Disclaimer: Not mine.


His Calling

Chapter 9

Riddikulus


Remus held his mother's hand and craned his neck to look up at the painting over the door. It both disturbed, and fascinated him. Rhea tugged his arm, but felt his reluctance to leave the spot that held him mesmerised.

"What is it Remus?" She squatted down and looked at the picture from his viewpoint. "Does it scare you?"

"No," he swallowed hard as he studied it. "It's awesome Mum."

"It's called Watson and the Shark," she told him. "That man in the water, the one the Sharks are after, he goes on to earn a title and become famous. Loses his leg, but that didn't stop him."

"Look at the men in the boat," he whispered in her ear, still nervous to talk aloud in the museum. "They are all different. Do you think they know each other?"

"I don't know," she looked at him oddly. "The story was that he was swimming when the shark bit him. They rowed out to save him I guess. I really don't know. Why?"

"Do you think he was their kind?"

She looked at the picture again and shrugged her shoulders. "There are books downstairs in the gift shop. Why don't we see if they have something about this one?"

"Yeah, I mean yes." He nodded his head. "But, see the old man? See the one standing up in front, and the black man standing behind him? I think they were just helping out, not trying to save their own."

"Could be, does that change things in the picture?"

"I guess not, it shouldn't, but yeah, it does. They don't care if he's one of theirs or not. They are just trying to help, don't matter who he is. I don't think I could do that, go after a shark and all."

"It's surprising what you can do if you have to." She looked back at the painting. "Sometimes something just kicks in and makes you do things you don't think you could do."

She stood up and after a few minutes, they continued to walk, Rhea pointing out different paintings and giggling at the sculptures that they could not figure out. Remus liked their Monday afternoons. They would travel to London to see things his Mum thought he should see. If he was good they would stop in a Muggle restaurant and eat lunch, watching how the Muggles lived and once even riding in the back of a taxi. He didn't like that part. He liked the trains that ran under the roads and went so fast he felt his stomach lurch.

On Tuesday afternoons, they would spend time at home, working on the small plot of land that they still thought of as a farm. He would fix the door if it squeaked, and learned how to change ripped screens, and even use Muggle tools. Mum had found a new carpentry book and together they would read and try to make the things it showed.

They built a woodbox in the back of the cottage that opened to the yard. When full, it could be opened on the other side of the wall inside the kitchen. She taught him how to build a fire, and then showed him how to use the wand instead. Everything he did, he needed to learn two ways, her way, and the way that was his father's. She knew that he would need two worlds to keep him safe, not just the one that had turned on Marcus.

Rhea could not give him a wand, but she could let him hold her arm and learn the feel and rhythm. Then, she would have him hold the wand and her hand would rest on his as he learned the spells. Spells intended to stop a wolf and keep him safe. Spells to kill and spells to bind.

When winter came and the north wind howled down, she taught him how to build a fire and how to cast a warming spell. When the snow banked up against the cottage door she taught him first how to shovel, and then shivering as he watched, took out her wand and impatiently levitated it away.

"That's cheating," he grinned. "You said no cheating."

"I lied," she pulled her robes tighter and frowned into the cold. "You build a fire and I'll make cocoa, how's that sound?"

They stomped the snow off their feet in the too small kitchen. Rhea took his coat and turned to hang it on the hook as Remus ran to open the woodbox. His scream brought her around, her hand already on her wand, her arm coming up as she spun.

Remus fell backwards, landing on his bum as a snarling wolf hovered over him.

"Riddikulus," Rhea shouted and began to laugh. The wolf snapped its jaws shut and turned to her, then looked back at the cowering boy and snarled again.

"Remus," she spoke sharply to call his attention away from what he saw. "Help me, boy. He's not here, just a puff of smoke."

She flicked her wand, and again shouted her command and tried to laugh when she was joined by Remus' thin attempt. It was enough, and Rhea managed to get the reflection of his fear safely back in the woodbox.

"Well," she tucked her wand back in her pocket. "That was interesting."

"What was it?" He clamoured up from the floor and scurried around to her back, peeking out at the woodbox.

"That, my dear, is a boggart. Not a bad thing, but not good either. It just is." She smiled at him and began to laugh. "I feel sorry for them, really I do. They don't have a life of their own so they change into your fears. They can't hurt you Remus, they are just … sad really."

"What do they look like when they are not, you know?"

"Good question," she smirked. "No one seems to know. When you see one it's always your fear that looks back."

"What do you see, Mum?"

She started to blush and then giggled at him. "It changes. As your fears change so does the boggart."

"Yeah, but, how about you?"

"When I was your age I saw the goblins, like at the bank. Don't laugh, they scared the daylights out of me." She ruffled his hair and looked at the woodbox before thinking it best to use her wand to heat the stove for the cocoa. "When I got older and met your father, and you can never tell her this, I saw your Grandmother."

He grinned and climbed up to the table. "She is scary. Especially, when she makes me go to church with her, and gets all funny if I talk with Old Lady Sinclair."

"Is she the one that thinks everyone is possessed by the devil?"

"You know her?"

"I've met her. She's harmless, but your Grandmother hates her."

"Why?"

"Well, she won't admit it, but I think it is because Old Lady Sinclair is the best cook in that whole parish. Whenever they have potlucks, Sinclair's dish is gobbled right up and your Grandmother's goes home with her."

"Is your boggart still Grandmother?"

"No." She slid the hot cocoa on the table. "Right now it's the room of a ten year old boy that is growing things under his bed."

"Ah, come on, it's not that bad."

"Almost as bad as your Latin, and that's saying something."

"Is not," he pouted.

"Remus, don't do that, you know I don't like it. It draws attention." She gently chided him. "And you know better than to sit at that end of the table."

"I…" he looked over her shoulder at the window. "I forgot."

"You have to pay attention. It has to become a habit. Until it does you're not safe."

"Can you see it now?"

"No, but an hour from now I'll be able to, and if I see your iris change, so will others. You know that."

"Sorry," he muttered, turning his head from the darkening window.

"Sorry will be when you go straight to bed after dinner for forgetting."

"I know," he put his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand.

"Remus!"

He rolled his eyes and frowned at her, then lifted his head and brought his arm off the table.

"That will cost you dessert, want to keep going?"

"No." He fought to look directly at her, not pout, or look upset.

"Better, now go do your Latin."

He stood up and carefully pushed back his chair before slowly walking out of the room. One more punishment and he would lose dinner as well. Last week had been the worse. From morning until night he could not get anything right. He felt his stomach clench just remembering her look when he had told her she'd been stupid for making a cake in the first place, since he hadn't had any for a month.

Rhea sat in the living room and took up a pair of knitting needles. She was determined to learn how to do this the Muggle way. She cast on eighty-four stitches and began the ribbing that would form the bottom band of the jumper, avoiding looking toward the kitchen. Turning the piece and starting up the second row, she bit her lip and glanced up at the ceiling, listening for movement from Remus' room.

Again, she turned the piece and knitted alternate stitches, her hands moving faster as she hunched her shoulders down over the yarn. "Shite," she cursed, threw down the knitting and stomped to the kitchen, where she stood tapping her wand on her hand, glaring at the woodbox.

She held her wand steady, seeing her nervous reaction, and began to pace. Fine, she thought, and lifted the lid, stepping back and peering inside. With a sigh of relief, she turned back to the other room, feeling foolish at her need to test herself.

"Mrs. Lupin?" a silky voice slammed into her back, spinning her around and causing her to catch her breath. "You know we cannot accept him? You know he will remain as he is, uneducated, unwanted, uninvited."

She pressed her back to the wall, and watched Dumbledore walk around her kitchen, his yellow robes with the blue stars out of place and glaring in the soft candle light. "We don't want him," he leaned towards her and hissed.

She raised her wand, and hesitated, hesitated for a moment to send a curse, wanting, needing to send a hex. Her throat closed and she pressed her eyes closed, feeling tears begin to seep under her lids.

"Riddikulus," Remus' hand lay over hers on the wand, his eyes large and unblinking.

"Wow, you scared of the Headmaster? Did you do bad in school?"

"No," she reached out for one of the kitchen chairs. "That was… was…"

"Ridicules?" Remus grinned.

"Yes, and… badly not bad…" she managed a grin back at him.

"Did you do badly in school?"

She laughed at the lift of his chin, and the way he put his shoulders back to face her. "No, I did quite well. Now bedtime for you, remember, only two more days and you will need your strength."

"I got it all figured out this time. I think it will work." He shoved his hands in his pockets as she had taught him, and took deep breaths to hide his excitement. "I think if I see it like a boggart, that it scares me more then it can hurt me, I think I can make it stop."

"You can try," she said evenly. "It's the trying that is important, but sometimes we can't do everything we try."

"Will you say Riddikulus for me? You know, when it starts?"

She nodded and saw the relief that spread over his face. The same way Marcus would look in the morning, when he came back to her from whereever his mind went when the moon was full. She marvelled at the difference in the two. How one would welcome the sun, and the other saw the moon as only a fearful challenge. A challenge he may still be able to reach.

Summer came and with it longer days, and shorter nights. Remus liked the summer best, the changes were shorter, the barn warmer, the blanket that lay on the floor near his chaining post even seemed softer, and smelled sweeter. He knew his mother washed it in real soap and water after every moon, and hung it in the sun to dry, as if he could smell the sun and take it with him into the darkness. The last moon had been different. He had lost bits and pieces of the night and try as he might, could not find the memories to put them back where they belonged.

Mum had told him that he would soon lose his human thoughts, and as he got older and the wolf stronger, he would not even remember the whole transformation, only remembering the pain at the start and at the end. That was the part that scared him. He did not understand, yet, what at a grown wolf could do. Rhea had been careful in her explanation of his condition, not telling him that one day he would be capable of the same thing he had seen in Greyback, not wanting to believe it herself.

His father's death hung between him and the truth. He knew Greyback had killed his father, but in his mind, it was the Greyback the man, the evil before the wolf, that had ripped open his father's throat and ate his flesh. Sometimes Remus would dream of a wolf, a wolf that would slink into his room and turn into a man, before his cries made him wake in a cold sweat.

Rhea waited every day for the letter that she knew should come. Marcus had been taken from school to learn how to transform, and to hide what he was, but Remus knew. He knew how to hide his anger, to shove his hands in his pockets and lower his head, to turn away from confrontations and to hide in the shadows. She had picked his clothing with care, only buying traditional garb, old fashioned and designed to go forgotten, not the tight jeans and bright colours that he and every other ten year old wanted, and never the trainers or tees with logos and flashy bands imprinted across their chests.

She bought him a book on wolves and packed it in his school trunk and waited. She took him to Diagon Alley, and purchased his first true wand, his robes, school uniforms and the books she knew he would need. Still she waited for his letter.

She levitated his birthday cake to the table, the kitchen window left open for the crisp clean summer air. She cut the cake and saw him glance to the sill, awaiting the owl and his Hogwarts letter as they ate.

"I bet Dumbledore doesn't know where we are," she pushed his cake plate in front of him.

He looked up hopefully, tears pooling in the bottom of his eyes. "I bet Peter gets to go."

"Peter? I forgot all about him, but you may be right."

"The Headmaster knows." He leaned back and tilted his head, in that way that took her breath away, and made him look so much like Anthony. "Mum, if I don't get to go what then?"

"What do you think Dad would tell you? Do you think he would say to give up?"

"No, he would tell me …" Remus sniggered, "he would say Go ask your Mum. Then he would make you take him to go see the Headmaster."

Rhea looked at him and slowly nodded. "You're right. Go get dressed."

.