A Season of Change

Chapter 12

For the four occupants of the tallest tower, that October night was the longest any of them could remember since the war ended. It wasn't the scratching of dull quills or the flapping and rustling of Fawkes' long elegant wing feathers that reminded them of the impending morning. Sleep was forgotten and simple things like eating and drinking were of no importance as a maniacal form of energy coursed through throbbing veins. Even the act of yawning had ceased as pots of ink slowly drained. It was inevitable that the dawn bursting forth in a periwinkle sky awash with pastel would bring forth long anxiety-filled hours.

Sirius scowled as the night owls perched on the ledge flapped their wings in preparation for their journey into the forest. He hated the light this morning with a passion, and as his ink-stained fingers impatiently cut a smooth ridge into his quill, his mind repeated a single thought. There is no rest for the weary.

The strange clock on Dumbledore's wall began to whirr as the tiny figures began to move slowly, then faster and faster as the hour chimed six. Remus glanced up at the sound, his exhausted senses wondering if it had really only been yesterday that he had marveled at the appearance of the strange object. Releasing a pent up sigh, he forgot about the clock and leaned his chin against the top of his hand, pale blue veins shining through translucent skin. As each year passed, Remus was aware of the gradual change in his skin tone--what was once a fleshy pink color was slowly fading into something akin to moonshine spilled across freshly poured cement. He had become accustomed to his usual state of grayish-white even if Sirius did insist on practicing tanning-charms, unwilling to believe that his Moony could acquiesce so easily.

Smiling faintly, Remus stole a glance at Sirius' strong, un-lined hands. Proper bronzed flesh-colored skin covered a strong bone structure that had never seen a break, and he wondered briefly if Sirius also practiced on himself.

Sirius' lips lifted questioningly at his lover's quizzical stare.

"Whitney," Remus murmured, pulling his eyes away from the over-bright blue ones. "You must be exhausted. Please--you should rest." He rested his hand on the younger man's tense forearm as the hand moved rapidly across the page underlining sentences.

"Not tired, thanks," Whitney mumbled.

Sirius noticed suddenly that Whitney's wand resembled the one Ginny had given him weeks ago in preparation for the meeting with Charlie and Hermione. "Hermione," he nudged Remus with his foot. "We should contact her--it's not too early now."

Dumbledore's stooped shoulders straightened. "Would she be at home or at the office?"

Sirius choked back a bark of laughter. Laughing at a moment like this seemed absurd, and yet he knew of no other way to release his anxiety other than picking a fight which required energy, and all the bluster was simply gone from his body. Feeling slightly bereft of his normal outlets, he tore a section of parchment and rolled it into a tight ball. "I am pretty confident, Albus, that she's been at the office for a good hour now."

Remus turned his head away as Dumbledore walked over to the fireplace to call Hermione. It was a mistake, he realized, as dry red eyes fell up the empty cradle. The plaid blanket fell half in the bed and half on the floor, and the tiny mattress shone diamond-white in the faint light. But it was the single slipper than nearly broke the steel bars surrounding his heart. The tiny yellow knit booties had been a gift from Molly and one of the few pairs of shoes Elizabeth was willing to wear with good grace. Now it lay abandoned, a stark contrast to the whiteness of the sheet.

"Hermione? Are you there?" Dumbledore called into the flames.

After a prolonged period of silence, a face appeared in the flames, bright brown eyes staring out from the only face in the room that appeared to have gotten any sleep the previous night. "Professor Dumbledore, what's wrong?" Hermione asked in a semi-strangled tone, her mind accepting of the fact that a six am call could only bode badly. Immediately, as her mind was wont to do from years of experience, she thought of Harry. "Is it Harry?"

Sirius' heart wrenched at the seemingly simple question.

Dumbledore's sigh shook his entire frame like one of the saplings in the forest attacked by an onslaught of rain. "No, it's not Harry... He's fine--in fact, Professor Snape has informed us that Harry will be arriving here today."

"Us?" Hermione's eyes scanned the room quickly.

"Yes--I am here with Remus, Sirius, and Howard Whitney--Charlie Weasley's friend." Dumbledore leaned forward towards the flames. "Are you quite alone, Hermione?"

"I'm alone--what's happening?" she pressed impatiently.

"Margaret Lancaster removed Elizabeth from Remus and Sirius' care late last night. Apparently Robert Culpepper has signed a decree reinstating Elizabeth into the care of the IWPA until the trial is concluded..." he broke off as if unsure how to continue. Hermione was stricken. Nowhere in her mind had she truly been prepared for the wheel of events to move into action. Somewhere tucked far away in her subconscious, deep within the part of her mind that allowed for fanciful imaginations and a belief in miracles, she had hoped that they would resolve the problem without ever going to trial.

"When?" Dumbledore's eyes shone diamond-hard with a glassy brilliance that reminded her vaguely of a crystal blue sea.

"November 25. The trial is set for then. Howard Whitney has agreed to be the barrister for the case. And in the meantime, we wanted to update everyone as to the change in circumstance and try to gather as many people as possible."

Sirius knelt at Dumbledore's side. "'Lo Hermione. We're in a bit of a bind... can you take leave?" He glanced back and noticed Remus' prone figure, those golden eyes dulled as he stared at the empty cradle. Only once before had he seen those awful eyes, void of all human emotion, and that had been the night before the events of October 31--the night Sirius had stood next to the bed shouting terrible words--hurling frightful accusations that still rang in his mind. Lowering his voice, he said urgently, "Hermione, Remus is... fragile. Don't let his countenance fool you. The people who love him--all of us--know he can't be alone."

"Sirius, I'll come straight away," Hermione managed to say as she alternated between states of rage and incredible sorrow. "Professor... the wards..."

"Apparate just outside the grounds. I'll tell Minerva to lower the wards temporarily and meet you at the gate."

"Fifteen minutes--give me that much time--I need to find..." She disappeared with a pop. Dumbledore laid a heavy hand on Sirius' shoulder. Understanding the silent plea for help, Sirius assisted the old man to his feet and became acutely aware of the delicate fragileness of his former Headmaster. A trial such as Remus' would quite likely sap him of any remaining energy left from the war, and his vibrancy would dull as unwanted weariness took hold. Dumbledore's steps were slower; his shoulders stooped lower; the millions of tiny wrinkles gracing his face even before Sirius and Remus' days as students, were deeper, more creased... The students of the new era, known as the Post-War Era, felt without speaking that perhaps the Headmaster's days were numbered. Sirius' eyes clouded as he noticed for the first time that Dumbledore and he were no longer at eye-level, and he felt a slow moving change come between them--as if a request had been made and he was the only one who could answer. He felt decidedly odd in his new position and felt pangs of apprehension course through his body as the magnitude of what just transpired hit him. Dumbledore would always be wiser, stronger, and infinitely more aware of what every situation necessitated, a lion as opposed to a leopard, and yet it was clear he was beginning to require something or someone--and that unspoken need could be found in the form of the strong, capable man propping him up and leading him back to the table.

"Remus..."

Shaken from his reverie, Remus turned at the sound of his lover's voice. Poor Padfoot, he mused, really expecting nothing less from his fiercely protective companion. "I'm fine." He stood and motioned absently towards the tea set. "Tea?"

Three tired voices answered affirmatively. Remus tapped the merrily painted tea pot and small plates, marveling at the efficient way in which Dumbledore's office connected to the kitchen. Current scones, marmalade, stacks of buttered toast, and several flaky croissants were carried to the table. Whitney quickly pushed aside piles of paper and stacks of books. Strands of blonde hair fell loose from his leather band and swept across his forehead.

Silence fell as the men helped themselves to the breakfast fare, stomachs grumbling as hunger overtook the need for sleep. Remus poured golden liquid into cups and passed them about, his own plate empty.

"You need to eat," Sirius mumbled between bites. He pushed forward the plate of toast. Remus waved it away, his face slightly green.

"No... just tea."

"Tea is not sustenance, Remus... no matter how much sugar and cream you add."

Remus quirked his lips and took a long sip of the soothing liquid. He refused to respond to Sirius' bait as tea acted as a balm to his daily rollercoaster of emotions. And Lord how he needed it today.

Following a soft knocking at the door, Minerva and Hermione entered the room. Hermione's expression was solemn, and her morning greeting lacked its usual spunk. Dumbledore initiated the introductions, and while Whitney and Hermione exchanged brief pleasantries, her sharp eyes appraised the grandson of Remus' enemy. Morgan had already briefed her on the specifics of Howard Whitney while she tore about her office searching for an array of items.

Sitting on a chair next to Remus, she reached out hesitantly and squeezed his forearm. "Good morning, Remus," she said calmly. Hermione's matter of fact attitude shifted the mood in the room. Whitney passed her a plate and Sirius poured her tea. Normal activities are healthy--or rather, something resembling a semblance of normalcy, she corrected herself as she stirred her tea noisily. "Cheers." She tipped her cup at the room in general.

"Good morning to you, Hermione," Remus responded in a pleasant voice, his arm relaxed and still under her grip. "Whitney, would you please pass the marmalade? Thank you." He slathered a good portion of the sticky jam onto a piece of toast and took a large bite. Ignoring the churning of his stomach, he managed to swallow. Appearances must be maintained, and Remus was anything but dramatic during times of strife. If eating constituted being normal, than eat he would. He drained the contents of his tea in an effort to clear the bread and bits of orange rind caught between his teeth.

"I am pleased you arrived so quickly, my dear." Dumbledore smiled at the smartest witch of his whole tenure at Hogwarts. Hermione was not an enigma--not like Remus Lupin, one of the only students who would have given Hermione a real run for her money should his lycanthropy had not interfered in his studies. He continued to smile as he thought how fortunate Remus and Sirius were to have her assistance. "Frankly, it's a mess we find ourselves in," he continued. "Margaret has already removed Elizabeth, and from the grounds of this letter, it appears that we have just a month to prepare for trial. Robert Culpepper seems very adamant in his support of Margaret Lancaster and Walden Macnair."

"Lancaster and Macnair are the pustules on the butt of mankind," Sirius growled, his fingers scattering crumbs across the table as he ripped apart his croissant. Hermione's eyes were thoughtful as she ate a spoonful of marmalade.

Dumbledore threw Sirius an odd understanding look. "Severus has been kind enough to contact Harry about our search for Mary and Bridget McAllister--a werewolf mother and uninfected daughter. They are one of the few remaining people on the registry. He was to have contacted the Croatian Ministry to ascertain their whereabouts. As far as other issues..."

"Is he trustworthy?" Hermione jerked her shoulder towards Whitney.

At this, Sirius did laugh. "Apparently so. It appears we have the only anti-Culpepper family member representing us. Whadaya think--ironic, eh?" He ignored the reprimanding look Remus gave him.

"Well..." Hermione broke the awkward silence. Folding her napkin and pushing aside her plate, she reached into her bag and pulled out several ledgers and thin journals. Laying a copy in front of each man, she pressed her fingertips together and stared at each in turn. Minutes passed before she was able to speak. Remus frowned at the journal in front of him, his finger tracing the gold embossed lettering.

Alonzo Fitzherbert's Trial Prep Notes: October 25^th, 1995 Case 9, The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures: Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures vs. The Bristol Werewolf

"Where did you find these?" Remus asked in disbelief.

"Jamison. He found an old copy tucked away among his former boss's things."

"How much does Jamison know?" Remus' fingers shook as he awaited Hermione's answer.

Hermione took a deep breath, girding herself for the inevitable. "He knows everything--Remus," she flushed in angry humiliation, hating herself for her next words. "Remus, last week Morgan gave me the transcript for the trial."

"That's great!" Whitney interjected, feeling as if a great present had been tossed in his lap. "Have you got it over there?"

"Er...no."

Remus folded his hands in his lap and waited for her to continue.

Whitney, on the other hand, could hardly contain his excitement, so thrilled he was by this lead. Why, with the transcript as an aid they could walk in the lead prosecutor's steps, make headway on his arguments, attack his angles, understand his chronology...

"And," Sirius added wryly, "we'll discover how he managed to convince the jury to believe this bullshit."

"Yes--yes of course." Whitney flushed as he realized he'd been speaking aloud. "Mr. Lupin," he pressed, "this is quite possibly the break we've been looking for--the key to understanding the ways in which the Department regulates these cases. If you would just hand me the transcript, Ms. Granger, I could start compiling an outline."

Hermione took in his eager smile, his alert expression, and wondered for a moment about the sincerity of his actions. She had grown wary of people who immediately feigned interest or showed a marked compunction for the underdog; and Whitney had done both without truly knowing Remus Lupin. Her eyes narrowed slightly at his outstretched hand. Howard Whitney had been in his Seventh Year when she started Hogwarts, and for the life of her, she couldn't recall his face. He claimed to have been a Gryffindor, and the fact that she couldn't remember him sharing the common room puzzled her greatly.

"I don't have it."

Whitney's mouth fell open. "But--but you just said Morgan gave it to you last week."

"She did."

"Okay then..."

"I did have it," Hermione felt the heat from Remus' gaze on the top of her bowed head. "It was stolen." Raising her eyes quickly, she hastened to add, "But I think I have a good idea who the thief is. Look." She held up a scrap of red fabric. "It's been torn from the robe of a Ministry Elf, and I found it in the very drawer the transcript was lodged."

"So it's gone?" Whitney asked in a hushed voice as if he expected a high-powered Ministry official to apparate into the room brandishing a wand. It was odd, this feeling of conspiring against one's own grandfather, and yet liberating in a certain sense. Robert Culpepper was a stingy, bitter man, a Ministry official elevated to his position of power not by merit of his own accomplishments but as a result of who his father was. Thinning salt and pepper hair crowned a face harsh with crater-like lines and dark liver spots. Grey-green eyes that had never, in Whitney's recollection, sparkled with happiness were the focal point of an otherwise forgettable face. Whitney's mother, Fiona, Robert's only child, bore a striking resemblance to her father right down to their identical weak chins. The chiseled jaw line and Grecian nose gracing Whitney's face were a genetic gift from a father he had never met.

In Whitney's estimation, Robert was a spineless bastard, a half-man who thrived off the discomfort of others. A man who knew he pulled no rank in the Ministry despite his title and lashed out his frustration on his family. Whitney had left the Culpepper Estate a year post-Hogwarts on the eve of the discovery that his own mother had pledged allegiance to her father.

As a child, Whitney could recall the long-drawn out howls of outrage as his grandfather stumbled home, his walking cane smashing into the woodwork, searching for small legs. He could hardly remember a time when he didn't see him with the cane--in all the photographs from his grandfather's younger days, the shiny black walnut torture device was present. The spindles of the banister were his only friends in those frightful years--tiny bars that secured a space between a small boy and the humorless man standing before him. On a good day, Robert Culpepper could dazzle the room with wit and charm causing witches to swoon and flirt with him shamelessly. On dark days, he was a changeling, a tortured twisted man who believed everyone was part of a conspiracy, everyone possessed with the desire to kill him. House elves shrieked in fright, majestic greyhounds cowered beneath the desk, and a boy with the face of an angel became a human whipping post.

Whitney had always associated the uncontrollable rage of his grandfather with the oil portrait hanging at the top of the landing. For the entirety of his childhood, he would charge up the stairs, determined to pass the portrait without looking, and yet each and every time, the same magnetic pull would seize hold of his eyeballs and rivet them until he stared as if transfixed. The stately imposing figure stood twelve feet high, black velvet crimson-lined robes covering shoulders and limbs that possessed the appearance of being able to rip to shreds anything thought to be an adversary. And the eyes... those frightening emerald eyes that sent shivers down the House elves' spines... serpent eyes, they whispered amongst themselves.

The domineering figure commanded respect as the epitome of a cruel and twisted power, and on his deathbed, five figures stood watch: the doctor, hidden within the shadows of the tomb-like room; the executor of the estate, his scratchy quill filling endless lengths of parchment; the granddaughter, her white face blank but her steely eyes blazing; the son, his face impassioned as he clutched the dying man's hand; and the grandson--a child of no more than three who sat high upon a chair of such firm material he had to hold onto the arms for dear life. The old Culpepper patriarch took his time dying. Ten years they waited as he intermittently wheezed and gasped for breath, his hawk-like mind refusing to give up even as his body began to decay.

The little boy watched from the shadows that fateful night. He wrinkled his nose in displeasure at the rancid smell rising from soiled sheets. He whimpered once for his nanny, but cowered as the two stooped figures moved to the side and those dreadfully cold emerald eyes that promised a thousand types of torture fell on his face. Soon after, his legs fell asleep, then his bottom, and in no time at all, his plump little arms lost their feeling as well. Just as he began to slide off the horsehair cushion, Charles Culpepper released his death rattle.

The cherub-like child toppled from the chair and hit the ground with a wail. It was to become his first introduction that night to the black walnut cane. A twisted sobbing little boy lay curled on the floor, his legs a bloody pulp as loose sections of skin dangled from their counterparts and rivulets of crimson stained the Turkish carpet.

"Get up. Get up at once, you're ruining the carpet."

Tiny little balled fists rubbed at swollen lids. He stared with a three-year old's disbelief at his coldly elegant mother's pointed shoe. The tip was encrusted with diamonds and emeralds, and as his eyes reflected their brilliance, he wondered in amazement if she was going to go and leave him alone. "Mama," he pleaded, his voice sounding a bit like the baby goat's bleating he remembered from the farm he went to with his nanny.

The sharp shoe poked at his stomach. "Don't call me that, you sniveling little brat. Must I keep instructing you to call me Fiona?"

"Ye--Yes Fiona," he stammered. Crocodile tears rained down his cheeks as he applied weight to his damaged knees. His mother reached down impatiently, grabbed hold of the collar, and hauled him to his feet.

"You are to wait here for the undertaker. Father and I are going out."

Whitney's little mouth squeaked in protest. To be left alone in the room with the dead body of his great-grandfather was unthinkable! And she was extinguishing the lamps--what kind of mother did he have--"Fiona!" he shrieked in terror as he ran across the room. "Fiona, no! No--don't take the light. Don't take the light!" He hurled his little bleeding body against the solid door and reached futilely for the door knob. "Fiona, Fiona, Fiona... I'm good! I'm a good boy, Mama..." Unforgiving darkness swallowed the room save for the light from the solitary candle next to the bed.

The shadows played tricks on the hysterical boy's mind. He sat frozen, his knees and legs curled to his chest, his arms wrapped over his ears. Eyes like saucers darted from the dark blood stains in the carpet to the uneven hanging of the sheets as they lay over the flat form of the dead man, and in a single moment of sheer terror, he noticed the candlelight had caught a shifting in the air. Objects that had never before moved began to dance eerily, their hard surfaces tip-taping across the wood floor. He scrambled into the corner and tried to press himself as tightly against the wall as possible. "I don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in ghosts." Every muscle in his body tensed and shivered as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to become invisible. The heavy velvet curtains has been pulled shut per the demands of his great-grandfather, and not a single crack of light permeated the thick blackness of the room that shuddered and issued sounds of its own accord.

For how many hours Whitney sat paralyzed with fear, he knew not. After what felt like an eternity, he crawled to the door to listen desperately for any sounds coming from the other parts of the house. Silent sobs welled in his throat as it became clear that even the lowliest of house elves had gone to sleep.

A wild fury rose from the corner of the room where the doctor had hid issuing forth a relentless banging and sounds of shattering glass. In a state of sheer terror, the little boy lost control of his bladder, and for one glorious instant, he forgot about the sounds and instead wondered what in heaven's Fiona would say and how many lashings he would receive. Just as he began to imagine that the figure on the bed was moving, the candle extinguished itself with a single hiss and he mercifully fainted.

It was in this room, two days later, that the undertaker found him--sprawled across the floor, caked blood covering his lower body, his skin a ghastly bluish-white. But it was the state of the room that gave him an even greater fright. It appeared as if a wild band of demons had been released--the bed covers were flung in all directions, tables lay on their sides, and chairs with legs snapped in two covered a blood-stained carpet. However, his blood chilled at one sight in particular. Caught in the beams of sunlight trickling through open drapes sat the corpse of the old man propped up against the headboard, his eyes staring unblinkingly ahead.

Whitney smashed a half-eaten scone with the palm of his hand. He never let himself think of those years and wondered briefly how he had allowed himself to wallow in his memories.

"It's gone," Hermione answered.

"Huh?"

"I said it's gone," she repeated, her brows drew together as she eyed him suspiciously. "And this was the only thing amiss in my office." She waved the little scrap of red across the table.

"Gone," he said stupidly. Clearing his throat, he made a movement to wipe his hands on his trousers then stopped. "Damn," he muttered as crumbs sprinkled onto the fine linen. He grimaced at the way his hand persisted in trembling.

"I've managed to access the Ministry elves' schedule and have conclusively determined that the elf on duty in my Department that day was no other than Mr. Alonzo Fitzherbert's ex-house elf, retained by the Ministry after his death. Mr. Fitzherbert," Hermione clarified, "was the prosecutor for the Bristol case and was directly retained by your grandfather."

"Well, that's a fine kettle of fish," Dumbledore whistled.

"Yes, well... I'm fastidious about security. The only thing I can think of is that I left my office unattended for the briefest of moments when the elf was bringing the tea. But even then I would have just been outside in the hall with Morgan, and I swear I didn't hear anything."

"Have you spoken with this elf?" Remus asked.

Hermione shook her head. "That's the problem. He's missing. They haven't scheduled him for a shift since the incident, and Culpepper's department's keeping mum about the elf's whereabouts saying it's of no concern to them."

Sirius groaned. "Goddamn the bloody bureaucracy over there! Doesn't it seem strange to you that the only people who know about this case disappear? When did this Fitzherbert bloke die? I reckon it wasn't too long after the execution. And now the only copy of the transcript disappears? Jesus!" He slammed his palms onto the table, rattling the dishes.

"Okay, well first thing--Sirius, sit down, you're making my head spin--Hermione, have we any assurance whatsoever that Fitzherbert's elf is actually missing?" She shook her head at Remus, unsure of everything at this point.

Life was becoming progressively complicated--a statement she had never thought to say so soon after the war had ended. Simple things such as being able to laugh without fear or shame because someone else was suffering was a luxury. Her wedding a year ago was a noisy, raucous affair--replete with pranks and jokes and flowers magicked to squirt water. Her own bouquet of lily of the valley, jasmine blossoms, and orchids nearly ruined her dress until Ginny saved the day by producing her real bouquet resplendent with shimmering drops of stardust--a gift from Remus and Sirius. How proud her father and mother were--two simple dentists exposed to an unfamiliar world--as they walked her down the grass to the place that was to become her spot next to Ron's for eternity. Ron's adoring look melted the tension surrounding her heart, and for a brief moment as she stood with her arms linked to her parents, her soul released itself from the confines of her human-self and executed two perfect cartwheels on the grass.

She nearly chuckled aloud as the Minister began his readings. Cartwheels were a figment of her imagination--in real life, she looked rather like a fish flopping about on dry land. Ron reached over and held her hands, his voice strong and confident and so manly as he said his vows. And she wanted to giggle. Great big bursts of uncontrollable can't-be-stopped-I'm-in-love type of giggles. But no one would understand... except perhaps for Harry, who stood to the side, his own lips twitching. So Hermione simply repeated the sacred words and smiled as the white silk unity cloth was wrapped around their joined hands. She could feel the trembling of his fingers and gently tightened her grip--her own heartbeat pulsating through each digit.

Life in that moment felt right... and sure... and so mind-numbingly wonderful that she felt afraid to take a breath until Ron leaned forward to kiss her and said instead, "Breathe, Hermione... you don't want to asphyxiate." And at that she did laugh--first a muffled giggle, than a chuckle, and soon her entire body was forged into one big chortling mess, the kiss completely forgotten. But it didn't matter, for Ron and the Minister and the entire congregation burst into laughter, everyone thinking they understood what was funny but no one really knowing. Low baritones and high sopranos mingled as if in song. She remembered every minute of that day and thought that if this was the sweetest life was ever going to get she would willingly die a happy woman.

Hermione's eyes met Remus' golden ones, no longer alit with happiness, and she wondered if this incredibly special man who possessed the kindest of hearts would ever be truly happy. As she outlined the tired creases lining his eyes and forehead, she felt such remorse knowing that a lapse in judgement was causing him further pain.

The clock on the wall chimed the hour, and Fawkes flapped agitatedly, his wings stretched wide begging for release. The far window flew open as Dumbledore swished his wand absently.

"I'll find it. I promise," Hermione finally said.

"We don't blame you--not in the slightest, Hermione," Remus said kindly, as he bestowed upon her one of his trademark lopsided grins. "We'll just dig about a little more. Now," he squeezed the top of Sirius' thigh. "I'd be interested to know when Alonzo Fitzherbert died--and how he died."

"Quite likely it was Culpepper," Sirius muttered under his breath.

"Well," Dumbledore interjected smoothly, "that has yet to be seen, but it's a possible theory."

"The only thing possible, Albus, is that Whitney's holding back." Sirius faced Whitney and scowled. "I'm just surprised no one's bother to question his motives in this whole deal. What's he got to gain from this?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows and worried over whether she should voice her own doubts.

"After all," Sirius continued in silky tones, his knuckles white against the table, "The Culpeppers are one of the wealthiest Wizarding families in Britain. Whitney here has nothing to gain from siding against his grandfather... Unless--why, Remus, you don't think Whitey's a decoy, eh? Fancy boy dragon-keeper has got an image to preserve. He'd hardly want to be too closely associated with the inept fool of a grandfather he has--"

"Sirius, really... stop," Remus begged.

"Yeah... that's it. He sees a bit of a family resemblance--scared you might have inherited some of his perversions, eh? So in order to keep yourself from being identified as a Culpepper you hide behind the name of a man you never knew. Really, Whitney, what did Culpepper pay you? What type of favors did you have to do?" Sirius pushed aside Remus' hand and stood. "Listen closely, Whitney, and listen well. We don't trust you. Nothing you say is going to change my opinion--I can sniff out deceit and treachery. Azkaban does that to you, you know."

"I don't have to put up with your overbearing tough guy attitude, Mr. Black!" Whitney raged, his temples throbbing. "It's completely unprovoked and small minded of you--you bastard." He pushed back his chair and slowly circled the table. "You don't know my family or my motives, and you most certainly don't know me. You wanna talk? You want to pretend that you're doing this for him?" His arm swung wildly as he pointed at Remus. "That's not what this is about at all. You hate me because you have to put his life in my hands and you can't stand to see him out of your control."

"Bastard..."

"Yeah, see? I know things. I see things, too, Mr. Black, and right now I see a man who's so bloody scared shitless that he's lost all semblance of rationality. This is a sick game to you--I heard you last night. I head you tell him to run away. Run away from here you said--there's still time, Remus, run, they'll hold them back. You're a coward," Whitney spat. "You're going to get him killed with your cavalier cowardly attitude and no one, Mr. Black, will be here to help you when your own mistakes sign his death warrant."

Whitney closed his eyes tightly. "You're forgetting what's at stake here. You'll lose him... and you'll lose your daughter--if you haven't already."

Sirius' face went white with shock. He slowly dropped his arms to his side and turned his face away. "Leave... just leave... or I'll leave... I'll leave." He strode to the door and closed it softly behind him. Remus watched him with stricken eyes. After a moment's pause, he bounded to his feet and ran from the room.

Thick layers of silence permeated the air. Hermione walked over to a table containing a bottle of Firewiskey and several glasses. She poured out a shot and carried it to Whitney who stood at the open window with his back to the room.

He tensed as she approached. "Here," she said, holding out the glass. "Drink this."

Whitney accepted the drink and continued to stare out at the grounds. He wasn't sure how things had escalated so completely out of hand, but he knew he should have held his tongue. Damn it, he cursed himself. God damn it... I knew better. That was a cheap shot, Whitney...

"Albus, Albus!" Minerva's shrill voice rang through the hall. She barreled into the room, and threw an opened letter into Dumbledore's lap. "Read this," she gasped. "It's from Harry--he'll be here in ten minutes--and he's bringing Mary McAllister with him."

Dumbledore's eyes flew to the letter. Snapping bits of an indescribable emotion burned from his eyes. "I see," he said quietly. He folded the letter and smiled at Hermione. "Well, it seems Harry's coming home at last." He patted her on the shoulder and sat down at his desk. "Perhaps you could do with a shot yourself? And maybe while you're up you could pour me one. These old nerves are shot, I am sad to say."

Hermione's eyes went wide with surprise. "Professor," she stammered, "It's only half past seven... But okay. Definitely. Two shots coming up."

**********

The morning frost was just beginning to melt as Remus stepped out onto the grounds, his cloak pulled tightly across his chest. The crisp air brought a healthy flush to the pallor of his cheeks. He ran steadily across the wise expanse of lawn to the edge of the forest. With a skidding halt, he stopped a few yards back, his eyes running up and down the length of a tree that was a focal point of all his memories from Hogwarts.

The Whomping Willow hadn't changed a bit in over 30 years save for a few more half-attempted initial carvings. He smiled at their own carving: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Laughing softly, he could recall the absolute fury of their classmates when they discovered someone had been able to breach the savage branches. And it appears no one else has discovered the secret... His eyes searched briefly for anything resembling Harry or Potter or Ron and saw nothing. Feeling decidedly goofy at the small thrill of triumph coursing through his blood, he knew that Prongs wouldn't have minded if his son had figured out the secret to the tree. Heck, he thought, Prongs would have shown him.

He could recall the layout of the tree with his eyes closed, and he knew without looking the precise location of the secret knot. Kneeling carefully on the wet grass, he bent down in a half-hearted attempt to dodge the sweeping branches overhead. As he drew his wand from his sleeve a particularly vicious branch swept forward and lashed out at his chin. In a flash he touched the knot and froze the tree. He pressed his hand to his face and muttered a soft curse as his finger drew away blood.

"Well, I can see you've obviously forgotten me," he murmured as began his descent to the tunnel. "Probably for the best..."

He could smell Sirius before he could see him.

Climbing through the tunnel was tricky work as years of emptiness had caused the earth to shift and settle. In several spots he had to crawl about on his knees using his fingers to push aside mounds of dirt. Several new tree roots formed a canopy overhead, and he smiled wistfully at the thought of Prongs trying to navigate the tunnel with his massive antlers. He breathed heavily as he reached the top and dragged his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. In front of him stood the old wooden door that at one time was the signal that transformation was swiftly approaching. A single finger slowly, carefully, traced the length of a long, slender claw mark dug deep into the grain of the wood.

"Moony," he whispered.

He skipped over to a section of wood covered with quite a few oval imprints just the right size for an adolescent stag's hoof. "Prongs..."

And several shallower claw marks... he frowned as he became aware of the fact that there were more of these than any of the others. Up and down the door they ran--some short segments, others that looked as if the animal had propped himself on his hind legs and dragged his front paws down the entire length of the door. "Ah... Padfoot. Of course..." He smiled fondly as he splayed his fingers, each one fitting perfectly into the scratch marks.

He ignored the tiny, barely visible marks at the base of the door.

Knocking softly, he pushed open the door. "Sirius," he called softly, his wand illuminating the dark room.

"Sirius, I know you're here... you forget that Moony can smell you..."

"Leave me alone, Remus... Go 'way..."

Remus leaned against the splintered wall and crossed his arms. His wolf eyes adjusted easily to the darkness, and in the shadows he could make out the figure of a man pressed up against the side of the old bed frame.

He didn't know what words to say to erase the horrible ones exchanged a few minutes ago, and part of him trembled as he acknowledge partial truths. But Sirius was in pain, real physical tangible pain which always left Remus feeling helpless. Wanting desperately to believe that his touch would hold the answer, he slowly walked forward, his hand extended.

But it won't be enough... he argued. He knew, just as he knew that the sky was blue, that Sirius believed every single damning word Whitney had uttered. And Remus was afraid to console him, afraid that his words would sound empty. Not insincere, per se, just... blank... non-words... words people use when they feel obligated to say something and they really just want to be invisible.

"You came here," he began, unsure of where his thinking would take him but willing to do anything. "Here. There are ghosts here--boys, us, Sirius..." He rested one of his beautiful delicate hands atop of Sirius' tangled hair. "If I look just at your head, I can trick myself into thinking you're James."

Continuing in a quiet voice, Remus began to twist his fingers in the thick black locks. "And then I think you should bat my hand away because James would never have let me touch him like this... Just Lily." He laughed dryly. "And if I imagine you to be James I can just sit here, looking at him, waiting for the advice that was his trademark. You remember, Sirius, what he said... what he always said..."

The black hair began to shake.

"James would always say, 'Carpe diem, lads... carpe diem.' Do you remember how frustrated you would get when he would speak in Latin? You hated it. If I recall correctly, you would inevitably transform into Padfoot and nip at his heels and slobber all over his face." The hand continued the even stroking. "It took James four years until he translated it for you... and you know what, Sirius? I knew what it meant all along... he made me promise not to tell you--that if you were so intent on knowing the meaning you could look it up. Kind of a double meaning, hm? Seize the day."

Sirius pressed his face to his knees. He felt the smooth pressure of Remus' warm hand as it caressed each spot on his scalp. How like Moony, he thought, to not leave any section abandoned.

"Sirius," Remus leaned forward and pressed his lips to his ear. "There is really any number of mysteries in life... I truly believe that. I don't think we are all set on a single one-directional course. We all intersect at various points--perhaps it's part of karma, I don't really know. If I hadn't been bitten as a child I am sure I wouldn't be the person I am today... and... and perhaps we wouldn't have become friends because I would have had the power to stand on my own two feet--I wouldn't have needed a hero."

"I'm not hero material."

Encouraged by Sirius' words Remus kept his voice low and calm, the steady cadence of his voice aimed at soothing Sirius' wounded spirit. "Well, in the eyes of an eleven year old boy who never had any real mates you were as close as it got. But that's water under the bridge. You've already been firmly established as my hero, Sirius Black, so you might as well accept the fact. Anyway... it's about carpe diem. For some twisted reason, fate has decided that now is the time for Margaret, Macnair, and Culpepper to intersect in our lives, and we can't run from that."

Remus moved to sit in front of his partner and pulled Sirius' hands from his sleeves. "Our lives are connected. See? When I press our hands together we're as one. You know that... just as you know that we can't make this go away."

"But it's so damn unfair..."

"Yes," Remus shrugged pragmatically. "But, Sirius, truly... something will come out of this and it is up to us to help determine the outcome. Just imagine if parenting became an issue of love not an issue of blood work."

"You're a guinea pig... a pawn... your head is their prize."

"Be that as it may, we've got to seize the day--make full use of all the opportunities presented to us--and one of those is Howard Whitney." Remus watched his face closely. He trembled slightly, the coolness of the room invading his bones. Gently he raised his hand and caressed the well-loved haggard face. How he admired the rugged handsomeness of his lover. His thumb moved a few centimeters to gently stroke his lower lip.

Sirius sighed heavily. "Do you know what I hate the most right now?"

"The splinters?" Remus quipped.

Sirius raised his head. "Be serious, Moony. What would I hate the most right this very minute?"

Remus carefully examined the gut-wrenching emotion pouring from Sirius' sapphire eyes. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't I do that enough for the both of us?"

Laughing hoarsely, Sirius lifted his face to the ceiling. "Yeah... you sure do, Moony," he choked. "But now it's my turn. Every single damning word was true. I am afraid... I am jealous... I hate that Whitney holds your life in his hands."

"And you hate him for something he has no control over."

"Well, wouldn't you?" Sirius said bitterly. "He's a Culpepper."

Remus sighed heavily. "I wish you wouldn't say that, Siri... for me. Please--he can't help who his grandfather is."

"Do you trust him? Do you?" Sirius asked urgently.

After a moment's silence, Remus managed to acknowledge the truth in a shaky voice. "I do... I really do."

Dropping his hands to his lap, Sirius closed his eyes, a muscle working spasmodically in his jaw. In the deepest sections of his heart he, too, trusted Whitney. But he didn't like him. In fact, his hands itched to punch him--the action he would have done had Whitney not said what he had about Elizabeth. "So be it," he said helplessly.

"Sirius, you've got to step back and reflect--just think a moment before you judge him too harshly. Charlie trusts him, Albus obviously does, and I find nothing suspicious about him. He's certainly not perfect--a bit on the brash side--like another man I know..." He ruffled Sirius' hair affectionately. "Come here, love."

Sirius collapsed forward and dropped his head onto Remus' shoulder. "Moony... god, why can't I be a little bit more like you?"

At that, Remus did laugh--a truly happy tinkling sound that filled the room with a glorious light. Suddenly the splinters no longer mattered. He pressed Sirius' head tightly to the crook of his neck and sighed with satisfaction at the heavy somewhat moist breathing tickling his skin. Sirius wrapped his arms tightly around Remus' waist and squeezed him tightly.

Love was a wonderful thing, Sirius reflected as his lips lazily traced a vein on his lover's pale neck. He planted a tiny trail of butterfly kisses up and down the smooth column while his hands slowly stroked the slender back. The fact that he could feel the individual bumps of Remus' spine didn't sit well with him, but he had long grown accustomed to the fact that no matter how much food you fed him, Remus just wouldn't fill out. It was, Sirius smiled, a perk of being a wolf... He, on the other hand, was in great danger of developing a belly if he didn't take Padfoot out for daily bouts of exercise.

No words were necessary as the two men reveled in their embrace. It wasn't an issue of forgiveness, nor was it one of sympathy. They just were... As Remus had tried to explain in simpler terms, they were simply two intertwined souls caught up in a particularly harsh storm.

Long minutes later, Remus lifted his head and pushed Sirius' face up until their noses touched. "I love you," he said simply. "You--all of you." He tilted his head slightly, lips parted, as he moved forward for a kiss. He nearly groaned aloud at the softness of Sirius' lips. Gentle pressure forced the silky lips apart as their breaths mingled.

Sirius kissed him back, his eyes slits as he watched Remus' face. It was a secret pleasure of his--watching Remus as they kissed--and one that he was sure would be met with disapproval. But as long as Remus remained unaware of his scrutiny, Sirius could revel in the simplistic change that overtook his lover's face as blissful happiness and love replaced worry and concern. He smiled against Remus' lips as he realized that his whole face was altered. The eye lids became tiny butterfly wings, the cheeks the wildest of wild roses, and every single wrinkle and crease melted into one gorgeously milky bit of smoothness.

"Are you done examining my face?"

Sirius started. Remus bit gently on his lower lip. "You thought I didn't know, didn't you. Admit it." Sirius nodded his head. "Ah Padfoot..." Remus whispered, "How many times do I have to tell you I know everything there is to know about you."

"Even my silly antics and bad habits?"

"Particularly those," Remus growled as he tried to recapture the delectable mouth just inches from his.

"Hey Moony, do you think the bed's rotted through yet?"

A twinkle in his golden eyes dared the laughing man to continue.

"Let's see shall we?"