Professor Lupin's Apprentice

VIII: Rare Allergies and Illnesses

Remus returned in time for dinner that night, saying everything had gone fine. It had taken him most of the day, but he'd managed to find all the people on his list. They were all very co-operative, he said, but I was relieved to have him safely back. When we went down to dinner—so I could introduce him to my other tenants—he took one look at the place settings and went pale.

"Remus, are you quite all right?" I asked.

"Yes, Melinda, I'm fine, but..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "May I speak with you alone?"

I nodded, and we went through to the kitchen. "What's wrong?"

He smiled rather a fake smile, and asked, "Do we always use fine silverware for dinner?"

"Not every night," I answered, shaking my head. "But we generally bring out the silver for a new boarder's first dinner."

"Oh," he said, smiling, seemingly reassured.

"Why?"

"Well, I have rather a rare allergy to silver. It's not life threatening or anything, but ... if I eat with silverware, my face puffs up to about three times its normal size. I can't even handle silver without my hands breaking out in a horrid rash."

"Oh, that sounds dreadful!" I gasped. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Don't trouble yourself," he said, patting my arm. "There's no way you could have known. Like I said, the condition is very rare."

"Well, we'll just get you some of the regular cutlery."

I rummaged into a drawer, pulling out the utensils, and we returned to the dining room. As I removed the silverware from his place and replaced it with stainless steel, Remus watched with anticipation. I could almost swear he was holding his breath. When I laid silverware on the sideboard, he sighed with relief.

I then introduced him to my other boarders: The McKenzie sisters, Mabel and Edith, two little old spinsters—eighty and eighty-two—who were permanent residents; Tom Porter, a younger man here for the spring and summer—a biology student studying the mating habits of owls; Geoffrey Kline, a veterinarian new to the area who was staying here until the house adjoining his surgery was finished; and Alice Wilkins, whom Remus immediately recognised as one of the local librarians, also a permanent resident. Everyone at the table smiled politely and said hello except for Miss Wilkins, who sniffed with disdain.

After a nice dinner, Remus and I adjourned upstairs. Now the book situation had been sorted out, we could begin my lessons in earnest. We went through the routine every day and night for a week: breakfast and lessons, followed by lunch and more lessons, then dinner and still more lessons. The after dinner lessons occasionally degenerated into more intimate conversations until the wee hours or snogging, although Remus unfortunately excused himself for bed before that ever got out of hand. After the first week, however, he began to excuse himself earlier and earlier every evening. I began to wonder if he was starting to tire of me.

The afternoon marking the end of his second week at the boarding house, he went to his room shortly after lunch, saying he didn't feel well. I brought a tray up to his room at dinner but received no answer to my knock. I thought he must be asleep, so I left the tray outside his door and went upstairs. When I came down the next morning, the tray was still there, but the food remained untouched. Again there was no answer when I knocked, so I assumed he was still asleep and took the dinner tray back downstairs. When he hadn't emerged by eleven, I went to check on him. I knocked on the door, and he answered in his robe—looking pale and shaken—with dark circles under his eyes. I heard myself gasp.

"Oh, you poor lamb!" I felt his forehead, and there was no fever. "Do you need a doctor?"

He shook his head. "I'm just a little tired," he said, taking my hand away from his head and kissing it. "No need to fuss."

"I don't think I'm being overly cautious this time, Remus. You look dreadful!"

"That's very reassuring, dear," he said sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest. "I daresay your bedside manner leaves something to be desired."

"You know what I mean."

He pulled me close. "I'm fine. I'm just tired. I think, after some breakfast and a little nap, I'll be right as rain."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said, soothingly, and kissed my forehead. "We'll be back to your lessons after dinner, I promise."

"My lessons can wait, if you're ill."

"I'm feeling much better today. I just need some food and more rest."

"Are you strong enough to go downstairs, or would you like me to bring your breakfast up?"

"Would you?"

I nodded. "I'll be back shortly."

As he hobbled back to bed, I went downstairs and got a tray of breakfast, then came back up, intent on helping him eat if he needed that. After propping him up on his pillows, I felt his brow again and then set the tray in front of him.

"My temperature hasn't changed in the past five minutes."

"Do you need anything?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I need you to stop worrying," he said around a mouthful of poached egg.

I rolled my eyes. "Asking me not to breathe would do about as much good."

"That's what I thought," he answered with a resigned nod.

"Do you want anything from the chemist's?"

He nodded again, swallowing. "Tranquillisers, if you can get them."

"To help you sleep?"

"To help you calm down," he said, touching my nose playfully.

Once he'd goaded me into making a somewhat rude noise with my tongue, he smiled at his success in annoying me. I then pulled a chair to the side of the bed, watching him eat the remainder of his breakfast. After he'd finished, I fluffed his pillows and kissed his forehead after he lay back. I then packed his tray to take it back downstairs. When I was almost to the door, he called to me.

"Melinda?"

"Yes, Remus?"

"I'm fine. You don't have to worry."

"I hope you'll understand if I don't take you at your word until I see a little more colour in those cheeks."

"No, really, I'm ri—"

"Right as rain! Yes, I know. But—if you aren't better by tonight—I'm ringing the doctor." I pulled the door closed before he could object.

When I went upstairs to call him for dinner, a fully-dressed Remus met me at his door. He looked much better, though still a bit pale, and the circles under his eyes—although not completely gone—were at least lighter.

"How are feeling?" I asked, again checking his temperature.

"Much better," he said, pecking my cheek. "How was your day?"

"Horrible, for worrying about you."

Remus sighed and shook his head as he took my arm to escort me to dinner.

"I went to the chemist's anyhow, just to see if I could find something that matched your symptoms. Unfortunately, he couldn't recommend anything for pale, tired, and sarcastic."

He smiled.

"The funny thing is ... Mulroony Jenkins didn't seem to remember you."

His eyebrows rose. "Really?"

"Didn't you talk to him about that book?"

"I thought I talked to everyone on the list," he said, brows knitted. "I must have missed him."

"As adamant as you were about tracking everyone down? I find that difficult to believe."

"Well, you know him. Does he seem the type to make trouble?"

"No, he doesn't, but..." Somehow, I thought he was letting this go all too easily, especially considering how frantic he'd been before. "The really strange thing is, he didn't remember the book, either."

Remus frowned. "How old is he?"

"Mid to late sixties, I imagine."

"He's probably getting senile," he replied with a dismissive wave.

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," I said, worried. "That could be bad for some of his customers."

"Why?"

"Well, if he's filling prescriptions and doesn't remember what to mix, he could kill someone."

"I'm sure he isn't that bad yet," Remus replied, shaking his head. "Just because he doesn't remember a nondescript stranger he's met once or a particular book about ghosts doesn't mean he's going to be poisoning people."

"You aren't nondescript!" I protested.

"Well, not to you perhaps," he replied, smiling, "but you are a touch biased, aren't you?"

After dinner, Remus felt equal to working, and so we decided to continue with my lessons, but only until he was tired. The feeling I'd had so often before—that he wasn't telling me something—seemed to occur much more often during our tutoring sessions. I trusted him completely in every other way, but when it came to his life before we met or my lessons, I always felt he was holding back. I hesitate to use such a strong term as lying; I felt certain, however, he was omitting a great deal. Often he seemed to mentally edit his statements.

Since most of the times this happened were associated with believing in the existence of magical beasts, I was convinced he did this for fear I would think he was insane. His noncommittal attitude often perplexed me. When we'd exhausted the topic of magical beasts—except for shape-shifters, which he decided to put off until a later date—we moved on to some books on Potions.

Remus would be the first to admit Potions was his worst subject. He had said he could never get used to the strong smells of ingredients. Rather than giving me misinformation, he attempt to explain everything he could, declining to answer my questions about things he didn't know well himself. After our conversation about the chemist and the book before dinner, however, I had a different idea for the direction of the evening's lesson.

"Remus, can I ask you something?"

"Hmmm?" he said, as he flipped through a book, looking for where we'd left off.

"When we were coming home from the library after getting that book, Hauntings of Hogwarts, and we were talking about magic being the overall secret?"

"Yes?" he asked, closing the Potions text with a finger marking his place.

"Well, I've been wondering ... Why try to repress information about magic at all?"

He removed his finger then and laid the book aside.

"It's not as if people don't know about magic," I added, "or witches and wizards."

"That's true. People do by and large know about magic and witches and wizards. Or they think they do."

"What do you mean they think they do?"

He raked a hand through his hair and seemed to be deep in thought for a moment before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. "Melinda, do you trust me?" he asked, finally.

"What does that have to do with magic?" I asked.

"More than you'd think. So, do you?"

"Remus, I think you should know I do by now," I answered, staring at my lap, my tone gentle and quiet.

He turned his head to regard me over his shoulder. "Do you think I'm stable?"

I shrugged. "As stable as an unemployed Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor can be, I suppose."

"No, I don't mean financially stable. I mean mentally stable—sane."

"Aside from being a touch paranoid, I'd say yes."

"Right," he said, sitting back and turning toward me with glee written all over his face. "We've talked about the Salem Witch Trials before?"

"Yes."

"So, how many actually witches do you think were killed?"

"There were, I think, twenty-five deaths."

"But how many do you think were actually witches?"

I shrugged again. "Well, none, I'd imagine."

"That is absolutely correct, but not for the reason you'd think."

"What is the reason I'd think?" I asked.

He smiled. "Real witches don't exist?"

"All right, so that's what I'd think," I admitted, nodding. "What was the real reason?"

Remus shook his head. "No, I'm going to make you work a little harder than that. Now ... Imagine you're a witch. If someone accused you of performing witchcraft and sentenced you to hanging, what would you do?"

I shrugged once again. "I honestly don't know."

"Think about it. You're sitting in a cell, knowing you're going to be executed. What would you do?"

"I'd probably try to escape."

"That's what I'd do, too. But let's go back in time a little. What would you have done before that? To ... say ... prevent the accusation?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

He raised one eyebrow. "I thought you were stubborn. Don't give up so easily! Someone saw you doing something suspicious: brewing some malodorous concoction in a cauldron, talking to your cat more than normal, maybe even riding a broomstick ... What would you do?"

"Try to explain it away, I suppose," I answered with another shrug. "Make it look like something harmless."

"That's the coward's way out." Remus smiled wryly. "Besides, I'd like to see anyone explain away riding on a broomstick. That would be a laugh ... Come on, now! You're a witch. You have powers most people cannot even comprehend." He pointed to emphasise each word in his next question. "What. Would. You. Do?"

My brows knit. "Make them ... forget ... what they saw?"

Remus smiled. "Excellent. So, if there were real witches in Salem, Massachusetts in 1692, the reason none of them died in the Salem Witch Trials would be...?"

"Because the real witches would never let people remember the things they saw long enough to accuse them?"

"Precisely!"

This was the first time he didn't seem to be concerned about my thinking he was insane. A twinkle in his eye showed he was following my train of thought, but I'm not sure he would follow it as far as the next stop.

"I ... don't ... have to worry about the chemist poisoning people, do I? He isn't senile, is he?"

His eyes went wide, and then a smile spread slowly across his face. "Well, well. I'm impressed."

"What did you do to him?" I whispered, appalled.

"It's called a Memory Modification Charm, and it's fairly simple, although it requires concentration to extract only the memories you're interested in. If one gets distracted, one can cause total amnesia in the subject."

I was half mortified and half intrigued. If what Remus was saying was true, he could actually perform magic, instead of merely teaching about it. That would explain why I felt he was always holding back. He was worried I would think he was insane.

"Can you show me how it works?" I asked.

"That's probably not a good idea," he said, shaking his head, but wearing a small grin. "The problem is there's no way to put the memories back. I could make you forget something—like your dear departed aunt's name, for instance—only you'd forget it forever. I can show you something else, though." He pulled what looked like a conductor's baton from the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Is that a wand?" I asked naïvely.

"Lumos," he said, nodding slowly. The end of the wand burst into a bright light.

"Like a torch," I said, with something akin to an expression of awe. "Now, wait a moment! You could have got that at a novelty shop."

He nodded curtly. "That's what I thought you'd say. Nox." This last word extinguished the light, and Remus put the wand away. "But you can't very well say I got my hand at a novelty shop, can you?"

The next thing I knew, he extended his hand toward me, unfolding his fingers, and a small flame erupted from his palm.

I stared at him blankly with my jaw hanging open.