Unplottable

14 - Varlerta

Fudge condescends to come by the day after the second Ice Missile victim has attempted a death curse. Personally, I'd say Fudge is one of the last people we should ask for help in this affair; however, there seems to be a little problem in temporarily de-wanding people, even if they are only students. The snapping of a wand is one of the worst punishments witches and wizards can be subjected to, though I should think most would prefer it to being sent to Azkaban. As a temporary de-wanding somehow has the reek of a formal conviction, it seems that British magical laws permit it only if it is accompanied with an appropriate bulk of bureaucracy. Therefore, to stop our students from shooting death curses until we have found a cure for them, we must ask Fudge's permission.

Dumbledore calls for a staff meeting in his office. Present are the Headmaster, looking sicker than ever, Minerva, Verus, Heather, Chent, Cosinus, Remus - not as a teacher, but as a representative of the victims, a smart move of Dumbledore, I think. Then there's Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel, my combat expert Curtis, although this time his other expertise is required, and of course bowler-hatted Fudge himself. Oh yes, and my presence is also required, unfortunately.

The meeting seems to be more about paragraphs and regulations than about the fates of a number of people. Every now and then, Fudge employs the fireplace to consult with two barrister lackeys from the Ministry who talk as if they had personally invented bureaucracy. They suggest not a temporary de-wanding, but locking up the injured students at St. Mungo's. Also, they demand a thorough investigation of the legal issues involved in two minors shooting unsuccessful Unforgivable Curses under the influence of an unspecified evil force. My head buzzes, and when the meeting is adjourned to give the barristers time for further consultation, I am relieved even though no solution is found. As soon as I can make my excuses, I do, feeling a bit guilty about not staying with Lupin and Dumbledore who try to keep Fudge from commanding dreadful things to happen. I don't want to seem unconcerned about the students and their mysterious disease - as a matter of fact, far from being unconcerned, I am extremely worried. However, spending time in the vicinity of Fudge, watching how he handles the people he must consider scum, people like Verus, Remus and me, for example, is nothing short of a trial. I explain that I have tomorrow's lessons to prepare and head off for my place, not the least because I know Sirius will be dying to find out whether there is any news, and that he can't very well come by and ask as long as Fudge is there.

I find him on his favourite sofa in the music lab, reading the Daily Prophet, as usual. As soon as I come in, he almost jumps up from his seat, pulls me towards him onto the sofa and starts questioning me. I report as well as I can, telling him of my distaste for Fudge, which I know he shares, but, alas, also betraying my relief about Verus reporting his progress on a potion that at least seems to buy us some time.

"Trust that scum to make himself popular with Fudge," Sirius spits bitterly. "Order of Merlin, that's what he still wants, and if Dumbledore didn't know ways to stop him, he'd betray me any day. As it is, he's bragging about his shnirking potion achievements."

I should know it is no use trying to further peace between the two, but against my better knowledge I object rather lamely: "I don't think that's it, I just think he's trying to help until Flamel gets his stuff together."

Sirius remains unconvinced. "Yeah, right, help. The only person Snape has ever helped in any way is his own sweet self, the slimy git. He doesn't give a damn whether these students live, die or become killing machines as long as he can work it to his own advantage."

I believe in my heart he's wrong, but of course I can't prove it. As Sirius' words bother me nevertheless, I change tactics; I ask him: "Why do you hate him so much? Maybe I would understand your grudge better if I knew what he's done to you."

Sirius' eyes darken further; after a moment's hesitation, he hisses: "Because he's so repulsive, that's why - repulsive, nosy and obtrusive. He used to follow us around when we were students - spying on us and staring at us from afar. Obsessed he was, obsessed with James, I guess, the bloody faggot." His face assumes an expression of utmost disgust.

These things sometimes happen. You think you know someone, know him well, like him well - shnirk, Sirius is my lover. I pinch myself in the thigh to keep my temper in check. Breathe first, think second, do not speak until the first two are accomplished, I tell myself. I'm tempted to tell him there's no such thing as the word 'faggot' in my house, tell him in a very annoying, teacherly fashion, but I manage to check myself, if only because by uttering the word myself I would be belying my own statement. I try to remind myself that Sirius spent most of his adult life in prison, and that he may not have very sophisticated views on a few things. I tell myself that self-indulgent lecturing is never a good means to resolve a conflict. I pinch myself in the leg again.

Noticing my silence, Sirius needles me: "What, you don't think that's disgusting?"

"Nope, I don't," I say rather abruptly, I'm afraid. Then I try to explain, as patiently as my temper lets me: "Sirius, one of the things I really, really hate in this world is homophobia. Loads of my friends and acquaintances are gays and lesbians and transgender and whatnot. I do not see a thing in the world that's disgusting or wrong about it. Think of Roary and Pat - would you call them disgusting, too?"

Sirius has the good grace to blush. "I didn't mean that gay people are disgusting," he objects. "I don't mind Roary and Pat at all, they are nice enough. It's just that -" he pauses, "that Snape was so disgusting. I mean, he followed us. Everywhere we went, that creep popped up out of nowhere, watching us. He must have been in love with James, or maybe even with me, or something of that kind." He shudders. "James found him just as repulsive as I did. It's true, we played a couple of rather unkind tricks on him, but who wouldn't? It was all we could do to get rid of him."

"Which apparently you eventually managed," I reply. "Or did he ever - you know, touch any of you in any way you disliked?" A jolt of fear creeps into my heart, but dies when Sirius shakes his head.

"He certainly didn't, never ever, we wouldn't have let him, the slimy little worm," he replies with a contemptuous laugh.

I am relieved, but not satisfied. "What is it, then? I still see no reason why you should hate him so much now. You're certainly beyond teenage intolerance, aren't you? And if he really was in love with you or James, perhaps by rejecting him you hurt him far more than he ever hurt you." That's probably putting things kindly. I have no clear idea about what kind of tricks he is talking about, but if he calls them 'rather unkind', something tells me he is not exaggerating. However, I suppose that's water under the bridge and therefore not really any of my business.

Do I believe him? Do I think it likely that Verus is gay? I'm not sure. Something inside doesn't want to, I admit. I tell myself that it's none of my shnirking business, that I should regard Verus' sexual preferences with the same disinterested respect as I regard, say, Pat's; I tell myself that speaking of water under the bridge, my own teenage crush should be well overcome by now. I tell myself that I have a lover, who, in spite of having said something quite objectionable a minute ago, is a very sweet and wonderful guy.

Seeing that I am upset, Sirius says with a sigh: "You're probably right. At first he never really hurt us in any way, except for being a pain in the - well, being a pain, anyway. Later, he tried to get us expelled, but, er, maybe he had some reasons for that." He blushes and avoids my eyes for a second. "I just don't like him and never will - I find simply everything about him objectionable, so I don't understand why you seem not to mind him, but maybe we just have to agree that we can disagree. His, er, preferences are none of my business, I suppose."

Stupidly, my eyes fill with tears. I snap my fingers to magically suppress them. However, Sirius sees how upset I am, so he tells me he is sorry without arguing any further; a second later, he takes me in his arms. He strokes my hair, then my shoulders, managing quite well to comfort me. After a while, his hands stray off to the magical, self-closing zipper on the back of my robe. I suppose I'm encouraging this kind of behaviour; the moment of reconciliation after a lover's quarrel can be a rather sweet one. However, probably a second before things would have become, well, really private, there's a sharp rap on the door; before I can tell whoever is out there to come back, let's make it in an hour, someone enters unbidden. Speaking of the devil - it is none other than Hogwarts' honourable Potions master himself, his face expressionless, but his eyes shooting well-calculated darts of poison.

"Professor, Mr. Black? As deeply as I regret interrupting your intimate téte-á -téte, I am afraid you may have urgent business to attend to," he announces rather pompously.

Judging from his facial expression, there are probably plenty of things in the world he deeply regrets, but interrupting our 'intimate téte-á -téte' certainly isn't one of them. I suppose I am making some kind of face. "So what's up, Verus?" I ask, blatantly disregarding his annoying habit of calling me 'Professor' since I offended him earlier this year.

"You are both wanted in the Headmaster's office," Snape reports formally as if delivering BBC or at least WWN news. "I am afraid that Mr. Lupin has just murdered the Minister of Magic."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We run rather than walk up to Dumbledore's office, Sirius in the shape of a dog - Verus has had the acidic kindness of reminding him of that little detail because Sirius himself surely would not have thought of camouflage. While running towards the castle, I am frantically tapping my back with my wand, trying to make that stupid zipper close, a feeble attempt to preserve a sliver of my dignity. After Verus tells the gargoyle to 'Every Flavour Bean' itself rather rudely, we arrive at the scene of the crime.

Picture Dumbledore behind his desk, sunken into his chair like a puppet whose strings have been cut, at his side Professor McGonagall, helplessly patting his hand. Picture Remus on a chair next to the window, his face ashen like his hair, his eyes devoid of life. Picture Fudge lying motionless on the floor, a heap of Muggle suit, lime green bowler hat and faintly bluish skin. Yes, he does look dead, but then again, nobody in the room looks particularly alive at that moment.

The dog at my side makes a decidedly strange noise in the back of his throat, then darts towards Lupin and transforms. Sirius the wizard grabs Remus by the shoulder and shouts in his face: "Moony!!" He pulls him towards him and embraces him rather roughly. Showing the first sign of life since we have arrived, Remus emits a little laugh that is beyond bitterness.

"Hey, Padfoot," he says hoarsely, "we always thought it would come to this, didn't we - that I'd end up as a murderer. We just believed it would happen the other way."

"This is not your fault, Moony!" Sirius shouts and gives Remus a less-than-soothing shake. "You are not a murderer! This is not your fault!"

"Ice Missile?" I dare to inquire after I have finally managed to close my zipper with my back to the wall. Verus nods, his face betraying no spark of interest.

"Who knows about this?" I ask him, trying to figure out what to do about this catastrophe, hoping that there is something we still can do, and that the Aurors aren't already on their way.

"Nobody but the people in this room," Verus replies very matter-of-factly, "but somebody is bound to miss him soon." With a slightly derogatory wave of his hand, he indicates Fudge's body.

"You don't think we could get a fair trial for Remus which takes into account that he was acting under an unknown force?" I ask, trying to remain optimistic.

Verus shakes his head. "Not for a werewolf. Azkaban if he's lucky, instant silver bullet if they want to get him for this with werewolf laws," he mumbles. I notice no trace of smugness in his voice.

"No!!" Sirius practically screams, looking like an incarnation of irrationality. "He's not going to Azkaban, and they are not going to - they are not getting him, I swear to you, they are not getting him!!"

While Remus soothingly pats Sirius on the arm, Verus crosses his arms in front of his chest and says in a low voice: "You are in a hurry to let the whole castle know what happened, Black, aren't you?"

I suppose it's rather Remus' calming noises than Verus' stinging remark that cause Sirius to be quiet for now.

"We have to get him out of here in a hurry," I remark, stating the obvious. Then I see Verus twist something between his fingers. It is Remus' wand, I realise.

"As a werewolf and under Ice Missile influence, he is not safe running around on his own," Verus remarks matter-of-factly.

Without hesitation, Sirius whirls around. I notice he is very pale, with two sickly, red stains on his cheeks.

"He won't be on his own," he states as if talking about a fact. "I'll go with him and take care of him wherever he goes." He turns back to Remus. "I'll just go and get Buckbeak and make sure you are safe."

For a fraction of a second, the strangest smile flits over Remus' eyes; he says: "This is nonsense, my friend - they want me, not you." Then, noticing the absurdity of his remark, he sadly shakes his head.

"If they search the castle for you, they'd better not find me here either," Sirius replies, the most sensible thing he has said since he has entered Dumbledore's office. "We're in this together."

The idea of being two 'murderers' on the run seems to have an odd, almost adolescent kind of appeal to him; while he assures Remus that he will share his exile, he looks quite boyish in his sincerity, and, I admit it, irresistibly attractive. I realise that his buoyant way of committing himself is one of the main reasons I am in love with him, very much in love right now, in fact; but at the same time, I can't help thinking: Hey, what about me? I know when he talks about leaving he is proposing the only sensible solution to the problem at hand, but I feel there is more than sensibility at work here.

Personal feelings aside, something has to be done, and very quickly, too. Sending the two of them off on the Hippogriff is out of question; the same goes for hiding them somewhere on the premises. I briefly consider giving them Drifter, but dismiss it - just like Buckbeak, the car is far too conspicuous. What I think of is Muggle transportation - a plane to take them to the continent, better even, a jumbo jet that goes across the ocean, if such a thing is possible. A jumbo jet means passports and Muggle money. The latter I can supply; the passports - well, I know who I can ask, at least.

"They will need Polyjuice Potion," I tell Verus. "Can you supply that?"

He stares at me for a while; I wonder whether he will give me any kind of crap about such a potion taking a month of preparations. As far as I know, he's keeping a ready-made emergency supply of all kinds of substances in his subterranean treasure chests.

Finally he nods. "Twenty minutes," he replies.

"I will need a supply of Wolfsbane Potion, too," Remus almost whispers.

"Half an hour, then," he corrects himself, and takes off into the direction of the dungeon.

I run down to the League camp as fast as I can, hurry through the tunnel and see who I can get to help me. Florean and Penthesilea are in London, it seems, and Ambrose doesn't have the contacts I need; Lucy Callahan, however, tells me she'll have the documents and corresponding hair up at Dumbledore's office in fifteen minutes. She'll also get me the plane tickets on short notice, she says, and no problem that I want two tickets from Edinburgh Airport to New York for today - she'll get some, period. That's one of the things I admire about the League - they are so efficient. Whatever they do, they do it quickly and properly. Officially being friends with a high-status League member can be an asset, I admit, at least as long as you don't look like you are using them for your own purposes. This, however, is an emergency, something Lucy understands well.

I run over to my place to gather things they might need, most notably money and a few useful addresses. Then I dash to the Spellsearchers' quarters, cram most of their clothes and some random personal belongings in a Shrink Bag, add the Invisibility Cloak (sorry 'bout that, Harry!) and rush back in the direction of the two wizards who need to flee from the scene of crime so very urgently.

In the corridor, I hear an eerie, low voice: "Doom has come upon us. A murder has taken place in this castle. The walls are splattered with blood. Doom has come upon us. A murder has taken place in this castle. The walls are splattered ...." Oh, shnirk. The Bloody Baron. I stop dead in my tracks.

"Will you shut up?" I hiss to the blood-covered Slytherin ghost, convinced that it is not a good idea to spread the news of Fudge's demise among the students before we have sorted things out. "Besides, there is no blood, so hold your bloody tongue!"

"Doom has come upon us," he insists, a bit miffed. "How can it be that you dare to speak up against me, Valerie Riddle, my own flesh and blood?"

"Flesh and blood, my arse," I snort before I can check myself, considering that he has neither. (Nor does he, come to think of it, possess a rear end.) However, wishing to silence him in a hurry, I continue: "I acknowledge no family ties with you, Marvolo, not now and not ever, and if you do not shut up straight away, I will...." Stupidly, I wave my wand at him, wondering what I could possibly do to him. Then I remember that I have no time to think up a punishment for a ghost, that letting him blab about the murder is a risk I will have to take. After raising a pointless warning finger at him as a kind of farewell, I turn on my heels and run off to Dumbledore's office.

In there, the transformation has already taken place; besides Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall, who are conversing in low voices, I meet two perfect strangers staring down at Fudge's body. Verus is conspicuously absent.

"Did he give you enough potion to make it through the flight?" I ask. One of the men nods and shows me a hip flask. I find it irritating that I do not know whether he's Sirius or Remus. Somehow my lover has disappeared without bidding me farewell.

"Let's get out of here," I say. "If somebody got wind of what happened, they will be here any minute." Unforgivable Curses can usually be detected from afar by the Ministry officials; if not for Hogwarts' magic-loaded atmosphere, they would have been here immediately.

"I didn't even say goodbye to Harry," the uglier of the two men says. It must be Sirius, then, who finally remembers that Remus Lupin is not, in fact, the only human being in the world.

"You can write to him," I say and thrust the Shrink Bag into his hand. "We have no time to lose." I practically push him towards the door; Remus (I suppose it's him) follows. We rush towards Drifter and I see that I get the car into the air and turn us invisible as fast as I can.

The journey across, or rather above Scotland takes us very little time, as Drifter can fly immensely fast if it wants to. Sure, it's not like Apparating - we could talk, make plans, exchange words of love and promise each other a number of things, but we do not. I have Drifter drop us off inconspicuously at a Muggle-less corner - no time to bother with airport parking systems - and rush them toward the BA counter. The two strangers show their passports, borrowed Muggle documents they will probably simply mail back once they have arrived. The woman behind the counter gives them their tickets and tells them to hurry because the plane is almost ready for take-off. We do another little sprint to reach the terminal, where Remus' and Sirius' assumed names are called out: They are waiting for them.

Sirius hugs me and kisses me. It feels strange, not only because he looks different, because he's speaking to me in a stranger's voice; what's worse is that he smells, that he tastes differently. I try not to let it show, but I don't feel like I'm kissing someone I know. The stranger tells me he loves me and promises me he will return. I promise him I will wait for him. Someone from the airport staff yells at us; Remus beckons from behind a barrier. Sirius hands over the borrowed passport, is ushered through the barrier and waves to me one last time. Then he is gone.

1