A Season of Change

Chapter 14

A long rolling bellow burst forth from the coal-black funnel atop deck, filling the sky with smog like residue. There were three of these on the ship, fat cylindrical smokestacks that screamed as the vessel was pushed out to sea with the aid of the tugboats. At the close of the 20^th century there were very few people who chose the waterway as their means of traveling between Germany and England. However, in commemoration of the great ship's 100^th anniversary, the Queen Jane was put to sea for a final voyage set to last a full week at knots of a comfortable pace.

As a bit of twist on the everyday naval uniform, the captain and his crew wore the clothing of the late 19^th century sailor, complete with stripes representing rank and jaunty caps. Climbing his way up deck, Dietmar Huber thought that if he never smelled the wet wool of a pea coat again he would die a happy man. As it was, he felt disgusted with himself for even listening to his flat mate's prattle about what a fantastically exciting chance this would be, and wouldn't Dietmar be a pal and bring him back a hat? As he leaned against the railing and watched as the murky brownish green water stretched between the harbor and himself, he knew full well that one, the next time his flat mate suggested anything he deemed as "fantastically exciting" he would immediately do the complete opposite, and two, there was no way in hell he was going to go anywhere near the hat stand up on deck.

The idea of being fully entombed in the tiny little cabin for the next week with a bunk mate who smelled of vinegar made his eyes water. Fortunately the full moon had just passed and he was wolf-free for the rest of the month. However, his very bones still throbbed from the transformation, and five days later he was still unable to hold down much more than a bowl of soup. He thought longingly of the lovely berths on the train and wrapped his muffler tightly about his neck.

Two days ago he had received a phone call from a doctor at St. Mungo's in England; a doctor who, in very cryptic tones, inquired about local apparating ports in Germany. Whether it was his very poor German or the fact that the connection was a bit fuzzy, Dietmar had been certain that the call was a prank and promptly hung up. He was a self-proclaimed professor of sorts--the type of man who rode the bus to work buttoned up to his neck in a plaid overcoat and carried an umbrella rain or shine. If asked, the local university would say there was no Professor Huber, but that perhaps the maintenance supervisor in the chemistry department was the man in question. So, the day the MediWizards had the unfortunate luck to call his home, Dietmar the maintenance man was at his wits end with sloppy, careless students and in no mood for pranks.

It had been years since he thought of England. That cold, dreary island where the damp invaded your bones and a blanket of smog smothered the night stars. Dietmar far preferred his Germany--the rolling hills lush with vegetation and forests, the quaint villages filled with reconstructed post-war architecture. The German Hubers were a working class family, proud of their strong roots, and cleverly dependable if a bit dull. They had no use for their wander-lust daughter who had packed up and married an Englishman who couldn't even speak the language and then spirited her away to that cold land. Dietmar was seven years older than Veronica and a grown man when she left home. He was a tall figure, erect of carriage, with golden wayward curls and cheeks rosy from pints he had started consuming when he was on the bottle. His family depended on his joviality, and the university loved him for his eccentricities.

No one loved him as a werewolf, but then no one cared either. The wolf was simply part of him--an intricate being sharing the same DNA--neither man nor beast complete without the other. It had been this way for as long as the Huber family could recall. Dietmar wasn't different, nor was he special. Whatever oddities he possessed his mother would find a relative to blame. Transformations were never spoken of, for Dietmar simply crawled into the cellar and listened as his father performed the necessary spells. The next morning no one acted as if anything had happened. It had been this way for twenty-nine years, and according to the Hubers, it would continue this way for twenty-nine more, and then twenty-nine after that. Nothing spectacular, the werewolf was simply part of their lives.

Concealing Dietmar's condition from the German Ministry was a remarkably simple affair--records simply weren't maintained, and if the Hubers kept all unsuspecting individuals away from the house during full moons than the secret was safe. No one at the county school had asked questions as it wasn't unusual for students to miss classes in order to help support the family. Placing food on the table was far more important than education, and in this sleepy little town people kept to their own business.

So it was with great trepidation that Dietmar picked up the phone as it rang shrilly. Thinking he would give the person a bit of his mind and then slam the receiver down, he yanked up the phone and barked hello. He was not prepared to hear a sharp voice speaking German with a staccato-like pronunciation, nor was he ready to hear that his only sister, Veronica, and her husband were dead. The woman with the harsh voice explained that they had left behind a child, a small boy of five years, and according to their will, Dietmar was now his guardian.

He gripped the phone until his knuckles were white. Stammering, he asked the woman to repeat herself, and as she did, he ran a single thought through his mind, "My sister is dead. My sister is dead." Finally, he managed to ask the cause of death. "Automobile accident." Those two words hit him hard--like a the time one of the student's Bunsen burners had overheated the test tube and sprayed the both of them with burning liquid and shards of glass. He wasn't even aware that he was waving away invisible glass particles.

His parents were away on holiday, but Dietmar knew that even if they had been present for the phone call they wouldn't have done anything, for they had never found it within their hearts to forgive her. With a sinking feeling, he understood that he was responsible for his sister's burial...and for the child who had been left behind. Realizing that the woman was still speaking, he forced himself to pay attention and asked for her name.

A wave of salt spray hit the deck as the tug boats pulled away from the ship. They were floating alone in the Baltic Sea, taking the long route around Denmark before heading into the North Sea. There was no rush to get to England--his sister and husband's home had been a rental unit, and the British Ministry of Magic placed all their belongings into the bank vault for their son. In fact, the child was in Ministry custody and was not to be released until a quarantine period was up. Quarantine for what, Dieter was unsure, for it wasn't as if an automobile accident carried with it the threat of contagious disease. He tried to remember the child's name, but his mind drew a blank. Something with a "C" perhaps... He'd have to remember to look at the temporary release papers back in his berth--cabin, he reminded himself.

It was rather daunting, this thought of taking care of a child, and Dietmar was unsure if he were up to the task. The woman on the phone, a Margaret something or another, had reassured him that there was to be a six-week trial period where at the end of the time if he felt unprepared to take on full responsibilities the child would return to the custody of the institution. He released a small sigh of relief. Six weeks wasn't forever. The question of what he would do during his transformation didn't even occur to him. Wolfsbane potion was readily available in England, and a five year old was certainly capable of sleeping the night through.

A small smile broke out on his face as he wondered what the child looked like. Veronica had been a small petite woman with golden hair and a kind face--not pretty exactly, but very gentle. He had never seen a picture of her husband. He wondered what five year old children liked to do, but he couldn't seem to recall the details of when he was that age. A small chemistry kit was in the bottom of his trunk, and he figured that several hours a day could be spent teaching the boy the general rules of potions and lab experiments. And that way he could continue to work on his own project...

He jumped back with surprise as the hat vendor pushed his trolley past with a shout. Fingering the coins in his pocket, he flipped them about for a minute, reveling in the sound metal made when it struck metal. After a minute he withdrew a few franks and signaled for the man's attention. Fingering the sailor's cap for a moment, he hesitated for a brief second before placing the hat on his head. Leaning back against the rail, he could feel the salt spray sprinkle across his face. It felt all at once refreshing, cleansing, and for a moment even purifying...

"How do you remember all this?" Remus asked as Christian paused.

A slim finger with an ink stain on its knuckle picked at burr in the rug. He shrugged slightly. "My uncle started a journal on his trip here." Christian's brown eyes met Remus'. "My uncle really hated England."

Remus' laugh was rich with emotion--amusement, annoyance, self-recrimination--Christian couldn't put his finger on a single emotion and wondered for a moment if perhaps the tired man was laughing at him. "I don't blame him," the laughing man said. "Sometimes I'm not too fond of her either."

Brown eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He hadn't expected that answer.

By the time the third day rolled around, Dietmar was certain that he was in hell. All novelty of traveling on a one hundred year old ship had long since disappeared. He restricted his use of magic to the hours his bunkmate was either absent or asleep, and right now that annoying chap was neither. He was of the type who possessed an iron-clad stomach, impervious to the rocking of the ship. In fact, the man could even read while chomping away on a nut bar. Dietmar groaned loudly and with great length, hoping against hope that his sounds of abject misery would force the other man to seek quieter quarters. Much to his dismay, he watched as a metal bucket was pushed his way with cheerful words of sympathy.

Dietmar was certain it wouldn't be long until he joined Veronica and her no-name husband in the afterlife.

And so it continued. Dietmar never left his cabin, and his bunk mate, thinking that the sick man needed company, left him only out of necessity. He had even taken to eating in the room much to the displeasure of Dietmar's stomach. Finally the day arrived when the ship docked in Dover, and as Dietmar climbed shakily out of his bunk, he notice the sailor cap sitting on the floor. With a snarl, he kicked it across the room so that it landed in the slop bucket. Feeling as if a bit of the edge had left him, he checked to make sure his truck was in order and noticed ruefully that he had worn a single pair of pajamas the entire time. He changed quickly into outdoor clothes, pulled on his outer robes, and wadded the soiled clothes into a ball. The clothes quickly joined the hat in its sad demise. Ignoring the questioning looks that came from his bunk mate, Dietmar bid him farewell, thanked him for his kind assistance and left the hellish ship.

Solid ground had never felt so wonderful, and Dietmar had to nearly force himself to stay standing, so great was his desire to collapse on the ground and feel the unmoving earth under his cheek. He glanced about, noting the bus line that would take him to the train station. Wondering how he was going to negotiate his way about using his five words of English, he looked about for help. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the movement of black robes and rushed forward with surprising agility for a man who had been bedridden for seven days straight. It was to be the stroke of luck he needed, for not only did the people belong to the Wizarding community, they were also German and heading to Bristol, the city where his sister had lived.

Fortune's fancy refrained from playing tricks on Dietmar for the duration of the trip, and as the train sped along the countryside to London, he found it possible to relax. The family he met was the chatty sort, full of news and very inquisitive. Being kind, they insisted that he and the child stay at their home until he procure suitable living arrangements, and when the mother discovered that Dietmar had absolutely no experience with children she refused to take no for an answer. So, in a matter of minutes, Dietmar had found a translator, a home, and friends, and suddenly the whole idea of meeting a child of his own blood didn't seem nearly as dreadful. Still... he couldn't say that he was looking forward to it.

Upon arriving in Diagon Alley, Dietmar and the German family parted ways, promising to meet up the evening. With a quick glance around, Dietmar made his way into the Leaky Cauldron and removed from his pocket a small pouch of special floo powder Margaret had owled him. After a few pints to calm his nerves, he realized that the connection to the Infant Wizard Protection Agency would only be open a few minutes longer. Dashing to the gigantic brick fireplace, he pushed his way through the after work crowd. A few seconds later he disappeared into the green blue flames, uncertain if he had said the Infant Wizard Protection Agency or the Wizard Infant... or the Infant Protection...

Tumbling to the ground, Dietmar choked on the dark gray ash that seemed to fill his lungs and his nostrils simultaneously. Experimentally he tried to swallow but found that it only forced more ash into his mouth. Curiously he wasn't burning yet, but he realized that it would be wise to remove his body from the flames. He rubbed as much ash off his face as possible and managed to take a peek into the room.

Standing directly in front of him was a tall woman with steel gray hair swept up into a severe bun. Holding tight to her hand--or perhaps she was holding onto his hand--was a small boy with big brown curls and eyes that looked remarkably like pools of melted chocolate. There was no real expression on his face--he neither looked scared nor interested--and he kept his lips perfectly straight. The woman introduced herself as Margaret Lancaster, instructed the child to greet his uncle, and then led Dietmar to her metal desk to complete the paperwork. In a matter of minutes, the formalities were completed, Dietmar was instructed as to the bi-weekly caseworker visits, and the child, Christian, was officially his. A small suitcase sat next to the fireplace embossed with gold initials: CH.

Dietmar knelt next to the small boy and balanced himself on his feet, rocking back and forth slightly. He felt an unexpected bubble of pride as he realized that this child, this boy who took after his father in looks, was also a Huber, part of his flesh and blood. Dietmar knew in that instance what it meant to feel proud. He didn't know if he loved this child, couldn't really tell if they would even get along, but he did know without a doubt that he had never been more amazed by his sister--by the gift Veronica had delivered to the world. And in that moment he forgave her for everything. Slowly he extended his large hand, palm side up in an act of giving, not taking, and Christian seemed to recognize the action, placing his own small paw into his uncle's warm one. After a second, ten fingers began to curl, one by one, until small digits met with large ones, and empty hands became joined. There was no need for words, for reassurances of trust or for empty promises of happiness. It was simply about being, about belonging.

That very first night, the German family seemed to sense a need, a desire, so when it came time to retire for the night, Dietmar and Christian were shown to a single room with one bed. Dietmar knew the child balanced on the edge of the bed was observing him as he pulled on his long striped pajamas. He sensed without looking that the bed sheets had been folded down and could tell instinctively when the child had crawled under the covers. After several minutes, during which time he needlessly organized the already neat piles of clothes in his trunk, Dietmar turned to climb into the bed. With a start he realized that the child was already asleep, one hand tucked under a pale cheek. As he pulled the blankets up to his chin, he said a soft prayer of thanks for the solidness of the room.

Just as his eyes grew heavy and threatened to close for good, he felt the pressure of a soft body move up against his left arm. He stilled, uncertain as to what to do. After a moment he relaxed, thinking the child had simply rolled over, but then he felt it--the slow feathery touch of padded fingers, the caress of a child's hand. He felt his own fingers being splayed as a tiny hand moved forward, seeking his warmth and strength. And so they slept that way for the entire night, hand in hand, and when he woke, Dietmar found brown curls nestled on the pocket of his pajama shirt as soft snores filled the room.

"You love him very much," Remus said quietly. "I can see his strength in you."

It was as if those gently spoken words cut through the haze surrounding the boy, and he looked up, almost as if he were surprised to see someone sitting in the room with him. Dusk falls early in Scotland and already the sky was an artist's pallet. Through the rotation of the earth, the two men could sense a great passing in time, therapeutic in its healing. The ticking of a clock would have broken up the natural pulse of the earth, and the starkness of the wounds surrounding the boy's heart would have remained as such--raw and jagged at the ends, poisonous little barbs.

But with each word, as each sentence was strung together, and each utterance fell on ears open to understanding and capable of withholding judgement, a miraculous change took place. Christian smiled.

"I feel better," he said with carefully measured words, almost as if he were afraid that if he uttered them everything would fall into reverse. "I do," he said in a voice rich with strength. "I really do feel better."

Remus nodded slowly, his golden eyes, objects Sirius had once called the windows into his soul, filled with understanding. He offered no pity, just a sense of reassurance. The hardest part of the story was yet to come, and while he didn't dread the telling, he feared for the repercussions. In the beginning he had said nothing more than, "Tell me about your uncle," and suddenly there was this outpouring of emotion told through the third person, like a dam bursting forth when before there were only fissures in the walls. He was aware, however, that Christian never spoke of his own emotions in relation to his uncle, and that everything was told through the older man's eyes.

Remus could feel Dietmar... if he closed his eyes he could almost hear his voice coming forth from the lips of a sixteen year old. He had been thirty years old when the axe fell, so young, so full of vibrancy. Remus swallowed his sorrow. It wasn't his turn to grieve... and yet there was an element of himself that he shared with the deceased man... a bond that above and beyond linked them through the love of a child.

For the next five months Dietmar and Christian managed to forge a unique friendship. Through Christian's photo albums Dietmar met Veronica's husband, a laughing man by the name of Evan. It was obvious to everyone that Christian had adored his father, and while Dietmar knew very little of bicycling and fishing, he could share his love of experiments with the boy. Soon Christian became an avid fan of potion making, often volunteering to run out to the garden to collect specimens from the dirt--and suddenly the elements of the earth took on names and associations, mica and granite became more than just rocks.

It was calming, Dietmar thought, this strange sense of camaraderie as he observed the manner in which the boy carefully ground flobberworms in an old stone mortar and pestle. They smiled very little and spoke even less, but despite this they were never wanting, never lacking. When the wolf came to visit each month, Dietmar knew that Christian understood with the unprejudiced eyes of a well loved child that he was to stay upstairs in his bedroom until the cuckoo chimed seven times. Dietmar only knew through the wolf that Christian would sneak out of bed to crawl on hand and knee to the cellar door, for the wolf could smell the warm scent of the child's face pressed against the boards of the door. The animal whined in distress, it teeth bared in anger at its man-made prison. The human part of Dietmar would have arranged for the boy to stay with the German family during his transformations, but somehow he knew that being a werewolf in England was not the same as being one in Germany and he kept silent. So Christian stayed in the house during full moons, and every morning he would creep back up the stairs before the cuckoo chimed to warm his bed. It was a little game between the boy and the wolf.

Dietmar realized at last how easy it was to love somebody who loved you unconditionally.

On Christian's sixth birthday, Dietmar arranged with the German family he had befriended on his way from Dover to throw a bonanza at the local park. They invited every child of their acquaintance in addition to several random ones they saw in the street that day. He watched with pride as his nephew pranced gleefully across the square on one of the rental ponies, and he realized he was ready to ask the child for a very special gift. That evening, after a small tummy was charmed with an anti-indigestion spell, Dietmar gathered Christian into his arms and told him to put down his toy and pay attention. In a solemn voice thick with his German accent, he asked the child if he would like to call him father. Christian's eyes widened as the words registered, and then he flung his arms around Dietmar's neck and squeezed and squeezed, saying nothing through words but everything through his embrace.

The next day marked the end of the sixth month trial period and with it came the final case worker visit. Dietmar dressed Christian and himself in their best dress robes and sat on the couch to wait. At the stroke of twelve, just as Christian began to kick the table with pent-up energy, the front door bell rang. Giddy with happiness and feeling the calm assurance of success, Dietmar opened the door. Standing out front were three people--Margaret Lancaster, a very young nurse with dark hair, and a man with a hideously deformed face which had the appearance of one who had been under the knife many times. Dietmar struggled not to stare at him as he invited them inside. After strained introductions, Dietmar watched with some confusion as the young nurse by the name of Genevieve walked into the living room and asked Christian to get his outer robes. For a moment he wondered if they were returning to the IWPA for the formalities.

However, as Dietmar went to retrieve his own robes, Margaret moved to stop him. Dietmar realized at that moment there were certain universal truths about good and evil and that in this instance the line between the two was razor-sharp in clarity. There was no blurring of the two as his nostrils filled with the pungent odor of hatred. In what seemed a foggy haze of disjointed events and fractured proceedings, Dietmar could hear the steady droning of charges being read but all he could truly recall was hearing Margaret accuse him of being a werewolf while watching Genevieve cover Christian's ears. As Dietmar watched Christian struggle to break free, his own body moved as a man in water, each motion sluggish and heavy, his only thought being that he must reach his son. He was but a few meters away when the front door blew open and an innumerable amount of men wearing dark robes and head coverings broke into his house and threw curses at him, rendering him immobile. He was horror struck, not for himself for certainly this was a mistake, but for Christian--Christian who had never cried before him over the death of his parents was crying now... great big frightened sobs that racked his little frame.

"And then..." it was with considerable effort that Christian managed to say the next words. "My uncle screamed in broken English because, you see, whenever he was nervous or upset he would forget his words. He said, 'Nein nein, dast ist meine Sohn, meine Sohn.' And that was it. They took him away... and killed him."

It was completely dark outside, but between the lead window panes Remus could see a sprinkling of stars as they began to form in the night sky. The stars in Scotland always seemed to burn like dots of white fire with far more brilliance than the ones in the south of England. Standing, Remus pushed aside the pillow he had been holding in his lap and motioned for Christian to follow him. They walked in silence to the window, and with a graceful, fluid arm movement, Remus dissolved the glass. Cool whispers of wind circled about their faces cooling flushed skin like a murmured caress of comfort.

Silently Remus reflected on the true meaning of being a lycanthrope, and he thought of werewolves before him and of the inevitable werewolves that were yet to be born, and he trembled. Some called it a curse, others a tragedy, but no one aside from a handful of people whose hearts were as large as their ever accepting minds thought of it as fate. He didn't know if he were one of these people. Dietmar Huber seemed to be--he embraced his differences without recrimination, without self-loathing, and through the words of his son he appeared to have found a way to truly love himself. Best of all he had taught his son well, for there was nothing in Christian's eyes that spoke of fear or hatred.

Remus had struggled with this paradox for more decades than he was willing to remember and wondered if perhaps this young man standing next to him was a gift...a message from the being that spun the wheels of fate, chiding him for wallowing in doubt and self-pity for so long.

But I haven't, he argued, I have grown to love myself.

Have you truly? Or do you work to convince yourself of the fact?

Placing a tentative hand on Christian's shoulder, Remus felt the subtle strength in the boy's posture, in the way he carried himself, and by the way he spoke of his uncle without hysteria. Remus was reminded of himself. For years, first his parents, then James, Sirius, and Peter, and many of the professors had all thought him to possess an insurmountable amount of courage simply because he held himself to the highest of standards in an attempt to conceal what he was. In appearance he was a man, stoic and without emotion, but inside he supposed that perhaps he had never really matured... for how can someone exist as one thing and yet never grow to love himself? Perhaps that's what this all is, he thought with puzzled certainty, a test of sorts... one of which I have failed miserably. Resignation is not the same as strength. Acceptance is not the equivalent of love. Patience does not make a man wise.

Remus wondered how Dietmar had learned to adjust, wondered if perhaps he were still alive today if they might have become friends. They shared a unique bond, one that would draw them close--perhaps closer than he could ever be with Sirius no matter how strong Sirius' attempts to understand. While Remus would never wish for Sirius to have the power to fully comprehend--would rather die before it happened--the thought of his wonderful mate never being connected with him in such a way created a puzzling sensation in his heart... a throbbing of sorts. Perhaps... perhaps he begrudged Sirius' perfection just a bit... perhaps if he were able to glance inside he would find a tiny section of his heart to be black with jealousy.

"Mr. Lupin," Christian began, noticing that Remus' hand hadn't moved for a long while and wondering if he were ever going to speak. "Are you... are you okay?"

Deep, long, healing breaths filled Remus' lungs as he closed his eyes, his outstretched hand balancing the trembling in his legs. "Mistakes are the portals of discovery," he murmured. "James Joyce," he said by way of explanation.

"I don't think I know who he is."

"Yes, well he was a brilliant man--slightly crazy, mind you, but nevertheless an extraordinary thinker. I sometimes think that the education you receive here is somewhat stilted--you only learn what is useful in the magical world. What about literature? Poetry? The history of the man we call a mere Muggle?"

Christian was confused but continued to listen, thinking perhaps that this man next to him was one of those who rambled abstract thoughts to make a point.

Remus turned to face him and looked him carefully in the eyes. "It doesn't matter that you don't know who James Joyce is. It's something that he said that reminded me of myself... and of your father. What do you think he meant by this: Mistakes are the portals of discovery?"

"I... I don't know... perhaps that if you strive to know yourself--to really understand the rhyme and reasoning of your functioning--you have to embrace your mistakes, the events in your life that don't go as planned. Because, I'm thinking, how can you truly know yourself--what you love, your passions, your fears, what makes you angry... how to be humble... if you have never fallen."

"Exactly," Remus smiled kindly at him, his eyes twinkling from within dark shadows. "You are a Ravenclaw, aren't you? Christian, I have made the mistake of fearing myself...of hating something that is such a part of me we share the same blood chemistry. Your father, something within him allowed for a type of harmony between the man and the wolf, and with this discovery he was able to love himself. Can you imagine what it is like to hate a part of yourself with such thoroughness that you begin to believe every hateful thing ever said about you? That you begin to believe yourself unworthy?"

Christian shook his head. He only knew what it felt like to long for something, but perhaps this is what Mr. Lupin meant in his strange round-about way.

"Ah... perhaps not." Remus stilled, his hands quiet at his side as the wind caught the hairs at the back of his neck and swirled them about. "Well, I do. I was very small when I received my bite, and while I had people who loved me unconditionally I found it very hard to love myself. I tried so hard not to pity myself, nor to accept pity from others, but in doing so I masked my true emotions. By proving to everyone that I was strong meant that it was all a charade--to truly be strong one just is... one doesn't have to put on the face. That was my mistake, Christian, and I suppose it shall be my portal to discovery."

Suppressing the strange urge to hug Mr. Lupin--an outward display of affection he showed no one--Christian simply held out his hand. It was the best he could do, and he wondered if the other man would understand; that is if he, Christian, understood himself.

Remus looked at his outstretched hand curiously, questioning what it was that Christian was offering--and then he knew... without a doubt, and he took hold and squeezed. "Thank you," he murmured, soft melodic words that acted as a soothing balm to the scared surface of Christian's heart. In telling Dietmar Huber's story, Christian had released the part of him that had laid dormant in his mind for so long--festering and morphing into something dark and unwieldy. By offering the words to Remus, he unknowingly gave the older man a gift more precious than the best intended words of comfort; he gave him hope. Not hope in the sense that a positive outcome was sure to arise from this horrid chain of events Remus found himself in, but hope in the sense that he would finally be able to fully love himself, just as Dietmar had.

With the kindest, gentlest of looks, Remus pulled Christian into a gruff hug and held him tightly against his chest, their two heartbeats pounding together as an eternity of healing began. After a minute, Remus released him and stepped back. Neither man cried--tears would have been too clichéd--but both smiles wavered slightly at the corners.

"Come," Remus smiled as he replaced the lass panes. "Let me walk you to the Great Hall. You must be hungry."

Christian nodded. "I am," he said with a bit of a grin. "Yeah... I think I could eat."

**********

Harry was livid. He pressed his chest against the back of his chair and snapped his gum. "Well?" he called out impatiently to Severus.

"These things take time." Severus' cool voice grated on Harry's nerves as he set the front legs of the chair to the floor with a bang. He stood and ran a hand through his wild hair. If he turned around and looked at that woman one more time he wasn't quite sure if he would be able to keep his temper in check. As it was, he had plenty of time to think of the exact words he would say to this imposter--none of them very pleasant.

The dark grayness of Severus' chambers did little to alleviate the bleak atmosphere swirling in the room. To Harry's left was Whitney who stood watching Severus and Mary, his face an impassive mask. Harry smiled smugly as he watched Whitney light another fag in complete defiance to Severus' commands and wondered about this man Remus and Sirius had retained as their barrister. From first impressions he couldn't help but be impressed with anyone who dared to defy Severus Snape. He played briefly with the idea of slapping his back and congratulating him but then thought better of it when the blonde man's cold gray eyes met his. Howard Whitney didn't appear to be the sort who would appreciate such a casual gesture.

A low groan emerged from Severus' workspace, and Harry, Sirius and Whitney crossed the room quickly. The imposter Mary McAllister sat prone in her chair, her eyes staring blankly towards the middle of Severus' robes--the after-effect of one too many anti-concealment charms. Finally, it appeared as if Severus had made progress, as with the slow precision of metamorphosis, layers of age began to peel away from the body of the woman.

For something that should have been ugly, Harry was transfixed by the way her harsh lines melted then contracted into smooth expanses of flesh. Sagging skin retrieved its old elasticity and snugly hugged cheek bones. From the base of her silver head spread a pool of dark brown color, rich and vibrant as it made its way down individual strands of hair. The woman writhed in her chair as tiny fragile limbs cracked and creaked, each bone stretching and elongating back into their original length. Sirius, who was privy to countless transformations of man to animal, watched in amazement as the anti-age potion took effect and time appeared to reverse itself.

Before them was a woman frozen as if paralyzed with fear, her face a blank empty canvas of emotion, her cobalt blue eyes expressionless. Severus tilted her head back and pried open her tense lips. He emptied the final drops into her mouth and sat back on his haunches to await the final steps of the transformation. With a sharp cough, the woman buckled forward and vomited onto the floor. Harry turned his head away from the sight, but it was too late, the black bile running from the corners of her mouth set his own stomach churning. He took several deep breaths through his mouth and pressed his hands to his knees.

When the sounds of retching ceased, Harry turned about to see the end results of Severus' work. Sirius waved his hand and Harry moved to stand next to him. She was really quite lovely, this woman, with her large blue eyes and curls of brown hair framing a timelessly elegant face. Her white-tipped nostrils flared with an emotion bordering between anger and fear, while her chilly gaze penetrated each man. Harry surmised her to be around sixty-years of age--still relatively young for a witch--and wondered what Margaret and Culpepper had promised in exchange for her cooperation.

Sirius stepped forward and knelt next to Severus. The two dark-haired men presented a formidable picture, but the woman seemed oblivious to their threats. She was a picture of impassiveness, a true enigma.

"Explain why you're here," Whitney ordered.

She glanced down at Severus briefly then looked away.

Patiently, Whitney tried again. "Tell us who you are."

Harry growled with impatience. "Use the Veritaserum, Professor Snape."

Severus' dark eyes flashed as he scrutinized the woman. "You don't work for Lancaster or Culpepper, do you?"

Harry's eyes snapped to his former professor in surprise. Certainly she did! "Professor," he said in dismay. "Surely you're mistaken--"

Severus held up his hand for silence. "You heard about the inquiries being made at the Croatian Ministry, didn't you? You stepped forward before they could contact your mother."

"Professor, this is ridiculous!" Harry shouted.

"You're protecting her, aren't you? She's old, frail, and terrified about coming to England. This is how you help her--you pose as Mary, or as Mary's old companion, and no one at the Ministry has ever guessed the truth--that the eighty year old woman acting as Mary's nurse is really her daughter." In a very uncharacteristic move, Severus reached out and placed his hands on top of hers. "You're frightened, but you don't have to be anymore."

Harry had never heard his former professor speak in such a way--why he almost sounded kind. He crossed his arms and waited, not entirely convinced that she was as innocent as Severus proclaimed. It was laughable, really, the way Professor Snape insisted on babying her.

Bridget's face barely moved a muscle as she spoke. "I am Bridget McAllister."

"You--you can't be!" Harry protested in disbelief.

Bridget's eyes snapped. "And why can't I be, young man?"

"Because it's not feasibly possible! The Ministry assured me that there was no one fitting your description in Croatia," Harry stated firmly, ignoring Severus' earlier explanation.

Folding her arms across her chest, Bridget rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Are you a wizard or aren't you?" she asked irritably. Severus' eyes widened perceptibly and he stared at her with something akin to admiration.

Harry caught his look and frowned. You would like someone who tries to put me in my place, he growled. Taking a deep breath, he struggled to understand. "Okay, suppose you are Bridget like you say--why are you here impersonating your mother?" He threw a pleading glance at Sirius who had remained strangely silent through this whole exchange.

Slowly Sirius stepped forward and stared at the woman. "Explain yourself."

"I thought I told you why she's doing this," Severus snapped.

"Let Bridget speak for herself," Sirius said coolly. "I don't want speculations--I want the truth."

Rising to her feet, Bridget pushed past the two men kneeling at her feet and walked over to Whitney. "Can I have one?" she asked, pointing to his pack of Kents. Whitney smiled faintly and handed her a fag. Bridget reached into her robes to withdraw her wand before Whitney had a chance to light her fag. She shrugged aside his assistance and took a long, full drag. Exhaling, she turned to face the small assembly, noting the snapping green eyes coming from a face determined to believe the worst of her.

"What you have to understand, gentlemen, is that my mother has lived in fear of your Ministry for as long as I can remember. There is nothing to forgive or understand about a werewolf who breaks the law, and she knows that. The Croatian Ministry is known in the underground werewolf community as being one of the safe havens for fugitives." Here she paused as if considering her words. "My mother is deathly afraid that someone would discover where she fled, and so she has, for the past sixty-one years, made an aging potion for me that I take anytime I leave the house. Only she--only she," she repeated firmly, "has seen me as my true self. In answer to your question, Mr. Potter, the Croatian Ministry doesn't know of my existence because we registered ourselves as a single woman and her traveling companion."

Bridget came to stand next to Harry, and he was vastly surprised to realize she was at eye level with him. "My mother is dying," she said bluntly. "She is of no condition to travel anywhere--not that I would allow her to do so--but she does know of your problem." Here she turned to look at Sirius. "She offers her sympathies but apologizes for not being able to help you. I am here to present her apology and to beg you to leave us alone."

"Leave you alone?" Sirius' voice cracked as her words settled in the room.

"I'm sorry, truly sorry, Mr. Black, but I cannot allow you to frighten my mother. She's had a difficult life and I don't want to see her in anymore pain." Bridget's voice was gentle but firm. "Mr. Potter," she turned back to Harry and frowned at the way his eyes shot barbs of hatred towards her. "I can assure you, Mr. Potter that I am not working in cooperation with this Lancaster person you speak of. I've never heard of someone by this name, and from what I can judge by all of your reactions, I certainly don't want to."

"But--"

"No, not another word, Mr. Potter. Now, if I may--England doesn't agree with me, and I would like to return to my mother as soon as possible."

At this Whitney stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Miss McAllister," he began, pausing to wonder if she had ever married, and then shook his head as this was quite unlikely considering her story. "Perhaps you don't fully understand the situation here--what's at stake. It's more than just a man's life that is on the line--it's his whole family--a child... you understand that, don't you Miss McAllister? They have a daughter--Mr. Lupin who is not here at the present and Mr. Black who stands just over there. It's a little girl--she's just a baby--and without your family's assistance another family will be ended prematurely."

A daughter... a little girl... Bridget inwardly cringed at the way the sudden silence entombed the room. She understood that it was her turn to speak, knew without a doubt that this Whitney person's words were meant to convince her to change her mind, but it wasn't that simple. Her mother's life was at stake. Who were they to place a value of importance on a family? Who gave them the right to decide that one family's livelihood was more important than another's? In a minute if she couldn't escape the stifling confines of the chamber she was certain she would weep in frustration.

"You make it sound so simple," she muttered.

Severus stepped forward and there was something about his dark eyes, the way his lips curved into a slight smile that steadied her nerves slightly. "Bridget, may I call you that?" She nodded. "We're not asking you to choose--never think that we would place more of an importance on one man's life than on your mother's. However, there are measures that we can take to safeguard your mother--protection spells, concealment charms, security wards... you're probably familiar with these, seeing that you have been responsible for your mother for all these years." Severus paused, and then tentatively reached for her hands. "You must forgive Mr. Potter, he tends to be a bit impetuous at times, but I can assure you that he means no harm. Mr. Black and Mr. Lupin have become the boy's parents so to speak--his birth parents were killed by Voldemort--and I must say that he's very protective of them." At Harry's dark look, Severus smiled dryly, and then continued in the same smoothly modulated tones. "Not that I disagree with his motives. And I think you feel the same way, don't you Bridget. You would do anything for your mother just as these men would do anything for their family."

Bridget was really on the edge of a crying jag. She tried futilely to swallow past a lump that had risen in her throat, blocking any words she would wish to speak, and withdrew a hand to press a handkerchief to her lips. "I don't know what I would do if they hurt my mother," she whispered.

"We'll do everything in our powers to make sure nothing happens," Whitney promised, feeling a tangible sense of relief fall over him as he realized the tough veneer surrounding her heart was beginning to crack.

"But can you promise me? Can you absolutely guarantee me that she'll be safe? She's so afraid of your people."

Severus squeezed her hand in reassurance. "I promise on my life, Bridget, that the Ministry won't touch your mother."

Nodding briskly, Bridget collected herself and raised her eyes to meet Harry's. For the first time that evening his eyes didn't burn with hatred, and she was glad--hatred was such an uncomfortable sensation, especially when it was accompanied by such pain and despair. "Mr. Potter," she said humbly, "I apologize for tricking you. But you see that at the time I thought I had no other option. I had heard through the Ministry that someone was making inquiries about my mother and I panicked. Please... forgive me."

Harry was never one to hold a grudge--too many close calls with death and tragedy had taught him that the precious time people had together was too fragile to waste. "Call me Harry," he said by ways of accepting her apology. She retuned his smile with a bright one of her own and involuntarily returned Severus' squeeze.

"Now," she said in bright tones, "Before we collect my mother, perhaps you could fill me in on who this Lancaster woman is?"

Everyone groaned.

**********

At just half past four, Cecilia finished tidying up Ward 1. With a small smile of satisfaction she banished the bins of soiled nappies and made sure that all the bottles were properly filled and aligned for the babies' afternoon snacks. She waved goodbye to Genevieve who was in the corner, refilling the bag on Elizabeth's drip. Her smiled faded. The baby was still not eating on her own, and Cecilia wasn't sure how much longer it would be until the MediWizards were brought in.

Apparating out of the IWPA was a simple task, all the rooms were registered ports in the event of an emergency, but it was the apparating back that always posed a slight challenge. Genevieve and Cecilia had established a system--as nurses of the institution both were privy to the passwords needed to access and open the ports. The problems was that one couldn't access the ports using the password outside of the institution, so in order to escape Margaret's watchful eye and prying questions, the girl who remained on the premises was responsible for securing clearance and opening one of the ports at a pre-scheduled time. Of course, if one or the other happened to return earlier than expected there would be the inevitable ramblings about the adjacent moors as she waited for the proper time. The issue of tardiness never came up, for at the IWPA, tardiness was tantamount to death. Granted no one directly knew anyone who had died... but there were always rumors...

So, Cecilia had arranged with Genevieve to open the port in Ward 1 at six-thirty, and with a slight grimace, she disappeared en route to Diagon Alley.

**********

Charlie stamped his feet impatiently, the cold air stinging his nose. Conjuring up a simple jam jar with blue flames to warm his hands would be easy enough, but the combination of laziness and looking like a wimp prevented him from doing so. He wondered for the millionth time why he hadn't suggested meeting inside Eeylops Owl Emporium, but as the door opened and a harried looking customer emerged with a frantic owl making an incredible amount of racket, he was once again glad to be standing outside. The screeching of hundreds of owls was not the ideal way to end a day busy with dragon herding. With Whitney absent, their team had to work extra hours, and Charlie had to begrudgingly re-consider Whitney's usefulness.

Where the hell is Cecilia? He groused, glancing up and down the street. The problem was, he could hardly remember her face--so brief was their initial meeting. Just as he was beginning to think that he should have mentioned what he was wearing, he heard her voice call out to him.

"Charlie Weasley?"

He turned at the sound and stared as a slight figure pushed her way through the busy street. Hi eyes narrowed as an impatient wizard jostled her roughly, knocking off her hood. Moving forward to reprimand him, he stopped in his tracks as Cecilia calmly straightened her robes and then promptly shoved him back, catching him off guard and knocking him to his rear. Smiling, she waved her hand and hurried the rest of the distance amid cheers. Charlie continued to frown, uncertain as to what to make of her behavior.

As she neared him he could almost smell the fear pouring off her body, deep terrified uncontrollable fear, and he didn't think it had anything to do with the man in the street.

"Hello, Cecilia," he said calmly.

"Charlie I'm glad to see you," she said breathlessly. "Is there some place we can go to sit?"

"What's the hurry? That man? Because I don't think he's--"

"No, no," Cecilia waved her hand distractedly. If one more person stares at me or tries to touch me... "Please, Charlie, let's get a drink." She reached out and without even noticing what she was doing, grabbed his hand and began to pull him down the street.

Charlie noticed. He noticed how clammy her hand was, how her fingers trembled... and how she was pulling him in the wrong direction. If he didn't know better he would say she had never been in Diagon Alley before now. "Uh... Cecilia, we're heading the wrong way."

"Oh!" she said with surprise, pausing to look about. "Right. Perhaps you know of somewhere we can go?"

Charlie nodded his brown furrowing. As if on cue, Cecilia turned a bright shade of red and quickly dropped her hand, wiping it on the side of her robe. He weeded his way through the crowd until they reached the Leaky Cauldron. He walked faster than he would normally, partly to escape the cold, and partly because Cecilia seemed so anxious to get out of the open. Pushing aside the front doors, he looked about the murky room for an empty table. Spotting one in the corner, he moved to claim it before the man at the bar collecting drinks could. After walking about three paces, he turned to make sure Cecilia was following him. What he saw startled him. She stood frozen in the open doorway, her face as white as a sheet, her eyes dark pools of terror. "Cecilia," he shouted, angrily pushing his way back through the crowd, "What in Merlin's name are you--Cecilia?"

Cecilia trembled. She couldn't go in... she could feel it... feel its presence... the snatching hands, the rough fingers that covered her mouth smothering her screams...

"Cecilia," Charlie reached her side and stood before her awkwardly. He reached tentatively for her arm, then drew back quickly as she winced. "Come on, I've got us a table. Move away from the door, it's cold."

Cecilia followed him mutely, her feet heavy leaded things stepping sluggishly across the floor. She kept her eyes focused on the bright spot of Charlie's red hair and tried desperately to block out the images filtering in her periphery vision. She gripped the folds of her robe tightly about her neck as he pulled out her chair. Mrs. Weasley had taught her son well, she thought vaguely as she sat. The scratched surface of the table was rough with knobby knots under her palms.

After a moment of silence, Charlie leaned forward and asked what he considered to be a simple question. "What's wrong with you, Cecilia?"

At that moment a waitress approached their table to take their drink order. Charlie ordered for himself a pint of mulled mead and two shots of firewhiskey for Cecilia.

"I can't," she protested.

Charlie simply repeated the order then sat back and waited for Cecilia's answer. He waggled his eyebrows when she made no move to speak. "Come on, Cecilia," he said in exasperation, "What the heck's bothering you?"

Finally she spoke, slow halting words. "I'm not fond of this place."

"That's no surprise," Charlie muttered under his breath.

Cecilia threw him a dirty look. "Listen, Charlie, I've come here out of consideration for Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black. Not to analyze my problems." Charlie threw up his hands. "I've found Margaret's Pensieve." She waited for a reaction. "Well?"

Charlie was struck dumb. This was not what he was expecting to hear. "Have you told them yet? Does Whitney know?"

Shaking her head, Cecilia thanked the waitress and fingered her glass. "I can't seem to get a hold of them--I've sent owls to their home but there's never any answer."

"Yeah, they're up at Hogwarts. I suspect Whitney's still there since he hasn't reported to work." He grabbed one of the shot glasses and took a deep chug of the potent liquid. Coughing slightly, he noted with some amusement that Cecilia tucked hers away neatly and with no apparent after-effect. "Good God, Cecilia, do you know what you've discovered?" She nodded slowly. "Can we see it? Can you gain access again? And I've got to tell you that I'm afraid I'm not the best person to look at it."

"Why not?" she protested. "What's wrong with you?"

Charlie flushed. "I'm not--it's not--well, I'm a dragon keeper, Cecilia. Not an investigator."

"So?" she challenged. "I want you to see this. I trust you."

"Well, I think we should bring someone else along--someone with Ministry connections." He felt a small thrill of pleasure pass through him at Cecilia's honest words. With a sigh he wondered what was wrong with him. "I suggest we ask Hermione Granger to accompany us--she's my sister-in-law and is also an influential person at the Ministry. Plus, she's too damn smart for her own good so that should help us considerably."

Cecilia smiled. "Why doesn't she have your last name?"

"Women's liberation or something or another. My brother Ron was pretty damn ticked--but that's what he gets for marrying her--not that she's bad at all," he hastened to add. Cecilia's smile broadened. "Don't you be telling her I told you this when you see her, Cecilia. I know how you women work."

Laughing for the first time that afternoon, Cecilia moved comfortably to collect their glasses and pushed them to the side. Lowering her voice, she motioned for him to come forward. On second thought, she reached out with her hand and grabbed the back of his neck in what looked like a lover's embrace.

"Charlie," she whispered, her voice low, warm and strangely lilting in his ear. "Stay still... I don't know what sorts of people are listening to us... I may have said too much already." She began to slowly run her hand up and down the back of his neck, the softness of her fingers tickling the sensitive skin. Her cheek, warm from the firewhiskey and from something else, pressed up against his. She blushed at her forwardness but forced herself to think only of the baby she loved. "Margaret leaves the institution every Wednesday between six-thirty and seven in the evening. She's gone for several hours, so you needn't worry about getting caught. I am certain that she is visiting with Macnair. Don't worry about gaining access to her office... I know the spell to get through the door." Small circles ran the length of Charlie's neck and he closed his eyes. "If you and Ms. Granger can arrange to take time this coming Wednesday, I can open up the apparating ports to give you access to the institution. But this works like clockwork, Charlie--a minute late and we've lost our chance for a week."

She stopped speaking but continued to touch his neck. With a sudden start of realization she realized that his strong, calloused hand had reached up to twine itself in the hair at the nape of her neck The fingers twirled themselves in the curls, tugging slightly but without pain. Their cheeks remained pressed together.

"Cecilia," Charlie said softly into the shell of her ear, the wisps of curls tickling his lips, "Remus' trial is set for November 25. The official word came from Culpepper's office a few days ago." He held her head in place as she jerked with shock. "Whitney's kept me apprised of the situation and while it appears that we are gaining strength on our side, your discovery will make all the difference... Cecilia, Remus and Sirius are going to be so thrilled to hear of this."

She closed her eyes tightly against the tears that threatened to spill. If only he knew... if only any of them knew the thoughts that swirled in her head... "Charlie, there was a boy... is a boy," she corrected herself, "who I tended to for five years after the death of his guardian. When the child came to the institution he was but a shell of a boy, miserable and broken. I don't want this to happen to Elizabeth..."

"Who was this boy?" Charlie asked, rather surprised at himself for feeling pleasure at the way her warm breath ticked his neck.

"His name is Christian Huber..."

**********

The black windows were beginning to grate heavily on her nerves, and it certainly didn't help that none of the window sills seemed to close properly. Not wanting to do Walden Macnair any favors, but absolutely unwilling to subject herself to the frigid cold of the room any longer, Hermione cast the proper spells to repair the damage to the broken windows.

Walden threw her a dirty, ungrateful look as he coughed into a tissue. He tossed it to the growing pile at his feet and leaned forward to stare at the ground. Bent at the waist was one of the only comfortable positions he found for breathing, and still phlegm rattled about his lungs like a canister of dry beans. "I asked already and I'll ask you again. What the hell do you want?"

Patience in the face of gross, black-hearted men was Hermione's forte and so she sat herself on the opposite end of the couch, heedless of the way she shook the frame. Walden shot her a blood-shot look of disgust. "I have all the time in the world," she began.

"Yeah, but your werewolf friend doesn't," Walden said with smug satisfaction. Uppity bitch.

Hermione frowned. "How do you know--"

"My dear Ms. Granger, surely you realize that I know everything that happens in Culpepper's division--including your theft of a certain trial transcript?" Hermione's mouth hung open unattractively. Walden continued, getting a huge amount of enjoyment out of this exchange. "Ah yes... it would have been helpful, wouldn't it? Too bad it's gone."

"And with it the house elf you sent on your little mission?" Hermione snapped. Walden raised his eyebrow. "I know it was Fitzherbert's old house elf that took the transcript from my office."

"Doing your homework?" Walden chuckled.

"What did you do with him?"

Reaching for another tissue, Walden shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "I care not, Ms. Granger. Really, do you think I would bother myself with the piddling affairs of the house elves?"

"No, I suppose not," Hermione folded her arms across her chest and stared pointedly about the room which lay in shambles and smelled of ripe curry.

"That smell's not my fault."

She pursed her lips in displeasure. "Walden, what is your purpose in this whole affair?" she asked, deciding to cut directly to the chase. The stench of the room and the dim lighting was beginning to make her dizzy.

Leaning back against the couch, he closed his eyes tiredly. "I'm the axe-wielder, surely that's obvious." He opened one eye and peered at her. "I cut off their heads. Sometimes I miss my first time. And I'm neither always gentle nor merciful. Ah..." He blew his nose with obvious pleasure. "I just love the sound of metal hitting bone--if finality had a sound that's what I would imagine it to be. It's actually rather delightful, you know, knowing that you've rid the world of another beast."

Struggling not to release the bile rising in her throat, Hermione glanced away and looked at the metal cage in the corner of the room, a rusted padlock hanging open on the latch. "You make me sick, Walden." Standing, she crossed the room to touch the padlock.

Lurching forward at her movement, Walden released a hoarse scream. "Don't touch that!"

Hermione's hand froze mid-air. She spun about; relief coursing through her that she had had the foresight to pocket his wand. "What?" she asked in a strained voice. "Don't touch this?" She gave the padlock a tap. "This?" She took her hands and shook the metal cage. "Where's the dog, Walden? Where's your pet?"

Red rose before Walden's eyes. Standing shakily he crossed the room, his boots thudding loudly on the wooden surface. He watched as Hermione's hand reached into her pocket. He knew instinctively that she also had possession of his wand. "Don't do that again."

Hermione's eyes blazed. "This is a cage, Walden. A cage for a werewolf."

"You don't know that."

"I do. I see it in your eyes. It explains everything--why you hate them, why you're so heartless." She continued to swing the padlock in an effort to draw out the man's inner beasts. "You're not afraid of them--someone you loved was one."

"You know nothing, you little bitch," he snarled, his teeth clacking together as his jaw trembled with rage.

"Who was it? Your mother? Your father?" She pressed onward. Walden covered his ears and still she continued in that high sing-song voice of hers. "It was for your father. Surely you didn't think I'd come all this way without doing my research, do you? This cage was for your father and you watched him die..."

"Stop talking!" he shouted.

"Remus Lupin has done nothing to you," she yelled back, furious at the denseness of his way of thinking--the one-track way he processed his thoughts. "Dietmar Huber did nothing to you, and yet, you and Margaret and Culpepper executed him like a wild uncontrollable animal. What's worse is that you executed him as a man." She spat her words at him, desperate to reach past the black brick wall he had erected around his heart. "It's become a poison with you--so black that you can't tell the difference between that and the blood you're coughing up."

"You'll never understand."

"Make me understand, Walden, tell me why you're doing this. It's not just your parents, is it? What about Buckbeak? Did your aunt perhaps get mauled by a pack of rabid Hippogriffs?"

Walden's eyes were puzzled as he tried to comprehend her shouting. Belatedly Hermione remembered that she and Harry had managed to save Buckbeak's life... but not before Walden would have chopped off his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. If someone reports a dangerous beast than we give them a trial and--"

"You're paid to execute these creatures, Walden! This is not a courtroom! That time it was Lucius Malfoy. Who is it this time? Margaret Lancaster? What kind of hold does she have over you?"

"Margaret knows--she knows..." He shook his befuddled head, realizing in that moment how much he hated Margaret. "Things." He said firmly, raising his eyes to look directly at Hermione. "It's too late," he mumbled. "It's too late..."

If she dared, if she thought her hands would ever come clean after touching the vile man, she would have placed her hands on his shoulders and given him a good shake. As it was, she could only stand there and wait for the demented man to speak. When he remained silent, she shook the lock on the cage furiously, knocking him out of his reverie.

"What!" he shouted. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to put an end to this! I want you to work with me--to convince Culpepper to stop this ridiculous partnership he has with Margaret and spare this innocent man's life. You have no need of them--there is no reason to rely on them! They're poison, Walden... they bathe in it--Margaret especially."

"You don't understand..."

"What's there to understand?" Hermione snapped, at her wits end.

"Look at me!" Walden roared pressing closer to her. "Put on the light! Do it!"

Hermione flipped on the overhead switch. In the glare of the fluorescent light she looked at him expectantly. "Well?"

"Look at my face. Tell me what you see."

Hermione peered at him and stared at the mess of scar tissue between the bridge of his nose and the glaring red vertical scar stretching from his top lip to the underside of his nose. His eyes were a bit misshapen perhaps and there was something decidedly different about the way his top lip tried to cover his teeth, but... "So?" she shrugged.

Walden's eyes widened in disbelief. Never before had he allowed himself to be so exposed, so completely open to the harsh criticism that had met him that one day so long ago when he still believed in cowboys. And to have this woman simply stare at him as if there was nothing different about him--Walden was livid. All these years, these never-ending periods of time that stretched into eternity when he would wear a hood to cover his face and never be near light stronger than candlelight--all wasted! With wonderment he puzzled over her reaction. Would others judge him as uncritically? But no--this was a game for her. "You see nothing wrong?" he hissed, cringing inwardly as he waited for her criticism.

"Well, I suppose the MediWizard who performed your surgery wasn't quite up-to-date on the proper scar prevention techniques... but no. I see nothing wrong."

Walden released a thin wail of outrage. It was absolutely inconceivable. If this were the case... if all these years he had hidden his true nature until he had morphed into something so completely unrecognizable he didn't even know himself... if this were true, then it was all for naught. Everything was ruined. Revenge was moot.

"Get out," he whispered, anguish seeping into his words.

"No," Hermione told him firmly. "I want to talk about what we are going to do to stop Lancaster and Culpepper. I know you don't want to do this--you're a pawn in their game. You have no real power, Walden, if that's what you are trying to do--assert yourself that is. It's over. In the end you'll have lost, too." She walked to the box of tissues and handed it to the man. To her surprise Walden accepted her offering. "There's no real release in this, you know that. If there were you would have stopped after the first one. After Dietmar Huber. Nothing you do will bring them back. You can only try to make them proud."

Walden's tortured eyes bore into hers. "You don't know what you speak of, Ms. Granger, nor will you ever, ever understand me. You can never understand what I am." He paused to release terrible, back shaking coughs into his tissue. "I want you to leave. I am asking you to leave."

"But--"

"Get out!" he screamed, the faint thread of his control snapping. "Get out!"

"I feel sorry for you, Walden Macnair. Sorry for you because you have chosen hatred as your path and you think it's too late to repent." She crossed the room to the door, her shoes clicking on the floor. Click click click--each sound punctuating her words. "It could have been different, you know. That werewolf only attacked your parents because you made threats against his kind, and he didn't know how to react any differently. He's not the only beast, Walden, you're one, too. A wholly man-made one... and that's far worse." She closed the door on her words.

Walden collapsed onto the couch, his head buried in the crook of his arms, and his shoulders began to shake.

**********

Remus was exhausted--bone weary exhausted--the kind that made his very toes tired. He had walked Christian to the Great Hall for dinner, politely refusing his invitation to join him, and now he was returning to his room, returning to Sirius. He closed his eyes briefly and thought of how pleasant a hot bath would be. Smiling, he thought of ways in which he could convince Sirius to join him. Not that he ever had to do much convincing in this regard...

With a slight spring to his step, he climbed the many stairs to the staff quarters, passing by silent paintings that watched his progression with shifting eyes. He was somewhat surprised that during their stay he had not had the pleasure--or displeasure however you want to put it--of bumping into Peeves. In his state of mind, even a run-in with the pesky poltergeist wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest.

A great weight had been lifted from his soul, and he had Christian Huber to thank for this. Part of him recognized that he, in listening to he boy, had offered a reciprocal form of healing, and he felt warm with pleasure. Teaching and nurturing children was one thing, elevating them to new heights of scholastic achievement had always pleased him, but this... this was different. Never before, not even with Harry, had he really been able to reach out and connect so wholly with a child--and a small part of him argued that Christian Huber was no child, but a man grown... but this was just a triviality, and Remus didn't want to bother himself with those tonight.

The wall sconces along the staff corridor were already lit, and as he made his way towards the end of the hall, a warm delicious aroma began to fill his nostrils. Smiling faintly, he approached the door to his old rooms and carefully turned the handle. Ah... yes... the smell was definitely stronger... He slid in soundlessly and took in the sight of Sirius' tall frame lighting the candles Muggle-style on the mantle.

"Hello..." he called softly.

Sirius spun about in surprise, a boyish look of delight gracing his handsome features. "Moony," he said, pleased at the look of surprise on his face. He blew out the end of the match and tossed it into the fire. "Are you hungry?"

"Famished," Remus answered, thinking that his hunger existed on several levels but that in this moment a simple fare of milk and honey would suffice. He said as much aloud and flushed with pleasure as Sirius laughed.

"Well, it's a surprise--for me, too. I just put in a request for something that tastes good." He turned his nose to the air, and with Padfoot-like curiosity, began to pick apart the scents. "I think I smell... pheasant... yes, not to be mistaken for the simple chicken, Moony, though the wolf in you might not appreciate the subtle differences in flavor..." He closed his eyes and sniffed again.

Remus sat on one of the chairs and crossed his legs, watching with pleasure as Sirius played with the air--a particular talent of his and one which he never tired of watching. His eyes crinkled at Sirius' pheasant jest.

"Perhaps a rice pilaf with wild mushrooms and a Madeira sauce... with a hint of butter to make the texture melt in your mouth... Ah... and I definitely smell custard of sorts... is that chocolate I smell?" Bright blue eyes opened and he winked at the handsome man twirling his napkin in his lap.

"Chocolate?" Remus' eyes lit up with mock fascination. "Why Padfoot, you're a true connoisseur!"

"I try." Sirius sat himself down next to Remus and carefully lifted the glass bells from the plates. He lowered his nose to sniff appreciatively, to breathe in the layered scents of fowl mixed with wine and butter and thyme.

"I would like to say grace, Sirius," Remus said quietly, interrupting his thoughts.

Sirius looked at him with a bit of surprise but said nothing as two slender milk-blue hands reached across the table to take hold of his. There were a million things he had to be thankful for as well, and for that he couldn't... and wouldn't... begrudge Remus his occasional religious whim.

Closing his eyes while gently rubbing his thumbs along the other man's palms, Remus reached into the recesses of his mind to find the words. To whom he was addressing this prayer he wasn't sure, but he knew, just as he knew that was finally able to love himself, that something somewhere was looking out for him.

"Thank you for finding a way to make me whole... for completing me on so many levels. Thank you also for the gifts of forgiveness, understanding, and humbleness... three things that enable me to look upon others without judgment, without reservation. Thank you blessing me with the gift of love--both to love others and more importantly... to love myself... But most importantly, I wish to thank you for the gift of friendship... a gift I shall treasure my entire life for it has made me the man I am today, a man who encompasses all the other gifts and can appreciate the beauty of life."

Opening his eyes, Remus squeezed Sirius' hands tightly then leaned forward in his chair to kiss him gently. "I meant it... every word, Sirius." And Sirius could only nod, his heart aching for the beautiful man sitting next to him, loving him.