Wolf By Ears

WOLF BY EARS

Part One: Man vs. Self

by D.M.P.

***

Conversation is never easy for the British, who are never keen to express themselves to strangers or, for that matter, anyone, even themselves.

- Malcolm Stanley Bradbury, Rates of Exchange, pt. 5, ch. 3

***

Prologue

The rain began halfway into Sirius's journey. At first, it was the rumbling clouds spreading over the horizon, creeping closer and closer as he and Buckbeak flew north. Within half an hour, a strong gale had developed, pushing against them. By that time, Sirius hadn't a clue about where he should land. Swooping down into a patch of darkness, he landed in a sparsely wooded forest. Must be a park or reserve.

He had to turn back. Any further and he would be flying into a storm. It was bad enough already - navigating in the dark. Any other complications would make the task impossible. Early in the morning he could do something. But not now. Frustrated, Sirius turned back to Brighton.

Late that evening, he found the door to Her Majesty locked.

"Remus?" He pressed the doorbell and waited, arms crossed. The bleak winter night was at its coldest; possibly the storm would break any minute. Would it be snow or rain? The temperatures were low, but he was sure it wasn't enough for snow. Freezing rain was much more likely. And by hell he didn't want to get stuck outside in the freezing rain.

A few minutes and his patience started to wear thin. "Remus?" Sirius pounded on the door. Geez, don't let him be asleep now! he thought bitterly to himself. The gale winds stirred, heralding the incoming weather.

He sighed. They kept the doors locked for obvious reasons, but this was getting irritating. Sirius jumped off the landing and jogged around the house, checking for any lights and putting the feeling back into his legs. All the shades were pulled down, as usual, but he couldn't make out any line of brightness beneath them. Was Lupin sleeping? He hadn't been in the best shape when Sirius had left - three shots of raw wolfsbane would do that to a werewolf - and Sirius figured his friend was probably sleeping away the effects at that moment. Perhaps Mary was up?

Sirius circled his hands around his mouth and shouted out, "Hey, anyone awake in there?" A rhetorical question - no one would be able to hear him outside. Sirius gave a deeper, more agitated sigh and let his hands fall down at his sides.

Plunk.

What was that?

Sirius felt a drop of water land on his shoulder. He reached a hand out to brush it away and another one fell on his head, so cold that it stung. And another. And another... Perfect. If he didn't get inside somewhere soon, he was going to get drenched. All because a certain couple of werewolves had locked the damn front door... Walking back to the front of the house, he said in an annoyed voice to Buckbeak, "C'mon, boy, we have to find another place to roost tonight."

Buckbeak was investigating something in the dunes. He raised his head up and shook the sand from the curve of his beak. "Squawk?"

"Yeah, yeah, quit your whining," Sirius mumbled and hoisted himself up onto the hippogriff's back. By now, the two were close enough to discard the formal bow.

Sirius flicked the reins with the left hand and Buckbeak trotted down the beach (or half-trotted, considering he only possessed a horse's hind legs). "Let's go back."

Buckbeak gave a dissatisfied growl.

"I know, the place wasn't the greatest, but if the roof doesn't leak, it's good enough for us." He spurred the hippogriff to hurry as the raindrops increased. "Remind me to yell at Remus in the morning."

The hippogriff loped down the shore at a steady pace. Overhead, the clouds moved in with the wind. Yet weather sometimes does peculiar things; the overcast sky wasn't thick enough to foreshadow any precipitation, yet scattered drops fell on them, a cross between ice and rain. Sirius could even see the purple-grey clouds parting so that the waning moon showed. One can never tell with English weather. It is as mercurial as a harpy during nesting season: one moment, it's calm and peaceful, and the next it's foul and screeching.

Sirius let a lazy mood come over him. He was slightly put out by the turn of events, but overall, he felt safe. In fact, it was quite reassuring to know that the only worry he had that night was shelter. The past few months, he had been possessed with such fear of capture by the Ministry that it bordered on paranoia. Buckbeak should know; that's how Sirius had got into the habit of talking to him so much. Not to mention that close call he had when he was caught in that MLES officer's house while trying to contact Harry. Or even last night with the full moon: Lupin had been bad enough to control when they were at Hogwarts, but throw in a hyperactive pup and the task became near impossible. If Buckbeak hadn't been there, someone could have gotten bitten - or worse. Sirius half-wished that the wolf had chomped Croaker where the sun didn't shine, but that was only his opinion. At the moment, he was only grateful that no innocent Muggle had been on the wolf's dinner menu.

However, last night had come dangerously near to the loss of someone's life. Sirius shuddered at the memory; he had never seen Mary's parents before and was sure he would never see them again. The whole ordeal of the wolf attacking them seemed almost surreal. If Sirius believed in fate he might have thought that attacking them was supposed to be some sort of twisted destiny. At the least the irony gods were having a good laugh right now.

Another surreal aspect was his friend. Sirius had feared telling Lupin of the attack because of what his reaction might have been. He shouldn't have been surprised that Lupin had acted calmly and logically. Charging Ukrainian Ironbellies wouldn't be able to shake him. Sirius figured that after all the bad luck both of them had been through, finally something good might be heading their way.

B a n g!

"CRAW!"

Buckbeak reared up on his hind legs - Sirius's grip slipped - Buckbeak was panicking - Sirius slid off the glossy feathers of his shoulders, struggling to catch the reins-

"Craw! Craw!"

Sirius tumbled headlong into the sand. Buckbeak, true to his name, was kicking his knobby claws up and down and beating those massive wings. Swish! His talons grazed Sirius's side, tearing his robes; he rolled out of the way before being trampled.

"Hold it! Whoa boy!" he yelled, getting up to his feet. Buckbeak was in a state true to his equine side: pure mindless fright. Sirius tried to snatch at the reins, but Buckbeak twisted away from his grasp, kicking up puffs of sand and pebbles as he did so. Sirius reached out and grabbed a handful of feathers on the side of the hippogriff's head. "Whoa boy!" he shouted again.

The sudden pain of plucked feathers was equivalent to a side slap; Buckbeak calmed down. Landing on all fours once again, the hippogriff was shaking and snorting loudly to himself. Sirius stroked the creature's beak and head, reassuring him. "That's it, boy," he soothed. "Calm down..."

Buckbeak's wide eyes scanned around the beach, his talons still prancing up and down with worry. Sirius continued petting and murmuring until the hippogriff's nervous attack passed. As Buckbeak shook his eagle head, Sirius glanced behind him. The old hovel. "Don't worry, Buckbeak," he said. "I'll see what's going on...."

Buckbeak grumbled, shifting away; he was slightly embarrassed at needing comfort. Sirius, distracted, didn´t notice. An uneasy feeling stirred in his stomach. What was that sound? "You stay right here, boy," he told Buckbeak. The hippogriff, sensing his worry, gave him a concerned look as Sirius turned away.

With hesitant steps, he approached the shack. "Remus? Mary?" He knew it couldn´t have been anyone else.

Over the years in Azkaban, Sirius had developed a sort of preliminary sense, almost like instinct. Whenever a Dementor would glide through his cellblock, he would be able to tell before it set a bony foot through the threshold. Whenever a prisoner cried out in the dark, he was able to tell whether the grief originated from inner torment or physical pain. After all those years locked up in hell on earth, the least thing he could stand was pain, emotional or otherwise. He wanted to avoid all terrible subjects. It wasn't as if he feared them - Sirius had developed a mental bulwark against fear - but he simply did not want to be associated with the darkness ever again. He could foretell darkness, feel it creep along his skin, but he would deal with it only when it came and never beforehand. That was why, when he approached this shack, he talked like an ignorant fool.

"Buckbeak and I thought we heard something," he said lightly. The front door was ajar, revealing pitch black within. The wind blew and rattled it slightly; Sirius grabbed the side to silence the noise.

"You nearly scared the crap out of us," he continued in that easygoing tone. He opened the door - it gave a hollow c r e a k like a ghostly wail. "I just landed and Buckbeak almost thr-"

The door opened wide, allowing moonlight to fall upon its interior.

Sirius gripped the side of the door, even though his legs didn't feel any weaker. He wasn't scared or shocked by what he saw. For a split second, he thought he was hallucinating. But when the raindrops starting falling into the room and nothing changed, he knew what he saw was real.

Three hushed words.

"Oh. My. God."

The door creaked back on his hinges, blown open by the increasing wind. He glanced behind him. A small, splintered hole pierced the door midway. The hole was something that he had never noticed before because it had never been there before.

His eyes turned back to the scene before him. All he could see was Lupin's backside. He was slumped over, covering her: one arm wrapped around her waist, the other extended forward limply. The gun had slipped from his right hand, which lay in a pool of blood. Her head was visible over his shoulder, her arms around his neck. There was a calm, relaxed expression on her face, as if she was only sleeping.

Sirius found himself backing away slowly, hyperventilating.

BOOOOOMMMM!!

An eruption of asphalt and brick.

Smoke.

Falling debris.

Stones from the road pelting him, knocking him down.

A blown-up London street.

Smell of burned flesh and gasoline.

Dead bodies everywhere. People screaming. A cracked fire hydrant spurting water into the air. Peter reduced to a pile of crimson robes.

The manhole cover ajar in the middle of the street.

That damn rat.

All he could do was stand there and laugh. Laugh like a bloody jackass who didn´t know what else to do. Laugh while the Hit Wizards came and took him away. Laugh and see nothing, hear nothing, and feel nothing except the cruel realization of despair and hopeless....

His hands were clasped against the sides of his head, as if blocking out voices. He trembled, doubled over, squatted against the door. Don't laugh now. Don't laugh like you did then, because you lost all sense and control. No, not ever again, don't, Sirius, do you hear me, don't do it again, not now, not ever, don't, no-!

Swallowing hard, he reached out toward them. A simple touch and the two tumbled apart like rag dolls. The blood was all over.

He averted his eyes from her. How could he do this? Was Lupin crazy? Sirius felt his stomach turn inside out. Impossible. The man he knew wouldn't do something as insane as this. The man who had stayed by this girl's bedside almost every night for the past three weeks wouldn't do something like this.

Was it a setup? Sirius's paranoia was provoked. It could have been Croaker or some other Ministry agent, and this could all be just a government trick....

Nonsense. There was no way anyone could have found out where they lived, or that Sirius was with them. And why make it look like Lupin had shot-?

A strangled chuckle escaped his throat.

Sirius caught himself. Damn it, Sirius, don't start! He fell back against the wall, staring up at the rafters. Don't think, he coached himself, just act.

Stepping over her, Sirius went to Lupin. His eyes were closed as well, but he wasn't hurt. Perhaps he fainted. Sirius reached over and pressed his fingers against his neck. The pulse drifted in and out, in and out. He was alive.

Moving quickly, he hauled his friend up by the armpits and carried him - awkwardly - Lupin weighed more than he did - out the door. Buckbeak waited in the sprinkling rain and titled his head. "Craw?" He blinked his orange eyes curiously.

"C'mon." Sirius slung Lupin over the hippogriff's shoulders, then went back for the briefcase. No evidence must be left behind. In the shack, he gave her one last look, then turned away. He ran outside and jumped on Buckbeak's back. He sat behind Lupin, making sure he wouldn't slip off during the flight, and looped the rope halter through the briefcase handle, so he needn't have to worry about dropping it. "Let's get the hell out of here." He put his heels into Buckbeak's sides harder than he meant to, and the hippogriff squawked loudly.

"Shut up," he growled, snapping the reins. Buckbeak stared at Sirius haughtily and then ran along the sand, gaining speed. Sirius leaned his head against his soft, feathered neck, breathing hard. He still couldn't believe it. His own friend - what the hell did Lupin think he was doing?? Sirius dug his fingers into Buckbeak's plumage to keep from shaking.

Buckbeak jumped, taking wing. Sirius lurched in his seat at the take-off, his chest pressed down on Lupin to be sure he didn't slip off. Once established in the air, he straightened up and guided the hippogriff inland towards the suburbs. Buckbeak shifted too suddenly and Lupin began to slide. Sirius took hold of the back of his collar and hauled him up with both hands.

"Hold it there," he told Buckbeak.

The hippogriff, still angry at Sirius's rudeness toward him, flapped his wings harder, jolting the ride. Sirius felt the glossy feathers slip from under his legs - he gripped harder with his knees- a weak arm wrapped around his friend-

Wildly, he snatched at the halter and pulled himself upright in his seat. Lupin was a dead weight, lying like a sack of flour in front of him. "Boy!" he shouted angrily. "What the hell are you thinking?!"

Buckbeak's neck did a 180, and he snapped at Sirius. Their seats swung crazily to the left and then to the right, like riding a hobby horse with a faulty spring.

"Stop it!" Sirius yelled, fighting to hold on. "Why can´t you behave yourself tonight? What are you, a hippogriff or a dumb bird?!"

"SQUAWK!"

Buckbeak was in a fury now. He hovered in the air, trembling, about to give another infamous buck. "Squawk!!!"

"Well, fuck you!" Sirius screamed. He didn't care if anyone below heard that; he didn't care at all! Fine! Let his world fall apart like this! Let him lose touch with his only friends! He couldn't think logically, only feel. Anger, frustration, sadness, and confusion all mixed together into the potent emotion that could not be named, a feeling that numbed his mind and robbed him of all strength.

He threw the ropes from his hands. "God dammit," he cursed softly, his voice sinking. He put his fingers to his temple. "Why..." He sighed. "Just drop us, Buckbeak." Then, he became silent.

Another insult would have pushed Buckbeak into dumping his passengers mercilessly into the ocean. Yet, this sudden quiet gave the animal a second thought. He rolled his eyes in his fellow fugitives' direction. Lupin was bent over like a stuffed teddy bear: arms drooping by his sides, legs askew, head down. Sirius held onto him like a child clutching a toy: arm fastened around his waist, body held close, head resting against his back.

"Go ahead," Sirius muttered. He was staring blankly out to sea, his cheek pressed against his friend's bloodstained robes.

Buckbeak eyed his riders carefully. Bit by bit, his flying smoothed down, the erratic wings falling back into their rhythmic beat. He gave a sympathetic whimper.

"What is it?" Sirius questioned dully. Buckbeak picked up the end of the rope halter with his beak and offered it to Sirius, who lifted his eyes. "What?"

The hippogriff nudged the reins back into his hand. Buckbeak made some more delicate squawks, then raised his head, waiting expectantly. Crystallized rain sprinkled upon them as sleet, sparkling in the partial moonlight.

Sirius let his fingers wrap around the worn fibres of the rope. "You're not going to throw us?"

Buckbeak watched his companion compassionately. He nodded his head.

Sirius remained still, letting the strength seep back into him. Then, he took hold of the reins like a cavalry general would, his vision focused on the dark horizon. "Thank you, old boy," he whispered. He cleared his throat and commanded, "Let's try Hangleton."

"Craw!" Buckbeak gave an enthusiastic push with his wings and the three made their way inland.

Night lagged on, and the sleet continued to fall gently. Sirius let the needle-like flakes gather on his clothing, holding tight to Lupin. As Buckbeak continued his trip north, a lingering question took root in his mind, something that sank him into melancholy: why? Why had Lupin done this? The answer was a mystery to him, which led to a vague, even more disturbing question:

Who was Remus Lupin?

Chapter 1

Voici Noël, ô douce nuit!

L´étoile est là, que nous conduit:

Allons donc tous, avec les mages,

Porter à Jésus nos hommages

Car l´enfant nous est n´

Le Fils nous est donné!

The music floated through the air. The hospital was festive tonight, dressed with gold and tinsel. Yards of green boughs and red ribbons draped the walls. Magical snow fell from the ceiling and formed feather-light drifts that broke up into glittering dust at a single touch. A doctor and his assistant were waltzing exaggeratedly on their way out, lucky to have their shifts end before the night's festivities. A woman with a dignified step walked past them - ducking as the doctor dipped the nurse - and stopped by the front desk. The receptionist was there, holding a cup of mulled wine and chatting with the young temp dressed in white scrubs. Only in hospitals did wizards forsake their traditional robes; scrubs were easier to move about in.

"Excusez-moi?" the woman asked. "Can you show me to the Intensive Care Unit?"

Both looked up at her and smiled warmly. "Who do you need to see, dear?" the receptionist asked in her warm French tongue.

"Madame Claire de Chien-Loup."

"Ah." The receptionist nodded slowly. Her companion said something into her ear and she laughed to herself. The woman waited patiently until their giddy spell finished.

"Just down the hall, through the double doors, to the right," was the light-hearted reply.

"Merci," The woman pushed her grey bangs from her face and left.

"Joyeux Noël!" the receptionist chirped behind her. The man must have whispered another humorous comment - she heard slightly drunken laughter behind her. But she wasn't surprised at the lax atmosphere tonight; even wizard doctors had to have some fun.

Unlike the adorned lobby, the ICU was stripped of any decoration whatsoever. Past the double doors was the sterile cleanliness common in all healthcare facilities. Even the Bestiary Medical Center had that odour of medical magic in the air: a cross between over-cooked cabbage and moth spray. Her nose being sensitive due to her werewolf nature, the smell was almost overwhelming.

Entering a second set of swinging doors, she saw him standing in front of the visitor's window. Like most clan members nowadays, he was dressed in Muggle clothes: a deep blue suit with coal black shoes, and a three-quarter length coat the colour of lacquer. A tan hat with a black band covered his pure white hair and a pair of transitional shades covered his eyes. This dark assemblage contrasted with his pale complexion enough to attract the attention of any passer-by. The woman bowed her head gracefully in greeting.

"They are waiting for Monsieur l'Alpha," she said in French. She did not stand near him, out of respect for his authority. Instead, she looked past the window. There, Claire was laid out on a stiff white cot. She was not hooked up to any devices, not even an IV; magical hospitals don't need complicated machines to mete out medication or note the heartbeat. A labelled board at the foot of the bed covered all the stats, numbers that constantly changed with the patient's state of health. Alongside it was a clock with an arrow that pointed to message boxes en français: "Time for Medication," "Infection Alert," and - in flashing red letters - "Emergency Help Needed Immediately." At the moment, the arrow was on "Stable Condition."

At first she thought he hadn't heard her, but then he responded. "I hate titles," he murmured out of habit. "Whatever happened to just Bernard?"

"Monsieur l´Alpha brings up a moot point. He knows that I have never called him by name. That is how it is done."

He sighed, dropping the subject as he always did, and leaned his arm against the glass. His glasses were darkened against the bright hospital lights, and so it was hard to tell his expression, but it wasn't hard to tell where his thoughts lay. "We used to be so close," he murmured.

Eunice caught on. "Madame used to be close to all of us."

"What happened, Eunice? She dedicates herself to some utopian charity project instead of staying here where it is safe. She loves pandering to those scruffy street wolves as if they are her own family." He propped his head upon his forearm. "I don't know her anymore."

Eunice bit her lower lip. She ran the Safehouse in La Brague herself and did not think of it as "pandering to those scruffy street wolves." To her, the spirits looked well upon those who offered aid to the less fortunate. Tonight, however, she had her assistants take over the work because there were more important matters at hand. "The ceremony starts at nightfall," she pressed. "Monsieur has to be there."

"For what?" He pounded his forearm against the window and turned on her belligerently. "I get the sword, I fight Great-Uncle Léopold, I say a few words! And this duty I absolutely cannot ignore!"

His sacrilege shocked her to near-speechlessness. "Do not mock one of the clan's most sacred traditions," Eunice rebuked. "As His direct descendent, Monsieur should know better! Tonight is the Night of the Werewolf. This is the ceremony to acknowledge the wolf spirits and have them bless the clan for their divine blood-"

"Divine blood? Who believes in divine blood anymore-?" Bernard ripped off his tinted glasses and squinted down at her with the red eyes. "This is what divine blood gave to me!" He hit his index finger against the glass at his sister. "This is what divine blood gave to Claire! What do you-"

"Monsieur l'Alpha should not let his temper get ahead of him," Eunice said severely. "It is uncouth for a person of his status." She eyed him coolly with dark brown eyes. "Monseigneur Burgot commented on the warnings Monsieur made toward the British RMC last week. Monsieur should know the clan can not hold true to such petty threats unless the International Council of Wizards approves an investigation, which is highly unlikely. Monseigneur said it was a clear sign of the Monsieur l'Alpha´s inability to act appropriately."

He slipped his glasses back on. They were magically enhanced to help his vision in ways beyond Muggle lens; without them, he would be legally blind. "I don't need to tolerate your father's criticism for anything I do, cousin," Bernard said gruffly. "And I don't let any British bastard think that he can mistreat my sister and get away with it."

"If Monsieur continues in this heedless manner, our clan will become the laughingstock of the werewolf community." She frowned. "If it is not already disgraced."

He made no comment.

"Ever since Monsieur l'Alpha was given his title, it was expected that he would act in accordance to it. For six years Monsieur held this position, and what of it? The coffers are being drained away, and our clan members commit any folly that they please. When was the last time Monsieur approved of any marriage into this clan? Monsieur's brother, married to a Weiblich! Now that is simply insane. And himself, so long without an heir or even a wife is unspeakable."

"I am the result of five generations of aristocratic inbreeding," he said with flat sarcasm. "Do I look like marriage material to you?"

"Monsieur!"

"You live in a backwards age," Bernard retorted sharply. "There are no fancy balls, extravagant riches, leagues of servants who pamper us, or peasants who live to grovel. The magnificent villas and manors of the past are reduced to weed-infested plots, sold off to wealthy German entrepreneurs or American technology giants. Oh, all except for that pile of stones in the mountains that you call a castle, lived in by our ancient relations, as old as the time you remember! In the Muggle world, we receive no legal or social privileges, and in the wizard world we never had any in the first place. Our traditions are scoffed at by the secular world and the way of life you speak of does not exist anymore. Nobility is dead."

Eunice took this lengthy argument with a stiff upper lip. Her rebuttal was short but stinging. "And Monsieur's actions turn it into a joke."

A dismissive grunt escaped him, and he stuffed his fists into his pockets. He was more powerful than her, but she was his elder; what she said hurt. Yet he got in the final word. "It is high time we look at ourselves and laugh, Eunice. If you laughed once yourself, then I have done my job."

Bernard headed out the door, Eunice following. The lady knew that she had wounded him, and tried to make up for it. "I apologize for my disrespect, Monsieur l'Alpha."

"No permanent damage." he said bluntly.

"Madame is surely going to get better," she added helpfully. "You can ask the spirits to aid her."

"They said that her pelvis was fractured and her lower spine was crushed from her LOCD episode," Bernard said lowly. He walked faster, ploughing through the sparkling snow in the lobby. The receptionist and her intern had disappeared from the front desk, replaced by a balding man puffing on his pipe. He waved at them as they left. He might have said something too, but the blaring holiday music masked his words.

Eunice lifted the hem of her skirt to catch up as he reached the wintry country road. An enchanted sleigh was parked in the stable yard with a pair of Abraxan winged horses hooked up to it. The driver hopped down from his seat and opened the sleigh door, bobbing his head. "Monsieur l´Alpha."

"Merci." Bernard stepped into the sleigh.

"And this is the best facility gold can buy," Eunice said. She climbed aboard the sleigh as well. It wasn't hers, but her father's. "If wizards know magic at all, they will know what to do."

"I spoke to the doctors an hour ago," he replied quietly. "Magic cannot solve all problems. You should know that. The Bisclavret castle," he told the driver.

"Oui, Monsieur!" The driver flicked the reins and the horses started forward. As the sleigh sprung into the air, the last words to the carol reached their ears.

Un Sauveur nous est né,

Le Fils nous est donné--!

***

Sirius stood in the entrance to the cave, watching the snowfall. It covered the craggy landscape like a layer of frosting, smoothing out the sharp peaks and rough surfaces. In the last hour, it had snowed a good 5 centimetres; by morning he expected half a metre. Did it always snow so much in Scotland? They had arrived there only today. After Sirius had found.... Well, after the full moon, Sirius had taken Lupin and left Brighton as soon as possible. A week-long series of town-hopping had ended here, near Hogwarts.

The blizzard wind swept across the frosted hills, sending up twisting whirls of white. Perfect conditions for sledding...

"Hurry up, Padfoot!"

He felt the icy bits prick at his skin, the cold sweat dripping from his brow. The air was filled with puffy white like falling quill feathers; he could barely see ahead of him. The rough weaving of the carpet slid from his hands. He wrapped his arms tighter to keep his grip on the rolled-up rug. Padfoot was placed near the middle, right behind his best friend Prongs. It was Prongs's idea of course - an old family heirloom converted into a makeshift sled. The Persian rug had been disabled when flying carpets were banned in the United Kingdom, but his family had kept it around for parlour room decoration. And now it was the ideal time to use it. All four of them were trudging up the hill outside the Potters´ home. Even blizzard conditions couldn't stop them from enjoying their holiday vacation.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Wormtail asked, bringing up the rear. The carpet fringe blew in his face, and he spat out stray fibres from his mouth.

Prongs, the leader of this expedition, looked over his shoulder. "Nothing can be safer," he assured, yelling over the blustering gales. "If you don't want to do this, then just say so." He trudged on into the storm, the snow coming up to his knees.

Padfoot's feet slipped out from under him. "Whoa!" he cried, bowling backwards.

He landed in Moony´s hold. "I gotcha!" He struggled to hold him up. "Whoa... I might not-!"

"Wait, I got it!" Padfoot grabbed at the carpet, trying to steady himself.

"Hey, you´re pulling us down!" Wormtail skidded sideways, then fell. "Ahhh!"

He crashed into Moony. Prongs was pulled down last and they tumbled down the slope, shouting.

"Umf!"

"Oof!"

"Ugh!"

The four boys landed in a heap at the bottom of the hill, the carpet bouncing along past them. For a few minutes, Padfoot was stunned from the impact and the cold. Then he realized someone was shouting beneath him.

"I think I broke something!"

Padfoot checked underneath him to see Moony's mitten stick out from the bottom of the pile. "Sorry, really sorry! Guys!" He scrambled off, as Prongs and Wormtail pulled their causality up to his feet.

"Are you okay?" Wormtail asked, brushing the snow off his cap.

"I think so." Moony coughed up some snow. "What is this called again, Prongs?" he asked wearily.

"Sledding," he informed them. "It's a Muggle activity."

"So, the point is you go up the hill, then you slide down, only to go back up and start over again?" Moony brushed the snow off his coat. His cheeks were flushed and bits of snow still clung to his hair.

"Well, yes..." Prongs drawled, crossing his arms.

"That sounds awfully repetitive to me."

"That's the whole point, Moony." Prongs, with a determined expression on his face, went after the rolling carpet and took up an end.

"Come on, we haven't even gone down yet."

"But if it's all going to end up with me having to lug this heavy, wet rug up the hill again..."

"Aw, it'll be fun." Padfoot put an arm around Moony's shoulders. "I'm sure Muggles wouldn't be doing this if there wasn't an upside to it."

"Compared to the downside of severe frostbite?"

Padfoot gave one of his lopsided grins. "If Muggles can deal with it, we can too! Now say this with me: Repetition is fun!"

"What?"

"Repetition is fun!" He punched a fist into the air. "Repetition is fun!"

"Repetition is fun!" Prongs caught on, with Wormtail chorusing with him. Ganging up on Moony, they continued effusively until he broke down laughing. "Okay, okay, I understand." He rolled his eyes, but smiled broadly. "Now hurry up before we freeze in place."

Together, they lifted the sodden carpet from the hillside and climbed up, chanting, "Repetition is fun!" all the way, their young voices becoming lost to the wind. At the top of the hill, Prongs instructed them all on how to hold onto the sides of the carpet to prevent them - hopefully - from sliding out of control and falling off. Sirius was at the end.

"You have to jump on," Prongs said. "So we gain enough momentum to slide down."

"Whatever you say." Padfoot backed away a few metres, pushing against the piling snow. Then, he ran forward, the wind whipping his face. He jumped into the air, arms upraised. "Here we go!" He crashed onto the end of the carpet, bumping into Wormtail. The force was startling - Padfoot saw the crest of the hill - they were up much higher than he thought - the carpet in front of him slid forward - he gripped the edge tightly - his stomach was plummeting - they were going down-

A snow-laden wind blew inside the fissure. Sirius shook his head, shivered slightly, and went back inside.

Further in the cave, the fire crackled. Most would describe a fire as crackling merrily, especially on a night like this. Smoking would be a better word. The only firewood he and Buckbeak had been able to find was a rotting log fifty metres below, buried under a snow bank. It was the best wood available, so they had spent the better part of an hour lugging it up.

The pale greyish smoke wafted toward his face; he waved a hand to clear the air in front of him. Snuggled up against the wall was Buckbeak, fast asleep. He had already hunted during the day, and his eagle heritage called for early rest.

Lupin was the picture of wilderness survival, roasting pieces of rabbit meat on a stick. The food was Buckbeak's contribution; Sirius now owed the hippogriff more times than he could count. "Supper's almost ready," Lupin said as he turned the food slowly over the flames.

"Great." Sirius sat down cross-legged and held his hands out by the fire to warm them. "It's a blizzard out there," he said. "I hope Pig gets back safely." Pigwidgeon, Ron Weasley's owl, had passed by earlier today to help deliver Sirius's gift to Harry: a penknife with certain attachments to unlock any lock and untie any knot. The present was an ordered one, obtained with help from the tight-lipped, non-discriminating bankers at Gringotts. Neutrality was the quality goblins were best known for.

Lupin opened up his briefcase and took out two tin plates and a Swiss army knife before snapping it shut again. "It's slightly burned," he commented, removing the steaming meat from the stick. "I hope it's eatable."

"I'm sure it's fine..." Sirius took his share and dug in. He had no scruples about eating with his hands, and swallowed the food down as soon as it had cooled. The rabbit meat was tender and hot, practically melting in his mouth. "I give my compliments to the chef," he said. "This is delicious."

"Here's my culinary secret," Lupin said. He leaned over toward him and whispered loudly, "It wouldn't taste as good if we had eaten well the last few days."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "I'll take that into account when it's my turn to cook." He licked his fingers. "Anything to drink?"

"I could heat up some snow. There are probably some tea bags in my briefcase-"

"Don't worry, I'll get it." Sirius wiped his hands on his robes and pulled the case over to him.

"No, let me-" his friend said quickly.

But he had already opened the case and was rummaging through it. Lupin came up behind him. "Sirius-"

"What? I won't break anything," Sirius assured, looking through the contents of the briefcase. He ploughed his way through bundles of clothes, several pieces of camping gear, some medicine, a few old candle stubs, a small Zippo lighter and a number three-iron cauldron.

"I'll take that," he commented, taking the cauldron out. Near the bottom of the case, he found a small package wrapped in gilt paper and tied with a silver ribbon. "Now what's this?" He showed Lupin the gift. "Really, Remus, I'm touched."

Lupin froze at the sight of it and immediately put down his plate. "It's not what you expect," he said hurriedly.

"I'm sorry that I didn't get you anything," Sirius continued, feeling ashamed. That feeling only lasted for an instant, replaced by childlike glee. He remembered his third year at Hogwarts, when his friends all decided to stay there together for the holidays. Lupin had hidden all of his presents around the castle and told his friends to see if they could find their own gifts. Sirius had discovered his in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, hidden under her toilet seat. Myrtle wasn't in the greatest mood ("E-e-everyone's always for-forgets me here-!" she had wailed, throwing wads of toilet paper at him), until Sirius found another gift - a box of scented tissues - that Lupin obviously hidden for her sake. For the rest of his time at school, it was rumoured on several occasions that the ghost's lavatory smelled oddly of roses.

Sirius examined the wrapping of this gift. This must have been very expensive. He wondered when Lupin had had the time to purchase it. But of course he was always full of surprises...

Lupin extended his hand. "Please-"

Sirius faced away from him, fiddling with the ribbon. Technically, he was opening this present a day early, but that didn't really matter, did it? Eve or not, it was still the holidays. "I promise to make up for this tomorrow." With that, he undid the ribbon.

"Sirius," he protested. "Don't-"

The paper fell away. Sirius stared at the present dumbly. In his hands was a porcelain doll adorned in a pink silk dress. Its painted face glowed in the firelight, the glass eyes twinkling. "Oh, damn," he murmured. "Oh... damn..."

Lupin sighed. "May I have that back?"

Sirius, crestfallen, presented the toy to him. "I-I apologize, Remus," he fumbled. "I-I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter." Lupin gently took the doll out of his hands. "I bought this awhile ago, before I knew that I wouldn't need it." He stroked the doll's curly chestnut hair.

But Sirius knew it wasn't a frivolous purchase. He let his hands drop in his lap. "Honestly, how I acted...." He trailed off, not knowing what else to say. "It's quite pretty," he finally added. "She would have loved it."

Lupin bowed his head, saying nothing. The only sound that filled the air was the spluttering of the fire, which was sending up more drifts of smoke.

Sirius knew he had fouled up again. He should have known better than to speak about her. Mary was a subject to be avoided; it was a taboo to even say her name. Lupin acted like she didn't exist anymore, which, in Sirius's opinion, was simply ludicrous. But that man kept everything to himself, and Sirius couldn´t pry open his shell. The only time Lupin had ever spoken about her was when he first came to consciousness. Sirius had asked whether she was dead and Lupin, his hazel gaze exuding its humble confidence, had simply replied, "If she had died, I would have died." Sirius wasn't sure if he could trust those words, but that was the only explanation he had ever received.

Lupin brushed his thumb against the doll's delicate cheek. "I'll give it away," he decided aloud. "It's too beautiful to waste." He tucked the doll back into his briefcase and shut it. He picked up his plate again and continued eating as if nothing was wrong.

Sirius's appetite, however, had vanished. He stared down at his share mutely. He wished Lupin would talk. Talk about anything. And not just some flippant comment about cooking meals either, but a real conversation. How did he feel about Mary? Did he miss her? Fear for her? Regret what he had done?

Had Lupin ever talked with her? From the short time he had been with them, Sirius knew their relationship had been close. His hands curled around his plate. Had Lupin been closer to her than he ever had been with him? Was the bond between parent and child stronger than the bond between friends?

This empty silence dragged on between them. Sirius had to speak or be crushed by it. "How much do you think it will snow tonight?" he asked casually.

"I don't know." Lupin lifted his head and took a calm glance at the far end of the cave. Was he remembering the time they went sledding? "This cave is very fitting," he commented mildly. "The overhangs will prevent too much snow from packing in, and no one should be able to detect this spot from the outside. Caves in general conserve heat rather well, so as long as the fire doesn't die out, we should be fine."

"Um, thanks..." Well, that went nowhere.

The minutes passed. "I'm tired," Lupin announced quietly. "I'm going to call it a night."

"Good idea," Sirius agreed.

"Didn't you want to make some tea?"

Sirius had forgotten about that. "I'll be fine," he said quickly. "Unless you want some-?"

"No, thank you."

The blankets were folded up in a corner away from the fire. Sirius took one for him and handed the other to Lupin. "Are you going to sleep by Buckbeak?" he asked. "He's overdue for a bath, but he's very warm."

"I'll just stay here and tend the fire." Lupin draped the blanket over himself and curled up on the bare ground. "Good night."

"Okay then," he replied somewhat awkwardly. "Good night." Sirius came to Buckbeak's slumbering side, folded his blanket in half and tucked himself in.

"Move over, boy," he said, huddling by his side. Buckbeak grunted and flicked his tail in his face. "Ack!" He wiped the offending hairs away and rolled over, facing the fire. His gaze was drawn to Lupin, lying still on the ground. He couldn't be asleep already. Must be faking it.

Sirius felt a sense of loss come over him. Their time together had been marked with brotherly closeness and a stranger's alienation. Mary's presence had temporarily sealed the rift in their friendship, which had only opened again without her. Maybe they had never been close even then, but had held a façade because of her presence. A façade that he had believed was real.

Now, to laugh one moment, then to be silent the next had become day-to-day life between them. Sirius never recalled such inconsistent chemistry, yet his memories were blurred by time. Whatever happened to those happier days when they were younger? Whatever happened to that adventurous boy Sirius had grown up with? Gone, replaced by a greying, soft-spoken man who folded the secrets of his heart away from human eyes.

He acknowledged that nothing could remain the same, but he couldn't help hoping, ever since that heartfelt hug in the Shrieking Shack, that something from his past remained intact: friendship.

An immature thought for an immature person. For, in some aspects, Sirius was still immature, wasn't he? He had been trapped in a bubble, so to speak, for over a decade: time hadn't affected him the way it had others. In Azkaban he had evolved a greater will than before, but he lacked the joys - and the hardships - one experiences from being part of the world. So it had been a childish thought to think Lupin would have stayed the same.

Sirius couldn't even bring himself to speak Lupin's childhood nickname. Moony existed only in his memories, along with Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail. How strange it was to recall happy memories of his friends, no matter how much they had changed! But maybe it was because Sirius was stuck in the past...

Did Lupin understand how he felt? That he was looking for the trust and understanding friendship should bring? Or did Lupin just assume that since both of them were friends years before, that would make their camaraderie stable now? If so, Sirius didn't agree with his way of thinking.

He pressed his back against Buckbeak's side, feeling the animal's warmth and watching Lupin shift in his sleep. This didn't comfort him anymore than the sight of land comforts a drowning man. For Sirius was that man, drowning in the sea of nostalgia, but the land that he sought did not exist. All he could see was a man floundering like him, but in deeper, darker waters.

He patted Buckbeak's head and faced away from the flickering light. "Merry Christmas," he whispered.

Chapter 2

The Night of the Werewolf had come and gone, along with the twelve days of required celebration. Claire had spent this time in the Bestiary Medical Centre. She never paid attention to clan traditions anymore, but Eunice had sent a candle to light and a copy of the ancient chants to call up the wolf spirits to bless her. The candle and scroll were still in their muslin satchel, unused.

With the new year came Bernard's idea that she should live with him once she was released from the hospital. It was a surprising suggestion. Claire had never really thought about living with her brother; the idea wasn't all too appealing in the first place. She wanted to go back to England and try to track down the Freedom Hounds. Possibly they could be with the Gaczyna pack. But making such a request would be impossible. She was unofficially exiled from England, and the Ministry had repossessed her Safehouse. Going back could equal death - or worse. Living with her brother seemed like the only alternative.

Beeep! Beeep!

The person in question was driving erratically through the streets of Nice. "Um, when is the last time you driven a car?" Claire asked.

"What makes you think I do not know how?" he retorted. His French had developed a bit of a local accent, which made his words sway.

"For one thing," she pointed out, "in France, people drive on the right side of the road."

The car swerved into the opposite lane. "I knew that."

She didn't really doubt her brother's ability to drive; he was just nervous. After all, he had been making sure that she had been comfortable the entire ride, namely by asking how she was doing every fifteen minutes. By her knowledge, he preferred to live alone, and had moved out of the castle to their Nice property when he had received a job at the Lycanthrope Biomedical Centre. Their father, now long dead, had always pressured him into taking some sort of security personnel, but he had refused, saying that it would draw attention. To sum it up, he lived like an urban hermit and had been happy to stay that way. Until Claire was invited over.

She sighed and stared out the passenger side window, watching the buildings fly by. Soon they encountered the city's infamous traffic, and then she watched the buildings crawl by.

Nice, the aristocrat's paradise. A term coined when the city actually was a rich man's luxury, some two hundred centuries ago. Now what remained were the rentiers that flooded the streets and beaches. As Claire waited for the car to move forward, she watched the various pedestrians mingle on the streets. A few working men in faded blue overalls sat at a café, smoking pipes. Across from them, the latest Chanel fashion shop emitted women wrapped in furs, walking their miniature poodles. Camera-happy tourists wandered around, carrying maps and speaking horrible French, asking for directions to the beach. She watched mutely as a young pickpocket sneaked a hand into the back of one man's shorts, then darted away with his wallet. Such was the diversity of Nice.

After three-quarters of an hour, Bernard stopped in front of a townhouse in Vieux Nice, a towering, property surrounded by a brick wall topped with iron spikes. By the gate was a prominent sign drilled into the stone, magicked invisible to Muggle eyes. AVERTISSEMENT: RÉSIDENCE DU LOUP-GAROU

With a click of a button, he opened the wrought-iron gates and drove into the courtyard. Bernard got out first and opened up the trunk. Sounds of rickety metal could be heard as he unloaded the equipment before opening the side door. "Let's get out."

Claire sat in her seat, staring out the car door. She didn't move not because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't.

Bernard crouched down. "Ready?"

She nodded.

"On the count of three." Her brother reached into the compartment, slipping an arm behind her back and another beneath her knees. "Un... deux... trois!"

Claire wrapped her arms around his neck for support, and he gently lifted her out of the car seat and resettled her in the wheelchair he set up in the drive. Lowering her carefully into the seat, he asked, "Do you need your medication again?"

She shook her head quickly, folding her hands in her lap. Long before, she had vowed never to cry about her condition, especially not in front of her brother.

"Get my crutches," she said tensely.

"Maybe later," he replied. "It's chilly out here. Let's go inside-"

"Get them." Claire glared up at him. If she were standing, her brother would be a head taller than her; from her seat he towered over her like a giant. "Now."

Bernard countered softly, "They are useless, Claire. You remember what the doctors said."

"I know what they said. Please." She waited.

Defeated, her brother took the crutches out of the backseat of the car. They were not the wooden type, but a titanium set with cuffs to slip her arms through. Despite her doctors' orders, she had had them fitted for her. Extreme denial or idealistic hope was the speculative reason shared among the clan members.

Bernard tucked them under one arm. "Got them."

"Merci." Claire placed her hands on the railings outside the wheels and pushed herself forward; she had refused the option of a motorized chair. When they approached the front steps, she ploughed right on. The wheelchair was magically adjusted; the wheels moulded themselves against the cut angles of the stairs and pushed forward, enabling her to climb them. She was first on the landing and watched as Bernard opened the door.

"It's a bit untidy," he warned. He opened the door and kicked away the pile of dirty clothes that blocked the foyer. "I should get around to cleaning," he said sheepishly. "I gave Fifi some time off because I would be in and out for awhile."

Fifi Dubois, Claire recalled, was his portly housekeeper.

He opened the door wider to let Claire through. "Here, I'll take your coat." He took off her coat and his and hung them on the stand in the corner. The crutches he placed in the corner behind the door. "I'm really sorry for the mess. I know I should have had cleared this place out, but this time of year I'm so busy-"

Claire plastered a smile on her face. "This is fine, Bernard." She could see how well he would have done without Fifi. Claire had never visited his home before - the only time they saw each other was during the holidays at the ancestral castle - but wasn't surprised that her brother had made a mess in only a few weeks' time. One would presume that a wolf who was both a genetics researcher and a clan leader would live in a more organized, sophisticated state, yet his bachelor nature must have prevailed. The front hall by itself was a dump. Piles of cloaks, boots, caps, and other examples of outerwear littered the floor. Unread issues of Le prophète quotidien and its English counterpart lay in stacks against the wall. And above-

"Hoo! Hoo!"

A great horned owl flapped by, shedding a few feathers as it passed.

"Um, that's Pascal," Bernard said hastily. "How did he get out of his cage? Excuse me." He sprinted after him, calling, "Pascal! Come back here!"

While he was gone, Claire examined her surroundings more closely. The townhouse was a tall and narrow three-story affair. The outside showed some visages of Italianate design, and the inside still retained that wealthy taste, despite the mess. The walls were papered in ordinate dark green with fine gold stripes and red trimmings, and a Persian rug of matching colours spread out over the floor. A crystal chandelier still hung from the ceiling. Nearby a carved cherrywood hall table stood with a mirror. Claire glanced at her reflection, then looked away quickly.

She wondered when Fifi would be coming back. Her Safehouse in London had been much cleaner; Bernard could be such a pig. This mess sickened her, and she felt a sudden urge to start picking up this place. An old copy of Le garou-loup hebdomadaire lay at her feet. She leaned over, trying to move it out of the way, but a sharp pain restricted her. A hand touched the source: the hard metal brace wrapped around the base of her back. She jerked her hand back as if it had been burned.

She pushed down the lump in her throat and folded her arms, biting her lip to keep from crying out. Her wandering eye came to the stack of papers. Bernard must have ordered the Daily Prophet in different languages to help him improve his English, which had always been awful. Out of random thought she picked one up. "Heroic Harry Potter Boldly Faces Challenges of Triwizard Tournament." November of last year.

A lost voice whispered in her mind.

"This is one of the most ridiculous articles I've ever read in my life. Either I don't know Harry at all, or this Rita Skeeter is grossly exaggerating things."

A man sitting across from her at the kitchen table, reading aloud from the paper. His voice was light-hearted, amused.... She liked to hear that voice...

She dropped the paper. What was that? Claire put a hand to her head. It was a starling experience, like erasing clouds that fogged her mind. Must be a side effect of her pain medication- or not....

Awhile back, she had taken a Forget Potion.... A spell doctor had been brought in to see her and he said that bits and pieces of memory would come back to her. Had that been a memory, triggered by that newspaper article?

Her heart jumped at the thought. She grabbed another paper, hoping to be hit with recognition. Nothing. Claire shifted the wheelchair to face the newspapers and began tearing through them like a woman possessed. She remembered something; she had to find out more! The banners flashed by her eyes. "Minister Supports Tax Cut." "Twelve People Killed in Dragon Attack." "Floo Powder Prices Reach All Time High." "Manufacturers Protest New Broomstick Regulations." "Bridge Declared Dangerous - Troll Lair Found." The papers revealed nothing more to her. Claire threw the handful down in frustration. Why couldn't she recall anything??

Claire observed the horrible mess she had made around her. Great. Now she had to clean it all up before her brother got back. Claire dejectedly picked up the crumpled pages one by one, trying to smooth them out into a neat stack. Other sheets were scattered on the ground, beyond her reach. She sighed, picking up an issue she hadn't touched before.

"Muggle Girl Found Shot in Brighton," read the banner.

Bernard came rushing back at Claire's outcry, Pascal flapping on his arm.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I am- I am all right..." She put a hand to her forehead again. "Just tired..."

"I am sorry to keep you waiting," he said, his ears rather pink. "Oh." He leaned over to gather up all the papers on the floor. "This must have toppled over..."

"Oui," Claire agreed. "They did."

"It's not always this messy," he went on. "Fifi's returning tomorrow anyway." Pascal struggled against his jesses, hooting loudly. "Pascal still needs a bit more training before I can send him out. He flew in only last week, since old Aristotle isn't coming back..." Bernard paused for a moment, as if observing the loss of the poor owl that had never returned from delivering - or attempting to deliver - his taxes.

Pascal gave a loud cry and threw himself from Bernard's arm. "Oh! You hungry?" He fished out a dead mouse from his waistcoat pocket and dangled it in front of Pascal's beak. "You want this, eh? Eh?" The owl settled back down and accepted the mouse happily. Claire wondered if her brother always kept dead mice on him.

"That's a good bird." He patted the owl on the head. "I'll show you to your room, Claire." Bernard headed up the stairs. She followed silently, a rolled up newspaper tucked behind her.

The second floor was much cleaner than the foyer, but the mass of hall tables, vases, and busts still blocked her way. Bernard had to push things out of the way, muttering apologies under his breath. His puttering around actually gave her some time to see all the giant paintings that were displayed on the walls. Several of her past ancestors, including her great-grandparents (passed away after the Revolution of 1848) and her grandparents (died after the Second Muggle World War), adorned the walls, their quiet faces staring out from the oil and canvas. Their clan had always preferred Muggle painting to magical.

Bernard came to one of the doors. He tried turning the handle, but it wouldn't budge. "Hold on." Bernard tried again, but to no avail. "Wait, I can do this." He rammed his shoulder against the door, bursting it open. He fell into the room. Pascal flailed about, the half-swallowed mouse caught in his airway. Claire came into the room and thumped him on the back, and the half-eaten rodent popped out of the bird's beak.

"Oy..." Her brother groaned and adjusted his glasses. "Well, here it is." He sprung to his feet and moved out of Claire's way. "I hardly use it." He picked up the mouse off the floor, wiped it on his jacket sleeve, and presented it to Pascal, who had climbed back onto his arm. "Here you go."

Claire came up to the bureau. "I can tell," she said, wiping dust off its top. The room was quite spacious and coloured with blues and whites, with a canopy bed, several empty bookshelves, and a washstand.

"I'm sending your things and all the Safehouse files over. You could set up your charity business here."

"How is that possible?"

"I hired a service to clean out your office."

The alarm bell went off in her head. It was good that the Ministry would keep its dirty paws out of her business, but what if someone found her spell books? Or anything else... Any wizard who reported that... Instead of being grateful, she asked, "Are you shipping them by courier?"

"Owl Express." Bernard punched the bed pillow and a puff of dust rose up. "These sheets might need to be washed." Pascal sneezed, dropping his mouse again.

"When will they arrive?"

"In a couple of days." He pointed to the front of the room, where a coarse curtain covered a pair of tall glass doors. "There's a balcony here." Opening them, he let the cool winter air in. "This place is horribly stuffy. You can close it when you're cold, yes? Or do you want me to close it now?"

"The air's fine," Claire said quickly. She wanted him to just leave. "I think I would like to rest for awhile."

"If you wish. I have to put Pascal back in his cage." Pascal screeched unhappily - an owl whine. Bernard scooped up the dusty, spit-covered mouse from the ground. "Why must you drop your food all the time?" he muttered, as Pascal took the rodent from his hand. "You are such a messy eater, aren't you?"

Claire closed the door when they exited. Relieved that she was finally alone, she took the rolled up paper from behind her and pored over the words. The article was dated December 17 and read thus:

A lonely, abandoned fisherman's hut located in the dunes near Brighton was known to the local Muggle youth as the Love Shack. Throughout the past decades, many could recall the place as a teenage hangout. No wonder it was startling when a group of Muggle college students discovered a young girl suffering from a gun-inflicted chest wound early this morning. At first believed to be a fatal injury, the girl underwent a miraculous recovery under Muggle care. She is now under covert surveillance by the RMC as she recovers at Princess Royal.

People in the Muggle world are mystified by this girl's appearance, but the Registry of Magical Creatures knows the exact identity of this young victim. Mary Grisham, a young Muggle girl, was involved in a werewolf attack at her hometown of Havenshire in October. Initially, the Ministry presumed her dead and sent out the Registry to investigate the crime. Ever since then, however, findings had shown that the girl was alive and well, living as a werewolf and on the run with 36-year old Remus Lupin, the werewolf who had bit her. Lupin, the only wolf to be educated at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is a highly trained expert in the field of magic. Officials at the Registry worried before that the werewolf duo would seek further carnage and destruction, which had been confirmed with the attacks on a Muggle couple - by coincidence the girl's parents - only two days ago.

Now, with this latest development, concerns over further attacks in town have subsided, only to be replaced by questions about the girl´s welfare. Some psychologists suggest that the 7-year old should be returned to her Muggle family, who also had experience with werewolves in the past. Reports show that the father, Reverend Kevin Grisham, had been in an incident with a suicidal werewolf two years ago, a case that went past the Oblivators at the Ministry. These experts argue that since that incident never made widespread coverage, the child can be returned safely to the family without any publicity. Others counter that since the family has already had enough incidents with the magical world, they cannot be declared safe to keep their knowledge secret any longer. Compromisers suggest that selective Memory Charms would be placed on the entire family before relocating them outside of England. The exact decision is still up to the Registry of Magical Creatures. Meanwhile, the girl will be placed in a foster home for non-wizard, part-human creatures under the care of the state.

What is even more confusing than her situation is the reason why the Muggle survived. Officials state that her survival was the result of Incidental Magic - magic that predates all other current forms, including wands. This is the type of magic Muggle refer to as "miracles" and permeates their myths and religions. Incidental Magic is still a mysterious field yet to be thoroughly explored by wizards, but the basics of it are based on intense emotions. A wizard's emotions can direct their magical nature into influencing a desired incident to happen. It was through cases of ancient Incidental Magic, after all, that wizards first distinguished themselves from Muggles during the dawn of human civilization. Wizards - through foci such as wands, crystal balls - later controlled these abilities to their advantage. Yet even young wizard children today are known to conduct sporadic magic accidentally, causing explosions or even minor transfiguration.

The most reasonable theory for the girl's survival is that Incidental Magic occurred during the shooting, preventing injury. Why this assault occurred has to do with one of the greatest lycanthrope myths. The legend states that if one's love shoots a silver object through the werewolf's heart, the beast would be cured. There is no historical basis or accurate documentation by the Ministry of this method ever being conducted successfully. However, Lupin - already marked by criminal profilers as an unstable extremist - may have thought that he could cure her through practicing this folktale. Whether the girl was truly "cured" from her condition or was only saved through Lupin's will for her to live (i.e. his Incidental Magic) will not be known for sure until the next full moon.

The current whereabouts of Remus Lupin are unknown. A wolf already connected with other crimes - besides this incident, Jarohnen Ianikit used Lupin´s wand in the Islington murders - he is still considered highly dangerous. The Ministry will not rest until he is captured. Intense searches have begun throughout the Brighton coastal area, and officials urge any wizards who have any information to please send an owl to the RMC immediately....

There was a short section pertaining to Lupin's past, from his days as a student to quitting his teaching job at Hogwarts last year. No reason was listed on exactly why he left his job as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, even though it wouldn't be hard to surmise one. Claire read this portion three times over. The names stuck in her mind and so did the information, but the rest was a blank. This irritated her to no end. She had known these people once! That was why she had taken the Forget Potion, because it was dangerous knowledge to know about him and his pup.

More than before, she yearned to complete her memory. How could she have confidence in herself, if she couldn't have complete confidence in her mental state? She felt so stupid and ignorant, like a blind man trying to read print. The entire recollection of the past three months was scratched and torn apart. Some days she could recall completely yet others were as clear as mud.

The shallowest of her memories was one day in November. Thinking back, she could see herself in her office, arguing with Albert Lagrange about the Safehouse insurance coverage. The door opened and then- nothing. Blackness.

She focused with her mind, trying to see the person behind the door. However, no matter how hard she tried, not a sight or sound surfaced. All she was left was the itching feeling that whatever lay absent in her mind was the most vital thing she had ever known.

The spell doctor had said that those holes would eventually be filled by time, but Claire couldn't wait. The pieces she held close to her heart weren't enough. She knew their names now; that was an improvement. Yet the longing for her past was insatiable. To have forgotten them seemed like she forgotten a part of herself. Yes, he was a celebrity in a way, but he had to be more to her than the wizarding werewolf. Likewise, the child had to be worth more than the poor victim she saw in the paper.

She had so little memory of them, yet she had gone through so much for them. Why? This was the question that tortured her. Why had she done that? Risked her entire establishment for these two? Gone through humiliation and imprisonment for them? Suffered through that wretched interrogation-

Claire crushed the paper in her hands. She had gone through so much and for what? For these strangers! But they couldn't be strangers to her. That was the thought that frightened her out of her wits. She must have cared about them to do what she had done. And now whatever she cherished so much was gone, stolen away by her own hand. She had known them deeply and now, whatever she had had was lost...

Lost for now. Time will come and she would remember. Today she could wait. And she could wait tomorrow. And the day after that. For waiting was the only thing she had left.

She stared out towards the open balcony, then shivered. Moving her wheelchair towards it, she slowly closed one door, then the other. They cracked apart - must be faulty from age. Claire tried to reach up towards the small crossbar lock to fasten the doors together. Yet the lock escaped her hands. She would have to stand up in order to reach it. Her eyes stared helplessly at it, then-

Thud!

Claire stifled her cry of pain and drew her fist from the wood. The doors creaked shut, then drifted away again slightly. A lump welled up in her throat as she put her bruised fist to her lips. She bit her lip to subdue a sob. It wasn't the pain from her hand that she was feeling.

Minutes later, Bernard opened the door ajar, peeking timidly around the corner. He found his sister weeping softly to herself as the wind blew in from the open balcony. He stood there awkwardly. "As-tu froid?" he inquired.

Her head snapped up. "Va-t´en!!" Before he knew it, she had slammed the bedroom door in his face.

***

Sirius stared out into the darkness. The fire had died down to smouldering embers, giving off light equivalent to a single candle. With the lack of light also came a deficiency of heat. But Sirius hadn't woken up because of the freezing temperatures.

By the glowing logs, he saw the shuddering form of his friend. It was his shout that had woken him up moments before. The night before, he had heard someone cry out. He had been more tired then, and had gone back to sleep without a second thought. Tonight, however, he stayed awake. Sirius knew these nocturnal terrors had been going on much longer. Even back at school, Lupin had occasionally woken up from bad dreams. He had told Sirius of them once. Being in the swamp with a murderous wolf. Lycaos.

Yet what kind of nightmare was it now? Sirius's first instinct was to speak up, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew that Lupin wouldn't have wanted him to see him like this.

The shuffle of footsteps. Sirius watched Lupin rose to his feet, and walk with a tired step out towards to the front of the cave. Sirius got up and followed. The cave was quiet expect for the hippogriff's shallow breathing. However, Sirius could detect a ghost´s whisper in the night. He was murmuring under his breath.

Sirius strained his ears. Unfortunately, the voice died away, and he lost the words.

Lupin stepped outside, his boots crunching on the dry, January snow. Sirius paused just at the entrance to the cave, pressing his back against the rock wall. He kept his eyes on Lupin. The werewolf kneeled down and scooped up a handful of frozen slush and shoved it quickly into his mouth. There was the sound of mild gagging, then a hacking cough, and the shift of more snow. Teeth chewed on jagged pieces of ice stuck in the mix. In the ancient starlight, Sirius had the impression that the man crouching in front of him was a Neanderthal at the dawn of time, alone in the icy wilderness.

He chose this time to present himself. "Hey, you awake?" A redundant question, but it was the best he could think of without seeming intrusive.

Lupin whipped around, wiping his mouth. "I was only thirsty."

Eating snow couldn't be very refreshing. "Did you check the kettle by the fire?" The drinking water was usually kept there.

"I wanted something cold." Lupin got up, brushing off his clothes. "I was just about to go back inside. Perhaps we could stir the fire back up. Did you want something warm to drink?"

"No, no, I'm good." The two stood outside for a few moments, as Sirius tried to continue the conversation. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I have been having a bit of trouble lately."

Sirius nodded. "I used to have nightmares often," he said. "Especially when I first got out of Azkaban. But they went away after awhile, when I realized I was never frightened of them, only the memories they brought. Memories can be more terrible than fear." He waited for Lupin to comment on that, possibly even open up. He had been trying that constantly, giving out a piece of himself for something in return.

His friend shoved his hands in his pockets. "Memories... even happy ones, can indeed be terrible." He paused and Sirius´ hopes rose. Finally, was he getting a response?

"How can that be?"

"Happiness leaves a more painful haunting." Lupin walked past him, changing the subject. "Tomorrow we´ll be scouting for more firewood, correct? At least I could try that rabbit warren again for food."

"Yeah..." Sirius trailed off. His method had failed again.

"Do you feel like going to sleep any time soon?" Lupin continued, his voice growing stronger. "Because I actually think I have a way at catching one of those buggers by ourselves. If you want, we can go over it now." He was lapsing back into that pseudo-confident mood, that resourceful logic that he built up whenever Sirius came close to reaching him: advice on how to build a faster fire, ways to mend torn clothing with rabbit gut and bone needles. All sorts of Cub Scout survival crap would come tumbling out of his mouth instead of anything personal. He was living with a man who was determined to lock himself into professor mode twenty-four hours a day.

"Maybe when it's actually daylight," Sirius replied numbly.

"True. We're both only half-awake. Judging by the stars, it's only a little after midnight." Lupin vanished into the depths of the cave.

Sirius stood outside, feeling the frigid air creep into his skin. Somehow, he didn't feel surprised at Lupin's swift emotional manoeuvring, only disappointed. Lupin could trust him with his life, but never anything else.

Lupin called out, "You're going to catch a chill." He sounded like a damn parent.

"Fine," Sirius snapped, storming back inside. He gave Lupin a frosty glance before retreating back to his sleeping spot. " 'Night, Remus."

If Lupin was ever hurt by his tone, he didn't show it. "Yes," he acknowledged. That didn't even make sense. Yes to a good night? Sirius didn't feel like pointing that out. He buried his head under his arms and grew silent. Now it was his turn to pretend to sleep.

The next morning he rose early. Lupin was up as well. Sirius kept giving him small, questioning glances, trying to pry him open. Trying to figure out what lurked beneath that calm exterior. He observed distant eyes and lapsed speech, and slow, slow movements, riddled with periods of contemplation. He saw a shaking hand and a brief fumble while lugging in the wood. It seemed as if they were individually suspended in midair, dangling alone and helpless. And then the suspension snapped and they were plummeting, diving, tumbling towards a dreaded darkness yet not touching - yes - just - not - quite - touching - bottom-

"Remus?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever thought...?"

"What?"

"Is anything... troubling you at all?"

Extending fingertips, reaching - out - farther - a little farther-

"Nothing in particular."

A brush. Missed. Empty air.

"Well... maybe you should relax a bit. That tossing and turning in the night... well, it bothers me, you know?"

A nod. "I'll keep that in mind."

The descent continued.

Chapter 3

"Jacques, I... I am pregnant with your child!" She turned away from the fireside, her expression screaming feminine distress.

The man stared at her, a look of anxiety dawning on his face. "Dear God, how can this be, Dominique? It was only one night of passionate love-making?"

"Oh, I do not know, my dear." She dashed up to him and clasped his hands within hers. "But what are we to tell my husband?" she asked worriedly, her lower lip trembling.

Jacques replied immediately, "Louis must never know!"

"Oh, but Jacques!" She threw her arms around him, giving a melodramatic sob.

He pressed her head against her chest. "Dominique!"

Click.

"Next, whisk in two large eggs, like so. Then pour two and a half cups of buttermilk into the mixture-"

Click.

Buzzz.... Static.

Click.

The weatherman pointed to the computer-generated map of Southern France. "Today, is another pleasant one for the Riviera area, with temperatures unusually mild as the southern winds stir up-"

Shutting off the television set, Claire tossed the remote control onto the sofa and sighed. A little under three weeks into her new life, and boredom had finally sunken in. She wasn't even sure if she could call it boredom. It was more of a realization that everything she had tried to build up for the past decade had crumbled right in front of her eyes, leading to a rapidly clearing schedule. Yes, that summed up her situation quite nicely.

Romania was the first to cave in. The day after her files had arrived, she had received an owl from the owner of the Safehouse in Arad. The Romanian Ministry of Magic had suspended his housing license. The government had gotten whiff of the troubles in England, and because it possessed one of the highest werewolf populations in the world, it had panicked and dropped the program. Stupid, in Claire's opinion, but she could not prevent that. She threw herself at the situation, trying to calm their officials down, but even three-hour long conference mirror calls couldn´t do anything. They obviously were not going to listen to the wolf that had housed a British Muggle-napper and a Russian mass murderer.

Then came Poland, Lithuania, and Greece, closely followed by Estonia. By the end of the week, her entire Eastern Europe sector was shut down, with the owners and tenants cast into the streets. Claire had tried to redirect the outcasts to the remaining Safehouse locations, but borders tightened, and countries who once didn't care whether their wolves emigrated or not suddenly began opening their own werewolf facilities to aid the homeless. Claire herself couldn't travel to see these "relocation centres," but more than one international correspondent informed her that wolves are hiding out in the mountains or the countryside rather than trusting the wizards. Chaos ensued in Yugoslavia, where a group of wolves armed with Muggle sub-machine guns refused to be evicted from their Novi Sad Safehouse and had to be subdued through Stun Spells. That only added to the anti-lycanthrope tinderbox that existed in the area. She was infuriated, not only because of the pack's ill-thought actions, but specifically because she wanted to know how those wolves had got those sub-machine guns.

Western Europe hadn't done well either. Her little brother Caleb had given up in Vienna and cousin Eunice had had to turn over her authority to the French Ministry of Magic in order to continue her Safehouse. Germany was considering dropping their program too, and the Weiblich clan was sending her inquiries about the situation.

Claire had been working non-stop in her room upstairs for several days in a row, trying to settle all loose ends. At first, she had told the owners to fight against the government takeovers, but eventually, she coaxed them to let go. They simply didn't have the money to buy the lawyers needed to argue them out of this quagmire. Plus, when Caleb reported that someone had sent a death threat to his wife in the mail, Claire ordered him to let go and take his family out of the country immediately. She didn´t want to see any blood spilt, especially her clan's.

And that had occurred in less than two weeks, rushing by like a manic whirlwind. The influx of owl mail had slowed down slightly since then, but she had still spent eight straight hours that day wading through piles of letters from various wolf families and owners, asking for aid. She had sent them promises of money, but nothing more than that. What else could she do?

Help was non-existent. Bernard had inquired politely about the unusual number of owls stopping by the house, but nothing more. This was her program, and he was taking great lengths not to get in her way. On the positive side, he had given her his Gringgotts account number and a carte blanche with the clan's treasury. Monetary aid would be provided to all to needed it at least.

Yet late that afternoon, sitting in her wheelchair in the living room, she had realized that after all the commotion died down - if it ever did - she would have almost nothing left. Her purpose in life would be demolished. It was a depressing thought to say the least. Depressing enough that she had tried to drown it out unsuccessfully through Muggle television.

A short, woman of indistinguishable age trotted into the room, carrying a feather duster. She was Fifi Dubois, Bernard's housekeeper. Humming softly to herself, she began dusting the various coffee tables, statuettes, and furniture throughout the room.

Ring!

Fifi gave a little jump, turned her head, and moved those tiny feet in the direction of the phone stand. Claire, who was right next to it, grabbed the receiver and covered the bottom with her hand. "I got it."

The housekeeper blinked, that gentle smile stamped on her face. "Oui, Madame." She went back to her work, trailing the duster across the fireplace mantel.

"Âllo?"

"Salut, Claire. C´est Bernard. Ça va?"

"Ah...." she said, her voice turning flat. "Euh, ça va bien."

"I just called to see how you are doing," Bernard informed. "Did you eat anything yet?"

"Yes, I ate."

"Did Fifi cook up something for you? You know, all you have to do is ask."

"Je sais." Claire watched the woman pick up each little knick-knack from the mantel, brush it over quickly, and put it back down again.

"C'est bien," her brother approved. "How is Pascal?"

"He's fine." Claire tried to contain her annoyance. Why did he have to always check up on her like this? Pampering her at home was bad enough; why did he deem it necessary to use daily calls as well? Who did he think she was, a pup?

"You know I'll be working late tonight. I'll be home around eight. Will you be all right?"

"I'm sure I'll manage."

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask for help."

"Oui." She couldn't believe that she was being reduced to this. "D´accord?"

Bernard sounded satisfied with this proposition. "Be careful."

Of what? Of being bombarded with owl mail? Of getting a sore throat from futilely advocating peaceful solutions to foreign diplomats who all had big sticks up their arses? Or of losing all sense of reason if Bernard ever bothered to call home again?

"I will." She hung up.

Finally. Mon Dieu! As well-meaning as he was, her brother was beginning to irritate her. At home, wasn't he already in her face enough? Sure, he wouldn't give advice on how to control the rioting homeless in Poland, but he was more than willing to buzz about behind her back in case she needed anything. She couldn't even go down the hall near his room without him popping his head out to see if she wanted his aid. "Can I help you with this, Claire?" "Are you sure you can handle that? Here, I'll take these files for you." "I should replace these bookshelves for you, Claire, since you can't reach them." On and on and on...

Fifi picked up the remote control from the sofa, dusted it, and placed it back neatly on top of the entertainment centre. She went about this ritual every other day, as if dust could accumulate to dangerous levels fairly quickly. Maybe Bernard had mentioned the condition of the guestroom when she had returned. As far as Claire knew, Fifi could only take orders. "Oui, Madame," "Non, Madame," "D´accord, Madame," "À votre service, Madame," and "Hmmm?" were the only phrases Fifi had ever spoken to her. Having a conversation with Fifi Dubois was like playing Twenty Questions.

A screech echoed from upstairs.

Claire groaned inwardly. Pascal, the second bother (which is, perhaps, only "brother" without the "r"). That owl was a hooting bottomless pit. Bernard told her to feed him only once in the afternoon while he was at work, (Fifi didn't like to handle mice), but Pascal would start squawking around five and wouldn't stop without at least two more mice. Bernard never believed her when she told him this, but that was only because Pascal never pulled that trick when his owner was home. He was quite crafty for a bird whose brain was the size of a walnut.

Fifi raised her head at the cry. "Oh?" A look of apprehension crossed her face, her soft smile becoming strained.

"I'll feed him," Claire said.

"Oui, Madame." She relaxed and went on with her dusting.

Another screech.

"Coming!" she muttered, ascending the steps to the second floor. She held onto the railing with both hands as the wheels climbed their way up; a steep staircase made it difficult to keep her balance. Arriving at the top, she entered Bernard's room where Pascal was kept to find a man peering into his cage.

"Toby?"

The teenager turned around and grinned at her. "Hi, Claire," he greeted. Pascal was flapping wildly in his cage, trying to get away from the Freedom Hound who stood next to him. Toby pointed a finger at the owl. "That's one fat bird you got there."

" 'E blackmails me," she replied in English, giving a mock grimace. "If I don't feed 'im five times a day, 'e destroys my 'earing." She shut the door behind her and locked it. "Speak softly. I 'ave a 'ousekeeper downstairs."

"Sure." He lowered his voice. "Can I feed him?" Toby poked his fingers through the bars. Pascal quailed in terror, siding away from the intruder.

"Not very friendly, is he?"

"I 'ave no idea why 'e is acting like zis," Claire took a dead mouse from the jar and raised her hand up to the cage. Pascal eyed her offering warily before darting out with his talon, grabbing it, then retreating back to the farthest end of his cage. " 'Ow did you get ´ere?"

"We've been staking out the place for the past couple days. I came in through your balcony." Toby analyzed her appearance, his arms folded. She lowered her eyes away from his stare. "Government bastards," he muttered.

She knew he was referring to her condition. "Forget it," she said softly. "I did zis myself."

Toby appeared not to believe her, but he let it slide. "So," he drawled, straddling a chair by the bed stand, "what's the situation with you?"

"Awful," Claire said. "I always knew zat ze governments might discard ze program because of what 'as 'appened, but I never guessed zat all of zis commotion would burst out."

"Tell me about it." Toby pointed out the window. "Dominic and I were out there and we got pelted with some owl shit as they make their rounds. We carry umbrellas with us now." He gave a crooked grin. "It's as if those wizards want their messengers to crap on us."

"Why are you watching zis place?" Claire questioned, arching an eyebrow. "You suddenly don't trust me?"

"Frankly, Ulysses just doesn't like your brother." Toby shrugged. "We would have contacted you sooner, but we weren't sure what would happen if he showed up."

"Well, Bernard won't get back from ze Centre until seven. 'E usually works late."

"What does he do anyway?" Toby's eyes travelled around the room, which was chic-modern in style: smooth furniture coated with rich black Italian lacquer. His eye caught a picture that was tucked into a corner of the black-trimmed dresser mirror. It was a copy of the one Claire had kept at the London Safehouse, with the two of them together. "Is he a scientist of some sort?"

"Genealogist," she verified. " ´E organizes pedigrees, records family 'istories. Dabbles in genome research. Gives lectures now and zen. Travels often. Writes books." She pointed to the far wall, where an extensive tapestry-like hanging was displayed. The cloth was three metres by four and covered with variously colored squares, circles, and lines all organized like branches of a tree. "Zat´s ours. Over seven 'undred years old."

He gave a low whistle and walked up to the pedigree, examining the tiny gold-coloured lettering printed underneath each relation. "Sounds boring."

"To each 'is own." Claire looked at him seriously. "Now why are you really 'ere?"

Toby turned around and cleared his throat, taking out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "He's still aware," he said, handing it to her.

She took the paper and read the first few lines. As I sit in this wretched prison, I ponder a question that I have analysed for many years: where is the rightful place of the non-wizard in magical society?

Her eyes widened. These were Jarohnen's words. She read the title aloud. "The Werewolf Manifesto..."

"It's very innovative," Toby said proudly. "The Balkan wolves have especially taken a shine to it."

" 'Ow did you get zis?" she demanded.

"Ulysses found a way to contact him." He folded his arms across the chair's back. "Jarohnen fooled the Committee, you know. Got life at the Kennel instead of the death penalty."

"I'm not so sure if it can be called fooling..." Claire remembered what she had heard during her stay at the RMC. She had shared a dungeon with him, and even though all she could hear was his voice, she knew something had changed. He had just sounded so... fevered and quick. Like he was himself yet wasn't. Claire couldn't think of the words to express this transformation - maybe it was all in her mind - but it frightened her to wonder what he had become....

"Jarohnen's not right, Toby," she said lowly.

"Obviously he's not right. He's stuck on that Dementor-infested island."

"No. I mean..." Claire grasped for the right words. "I spoke with 'im at ze Registry. 'E was... different..."

"What do you mean?" Toby eyed her strangely.

She tucked the paper next to her and gestured with her hands. "It's as if... as if..." she fumbled, unable to explain.

"You mean like the wizards did something to him?"

"No, like Jarohnen did something to 'imself. Like zair was something hidden inside 'im for so long and now it finally manifested itself. Something abnormal, like a cancer or- or a tumour."

"I don't get it." His expression turned darker. "How could you say that about your friend and comrade?"

"I'm not!" Claire gave a frustrated sigh. "I am only saying what I 'eard."

"Well, maybe you heard wrong." Toby got up from his seat. "We need your help, Claire."

She didn't like where this was going. "Wiz what?"

"We want to break him out."

The response was almost automatic. "But 'e killed five people!"

"It wasn't his fault," he rebuked. "The wizards hurt him first."

"Zat does not give a wolf ze right to sink to zair level. I always zought Jarohnen knew zat."

Toby was taken back. "I can't believe I'm hearing this from you."

"Well, why me? 'E 'ad many friends, probably some zat I don't even know."

"Because you knew Remus Lupin."

Her heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean I knew Remus Lupin?"

"We all presumed... He and that pup of his stayed with you for a-while, and maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe he taught you something."

"Lupin teach me magic?" Claire didn't know whether to laugh or not. After all, she only knew fragments of her time with him...

"Do you think he did?"

Was that the reason why he had come? Because of magic? Claire felt an irritated spark within her. She had fretted for so long about their welfare and they had only returned to ask for a favour? Had they even worried for her?

"Why should it matter to you if 'e did?" she snapped bitterly.

Well, if she could remember anything, and if Remus had taught her anything, why should she tell? Claire had sacrificed so much for this wolf, and she wasn't going to betray him by telling them any knowledge he might have given her.

She let off some steam that had been building up all day. "Do you think I was 'is little apprentice? Zat 'e gave me a wand and a cauldron and taught me potions? Zat we spent days working on transfiguration and charms?" Claire gave a dismissive huff. "I do not know anything," she ended truthfully.

Toby pressed his lips together. "You seem to be forgetting exactly who your friends are," he replied harshly. He started to pace the room. "We´ve been with you through everything. Hell, when I was a pup all I would ever hear is all the legendary stuff you, Ulysses, and Jarohnen did together."

"Zat was a long time ago."

He threw his hands up. "Remember the protest rallies in Paris?"

"Which were broken up wizin ze first 'our."

"Or smuggling refugees out of England?"

"My fazzer almost 'ad a fit when 'e found out I was spending money on zose motorboats. Sold zem before 'e ever found out what zey were for."

"What about that time you three went to Transylvania to help those wolves get their own reservation set up?"

She gave that one its due credit. "Ze wolves did get zair reservation." Toby nodded enthusiastically. "But zen ze government pulled an America on us," she added with a tight-lipped smile.

A harsh laugh came out. The adventures she had had back then! When she was young and her family was lax and stupid, concerned with their own affairs in the Muggle world. She was the Alpha male's daughter in a patrimonial clan - no one had cared what the little female did. Bernard, even little Caleb, had received the bulk of the attention. So long as her name didn't hit the papers, she could run with whomever she liked. But not forever. Yet she couldn't explain public image to a Freedom Hound, could she?

"Times change." She cast her eyes down and sighed. "People change."

"So suddenly you're not with us anymore? Comrades stick up for one another."

"Did Ulysses send you all ze way to France just to lecture me?" was all she could say. "I'm surprised 'e didn't come to tell me zis 'imself."

She heard Toby sigh. He placed a hand on the back of her chair. She raised her eyes to meet his. "Maybe you need some time," he said softly. "You're a great person, Claire. You know we wouldn't turn to anyone else for this."

"I'll think about it," she replied quickly.

"All of us have been mistreated by the wizards," he added. "No one deserves to stay in their self-made hell." Quite abruptly, he put a hand to his ear. "What is it, Dom?" He paused. "He's coming? Okay, I'm leaving." Toby kneeled down, and gripped her shoulders slightly. "I have to go. Take care, okay?"

Claire nodded. Then Toby was up and gone from the room. She wheeled herself out to her balcony in time to glimpse his form jump down from the top of the brick wall into the street.

Moments later, the wrought-iron gate opened and Bernard's car pulled into the drive. He stepped out and waved up to her. "Belle soirée, n´est-ce pas?" he called, acknowledging the pleasant weather. He took his briefcase out of the passenger seat. "Un garçon faisait un tour pars ici. Je ne l´ai jamais avant vu. Le connais-tu?"

"Non," she replied. "Probablement seulement un touriste." Let Bernard think Toby was just a tourist. She gave a tight-lipped smile. Her brother had no idea what she was getting into. Neither did she.

Chapter 4

In the open countryside at a large farmhouse near Hogsmeade, a black dog sniffed about an overturned trashcan. Digging his muzzle among the refuse, he ignored the dinner scraps and soup bones that most strays would go for. Instead, he spotted a ripped newspaper and took that into his mouth.

"Hey, doggie! Here doooooogggiiieeee-!"

He dropped the paper and looked up, cocking his head to one side. A small hand stuck out from between the boards of a picket fence. The pink stubby fingers wiggled at him, then disappeared.

"Doggie, come here!"

Trying not to seem too curious, the black dog put his nose at the base of the picket nearest to the trashcan. He sniffed the wood as if he found something interesting about it - the scent of another dog, perhaps, or a bit of garbage he had missed. Slowly, inch-by-inch, the dog dragged his nose to where that little hand was. He lifted up his shaggy head, trailing his nose along the wood.

A giggle was heard behind the fence. A second voice, that of a small girl, commented, "That dog snuffles a lot." From between the whitewashed boards, a little violet eye glistened, fringed with thick, dark lashes. "Look at him!" she squealed delightfully.

The dog backed up a few steps upon the sight of the eye. He gave a gruff rumble from the back of his throat, then turned around, disinterested.

"I know what you want." It was the first voice again, the one that had called him over. The hand reappeared just a few pickets away, this time with an object in its grasp. "Betcha want this," the boy said. "Wanna cookie, doggie?"

Cookie? Now this seemed like a suitable offering. The dog loped up to the child's hand and gently took the treat into its jaws.

More giggles were heard, along with exclamations. "Look, Andrea, he took it! He took it!"

He munched on it loudly. Not bad. The black dog swallowed and licked at the fallen crumbs. God bless baked goods.

"Now gimme a cookie," the girl demanded. "I wanna feed the doggie!"

"No, they're my cookies!"

"No fair!"

"Yes fair!" The crinkle of a bag being ripped out of someone's hold.

An angry retort. "Give it back!"

"Nnyh!" The girl must be sticking her tongue out. Then-

"Hey... let... go!" she cried.

"Yeah... right!"

Sounds of struggle and kicking came from the other side. The black dog perked his ears up. Maybe taking the cookie hadn't been the best option after all.

Suddenly, a stern, matronly voice talking in an obscenely thick Scottish accent boomed, silencing the scuffle. "Break et oop! Break et oop! Wha' are ye liddin 'uns doin´ oot here?"

"He was sneaking cookies out to the doggie behind the fence!" the girl accused sharply.

"Wha' dog?"

The black dog conveniently took this time to grab the ragged issue of the Daily Prophet and hightail it out of there. The woman behind it narrowed her eyes at the retreating figure. "Ye know bitter than tae foo' arund wi' straas!" she said, wagging a finger at the two children. "Nou go bac inside!"

***

The same large black dog climbed up the steep rocky mountain slope. From the cave opening, Lupin squinted down at him. Sirius had managed to get only one issue this time. He had started stealing old issues from Hogsmeade whenever he could the past few days in order to wean them for information. Only the most relevant articles relating to the Ministry or the Triwizard Tournament were saved; the rest fuelled the fire.

When the dog made his way back to the cave, Lupin asked, "Find anything interesting?"

In a blink of an eye the animal transformed back into his familiar friend. He let the newspaper drop and spat the inky taste out of his mouth. "I got a cookie," Sirius replied. "Oatmeal raisin."

Lupin couldn't help but give a small smile, then turned back to his lookout duty. He was supposed to keep watch for any trespassing wizards, but the probability of anyone showing up wasn't very high. There was nothing much to do here. The Second Task wasn't until February 24; Sirius had over a month to investigate Harry's situation. Lupin contributed on the sidelines, mostly as the spectator and occasional soundboard.

The full moon had come only a couple weeks before. Thankfully, he had spent it in a safe manner, romping down the rocky trails and along the snowy crags. He didn't have to worry about attacking any Muggles, or escaping the Ministry... After that night, he wondered how the other werewolves he knew spent their full moon. His thoughts turned particularly to one former wolf.

Mary, his pup.... Was she back with her family? In his little world, she was happy with her parents far away from England. But, of course, that was only his greatest hope. Yet did Kevin, her father, know about him? In retrospect, he had the suspicion all along that Kevin was more than he appeared to be. And when that article in the Brighton Argus had come out, Lupin had presumed that he knew everything about him. Yet was he putting too much to chance? Had he put too much to chance by putting the silver bullet to her?

No. Mary had to be alive. She had to be, because that was how the cure was supposed to work. If a werewolf was shot through the heart with a silver object by a true love... He did love her. She was only a child, a young, innocent child. She was ignorant of her world, yet she seemed to know things he did not. And he was drawn to that. The wolf to the lamb.

He couldn't even begin to sort out the thoughts explaining this endearment. The closest explanation was a memory. One night at the Safehouse Lupin had been jolted awake when she had crawled under his covers and tucked her little head against his side. The feel of someone so close to him was immediately startling; he almost pushed her off onto the floor. But before he could take action she had whispered in a trembling voice, "Remmy, can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

And in the dark, when all he could sense was the child's fragile vulnerability, he had replied, "Yes, you may."

He had never asked why. Perhaps she had had a nightmare. Or perhaps she had missed her parents and needed comforting. Whatever it was, to hold her while she was nestled against him... to hear her breathe in and out... to feel her head pressed against his chest and wonder if she could hear his heartbeat... to know that it was him that she needed and no one else... that was one of the most cherished moments in his life. Lupin had stayed awake long after she had fallen back asleep, on guard, protecting her from her imaginary demons. And he had stayed up many, many nights long after that experience, trying to relive that moment.

No words could express beloved parenthood. Only memories.

So there was no denying that... that he did care for her. That belief should even have overcome the fact that he was her maker. If a wolf should ever harm his pup, that same injury would be inflicted upon him. He had given her a fatal wound and so he should have died. However, he had not died because that wound had not been fatal to her. And if she had not die, then she must have been cured.

That had been his reasoning all along. But why did he doubt himself?

He wondered if he had done the right thing. Mary could have stayed with him. Most likely the attack was only a fluke, not fate. After the full moon, the three of them could have escaped into the suburbs, then made their way up north together. She could still be here, with him....

Lupin killed that vein of thought before it could sink any deeper. But thought can be a merciless torturer, reappearing in many forms. Memory came with it and together they presented another friend, the one with dove grey eyes.

Claire. God, he wasn't sure what he felt about her. He respected the Frenchwoman, and certainly admired her intelligence and strong will. And... well, Lupin could admit now that he was perhaps a little attracted to her... She wasn't beautiful, but... interesting... in little ways. When her head was lowered at her desk, with her reading glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose while she talked to him about the origins of common law... The way she would push them back up, brush the hair out her eyes and continue - that was interesting. The way she would move about the kitchen and complain under her breath about how she hated to cook, but would do it herself rather than hire outside help - that was interesting. And the way her steady authoritarian self could suddenly change into an artist who could paint murals that seemed to jump off the walls... or into a blushing young lady who teased him about his poor dancing skills...

Perhaps she was more than interesting. Perhaps she had even been enchanting.

He couldn't decide exactly. His emotions became all muddled and confused when it came to her. A woman is so much more complex than a girl.

Yet why did he waste so much time thinking of them? They were gone; he pushed them away. It was his choice to leave one, then the other. He didn't deserve to have them in his life. Not when the only reason they had stepped into it was because he had gotten drunk one full moon.

What meaning could be taken from any of this? At first, he had thought he being given another chance at living a feeling, caring life, yet he couldn't do so while in the shadow of the law. So he had never had another chance, only a fleeting glimpse of one. That's all he ever had - glimpses. Little points of light, like stars in the night sky. Flashes of normalcy in one world, then another. And Lupin could only travel from one halo of light to the next, never settling anywhere because he couldn't. First, it had been because of his werewolf nature, but after this escapade he couldn't even reside in the werewolf community. For the werewolf universe collided with the wizard one, and he was caught between them...

Caught between stars. Lost in the night.

The thought unsettled him. Lupin glanced over his shoulder at his friend, who was leafing through the Daily Prophet. Sirius could live with a price over his head because he knew he was innocent. However, Lupin did not have that luxury.

For a moment, he envied him. Sirius had a purpose. He had Harry. Lupin felt as if he had finished his duty by covering for Sirius at the First Task. Imposing any more made him feel like a third leg. Undoubtedly, Sirius took his job as godfather very personally. He, of course, was made for the job. Who would place a child under a werewolf's care? James certainly had not. Anyhow, Sirius had the advantage with his Animagus abilities. Lupin could only stay up here with Buckbeak, alone with his thoughts.

He quickly turned back to the desolate landscape, his hopes tumbling. He felt as if he had nothing. Only to be a fugitive, to be branded as a criminal... To live in a society that would never trust him or forgive him for his actions, no matter how hard he tried to redeem himself... That was his life: then and now and forever.

That was the price of tasting human blood.

Yet one solution presented itself. It had slithered into his mind one day through the tunnels of madness, crawling in from unknown depths. Then plomp! the thought took root into a crevice of his mind, staying there indefinitely. This thought disturbed him initially, but as he grew comfortable with whatever madness dropped into his lap- it had given him worse - the more this solution appealed to him. Listen to me... this tiny thought hissed out from the nuances of his brain. Listen.

You can do nothing by staying here in this cave. Go out. Find out what happened to the others. You can't stay in hiding forever. Sirius can care for himself, and Harry is safe at Hogwarts. You have no use here. You have to make sure you've amended your ways, Remus.

The thought smiled. You promised you would amend your ways. Remember?

On and on this thought had gone, for days and weeks, hour after hour. It was this thought and its elusive companion Memory that controlled his mind. Thought took over during the day and Memory came during the night, with little switch-offs in between. It was them that made him so introverted, that made him stay up nights and loaf away the days. Memory and the thought, working together, coaxing him, persuading him, reasoning with him...

Are you listening, Remus?

He blinked a couple times, wrestling his mind out of their grasp. Thought was asking if he would take his hand. Lupin wasn´t sure, still wasn´t sure... But the thought seemed so logical, so sure and so right.

He rose from his seat, stretched indulgently, then stepped outside for a breath of air. Buckbeak, who was tethered to a rock close by, called after him.

Spotting him move, Sirius glanced up from his paper and commented, "So you aren't on embalming fluid."

Lupin decided to start off subtly. "How goes the news?"

"Curiously." Sirius shuffled through the papers. "Remember Bertha Jorkins?"

Lupin thought for a moment and a schoolboy memory resurfaced. The image of a short, brown-haired girl who was a bit on the chubby side came to mind. "She was a few years ahead of us, correct?" Another recollection. His forehead furrowed. "Wasn't she the one who started the rumour that you and I were-?"

Sirius's left eyebrow arched. "The very same," he agreed. He cleared his throat hastily, then continued, "Apparently, she went on vacation in Albania, where Voldemort was last seen. The Ministry´s going nuts in finding her, but it´s as if she disappeared off the planet. Rumours are circulating that the Minister himself might become involved soon."

"So, you think she succumbed to Voldemort?"

"Long ago." Sirius held up an article declaring the Ministry´s continuing search for the missing woman. "I told Harry to look out for anything about her last time I saw him. Not many issues I find are still readable."

"Anything else?"

"I've been rooting about for some more information about Karkaroff." He gave a little scowl. "I truly think that he might have had some connection with putting Harry´s name in the Goblet."

This was a conviction that Sirius had been sticking to for quite awhile. They had talked of the possibility of the Durmstrang headmaster being the saboteur at Hogwarts. Certainly the man had the credentials: a former Death Eater who tattled on other Death Eaters in order to escape the horrors of Azkaban. Sirius claimed that he had to be a very manipulative person in order to cheat out his comrades, and wouldn't have a second thought about running back to Voldemort's side once the Dark Lord grew strong enough. Lupin, personally, thought that in Sirius's mind, Karkaroff's actions were parallel to Peter Pettigrew's: both were men who worked only for their self-interest and nothing else. Little wonder then, that Sirius would have some distaste toward him. Frankly, Lupin couldn't agree more.

However, Lupin had once mentioned to Sirius about spying on Mad-Eyed Moody in his office during the Triwizard Tournament. The topic of the Polyjuice Potion had come up. Lupin had sworn that he had seen the former Auror in the midst of making the shape-shifting brew and that someone else could be posing as him. Sirius had appeared very interested when Lupin had initially revealed this discovery, but that intriguing find soon came to a dead end. Sirius had first questioned him resolutely about whether he was absolutely sure of what he had seen. Lupin had tried not to exaggerate, but really, as sharp as he could make his memory, he also knew that he wasn't in his own body when he witnessed it. Lupin had taken the Polyjuice Potion himself in order to attend the wizard event safely, posing in werewolf Jarohnen Ianikit´s form. He couldn´t deny that Jarohnen´s body was stronger and more agile than it looked, but the wolf had been through much. His eyesight could be questionable. Could Lupin have mistaken some of the ingredients for the ones used in the Polyjuice Potion? After all, he had led himself a bit, especially when he had first marked Mad-Eyed Moody with the Polyjuice scent. How did he know that he hadn´t been confused with his own potion? After all, overcooked cabbage was what most wizard-influenced spells should smell like; potions made with a werewolf´s hairs were a different matter.

Lupin´s confidence in his theory was knocked down another few notches when Sirius had noted that those same ingredients could be used in a more-common, less-complicated potion used to relieve arthritis. Sirius remembered that potion's notorious stench polluting his childhood home, since his mother had used it to subdue her acute knee pains. Possibly Mad-Eyed Moody could have been refilling his flask with that concoction instead of Polyjuice. This presumption actually fit in with the wizard's paranoid tendencies; Moody would rather make the potion himself than trust anyone else to do it for him.

So with Sirius's suspicions on Karkaroff rising, Lupin´s information was placed on the back burner, if not thrown out altogether. Yet, Lupin felt reassured that Sirius was going on the right track and making much progress without him.

"No other leads?"

"None yet."

Lupin said pointedly, "I suppose you wouldn't need my help at all?"

Sirius glanced up. "What do you mean by that?"

"Harry seems to care for himself very well. This hideout will never be detected by anyone from the outside. Your Animagus abilities will prevent anyone from detecting you and if this place is discovered, Buckbeak can take you anywhere safely. Perhaps it is time that I left."

"Left?" Sirius repeated blankly.

"I've been thinking about her."

Now this got his attention. Lupin had never mentioned the child directly until now.

"And?"

"She... was a mistake." The words hurt coming out. He waited for Sirius's reaction.

"You mean, what you... what you did, you consider it a mistake?"

"The fact she was ever my pup was wrong."

Sirius couldn't find a proper response for that. Lupin couldn't blame him. Even Buckbeak stopped fidgeting with his rope. The cave was silent until Lupin broke it with a declaration. "I want to find her."

"What do you mean?"

"I need to see if I corrected what I did."

"Well..." Sirius put the flimsy newsprint down on the damp floor and furrowed his brow. "Why can´t you stay here?"

"Because I´m of no use, Sirius. What do I do, really? I can´t investigate with you or visit Hogwarts to check up on Harry. We have enough firewood here to last you until the spring and the mountain game isn´t enough to sustain two men and a hippogriff for a long time. And it´s- it´s becoming very difficult for me to stay any longer." He paused. "It´s imperative that I go."

Sirius´s reaction was simple. "I won´t let you."

"What?"

"No, Remus," he repeated slowly, as if talking to a child, "I won´t let you leave here."

"And why is that?" Lupin asked, using amusement to cloud over any agitation.

"Obviously, we have a man here who´s really been living in a cave for the last few weeks," Sirius replied bitingly. "There´s only about a few dozen Hit Wizards sent after you."

"Complete exaggeration. We haven´t found any articles dealing with the.... circumstances of last year," he said, toning down the last part. "You can´t expect me to lie low while my pup could very possibly be in danger."

Sirius made a sarcastic snort. "Oh really? Well, try and start thinking about yourself for once. You are staying here."

"I was never asking permission in the first place. I was only stating my intentions."

"Then I´m glad that you´ve done so, Rem. Now I can keep a better eye on you."

"Keep a better-" Lupin was completely taken back. "Am I your prisoner?"

"No," Sirius snapped. "You´re my friend. And friends don´t let friends do incredibly insane things."

"Don´t you trust me to take care of myself?"

"I don´t."

His bluntness put a wedge into the argument. Lupin stared at him. "And why is that?"

"If you haven´t figured it out yet, the last time I trusted you I found a corpse."

Reaction. Pure reaction. He sprang forward and the next thing any of them knew, Sirius was bowled down under him, with Lupin´s hands grabbing the front of his robe. "Don´t. Say. That," he growled softly. "Never. Say. That."

Sirius´s eyes were inexpressible. With a hefty shove one would not expect from a man in his condition, he threw Lupin off. The werewolf hit the cave dirt. "What the hell, Remus?" he shouted. "Your pup´s dead! She´s dead and we both know it and I´m not letting you get killed for her!"

Inner instinct. The human guise that masked the beast within was thrown off. And rage. Fiery rage. An emotion he so rarely experienced because he could never control it. He spoke ever so quietly, almost inaudibly. "So that's what you think?"

"Yes." Sirius stood up, challenge in his eyes. Waiting.

"You think I killed her?"

Damning answer. "Yes." A pause. "No."

Was the latter said in guilt, disbelief, or loyalty?

They were posed at opposite ends of the cave. Sirius, standing, with his back facing the door, fists partly-clenched. Lupin, kneeling, almost crouching on the ground, head raised, eyes narrowed, breath slow. Buckbeak, reined in the middle, coolly observing through heavy-lidded orange eyes. His animal nature understood what these two men did not realize. This was a confrontation. Man versus beast. Dog versus wolf.

"Give me time." Domestic reasoning. "I can scrounge around for earlier issues. We can find out about her eventually. I could even contact Harry if you want. Maybe he's heard something."

No. Harry couldn´t be involved. This was Lupin´s business and his business only. James´s son was already preoccupied with more important matters; he couldn´t burden the boy any more.

"Harry has no right to know of this. He has the Triwizard Tournament to focus on. Both of you can focus on that." A swift hand brushed the hair out of his eyes. "This is my concern that I wish to deal with my own way. Alone."

Fear. He could see the fear in his friend´s eyes. Not of him, but for him. And that made the simmering anger bubble. Did Sirius think he could not handle his own issues? His voice could cut through steel. "Can´t you understand?"

"Well, let me see," Sirius replied rather loudly. Lupin stiffened and sat back. Alertness. Weariness. Uncertainly.

His friend contemplated for a short while before starting. "First, I... I understand that you went to the First Task to watch over Harry," he began roughly. "I know that you risked your pup´s safety in order to do so, and that you could have lived happily ever after somewhere if it wasn´t for me."

He was taking this the wrong way, wasn´t he? Lupin got to his feet. "Sirius-"

But Sirius raised a hand to silence him and continued. "Yet... I understand that you wake up nights and can´t get back to sleep. And that you sit in this cave for hours, unable to do anything. And... that you think about places and people that you have never told me about." His pace had slowed down considerably now.

What did he mean by that?

"I never lied to you, Sirius."

"I didn´t say that, Remus. How can you lie to a person, when you don´t really speak to them?" He swallowed hard; it was getting more and more difficult for him to talk.

Lupin´s own mouth was going dry. Indeed, how many weeks had they spent with each other in their own separate worlds? How much time had they wasted together because Lupin had refused to take full advantage of their past friendship? How selfish had he been? This wasn´t supposed to happen, he realized. Not between friends.

Now it was too late. Lupin had decided that he wanted to do this. He had to. Surely, Sirius could grasp the importance of it...

"I understand that you´re restless, that you can´t stay here for long. That you want to deal with your life your way." Sirius went on. He seemed to hit a personal epiphany at that sentence, and hesitated. His voice came out soft and raspy when he spoke again. "I also understand that you have your own score to settle with yourself, and I can't do a damn thing about it."

He did comprehend his situation, better than Lupin had realized. Oh, how could he have doubted someone to whom he was so close? He felt his heart sink. He was still friends with Sirius, right? Sure, he hadn´t told him about his times at the Safehouse, or the Freedom Hounds, or Claire. And he hadn't exactly opened up to him about Mary... Yet there was still time. Lupin could tell Sirius everything that he had kept inside, all of his thoughts, his concerns, his plans...

But if he did, would he still have the will to leave?

The wolf wanted this. Needed this. And he, Remus Lupin, let the beast hold sway. Because his human side yearned the same.

By that time, Sirius had walked to the cave wall and slumped himself against it, as if beaten by his own logic. He stared up at the stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Lupin wondered if he was holding back tears. He had never seen Sirius cry before. It seemed out of character. This entire situation seemed out of character. "I only wish it could have been different."

Lupin found himself making his way over to Sirius´s side. His anger had subsided as quickly as it had come. Yet he didn´t feel remorse at what he must do. He knew Sirius could care for himself and for Harry. If only the feeling had been mutual. "I´m sorry," he said quietly.

"Sorry for what?" Sirius faced him. He wasn´t crying. A pale sunbeam entered the cave, cutting across his thin frame. In the light, Lupin noticed how gaunt and tired his face was, like years had slipped by between the minutes. Those haunted eyes of a friend - and of a stranger - stared into his. "Sorry that we can´t just be Moony and Padfoot anymore?"

Lupin turned away and walked a few steps towards the cave opening, his legs feeling like solid lead. He picked up his battered briefcase on his way out. Buckbeak raised his head and crooned sadly, as if bidding farewell.

He heard Sirius whisper listlessly behind him. "Well, I´m sorry too."

End of Part 1.