Remorse

Author’s Notes: Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed Chapter One. The idea of Tonks having doubts about her Auror work grew out of a discussion at Lupin’s Little Sister’s Livejournal. The scene at the Sign of the Bones owes much to Stetson Kennedy’s I Rode With the Ku Klux Klan, especially the suggestion that Fenrir is actually running a lucrative pyramid scheme.

Chapter Two: At the Sign of the Bones

Nymphadora Tonks examined her handiwork: a perfect imitation of a Werewolf Registry file. Name, John Clement Roper; Date Bitten, 11 June 1995; Place, Sweden. And so on and on: physical description, blood group, psychological profile, assorted bureaucratic trivia – with a handwritten note at the bottom: Has not turned in a Wolfsbane compliance report in three months. Spotted in Knockturn Alley in the company of known Death Eaters. Embittered and potentially violent.

Like all Ministry documents, the report was printed on paper that was theoretically forgery-proof; but part of an Auror’s training was learning how to work around the anti-forgery charms, if need be. The report consisted entirely of lies, of course, save for certain physical details; those were a precise match for the ones in another file: Name, Remus John Lupin; Date Bitten, 6 November 1965; Place, Lancashire. In copying them, she had learned that Remus had a small birthmark on his left shoulder when he was a man and white paws when he was a wolf; that he had been bitten on his heel and escaped further injury by climbing a tree; and that he hadn’t been home in time for Christmas.

A twinge of pain in her side, where Bellatrix’s curse had hit her, made her gasp for breath as she tucked the papers into their separate files. She would return the original to the Beasts Division along with the dummy; the spotty-faced kid who worked there would probably let You-Know-Who himself into the room with the files, as long as he came equipped with an Auror’s identification card. And then she would Disapparate to Hogsmeade, where she had been due to report for her new assignment half an hour ago. (Titus Dawlish was going to be furious, but she had a private rule that Order work took precedence over Ministry work.)

After that, it was all up to Remus. And she reminded herself that Remus – in spite of everything she’d said when she was trying to dissuade him from volunteering – was no fool.

It was getting on for evening and most of the Ministry staff had left work over an hour ago. She judged that the building would be nearly deserted by now, and few or none of her fellow workers would wonder why she was visiting the Beasts Division.

She swallowed heavily and walked down the corridor, chin up and both files hidden under her cloak. Amelia Bones’ office was still roped off and a DO NOT DISTURB sign was posted outside. Dust was beginning to collect on the papers that were still scattered over the desk, exactly as they had been on the day she was murdered.

A heavy thump shattered the silence. Tonks drew her wand and whirled around, banging her elbow on the wall. “Step forward – slowly – and state your name and your business.”

There was a growly chuckle from the shadows. “And they call me paranoid.”

“Oh, Mad-Eye! Sorry, you startled me.”

Though he had technically been retired for years, Alastor Moody was notorious for his inability to stay away from Auror headquarters, and frequently toured the premises outside of business hours. Everybody tolerated him except Dawlish, who considered him stark raving mad and probably a dangerous radical to boot.

Moody, as usual, was in the mood to catch up on the Division of Magical Law Enforcement gossip. He sat on the edge of a desk in one of the empty cubicles and swung his wooden leg up on a chair. “How’s young Robards working out as department head?” (“Young Robards” was fifty-two and quite grey-haired.)

Tonks considered the question. “He’ll be all right, I think. Easier to work with than Scrimgeour, at any rate. I don’t mean that he’d ever go against the Minister, because he wouldn’t, but he isn’t – He cares about what the department is, not what it looks like, and that’s a great relief.”

“Aye. He always struck me as a man of integrity.”

“He’s about the only one left in the Ministry, then.” She was surprised at the bitterness in her own voice.

“You’re too young to be that cynical, lass. What’s happened?”

She shrugged. “Nothing.” And then, after a moment, she said, “Everything. Titus Dawlish didn’t take the news of our adventures at the Ministry very well, so I’m getting exiled to Siberia, I mean Hogsmeade, so he can keep me under his direct eye, and Kingsley gets to babysit the Muggle Prime Minister until further notice. Oh, and Cornelius Fudge had the gall to send me a sympathy card – I didn’t even know they made ‘So sorry your aunt murdered your cousin’ cards, but apparently you can buy anything at Scribbulus.”

“Likely one of the new-fangled ones. They have Personalization Charms embedded in them.”

“Oh, is that how it’s done? Anyway, not only did he choose the tackiest personalization possible, but he conveniently left out the Ministry’s role in things. Azkaban killed Sirius.” Her hand went to her side as the curse scar throbbed again. “Hell, maybe it killed them both. I don’t know any more.”

“The most notorious Death Eater in history killed Sirius,” said Moody sharply, “and thirteen years in Azkaban is better than she deserved. Oh, I know what you’re going through – we’ve all been there, after the first flush of idealism wears off. You get to wondering if you’re any better than the Dark wizards you’re meant to be fighting. But you can’t think like that. It keeps you from doing your job.”

Tonks said nothing. Perhaps Mad-Eye was right – but then, he was of the old school, and it seemed to her that if Aurors didn’t think about these things, they couldn’t do their job either, at least not the way it was meant to be done.

“There’s a world of difference between the worst of us and the best of them,” said Moody, “and you’ve seen the best of us, for that matter. Do you really think Kingsley isn’t a man of integrity? Or Arthur?”

“No,” she said, and then, “I don’t know. We’ve been deceiving the people who trusted us for a year, haven’t we?” She shifted uncomfortably as the file folders under her cloak dug into her ribs. “I mean, we knew our motives were good, but what if we’d been wrong?”

“We weren’t wrong.” Moody fixed his magical eye on her with such concentration that she wondered if he were trying to see through her skull. “Something about what we’re doing troubling you?”

Of course it was. Anybody in their right mind would be troubled at the thought of sending a man – a good, decent man who would have done anything for the cause, but not a fighter or a spy by training – alone into the wilderness against the twisted soul who had blighted his childhood? But somehow she didn’t feel like telling Moody how she felt about that.

“Nothing in particular. Oh, blast! Dawlish is going to have my head – I’m almost an hour late. You’ve still got a Ministry ID – take these back to the Beasts Division, would you? One of them’s a forgery, but the kid who works there is none too bright, and he shouldn’t notice.”

Moody nodded. “If he does, better I get caught with it than you. Best not to get any further on Tight-Arse’s wrong side if you don’t have to.”

Tonks managed a giggle. “Dawlish was called that in your day, too?”

“He was probably called that in his cradle. Regardless, don’t provoke him.”

She sighed. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t rock the boat, right? Remus said the same thing.”

“You shouldn’t sink the boat,” said Moody. “You can’t get away with it but once in your career, and that’s if you’re lucky. I reckon you’ve got sense enough to know if that time ever comes.”

 

                                                            *          *          *

Sam Barker, the werewolf who had bitten Linus, was still living in a run-down cottage near the village of Raven’s Glen, which was home to a small community of wizards. A few months earlier, Barker’s testimony had led the Order to discover a conspiracy headed by Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, who had at least two werewolf attacks, a burglary, and an attempted murder to her credit, in addition to the many abuses of power she had perpetrated at Hogwarts and elsewhere.

Umbridge had walked free. As soon as she recovered her sanity after being manhandled by centaurs, the ranks of the Ministry had closed around her. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the only Auror present for Barker’s confession, had been shunted off into a position that kept him in the Muggle world for months at a time; the other two witnesses were both fellow werewolves whose testimony was considered unreliable. According to the Ministry, Umbridge was still too unwell to face trial for the attack on Linus or for her scarcely less unethical actions as High Inquisitor of Hogwarts. Tonks, however, said that she had spotted Umbridge in Diagon Alley one day, walking a miserable-looking French poodle that appeared to have been dyed pink and shaved into a shape resembling a topiary. The former Undersecretary looked as if she were in perfect health.

Her co-conspirators had also walked free, which was a piece of luck for Remus. He did not precisely trust Sam Barker, but he knew that the other werewolf was his best prospect for an initial contact with Greyback’s people, and he was privy to enough information about Barker’s work for Umbridge to make Barker’s life very unpleasant.

He knocked at the door of Barker’s hut, and was greeted with a snarled, “Come in, if you must!”

“Mr. Barker? I’m John Roper. We met last year, but I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Knew you’d be back,” said Barker in a tone that was neither hostile nor welcoming, merely defeated. “Wanting a favor, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Remus, hoping that Barker would not make any difficulty about why he should provide Remus with an introduction to Greyback. Blackmail, though it might be an inescapable part of his mission, was not to his taste. “I want to meet Fenrir Greyback. Or at least, somebody as close to him as possible.”

Barker whistled. “Don’t ask much, do you, mate? I’ll tell you up front that you’ve got to be a madman to want to meet Greyback.”

Remus met his eyes. “Let’s just say I have unusual taste in acquaintances.”

“Got tired of kissing arse and trying to be a good little Ministry werewolf? Or have you got fantasies of being some kind of spy?”

Remus thought it was a bit rich of Barker to speak about “Ministry werewolves” in that contemptuous tone when he had been Dolores Umbridge’s pawn a few months earlier. He was trying to think of a safe reply when Barker forestalled him. “Never mind. Don’t want to know, so don’t tell me. I’m not personally acquainted with Greyback, but you might call me a friend of some of his friends. I went hunting with them once, but it wasn’t my scene. After that we sort of let each other alone, but you don’t ever really stop being a friend of a friend of Greyback’s, not if you want to stay in one piece. That good enough for you?”

“It might. Can you arrange an introduction to some of these ... mutual friends?”

“Yeah. But you won’t like it. If you’ve got the idea it’s any better than trying to play the game, it ain’t. Once you’re in, you’re in for life, but I just pay my dues once a year and hope they leave me alone.” Suddenly Barker turned and gave a harsh, wheezy laugh. “Say, didn’t you tell me last time we met that you’d never sunk low enough to consider murder-for-hire a valid career choice. Not so high-and-mighty now, are you?”

“I’ve had some bad luck since then,” Remus said noncommitally.

“We’ve all had bad luck. Starting on the day we were bitten.”

Remus bit his tongue and refrained from asking Barker why he had been so ready to spread the bad luck around.

“If you’re sure you want to meet some friends of Fenrir, you’re best off going to a pub in Knockturn Alley – the Sign of the Bones, it’s called. Rough place, don’t go in there without your wand. You’ll find ‘em sooner or later, or they’ll find you, if you let ‘em know what you are.”

“Thank you,” said Remus, offering his hand.

Sam Barker snorted. “Thank you?”

“Yes,” said Remus defiantly. So he was a blackmailer of sorts, and both he and Barker knew it. That wasn’t any reason to be discourteous about it.

Barker shook his head. “You do beat all,” he said.

 

                                                            *          *          *

Even the cheapest of wizarding inns was beyond Remus’ means, so he decided to stay at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place while he was in London. Dumbledore had said he was confident that Bellatrix Lestrange was not about to turn up on the doorstep, but the Order had not yet moved back in and the house had an eerie, uninhabited feel. The cheerless mist that hung over the city seemed to seep through the cracks.

The unexpected arrival of Tonks, late in the afternoon, would have brightened things up under ordinary circumstances, but she was looking pretty cheerless these days as well. Poor kid, he thought; the war had become real to her in a matter of weeks, with her cousin and her boss murdered. The Ministry had also shipped her out to Hogsmeade, a tough assignment that meant twelve-hour guard duty shifts because Robards had insisted he could spare only four Aurors for the detail. He was surprised to see her in London, but he realized she must have to report back to her superiors from time to time.

“How is everything?” he asked her.

“All right. Busy. It’s been mad lately, ever since Amelia died.” Her voice seemed so small in the vast stillness of the house.

“Did you get a chance to do what Professor Dumbledore asked you to do? With the files?”

She gulped. “Yes, and I made you a new identity card in case you need it. But I wish –”

“What?”

“Don’t go. You’re free to turn the mission down; Dumbledore’s always said –”

“I have to go. Fenrir Greyback is mine to fight.” He looked around the wreckage of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place: portraits of sneering pureblooded ancestors, heaps of tarnished silver, a puddle of wax in a corner where Sirius had dropped a candle after a night of hard drinking. “The same way you and Sirius had to fight against your own family. We all have certain battles that are marked out for us.”

She bit her lip, and he wished he hadn’t mentioned Sirius: her grief was still fresh, and sharper than his own because she was younger and unaccustomed to it. She blamed herself, he thought, because she had not yet learned the most terrible lesson of war. Death was random, and it came regardless of what one did or failed to do.

“You’re right,” she said. “I – I reckon this is goodbye, then. Dawlish says he wants us for twelve-hour shifts starting tomorrow.”

He stepped forward to give her a parting hug, and unexpectedly she turned her pale, heart-shaped face upward and kissed him on the lips. He was so startled that he kissed her back. And because he liked the way she tasted and the softness of her small breasts pressed against him and the little noises of desire she was making, it took him fully a minute to come to his senses.

Oh damn. And they had been such good friends, too. “We can’t, Tonks. This isn’t the time for it.”

“When you come back – when this is over – will that be the right time?”

It would have been sweet to say yes; but this year’s promise was next year’s set of chains, and he dared not hope that she would feel the same way when he returned. “By the time I come back –” he forced himself to smile at her – “you’ll have found some good-looking fellow your own age and you won’t need to go chasing after old werewolves. You can do quite a bit better than me, I assure you.”

She studied him as though trying to memorize every line on his face. “No,” she said simply. “I think not. And I’m not that young. I’m twenty-three.”

“Forgive me, but that sounds very young to me.”

“Oh?” She pulled away and raised an eyebrow. “What were you doing when you were twenty-three?”

He had been in Mongolia and he had been running away – grieving, betrayed, confused. He had seen his father and most of his friends murdered by Death Eaters. He had been desperately poor (because of his illness and the stigma it carried) and desperate to avoid pity (because of everything). The enormity of what had almost happened between them hit him. How could he ask her to share a life that had been marked, in every possible way, by loss and want?

“It’s not the same,” he said firmly. “You haven’t experienced – You can’t possibly understand.”

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced. He hadn’t meant them to sound as patronizing as they did. But before he could apologize, she turned away.

“Fine then,” she said over her shoulder as she walked out the door. “Shut everyone out if you’re bound to.”

This was unfair, he thought; he hadn’t shut her out at all. The truth was that he had come to depend greatly on her friendship – so much that it frightened him sometimes. He reminded himself that there was no room for friendship where he was going.

 

                                                            *          *          *

The floor of the Sign of the Bones was hard-packed with grime. The men inside – there were only a few women, most of them in fishnet stockings and caked-on makeup – wore the embittered, brutal look of wizarding society’s cast-offs. Argus Filch, who was nursing a pot of ale in a corner, was the only familiar face, and he looked positively friendly compared to the rest of the crowd. Remus kept his eyes low and his face muffled; although Filch seemed unlikely to interfere with his plans, he preferred not to be recognized.

He ordered a pint of ale – which proved to be thin and sour but extremely cheap – settled himself on a bar stool, and kept his ears open.

Remus was the sort of person other people found easy to talk to, and it took him only a few pints to blend into the scenery far enough to become the recipient of drunken confidences from strangers. He declined an offer to share some Mind-Blowing Mortweed and consoled a young witch who seemed – as far as he could make out from her slurred speech – to be having trouble with her pimp, but neither of these conversations seemed to get him anywhere.

The next two days were much the same, but on the fourth afternoon, by a fortuitous coincidence, the Wizarding Wireless Network ran an interview with Damocles Belby. A grizzled man on the next stool over leaned forward at an unsteady angle and hissed into Remus’ ear, “First potions and dope, next the Ministry will be pulling our teeth out. But if Fenrir was here, he’d show the normals why it don’t pay to mess with a ly-can-thrope.” He pronounced the last word carefully.

“What?” said Remus stupidly. Perhaps he was already drunk, but the entire pub seemed to lurch and sway.

“Do you know a Mr. Ayafof?”

“Who?”

“No, I reckon you wouldn’t have made his acquaintance yet. But don’t try to pretend you’re not a werewolf, lad. You’ve got the Look.” The stranger grinned broadly, exposing stained teeth.

“No, you’re right. But you weren’t talking about Fenrir Greyback a minute ago? He’s long gone, isn’t he? Almost a legend.”

“That’s what the Ministry wants you to think! The Ly-ce-um’s going to rise again.” The stranger made a couple of chopping motions in the air with his left hand, a gesture which meant nothing to Remus.

“I’d be half tempted to join them, if they were still around,” said Remus, trying to sound noncommittal.

“Just say the word, lad. I’ll take care of you, and I’ll even give you a discount on the membership fee.”

“You’re talking like you’re a recruiter or something.” Remus forced a laugh, although he would not have been surprised to learn that his new acquaintance was just that.

“A Lyconian, we call it. Best one in the country.”

“The fee’s probably more than I can afford. I’m – well, between jobs at the moment.”

“And whose fault is it you’re out of work, son? How much would you give to make them pay?”

“Point taken,” said Remus. “How much is the membership fee?”

“The Lycurrency is five Galleons. But for you, four. I get a Galleon and a half commission on new members, so I can adjust the fees a bit if I like you.”

So, Remus thought, the Lyceum doubled as a pyramid scheme. He felt troubled; he knew the Order’s coffers would cover the expense, but all the same, he didn’t like the thought of placing money in Greyback’s hands. “I haven’t got it on me at the moment,” he said at last. It wouldn’t hurt to play hard to get, in any case.

“It’ll wait. We’ve got to run a few background checks before you can join, in any case. You got anybody who can vouch for you?”

“I know a man named Sam Barker pretty well,” said Remus. “I think he’s a member.”

“Good man, Barker,” the Lyconian said approvingly. “Keeps himself to himself, but he joined us a while back and he’s made no trouble. I’ll have a word with him. Anybody else?”

Yeah, Fenrir Greyback. He and I go way back. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, one’s enough if he knows you well. What’s your name, mate?”

“Roper. John Roper.”

“Rudolph Smithfield.” The man extended a hand. “They got a file on you at the Ministry, Roper?”

“Yes. I tried to cooperate with them before I knew better.”

“Well, the Ministry’s got its uses. We’ll have one of our ... respectable friends check it out and see if you sound like our sort, and then – meet me back here in a week’s time with your Lycurrency, and we’ll get you signed up if everything checks out.”

Remus made a mental note to find out who the respectable friends were.