Wolf By Ears

WOLF BY EARS

Part Six: Body vs. Soul

By D.M.P.

***

Soul, wilt thou toss again?

By just such a hazard

Hundreds have lost, indeed,

But tens have won all.

Angels' breathless ballot

Lingers to record thee;

Imps in eager caucus

Raffle for my soul.

-Emily Dickinson

***

Chapter 20

He could feel them.

...slithering...

...slithering...

...his throat filled with bitter chalky ash that clung to his throat and his mouth filled with tar and the hissing thundering through his brain made his eardrums vibrate and ache as they licked their little tongues over him as slimy as dead worms...

"Hello Mr. Ridley. And how are we doing today?"

...they were wrapped around his neck oh please Lord don't let them tear out his vocal cords please like Father with his torn throat and blood dripping into the shallow waters of the swamp...

"Mr. Ridley?" A hand shook him. "Mr. Ridley?"

Lupin lolled his head over to see a man stand before him, clipboard in hand. The hospital room was still and bright. Someone was at the bed, an expression of inquisitiveness on his face.

Lupin blinked a few times at the bright daylight streaming into the room. A cool breeze came from the window.

"Kevin?" he said, disoriented.

"Dr. Mukherjee," the man corrected. He scratched his temple with the tip of his pen. "Are you all right, Mr. Ridley?"

"I'm not Mr. Ridley," he answered groggily. "I never was..."

Dr. Mukherjee jotted down a few notes.

"Who's Kevin?" the doctor asked politely.

Lupin stared around the room. Four barren walls. A window with diaphanous curtains. Table. Reading lamp. Water pitcher. Empty glass. All here. All here like before....

Doctor. There was always someone else in the room, whether it was the Indian physician or an aide or a nurse. Supposedly, Lupin needed constant monitoring. He saw no reason why; weren't the straps enough? His jerked his wrists to be sure they were still there. They said he suffered from seizures.

How long? he wondered. This was a question he frequently asked himself. How long this time?

The doctor tried a new approach. "Do you know where you are, Mr. Ridley?" he asked slowly.

"St. Mungo's." Lupin wanted to scratch his head but couldn't lift his hand high enough to do so. "And don't call me Mr. Ridley."

"Do you know why you're here?"

"Because of an Ashwinder bite."

"Yes..." More notes. The doctor, Lupin noticed, kept his eyes strictly on the parchment. Most people who frequented his room did that, yet he didn't know why. Whenever he tried to speak with someone face-to-face, the other always had his head bowed down to the clipboard in his hands, or eyes wandering about the room as if searching for words, or was stolidly focusing not upon Lupin, but in the proximity of him. It gave Lupin the impression that no one wanted to see him - or that everyone was trying to deceive him.

"I must have been dreaming," he said, for the doctor's sake.

"Must have," Dr. Muhkarjee agreed, "though you appeared quite awake when I first came in."

"How am I doing?" Lupin asked. "Will I be allowed to leave soon?"

"Well... the Ashwinder's still left some traces of poison in the last blood sample we took..." He flipped through his pages on his clipboard. "In addition, I've arranged an appointment for you to see Dr. Hannaford in an hour."

"Another specialist?"

"A psychiatrist, actually."

The world is too full of specialists, Lupin thought. He had been poked and examined and questioned and tested for more than a week. A physician for his physique, a magician for his magic, and now a psychiatrist for his psyche, apparently. And what was wrong with him exactly? Will all of these experts have a conference sometime to sort it out?

"But why?"

"Some of the lasting effects of the Ashwinder bite include delusions, hallucinations..." He gestured with his quill. "That sort of thing."

"You think the bite's caused me to become mentally unstable?"

"I'm not saying that," the doctor said quickly. "A psychiatric evaluation is only standard procedure."

Lupin blinked. He didn't know what to think.

The newest specialist, a balding, chubby bloke with frizzy hair, promptly walked into his room an hour before noon; he didn't even bother to knock on the door. "Hullo there," he said warmly, holding out his hand. "Dr. Hannaford."

Lupin shook it and the psychiatrist pulled up the chair. By now, the nurses had taken off the straps that had bound him; Lupin was grateful for that. He had been escorted to the toilet and in the mirror he caught a scruffy, gaunt man wearing a hospital gown in the reflection. He realised that when tied down, he looked like a full-fledged mental case.

Sitting down with one leg crossed over the other knee, the psychiatrist began in a fruity voice, "So I heard you got bitten by an Ashwinder last week," like it was the gossip of the day.

Lupin suppressed the strong desire to snap back, "Well, golly gee, Dr. Hannaford, I believe I was." In place of that, he said tersely, "Yes, doctor."

He rarely liked to judge by first impressions (having been victim to them many times before), but that instant, he had an uncontrollable dislike toward the man. Some people create personalities that radiate about them like an aura, and the aura this man exuded was that of one who found no profession more satisfying than listening to troubled fools talk for numerous hours as long as it increased his net earnings for the day.

"Would you mind speaking about it?"

Where should he begin? Lupin knew he had no permission whatsoever to go down into the Incinerator, yet not a word of reprimand was issued against him during recovery. Was the Ministry waiting for him to become well before they punish him? Did Moseley decided to give an exception for him, and vouched for permission when questioned? Was his firing entirely up to Lottie alone, since she was his boss? And if so, what did she decide?

"Mr. Ridley-?"

Should he speak the truth? Did he want to? Would the doctor-patient confidence pact be violated if he confessed to breaking Ministry regulations?

"I was looking for Ashwinder eggs," he said guardedly.

The psychiatrist gave Lupin a casual glance.

...flaming cinder burned on his skin and they were crawling through the ash their eyes aglow and from far away he could hear the screams but he was alone all alone except for them...

Dr. Hannaford's gaze quickly averted back to his parchment; his quill dug into the paper until it bent. "Excuse me," he said, as he groped for another quill in his robe pocket. "What about this Kevin bloke you keep mentioning?" he hurried on.

"A memory," Lupin said simply. "I knew him once. We didn't talk much, but had a few things in common."

Yes, the poor minister. Whatever happened to him and his wife after Brighton? Lupin wondered that occasionally, and the thought cropped up often now he was in the hospital. Had the Ministry tampered with the Grishams memories permanently? Did they forget that they even had a daughter? Or worse yet, did they suspect a world within a world, and view themselves helpless victims to a secret magical society lurking inside their own?

In his mind, Lupin pretended to have conversations with Mary's father. The setting was the most familiar one Lupin could place them in - sitting on the doorstep in front of his sister's home. He would be in the clothes he was most comfortable with: a set of well-worn robes. The Reverend donned his minister's outfit; strange to consider, since Lupin never seen Kevin dressed as a man of the cloth.

"You took care of her. Now what lies ahead?" he imagined Kevin asking once.

Lupin had replied automatically, "I have to learn how to care for myself again."

"And will you?"

"Yes, Father."

But of course he wasn't crazy. If Lupin truly believed these mental conversations occurred, then he would be crazy. Or maybe only schizophrenic.

"If I were suffering from any hallucinations, what sort of treatment would you propose?" Lupin inquired. "Curiosity's sake of course."

"Well, we would have to move you to the psychiatric ward for observation for a few days. Loretta Gordon, your custodial supervisor, stopped in earlier today to see me."

"She did?"

"She was concerned about your state of mind. And frankly, with what Ms. Gordon told me, it's worth looking into."

Worth looking into? Examine the problem, yes, doctor, but stop staring down at your clipboard!

Very softy, in a flat voice that rippled with restrained emotion, Lupin posed a question. "Do you know what it is like to die?"

"Well -" The psychiatrist made as if to begin a very intellectual lecture on that, if only he could gather enough intellect to do so. "Often, when patients experience traumatic events -"

Cattails blowing in the wind. Swaying, their pulpy heads nudged against each other while in motion. Rustle of the long grass. And the cold night air with the wind and the cattails stirring with the long grass--

...they were in the darkness watching him from the depths of oblivion their eyes large and unblinking...

Cattails stirring every so gently, concealing and swaying as how a Gypsy moves her billowy clothing in her seductive dance, covering and uncovering, while through the night and twisting grass he could see something large and black and still, half-in, half-out of the stagnant water--

...out of the smoky reaches beyond they came by the masses as if drawn to the kill...

He was walking, his knees quickly growing rubbery and limp. The mud sucked at his small boots and clung there as he stepped forward. The only sound was the squishing of the mud and the dark wind blowing---

Pain erupted through his skull. Wincing, Lupin crouched down, hand almost, but not quite, touching his temple.

The psychiatrist moved away with a cry of concern.

"Headache," Lupin gasped. His arm moved as if swatting the other man away and he said, "I get headaches. Excuse me."

"Would you like me to come back another time?" Dr. Hannaford offered, sounding more than eager.

"It'll pass. I used to be worse a few days before," he answered through clenched teeth. "The pain coursed through my body so terribly, I practically leapt clean straight off the bed. But that's passed. It's only headaches now." In a few minutes, Lupin straightened himself up and brushed a hand through his hair. "Where were we?"

Uncertain about whether to proceed or not, Dr. Hannaford froze momentarily, like an animal before a predator's eyes, but continued. "I think you were going to tell me something. You asked, 'Do you know what it is like to die?'"

"Never mind that," said Lupin hastily. "The point I was trying to get across was that I felt like I was going to die."

And he had that feeling once before, where the cattails were stirring. That and the vision he saw, beyond that night, beyond death...

If he told it all now, everything, would that be admitting that everything he had seen wasn't real? That it was an illusion? Hard and cold the realisation hit him. Lupin did not want to deny the truth. And what he had seen was the truth. And this truth - this revelation - was something this skeptic psychiatrist would never understand.

It was his duty to protect this vision. So Lupin kept it close to his heart and silenced it. Drawing out a yarn for Douglas to tell was an easy option, but he wasn't Douglas Ridley then. He didn't want to be. Remus Lupin was himself, and he told the doctor this:

"Often I would dream I was a young boy who lived near the Forbidden Forest. It was nighttime, and my father was preparing to go out. I, being young and foolish, went down to the living room to watch him get ready. He had a quiver of silver arrows, which gleamed in the firelight. An old servant, Murphy, caught me hiding behind the couch and chastised me for being there. Both he and my father wanted me to return to bed. But I had heard enough to want to accompany my father. For you see, he was hunting that night, for a werewolf named Lycaos..."

Dr. Hannaford wrote this all in furious illegible doctor's script, his quill scratching noisily against the dry paper. Lupin went on, in painstaking detail. He saw the psychiatrist's face flush with excitement, writing with the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth. At certain moments, he paused to let the man catch up with his notes.

"... and then I would be running," Lupin said, reaching the climax, "faster and faster, but he would be gaining upon me. I had this feeling then, as I ran, of complete futility. I knew no matter how fast I went, I would fall. It was..." his tongue ran over dry lips, "like fate. And then I did fall; there was a rock in my path and I tripped. I scrambled up as quickly as I could... and the next thing I saw was this hideous white form, pouncing upon me. Long teeth dripping with saliva and bloodshot yellow eyes and then - " Lupin cut it short. This was as far as he would go. The doctor only needed to know the trivial prologue to his truth. "The dream ended."

"You awoke?"

"Yes."

"And how did you feel?"

"Frightened out of my wits." He paused. "But that's all."

Dr. Hannaford chewed at the end of his quill, and then gave a heavy sigh as if he had finished a very satisfying meal. "Most dreams.... Express the subconscious. I'm sure you heard of that before."

"I might have read it somewhere."

"Well," the psychiatrist burst giving a chuckle. "This one's chock full of it. The Forbidden Forest represents your subconscious, while night is a clear sign that this dream centres around your darkest thoughts beyond your daily comprehension. The father figure, because he dons the silver arrows, portrays both a fear of his authority, and because of his dark clothing, a sense of mystery and isolation..."

Lupin paid no attention to what the psychiatrist ranted about. One may dissect dreams but not memories. He let the psychiatrist talk on and on and nodded once in a while in agreement, but the words were passing waves on a beach.

After an hour ended, he snapped his clipboard shut and tucked the quill in his front pocket. "And the verdict is?" Lupin asked him.

"In my professional opinion, you seem perfectly fine," said the psychiatrist. "The Ashwinder venom didn't seem to damage you other than physically. Other than an acute fear of werewolves," he said with a smile directed to side table. People who visited him tended to smile in the direction of the table, because it was in Lupin's general direction. That side table must be feeling quite flattered from all the attention.

Lupin answered in that same false easy-going voice, "Shouldn't we all be wary of the Big Bad Wolf?"

"With that dream of yours, I'm sleeping with the light on tonight."

Cattails blowing in the wind. Swaying, their pulpy heads nudged against each other while in motion. Rustle of the long grass. And the cold night air with the wind and the cattails stirring with the long grass....

Glaring light beat down on him. The night outside his window made their brightness seem abnormal. Mr. Burtman walked into the room. "How are we feeling today?" said he, just like Dr. Muhkarjee had. Except Lupin felt no concern coming from him.

"I'm pulling myself together," replied Lupin, "and please don't call me Mr. Ridley."

"But that is your name, isn't it?" A fiendish glint sparkled in his yellow eye.

"It is whatever you make of it," he answered vaguely.

"Ah..." A cat cornering its helpless prey would not look more satisfied than the Director did. He pulled up a chair over to the bedside and straddled it. "Your descent into the Incinerator was a clear violation of Ministry regulations," he purred. "The consequences of such actions could lead to dismissal."

True, but Lupin did not see that as the reason for the Director's visit. Lupin could have easily gotten a slip via owl. "But Lottie's my supervisor," he argued. "Isn't it her decision whether it was a violation or not?"

"It is clearly stated in your job contract what our rules are. You signed it under the name Douglas Ridley." His tail swished, wrapping casually around a chair leg. Lupin tensed; the wording was not lost to him.

"Your job contract is quite the comprehensive document," the Director explained. "There it specifically states what your custodial duties are. Plus there are moral and ethical obligations that are expected from all employees. Obviously, what you have committed violated all codes of honor in the book."

"Are you firing me?" Lupin asked, cutting through the pretense.

"I could," Mr. Burtman casually answered, "but if an employee commits fraud, more severe measures would have to be taken."

Lupin raised both eyebrows in mild shock, then reached over and sipped from his cup. "Indeed," he said.

If the Director was expecting Lupin to be fazed, he didn't show it. Perhaps he was too involved with his own words to notice. Lupin had a feeling that Mr. Burtman had this whole speech planned out in advance. "Being a man of excellent position, I often stumble upon ... let's say... secrets now and then," Mr. Burtman said. "Little skeletons from others' closets fall into my disposal, usually when I conduct background research." Lupin knew exactly how he went about with that research. Memories of the spirit niffler still chilled him. Chilled him like the horror of the dark, the dark that crept along the back of his mind--

...the sick cretin the living chains that writhed and bit...

Lupin focused on the ceiling panels above his head. He stared at the hospital lights until his retinas burned, and then shut his eyes. Little red circles, like burning halos, danced under his eyelids.

Mr. Burtman offered with a generous tone, "But I'm willing to keep the closet doors locked; I don't like ruining people's lives; it's too messy and time-consuming to hire out new employees. Instead, I like to... gain favors." He rolled the words out luxuriously, his voice dripping with pleasure. Lupin, blinking rapidly, sat in a daze. He wondered what kind of favors he had taken from other employees at the Ministry and what kind of favors Mr. Burtman expected from him. Lupin needn't wonder too long.

"Do you now know what I'm talking about?" Mr. Burtman asked with a carefree gesture.

Oh, Lupin perfectly understood what the Director meant. He knew.

"What secret am I hiding?" he asked curiously. No fear about the future hassled him when he asked; he had seen worse in his past.

"As if you wanted me to say it aloud." Mr. Burtman, anticipating some tension from Lupin, folded his hands in his lap.

His hands disgusted Lupin; they were too weighty and undesirable, like the layer of fat on cuts of meat. Before, Mr. Burtman seemed unimpeachably streamlined, urbane and even otherworldly. Yet now outside his Ministry element, Mr. Burtman appeared mundane despite his strange afflictions. He was, after all, so very... mortal.

"Oh, let me guess." Lupin leaned forward and said in a conspirator's whisper, "You think I am an English werewolf pretending to be a Scottish Squib in order to steal Ashwinder eggs and sell them to the black market. You want the eggs I've taken in exchange for your silence," he finished lightly. "Am I right?"

"Your intelligence isn't underestimated," Mr. Burtman replied.

"Is that how you do it, sir? Grab one's hidden truths during the job interview and hire them on the spot, so you can dupe them later?"

Yes, the Director was a mortal man who did immoral things. The spirit niffler? A child's plaything! Mr. Burtman was a con man who loved taking advantage of others and had finally found the position and the means to do so. How else did he escape of the insanity of Azkaban to this secure little job in Edinburgh? Why by blackmailing the right people of course! With his little ghost by his side, Mr. Burtman could have the world on a platter!

Lupin found Mr. Burtman's cleverness and deceit - and his greed - rather entertaining.

The Director flicked his tail in surprise. "Mr. Ridley, I see nothing funny going on."

Control, Remus! Lupin cleared his throat. "Pardon my rudeness." He hoped he didn't embarrass the poor fellow.

"You don't resemble him at all by the way," he added.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Burtman blinked, not knowing what to expect.

"You're a caricature," explained Lupin rationally. "And a poorly done one at that."

"You do realise my intent, Mr. Ridley?"

"I grasp it completely: petty blackmail," he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Some free merchandise for you to sell off for a profit. Anything else I choose not to speculate upon. 'Gaining favors' indeed. What a way to get your jollies." Lupin shook his head, shoulders shaking.

Obviously, the Director of Being Resources didn't suspect Lupin so willing to be exploited. "I...I never knew you'd act this cooperative..." He got up from his seat, but Lupin motioned for Mr. Burtman to sit down again.

"Oh, we're not being watched!" he said. "In fact, go ahead and get them, if you can! There are three. I'm sure they're still hidden in my uniform, which is probably being kept by the hospital. Take it. Tell the staff I gave you permission." By now, Lupin stopped bothering to use the weak Scottish accent he had been used to.

"Keep them?" The Director was beside himself in amazement.

"Unless you want to hand them over to the Zookeepers for lunch money, then yes." Lupin shook his head. The corners of his lips seemed locked in place, curling around his wan cheeks. "Save it up for a yacht," he suggested cheerfully. "You look like you have a good pair of sea legs."

Mr. Burtman opened his mouth to comment, but Lupin interceded.

"It's all right." Lupin reached over and patted Mr. Burtman on the arm. "You're only human, just like the rest of us."

The man drew back from his touch, confusion diffusing in his eyes - which seemed quite normal-looking now, in Lupin's perspective.

Lupin laughed at that. The world had become a farce, one insane jumble of little dependencies and manipulations that amounted to a whole lot of nothing. People crawling along the surface of the earth, trying to feel important, trying to get money and fame and power. Yet, both the king and the pawn go back into the box at the end of the game. And after the ending! Lupin found that thought amusing, and amusement turned to hilarity. The poor tragic world! Look at everyone scamper about like insects! But even the insects are equal to people, as they are both bound on this planet for such a brief period of time. For some reason, this thought entertained him too, as did many others after it. These thoughts ran through his mind over and over again. He was thoroughly enjoying himself and before Lupin knew it, Mr. Burtman was gone and he was alone again.

And when he finally caught his breath and the room settled into a comfortable silence, Lupin wondered what had driven the pitiful Director of Being Resources away.

A polite knocking greeted his door later on. The action was only customary in nature, since his door was already open. Lupin propped himself up on the bed and pushed his meal tray away. That night's menu wasn't too appealing: overcooked spaghetti in watery marinara sauce. Even the look of it made him want to retch.

...their slimy tongues flickering in and out in and out as they stared with bloody eyes...

"Hullo Lottie," Lupin said. "How are you keepin'?"

Hesitantly, the custodian stepped inside the room. A small package was held with both hands. Lottie reminded him of a chipmunk more than ever with the way she scurried in, carrying the package like a prized nut.

"Doin' weel enuff." She peered around as if expecting monsters under the bed to pop out at any moment. "An' ye?"

...dark so dark and alone so dark and alone except for them they never went away...

Lupin took a sip of his water, pressing his lips against the plastic cup. He let the liquid sit in his mouth before swallowing. "Quite better."

Lottie made a face.

"You don't believe me?"

"Oh, s'not tha'," she replied. "Ye jus' seemed real bad last time, tha's aa." Her dark eyes quickly assessed his thin frame, the scraggily beginnings of a beard of his face, the tired, haggard face. The only part she didn't encounter were his eyes, jumping over them before falling lower to a safer area, the worn hospital sheets.

"Ye leuk lac a ghoul," she said. "Have the Big Anes been feedin' ye richt?"

"Well, 'tis not fine dining. Feel free to sample St. Mungo's cuisine." Making a feint, he picked up the fork and made as if to toss the utensil over. Lottie jumped like he was going to spear her.

A sputtering giggle escaped. "None today," she quickly replied, too nervously for him to believe she took it as a lighthearted joke.

An awkward moment passed. "Please, make yourself comfortable," Lupin offered, referring to the chair.

She wouldn't sit down. "Phineas's bac," said Lottie, groping about for conversation. "He's sorry tae hear wha' happened. Here." She handed the package to him.

Lupin removed the brown paper wrapping to reveal a slim light blue flask. "What's this?"

"A speshul concocshun. My mither's recipe for aa tha' ails ye."

Taking a sip, Lupin tasted a bitter, tangy substance. He swallowed quickly and grabbed his water cup again to wash away the strong flavour.

"Tha' should keep ye nice an' cool," she informed him. "So yer blood dunnae boil."

"Thankee," replied Lupin graciously, putting the flask next to his plate.

Again, they lacked enough words to split between them. Lottie lapsed back into an unusual silence, and this worried Lupin. However, he too couldn't contribute to the waning conversation. The quiet lengthened into a prime example of social deficiency. Lupin sensed that Lottie was holding back from him; like the others, she refused to even given him a simple glance.

Yet despite this discomfort, Lupin was touched that she chanced a second visit after seeing him suffer another attack. He wondered why. Genuine compassion, perhaps?

The Squib shuffled her feet as if wracked with indecision. Lupin offered her the chair once more, but she immediately refused.

"Wunnae be here long; have tae get tae wurk," she said. "But I got a question for ye..." She stuffed her hands in her pockets and pressed her lips together, as if worried or scared.

Lupin waited.

"Wha' happened doun thaur?" she finally whispered.

"What are you talkin' about?" he said.

"Doun thaur... in the Incinerator..." Her eyes darted again. "Wha' was it lac?"

"What was it like?"

"Doun thaur."

Lupin met her stare and she shrank back. The way she asked that question was almost like she knew... Lupin analyzed her as if memorizing the flow of sand. Lottie literally became smaller and more timid, arms half-raised in a restrained defensive gesture. "Yu dunnae have tae say aneething, Dougie," she rushed. "It isn't my business tae ask aneehow an'... an'..."

...they writhed over him and he couldn't breathe please he couldn't see oh dear Lord don't let them take his vocals cords they're at his throat they're at his throat please Lord please don't let them don't let them don't...

He drew back sharply. Lottie scrambled for safety again, her round face trembling. She didn't know anything, he thought, almost remorse. Only he. To keep her dignity, he went through the motions of courtesy. "It was kind of you to ask. But you must be running late..."

Or just running.

He smiled and hoped it didn't look too grim.

Chapter 21

Papers checked. Slap on the back. A friendly, "Take care of yourself, Mr. Ridley," from Dr. Muhkarjee. All in all, it was a pleasant way to end his stay. A slow, painful week had passed, with workers walking on eggshells and murmuring about him as if they were in the presence of someone greatly revered or greatly shunned. But it was over. Everyone, including Lupin, was relieved about his discharge from St. Mungo's.

Lupin took a lively step down the street; the hospital offered to call up the Knight Bus, but he refused. Underneath one arm was his uniform. Mr. Burtman never taken it; even the Ashwinder eggs remained; he could feel their heaviness like lead balls. Lupin wondered why that devil didn't take up his deal.

As he arrived at the nearest bus stop, Lupin took out the small handful of Muggle money from a used envelope - enough to use the bussing system for a ride home and a little extra. Got to hand it to the Ministry for going the extra mile for their employees.

A small, sincere smile crossed his face. Lottie sent the money for him. He could tell, for he recognized her chicken scratch writing on the envelope. She must have wrestled it out of some official's pockets somewhere, if not from her own. What a good lass; she pitied him so, like a person would pity a sick puppy. Or a rabid dog. And maybe, just maybe, she pitied him as much as he did her.

His hand closed upon the coins once more. Never mind that. There were more pressing things at hand. Lupin lifted his head to the sky and saw the pale shadow of a moon in the daytime sky. Once again, the cycle reached its zenith. He would have to be ready for it.

***

Sirius lowered his head as he slipped down an empty alleyway in Hogsmeade. Sirius wondered where Lupin was at that moment. An adjusted version to the old public service announcement on wizarding television played in his head: It's a full moon tonight; do you know where your werewolf is? If he had the proper physical structure, he would have made a bitter laugh. Instead, he gave a deep-throated sigh and moved on.

The back door of the Three Broomsticks was slightly ajar, propped open with a metal pail. Sirius peeked inside to see the dirty bottom. No scraps today.

No matter, Sirius knew how to get his grub. He pressed his great head against the door and pushed it wider, then squeezed himself through the door. The door slammed behind him, nearly catching on his tail.

Sirius entered the kitchen boldly and looked around. Rosemerta had her backside turned to him, leaning with her elbows on the wooden counter as she chatted with another kitchen worker. Despite the nice view, Sirius turned away and padded along the flagstones to the fireplace where various meats were roasting on self-rotating spits. There, a tubby man in a dirty apron stood basting the side of a large ham. Sirius gave his best doggy grin.

Rosemerta was a woman a man could grow to love fairly quickly. However, Rosemerta's cook, an overweight cigar-smoker with grisly stubble by the name of Oscar, ignited more enthusiasm within Sirius than the hostess herself. The lady was a looker and served decent drinks, but Oscar could roast one fine rotisserie-style chicken within half an hour. Now that marked him a winner in Sirius's book.

"Hey," he grunted. With one hand, he leaned down to scratch the back of Sirius's ear. "Come to have a romp with Zaria again, eh?" He winked and gave a bawdy laugh that made his belly flubber peek out from under his grease-stained undershirt. "Yup, that's what happens with an early spring."

Why everyone seemed to associate him with Zaria, Sirius had not a clue. First Buckbeak, and now the entire staff at the Three Broomsticks. Egads, this was starting to annoy him.

"Snuffles!" Rosemerta called behind him. Sirius, reluctantly, turned around.

"Hi boy." Rosemerta made her way over and gave her own hard scratch which made Sirius wonder why she wanted to break her fingers against his skull so much. "Rooting around for something good to eat?"

"Or someone," Oscar leered.

"Oscar!" The tavern hostess laughed and slapped him on the shoulder with such force he winced. "Give Snuffles a bone to chew."

Sirius had no idea where the nickname sprung up. Once, he was investigating the rubbish cans for papers when Rosemerta caught him. Instead of being angry with him for knocking down several cans and spreading garbage all along the alley, she gave him a noogie and said, "Well, don't you like to snuffle around?" Thus, the name "Snuffles" was born.

Oscar fished around on the cutting table where several naked chickens sat freshly plucked and found a large soup bone. "Take this, Snuff," he said, toughening up the name to Sirius's relief.

Sirius took the offering and trotted out the kitchen door into the tavern. A wave of sound crashed into his ears as the packed room writhed with life. Smells of hot butterbeer and rich savory stews and meats filled the air. Sirius caught snatches of conversation as he muscled his way through a forest of moving legs and feet. Drops of ale splashed on his coat as he passed some slightly tipsy customers; he shook it off in disgust. He did, however, keep an eye on the leftover scraps on people's plates; occasionally, someone was kind enough to put them down on the floor for him to clean up.

The chocolate Labrador which had caught Oscar and Rosemerta's gossip had settled down in her spot by the gigantic fireplace, which glowed an unearthly green hue. Sirius took his snack and plunked down by a table nearby, ducking slightly beneath the drop cloth away from any person's direct sight. Although no one here knew of his real identity except his canine guide, he still didn't like to take chances.

Zaria gave him a slow eye, then turned back to the fireplace. Beside her were several old newspapers. Sirius quickly crawled over, took the closest one and flipped to the second page with his muzzle. A dog reading the newspaper would catch the attention of any passerby, but the tavern commotion was a blanket that kept him safe from any prying eyes. Contented, Sirius backed further behind the tablecloth, took the soup bone in his mouth, and read while he gnawed. Now this was a dog's life.

***

The hypodermic needle glistened. One lazy drop hung on its tip - Morpheus's brew, the liquor of dreams. If Claire had been the fanciful sort, she would name it thus, and call its administer the Gatekeeper to the Other Realm. But of course, that "Gatekeeper" was her brother and by the spirits she wasn't as romantic as to call him anything but a blundering fool on a good day and worse names on a bad one.

//Almost ready.//

Bernard gave an experimental squirt and the droplets sprayed out from the tip. His brow furrowed in concentration as he stared through his glasses. She swallowed hard, almost in anticipation. Doting out the medicines was a job that Bernard placed himself in charge of; if she only knew where he hidden them she would administer her own. It annoyed her that he didn't trust her, and she had no idea why, but over time she dealt with it.

On the bedside, a mug held her other "medicine," the last cold dregs of the Wolfsbane Potion. Only in recent years the Potion was invented, and even then she had used it rarely. Now, every two weeks before the full moon, the French Ministry's own Werewolf Services delivered the potion at their door, enough to take everyday for a week before the transformation. Bernard acted as if it was only one of her treatments for him to mete out, but she knew this potion revolted him more than any of the painkillers she took. He would rather have her wolf doped up than suppressed totally by magic. Oppressing the wolf nature was blasphemous to him; though he never said so, she could tell. The way his lips formed that tight, thin line when he handed it over to her and how he refused to even look at her drinking it. He had never taken the Wolfsbane Potion in his life, having neither the want nor the need.

According to clan belief, the pain experienced during transformation was needed to transcend between the human and the animal realm. Without the pain, the crossing was sacrilegious and undeserved; one had to prove oneself by facing the agony of transformation. They called it la douleur de la vie: the pain of life.

No werewolf in her clan used any drugs or potions to ease the pain or control the aftereffects of the change. Except her.

When she was a pup, her mother always tried to explain why she was excluded. Because she was sick. The spirits wouldn't want her to die because of her wolf's LOCD.

Realistically, it must be their personal judgment, not the whims of the ancestors that allowed this loophole for her. Her father exempted her from this decree, and since he was the clan leader, his word was etched in stone. No one ever complained, but she never forgot the full moons she spent locked up alone. Her illness endangered her very blood kin; they frolicked the mountain forests together while she was trapped in the castle.

Thus, she always knew how much of an outsider she was.

//Put your arm down.// Claire rolled up her shirt sleeve and showed the bare underarm. He reached over, feeling for the vein.

Both were dressed in the clothes that Fifi laid out on their beds this morning, ready for them to change into: unbleached linen slacks and loose, square-cut shirts. When Claire was a pup, there was a flowing gown for her to change into. Now she refused to wear a dress of any type, not even the robes she used to tramp around the Safehouse day in and day out. She felt exposed if she wore them; revealing herself like that was an invitation for cruelty; anyone could touch her, anyone could hurt her. Claire had thrown out all of her robes and dresses when she came to live with her brother. Now she always wore trousers, like a man. She would never leave herself vulnerable again.

Preparation for the full moon was an extensive process. The town house was straightened out thoroughly the day before the full moon. Fifi cleared all fragile busts, statues and vases, which usually dotted the place like museum exhibits, and placed them all in a locked storage closet in the basement. Bernard's study was chained up as well, and all the windows were locked with a double bar crossbeam that hooked across the frame.

The housekeeper performed this ritual every month, yet never fully grasped why. Bernard had explained to her long ago that it was special work he had to do and must never be disturbed. At the end of the day, he escorted Fifi Dubois out of the house down to her own home three streets away.

//Come now, Fifi,// he would say, and she would take her hat off the coat rack, hook her arm in his and walk leisurely down the drive, past the gates, and onto the street. What a quaint pair they made: the small woman taking tiny steps with tiny feet and the bear-like figure plodding alongside her, with one stride making up for three of hers, chatting sociably about the weather.

For twenty years they did this, and Fifi Dubois never suspected a thing. Bernard sent an elaborate gift of flowers and chocolate to her family every Christmas, and they thought he was the kindest employer Fifi could have.

//Everyone has a place in life,// Bernard told Claire once, //including the idiots.//

At the Castle Bisclavret, half the servants had an IQ that hovered about 80. The other half was paid enough to keep quiet; there had to be some competence in the serving staff, or else everyone would be driven insane. If they weren't senile enough already.

//Only a pinch now,// her brother muttered. The minor pain made her flinch, and she watched hypnotised with fascination as he injected the small bit of clear fluid into her arm. His eyes were hard and focused, and always a blood-worn red. He strongly resembled their father that moment; he did often during moments of intense concentration.

Claire could feel the drug course through her veins like tingling ice. Momentarily, she stiffened, then the effects slammed into her like a padded fist.

Vision swam. Sounds echoed. Touch evaporated. Life dulled and melted away into nothingness. Maybe this was what death was like. Nothingness. Her eyes weighed down, gazed over and settled, closing like lead slabs falling on asphalt. The very air she breathed seemed thick and heavy and could only be inhaled in shallow amounts. She saw him back away, as if fearful of the violation of feeling he committed against his sister, then he went to the bathroom to dispose of the needle and lock up the rest of the morphine.

But she was happy for him; his horror was her joy. She relaxed, becoming limp. Everything wavered and spun in front of her like a drunkard's vision. Euphoria, like a million massaging fingertips over her body, claimed her as its own.

She loved the effect. She loved morphine. Her new goal in life was to love morphine so much she would become an addict. How pleasant.

That was the drug talking.

Faintly, she heard her brother escaping downstairs, away from the drugged monstrosity he fostered, muttering some sort of traditional prayer or saying or whatever.

And there she was, lying on the bed with nothing but a few pillows and a blanket to comfort her and the curtains pulled back on all the windows, letting the streetlight pour in. It would seem very lonely, if she saw herself then.

But she didn't. Instead, she was sitting at a sidewalk café and the saxophone was calling to her. A little golden-haired child giggled to herself as a man, with a solemn face but a twinkling eye, presented himself to her. Would she care to dance? Of course she would; she had been waiting so long for this moment.

The moon would rise later but she would not feel the effects of transformation then. She would be waltzing through the air now, lost in a dream of the man who brought her such pain and endearment. Sleep, being the balm of all wounds, was the final medicine she took. Claire indulged in it, heavily.

***

Across the ocean and another world away, the light in Remus Lupin's tenement glowed. The place tenement stank. The smell of mold, dust, and old plaster filled the air, but tonight, the odor of alcohol reigned as well.

Lupin sat on his creaking cot with a small shot glass in his hand and a bottle in the other. Hand still in control, he poured to the brim. Then, with a sudden movement, he swung his arm back and tipped the contents of the glass into his mouth. The raw alcohol scorched his throat on the way down. Pulling a face at the mirror in reaction to the intense liquor, he dropped the glass on the bed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Reaching into his briefcase, Lupin took out a small tin fill of pills.

The urge to drink hadn't driven him to this; it was practicality. He had done this for years every full moon; unconsciously, that could be why he had no trouble coming to a bar that October in Havenshire. Alcohol was a depressant; it dulled everything and made the transformation so much easier. Perhaps, subconsciously, he was thinking that when he got drunk on absinthe that full moon. Now, he sat in his tenement, kicking back whisky with complete calmness.

He held up a pair of the pills. His vision wavered; they seemed like fuzzy dots between the tips of his fingers. Phenobarbital.

A drug used to calm the nerves. Taken with alcohol, it can knock a person out for a day. Or a werewolf for a night.

Over the years before the Wolfsbane Potion was invented, this was what prevented Lupin from reeking havoc when living near other people.

Phenobarbital - the miracle drug.

Placing the capsules of his tongue, Lupin poured himself another glass. His hand shook a bit, and he slipped some of the liquor on the scuffed wooden floor. Lupin threw his head back again and tossed both the cup and the bottle in his briefcase. Then, he spread out of the thin cot. It creaked beneath him. With a free leg, he kicked the case shut and pushed it off the bed. The briefcase clattered to the floor.

Now came the worst part - the wait.

He had to remember that he already took the pills. Far too many times, he let the circular reasoning take over. He would think that he took too many, or hadn't taken enough and then it would all...

Hold on a moment. How many? That last pair he took, now why did he do that...? The last hour, he already had... he already had... no, he didn't take some the last hour, but did he... so how many did he... how many...

He held tight to the iron railings at the head off the cot. He wasn't drunk - not exactly - he liked to think of it as a soothing buzz. Still, he felt the need to keep his balance while lying down. Minutes passed and his felt his limbs deaden and float away from him. Something tugged within his mind; he could hear the growling within, beating inside his skull.

He did take the pills already, right?

Flakes of rust came off on his hands as he let go. Lupin felt himself tumble and hit the floor; but he felt no pain. He was being dragged into the floor, it was sagging; he was falling--

But the wolf was seething. Itching burst through his body as thick hairs spread across his skin like a rash. He couldn't scratch; he was crawling toward the window; he had to get to moonlight-

His spine cracked and rippled; his ears stretched and moved toward the top of his head; he could feel the cheekbones hollow and the bones elongate--

And it was all a dream; all this pain and transformation, all encased in a drug-filled haze as something began to part in his mind; frightened more now than ever before, the human in Lupin scrambled for an anchor. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the man within began to speak.

Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name.

He got to the window. Lupin collapsed on arms and legs that weren't arms or legs, but grotesque shifting pieces of flesh - like chunks of primordial clay -

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, On earth as it is in heaven.

And the harsh mechanical streetlights pierced through and mingled with the artificial glow was the true light--

Give us this day our daily bread.

His vertebrae crack and the tail shot as his body gave a sickening lurch; organs were moving in his body and changing; the wolf wanted to howl but he could only make a twisted nasal sound from his mouth and nose, as if hacking up phlegm -

And forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive those who trespass against us.

His whole form was convulsing. Lupin was aware of that. Thump! Thump! Thump! on the unforgiving floor like a fish out of water. But he could feel nothing, nothing, as if he were dreaming or as if he were dead--

And lead us not into temptation....

He couldn't tell which, though he had experienced both before.

...but deliver us from evil.

"Rowwll!"

Shavings of wood were peeled off by gigantic claws--

For thine is the kingdom--

--as the wolf raised his groggy head to greet a newborn night. Conscience faded... disappearing... dissolving into...

For thine is...

Echoes. Incomprehensible echoes vibrated around in the animal skull.

For thine...

His paws trembled beneath him.

For thine...

Thud!

The wolf did not rise again.

***

The dream ended. The sounds of music drifted away. She was lying down. Furniture squatted about her like great black hunks of stone. The cool streetlamps' glow, barred through the windows of her balcony doors. Little honks and sounds of passing traffic filled the void of space. The city coming to life as the moon moved along its path in the sky.

Hazily, as her world came back to her, Claire discovered that she wasn't herself anymore. For a moment of pure shock, she froze, thinking, //Something is not right. // She stared down at her black paws, each stretching nearly the size of a small dinner plate. Her nose - how large it seemed, and wet - brushed against them. Then, the moment passed. She was a wolf. Relief settled down within her that she survived the transformation once more.

Claire couldn't move necessarily, because she was without her brace; the best she could do was lie down on the blankets. Only her front was mobile; anything from her hind legs to her tail became nothing. Attempting to move endangered her injured body. And so she lay there, waiting for the night to pass.

During this time she couldn't help but marvel at her condition: a wolf with a human mind. She had no urge to hunt, to fight, to attack any living being on sight. No desperate need to hit the walls or bark like a rabid animal. She was finally in control and liked it very much. A magical miracle induced by the Wolfsbane Potion.

Downstairs, she heard the door creak. Bernard's wolf had come out of the living room. Born blind, he had experience with wandering in his dark world, guided by his remaining senses. At the moment, Claire could detect the strong smell of their human selves and Fifi Dubois permeating the rooms. Yet Bernard's wolf was used to these scents and knew that the physical human presence wasn't there. Years of experience taught him this.

Clan teachings said the animal and the man existed in the same being. In this cooperation, the man and the wolf must share the body, mind, and spirit - that was why werewolves transform. Thus, along with this belief, came the tradition of each werewolf having two names: a human one and a wolf one. Although the human name was known, the name of one's wolf was sacred. Not even parents knew the name of their pup's wolf. It was unspoken, but felt. To tell one's name to another was to give away one's most secret soul.

All of this was ritual and family religion, which she didn't observe anymore. Claire had fallen long ago; she saw no place for her. For if it was true, then where did she fit in with her demented wolf? If her wolf reflected her soul, then was she twisted and deranged inside? Certainly not! Merely the thought terrified her.

Claire heard Bernard's wolf pad up the steps to the second floor; his claws went tap-tap-tap on the wood. Within a few minutes, he was exploring the second floor, restless. She sensed him halting at her own bedroom door and nudging it open with his muzzle. The door gave a sharp groan and he stepped through.

With her hazy vision, Claire could only make out a large figure standing in the darkened doorway. However, she had seen him many times in detail. Bernard's wolf stood 80 cm at the shoulder and was about 167 cm from head to tail. By European standards that was enormous. His muscle was firm and toned under his fur, which was short like hers, with a heavy scruff around his shoulders. Because of his albinism, he had no coloring; his hairs were pure white at the thickest, and almost translucent in the delicate areas around his eyes and mouth. Fleshy undertones of the skin beneath his fur made the wolf's figure glow, spectre-like, in the near-blackness.

Bernard had a wolf one could take pride in.

Sniffing delicately, Bernard's wolf moved forward, as if tracking a scent. He always kept his head low to the ground in order to feel his way.

Bernard's wolf circled slowly until he came to the bed, and then placed his front paws on it. His weight pulled the mattress down. Growling defensively, Claire scampered along with her front paws to the other side. Still tracking, he stuck his muzzle underneath her right front leg; Claire retracted swiftly. Startled, Bernard's wolf leapt away. He turned his great head in a different direction and got onto the ottoman in front of the bed. Standing on his hind paws, he rested his head on the footboard, immediately in front of Claire's nose.

She sniffed loudly. He tossed his shaggy head back and forth quickly, his nostrils shrinking and dilating, noting the air. Unfocused, his red eyes turned to a spot above Claire's head. His jaws were parted slightly, flashing his pink tongue like a dumb dog.

Claire rested her head on a folded blanket. The small movement caught the other wolf's attention; slowly, he leaned in, sniffing. She remained absolutely still, fearful he might upset her position. Bernard's wolf investigated swiftly, with quick little twitches of his wet nose. Recognition lit his face as he caught her scent.

A delighted sound came from him. The noise sounded old and young, the combination of a grandfather's awed murmur coupled with a toddler's surprised squeal. Bernard's wolf shuffled forward and brushed the side of her head with his muzzle. Some ancient peace shuddered through him. I know you! he seemed to exclaim. I know you! It came out like a sigh.

Overjoyed, Bernard's wolf nuzzled her fur. Claire snapped at him. Amazed at such aggressiveness, he jerked back and tilted his head to the side, puzzled.

What kind of fool is he? Wolves don't blush, but she felt the keen embarrassment like a knife. She was an outcast, so out of place; she looked like a wolf but didn't have the mind. And look at him! He was a wolf, a true wolf, and he... Well, she was embarrassed by Bernard's wolf because he had that mind and no matter how hard she will ever try, she'll never fully understand it. Because she was different, because she was flawed, because she was--

Leave me! She wanted to scream, to howl. You can never leave me alone!

Not put off by her aloofness, Bernard's wolf retreated to his spot on the footboard, contented. There was an innocent air about him, but it masked an obscure wisdom that was beyond her understanding. Bernard understood how much wiser his wolf was compared with his human self; so did everyone else in the clan. That was why he remained leader.

Bernard's wolf acknowledged her with a knowing air. He sensed her unhappiness. His throat made an inquisitive curling sound. Claire hid her head again. She wanted solitude, yet hated her loneliness. More so, she hated to admit that she needed company.

The other wolf inched his muzzle forward until the tip of his nose touched, cold and wet. "Arrrl?" he repeated. Then, he licked. For a moment, her breath halted. Claire's muzzle rose again, ready to snap. How dare he-??

She bared her teeth. A low rumbling growl came from her. Some base, human part of her wanted to hurt him for that. But, watching that humble beast filled with quiet self-assurance, her anger waned. Bernard's wolf watched yet not watched, becoming as immobile as a marble statue. His concentration quelled her obstinacy; she backed down, childish shame overcoming her.

"Arrrl?" His eyes were blank, overshooting her head. He licked her again. The touch was warm and ticklish and as comforting as a lullaby. There, there, he said in silent expression. There, there...

Tenderly, Bernard's wolf caressed her fur with his tongue. Along her cheek, across one closed eyelid, and then the other. There, there, he said. There, there...

A giant mournful weight pushed itself from her chest. Her anger and pride was wiped away in an instant. Unexpectedly, Claire found herself whimpering, softly, ears bent down upon her head. Little whines and squeaks echoed from the hollows of her throat. She couldn't explain what they meant in human words. But she knew what they meant. And so did he.

Many minutes, perhaps hours, passed when all she could feel was her hidden tears and soothing motion of the other wolf consoling her. Bernard's wolf rubbed his cheek against hers and nestled his head in the deeper fur on her neck and shoulders.

There, there, there, there...

Finally, she lifted her head as Bernard's wolf stroked the crest of her brow with a final lick. All will be well, his expression said.

He opened his mouth so the tips of his teeth barely showed and cupped her muzzle in his jaws. The mild pressure pressed her skin. There, there, broken one. All will be well.

Then, he leaned back that magnificent head and howled. The first note trembled in the air like a glistening drop of water, then flew, in an ecstatic flight, up, up, up, to the highest peaks of the world. Listen, world! he howled, Listen! We are never alone and here we shall always remain! Since the dawn of creation this is the song we have sung and tonight, we sing it again! Listen, world! Listen! We are here and together, and none shall break this bind of the blood. Listen, world, to my cry, to my joy, to the night of the moon and the glory!

Claire, humbled and bewitched, watched. The peaks climbed and he stopped, abruptly, to take a breath and proclaim the unspoken words, this distilled feeling, once again. But this song was not meant to be a solo.

As he launched into another cry, suddenly, she threw her voice in too. Her howl wasn't half as harmonious or natural as his, because she still had her human mind guiding her. Still, the impact was tremendous and wonderful. Crescendos of sound rocked the room, sending repercussions bounding from all the walls and the ceiling. Yes, a glorious thing it was, the howl of reunited wolves.

The sound echoed in her mind long after it ended; the last thing she remembered was the beautiful, haunting melody beckoning her into the night sky...

***

Cattails stirring in the wind. He moved forward, slowly so that the mud sucked greedily at the soles of his feet. Knees wobbled as he pushed forward through the muck. He couldn't do this; this wasn't true; he didn't-- he didn't want to--

"Father?" Dry and parched his throat was from the yelling only minutes before; the word came out like a toad's croak.

Part of him didn't want to know. Part of him wanted to run, run fast, run home and jump into bed and put the covers over his head and fall asleep; yes, asleep, because this was all a dream and when he awoke in the morning Father would be there reading the paper and drinking coffee and asking if he wanted to see the baby unicorn this morning -

And he moved forward, and his foot, freed from the mud, brushed up against something very solid and utterly dreadful.

The cattails were stirring but the soft rustling became soft rustling no more.

It became the hissing of snakes.

***

"ARRRRRRRRRRGH!"

She didn't know who yelled that - her or her brother. But the screaming rattled her brain, as everything inside of her scrambled and rearranged themselves like puzzle pieces of her body, twisting and moving - and there was something grinding inside her - she could hear it like sandpaper against granite - panic flew up - she wouldn't survive - she was going to be ripped apart from the inside out - she couldn't feel - she couldn't feel - too much, all too much - crushing and rolling and grinding - PAIN--

And then it ended.

Staring out at the closed balcony windows, Claire felt gutted and stuffed with shards of glass.

La douleur de la vie. More like le peine du mort.

A voice snapped, //Wake up. //

His trembling, pale hand reached out from the floor.

//Wake up now. Get your brace on. Hurry, // Bernard muttered, still aching from his transformation. He reached up and gripped the side of the bed frame with his other hand, pulling himself off the rug. While even in good health he looked sick; in this state he was undead. The tired, toneless skin, the eyes raw, the colourless hair shaggy and unkempt - he was a vampire risen from the grave. Behind the veil of pain, the cynical part of Claire's brain laughed. The vampire Bernard. What a riot.

Straightening out his loose clothing by touch, he then scratched his head and stretched his limbs. He arched his back and several snaps were heard. Bernard grumbled to himself, half-appeasing, half-cursing, then said aloud, //Which side of the bed, Claire?//

//Left,// she spat into her blanket.

Her brother froze and raised an arm out in front of him. Like how a needle moved about a compass, Bernard turned about the room, pointing. //Bed,// he noted. //Ottoman. Balcony doors. Window. Desk. Bureau. Shelf - one, two, three. Wardrobe. Small table. Door.//

With each word, his finger landed on the object named in perfect coordination. He knew the whole floor plan of his townhouse by heart, down to the last stick of furniture. Thus, he could walk through his home in pure confidence, even if he couldn't see. They had made a game of it at the castle when they were younger; Claire would cheat by moving chairs or even swapping cushions last minute, but Bernard always knew when she did so. He would hear her, no matter how quietly she moved.

Bernard kneeled down by the bed and stuck his hands underneath, groping for Claire's braces. His palms made loud, slapping noises against the floor.

Claire groaned; a throbbing migraine was being born between her eyes. The commotion her brother made were thunderclaps within her ears. She tried mumbling an insult in reply but failed. Her arms were limp and heavy - exhaustion deadened them. Her hips felt disjointed and immobile. She could feel the hideous, man-made plastic and metal stuck inside her, scraping against what was real.

She tried to speak but could not. The morphine had long since worn off. Claire could not focus enough to speak; only the pain lived in her mind.

He brought them out: more piles of hideous metal to encased her body. //Get over here. Put them on. Then, I'll get your medicine.// He pushed them forward and she took hold of one. Bernard kept his hand on it; she guided him to her body.

Fumbling hands fastened her brace in place. They grasped the claps and hooks together with searching fingers, moving meticulously without falter. The touch of a blind man: thorough and observant.

By that time, Claire was thoroughly awake. No! Flicking off his unwanted help, she did the last buckles around her waist lying down then sat up, stiffly. She wanted painkillers or breakfast - either one suited her fine.

Bernard got up from his kneeling position on the floor, arms out and slightly bent. He held onto the foot of the bed, then the ottoman, then took two steps toward the balcony doors. Despite the chill weather, he threw them open and cautiously stood on the landing. The dawn light streamed past him like the luminescence of a god. Wind blew, billowing curtains and sheets. The pain resided a bit as she stared, wondering if he remembered.

He turned to her with his sightless eyes squeezed shut against the brightness. //This is beautiful, isn't it? // he whispered. //The sun upon the skin.//

It was.

Chapter 22

The conversation played out like a familiar record. A soft breeze caressed the back of his neck. The sky - a distant blue-grey shade - complimented the winter air, but bore a hint of future warmth.

Kevin held the porcelain doll in his hands. Lupin tried to imagine his expression as benevolent - he had always been benevolent to him - but all he could see was heaviness in those blue eyes. A cloud of sadness had draped themselves upon them. Not matter how hard Lupin tried, Kevin always appeared quite somber, but in a fathomless, aesthetic sort of way. Like those statues that cried in the presence of saints.

A thin finger played with a lock of hair. "How long would it take?" he asked, very softly.

"I don't know..." Lupin's eyes trailed down the street. It was quiet and empty. But by the look of the houses, it was a nice neighborhood. One could raise a family here. "I need to tie up loose ends first. I can't have any one else involved with this."

"So your friends at the Ministry wouldn't know?"

Lupin thought to say, "They aren't my friends," but retracted that statement. "It's better if they didn't."

"What about the others?"

"I can only hope they would understand. And that they try not to do anything rash." He turned to face him squarely. "If you were truly here, I'd have to admit that you were right with what you told me."

"And what did I say?"

Lupin thought for a moment. Here was the place Kevin, the real Kevin, told him this. He had to close his eyes for this, even in the realm of his own mind. " 'I know that you might think the world is your enemy,' " he quoted slowly. " 'But that can't be necessarily true all the time. People will be on your side in places where you least expect them. When you realise that, you'll know that sometimes, when you give in, it's for your benefit, not theirs.' In other words," he abridged, "sometimes when you lose, you win."

Then, he stopped.

Lupin rubbed his forehead and got up in his room. The doll he held in his hands was tossed back into the briefcase. Sitting up in the cot, he looked in the mirror. Hair stuck out in all directions. He pressed the largest tousled lock upon his head, only to have it stick back up again. A sigh escaped him. After transformation, he was always prone to bed head.

He had spent all day there, musing his last hours away and harnessing back his strength. Lying back down, he tucked his hands behind his head. Letters of resignation would have to be sent out; he'd probably mail it by Owl Post; he couldn't face telling Lottie. It would be better for the both of them if he didn't show up, for whatever easy-going relationship they had before had vanished. She seemed afraid of him like everyone else and it unsettled him.

There was no going back. It was strange, this feeling that was stirring up inside. There were matters to be done, and he had taken them all into account. Life had been the stirring of sand in a glass of water; particles of action and memory and dementia whirled within the mixture, and only now did they begin to settle to the bottom, to be buried and resolved. The weight, the panic, the jealousy and the yearning need that had controlled him had slowly, siphoned from his system; a skeptic would say he was scared straight, but that wouldn't be it. He felt no negative enforcement of his actions; it all seemed to flow naturally, like water, from one movement to another, one deed done then on to the next. One might call this feeling peace. Or enlightenment.

But neither word could quite describe this state he was in. An epiphany was a better term. He was wretched but now pure, he descended but now rose up again, he was blinded but now he saw. Who he was, who he had become, and now, who he is and what he must do.

Knock, knock, knock!

Who could that be? Lupin propped himself up for a second time. He tied up the last of his rent last week; the visitor certainly wasn't the landlord.

A muffled shout came through the door. "Hallo!"

"Finney?" Lupin called back, unsure. He swung his legs off the bed, grabbed his glasses that teetered on the sink's rim, and opened the door a crack. The stoker, still dressed in overalls, waved. From behind him, Lupin spotted Moseley, who tipped his cap to him. "Wha' are you doin' here?" he asked, throwing on the worn accent like an old coat. "Where did you get the address?"

"Lottie fished it oot for us," Finney replied. "I wanted tae check oop on ye."

"She knew I called in sick," Lupin said. He stepped out of his room and stood with them in the door, shutting the door behind him. "You look well," he told Finney.

Indeed that was true. Finney's sanguine face contrasted greatly with the weak and sickened one that Lupin left him with. Seeing him there, fit as a fiddle so to speak, made Lupin ill. The keen stab of shame ran through him, reminding him of the selfish wrong he committed against this innocent.

"Aye." Finney nodded. "Moseley was wonderin' how ye were. Lottie told us same funny stories oo ye at the hospital. Were ye bein' treated richt?"

As rightfully as I deserved to be treated, Lupin thought. A kind of gladness overtook him now that he saw Finney was healthy and he didn't do any lasting damage. Lupin felt the need to ask forgiveness, or show some sort of affection towards him, but held his stance. Instead, he grinned.

"As right as I am fit for standin'," answered Lupin. "Where is she? At home, I'd wager?"

"Nut on her nicht off. She's at the Flying Leviathan an' I thought we'd offer a fiddler's biddin' for a tipple an' caw the crack a bit."

"Join you for a drink?" Lupin repeated, partly to get the translation right. His thoughts came back to the letter, which lay waiting to be sent. He had to take them to the nearest Owl Post. Soon. But not now; surely he had a few last hours to spend.

The idea, the more he considered it, wasn't unappealing in the least. The time he spent previously with the Smaa Fowk of the Ministry was self-serving and cheapening. Lupin knew he had used then, and felt some obligation to make up for it, even it was known only to himself. Perhaps, just this once, could he spend sincere time with them before he left?

He hesitated, mentally and literally. "Well, I dunno, I haven't been as strong today and I'd only be a bother-"

"Nah, no ane's a bother when thaur's ale involved. Came on."

Lupin gazed into Finney's friendly face, expecting a quick withdraw of the invitation. His gaze did not invoke fear; instead, Moseley took him by the arm, leading Lupin down the hall at a fast pace. "Yup, Lottie said ye leuked half-dead," Finney confirmed. "Bu' dunnae fret aboot tha'. Mo an' I will git ye bac in shape in no time."

"In no time," Mo reaffirmed.

Did the unusual fear he inspired in others dissipate with the Ashwinder venom? Or did Finney simply choose to ignore it? A hint of relief sparkled within him. Lupin had been hoping this was true. Now the haunting malady was gone.... It was a sign. It had to be a sign.

Before Lupin knew what was happening, he was on the pavement and walking down the block. "Tis not far from here," Finney said, hailing down a Muggle bus. Lupin got on and plunked down in the nearest seat, with the two stokers next to him and behind as if they were bodyguards. He stared out the window, trying to pin down his route, but the street names slipped from his mind as quickly as they passed their signs.

Lupin stepped into the Flying Leviathan and was swallowed whole by the immensity and commotion. His eye was draw to the enormous carving mounted on the foremost rafters, the pub's namesake: a giant, serpentine sea monster graced with a pair of feathered wings. Below it, the people throbbed like waves.

This was not like the subdued, tired bar that Lupin entered in Havenshire; instead of old faces worn by rural monotony and routine, these were the flushed and laughing faces of people in various stages of intoxication. Stepping into that pub brought back a twisted crash of twisted memories and misplaced associations. There was the brawny red-haired bartender: "Anything you need there, hon?" No, it was a stiff, toothpick man with a more mustache than mouth, cleaning a mug with a dishrag.

And they didn't serve absinthe here, but Firewater Whiskey, and - priced low for the Smaa Fowk - a pint of Guinness for one's troubles. No, this was nothing like the Havenshire pub where it all began. Lupin shook his head; the last of the lingering headaches collided with his brain.

...and they were watching always watching as their tails twitched in the darkness and their eyes glowed...

Lupin hunched down, immediately, putting a hand to his temple. He felt like he was pulled in all different directions yet remained, unyielding, like a stubborn piece of taffy. His vision kicked off to do the backstroke, and he hadn't even touched a glass yet.

Moseley put an arm on his shoulder and Lupin felt the pain ebb away from his mind. Lupin gave a quick glance toward the stoker in surprise. He tottered, and Finney absent-mindedly caught the crook of his arm. "Lottie!" he shouted, waving a hand.

Lupin straightened himself up and looked about once more. The place was crowded with little clusters sharing good cheer among themselves. The only one alone was a large man - Lupin wondered if he was a half-giant - sipping from what looked like a pitcher in a corner of the room.

Loud music blared from somewhere. Chords from a magically-enhanced guitar vibrated the air and drums pounded out with a fire-roaring fiddle as the Irish-intoned lyrics raced through his skull.

"Wednesday night is mornin' now

As I'm walkin' in the rain

The birds are screaming in my ear

Drivin' me insane..."

At the bar, Lottie perched on one of the stools. Her size made it seem as if she was a kid sitting at a drugstore counter, not a fully-grown woman waiting to take a beer with her friends. A bottle or two was already stood beside her; it seemed that she wasn't unoccupied before their arrival.

"Hallo ye!" she called out in a rather loud voice. "Ah've been waitin' for ane hour! Wair have ye bin?" Her voice had slipped back into the heavy brogue; Lupin wondered whether it was from the atmosphere or the drink.

Lottie's cheerful smile cracked a bit upon seeing Lupin; she would have been happier in a basilisk's den. Nevertheless, that fearful moment passed and she was all grins once again, clapping Lupin on the shoulder with a kid hand as she jested, "Nou tha' be the last time ye go off askin' for a sick nicht off."

Lupin turned away, masking his unsteadiness with bashfulness. He had requested last night off, accounting it to his recent illness.

"An ill man wunnae go tak a tipple," she concluded.

"Or a real man would, jus' tae git him bac intae good health agin." Finney winked, pulling up a stool next to her. Moseley clambered up onto another seat and waved for the bartender.

Lupin gave the best smile he could give and chipped in, "And what kind of man would miss a good chance for a pint?"

"Half the clouds are empty

So the sun burst through the sky

The puddles show reflection

Of a face about to die..."

Various shouts and cheers from a far corner got Lupin's attention. Out of his peripheral vision, now steadying since he sat down, he saw a rowdy crowd of boys in suits. They filled the air with lewd jokes and hollering; their ties hung loosely about their necks like nooses, as they tossed their mugs up in the air with drunken cheer.

"To the fifth time!" one of them shouted, clanking his mug with his companions'.

"The fifth!"

"To becoming one of the sleazy buffoons we always wanted to be!"

"Aww, those bairns," Lottie waved off with a dismissive hand. "They've been at it aa evenin', toastin' this an' tha'. Seem lak one oo them got samthin' tae be celebratin'."

"Aye, to buffoons!"

"And to Mr. Thomson - the bastard - who said I couldn't do it!"

Lupin recognized that voice. A man with a scarecrow frame jumped upon a chair, wielding a frothing mug like a sword.

"To bastards everywhere!" Samuel Harper proclaimed to his buddies.

"Aye!" they chorused.

The mugs fell back into their owners' mouths as their contents were drained.

"Just around the corner, I was goin' round the bend

I ran into a staggerin' fool

Who said he knew my name..."

"An' ye?"

"Wha'?" Lupin faced front again to see the bartender waiting.

"Why are ye askin'?" Lottie barged in. "Cannae ye see the man's starvin' for a good pint?"

Lupin would have said otherwise, but soon enough, a cold Guinness was shoved in his hand. He placed the bottle on the bar top and wiped the condensation off his hand.

"He poured himself a whiskey

And his face began to glow

Two men without an answer

Like a dog without a bone..."

While his companions all took a swig, Lupin toyed with the bottle, not taking a drink. At the moment, alcohol repulsed him. He sat, slightly isolated, listening intently to the conversation. Music weaved in and out between their words.

"Bringin' in the new year

As the bells began to ring..."

"Ye started wi'oot us." Finney said joking, gesturing to Lottie's bottles.

"Maybe eff ye wunnae so late..." Lottie stuck out her tongue at him, before offering it. "Tak a swig."

"Fats is in the corner, she's just about to sing

Time to get another, before the final shout,

You should have heard them roarin'

When they dragged the bugger out!"

The brute in the corner yelled with the singer, "And we'll never see the likes of you again--!"

The topic shifted. "Have you heard wha' happened wi' Mr. Burtman?" Lottie said. Lupin turned his attention to her, interested.

"None to my ear," he replied.

"Weel, thaur's word goin' aboot tha' he's been actin' all skittish. He might even quit his job. Rather unexpected, ye think?"

"The colours all seemed bland

I've traveled all these years, he said

To only get this far, so he crossed the street

Found a seat, his home is now a bar..."

"I see. He visited me in the hospital. Seemed all right." Lupin gave an internal grin at the memory of the Director of Being Resources rushing from the room. Yes, he deserved that.

"Frankly enuff, I'm glad he's thinkin' oo leavin,'" Finny put in. "Did ye hear wha' he did to the secretary over in the Wand Order?"

"Frankly enuff," answered Moseley.

"And we'll never see the likes of you again--!"hollered the brute in the corner.

"She was caught snoggin' wi' the maintenance administrator a while bac, and Mr. Burtman caught them in the act--"

"There must be more to life, than this poxie life

All the agro, all the pain

So he disappeared into his final beer

But the glass was empty, once again, again..."

"AGAIN!" shouted the brute, raising his glass.

"Then," Finney continued, "he threatened tae give them the tell-tale unless the administrator gave his pay."

"An' the secretary?"

"Gave her own type oo payment."

"Really?" Lottie said, shocked.

"Really," Moseley verified.

Another voice, as if someone was trying to make an announcement, cut through the hubbub. "Attention! All eyes right here now!"

Most of the pub goers kept to their own business, but when Samuel Harper scrambled onto a table and banged his mug up against the rafters, some took notice. "Yes sirees, step right up folks! I have an announcement to make!"

His friends cheered him on. One stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a screeching whistle.

"Yeah, Sam!"

"Hey, you blokes, lend him an ear!"

Harper gave a smart bow and waved. "Ladies and gentlemen, and folks of all legal classifications, today, I am now officially part of the Guild of Themis!" With a palm, he held up a pair of small golden scales and a rolled-up piece of parchment tied with red ribbon. "The United Kingdom's official organization of barristers and law practitioners! I am now certified by the Ministry of Magic - bless 'em all - to practice, in the court of law, in the name of the people. You!"

Harper pointed in his direction. Lupin glanced behind him.

"Woke up in an awful state

Dreamt I was at Peter's Gate

Beggin' for his mercy

And the crimes that were at hand..."

"Whoa now, folks!" Harper jumped down from the head and pushed past several crowded tables. "Here is the bloke who did it all for me!" he announced, gesturing with both index fingers at Lupin's head. "This man is my godsend, this here's Mister... Mister, uh..." He poked Lupin's shoulder. "Run it by me again?"

"He told me he was much amused

To see this life I had abused

'Best be on your way, but have a swig before you go!'"

"Douglas Ridley," Lupin muttered under his breath, trying discreetly to move aside.

"Douglas Ridley!" yelled Harper, as he clapped an arm around Lupin's shoulders, pinning him in. "Now, listen, Mr. Ridley, for I'll promise something, just to show my gratitude," he drawled, holding him tight to his chest. He leaned forward and Lupin had a distinct sense that it wasn't just his success that made him so exuberant.

"So I'm bringing in the New Year

As the bells began to ring..."

"I will serve you, my friend. When ever, what ever, where ever why ever, how ever you may need me, I will be there. There for you, because I care." Harper slipped a card into Lupin's palm and gave his back a hefty whack as he stood up. "Anytime, mate."

"Fats is in the corner, she's just about to sing

Time to get another, before the final shout..."

"Certainly." Lupin put the card in his pocket. "Thankee."

"You should have heard them roarin'

When they dragged the bugger out!"

The brute began dancing around the room, spinning topsy-turvy as the chorus rang, "And we'll never see the likes of you again--!"

"And we'll never... we'll never..." he blubbered. If Lupin had been paying attention to him instead of Harper, he might have been about to stop what would happen next.

"Sure. 'Member that now. Not many times in your life you get to work with the likes of-" Harper swiftly straightened the lapels of his jacket, "Samuel Lee Harper." His cocked a finger at him, turned heel and strutted back to his friends, who were howling uproariously at his display.

"No, we'll never see the likes of you again!"

"Someone's sweet on ye," Lottie cackled into her cup. "Ah'd ask wha' favor ye did for him, bu' Ah probably wunnae lak tae know."

"Only some test takin' advice," he supplied quickly. "Give the boy some credit. He just passed the bar after takin' it five times through."

"Services from any barrister isn't a blessin'," Finney said, sipping his Guinness. " 'Tis plain askin' for trouble."

"Askin' for trouble." Moseley nodded, dipping his beard into the foam of the mug.

"No, we'll never--"

" - see the likes of you again!" The brute tripped over his own boots and crashed headlong into Lottie, sending both their drinks splashing across Lupin and the couple beside him.

"Bugger!" exclaimed she. "Watch where yu're goin'!"

The brute spin heel, blinked for several moments, adjusted his vision and applied the rude remark to the first person he saw. "You," he slurred, poking Lottie in the side. "What'd ye call me?"

"Ah dunnae caul ye aneethin'," Lottie muttered. She flicked droplets of beer off her hands and wiped them on her clothes, which did no use considering her whole front was soaked. Moseley gestured to the bartender for some napkins. "'Cept eff ye wanted me tae start, Ah'd say yer a clumsy oaf."

"Clumsy?" The brute spluttered. He squinted and swayed, but Lupin could clearly see the sparks of anger were beginning to go off in the man's eyes. "Weel, who are ye to say?" He recognized the janitorial garb. "A garbage picker, eh?"

Immediately, the Squib had her hackled up as well. "Dunnae ye start," Lottie growled.

"Wha'? Can't find any other work to do, eh? I see why." The brute laughed. "Ye ain't nothin' but a Muggle," he hissed. "Wizard servant."

Lottie froze as if she had been slapped. At first, Lupin was confused. Surely the man wasn't as drunk to know he wasn't in a wizard bar--

"Wha' did ye caul mi?" Lottie said, tensely. Her fist closed around Finney's drink. Moseley and Finney froze, as if struck dumb by the word. Uncertainty ensnared them all.

The brute said it again. "Muggle."

Lottie's arm whipped forward--

Splash!

The beer dripped from the brute's face, anger distorting his features. "Why ye liddin-" He swung. Lupin moved to catch his arm, but missed.

Lottie ducked, tumbled, and rolled, like a bouncing hamster, underneath a nearby table.

Finney was the first to react. "Hey thaur!" he started, grabbing an arm the girth of a small tree trunk.

Lottie darted out from the table. A missile was thrown, bonked the brute square between the eyes, and hit the floor. It was her shoe. And as quick as the throw, she was gone, back under the table.

"Hold on!" Lupin took hold of the insulted man's arm. The brute gave an irritated roar and dove towards the janitor's sanctuary, heedless of both Finney and Lupin, who flopped about like rag dolls. Finney let go and crashed into a nearby table; Lupin worked his way up until both arms were around the other man's neck. "Calm down!" he kept shouting. "Calm down!"

Moseley scrambled on hands and knees under the table to handle Lottie. He held back her arm, which held the other ill-intended shoe; she struggled in retaliation.

"Sod off, Mo! Lemme git him agin! Lemme git him - hic - agin!"

Lupin tightened his grip around the man's neck; it was like trying to hug a boulder. He became a cowboy straddling a wild mustang, so wild was the struggle. His arms slackened; he buried his fingernails into the man's shirt collar. "Someone get him down!" he ordered.

Finney, still dazed, rubbed his head from his seat on the ground. The bartender pushed out of the swinging door to the main floor and took hold of the drunken man's arm. "Let him go! You're chokin' him!"

The man stumbled, drunk and dizzy, then fell upon his knees to the floor. Yet until the man grew still, Lupin didn't loosen his hold.

"What the blazes!" the bartender shouted. "Stop it, the lot of you!"

Moseley dragged Lottie out of her commandeered fort. Lottie pushed her body about back and forth, her hair a spinning mop of mouse brown. She got to her feet swaying and shouting. "Ah'm nut a Muggle!" she screamed in full brogue. "Ah'm nut a Muggle!"

Moseley held her from behind in a great bear hug and she jerked and kicked, yelling full blast: "Ah'm a Pureblood! For the last fifteen genarashuns! Ah'm a Pureblood! Dunnae be caullin' mi a Muggle! Leuk at mi! Ma familee goes bac fifteen generashuns in pureblood! Fifteen!"

"Hold it there, Lottie," Lupin pacified, moving towards her.

"Anybody hurt? Anybody hurt?" Lupin raised his head to see Harper worming his way through the crowd, a handful of cards ready. "Samuel Lee Harper, Barrister at Law," he said, tucking one into the brute's hand. "Did she assault you, sir? You can press charges."

"For sakes man!" exclaimed Lupin. He placed himself between the barrister and the brute. "You have no business here."

"Assault!" repeated Harper, jumping up and down in order to see past Lupin. With a quick scoop, he took Lottie's shoe and flourished it. "With a deadly weapon!" he added.

"Mr. Harper!"

One of the barrister's friends moved in. "Hey, Sam, quit it," he hissed, giving an apologetic look toward Lupin. He pulled Harper away, who was making fluttering motions with his arms and saying, "Think about it! Owl me! Owl me!"

"How are ye, Phineas?" Lupin asked, pulling the man to his feet.

The stoker wobbled then got a grip on the back of a chair. "Still spinnin'," he answered. "Bu' I think I kin stay oop."

Meanwhile, Moseley dragged Lottie to the door, pinning her arms to her sides in a great bear hug. The head custodian squirmed and bellowed, her short legs kicking as her fists did windmills in the air. "Fifteen!" she slurred and her lower lip began to tremble. "Fifteen," she said, sniffing. "An' leuk at ye! Ah betcha yer aa Mudbloods!" Her lips twisted into an unbecoming sneer. "The whole... the whole lot oo yers!" she yelled, her face screwing up in intoxicated rage.

Incensed again, her aggressor lumbered onto his feet, but the bartender gave him a push toward the exit with both hands. "Leave!" he spat. "Before I call the MLES on you!"

The man gave a grunt, took a step backwards and raised an arm, as if about to clobber the bartender to the ground.

Lupin turned around. Glaring, he said softly, "Do what the man says."

The man met Lupin's stare, then, reluctantly, lowered his arm. Then, he turned heel and stormed from the pub, slamming the door behind him. Like water down the drain, the mounting tension flowed out. Yet there was still the aftermath to deal with. The bartender wasted no breath dishing it out to them.

"Don't be all smug now that he's gone," he snapped. "I want all of you out."

"Hold your dragons," Finney objected. " T'wasn't us who started it."

Moseley agreed, "T'wasn't us."

"The Mudblood did it!" Lottie interjected. "Akis mi familee is..."

"Pureblood," Lupin finished. "Yes, we know." Moseley patted her shoulder and guided them further away from the bar. Finney, now firmly on his feet again, argued with the bartender, who was red-faced and gesturing firmly toward the door.

"We dunnae started it! Eef thaur was a problem, then Lottie's nut it!"

"No! The whole lot of yer ruffians! I'll have none of this at the Flying Leviathan," the bartender shouted. "I can still call."

Lottie broke away from Moseley and stuck her pug nose in the air. "We was jus' gunna be leavin'," she said stiffly. "Ah wunnae stay where mi heritage is insulted." Moseley picked up her shoe from where Harper dropped it. With defiance gleaming in her eye, Lottie accepted her lost footwear and stuck it firmly back in place.

"We're very sorry," Lupin replied. He placed a pile of Sickles onto the counter, a whole paycheck's worth. "For the trouble we caused."

"Aye." Finney drew out his limp coin purse and put in his smaller share. Moseley silently flicked several Knuts onto the lacquered surface.

"G'nicht, aa oo ye." Trying to retain the group's dignity, Finney tipped his cap to them and led the way out. Mo followed with Lottie, straight-backed and slipping, and Lupin trailed last, not looking back.

Outside, the cool night air made them all tighten their robes.

"Lottie dunnae always git lak this," Finney said. "Jus' drunk tae much this time."

"Tae much," Moseley affirmed.

"Ah'm nut drunk!" defended Lottie. "Ye... ye du believe mi?" She held onto Lupin's robes with a weak fist. "Mi familee's the greatest oo wizards arund! 'Tis all in the blood! 'Tis mi blood tae! Akis... akis Ah'm a Pureblood! Mi familee goes bac fifteen generashuns...!"

Loretta Gordon was a throwback from the sixteenth generation. The "pureblooded" Squib, whose drop of Muggle blood betrayed all the magic potential within her. She wasn't truly pure, and her family certainly couldn't be, even if they did marry pureblood wizards for more than a dozen generations. But let her believe what she wanted; Lupin could not bring himself to say otherwise. Lottie needed to believe this, he supposed.

"We wunnae be goin' bac thaur aneeways," Finney muttered. "The bar charges more than it's worth." With a reining hand, he pulled Lottie in before she wandered into the street. "Never mind them," he said to her. "Time tae get bac hame."

"Hame..." She gave blubbering sigh, and stuffed both fists into her pockets. "Ah'll shew them," she muttered. "Insultin' mi mither's an' father's good name..." But she quieted down with a few doleful hiccups. Moseley patted her back in sympathy.

"Is anybody needin' a ride?" Lupin asked.

"Nah." Finney replied. "We live oop in the tenement square jus' doun a couple blocks. How aboot ye?" he questioned. "Eef ye want, yu can stay wi' us."

Lupin declined politely. "I couldn't impose," he said. "Go on." In truth, he didn't want to stay with them any longer. He got tired of the whole fiasco, and only wanted to be alone from it all, with no embarrassing reminders, like the hangover Lottie would be suffering in the morning.

"Ye sure?"

Lupin nodded before realising that he had no way of getting back to his own tenement. This part of the city was unfamiliar to him. Returning to the pub and asking them for call the Knight Bus was out of the question. But he'll take the next Muggle bus route he supposed.

At the end of the block was the nearest deport. He plunked himself down on the lone bench and sighed, running a hand through his hair. Turning his head, he watched as the last traces of the trio disappeared around the corner. He would miss them, he decided to himself, when he left Edinburgh.

"Mr. Ridley?"

Lupin looked over his shoulder to see Harper exited an alleyway with a shabby-looking broomstick tucked under his arm. "Spotted you before taking off to high air," he explained, "and touched back down."

"Have you ever thought of chasing ambulances for a livin'?" Lupin asked, unsure whether he was kidding or not. "I see potential."

"My goals are lofty," the barrister quipped.

"Where are your friends?"

"Oh, we decided to call it quits early. The Leviathan wasn't too chummy after you blokes left." He took a seat next to him. For a moment, Harper stiffened, observing Lupin oddly. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"As of this moment. Why?"

"You look a bit... off-centre," he answered. "Your eyes are a bit strange. Did you get a new set of glasses?"

"I don't think so."

"Whatever then." Harper blinked, shook his head a bit then struck a conversational pose. "Sorry about what happened at the brawl earlier," he added.

"Well, as long your little intrusion didn't persuade the brute to press charges."

"Why are you waiting here for?"

"The bus of course."

"Bus?" Harper repeated. "Say, do you need a lift?" He held out his broom. The item belonged at an antique shop; Lupin wondered if it could truly fly.

"Or else, I was thinkin' about walkin' - "

"Don't bother. This way, it's free and quick."

"But -"

"Hey, I owe you a favor. And besides," he added, "do you really want to wait here until the bus shows up? Or spend the money for a ride? You shelled out a lot at the pub."

The newly anointed barrister had a point. Lupin gave in. "Fine."

Harper tossed his broom and miraculously, it floated in mid-air. Swinging a leg over, he said, "Hop onto the back. There're side straps."

"Not many people use broomsticks nowadays," he commented as he climbed on. Lupin slipped his hands into the leather straps that were attached to the sides of the broom in front of him, like a horse's reins. Thankfully, a Cushioning Spell was placed on it, making sitting more comfortable than it looked.

"If I'm going to have a tipple, I never forget it," Harper replied. "Try Apparating home from a pub, and you might find some of your limbs in floating in the Channel." Another jack-o-lantern grin crossed his face. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to accept his offer.

But before he could protest, Harper kicked off the pavement. "Up!"

Unprepared, Lupin fell back, got some broom bristles jammed into some delicate places, and rub burn on his hands as the leather slipped too fast from his hold. He twisted his fingers around the flimsy straps, hoping that they wouldn't snap.

They rose as high as the building tops in the first leap; Harper jerked his legs out like a chicken flailing for dear life in an attempt to fly, thumped his knees against the handle, and suddenly the clouds came hurrying down to meet them.

The regret began to mount along with the altitude. "Aren't we a little high?" he asked.

"What?" Harper yelled over the screeching wind.

"A little high--?"

"Well, I had a reefer or two," confessed Harper, laughing, "but that was hours ago!"

Oh dear God.

The world flipped upside-down as they turned loop-de-loops in the thinning atmosphere.

"Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!" said Harper.

"Ahhhhh!" said Lupin.

Dizziness confused his senses and still remained even when the circular motion stopped. Lupin realized it was from lack of oxygen.

"Now, where did you live again?" Harper asked, turning his head. His eyes were drooping and a faint blue coloured his lips.

He exclaimed urgently, "We must go down!"

"But I know a shortcut..."

"Cutting through the stratosphere is not a shortcut," Lupin retorted, gasping for breath with the effort. A fog crept over his vision as the lightheadedness increased. He stuck out an arm and reached over, trying to grab the front of the broom away from Harper.

"Mr. Ridley!" chuckled Harper as Lupin's arm crossed his chest from behind. "That's not my cup of tea, really!"

"Go down!" Lupin took hold of the broomstick and shoved it towards the earth. They dive-bombed.

"Hey, don't be a back-seat flyer!" Harper batted him away with both hands. Now the broom began to spiral as they dropped to the ground--

"Don't let go!" he exclaimed, feeling the need to state the obvious. Lupin pushed from underneath one of Harper's flailing arms, hauled the handle up to a level position and steadied their flight. Giving a deep sigh of relief, he then grabbed Harper's hands and fastened his fingers down on the broomstick. "You. Hold. Stay. That's a good boy."

"Whoa.... Didn't mean to do that, Mr. Ridley," said Harper, raising a meek hand. "Must have had more to drink than I thought-"

"You. Hold," Lupin repeated tensely, placing the hand back in front of him. "I'll give the directions from here on."

"Okay then," Harper replied readily. He carefully flew the rest of the way, wobbling a little now and then, until Lupin guided him back to the street. Lupin thanked his lucky stars as he touched firm pavement underneath his feet. "Thanks," he said.

"Yeah..." Harper gave a little chuckle, shrugging off his last mistake. "I'll see you around?"

"Are you able to make it back home?"

"I think so. If not, you'll probably be able to tell where I ended up by the man-shaped impression on the side of a building somewhere..." That smile, a little more sobered now, cropped up again. "You know, you're the cleverest Squib I ever met," he stated earnestly. "I don't think any of them would know how to control a broom in that situation. In fact," he mused, "I've never met a Squib who knew heads or tails about flying..."

"Let's just cough it up to a very strong survival instinct," Lupin replied quickly.

"Yeah." The young barrister tossed his head again. "Let's just call it that."

"And call it a night." Lupin had the door to the tenement building halfway open. "Good night Mr. Harper."

"The same to you, Mr. Ridley," Harper said, kicking off again. "Same to you."

Lupin watched him leave. The man swerved past the traffic light, sideswiped a row of tenements, then crested the last building, disappearing from view. He might have been better off Apparating; having limbs floating in the Channel was a safer risk than limbs dashed into the concrete.

Morning came and found Lupin sitting on the bed making the final touches to a dog-eared piece of parchment. Along the top he drawn in huge, clipped letters "WANTED" and on the bottom were the words: REMUS J. LUPIN. REWARD 5,000 Galleons. He thought of placing the tag line "Dead or Alive" under the word WANTED but he didn't want to send the wrong message. In the centre he pasted that newspaper photo about him that ran seven weeks ago (Was it only that long? It seemed so much longer...), the one with him reading. Much time and effort was put into this. The MLES officers better notice.

If he was going to turn himself in, at least he could do so with flair; it was his mischievousness streak talking. Sirius would have got a kick out of it anyhow, if he knew. Well, at least he would have enjoyed the concept of a wanted sign. Putting it up was another matter entirely.

"Mr. Ridley," Mr. Burtman chuckled. Lupin caught a hint of nervousness in the Director of Being Resources' voice. "What brings you to my office today?"

Perhaps what is making the Director so nervous is the fact the person he was seeing wasn't Douglas Ridley. Lupin donned no magical cologne this time; nothing blinded the Director from seeing the truth.

Lupin slipped in and shut the door behind him. Underneath one arm was his uniform, though he still wore the cap. Easing himself into the opposite chair, he took the cap off and placed it in his lap.

"I have a problem with that job contract."

In the corner, the spirit niffler raised its ghostly head and called softly.

"Job contract?"

"May I see it please?"

Lupin sat there, with his hands folded, an expression of complete tranquility on his face. The charm that the Director possessed was now all gone, and what remained as a simple, frightened man who had some feline issues. Lupin remained there until something seemed to break within the Ministry official, and he scrambled out of his seat, knees wobbly, over to the massive file cabinets were the contracts were contained. He then brought them over, and placed them on the desk. Lupin noticed that the velvet pouch he used before wasn't there.

"Are you missing anything?" Lupin asked. "I believe you had a sample of--"

"Those are non-returnable," Mr. Burtman snapped, taking up his stance once more.

"It's all right; I'm sure I'll get it back eventually."

Taking the legal document in his hands, Lupin said, "I'd like to adjust this a bit, if you don't mind."

"And how do you--" began Mr. Burtman.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrip!

In one, long motion, Lupin tore the parchment in half.

The Director was beside himself in shock. He stared at Lupin, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water.

Lupin gave a small shrug, as if saying, "What the hell?" and tore the paper again. And again. And again. Soon, Douglas Ridley's job contract was shredded in his hands. Lupin let go and they scattered like confetti all over the Director of Being Resources's plush carpet.

Mr. Burtman finally found his tongue again. "Mr. Ridley!" he exclaimed. His wand was held in one hand, but it trembled. Lupin made a move toward him and the Director, letting out a frightened squeal, dropped it. The wand sank into the plush; Lupin reached down and scooped it up with a lazy hand.

"Nice wand you have here." He gave a casual flourish as he took a couple steps around the desk. When the wand moved in the Director's direction, he gave out another shriek and hid behind his leather chair. His tail stuck out, stiff as a board behind him.

"Yew, I see, with an augury tail feather?" Lupin guessed. "Good for minor underhanded schemes, but," He tapped the arm of the chair lightly. "Very weak otherwise." He carefully placed his uniform on the desk, topping it off with his hat.

"And don't call me Mr. Ridley," Lupin corrected calmly.

Mr. Burtman's hand was tapping fervently against the bottom of the desk. Ah, so now he was calling security. Boy, wouldn't that save Lupin a lot of time.

He gestured to his uniform. "The Ashwinder eggs are still there," he informed him. "In all seriousness, sir, get your yacht."

The Director reduced to spluttering again. The spirit niffler turned loops in her cage in the corner, emitting a high wailing noise of alarm.

"You may get word of Douglas Ridley's letter of resignation today," he added. "Sent it by Owl Post this morning, but you know who slow the system works sometimes." Lupin flashed a devil-may-care grin at him, feeling it was quite apropos. Returning the wand back to the desktop, he then strode to the open doorway. "Have a nice day, Mr. Burtman," Lupin ended and shut the door.

Unfortunately, he did not run into security. Ah well.

Lupin jumped into the elevator. "Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he called out.

The elevators, recognizing a new authority in his voice, promptly sent him to his final destination. Lupin moved swiftly, past the hubbub desks and workers. Strange how it is, for no one recognize him now, too busy with their own lives to realise he was there. Sure, if he charged in, wand raised, voice shouting, he would have gotten the attention he needed. Still, Remus Lupin had a fondness for subtlety.

Lupin made it to the public lobby of the department unnoticed. A front desk graced this area, with chairs for waiters, a bubbler, and an oblivious officer eating a doughnut and reading the paper. Plucking out a tack from the cork bulletin board, Lupin pinned his wanted sign firmly into the plaster wall. Next, he took a step back and put a hand to his chin, as if pondering the Mona Lisa.

One of the passing officers stopped, took a look at the poster, then at Lupin, then at the poster again. Another stopped, and then another. The man at the desk looked up.

"Good morning officers," Lupin said cheerfully, turning to face them. "As you can see, I am a wanted fugitive." He lifted an open palm toward the sign. "My reward is only a personal estimate and a bit over-exaggerated I'm sure."

Silence.

Slowly, slowly, everything tumbled forth. Recognition blossomed upon the officers' faces. The one at the desk let his doughnut drop.

One moment.

Now, the air snapped, and everything flew into action. Breath drew in, eyes turned into moons, hands reached for wands-

"I'm taking care of myself now, Kevin," whispered Lupin as the single command fired through him like a bullet:

"Stupefy!"

Wolf by Ears will continue....

All comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.