Wolf By Ears

Revised: July 2003

WOLF BY EARS
Part Two: Crime v. Conscience
By D.M.P.

***

Conscience is born when man has shed his fur, his tail, his pointed ears.

-Sir Richard Burton, The Kasîdah, Pt. v, st. 19

***

Chapter 5

"Monsieur l'Alpha," Fifi Dubois murmured. The gold-rimmed china plate was placed down on the embroidered tablecloth in front of Bernard, with three steaming crêpes folded over and topped with cream and berries.
Bernard waved her off with a flick of the wrist and a distracted nod. "If we find it, this could change the fine line between magic and science as we know it," he said to Claire. With a swift flourish, he unfolded the napkin and tucked it into his collar.
"Madame." Her own breakfast was presented to her.
"Merci." Claire placed her napkin in her lap. Not having to cook for herself was one of the considerable perks of living here. But of course her brother had never had to turn on a stove in his life, considering that he would burn the townhouse down if he tried.
"So, explain why you have to go to Luxembourg again?" she asked.
"For an informational conference about the genome," Bernard said, his mouth half full.

"Sounds interesting..."

"You'd never appreciate it, I'm sure." He leaned an elbow against the table and waved about his fork. "It's only two weeks in March. Only a privileged few are invited to attend. I'm surprised that I was even considered at all. Opportunities like this don't crop up often."
"The only reason you were invited is because the group knew that you would shell out enough money to sponsor this."
"And is that so wrong?" Bernard took a hefty gulp from his glass. "Five years they say, Claire, until they narrow down its location. Track it down, tear it open, and-" He thumped the glass down on the fine tablecloth. "Voilà! L'énigme de la vie!"
"The origins of lycanthropy cannot be that simple," she said. "But still, it is nice to think about."
"'I am the riddle of life,'" he quoted. "'Know me and know thyself.'"
"Monsieur l'Alpha! Monsieur l'Alpha!" Fifi, who had previously disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors, stuck her head out. "Monsieur l'Alpha has a conference mirror call."
"Who is it?"
"Monsieur Stuart. He says it is about Madame's deposition."
"Deposition?" Claire looked at Bernard, who suddenly seemed very interested in his plate. "Why is he calling?"
"Tell him to call back later," he ordered.
"Oui, Monsieur l'Alpha." Her starch-capped head vanished.
"Why is he calling?" Claire repeated, her voice going higher than usual.
Bernard became even more intent on cutting his food.
"This has nothing to do with the British RMC does it?"
"Just a little," he muttered.
Her fork hit the table. "Only a little?"
Fifi popped out again. "He says it is urgent."
Bernard made a dismissive noise, as if it wasn't a top priority to him. He got up from his seat, not looking at his sister. "Excusez-moi."
Claire glared daggers at his retreating back. What deposition? She wasn't going to testify for anything! Her hands twisted the napkin in her lap. Testify? No, no no, she couldn't do that... How- how dare he! How dare he interfere in her business like this! She couldn't- she couldn't- Who did he think he was?
"Aiiiii!"
Fifi.
Claire turned her head irritably. "Qu'est-ce que c'est passé?"
She entered the kitchen to see the poor housekeeper cowering in the corner. The words, "What's wrong?" were halfway out of her mouth when Fifi's index finger darted toward the window above the sink. A faint scratching sound was heard. Glancing up, she could make out a grey fluff ball against the frosted glass with his talons. Muffled hooting sounds came from the outside.
An owl? Usually they perched on her balcony, not crashed themselves against the kitchen window. Claire rolled her wheelchair toward the counter and picked up the spatula. Stretching her arms over the sink - she couldn't get up to open the window - she managed to wedge the flat tip of the spatula between the ledge and the pane. Then, with a sudden push, she forced the window open a crack. Turning the cooking utensil around, she pushed the handle against the pane until it opened up large enough for the poor bird to get through.
The owl tumbled headlong into the sink with a feeble "woo," and landed in the used mixing bowl. The bird lay very still. She thought that the creature had suffered a concussion, but then it raised its head weakly, blinking as if trying to see through a haze. The animal's vision focused; now aware of his location, the owl gave a start and frantically began clawing against the sides of the bowl. Clumps of batter smeared his limp feathers as he scrambled to get out.
Claire clucked her tongue. "Pauvre hibou." She turned on the faucet and a stream of warm water poured out. Unfortunately, the owl reacted adversely to it, flapping desperately and getting even more sticky goo caught in his feathers.
"Hold still. I'm only trying to help." Claire reached into the sink and grabbed the bird, shoving him under the flow. The owl gave a pitiful cry, but then relaxed as she gently combed out the clumps out of its plumage. Now that he was cleaner, she saw that he was an extremely ancient iron-blue creature, with a scrawny neck and large, mournful eyes.
"There, there," she said. "That's a good bird." Looking down, she took off the little leather letter carrier tied onto its leg and placed it on the counter. It was probably another wolf asking for money.
Bernard came back into the kitchen in a much sombre mood. "I need to speak with you," he began, then halted. "What are you doing?"
"One of the owls came in through the kitchen window," she answered, somewhat stiffly. She lifted the sopping wet creature out of the sink and placed him on a dishtowel.
He instantly cried out upon seeing him. "Aristotle..?" Practically jumping over a kitchen chair to get to the counter, he scooped the dripping bird into his arms. "Great spirits! I believed you were dead. Where have you been?"
"Woo..." The owl blinked twice, then collapsed in exhaustion. Fifi eyed the creature distastefully as he dripped water onto the linoleum.
"I will put Aristotle back in his cage. Claire, afterward may I speak with you in private? Fifi, could you wipe up this mess on the floor?" Bernard lessened his grip and patted the animal on the head. Aristotle's beak bobbed up and down exaggeratedly as he did so. "Good old Ari. I knew you were out there somewhere," he said to him. "Come on." He left the room again saying, "You have a new cage mate. Pascal's a philosopher and a mathematician just like you. I'm sure you two will become the best of friends..."
Claire shook her head, still upset about the lawyer's call. If Bernard expected her to testify...
The letter holder sat on the counter by the sink. She picked it up and took the message out, unrolling the small strip of parchment. The paper was damp at the edges, but the ink remained untouched. One English line was written in dark blue.

Leave the balcony open tonight. Expect company.

She stuck the note into her robe pocket, leaving Fifi to clean up the puddle.
Her brother had come down into the living room, sitting on the couch. The lights were dim, and his glasses adjusted themselves to it; she could see his eyes, murky red behind the lens.
"How's Aristotle?" she asked.
"Asleep. Did he still have my taxes on him?"
"Non."
"He must have lost them somewhere. No matter." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "About the call..."
"Please don't tell me."
"Eh..." He hesitated. "A few weeks ago, I sent a letter to the British Registry of Magical Creatures about your treatment in their custody..."
An ominous feeling loomed over her. "What was in this letter, specifically?"
"Well, I, um, told them that I would file a complaint against their department... in a very forward manner."
To Claire, the words, "a very forward manner" did not have a truly civil connotation. "Did this letter by chance come in a bright red envelope?"
"Maybe it did," Bernard drawled slowly.
Worse and worse. A Howler. "And so?"
"I had appealed to the International Council of Wizards for an investigation. The RMC denied that they had done anything wrong and stated that it was your lack of cooperation that led to your ... accident..." He looked at her pointedly. "I want you to testify against them."
"What- what do you mean?" she said. She felt her stomach lurch from a sudden nervousness. Her hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair.
"Well, you can tell the Council it was due to the RMC's irresponsibility that you..." Bernard tried to find another euphemism, "became handicapped."
No it wasn't. "I told you before that I do not want to talk of it," she said coldly.
"You don't have to be there. I was thinking of a mirror deposition. We can record it right up in my study in our lawyer's presence."
"Bernard..." She put a hand to her temple, like a sudden headache struck her. "Why must you bring this up?"
"This could mean getting the RMC the scrutiny they deserve." He couldn't help but look confused. "I thought you wanted this."
"Then you were wrong."
"Is it because it would be your word against theirs? You know we could win this case if we had the chance."
"Don't try and make decisions for me!"
Her sudden snap unhinged his composure for a moment. "I was making it for the clan's interest," he defended, glaring at her. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. Damn it, was he giving her The Look? Yes, and the Older Brother Patronizing Look at that.
"My concerns are not within the clan's interests."
"They are to me."
She pursed her lips into a thin line as her eyes narrowed. "We will not address this now."
"We will."
The two stared at each other. Claire would never forget her LOCD condition and would never refuse the potion if it were offered to her. Both of them knew that. There had to be a very strong reason why she had declined. She saw the expression on her brother's face. He wanted to know that reason.
Claire's heart was thumping in her ears. He couldn't know, no one could know - why did he have to stick his nose into her affairs? This was her problem, not his!
"I want an answer, sister." It was a rare moment when he didn't address her by name.
She drew in a long breath. This was her brother for God's sake! Who would speak of an assault in front of their own brother? "It was irresponsibility upon my part that I did not take the Wolfsbane Potion." Exhale, drive out the pain. Crumple it up into a tight little ball. Stow it far away from her. "Is that what you want to hear?"
His eyes broke away. Disappointment.
"Oh." he said softly.
"So you see, the matter is very simple," she added. "Please don't bring it up again."
He began gruffly, "But I already had our lawyer-"
"Tell him to drop the charges."
A lengthy pause.
"All right." He pushed the bridge of his glasses up again and rose to his feet hastily. "I... I have to pick up some files I left at my office. I might run some other errands as well."
"Today is Saturday. Wouldn't the Centre be closed?"
"I have a key."
She nodded.
"Remember to feed the owls this afternoon. I'll check up with you on my cellular phone if I'm gone for more than a couple hours." He passed by her, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets. She knew he would be gone the rest of the day.
He meant well. She could credit him for that. But could he even begin to understand? She feared even mentioning the subject to him. Males couldn't know, because of their very nature, what it was like to be assaulted that way. To be shoved into the ground, to be touched in places where one didn't want to be touched, to know that it would hurt, that the pain would be unbearable-
She didn't want to tell anyone this. Like she had told her brother, she only wanted to forget. Forget and live on. If she spoke her experience aloud, she feared that it would be like opening Pandora's box - unleashing terrors and memories that she was trying so hard to suppress.
This was her life, and no one could dictate it for her. Not her interfering brother or anyone else. And so she did not want to speak of it, she wouldn't. Let dead dogs lie in their graves.

Much later, when the shadows of night stretched themselves across her balcony, Claire waited up in her room. Down the hall, she could hear her brother snoring away. She checked the Muggle clock that sat on her desk. Half an hour before midnight.
Since her arrival, her room had undergone some serious renovations. Clean sheets and curtains were one change, and additional furniture was another; it had been converted into a temporary office of sorts. A heavy mahogany desk squatted next to the balcony doors, and boxes of files and books lined the walls. The bookshelves were full as well, yet only the third and fourth shelves were used on each one. The other ledges were either too low or too high for her to reach from her wheelchair.
She ran her hand along the edge of one of these shelves, trying to distract herself. Not to say she was nervous... well, maybe a bit. It was just that Toby's reaction had been so... She had never confronted anyone besides her family, and she could remember their reaction towards her perfectly. Pity. She saw it in their eyes. And she saw it in Toby's eyes, if just for a moment. And she hated that. Pity was something she refused to be a victim of.
Suddenly, a thin, python coil of black arched from the garden below-
Clang!
The claw-like grappling head hooked itself around the stone pillars of the balcony. She put a hand to the door and saw the rope jostle and shake - someone was climbing up. Within minutes, a grey head crested over the stone platform, reflecting silver in the half-moon's glow. Backing her chair away, she waited, arms on the rims, as Ulysses reached the landing, and swung his legs over the side, his boots thumping against the platform.
Night portrayed him in a better light than day. The soft shadows masked over his age; ten years wiped away with a single stroke. And then she could see Ulysses at her gate all those years ago, standing in the lightly falling rain with his weather-beaten crew, asking if she had any Marmite and toast because it had been three years since he had last tasted any.
And this man was here on her balcony a decade later with another favour in mind. A small service she wasn't sure she could do.
"Hello," Ulysses said softly. "It's been a while."
"Oui," she agreed. "It 'as."
Bernard's snores halted for a moment - Claire darted her eyes toward the door. Ulysses hand went to the rope. Tension filled the air. Her brother coughed aloud - several apprehensive seconds passed - he settled back down. One loud, long snore. Claire breathed again.
The grizzled werewolf seated himself down on the ottoman in front of the bed. "Comfortable place you have here," he commented, gazing around the dim room. He leaned against one of the canopy bed's wooden posts. "I'm glad the owl came through. Thought maybe it keeled over halfway."
His speech was unique to her ears. The uneducated tongue of a lifetime traveller, his vernacular was picked up in bits and pieces. Years before when the camps were started in America, many wolves escaped rather than be reined in. When he was a pup, local Muggles had confused his Texan family with a coyote gang.
"Zat was my brozzer's owl actually," she said coolly. "Where did you find 'im?"
"In a countryside ditch. He had his leg broken." Ulysses added, somewhat disdainfully, "Your brother doesn't seem to know how to care for animals."
" 'E does," she defended brusquely. "Except when 'e loves zem to death." She got her own point across. "You don't 'ave to dislike Bernard just because you disliked my fazzer."
"They share the same name," he replied curtly. His voice softened upon seeing the expression on her face. "Is it safe to turn on the light?"
She hesitated before moving towards the glass desk lamp. She turned the knob slowly, then closed her eyes so she couldn't see his reaction.
The silence was deafening.
A question. "May I ask how bad is it?"
"I 'ave a steel rod in my back and an artificial 'ip. Ze brace on my left leg is temporary to support my 'ip; ze brace on my back will stay for zree months. Ze doctors say zat I won't be able to live independently anymore, even if I do ever get out of ze chair." She paused before saying her final sentence. "I feel like I am an 'undred years old."
"What about durin' transformin'? Doesn't the body heal itself-?"
"Well, if a wolf 'as a 'unk of metal in them, she can't expect ze transformation to create a bone pelvis out of it." She didn't want to mention how her brother sedated her the night of the full moon. Ten separate shots, each made at half-hour intervals before moonrise - he was afraid of overdosing, but more afraid if her wolf ran wild while injured. She couldn't even take the Wolfsbane Potion, for it could not subdue the throes of transformation.
"Claire, I-"
"Don't apologize for my mistakes," she cut off quickly. "Be grateful for yourself instead." She opened her eyes. "Are we going to speak of Jarohnen now?"
Ulysses scratched at his beard thoughtfully. "I wasn't goin' to say sorry," he said gently. "I know you can figure out how to get over this. Jus' as long as you don't be mopin' 'round 'stead of gettin' down to business."
Claire actually smiled. At least she had someone who believed in her. "I scheduled physical zairapy classes."
"Good. I expect to see some walkin' done 'fore next year, hmmm?" He winked in that capricious way of his, so that he dark eyes glinted. "Jaroh wouldn't want to see you straddled down here in France until the end of days."
Her spirits fell. "Toby must 'ave told you already." She wet her lips and said candidly, "I'm not sure if I can 'elp you."
"Can't help? Or won't?" He chuckled as if the latter was too amusing to be true.
"I'm not sure."
"Hmmm." Ulysses saw that she was serious. "Care to explain?"
"What 'e did..." She started again. "Zose people shouldn't 'ave died."
She closed her eyes, thinking of the stories that had come out in the newspapers, the stories that she had heard after her release from the hospital. The news was still fresh in the wizarding public's mind that Jarohnen Ianikit had tortured and killed five RMC officers that bitterly cold night in November of last year. She had not believed it when she had first heard it, but then the information Had become so plain and commonly known that now whenever she heard that name now, it was always followed by the label "murderer." Or "werewolf extremist." And later on, when public memorials were held to those who died, she had heard the stories of those poor officers. One left behind a pregnant wife and child. Another was the only one who could care for her aging uncle. A Hogwarts Head Girl. An only child of an Indian immigrant family. The driver had been a newcomer to the job, with only two weeks under his belt.
Claire felt sympathy for those poor families left behind. Yet it was not the same feeling of pain she had felt when she saw Jarohnen collapse to his knees after Parsons's Safehouse sweep, crying over the broken Stradivarius, the only thing that reminded him of his wife and family who had been killed almost 50 years before.
"Did you read the paper?"
"Ze Werewolf Manifesto?" She reached behind her to where the paper lay folded up against her brace. She had read the document many, many times, mouthing the words silently to herself. The Manifesto reminded her of Jarohnen's soft but distinct accent, and how it always coated his words like tempered steel. One would think that with his teeth, he would make whistling sounds whenever he talked, but Jarohnen was a true orator. She remembered whenever he spoke, how his back would seem rod straight, despite the crooked spine, and his chest rise up and how those eyes could peer into a wolf's very soul. Then he would part those lips and that voice would strike through the body like a bolt of electricity. The voice that had been reduced to a distorted echo through the RMC dungeon walls.
She asked a question that had been bothering her since Toby's visit. "Toby said you contacted 'im. 'Ow did you do zat?"
Ulysses casually replied, "I'm not at liberty to say."
"Why?"
"If I say it's 'cause then I'd have to kill you, would that be believable? Or does that sound too clichéd?"
Claire blinked. "Do you mean it?"
"Yes," Ulysses said. "I do."
She expected him to laugh, but he didn't. He went on in that easygoing, conversational tone, "He always had the gift for talkin' nice. This is much better than them ol' pamphlets he handed out. Remember those?"
She nodded slowly, counting the questions in her mind. She couldn't know how Ulysses was speaking to Jarohnen, yet he wanted her to help him escape? And what of those little things she had taken for granted before? The hidden microphone in Toby's ear, for example, or the grappling hook Ulysses had used to climb onto the balcony. Where did those come from? Jarohnen had friends in many places, but Ulysses didn't necessary like to involve his Freedom Hounds with those militant wolves. Yet if Jarohnen were ever in trouble, why would she ever doubt that these separate parts would unite into one? Especially after reading about Jarohnen's specific urges for cooperation in the very document she held in her hand.
"We had to plough through a dozen reams of paper in a week every time he wanted to get the word out. Campaigns need a jumpstart, Claire, they need support."
"So zat is why you came?"
"That's what we are. You, me, the Hounds, Garrett Walters, the Gaczyna pack, everybody. His escape is our greatest campaign yet."
She stared grimly at him. "In Novi Sad, Yugoslavia, wolves invaded a Muggle stockpile and stole two crates of AK-47 sub-machine guns, then 'eld protest at ze Safehouse zair. Zey lit wizard effigies on fire and burned zair Registry identification. As of tonight, zey are dead, killed by ze Yugoslavian Ministry. Were zose wolves inspired by 'is words? Were zey part of zis campaign?"
No answer.
"Did you distribute zem, Ulysses? 'Ow far did zis spread? 'Ow many wolves did ze Manifesto reach?"
"You sound like you drank a cup of bitter,""he commented. "Don't tell me you haven't been takin' your medication?"
"I'm not in a joking mood," she replied.
"Hmmmm..." He exhaled, and leaned back against the post. "How much did you read about them Novi Sad wolves?" he asked, beating around the bush.
"Only what is said in ze news."
"The wizard news." Ulysses licked his dry lips. "Did you hear about when the Werewolf Capture Unit invaded that Safehouse, they found a shrine?"
"A shrine? To who?"
"To our Jaroh. There were candles lit, an' his clan emblem painted red on the walls an' these words in dark charcoal: 'We fight for Ianikit.' He's the first wolf, Claire, an' everybody's payin' homage to him."
"For what?" For killing people? She held her tongue to keep from saying that aloud.
"He's the first who actually did something many of us have wanted to do for a long, long time. Our people couldn't stand up to them wizards. They were too frightened." Ulysses then hunched forward, and folded his hands together. "But we tried, right?"
We. The Freedom Hounds. "We tried and were beaten."
"If we were beaten, we wouldn't be talkin' right now, would we?" Ulysses went on, "We never stopped. There are packs all over the continent, Claire. Wolves you never knew who are workin' for our cause. Wolves from all over, like me who couldn't go home. Or like Jaroh who have none to go to. We wandered the Muggle world and went establishin' networks of communication. Bidin' our time, askin' who would be the first wolf. Keepin' quiet and sufferin' and bein' victimized an' dehumanized 'cause them wizards are ridin' their high horses and prancin' all ov'r us. We cowered like dogs, Claire. Admit it. We all did.
"Then our comrade got the git enough to finally go do somethin' an' he got caught. When Jaroh was first thrown in the Kennel, wolves despaired. 'Them wizards won 'fore we even started,' they were thinkin'. But this-" He gestured to the Werewolf Manifesto in her hand. "This changes everythin'. Wolves have hope now that we can survive through anythin' wizards throw at us. This hope lasts forever, Claire, even beyond the grave."
She sighed and bit her lip. He was trying to weave that web again, that web of glory and heroics and righteousness. The same web that had drawn her in before years before, when she was the insignificant daughter of the Alpha male, cast off because she would never be eligible for leader of the pack. Except then, Jarohnen was the one who had spun the silken strings, and now he was not here.
Claire shook her head. "What bravery springs from reckless violence," she whispered.
He misinterpreted. "I know. We need to gather all this energy an' sublimate it. Jaroh was the spark, an' we're the breath that stirs up the flame."
"Towards what?" She quoted Ianikit's words, "'Ze werewolves, in a final revolution, will seek to destroy every sign of wizard oppression, no matter what ze consequences.'" Her voice ended in a questioning note.
"It's sacrificin' he's promotin'," Ulysses argued.
"Sacrificing who? Who are we sacrificing?" She added darkly, "Or what?"
Ulysses stared at her as if she had grown two heads. "You're afraid? I've never known you to be afraid of anybody."
"Look at me." Her fist hit the armrest of her wheelchair. " 'Ave I done enough?" She blinked hard. "Tell me," she whispered fiercely. "Tell me zat whatever more we 'ave to sacrifice, we will not do it in anger."
Like Jarohnen did, she thought. Is this what we are promoting? If Jarohnen walks free, will the flag we raise be stained in blood?
The unspoken words echoed between them. Ulysses only sighed and bowed his head, propping one elbow on his knee while the knuckle pressed against his forehead. He remained in that position for several minutes, paralleling the Thinker in his stonily solitude. Claire, hesitant, wheeled her chair near him and put a hand on his shoulder, biting her tongue. She was afraid she would say something that she would regret.
A low whisper. "Do you hate him for it? For what he did that night?"
Oddly enough, that question was the farthest from her mind. "What does zat 'ave to do wiz anything?"
"Everythin'." He gave her glance out of the corner of his eye, waiting.
"Oh, Ulysses-" She let her hand drop. Did she?
Her mind wanted to. She wanted to feel a sicken lurch in her stomach every time his name was mentioned; she wanted to ward him off like he was a scourge. Murderers should be hated with a vengeance and be faced with public ignominy until the very end of their days. They should be despised because no human should ever, ever chose to take another sentient life in prejudice. Jarohnen had killed them because he could.
She wanted to say that he was a hypocrite and an abominable wolf because he should have known better. He knew that pain of loss! How could he inflict it upon others so purposefully? He was an intelligent wolf. He should know the oppressed should never act like the oppressors.
Yet her heart was a different story. Jarohnen was her friend. She had known him for years. She had heard the soul-swaying songs on his precious Stradivarius. She had shouted with him as the rallying crowds roared; she had hidden with him within the hull of a speeding motorboat as it raced across the Channel away from the border police.
It was too easy to brand strangers with condemning labels. To read in the paper about a travesty and denounce the criminal. Look at that wolf! Killed five officers, you say? Who would do such a thing? Only monsters! And look at him, he looks so human! What do you expect nowadays? You can never tell with werewolves!
The wolf she knew wasn't a two-dimensional killer sprung from the headlines, but a flesh-and-blood being from life.
Another argument sprang from her reasoning. She had heard him weeks ago. He was beyond himself. He watched five people writhe in pain. And who knew what more he would have done if he had gotten away with it? Five could have become ten, twenty, fifty...
The voice she had heard in the London dungeon could not be connected with her friend. Yet she knew they were one and the same. If only she could detach the two, if only she could shut the wicked, babbling voice in a little box and bury it deep in the earth, if only she could banish that demon that possessed his mind or burn it to a crisp in the roaring furnace of unwanted memories. Then she would only have that wolf she knew.
A sigh escaped her lips, but Ulysses wasn't moved. She knew what he was thinking. You won't become your father or your brother, will you? Your father, the wolf who called us Freedom Hounds a pack of anarchists? The one who tried to turn us in to the French Department for the Regulation of Non-Wizard, Part-Human Creatures? We were forced to flee across the Channel to England because of your father and that bumbling son of his, the albino who is trying to follow his sire's pawprints. Will you side with him?
Reasons and memories and thoughts and outcries and regrets entangled her in their silk-iron grip, all twisted and encompassing and binding in their hold. She wanted to separate the tangled skein or at least weave the strands into two distinguishable patterns. She wanted dualism; she needed dualism! Whatever happened to those little archetypes that perched on each shoulder and prattled their comments into confused ears? Where was the dancing devil with his fire and brimstone? Where was the glowing seraph, benevolent in its tranquillity? Where could she find them, because then it would make her life so much easier! Look, he's wearing Satan's horns and twirling a sooty pitchfork in his hand! He must be evil; don't choose him!
She looked silently, searchingly. There was no devil in this room. Only her and Ulysses, and both were far from becoming demons.
Many minutes passed as she analyzed these strange thoughts, while she knew her answer all along. "Jarohnen can never be my enemy," she whispered. "I condemn what 'e did... but not 'im."
A smile crossed Ulysses's face. The web was cast. "Exactly."

Chapter 6

Inside the cave, something was dripping. Sirius, supine on the dirty blanket, tilted his head toward the noise. According to reasonable logic, nothing should be dripping. There was no underground stream located within, or any holes in the craggy roof that lead to the outside, through which melted snow could drip through. If something dared run down a stalactite here, then it couldn't be melted snow. Buckbeak had established a ledge to relieve himself on during snow storms so he wouldn't have to bother with going outside, but surely something like that, even in liquid form, couldn't trickle from the ceiling.
Maybe Sirius was simply hallucinating.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Or maybe not.
"Hey, Buckbeak," he called out. "Did you hear something?"
He had forgotten that the hippogriff wasn't in the cave. Of course he wasn't; Buckbeak had left to go hunting for whatever was left to be found. If Lupin had been right about anything before he left, it was the fact that game was becoming scarce on this mountain. Sirius's stomach growled in confirmation. He grumbled to himself upon this recollection. Buckbeak had better haul his horsehair butt back here as fast as possible. Certainly small game couldn't take that long to root up. Squirrels could be particularly slow when just awakened from their winter slumber. Rats were harder to scrounge up, although Sirius had been successful during a few hunting trips through Hogsmeade's rubbish cans.
His choice in foodstuffs would disgust many, but Sirius had a versatile appetite. Squirrel meat, for instance, wasn't as horrible as most people assumed. A bit stringy for Sirius's taste, but with a bit of salt (that is, if he had any salt) the taste would resemble that of chicken. Well, at least that of a scrawny, acorn-eating chicken.
On the other hand, despite the fact that rats were of little sustenance to Sirius, he liked hunting them very much. Rats had quickly become his favourite food item as a dog. Late hours during the night were spent musing about unusual recipes involving this small creature. Rat soufflé, rat kabobs, rat on the barbie, rat stew, stuffed rat, fried rat, rat puree, marinated rat, rat sandwiches, rat's blood pudding, rat mince pie, chopped rat on toast - the ideas never ceased. In particular, Sirius liked to envision a certain man's terror-stricken face every time he pounced on one. Die, Peter! Chomp!
Yet he still maintained some sense of humanity. Eating people is wrong, Sirius reasoned, but rats are tasty.
He rolled over onto his stomach and picked up a half-charred stick.
With a lazy hand, he stirred the glowing embers of the fire, watching the pale wisps of ash blow about.
Was this what his life was reduced to? Cave-sulking? Rodent-eating?
His eye roamed to the pile of covered newspaper clippings in the corner. All that Ministry crap wasn't clueing him into anything worthwhile. Hell, he was so tempted to go down to Hogwarts himself in his Animagi form. Check up on Harry. See Crookshanks once again. Maybe get some real food.
Would Harry know anything about Lupin's predicament? Most likely not - the Triwizard Tournament was keeping him on his toes. Sirius couldn't bear to put any more pressure on the boy anyhow. He couldn't even write to him that he was hiding out nearby - partly because he feared revealing his location, and partly because he wasn't sure how he would act if Harry should come and visit.
Sure, he had adored him as a baby with James and Lily. And might a basilisk's stare strike him down if Sirius didn't care for him. Harry did look so much like James it was almost frightening.
Harry wasn't a child anymore, though. How old? Sirius mentally counted the years - fourteen. Rowdy teenage years already? Ye gods, how much he had missed! It was beyond all logical probability that Sirius could ever have Harry live with him now - not while he was still on the run, not with all of this tumult that Harry was being plunged into. His hope could not be denied, however, that he would have a chance to raise a child.
He had never really put any deep thought into a family before. Asking Harry to live with him last summer had seemed like the right thing to do, despite the fact he had no knowledge about parenthood. After all, the last thirteen years or so had more or less been spent thinking about was various ways of killing Peter Pettigrew or wallowing in his personal mental torture. Probably it was the time he had spent with Lupin's pup that had steered his mind more towards childrearing.
He sighed. Mary was Lupin's miracle, wasn't she? Sirius crossed his arms, as if the glowing logs' warmth wasn't enough. He cursed himself for letting his friend go. Lupin was doing a damn foolhardy thing - going off to find her like that. Why couldn't Sirius explain to him what he saw? Another sigh escaped him. Lupin wouldn't have ever believed him. And maybe Sirius didn't want to believe it either. Although he hadn't known her for long, from the time the three had been together, he could tell that there was something strangely endearing about the child. And he didn't want to think that Lupin had it in him to put a bullet through someone he loved. It seemed almost inhuman.
In the dank, cold cave, he greeted his old friend Nostalgia. Why, he could lose himself like he had so many times since Lupin left. That warm house, that good food, and, most of all, that cherished brotherhood which had held everything together. There had been no worries last December, besides the concern about the girl's health. Yet she still had had that teasing tone in her voice when she said:

"You can't tell a story, chicken-man." The nickname, which given after Sirius's fabricated reputation from his poultry-thieving past, was in common use now, especially considering the light-hearted atmosphere. Mary sat up, propped by a pillow, and snuggled the quilted comforter against her small chest.
"Is that an assumption I'm hearing?" Sirius arched an eyebrow. "You forget that I am a despicable fiend at heart, my dear. How could I have gained such a prestigious reputation as a poultry-snatcher if I hadn't learned how to spin a few tales to tell the authorities?"
Lupin sat upon the bedspread, hands folded in his lap, an amused expression on his face. "I remember some of those tales myself," he added slyly. "But perhaps excuses that a dragon torched your Arithmacy homework don't truly qualify for much." He was in a more relaxed state than he had been in days, and Sirius welcomed his playfulness.
"Fanciful narratives about Sir What's-His-Name and his fair Princesses and battling stereotypical Welsh Greens can only be tolerated for so many nights," Sirius replied casually. "One more medieval tale and I swear I'll suffer a mental breakdown."
"What's wrong with my stories?" Lupin inquired.
"Nothing," Sirius answered, "except that they're always variations of some fellow galloping on a white horse to rescue some maiden from one monstrosity or another. Please, the damsel in distress dribble has become so dead-beat boring and repetitive that I'm almost starting to believe that you're against the whole feminist movement or something."
"I have no issues against women's rights," Lupin rolled his eyes. "That's just how the story goes."
Sirius tossed his hand up. "And goes and goes and goes."
"Fine," Lupin gave an open-armed gesture. "Tonight will be your turn."
"Simply splendid of you, Rem. Maybe you could use this time to brainstorm some new plot ideas." He pulled up his chair closer to the canopy bedside.
He answered back, "I suppose I'm taking a lesson from the master."
"No doubt." Sirius took a sip of water from a glass on the bed stand and straightened himself up exaggeratedly. Mary listened attentively. "Once upon a time there were these Three Little Pigs, and two of those pigs weren't the sharpest quills in the inkpot," he began. "The first pig built his house out of straw and the second one built his out of twigs. The third pig was the genius out of the litter and built his out of bricks." Sirius used little hand motions while he talked, pantomiming the construction of the three houses. "Then one day," he continued, "a Big Bad Wolf came out of the forest-"
Mary interrupted with a suppressed giggle. Sirius paused. "No offense to you, Rem," he apologized. "Either of you, I mean."
Lupin and his pup exchanged glances as if they knew something he didn't. "Can you think of a more politically correct term?" the elder werewolf asked coyly. "For our sakes."
"Not all wolves are bad," Mary added.
"Well, fine." Sirius considered this for a few moments. "How about the Big, Misunderstood Wolf?"
Lupin's eyes met Mary's again, a crooked grin across his face. Mary tried covering her mouth with one hand, her shoulders shaking.
Sirius folded his hands across his chest. "Hey, who's the storyteller here?" He gave them a mockingly stern eye. When they calmed down, he continued, "Anyhow, that Big, Misunderstood Wolf came out of the forest. He was basically on the brink of starvation and wanted something to munch on. So he looked about-" Sirius shaded his eyes and peered around him "-and saw the three little pigs frolicking outside, rolling in their mud puddles, picking daisies, and doing all that happy stuff pigs do. And he thought to himself, 'Lunchtime.' "
Lupin cleared his throat loudly.
"Not to say that he was actually going to go and eat the pigs," Sirius added hastily. "No one knew it, but the Big, Misunderstood Wolf was a vegetarian. When he saw the pigs and thought, 'Lunchtime,' he wasn't necessarily thinking about the pigs being lunch, but that since all pigs are herbivores, they could offer him a scrumptious vegetable cuisine that would subdue his hunger."
"What's a hubi-vore?" Mary inquired.
"That is someone who has a vegetarian diet because of moral or dietary preferences," Lupin explained.
Sirius wondered if the explanation had cleared things up or confused her more. The girl nodded slowly. "But what about everyone else who likes to eat meat?" she asked curiously.
"Well, it's all a matter of opinion," Sirius said. "In prison, we didn't get anything but gruel and water. So technically, I was a vegetarian for twelve years. But then again," he added, "I think they were more considered about maintaining a cheap budget than our moral or dietary preferences."
He went on before either one of his companions could make further comment. "So anyway, the Big, Misunderstood Wolf headed over to those pigs to say hello. Yet upon seeing him, all three of them squealed aloud, ran into their houses and locked up the doors. Well, to the wolf this seemed like a most discourteous act. He went up to the first house and rapped ever so politely upon the front door. He noticed that this house was made out of straw, and in his immense strength, he made a dent into the door. A burst of dust and straw was unleashed into the air, and this triggered his horrible hay fever.
" 'Little pig, little pig,' he called in a friendly tone. The wolf sounded a bit nasal because he was trying to keep himself from sneezing. 'May I please come in?' The little pig replied, 'No way!'
"The wolf thought that pig was making an awfully rude first impression. So he said, 'Well, why not? I've only come in hopes of encountering some of that renowned swine hospitality. Would you please open the door for me?'
"He could hear that pig laughing behind the door. 'That is the cheapest excuse in the book!' he scoffed. 'Why should I believe you?'
"Now the Big, Misunderstood Wolf had a really low tolerance for such an attitude. Plus, his nose was starting to irritate him dreadfully. He growled, 'I will not stand out here and be insulted like this!' Upon shouting that, his nose twitched, his lungs jumped, and he gave the loudest, most tremendous sneeze heard this side of Avalon. 'Aaaaaaaaaacchhhooooooo!' " Sirius imitated the sneeze so preposterously, that he sent Mary into a fit of giggles again.
"In fact, that sneeze was so gigantic that house was blown to bits. A cloud of straw and dust flew in the air, and the Big, Misunderstood Wolf was caught in a paroxysm of coughs and sneezes. The former occupant of the straw house stood dazed in the middle of the empty clearing, yelped like a dragon was at his heels, and dashed over to the next house.
"The Big, Misunderstood Wolf wiped his nose on his robe sleeve. 'Serves that bugger right to have his house blown over,' he thought self-righteously. "What kind of fool would build a house out of straw anyway?' On the other hand, it was a horrible accident on the wolf's part that led to the collapse of the first pig's straw house. So he hurried over to the second house in order to apologise to him.
"Unfortunately, he was unable to accomplish this. At the stick house, he didn't even have a chance to open his mouth when the bellow of an angry pig assaulted him.
"'We're calling the authorities on you!' the second pig threatened.

"'And we're going to sue for damages!' added the first pig insultingly.
" 'SUE?!?' the Big, Misunderstood Wolf thought angrily."
"Sue?" Lupin interrupted. "Sirius, what kind of fairy tale is this turning out to be?"
"Hey, I'm only giving an original take on things," Sirius protested. "And I was just getting into the spirit of the story. Mary, aren't you enjoying this?"
Mary gave him a confused expression. "Can you really sue in a fairy tale?"
"In this fairy tale you can." Sirius hurried on, " 'Well,' thought the wolf, 'not all the gold in Gringotts is going to make me apologise now!' On his way back, the wolf got so peeved as to kick at the corner edge of that twig house. There was a loud cracking sound, the whole frame shuttered and boom! The stick house fell in one swoop, leaving those idiot pigs cowering in a corner with a cauldron over their heads.
"These pigs peeked out from beneath their cauldron to find that their house was gone and they were left all by themselves, unprotected from the wolf." Sirius threw his hands up lightly and shook them. " 'Ahhhhh!' the little ninnies screamed. The Big, Misunderstood Wolf had half a mind to chase them down and give them a good reprimand for their actions, but the two pigs ran off, pushing their little trotters over to the brick house.
"Again, the Big, Misunderstood found himself in the same predicament as before - probably even worse, because he had destroyed not one, but two houses whose owners he barely knew. Guilt-ridden, he went over to the brick house.
" 'Little pigs, little pigs, may I come in?' he asked. 'I am overflowing with regret and am absolutely shameful about my actions. It was all an accident, but I promise to pay for the damages I've caused.' "
" 'You bet you'll pay!' came the trio of voices from behind the door. At that very moment, a squad of policemen flew by on their brooms. Before he could say a word in his defence, he was arrested and taken to jail."
"That's not fair!" Mary exclaimed. "The Big, Misunderstood Wolf said he was sorry."
"I'm not finished yet," Sirius said. "So the pigs took the Big, Misunderstood Wolf to court on a lawsuit for three thousand, two hundred, fifty-four Galleons and twelve Knuts for restitution. They hired the best prosecutor in Fairy-Land Woods to represent them. But the wolf, you see, he hired the best defense barrister to advocate his side. You wouldn't believe the publicity this trial received. All the creatures from the Fairy-Land Woods flocked over to witness the event. It was covered live by Fairy-Land Woods News Station and by all the Fairy-Land Woods newspapers. Bets were taken about the trial's outcome.
"While the case was processing through the courts, the Big, Misunderstood Wolf's family sued the pigs for emotional distress brought about by their relation being stuck in jail. Then, the pigs countersued them for emotional stress due to their trial, which was brought about because of their relation. Then, the Wolf family countersued that, and the pigs countersued that-"
Mary yawned. "Boring..."
"It was. And it drained everyone of money to sue and countersue and back again. The cases took months to get through the courts. Other fairy-land creatures, having nothing else really to do, would watch for hours and hours on end as the two barristers butted heads upon this viewpoint and that evidence and whatnot. But in the end, the Big, Misunderstood Wolf had his way. The first lawsuit was dropped, and that was the end of it."
Mary looked at Sirius oddly. "But what about the pigs and the countersues and stuff?"
"The loser piggies cried 'Wee, wee, wee, wee!' all the way home. All the suits were thrown out of court when the judge broke down and said how the next apocalypse was upon them with such ignoramuses coming to the courthouse. The Big, Misunderstood Wolf was relieved that all the controversy ended, of course, but the expenses of hiring the best counsellor in the land got him in debt for the next six months." Sirius looked to Lupin for approval. "Well?"
"You mean nobody lived happily ever after?" Mary exclaimed, dumbfounded. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but that was plain weird. I like Remmy's knights and princesses better."
"The barristers certainly lived happily ever after; they got the money," Sirius reasoned. "Does that count for anything?"
Lupin shook his head. "I guess our infamous chicken thief has gotten quite cynical from his years in prison," he commented lightly.
"Cynical isn't the word," Sirius replied. "It's called a realistic sense of justice."


Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
God dammit, where the bloody hell was that coming from?? Sirius threw the stick down and scrambled to his feet. He couldn't take this anymore!
Stomping outside, Sirius halted at the cave entrance. The temperature was unusually mild for early February; in fact, the snow was starting to melt. He metamorphosed into his dog form and headed down the mountain. Forget Buckbeak; Sirius was off to find his own grub.
He bounded down the rocky trail towards the small foothills at the base of the mountain. A stick forest of dry brush and skeleton trees awaited him. Burying his nose amid the snow and wet leaves, Sirius sniffed for any animal scent. Nothing. The cold stung his nose; he lifted his head and snorted in frustration. His stomach growled further and he bounded on.
If Sirius had searched more thoroughly, he would have found an acorn cache by an ancient maple. Unfortunately, hunger goaded him to impatience. Also, Sirius became awfully cranky when hungry. At Azkaban, prisoners were tormented for hours on end, but no one ever died of starvation.
So his self-pitying mood and his unhappy stomach created a foul mood for Sirius. He plowed on through the forest, becoming more and more irritated as he came closer to the village.
Perhaps I could knock down a good rubbish can, he thought as he trailed his nose along the ground. Find some rancid meat and mouldy cheese, or munch on a rat or two-
Sirius raised his head to find something quite unexpected. Another dog's muzzle in his face.
Whoa! He backed up a few steps, startled. The black Lab stared at him, moving its head about curiously. In turn, Sirius stared back. This only lasted a few moments, though; Sirius didn't really want to bother with anything but an over-flowing trashcan at the moment. He briskly walked around the other dog and headed toward the forest opening.
Soon, however, he noticed that he was being followed. A glance behind him revealed that the Lab was slowly trailing him. Great, he thought irritably to himself. He halted again and so did his second shadow. Sirius turned around and sat on his haunches. What does this fellow expect us to do? he wondered. Sniff each other's butts?
The Lab continued to watch him with large, dark eyes. It blinked.
Was there some sort of canine signal that I'm forgetting here? Sirius thought. True, his Animagus form did possess some dog instincts that reared its head up now and then. He had been using his Animagus form for so long, however, that Sirius was able to overcome whatever impulses the animal nature gave off. His stomach gave another whiny growl, demanding his attention. Sirius sighed (in this form, it looked like he was giving a doggie raspberry), and then barked. A rough translation would be: Go away!
Yet the Lab was still persistent. It wouldn't budge. Sirius didn't want to be violent with the fellow, but he didn't like the thought of having a tag-along either. Nevertheless, he wasn't going to get into a scuffle just because he was annoyed. Given that his stomach remained empty for another hour, however, he just might have to reconsider that decision.
Sirius continued on his quest for the garbage can, now accompanied by another. As he approached the first house he saw, though, his hopes dropped.
No trash cans at all. Today must not be the day for collecting. Just his luck.
The Lab moved up beside him and blinked. Sirius turned his shaggy head to face the creature. Did the Lab have a dry-eye problem or something?
His stomach gave its call again; this time it was loud enough to be heard. The Lab's ears perked up and it began to sniff inquisitively at his middle.
Sirius sidestepped away immediately. What, you've never seen a hungry pooch before? He wished he had the human features to say that.
The Lab backed away this time, then loped on ahead. After a few paces, however, it turned its head to look back at him.
Does the fellow want me to follow now? Sirius wondered. He hesitated. This dog did seem to appear out of nowhere, and Sirius didn't like sudden appearances. Besides that, who could say that this creature wasn't an Animagus as well? Being an illegal one himself, Sirius was wary of the possibilities of others with this magical knack. When he had first met Crookshanks, Hermione Granger's pet, for instance, he had suspected that he was an Animagus. As time passed, Crookshanks had lost his suspect status and become Sirius's closest ally while he lived around Hogwarts. It was only much later that did Sirius figured out that Crookshanks was a Kneazle, and possessed intelligence beyond that of normal animals.
Was this dog magical as well? Sirius took note of its appearance. It appeared to be a regular black Labrador with chocolate-flecked haunches. Nothing out of the unusual, certainly.
Sirius decided to take a chance and play along. As soon as he took a step forward, the Lab turned its head and resumed its journey.
It seemed that the Lab was leading Sirius towards the centre of town. Again, he balked; he liked to stick by the countryside, which was closer to his hideout. On the other paw, there was one thing that deterred this line of thinking: the smell of food. Beef Wellington to be precise. And freshly baked bread. Oh, was that roasted chicken...? He quickened his pace.
The trek ended at the Three Broomsticks. The Lab arrived at the backdoor of the establishment and pawed at the door. It then sat down contently and glanced at Sirius again. Sirius joined in the wait, investigating about the back wall to kill time. He wished he knew how to do something to stop the awkward silence. How did dogs exchange small talk, anyway? Oh yeah. They sniffed at each other.
The backdoor opened and an outpouring of delicious smells came from within. Sirius popped his head up to see Madame Rosmerta in the doorframe with a tin plate over-brimming with scraps.
"Brought a friend along with you today, eh Zaria?" she said, stepping outside. Sirius stopped himself from jumping her. His excitement was expressed by his wagging tail, which became a furry, black blur.
Madame Rosmerta settled the tin down on the ground and reached over to give the top of Zaria's head a rough tousle. "You're such a sweet girl," she said. "Finally found a fellow to drag over here, hmmm?"
Sirius was oblivious to that comment; he was too busy gobbling down a burnt leg of lamb and some bread crusts. The tavern owner looked at him curiously. "Hey, I haven't seen this one in awhile," she said. "He used to hang around Hogsmeade all last spring, then disappeared for a bit. What were you up to, boy?"
He raised his head.
If you must know, I actually left Britain for several months since you last saw me, dear Rosmerta. First I spent my time on the sunny shores of the Tunisian coast. Next, after acquiring a suitable tan to make up for thirteen years of shady seclusion, I moved inland for a while. The time I spent in the Congo was brief, unfortunately, due to a terrible experience with some spider monkeys. After leaving the jungle, I moved to the Serengeti, where my hippogriff companion was almost shot by a trophy hunter. Saying farewell to Africa, I hopped over to Sicily and then spent a few days in Portugal before coming back to the United Kingdom. I spent a couple nights in Wales and had a group of disillusioned Muggles mistake me for an alien during one very strange rainy night. Afterwards, I came to England and attempted to give my godson some solid advice about dragon-fighting, got arrested, almost had my soul sucked out, settled down in Brighton, met up with a friend and his pup, left Brighton under emergency circumstances, came back up to Scotland, and had been living in a cave for the past several weeks. And how are you doing?
All this was expressed in under five seconds with one heavy-handed stare. Sirius blinked.
Madame Rosmerta chuckled. "Well, you must have had a jolly good time wherever you went." She patted his head. "Welcome back." She got up, straightened her skirt and winked at Zaria. "I'll just leave you two alone you enjoy yourselves," she said slyly, before slipping back inside.
The fact dawned on him then that Zaria was a female. Sirius contemplated this for a few moments, then went back to eating ravenously. Zaria didn't take a bite at all and quietly observed Sirius slobbering over soup bones and licking up stray crumbs. When he was finished, he pushed the tin away and gave a little nod, expressing gratitude. Zaria seemed pleased with that; at least she didn't blink.
Sirius moved back from the empty tin and thought about heading back to the cave. He made his way down the series of alleyways and streets that he had travelled before and was just at the beginning of the forest when he noticed that Zaria was still pursuing him. Sirius stopped. Zaria stopped. He took a step; she took a step. Oh, just peachy.
Sirius really didn't know how to end this situation. He confronted her again and gestured with his head to go back. Zaria remained where she was. Well, as far as Sirius could tell she wasn't dangerous. He continued though the forest with the Lab in tow. At the foot of the mountain, however, Sirius realized that Zaria expected him to do something. But what?
Sirius turned back around, wagging his tail. Doing it as best he could, Sirius used that subtle communication that animals use in place of spoken language. Translation: Thank you very much for your help, my lady. I greatly appreciated that.
Zaria took a couple steps forward. Sirius froze but reluctantly gave in. Well, if she wants to go sniff my butt I might as well put up with it.
She didn't. Instead, she came muzzle-to-muzzle with him and did something very strange. She quickly blew air between her two front teeth. They were slightly crooked, he realized, and made a faint, "Fft," sound, like the letter 'F.' That business finished, she left, leaving a full but puzzled Sirius behind.
What was "Fft" supposed to mean? He hoped it wasn't some sort of female Labrador courting expression.
"Cra - awwwwww..."
Buckbeak poked his head out from behind a tree trunk.
Sirius changed back into his human form, safe now that no one else was there. "How long have you been standing there?" he snapped, feeling somewhat flustered.
Buckbeak just shook his great eagle head and clicked his tongue wryly. He headed up the mountain, making little sounds that sounded almost like a hippogriff's version of laughter.
"Hey, hey nothing was going on there," Sirius ran in front of him. "She only offered me a meal. That's all."
"Craw?" Buckbeak blinked innocently.
"Geez, stop it with all this blinking crap," Sirius threw his hands up in a frustrated gesture. "Why can't animals just come right out and say anything?"
"Cra - awww..."
"Never mind, you! Oh please!" Sirius flicked his wrist and trudged ahead. "Ridiculous," he muttered. "You're acting like a fool, ol' boy. I think you must have eaten too many squirrels today."
Buckbeak didn't make another comment going back to the cave. He didn't have to.

Chapter 7

Lupin stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, a little weary-eyed from the lack of sleep, the lower half of his face covered with white soap lather. His normally golden brown hair was coated with dark mahogany cream. His eyes - well, they were still the same hazel with flecks of blue-grey. Muggles had a curious invention called coloured contacts, but they were an item he couldn't afford. A pair of old reading glasses lay on the counter as a weak substitute.
With one hand he tediously held his lathered chin; in the other was a sharpened knife. This was his penknife that he always kept in his briefcase. He had had it ever since he was a teenager; by now age has deemed it a sort of good-luck charm. He only hoped that its luck prevented any nasty slip-ups.
What a time to go without a razor. The old one had rusted over and broken. He should have bought a new one, really, but he had to conserve his money. Most of it had gone into renting this room. Edinburgh tenement rates can be disastrous for the starving man's wallet.
But he had shaved with his penknife plenty of times before. It was all about angles and positioning. Oh, and making sure his palms weren't sweaty. Sweaty palms could mean death through a slit throat.
With a steady hand, he tilted the blade toward his chin. One long stroke along the throat and he banged the handle against the sink, sending bits of lather flying off. Not much time passed until he finished. Faint marks of pinkish razor burn cut alongside his left jaw, where the blade had bitten too close.
He checked the time, and then turned on the faucet, sending out a flow of water. Lupin rinsed out the basin and slipped on a pair of latex gloves that lay on the counter before dunking his head under the tap. The cold water engulfed his head and dripped down the sides of his face; torrents of muddy brown liquid gushed down into the basin and down the drain. Lupin rinsed the dye out of his hair, turning the water darker and darker. When it was all finished, his arm jerked out toward the ragged towel to mop up his dripping tendrils.
Throwing his head back, Lupin looked at himself again in the mirror, unsure about what to expect. This would have taken only a fraction of the time and effort if he had had his wand. Magic made everything so simple. Wave a wand and poof! you could change your hair, eyes, skin tone, nationality, accent, anything. One spell to metamorphoses your looks and another to alter the timbre of your voice. The wand created some of the most impenetrable disguises.
Yet there were disadvantages. In this sophisticated wizard world, any magical guise could be seen through eventually. Too many devices detected illusionary magic. So maybe going through all this trouble wasn't such a bad idea after all.
He snatched up the small crystal bottle labeled Confundus Cologne: eau de confusion from the mirror's sill. It was something he had picked up in Knockturn Alley that week, and he nearly risked his life in the process. Luckily, the Ministry - and all respectable wizards in general - stayed away from Knockturn Alley at midnight. The cologne's fragrance was similar to a wet dog, but the effect was good enough. He pulled at the stopper, which came off with a pop, and dabbed a bit at his pulse points.
Lupin slipped on the glasses and glanced at himself in the mirror. That immediate stubble was gone, leaving his skin smooth yet defining how rough his face was from the bitter winter air. His dripping hair was a rich chocolate, almost black, none of that light sandy brown with hints of grey.
The change almost unnerved him. He stared at himself as if nearsighted, leaning close over the sink's edge. It was only hair colour after all, and temporary at that - he didn't want to have a permanent dye that would take months to outgrow. His hair was trimmed as well; a self-made job to say the least, but not terrible. But his eyes couldn't be pulled away. It was the very first time in his life that he felt that he looked his age and not older. Underneath all the dye and behind those horn-rimmed glasses was the real him. Whatever sense of "real" he could apply to himself anymore.
He was reminded of those spy novels where the protagonist changes his identity to lurk on the other side. He could even compare himself to such a character if he wanted to. Slipping behind enemy lines, purloining and eavesdropping for the information he needed. And no one would know it was he. He could be like a shadow if he wanted to be, or a ghost lurking about with no name.
But all spies knew what they were doing, what methods to use, what role to play, what lies to tell. And he- what could he say about himself! The poor being that tried to do the right thing. The drowning creature, confused and alone. He couldn't even pin down that badge of honour that all spies had hidden beneath their guise. Who knew if what he was doing was the right thing to do? Who could say that he was the noble hero trying to set things right, or only someone who was about to make the biggest mistake of his life?
Hell, he couldn't even say who he was anymore! A man or beast, sinner or saint, wizard or werewolf? Who was Remus Lupin? What was Remus Lupin?
An instinctive reaction sent his hand to his throat to grasp the reassuring chain with his father's cross, but there was nothing for him to grasp. Mary had it; she possessed his silver cross, for he had given it to her! And now he was left with nothing to hold on to.
The penknife clattering to the floor pulled him from his musings. Lupin snatched the fallen knife from the ground and tossed it across the room where his briefcase lay open on the sunken cot in the corner.
"The name is Douglas Ridley," he murmured to himself. Was the Scottish accent thick enough? Accent needed work. Had to go deeper. From the back of the throat. "How are you keeping?" He stuck out his hand to himself and grinned. Winning smile. Over brimming confidence.
This was not the first time he had become a confidence man.
His reflection stared back at him critically. The smile dropped. Lupin sighed and muttered all the Scottish slang he knew as he made his way to his sunken cot. Frankly, it wasn't much. He had caught some of "going to the messages" and "the back of nine" talk while listening in around at train stations and cafes in and around Edinburgh, but nothing worthwhile. Taking up his briefcase, he snapped it open and slipped his hand into a hidden clasp in the corner. The false siding slid away and Lupin removed a small pack of stiff parchment papers and Muggle plastic cards.
John Gardiner. Luke Saunders. Stephen Wellington. Patrick O'Shea. Thomas Mariner. Douglas Ridley.
He snatched up the last one and hid the rest. The identification cards had been purchased on the black market years ago after Voldemort's fall and when anti-lycanthrope sentiments were the highest; they drained the little bit of savings he possessed, yet none had let him down yet.
He sat down on the cot, carefully gathering the pile of newspaper clippings that lay on the bed. "Muggle Girl Found Shot in Brighton." "Committee for Wizard-Muggle Relations Debate Fate of Werewolf Victim." "RMC's Predicament: How to Handle Family of Ex-Pup."
He had searched the wizard libraries and newsstands at Diagon Alley, checking sources for this information. Discovering Mary was still alive brought inexpressible relief. His grief was halved at that moment. She lived. He had not killed her. And that silver bullet, rooted in love and faith, had cured her. At least, so he wanted to believe.
A stray hand brushed across the old leather of his family Bible. Lupin let his fingers trace the gold lettering of the cover in a childlike way. The memory of that night on the beach, during that cold full moon in December... After so many years, during that moment, did He come at Lupin's prayer? Was it really magic that saved the little lamb?
He couldn't answer that question, and it ate like a worm at his conscience. Had Lupin really stopped believing, or was it a lie he kept telling himself because his beliefs had made him lose control of his despair? Or, in turn, was he a nihilist at heart, who begged for divine intervention because he loved so deeply, that he became selfish and desperate?
Either way, he had lost control of himself, of his life, and of everything he cherished. Was that how life was? Pure chaos? Or worse yet, did omnipotent strings, pulled by the whims from above, control him?
Damn it, how simple it would be if he could live without the need to believe in anything at all! But then if he did, the wolf within would have truly dominated his soul...
Lupin opened the cover and the pages turned themselves, flexing with the binding, blown as if by an invisible wind. The first pages, the family genealogy lasting for hundreds of years, spread out before him. Covered with fading ink and smudges, every member of his family ordered neatly before him. Lupin had never known much about his ancestors or even his living relatives. Occasionally he would think about why he had never met his grandparents, but then had always assumed they were dead. Judging by the record in his family book, his surname had changed twice during the book's record. Lupin was derived from Lupus: he had Latin roots somewhere. His own grandfather had been named after an ancient forbearer from Arcadia.
Near the bottom, underneath his name, was another written in a humble hand. Mary Elizabeth Grisham. Bitten Oct 18. Redeemed Dec. 17.
Redeemed. At the time back in the mountains of Scotland, it had been the only suitable phrase he could think of to write. "Redeemed" was certainly better than "died." She had never died, at least not in a physical sense.
He closed his eyes briefly. If only he could be sure she would stay safe. Already, he knew she was in Registry hands. In addition, she was a dead girl walking, a magical miracle. Could they destroy a miracle, if only because miracles could not exist in such a modern, regulated world?
Well, he wouldn't let them.
The book was put away. Was he ready? Lupin had sent off the résumé a few days ago, and the interview was scheduled for today. Little wonder if the Department for Being Resources was impressed; he had sent the form by owl post under the Scottish pseudonym and fabricated enough lies to make him seem like an accomplished, if impoverished, Squib. Lupin stared at the ID in his hand, as if trying to merge his own identity with the one he had concocted.
This is your talent, he told himself carefully. Don't be daft about it.
His "talent" was honed not by choice, but by necessity. He couldn't explode every time he felt angry, nor cry when he was grieved. He had learned at a very young age that to show any emotion would leave him vulnerable to other people. The masking of feelings, the quiet gesture of the hand, the humble raise of the eyes. Remus Lupin, most of all, was an actor.
Many times when he was a child travelling England, he had been the target of children's games. Wizard youngsters playing at homes, in yards, in fields, while old Murphy begged their parents for kindness and shelter for the night. Those ignorant, cruel children viewed him as a monster because they were told he was by worrisome parents. Most ran from him on sight. Others didn't flee but tried to see how dangerous this "monster" could be. Or how "brave" they could be by provoking this "beast" and escaping his "wrath."
Call him names, and see if he'll chase us! Or take a pebble - small one for easy throwing, large one if you can - and just as he goes down the bend in the road, clinging to that Squib's hand like a baby, heave it and see if you catch him in the back! Better yet, try and slug him in the head! Monsters are stupid anyway - look at that, he's crying! Now run, run off and brag to your friends about how you made the werewolf cry. They aren't as scary as mum and dad say!
So he had learned, a child's defences against children's games. And, as he grew older, those defences had hardened while the games became more refined. Hold in the breath, draw back the hand, paste on that false grin - years and years and years it had taken to master! Change yourself. You are not you but someone else on the street! You're not a wizard or a werewolf or anyone at all! Lost a job? Grin and bear it. Those distrustful stares? Shrug them off. The muttered words? Ignore them.
The mantra "Control, control, control" pounded in his head like a drummer's beat. He would not slip this time; he could not afford to. For now, it was time to begin the most difficult task he had ever had to face. And this would pull in all the skill he could muster. This was more than duping the passerby on the street, or feigning an identity at the Triwizard Tournament, or wheedling a minister while sitting upon his very doorstep. This was fooling a government agency using nothing more than his wit, a little magic, and a lot of luck. No Polyjuice Potion this time. Only him.
Lupin locked his eyes into his mirror image's. The corner of his mouth rose in a subtle half grin. Use focus, attitude, and style. This wasn't impossible.
Yes, not impossible. That should be his mantra as well. Not impossible. He could do this. Acting was all about skill and self-assurance. Without one or the other, he would fail. The grin widened ever so slightly. Lupin adjusted his glasses, tucked a pair of clean robes within his jacket, and left the rented room.

The Edinburgh branch of the United Kingdom's Ministry of Magic had a highly unusual side entrance. All offices must had to have at least one exit that led directly into the Muggle world, for reasons of safety and procedure, and when Edinburgh officials had decided to revamp their Muggle passageway, they had asked around about what kind of store would fit the most into the mundane, magic-less scheme of things. Spells prevented Muggles from noticing it, but still, the Scot politicians wanted to keep things authentic. Ultimately, they thought of one thing: the almighty Galleon. Little tours of the Ministry offices in London were already being conducted, so why not up here as well? No one could let those Londoners milk the cash cow by themselves.
But the poor Edinburgh officials had felt the need to impress the tourists with their superiority in Muggle knowledge. "We need to make this not only the Scottish experience, but the Muggle experience," entrepreneurs had muttered to themselves. With these intentions, they had sent an inquiry to the man who would know the most about Muggle culture: the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office in London, Arthur Weasley.
And that was how Waldo's Plugs and Outlets was born.
Lupin stared up at the neon storefront sign, which was outlined with blinking lights. Underneath in smaller writing were the words, "Edinburgh's premiere outlet store!" He blinked a couple times, - the lights were a bit dazzling - shrugged somewhat to himself, and stepped in.
The first thing he came in contact with was a curtain made up entirely of orange extension cords. Lupin pushed them out of the way, and surveyed his surroundings. Lengthy cords, wires, and cables coiled around every lighting fixture, shelf, table and chair in the room. Their electrical plugs dangled from the ceiling, their cables crisscrossing over the luminescent lights. Wooden, cork and steel stoppers were arranged on the walls in intricate patterns. Paintings of the most inane things plastered the walls. A beeper, a cell phone, and a microwave were displayed in oil paints, their buttons still blinking. Lupin backed up by a gigantic hanging of a VCR, whose digital clock flashed 12:00 repetitively.
Where was the interview being held? He had been told it was at the Department of Being Resources, but this place didn't resemble anything close to a government office. Nearby was a set of glass doors with the words, "Muggle Gift Shop" painted in Gothic lettering.
Gift shop? At the Ministry?
He entered, curious.
What he didn't realize was that a Muggle gift shop equalled a wholesale warehouse. Immeasurable shelves towered above him like skyscrapers. Toasters, blenders, computers, roller skates, can openers, and hundreds of other Muggle items lined the walls. Large tacky sales signs accompanied each, with the prices flashing. "LOW, LOW, LOW!" "SALE!" "ROLLING BACK THE PRICES!"
One glittering pink rack held a dozen neatly-trimmed brooms. "Own a broom that doesn't fly!" the display touted, as a misty illusionary witch swept with one. A tourist couple was taking a picture next to it, with the wife holding up the miraculously mundane broom.
Next to the cleaning isle was the "Muggle Electronics section." A strange hulking contraption was there - a computer, Lupin remembered. Claire had had one back at the Safehouse. The casual reminder stabbed at his heart and he turned away.
Other "electronics" were displayed. Wide-screen televisions with surround sound ("There are no people inside - really!"). Self-programming microwaves ("Cooking without fire - it's like magic!"). Graphing calculators ("The 'Electronic' Abacus!").
What do wizards actually do with all of these? Lupin wondered. Buy them for what reason? As a collector's item? Display a coffeemaker over the mantle place? Use a blender for a dining room centrepiece? Surely, wizards would prefer using magic compared to anything else; these items were merely curiosity's wonders.
Near the back of the store he arrived at a children's display. As Lupin clearly saw, however, no Muggle toys were being shown there. Instead, the aisle was swathed with glittering blue and gold chequered ribbons. The blue-gold pattern extended along the floor and sheathed the shelves with a tacky, luminescent sparkle. The glitz was even worse than the flashing neon Waldo's Plugs and Outlets sign. Lupin shaded his eyes with one hand and wondered what kind of promotion was being presented here.
Neat packaged items stacked the shelves. Lupin picked one up and saw that it was an action figurine. Inside, a little spectacled boy with tousled sandy blond hair stood, dressed in an athletic uniform with a ball under one arm. Occasionally, the figure moved, tossing the ball from one hand to another, then waving a miniscule arm at Lupin. On the box was the label "Rugby-Playing Larry - collect all Larry Porter^(tm) action figures and watch them play a real Muggle Rugby^(tm) game!"
Another packaged box. Bus Station Larry^(tm). This child looked somewhat annoyed, pacing the small square back and forth while checking his watch. Occasionally his high, tiny voice would mutter something like, "By Merlin's beard, the bus is late!" and "Galloping Goblins, how much longer will this take!" Also included in the Larry Porter^(tm) Muggle Transportation Series was a working model of the infamous London Cab^(tm) that Larry rode in and a scale figure of a British Airways 747 Commercial Jet^(tm) (working turbines not included).
Other merchandise items lined the shelves as well. Larry Porter^(tm) board games, trading cards, broom sets, wood-carvings, stickers, toothpaste, nightlights, sunscreen, and much, much more packed the walls, with that same logo slapped onto each product. There was even a separate display of Chocolate Frogs with Larry Porter's^{(tm) face} on it, and his own brand of flavoured butterbeer.
Another, humbler display held the books, titled The Adventures of Larry Porter and the Muggles by N.K. Stouffer. Lupin picked one up and read the back cover.

Larry Porter lives the most wretched life thought possible for a child in the wizard world. Only known as "The Squib" in the prestigious Crockworth Pureblood family, Larry is treated miserably by his terrible aunt, uncle, and their spoiled son Barnaby. However, one day, Larry's world turns upside-down when he receives a mysterious letter though the Owl Post: a message that says that he isn't a Crockworth Squib at all, but a Muggle - not just any Muggle, but the son of the recently deceased Nicholas Knickerbocker, one of the most influential intermediaries between the wizard and Muggle world. And his life is now in danger...
Abandoning everything he has ever known, Larry must flee into the dangerous and strange Muggle world, where robes are not worn, people believe dragons and unicorns are not real, and "technology" replaces magic. There, Larry befriends the sassy and mischievous Felicity Rabblerouser and the intelligent Donald Knowitall. But can this trio stand up to the unknown forces after Larry?

Ah, Lupin had heard of this book before. It was a bestseller in the wizard world. Several rumours said that it was inspired by Harry Potter's life, but the author denied resolutely having her creativity guided by anything else other than her own mind. Putting the book back on the shelf, Lupin vaguely wondered if Harry himself had read this.

Whether the books had any quality to them he didn't know, but the merchandise was certainly overrated. Commercialization tended to degrade literature. He pondered whether the author had realised this when she sold the rights or had simply been trying to cash in like everyone else in this mercantile world.
By the children's section, Lupin spotted a lone cashier. Perhaps he knew where the Department of Being Resources was. The counter was plastered entirely with outlet covers: some the standard rectangular ones, others in strange shapes and sizes. One young, pimply youth flicked a light switch on and off, totally absorbed by a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He jumped upon seeing Lupin approach.
"Oh, are you here for the tour?"
"Not particularly. I'm actually here for the job interview. Can you direct me to the Department of Being Resources?"
"Job inter-" The light bulb went off above his head. "Ah, I got you. The passageway's right over there." He pointed to two sets of lift doors. "It was in maintenance earlier today, so could be a little slow."
"Either one?"
"Oh, take the employee one on the left. The other's part of the tour. Ask for the department and it'll get you there."
"Thank you." Lupin went to the lift on his left and pressed the button. The doors opened to nothing. An empty elevator shaft. Lupin double-checked. His foot kicked up a minor plug on the floor and it tumbled down into the abyss.
He looked to his left, where a tour guide was herding the group of wizards into an existing lift compartment beside him. The lift itself was completely made out of different coloured panes of glass; the passengers treaded carefully so as to not slip along the shiny surface. Lupin stuck his head out past the threshold and saw the shaft was built for a double set of elevators, only there wasn't a compartment built for his side.
"This is called a lift, also known as an elevator," the guide said. "Lifts were invented in the mid-1840s by an American named James Otis. They are what Muggles use to travel from floor to floor of office buildings, skyscrapers, and other extremely tall buildings. If you look through the ceiling above you, you shall see a system of wheels and ropes. This is called the pulley system, which controls the elevator's movement." He soon packed the entire group in the small elevator and pressed a red button on the sideboard.
A short Japanese man with a camera around his neck raised his hand. "Is true that elevator go up and down?"
"Yes. Wizard improvements enable these to move sideways, byways, backwards, frontwards, diagonally, and inside-out as well, but Muggles apparently have trouble defying gravity. Moving on." The doors slid shut.
Lupin peered into his own empty shaft to see the elevator lower down smoothly. The guide's voice could still be heard muffled through the coloured panes. "If you turn to page 476 of your guidebook, there is an illustration of the pulley system..."
"You sure?" Lupin asked the store clerk.
"Positive."
Lupin held his breath and stepped out. He stood, suspended for a few moments in blank air. Daring himself to look down, Lupin gave a blank stare at the distant bottom of the shaft. Immediately, he plummeted toward the bottom.
Down and down and down he fell, the wind racing past him, the speed catching his breath in his throat, the skeleton beams of the walls blurring by, the concrete floor looming in closer and closer and closer-
A startled shout escaped him before logic kicked in. "Department of Being Resources! Department of Being Resources!"
And still he continued to tumble. He could see the layer of dust upon the hard ground and the cobweb traces in the corner magnifying with the shortening distance; he closed his eyes so he wouldn't witness his skull crashing into the concrete-
A loud ding rang out in the air.
He stopped.
Lupin could feel his breath coming in and out of his overworked lungs as his pulse started to slow its rapid beat. Hesitantly, he opened one eye to discover his nose bare centimetres from the floor. In fact, his whole body hovered spread-eagle above the shaft bottom.
The tour guide's voice came from above him. "Now we shall go downstairs and visit a model of the Muggle underground-"
The glass lift descended alongside him. There was a bright flash of light through the pebbled surface as the Japanese man snapped a picture - Lupin twitched.
"-which is a system of below ground railways that-"
The guide's voice was cut off when the lift and its passengers disappeared through the floor.
Golden sparkles emitted from the cold concrete. They drifted around him and fluidly lifted him into the air. The process was slow, like the guard had said, and it took Lupin a full ten minutes to arrive at the proper floor. During this time, he managed to pull his robe over his head and smooth out the wrinkles. He wiped the sweat from his brow and got a whiff of wet dog; his perspiration increased the Confundus Cologne's potency.
He stopped in front of a heavy-set oaken door made of roughly hewn planks and riveted with iron bolts. In the centre of this forbidding door was a frosted square of glass with the flowing script, "Department of Being Resources." The door had no handle.
"Name please?" A disembodied voice inquired.
"Douglas Ridley. I'm here for a job in-"
The door opened with an ominous creak. "Come in."
Lupin stepped through the portal, which slammed loudly behind him. He entered a simply furnished office waiting room. On a table there was a small pile of résumés, with a sign above it saying, "Take One Please."
He stared at the pile curiously. He had already sent one in before; why would they ask for another? Well, he wasn't going to complicate matters any...
Lupin picked up a blank résumé the colour of moulted leaves and a quill from the cracked inkpot before sitting down in one of the navy blue waiting room chairs. Putting the quill tip to the paper, he wrote "Douglas Ridley" on the line that said Name.
Instantly, the words dissolved on the sheet and new script in dark lettering appeared.
Liar.
Lupin nearly dropped his quill. He hastily scratched out the word, and then tried writing down his alias again. Yet as soon as his quill lifted itself from the paper, an invisible hand erased the name.
A new reply was written. Don't even try it, laddie.
For a few moments, Lupin stared at response. What do you mean? he wrote innocently. I am only trying to fill - he paused, wondering whether to say address the résumé as "you" or not - out the information as required, he finished.
His ink script was disappeared, replaced by another's.
Oh yeah, that's what they all say, the résumé answered. It always starts with the names.
Lupin wrote, What is wrong with mine, may I ask?
You might have called yourself Hengist of Woodcroft for all I care, the résumé snapped. I've got some grievances to get off me chest about folks like you.
I'm not trying to be rude. I was only
Cut the crap; I've got some ink to spill.
Lupin lifted up his quill, taken back by the document's disrespect.
It began again in a complaining drawl. First, it's the names. Then take a few years off the birth date - younger is always better. And hey, before you know it, laddie, applicants are lying about how many toes they have or what they ate for breakfast yesterday. Not to mention their accomplishments! "Pureblood family going back fifty-six generations." "Head Boy of '78 at Hogwarts." "Former Intern at the Department of Mysteries." HA!
An ink splotch marked the end of the exclamation point. How disgruntled can one get from lying on a table all day? Lupin wondered.
I apologise for your poor experience with previous applicants, he wrote sincerely. I would be more than willing to write down honest answers if you require it of me.
Of course I require it, stupid. I'm here to sniff out those who lie on their applications! Ugh... The résumé added in smaller letters, as if muttering to itself, The fools I have to deal with...
For a piece of paper, you have quite an attitude problem, he answered shortly.
What, you going to be fresh now? the résumé snapped, the words zipping across the paper. Fine, be that way. I'll just fill out meself for you.
Across the top, it wrote "Remus Jacob Lupin" in flourishing handwriting and proceeded to write down everything else about his true self.
Age: 36
Birth date: August 7^th
Last occupation: Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor
Reason for dismissal: WEREWOLF
Immediately, Lupin tore the parchment in two. The pieces fluttered to the floor. On the smaller half, the résumé had the last word. And you wrote that I had an attitude problem... Then, the print faded away, leaving a blank sheet.
How am I supposed to get into this place if I can't even get past the damned résumés? Lupin chided himself bitterly. Maybe this wasn't the way to go. Yet what other choice did he have? Forge a copy? He picked up the fallen pieces and folded them into his pocket.
Suddenly, the Director's office door opened. A loud voice called out, "NEXT!"
Lupin stood in the middle of the waiting room, wondering if he should enter without filling out any of the papers. Wasn't there supposed to be another applicant in the office before him? If so, where had that person gone? The forbidding door was waiting. Focus, Lupin instructed himself. Attitude. Style. He sniffed at his wrist; the odor of wet dog made him feel quite nauseated, if not more confident. Carefully, he entered the Director's office.
The entire office was painted a fiery orange so bright it hurt his eyes. A monstrosity of a desk towered in front of him, its legs ending in heavy griffin claws. Behind that was the back of a tall chair made of tooled leather and riveted with steel. On the desktop was a small, almost insignificant, nameplate with the title, Mr. Felix C. Burtman, Director of Being Resources.
The chair turned whirled around. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic's Edinburgh offices." The Director who greeted him was a thin, angular man dressed in a coal black suit, with a pencil moustache and slicked-back raven hair. Altogether he seemed like a respectable, self-assured wizard. That is, if one chose to ignore the pointed furry ears spouting from his head and the long, whip-like tail that extended from behind him.
Mr. Burtman rose and extended a hand across the desk to Lupin, his thin lips forming a broad smile. Lupin received it without a hitch, trying not to notice how Mr. Burtman's tail flicked out from behind the desk. He managed to make eye contact as well, despite the unsettling fact that the Director had diagonal slits for pupils.
"The name's Douglas Ridley," he replied cordially, testing out his Scottish accent. "How are you keeping?"
"Rather fine, thank you. And how are you?"
"Doing well. I apologize for not completing a résumé," he added, "but it was quite disagreeable with me."
He expected the interview to stop right there, but Mr. Burtman only gave a low, carefree chuckle. "I apologize for not replacing them. All the applicants have been telling me that." He gave a casual shrug. "The new stock is more meticulous than I would prefer. As they say, 'One bad tree spoils the ream.' " He laughed again, then sat down. "Not that I mind much. Extra precautions were never my thing; I have the one you sent in right here." He waved a hand to Lupin's fabricated résumé on his desk. "Please, take a seat."
Was that the cologne working? Must be. Lupin checked around to see a smaller chair identical to the Director's planted behind him. He didn't remember seeing that before. Nevertheless, Lupin settled himself down comfortably.
"Please," Mr. Burtman said in a purring voice. "Tell me about yourself."
"There's not much to say." Lupin cleared his throat. Was his accent sounding right? Yes, he supposed it was. "I worked a few years back as a farm hand in the countryside, but quit after a while for opportunity's sake. I tried looking for city work, but city's tough. They're asking for education." He squirmed slightly as if to exhibit nervousness. "The schooling's not in me." He cleared his throat again. Damn, this accent was bothering him. Lupin checked in a worried glance and asked, "The workload isn't too intellectual-like, is it?"
Mr. Burtman had his hands folded on the table. He glanced at his job application. "Are you a Squib, Mr. Ridley?"
Lupin bowed his head down quickly. "I thought the position was aimed for a man like me," he muttered.
"Of course it is," Mr. Burtman said apologetically. He chuckled. "I didn't mean to startle you or anything." The Director pointed with a slender finger towards the Employment Policy framed on the flame-coloured wall. "We never turn anyone away who's qualified for the job."
Ah, the Ministry is an equal-opportunity employer! Lupin thought dryly. He had been fired from enough jobs in the past, which had boasted of the same standards; law could not supersede prejudice.
He gave a small, anxious smile. "I have to confess that my last employer and I weren't the best of friends," he added. "But, but I'll work the hardest if that's what you want, Mr. Burtman. If there's the sweeping to do done, or the cleaning, or the garbage, anything-"
"Be still yourself, Mr. Ridley." Mr. Burtman scratched behind a furry ear with a bemused expression on his face. The ear twitched. "May you tell me, where do you see yourself five years from now?"
A sigh escaped him. "Deep question, that one." His adjusted the glasses. "Can't say exactly, Mr. Burtman. The world's a tumultuous place, and all I hope is that I get the quid to pack myself into a good home. I -I live in a tenement in the city, and I... I really want to be owning a house in a couple years. Not a big one, mind you, but a place with gas heating would be nice."
That smooth grin uncurled once more across his face. "Good goals you have there," Mr. Burtman reassured. "We at the Ministry look for determination in potential employees. Diligence as well."
"Oh yes, I'll be working," Lupin rushed in eagerly. That excitable light flared up in his eye again. "Days, nights, weekends, whenever the shift is."
"Actually, Mr. Ridley, the shift we're trying to fill is the 6 PM to 5 AM shift. Not many takers for that." Mr. Burtman flexed his bony fingers and picked up his application. "From this job application, I see that you're quite qualified." Mr. Burtman's eyes went over the paper again. "Very qualified indeed." He laid the paper back on the desk, smoothing it out with those elegant hands. "Would you please push your chair back, Mr. Ridley?"
Lupin stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I-I-I didn't do anything wrong, did I?" he asked.
"I'm only conducting the basic background check." Mr. Burtman opened a drawer and took out his wand and several sticky electrode pads. "Just please let me put these on."
Background check? What did those electrodes monitor? Heart rate? Breathing? Lupin recalled Muggle using those electrodes and a small graphing machine that could detect whether a man was lying or not. Was this the magical equivalent?
He sat stock-still as Mr. Burtman came around the desk and fastened those sticky, round pads on his temples, on the pulse points of his neck and on the inside of his wrists. The Director took the dangling wires from these electrodes in one hand and knotted them together. Lupin then noticed that little leather straps with brass buckles were nailed onto the armrests of the chair he was sitting. Mr. Burtman strapped the leather fastenings around his wrists, tying them to the arms of the chair.
"What's going on with all this?" Lupin casually questioned, hiding his discomfort.
"We're just preparing you for my Duchess," Mr. Burtman said cheerfully. "Don't worry, it shouldn't hurt at all."
Shouldn't hurt? Lupin coughed out of nervousness then gritted his teeth together chidingly. Control, Remus, control. Yet a small panicking outcry was already forming in his mind. This was unexpected. Why, the last time he had had a job interview something like this hadn't been required. He had lied on applications before and on résumés. Nothing like this had ever occurred. Yet this was a government job, for heaven's sake. One doesn't pluck any chap off the street for a government job.
Mr. Burtman went behind his desk and lifted up a small cage that Lupin hadn't noticed before. His tail swished out behind him, and Lupin shifted in his seat to avoid its touch. When the Director turned around again, Lupin saw that he had a frosty, translucent creature about the size of a housecat on a brass leash. The animal (if Lupin could call it that) wagged its long trunk about excitedly as it floated along the ground.
"This is a spirit niffler," Mr. Burtman explained reassuringly. "Similar to those common nifflers you've seen around. Yet this little darling was bred especially for sniffing out corruption in our applicants instead of gold. Her nose is very particular, magically designed to home in on treachery."
"Kind of like those Muggle lie detector tests, hmm?" Lupin gave a small chuckle. He felt himself shudder inside. How many layers of wretchedness would this niffler find within him? Would her diaphanous trunk catch the scent of a child's blood?
"Even more so." Mr. Burtman scratched underneath the niffler's ghostly chin and cooed softly. "Yes, my little Duchess, we have a another one for you today." He took those wires and fastened them around specially marked spots on the niffler's collar.
"Ready, my dear?" Mr. Burtman plunked the vaporous creature upon Lupin's knees. It was like a bundle of Arctic mist being dropped into his lap. Lupin shivered involuntarily.
"Now, this test is quite simple," Mr. Burtman explained. "Look into Duchess's eyes."
"That's all?" Lupin said.
"That's all, Mr. Ridley."
Lupin peered into the niffler's large, unblinking orbs. They were quite intriguing. Glowing shades of blue and purple swirled within, intensifying with the bright office lights. He found himself relaxing under her hypnotic gaze. A brisk chill swept through his body. Looking at those eyes, his mind became calm. They're like jewels, he thought in awe. Why is a creature like this shut up in a cage underground...?
The niffler sniffed about inquisitively. Her wispy truck brushed slowly along his chest in a circular motion, the sensitive tip quivering. The sensation was almost ticklish.
His face lost all expression as he continued to stare, eyes half-lidded. What a beautiful animal, Lupin continued languidly. Enchanting beast, with such breathtaking eyes. No wonder, for eyes are the windows to the soul. Probably that's all she is- a little wisp sent to investigate the souls of others. How is mine, little Duchess? he questioned silently. Can you tell me?
Her luminescent eyes grew rounder, the ever-changing colours becoming even more brilliant. Was she giving her answer? Lupin leaned forward slightly, transfixed. Azure changed to indigo changed to violet changed to sapphire changed to amethyst changed to plum changed to-
A sharp stab of frigid air impaled his chest. He cried out at the intensity, jaw dropping, eyes widening. Cold! His legs kicked out. His arms jerked in reaction, struggling against his bonds. The niffler had its trunk plunged clear through him and began pumping rhythmically.
Mr. Burtman sat across from him, watching kindly as Lupin flailed in his seat. "Don't worry, Mr. Ridley," he chirped. "You'll only feel a brisk chill."
An icicle seemed to have been thrust into Lupin's heart - reaching in, fanning out, locking the blood in his veins, coating over his insides, halting the throb of his heart - cold - cold - cold!
He couldn't feel the chair beneath him anymore - or anything at all. Nothing except that ice probe digging through flesh and bone and marrow, seeping through the levels of his very being, snatching hold of something within and pulling-
Lupin must have blacked out for a minute or so, for the next thing he knew, Mr. Burtman was standing over him, undoing the electrodes and freeing his arms. "It's all over now," he said. "Simple, isn't it?"
He muttered something in reply and lifted his eyes toward the spirit niffler, who was bouncing up and down on the Director's desk. She was squealing softly to herself, holding a small, glowing sphere with her trunk.
"Wah's.... wah's that...?" he slurred. He put a hand over his chest where the niffler's trunk had gone through. He wasn't injured, but part of him felt... missing.
"This is the sample of what we need." Mr. Burtman daintily picked up the spirit niffler's find and took out a round magnifying glass from a desk drawer. He examined the ball of light as if appraising a valuable gem, his yellow, feline eye magnified ten times through the glass. His pointed ears perked up with interest.
"Ah... very good," he murmured to himself. "The finest quality I see."
Mr. Burtman spent a quarter of an hour slowly turning the object, making little "tsk, tsk, tsk" sounds under his breath. Lupin watched in a daze as his mind tried to comprehend exactly what had happened. Suddenly, Mr. Burtman tossed the light into a red velvet bag and tucked the bag into his suit jacket.
"You passed," he announced in a grand voice.
Passed? Passed what? "Oh... Oh good..." Lupin straightened up in his seat. The glasses he wore sat askew on his face, but he didn't re-adjust them. He blinked. "What... happened?" His voice regained its natural British tones, yet he was oblivious to his slipping cover.
The Director, however, seemed not notice. "The background check, Mr. Ridley."
"Oh." Lupin adjusted the glasses. "And what did it say?"
"I'm sorry but the results are confidential." The Director smiled amiably and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. "Would you like to go over the terms of agreement?"
"Terms of agreement?" Lupin repeated distractedly. He stared at Mr. Burtman's jacket where the velvet bag was.
Mr. Burtman seemed to read his mind. He placed his hand on Lupin's shoulder. "Come now, you're not going to back away from the interview at this point?"
"Why should I?" Lupin swallowed hard. "'Twas just a bit of funny business you were pulling there," he said, fixing his accent. "I've not seen anything other than blood and guts coming out of meself before." All thoughts of trickery disappeared from his mind.
Mr. Burtman, however, didn't take note of that. "Don't worry about a thing," he added pleasantly. "I do these sorts of checks all the time. You're in the hands of an expert."
Lupin nodded bluntly. Control, Remus, control. He blinked twice, and then cleared his throat loudly. "I... I'd like to see those terms of agreement then," he said. This is for Mary, he told himself. I do this for her sake.
"All right then." Mr. Burtman when back to his desk and whipped out a lengthy scroll, a cherry-coloured inkpot and a phoenix quill. "The hours are from 6PM to 5AM like I mentioned before," he said in a business-like tone. "The pay is 20 Sickles a week. This job does not include health coverage, unfortunately, but it does have a good retirement plan. Just sign here," he ended quickly.
Lupin stared at the minute print covering the paper. "What else does it say?" he asked cautiously.
Mr. Burtman flicked a wrist indifferently. "Oh, just to abide by the Ministry rules and all that. Nothing much, just the red tape."
"If I could take a minute to read this-"
The Director chuckled lightly. "I'll give you a copy to take home yourself. Believe me, it's just filler." His index finger pointed eagerly to the bottom line. "Sign at the 'X'."
The two men met stares. "I've got only one question then, if you'll not mind," Lupin said slowly.
The Director folded his hands together. "And what may that be?"
Lupin shifted his stare back to the contract. "I was only wondering... how did you... well... with your, um-"
"My unusual attributes?" Mr. Burtman said pointedly. His whole face seemed to darken, as his ears pressed back against his head.
"Oh, I apologize, sir, I didn't mean to be impolite-"
"Never mind, I get that all the time." The storm clouds rolled away from his brow and the smile reappeared. Lupin began to think that grin was automatic. "It was a horrible transfiguration accident during my schoolboy years. I attempted to transform myself into a cat with mixed results. Very tragic." He gestured toward the scroll again. "Sign please?"
Should he sign? A feeling of foreboding manifested itself in his mind. Why hadn't that soul niffler uprooted his duplicity? Lupin took the quill in his hand and stared at the dashed line. Was it luck, magic, or something else that had prevented him from getting caught?
His eyes scanned the line above it. 'I hereby declare knowledge of the rules of the Edinburgh branch of the United Kingdom Ministry of Magic and therefore hold myself responsible for any rules broken and crimes committed.'
Then, without another moment of delay, he put the quill to parchment and signed his alias with a swift flourish. The scroll immediately rolled itself up and into Mr. Burtman's hands. The Director's grin extended from ear-to-ear as he sealed the scroll shut with a blood-red wax seal.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Ridley," he said proudly. "We'll be certainly be glad to have you." Mr. Burtman snapped his fingers and a folded set of light blue robes appeared on the desk, topped with a painter's cap of the same colour. "You'll start tomorrow night. There'll be one other working the same shift; I'll have her show you around."
Lupin could only murmur, "Thank you." He then remembered his character and lightened up considerably. "I'm so grateful for all this, sir!" he exclaimed, grabbing the Director's hand and pumping it effusively. "You won't regret hiring me, Mr. Burtman. I swear to work my hardest!"
"I'm sure I won't. You were born for this job." Mr. Burtman gave a low chuckle, one that seemed much more darker than his previous ones. He led Lupin out of his office and handed him a clean copy of the job contract. "Take this to look over later; if you have any troubles, don't hesitate in sending an owl. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Ridley."
The office door shut behind him. Lupin slumped against the wall and put a hand to his temple. It was almost unbelievable; he had actually got away with it. Lupin took a glance at the cap he had been given, part of his new uniform. The title was embroidered in white block lettering on the front. Ministry of Magic: Custodial Services.
Rubbing his chest slowly, he wondered if he had got away with anything at all. Stuffing the uniform within his robes, Lupin exited the room. The handle-less door swung open of its own accord as he entered the empty elevator shaft.
It was too easy, he suddenly thought. That whole interview was damn simple and far too quick. But why?
Soon he arrived outside and walked down the cold, snowy streets as these worries grew. Perhaps the Ministry already caught him. Perhaps the interview had been made to humour this poor wolf. Perhaps the Hit Wizards were walking half a street behind him, darting between the Muggle pedestrians. Lupin gave a glance backwards. Perhaps they would follow him back to the tenement and arrest him there. Perhaps they would come at night to feed their predatory thrill. Perhaps they were just around the corner, watching, waiting...
His eyes scanned the streets around him. Hurrying cars, bustling people. Where were they? God, the interview had been so simple!
Lupin quickly bowed his head and hurried his pace. His hand went to his chest, which still felt the spirit niffler's chilling touch. Stop fooling yourself, Remus. Perhaps it hadn't been simple after all.
His initial uncertainty grew into sarcasm. Oh, wonderful, Remus, wonderful job there! Award-winning performance, and, you sly wolf, you'll have to prepare yourself for more in the weeks to come. Really, don't be so grim - you actually have a job! And working the Ministry, of in all places! Hey, at least now, after all these years, you'll finally get the opportunity to steal office supplies! When there are Hit Wizards out to get you, there has to be at least some consolation bonus.
He took the cap out and plunked it over his head; Muggle pedestrians would never notice the magical stitching anyhow. I've practically sold my soul to become a janitor, he thought cynically. So if the hat fits....
The Ministry had certainly hired their most interesting employee yet.