Author's note: Oh wow, I just got a bunch of reviews from Marauder3Moony. That's awesome, I really appreciate it. I'm glad you like it so far...I'm going to attempt to answer a few of your questions, at least those that I can at the moment. Let's see...yes, Voldemort believes Remus, because as far as he knows, Remus has been truthful (he managed all half-truths). And yes, I meant that Remus can't have chocolate ever. It sucks, but I think that after a while of not being able to have it, you'd grow accustomed to it and not miss it so much. About Remus wanting to tear Mrs. Browning's throat out, that was more the wolf's reaction, not Remus'. I've always pictured an internal struggle between the wolf nature and the human nature. And yes, Voldemort knew it was full moon, but that's all I'll say for now.

Ooh, and I got some reviews from Rae Roberts! Woo hoo...you're still my favorite person. (grin)

Anyway. Thanks to both of you. Now, go read.

Chapter Thirteen: Three O'Clock It Is, Then

Remus awoke, head throbbing horribly—he felt as though he had been beaten all over with a sledgehammer. He let out a low, growling groan and rolled onto his back, keeping his eyes closed, not at all certain that he would react well to the brightness of the morning sunlight.

As he moved, an odd coppery scent weaved its way through the air around him. He coughed and tried to swallow, to find that the same coppery tang was coating his tongue and throat. Confused, he tried to figure out what it could be. Gradually, the memory of such a smell and taste filtered into his hazy thoughts, and he opened his eyes, horrified.

Remus had no clothes on; he had expected that. What he had hoped would not be there were the streaks of crimson.

He closed his eyes, willed the blood away, and opened them once more. It was still there. He slowly raised a hand and inspected his fingernails. There was a rusty, almost flaky substance underneath them: dried blood. Oh, Sweet Moon, he thought. He turned his head to the right. The door was securely bolted with no signs at having been breached by anyone, werewolf or human. Then how…?

Remus turned his head to the left, very slowly, dreading what he might see. His eyes skimmed across the floor, and he spied, in the corner, a lump of darkness. Then the sunlight glimmered into the warehouse, lancing off of something shiny. He focused on the glare. His mind came to a halt as he grappled with the reality of what he was seeing.

It was a watch. Strapped to a hand. A hand attached to an arm. An arm not attached to a shoulder.

He rolled over just in time to be sick all over the floor beside him. He wiped the bile from his mouth and spat, attempting to rid his mouth of the coppery tang that he could still taste. "Oh, Sweet Moon," he whispered. "Oh, damn."

When his stomach had stopped lurching, he slowly rose to a sitting position, carefully avoiding looking at the hand lying on the floor only five feet away. Instead, he tried to locate the set of clothing he had brought with him. It was lying where he had placed it, in a dusty corner. He crawled over to it and picked up his wand.

"Scourgify." His voice rasped through his throat painfully, more hoarse than usual. The bloodstains splashed across his body began to disappear, little by little. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the last of it had been cleaned off.

He pulled on his clothing, taking frequent breaks to regain what little energy he had. Then he slumped in the corner, trying to ignore the scent of blood wafting at him from across the room. It would not leave him alone, however. Shaking, he performed the Bubble-head Charm, gratefully inhaling the fresh air. Thoroughly exhausted, he fell asleep in a matter of minutes.

When Remus woke again, it was noon. His head still ached dully, although he felt slightly better for having slept. He dispelled his Bubble-head Charm, and the coppery smell rushed back in at him. He ignored it and reached into his pocket, taking out a tiny bottle. "Engorgio," he muttered. The bottle began to grow rapidly, until it was roughly the size of his forearm. He smiled tiredly at the label, where a lovely brunette was waving up at him, steam pouring from her ears, underneath a large purple banner that read PEPPER-UP POTION. He uncapped it and took a huge swig. Instantly, he felt more like maybe, just maybe, he would be able to function correctly.

Another mouthful got him to his feet, where he swayed gently for a moment. Bracing himself against the wall, he staggered forward, helplessly feeling like a drunkard. He stopped near the severed arm, shuddered involuntarily, and pointed his wand at it. "Incendio," he murmured. The limb instantly went up in flames, slowly collapsing into ash. The fire went out.

Remus started forward again, walking toward the corner that housed the unmoving lump. As he approached, the tang of blood grew stronger. He grimaced as the figure became visible. It was the blond Death Eater, the courier, the spy. His body was in terrible shape, mauled by the fangs of a werewolf. His broken wand lay next to his feet.

"What were you playing at, courier?" he muttered as he gazed at the mangled body. "You should have known better than to tangle with a werewolf during full moon. Idiot," he spat, "what were you playing at!" He swore several times, then clenched his jaw. He dragged his eyes away from the wide blue ones of his victim, which were staring and clouded with pain and fear and bewilderment. He pointed his wand at the body, and muttered the spell that created fire. As the flames devoured his victim, Remus whispered, "I'm sorry."

His silent mourning was interrupted by the sound of wings. An owl swooped down to the bar-covered window, and when it found its way blocked, dropped a piece of parchment. The paper fluttered to the ground as the owl flew away; whoever had sent it hadn't expected an answer, obviously. Remus took a step forward to retrieve it, and lurched dangerously. He steadied himself, gulped several mouthfuls of Pepper-up Potion, and allowed the ground to stop spinning before he tried to walk again.

The parchment was an unadorned, slightly crinkled scrap with a simple message:

St. Joseph's. Three o'clock.

It was unsigned, but Remus needed no signature to know who had sent it. He glanced at the ash that had been the blond spy's body, eyebrows raised slightly. Three o'clock it is, he thought grimly.