Remorse

Remorse is set in the same universe as my fifth-year fic, Mordant, which you can find at my FictionAlley author page, although you don’t have to have read one to follow the other. Unlike Mordant, this fic focuses primarily on Remus and the other canon characters, although a number of my OCs will be back in smaller roles.

The structure and ethos of Fenrir Greyback’s Lyceum are loosely based on the Ku Klux Klan. I have relied heavily on Stetson Kennedy’s I Rode With The Ku Klux Klan (also published as The Klan Unmasked), both for background information and for inspiration for a few specific scenes and plot lines. Kennedy’s book is a remarkable story of true-life heroism which deserves to be better known, and I hope some readers are inspired to read it for themselves.

This story also owes an immense debt to FernWithy’s excellent Shades and various discussions at her Livejournal about what Remus and Tonks might have been up to during HBP, but I hope that my take on these events is different enough to satisfy those who have already read Shades.

The prologue has previously been posted at Livejournal as part of saeva’s Genficathon. Thanks to Author by Night for giving me the prompt.

Prologue: Education

Fenrir Greyback was a great admirer of education.

He had none of it, himself; he had been bitten by a werewolf the summer before he was due to begin his first year at Hogwarts, and Professor Dippet had written a long regretful letter revoking his acceptance because his presence might endanger the other children. By the time the other children his age were taking their first set of exams, Fenrir was on his own, foraging through Muggle rubbish tips for food and sleeping on a bed of damp leaves.

But his own lack of schooling only increased his admiration. Education was what he and his people had been denied, and it assumed an almost mystical importance in his mind. It was the key to the gates of power and the halls of history; it was the invisible wall that separated the hungry from their prey. What allowed witches and wizards to seal their doors against the night and leave Fenrir’s people howling outside? Only a year or two of magical education. How could the staff of the Daily Prophet write such eloquent editorials calling for more stringent legislation against Dark creatures, without leaving themselves open to a counterblast? They had education, and the Dark creatures did not. What separated Walden Macnair, the Ministry executioner, from the werewolf bound and blindfolded at his feet? Only the possession of a silver-bladed axe and a modicum of education. One man’s eyes were no less savage than the other’s, and the thirst for blood was the same. Axes could be stolen, but the education had always been a problem for werewolves. Even if they had been allowed in the schools, they had little time for anything other than hunger and want and the struggle to hang on until the next full moon. As often as not, they killed each other over food or some petty quarrel. Fenrir could see this was not the way to survive, much less to get revenge.

Before he was out of his teens, he resolved to start a school for werewolves. He christened it The Lyceum, although he had to ask his second-in-command, Ferdinand Calabria, how to spell it. (Ferdinand was a cultured werewolf, having spent a term and a half at a Muggle university before the administration connected him with a string of lecturers found mutilated on full-moon nights. One did not offend Ferdinand – unless of course one was Fenrir, who might not be a university man himself, but who knew too much about power to let his highly educated follower forget which of the two was chief. Fenrir hired a Muggle dentist to file his teeth to two menacing points, and he sat around splintering chicken bones with them whenever he had lunch with Ferdinand, partly because he could and partly because he knew Ferdinand would be disgusted with the sight.)

Fenrir planned to teach his people the Craft of Hunting, the Art of Vengeance, and the Sacred Myths and Traditions of the Werewolf. To be sure, he didn’t actually know any sacred myths or traditions of the werewolf, as he had been so unjustly deprived of a proper education of his own, but he and Ferdinand made some up. Fenrir thought they sounded better than anything you’d find in a book – just as “Fenrir Greyback” sounded better than “Stanley Stoggs,” which was his given name. Dippet and the Ministry registrars featured in many of these tales, suitably disguised as the hunters of old. They were armed with rusty chains and silver bullets instead of the pale and flimsy parchment shackles with which the Law somehow contrived to hold werewolves, in these modern times, more helpless than they had ever been before. For Fenrir had a touch of the poet about him, and he imagined his enemies not as they were but as he wished them to be. Mostly, he wished them all dead, so each of his stories ended in the same way: with feasting, shared and glorious, with muzzles wet with the blood of enemies and with a rough music howled to the stars.

The other werewolves had been skeptical of all this talk about education at first, but they could not deny that they were thin and faint with hunger and the Ministry officials were fat. Fenrir’s visions of plenty were beguiling. They began to listen.

As his lectures started to draw an audience – and once again on Ferdinand’s advice – Fenrir styled himself Lupus Maximus, which was a far more learned-sounding title than Headmaster or Executioner, and appointed Ferdinand his Lupus Minor. His plans for the Lyceum were grandiose. He would bring education not only to his people, but in a sense to the entire wizarding world. Perhaps none of the normal folk in the towns knew his name now (nor cared to, for they preferred to call him werewolf or filthy beast), but they would know it in the future. Someday wise men would whisper it with reverence and fear.

Someday his school would rival Dippet’s. No, Dippet’s school would fall as his own rose; Fenrir had a vision of the stone walls of Hogwarts crumbling to let in the members of his Lyceum, as surely as moonlit night followed day. It was practically a law of nature (and as soon as he thought of the phrase, Fenrir added a course on the Law of Nature to his proposed curriculum. Someday there would be werewolf solicitors, and they would all owe their training to him. And werewolves would run the Wizengamot. Someday justice would not mean the thin and pallid flapping of a veil or the cry of seabirds about a distant rock in a northern sea, but a grand banquet in the Ministry halls with snapping of bones and lapping of marrow, and the former judges would be the first to reckon with Fenrir’s judgment. Education could do all that and more.)

Yes, Fenrir thought with satisfaction, he had surely been born to run a school.

And for a school, one needed children.

Chapter One: Alias John Roper

“That’s what Fenrir Greyback has in mind?” said Remus Lupin incredulously. “He fancies himself a schoolmaster?”

“What I have just told you is – I will grant – conjecture.” Professor Dumbledore pushed back his chair and slowly paced across the room. He moved stiffly, and kept one hand tucked inside his robes. “But it is conjecture based upon the reports and recollections of people who were close to Greyback at one time, and I have verified them as far as I am able.”

Remus swallowed heavily. “And you think he’s on the move again?”

“Undoubtedly. There have been two attacks on children in the last two months. The Ministry insists that it must be the work of some other werewolf. As you know, Greyback went to ground after the end of the last war, as Ministry surveillance tightened, and faded into obscurity. He has made no confirmed attacks since the end of 1982, and the Ministry claims that he no longer poses a public threat. But the fact that both victims were children can hardly be a coincidence.”

Remus nodded. The same thought had crossed his mind when he read the newspaper accounts of the attacks.

“We can likewise only speculate about why he has stopped lying low after all these years or where he is likely to strike next, but the fact that his return takes place at a moment when Lord Voldemort is particularly desperate for followers, and willing to recruit them outside of the usual channels, is again suggestive. On the other hand, the Ministry objects that the recent attacks were far apart and well out of Greyback’s usual territory, and they have been monitoring his group and have not noticed any unusual movements. It is true that he is infamous enough to attract attention in almost any public setting, even if he were to give his observers the slip, and we don’t know how he moves around the countryside without attracting notice.”

“In other words, we don’t know much of anything, do we? I’ve read the news stories about him, and they’re something like ninety percent speculation and rumor, with very few solid facts.”

“That is my estimation as well.”

“Do you want me to ... to see what I can find out?”

“I am not asking anything of you. Greyback has, I think, already forced you to make more than enough sacrifices. I merely thought you ought to be apprised of the situation.”

The stillness in the Headmaster’s office felt heavy. Even the portraits held their tongues, although Remus was positive Phineas Nigellus was watching him behind half-closed eyelids.

The sleeve of Dumbledore’s robe slipped, revealing a withered and blackened hand. He had made more than enough sacrifices too, Remus thought, and said little about them.

“You need information,” Remus said levelly, as if stating a problem in a Defense textbook. “I happen to be uniquely suited to obtain it, if I do say so myself. I think I should go undercover and join him.”

The Headmaster’s eyes were troubled, but Remus thought he saw a touch of relief in his face. “Is that your free and willing choice?” he asked.

“It is.”

There was another brief silence. “Very well. We can work out the details at the meeting. And thank you.”

 

                                                            *          *          *

One after another, the Order members filed into the empty classroom that was serving as a temporary headquarters, and Dumbledore called the meeting to order. “I have two announcements. First of all, Remus Lupin has kindly agreed to serve as our liaison to the werewolves. For various reasons it is inadvisable for him to work under his own name. Nymphadora, if you could see that he has the proper Ministry documentation for his new identity, I would appreciate it.”

Tonks nodded. She looked pale and faded, and Remus made up his mind to speak to her after the meeting. She was taking her cousin’s death hard.

“My second piece of news concerns Severus Snape, who is absent this afternoon because he is in Diagon Alley ordering textbooks and supplies. I have offered him the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. He has accepted.”

Minerva McGonagall looked tight-lipped and disapproving at this announcement, but not, Remus thought, particularly surprised. The others were clearly shocked. After a moment of dead silence, there was a sudden babble of voices.

“With his history –”

“I don’t mean to question your judgment, but –”

“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, I say –”

Dumbledore held up a hand for silence. “I have,” he said slowly, “been privy to certain confidences, and let it suffice to say that I trust Severus implicitly.”

“Excuse me, Professor, but we haven’t been privy to those confidences,” said Tonks. “What’s the evidence?”

“The evidence is between Severus and myself. I cannot disclose it, but I ask that you accept my judgment in this matter.”

Remus caught Alastor Moody’s good eye. The ex-Auror was plainly thinking the same thing he was. “You did tell him about the, er, peculiar circumstances attached to the position?”

The only Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than a year since Professor Merrythought’s retirement was Quirinus Quirrell, and he had done so only by virtue of having been possessed by Voldemort, if one could term that a virtue.

“Naturally I have informed him,” said Dumbledore. “He seems as willing to risk the curse as the two of you were – and I must point out that all of our last three Defense teachers are walking around alive and unscathed, so the odds are really rather good.”

“How did he react?” Moody asked. It was, Remus thought, a shrewd question.

“Hardly at all. He must have suspected something of the sort.”

“But if he were a loyal Death Eater –”

“He would be as vulnerable to the curse as if he were not. Remember what happened to Bartemius Crouch, Junior.” Dumbledore paused for a moment to let the point sink in. “In any case, he is not. I give you my word that he is on our side.”

“He may be now,” said Moody darkly, “but some men can’t handle drink, and some can’t handle the Dark Arts. And I’d stake my life Severus Snape is one of those.”

“And I have staked my life that he isn’t,” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “I agree, Alastor, that the point you make is worth considering; I have considered it, and more than once declined to appoint him because of it. However, he has not cast a single Dark spell in the fifteen years he has resided under this roof, and one cannot make a man pay forever for the sins of his youth. I do not believe he is, at this day, any more a Dark Wizard than I am.”

Remus was not so sure. He was not only a Dark Arts scholar but the son of a magical ethicist, and he subscribed to the somewhat unorthodox view that almost any magic could be Dark magic; it was all in the spell-caster’s will and state of mind. And when he thought of Snape humiliating young Neville in front of his classmates... Yes, the desire to cause pain was there.

“And so I ask you to trust him as I have trusted you,” Dumbledore concluded. “That said, I can only ask for your trust; I cannot compel it. If you find that you are truly unable to grant it, speak, and I will listen.”

A hush fell over the room, and the members of the Order looked at one another. So many of them had, Remus knew, been the beneficiaries of that same implicit trust and forgiveness – Hagrid, Mundungus, Remus himself. Sirius.

“I trust yeh,” said Hagrid, “an’ I’ll trust him as well on yer say-so.”

“And so will I.” Arabella Figg’s shrill voice came from the far end of the table. “Though I do think he’s a nasty piece of work, mind, and I’d like to give him a piece of my mind about the way he treats those kids.”

“I have faith in your judgment,” said Remus after a moment. He might as well join the other misfits and outcasts at the table; it would be absurdly hypocritical of him to do anything else.

“As do I,” said Arthur Weasley quietly, and one member of the Order after another nodded and murmured their agreement. Minerva McGonagall still looked troubled, and so, he thought, did Tonks.

“How are you holding up?” he asked in an undertone after the meeting.

“All right. I didn’t know you’d volunteered to spy on Greyback. You didn’t say anything about it.” There was something slightly accusing in the way she looked at him, and he supposed she had a right to feel betrayed. They were used to being partnered with each other on missions; not that there had ever been any official arrangement to that effect, but everyone in the Order knew they worked well together.

“I didn’t know about it myself until today.”

“Oh. Well – I suppose it’s necessary, but – oh, you will be careful, won’t you? Don’t take any more risks than you have to.”

He smiled, remembering how many times he’d given the same advice to her. “Of course not.”

“What name do you want to use?”

“What name? Oh – John, I guess. John Roper.” It was his mother’s maiden name and the first alias that popped into his head.

“Right. I’ll take care of it this week.” She looked at him for a moment, as if she were on the verge of saying something else, and then turned away abruptly.

He wondered momentarily if Sirius had been right, and her feelings for him were more than friendly – and then Molly Weasley swept down on him and said almost the same thing about being careful, only at greater length and more fussily, and he laughed at his own vanity. Of course the idea was completely absurd.

 

                                                            *          *          *

It was a rare, clear day at the end of the darkest summer Britain had ever known. The mists of breeding dementors had dispersed for the time being. In a small house on the outskirts of Manchester’s wizarding district, a striped Cheshire cat was curled up in a patch of sunlight in front of the window, lazily turning himself visible and invisible as the mood struck him.

The room was inviting if rather shabby, with a faded hand-braided rug and wall-to-wall bookshelves. Celia Lupin, a well-known scholar of magical ethics, was sitting at a desk in a state of scholarly disarray, covered with quills and stacks of books and notes for Celia’s upcoming lecture on the Ministry of Magic’s often tenuous relationship with the International Code of Wizarding Justice.

“Do you think it’s going to do any good?” asked Linus Berowne, who was stretched out on the sofa drawing cartoons for the next issue of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Linus was the Cheshire cat’s owner and Celia’s – well, boyfriend sounded absurd at their age, but at any rate, they had been seeing a lot of each other. He was also a werewolf, a condition with which Celia had considerable experience. They had met through Celia’s son, Remus, who had befriended Linus shortly after he was bitten last Christmas.

“I don’t really believe it will,” said Celia, frowning at a sheet of parchment and erasing a few words with a flick of her wand, “but somebody has to speak out. Are you familiar with Rufus Scrimgeour’s record in the last war?”

“One of old Barty Crouch’s party, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He was the one who petitioned for permission for the Aurors to use the Unforgivable Curses. And then he had all of the paperwork about their use sealed. No one’s been able to prove abuse, but it looks a bit funny when the records haven’t been opened fifteen years after the fact.”

“Is that going in your talk?”

“No, it’s too speculative. And too pointed. There’s a call for open Ministry records and greater accountability, though, which this government will almost certainly ignore.”

Linus nodded absently. He was sketching Martin and friends attending a Muggle political rally. Junior Minister Herbert Chorley, who had undergone treatment in St. Mungo’s earlier that summer, was in the middle of a speech when he abruptly relapsed. He began flapping his arms and quacking.

The audience looked at one another in perplexity. At last one of them ventured, Well, if the Minister says it, it must be right.

The next page showed an entire auditorium of Muggles doing their best imitations of ducks. Quack! Quack-quack! QUAAANNK! Quack, quack, quack! QUACK!

Celia looked over his shoulder at the cartoons. “You’re going to get complaints that you’re being anti-Muggle, you know.”

“Usually from the same people who are falling all over themselves to agree with every word Scrimgeour says,” Linus agreed. “Way to miss the point.” (Martin Miggs might call himself a Muggle, but his behavior often bore a suspicious resemblance to the current follies and fashions of the wizarding world.)

But Celia was no longer listening. She had turned toward the front window and was watching a man who was walking up the path. “Look. It’s Remus.”

“Hello, Mum,” said Remus when she opened the door. He looked even thinner and more tired than usual. “Hello, Linus. I thought I’d stop in and check on you.”

“Tea?” Celia offered.

“All right. But I can’t stay long.”

This was no great surprise; they had seen very little of Remus lately. Celia tapped the side of the tea kettle with her wand and took a plate of muffins out of the pantry.

It was not until he had finished his second cup of tea that Remus spoke about the real reason for his visit. “Mum ...” He swallowed heavily. “I’ve got something I need to tell you. I’ve, well, volunteered for a mission...”

Celia tensed visibly. The Cheshire cat jumped from her lap.

“It has to do with Fenrir Greyback, doesn’t it?” she said after a moment.

“How did you know?”

“It was in the papers this morning. Two little girls in Wales. I didn’t think you’d be able to stand by and let it go on...”

“No. I can’t.”

Mother and son looked at each other, steadily, unblinking. Linus, who occasionally found the Lupin brand of reserve trying, wished that they would embrace, or start throwing things at each other, or something.

“I see,” said Celia at last. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. I won’t say not to go – but do try not to get yourself killed, will you?”

“You’re the third person who’s made me promise not to take unnecessary risks. That means I won’t be able to write, so I’ve come to say goodbye, I’m afraid. For a while, anyway.”

Celia merely nodded, but Linus couldn’t bear the look in her eyes any longer. “Why won’t you be able to write?” he demanded. “Surely you’re not the only werewolf out there with a mother! Why would it look suspicious if you stay in touch?”

It was Celia, not Remus, who broke the tense silence that followed. “Remus is a bit of a special case,” she said. “He can’t very well use his own name. You see, it was Greyback who bit him.”

“WHAT?!?” The news, in itself, was not so shocking – Fenrir Greyback specialized in maiming and infecting the very young – but Linus found it almost impossible to believe that Celia and Remus could discuss the matter so coolly.

“It was over thirty years ago,” said Remus, “back in the days when Greyback was first gathering his followers, and nobody dared to speak of what he was doing. My father – well, he was rather good with potions – he used to teach at Beauxbatons, you know – and people sometimes came to him when they needed medical treatment but didn’t want to report to a Healer. One day these people brought a child to him – the parents had spent four days trying to treat the injuries themselves because they didn’t want the Ministry to find out. My father was outraged – denounced Greyback in front of the Wizengamot and demanded to know why the Ministry wasn’t doing something about him. Well, he was the sort of person who was always tilting at windmills, and he had about as much tact as a rampaging hippogriff, so the only effect of his crusade was to put him at the top of Greyback’s enemies list. And Greyback, well...”

“... prefers to take his revenge on the innocent,” said Celia bitterly.

“Remus, you’re mad,” said Linus. “Absolutely barking. If Greyback had a grudge against your father, won’t he know who you are?”

Remus shrugged. “It’s not likely. Not after thirty years. I’m not much like him, you see.”

Linus had never met Celia’s husband, who had been murdered by Death Eaters fifteen years earlier, but he let his gaze drift over to the collection of family photos on the mantelpiece. Remus did, indeed, take after his mother; he was small-boned, with fair skin, light brown hair, and blue eyes. His father, a Frenchman, had been tall, dark, and intense-looking. Nevertheless, the wizarding photographs revealed that both men shared certain quirks of expression, and a proud lift to the chin...

“Suppose I went in your place,” said Linus a few minutes later, while Celia was washing up in the kitchen. “They’ll be readier to trust me – I haven’t been infected for very long, and nobody knows anything about my loyalties, except that I don’t care for the Ministry.”

“They won’t know anything about mine either. I mean to have a friend at the Ministry draw up some false papers. They’ll say I was bitten a year ago while on holiday, and I’m being watched on suspicion of having Death Eater sympathies.”

“A bit of a risk, don’t you think? Suppose Greyback recognizes your face?”

Remus shrugged. “We’re at war. There are always risks – and someone needs to stop him.”

“Remus. Let me go. For your mother’s sake.” Linus made the offer on impulse, and almost immediately wondered what he had got himself into. He valued his creature comforts – and somebody would have to feed his cat.

The younger man smiled vaguely. “Last time I looked, my mother was a bit fond of you, too.”

“Not the way she is of you. It would break Celia’s heart if anything happened to you.”

“It won’t,” said Remus firmly. “I’ve had experience at this sort of thing in the last war, and I’m younger than you are and better able to stand living rough for months at a time. I’ll be all right.”

Linus couldn’t think of a good counterargument. It was true that he was sixty-eight, which was well into middle age even by wizarding standards, although he hadn’t felt his years much until he had been bitten nine months earlier. These days, he was becoming accustomed to constant aches and stiffness, even at the new moon, and the first day after a transformation was simply wretched.

“Besides ... well, let’s just say that I’ve got access to more information than you do. And more ways of communicating.”

“Ah.” Celia had told Linus some time ago that she suspected her son belonged to one of the secret societies that formed the greater part of the resistance against Lord Voldemort’s forces, but exactly what he did for them had been a mystery until now. Linus asked no more questions, although Remus’ words had piqued his curiosity; his young friend tended to shut up tighter than a clam if you pressed him for information he didn’t want to give. “Good luck to you,” he said at last.

“Thank you,” said Remus. “I expect I shall need it.”