A Sea Change

Chapter 18:

Sirius waited, tensed and ready for anything, with the others, watching the dragon. Then, as Jeanette transformed and the little Wolf appeared, he became Padfoot; speed would be needed if she ran. But she didn’t run: she attacked! Then the dragon made for the boy, and Remus let fly a Stunning spell, but the dragon didn’t stop!

He had a slim chance to knock the boy out of harm’s way, or at least get between them; he leaped, directly into the dragon’s path, his body shielding the boy’s for the instant that was necessary.

He felt the burning slash as the claw raked his face, heard screams and the renewed Stunning spell, smelled sharp, sulphuric dragon-stench, saw the expanse of pale blue enveloping him, and then—

—nothing.

For an unknown length of time, there was nothing.

Then, eventually, there was awareness of pain. Not a localised pain; it was everywhere. He wanted to whine, to writhe, to cry, but he could do none of these things. His mouth would not open; his vocal cords would not vibrate; his legs were immovable.  Every part of him was imprisoned; the pain he felt was the impossible one of needing to move and being unable to, of being bound tightly in paralysis. His muscles, bones, lungs, were being crushed. He fought with all his strength against this, but the struggle he put up was not visible; nothing moved.

He could see and hear nothing. There were no smells. Taking even the shallowest breaths was an enormous effort. There was only the darkness, and pain. He concentrated on trying to breathe, even a little.

Gradually, as he became familiar with the pain, he sent his mind on an exploration to learn the extent of it, a systematic search for some clues through what seemed at first to be the complete absence of sensory information. What had happened? He wasn’t sure. Where was he, what was going on, was he in danger, were there any others around? He couldn’t tell. All right, then, what was the last thing he remembered? He remembered—nothing. An easier question, then: WHO was he? Good one. He searched intently, in his mind, and eventually a name came to him.

Sirius.

He was Sirius. Right, then, a starting point. What was Sirius?

He tried to concentrate on the question, but he realised that he was exhausted; he thought he might be drifting off to sleep. He wondered if he should fight sleep, if it was dangerous to go to sleep, if he’d be crushed…. He wondered if he was already asleep and this was a nightmare.

He didn’t know.

And then, along with the intolerable, crushing pain, inexplicably,

there was petting.

                                 *****************************

Remus awoke from a painfully contorted position, his neck aching. His head was  wedged into the corner of the sofa; he was fully dressed; he was aware of a crinkle of parchment under his hip. What had he been thinking? …Oh.

Right.

Sirius.

He jumped up immediately, wincing at protesting muscles, and made for the door.

The Pack would have to know. Oh, Merlin, he’d have to answer that letter. First, though, he had to get back to the infirmary. He walked fast, nearly running, sliding a bit on the muddy path. The infirmary lights were on; he opened the door quietly and slipped back into the room where he’d left Sirius with the Healer. They were there, exactly as they’d been when he’d left. He stopped in the doorway, silently asking. The old Healer nodded to him, his eyes gentle.

“He is much the same, I believe, but the heartbeat is a bit stronger. I think we must watch him carefully, and always make sure he is breathing.”

 He held up a letter, on tan parchment, written in heavy black ink. “I have information from a colleague in Germany, who has made a study of injuries from dragons. He is familiar with this Vosges Veilwing, and has written to me of its method of killing. This dragon clutches its victims; it injects the venom forcibly from the claws, deep into the flesh of the prey. This is good news for us: a glancing slash like this would not have received a full measure of poison. Our patient would have died within seconds if he had been gripped in the talons.”

The little Healer stood up, moved away from the bed, and motioned for Remus to take the chair. He pointed his wand at the long gash in Padfoot’s face and murmured a cleansing spell that removed the ointment from the wound. “I think we will use a fresh preparation, to see if this poison can be neutralised a bit. This one may be more effective.” Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a small round, flat container and tapped the lid, murmuring another spell to open it.

“Can he hear us, Healer, do you think?” Remus’s voice was a croak. He coughed once, to clear his throat; trailed his fingers through the big dog’s fur, and watched the finicky, delicate movements of the Healer as he spread the ointment onto Padfoot’s face with his forefinger.

“I always assume that the patient can hear me.” He smiled. “I think he can. If not with his ears, then with his soul. He knows we are caring for him, you may be sure.”  The Healer paused and gave Remus a sharper stare than was his custom. “Forgive me, my friend, but you have not really slept, have you?”

“No, I—well, yes, I did sleep a bit, but I couldn’t— not much, I suppose.”

“Yes, I thought as much. If you must stay with your friend on little sleep, allow me to give you ….” He retreated into his medical-stores room and came out with a small goblet full of a pink liquid.

“A harmless Restoring Potion, nothing more. I promise I am not trying to make you sleep; this will simply make you feel better.”

Remus took the goblet from the Healer and downed it in one gulp. Then he smiled. “Yes, it helps. Thank you, Healer. I seem to have my wits about me a bit more now, at least.” He stretched slowly, feeling the muscles loosen. He set the goblet on the table beside the bed, and stroked the glossy fur with both hands.

Hands, petting him. He knew these hands. They soothed him, easing the pain, a little. He wanted to whine thanks, to lick the hands, but of course he couldn’t move.

He did know these hands: they’d held him, steadied him, calmed his fears, given him pleasure…over and over again.  All his life? He thought so.

All his life, Sirius had known people by their touch; without looking, he could identify anyone who laid even a finger on him. He trusted these hands; he knew this person better than he’d known anyone on earth.  He waited; in a moment, a name would come….

Moony.

What was Moony? Parent? Brother, sister, lover, friend? Something like that.

He fell asleep again.

Remus kept one hand on the big dog as he wrote a few lines to Harry:

“Hello Harry,

Yes, the spell went very well, but there was an accident the next morning; tell you when I see you. Sirius was hurt, I’m afraid quite badly, but I have him at Folberg with the Healer. Tell the others. It would be good if you and Gwynneth could come back today with Andie and Jonas.

Well done about Pettigrew! I won’t tell Sirius you went off without him—at least not yet. Look after Gwen, please.  Love,   Remus”

The Healer silently took the note and gave it to a huge snowy owl to deliver.

Remus nodded his thanks and kept on watching Padfoot’s wounded face, stroking him gently.

So, Moony was here. He was not alone. He concentrated on the petting, on each gentle stroke down his side, waited with a bit of anxiety for the next stroke, felt great relief when it came. He tried again to place Moony, and himself, Sirius, in some kind of context, but the pain distracted him and drew his mind away from the problem. He tried shrinking within himself, away from the pain—away from his own body.

Remus watched intently, then called to the Healer. “I think  his foot moved, just a bit—did you see that?”

“Yes, I think you are right. That was indeed movement. He is fighting the poison.”

Remus closed his eyes and shook his head: a fight for life, evident in a toe twitch. He rested his forehead against Padfoot’s shoulder, his arm stretched across the big body. “Come on, Pads.” 

He heard a sound, a voice. “Come on, Pads.” Yes: walking with… with Moony. That was Moony’s voice, urging him on, beckoning. He and Moony, together, running? Yes, running. Playing. Talking, about everything. But he couldn’t talk. He struggled, raging invisibly against the prison of his body, which refused to obey him.

                                   ********************************

The Pack arrived the next morning, Apparating as soon as they’d read the letter. Gwen and Harry, solemn-eyed, let Andie and Jonas lead them to the infirmary. They listened to the Healer, they listened to Remus, and they looked.

“He’s better; he’s taking deeper breaths now. And he moved his front legs this morning again. No, the Healer doesn’t want to close the wound because of trying to reach in to the poison. It’s going to be very slow.” 

Harry tentatively stroked the uninjured top of Padfoot’s head. “How slow?”

The Healer shook his head. “This is a thing I cannot tell you. I have never treated a dragon’s victim before. I have advice from several colleagues, and they say,” he hesitated, “they say most individuals die within a few minutes of being clawed. We believe Sirius will not die. We do not know what damage has been done by the poison, but he continues to live. We can only watch, and treat the wound.”

Harry clenched his fists, staring down at the wicked gash across the dog’s face. He turned to Remus and the Healer, looking helplessly from one to the other. “This isn’t fair, you know. He doesn’t deserve this. He should be laughing, because his werewolf spell went off OK.” His voice trembled a bit, and grew louder. “He should be yelling at Gwen and me for going off to Little Hangleton without him—he should be pacing round the room telling us we could have been killed, and then… and then picking up Gwen and kissing her because he’s going to be free… this ISN’T RIGHT.” He turned away suddenly, and walked across the room to stare out the window, slamming his fist against the window frame.

Gwynneth stood very, very still, staring at the gash on Padfoot’s head. She looked at each of the Pack in turn, her eyes questioning, her breathing fast and shallow. It was evident to the others that she was making a conscious decision not to run, to deal calmly with this catastrophe.  “But—Harry—we’re humans; we’re clever. We can fix things. We’ll fix this, won’t we?” She waited, but nobody answered.

Finally the little Healer stood up and walked to her. He gently stroked her head, smoothing her hair, and gazed at her kindly. “My dear, we can fix things, yes. I do not know if we can fix this, but of course we will try. I will do everything I can, and you, who love him, must help, and not be afraid. Can you try not to be afraid?”

The Healer’s touch somehow reassured her, making the panic recede slightly. Gwynneth bit her lip. “I am afraid. But I will not run away—I will do what you tell me to do.  Harry told the truth; this is wrong. Sirius shouldn’t be still like this—he….” She wiped a hand across her eyes, abruptly, then stopped and looked down at the wetness on her hand, with mild interest. “This is crying, isn’t it.”

Andie rushed to her side and held her tightly.

He could hear.

He heard feelings and voices, rather than words.  He heard fear, bordering on panic. He heard confusion and anger, from voices he knew. Despite the ever-present pain, he wanted to do something—anything—to respond to them and calm their fears.

It was frustrating. Were they angry at him—afraid of him? He struggled to understand; there was a way for him to understand words more clearly, if only he could remember….

Suddenly, the form on the bed changed, and Sirius lay there, eyes closed, curled on his left side, as Padfoot had been.

The Healer’s eyes widened a bit, and he smiled his gentle smile. “Look; I did say he could hear you, do you remember?  He wants to know what we are saying, I think.”

                          **********************************

They took turns sitting beside him, and tried to go about their business. Remus came to the infirmary between each of his classes, and took his meals at the bedside. Gwen and Harry reported to Hogwarts with the news of Sirius’s injury, and let Moody and Dumbledore know they would be spending all their spare time in Norway. Andie and Jonas looked in on Sirius early in the mornings, instead of going to the barns; Kjersti and Erik handled the feeding for them.

Sirius lay still, for the most part. The Healer urged everyone to talk to him, stretch his arms and legs, rub his shoulders, make their presence known. Gwen insisted on spending every night curled up beside him, her arm flung over him so that she would know he was breathing, even while she slept.

He dreamed sometimes that a small, dark, beautiful woman came to his bed and lay with him, holding him gently. He dreamed that her hair was the colour of bittersweet chocolate, and her eyes were dark and trusting, and innocent. He dreamed that she loved him, that he knew her and loved her in return. It was an amazingly realistic dream; he thought that he could actually feel the warmth of her against him, and the comforting security of her arm around him.

At the end of the first week, he rolled onto his back, and tried to raise one of his hands.

He found that the pain was diminishing, slowly; he could think a bit more coherently. Names came to him: people he sensed and heard, around him. Harry. Gwen. Andie. The Healer. Moony—Remus. Jonas, a new, uncertain presence; he had trouble knowing when Jonas was there. They were angry, afraid, unhappy. He tried to make sense of the words people said, but this still eluded him. He wondered what was wrong—what had he done to these people? The feeling of having disappointed someone, of having done something terribly wrong, never left him. He was guilty; he had hurt them somehow. He should be punished; perhaps that was what was going on.

Perhaps he was in prison.

                                              *********************

The capture of Pettigrew caused a media frenzy; it was endlessly discussed on wizarding news programmes, reported by the Daily Prophet and numerous weekly and semiweekly periodicals.  Pettigrew had been captured. He had turned Ministry’s Evidence. He had been positively identified by his own parents, by a number of old schoolmates, by Dumbledore. He had written a full confession regarding his role as James and Lily Potter’s Secret-Keeper (see Section A, Page Three, for full text). He had agreed to be questioned by a panel of investigators.

He had then committed suicide…or been murdered.

He had been strangled in his cell by his own silver hand (given him by You-Know-Who, according to testimony from Harry Potter, who had witnessed the event the previous summer at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.) Clearly You-Know-Who would not allow any questioning of his servant.

                                                ********************

The gash across Sirius’s face began to show signs of healing, and at the point where it started, above the hairline, his hair began to grow back.

The new hair was white.

On Saturday evening, two weeks after the dragon attack, Remus sat slumped in the chair beside Sirius, while the others visited the dining hall for a late supper.  The Healer looked him over with quiet compassion. “Are you sleeping any better, my friend? I know this is difficult for you, but you must take care of yourself as well.”

Remus shook his head. He reached out, gingerly, and laid his hand over Sirius’s healing cheekbone and the still-closed eye above it, letting his little finger stroke the damaged cheek. “I know; I can tell that I’m not being very efficient. But even with the potions you give me, I keep waking up, knowing I should be here. I do try, honestly, to sleep, but until I’m sure he’s going to be all right, I’m afraid it’s no use.”

He held his breath, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “It’s no use”—he didn’t know how he knew, but he did know: Moony meant, “I can’t stop being your friend.” He felt the hand—Remus’s hand, Moony’s hand—gently acknowledging, and regretting, the pain. Whatever he’d done—and it had been terrible, he knew—Remus was here. He would always be his friend; would always love him.

He was forgiven.

He felt tears starting behind his closed eyelids, felt an overwhelming need to tell Moony that he could do better, that he would make things right. With all his powers of concentration, he gathered his strength and forced his throat, jaw, and lips to work.

“Sorry.

“I’ll do anything….

“Just tell me.”

Remus froze; and then, after no more than a few seconds of mental floundering, he remembered.

“Oh, Pads, what in Hell are you doing back there?”

Leaning forward, he gently kissed his old friend, on the patch of white hair where the gash began.

By the next morning, Sirius could open his left eye, and breathless with wonder, he saw the beautiful woman he’d dreamed about, with the chocolate-coloured hair and the lovely dark eyes.  He and she were surrounded by glowing bands of dazzling red and gold.

By the end of the next week he could carry on brief conversations. They told him, bit by bit, what had happened and how long he’d been ill. They told him about capturing Peter, and watched with glee as he spluttered, simultaneously grinning with joy and scolding Harry and Gwen for risking their lives. They argued that the only risk had been in being seen by Muggles, never a very great risk at all.

By the first week in February, he could sit up in bed and play chess with his visitors, moving the pieces left-handed. His right arm and hand refused to obey him with any consistency, but the Healer, and the others, could see improvement. He could get out of bed and move about the room, with the help of a shoulder-high staff provided by the Healer. It was a marvellous staff, iron-hard, of some twisted, ancient wood, with a knobby, swirling knot at the top. Just touching the staff, Sirius felt stronger. If he stumbled and dropped it, it returned to him, jumping into his hand like a broomstick.

There were letters: Paul and Cécile sent Sirius’s brass bowl to him, along with a couple of letters that had appeared in it from Harry. Paul wrote that Jeanette was still staying with him and Cécile; she and Danilo and her father had spoken.  She had finally agreed, at Danilo’s urging, to return to Beauxbatons for her final year. “And then, my old Sirius, they will be married, in June when she leaves school. You are to attend, of course. They both realise that they owe to you a debt that cannot be repaid.”

There were letters from Danilo and Jeanette themselves, from M. DelaRose, from friends in Edinburgh. There were cards from Dumbledore, Hagrid, Moody, even from Alice.

There were visitors: Folberg staff members dropped by whenever they could, with gifts and gossip. Little groups of schoolchildren came every day, solemn and shy at first, bearing hand-made cards and treats; they always left giggling, as Sirius teased them and made them laugh so much that they were no longer afraid of the terrible cut on his face.

Nigel came, and said very little, but gripped Sirius’s shoulder and just stared at him. Andreas came often, slow and kind and humorous, claiming that he had to come to the infirmary; it was the only way he could meet with his new assistant, since Remus was always there when he wasn’t teaching.

One afternoon, a round, bearlike German wizard came: the Healer’s old colleague, expert in dragon wounds. He watched intently as Sirius, somewhat self-consciously, moved his arms and legs and flexed his fingers at the Healer’s request. He examined Sirius’s right eye, which still remained closed, pronounced it unharmed under the eyelid, and prodded him all over with his wand. Then he and the Healer went off to the dining hall together, talking animatedly in German, waving their hands and gesturing back at Sirius as they left.

“They were saying you’re a miracle,” Remus remarked, as he poked through the pile of sweets and cards on the nightstand. He selected a chocolate-covered cherry from a box and delicately bit the top off it. “If you’d behaved in the normal way, you’d have died within minutes of being clawed. I could have told them….” He finished the cherry and grinned. “You did give us a scare, you know, but we should have known you never do anything like other people.”

“I heard all of you being scared,” Sirius answered softly. “I heard you being angry, and confused, and I thought… well, I thought I’d done something wrong, again. I couldn’t remember what I’d done; I just assumed it was terrible.”

Remus nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. You always were a bit of an idiot when it came to taking the blame for things. And I suppose prison didn’t help. Being punished for things is normal for you, isn’t it.” Remus gazed pensively at his friend; Sirius sat very still and waited for the end of that thought.

At last, Remus stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the school buildings. He saw Gwen and Harry Apparate into the path at the other end of the school grounds, coming back from their day at Hogwarts; he watched them for a moment, walking up the path, then turned abruptly to face Sirius.

“I just wish you’d start remembering the good you’ve done. For me, Harry, Gwen—for Jeanette DelaRose, and certainly for that young man of hers. You have to see that our lives, at least, would be a good deal different if not for you.

“Yes, a long time ago some terrible things happened—they were not your fault, though I expect you’ll always think they were. We could argue that point, but I don’t intend to. What you need to think about now is Harry, and Gwen, and little James or whoever it’s going to be. They need you; they love you, and they don’t care what you think you did or didn’t do, fifteen or twenty years ago.”

He strolled peaceably back to the bedside table and took another chocolate.  “When little James gets here, I mean to see that his favourite bedtime story is the one about how his dad made a spell that nobody thought was possible, and it saved his uncle Moony’s life, and gave him a future to look forward to.”

For once, Sirius couldn’t find a single thing to say in reply.

                                    ***************************

The next day, Sirius made his first trip outdoors, on his way to Remus and Andie’s new cabin; he’d been pronounced fit to leave the infirmary by the Healer and his German colleague.

Moving took the form of a high-spirited procession down the infirmary path, led by the exuberant Pack and accompanied by at least half the staff and student body of Folberg. Sirius, leaning on his staff, limped steadily past the dining hall, past Andreas’s house, casually waving aside the chance to rest on a bench outside the bath house. The Healer hovered anxiously at Sirius’s elbow, but Andreas caught the old man’s arm and said quietly, “Let him walk. If he tires himself too much, you know we would all argue over who had the right to carry him.” 

They walked all the way down to the splendid new cabin, the last one in the little semicircle of staff residences, the closest one to the barns. Sirius didn’t need carrying, but once inside he collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh and a rueful grin.

They made him comfortable with cushions under his head, piled all his gifts and cards on the little table in front of the sofa, and then the crowd dispersed as children and staff hurried guiltily off to classes, and Gwen walked down to the barns with Andie.

Harry, armed with permission from Dumbledore, Moody and Snape to take the whole day off, stayed. He took the staff and leaned it against the wall, then disappeared into the kitchen to make tea and sandwiches and bring them in.

Sirius had raised himself to a sitting position, his back against one end of the sofa and his legs stretched out along the length of it. He bent his knees to make room on the sofa as Harry sat down, placing the tray on the table in front of them.

“Oh, it feels great to be home! Or in Remus and Andie’s home, anyway.” Sirius grinned at Harry and accepted the cup held out to him. “The Healer’s a wonderful wizard, but I get tired of being fussed over.”

Harry laughed at him, around a bite of sandwich. “You mean, you wish I’d’ve let you make lunch? I would have, but I was hungry; I wanted it some time today. You’re not quite up to speed, yet—physically, I mean.” Harry’s look of affectionate concern took any possible sting out of the words.

“I know: I was practicing picking up Knuts off a tray yesterday. I managed to get them all, but it took me most of the afternoon. Especially right-handed. The Healer says it’ll get better, though.” He sighed. “Magic’s easier; it was all there just waiting for me when I came to. In some cases, even better. The Legilimency’s much more consistent than it was before the accident.”  

He watched Harry for a moment, then smiled gently and continued. “Which means I know you’ve been angry about something, for weeks now. You can tell me, you know; I’m not fragile. In fact, it might be better if you did. When I was still mostly out of it, I thought it was me you were angry at. Be nice to be let off the hook, like.”

Harry’s head came up sharply; he gazed doubtfully at Sirius, and decided his godfather meant what he said. Words came tumbling out, Harry’s anger at times making him stammer slightly. “Right, well. I wasn’t going to bother you with it, but I suppose you’ll have to know anyway; it’s the Ministry. They’re not going to do anything about you! Peter Pettigrew wrote a confession—pages and pages! It was in all the papers. It told how you and he had switched places as Secret-Keeper and everything, and how you were innocent and all.

“Rita Skeeter—I never thought I’d thank her for anything, but she was great—Dumbledore mentioned to her how you’d been sent to prison without a trial, for all those years, and she went off and looked up the records! She wrote this smashing article about how you’d been treated by the Ministry, and how they owed you a pardon, and a formal apology, maybe even rep—reparation, for personal injury, or damages, or something—she said it was a miscarriage of justice. I kept a copy; I’ll bring it with me next time I come.”

He paused for breath, finished his tea, and went on, his face a study in eye-rolling teenaged contempt. “And you know what Fudge said? He said they didn’t owe you anything, certainly not money, and not even an apology! He said Peter died before a proper enquiry could be made, so the confession couldn’t be taken as official. He said you’d been caught and imprisoned during a war, so they didn’t need to give you a trial. And he said since you’d never been convicted of a crime, it was foolish to talk about a pardon—there was nothing on record to pardon you from! Twelve years…. Sirius—I’m sorry. I wanted everyone to know… I wanted….” He gave a huge sigh and stared at the carpet, his elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched, dejected.

“Harry, lad—everyone does know. Everyone who matters, and everyone who reads the paper. And I’m free; that’s what counts. They’re not going to be hunting me. You did that, you and Gwen, and Moody. As well, and as efficiently as any trained Aurors could have done. Moody wrote me about the capture; he’s so proud of the two of you that he’s beside himself. He says when both of you go through the Academy, he’s going to come out of retirement himself, just so you two can work under him.” Sirius grinned at his godson.
 “He said it with a fair amount of assurance, by the way; is this something you three’ve been talking about?”

Harry looked up, an embarrassed sideways glance, and grinned shyly. “Yeah—well, yeah, it is.  Gwen was great, you know; she’s definitely keen to keep on with it. She doesn’t know how long she’ll need to stay with the baby; she says she’s going to wait till after the baby comes and decide whether to go in this autumn, or wait till next year. Moody says she can take entrance exams; of course she won’t have N.E.W.Ts, or anything, but he says….”

Harry stopped suddenly; it occurred to him that Sirius might not be entirely happy about the prospect of his family both taking on a dangerous, chancy, underpaid profession without consulting him. “I didn’t mean—I mean, yeah, we’ve talked about it, but, you know, it’s a couple of years in the future….”

Sirius chuckled. “Not fast enough, lad; I knew it anyway. It’s in you both. And you’ll be great, both of you. I’m no Seer, but I can See that much.” He grinned to himself. “Just as I can See a certain amount of baby-tending in my own future.”

Harry eyed him closely, relieved that Sirius seemed to be taking it all so well, but he was still uncertain. And there was something else to consider, as well….

“What about you, Sirius? I mean, you can do what you want now. Moody talks about you coming back, too, or he did before you got hurt. Do you think… I mean, you could, you know.”

Sirius closed his eyes and leaned to one side, resting against the back of the sofa. He was silent for just long enough to worry Harry, a bit; this had been a tiring morning, after all. But then a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, and he looked up at his godson with a look of such peace, and affection, that Harry couldn’t look away.

“Yeah—I can do what I want. Incredible, that. You know what I’d like? I’d like to buy a house somewhere. Gwen’s never said, but I know she’ll want to be by the sea, and she’ll want to go back to the Farne Islands when the baby’s due. I thought I’d look around, in some of the little villages there, on the coast. The Hut’s great; it’s home, but….

“And you know, as much fun as it might be to get back into the Aurors, I don’t think I’ll be able to. Not because of this.” He gestured vaguely at his scarred face. “The Healer says things will come back, and I believe him. But you know, I’ve had a job handed to me now; a job nobody else can do, and nobody else even wants to do.” He gazed beyond Harry to the large, white-curtained window in the opposite wall, to the sunny afternoon, rare for a Folberg winter.

“Jeanette DelaRose is going to be OK, Harry. I was able to reach the Wolf in her. As different as she is from Remus, the spell worked both times. Remember this summer, when we built our swimming pool? When you saw Remus…. I can prevent that—the scars, the unhappiness, all that pain. I’ve no choice, really, do you see? That’s my job now.”

He grinned to himself in sudden amusement. “Though I’d better plan to open a chip shop or something on the side, to earn us a living; werewolves never have any money!” And then he laughed—his sudden, barking laugh that Harry hadn’t heard in too long.

He grinned at his godfather. “I’ll tell you what would be cooler: make it a motorcycle repair shop, and we’ll probably survive.”