Betide: to happen to; come to; befall.

May 26, 1965

The stranger arrived in the blazing oranges of sunset. He and his companions were little more than shadows slinking up the craggy hillside. At the crest of the uneven slopes ran a rutted road that trundled into a small town. There was only one main roadway, and the shadowy figures peered down at the little people scurrying to and fro among the houses and shops with a hungry look in their yellow eyes.

A few low words were growled, one of the companions dived at another and was sent smacking into a rock by the leader of the scraggly little group. Then, pulling the ragged dark cloak he wore around his thin, hunched shoulders, the stranger began to walk toward the town alone, loping like a beast on the prowl.

…

It was a ramshackle place, really, the inn perched at the far end of the town. The stranger stood across the road, chewing a dirty fingernail and watching the few people who moved in and out beneath the flaking, red-painted roof. He could not believe this was the place they had sent him.

A lantern swung from the rafters, a puddle of glowing light in the rapidly darkening street. Only one hobbling old man had gone into the lobby to talk to the spectacled man perched behind the desk there. But a steady trickle of people filtered in and out of the swinging door on the side of the building that led to a dining room. He could hear the buzz of warm conversations, bursts of merry laughter, smell the delicious scent of roasting meat swirling out with each swing of that door.

With a quick glance skyward at the darkening horizon, the stranger lurched away from his shadowed corner and purposefully made his way to the swinging door. Before his gnarled hands could touch the wood, however, it swung back and a little boy grinned up at him.

"We've got two tables left," he said in a trilling voice.

"What have I told you about opening the door?" A pretty woman had emerged from the crossed dining floor, hands on hips as she scolded the boy.

"I's just tellin' 'im we got two tables left," the little boy said, looking up earnestly at the woman.

Her sternness melted into a smile. "Go in the back, and see if Marcy's got some marzipan for you, and leave me to handle the door," she instructed.

The little boy dashed away eagerly and the woman looked after him fondly. "My son," she told the stranger standing in the doorway. "He's always underfoot here, but he's got our regulars wrapped around his little finger and the cook loves him to death."

She smiled at the grimy man dressed in his rags, and he grinned back. For a moment – just a moment – her expression faltered, but she turned quickly and began leading him toward the large stone fireplace that dominated the back wall. She made for the table right before it, bathed in the warm light of the flames, but the stranger veered toward the other empty table shoved in a dim corner. After a moment of looking wrong-footed, the woman followed.

She set a worn menu before the stranger and with a cheerful, "I'll check on you in a minute or two," turned to go.

Bony fingers locked around her wrist, dirty fingernails grazing her smooth skin. She gave a gasp of shock and pain and tried to pull free, but the fingers were surprisingly strong.

"What's the rush, angel?" the stranger asked in a gravelly voice, pulling her back toward him.

"Let me go!" the woman cried, but her voice was strangled by the arm that had snaked around her waist and squeezed the breath out of her.

"Won't you keep a poor traveler company?"

The woman's eyes were wide with fright and she fought to loosen his hold. She smelled of lavender.

There was a sudden burst of light, like a tiny fire had erupted and died in the dim corner, and the stranger let his captive go with a howl of pain. The woman fell forward, stumbling over to the spectacled deskman who wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, discreetly slipping a thin piece of wood into his pocket.

With a cold glare at the mangy stranger, he said coldly, "Get out. We don't serve your kind here."

"My kind?" the stranger growled menacingly.

The deskman pointed to the black moon pendant that hung at the stranger's throat. "You know what I mean," he said in a low voice. "If you ever touch my wife again, I shall ensure you are hunted like the beast you are."

By then, several of the diners had turned to watch the confrontation. The stranger stood with a feral expression twisting his face, his gaze locked on the pocket the wand had disappeared into.

"May curses of the darkest nature befall you," he growled and slunk to the swinging door. But before he left, he turned to meet the woman's still-wide eyes across the room. Her lavender scent still lingered in his nostrils.

The kitchen door burst open, and the little boy ran to his mother. She scooped him into her arms, murmuring, "Hush, Remus. Everything's alright."

The deskman's icy glare still bore into the stranger's eyes. He turned and swept off into the gathering darkness. But tonight, he would be back.

A/N: Apparently I like ambiguity. I do hope you didn't spend too much of this chapter wondering how this related to Harry Potter…. You know, I always thought Lupin had said his father offended the Death Eaters until yesterday when I reread that part and realized it was just Grayback…. I kind of thought that pendant he was wearing was the symbol for a group similar to the Death Eaters, but way less coordinated and with a very brief lifespan. The inn existed in a wizarding community, but also served muggles, which was why Grayback was sent. He had intended to transform in the middle of the dining room, but got thrown out, so….