Stag Night

“Dipsy is not dead, Sir! Sir has saved her! Brave Sir!”

A house-elf was pulling on his arm. Pain. Where? Other arm. Left side. A highway of fire ran from elbow to shoulder. More details: he was lying on a sofa; he recognized the house-elf, but he didn’t recognize the room, though he must still be in Tigerseye. He groaned and tried to sit up.

“No!” squeaked the house-elf. “Sir must lie down! Madam orders Netty to watch over Sir.”

“Not Sir--Remus. Please call me Remus.” He raised himself up slowly on one elbow, swung his legs off the sofa, and then pushed up to a sitting position. His head pounded and he wondered how long he’d been unconscious. Blood oozed from two long scratches that ran from shoulder to elbow. The left sleeve of his Muggle shirt was ripped and soaked with blood. Even in his muddled state, he knew what had scratched him, but how and what had happened afterward were blank.

“Mister Remus Sir must lie down!” Netty the house-elf tugged at Remus’s right arm.

“Or at least elevate that arm.”

He turned at the sound of Madam’s voice. She stood in back of him, her hands resting on the sofa. The albino doorman loomed large behind her. Remus couldn’t see the white tiger, but he hoped that it had gone somewhere else.

“Netty, bring tea and a large bowl of water,” Madam commanded, though her tone was not harsh.

The house-elf reluctantly dropped Remus’s hand and bowed her head. A tea service winked into existence on the low table in front of the sofa and next to it appeared a large bowl of water. “Would Madam be wanting anything else?” asked Netty, eager to please and reluctant to leave.

“That will be all,” Madam replied as she walked around the sofa. She ignored the departure of the house-elf and turned her attention to Remus, her expression momentarily hard and calculating, then shifting to one of kindly concern. “What must you think of Tigerseye? We don’t usually treat our guests so poorly, I assure you.”

“Is everything--everyone all right?” Remus said, the pain in his arm momentarily forgotten. If the tiger had done this to him, what about Mulciber? And then there were his victims…

“You got the worst of it, I’m afraid.” She sat down next to him, on his left side, and directed her eyes at his bloody arm. “Dipsy was stunned, but came around; house-elves have amazing resilience, you know. I’ve sent Daniel off to St. Mungo’s as he was obviously cursed, though it seems that he’ll recover. As for you…”

The flowing skirt of her dress cascaded like a waterfall in moonlight; her perfume, musky and spicy, assaulted Remus, who realized that he must smell of fear and too much drink. He drew away from her, but she laid a hand on his knee--a gentle, unspoken command.

“Here, let’s get your shirt off and have a look,” she said in a businesslike tone, as if patching up wounded guests was an everyday occurrence. She waved at the silent doorman, who lumbered over to stand next to the sofa.

Remus tried to work the buttons of his shirt, but found that he couldn’t manage one-handed--his left arm would not bend properly and the fingers felt thick and uncooperative.

Madam clucked to herself as she efficiently unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off his uninjured arm. He winced as she gently worked the bloody sleeve off his other arm. “Does it hurt much?”

“Yes, a bit,” Remus said through clenched teeth. His arm hurt more than he wanted to admit. “What about that man? The tiger didn’t…?”

“Mikkel arrived in time.” She nodded to the albino. “He was able to pull Shambles off before anyone else was hurt.” She finished taking the shirt off, folded it, and handed it to the impassive servant who towered above her. In return, he handed her a cloth bundle, bowed solemnly, then left the room silently.

“Long scratches, but not particularly deep,” she murmured as she examined his arm. “There’s not much muscle damage, but the scars will stand out a bit if it’s not healed.” She ran her fingers gently down his arm and then, turning to the bowl on the table, dipped a small towel in the water. As she sponged the bloody arm, she said, “I’m grateful for your help. Things might have turned out very badly.”

Remus looked away, uncertain how to reply. The room was smaller and less grand than the Victorian parlor, the furniture mismatched and slightly shabby. A wooden rocking chair with needlepoint cushions stood next to the sofa. A couple of low shelves were filled haphazardly with books; he strained to read the titles, but couldn’t. Framed photographs crowded in front of the books, mostly depicting exotic and unfamiliar places. This seemed to be Madam’s private parlor and Remus guessed he’d been brought there by the giant doorman, though how much time had passed, he couldn’t guess.

When she finished washing his arm, the towel was stained with blood, as were her fingers and the front of her dress. She didn’t appear bothered by this and, with no wasted motion, she wiped her hands on a clean towel. “I’ll cover this for now, but…” she said and took a roll of gauze from the bundle at her feet. “We have a Healer on call. She can heal this--“

“No, please don’t…bother,” Remus said quickly. “I get scratched all the time--not by tigers, mind--and I can take care of it later.”

“As you wish,” she replied. After she wrapped the wound and expertly tucked the end of the gauze into the folds to secure it, she ran her fingers lightly over the bandage. Then she brushed her fingers over the old scar on his forearm and said mildly, “Imagine thinking that a werewolf’s blood is dangerous, especially when the moon’s not full. Yet most people, even some Healers, believe that, don’t they?”

Remus pulled his arm away, panic rising in his throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“One doesn’t forget that sort of scar.” Madam eyed him coolly, with no sign of the fear or the pity that he expected.

“I suppose you get werewolves in here all the time,” Remus said harshly. He stood up, swaying as a wave of dizziness hit. He had to get out of there--wherever “there” was. James and the others didn’t need him anymore; he was free to go. Lost in the labyrinth of Tigerseye, he had no idea how to find his way out, but that didn’t matter.

“Not that I know of, although you wouldn’t generally announce to the world, would you?” She rose and put her hand flat against his bare chest. “Sit. You’re not ready to go anywhere just yet.” She pushed lightly and he fell backward, grabbing the back of the sofa with his right hand in order to steady himself. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to flee, she reached down to the cloth bundle on the floor.

“This should fit you, though perhaps it’s not your style. Daniel let me have one of his. Although he wasn’t very coherent when he left, he was grateful to you.” She handed him a pale blue silk shirt. “ I’ll be back in a moment and then let’s have a cup of tea, shall we? We still have things to discuss. In case you’re wondering, I knew a werewolf once, a long time ago.” Resignation tinged with bitterness crept into her voice. She shook her head, as if to dislodge an unpleasant memory, and turned toward a door, though not the one through which the albino had exited. “And I spent a good deal of time patching him up,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared.

The lingering warmth where she’d touched him reminded Remus of how chilled he’d become. His arm throbbed and he was grateful for the pain that provided an anchor for his confused mind, in danger of drifting into a whirlpool of half-formed questions and hazy memories. He shivered, whether from cold or fatigue he couldn’t tell.

Remus stared at the closed door. The shirt that she’d given him--lithe, silky and alien--slipped between his fingers. A whore’s shirt, he thought and then, I shouldn’t be surprised. But he was. A club like Tigerseye catered to many different tastes, so why shouldn’t there be men there as well as women? Suddenly he felt very provincial and very young--even though he’d be twenty in a few months.

The room was sucking heat away from him as he fumbled with the slippery shirt. His teeth chattered and a thin layer of sweat covered his back. Lack of sleep and too much to drink were partly responsible, but he was beginning to suspect that he’d lost a lot of blood. The bulky bandage on his left arm kept snagging on the shirtsleeve and the wound was throbbing by the time he pulled the sleeve completely over his shoulder. He coaxed the fingers of his left hand to grasp the front of the shirt so that he could button it with his right. The long sleeves flopped past his wrists and had no buttons so he rolled them up as best he could. It would have to do. Wrapped in the warmth of the shirt--surprising considering how light it had seemed at first--Remus closed his eyes.

“It fits, I see.”

Remus blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Madam stood before him. She’d exchanged her blood-spattered gown for one of deepest blue, with long sleeves that flowed over her wrists and swayed as she moved. Shambles stood beside her, an explosion of white and black against the blue.

The big cat rumbled and nuzzled him on the leg. He pushed himself stiffly back into the cushions of the sofa, although this time he had the distinct impression that the tiger was purring. “No hard feelings?” Remus said as he gave the tiger a tentative scratch between the ears.

“Shambles was trying to protect us, I hope you understand.”

“And you couldn’t…” There are times when information spontaneously rearranges itself, when chords heard in isolation come together to form a recognizable tune. “…couldn’t use magic to defend them because--He was right, then, when he called you…”

“’A pathetic lot of Squibs?’” she said lightly and sat down in the rocking chair next to the sofa. “It’s not a secret exactly, but one does not talk about it, you understand. While our license from the Ministry clearly states no wands, there’s no formal requirement for us to be… not very adept at magic. But emotions run high in this business and bringing magic into the mix… can cause unpleasant problems. We occasionally get a client like the one tonight. You can see why we’re required to take their wands away. I’m not sure that a wizard would feel safe at Tigerseye any other way, come to think of it.”

Remus tried to make sense of all she said. A whole new world, hitherto unseen and uncomprehended, presented itself to him. He had sometimes wondered how those without the ability to do magic survived in the wizarding world, which was not exactly friendly to Squibs. At least those who worked at Tigerseye were well paid.

“Tea?”

Remus started; the fog cleared from his head as if blown by a gust of wind. Madam held a cup out to him. Tea with milk. He took it and sipped. And sugar. Not his preference, but probably not a bad idea considering how shaky he still felt.

“Tell me about my uncooperative guest.” She settled back into the rocking chair. Her hands fluttered in front of her, the long sleeves of her gown dancing in their own little wind.

“What?”

“You called him by name, so I assume that you know him.”

“Mulciber, that’s his name, though I don’t actually know him.”

“Ah, that is not the name he gave me, but that’s not unusual,” she said. “He came in this evening with a key from a man who is well known here, a man from a very prominent family, in the same way that you and your friends did. However, Mr. Mulciber’s behavior was illegal and…” She searched for a word, frowning, and then laughed. “…uncivilized to say the least. I shall have to have a talk with the gentleman who gave him the key.”

“Be careful what you say,” Remus blurted out, then checked himself. Was it really his business to point the finger at Mulciber? Besides, he didn’t expect most people to believe a werewolf when it came to informing on Dark wizards. I have friends, powerful friends, the man had said. Remus’s stomach took a sudden lurch and his chest tightened at the thought of Mulciber’s friends.

“He’s a Death Eater.”

Once the words had escaped his lips--clearly, firmly, without hesitation--he knew that the Dark had no claims on him, save in death, and that he would never walk such a path willingly. He’d seen what Voldemort and his supporters were capable of, and it sickened him. Even though most of the wizarding world had no use for him, he’d stick with the few friends that he had rather than surrender to the depravity that he’d seen last night and tonight.

“You’re sure?” she asked calmly, as if she were counting Galleons or inventorying linens, not discussing the scourge of the wizarding world. “That accusation should not be made lightly.”

…by a creature of Darkness. Is that what she meant? Remus wondered. He searched her face before answering and saw nothing of the doubt and mistrust that experience told him to expect. “Last night I--I saw him masked and cloaked, in the company of…others like him. I won’t forget his voice or his manner.” Her eyes widened at his admission, but she didn’t ask the obvious question of why he had been in the company of Death Eaters. “He as much as admitted it to me when I confronted him. I don’t think he was too thrilled with me,” Remus chuckled, pleased to have something to laugh at.

“And perhaps he shall not be too thrilled with Tigerseye,” Madam said thoughtfully. “As you said, I should be careful about what I say and to whom I talk. I know someone in the Ministry who will listen to me--off the record, that is.”

Madam frowned to herself, lost in thought for a minute, and then smiled at him. “I’m grateful to you twiceover. How should we repay you, mmm?”

“Another cup of tea,” Remus answered quickly. Before she could continue, he thrust his half-empty teacup toward her. He watched her graceful orchestration of the teapot and the tea strainer. She concentrated on pouring for a moment, then fussed with resettling the tea cozy precisely on the pot before continuing. She looked up, the shifting color of her eyes solidifying into a green light that shot right through him.

“Ah, you have little faith in us, or is it a matter of trust?” There was a mischievous glint in her eye as she continued, “I should have figured out from the first that when a man called Remus shows up, he might be a werewolf.”

“You’d be surprised; most people don’t figure it out.” Remus marveled at her coolness. “But the name’s not deliberate--a cruel trick of fate is more like it. And it’s worse than you suppose since my last name is Lupin.” She frowned slightly, not understanding, then smiled gently. And laughed. She had a laugh like silk sliding across bare skin and Remus found himself wanting to keep saying amusing things, just to hear her laugh again. “My father was a classics scholar, a Muggle who married a witch. When his only child was bitten by a werewolf, I think that he bore it all rather well.” Remus smiled, although the memory of his father nudged him toward a more melancholy country. “At least he didn’t throw me out or pack up and leave. That happens a lot when children get bitten. Parents can’t handle it and…” He shrugged. “There’s an office in the Ministry that tries to find foster homes, but not many are willing to take in a werewolf.”

The tiger, sprawled on the floor next to Madam, rumbled and shook its head; Remus couldn’t tell if it was commenting on werewolves or just randomly growling.

“Yes, perhaps Squibs have it easier in that regard. Hush, Shambles.” She reached out a hand and ruffled the fur on the tiger’s neck. This seemed to calm the beast. “The boy that I knew, the one who was a werewolf, had been thrown out by his parents when he was twelve. He’d had a hard life by the time I bumped into him at seventeen. It was in Paris. He wasn’t…” She frowned and looked down at her hands, searching for the right word. “He wasn’t always the nicest person, to me especially, but he protected me when I needed it and I--tried to help him.”

She looked up and shook her head in confusion, her mind only half in the room with him. He thought that he saw her clearly for the first time, and realized how skilled an actress she was, able to be whomever he might wish her to be. Was this an act, too, or did he glimpse what normally lay beneath a mask? How could he tell… and why did it matter?

He jerked his head away in embarrassment. I’m too tired for this, he thought. I should go. But, he took another sip of tea instead.

“Sybil.”

“What?”

“If you want to talk about an unfortunate choice in names,” she said. “Sybil is the name my parents gave me. They had high hopes, you see, that I would find a career in Divination. It runs in the family. But, I had no talent for Divination, let alone any other magic. I couldn’t go to school, so I became an embarrassment. When I was fifteen, my mother quite unexpectedly had another child. Oh, their hopes were pinned on that little baby. I left, even before the child was born.”

“Premonition or something?” Remus said, realizing at once how stupid he must sound.

But, she didn’t seem displeased; instead she smiled sadly, her face haunted by a faraway expression. “It turns out that I was good at a sort of Divination. I could tell a man’s past and future after only a few minutes of acquaintance. It served me well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, dear, there aren’t many jobs available to fifteen-year olds who find themselves on the street, with little education or money, are there? And, I was rather… well-developed for my age.”

“Oh.” Remus understood, suddenly and painfully, and wished he hadn’t asked, nor gotten an answer. He clutched the fragile china teacup as if it could shield him and, over the rim, glanced up at the woman, at Sybil.

“You have to play the hand you’re been dealt.” She arched her eyebrows, amused and resigned at the same time. “It does no good, wishing to be something you’re not.”

“Or wanting to change the past,” Remus added. He set his teacup down and looked away from her, thinking of how he’d berated and tortured himself for so long with a frustrating series of ‘what if’s. “What if I’d never been bitten?” had been the chief of these and had tormented him for years. As he thought about it now, he realized that the hateful question had gradually faded, replaced by “What if I’d never met James and Sirius and Peter?”

“What happened to the werewolf you knew?” Remus asked, fearing the answer, but needing it nonetheless.

“Oh, that was so long ago,” she said slowly, frowning at the memory. “I left Paris after a while and drifted here and there; eventually I came back to England. I haven’t tried to find him again--didn’t want to after… all that happened. I shouldn’t suppose that he came to a good end, though. He had quite a temper and didn’t get along well with people.” She sighed, then smiled wryly. “That’s what you wanted to hear, though.”

“Perhaps not,” Remus said, “but I’m not surprised, at any rate.”

She started to speak, but halted. There was a tapping noise and Remus turned around. A door behind him opened and there stood the tall albino. Madam rose and beckoned to him. The huge doorman had to stoop to enter the room. He had to bend over, too, to whisper something in Madam’s ear.

“Mikkel reminds me that it’s getting late,” she said with a nod to the impassive servant. He handed her the box that contained their wands and something else that glinted gold, Peter’s key maybe. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him and then turned to Remus. “Your friends are waiting.”

Remus rose, feeling bruised and stiff. Madam had once again donned the mask of the pleasant and efficient hostess. He felt vaguely dissatisfied and rushed, and no longer wanted to leave. But he took the arm that she offered him and tried to think practical thoughts about the soon-to-be-married James and whether Sirius would be sober in time for the wedding.