A Midsummer's Journey

Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;
Four nights will quickly dream away the time;
And then the moon, like to a silver bow
New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night
Of our solemnities.- A Midsummer Night's Dream

Running a hand through his hair, Lupin grimaced as he lifted the vial to his lips. The Wolfsbane potion held true to form. No matter how often he took it, the taste did not improve. Shuddering, he swallowed, and quickly downed the rest of the potion. He arose and began pacing, concern knotting his shoulders as he walked. How he hated the prospect of turning into the wolf with Hermione in the house. Though he checked, and rechecked the cellar that he would shut himself into tonight, reassuring himself there was no possibility of escape, he was edgy about the whole affair.

Running his hand through his hair once more, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror by the stairs as he strode past. My god, he thought. He glared at his reflection. I already look like a damnable creature, he mused, as he looked at his hair standing up in every direction. His eyes were already starting to change, seeing the yellow tinge around the light gray irises, the narrowing of the pupils. No one would have noticed these subtle changes unless they were gazing intently into his eyes with familiarity. As if that had happened in the last ten years, he thought cynically. At least the charm he applied daily kept the hair on his face and body from growing thicker.

"Headmaster, are you sure about this?"

"I would not have asked this of you if I had any doubts."

"But surely someone else would be more appropriate."

"I have confidence in you, Remus."

He stared down at his hands, not wanting to protest further.

"Why do you question my judgement?"

Knowing that Dumbledore guessed his doubts, he remained silent.

"I realize that this task may not be what you desire, but it is very important."

"I did not say it wasn't important. Every life is valuable."

"Except yours?"

Again, he did not answer, but his lips curled slightly.

Dumbledore walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I could not risk what may happen to you if I sent you where I know your talent desires to be, even if you could. Your soul is more precious than that, no matter what the state of your life."

What had Dumbledore been thinking? Combing his hair with the comb he had summoned from his room, he tried to fathom what the Headmaster had been up to.

As part of the Order, he was always willing to do whatever it took to further the cause against Voldemort, but this? He would rather be out hunting those who sought the bounty on her head than to risk harming her more than they might.

He often envisioned being captured by those who did not know what he was, and turning into the creature, to kill and maim the lot of them. Ripping their necks, watching the blood pulse from the torn jugular...

Shuddering, he looked again at his reflection, noting the pure terror on it. Moony get a grip, it's just the day talking. Taking deep breaths to steady his heart and hands, he started getting breakfast, and preparing for the night.

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Tension filled the air between them as they poured over books; the unsaid concern about the night spoke volumes. The last two days had passed pleasantly. In the mornings, they had worked in the garden, and spent the afternoons going over spells, both offensive and defensive. She was quick to learn the advanced hexes and charms, and he took pleasure in teaching her. He found her sharp mind and hunger for knowledge as enticing as her attire.

Keeping his eyes, and thoughts, off the becoming shorts outfits she appeared in daily had taken a lot of self-control and inner berating. It's just the pull of the time of month, mingled with the fact of the lack of the aging potion, he argued often. Ravishing his charge was not an option, hearing Snape's knowing voice. I told you not to trust a werewolf.

"Have you forgotten Headmaster, what he and his damn friends tried to do to me?"

"I have not grown senile yet, Severus."

"And yet, you would trust this creature to watch over a student alone."

"This creature happens to be present."

Snape gave him a loathing look, as if he had stepped in something unpleasant.

"Childhood grudges have no place here, Severus. Remus is my choice."

"Very well, I will stand by your decision, Dumbledore. Might I suggest," he turned toward Lupin eyes glittering maliciously, "that should you infect her with your evilness, do the decent thing and kill her."

Closing his book, Lupin stood up. He needed to keep busy, and this wasn't working. "It's a fine day outside; I do believe laundry is the order of the day."

"I don't know how. I mean, I do laundry at home, we have electrical appliances there, but the house-elves always did the laundry at school."

"A lesson, then," he said, winking at her. They proceeded to go outside, where he filled two large metal tubs with water. Adding soap to one, he picked up some of his clothes and put it in. "It is just three simple charms," he explained, "hardly a nod in the right direction. Abluo," he said, pointing his wand at the first tub. The water began churning as it gyrated the clothes. "Eluo." The clothes flipped themselves over to the tub that held the clean water. "Amoveo unda." Water dripped from the clothes as they twisted and fell nicely in the basket.

"And that's it?" Hermione laughed, glad for the diversion from the tension.

"A most serious endeavour," he said teasingly as she left to get her laundry.

Gathering up her clothes, she noted the school robes she had worn her first night here lying in the corner. Picking them up, she felt a lump in the pocket. Snape's box. She had forgotten about it. Pulling it out, she opened it. An exquisite letter opener lay on soft black velvet. Shaped like a miniature sword, the hilt had been crafted into two intertwining serpents, ruby eyes glittering. Why had he thought she might need... Then it dawned on her, dread flooding her. It was pure silver.

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Once the pain of the transformation was complete, he sighed wearily, and curled up on the cold, stone floor. He was very thankful to the Wolfsbane potion; he was glad that he could at least keep his mind. Sleep is the best remedy, he reminded himself, and tried to push away thoughts of Hermione as he drifted off.

The wolf was running through the forest, following the smell of fear. Fear was the sweetest aroma to him, giving him a sense of power. In the brilliant light of the moon, he overcame his prey, barrelling down upon it, snapping its neck with one quick movement. The warm blood of the hare splayed over his muzzle as he drank deeply. Moving on to a stream, he lapped greedily at the clear, sparkling water, and then he saw her reflection. She was standing on the opposite bank, her soft brown eyes looking quizzically at him. Her coat was silver and thick, and he loped across the stream toward her. She shied away, but stopped, trembling, allowing him to come nearer. Coming close, he sniffed in the heady scent of her, alluring, inviting. She yelped as he overcame her, surrendering to the thrust of his domination.

Afterwards, they ran through the fields, frolicking, biting at the other's front legs, until they grew weary and sat down on a grassy knoll, overlooking a small cottage. Looking at him, she seemed to smile, and lifted her muzzle to the sky. A low, mournful sound emitted deep within her throat, and the music echoed throughout the night.

NO! The werewolf, Lupin, jerked awake. He still heard the howl, heard it reverberating off his being. He couldn't; think... remember who you are; don't let this happen...Oh god, he moaned inwardly as he lifted his muzzle and let out a piercing howl.

The howl awoke her with a jerk; she had been sleeping fitfully anyway. Oh my, what happened? Lupin had explained everything to her that evening, over dinner, before he had went down into the root cellar. The Wolfsbane potion would allow him to keep his mind, to prevent the urges. If it worked, it would be a quiet night, but again, she heard the mournful sound. It echoed again and again. Climbing out of bed, she crept down to the common room, going over the trapdoor near the stove. She couldn't go down there; she knew it was much too dangerous. The howling subsided, but now she heard the snarling and yelps of pain, and she knew Lupin was biting himself. Stifling a sob, she hurried back upstairs.

Unable to get the thought out of her mind, she headed into Lupin's room. She wanted to know more about this affliction of his.

Hermione paused, her breath coming faster as she looked around Lupin's room. She felt as if she had just crossed some unfathomable chasm, as she invaded his privacy. He wouldn't mind, she told herself. Keep busy, chase away the invasion of troubling thoughts; she had to keep thinking, learning. Searching though his stack of books, she found nothing.

Then she saw it, lying on the bed stand. Picking up the book, she read the title, Dark and Dangerous Creatures of Black Sorcery. Lighting the candle next to the bed, she trembled as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She didn't have to search the book for what she was looking for, as it fell open to the section when she laid it in her lap. Lycanthropy.

She read through the symptoms and the ways one becomes a werewolf. It was very familiar, as she had completed a lengthy essay for Professor Snape in her third year on werewolves. It had been his way of trying to expose Lupin for what he was.

Reading through the account of werewolves and their destruction, her eyes fell immediately on an underlined reference as she turned the page.

Damnation.

A person who becomes a werewolf against his will (birth, curse, or bite) is not completely damned until he tastes of human blood. Once he does, his soul is eternally damned and nothing may redeem him. Even without tasting of human blood, however, as long as the taint lays upon the immortal soul, it cannot enter Heaven, and will remain chained to the mortal plane upon death.

The words 'eternally damned' had been underlined so many times that the page beneath it had the imprint of the ink. She did not remember finding this information when she had done her essay. Now she understood, more clearly, the intense fear he had of somehow infecting or killing another person. Tears flooding her eyes, she clasped the book to her chest as she rocked. Oh Remus, how terribly alone you are.

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Coming up from the cellar mid-morning, he stumbled over to the table. "Water," he gasped hoarsely. He managed a weak smile as she handed him the glass. Hands trembling, he downed several glasses before resting his elbows on the table, face hid in his hands.

Fighting back tears as she watched him shake, taking in the torn blood caked robes, she felt emotions flooding her: pity, anger, helplessness; her heart ached for him. Finally, he looked up. Noting the concern on her face, he managed another smile. "I just need to rest, the night was... very taxing."

"I understand," she murmured, as he rose unsteadily from the chair. As he headed upstairs, she called to him, "I am here should you need me, you know where I am."

Touché, he mused.

Wearily lying down on the bed, he was ashamed that she had to see him like this. Rolling over, he caught the aroma on his pillow, like warm earth, a light citrus mingled with musky roses and autumn leaves. Hermione's scent. Too exhausted to wonder why she had slept here, he hugged the pillow close, comforted, and drifted into sleep.

Even a man who is pure of heart
and says his prayers by night
can become a wolf when the Wolfbane blooms
and the moon is full and bright.