Mordant

Chapter One: In the Jaws of Monsters

The Quill and Quirk, in the village of Raven’s Glen, was the most popular gathering place for writers and journalists in wizarding Britain. The walls were lined with leather-bound volumes; old Bert Booker, the landlord, could be relied upon to settle any bet concerning obscure literary trivia; and the home-brewed ale was beyond compare. (Sensibly, Bert eschewed the pumpkin flavor that was unaccountably popular in most wizard pubs.) The great French playwright Pierre Malecrit had slept in one of the upstairs rooms at the Quill and Quirk on his tour of Britain in 1448. Messrs. Flourish and Blotts had met there for the first time in 1720. And the toast that would change Linus Berowne’s life forever was drunk one night in December of 1995 with four pints of the Quill and Quirk’s Curiously Strong Ale. Linus set three of the glasses in front of his companions and raised his own. “The Ministry giveth and the Ministry taketh away,” he announced solemnly. “Blessed be the name of the Ministry. To the end of a beautiful relationship.” “To that nest of liars, damned liars, swindlers, and fools,” added Thersites Mason. Thersites drew political cartoons – not very well – for the Quibbler, and this was his usual verdict on the Ministry. “Wish they were rotting in hell, all of them.” “So you’ve done it, then?” Kathy Hudgins, who published a feminist magazine called Madam, gave Linus a sharp look. Linus took a gulp of the Curiously Strong Ale before replying. “Almost finished. The cartoons are upstairs in my study, and I’ve only got to put the animation spells on before I send the whole thing to the printer’s. I don’t see any reason to keep putting it off. They’ve only buried their heads farther and farther in the sand these past six months, and if we don’t speak out, who will?” Linus had been writing and illustrating the most popular comic book in wizarding Britain, The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle, for a quarter of a century. Martin’s misadventures had long since settled into a comfortable routine, full of subtle irony that was lost on the children who collected the books obsessively and, often, on pureblooded adult wizards. His hapless title character kept stumbling across the wizarding world and getting Memory Charmed by a pair of dutiful but inept Ministry officials, Grampus and Storge. (The latter insisted that his name was properly pronounced Stor-ZHAY, as his family had been pureblooded since the Norman Conquest, but nobody else paid much attention. Storge was in fact notorious for believing all sorts of absurd nonsense, giving rise to the popular slang expression, “a pile of Storge.”) Inevitably, the oblivious Obliviators would bungle something – by leaving behind a magical artifact, or saying the wrong thing as they were setting Martin on his way – and then have to go back and Memory Charm him yet again. It was, of course, obvious to any reasonably intelligent reader that it was the Ministry, not Martin, that was mad; and seen through the innocent eyes of the title character, much of the rest of the wizarding world fared little better. The serial skewered the superstitions, quirks, and petty failings of the magical community. Even in better times – before a new character called Tabitha the Toad Lady began to grace the comic book’s pages – the wizarding government had not taken well to people who poked fun at its self-importance and obsession with secrecy. Linus, however, had always been able to slide under its radar. The more intelligent employees were often among his biggest fans, while the others considered Martin Miggs beneath their notice. The hordes of children who devoured every issue were almost as good as an Invisibility Cloak. But this time, as everybody at the table knew, Linus was about to blow a comfortable love-hate relationship of twenty-five years straight out of the water. Martin Lovegood, who had good-humoredly lent his name along with his wide-eyed, vaguely clueless expression to Linus’ title character, said, “Good for you. But I hope you were able to get the word out about Fudge baking all those poor goblins in pies before you packed it in. Did you?” “Sorry, Martin,” said Linus, winking at Kathy over Martin’s head. “Couldn’t quite figure out how to work that in.” “Tell us about it,” said Kathy. “It starts off in the usual way,” said Linus. “Martin gets the idea that he’s seen a monster in his garden, and he runs around frightening all his Muggle neighbors by telling them about it. So the Ministry officials are frantically trying to Memory Charm Martin and convince everybody who’s spoken to him that there’s no such thing as a monster. And then the next dozen pages are the normal slapstick stuff – only Grampus and Storge are having a bad time of it, because for some reason darkness has fallen in midafternoon, and the ground’s gone all spongy under their feet. “And then in the next-to-last panel, you finally see the big picture. I’d better draw it for you so you can get the full impact.” Linus took a quill pen out of his pocket and wiped a page of the latest Quibbler clean with a Vanishing Spell. “Watch what you’re doing, you fool!” Thersites protested. “That was my best cartoon this week!” “Well, if that’s your best, I’d hate to see the rest of them,” Linus retorted. “This’ll be the only decent bit of drawing the Quibbler’s seen in years.” He sketched a rough version of the panel in which it became clear that Grampus and Storge were actually INSIDE the monster, who was swallowing them all whole, along with the entire Ministry and most of the rest of wizarding Britain. The creature had a face like a snake, with lidless red eyes and slitted nostrils. I say, Grampus, you don’t suppose we might be in a bit of trouble this time? Nothing to worry about, Storge. Just keep repeating after me: There’s no such thing as a monster. There’s no such thing as a monster... “Pointed stuff.” Bert Booker, who had been watching the cartoon take shape over Linus’ shoulder, let out a low whistle. “And in the very last panel,” Linus added with grim satisfaction, “Tabitha the Toad Lady shakes hands with the monster and smugly congratulates herself on delivering her country into its jaws.” “Are you sure that’s not libel?” asked the landlord. “I’m a satirist,” said Linus. “A licensed fool, if you will.” “I wouldn’t bet on being licensed much longer.” Kathy frowned. “I’ve been getting the inside story about what’s going on at the Ministry from Amelia, and let me tell you –” “Oh, believe me, I know,” said Linus. “By this time next week, Martin Miggs will be banned in Britain and I’ll be out of a job. But they won’t find it so easy to confiscate every issue that’s made it onto the street. Parents will be borrowing them from their children, and they’ll be passed around in the back rooms at the Ministry and hidden under the floorboards. It’ll be the most valuable thing I’ve ever drawn. It’s a shame everyone but me will be profiting from it.” “There’ll always be a job for you at the Quibbler if you need one,” Martin offered. “I could use a good cartoonist ... er, another good cartoonist, I mean,” he added quickly. He was not in time to stop Thersites from gulping down the rest of his drink, slamming the pint glass down on the table, and swearing eloquently as he stormed out of the pub. “Oh dear,” Kathy commented drily. “I do believe you’ve upset him.” “He knows he’s not very good,” said Martin defensively. “He says so himself all the time.” Kathy rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly why he’s sensitive about it, you prat.” This made good sense to Linus, but Martin was looking clueless again. They spent another hour or so drinking and talking, ending up in a friendly argument about a story Martin Lovegood was planning to print in the next edition of The Quibbler. Martin, it appeared, was a firm believer in a secret organization with nebulous goals called the Order of the Penguins, whose representatives hid out in an Unplottable building in Muggle London when they were not busy infiltrating Gringotts, Hogwarts, and the Auror Corps. Linus and Kathy, as usual, attempted to explain why this was a completely daft idea, with their customary lack of success. After the pub closed, Linus Apparated home. His cat, Chess, met him at the door and streaked outside without bothering to greet him. Linus lived five miles from Raven’s Glen, the nearest outpost of civilization, and the house felt very big and very empty, as it often did on winter nights. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled. Linus poured himself a last drink and stood gazing into the darkness for a minute or two; then he sat down at his desk and prepared to execute the complicated series of animation spells that would bring the last-ever number of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle to life. A scratching sound disturbed him some minutes later, as if a pair of claws were being raked across the wood of his front door. Silly cat, Linus thought, wanting out one minute and in the next. Well, he wouldn’t mind a bit of distraction from his work. No question he’d made the right choice and he’d never regret it after taking the plunge, but this was one of those moments before making an irrevocable decision when you felt it in every nerve... He set his drink aside and opened the door. “Here, Chess,” he called into the night. “Come in, you daft old tomcat. ... Chess? CHESS!” He shaded his eyes and scanned the darkness for the gleam of white that would give away the cat’s whereabouts. The lawn was eerily dark, the full moon shadowed by clouds. The wind rattled and moaned in the branches of the bare trees. Linus lived more than a mile from his nearest neighbors, which usually suited him just fine, but on nights like this he had to admit the solitude was a bit spooky. He called to his cat again, trying to make his voice carry over the rising wind. Suddenly a flash of white teeth caught his eye, but they didn’t belong to Chess. An enormous thing came hurtling out of the night, a great dark blur of fur and claws and flailing limbs. He grabbed his wand and shouted “Stupefy!” but his aim was off. A jet of red light just missed the beast as it flew at him, snarling and growling The thing’s jaws clamped shut on his leg just below the knee. There was a sound of ripping cloth, and a pain more intense than anything he’d ever felt... He choked out another “Stupefy!” through gritted teeth, and this time the thing fell still at his feet. Blood was pouring from the torn flesh, but no bones had snapped. Could be worse, he told himself as he sat down heavily on the stoop, knees weak with relief. He’d have to get it seen to, but it would be all right – Then he cast Lumos, and his world changed. The thing that was lying unconscious on his doorstep had thick tawny fur, enormous paws, an odd-looking tufted tail, and a long snout. Except for the blood that stained its jaws, it might almost have been a large dog stretched calmly in front of its master’s fireplace. But Linus knew it wasn’t. He staggered to his feet, fighting a wave of nausea that had suddenly come over him, stumbled into the house, and slammed the door shut behind him. Somehow he made it to the fireplace, clinging to the walls for stability, and threw a handful of Floo Powder into the flames. “St. Mungo’s,” he gasped, almost falling across the hearth. The whirlwind journey through the Floo network destroyed what little sense of well-being he had possessed. He dragged himself out of the fireplace onto the sparkling white tiles of the hospital emergency room, and immediately vomited all over the part of the floor he wasn’t busy bleeding on. Way to make an entrance, he thought. On the bright side, it did guarantee that one of the mediwitches rushed to his side almost immediately, although she seemed more concerned with cleaning his body fluids off the floor than actually treating his injuries. “Name, sir?” she asked in between rounds of Scourgify. “Linus Berowne.” “Age?” “Sixty-seven.” “Wizard or Muggle?” The mediwitch cast a critical eye over his jumper and trousers. “I arrived by Floo Powder,” Linus pointed out, “and I knew enough to come here instead of bleeding to death at home. What do you think? Wizard.” “Do you know how you received those injuries, Mr. Brown?” “Berowne,” Linus corrected her automatically. “I was bitten by a werewolf.” “There, there,” said the mediwitch as if she were talking to a child. “I’m sure it can’t have been a real werewolf.” “I’m sure it WAS,” said Linus, “and I’m the one who saw it.” “Werewolves aren’t dangerous any more,” the witch continued in the same irritatingly soothing tone. “The Wolfsbane Potion –” “Sod the Wolfsbane Potion, I told you I was BITTEN by one! Let me see a real Healer!” “Sir,” – she drew herself up sharply – “mediwizards and witches are fully qualified to deal with all situations requiring magical first aid.” She rolled up the cuff of his blood-soaked trousers, and gasped. “How did you do this to yourself?” “I didn’t! Are you deaf, woman? The werewolf did it TO me.” “Alienist!” the mediwitch shouted over her shoulder. “I’ve got a possible self-inflicted injury with delusions of lycanthropy.” “I haven’t been attacked by an alien,” said Linus. “It was a werewolf.” “An Alienist,” the mediwitch explained patiently, “is a special kind of Healer trained in ... well, helping people who are having ... difficulties with reality.” “I know what a bloody Alienist is.” Linus gritted his teeth as a fresh wave of pain swept over him. “I was attempting to make a joke, which I’m not surprised you didn’t understand because you’re apparently stupid as well as deaf. I, on the other hand ... am neither stupid ... nor mad.” He delivered the last few words between gasps for breath, feeling increasingly lightheaded and ill. The Alienist arrived just as his legs finally gave out and he sank to the floor. Linus was relieved to see that she was a middle-aged woman who looked like she didn’t take nonsense from anybody, and the first thing she did was point her wand at him and murmur “Sanguisiccare.” Most of the blood vanished, and she bent down to examine the wound. “This was inflicted by a werewolf,” she said positively. “Impossible,” said the mediwitch. “Nevertheless, it seems to have happened,” the second woman replied. She placed a hand on Linus’ shoulder. “Can you hear me, sir?” “Yes. Deafness isn’t catching, last time I looked. Neither is stupidity, thank God.” Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted his rudeness; he had no reason to think the Alienist was as much of a fool as the mediwitch. “My name is Healer McRae, and I usually work with cases of spell-induced mental damage. I’ve just given you first aid, but this is a serious injury and it needs to be treated by a specialist. I’m going to fetch Healer Pye from the Creature-Induced Injuries ward. Until then, you shouldn’t try to move or do anything at all. Now, I don’t think you need an Alienist just now, so will you be all right if I leave you for a minute or two?” Linus nodded. He wasn’t thrilled about being left to the mercies of the mediwitch, but at least intelligent help was on the way. Luckily she had found some paperwork to keep her busy; he answered her questions about his home address, next of kin, and general state of health mechanically, clenching his fists tightly when the pain threatened to overwhelm him. Then he had a moment of realization and utter horror. The flesh around the edges of his wound was turning greyish and sprouting long hairs. It felt as if his skin were burning. Slowly, the affected area spread, until a band of infected flesh encircled his leg. The band constricted with a sudden burst of agony. He wiped away the tears that had unexpectedly blurred his vision and forced himself to look. He had a normal thigh and knee. A normal foot that had begun to swell and throb, the circulation nearly cut off. But in between, some three inches of his leg had become a wolf’s leg, sinewy and hairy. He was turning into a werewolf. Inch by inch, inexorably. He was going to be a werewolf for the rest of his life. “Mr. Brown?” said the mediwitch. “Mr. Brown? Can you hear – I mean, are you all right?” Linus fainted.

 

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He spent the next few days in a haze of pain and delirium, unconscious of the publishers who were waiting in vain for the latest number of Martin Miggs or the hungry cat yowling on his front steps. Bert Booker noticed that Linus hadn’t occupied his usual corner table in some days and hoped he wasn’t ill; and Martin Lovegood thought there was something sinister going on and made a mental note to ask his contacts at the Ministry if they’d overheard anything, before he became distracted by the latest round of Blibbering Humdinger sightings. Kathy Hudgins did ask Amelia Bones, who eventually managed to trace Linus’ whereabouts to the Dai Llewellyn Ward; and so the news of his injury filtered back to Raven’s Glen. But Linus knew nothing of this, either. And he knew nothing at all of the gloved and hooded figure that slipped in through the unlocked door of his house one evening, made a swift and silent search through the papers on his desk, and removed the pages of the comic book he had been working on before his injury.

 

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Remus Lupin wiped his boots on the mat in the front hall of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, dropped a heavy parcel emblazoned with the Flourish & Blotts crest on the floor, and yawned. It had been a long, cold night. “How was guard duty?” Sirius asked. “Boring. Rainy. Nothing of interest to report. If I were a Death Eater, I wouldn’t be out on a night like this.” “That’s what those bastards want us to think.” “I know.” Remus shivered and yawned again. “They shouldn’t send you out this close to the full moon.” “I’m fine. Really.” “Coffee?” “Please.” Remus made a move toward the kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll get it.” Remus didn’t argue; he was bone-tired and he knew that Sirius liked nothing better than playing the consummate host. After a few minutes his friend returned with toast and jam as well as well as coffee, and he discovered that he was famished as well. Sirius allowed him to eat for a few minutes in silence, and then asked, “Did you get Harry a Christmas present, like I asked you?” “Yes. Accio shopping!” The Flourish & Blotts parcel flew across the room and landed on the coffee table. “Practical Defensive Magic. Latest word on the subject, and full-color illustrations.” The ghost of an old familiar smile flickered across Sirius’ face. “Leave it to you to get him books. I suppose you read the first volume while you were on guard duty?” “Well, all right, I did, but I used a Drying Charm. You can hardly tell the difference.” Remus looked over the books doubtfully. “Do you think I should have bought something more exciting? I never can tell...” “No. I reckon he’ll get more use out of those than he’s getting out of that Firebolt I gave him.” Sirius flexed his fingers menacingly. “If I could get my hands on that b-” “And I picked up a few other things,” said Remus quickly, hoping to get his friend off of the subject of Dolores Umbridge. He unwrapped a bundle of newspapers. “Here, I brought you The Prophet and The Quibbler, and a couple of the Muggle papers – not that they’ll have much news of interest, but at least the writers are halfway sensible.” Sirius gave the headlines of the Daily Prophet a cursory glance, made an irritated noise, and flipped straight to the crossword. “Heads in the sand, as usual. They didn’t have Martin Miggs?” “Not a one. The girl in the shop said it hadn’t come in at all this week, but nobody knows why.” “That doesn’t sound good. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Remus nodded. “It sounds like Martin Miggs finally went too far, and that ... woman had the issue suppressed.” He slammed his coffee mug down on the table, the force of the gesture conveying what his language had not, and paced to the window. “Sometimes I have to pinch myself and wonder if we’re still in Britain. I never thought I’d see the day it could happen here.” “It’s bloody absurd. It would almost be funny if people’s lives weren’t on the line. The only place we can get any proper news is a comic book.” “The Quibbler’s not too bad as long as you remember to read the headlines and skip the stories.” Remus turned away from the window and tried to force a smile. “Well, except for the bit about you being a singing sensation. They wouldn’t have come up with that one if they’d ever heard you massacring Christmas carols.” Usually the words “singing sensation” were enough to send both men into a fit of unholy mirth; but on this raw December morning, nothing seemed very funny at all. “That means she’ll be having The Quibbler suppressed next. Mark my words,” said Sirius darkly.