Wolf By Ears

WOLF BY EARS

Part Three: Thought vs. Emotion

By D.M.P.

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Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings - always darker, emptier, and simpler than they are.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

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Chapter 8

Boomslang.
Leeches.
Knotgrass.
The lamps from the streets were brighter than the waning moon and the sounds of midnight traffic - there always seemed to be traffic going by, even in the old quarter - zoomed and rumbled and honked and screeched. Her location did not matter - London or Nice; to Claire, the murmur of a city never waned.
She was awake, staring at the Italian relief on the ceiling. In wealthy, crumbling, ancient houses such as this, one look above would reveal a vast spread of flowing plaster-and-paint arches, columns, lattice, vines and flowers all twisting and blooming and growing into one another. With the faint streetlight streaming upon these symmetrical layouts, these patterns became more defined and shaped with shadow. She blinked and sighed. One can learn to appreciate the beauty of ceiling sculpture when one is unable to turn one's back away from it.
The silhouette of the brace stood out against her leg like a cage. Her limb was propped up on a pillow to cushion it. The sheets were silk, the comforter down, and the pillows stuffed with feathers. But the silk was slippery and the comforter too thin. Her brace sunk into the flimsy fluff stuffed beneath it; she feared that the metal would tear at the brocade.
Claire longed her worn set of linen sheets and the six-year old heated blanket she used back in London. Her brother had moved all of her belongings to his home in Nice, but had specifically thrown out all of the "shabby" materials she used and offered her more quality ones.
"You don't have to reduce yourself to squalor just because you provide for squalor," he had huffed, while unpacking her boxes (a service she had never asked him to do). "I provided a decent amount of money for you. Five thousand Galleons annually should provide more than enough for a proper lifestyle."
She had lived a proper lifestyle, proper in that it was of her own choosing. If only Bernard really knew where the clan's money went....
Her discomfort grew. There was a heavy-foam, shaped pillow that was tucked beneath her for her back brace. Now it was out of place, and the hard plastic was digging into her skin. She couldn't shift her position by herself. Claire's eye went to the bell cord by the bed stand hanging like a limp snake from the ceiling. It was near one AM; she wouldn't think of waking Fifi up at this hour, although Bernard constantly reassured her that Fifi could be her willing slave. Claire felt guilty, however, every time she requested the woman's aid. Fifi Dubois, she knew, was a very capable woman, but a very slow one. She didn't like giving orders to a simpleton.
Clenching her teeth, Claire closed her eyes. At least she could spend this time to think by herself. She could wait until morning.
Boomslang. Leeches. Knotgrass. What else?
In the hidden crevices of her mind, the pieces came to her, fragmented like shards of broken china being swept together. She could make out clumps and splotches: the closed shades upon the windows, the bright lights in the kitchen, the loud humming of the overhead fan on the stove, the pungent smell of boiled cabbage. Carefully, gently, each piece falling one by one, completing the memory...

The pot bubbled and frothed on the stove; he had made it work this time, thankfully. He was chopping a spindly, golden mess, carefully drawing out the seeds. The girl was kneeling on one of the kitchen tables, examining an insect with large, gossamer wings. She held it up to see the light filter through its gauzy limbs.

"Isn't that pretty, Madame?"

"Oui."
Claire had her arms folded on the tabletop. She lifted a hand and poked one of the dead bugs with her finger. Its wings were folded along its dried, shrunken body.
"Zey are like little insect mummies," she observed.
"I certainly like these better than other bugs. All the normal ones I know are ugly and gross." She spread the tiny creature across her small palm. "I wouldn't ever touch normal bugs, even if they were dead." She gently stroked the fly. "Does magic make everything prettier?"
"I suppose so."
"Can I put these in, Remmy?" she asked hopefully.
His hands were measuring out a shimmering powder into the pot. Claire's eyes followed those hands as they moved up and down, up and down. The bicorn powder was like fairy dust, vanishing into the bubbling pot.
"You may when I tell you so," he answered.
She stuck her hand inside to get a handful. The jar suddenly tipped and Claire reached over to grab the container before it could fall.
" 'Ere." Carefully, she poured out a small pile onto the table for her. " 'Ow many?"
"Not too much." He stretched out an arm and gave the boiling mixture a quick stir with a wooden spoon. "Five or six should do."
The girl selected the largest out of the jar. Her choices were slow and deliberate; if one fly had so much as a rip in one of its diaphanous wings, she put it back and chose another.
Claire's eyes were on him again, watching every move he made. He noticed the weight of her stare; he turned; she turned, picking up a lacewing fly and pressing its wings together so that they crumbled between her fingertips.
Once the girl had six of them in her hand, she lowered herself from her seat and presented them to him. Claire tousled her golden hair quickly before she slipped away. What an adorable little pup.
"Will these do?"
"Perfect."
Claire made her way over to the counter as well. She stood close to him, just close enough without touching. He lifted her up over the pot and she dropped them in, one by one. She leaned forward to do so, and the little silver cross she wore reflected the kitchen light.
The flies swirled around in the mixture before dissolving with a little sparkle. The pot's contents changed color, from grey to a light blue.
Claire made an idle gesture in picking up each of the jars and scanning the labels casually. Fluxweed. Bicorn horn. In sealed plastic bags were the hair samples of her werewolf comrades, Jarohnen and Toby. Another bowl lay on the counter filled with a custard-like substance. She checked the ingredients for that as well. Eel Slime. Asphodel root. Camel hoof. Beeswax.
"Zese are separate from ze potion, are zey not?"
"It's a quickening agent," he said, still holding the girl in his arms. She was stirring the wooden spoon for him. "The Polyjuice Potion usually takes a month of boil until it's ready; the additive will cut the time down significantly." Those hazel eyes came in contact with hers. A quiet, veiled emotion came from them.
"Ah." Claire nodded slowly, then stepped away, moving her head aside as if something had caught her eye. Jarohnen leaned against the kitchen doorway, observing the scene coolly. He had watched her as she had watched him as he stirred the unfinished potion. A warm flush came to her cheeks, and she put a hand to her face. Yet then their eyes met and Claire didn't look away. She knew the question that would come from him.
"Be sure that you clean up the mess afterwards," she said. "I have some calls to make."
He nodded his head. She was measuring out some of the Boomslang skin. "Careful, my girl, careful." They didn't notice Jarohnen standing behind them; they didn't expect anything. Claire gave them no reason to.
She was now in her office with a large tome in her lap. The print was in Russian, with a hand-written French translation underneath. There were little notes in the margins, some in Russian, some in English, some in French, and a few scribbles in the ancient Pyrenées dialect, the mother tongue of her clan.
On a fresh page, she wrote in sharp ink "Polyjuice Potion" and listed the following:

Amt: 2 ½ pts.
6 qt. water
5 or 6 large Lacewing flies, whole
3 leeches, whole
2 tbsp. chopped Fluxweed, w/o seeds, (FM variety)
½ m. of Knotgrass, untied
¼ c. of shredded Boomslang skin
7 tsp. of bicorn horn

[Catalysing agent]:
1 c. eel slime
½ asphodel root,
chopped 6 oz. raw beeswax...

Jarohnen was reading over her shoulder. Claire finished writing down the rest of the instructions and put down the pen on her desk. She raised the book up, as if asking for approval. One glance and he closed the book, his hand resting on hers for a split moment before drawing back. Claire waited until he left before she put the spell book away.

That was it.
She opened her eyes. That was why Ulysses had come. Jarohnen had told him, through whatever secretive means of communication they used. They were hatching his own escape plan and needed her help. Specifically, they required the spell books that Jarohnen had given to her, the ones which she had hid in a place only she knew.
Yet her spell books weren't among the items that were brought here. They must be still stowed away beneath the floorboards of her office at the old Safehouse, which was now re-possessed by the Ministry. If the Freedom Hounds could risk it, they would be able to retrieve them, now that they forged an alliance between them and the Gaczyna pack. The Gaczyna pack were specialists in the field; they would know how to handle things.
Ulysses wanted an owl to be sent to him soon with the location of the books. She could give him the note if she wanted to.
If Jarohnen was free, could he possibility find him? Remus Lupin. He had vanished from the public scene after the December full moon. Possibility he was holed up with his friend Sirius Black. Claire wasn't sure if she could trust the wizard, but if he claimed they were friends, then they must be. What bothered her, though, was that he had never told her anything about him. It scared her that she would care for a wolf that told her nothing.
Did she really care for him? She certainly liked the way he had helped her with his magic. She liked how he had cared for his pup, how he had held her and spoken kindly to her and told her bedtime stories at night. She liked how he seemed to trust her and the way he had looked at her. And once, she finally remembered a little dance in front of a café. He had fumbled around awkwardly, his palms sweaty, and, yes, he had stepped on her toes. But in all the clumsiness he had there was something else -

"Ya could learn so much from him, comrade, and he would be very willin'."
They were walking down the hall, whispering, as the card game proceeded in the common room. Downstairs, her comrade Dominic was raising his bet by five cigarettes.
"Too rich for my blood," she could hear Ulysses saying, folding his cards.
"I'll raise you ten," Toby challenged.
Dominic replied, "You don't have ten."
"Fine, I'll throw in my hat."
"What do you think this is? Strip poker?"
"Well," Antonia's tenor voice laughed, "if it is, I wanna see kiddo here take something off other than his hat!"
A slap was heard and an exclamation came from the younger wolf. Accompanying hilarity ensued below. The uproar faded as they entered Jarohnen's room.
"Don't ya see that this is the chance we've been waitin' for?" the Ianikit said. "Wizardin' werewolves don't just fall out of the sky."
Claire protested, " 'E would be unwilling."
"Ya never know. The interest is fermenting in his eyes, and he spends his time sittin' with us. He doesn't talk, but he listens and I see the intrigue grow on his face."
"I don't know." She found herself speaking faster. "One can never tell when they're new. You're being too 'opeful," she ended, plunking herself down on the cot.
"Have ya even tried? He was here for over three weeks, just the two of ya."
"And Mary," she added.
"Da, and the girl." Jarohnen frowned a bit.
"Don't say zat I 'ave not thought about zat," she snapped, a bit of irritation in her voice. He stopped beside the cot where she sat. She could feel his eyes penetrate her. Unable to withstand it, she got up from her seat and turned away.
He spoke to her back in a low tone. "But ya've done nothin'. Have ya forgot everythin' I taught ya? Did ya forget your purpose?"
Lowering her eyes, Claire put a hand to her forehead. "Jarohnen, remember what I said before? I would stay out-"
"What ya said hasn't anythin' to do with this-"
"-I would only provide a place-" she continued, her voice rising.
"How could this opportunity slip us by-"
"-I will not be involved anymore-"
"Did ya forget how far we go?"
"Did you forget what 'appened?"
"Why are ya the only one who regrets it? Not even Toby has any remorse. He laughs about it now."
" 'E was only fifteen years old! 'Ow can you expect one so young to see ze consequences when ze passion and ze fighting blinds his sense? 'E was too young." Claire stopped, as her volume had risen significantly.
"And ya were the same age once." Jarohnen watched her, with those eyes like shards of glass. His voice had retained its levelled quality throughout the conversation, contrasting her emotion. "Do I sense a note of resentment?"
She waved a hand in a quick, frustrated gesture, as if she could simply push their matters away. Instead of answering his question, she replied with, "Besides, Remus does not care for me zat way. 'E loves 'is pup too much. It would 'ave never worked."
His brow deepened as if a strange notion was running across it. For a moment, she thought he was angry with her. She went to the door and he spoke, rich and dark and soft, like the thickest notes of his violin. "I see now. Forgive me for thinkin' such thoughts, my comrade. My friend."
She glanced back, her hands gripped around the edge of the door. And there he was nothing but an old wolf with a dream and the will needed to accomplish it. As the two penetrated each other, she could see the shining, silken threads of the web he had spun, the weaving of an illustrious dream. She loved the dream, had always loved the dream. It was what had kept them together for so long.
"I should be ze one to forgive you," she answered.

Ulysses wanted the note. She could give him the note if she wanted to.
The door opened and a sliver of light sliced through. Her brother was standing in the doorway. He had been typing something up in his study; the door had been closed when she had passed by two hours before. He was still dressed in a rumpled white button-down with a snug cornflower waistcoat, the golden watch chain swinging as it dangled from his pocket.
"Claire?" She kept her eyes shut, feigning sleep. A dull ache spread down her lower back, radiating from the point where the brace was digging in. She balled her fists beneath the sheets. Bernard's hands were stuffed in the pockets of his dark trousers.
"Claire?" he whispered again, hesitantly. He leaned forward and then stepped in with a jerk, as if pushed by an invisible hand.
It was no use. She opened one eyelid and said archly, "Why have you come?"
"So you are awake."
"If only because you woke me."
"Do you need anything?" Bernard rocked slightly back and forth on his heels, hands still in his pockets. He was wearing a pair of thick, prescription goggles with an elastic strap to keep them on his head. Because he didn't like the feeling of waking up blind in the morning, he usually wore goggles to sleep. "If you do, I could have Fifi- "
"Don't wake her up. I only need someone to carry me over a bit."
"Oh." He went up to her bedside and laid his hands on the cover. "It shifted?"
"Oui." Gently, he tucked his palms beneath her and moved the cushion back in place. The back of his hands brushed against a steel support pole and he hastily pulled away.
"There," he said briskly.
Her pain was instantly alleviated.
"Merci." She paused, waiting for him to take his leave. Bernard lingered for a few moments, however.
"Cay called on the conference mirror this afternoon," he said, "while you were at your therapy."
Claire smiled warmly at the mention of her younger brother's pet name. At the moment, Caleb was back at the ancestral castle with his young family, which included a trio of two-month old pups, upon Claire's orders that he return home.
She asked eagerly, "How's he doing?"
"He bears this message for you, 'I see now why they say bad things come in threes.'"
"His pups still have colic?"
"For at least another month."
"What a blessing it must be for them."
"The noise drives great-uncle Léopold into a fit. Even Mother, half-deaf as she is, can hear them."

"Then it must be quite an unhappy household."
"No more unhappy than it was when Cay was a newborn. I call it retribution."
Claire rolled her eyes. "He was such a cranky cub."
"And he still is."
A chuckle escaped her. A comfortable camaraderie settled down between them. "Why are you wearing those?" she asked, referring to his peculiar eyewear. "Did you break your glasses again?"
"These?" Bernard adjusted the elastic strap. "It was in case I fell asleep at my desk." She envisioned her brother in his cluttered study, weary-eyed, typing up a research report or whatever, then kneeling over and banging over the keyboard, snoring. He used to do the same while studying at home and would wake up with papers stuck to his forehead and his bottle-thick lenses scratched. How typical.
"You look just as you did as when you were ten. Goggle-Eyes."
"Really?" He fired back his old childhood taunt. "Tomboy."
"Goggle-Eyes."
"Tomboy."
"Now who's acting like a pup?"
"Certainly not I, tomboy." They exchanged little smiles in the dark and Claire felt as if they were two pups once more, a time when they had still shared a familiar bond and familiar respect and familiar affections. For a moment, she felt as if Bernard was himself and not a poor imitation of his namesake. Ephemeral this feeling was, and it vanished like sand through a sieve, leaving emptiness behind.
In the distance, a car horn beeped. Uneasiness swept over them both.
"It's late," Bernard said abruptly.
The pocket watch was pulled out of his pocket and he checked the time quickly, flipping and shutting the etched lid with his thumb. He tucked the timepiece back into his pocket, the chain swinging, the gold glinting in the splinter of hallway light.
"Of course, of course," she agreed hurriedly. But Bernard was already exiting the room.
"Go to sleep," he said in a paternal tone and shut the door behind him.
Tomorrow. Claire would fetch Aristotle and send Ulysses the note tomorrow. If Bernard asked, she would say that another wolf had requested her help and advice. Lying to him was so simple; after all, he was her brother.

Chapter 9

Sirius,
Something unusual happened last night and I reckoned you'd want to know about it. I told you about my clue for the Second Task, right? Well, I was up trying to solve what it meant and had to go to the prefect's bathroom in order to puzzle it out (the screeching jumble that came from the egg was actually my clue being sung, by the way - I had to hold the egg underwater to hear it). I was heading back to the Gryffindor Tower when I looked down at the Marauder's Map and saw Mr. Crouch going through Snape's office. I wasn't paying much attention to where I was going, and my foot got stuck on a trick step in the stairwell. That made me accidentally drop the egg and the Map, and Filch came around because of all the noise the falling egg caused. I had my Invisibility Cloak on, though, and he didn't see me, although Mrs. Norris noticed something.
While I hid, Snape came around, saying that someone had been through his office. When Filch showed him the egg, Snape knew that I wasn't too far away. Most likely he thought that I was the one who ransacked his office. But before he and Filch could go up and find me, Moody came. He could see me because of his magical eye, but he never said a word. He actually protected me from getting in trouble with Snape.
While both of them were talking, they were really tense with each other. Snape said that Moody had searched his office once too - Moody said that he thought Snape was hiding something. Moody also said that Dumbledore's only letting Snape stay because he's giving him a second chance and that he was keeping an eye on him.
They were all about to leave, but Moody spotted the Map on the bottom of the stairwell where it dropped. Snape saw it too, and must have remembered the time when he caught me with the Map before (I'm sure Professor Lupin told you all the details about that one.) But Moody covered for me and turned Snape and Filch back to bed. He got my foot out of the trick step and wasn't mad about why I was wandering the halls at night. Except... well, he asked if he could borrow the Map too. I didn't see anything wrong with that, and Moody did help me out, and so I let him. I hope that you're not mad about that, Sirius, since you helped make it. I don't think that Moody would connect the Map to you or Professor Lupin.
Hope you and Buckbeak are doing well. I'll write again if I find out anything else.

- Harry

Sirius stared at the letter for quite some time, thinking. The Hogwarts owl that had delivered it had already been sent back; he couldn't afford to send a reply back, at least not yet. Surely something was not right.
Crouch. The letter crumpled in his hand. That bastard. If Crouch was involved with this, then something certainly was wrong. The damn bastard who locked him up, threw him in that shit hole for twelve years without a trial-
Oh, but not only was Crouch a fishy persona in Sirius's mind. He glanced at a line from the letter again. Snivellus the Sneak. My, oh my, were things getting interesting at Hogwarts.
Sometimes Sirius couldn't believe that Snape still stuck around school. While hunting Peter the Rat down the year before, the fact that Snape was Potions Master there hadn't truly registered in his mind, just like the fact that Lupin taught Defence against the Dark Arts. Everything, in fact, had been nothing more than a paranoid, vengeance-fuelled dragon run for Sirius for the few months after his escape. Only after the confrontation at the Shrieking Shack last June had Sirius discovered that he still possessed a purpose other than throttling the traitor's neck.
But go figure that Snape was still at Hogwarts. The fellow was such a horrid loser he probably wouldn't be successful anywhere else other than the school he attended. Sirius couldn't understand why Dumbledore trusted the man enough to keep him around; he secretly liked to think it was because Dumbledore pitied him.
Immediately, he rebuked himself for having such a juvenile opinion. Sure, Snape might be a sneak, but certainly, Dumbledore must keep him around for a better reason that pity. The Headmaster always had good reasons for choosing his staff; the people he employed the longest he usually trusted the most. Grudgingly, Sirius had to accept the fact that Dumbledore trusted Snape.
Personally, Sirius couldn't understand how Lupin had managed to put up with the Sneak for an entire school year. It was as if Lupin had forgiven Snape for being the slimy git he was. Even in the Shrieking Shack last year, the Potions master was acting like he had a stick up his ass. And, after all these years, why would Snape hold a little sixteen year-olds stunt under such contempt? If nothing else, Snape deserved to be shaken up a little.
It was during their fifth year at Hogwarts when Sirius couldn't bear having Snape on their backs. He and his friends - the Marauders they liked to call themselves, after the Map they had created during their fourth year - were always tailed by Severus Snape, that pestering, nose-butting, slimy-haired kid who always managed to tattle on them one way or another. Sirius couldn't stand Snape; to him, that Slytherin would always be Snivellus the Sneak.
Sirius always thought that Snape had something in it for them. Snape had always hung around with a bad crowd anyway: Rosier and Wilkes, who were rumoured to practice voodoo curses up in their dormitories; Lestrange, the boy who always looked at you oddly, like he was trying to crack open your skull with his mind; Avery the aggressive Pureblood who teased his Muggle-born classmates. They always were against Gryffindor, especially their Quidditch team. Snape always called them arrogant jocks, but of course Sirius knew he was only jealous.
Snape's little group wasn't to be underestimated, however. They weren't exactly the leaders of Slytherin - a house filled with such individual self-ambition always had rivalling factions within itself, and no few people were held up with respect and admiration by all - but they certainly had trademark distinction. Frankly, each member had at least three or four personal enemies, and at least five or six higher family connections. All except Snape. His family had been of the lower middle-class and rather unimportant Purebloods; Sirius had no idea how he had managed to fit in with a pack of Slytherin elitists.
Maybe then it was because his friends tormented and ridiculed so many other students that the Marauders felt it was justifiable to make a few tricks against them - similar to being the avengers of the schoolyard. The Slytherin bunch never exactly found out who put Boil Powder into their wardrobes or why Avery suddenly grew Dumbo ears during his sleep. And once during a rather vicious prank involving rubber bands and lawn gnomes, Sirius, feeling rather cocky, left a note signed, "Compliments from Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs."
That was his first mistake.
Snape and his bunch became murderous in their attempt to find out who exactly was plotting against them. Their feelings turned, of course, toward their own house arch nemeses, but Snape suspected an outside party. It was he who began secretly spying on James and his doings. A few days before the final match of the season, it was a full moon, and the start of the Marauders' monthly routine of taking Lupin to the Whopping Willow. It was there Snape caught them.
James assured Sirius that nothing would come of it. Yet Sirius saw what Slytherins were capable of. The Sneak would squeal on them to his friends and get the Marauders all into trouble. They all had their ways of getting information: what if any of them decided to investigate the Willow? What if they discovered the Shrieking Shack? What if they found out what it was used for?
The month slowly grated away into nothing, like how a hacksaw bit into gnarled wood. Would Snape tell? Had he? Or was he trying to use this as some kind of blackmail against the Marauders? Any other pranks and he'd snitch on them. Filthy bastard.
As the full moon approached, Sirius couldn't keep mum any longer. He had to know. If Snape took his filthy friends down to the Shrieking Shack during the full moon... Thus, Sirius planned to have a little chat with his classmate.
Unfortunately, one little confrontation in the Great Hall turned into an all-out fistfight. Afterwards, with both their houses 150 points poorer, Snape and Sirius were assigned a detention. Sentenced to fertilising the greenhouse patches for Professor Hedgerow instead of joining his best friend James in kicking Slytherin butt at their final match of the season was not something Sirius looked forward to. And while slopping dragon dung on mandrake beds with his most hated enemy, he said those damning words with the anger Sirius Black was known for:
"You want to know what's there? Fine! Go there!"
But it was more than words that dared Snape to go. Sirius happened to have his wand, drawn out unthinkingly, pressed against Snape's chest.
He stared back at Sirius with cool, dark eyes. "Are you challenging me to a duel, Black?"
Sirius didn't answer. Don't kill him. He remembered thinking that very strongly, but now, for the oddest reason, he couldn't recall why. Don't. Kill. Him.
With all the strength he could muster, he had turned away.
Now that he thought about it, Sirius could see how that action could be misinterpreted. But somewhere deep inside him, he wanted Snape to get the wrong message. He knew, then, subconsciously, that Snape would go down to the Shrieking Shack.
But Sirius wasn't planning to meet him there. For then moon grew to its monthly peak, and Lupin would be there to meet him instead.
Extremely childish - yes. Unbelievably stupid - yes. But Sirius couldn't help it. All he anticipated was the dirtbag screaming yellow as he burst out of the Willow's tunnel when he came face-to-face with a full-grown werewolf.
And when he did realise the complete idiocy of his actions, he tried to prevent them. Honest he did. James and Peter were suppose to tend to Lupin while he went off to find Snape. Was it really his fault that Snape believed Sirius has challenged him to a duel? Was it his fault that Snape had disappeared somewhere (probably trying to perfect what skills he had) while Sirius frantically searched the entire castle for him? Was it his fault that Snape arrived at the Shrieking Shack while Sirius was still at Hogwarts and just as Lupin's transformation was about to start?
Timing was at fault here, not Sirius.
Or so he believed for the longest time. Only now in retrospect could Sirius admit that he acted like a hotheaded jackass.
James's bravery was the single thing that saved Snape's life that night. His intervention prevented Snape from turning into wolf chow and Lupin from turning into a murderer. Yet that was the only bright side to the situation.
Only once did Sirius see Dumbledore angry, and that was when he was sent up to the Headmaster's office the next morning. It wasn't a kind of raging anger either, but a slow frothing temper, like the old professor was filled with bubbling magma that was about to explode at any given moment. Squirming in his seat in front of Dumbledore's giant desk, Sirius actually feared the usually kindly wizard.
Yet Lupin's anger was much more hurtful. Eventually, Dumbledore forgave him for The Prank; in contrast, Sirius always wondered if he ever regained Lupin's respect. Sirius could recall the stony silences and cold encounters that took place months after. Lupin purposely steered himself out of Sirius's life: holing himself up in the library to study, disappearing for hours on end doing who-knows-what who-knows-where, not even speaking to him during class. He knew Lupin blamed him for purposely taking advantage of his werewolf nature to scare the Sneak. And it was true. But the regret haunted him more than the fact that he lost his second-string position on the Quidditch team, or the fact that rumours about why that happened were spreading around the school. All was lost to Sirius except the thought of his betrayal.
He honestly didn't mean it that way. He didn't. But how could he make Lupin understand a person who always put thought before action? No matter what he would say, Sirius knew that Lupin wouldn't truly comprehend his viewpoint because Sirius was Sirius and Lupin was Lupin - two separate minds that thought in two separate ways. Despite all those odds against him, though, Sirius would do anything - anything - to win back Lupin's friendship.
Even when the school year ended, their former connection seemed to be cleaved in half. He lost contact with Lupin over the summer; well, it was more like Lupin cut him off totally. Every single owl Sirius sent him was returned unopened, including his birthday present.
Their seventh year seemed to mark an end to the Marauders. Lupin bulked up on Intensive Magical Creatures Studies and Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts. Because of this, their schedules weren't the same anymore; Lupin didn't share any classes with him - or with James and Peter for that matter. The only time Sirius ever saw his old friend was during lunches and after classes. Passing him by in the corridors, Sirius would wave with hidden urgency to catch Lupin's attention. But Lupin was always shuffling through his knapsack, or had his nose buried in some textbook. Simple waves then progressed into dropping his books at his feet, spilling his inkbottle on the floor, created headlong "accidental" collisions with him in the middle of the hallway. Each time Sirius encountered him, though, Lupin would gather his books together, or wave his wand to mop up the spilt ink, murmur politely, "Sorry about that Sirius," as if it was his fault and continue on his way.
If only Sirius could have said, "Sorry about that, Remus," and been equally forgiven.
Finally, it was James who managed to get Lupin and Sirius on speaking terms once more. In the very last months at Hogwarts, the group became the Marauders again. Adventures were plotted, gags were pulled, and their Map was finally perfected. Sometimes, though, an unsettling emptiness would creep between them. Those times, Sirius would horse around or at least say something brash and random, as if filling up the space. Now years later when supposedly both of them had matured and gotten over this, the emptiness had invaded their lives.
Could The Prank, then, have been the first stone in the rocky path between them? Later, when the threat of Voldemort was the greatest, and no wizard knew who was a Death Eater and who wasn't, Sirius had admitted that he suspected Lupin to be a danger. Yet he only had suspected because he was sure the werewolf did not consider him to be a close friend anymore. The tables were then turned: it was he who began ignoring Lupin. Letters were unanswered, drinks at the pub were cancelled, and conference mirrors had Automatic Answering Spells cast on them. And one night, at James's flat while packing up the last of their things before Dumbledore would take the Potters into hiding...

"I don't know, Sirius," James whispered. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He ran a hand through his raven hair and pushed up his glasses. He always did that when he got worried.
"Positive," he replied.
Both made sure to keep their voices low, for the kitchen wasn't very far from the living room. But this conversation wasn't new to either of them. Sirius had voiced his apprehensions to James earlier over the mirror the week before. News was heard that several werewolves had been connected with Voldemort's Dark Alliance. Entire clans, in fact, had joined forces with him and were infiltrating Muggle and wizard society, plotting massacres. The Registry's Werewolf Capture Unit was on high alert, trying to track down the Dark Lord's allies before it was too late. Time was running short; it was only a couple weeks until the next full moon.
James knew all this information well enough, but continued to have some doubts about Sirius's proposition.
"Didn't you get a chance to talk to Peter?"
"Yesterday." James sighed. "He was supposed to be here today, but called this morning saying that Ministry work is holding him up."
Ah, his internship. Things over there were hectic enough already. Sirius hoped Peter would be able to cope.
"I haven't had the chance to talk with Lily about this, you know. She would never believe that Moony..." he trailed off, unwilling to finish his sentence.
Both their eyes were drawn to the open doorway leading into the next room. Only a few cardboard boxes packed up with family knick-knacks and personal items were packed; Dumbledore had assured the Potters that their new residence would be fully furnished.
Lupin was lying back on the rug, raising Harry up in the air. "Up, up, up you go, Harry!" he said in a singsong voice. "Up, up, up!" James's son squealed joyfully, waving carefree limbs as Lupin lifted him up in the air. "You're flying; you're flying!" he exclaimed lightly. Harry's laughter drifted into the kitchen.
Watching him there, playing with the baby, Sirius felt a strange emotion twist inside him: a sickening, thick feeling, like his nerves were being twisted and coiled into a tight ball at the base of his stomach. It wasn't fear or nervousness, but mistrust. Here was a possible spy, carrying on with his best friend's child, right in their very home! Of course, James and Lily were going to go into hiding tomorrow, to a place none would know except Dumbledore and the Secret Keeper. But who was there to stop Voldemort from charging in right that very minute?
A horrible vision came to Sirius's eye: Lupin jumping up to his feet, with Harry squirming in his hold, the baby's smiles turning to bawls, and with a flourish of his wand, he shouting in an wild voice, "I have them my Lord! They're here!"
"Ahh!" An exclamation came from the next room.
Sirius jumped, putting a hand to his wand. "Y-Your son," Lupin's voice broke into hearty laughter, "I - I do believe that your son's drool just got into my - my eye!"
Lily burst out into hysterics, tripping over words as she exclaimed, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Rem! Harry, you - hah hah - you naughty, naughty boy!"
Lupin sat back up and returned the child back to his mother, blinking hard. He rubbed his left eye, chuckling. "It's all right, Lily. I'll be fine," he spluttered, unable to control his mirth. "I think I'll go pour some water over this."
He stepped into the kitchen. James, turning his head away as Lupin passed, quickly entered the living room. "Lily, what kind of trouble maker do we have here?" he jested, grinning.
Sirius watched silently as Lupin made his way over to the sink and turned on the faucet. Splashing a few handfuls of water in his face, he called, "Hey, Padfoot, could you hand me something?" He obliged, tossing a dishtowel Lupin's way.
Lupin wiped his eyes quickly, giving a roguish smile. His expression changed when he saw Sirius's face. "Are you alright?" he asked, concerned.
Sirius took his hand off his wand. He had been clasping it so tightly; his fingernails had made an imprint upon his palm. Rubbing that hand against the side of his robes, he replied, "Just great." A mischievous grin appeared. "Vicious little tyke, isn't he?"
"Positively murderous." Lupin veered back to his original question. "You and Prongs seem awfully quiet tonight. What's going on?"
"Nothing." Sirius stared out the darkened window to avoid Lupin's look. "Voldemort has been more of a threat lately and-"
"Well, Dumbledore said he'd protect them, right?" Lupin glanced into the living room, where the Potters settled themselves on the couch. "He's taking them somewhere tomorrow."
Fear. He knew - he knew and Voldemort was going to find out. Sirius's finger itched for his wand. He wasn't going to let Lupin escape this house; no, he wasn't going to let that werewolf get away-
"Yes, yes," Sirius said quickly. "Very hush-hush and all that. No one would know except Dumbledore."
"And the Secret Keeper of course," Lupin added.
His blood turned to ice. "Y-yes," Sirius said. "And the Secret Keeper. Chosen only by Dumbledore."
What a lie. Sirius knew who the Secret Keeper was going to be; he had convinced James to choose Peter-
Now the nervous tension was too strong to be ignored. Lupin stepped up to Sirius until they stood barely inches away from each other. Relax, Sirius snapped to himself. Don't reveal anything. Wolves can smell dark emotions. It's like a sixth sense to them.
In a steady, measured tone, his suspected friend whispered, "Sirius, is there something going on that I don't know about?"
Speak for yourself, spy.
Sirius shook his head. "Do any of us know anything during these dark times?" he said gravely. It took all of his effort to grasp Lupin on the side of his arm. His grip was firm, and Sirius tried to make it out as reassuring. "But we'll be there for them."
Lupin nodded. "We'll be there together," he affirmed.
That convoluted feeling was running through Sirius and he wanted to spit, "You liar! I won't let you hurt them! You hear that, wolf? I won't let you give them to Voldemort!"
But he didn't.
Thankfully, Lily broke the moment. "What are you two doing in there?" she shouted. "There're still some boxes we need to tape up."
Sirius threw an arm around Lupin's shoulders. He shuddered inwardly at the brotherly gesture. "I dunno. Moony here seems to be suffering from a fatal wound!" he answered loudly. "At least he may be blinded for life!"
"Oh, you're so right, Padfoot. I think the infantile venom is starting to burn...!" Lupin fell against him, convulsing in false throes of pain. "Good Lord! My eyes! My precious eyes!"
"Oh stop it!" James appeared in the doorway, with two cardboard boxes stacked in his arms. "Now are you going to help me load up the car or what?"
Lily came into the kitchen as well, bouncing Harry in her arms. "Here, you terrible little villain," she said. "Give poor Remus a kiss."
"Blah!" cried Harry happily. He blew a raspberry onto Lupin's cheek.
"That's the closest you'll get to an apology from him," she winked.
In turn, Lupin blew a little raspberry in Harry's face. "Then that's the closest he'll get to being forgiven." He turned to Sirius. "C'mon," he said. "Prongs awaits our aid."
He made off into the living room to fetch a box for himself. James watched quietly as the werewolf slipped past. Uncertainty still wrestled within him. Sirius took a box from James's hold and whispered, "It's for the best, James. You can't be too careful."

Had Lupin know then, that his three closest friends were plotting against him beneath his very nose? That Sirius suspected him to be the traitor and so had chosen Peter Pettigrew to keep the secret of the Potter's location? A ploy that was the worst mistake in his life...
"Happiness leaves a more painful haunting." Painful haunting indeed. Damn, why did Lupin have to be so right?
Next to that fateful Halloween in 1981, the last night in the Potter's flat was the one that had resided in Sirius's mind the most while withering away in Azkaban. Because with every smile, every laugh, and every joke that Lupin cracked that night came the memory of Sirius's anger and distrust. Each moment that night was a lie, with one piling on top of another, creating a tower of deceit that toppled upon them all. And within the nightmare and the ill feelings came the truth, booming in his mind, "But you were wrong, Sirius. You were wrong. You betrayed them all, Sirius. You betrayed them all with the Prank, and you betrayed them again to their doom."
Considering all this, no wonder Lupin acted the way he did! The horrible break between them had its roots during their Hogwarts years and branched out across time. But was Lupin initiating this distance on purpose? Or were all of Lupin's cold reactions the result of the unconscious workings of his mind?
Would Lupin continue to do this to him? Was each day that passed without word from him another post sign pointing toward ruin? Did his friend even realise that any word from him would be more valuable to Sirius at that moment than a pardon from Cornelius Fudge?
Damn it all, why did Sirius have to ponder this now? He had a job to do, and his friend wasn't here now and certainly wouldn't be coming back any time soon. Sirius glanced out of the crevice at the grey-blue sky. Not an owl in sight. Lupin hadn't even told him where he was going.
This sudden thought was a spear plunging into his heart. Sirius has realised beforehand that Lupin had never told him where he was going, but then, only then while milling about in dark memories, did the tremendous sadness of that fact strike him hard in the chest.
Lupin hadn't even considered telling Sirius where he was going.
Sirius threw down the letter and stomped outside. A little thaw was beginning to come to the mountain and a not entirely unwelcome breeze slipped by him. Buckbeak was curled up on a broad, bare rock, sunning himself. He raised his head upon Sirius's approach.
"Craw," he welcomed happily, stretching out his wings.
"Nah, I'm not really up to getting some sun today, ol' boy," Sirius muttered. "You'll just relax up here. I'm heading down."
"Eeer?"
"Just to get some food. That's all."
Buckbeak blinked and flicked his tail. "Cr-crawwww..."
"No," he replied tiredly, "I'm not going to meet up with Zaria."
That hippogriff chuckle bubbled up again. Sirius whirled around and aimed a finger at the animal. "Now just shut up about that, will you?" he snapped. "I'm certainly not in the mood for your little comments."
Buckbeak bowed down his head in a gesture of innocence and battled his eyes at Sirius. "Squawk. Crrrr-awwww!" His flicked his tail up once more and clicked his tongue.
"Hey, if I was going down to see her - which I'm not - I see nothing worth giggling like a schoolgirl about. She's my meal ticket. Get it, Bucky-bird? Meal tic-ket."
Buckbeak continued to splutter to himself and rolled onto his back, pawing his forelegs into the air. Ye gods, Sirius couldn't see what was so funny. He transformed into a dog and loped down the mountain.
In truth, Sirius wasn't planning to meet up with anyone. He was in another bad mood and preferred to wallow in it alone. All he wanted to do was track down a nice, plump rat to gnaw on. Since beginning his rat-hunting pastime, Sirius had discovered that tormenting little creatures was a good exercise in relieving negative emotions. Rats were never plump this time of year, unfortunately; most were terribly scrawny, with their ribs showing and their fur all coarse and dirty. What Sirius sought was a sleek, fat sucker ready for the pouncing.
What he found instead was the familiar dark shape sniffing about the tall grasses. Sirius had never voiced an expectation that she would reappear a second time, but in his subconscious mind he had probably figured that she was keeping tabs on him. So perhaps it was some sort of Freudian slip that he happened to be wandering in the fields outside the village when he spotted her no less than fifty yards away.
Zaria had her nose to the moist earth by a tussock of dried, tangled weeds and bushes, deep in concentration. He wasn't sure whether to avoid her or welcome her and so he simply watched. The black Lab was trailing a scent. Most likely his.
He presumed correctly. Soon enough, Zaria raised her head and caught him within her sights. She trotted over to meet him and stopped just a few feet away. The musty smell of rotting vegetation must be irritating her nose; she blinked rapidly and sneezed.
Bless you, Sirius thought habitually.
Zaria sniffed loudly and eyed him with that curious stare she had used the last time, the look in which she seemed to be calculating his exact appearance, weight, height and girth all at the same time and filing all that information away into that mysterious brain of hers. Or maybe she was just checking him out. Either way, her stare wasn't exactly comforting. Well, considering the latter view, Sirius could be flattered, but he had yet to decide upon whether having a doggie devotee was a good thing or not.
Nevertheless, he didn't feel up to dealing with her now. He turned around and took a step toward the mountain, then he checked himself. She would follow him, wouldn't she? He gave a backward glance and saw her already coming to his side. How do you reject a black Lab in the politest way possible? If Sirius actually considered being polite, he would have come up with one. He wasn't truly in a courteous mood at all, though, and so used the more direct method.
Sirius curled back his lip and gave quick, threatening growl. Sod off! I want to sulk in privacy!
That said, he made for the hills. Running unleashed the bitter remorse inside him. His lungs filled up with crisp, cold air, his blood charged through his veins. His head cleared, his vision seemed sharper. The mindless act of running gave him something to focus on, to concentrate. While running, he didn't have to think about friends or responsibility or the law. He let go of everything that he was and became something else: the dog within. And this dog wanted to run and was getting one hell of a kick out of it.
Initially, Sirius believed that he had outdistanced her. He checked; she was retreating in the other direction. Good, he thought, she was beginning to become a bother anyway.
Yet soon, the heavy panting of another sounded behind him.
Damn.
Sirius strained his muscles harder, taking all the anger and the grief and the crazy loneliness he felt and transforming it into motion. With a gigantic wave of untamed despair he ran. He ran until his muscles melted into rubber and breathing was like inhaling sand.
He turned, he looked, and she was still behind him.
Goddamn, why can't she get the picture! He stopped - more like tripped over his weary paws - and faced her once more. A hoarse, wild barking came from him. Leave! Me! Alone!
Zaria shuffled back a few steps. Sirius saw that she carried something in her mouth. Giving Sirius that steady eye of hers, she dropped the thing in front of him and straightened herself up, sitting. Her nose rose up in a dignified manner. She blinked, almost in a reproaching way, if blinks could contain expression. Then she was gone.
Sirius stared blankly at the newspaper. What the hell? How did she know he was collecting papers? Backing up a few steps, he looked at it wearily, as if it might explode upon contact. But the newspaper was only a battered, outdated Daily Prophet, crumpled and covered with Zaria's saliva. Curiously enough, the paper was folded to show this headline: Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch.
Crouch? Sirius gave a jump. What mysterious illness? And how did Zaria know that he needed this? Was it only a coincidence? Was someone else watching him? Had she been watching him? The paranoia flamed up again. Sirius turned his head in one direction, then another, slowly moving away from the paper.
Why hadn't he been careful before? He had better return to the cave. Never mind the cave, maybe he should find another hiding place... Sirius was about to hightail it, when he wondered whether he should take the Daily Prophet with him. Surely, it wasn't a danger to him, was it? But there could be some kind of tracking spell cast on it. What if Zaria was some kind of spy sent by the Ministry, trying to track him down? An Animagus sent out to get him?
He couldn't stay here then! He had to get back; he had to get Buckbeak and himself out of the mountains! Ignoring Zaria's offering, Sirius sprinted away.

Chapter 10

His name was Douglas Ridley.
Lupin stared at himself in the mirror. It was an exercise he did to get into character: stare into the mirror and re-create his outward personality, like moulding clay, to form another. His name was Douglas Ridley. Douglas Ridley was thirty-eight years old, from a small village near Dumfries. Passing off as a farm hand, Douglas had been a migrant worker for the past ten years, sharing the roads with the dying breed of wandering gypsies with their weather-beaten trailers and peddled goods. Douglas had never had a proper home or family or friends to speak of; he had no connections.
Douglas Ridley was the type of man who could vanish from the face of the earth without anyone caring. He was, essentially, an empty man, a man created from nothing, responsible for nothing, and destined toward nothing.
It was a sad mask for Lupin to wear. But this vacuous character was useful for his purposes, because no one suspected empty people of possessing ulterior motives.
Lupin began adjusting his features to match this hollow husk. The cap was to be worn low over the eyes; his uniform should be rumpled and unbuttoned at the collar. His boots should always be dirty. If he weren't holding a cleaning brush or a mop, Douglas would put his hands in his pockets. Douglas was laconic, not because he was introverted, but because he was dim-witted. This Squib, however, was very diligent and eager to impress. Lupin thought of Douglas as a puppy dog staring expectantly at its owner, waiting anxiously for a command that would spurn it into instantaneous action.
He wasn't taking this job for nothing, of course. The benefits were long and withstanding. First of all, he would get paid. Money is good, especially when one is in desperate need of it. Lupin smiled at the irony.
Of course, there was a deeper reason beyond the superficial one.
"I promise to amend my ways if you could only grant her life. Please, Lord... She helped me. She cannot die."
Perhaps they were just words, words murmured out of desperation and that had no meaning in them. He believed once, and then doubted himself, only to return to belief again. Yet how much of himself was true and how much was false? Perhaps he was only words, so many words, layered over him like a shield or a blanket, but the shield was of air and the blanket dust. Who could say what he thought or what he thought he thought or whether he really thought at all, or just reacted -- reacted and fretted and repented over so much of nothing? Then if the words were nothing, then God was nothing and he was nothing too. Perhaps he had been deceiving himself throughout his entire life because he needed to cling to something and faith seemed the biggest 'Something' a person could cling to.
Perhaps.
Yet he couldn't think that because he loved, and the one he loved believed and had made him believe again and if only he could glance at her pure and innocent face once more he could assure himself that he did believe that there was Something after all.
Those were his feelings there, confronting a cracked mirror, becoming someone else.

Lupin arrived at the Ministry dressed for his role. His uniform had been custom-designed right down to the little embroidered name patch on the front. Plus, he had everything he needed: the heavy robe, the scruffy sneakers, the cap, and spectacles. Not to forget a dash of Confundus Cologne for that smell.
Getting inside the building was quite simple; Lupin came through Waldo's Plugs and Outlets and down the employee's elevator. Its timing had improved since his last experience, for he only fell five floors before the golden sparkles floated over to his aid.
His new place of occupation, the Custodial Services Office, was located on the sub-terrain, fourth-seventh floor in a low, closeted nook. Lupin politely rapped on the door.
No one came. Puzzled, he tried again.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Wu're yu leukin' for?"
Lupin turned his head to see a stocky woman with a freckled face casually leaning against her mop, her custodial cap askew upon her mouse-brown bob of hair. The immediate impression he got was that of an overstuffed chipmunk.
"Um, hallo," he started. "You're the head of this shift?"
"Aa nicht an' ev'ry nicht." She tipped her cap. "Yu're the nee laddie, A presum?"
Lupin was momentarily taken back by her dialect. "Um, Douglas Ridley," he finally blustered, offering his hand quickly.
"Aye. Welcum tae the gret an' glurious okupition oo janitorial wurk." She accepted quickly, giving his hand a firm shake. "A em Loretta Gordon. No ane caas mi Loretta nou, tho - jus Lottie. C'mon nou - intae the offish. 'Scuse, mi."
Her name was Loretta Gordon, yet preferred Lottie. That was the gist of what she said. At least that's what Lupin thought.
Lottie waddled past Lupin, the top of her head barely brushing his chin. She took out a large ring lined with various keys of all shapes and sizes and used a little copper one to unlock the door. Inside was a mess of cleaning supplies. She stepped over a few brooms and mops, righting them up against the painted cinderblock wall.
"Hame sweet hame," she chattered briskly, waving a chubby hand around the place. "Aa oo the things yu'll ev'r need is stawed arund here sameplace. A gut tae spend a nicht surtin' an pilin' stoo arund, bu' A nev'r sem tae manage tae. Wuns A tried bu' A discov'red tha ev'ry time A tried pulling sameting off the shelf, it wuld jus' cave intae tha' liddin vacum oo space A created. Finee, A guv oop." She chuckled to herself.
Lupin had no idea what she had just said. To compensate, he looked around the office. Probably she was commenting upon how messy it was. Certainly, he could see why. Shelves of cleaning supplies were stockpiled along the sides, while cardboard boxes filled with coloured spray bottles and jugs seemed to fight each other for floor space. Looking up, he even saw hangers holding up pails from the ceiling. A basket overflowing with rags and sponges covered one corner. Opposite this rag mountain was a lone coat rack weighed down with scarves, mittens and coats. Lottie trudged ahead like a workhorse, kicking away boxes and buckets, leaving a narrow trail for Lupin. This room connected to another, which contained two or three large bins on wheels.
"For the roobish cullectin'," Lottie explained as he glanced over. A third cramped room held a conference mirror and a shoddy desk covered with paper aeroplanes and crumpled copies of The Daily Prophet. Lottie picked up a paper cup from the cluttered desktop and sipped at the cold coffee. "Eef we're nut oot there, wich is a rare thing, we'll bae in here. The coot ruck's free teeritory; yu kin use it anee time."
Lupin was still staring around the room, pretending interest. Lottie tapped him on the shoulder and gestured to the coat rack.
"Oh! Um, thankee." Lupin slung the jacket he was carrying over one of the hooks. The coat rack tottered from the added weight, but held up.
Lottie bounced into the small swivel chair in front of the desk and spun around a couple times. Her stout boot kicked out at the desk and she stopped herself. "So, wair'reyufrum?" she asked conversationally as she drained her cup.
Lupin was taking his time adjusting his coat upon the rack. He wasn't ignoring her on purpose; he was only trying to figure out her dialect. Maybe it was because he had only sat around the city centre to catch the Scottish voice. Lupin certainly didn't have the time to look into Scots too deeply. His guardian old Murphy was Scottish he knew, but his speech was never as thick as that. Lupin himself was speaking the Standard Scottish English, not whatever coming from her.
Lottie, confused, said in a loud voice, "Dougie? Kin yu heer mi?"
"Aye, aye," Lupin said briskly. He turned around and grinned sheepishly. "Can you say it again?"
Her voice was quick garble of syllables. "Wair'reyufrum?"
"Ummmm..." He pointed to his ear. "Bad ear."
"Ah!" Lottie bobbed her head sympathetically. "Waaa-irrr arrrr yuuu frummm?"
Well, that didn't help any. Lupin gestured frantically to his ears, indicating deafness, then shrugged his shoulders.
She leaned forward in her chair and questioned carefully, "Dae yu unnerstand the wirds tha' ar' camin' oot oo ma muth?"
He gave up. Lupin broadened his grin and threw up his hands helplessly. "I'll admit it -- I'm a Sassenach when it comes to the brogue. My mum was English." He gave an embarrassed laugh.
It was as if he just told her that he was from the planet Mars. "Ye dun say?" Lottie gaped, putting a hand over her heart. Lupin made a grave face.
"Hey, 'tis not ye fault, Dougie," she replied sincerely, stressing her voice for clarity. "Usually, onlie the Big Anes have trouble wi ma words. A'll try an' speak pan laif wi ye."
He was immediately relieved. That blunder wasn't too bad. "Aye."
"Good. Dinnae want us tae be on the wrung foot now, eh? I was jus' askin' aboot where ar' ye from." She enunciated more articulately, as if talking with a tourist or a "Big Ane." Apparently, "pan laif" was equivalent to an affected English accent.
"Borderlands. A small place just off of Dumfries, actually."
"Dumfries, eh? Nice place. I've got a nephew doun there. He's got a hard time unnerstandin' me sametimes too."
She held the cup in front of her eye, making sure it was empty, then tossed it toward the wastebasket. It missed. "I'm surprised tha' the Department oo Bein' Resources finally hired somebody. For a while, I thoot tha they forgut aboot me."
"The interview was a bit strange," Lupin confessed. "Not to be rude or anything, but the Director took this liddin creature and -"
"Ye mean Duchess?" She shook her head. "Tha' Mister Burtman." Her voice lowered to a confidential whisper, "Word from the grape vine was tha' he used tae work as a supervisor in Azkaban an' the Dementors twisted what bit oo sanity he got left. Got dismissed after he knocked over a torch an' nearly set a cellblock ablaze. Claimed t'was an accident."
"Accident?"

" 'Mister Burnt-man,' the Big Anes call him. It's more like his brain's been the thing tha's burnt oop. An' I think tha' liddin 'spirit niffler' or whatev'r he calls it ain't bred by the Ministry a-tall, but was his own creation. Ye knoo wha' I maen?"
Lupin recalled the apparition's touch during the interview and could see the validity of that statement. "How do you suppose he created a thing like that?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Probably fed a poor niffler to a Dementor ane day an' wondered what'd happen. But what I say aboot him is this: never trust a man wi a tail, especially if he's in management." She reflected for a moment at this pearl of wisdom, then hopped down from her chair. "I cannae have us gossipin' on ye furst night. Let's tak a liddin trip."
Before he could reply, she crashed her way through the sea of boxes, avoiding the first path she ploughed. Passing by the room with the garbage carriers, she gave a loud whistle. Immediately, the closest one banged its plastic lid shut and backed up from its companions.
"Grab a roobbish bin, Dougie, an' follae me," she ordered.
By the time Lupin reached the door, she was halfway down the hall peddling a cleaning caddy loaded with supplies. Lottie moved awfully fast; maybe short people were somehow more aerodynamic. He humbly trailed last, following the giant garbage carrier, who rolled after her like a trained pet.
Lupin made Douglas act very excited about this little trick. "How did you do that?" he exclaimed, trying to catch up. "Might you have some magic blood still left in you?"
She flanked over her shoulder. "I wish," she said, laughing. "Tha' bit oo wonder tae ye? Same oo the tings here, like the carriers an' the vacuums an' such are bewitched by the Big Anes for me. Ev'n a trained monkey could order aboot a magicked roobish bin."
"So we're all Squibs together, are we?" Lupin pressed, lying.
"Bitter a Squib than a Muggle as my mither always said," Lottie confirmed.
She gave a bit of history as they walked toward the elevators. "The Edinburgh offices were mostly built undergrund aboot five hundred years ago," Lottie said over her shoulder, "when the Wizards' Cuncil was still in practice. When the Ministry was established, headquarters was maved tae London. Aboot fifty miles worth oo hallways an' corridors are doun here, so ye can bet ye broomsticks it's hell tae clean."
Lottie banged her fist against the elevator panel before they entered the empty shaft. Lupin tensed himself for the fall, but gravity wasn't antagonistic this time. He looked around, slightly surprised, as Lottie ordered "Oop!" with a firm upward gesture of her arm. The doors shut smartly in front of them.
"Eech floor's designated for eech department oo the Ministry. The place is small compared tae London, but we mostly are autonomous from England."
The golden sparkles whirled thickly in the air as they shot past the floors. The lifts must be finally in proper order, he thought to himself.
"Lemme give ye the run-thro. I'll get ye a map, but soun, ye'll knoo this place lac the bac oo ye hand. Stoop!"
They halted with a jolt; Lupin fell, but only landed bottom-first on the non-existent platform. When he scrambled back onto his feet, Lupin found himself suspended in front of a large set of double doors with a pair of ancient Silver Arrow broomsticks mounted cross-wise over the threshold. "This is the Broom-Bagger's Basement, offishally knoon as the Department oo Magical Transportation. It's a very convenient place, for most oo the time, the brooms sweep the floor oop themselves."
The head janitor took out that plate-sized key chain of hers and stuffed an ornate silver one into the lock. At the sight of the keys, he dropped a blatant comment. "You have keys for everything?" It wasn't something he would say, of course, but Douglas was the type who would ask.
"Ye betcha. Very few have access tae the entire buildin' other than me."
"Aye." Lupin feigned awe. In actuality, he knew all about janitors all unlimited access. It was why he had applied for the job in the first place.
Lottie, flattered, opened the doors with a flourish. "C'man." She peddled her caddy inside, with the rubbish carrier at her heels.
Lupin entered to see the entire floor deserted. He got an eyeful of the government's most humane forms of being self-entrapment: cubicles. A whole grey maze of them spread out before him, filled with empty shadows. They were underground, and so there were no windows; the only light there was came from the ghost lights from the ceiling, burning bright in a state of perpetual luminescence. The shadows lay about, hugging the prefabricated walls, lounging around desks and swivel chairs, huddled in the corners and cervices. To see a place that was so lively and bustling during the daytime become so empty and hollow during the night, was a great contrast to Lupin. He thought of this place to be like some bureaucratic wasteland.
Meanwhile, Lottie unhitched a vacuum from the cleaning caddy and flicked the switch. Automatically, the hose rose up with a howl of wind, cobra-like, and unfurled itself, becoming over fifty feet long. Its flat head seemed to spot Lupin standing near the entrance and it slithered toward him, twisting and flexing its ridged coils while emitting a high-pitched hiss. He took a couple steps back at its approach, holding onto his cap to be sure it wouldn't get caught in the vacuum's suction.
"Awww, stoop shewin' oof an' get tae work," Lottie snapped, giving a kick to its plaid-patterned cloth body. The vacuum jumped and retreated from the newcomer, obediently leaning down to clean the office carpet.
While the vacuum worked, Lottie and Lupin went up and down the aisles, picking up the tiny wastepaper baskets from each cubicle and emptying their contents into the bin. The bin's lid rose up and down while receiving the trash, making a creak-bang sound. Their conversation became intertwined with the constant motion of the rubbish carrier and the raising and lowering of wastebaskets. Creak. Toss. Bang. Creak. Toss. Bang. All together, they imitated some monstrous mechanism marching slowly up and down the aisles.
Creak.
"Where did ye work afore?" Lottie asked.
Toss.
Lupin replied in an easy-going manner. "Jus' in the field. Tayberries and tattie howkin'. Nothing much."
Bang.
"So ye worked ootside, eh? Good wi ye hands?"
Creak.
"Maybe."
Toss.
"Such a shame tae get stuck here, then. I'd ruther be oot in the fresh aire instead oo this."
Bang.
"How long have you been working here?"
Creak.
"Six years this March. Crazy, ain't it?"
Toss.
"Maybe."
Bang.
Lottie lowered the trash basket she was holding. "I mean, I spend aa day sleeping an' aa night here. It's gotten so bad tha' I have not seen the high noon sun for the past two years."
Creak.
He could tell; Lottie's round face was the colour of bacon fat, and the freckles that spotted her skin showed like specks of dirt.
"That's pretty bad," he said.
Toss.
"Weel, we are the graveyard workers. Dawn 'til dusk an' aa tha'. Lac vampires almost," she grinned at him as another pile of garbage was thrown into the bin. "Or werewolves."
Bang.
"Ow!" Lupin got his hand caught on the closing lid.
"Careful there, Dougie," Lottie warned. "Ye have tae keep oop."

And so they proceeded from level to level, with Lottie pointing out each floor and their purpose. Most of them were subdivisions of the seven main branches of the Ministry, like the how Office for the Maintenance of Floo Powder Networks was subordinate the Department of Magical Transportation, or how the Office for the Regulation of Quaffle Production was part of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Lottie also provided unique nicknames for each of the main departments, which were much more entertaining than their official, longwinded titles. Along with the Broom-Bagger's Closet were the Wand Order (Department for International Magical Co-operation), Spellotape Squad (Department of Accidental Magic Reversal), the Referee's Locker Room (Department of Magical Games and Sports), and the Stakeout (better known as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.) Oddly enough, there was no floor for the Department of Mysteries, which Lottie referred to only as Big Brother.
"Why Big Brother?" Lupin couldn't help asking.
The janitor waggled her fingers ominously. "Akis they're always watching ye. It's a Muggle allusion the last custodian thoot oop afore he quit. His parents were Muggle-borns, ye see."
"Ah." Lupin didn't feel particularly comfortable standing in the elevator shafts after that.
The department that he was the most interested in, however, was the Registry of Magical Creatures. Dubbed by the janitors as the Zookeeper's Lounge, Edinburgh's RMC was an expansive department taking up four levels: one for each division (beast, being and spirit), plus one for management. Even the front doors were intimidating: great iron chains surrounded the doorframe, ending in a giant manacle large enough to straddle a bull by the waist.
" 'Twas a gift from the dragon keepers oo Romania," Lottie said, pointing at the oiled steel. The manacle's made tae lock itself arund anybody who dares tae break intae the Lunge. It's very sensitive. Watch."
Lottie took a cleaning brush from the caddy and tossed it toward the doorway. With a sudden blur of grey, the manacle detached itself from its place over the door and pounced at the brush with a crab-like snap. The item was split in half and both pieces tumbled toward the bottom of the shaft.
Lupin observed the security measure with keen eyes. He would have to find a way past that. "But we're still allowed through, right?"
"Onlie at certain times, an onlie ev'ry other day."
"But why so tight compared with the other departments we've seen?"
"Well, a few years' bac there was a Nundu scare here," Lottie informed him. "Same werewolf extremists sent a letter infected wi Nundu's breath tae a detective. Totally knocked the life oot oo him, an' spread throughoot the entire buildin'. Thank goodness no ane else got infected."
Lupin stared at the doors. He managed not to finch at the word "werewolf extremists" but the phrase stuck in his mind. A Nundu was a huge magical leopard from Africa, whose disease-laden breath was known to wipe out entire villages. Obtaining and bottling such breath was highly dangerous and carefully regulated; only governments had access to the magic needed to subdue a Nundu.
"Were the wolves ever caught?"
Lottie shook her head. "Onlie ane. Same wolfie posed as a mail boy. After they arrested him, thoo, he gave 'em the slip. No ane ev'n knoos his name. " She pondered for a moment. "Methinks tha's why wacko Mister Burtman was hired. He claimed tha' his niffler could detect the nature oo the employees. Anybody's who has a questionable identity would've been caught."
Would they have? Then either Mr. Burtman had played Lupin the fool or an inaccurate niffler had duped them both. Lupin knew that he would have to enact his plan as soon as possible then; or perhaps he should bail out after tonight while he still could...
"Have anything happened since then?"
"Not as much as a peep afterwards." Lottie shuddered at the memory and quickly moved away from the unpleasant topic. "Our roobish bin's full. C'man now, Dougie, lemme shew ye the Incinerator. Doun!"
The golden sparkled shoved them into the very annals of the building, arriving at a gigantic ironwood door riveted with brass and copper. Next to this door was a large chute as tall as a man and two arm-spans wide. Lottie banged her fist against the rusty chute cover.
"This is the Incinerator, where we dump aa oo the roobbish. Gimme a hand, Dougie."
Together, they dragged the bin toward the chute as Lottie flipped up the metal cover. Snapping her fingers twice, Lottie hopped back as the giant monstrosity tipped over with a groan upon its front wheels, expelling untold tons of garbage into the soot-lined tunnel. A dark green smoke wafted up from the chute. It smelled like burning newspapers. The scent was so strong that he could practically taste the bitter printing ink in his mouth. Nausea called from his stomach and his eyes watered.
He turned his head away from the smoke and saw darkness of the shaft around them. The area was wide, apparently made for more traffic. Below his feet, he saw a small form slip into an opening under the Incinerator. He couldn't say for sure, but Lupin swore he saw a tiny patch of mist follow him in.
A red-chequered handkerchief was waved in from of his brimming eyes. "Hankie?"
"Thankee." Lupin replied gratefully, quickly wiping his eyes before tying the cloth over his nose and mouth.
Lottie had done the same herself and was staring at the flow of trash tumbling down the shaft.
"Doun there's the burning place," she said, her voice muffled. "Five tons oo trash a week. Ov'r 260 tons a year goos doun there."
"Don't they use magical fires, though?" Lupin inquired. "There mightn't be this much smoke if they do."
"Aye, the fires ar' magical all right, but some tings give oof smoke nuntheless. Ye wanna meet the stokers? They might be on break."
"Stokers?" Lupin repeated, but Lottie was already calling through the ironwood door.
"Hey ye! Ah em oot here wi the nou laddie!" she called, her voice slipping back to the brogue. "Ah knoo ye is havin' breek! Kin ye spare a time an' open oop?"
"Aye ye!" called a man's voice from the other side. "Haud un tae ye britches!"
The noise of clumping footsteps was heard, and a little peephole slid open in the centre of the door. A pair of burnt cinder eyes stared out at them.
"Hallo, Lottie," said the stoker and the peephole shut. The door shuddered as it creaked open. The stoker's face, smeared with soot, stared back at them. He was dressed in dark blue, ash-smeared overalls and had a dirty red kerchief tied around his neck, like an old-fashioned railroad conductor. "Camin! Camin!" he said ushering them inside.
He led them into what he called the "cleen rum," which by all means didn't appear too clean at all. The clean room was a dull place with yellowed walls and a fine coat of white ash on the floor. At the opposite end was a series of stone steps leading downwards. Above the stairs was the sign in olden script: "Incinerator." A map pinned to the wall expounded up the Incinerator's layout as well, which seemed to be designed like the ringed coils of a Muggle electric stove. Eight concentric rings, with a large cooling mechanism in the centre.
A staler version of the chute smoke permeated through the air; Lupin kept his handkerchief on. The stoker who had opened the door for him sat down at a rickety card table across from his companion, a virtual twin with the exception of a scruffy auburn beard. A game of Exploding Snap was laid out between them. The custodian tipped her cap to each of them. "Phineas MacGregor - Finney. And Moseley O'Reilly - Mo. This is the nou laddie Douglas Ridley - Dougie."
The ash-men raised their heads. "Aye there, Dougie," said one.
"Aye," echoed the other.
Leaning against the wall were immense, shining cylinder packs. A thin cord connected a rifle-like contraption to it. Lupin recognised them instantly.
"Ice blasters?" he commented, gesturing to the strange equipment.
"Aye," said Finney. "For the Ashwinders."
"Aye," Mo parroted. "The Ashwinders."
"They came oot oo the magical fires constantly," Lottie answered, "looking for a place tae lay their eggs."
"So you freeze their eggs before they catch fire?" Lupin said, expressing his magical creature knowledge. Ashwinders were long, gray serpents with glowing red eyes. They formed from magical fires that burned for an extended period of time. If a magical fireplace was left unattended, the resulting Ashwinders could slither out and lay their eggs in the most flammable place they could find. These eggs could then burst out into flames in a matter of minutes and create a conflagration within the hour. These creatures were highly dangerous; Lupin wondered why the Ministry allowed Squibs with simple Ice Blasters to control them. Even capable wizards had trouble dealing with Ashwinders.
"Do you sell the eggs after?" he added.
"Nah." Finney answered. "We give 'em tae the Office for Magical Craitur Bi-Pruducts oop in the Zookeeper's Lunge. But we git 5 Knuts per egg. Not too shabby."
Mo nodded. "Not shabby a-tall."
A stubby finger pointed to a burlap sack filled with frozen Ashwinder eggs. A fine cool mist rose up from the sack.
"Aye. Twenty-five eggs tonicht," said Finney proudly.
Twenty-five eggs at 5 Knuts each? Lupin could smell a swindle going on. Ashwinder eggs were the most costly potion items on the market. To have the Ministry employ these disadvantaged folk in the most dangerous job possible, then give them almost nothing in exchange for their most expensive items they scavenge, was completely unfair.
Lottie was aware of this too. "He should get a hundred times the amount he does," she whispered fiercely to Lupin as they left. "Finney got five liddin anes at hame. God knoos he needs the money."
"Do you think he knows that?"
"Aye. But ye can't tawk bac tae the Big Anes now, can ye?"
Out in the lift shaft, Lupin saw the bin was empty. With a snap of his fingers, it tipped back onto all four wheels. "Lurnin' fast," Lottie said approvingly.
Shutting the chute cover closed, Lupin noticed an inscription hacked into the rusted metal. He backed away, adjusted his glasses (a Douglas move he remembered), and read the inscription to himself.

ABANDON ALL HOPE,
YE WHO WORK HERE.

He stared at the inscription for a long while wearing a slightly quizzical expression, until Lottie noticed. She glanced at the words mildly. "Same stoker thoot t'was fitting." The head custodian paused before adding lively, "Supposedly he was drunk when he wrote that."

Chapter 11

Working at the Edinburgh branch of the Ministry of Magic enlightened Lupin about many unseen aspects of the Ministry that he had never contemplated before. For instance, scattered about the entire government facility, there were no less than 42 lavatories: 21 for each respective gender. In the men's toilet, there were three urinals and two bowls; in the female version, there were only three bowls.

Therefore, in total there were 105 toilets and 63 urinals. Lupin knew this tally because he had to clean every single one. By hand.

"I'm not takin' advantage of ye jus akis yu're the new laddie," Lottie explained. Right then they were both in the men's toilet at the Stakeout Place, close to the public law offices. Lupin was on his knees scrubbing away with a brush and a bottle of Bundimun's Smell-be-Gone All-Purpose Washroom Cleaner, while Lottie was mopping up the tiles.

"It's jus' the chain oo command, ye see?" she said with a very important air. "I had tae clean the crappers oot wuns tae."

"Aye," Lupin muttered as he swished the brush around the shallow bowl and up along the sides. He didn't mind the work, actually, other than the smell that aggravated his keen nose.

Lupin was used to all kinds of toil in both the Muggle and wizarding world. He had at one point in time been a dishwasher at Hog's Head, an outdoor waiter, a London cabbie, a private boggart exterminator (charging three sickles less than the RMC's Spirit Division), and, for one lucky year, a tutor for Albus Dumbledore's great-nephews. In fact, this last experience had played a factor in landing Lupin the DADA job at Hogwarts.

Lottie was turning circles as she mopped. The handle rose two heads above her, but she managed well enough. "I've got a theory aboot crappers," she suddenly said. "Wanna hear it?"

She gave Lupin precisely two seconds before going on. "There are such things as self-cleaning crappers - the SC Triple-Plus Toilet, to be exact. Minister Fudge himself has a solid gold SC Triple-Plus in London. But they're ain't a single one here. With aa the fancy-smancy Muggle imports they're getting here, ye'd think tha' Big Anes might be able to squeeze in a few new crappers. Eh?" She must expect a response of some sort.

"Aye," he commented. He moved to the final urinal and poured in the blue cleaning solution. The liquid bubbled and changed several different colours before foaming up. He put his brush to the suds and whisked it about.

"But they dun't. Ye knoo why?" Lottie asked. "Akis eef they did, it would cut doun our workload by fortee-five percent. Less work means less custodians. But ye can't have Squibs roaming the street wi nothing tae stand on. So the Big Anes try an' increase the need for janitors by making us dae more grunt work. Ain't tha' obvious?" She gave the floor a vicious sweep and shoved the mop back into the bucket. "I'm dun here. Ready?"

Lupin lingered on his knees for a bit longer, thinking about what she had said. Then, he got up hastily, taking off his gloves. "Aye."

Lottie waddled over and stared at the row he had cleaned critically. Approaching the last one he had touched, she leaned over and sniffed sharply like a bloodhound on the scent.

"Hmmm, lemon freshness." She tucked a mouse-brown lock behind one ear as she looked at the white shine. "Hey, I can see my face in it!"

Straightening up, she gave Lupin's shoulder a whack. "That'll do, Dougie. That'll do. Let's tak a midnight tea, might we?"

He was thankful the task was done. By then, his knees had begun to ache horribly from getting up and down off the floor. Together, they gathered up the cleaning supplies and exited the lavatory. The cleaning caddy was already set to go and they were halfway towards the elevator shaft when Lottie suddenly halted.

"Did ye hear tha'?" Lupin stopped.

He thought he did hear something, very distant, but didn't think about it.

"What?" A very high shhhhhhhh sound came, like the final descent of a small pool of water funnelling down a hole.

"Somebody used it." She paused stiffly, as if waiting for the full effect of her words to sink into Lupin's understanding. "Somebody. Used. It."

"The toilet?" Lupin said blankly.

"Somebody used it!" Lottie turned the caddie around so quickly the wheels squeaked and zoomed back towards the men's lavatory. Lupin, puzzled, followed. Who was still at the Stakeout floor at this time of night?

Lottie was back at the men's toilet, taking out the cleaner and the brush. She stalked to the two stalls at the far wall. Sticking her head into one, she sniffed and reared back. "Tha' one!"

"So?" Lupin found the brush and bottled being pushed into his hands again.

"Hurry oop!" Lottie pushed him into a stall. But they had just been cleaned. He gave Lottie a questioning look. Her reply flew by in a whirl of Scots, lost to him.

"Dinnae ye knoo tha' wunst a toilet is flushed, it sends up a spout oo microscopic droplets oo contaminated water in a six foot radius in aa directions?" Lottie exclaimed. "An' in a twelve-hour time period, those microscopic bits oo tainted water could spread an' infect the entire facility?" She made quite a large deal out of the matter.

Lupin was about to point out that these toilets were going to be used anyway in less than twelve hours, and so were always in a state of perpetual microscopic contamination, but kept his mouth shut. After all, he was only five hours into his new job; he shouldn't complain.

What he didn't realise was that Lottie was going to make him do the entire lavatory twice over. She became a house elf on the edge; anything he did suddenly didn't come up to par in Lottie's mind as she hopped about behind his shoulders. By the time he got back up from his knees, he could feel the little imprints of tile etched into his skin. "Good enough?" he asked, trying not to sound too annoyed. Lottie's hyper state lessened.

"Aye," she said, wiping her brow as if she had been the one working for the last twenty-five minutes.

"Let's go." He pushed up his glasses up the bridge of his nose and adjusted his hat roughly, trying not to come off as bitter.

On their way out, Lottie was pushing the cleaning caddy in front of her, and Lupin had pursed his lips to keep from snapping. The shadow of another man caught Lupin's attention, and he looked up again, quickly, just in time to see a straw-haired man stomping past, clenching something in his fist. "I am stronger than you; I am stronger than you..."

Lupin took a double-take to see the figure slip into the Stakeout cubicle area and disappear. A government worker still here at midnight? He shook his head and let the little incident pass him by.

"What if someone decides to use the toilet again before the Ministry opens?" he said gruffly.

"Then, ye bitter get tha' scrub brush at hand."
But no one else used the men's toilet on the Stakeout Place again that night, much to Lupin's relief. They got their midnight tea at the Ministry's own cafeteria, open twenty-hours. Lottie waved a hand at the fellow at the chipper. "Ane supper, twa bridies, an' a cup oo tea eef ye please," she called to the boy behind the counter. "An' dinnae be stingee ona chips."

Lupin watched as the boy quickly tossed a few pieces of deep-fried fish into small basket and heaped them with fried chips. Taking a salt shaker, he sprinkled it all over the platter and added a splash of vinegar. A couple of meat-and-tattie pasties were selected piping hot from a warming tray, wrapped them in tissue paper, and tossed into the basket was well. The whole lot was then put in a paper bag and folded up with a page from the Daily Prophet. The chipper boy then took a cup and filled it to the brim with steaming dark tea and threw in some spoonfuls of sugar and cream. All this was done in less than a minute. Pretty admirable speed record.

"Here ye go," the boy said. Lottie took out a pitifully limp coin purse and carefully extracted the exact payment, which she dropped into the boy's outstretched hand.

"Ye going tae order nae, Dougie?"

"No, no, I'll be all right," Lupin said quickly. During the day, he had dressed in sharp white dress clothes, dark pants and bow tie and went up to one of the classy outdoor restaurants in Edinburgh's Muggle centre. He had pretended to be a busboy for one of the outdoor tables. This way, he had purloined a few rolls, some traces of steak, and fifteen pounds of tip money before one of the real waiters spotted him. Having four Muggles chasing him had certainly increased his sprinting skills. Nevertheless, he had this meagre but hard-earned supper at the tenement. Lupin planned to stretch the tip money out until he received his first paycheque from the Ministry. The smells from the newspaper-wrapped bag, however, were quite tempting.

"I'm not hungry," he said, his mouth watering. "I'm dieting, anyways." She laughed.

"Hey, I'm the ane who needs a diet arund here," she took out the bridies from her package and shoved them toward Lupin. "Eat oop."

Lupin protested. "Nah, I cannot take this."

"Weel, I'm not having it." Lottie placed the pasties on the counter, before spotting someone sitting in a lone corner. "Hey, ye!" she called, walking away.

Lupin glanced at the package on the counter. She had paid for it, and at least he wasn't going to leave it there. He grabbed them and followed.

The head janitor was sitting next to a sour-looking man brooding over his cup of tea. "Dougie, this here's Ralph Conner from the Owlry. She clapped her hand upon Ralph's shoulder. "Ralph, say hallo for us."

He glowered into his cup.

"Don't. Touch. Me." Lottie shook his shoulder playfully.

"That-a-boy, Ralph. He jus' gets a bit grumpy when he hasn't finished his wee strupach," she said to Lupin in a loud whisper. Ralph slowly turned his head towards her and narrowed his eyes.

"I'm needing the cleaner for the droppings," he said through gritted teeth.

"And that ye shall get!" Lottie sprang up to her feet. Lupin figured Ralph might have done something terrible if she hadn't jumped away in time. "I'll meet ye there after!"

They made their way back to the Custodial Services Office to eat. Lottie tucked herself into her swivel chair and unwrapped the newspaper from her meal. "Hey, there's same more news aboot tha' werewolf character," she said, glancing at the oil-stained sheet. Lupin lifted his head, his heart giving an unaccustomed jump.

"Really?" he asked mildly. "What about?" Her eyes scanned the paper.

"Hey, he might be a friend to tha' Sirius Black!" she said. "Weel, wha' da ye knoo?"

"Can I see it?"

"Wait a moment," Lottie became deeply interested in the paper. "They ev'n have a picture oo him. Lookee here." She showed him.

Lupin stared.

It was certainly a recent photograph. The photo consisted of a shadowy figure (presumably him) leaning down over a thick tome. Lupin then recalled the press coming to take a shot of him for an article about the rumoured "Curse of the DADA Job at Hogwarts," based on the stream of changing DADA professors for the past couple years. It had been printed out during the beginning of the autumn before last. Lupin had been in his office at the time, and remembered specifically that he hadn't wanted the picture taken at all.

Unfortunately, they must have snuck one in, and it was being reused here.

His duplicate was slowly turning the pages of the book. Noticeably enough, he donned his reading glasses. The twin then raised his head and looked out at him. Recognizing himself, the printed figure gave a nod in Lupin's direction. Lupin subtly put a finger to his lips, and his miniature self instantly understood, raising the book up in front of his face.

Lottie caught that motion. "Whatcha doin'?" She took a second look at the article. His picture self raised the book higher, so that his face was entirely covered. She stared at the photograph for a long while, then back at Lupin. An odd gleam came to her eye.

"Hey," she drawled, both her eyes upon Lupin, "ye look awfully familiar."

Lupin had his head down, absorbed in unwrapping the pasties he held. Using a curious tone, he questioned, "Whom do you think I look like?"

Should he run or subdue her? This place had too many obstacles in case of a struggle, and more likely, she would find something in this heap to contain him. But if he got up to make a dash for it, she'd have security called up to cut him off. He couldn't handle security, not without his wand. God, if only he had it. Maybe if he acted now while she was off guard he could knock her out and-

"I dunno." Her eyes widened. "Oh, Holy Mither oo God!" she gasped.

The coat rack. He bolted toward the door.

"Aidan Lynch!" Lottie exclaimed.

He was halfway out the office when he froze. She slipped down from her chair and glanced up at Lupin, taking him by the forearms. "Ye look exactly like him!"

"Aidan Lynch?" Lupin echoed, feeling both relieved and flustered. He didn't really want to hurt the poor woman. Yet if push came to shove, he would have taken the coat rack and hit her in the head.

"The star player from the Irish National Quidditch Team!" Lottie laughed. "Why had I not seen it afore? Tak oof the spectacles, give ye a flying broom..."

Lupin managed a small chuckle as his adrenaline level receded. "So you see it too?" he said.

"Most definitely."

"Thought you might. Sometimes when I walk down Diagon Alley, frantic fans wanting autographs mob me. I used to get free drinks at the Three Broomsticks by saying I was his brother." He casually sat back down in his chair and took a quick whiff of his wrist. It must be the Confundus Cologne's work.

"I suppose so." Lottie scratched her head. "Why were ye so jumpy all of a sudden?" she inquired.

"I'm not fond of exclamations like that," he replied simply. "Fight or flight response. Especially when those Lynch fans go after you." Offering up an embarrassed smile, he tossed his shoulders and bit into a bridie.

Just one close call out of many in the weeks to come.