A Season of Change

Chapter 17

Madam Cressida's Most Potente Whiskey lived up to its name. It had a disgusting habit of coating one's tongue like residuals of bitter molasses and no amount of water seemed to make it any better.

"Urgh...nasty stuff," Whitney grimaced, crooking his finger for another round. "Keep it comin'," he slurred, his bloodshot eyes staring angrily into the tumbler as if it were the glass's fault that it was empty. Altogether he was feeling decidedly out of sorts. The short bristly hairs on the back of his neck itched like mad, and each time he reached back to scratch he experienced a momentary pause of something akin to surprise when he realized his ponytail was gone. Pressing his forehead against the table, he tried to focus his thoughts, a process he had endeavored to do for the past two and a half weeks with marginal success. The culmination of his failure was tonight's attempt which had led him directly to a little pub he had found on one of his midnight drunken ramblings. And as befit his mood, he managed somehow to consume quite nicely four going on five tumblers of cheap, black market whiskey and water.

For a moment he thought longingly of his club on the west end of town, a gentleman's only establishment where the pure-bloods and the "royalty" of the wizarding world liked to play. He wondered what his mates at the club were doing this very minute--probably playing high stakes cards and lavishly spending their fathers' fortunes not caring at all about the state of werewolf affairs. He also realized glumly that they'd probably be shocked and utterly appalled were they to see him in such a state--unshaven, disheveled, drinking whiskey better left for the gutter rats and smoking generic cigarettes.

This lapse into this self-deprecating black mood of his was so uncharacteristically Howard Whitney that for a whole minute he allowed himself to wonder what the world would be like if he were to leave it. Friends, family, and the grander pursuits of happiness...these were concepts he had already learned to deal without. Showing off, cockiness, and passing though life aimlessly with no real purpose other than proving to all the skeptics in the world that he did possess a brain behind his pretty boy looks and that he simply chose when and where to use it...ahhh...now these were the things he was familiar with. And remarkably good at as well. It was no wonder to him that Charlie Weasley despised him and everything associated with his flippant attitude and seemingly adept ability to possess not a single grain of altruism in his whole makeup.

He chuckled at the memory of Charlie's face when he had learned that he, Howard Whitney, was representing the condemned werewolf. Ah yes, it had been one thing to seek out Whitney's guidance when his friend was in trouble even though nothing in their history had ever suggested that a Whitney would have ever assisted a Weasley, but it was another thing entirely to learn that a well-respected, admired friend's life was in this very person's hands. A person Charlie Weasley despised on principle as well as on merit.

A tumbler of whiskey was thumped on the table before Whitney's bowed head. With clumsy hands he reached for the handle and raised it to his lips. "If Weasley could see me now..." he slurred spilling some of his drink on his sleeve. "...Motherfu--"

A shadow dropped over him...a figure with a shock of red hair and great brown eyes.

"Weasley?" Whitney's face registered its disbelief, but he was too tired and too inebriated to do much more than squint an eye at him and tilt his wrinkled, flushed face to the side. "Whadaya doing here?"

Charlie took the seat across from Whitney and yanked the tumbler away. "Stop. That's enough."

Clunk was the sound of Whitney's head hitting the table again. "Get out of here," he mumbled and then, "Leave me alone." He could feel the tingles of the beginning of a sobering charm and wanted to laugh when he realized Weasley's charm was almost as ineffective as his own. Bright stars of pain seared the backs of his eyes. "Enough, man, stop," he protested. "No more. I beg of you. Just ask for the tonic...they've a good one here." Thankfully the explosive bursts of pain stopped, and Whitney used the time to try to regain a semblance of balance to his spinning head by pressing his knuckles tightly against his temples.

A little while later, Charlie pressed a cold glass into his hands with a forced, "Drink." Whitney could feel those eyes of his boring into the top of his head. Instead of baiting him with the usual such as, "What the hell did you put in my drink and why should I trust you?" he gulped down the liquid and waited almost impatiently for the slow agonizing burning of his esophagus and stomach lining to hit.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Charlie, his voice no longer firm but furiously cold. Whitney blinked owlishly. "You bastard, I should beat the shit out of you." He hauled Whitney to his feet and steered him roughly towards the door, paying absolutely no attention to the way Whitney's feet seemed unable to move one in front of the other. "We're walking back to Harry's flat then you're going to fucking pull yourself together--I don't care how--but you're not to breathe a word of this to Remus," he hissed, fingers closing tightly around Whitney's collar. "Or to Sirius...although Sirius, I'm sure, would take great pleasure in beating the crap out of you." His teeth clenched. "As would I."

Two-thirds sober, Whitney finally managed to get his legs into working order. Then he shoved Charlie hard. "Get your filthy hands off of me," he snarled as he righted his leather jacket. "Touch me again and I'll kill you." Charlie's hands curled into fists of rage and his face darkened at Whitney's threat. "You," Whitney pointed his wand unsteadily at Charlie's chest, "have no idea--no bloody idea what I've had to deal with by being Robert Culpepper's unwanted grandson." He teetered on the cobblestones. Right...not so sober after all, he amended. "I fucking deserve all the bloody drinks in the whole damn world right now."

"Try me," Charlie bit out tightly, his glittering eyes snapping in the darkness.

If there was anything Whitney despised, it was condescension. And Weasley's voice dripped with it. He decided in lieu of smashing in the red-head's face which would undoubtedly take a good deal of work, he'd make his explanation short and simple and get the hell out of there. "My grandfather murdered his first werewolf, a woman who loved him, when he was barely in his twenties. He's since developed as taste for killing. Don't presume that you can try to reason with him because it's not about logic and facts. The only hope we have to convince the jury of Remus' innocence is to prove that he's as human as you and me."

Charlie grunted impatiently. "I am aware of this, Whitney. Tell me something I don't know."

With the understanding that Remus and Sirius held Charlie in their complete confidence and the knowledge that Cecilia and Charlie's regard for each other was something a bit more than platonic, Whitney explained almost eagerly what it was that they saw in Margaret's Pensieve. "...so there is this potion we saw in the vision that supposedly Macnair and Fitzherbert were working on prior to the trial which Hermione thinks is the same potion Fitzherbert's old house elf, Toopy, told her about. According to Toopy, just before Fitzherbert died--at the hand of my grandfather, I might add--he had whispered something about a potion and no longer wanting to hide the truth. Hermione speculates that the jury was drugged or placed under some type of enchantment, but there's nothing that we can be certain about just yet."

"But the trial starts tomorrow!" shouted Charlie.

"I am aware of that, trust me...no one, aside from Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black is more aware of that fact than I," Whitney said wryly and paused to scrutinize the man marching next to him. "So...when did'ya get back?"

"This evening," Charlie ground out.

With another sideways glance, Whitney asked casually, "Have you talked to Cecilia?"

Charlie's shoulders stiffened. "I've been busy. I'll talk to her tomorrow."

"Ahhh...so you've not heard."

"Heard?"

Smugly, Whitney quickened his pace. "About Cecilia."

"What about Cecilia?" now there was a definite edge to Charlie's voice.

"There's another vision in Margaret's Pensieve, one that had nothing to do with Mr. Lupin or Dietmar Huber. It was about Cecilia...and who her mother is," he paused then added meanly, "But then how would you know. You never wrote her. Mr. Lupin was the one who carried her from the room and revived her. Ahhh...yes, I remember--the call of the dragons. Of course, were it one of my friends and the girl I fancied I sure as hell wouldn't be at work."

Charlie stopped short. Whitney surmised that perhaps this time he had managed to deal the unflappable dragon keeper a real gut-wrenching blow. His lips took on their old familiar sardonic twist as he waited for Charlie's reaction.

It was slow in coming, and when it did, Whitney wasn't prepared for the prickles of apprehensive contrition nagging at his conscience. Charlie's face was that of a man who had judged hastily and found himself wanting.

"Turns out that Bridget McAllister sold Cecilia to Margaret Lancaster and then fled the country. Supposedly Lancaster had a family waiting for the baby but then decided to keep her for her own use turning her into a veritable slave of the institution. But that's not the only thing that happened."

Charlie stood immobile. He appeared almost incapable of speech. Whitney, however, wasn't fooled by his façade and didn't put it past Charlie to punch him in the face. He continued a bit more kindly, "...there were all these tests in a later memory that showed what Lancaster put Cecilia through to see whether she was tainted with lycanthropy. Grafts where you take a slice of werewolf skin and affix it to human skin to see if the human cells will absorb the lycanthropic ones...moon trials where she bound Cecilia to a pole and then had these minions of hers record any changes, blood sampling, silver nitrate tests...you know, just your basic run of the mill testing for dark creatures."

"Hell..."

"Apparently Lancaster wanted Cecilia to be a werewolf--some medical experiment o whatnot she's heading up that's investigating the possibilities of lycanthropic genetic transfer. I don't know the specifics. But what I do know is that she paid a bloody fortune to hunt down a child of a lycanthropic werewolf mother and the closest they could find was the child of a child of a werewolf. Turns out, of course, that Cecilia is not a werewolf. So instead of doing anything that might jeopardize her research she marked Cecilia as a werewolf on her IWPA certificate. Therefore when it came time for Cecilia's Hogwarts' letter, Lancaster, as her guardian, had the option to accept or decline. And you know how that went."

"Does--does..." Charlie swallowed. His face was a sickening shade of green. "Is Cecilia aware of this? About the tests and her status?"

Whitney lifted his head towards the sky and let the rain drops splatter against his face. "She passed out right after we discovered Bridget McAllister was her mother."

"Her mother by blood but not by nurturing," Charlie voice was hard.

With a long exhale, Whitney unlocked the front door of Harry's flat and lit the lamp on the windowsill. The glow of the flame illuminated his haggard face, and in the deceptiveness of the light he suddenly appeared a very old man. Charlie followed him into the flat but stood in the entrance of the room, his mouth working as if trying desperately to form a coherent sentence.

Pouring two shots of fire whiskey, Whitney pressed one into Charlie's hand and the two of them threw them back with ease. Drinking, as usual, was simple enough. "Cecilia doesn't know about the testing. Mr. Lupin warned us not to tell her just yet. He said she's already suffered a great shock as it is and it'll only damage her further if we bombard her with these old memories."

"So...she hasn't any idea that she's been marked as a werewolf?" Whitney shook his head. Charlie considered this for a moment. "And your grandfather's department doesn't even know?"

"I have a feeling not."

"But...why? Why did Bridget sell her daughter? And why the hell didn't anyone know?"

"Why should anyone know? Loads of children are orphans. It's not an uncommon phenomenon, Weasley."

Charlie clamped his jaw furiously.

Sitting down on an empty couch, Whitney stretched his long legs out before him and regarded Charlie frankly. "Do you want the truth?"

"Of course I want the fucking truth!"

"One of the employees working for my great grandfather discovered that back in the 1940s a werewolf by the name of Mary McAllister gave birth to a daughter and never registered with the department. Obviously this created a huge ruckus in my great grandfather's department at the time. Not only was there an unregistered werewolf roaming about but one who had clearly broken Section 1521 which stipulates that werewolves cannot procreate. So now you have one, probably two, raving foaming at the mouth flesh eating beasts spawned from the devil himself roaming across Britain and someone had to pay. So my great grandfather, in an act only a Culpepper would truly understand, sacked his entire staff, initiated this huge werewolf hunt and brought on board a new member, a nurse who went by the name of Margaret Lancaster."

Charlie poured himself another shot of fire whiskey and gesticulated towards Whitney. Whitney declined--his head was still suffering from the after effects of the sobering potion and the last shot of whiskey.

"This Lancaster woman was a fanatic in the field it seems. According to my grandfather, my great grandfather loved her. She was all passion and vim and so incredibly ruthless for a woman. He knew he could place the werewolf hunt in her hands, and he counted on her competency to find the werewolves. Basically he washed his hands of the whole affair, blamed the incompetence on his former staff and went about his business which was, at the time, teaching his son--my grandfather--to be just like him."

Charlie raised his brows pointedly.

Whitney's cheeks grew pink as he continued: "So Margaret was left to her own devices, but what my grandfather didn't know was that this whole time she was really trying to hatch this scientific experiment working with human/werewolf chromosomes. Finding Mary McAllister and her child was by no part a means to exonerate my great grandfather's department of all wrong doing. In fact, when she did discover Mary's whereabouts she never reported it to the department. She had what she was looking for, so when my great grandfather sacked her, the IWPA lapped her right up because of her nursing skills--although I tell you, if I were injured in battle and she was my nurse I'd be praying awfully fast for a quick death--but anyway, it took Margaret nearly thirty-eight years to locate Mary McAllister and when she did..."

"She found Cecilia," Charlie answered numbly.

Whitney's face had long since lost its sardonic expression. His grey eyes were shadowed with a deep rooted sadness and something reminiscent of empathy for Cecilia, her lot in life, and the secrets that could tear her apart. Thinking back upon his own life he realized how very much they had both missed out on by not having parents or siblings or anything akin to love. Fiona, for being his birth mother, had none of the maternal instincts he had seen displayed in even the most ornery of the Green Welsh dragons.

"It was blackmail."

Whitney nodded in agreement. "This for that. Your mother or your child."

Charlie walked to the window and pressed his forehead against the pane. The glass was cool under his skin, almost too cold, with streaks of rain streaming down the window.

Whitney watched him silently, mentally cursing himself for his selfish outburst earlier. "What would you have done in her place? Surely Bridget would have offered her own life to save her mother and her daughter, but Margaret refused to make this an option. As soon as she realized Bridget was not cursed with lycanthropy, she had no use for her. Margaret couldn't even order Mary's execution without drawing attention to the fact that she knew all the while where she was hiding, and I guess you could say that she did her only charitable deed by keeping Mary alive. But I think this had more to do with the fact that she didn't want her experiment discovered. That's why, twenty-eight years later, Mary and Bridget are still technically 'at large.'"

"And Remus?" Charlie finally spoke. "What's this have to do with Remus?"

"Or Dietmar Huber," Whitney added. "We can't forget the infamous Bristol Werewolf."

Charlie moved to sit down on an ugly overstuffed brown plaid chair across from the couch. "I need a drink," he muttered. "No, no," he waved Whitney away as the other man moved to stand. "I don't really...I just...well, hell, this is an awful bloody lot to take in all at once."

"It gets worse," Whitney warned. Charlie groaned and splayed his fingers over his face. "So this whole time we've all be thinking that Margaret's in cohorts with my grandfather and Macnair as part of a team trying to cleanse the world of werewolves. An extinction brigade if you will," he paused dramatically. "But that's not entirely true. My grandfather is, yes. His father trained him to see werewolves as evil, and he felt himself duped when he learned that the only woman he loved was cursed with lycanthropy. For him, it's a matter of righting a so-called wrong, and all this vindictiveness is really a strike against her. That's why I said before it's not about rationality with him but about bigotry and prejudice and fear."

Charlie made an unintelligible sound under his breath.

"And Macnair...well, we all know thanks to Hermione that his parents were mauled and killed by a werewolf, so it's personal for him as well. What's not apparent, however, is that even though my grandfather is head of the department and Macnair top executioner, it's really Margaret Lancaster who is the mastermind of the whole affair. My great grandfather found her to be a disappointment when she failed to deliver Mary McAllister, but he was wrong. She's crafty, cold, calculating, and clinical and my grandfather appreciates that about her. He let her back into his influence. He's using her, she's using him. Don't you see? They're none of them a team, and if they call themselves that, it's the most fucked up one I've ever heard of."

Whitney scratched the back of his neck impatiently. "Do you know what happened to Dietmar Huber's body?" Charlie froze. "She harvested it for her experiments. She exhumed it after he was decapitated and kept it in some lab of hers. It was the culmination of all her plotting. There hadn't been a valid reason to execute a werewolf for nearly a century and Margaret needed tissue samples, blood, bone, hair..."

"So she invented a reason to execute one?" Charlie's eyes widened with horror.

Whitney cleared his throat. He remembered the group's initial reaction upon seeing this particular memory in Margaret's Pensieve--how Cecilia laid on the floor, blissfully still unconscious, but how the rest of them suffered through the physical and emotion onslaught of absolute horror and disbelief. Mr. Lupin had been violently ill, although he tried to hide it; Mr. Black had gone so white that they had been afraid he, too, would join Cecilia on the floor; and Hermione had wept silently. He himself, desensitized perhaps by his grandfather's telling of his first werewolf killing, had managed to offer a comforting arm to Hermione, a cleaning spell for Mr. Lupin who was too shocked to even find his wand, and a watchful eye for Mr. Black. So this time, like the last, he felt nothing but absolute commiseration with Charlie.

"Why...why?" Charlie cried hoarsely. "For a medical experiment? She killed Dietmar Huber for a tissue sample?"

"And she wants Mr. Lupin's body for that, too." Whitney stood and poured two fresh drinks. For some reason, the telling of this was far harder that watching it in a memory.

"So...so it's not about parenting issues? This has nothing to do with what she said earlier about werewolves being proper parents?" Charlie struggled to understand. "We're talking science here?"

"No...it's that as well. Think logically--how can she possibly justify werewolves being parents if she can't even see them as humans? And I told you--she's calculating. She knows that the cry among the general population is one of save and protect your children, and what creature is feared above almost all others? Werewolves. Margaret knows this, and she plays this out against people's ability to be close-minded, she weaves these half truths and lies to create this sense of dehumanization, and what person in his right mind would want to entrust a child in the care of someone not human? No..." Whitney's hands trembled as he fingered his empty glass. "...it is a parenting issue...just not the one we thought we were fighting."

Charlie banged his glass on the coffee table. "I don't understand," he said hoarsely. "What the hell kind of genetic experiment is she conducting?"

Whitney frowned. "It wasn't particularly clear from the memories we saw. We only had a limited amount of time, and we had to get Cecilia out of there," Charlie's expression grew pained. "...but from what we could see, we were able to deduce that Margaret's trying to understand a werewolf's exact genetic compound in an attempt to recreate one without having the alpha present. Harnessing the raw power of these beings appears to be what she's after. With Cecilia she wanted to see if any strands of lycanthropy were passed down through the chromosome makeup from generation to generation."

"She wants to make more werewolves? Good god...Remus must be going crazy."

"Yeah...I imagine that he is. Lycanthropy is a part of him but that doesn't mean he'd ever want anyone else to suffer as he has."

"But hold on, wait a minute, if she's killing them..."

"Only a few," Whitney corrected. "And she's using their bodies for her own purposes so it could hardly be called wasteful. Besides, what are a few dead werewolves if she can create the ability to become some sort of scientific super-entity? The Master Alpha if you will. Think of what she could do with that kind of power. If she had her way werewolves wouldn't even need to mate. She could simply create one with an injection or gene splicing. She'd be beyond Voldemort. The werewolves would be her machines and she the master."

Both men shuddered.

And then, "Fuuuck..." Charlie whispered. He stumbled to his feet. "I've got to get home. My dad...and..." he trailed off and turned in the doorway, his brown eyes pleading. "...how's she doing?"

"She's upset and confused," Whitney replied honestly. "And who can blame her. Mr. Lupin told us we mustn't force her, but she won't even consider talking to Bridget."

Charlie swallowed hard. "And Bridget...does she know Cecilia is her daughter?" Whitney nodded. "And they've not met yet? I mean, Bridget's not tried to speak with her because I know you just told me that Cecilia won't talk and perhaps Bridget doesn't know that Cecilia knows and..." he trailed off in a confused jumble of words.

"Bridget was told the next day. Dumbledore and Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black were there with her," Whitney said. "But I don't know if Bridget's tried to talk with Cecilia. I think that Bridget doesn't know what to do at the moment actually. I'm sure she's feeling guilty and shocked and stunned. It's like her worst nightmare became her best dream and then now that it's happened in real life she doesn't know how to separate the two."

"But she's her mother," Charlie hissed. "She has a responsibility to her daughter. That should be her number one priority."

"I think," Whitney said slowly, reflectively, and with a bit more wisdom than he was normally accustomed, "I think that in her mind her number one priority is keeping what happened to Cecilia from happening to Elizabeth."

Charlie fell silent and then opened the door. "Where is she?"

Whitney scanned his face as if searching for something and then said quietly, "After the episode with Margaret's Pensieve, Mr. Lupin refused to let her stay there any longer and took her back to their home. She's quit the IWPA and Genevieve is taking care of Elizabeth," he said in answer to the automatic question forming on Charlie's lips.

Nodding once in an abrupt gesture of thanks, Charlie apparated from the house and left Whitney with his whiskey.

**********

Quietly so as not to wake Remus who lay sprawled across the bed, Sirius gently removed Remus' reading spectacles and studied a face that in sleep seemed so devoid of worry, so tranquil in repose. Eternally grateful that Remus had agreed to a drink, something he had not done in these many weeks since Elizabeth's removal, Sirius had seized upon the opportunity and concocted a draught of dreamless sleeping potion which he had slipped into Remus' glass.

The gentle rise and fall of Remus' chest marked a peacefulness which tore at Sirius' heart. He had wanted nothing more than for this day to simply disappear, but as it is with all things dreaded, the moment had inevitably come, and with it the startling realization that perhaps what he had dreaded most was simply the agony of the unknown, the acute misery of waiting. For, in this moment as he sat on the bed holding Remus' hand in his own, lifelines touching, Sirius' body seemed to detach from itself.

The clock on the mantle chimed the hour--half four in the morning. He himself had not slept. The second hand beat out a death march to the hour when a knock would come on their door and bring with it the beginning of the end. A sharp flash of blue-white lightning streaked across the sky and electrified the room causing Sirius to shiver as he had not done since he was very small. Low rumbles of thunder as if a manifestation of the despair of the two men growled about the house.

Sirius ran a hand across his dry face. In the weeks since their return from Hogwarts his very heart felt as if it were drowning in a sea of suppressed tears. Shaking his dark head, he pressed his cheek against Remus' hand and closed his eyes, glad for the opportunity to shoulder some of Remus' burden. Insurmountable grief was to be shared and while Remus had yet to break down, Sirius knew he existed as a ghost of a man--fearful of being judged unbalanced and all the time ever watchful. It was a dreadful way to live.

"...Sirius?"

Sirius blinked. How long had Remus been awake?

"Come here..." Remus whispered, pulling gently on his hand. Sirius crawled forward onto the bed and settled himself along the warm contours of Remus' body. "You've not slept," was the gentle admonishment.

"No."

"How long have I been sleeping?" concern wrinkled across Remus' forehead.

Kissing his warm still sleepy mouth, Sirius could feel the beating of Remus' heart through his own chest. "Not long...but you should go back to sleep."

"No. I don't want to sleep anymore. There'll be plenty of time for that--later." Sirius mumbled something unintelligible and pressed his face into the soft graying hair falling across the pillow. "...and," Remus continued quietly, "there are things I have to tell you."

"Yeah?" Sirius mumbled--his unwillingness to look into Remus' eyes confirming his own fear of being discovered as fragile.

"Let me," Remus touched Sirius chin. "I want to see you...Oh, Sirius..." Sirius could hear the sadness laced throughout those two words, and another section of his heart shattered. He didn't want to hear what Remus seemed so desperate to say. All night he had shirked away from those watchful golden eyes, hoping that something, a change in the conversation, light-hearted banter, anything would serve to prevent a stream of words he wasn't prepared to hear. But in doing so, Remus' expression had become one of hurt, so in an attempt to not exact further pain, he had concocted the draught and prayed for sleep to overtake the words.

"I--I don't think..." he faltered.

"Sirius, don't hide. That's not you," Remus chided.

"I know. God, Moony, I know. But I don't want to hear you say it," Sirius said hoarsely. "I keep telling myself over and over that maybe if we don't say anything, if we just go on as we have it won't happen--that the words won't become a reality."

Remus held his eyes steady and took a deep breath. "Love...you know it doesn't work that way. And besides, it's our last night together--"

"Not our last--don't say that, Moony," Sirius said fiercely. "You're coming home, and we're bringing Elizabeth with us."

Remus said nothing as his hands smoothed across Sirius' tense shoulders.

"You believe me, don't you? You know we're going to win."

"Yes, yes of course," replied Remus fervently. Dear god, yes he knew, Sirius was relieved. Remus had to understand the importance of believing.

"All right then." Sirius sat up and leaned his head against the wall, draping Remus' legs across his lap. Rain pounded against the window panes.

Remus folded his hands under his head. "Sirius, I want to say this...I've been trying to for days now, so please, don't interrupt..."

Against his waging sensibilities, Sirius agreed.

"I keep telling myself this is not my fault, that Elizabeth's well being--and yours--are not entirely in my hands, and yet, despite whatever my brain tells me I can't seem to convince my heart..." he trailed off. True to his promise, Sirius said nothing. "Love is the simplest thing in the world, Sirius, but it's also the hardest. I've learned to weather anything thrown my way because I've had to. But this knowing that you and Elizabeth are suffering because of me is different than anything I've ever had to bear." He touched Sirius' lips with a finger. "My Padfoot..."

It took every ounce of self-control Sirius possessed to keep himself from snatching Remus up into his arms and willing them both far, far away from all the madness threatening to overcome them both. Their home, the one place that should have been a haven was a tempest of ill-contained tension. But Remus was speaking again...

"...you always try so hard to protect me, but this time it's not within your control, so you must promise me you won't try anything you shouldn't tomorrow. Promise me...please..." Remus' eyes were fierce. "If something happens to you it'll kill me. I can't go through that again. Once I lost you. Once was enough forever."

"And me?" Sirius could barely wrest the words out. "What happens to me?"

"You'll be here to take care of our daughter. She'll need you."

"She needs us, Moony," Sirius' voice cracked. "I need you. If you think the pain of losing me then was difficult, imagine yourself inside of my heart if you left me now. The only way I'll let you go is when I absolutely have to, and even then I'm going to put up a fight. I fight for the things that matter to me, so don't talk like you've already surrendered. Whitney'll get us through this, you'll see, and when it's over you're carrying our daughter home."

Remus' eyes were haunted. Slowly he raised placating hands. "Sirius..."

"No!" Sirius shook off his touch. "This is bullshit. You're not going to fucking die. This is exactly why I didn't want to talk about this! You always get into one of your self-deprecating moods and then it's all death and doom and bloody self-sacrifice. I want you to fight for us! For our family! No more resignation and acceptance!"

Propping himself up on his elbows, Remus grabbed Sirius by the face and pulled him into a punishing kiss, mashing his lips and teeth against Sirius'. "Is that what you think I am doing? I love you," he breathed harshly, the air thick and warm between them. "And because I love you I'm trying to help you--I'm trying to make this easier for you. If I were a different man I'd have killed all of them to save myself, but I'm not. I could never be that kind of person. Never think that's an option. Oh Sirius, life consists of pockets of borrowed time and you have made mine so wonderful..." he murmured against the pressing insistence of Sirius' lips. "I'll never accept what has happened but time is fleeting, and I know the danger of letting things go unsaid. Your love is as you are--strong, passionate, fervent, unyielding, without compromise--and it's this combination that has made you strong and will allow you to make it through this no matter what happens."

Sirius' fingers reached out in vain to silence what he had failed to do with his lips, but Remus was quicker and moved away.

"I love you, Sirius Black, and I always will. Here," he touched Sirius' eyes, "where you look out at the world determined to find ways to improve it; here," his touched lingered on Sirius' lips, "with this mouth that is the opening to the soul of your passion; and here," Remus pressed his hand against Sirius' chest just over his heart. "You said I am inside of your heart, but Sirius, you are my heart, and should I leave before you, I know you'll carry a part of me with you. Always."

In his anger-induced haze, Sirius could feel Remus' words penetrate his rage, melting the emotion into a river of black--stormy and wild, smashing against rocks which were the barriers in his life. It was as if the voicing of Remus' words brought with it an underlying sense of panic; so he did the only thing he knew how...he allowed himself to succumb to the bitter agony of hate-fueled love and began the motions of lovemaking.

With a single rough motion, he tumbled on top of Remus and pressed his lips to his face and down the contours of the milky-white column of his throat. "I love you..." he began.

"Shhh...I know that...I've always known..." Remus sucked on the bottom of Sirius' lip. "Don't talk...just move..."

And so Sirius did...with abandon.

**********

"Wake up, love..."

Groggily, Sirius opened one eye and immediately shut it against the pink white of the morning sky. Turning over he buried his face in the pillows.

Remus' smile was sad as he gently smoothed the dark veil of hair covering the side of Sirius' face. He hadn't slept after they made love; instead, he had spent the hour and a half until Whitney's arrival staring out the window as the stormy night beckoned forth a dawn rosy with pinks and yellows. Showered and dressed, his robes lay draped over the end of the bed, his wand wrapped and put away. It had been impressed upon him that he wouldn't be able to take his wand upon his arrest.

"...Padfoot, Whitney will be here soon."

With great reluctance, Sirius sat up and leaned his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He made a small sound in the back of his throat. Next to him sat Remus, a cup of tea in his hands.

Long gone cold, Remus swished the dregs of his beverage and waited for Sirius to look at him. He had hated waking him, but there was no time to waste, and there were things yet unsaid. "Sirius," he murmured, scratching the back of his neck absently where the tag of his shirt rubbed against his skin. He'd have to remember to ask Sirius to cut it off before he left. "There's an envelope in my study that I want you to read tonight. It's not a death letter," he added wryly at the aggrieved look Sirius sent him. "It's simply something I'd rather you look at when I'm...not around. You'll see." Sirius nodded dully. "I've made provisions so that food will be delivered regularly--you never have been one for going to the market--and Hermione and Ginny have agreed to stay here with you and Cecilia in the house. I don't want you to be alone."

He thought he heard Sirius whisper, "And who's going to be with you, Remus?" Ignoring it, Remus looked about the bedroom. Plenty of wood was stacked against the wall, everything had been tidied, and Elizabeth's cradle lay in readiness for the return of its mistress. His gaze lingered on the stacks of books on the window seat and a pang of longing slipped past the shield he had erected about his emotions. How he would miss... but no... Remus shook his head resolutely and instead offered a hand to Sirius who sat staring at it as if he couldn't comprehend what it meant. Finally, Sirius took the offering and was hoisted to his feet.

"I'll just shower then," he mumbled tonelessly and crossed the room, picking up his discarded clothes as he passed. Remus watched him leave.

The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut forced him into action, and picking up his suitcase and robes, he quickly strode down into the kitchen to rinse out his cup.

With a roar of fury, Remus hurled the china cup from his mother's wedding collection against the kitchen wall. He leaned against the counter, his labored breath rushing through white lips. Furiously, he reached back and scratched his neck.

"Allow me."

Whitney materialized out of nowhere and stepped forward. With a short muttered spell, Remus' shirt was righted and the offending scrap of fabric gone. "I knocked..." he said by way of apologetic explanation. Remus didn't move. "Right..." Whitney shifted uncomfortably and fumbled with the fastening on his cloak. The pallor of his own face hinted at several weeks of sleepless nights, and there were tiny lines next to his eyes. "May I get you anything?" he asked finally.

Turning slowly, Remus passed a hand across his haggard features. "No. I'll be fine. I'm just--" confused he patted his pants where his wand should be. Raising his eyes in alarm he stared at Whitney with momentary confusion until the slow red flush of embarrassment crept across his cheeks.

Whitney seemed to understand, for without being asked, he repaired the broken cup and gestured for Remus to follow him into the front room. Remus sank wearily on the couch. "Sirius is just getting ready," he said.

"Cecilia?"

"Asleep."

Fiddling with his wand, Whitney went over the procedure again: "We've been granted permission to apparate to the Ministry Headquarters, Mr. Lupin, where my grandfather's division will take you into their custody. I've arranged for the most comfortable lodgings available, and the guard supervising your quarters is an old friend of the family. He's not," he hastened to add, "in league with my grandfather. They had a falling out ten years ago right after the Bristol Werewolf trial. He's promised to make certain that you're treated fairly," he finished lamely.

Remus bowed his head.

Whitney glanced at the staircase. "It's all right," Remus said tiredly, knowing what the other man as thinking. "He's promised not to act out."

"Mr. Lupin...I'm so sorry..." Whitney trailed off as the clock chimed the hour. Seven in the morning. Remus eyes flashed panicked in his face. "We have to go. They'll be waiting for us. If we don't show up they'll come here."

"No." Remus stood and swung his robe across his shoulders. The nervous fatigue melted from his features leaving only a calm resolute expression in its wake. "I'm ready. But I must...let me just tell Sirius goodbye." He started across the room and stopped short as footsteps thundered down the stairs three at a time.

"Moony!" Sirius voice was hoarse. "I heard the clock and--" He stopped short at the sight of Whitney standing next to Remus' suitcase. His eyes filled with pain and he swallowed convulsively before yanking Remus forward and engulfing him with his arms, clutching and moving his hands up and down Remus' back as if by holding on he could save himself from drowning. His long damp hair wet the shoulder of Remus' robe.

Remus squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face tightly against Sirius' damp skin. Suddenly he felt with an absolute certainty of presence that he wouldn't be able to ignore the grief slashing across his heart. He could hear the hissing of Sirius' breath in his ear, he could feel the way Sirius' hands shook against his spine, and the heat from Sirius' cheek that pressed against his forehead burned him to his very soul.

And he understood then that the tears he had repressed for these many weeks were going to escape...and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop them.

Great heaving sobs shook his frame as he screamed mentally against the absolute injustice of a world that could create such beauty as that of child and then snatch it away without any regard to the feelings of another human being. His mind howled with the thought of causing grief to the man who clung to him as if Remus were his life-support. But what was most remarkable of all was that amidst the expected turmoil, Remus finally listened to the pleas of his heart, the broken anguish that spoke of self-pity and of absolute fear. And so he wept. He cried until there were no more tears left inside and his eyes burned red. He released great chocking sobs that could barely sustain what little air reached his lungs. And through it all, he could feel Sirius' own body tighten its hold, pressing him in closer, almost as if Sirius understood that this time the crying was for Remus, and for Remus alone, and that his own tears, however necessary, were insignificant to those of this man who stood crumpled in his arms.

After a great while, Remus slowly extracted himself from Sirius' hold and quickly caressed both cheeks with the softness of his fingertips, realizing with a momentary pang that they were dry to the touch. A sense of supreme gratitude flowed through him as he realized the sacrifice Sirius had just made for him. With a barely audible sigh, he brushed his lips against Sirius' and let them linger for a moment, not moving, just touching. Then, calmly, quietly, resolutely, he backed away, took his suitcase from Whitney, and disappeared.

*********

Sirius stood rooted to the floor for a good solid minute. He stared blankly at the spot where Remus had just been. His hand reached out--then fell. "No..." he moaned. "Remus..."

Unable to bear the pressure from the wheels that had been set into motion he transformed into Padfoot and buried his soft muzzle on the floor, seeking out Remus' scent. As a dog he felt less of the human emotions such as heartache but it wasn't entirely erased. The pounding sensation of his heart against the floor warned him that the pain was omnipresent. Sirius missed Remus, but Padfoot missed Moony. How did he ever think this would be better?

He quickly transformed back into a man and sank to the floor, sitting, not moving--barely breathing. Carefully he pressed his fingers to his lips and felt a momentary tingle of relief--Remus' kiss.

A light creak on the staircase alerted his attention. Cecilia stood on the stairs, her hand clutching the banister.

"Sirius?" she whispered fearfully.

Sirius took his hands from his face and stared at the young woman watching him. His face was red and splotchy but he somehow managed to keep his voice steady. "He's gone."

"Gone?" she echoed.

"Yes." Sirius stood and rubbed his hands against his trousers. He had tried to get dressed before Remus left but realized belatedly that green tweed trousers didn't go well with an orange and lemon yellow polo shirt. Not to mention the purple tie flung haphazardly around his neck. He yanked off the tie with a grimace. "He and Whitney just left. We're going to meet them at the courtroom at half three."

She walked down the last few steps and joined him in front of the fireplace. She gazed up at him with bright eyes and then reached tentatively with her small hand. "It will be fine. I just know it."

"Yes...I believe that, too, Cecilia." Sirius patted her hand absently then noticed with some concern that the room was freezing. "Wait there," his voice was gruff. Crossing the room, he quickly built a fire and sat squatting before the flames for a long while.

"Sirius...I uh..." she began.

After a lengthy pause, Sirius said tonelessly, "You must be hungry. I'll fix you something. You'll not know where anything is and--" he turned and gazed at Cecilia who was hastily trying to remember that she was in the presence of a much older man in only her night dress. "It won't be much," he continued, ignoring the way she clutched her robe tightly across her chest and shuffled her bare feet against the floor. In normal circumstances he would have had a good chuckle at her behavior. "Remus was the one who usually cooked, but I can make grilled tomatoes and--"

"Oh no, I couldn't," she protested. "I couldn't even think of eating." In almost a defensive move she pressed her hand against her stomach and pulled a face.

"Oh...okay," Sirius didn't know what else to say. He wasn't accustomed to being alone with a female--much less Cecilia whose presence aside from Elizabeth's homecoming had only seemed to cause grief. But surely one couldn't skip breakfast. Somewhere in the back of his mind his mother's voice nagged at him about the importance of starting the day off properly. "Tea then. I insist," he said in a no nonsense tone.

Cecilia followed him mutely into the kitchen and watched as he banged about--first the kettle then the china--the little cups rattling dangerously in their saucers. He cut two thick slices of bread and popped them into the toaster. While he readied the tea leaves, Cecilia collected the sugar and jam--two obvious items already out on the counter.

Within a few minutes, a hot pot of tea sat brewing on the table along with two slices of toast perfectly browned, one for each of them. She watched with great curiosity as Sirius opened up a white door and removed milk and butter.

"A refrigerator," he said in answer to her quizzical stare. "A muggle device. Remus is rather partial to them." He sat across from her and lathered butter onto his bread. She poured his tea, black, after he waved away the sugar and milk. For her own she added two spoons of sugar and a healthy splash of milk.

Sirius glanced up sharply.

"What?" she faltered as she dropped the lid on the sugar dish clumsily.

"Nothing," Sirius mumbled. "Only...only that's exactly how Remus likes his tea..."

"Oh..." she said in a small voice. She didn't know what to say to that.

The silence in the kitchen grew until it was almost unbearable. Finally Sirius drained the dregs of his tea and leaned back limply in his chair, his sharp blue eyes appraising Cecilia's face.

"Why won't you see your mother?"

Crumbs sprayed across the table.

"She was there, you know--last Wednesday--for the full moon run." Sirius observed the pallor of her cheeks and the way her fingers twitched nervously against the edge of her plate. "She asked about you."

Cecilia's eyes flew to his face.

"We have to be accountable for the choices we make in life, Cecilia, but sometimes, for some inexplicable reason, we get a second chance to right past wrongs. There is, as you said, no joy in being the one on the losing end, but occasionally...just possibly the other person, the one who made the decision, suffers even more." He held her gaze firmly, his lips pressed in a thin line.

Cecilia, who knew only the scantest amount about his infamous past, wasn't able to drawn the connection between her mother and Sirius. She could only pull her eyes away and stare mutinously into her cup.

"It was a difficult moon this month," Sirius' voice was soft. "Your grandmother has had a difficult life and she's old. But the wolf part of her could sense a kindred spirit within Remus and insisted on playing. She was beautiful, Cecilia, majestic and so very, very proud--of herself, of her daughter, of Remus...and of you."

Cecilia's eyes flew back to his face.

"She asked for you--just before the transformation. I think she sensed that there was a chance that she might not make it through this moon and she wanted us to tell you that all these years she had been very much aware of you. She knew deep down in her heart that you hadn't died as her daughter had told her."

"She thought I was dead?" Cecilia choked.

Sirius nodded. "Bridget told her you had died. There was no way Mary would have sacrificed your livelihood for her own, and Bridget knew this. It was the only way she could save her mother. She thought you safe."

Cecilia poured them each a fresh cup of tea and shakily stirred sugar into her drink.

"Cecilia," Sirius moved his tea to the side and reached out to grasp her hands tightly. "Cecilia, giving up one's child is something neither you nor I will ever be able to fully identify with unless we were to do it ourselves. One of these days Remus and I will have to explain to Elizabeth the reasons why she came to be part of our family and when we do we'll have to choose our words very carefully. Love will be the explanation as to why she is our daughter, but in her mind don't you think she'll wonder why her mother and father didn't want her?"

With a deep sigh Cecilia twisted her hand within Sirius' fingers. "I just wish I had known... that's all. All this time--I couldn't recall any of it--but I could sense it. There were times--like when I met Charlie at Diagon Alley that I felt something strange. Something that threatened to pull me apart if only it could come to the surface. God," she released a choked little cry. "I must have looked like such a coward to him! I could barely even walk through the door of the pub."

"No, Cecilia, no. Don't ever look down upon yourself. None of this is a reflection on you. You're a remarkable, wonderful, courageous woman considering everything you've been through in your life," he broke off and tried to smile at her reassuringly. And you don't even know the half of it, he thought angrily, thinking back to the memory in the Pensieve about the werewolf testing she had endured as a small child. "Cecilia, it's all right if you don't want to see your mother right now. Remus and I understand. You know that you're welcome here for as long as you choose. And when Elizabeth comes home, I think it would be good for her--and for you--if you took on the role of a surrogate older sister of sorts."

Cecilia's eyes filled. She nodded her thanks and then said slowly, "Was she in a good deal of pain? My...grandmother?"

Sirius took a deep breath. "Transformations are never easy, and yes, she suffered. But Remus' being there helped her in a way I don't think she ever imagined possible. She's never had the company of a pack mate; she's never known the presence of a comforting friend during her change. And I think...no, I know that years upon years of solitary transformations took a toll on her body. She had no one to take her mind away from the urgency of release and like all werewolves confined to only themselves she took out her anger on her own body."

"But the Wolfsbane..."

"It wasn't around for many of those years."

"Will she...is she going to die?" she squeaked.

"Not today," Sirius squeezed her hand. "She was brilliant last Wednesday. I've never seen a female werewolf before and she's so different from Remus. Even he was astonished. There's softness, a kind of regalness to her face."

She stared at him in fascination.

"Your grandmother has your eyes, Cecilia, and in the darkness they were illuminated by the moon like two glowing sapphires. I realize my own eyes are blue, but I've never seen anything like hers. It's as if they were on fire. And her fur was like a spectrum of silver shades, so unbelievably soft. Absolutely amazing," he trailed off remembering that night.

In his mind he could clearly see the moment the transformation had broken and two wolves stood side by side under the full light of the moon, their stances identical, their eyes--one pair sapphire, the other golden--illuminated like stars. And then the she-wolf and the he-wolf raised their muzzles to the sky, up past the canopy of branches, beyond the wisps of night clouds and straight to the cold gleaming orb hanging in the blanket of night. A howl unlike any he had ever heard broke free from their throats and sliced through the stillness of the air. Padfoot stood alone, a solitary witness, and allowed them their release, knowing that his own canine howl was nothing in comparison to that which bathed over him.

Sirius shivered. "It was a night I shall never forget," he mused. "It was clear Mary had never played before and her excitement was boundless. Remus and I could hardly keep up. You would have thought she was a pup again!" Cecilia smiled softly. "...but perhaps she was...I think maybe this past moon was a rebirth for her--a chance for the wolf to finally be free. She wanted to discover all the nooks and crannies of the forest Remus and I had discovered as boys, and it was amazing--you'll enjoy this--she was the instigator! The number of times Remus and I had our legs knocked out from beneath us...and sweet Merlin, I don't think my tail shall ever be the same! It was amazing..." His eyes took on a far away look. "I only wish she had had the chance to do this earlier."

"But she has now," pride shone in Cecilia's eyes. "You two gave her this gift. Brid--my mother will never forget that."

His own eyes were bright. "Yes...she was remarkably held together considering the joy she witnessed her mother experience. Just think, Cecilia. She's probably never seen Mary so happy."

"No...you're right..." she acquiesced. Swallowing hard she scanned his face urgently. "How many more moons do you think she has?"

Sirius' expression grew sober. "Remus guesses probably one, maybe two at the most."

"But she's not that old!" Cecilia protested. "She's only in her 80s! Witches live scores longer than that!"

"Yes, but her body has been through much more than the average witch, dear, and all those transformations shaved years from her life." His smile was brittle. As he said the words he refused to allow him mind to apply them to Remus. Never...Remus' life was so different from Mary's. Surely he wouldn't leave him so soon. He forcibly pushed the thought from his brain.

"But I don't want her to die!" Cecilia released a low cry. She blinked up at him through wet lashes. "She's my family..."

With great solemnity, Sirius released her hands and walked around the table to stand next to her. With a low keening sound, she fell into his arms and began to cry. "Shh...Cecilia, it will be okay. Shh..." She continued to weep, pressing her face tight against his chest. Sirius' hands moved helplessly across her back, over her hair, down her shoulders. The entire time he wished for Remus. Remus always knew the right words to say.

"They love you, Cecilia. Never forget that. And in time, I know you'll learn to love them again." He lifted her tear streaked face between his thumb and forefinger. "In fact," he murmured, "I know you already do."

Carefully he lifted her to her feet and gently guided her to the stairs. "Come, I need to change out of this hideous outfit," she released a little sniffle, "and you've got to make yourself pretty--or whatever it is that you girls are so fond of doing. Although, the amount of time Remus spends in the bathroom I'm not quite sure that he doesn't fancy himself a girl."

"And here, I thought that was you," Cecilia quipped.

Sirius guffawed. He squeezed her tight against his side and ruffled her hair. "My dear Cecilia, my dear, dear Cecilia. How much you have to learn! Get on with you now. They're all waiting for us."