Banish Misfortune

Chapter 2:

Word went east and word went west, and word is gone over the sea,
That a laidley worm in Spindleton Heughs would ruin the North Country.
                                                                    --“Kemp Owyne,”  Trad, coll. F. J.Child, # 34

Early summer 1994, Scotland

Like a pebble dropped into a pool, the rat dropped to the ground. The handcuffs, suddenly enormous, swung empty above his head, and he scurried into the darkness. He listened to the sounds of chaos behind him, snarls, yelps, screaming, shouts, running feet. Chasing him?

The rat ran as he had never run before: frantic, scrabbling at the ground, never daring to stop, or even to look behind him. It seemed to him that the whole world could hear his gasping breath, and the sound his tiny paws made in the leaf litter when he reached the edge of the forest.

Death was everywhere: behind him, certainly. Above him, owls; all around him, predators of all sorts, nocturnal and hungry. Small, frightened creatures led a perilous existence at night, in the Forest.Yet the rat knew that he would be in even more peril if he changed into human form: the form of Peter Pettigrew was not a welcome sight to anyone, any more. Except, perhaps, to one. “Master!” his brain screamed, silently.

Certain cries will be heard, no matter how silent they may be, if the ears listening for them are powerful enough. Like a pebble thrown into a pool, echoes of the rat’s cry created ripples, invisible and inaudible, but there nevertheless, moving outward. As the rat ran, something imperceptibly altered his course until he was moving southward.

A stream blocked his path. Panic! He couldn’t swim. If he’d been human, he could have waded across the little burn, but he didn’t dare change his shape. A small piece of wood caught his eye. With strength born of fear, the rat dragged the stick to the bank and shoved it into the water, then, with a desperate leap, jumped onto it and floated away.

Streams have a way of finding other streams, growing in size and becoming rivers. Moving ever south and east, clinging to his bit of wood, the rat gradually began to think coherently. He would find a town soon; towns always appeared on riverbanks. He would find a way to ride south in Muggle transport of some sort.

As he drifted along, his blind panic slowly subsided into a feeling of resentment, a conviction that he’d been wronged: his old school friends, his best boyhood pals, had turned on him and tried to kill him! With cruel words and no pity, they had refused to be moved by the predicament he was in. And now, he was wet and cold. He was hungry. He’d snatched mouthfuls of seeds from the water plants, but there was never enough.  “I’ll kill them, kill them, kill them,” he muttered as he floated along. Then, thinking better of saying such frightening words, he changed his refrain: “I’ll TELL on them,” he began to mutter. 

Suddenly, the rat’s bit of wood fetched up against a rock in the stream, upended and tossed him into the water. He screamed and flailed out with his tiny paws, by sheer luck making contact again with the stick. He clutched it, eventually after much scrambling managing to drag himself back onto it, shivering and miserable. “I’ll KILL them!” he screamed.

 Reinforced as they were by his Master’s guiding influence, the echoes of his cry fanned out from him like ripples from a pebble dropped into a pool. They disturbed the air, causing passing birds to be buffeted as if in a sudden gust of wind. They disturbed the water, creating eddies and currents, sending wave after wave of malice downward, outward to the sea.

There were other such echoes, from creatures as frantic, as vengeful, as malicious as the rat. Deep in the sea, things awakened, disturbed after centuries of slumber. Hungry.

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Late Summer, Ile de la Camargue

It was early morning, the sun just coming up. Shore birds ran along the water’s edge on spindly legs, pausing to poke ridiculously long beaks into the little piles of seaweed left by the last tide. The day was not yet hot, the breeze fresh and pleasant. A young woman strolled along the shore, ankle deep in the cool water, accompanied by two large dogs. They leaped about her, dashing along the water’s edge and racing back, splashing, scattering the birds, picking up pieces of driftwood and flinging them into the air, or tussling with them in mock ferocity.  Their tongues lolled out in foolish doggy grins, their tails waved gaily behind them like banners.

The larger of the two dogs was shaggy and enormous, black, very thin but obviously powerful. He charged playfully at his companion, trying to knock him into the water. The smaller dog—grey and agile, resembling an Alsatian from a distance—danced out of the way and watched, tail wagging. The black dog, unable to stop his charge, ran headlong into a hidden deep pool and disappeared, splashing. The grey dog turned and ran back toward his mistress, yellow eyes sparkling with laughter.

The young woman watched her canine companions affectionately. As the grey dog came prancing daintily up to her, she joined in the laughter at the black dog’s mishap. “Padfoot, come out; we’ll miss breakfast!” she called.

Padfoot, thoroughly drenched, trotted meekly towards the other two, seemingly chastened. He nosed between them, close enough for his tail to brush his companions on either side. Suddenly he stopped, lowered his head, and began furiously to shake

the water from his fur, showering them with a mighty deluge. Smiling complacently at the outraged yelp from one side and the shriek from the other, Padfoot galloped gleefully along the path homeward.

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In the cosy farm kitchen, three old friends sat together around the table, with omelettes, fresh-baked croissants, exquisitely ripe peaches, new cream and strong coffee. They were all well past middle age, but one of the men appeared much older than the couple who entertained him. His white beard was tucked into the belt of his long linen robes; his spectacles balanced precariously on his crooked nose; his blue eyes twinkled with delight as he listened intently. The other man, dressed in black trousers and a soft paisley print shirt, was speaking with great animation, pointing a fork at his friend for emphasis.

“I tell you, Albus, ever since the night of the full moon, they are like children—like puppies! The three of them race about, wrestling, chasing my ducks, making noise, playing in the sea. I have never seen my nephew thus, so truly light-hearted. Your escaped prisoner still does not eat properly; Cécile is in despair over him. Yet he seems well and also happy. Andromeda has given over trying to be conscientious with this ridiculous assignment the Bureau has given her, and spends her time in horseplay with Remus and her brother! They are a delight to themselves, and to Cécile and me. Yet they seem to have no idea what they have accomplished.” 

“And you tell me Remus can transform at will into the Wolf, yet he did not transform at the full moon—remarkable. It is probably just as well that they gave no thought to the significance of this achievement: if they had known it was impossible, they might not have done it.  I can hardly wait to see them.”

Cécile patted Dumbledore’s arm and nodded toward the open door. “Well, my dear, it appears you will not have to wait long: listen! The running feet on the path, the barking and shouting—they’ll have been down to the sea. Let us move to the table in the garden with our coffee; it will be better than having them in my clean kitchen!” With an amused chuckle, she lifted her wand and directed the breakfast things out the door.

The three companions from the seaside, now equally soaked, did not notice the guest at first. The two canines had transformed into human shape, apparently the better to hold an amicable slanging match. It was Andie who spotted Dumbledore: she dashed ahead of the two men and took his hand. She became the gracious County lady: “My dear Professor, how positively delightful to see you! I do hope you will forgive my dishevelled appearance; I was out walking the dogs.” Their eyes met, and they both burst out laughing.

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The company were on their third pot of coffee (and second pot of tea) before the Potion was mentioned. Albus watched as two of the three latecomers worked at catching up, and Sirius absently dismantled a croissant. Cécile glanced at him, but said nothing, and quietly pointed her wand at the kitchen door. A round loaf of brown bread and a pot of honey floated through the door and came to rest at Sirius’s place.

“Thank you, Cécile; I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” he said. He cut a thin slice of bread and spread it with honey. Turning to Dumbledore, he explained: “I find that my stay in Azkaban has given me a poor ability to enjoy good food. Cécile has been very patient with me, but I do feel churlish, refusing the best cooking in all France.” He smiled at Cécile. “I am really much better: when I first arrived at Remus’s, I could only manage oatmeal porridge, only two or three mouthfuls at a time. This bread, by the way, is delicious, and the honey is from the flowers in this garden,” he added.

“You do appear much better than you were the last time I saw you,” agreed Dumbledore. “In fact,” he said, “the three of you seem positively blooming with health! Remus, you look ten years younger than you did in June. Apparently the experiment with the Wolfsbane Potion was a success.”

Remus, smiling, looked across the table at Dumbledore, stirring his tea as he answered. “It had never occurred to me before, to make peace with the Wolf. That’s what has happened, you know: he no longer hates me. We seem to be getting acquainted, with the help of Andie and Sirius. And Padfoot. For the first time since I can remember, nothing hurts. During the full moon, as the three of us sat and watched it together, I could feel the Wolf, listening, inside me. 

“And nothing hurt! It seems such a simple thing, but it’s made such an immense difference: ever since I was little, I can remember pain. It lasted for longer and longer periods around the full moon as I got older, until recently, it was almost constant. But now, that’s just…gone. Somehow, the Wolf had decided to wait for an invitation. The first thing that came into my mind, after I’d drunk that Potion, was a memory of Sirius when we were kids, telling me it was all right—and do you know, I believed him. For the first time ever, I feel that I belong in the world.”

Andie, who had been listening quietly, interrupted. “The reason that the Potion worked, I think, was that the Wolf knew Sirius, as Padfoot, and was willing to listen to him. We haven’t actually talked about this; we’ve just been enjoying it. But when you think about it, this is a fairly remarkable thing, isn’t it?”

“My dear, it’s never been done before. The Potion itself, as you and Sirius proposed it to me, was a benign but not necessarily powerful mixture, so the accompanying spell must have been quite impressive. Tell me about that.”

“That was entirely Sirius. We had talked about what the spell should do, and how to approach the Wolf. We agreed that the Potion should be a vehicle for communication—but whatever was actually said, that was all Sirius. It took the whole day. I was there; I just handed him things and watched: it was terrifying at times.” She shivered at the memory.

Dumbledore and the others turned to look at Sirius, who assumed that belligerent, mulish expression peculiar to Englishmen who have just received a compliment. “It certainly wasn’t ‘entirely Sirius’,” he protested. “The whole thing was Andie’s idea; I didn’t know where to begin. And Remus—having his trust—that means more to me than you can imagine; it became extremely important in the spell. I never cared much, you know, what the rest of the world thought of me, even when I was arrested, but....” For the first time, Sirius’s voice faltered. “Innocent or not, I failed Remus then. That was the worst of being in prison: knowing Remus would think I’d betrayed James. Knowing he was alone, knowing what that might do to him. Because of Padfoot, I was probably the only one of us who really understood how much wolves need others to trust; they need a Pack, you see…”

“I think I do see,” said Paul, slowly. “You and your sister are now my nephew’s Pack. This is what we have been watching, these past days, isn’t it: the delight in racing and chasing, curling up together to sleep on the carpet, the foolish fun, sometimes in your present form and sometimes as the animals, but always together: are you not, in effect, a Pack, welcoming and reassuring the Wolf?”

Startled by this view of things, Andie, Remus and Sirius looked at one another: asking, assessing, agreeing, grinning. It was true—mutually accepted and acknowledged in the length of time it would take to slip a ring on a finger. They’d work out the details, if any, later.

Dumbledore watched the exchange of glances, nodded in understanding, and decided to have a word with Sirius later. “A triumvirate has always been a very powerful union. If what you say is true, and it appears to be so, we can expect great things from this particular Pack.”                                        

                                        

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That afternoon, Sirius attempted to answer his old teacher as they walked together by the sea: “To be honest, Professor, I can’t tell you what will happen at the next full moon, and I haven’t had the courage to bring up the subject to the other two. I’m hoping that there won’t be a problem, but as you pointed out, the Potion itself was not very strong.”

“Removing the wolfsbane from a Wolfsbane Potion was, indeed, rather a bold step,” chuckled Dumbledore. “Poppy nearly went into shock when I showed her the proposal you and Andie sent me. The fact that this experiment worked at all, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, had to be the spellwork. Do you think the spell can be duplicated?”

 “Duplicated? Well, I could do it again, for Remus, but I don’t think I could do it for someone I didn’t know. It was a sort of combination: I spent the days before our actual spell remembering all I could about Calling Spells, and put those forms with what I know about Remus himself, and all I know about Moony—our name for the Wolf. I tried to let him know how much I cared for him, and for Remus. I used the old, long forms; I’m amazed that I remembered them. I said the whole thing through three times, and when it was all over, I gave them a blood pledge. All in the rhythm and language of a Calling Spell, you see. I begged the Wolf to trust me, even after I’d abandoned him, as he saw it, for those twelve years. I promised the Wolf…that I’d be here to help. I owe him that: I want to give him that.”

Dumbledore nodded. “So you said, at breakfast. You have always been a surprising one, even as a student. I remember the work you put into planning security for James and Lily’s wedding. Moody said, at the time, that you had very considerable powers, once you decided to use them, and an unusually creative mind. Well, I think you may be right about your spell. Now that communication has been established, and as the Wolf grows more comfortable with Remus, he may not feel the need to attack him each month.  Do the others know any of this? Have you talked to them about what went into this spell?”

“No: we haven’t talked about much of anything, in fact. The general tone has been one of euphoria, as you’ve probably noticed. They both deserve a bit of fun, I think, after all the trouble I’ve given them in one way or another. I wouldn’t know what to say, in any case. I intend to be on the alert during the next full moon, but now that we’re talking to the Wolf face to face, I don’t think we’ll need the Potion again, do you?

“It was almost funny, Professor, the first time Remus transformed. He did it, mind you, the first time he tried, the very next morning after the full moon. But it was daylight: the first full daylight the Wolf had ever seen. It frightened him so much that he tore off down the beach and I had the devil’s own time fetching him back. Andie got down in a submission pose and I—Padfoot—held him down. We talked to him for about an hour while he trembled and snapped at me, and begged to run away again.  Then, finally, Andie licked him on the nose, and he began to grin. And, well, we’ve all been grinning since. I can’t begin to tell you how much fun it’s been.” Sirius paused, his own wolfish grin lighting up, transforming his face. He went on: “Of course, this is something I benefit from as well: it’s almost like the old days, when James and Remus and I ruled Hogwarts. Speaking as Padfoot, it’s an indescribable joy to have Andie and Remus: to be in a Pack again.”

Dumbledore considered the young-old man beside him, remembering the surly, impetuous youth Sirius had been. Rude, impatient, and irreverent, wrestling high marks from all his teachers every year by doing impeccable work and daring them to take points off for attitude. Indifferent to school rules. Fiercely loyal to his chosen few, contemptuous of everyone else. Possessed of boundless energy, creativity, and a rigid sense of responsibility to his friends. Physically attractive, with his black-haired, blue-eyed good looks and his lean Quidditch-player physique. A lover of speed, Muggle machines, and, if the rumours were true, half the girls of his year.

The Sirius beside him now was, outwardly at least, a different person. Albus considered the thoughtful, deep-set eyes, the gaunt features. This adult Sirius had a quieter, more reflective, almost ascetic, air about him. He was certainly still sane, in spite of everything. Notwithstanding mental torture, malnutrition and all the forces of the dementors, he had endured, and had escaped from the most secure prison wizardry could contrive. He had performed an unprecedented, impossible spell to save the life of a werewolf, and that spell showed every sign of being successful. His loyalty: that guard-dog instinct, that sense of responsibility, was obviously still intact.  His powers—Dumbledore was interested in what might be expected from there.

Any further probing could wait, however. As they neared the farmhouse, the Wolf came bounding cheerfully out to meet them, with Andie close behind. They rushed up to Sirius, laughing and embracing him as if he’d been gone for a week.

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The End of Summer, Ile de la Camargue

The summer drew to a close. There was horseback riding on the little half-wild grey horses: mad, splashing gallops through the marshes. There was a hilarious sail down the coast with Cécile at the tiller, shouting orders to Paul, who scrambled around the deck hauling on lines and ducking under the boom in Muggle fashion. Paul took the Pack duck-hunting once, even though it was out of season. It wouldn’t have mattered: Moony and Padfoot were hopeless as proper hunting dogs, and none of the three of them could keep still. The Pack purchased an enormous hammock and hung it in the shady back garden, and took naps there in the afternoons, piled together like puppies.

Two weeks after Dumbledore’s visit, an owl flew in the kitchen door of the farmhouse, lighting down by Andie’s plate. She untied the note, read it and put it in her pocket, then sat silent as the owl helped himself to her breakfast. Remus took the note from her pocket and read it through.

“Who’s Alice?” he asked, passing the note to Sirius.

“She’s an old lady I stayed with, away up north in the Farne Islands, while I visited the seals there,” she answered. “She’s a friend of Professor Dumbledore’s, and since then, a friend of mine. She’s a Guardian, like Paul and Cécile, watching over things in general, in her part of the world. Keeping her finger on the Pulse. As you saw, she wants me to come for a visit and see if I can get to the bottom of a problem they’re having. This series of deaths and shipwrecks she talks about sounds ominous by itself, but when you add the uneasiness she’s getting from the seals, it’s fairly certain there’s something wrong up there. She wants me to come because I got on very well with the seals; she probably thinks they’ll tell me more than they’re telling her.”

Sirius looked up from the note. “So, do we go up there and talk to her, and the seals, to see if we can make sense of it? I’ve never met a seal; it should be interesting.”

Andie shook her head. “We can’t go: I’ll just write and say I can’t make it. I can’t ask you to go back to Britain!  Dementors will be everywhere, and this would be a particularly exposed spot. There are so few people there year round that you’d be noticed! Someone could turn you in; it’s out of the question.”

Sirius snorted contemptuously. “Nobody knows about Padfoot except us, Dumbledore and the three kids; I’d be as safe there as anywhere. And if you remember what Dumbledore told us in his last letter, about the trouble at the World Cup and his persuading Moody out of retirement, I don’t think I’ll be as much of a news item as I was last year. I’m guessing the Dementors will have been called off. There’s Dark activity going on at a greater level than we’ve seen in a while, and they’ll be put to use elsewhere. If this Alice is a friend of yours, we ought to do something for her if we can.”

Andie looked troubled. “There’s no reason for you to be put in danger. Maybe I should just go up on my own for a few days, and see if I can help. You two should be able to survive without me for that long.”

Remus growled dissent. “First of all, no we couldn’t; and secondly, you’d miss us. I don’t think it would hurt for the Pack to check it out, especially, as Sirius says, since she’s a friend of yours. If it’s just a problem with the seals, I grant you we wouldn’t be much practical use, but if there’s Dark magic involved, you may want some help. ‘Deaths and shipwrecks’ sounds like more than just an animal problem.”

“In that case, someone else would be better than me anyway: I’ll just write and tell her I can’t come; that she should ask Dumbledore who to call. Padfoot, eat.”

At Dumbledore’s suggestion, Sirius now took most of his meals as Padfoot; it seemed that his canine digestion could handle a much wider variety of foods. Cécile had invented a very nourishing stew of meat scraps and vegetables, which she now served to him on the floor in a huge crockery bowl, topped with a sprig of parsley. His weight and colour had improved noticeably in the past two weeks.

As Padfoot was licking out the last drops of stew from the bowl, Paul appeared at the door, his arms full of white feathers, which appeared to be trying to struggle free. He deposited his burden on the table, where it huffily readjusted itself into a snowy owl, with one of its wings drooping slightly. “This is your young godson’s owl, Sirius, is it not? She seems to have been hurt. Her flight was in small hops across the field. I have tried to help her, but she perceives my help as interference!” Ruefully, he dabbed at a series of cuts on his hand with his handkerchief.

Sirius instantly transformed, took the letter tied to Hedwig’s leg, and glanced at it briefly. “This was written before the World Cup! She must have had a terrible time getting here. Poor thing, she’s starving.” Hedwig had lost no time joining the other owl at Andie’s breakfast.

Andie watched her with sympathetic professional interest. “It looks as though this wing is broken; I’ll have a look at it when she’s eaten.” Hearing these words, Hedwig looked up at Andie, sidled over to her, and turned to present her injured wing. Andie felt the wing tenderly with her fingers, took out her wand and repaired the bone. Hedwig flapped her wings experimentally, gave Andie’s nose a grateful nibble, and returned to the plate.

Sirius finished his letter, handed it to Remus, and said, “Well, that last bit, about Harry’s scar hurting, sounds ominous. And it settles the ‘you can’t go’ argument: I should be closer to Harry than the South of France! When can we leave? We can stay at the Hut while we sort things out with this friend of yours on the islands—it will give us something to do, won’t it? Andie, what are you going to do about your post with the Bureau? Can you get a leave of absence for this?”

Andie gave him a kiss on the cheek, and said, “I sent in my resignation two weeks ago. I told them I had taken on other responsibilities—that’s you, my dears—but I’d be glad to accept future jobs in a freelance capacity. I have money. We can live on that for quite a while. For the past seven years, I’ve made a very good salary, and had nothing, really, that I wanted to buy.”

Sirius nodded approvingly. “I have an account at Gringott’s which should be pretty healthy too; I haven’t drawn on it, except once, in twelve years. Remus, and of course Paul and Cécile, have been feeding, clothing, and housing me all summer.”

Remus looked up from Harry’s letter. “Money? I have the remains of this year’s salary from Hogwarts; that should help. What are we collecting for?”

“Matching collars, for our trip north. We want to be stylish, don’t we? If you keep throwing rolls, dear, Cécile will give you a bowl on the floor like Padfoot’s. Sirius, write to Harry and tell him to be careful; and that you’re on your way. I’ll write back to Alice and tell her the same thing.”

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