Wolf By Ears

WOLF BY EARS

Part Seven: Law vs. Justice

By D.M.P.

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Justice? - You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.

- William Gaddis, A Frolic of His Own

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Chapter 23

Ah, steak. Sirius blew off several flies surrounding the piece of meat and sniffed it delicately. Hey, even when it´s three days old, it´s still steak. Taking the fetid chuck in his jaws, Sirius backed out from the overturned rubbish can and dropped it in the dirt. With his nose, he pushed off various bits that were not usually associated with steak and licked it. Strangely enough, it tasted like mustard.

He turned his head and saw Zaria by his side. When did she show up? She had a bone in her mouth and dropped it by his find. Carefully, she dragged her tongue along the length of it, as if cleaning off the dirt. Cleaning off the dirt rather... slowly. And deliberately. Using quite a bit of tongue.

Then suddenly, he wasn´t in the mood for steak. Zaria held up the bone by one end, not the proper way to hold it. Sirius gripped the other end with his teeth, and then noticed how short his muzzle was, or even the fact he lacked a muzzle entirely. Then he noticed how human he was.

Then he noticed how nude he was.

He blinked and dropped his end of the bone.

He was naked. She was naked. Well, she was a dog and society deemed it perfectly natural for her to walk about in her birthday suit. But for him and her to be together, naked, was a very bad idea in general. The implications grew....

Sirius´s subconscious recoiled, and very abruptly, he awoke.

First thing he did was check to see if he was fully clothed. He was.

Buckbeak lifted his head. "Craw?"

"Nothing," Sirius snapped. "Mind your own bloody business for once."

The hippogriff tilted his head to the side, blinked, then settled back down to sleep.

Sirius took a stick and stirred up the smoldering ashes. His mind blanked out for a moment, as if too traumatized to acknowledge what he just dreamt, but slowly, he confronted himself with it.

It was she and he, rummaging through garbage. Nothing special. They only happened to lack clothing at the time. Gods forbid, he didn´t do anything to her. Frankly, the concept was plainly disgusting. Sirius could remember the sticky feel of the trash he trod on. Most definitely not a sex dream.

And it wasn´t his fault, damn it. Maybe he had been hanging around in dog form for far too long and the effects were starting to get to him. Outside influences corrupt the brain too. That was the explanation; Sirius had no affection at all toward creatures of the four-legged variety, but because everyone commented on the possibility of it, licentious thoughts must have seeped into the cracks of his mind.

Thus, Sirius avowed to himself not to go down to the village, but to stay up in his cave, to scrutinize his papers, and not to think about dogs.

Yet, the only outcome to this resolution was loneliness. He missed the lively activity at the Three Broomsticks. He missed the view from Rosmerta´s behind - and yes, he insisted to himself, he liked Rosmerta´s behind very, very much because it was a human behind and a fine one at that. But, most of all, he missed the food.

In truth, he wasn´t masking any subconscious desire that said otherwise; he really did miss the food. Spending so much time at the Hogsmeade tavern had truly spoiled his tastes. Now, rat-hunting left him with a nauseating taste in his mouth, not the satisfied thrill of imagining Peter´s blood on his tongue. So, he stopped hunting altogether for the past day or so. Besides, rats were starting to get scarce, unless he went into town, which was not on the top of his priority list.

Rumblings from the depths of his stomach were ample proof of his dining habits taking a turn for the worst. But he wasn´t going back. It was a matter of pride. And by hell Sirius Black was man enough to deal with a bit of hunger now and then.

Still, that didn´t stop him from asking Harry Potter to bring up as much grub as he possibly could when he visited.

A week after that... dream... of his, Sirius waited cautiously by the stile at the end of the road leading out of Hogsmeade. Sirius still maintained wariness about the town and refused to enter it, lest he saw Zaria again by accident. And by all means, he didn´t want to see the Labrador again, accident or not.

He collected a couple of old newspapers on his way to the meeting place, as a sort of distraction. Now, leaning against the topmost bar of the stile with the taste of bitter ink flooding his mouth, Sirius waited.

And as he waited, the prospect of seeing Harry came to him. Sirius was never a man to get nervous easily, but he did feel self-conscious about seeing his godson again. He was worried but didn´t want to seem like a parent. Yet enough trouble was going on at Hogwarts to make him feel more than skittish. First and foremost was Karkaroff. Sirius had written more than one letter to Dumbledore expressing his concern, and only got short, even casual, replies. Yes, the Headmaster was keeping an eye on him and why doesn't Sirius accept this cherry pie in the meantime, for it´s been awhile since he had last stopped at Hogwarts? Sirius accepted the food packages of course, but still couldn´t refrain from his suspicions.

He wasn´t so narrow-minded as to only focus on that, however. Crouch was another man who occupied his mind. Sirius didn´t like to think of Crouch as anything but the scum of the earth, and only in the festive atmosphere of the Three Broomsticks had he been willing to read about the former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When he did, though, the bone he would be gnawing would suddenly snap in his jaws, no matter how thick it was.

Sirius discovered with a bit of relish about the unfortunate events that had befallen Bartemius Crouch after he had been sentenced to Azkaban. Crouch, with his merciless Aurors and his brutal war tribunals, deserved what he got. Having your son be a Death Eater and sentenced to Azkaban, plus the death of your wife - now that was certainly "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." But Sirius had to admit, the man suffered a tragic loss, and with this strange illness he was going through, one could almost pity Crouch´s situation. Almost.

His mysterious circumstance was something Sirius wanted to look out for, however. Even Dumbledore didn´t know what was happening with him, and if Dumbledore didn´t know something, then something was definitely askew.

To top it off, there was always that lurking question of Snape. Sirius had brought his mental categorising of his former classmate from "that snot-nosed, anal-retentive in need of a good scrubbing" to "that snot-nosed, anal-retentive in need of a good scrubbing but was slightly tolerable, despite the greasy hair." If Dumbledore trusted him, Sirius decided long ago, then he would have to put up with him as well.

Up ahead, he could see three forms coming towards him, all with their cloaks slung over their shoulders. Their leader had a bulging bag slung over his shoulder; obviously it was filled with the food Sirius had requested. Sirius´s ears perked up.

Harry gave a small wave of his hand. "Hello Sirius," he greeted.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger stood behind him. They had only met up extensively with Sirius once before, when he was a raving maniac bent on crushing Peter Pettigrew into the Shrieking Shack floorboards. Little wonder they couldn´t find the words to welcome him.

Still, Sirius got down from the stile and took a whiff from Harry´s bag. Yes, the food was there. He gave a quick wag of his tail, and started back toward the cave at an eager pace. He really wanted to get that taste of ink out of his mouth.

Together, the small group ascended the mountain. Sirius took the shortest route he knew, but still there was quite a trek for the students. The scent of cooked food prompted him to speed up, however, and soon, they made it to the cave.

Buckbeak lifted his head upon their arrival; Sirius could tell by his expression that he noticed the presence of fresh food too.

Immediately, all three of them bowed before the hippogriff, paying respective homage. Buckbeak bent his knees in return, and Hermione rushed to pet him. Ah, Buckbeak could still get the ladies.

Sirius transformed into his human self, tossed the newspapers to the floor and spat grey-tinged saliva onto the floor. "Chicken!" he exclaimed when Harry presented the packed food to him. "Thanks."

Ripping open the package, he took a drumstick and bit into it. Despite the fact he didn´t have a decent meal in a week, despite the fact that the chicken was freshly made, though cold, despite the fact that Sirius was grateful Harry brought this up for him, Sirius couldn´t help thinking, It´s a bit on the dry side. Oscar could make better with his eyes shut.

Sirius could see the concern in Harry´s eyes about his state of being.

"I´ve been living off rats mostly," he said. "Can´t steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I´d draw attention to myself." Or maybe draw his attention to someone else...

He blinked. To eclipse the thought, he grinned up at Harry, who smiled back reluctantly. He asked, "What´re you doing here, Sirius?"

"Fulfilling my duty as godfather," he replied as he chewed on the bone. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Buckbeak getting tense, wanting a bit to share. "Don´t worry about it, I´m pretending to be a lovable stray."

Sirius tried to be light about it, but Harry didn´t believe his tone. Sirius turned grave and answered, "I want to be on the spot. Your last letter... well, let´s just say things are getting fishier. I´ve been stealing the paper every time someone throws one out, and by the looks of things, I´m not the only one who´s getting worried."

Making a gesture to the pile of Daily Prophet clippings, Sirius tossed his bone to Buckbeak, who caught it easily. Ron took the cue and picked up the articles Sirius picked out.

"What if they catch you?" Harry said, refusing to drop the topic. "What if you´re seen?"

"You three and Dumbledore are the only ones around here who know I´m an Animagus," said Sirius, shrugging. He took another bite. At the moment, he didn´t feel like dropping Zaria´s name as well, because she was just a Labrador and didn´t count for anything.

Ron showed Harry the articles. Hermione, who noticed Buckbeak´s attraction to the chicken bones, led the beast over before taking a look at the newspaper clippings herself. Buckbeak reached out and snapped at a half-finished drumstick Sirius held in his fist. Sirius glared at him, but, with a sigh, dropped that one to the ground for Buckbeak to scoop up. He reached for another one and discovered Buckbeak helping himself to a second. With a quick movement, he snatched the bag out from under the hippogriff´s beak and held it to his chest protectively. Buckbeak snorted and Sirius pulled a face at him.

"They´re making it sound like he´s dying," Harry commented at last, oblivious to the silent conflict. "But he can´t be that ill if he managed to get up here..."

"My brother´s Crouch´s personal assistant," Ron told Sirius, who had placed the package on the other side of him away from Buckbeak's reach. "He says Crouch is suffering from overwork."

"Mind you, he did look ill, the last time I saw him up close..." Harry said while reading. "The night my name came out of the goblet..."

Hermione gave a caustic comment. "Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn´t he?" Sirius tossed another chicken bone to Buckbeak; he snatched it out of the air as Hermione sat down again to stroke his neck. "I bet he wishes he hadn´t done it now," she added, "bet he feels the difference now she´s not there to look after him."

Sirius raised his head.

"Hermione´s obsessed with house-elves," Ron said, rolling his eyes slightly and giving her a look.

"Crouch sacked his house-elf?" Sirius questioned, voicing his thought.

"Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup," Harry explained. His account of the events surrounding the Quidditch event were laid forth, from the Dark Mark, to Winky the house-elf, to Mr. Couch´s reaction toward her disobedience. Sirius listened critically as he chewed. This was new information. Sirius began to pace, trying to sort it out in his mind.

Winky had the wand in her possession, but that didn´t necessarily mean that she was the one who took it, though she´s highly suspected. House elves had their own brand of magic, and surely she would have no personal reason to be with the Death Eaters. Crouch had been the Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement; his firing Winky was grounded in pretty good reasoning if he thought she conjured up the Dark Mark. Still, something didn´t seem right....

"Let me get this straight," he said, flourishing a chicken leg. "You first saw the elf in the Top Box. She was saving Crouch a seat, right?"

"Right," the children affirmed.

"But Crouch didn´t turn up for the match?"

"No," Harry answered. "I think he said he´d be too busy."

So, Crouch never turned up for the game. Odd, considering that he helped organize the whole event. Could have something went wrong the last minute which distracted him? Possibly. But that leaves the matter of Harry´s wand and how it got in the house-elf´s possession. Who else was in that Box?

Sirius broke his train of thought a second time to ask, "Harry, did you check your pockets for your wand after you´d left the Top Box?"

Harry´s brow furrowed in recollection. "No," he answered. "I didn´t need to use it before we got into the forest. And then I put my hand in my pocket, and all that was there were my Omniculars." His eyes turned back to Sirius. "Are you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand in the Top Box?"

"It´s possible," Sirius replied.

Immediately, Hermione shot, "Winky didn´t steal that wand!"

"The elf wasn´t the only one in that box," Sirius pointed out. "Who else was sitting behind you?"

"Loads of people," said Harry. "Some Bulgarian ministers... Cornelius Fudge... the Malfoys..."

Ron jumped on the last part. "The Malfoys! I bet it was Lucius Malfoy!"

Could be, reasoned Sirius. He wasn´t too familiar with the Malfoys, other than what Harry had mentioned about that stuck-up boy Draco. That, and the Malfoys tried to have Buckbeak executed last year... "Anyone else?"

"No one," Harry replied.

"Yes there was; there was Ludo Bagman," Hermione reminded him.

"Oh yeah..."

Ludo Bagman, the Quidditch player? "I don´t know anything about Bagman except that he used to be Beater for the Wimbounre Wasps," Sirius said, deep in concentration as he paced. "What´s he like?"

"He´s okay," Harry replied. "He keeps offering to help me with the Triwizard Tournament."

Or Bagman may be more than offering help. Sirius recalled the announcer for the Second task. He seemed like an average former athlete, nothing special, though quite loud. Nevertheless, the suspicion crept in.

"Does he now?" he said, frowning. "I wonder why´d he do that?"

"Says he´s taken a liking to me."

Could Bagman be the possible saboteur? Or just an enthusiastic fan of Harry´s? "Hmmm..."

"We saw him in the forest just before the Dark Mark appeared," Hermione added helpfully. "Remember?" she said to her friends.

"Yeah, but he didn´t stay in the forest, did he?" Ron fired back. "The moment we told him about the riot, he went off to the campsite."

"How d´you know?" Hermione shot in return. "How d´you know where he Disapparated to?"

"Come off it," said Ron incredulously. "Are you saying you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the Dark Mark?"

"It´s more likely he did it than Winky," Hermione protested.

"Told you," said Ron. He turned to Sirius. "Told you she´s obsessed with house-"

But Sirius held up a hand to silence Ron.

"When the Dark Mark had been conjured, and the elf had been discovered holding Harry´s wand, what did Crouch do?"

"Went to look in the bushes," said Harry, "but there wasn´t anyone else there."

"Of course," Sirius muttered, pacing up and down, "of course, he´d want to pin it on anyone but his own elf...and then he sacked her?"

"Yes," said Hermione in a heated voice, "he sacked her, just because she hadn´t stayed in her tent and let herself get trampled--"

"Hermione, would you give it a rest with the elf!" said Ron.

Sirius shook his head and said, "She´s got the measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you want to know what a man´s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals."

He ran a hand over his unshaven face, trying to puzzle things together.

"All these absences of Barty Crouch´s...he goes to the trouble of making sure his house-elf saves him a seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn´t bother to turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament, and then stops coming to that too... It´s not like Crouch. If he´s ever taken a day off work because of illness before this, I´ll eat Buckbeak."

The hippogriff lifted his head. "Craw?"

"D´you know Crouch then?" said Harry.

Know him? Dark thoughts rolled over Sirius´s mind at the question. If there was anyone he hated more than that rat Pettigrew, Crouch was one of them.

"Oh I know Crouch all right," he said quietly. "He was the one who gave the order for me to be sent to Azkaban - without a trial."

"What?" Harry´s friends exclaimed.

A look of shock crossed his godson´s face. "You´re kidding!"

"No, I´m not," said Sirius. He took a vicious bite out of the chicken leg. "Crouch used to be the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, didn´t you know?"

The children shook their heads.

"He was tipped for the next Minister of Magic," said Sirius. "He´s a great wizard, Barty Crouch, powerfully magical - and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort supporter," he said, reading the look on Harry´s face. "No, Barty Crouch was always very outspoken against the Dark Side. But, then a lot of people who were against the Dark Side...well, you wouldn´t understand...you´re too young..."

"That´s what my dad said at the World Cup," said Ron. "Try us, why don´t you?"

What a plucky kid. A grin flashed across Sirius´s thin face.

"All right, I´ll try you...." He walked once up the cave, back again, and then said, "Imagine that Voldemort´s powerful now. You don´t know who his supporters are, you don´t know who´s working for him and who isn´t; you know he can control people so that they do terrible things without being able to stop themselves. You´re scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing...the Ministry of Magic´s in disarray, they don´t know what to do, they´re trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere...panic...confusion...that´s how it used to be...."

The mug sat on the table, its contents untouched. Occasionally, Sirius grabbed it, clenching the porcelain with his fingers, then banged it back down on the table. Drops of coffee splashed out each time he did so. Peter mopped up the minors spills with a paper napkin every time.

"You´re going to break it," Peter said quietly, wiping down the table for the tenth time in a row.

"Why should I give a damn?" Sirius snatched the mug in his hands and held it to his face. The warmth of the cup disappeared about two hours ago and now even the smell of coffee was gone. He sipped at the stale liquid, then, in another fit of frustration, slammed the mug over the sink.

Crash!

Peter flinched.

The mug fractured into a dozen shards that dropped into the metal basin. An ugly stain spattered the chipped whitewashed wall above it and little brown rivulets dripped down.

Sirius stormed out of the kitchen into the living room, running a hand through his hair. "How long do we have to wait?" he growled through his teeth. "When will he call?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter put on a pair of rubber gloves, quietly gather up the broken pieces and dump them in the garbage pail. His hands were shaking. Sirius assumed it was from fear. He didn´t give a damn about Peter´s fear.

"Needless violence won´t solve anything," he said simply. Peter made his way into the living room and plunked down on the sofa. "W- we could always turn on the telly again--" he began.

Sirius whirled around. "Shut the fuck up!" he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at his friend. "Look, I don´t want to hear that repetitious bullshit again!"

Wordlessly, Peter turned on the television to the Wizard Network. The same reporter was there again, standing in the very same position as he did two hours before. And look, he was saying the same thing as well, only worded differently.

"For those just tuning in, the Ministry officials have announced that they have made an arrest connected with last week´s slayings. They have not revealed the identity of the culprit as of yet, but they do say that he is a werewolf--"

Sirius slammed it off.

"Enough," he whispered. "Enough..."

"We don´t know if it´s him," Peter reassured him. "They haven´t released anything on him yet..."

Sirius didn´t know whether he was angry or sad or frustrated. On one hand, it could be him, and those feelings stirred up a sharp sense of anger and betrayal. But then again, what if it wasn´t? What if he´s out there somewhere, and the Death Eaters caught him, or worse yet, the Ministry has him and who knows where the hell either party is going now--

Ring!

Sirius spun around and grabbed the phone. "Remus?"

"It´s Lily."

"Lily..."

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Sirius, are you all right?"

"Yes, we´re all right." Sirius glanced at Peter. "We´re both here. Remus... he didn´t come back yet."

"Okay..."

"What about you and James?"

"James... he... he´s with Mundungus..."

"What´s going on there?"

"I-I don´t know, Sirius..."

Sirius met Peter´s eyes. Slowly, Peter got up and took out his wand.

"I... I don´t know..." Her voice was breaking up over the line.

"When will James get back?" Sirius demanded. "Lily, what is going on-?"

Did the Death Eaters get them? Was this really Lily talking to him, or someone else? Sirius´s throat went dry. He raised his head and Peter had his hand on the doorknob. Peter´s face went stark pale, but he wasn´t leaving. Not until Sirius was sure...

Panic was rising in Sirius´s stomach, making his knees weak. So close, so close... they were going to leave tomorrow! Dumbledore was sending for them tomorrow! This had to be Lily!

"Tell me the code." His grip on the receiver made his knuckles hurt. "Tell me the code."

"The... the sun rises in the east. The new day comes over Dover..." A pause. "I´m so sorry. I didn´t want to make you worry--"

"No, no, it´s okay, it´s okay..." Sirius waved a hand to Peter and he returned to his spot on the couch. "You don´t know nowadays. That´s all. Your voice, I thought by the sound of your voice..."

"I-I-I didn´t know who to call." Lily said shakily. Another hesitation. "My mum didn´t check in tonight."

"What do you mean? She´s always the first one-"

"I know. I know. She calls me, then I call you, then you call Arabella...." Lily´s voice started to collapse in on itself, becoming smaller and smaller. "James left an hour ago," she said. "Mum was supposed to check in and she didn´t. I´ve been waiting by the phone, but she... and I didn´t know who else to call. Professor Dumbledore´s been gone for a week, preparing for James and Harry and me, and so I couldn´t call him and I--"

In the background, a baby´s bawling rang out.

"Sirius, could you please-?"

"I´ll hold." Sirius closed his eyes and sank to the floor.

Lily´s parents. No, the Death Eaters wouldn´t go for them, would they? Ye gods...

Peter kneeled down on the ground beside him. "What´s going on?" he asked.

"Lily´s mum hadn´t checked in yet." Sirius stared at the floor. "James´s out."

"So now it´s three." Peter said listlessly.

"Remus will come back," Sirius said slowly. "He knows that everyone´s supposed to be back at the flat by nine."

So many things have never gone so wrong before. It was a perfect system. Or at least as perfect as they could make it. A curfew was established between everyone in the group, which included Sirius and his friends, their families, the others working with Dumbledore. Everyone had to be back by nine. Then, the phone tree would start. Lily´s parents would call Lily and James, then they would check up on Sirius, Peter and Lupin, then they would call Arabella, who would call Mundungus, who would call Molly and Arthur, and so on and so forth. For the past year this was the basic plan. Until tonight, when the werewolf arrests were made. And now everything was crashing down.

Now it was midnight and Lupin still wasn´t home yet. Lily´s parents hadn´t called yet. No one knows what had happened to them and, worst of all, no one could do anything about it without endangering themselves. Sirius hated this. The world was closing in on them and he hated this.

They were trapped. All of them were trapped. For the last few years, their freedom had been sliced away with a knife of terror and now... now people couldn´t even leave their houses without fear.

Over the phone, Sirius heard muffled words. Harry was still crying, loudly.

"Hush, hush, my dear," Lily whispered. "Hush, now, honey... There, there..."

The baby´s cries softened.

"There, there..."

Lily picked up the receiver again. "I´m back."

"Yeah... listen, I´m glad you called. You shouldn´t be left alone with Harry like this..."

"Look, I didn´t mean to break down like that," Lily said, her voice firm. "I´ll be fine. I only needed to know that someone was there."

"Hey, I´ll be here." Sirius said readily. "I´ll be here any time you need me. Remember that."

"Thanks." The smile in her voice lifted Sirius´s heart. He heard Lily shift in her seat, then the cooings of her son. "Do you want to speak with your godfather, Harry? Do you want to say hello to Sirius?"

"Put him on." The tension began to ebb away. Sirius relaxed, slightly, and motioned Peter to sit closer so he could listen.

"Here´s Harry." She moved the receiver over and then--

"Gah," Harry burbled.

"Well, here´s a `gah´ back at ya. Are you keeping your mum safe, Harry?"

"Bloogah."

Sirius chuckled for the first time in days. "You´re gonna be a big boy now. Tell your mum to be careful and keep an eye on her, okay?"

"I´m sure Harry will try his best." Lily said, getting back on the phone. "Say goodbye to Sirius, Harry."

An indistinguishable sound came from the other end of the line.

Lily laughed. "That´s his take on goodbye."

"Quite the talker."

"Oh...!" A sigh of relief came from Lily. "James is back. James--" Silence for a few moments, then an outcry of joy.

"They´re fine? Sirius," Lily gasped breathlessly. "They´re fine! There was an auto accident on the road - a telephone pole was hit - and the phone lines had to be cut... but they´re fine..."

"That´s good." Sirius grinned broadly at Peter. "That´s very good."

Peter managed a small, shaky smile in return.

Now that her personal anxiety was over, the other concern took hold of Lily. "But what about Remus? He still hasn´t-?"

"No." Sirius´s grin folded into a tight line at the reminder. "Maybe it´s best that we get off now, to keep the line clear."

"Yes, yes," Lily agreed. "Listen, if Remus isn´t back in two hours, call us."

"I will." He hung up and rose to his feet. As he started to pace, Sirius sorted out the mix of emotions running through him. "At least they´re safe," he said slowly. "Peter, at least they´re safe."

"Look, Sirius," Peter got up and made a move toward him. Sirius turned away, still pacing.

"Hey Sirius," Peter said in a firmer tone. "Sirius--"

"What?"

"I know what you´re thinking," he said softly. "It´s been running through my mind too..."

"What're you talking about?"

"About Remus."

Sirius halted.

"T-the people at the Ministry, they´ve known about Dark Creatures taking the Dark Lord´s side," Peter said slowly. "Ever since those giants were caught last year."

Their eyes met. Sirius could tell that his own thoughts were reflected in Peter´s eyes. Except where Sirius raged, Peter had cold acceptance.

"James and Lily..." Sirius trailed off. "Dumbledore talked to them a couple weeks ago... About hiding them away... James, he... he asked me to be their Secret Keeper." He looked into Peter´s eyes. "No one knew except for us... and Remus..."

"And now you think...?"

"I have to switch," he whispered. Clearing his throat, he then said in a low tone, "You have to be their Keeper, Peter. No one would ever think it was you..." He closed his eyes. "Not even Remus."

Peter nodded silently. "Well, well, um, when are you going to tell James?"

"Tomorrow," he replied firmly. "When I help them pack up. You coming?"

A strange, strained look crossed Peter´s face then. Sirius, in retrospect, should have read more into that expression, but he didn´t.

"The-the Ministry´s asked me to work then," Peter said quickly. "You know, getting some more paperwork done and all..."

"I see." Sirius nodded.

Peter paused. "Will Remus be coming?"

"Yes." Sirius raised his head. "But I won´t tell," he said softly. "He´ll never even suspect..."

The front door opened in the living room. Both men raised their heads.

Lupin came in, face flushed from running. "I came home as soon as I heard," he said breathlessly. "There´s been an arrest in connection to--"

"I know," Sirius said flatly. Trying to cover your tracks now? he thought bitterly.

"I was with Derek Bones when it broke. We were at the Ministry. He´s calling his wife."

Peter made a stiff nod. "Derek would want to see his parents' murderers," he said softly.

Sirius finished relating to Harry and his friends about the dark times he lived in. He talked about how vicious and suspicious life was back then, and the guilt welled up in his heart once more. Somehow, though, those feelings were dried and up dead, like tumbled leaves piling up in autumn. They layered in folds around his heart, and he felt their weight, but not their pain. All those years in Azkaban have done this to him; he could talk about the old times now and feel barrenness where the agony used to be. It was better that he was able to become emotionally void.

"He gave his own son to the Dementors?" asked Harry quietly.

Sirius had been aware of their questions before and answered them matter-of-factly. He had a loaf of bread in his hands now and was chewing it thoroughly until the bits of food mashed into a tasteless pulp before swallowing. Then, each swallow became more and more heavy, and Sirius chewed harder and harder as he ate.

"That´s right," he said slowly, after forcing down another bit of bread. His throat was suddenly feeling dry now and the bread seemed to scrape against his throat.

"I saw the Dementors bringing him in, watched them through the bars of my cell door..."

A chill wind entered the cave; or at least, Sirius thought one had. As if summoned by a spell, the atmosphere of Azkaban entered his mind. Young Crouch, he remembered, was stiff. His face was ashen grey, and he moved like a zombie, with one foot in front of the other in an iron-clad pace. He tried looking noble, like he didn´t care - all of them did, even Sirius, when he was first brought in - but it was all a mask of manhood and steel-plated bravery that never withstood time.

"He couldn´t have been more than nineteen," Sirius said softly. He could hear the clanking sounds of the chains around the boy´s feet. They scraped against the stone floor; the boy couldn´t lift his feet high enough to lift them from the ground.

Once in the cell, though, the chains were taken off; people never struggled by then. The moans and screams from the other prisoners echoed in his mind. Sirius felt the grainy texture of the bars of his cell door. He was looking down into the darkened hallways, in the dancing pools of light the smoky torches cast upon the ground. And there was the poor boy, entering the cell and having his shackles removed. The boy flinched when the Dementor leaned down by him; Sirius saw something beneath the hood twitch, as if the abomination was resisting the pull of the wizard´s soul. The sickly, crawling feeling gathered in the pit of Sirius´s stomach, and he wanted to turn away, but he didn´t. Young Crouch was new flesh; everyone - the prisoners, the guards, the Dementors - were all fascinated by new flesh.

"They took him into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though... they all went quiet in the end... except when they shrieked in their sleep..."

Sirius wasn´t talking to Harry anymore. He was talking to himself while staring out the bars of his cell door, muttering in a raspy voice, "He´ll be gone by nightfall, gone by nightfall, gone by nightfall." At the time, Sirius thought that remark was extremely funny and slapped his hands against the cell door. "Gone by nightfall!" he had howled. A mad guffaw, more like a shriek than actual laughter, burst from his chest and he shouted, louder, "You´ll be gone by nightfall, boy! You´ll be gone by nightfall!" He didn´t know why he said it then, and always regretted it since, but he couldn´t stop himself.

The madness went off with his words, and soon, the other prisoners who were crazier than he began giving hoots and catcalls at the boy. Their voices rang through the air like Poe´s hell bells.

"Gone by nightfall!"

"Lucifer´s welcome!"

"Look at him! The new flesh always gets the better cells!"

And the laughter transformed the prisoners into squawking crows, and Sirius became nothing more than a foul jailbird.

The other guard turned around to survey the cells behind it. Instantly, the hall was silenced. Torchlight fell upon the hood and, for a moment, the Dementor´s face - if it could be called a face - was seen, lined in shadow. It was grinning.

A series of uncontrollable shudders went through Sirius and he wasn´t in the cave anymore. He was staring at the Dementor´s grotesque features and felt his insides turn. It was grinning and they were alone, and young Crouch began to scream. And his uproar joined the cries of the other prisoners, and the sound became greater, and greater, smashing through his eardrums and tearing through his mind and out his mouth, until all he could do was scream and scream and scream...

"So he´s still in Azkaban?"

Sirius turned his head. The hellish roar died within his ears but lingered, making them ring. He blinked slowly, trying to pull himself back into reality, and answered, "No." He blinked and repeated, "No, he´s not in there anymore. He died about a year after they brought him in."

And they grinned.

"He died?"

"He wasn´t the only one." Sirius´s head began to clear and he saw Harry standing in front of him with his brow furrowed and his hands in his pockets. Oh, that face, James made that face all the time when wrestling over difficult Arthimancy problems.... Sirius focused intently upon Harry and pulled himself out of the mire.

"Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the Dementors could sense it, they got excited."

And they grinned.

"The boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived, " Sirius continued briskly, hiding the darkness in his mind. "Crouch being an important Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty Crouch, half-carrying his wife past my cell. She died herself, apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his son´s body. The Dementors buried him outside the fortress; I watched them do it."

Losing his appetite with this talk, Sirius threw aside the bread he held and took a draught from the flask. The pumpkin juice was thick and rich with spices; Sirius let his taste buds wash away the rest of the bad memories.

"So Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he had it made," he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "One moment, a hero, poised to become Ministry of Magic...next, his son dead, his wife dead, the family name dishonored, and, so I´ve heard since I escaped, a big drop in popularity." Sirius went on to explain how Crouch fell from grace in the eyes of the public. He watched Harry and his friends absorb this information. They were quiet for a long time.

Afterwards, the conversation came to Snape. Ron was positive that Snape had to be involved, and Sirius would have been glad to jump on the bandwagon with him. Unfortunately, Sirius´s mind protested against whatever his gut felt, and his mind said that Dumbledore trusted him, and if Dumbledore trusted him, then no matter how shady Snape´s past was, he was still a clean man.

Harry brought up an episode when the Durmstrang professor tried to speak with the Potions Master, but that only confused Sirius. So what if Karkaroff tried to show something on his arm to Snape? Might as well be a nasty mole he wanted to remove.

Another kink in the machinery was that incident with Moody and Crouch invading Snape´s office. Sirius tried to piece of all together: "I wouldn´t put it past Mad-Eye to have searched every single teacher´s office when he got to Hogwarts. He takes his Defense Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I´m not sure he trusts anyone at all, and after the things he´s seen, it´s not surprising. I´ll say this for Moody, though, he never killed if he could help it. Always brought people in alive when possible. He was tough, but he never descended to the level of Death Eaters. Crouch, though... he´s a different matter... is he really ill? If he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up to Snape´s office? And if he´s not... what´s he up to? What was he doing at the World Cup that was so important he didn´t turn up in the Top Box? What´s he been doing while he should have been judging the tournament?"

All the questions tumbled about in his head, bumping into each other and confusing Sirius´s train of thought. None of this musing aloud was really helping. After another fifteen minutes, the conversation dwindled to nothing substantial, and Sirius felt as lost as he did before the students came.

Sirius had a little acronym for situations like these: WWJD - What Would James Do? And frankly enough, he had no idea.

Finally, he gave in.

"What´s the time?"

"It´s half past three," said Hermione promptly.

He got up once more. "You´d better get back to school. Now listen..." he instructed, looking pointedly at Harry. "I don´t want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you´re not to go leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to attack you."

"No one´s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple of grindylows," Harry joked feebly, but Sirius scowled at him.

"I don´t care... I´ll breathe freely again when this tournament´s over, and that´s not til June. And don´t forget, if you´re talking about me amongst yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?"

He handed Harry the empty napkin and flask and went over to Buckbeak. "I have to talk with Dumbledore about this," he whispered in the hippogriff´s ear. Be back in awhile." Sirius didn´t want Harry and his friends knowing Sirius´s private conferences with the Headmaster; he wanted to keep his presence as secret as possible. If Harry knew Sirius visited Hogwarts, something might slip, even if it was accidental.

Turning back to the students, Sirius said, "I´ll walk to the edge of the village with you, see if I can scrounge another paper."

Changing back into his canine self, Sirius escorted them back to the stile. The children gave him one last pat on the head, wishing a silent farewell, then left. Sirius watched silently as the trio disappeared into the village.

Then, quite unexpectedly, a speck in the air caught his attention. It was flying towards him. It grew larger. An owl. The bird landed on the stile and watched Sirius with intent eyes as it balanced itself. The message had been tied loosely with a thick cord that was easy to grasp with his jaws, as if the sender knew that human hands wouldn´t touch it. Sirius removed the note and gave a nod of recognition to the Hogwarts owl. The bird took wing and disappeared.

Carrying the small message back toward the woods, Sirius hid behind a truck of a particularly gnarled oak and opened the note. Out fell a newspaper clipping, more recent than anything he had found. He picked it up and held it for a long, long time, unmoving. Then, crumpling it up in his hands, Sirius stuffed the wad in his robe pocket.

The note itself was very brief, but self-explanatory. Two words in long, flowing script marked the parchment.

He´s back.

Merlin´s eyes, from the boiling cauldron into the fire! Sirius glanced at the note, and then stuffed it too in his pocket. He looked to the village, then back at the cave. He would have to leave Buckbeak longer than he thought.

A black dog raced out of the woods and towards the village as if being pursued by wild griffins. Up above from the mouth of the cave, Buckbeak watched with hooded eyes. The hippogriff knew that his friend wouldn´t move so fast unless something went very, very wrong.

Chapter 24

Steam thickened the air. It created a fog on the bathroom mirror, blurring the image. The reflection was of a bare back, with a single rope of black flipped carelessly across. Fine scars of surgical stitching marked the lower half along the spine, and there, the vertebrae jutted out a little larger than normal bones. That was because they weren´t.

Claire poured a heaping amount of shower gel into a mesh loofah and rubbed it vigorously between her hands until it foamed. Then, she soaped herself, the coarse material roughing her skin.

The bathroom was large, elegant, and conveniently designed. The tub she sat in had a built-in ledge to sit on; apparently, it was a little-used Jacuzzi which she now staked as her own. Handrails were installed along the wall and along the rim, while the old-fashioned plumbing made it possible to keep a pull-chain instead of a knob to turn the water spouts on and off. The main point of the matter was she was able to bathe herself, and she was thankful for it.

Claire didn´t want to go through the demeaning feeling that hired help brought. She didn´t want people supervising her. She didn't want strangers touching her. She didn´t want people handling her body like it was luggage.

Her body - what a mockery to call it that! And what is this body, this shell she was reduced to? What was Claire? A woman? A thing? An assortment of flesh molded into imperfection?

She hated looking at herself like this. Stretching out her hand, Claire jerked a hanging chain. Immediately above her head, the metal showerhead rumbled, then a burst of warm water erupted, falling with the fury of a summer thunderstorm. She lifted her head, eyes closed, feeling the pressure like a thousand blunt nails bouncing off her skin. It felt so wonderful.

Cascades of falling water filled her ears as the suds were washed away. The monotony of the pounding water was a catharsis to her. She sighed, contently. Warm wafts of air enveloped her and after several minutes, the constant pressure of the shower beating against her chest made it hard to breathe. Turning off the showerhead, she remained there in her seat for a few moments until the tingling sensation went away.

Then, with silent resignation, she took hold of the rubber-coated handrails on either side of the tub and pushed herself up. Effort poured into her movement: muscles tensed, head bowed, breath halted and came out in one steady exhale. She could feel her pectoral muscles working, as they should, along with the triceps and shoulder muscles. All that therapy in building up her upper body strength was put into good use. Claire was secretly grateful for her werewolf nature; a normal human in this condition wouldn´t manage such basic tasks on her own.

Once she got to the wide rim of the tub, she reached out for a fluffy towel. Wrapping it just beneath her arms, she stared at the shower chair. Several more towels draped the seat and arms; usually, she loaded herself onto it and had Fifi aid her in removing the towels after she was dry. After much difficulty, she clambered her way into her chair, grimacing.

Snap, snap, snap: the Knight brace was tucked just below her ribcage and extended all the way down to the top of her hips. It was thin, of metal and rubber and stiff plastic: two straps extended around her torso and four stiff, padded rods ran between them. Basic design, made to keep the spine straightened into an upright position at all times. It was not unlike having a schoolmistress giving a student the ruler to prevent slouching; both commanded the same rigid authority. Having endured it for over two months, she was now able to leave it off for short periods of time. Previously, she was forced to bathe with it on.

Exchanging the towel for a flannel robe on the rack, she put it on and tightened the sash. A while passed as she adjusted the clothing properly; she had to prop herself up by one arm as she tucked the bathrobe beneath her, first on one side, then the other. She could sense nothing but the barest of feeling there and that was only when there was immense pressure. Or pain. Claire gave a final check in the mirror to be sure she wasn´t exposed anywhere.

When she wheeled herself into her bedroom, her brother was waiting for her.

//What are you doing here?// she demanded, putting a hand to her closed robe.

Bernard was pacing the room and didn´t stop upon seeing her. //You will not believe what news I have!// he said as he passed her by.

//Why are you in my room?// repeated Claire. //Never come into my room without my permission! For God´s sake, Bernard, how many times-//

// You must sit down and let me tell you, // he went on. //Never mind, you are sitting down, but listen, for you will be overjoyed with the news! //

The only news she had been hear of the last few days was Bernard´s upcoming trip to Luxembourg: some new conference about using Muggle technology to tracking down the lycanthrope gene. Once it was found, the possibility of future cases of hereditary lycanthropy can be eliminated altogether. Claire didn´t know why Bernard would be so interested; the rest of the clan - along with most ancient werewolf families - was horrified at this prospect. To terminate the wolf would be killing the very essence of their people. Bernard seemed to advocate the process. She couldn´t understand why, especially since he held up his own wolf in such high esteem.

Claire crossed her arms, expecting the conversation to be about Luxembourg. //And it is...? //

//The Lycanthrope Biomedical Center is conducting an ongoing study on the transformation and how it exactly affects werewolves, as you know, since I´ve been telling you about it --//

Ah yes, the dinner conversations where she had drifted off to contemplate her own problems. It was always either the Transformation Project or that "mapping out the genome" thing which he ranted about so often. Bernard always brought his work home with him, much to Claire´s boredom.

// -- and the head of the project, Michael D´Aubigne, he was screening for candidates for his latest study on the changing bone structure during transformation. I informed him of your particular circumstances and he was very interested in you. We worked some minor details out and now you´re in. //

Claire didn´t get it. // In what? //

// Dr. D´Aubigne´s study! // Bernard beamed. // For the next three months, his researchers will analyze your skeletal structure and how it changes during the progression of the lunar cycle. And during transformations, they´ll record the structural changes and how your special circumstances affect it. Can´t you see, // he finished, // this will be a prime opportunity for the Center and for you to piece together how a werewolf´s body metamorphoses. In doing so, a new understanding can be developed about how the wolf and the human skeletons interrelate. //

//How...?// she managed to get out.

//You´ll have to have permanent residence there during the study, of course, where they can run through the preliminary tests and get a clear analysis on your medical condition, then, they´ll monitor your progress as the moon waxes and wanes and such. All expenses included here, Claire, with the medicine and the treatments and the X-rays, and that Wolfsbane horror the Ministry supplements you with before the full moon, well, that´s provided too and - and--// Having run out of words and breath, Bernard threw his arms up and asked, //So, isn´t this fantastic? //

Claire was silent. Finally, she spoke. // Essentially, // she said in a tempered tone that could cut through steel, //you arranged for me, without my knowing, to be sequestered from the outside world and be a lab rat for the next three months?//

Bernard´s face fell but his tone rose. //Will you not even consider the option? My colleagues are thrilled at a chance to study the effects of the transformation- //

//So you just popped the proposal, `Hey, my sister´s disabled; she would make a perfect subject!´//

//This was not meant to insult you. If it were, I´d never put you in for study. This is a milestone of inquiry, Claire, that no one has ever established before - //

//Well, I´m sorry, but this is insulting beyond belief! Not an insult to your little scientists, but to my dignity!//

//Can´t you see, they might be able to help you walk again! // he snapped, fists clenched. //If they figured out specifically what occurs in the bone structure during the transformation, their magic can devise new structural mechanisms that would be more suitable for your body! Isn´t that what you wanted? Why pass up this chance?//

//If it was under my own discretion!// Claire retorted. //If I volunteered! Why would I be willing to let myself be poked and prodded and tested and monitored? I will not be your test subject!//

//This is not an option anymore, Claire!// The stirrings of fury hinted behind his glasses. //This is for your own good! //

// Who am I, your pup? Am I not able to choose what kind of life I live?//

//You can´t make proper decisions! // he roared. //That is why you are here! //

She sat, stunned, as if he had slapped her. The next word fell like an anvil. //What? //

Bernard´s mouth hung open, in a way that would be almost comical in any other situation, and then shut it. //Well, I... wasn´t... you... // he stumbled gruffly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and took them out again as tightened fists.

//This had gone far enough, // he ended with a snarl. //I only had you in my best interests. Dr. D´Aubigne requests your appearance by tomorrow for preliminary testing. I will have Fifi pack some clothing, and I will have Eunice take you. //

//I cannot walk, but I am not completely helpless. I will not be taken anywhere. //

Their gazes clashed. Like little wizard children, she wanted to focus all her pain, all her misery, all her entrapped rage in a way that would manifest into an explosion or a shock. Yet even without the physical force, her eyes were enough. Again, like the time before in his study, she stared him down. Bernard turned away and ran a hand through his hair. Claire swore he had been growling at her, in a tone lower than human ears could reach.

//Our tempers are becoming completely out of hand,// he said, reluctantly. // I should have told you sooner. I meant for it to be a... surprise...// A pause. //I´ll call Michael.// But he made a point not to apologise. Instead, he said, // You know the Luxembourg conference is coming up. I will be gone for the next two weeks. Perhaps this would give you enough time to accept this. //

Claire didn´t reply. The glasses slipped and he gave her The Look in supremacy before hurrying out of the room, as if pressed with other matters. She shut the door behind him and locked it.

//You can´t make proper decisions! That is why you are here!// So that was the reason he offered his home to her! Not out of kindness, but out of authority! Claire suspected something of the like, but to hear it come out of his mouth -

"Hoo! Hoo!"

Banging sounds against the balcony doors brought her attention to the owl flapping outside. She wheeled herself over and took a hooked stick to unlock the doors. Once one was opened, the owl coasted in and perched on the end of her bed.

"Hoo!"

"What are you doing here?" she asked it mildly, undoing the message tied to the bird´s leg. Letters from other Safehouse owners and wolf packs still came every so often, so she wasn´t surprised to receive it. She opened it, then stood rigid, unblinking. Her hands clutched the letter as if it was a lifeline, crumpling the paper.

There, in Ulysses´s cramped writing were two words: He´s back.

Chapter 25

Samuel Harper couldn´t believe it. He simply couldn´t believe it. Part of him wondered if the courts meant to give him this case, or if it had been confused with something else, like a stolen broomstick from the other circuits.

He decided that something must have gone horribly wrong.

Law was something Harper never pictured himself in. He was one of those average people who were never talented in anything, but never did terribly in anything either. That, for certain, is the worst position a person could be placed in. Potions were handled with ease, as well as Arthimancy. Divination was never his strong point, but Harper had always managed to fib enough to satisfy Professor Trelawney. When he witnessed Professor Kettleburn get most of his forearm ripped off by a young Manticore, he decided that Care for Magical Creatures wasn´t his future field of profession. The other classes provided equal, if not lesser, captivation.

Thus, when his final years at Hogwarts dwindled down, the doomsday outlook towards the future overwhelmed him. He didn´t know what to do with his life after school. Perhaps he could have been an alchemist, or a journalist at the Daily Prophet, or a window washer. Opportunities abounded for him, each as unappealing as the next. Yet it was upon his mother´s suggestion that he work for the Ministry; it was a respectable, decent line of work, and considering the economy those days, quite secure as well. And so he went.

Law was just "coming back into fashion" in an occupational sense, after taking a blow when Bartemius Crouch suspended legal rights indefinitely during the darkest days of You-Know-Who. War tribunals were the rage, and rights were stripped off suspected Death Eaters faster than Hermes´ morning jogs: no trials for them. A few lawmakers protested, but then again, those few lawmakers soon were looked at with suspicion. After that, though, when Crouch fell from the public´s grace due to the scandal involving his son being a Death Eater, all wizards demanded a Bill of Rights, similar to the one the American wizards had, and soon one was passed. So, by the time Harper graduated, law was deemed once again the safe and easy bloodletting practice it always was.

If Harper had been exceptional rather than average, he would have gone to the Ministry of Magic headquarters in London to fight with the other ambitious young students for an apprenticeship. But the social politics that went on there unnerved him; the determined and willing toughed it out, but the average were trampled to death and eaten alive (if the two could happen simultaneously). People who went to London were hell-bent on being successful, and Harper didn´t want to be successful. Thus, he made his way up north to Edinburgh for his work. He received a junior solicitor job within the first week.

Now, his first case in hand, Harper confirmed to himself that he had no idea where to begin. Only one option presented itself.

He stood outside of Mr. Thomson´s door and knocked.

"Come in," came the gruff reply.

Harper did. He stepped in and stood near the doorway, as meek as he was six years ago as a fresh Hogwarts graduate.

The office was large and dim. Stale smoke filled the air. Despite building regulations, this barrister still smoked; people overlooked it because of his seniority. Harper tired not to breathe the odour in. The smell of smoke always made his palms itch for a cigarette, but he couldn´t. Harper was still trying to go cold turkey.

On the far wall were various honours given to his master barrister for his long years of public service; one of the most prominent pictures was of him and Bartemius Crouch, who had been recently appointed as head of the department at the time it was taken. It was one of those rare pictures where Crouch was actually caught smiling. Below that picture was a statue of Lady Justice on a low shelf. In the smack center of the room was a desk, and at the desk sat what could be called a man.

The man looked up. Mr. Elric Thomson suffered from that degenerative professional disease, which left untreated, made people hunchbacked and gnome-like, shrewd and bitter.

He had been a public defence barrister for more than thirty years.

"So the boy comes crawling back," he commented aloud.

Crawling? He wasn´t crawling! Oh, Harper shouldn´t have expected a warmer reception, though. The old hatred shook up his nerve. He wasn´t going to tolerate this; he won´t even give Mr. Thomson a chance to humiliate him this time! Yeah, Harper should walk out the door, cool and confident. And he should slam the door in that bastard´s face too-

"I think... I need your help..." he began.

"Help?" exclaimed Mr. Thomson. He plucked out a smoking stub from his mouth and squashed it against the ashtray. "The boy wants help now?"

Harper hunched down. He didn´t want to be there, but he had no one else to turn to. Harper, in truth, was the joke of the entire Department. He lacked the tact in cross-examination and the brains to remember the Seventy-Eighth Ruling of the International Committee on Wizard-Muggle Relations. He couldn´t argue or analyze or even object properly; the only thing Harper could do well was remember how each barrister employed by the Ministry liked his or her coffee. Oh, and he was a whiz at filing.

"But I thought you wanted to join the big leagues, boy," Mr. Thomson went on. "Remember? If you wanted to ask for help, then why turn to me? Isn´t this what you wanted? To be a big, tough attorney handling all the big, tough jobs by yourself?"

And damn it, Harper did want to handle the case by himself! But how could he handle the case if he wasn´t taught anything? Harper felt that worn anger against his master barrister rise again. Six years of his life - wasted under this dictator´s knobby fist! He worked for nights, weekends, and vacations for this man and what did he get? None of the so-called "quality instruction" that he was promised. Actually, why was he even here in the first place? Why bother with the man who scorned him for so long?

But Mr. Thomson was his mentor, his master, his instructor. No one wanted to teach the department gopher anything. He had to tame this pride; he had to at least ask for some advice...

Swallowing hard, he clamped those ambivalent feelings. "Because you´re my master barrister," Harper said. "And it´s your obligation-"

"It was my obligation."

Harper stiffened. He had the urge to tackle the gnome to the ground, yet he also had the urge to run out the door. It was always like this with Mr. Thomson. He could easily be the worst person Harper ever had to deal with - no wait, except for Professor Snape--

"I hired you to become an attorney, boy. Not a half-grown mongrel who comes back to suck at his bitch´s tit."

Scratch that. Mr. Thomson was worse.

Mr. Thomson leaned back his in his leather seat and propped his feet on the desk. "Yet remember what I told you after you failed the bar exam for the third time? `That's it. Three strikes. Go find another line of work.´ You´re not cut out for this. Really, you should have stuck around as my assistant. It pays better," he laughed.

Harper´s hands began to shake. Oh, he heard this jibe before. Pay? What pay? Enough to be sure he didn´t starve in the streets! Though considering how much he had earned so far (i.e. nothing), Harper wondered whether he made the right decision.

Immediately, the doubt was chased away. He had to be a barrister, if only because he didn´t know what else he had to be. A panic fluttered through his chest at the thought of coming home to Chelmsford a failure, begging at his mother´s doorstep to stay at home again. No, he wouldn´t be able to live with that! Harper pushed that terrible thought away and focused back to the present. This was his case, and he was an equal now, a professional, like Mr. Thomson. No more flunky business for him!

"Listen," Harper started, mounting his courage, "I came here to get-"

Mr. Thomson cut him short. "I might as well have a look at it, though, since you obviously can´t do anything on your own. Tell me," he drawled, lighting up another fag, "What case did the courts hand to you?"

Deflated, he replied, "It´s about a werewolf, Mr. Thomson."

The master barrister kicked off. "A werewolf?" he said. "Certainly, you did not take the special training needed to handle creature cases!"

"He´s a wizard, sir."

"A wizard!" He repeated, as if amazed at the concept. "A wizarding werewolf?"

Mocking laughter danced in the other man´s eyes. Mr. Thomson knew about the case already. Possibly all of the other public barristers did! Oh geez, why was Harper the one stuck with the garbage cases no one else would take? Or did they just draw lots and decide to give it to the barrister who wasn´t there? Perhaps they passed it along because it was ridiculously easy; Harper hoped this was so; he´d rather live on a pity case than tackle something truly difficult.

He handed the file over to the master barrister. Mr. Thomson leafed through the papers. "Yes, yes, yes," he muttered to himself with the cigarette between his teeth, then threw the file back. "It´s all so simple, boy. Now think; I did train you to do that at least."

"Think?" Harper echoed.

"The courts wouldn´t have given you a case you wouldn´t be able to handle."

"But, the situation here is--"

"Look," coached his master barrister. "Tell me, boy, about that case I did down in Pools last year."

"You mean the one with the carnivorous plants?"

"Precisely."

"Well, the defendant faced a lawsuit when his neighbor was attacked and nearly got his leg chewed off..."

"And...?"

"And the prosecutor said it was his responsibility because the plant was a magical creature under his care."

"Get out."

"What?" Harper flailed, confused.

"You heard me boy. Out with you!"

"Wait -" Harper stopped himself. He was slow sometimes, but he eventually did catch on. "The werewolf was responsible for his own wolf! And since he failed to control it..."

"And from what document does this refer to?"

"The Werewolf Code of Conduct of 1601."

"Smart answer. Go on."

Harper rekindled some of his lost confidence. "He would have to face the punishment."

"And the Code states..."

"Is being drawn and quartered still legitimate nowadays?"

"The amendments..."

"Oh, beheading--" Harper stopped short. "Beheading?"

"That´s it, boy!" Mr. Thomson broke out into a grin. "Now get the hell out!"

Perfect! Just perfect! "But- but- but I´ll lose the case!"

"That´s the whole point." Mr. Thomson crossed his arms. "Didn´t you learn anything under my tutelage?"

He muttered bitterly, "That Lucky Strikes have a bolder flavor than Winfields?"

"What was that?"

"A great many things, Mr. Thomson," Harper covered hurriedly. "Still, sir, I don´t understand why we have to put the werewolf to death-"

"Than find your way out of it! It´s your case, boy!" Mr. Thomson said irritably. "Quiz: what was the first lesson I ever taught you?"

"Always keep your calling card at hand?"

"Other than that?"

"One man´s fault is another man´s liability?"

"No, no, no!" Thomson took out his wand and pointed to the statue over the desk. "What is this?"

"Lady Justice."

"Good. What is she wearing?"

"A blindfold."

"The scrolls say that means?"

"She does not see the differences in men. All are equal to the law."

"But we know that means-?"

"She is blind, naïve and ignorant."

"What is she carrying?"

"Scales and a sword."

"The scrolls say they mean?"

"Scales weigh the crime to the punishment. The sword metes out punishment fairly."

"But-?"

"The scales weigh the gold we earn each day. And the sword reveals her misdirected destruction."

"Now doesn´t that all cheer you up, boy?"

The liturgy over, Harper sighed. Once again, the feeling of defeat sunk in. Perhaps, somewhere, in the back of his mind, he had a vision of coming out of the courthouse triumphant, of having his client pumping his hands saying, "You saved my life!" and of going to the office and flicking off Mr. Thomson. But alas, those fancies were too quixotic for his reach.

The barrister´s voice grated Harper´s hopes into shreds. "My first lesson was not to go idealistic. There is no such thing as human justice. We are not judicial superheroes, defenders of mankind. We do not see the truth. No one can. We do not ask, `What did my client do?´ and whether it was morally right or not. We ask, `What can we prove?´ Barristers only twist situations toward the client´s favor. We are here to make money."

Mr. Thomson glared at his former apprentice with a critical eye. "That´s why this case is yours. Each and every case is not a guaranteed winner. You will lose many times, and you better get used to it. Losing helps wear away all that fluff and good morals. One of the many things I always despised about you, boy, is your weakness. You have to grow hard to survive here. More calculated. More vicious. Look around; would I have lasted in this job for this long if I actually believed in what I claim to defend?"

The elder barrister turned back to his work. "The case should last a good three weeks. You´re paid either way," he assured him, "and you get a day off to see your client´s execution. It´s not too bad. You get a catered meal afterwards, if you still retain your appetite."

Harper wanted to be sick. "But what if he doesn´t have to die?" he said in a small voice.

"Come again?"

"What if he doesn´t have to die?" he suggested. "I mean, I could always find a lesser sentence. You know, send him to that Magical Creatures Penitentiary."

"Well, it´s your case; go figure it out," Mr. Thomson spat. "Get a slap on the back. Save a life. Feel the glory." And settling down with a document, he chuckled, "And let the bugger rot with the Dementors for the rest of his brief and miserable life."

Oh right. Which was better: Dementors or death? Now it was in Harper´s hands to decide. The task disheartened him; Harper wanted to throw the case back to the courts. Oh great, no wonder he was stuck with it! None of the other barristers wanted another dead man - or worse - on his conscience.

The young man bit his lower lip until it hurt. Hold on, what was he talking about? By Medusa´s head, he´d find a way out of this! He was new blood after all, and surely he certainly didn´t develop any of the other jaded barristers´ philosophies! And yeah, he could ask for help from someone who knew more about magical creature law; maybe even a panel attorney from London! In fact, why did he even bother coming to his former master barrister´s office? Mr. Thomson was nothing but a backwater lawn ornament! Even more, why was he still standing here, getting insulted at? He didn´t deserve such treatment! Raging Eumenides, Harper will plunge right into this case and show Mr. Thomson what an "assistant" can do!

"You might think you know how this case will turn out Mr. Thomson," he said lowly, raising an index finger, "But no one has a say about it until the case is over."

The old wizard looked up. "What did you say? I missed it."

"Oh nothing," Harper mumbled, slipping out the door, "Only thank you very much, sir, and have a nice day."

This was official. No sitting in the corner as Mr. Thomson waggled out a deal. No more taking notes that were never used, or watching silently as someone else did all the important work. This was his meeting, his deal, his work.

Harper handed the mug over to his colleague, who sat slumped in one of the padded leather chairs of the conference room. "Two sugars, three creams?"

"Yes, you always had a mind for that," Mr. Borden accepted his coffee and took out a flask. "A little kick to move these ol' bones." He poured a dollop and offered it to the defense barrister. "Would you like?"

"Gladly." Harper felt a certain privilege to as he took the flask, a kind of equal companionship that his former master barrister never showed him. He poured a bit into his own cup and sipped.

"We can get this done with pretty soon," said the prosecutor. Taking his knife and fork, he set to work on the huge piece of haggis and mashed turnips heaped on his plate. Harper himself only had a thin sandwich he had brought from his tenement; he never bought from the cafeteria; it saved money. He nibbled on the crust as he watched the prosecutor eat.

Everything about Hogarth Borden sagged, from the drooping stomach to the limp folds of his jacket to the bent tongues of his leather shoes. He had lost the war with gravity long ago, and his cheeks, swollen and pasty, practically dripped from his face. His squat nose, stuck there as if by an artist´s whim, had huge black nostrils; Harper could see the nose hairs jutting out like bristles.

Harper watched those nostrils sniff at the floating steam coming from the mug, making the entire nose quiver. "I know."

"I've always liked you, Samuel. You know that." Mr. Borden slurped his coffee. "You're a good lad, despite what that arse Elric says about you." Taking another bite from his meal, he continued between chews, "You know he only takes advantage of you because you never have the git to stand up for yourself."

Harper felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Having someone like him wasn´t embarrassing, but having someone point out his timidity was. He opened his mouth to defend himself - or at least, thought of opening his mouth to defend himself - when Mr. Borden went on.

"So, I'm going to make it a hell of a lot easier than him." A warm, easy grin spread across his flabby face. "Eighteen years."

"Eighteen?"

"After the hearing about his legal status. If he's a being, then I'll go with eighteen years, instead of the usual twenty-five."

"And if he's not?"

"Well, then, there is no option of prison time, is there?"

Silence. Mr. Hogarth Borden's gargantuan weight shifted. His chair moaned as if in pain. His black, moist eyes squinted up at him through folds of skin.

"Losing face the first time in court is not the way to jumpstart your career. I'm trying to build a decent rep for you here." Concern came over his face. "We all want you to do well, Samuel. But in order to do so, you have to play the game. I'm sure Elric's told you that."

"Yes, he did," he replied flatly. He cradled the mug in his hands. "Many times."

"I don´t want to crush you or anything!" The rolls of fat jiggled as he laughed; the mental image of the prosecutor crushing him, literally, by sitting on him with that giant rump, made Harper gag.

It wasn´t that Harper didn´t like Mr. Borden. He did. Everyone in the Department did too, even the other defence barristers. All the judges at Nemesis Courthouse were on a first-name basis with him. For despite its title, the courthouse was not a stiff-lipped competitors´ ring, where prosecution and defence battled rage-inducing wits in front of stone-fisted magistrates and judges. The Courthouse was a workplace, and everyone there was a co-worker, even if he or she was on "the other side."

Lunches between opposing attorneys were everyday, refreshing repartees where the case was bargained over like a pair of old ladies fussing over prices at a flea market. There was no sense of histrionics or edginess; how can there be, if they worked together seven days a week? Law was a game, and if every law practitioner played by the rules, then every law practitioner wins.

So of course Mr. Borden would only expect a neat compromise from his young - if somewhat incompetent, but nevertheless practical-minded - fellow associate.

"I-I won´t be crushed."

Mr. Borden blinked. "You´re young, and you probably want to show some bravado in your first case..."

"But mean it." Harper licked his dry lips and said, firmly, "Mr. Lupin won´t be accepting any plea bargains yet, Mr. Borden."

"You haven´t even talked with your client, have you?"

Harper didn´t answer.

Shaking his head, the prosecutor said in a patronizing tone, "You cannot govern your client´s fate without his permission, Samuel. You know that." Clearing his throat, he pointed out, "You´ve been here long enough to know that about 85% of most cases never reach the court, never see a judge. You know of the charges I´ll press. You know that most likely, your client wouldn´t want to go through the media circus that´ll come if there is a trial. Why bring the matter up then?"

Harper took a bite out of his sandwich, chewed slowly, and then swallowed.

"I don´t want justice to be that way," he replied softly. There. He said it. Now Mr. Borden can mock him, just like Mr. Thomson did.

Instead, a blank mask placed itself over the prosecutor´s face. His face was constant cheer and goodwill; to see nothing on his face now signaled that some negative emotion was brewing in Mr. Borden´s face, rising up thick and black like oil from a well.

"Lying won´t help," Mr. Borden shot brutally. Tears sprang at the corner of Harper´s eyes at this accusation. Taunting he could deal with, but to condemn him like that--

"I´m not lying!" Harper snapped, blinking hard.

"You think this is a glory case, Samuel?"

"Glory case?"

"The big one. The controversial trial of modern history. The landmark case that dictates the line between beast and being."

"Well, it could be, I mean, no--"

"You think you could earn a big rep by representing a wizard werewolf?"

"I never thought that!" Harper said, with the sting of guilt in his voice. Oh, he did have his daydreams, but they were only innocent fancies...

"Well, you´re right. It is, and you could." Mr. Borden folded his arms and made a grunting sound in annoyance. "But during your meeting with Mr. Lupin today, I want you to consider this: whatever you do, you´re dragging him in with you. Now I don´t give a damn about wolves myself, but since he´s your client, you might be more considerate. Throw him the plea, and let him think it over. He doesn´t have to take anything until his status is definite." Then, he relaxed his imposing stance and stuffed a hunk of dripping haggis into his mouth. He watched Harper as he chewed; a line of brown juice worked itself down his multiple chins.

Harper stared down at his hands. A line of responses flowed through his head, but he couldn´t grasp on any response long enough for him to use. Fear and puzzlement overwhelmed him. Did he say something wrong? Did Mr. Borden hate him now? What was wrong with what he said? Isn´t it a good thing to believe in justice?

But what if Borden was right? Was he in it for the glory? Any venomous response negating that did not enter his mind immediately. Then, maybe he was in it for the fame, and maybe Harper never realized it until Mr. Borden pointed it out! Oh, now that´s just even worse! Samuel Harper, what is he now, a heartless political climber? No, he wasn´t! Yet what if he was? Well, it wasn´t fair for the prosecutor to accuse him like that! But maybe it was fair; maybe it was Harper´s greedy, ambitious subconscious thought pattern that drove him to do this....

Damn you subconscious thought patterns! Harper bemoaned.

When Mr. Borden spoke again, it was with that warm, friendly voice Harper was familiar with. "I used to be buddies with the executioner for the Disposal for Dangerous Creatures, before Macnair replaced him," he said conversationally. "He used to do about five, six executions a month. Mostly young dragons, you know, and hippogriffs. He did a few wolves too, when they were punished as beasts. It was terrible when he did the wolves, because they cried. All of them, males and females. And there was nothing he could do about it. He had to kill them after all. It was his job. But he learned something from this, and gave me a piece of advice that I never forgot."

Raising his head, Harper gave the expected reply. "And what was that?"

"If you have to give them death, make sure to have a sharp ax and make a swift exit." Mr. Borden mopped the last bit of gravy from his plate with a wad of bread. "Public spectacles are most unwanted, especially in this day and age."

The wind ripped through the streets of Edinburgh. A cold snap had blown in this past week, bringing with it the howls and stings of a dying winter. Standing outside after lunch, under the stone awnings of the Ministry building, Harper fumbled with the cellophane wrapping of a pack of Lucky Strikes. The wind screeched in his ears as he shook a fresh cigarette out with trembling fingers and lit it up with his wand. Pressing the fag to his lips, Harper inhaled and felt the warm smoke enter his numb nostrils and sink into his frozen lungs.

Damn it, what was wrong with the world? No smoking in office buildings, no smoking in restaurants, and now even some of the pubs were considering going fag-free. This, Harper thought, was discrimination. The whole world was prejudiced against smokers. And there, standing in the freezing, Harper felt like the most persecuted minority in Scotland.

But the cold gave his thoughts more courage. He was doing the right thing, sticking with this case.

Walking past the Head Prosecutor´s Office earlier that day with the file in hand, Harper had hesitated, knowing that if he stepped inside, he could pass up the case for someone else to find. But Harper didn´t. And out in the cold, with no one else to admonish him or pressure him, Harper knew that why this case would be his.

He read the case file. He knew the facts.

Mr. Lupin had bitten the girl in October and immediately fled the scene with her. For almost six weeks, they hid together in the London Safehouse, away from prying eyes. Then, upon being caught at the Triwizard Tournament, he escaped. About a month later, she was found with a close-range gunshot wound to the chest in a beach hovel at Brighton. Lupin was gone.

Mary Grisham, the girl he had shot, was cured from all signs of lycanthropy. Incidental magic, some experts said. A miracle, other people had said. And wizards don´t usually believe in miracles.

But why did he shoot her? Was she too much of a hassle? Did Lupin want to murder her?

Harper knew the charges Mr. Borden would press against Mr. Lupin.

But if Mr. Lupin wanted to dispose of her, why didn´t he before? Why did he care for her for so long? Why did he want to protect them both, instead of just himself? Then, after so long a time, why did he choose that time to shoot her?

Reading between the lines made Harper find his definite answer; the young man knew his Defense Against the Dark Arts a little better than his law. A werewolf and his pup had their souls linked. Whatever injury the maker inflicted upon his pup, he would have faced the same harm.

Knowing this - Mr. Lupin was a DADA teacher only the year before - why would he do such a thing? He could have easily abandoned the girl to the Werewolf Capture Unit if she was dragging him down.

For a man who could never pin his thoughts down for more than a minute, Harper felt sure of one thing: Mr. Lupin shot the girl to cure her. He undid his own crime. And in doing so, Mr. Lupin practically performed a miracle. If the date was seven hundred years beforehand, Mr. Lupin would have been hailed a saint, even by wizards.

So why should he be punished for a crime that he corrected? That didn´t make sense. It was like chopping off the hand of a thief who returned the stolen goods.

The thought stirred up a small bit of hope that Harper had kept locked up for the past six years. It comforted him to know that somehow, there was some sort of good in this world. He wanted to believe in miracles.

Maybe that´s why Harper liked him. Mr. Remus Lupin had the honour to care for a child he had wronged, the will to fight for their existence, and the courage to risk his life to save hers. Mr. Lupin was probably the most decent being Harper knew in this city.

"I want to be decent," Harper whispered to himself. The cigarette dropped from his fingers and died on the frozen asphalt.

The hearing was in three days.

Wolf by Ears will continue...

All comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.