control. Do you understand?"
Remus' eyes again went closed and he grimaced. The two older men watched him closely for a full minute.
"Herr Dumbledore," the Healer began.
"Another minute," the older wizard said sharply.
"I need to go get a Calming Draught," Weimer said. "I think it would be best if you came with me."
"And leave him alone now?" Dumbledore asked incredulously.
"He is not safe — you are not safe while he is like this."
"He is fighting it," Dumbledore pointed out.
Sadness appeared in Weimer's eyes. "He is losing."
The Headmaster bowed his head, hiding his expression of anger from the healer. The healers were already giving up on Remus' ability to control the Darkness inside himself. Dumbledore refused to do the same. He knew how strong Remus' mind was. He knew the young man could do this…
Weimer rose to his feet and stood looking down at Remus for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Herr Dumbledore, I think…" The older wizard's sharp gaze made him halt in mid-sentence. He sighed instead of finishing his thought. "I will be back shortly."
The Headmaster waited until the door had locked behind the healer before reaching down to pull the blanket back up to the younger man's shoulders.
"Oh, my boy," he sighed. "If only there had been some way I could have spared you the past three months." Almost without conscious thought, he laid his hand on Remus' head. The werewolf whimpered softly.
"The Muggles have a saying: 'That which does not kill us makes us stronger,'" Dumbledore said quietly. "If that is the case, you are strong enough to fight the fear, Remus." He smiled. "You are much stronger than you know. Certainly more than you give yourself credit for. Can you not believe in yourself? Can you not feel the strength that's within you? Lily and James know it's there. Believe them, if no one else."
The Headmaster waited a moment then said, "Open your eyes, Remus."
"Remus, what was in the syringes…?"
Fear, paralyzing and mind-numbing, flooded through him, taking away reason and logic. He could feel his heart pounding so hard that his chest felt as if it was about to explode, and the thumping in his temples made his head ache. The panic made him forget how to breathe, and he gulped in quick breaths that did little to bring oxygen into his body.
And worse yet, he could feel the darkness stealing through him: feral, angry, malicious…
"Remus, open your eyes. Look at me." He knew the voice. He knew it was someone he should obey, but it was so difficult to fight the snarling inside his own head…
Someone touched his arm, and with a mental push at the dark ferocity threatening to overwhelm him, he opened his eyes to see who would have had the audacity to touch him.
His eyes first lit on a man who was familiar, but that wasn't the man who had given him the order to open his eyes. No. That was… His eyes swung to the other man in front of him. That was the man. The blue eyes were serious and worried.
"Remus, calm yourself. Remember who you are. Take control, Remus."
'Take control'? How? He couldn't breathe, much less think… The wildness inside him surged, demanding to be free of the confines of this room, this building, this pain-filled body…
He saw the open door, and a howl resounded in his head. If he could just get up on his feet… The old wizard said something to the big man who turned and motioned to the door. It slammed shut. The howl became a snarl, and bloodlust coursed through his veins.
"No, Remus, control yourself! Do not let the wolf control you."
The wolf. No, he shouldn't let the wolf control him. He knew that. But terror was stealing his strength…
The wolf wanted to snap at the hand that was extended toward him, but he reached deep for the will to deny the wolf what it wanted. "I am not going to hurt you, Herr Lupin. I only want to see..." The touch was gentle, but Remus watched his fingers. Was there a needle? They wanted him calm. Bill Parsons had wanted him calm…
"No! Not yet. We can do this. He can do this. Remus, do you hear me? You must take back control. Do you understand?"
What did they want him to do? 'Take back control.' Would the darkness recede just because he wanted it to? He was tired of fighting it. Wouldn't it be easier to just — give in? Somehow he knew that wasn't an option. The realization slithered in and around his mind: if he couldn't push the wolf aside, things would be much, much worse.
Remus closed his eyes. It was so hard to concentrate with the wolf demanding to be dominant. I can't do this.
But, then, he heard voices emerging from the chaos: James' voice, unyielding, strong: "You can do it, Moony! Gryffindor courage, you know!" Peter's voice, timid, but trying to be brave himself, saying, "Just try, Moony!" Lily's soft voice: "You've always been brave, Remus. Don't doubt yourself." And then, even though he knew he shouldn't, he could hear Sirius, arrogant, cocky, and sure: "Stop being such a bloody coward and take control of the damned wolf. I can't do it for you."
Don't think about Sirius….
A gentle hand rested on his head. It felt good. It felt comforting. He whimpered softly.
"The Muggles have a saying: 'That which does not kill us makes us stronger.' If that is the case, you are strong enough to fight the fear, Remus. You are much stronger than you know. Certainly more than you give yourself credit for. Can you not believe in yourself? Can you not feel the strength that's within you? Lily and James know it's there. Believe them, if no one else."
James and Lily had never lied to him. Neither had Peter. They believed he could do it.
And, suddenly, he realized that the wolf didn't seem to be quite as determined to take over. The darkness was still there, but it was no longer threatening and cold.
I think… maybe… I can do this. I can't breathe. I have to be calm. Quiet. My chest hurts. But he says they're here to help. But they have those needles…
Panic rose up again, but he shoved it down. He said they're going to help me.
He heard the commanding voice say, "Open your eyes, Remus."
The wolf growled inside his head one last time. It knew that he was going to do what the Headmaster told him to do. He always had.
He opened his eyes.
"There's a good lad," Dumbledore said quietly, smiling down at Remus. The gold in the werewolf's eyes was fading, and there was recognition in them now.
The door opened and Healer Weimer came in, carrying a small tray with several bottles.
"He is back with us?" he asked. "Completely?"
"Nearly," Dumbledore replied. He patted Remus' blanket-covered shoulder and leaned back.
"He still breathes much too quickly." The large man knelt and placed the tray between himself and the Headmaster. Dumbledore noticed that Remus watched every move. "I am hopeful the Calming Draught will help with that."
Remus looked at the Healer, wariness in his eyes.
"Herr Lupin, this will calm you. It will calm your —"
"No," the werewolf mumbled, drawing in a ragged breath.
Dumbledore's eyebrows met over the bridge of his long nose. "Remus, you must —"
"I can't," Remus gasped, shuddering.
"Has he taken such potions before?" Weimer asked. "Does he understand what a Calming Potion does?"
"Yes," the Headmaster replied. "I know there have been several times in the past when he's taken it and a few times when he's administered it. Remus, it's just a simple Calming Draught. You've taken —"
"Don't — want — calmed," Remus whispered.
"This makes no sense," Weimer muttered to himself. "Why should he fear being calm?"
"Remus, what's wrong with the Calming Draught?" Dumbledore asked.
"Don't — want to — forget!"
It was sheer desperation that gave volume to the werewolf's words.
"You won't forget anything, Remus. This is only to calm you," Dumbledore said soothingly. "You are breathing too quickly. You need this."
"Couldn't remember." Tears suddenly welled in the werewolf's eyes.
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "What couldn't you remember?"
"Everyth— James — Siri— me."
It was practically gibberish. It meant nothing. And yet, it meant something to Remus, Dumbledore knew. If only I could make sense of it… Remus was afraid of forgetting. He apparently had, for a while. Amnesia? No. That wasn't quite right: he had become disturbed when the Healer had said the potion was going to calm him…
"Remus." He had to make one more attempt to get answers they desperately needed. He sorted through the images he had seen in the werewolf's mind. "What did Bill Parsons give the hippogriff? And the Erumpent? To calm them?"
Remus shut his eyes tightly, and a tear slipped from under his eyelid.
"What did he give them?" Dumbledore asked insistently. What did he give you, Remus?
And suddenly, almost too quietly for the older wizard to hear, Remus breathed a word of Latin — "Torpeus" — and it explained everything.
"Die Muttergottes," whispered Weimer. "No, Herr Lupin, this is just to calm you. Not to make you forget. You will know what is happening. I would not give you such a thing as that. Torpeus Draught." The Healer made a noise of disgust. "This is only to calm you. On my word as a healer, the potion I have here for you is for nothing but to make you breathe easier, to breathe slower. I promise this."
Remus stared at the man with so much suspicion in his eyes, that it sent anger slicing through Albus Dumbledore like a knife. That Bill Parsons had taken away the young man's trust to this point, that he could not even trust a healer...
"He will not harm you, Remus. He will not use anything that will numb your mind as the Torpeus Draught does. I will make certain of that," he said quietly.
It took more than twenty minutes to convince Remus to swallow a small amount of potion. But soon after that, he seemed to breathe more easily and more deeply.
Pleased with the potion and the patient's progress, Weimer put his hand on Dumbledore's shoulder and jerked his head toward the hallway. "If I could speak to you for a moment, Herr Dumbledore…"
"Of course." The Headmaster smiled at Remus, who looked slightly worried as the older wizard stood. "I will be but a minute, Remus. All will be well."
Weimer sighed deeply once they were face-to-face in the hallway. "We cannot always take this much time to give him a simple potion. I am worried that I may need him to take something quickly and, if he does not —" He shrugged, spreading his hands apart.
Dumbledore lowered his eyebrows. "What would you have him do?"
"He needs to either take a potion — willingly — whenever I give it to him, or he needs to stay calm when we give him an injection."
"I cannot think he will allow that," the older wizard said slowly, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
The Healer hesitated then said, "The only other option is to sedate him, and keep him that way until he is more fully recovered. Not being able to give him the antibiotic — or even pain medication — will make it nearly impossible to heal him."
"Sedating him is no option," Dumbledore said flatly. "He fears not remembering — and not knowing what is happening — more than anything, even the syringes."
"Then he must be convinced — somehow — to either accept the potions or the injections."
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment, considering the request and the problems inherent. "I understand. I will talk to him. Perhaps if we let him choose, it might settle his mind." He started to turn, as if he was going to return to Remus' side, but the Healer stopped him with a gentle touch.
"Because of the — confusion earlier, we were unable to give him the antibiotic."
The Headmaster felt himself tense. "So, you need him to take it now."
The Healer shrugged.
Dumbledore was silent for a moment then nodded gravely. "Give me a minute with him."
He went back to the injured werewolf who hadn't moved at all. He settled himself next to Remus and considered what words he could use that would make the situation easier.
"You're very sick, Remus," he finally said without preamble. "Healer Weimer is concerned that the usual treatments for infection won't be strong enough to help you." The younger man was watching him with fever-bright blue eyes, but he made no sound or movement. "He needs to use an antibiotic. It will cure the infection, which is what is making you sick. Do you understand?"
Remus swallowed and then nodded, just once.
Now was the difficult part. "There are two ways he can give you the antibiotic," Dumbledore began.
He didn't have to go any further. Remus' eyes widened and he inhaled deeply. "The needles," he whispered.
"Or as a potion," the Headmaster said quickly. "The choice is up to you how you want to take it."
The younger man looked away from him and clenched his teeth as tightly as he clasped the green blanket in his fist. "Don't want it."
"This is the only thing that can truly help you, Remus. You're going to lose your leg or your life if you don't let him do this."
"Rather die," Remus said hoarsely.
Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. "Remus, you cannot mean that."
"You don't — know…" The young wizard's voice broke and his eyes glistened with tears.
"What don't I know?" the Headmaster asked gently.
Remus covered his eyes with his uninjured hand. After a long moment of silence, Dumbledore prompted: "What is it that I don't know, Remus?"
The younger man suddenly shuddered violently, and the Headmaster froze. "Remus?"
"Doesn't — matter." Remus lowered his arm, but wouldn't meet Dumbledore's eyes. "Whatever — you want — I'll do."
While Albus was glad the young man had capitulated, there was something that made him wonder if perhaps Remus hadn't given in too quickly and too easily. The hopelessness in the werewolf's eyes as he meekly swallowed the potions that Weimer handed him minutes later haunted Dumbledore for days.
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