"The wolf changes his coat, but not his disposition." --Proverb
Chapter 7
Desperation reached an entirely new level for Lupin. Trouble had followed him before, living as a werewolf made it unavoidable, but it was always for minor things: shoplifting food or clothing, jumping the turnstile at the tube station, sleeping on park benches and such but never anything as drastic as murder. Being a werewolf rendered his very existence a guilty crime even when he did no other wrong. News of this murder would spread far and wide in both Muggle and Wizarding worlds, making his first instinct to run off to someplace secluded and secret, preferably return to Sirius' side. Perhaps things weren't so bad between them that they couldn't work it out. Black was the logical person to fall back on after the years of hardship they'd been through together. They were like brothers and he knew Sirius would have his back. If nothing else, at least they would have each other and he could grin and bear Black's abuse, trading the mistreatment for companionship and the touch of another human.
Rising from the ground, he collected his possessions and stumbled out of the thicket, cautious to remain unseen by early morning passers-by. The Sunday morning was still young enough that few people were up and about. Making haste, he found his way back to the main trail, nearly getting bowled over by a Muggle jogger who ignored his wayward apology despite the fact he was not the one in error. But a radio played in her ear and he doubted that she heard him any way. Shrugging his shoulders, he considered that at least she didn't purposely do it because she knew he was a werewolf, headed in the opposite direction of the jogger and exited the park.
Out on the city streets there were a scattered few roaming about. Those who were around took heed to purposefully avoid him, breaking his aforementioned security that they didn't know what he was. Did they sense the danger within his benign human pretence, even though they were Muggles? Could they discern that the drawn, broken man was a blood-thirsty monster beneath his skin? Did they realise that the wolf would come howling and ripping out of his body in a matter of nights? How frustrating would it be for him to spend his life hiding his lycanthropy from Wizarding society only to be discovered by a Muggle who didn't even believe in werewolves!
He trudged his way for a couple of blocks to the tube station without incident, again not receiving a pardon from this time a man who nearly shoved him down in order to ascend the stairs he was descending. Impoliteness annoyed him, especially since this was a second occurrence within minutes, but he did his best to put it aside and continue for that which was necessary.
Once on the moderately busy lower level, he halted. Sticking a hand in his pocket, he knew he did not have enough to purchase a Travelcard to take him as far as he needed to go. Bloody hell! Inching backward, he loitered out of the ticket agent's view, awaiting the opportune moment to slip through.
His lingered wait wasn't long before a group of five, a pair of baby boomers with adolescent children dressed in their Sunday best and apparently on their way to morning service, came downstairs and approached the ticket booth. He sighed in envious admiration of them. If only he could have a family of his own. Things would be different for him and he wouldn't be in this present predicament as he would've been home with them rather than on the streets bearing witness to a murder. Having his own family would also grant a sense of normalcy and it mattered not whether he left the Wizarding world behind forever to live as a Muggle to obtain it. Doing so would probably be better for him; maybe he'd live in Rumania to return to his roots where he could live in peace and raise his family, and then perhaps he would have enough faith to rejoin a Muggle church if for nothing more than to honour his father.
The monster-hunting profession urged Doru Lupescu to be a devout Eastern Orthodox who was open-minded enough to allow his son to decide for himself whether or not he wanted to practise the religion. Lupin tried it when he was younger and he found the repetitive routine acts of mass comfortable and placating. It was a safe rut to get stuck into. Inside a house of worship he was among Muggles, worry-free that his dirty lycanthropic secret would be uncovered. The environment of burning incense and solemn chanting provided a much needed sense of belonging that he could not find anywhere else. This was the exact feeling he had when he was in a book shop or a library. Hardly any place actually awarded him that sense of belonging which became a rare treat when he was able to enjoy it.
Shifting his attention back to the present, he waited untill the family purchased their Travelcards before discreetly aligning with them in queue. Anxiety made him fidget as the family single-filed through the turnstiles. As the last family member passed through, he rashly glanced over his shoulder at the ticket agent who made eye contact with him. Panicked, Lupin jumped over the turnstile just as the agent shouted for him to stop. The turmoil brought the family before him to a halt while simultaneously and conversely sending him into rapid motion. Muttering apologies to the young girl he inadvertently struck with his case, he raced down the tunnel to where others were awaiting the tube's arrival.
Luckily, when he stepped onto the platform the tube was pulling in the station. As the train came to a screeching stop and the doors swooshed open, he jostled a path through the exiting passengers to step into the carriage. Hoping to thwart any possible pursuers by getting lost in the sparse crowds, he gingerly walked through the carriage, opened the door at its end and entered the next one. Seconds later, the signal sounded and the doors shut before the tube roared back to life and slid away down its track like a mechanical snake.
Was he safe? Had anyone followed him? Painfully aware that he was breathless no thanks to his opiate ailments, he scanned the fellow riders accompanying him in this carriage. A nearby man and a pair of older women sitting midway inside gazed at him with wonder. All others engaged in conversation with someone next to them or read a book, a package they've purchased or the advertisements plastered on the wall. Sighing deeply, he took a seat in the corner at the farthest end and tried to blend in unseen.
The tube came and went through a number of stops while Lupin kept a bloodshot eye on those who boarded and disembarked. What a sight he must have been with his battered case and patchwork quilt-like clothes! These people just wrote him off as a transient and it broke his heart at what else they must've thought about him.
Checking which stop the tube was now pulling into, he realised that the next one would be King's Cross, which he knew would leave him near the Chapel Market, a place that would grant him easy access to steal something to eat. The urge to exit the tube filled him to the point where he perspired and began to unintentionally act suspiciously, provoked by his growling stomach. The man who stared at him previously sensed his agitation and passed him another look of confused warning. Smiling meekly at him, Lupin reacted instinctually when the train halted. Grabbing his case, he stepped off the tube then watched it glide away again, the wind it generated gusting his longish locks into his eyes.
Not sure if he made the correct choice, he took his time and followed others leaving the platform to the way out. King's Cross was a busy hub of the London Underground which teemed with the life that the other stops were lacking. This made him confident; there truly was safety in numbers. He struggled upstairs and emerged from the Underground, blinking in the grey but bright English morning light.
"Lookit this!" a loud female voice immediately exclaimed in close proximity to him. But he tried to ignore who he knew was an approaching prostitute. King's Cross was a dangerous, seedy section and Lupin detested being there. Even a werewolf had standards, after all. Or at least he was one who did.
Nevertheless, the prostitute fell into step alongside him as he hurried his pace to avoid her.
"Are ya lookin' fer a good time?" she inquired.
"No," he retorted quietly, "but thanks any way."
"C'mon, mista! Yer fit enough. Come part'y wit' me. I'm a cheap go."
"No thanks. What little money I have is too precious to waste, no offence."
"Wot?! Are ya sayin' I'm not worth yer money?!"
"No, no! I didn't mean it that way! I have very little and can't afford anything outside of necessities."
"Doncha bullshit me, mista! 'Oo do ya think yer foolin', huh?"
"Please. I don't want any trouble…"
But the prostitute was already shouting for someone, more than likely her pimp. Lupin felt increasing dread; nothing good was going to become of this.
"Wot's goin' on 'ere, Diana?" a gruff voice asked.
It happened too quickly for the werewolf to think let alone react. The dulling of his motor reflexes by the opium did not help either. The pimp, a brutal looking bloke who impressed upon Lupin that he could chew Adam up and spit him out, confronted him. He couldn't quite recall what was said, only that he tried to back out of a pending row. Before he knew it, the man landed a closed fist square into his midsection and down he went. The prostitute kicked him, the pimp stomped him. One of them pried his case from his clutching hand then they were off.
Someone stopped to assist him, a Muggle woman who he was certain helped end the attack, asking him if he was all right. In wild disbelief, he responded that he was and leant against her for support while his equilibrium balanced. He remembered muttering that he'd been robbed of his only worldly possessions contained in the stolen case. The woman said something about how lucky he was that he came away with his life and should report the mugging.
But he didn't want to hear it. He was determined to retrieve his property. The case his parents gave him, the teddy he owned since he was a child, the clothing he spent his last bit of money on…everything was lost. Thanking the woman, he started after the thieves. Only a block away he noticed some of his things strewn about, discarded on the street as meaningless rubbish. This angered him but he was gratefull that he had nothing worth stealling. Mostly it was all of sentimental value, worthless to anyone else. Gathering his stuff, he carried on up the street, finding more of his case's contents as he went. One of the last items he found was the already-battered Ursuz which he cradled dearly to his chest. Then as he was about to mourn the loss of the case itself he spotted it a little further up.
Relieved that he managed to salvage everything, he crouched down to tuck it all back inside safely. In doing so, he noticed the quantity of items was incorrect. What did they take? Then he realised. His opium supply was gone! It made sense, as it was the only thing he owned that had street value. It was also the only thing he had to quell the pain of the looming transformation. Since he required a dose of Wolfsbane Potion and would need to arrange a meeting with Snape to get it, he decided to request the supply from Snape rather than Adam, for the Potions Master was the lesser of two evils. As much as Snape griped about addiction, even he was aware that Lupin needed more opium to subdue transformation agonies. This decision meant that he needed to find a place where he could station himself so Snape could locate him.
I'll need to contact Severus and arrange a meeting as soon as possible! As soon as I find someplace to settle for the night! But where can I go?
Then he got an idea.
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Julien Charlebois stood indecisively at the door of the hut where Constantin Korzha resided, wrestling with his conscious about if it would be ethical to enter in Korzha's absence. Normally he respected a fellow werewolf's privacy and did not intrude on their personal space but Korzha's remark in the classroom the other day justified his decision and fuelled his need to know what the young pack member was conspiring. Moreover, it was to find out how far along Korzha was in his voiced conspiracies. Taking a deep, pained breath, Charlebois used the skeleton key only he was allowed to keep, unlocked the door and cautiously sauntered in, a handfull of magical fire within his palm to light the way.
The hut was expectantly dark save for the light issued by that fire cradled in his hand. Bare with the exception of a single wooden chair, a small table and a mat made of straw that served as a bed, the hut was sparse and uninviting. Once a wealthy wizard, Korzha was reduced to this not only because he was a werewolf but because it was how he shed his true identity in dedication to Ceauşescu. In his sordid past, Constantin often needed to go on hunting excursions to make interrogations and tortures for the dictator, thus learning to live as a minimalist.
But he knew Constantin Korzha well enough to know that he was narcissistic and accumulated trophies of his many heinous accomplishments. Typically those trophies were pieces of jewellery or articles of clothing. Sometimes they were news stories clipped from various papers, both Muggle and wizard, which Korzha tacked up on the walls; one side of the hut was wallpapered in them. It appeared that Constantin was a very busy werewolf indeed, whether Charlebois put him on assignment or not.
Striding towards the main wall decorated with the most clippings he quickly scanned them for incriminating evidence. They were posted chronologically from left to right and saw the one regarding the murder of Ajax Hammerstein, something that still infuriated the Alpha.
Constantin should've known better! He needs to learn his place and not undermine my authority! There is so much dissonance created because of him!
Then Charlebois' eyes fell on what he sought. A new article, clipped from the recent headlines of the Daily Prophet:
Witch Murdered in Second Possible Werewolf Attack!
Wizarding socialite Abigail Proctor was found murdered last night in a Soho alley, sources say, left with her throat crushed and neck snapped. Proctor, a close associate of Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures Elias Wedgewood, is believed to have been walking home from meeting friends at a Muggle restaurant when she was attacked. She was reportedly celebrating the promotion of one of those friends and was near her home when the attack occurred.
"She was a good person," friend Rebecca Bluestar explained. "Why anyone would want to harm her is beyond me. It's just a senseless random act of violence. That's the only explanation I can give you."
But was it just a mere random act? After the homicide of Wedgewood's Auror bodyguard Ajax Hammerstein only a few days ago it has been speculated that Wedgewood's Anti-Werewolf demonstrations are coming back to haunt him. It is strongly believed that it was a werewolf who attacked and killed Hammerstein. Hammerstein's link to Proctor is that the Auror was murdered in her flat during a business meeting between Proctor and Wedgewood. Proctor is said to have been a loyal supporter of Wedgewood's policies on creating stricter laws to protect Wizarding society against werewolves. It is also believed that the same werewolf responsible for the death of Ajax Hammerstein is responsible for that of Abigail Proctor and that this werewolf belongs to some renegade underground organisation of the creatures in question.
The article went on but every word put another crack in Charlebois' heart. Disappointed in Constantin, he regretted the day he invited him to live here despite that by doing so he'd aimed to restrict the rogue werewolf's misconduct with a close eye and a firm hand. Had he known what Korzha would turn out like he would've never associated with the youngster in the first place. Julien Charlebois tried to see the best in everyone and was let down nearly every time.
Constantin never listens! He will be our downfall! He will take away from us all that we have struggled to have!
There were no words to describe how angry this made Charlebois. For a while all he was able to do was stand in place with his eyes shut tight, breathing erratically in rage. If Korzha had nothing to do with this particular attack then the article would not have been on his wall. It was definite confirmation for the Alpha. Something needed to be done.
Perhaps if he consulted the female in Korzha's life and convince her to repress his anger a little then the virulent young man would better be under control. Regardless of Korzha's sexism, Charlebois knew the queen always ruled the king in some way. But Charlebois released a long, defeated sigh. He wasn't sure if that would work. The female was as bad as Korzha and probably was the fuel to his fire.
Too much dissension was among werewolves already. Charlebois believed that werewolves did not need to sacrifice their humanity every day just because they were forced to sacrifice it once a month. The indignities and mistreatment from society already made it difficult to hold their civil dispositions. That was the entire purpose of this colony: to enable werewolves to live normally and peaceably among their own kind.
However, discrepancies still arose. Korzha was a radical and many shared his militant beliefs. They wanted to fight and kill, to thwart the Wizarding world and rule it with the same iron fist that they were ruled under. The creation always turns against its creator and the Wizarding world fashioned monsters out of werewolves every day. Thus, Korzha's militant behaviour was understandable albeit improper. Two wrongs did not make a right and it increasingly became apparent that Korzha was poised to take his fight to the Wizarding authorities in the worst of ways.
However Charlebois knew of other werewolves who agreed with his point of view too. Fewer in number, they were still out there. If he could bring them to the colony then perhaps they would epitomise all that this movement stood for and set good examples for the rest.
That was the reason for his interest in Remus Lupin. Lupin was both a noted hero and a scourge to werewolf society. With a past employment as a professor at prestigious Hogwarts and Albus Dumbledore as a trusting reference, he was a fine specimen to draw in. After Charlebois heard that Lupin resigned from his position and was again unemployed, he rapidly devised a plot to coax him into joining the group. A known war hero in spite of the Potter scandal at Godric's Hollow that marred his reputation as a loyal member of the Order of the Phoenix, he would be a valuable asset to Charlebois' goals.
He expected that in giving Korzha the assignment of tracking Lupin down the impulsive youngster would learn a thing or two from the werewolf who lived better than the rest of them. At the very least, he hoped that Lupin would be able to convince Korzha to resign his militant activity and become more involved in legal, amiable ways to struggle against oppression.
At least he could hope. Dreaming the positive never hurt. With what was pinned up on this wall of disgrace it was a long shot.
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Sunday service was excruciating for Gabriel Phellan that morning. His back had been hurting him since the night before but, like always, he made no visible complaint and carried on with the sermon as if all was well, secretly grimacing when he was masked by objects and ritual. But he knew he was not foolling his crafty nephew Caden, primly seated with Caileigh in the front row.
After service was completed he dodged his way through groups of parish and congregation members alike, politely shaking their hands and greeting them untill he managed to duck tactfully behind stage. There, he immediately dipped into the pocket of his trousers and produced a small brown prescription bottle. Vicodin: taken for a once broken back suffered after falling from the roof of his Ireland cottage while making repairs. He did not agree with taking it but the great pain made him dependent of it. He'd even gotten used to prudently swallowing them dry, like he did now.
"Uncle Gabe?" a voice he knew was Caden's addressed from behind. "Are you all right?"
Gabe smiled before he turned around to meet the teen's inquisitive face.
"Yes, Caden, I am. Thank you so very much for your concern. Where's Caileigh?"
"Out with Mrs. Abbott. She frets over us too much. I can't bear it."
"She's always been the mother hen type…"
"And she pities the poor orphans."
"You aren't orphans. Your home is with me. Mrs. Abbott is a good woman, Caden, give her some leniency."
"Yes, Uncle Gabe," the boy returned with all the possible condescension of his age.
"Go back out there and tend to your sister. Take her back to the house and give her something to eat. I will be there in a short while."
"All right." Then disbelievingly questioned again: "You sure you're fine?"
Gabe smiled a second time, admiring his nephew's persistence.
"Positively. Now go. Don't leave Caileigh to her own devices again."
Without further word Caden went back out to the auditorium. Gabe sighed, shaking his head.
He adored the children but they were young and he was not. Caden was equally a handfull and a blessing while in his typical yet dreadfull rebellious stage which no parent ever wanted to see.
His heart sank in thinking that his beloved sister never got to see this age of infamy. He knew it was wrong to hate her husband but Gabe could not help it. The man was a heathen any way the reverend looked at it. It was unchristian of him to not forgive but in this case he considered forgiveness a divine mercy and he never claimed to be a god.
The children were his life now and he adored them both. If anything happened to them he would happily condemn himself to Hell for neglect. With his sister dead, they were his only living relatives which constituted another reason for his overt protectiveness. They were the purpose behind his crusade against the covert Wizarding world most people had no clue even existed. Magic and that wizard brother-in-law of his were the reasons his sister was dead, why his niece and nephew were orphaned and he felt compelled to speak out against magical practises as frequently as he could, reverend or not.
He saw magical inclinations in the children he cared for, particularly in Caden. He knew that Caden was well aware of what his father had been and was disgruntled that he was forbidden to follow in his father's preternatural footprints. Worse, Caden's suppressed magic was strong.
The Devil is a determined fiend! thought Gabe bitterly.
Gabriel Phellan was not a cruel man by any standards. He was kind and generous, willing to give his last scrap of food to a starving person or his last pence to someone in need. Caden knew this and Gabe knew that Caden knew it. But when it came to the unruly teen and his sister, Gabe needed to take a firmer grasp of the reins. His greatest fear was to lose them in any way and especially by way of magic.
Magic was the dark cloud that hung over their heads. It would always be an issue in their lives yet Gabe knew that ultimately he would have to submit to the hard, cold fact that Caden had a magical destiny. His nephew was old enough to think for himself and Caileigh was swiftly approaching that age too. Sooner than he liked to imagine he could not continue denying Caden that destiny much longer. Fate, after all, had a habit of finding its own mysterious way of coming about.
All I can do is hope to stave it off one day longer!
Thoughtfully rattling the bottle of Vicodin in the palm of his hand, Gabe retuned it to his pocket and, with the ache in his back now in his heart, walked out into the auditorium again to speak with members of the congregation.
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Caden sat on the swing in the garden, gently swaying back and forth as he thought about nothing in particular. He shivered a little as the breeze picked up, whisking a few locks of his long dark tresses into his eyes that he grumpily brushed back behind his ear. Lighting a cigarette from the pack of Lucky Strikes he concealled inside his jacket when he affirmed that Uncle Gabe was not yet around to catch him, he took a few long drags to help himself relax.
Then she appeared, giving him a start when she stepped out from behind the trees and hedges to his left.
"Cor!" he exclaimed, impulsively rising from the swing. "Scare the fuck outta me, yeah?"
The woman smiled saccharine sweet and apologically.
"I am so very sorry," she remarked, her voice lyrical with a lovely French accent that befit her fragile form. "I did not mean to frighten you. I am only looking for my cat. 'Ave you seen 'im?"
Caden shook his head, taking another drag from the cigarette and doing his best James Dean to impress the beautifull young blonde woman in front of him.
"Not a whisker," he told her, hoping she was falling for his charms. He was such a ladies' man. Cobras could be charmed by him.
"Oh." The French beauty pouted. "Can you 'elp me find 'im? I am new 'ere; I've just arrived from Finland and–"
"Finland? You sound French."
The woman blushed and nodded.
"Oui, I am French but I lived in Finland for a few years now. Any way, my name is Victorine."
Caden accepted her delicate hand into his, kissed it then introduced himself. This woman's presence commanded courtesy even from the snottiest of teens.
"Would you please 'elp me find my cat, Caden? I do not know what I would do if I lose 'im. 'E is my only companion."
"Sure. What does it look like?"
Caden suddenly noticed that Victorine wasn't looking at him but over his shoulder at something else. Insulted that her eyes were not upon him, he turned around to see what she was looking at instead of him. He found Caileigh, frozen in place and staring back at the lovely intruder. The girl suddenly ran back towards the house without uttering a word.
"That's just Caileigh," dismissed Caden as he turned to Victorine again. "She's only five. She's weird."
Victorine smiled and Caden felt better now that her attention was back on him.
"I don't mind," insisted Victorine. "I so love children." Then she grew serious. "If she is five 'ow old does that make you?"
"Uh, sixteen," Caden lied. When he noticed her slight glower he readily added, "A mature sixteen. By the way, you are aware that sixteen is the age of legal consent in merry old England."
"But of course." Her smile was better than a refreshing summer breeze. "Now would you be so kind as to assist me?"
"What colour is your cat?"
"'E is black and white with stripes."
"Excuse me, young lady?" Caden groaned in recognition of Uncle Gabe's voice drifting from behind him. "May I be of some assistance for you?"
"Shit!" complained the boy, trying unsuccessfully to put out his cigarette on the sole of one of his trainers.
Victorine again turned her attention from Caden, this time directing it to Uncle Gabe. Despite his imposing authoritarian presence, Gabriel Phellan was an unassuming average sized man neither too tall nor too short as he was neither thin nor portly. Caden sourly viewed his uncle as being plain old common. The boy wondered how a ravishing beauty such as himself could stem from the same gene pool as someone so…ordinary.
"Possibly," Victorine purred. "I 'ave lost my beloved pet and your son was 'elping me look for 'im."
Caileigh reappeared, rushing over to Uncle Gabe and taking his hand. The sullen expression his little sister had on her face while fixated on the woman disturbed the teen.
"I haven't seen you around before," Uncle Gabe commented, his voice even and inconspicuous.
"I am new to the neighbourhood. My name is Victorine Lune."
She proffered her hand to Uncle Gabe who shook it respectfully. Caden rolled his eyes. So ordinary.
"Good to meet you, Miss Lune. I'm Reverend Gabriel Phellan. This is my niece Caileigh. You've already met my nephew Caden."
Victorine smiled radiantly once more, saying, "Oui. Caden 'as been most 'elpfull to me already."
"As untimely as this may seem I'd like to welcome you to our neighbourhood and extend an invitation for you to join us for service tonight at St. John's. It would be unchristian of me to not do so."
Victorine grew noticeably perturbed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Perhaps she was an atheist, judged Caden.
"Merci, reverend. If I finish unpacking in time I will try to make it."
"We would love to have you and any loved ones you have to join us. You've also made perfect time for our New Members Social next Sunday afternoon. You don't need to be a member of the church to come but I guarantee you will be after you leave."
"Merci, zat is very generous of you. I will sincerely try." Her eyes darted someplace else and she unexpectedly burst in a fit of joy. "Mon dieu! Zere 'e is!"
Everyone else surveyed the garden in assorted directions but no-one found a cat nearby.
"Excusez-moi, I must go. I will see you later."
Then she was off, back from whence she sprang. Caden was mildly disappointed.
"Caden," summoned Uncle Gabe. "Haven't I told you to wear more than a leather jacket when you're outdoors? It's blustery today and you'll catch your death."
"Yes, uncle," the teenager responded patronisingly.
"And was that a cigarette I saw you put out? I told you to quit that filthy habit. Hand me the pack."
Caden groaned but knew complaint was futile. He removed the pack of Lucky Strikes from the pocket inside his jacket and handed them over to his uncle, a scowl marring his pretty face.
"Get inside and set the table for dinner," the good reverend instructed. "Wash up and when you come back outside put on something warmer than a T-shirt and a leather jacket."
"Yes, sir," grumbled Caden.
As the teenager strode in the direction of the house, he muttered Gaelic curses under his breath.
"Don't think you'll be exonerated for cursing me in another language, young man!" warned Uncle Gabe. "I happen to know that language as well!"
Caden glared back over his shoulder to flash his uncle the evils when he noticed Victorine, now standing hidden behind the tree but still watching the familial events unfold. Seeing him catch a glimpse of her, she offered a secretive smile and a small wave. He returned a devious half smile then continued into the house, wondering where the hell that cat was.
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Lupin staggered up the street, still hindered by his need for more opium. He'd been walking all day just to keep warm and contemplated visiting the Chapel Market to steal something to eat. Too honest for his own good, he detested stealling because the only thing he did to earn the right to eat was not getting caught. But eating was a vital necessity and without money he needed to resort to thievery.
Trudging to the market took every bit of his physical reserves and he knew his waifish body appeared to be salvaged from Death's very claws in the eyes of those he passed. For the most part they didn't bother with the dishevelled, sickly werewolf and for that he was gratefull. But entering the marketplace was another story. Wary and experienced merchants eyed him as he strolled by, hungrily gazing at the fresh fruits and vegetables displayed in their crates, boxes or in bowls.
First he inched through a few stalls examining the food available, trying to make it appear as if he intended to make an honest purchase. The cagey vendors watched as he passed through, pausing to squeeze this or smell that. The process was long and difficult because he wanted to forget himself and ravenously sink his teeth into the fruit's flesh.
It was in the fourth booth when he finally dared to slip a few things into his pockets when the vendor turned to help a real customer. He discreetly stuffed his pockets with as much as he could before the merchant's eyes found him once more. By that time he was moving up the alley and on to the next stall where he repeated the process. At last he managed to acquire enough that he left the market and searched for a place to eat in peace.
He located one in an alley where, upon the moment he sat, he greedily tore into a large apple, devouring it completely: core, seeds and all, throwing only the stem to the ground. Waste not, want not. Fumbling through his pockets with hands unsteady from starvation, he pulled out a second apple and ate in an identical manner, the sticky juice running in rivulets between his fingers and down the back of his hand. Paying it no mind, he repeated the process with a peach then a couple of carrots, wiping the dirt off on his coat before eating.
His gluttony was ceased only when his stomach was pierced by an uneasily sharp pain and a complainant grumble. Putting a hand over his abdomen to help stop the discomfort, he held his breath and swore then resorted to prayer for it to subside. At last it did for which he was gratefull and decided to stop to allow his body to finish digesting what he'd already eaten.
One resolved problem soothed his mind to bring about another. Inactivity refreshened guilt for not being able to save the female victim in the alley and he reached into his case for the Caramoor amulet he'd misguidedly taken from her. Thinking again of how much of a deadly incompetent beast he was, in reaching for the amulet his fingers instead stumbled on the plain wooden box that contained the cold metal salvation of the gun.
The last time he'd actually set eyes upon that gun before Snape presented it to him had been when he was a child of five. The gun was the very same one Tanti Alina made an attempt on his life with that day when he was beneath the Reading Tree. Lupin kept the gun, hidden away inside its case, in his possession always to serve as a reminder of how quickly those who supposedly loved you could try to harm you. Unfortunate circumstances could effortlessly bring out the worst in any given person and despite the fact that Lupin tried to always see only the good in others, the gun brought him back to his senses.
As a werewolf, he could trust few people. Unquestionably one of the people he ever put a great deal of trust in was, of course, Albus Dumbledore. It was because of this faith that the werewolf bequeathed the precious weapon to the old wizard during his stay at Hogwarts. He relayed the gun's history, explained that it was a powerfull keepsake of the time prior to the infamous bite of Greyback. When he told Dumbledore the story of how he acquired the gun and to whom it once belonged the Headmaster was touched and reduced to tears.
"You must hide this," Lupin asked of Dumbledore. "Inside the chamber of this gun is a single silver bullet. Should I ever become uncontrollable or, Merlin forbid if I harm anyone and I mean anyone at all, you must use it to put me down. I need your most honourable word on this matter. Then and only then will I accept your proposal to be employed here at Hogwarts."
Taking the gun, Dumbledore nodded agreement.
"I will put it in a safe place," the old man stated. "With the use of Wolfsbane Potion I trust we will never need it and if you ever choose to end your employment for other pursuits then I shall return it to you."
In his haste to leave before the school was teeming with owls from enraged parents Lupin felt shame in that he would leave behind such an important item. It would've been Snape who'd remember the weapon of destruction that could snuff out the life of who he believed to be an enemy. Sighing, he knew the bitter Potions Master would never accept apologies from either him or Sirius; not that stubborn Sirius would want to give them in the first place. Then just as quickly as they changed to the fleeting topics, his streamlined thoughts drifted to more pleasant imaginings with Sirius.
Sirius…I will be with you again soon. Then I will say my good-bye and finish it.
Peering up at the sky, he felt the full moon as it was fast approaching. Being that he was so close and it was his safest bet, he decided that he would take refuge in Hampstead Heath for a while so that he might recuperate. The Heath's grounds would provide him with quiet, water and shelter as well work as a landmark enabling him to obtain his certain and specific supplies.
Sighing resignation, he decided to begin his foot journey to Hampstead Heath before it time grew any later. At the slow pace he would need to travel in he hoped to make it there by dusk at least. With a groan of pain as his brittle bones creaked he began walking. The good thing about walk other than the exercise it gave him which afforded his muscles strength to cope with the lycanthropic change was that it also helped generate body heat for him. It made him wish he could remain perpetually mobile in some way so that he could maintain the needed warmth. The Heath would provide enough seclusion to enable him to build a fire and the promise of heat inspired him to move faster.
At one point he stumbled and nearly fell, needing to steady himself against the corner wall of a random building, glancing at his and noticing a booklet of matches resting on the ground. The thought emerged that it would probably be a good idea if he used them to light a fire because employing his wand to do so would leave behind a trail of magic that would create a means of tracing his whereabouts and since he was planning on reuniting with Sirius it would be unwise. Stooping down, he picked up the matches, placed them in his pocket and continued to lurch onward, wishing he would get there already so that he might find solace and shelter in the obscurity of a thicket.
For the moment sleep was the only thing that mattered to him. Getting it would be as sweet as chasing the dragon would be.
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"You aren't going out again tonight are you?" Caleigh whined as she entered Caden's room before supper that evening.
"Mind your own business, kid," Caden advised, bringing what he planned to wear later from the wardrobe to the foot of his bed.
"I don't like you going out there by yourself in the dark," his sister complained. "You're going to get hurt."
"You tell me that every time, Caleigh, and so far I'm fine. Nothing is going to hurt me out there. I go out there a billion times and nothing's happened yet. Now c'mon, won't you? Gimme a break."
"But if something happens to you I'll be all alone."
The worried sentiment chipped at Caden's bad boy attitude and his shoulders slumped in surrender.
"You won't be alone, Caleigh," he insisted, sitting on the bed and motioning for her to sit on his lap. "If something ever does happen to me you will still have Uncle Gabe."
"It won't be the same," she insisted, her voice small.
"But nothing's going to happen so I'll be here when you wake up in the morning."
"Promise?"
"Of course I promise, silly."
He kissed her forehead and hugged her securely against him.
"That woman in the garden today is bad," she blurted out quite at random.
Anything to do with Victorine Lune grabbed Caden's attention regardless.
"Who? The woman looking for her cat?" Of course he knew precisely to whom his sister was referring.
Caleigh nodded.
"Why do you say that?"
"I don't know," she professed with a shrug.
"Then you can't say someone's bad unless you have a foundation to base it on. It isn't fair if you do."
"You liked her."
"So what if I did?"
"She could hurt you."
Caden smirked.
"I'd be counting on that," he muttered.
Uncle Gabe called them down for supper from the first level and Caden assisted his sister in sliding off his lap.
"C'mon, ankle biter, I'm famished," the boy told his sister.
"What's famished?"
"Means if you don't go downstairs I'll eat you."
He wiggled his fingers in mock attack and growled playfully, making Caleigh shriek with joy and race from the room. He heard her thudding retreat down the stairs and smiled warmly. He loved the little creep.
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Guilt beleaguered Evangeline for being too fatigued to stop by and check on the safehaven that evening but it could not be helped. Throughout the day she ran her errands which included purchasing food for the hungry werewolves who lived in the safehaven. It was their hunger that made her regret the choice so deeply but she reasoned that they could manage to get by for the night on something in the house. The cupboards weren't entirely bare. If it wasn't for the strictly enforced curfew she would've requested one of them to pick supplies up.
They're a tough bunch, she reasoned. They'll be fine. It's just for one night.
Yet the malefaction still did not wane. She cooked a simple meal of pasta al dente for herself which she complemented with a glass of red wine but when she sat down and began to eat her blame made it difficult for her to swallow. Here she was seated at a table in her own flat while the werewolves sat in their cramped quarters searching the nearly empty cupboards for something to have for their supper. Her thoughts robbed her of an appetite and she found herself scraping her meal off the plate into the waste bin. Taking her glass of wine and the bottle, she ventured into the lounge.
Her dog eared copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets awaited her, resting on a cushion of the settee and she picked it up, easily opening it to the marked page she'd left off on. Sipping her wine intermittently, she read on, not paying much mind to the words impressed in ink on the yellowed pages. Her eyes felt as worn as those pages and she scrunched them to drive out their ache. Closing the book, she stretched across the settee, expecting to rest her eyes for but a moment.
Tomorrow morning she would square off against the DRCMC in an attempt to rationalise with their pea brains and earn werewolves a few small dignities as well as hopefully shed a fraction of doubt in at least one of their minds that not all werewolves were responsible for the random violence of a roguish band of miscreants. It took a person of narrow mind to lump all into the category set aside by few. Not everyone was the same. Good and bad lay within each individual and it was up to that person which one lay dormant and which presented itself to the world. But werewolves had admitted probable cause to behave like monsters. Given the ill treatment of these poor creatures it was no wonder they chose to exacerbate their inner beast.
Stirring into a more comfortable position, she sighed and thought of the werewolves who were lucky enough to receive the shadow of normalcy within the walls of her contentious safehavens. Unwanted by the neighbourhood people, the werewolves vied to carry out decent lives placed inside these boarding houses, coming and going discreetly so as to not rouse troublesome or suspicious interest. With the exception of one particular young werewolf, all others in the safehavens wanted to blend in and remain unnoticed, going out of their way to do so, including maintaining a preference for entering and exiting out the back or side ways rather than out the front.
She wondered how the werewolves already housed there would react to Remus Lupin should she manage to have him fill the single vacancy at the main safehaven. If open-mindedness was preserved then Lupin had much to offer his fellow werewolves. But she assumed it would be a difficult transition to undergo and maintain an acceptance for a werewolf who got paid to live among the Wizards, going so far as to walk among the prestigious halls of Hogwarts. Some werewolves would argue that it was a certain arrogance that allowed him to move so freely amongst the Wizards and be bold enough to earn salary for it. They would exhibit an animosity that she would have to be prepared to mediate. What fun it would be!
She imagined at least one werewolf would welcome Lupin with open arms. Easy was the most benevolent person she'd ever met werewolf, Wizard or Muggle. He was the scholarly type, as was Lupin, and would no doubt relish in the other werewolf's presence. Easy had problems making friends and spent a majority of his time alone reading books or working in a cellar laboratory on potions that those who declared himself his enemies and tormentors would benefit from. Addition of Lupin would promise Easy a camaraderie he sorely needed and that prospect alone made Evangeline's heart leap. It was an incentive that made it a more attractive idea to place the famed werewolf inside a safehaven, the safehaven where Easy resided.
Yawning, she stretched a second time and groggily rose to her feet, checking the time on the grandfather clock across the room. It was getting far too late for wearing her already tired mind down further by reading the written word or thinking the planned ideas. There was an important meeting which needed to be contended with in the morning and she knew she would need to be well rested to sharpen her wits against the gaggle of prejudicial cranks. Trudging into the bedroom, she snapped off the light on her way out of the lounge. As she walked passed the window a case of the creeps and a fresh coat of goose flesh made the hair on her arms stand up straight. Giving them a baffled glance, she rubbed her arms and continued walking, unaware that a figure blackened by the cover of night stood statue-like out in the garden, watching intently.