Black Dog

Author's Note: Some of you have asked about the background to this story - for instance, how was Voldemort defeated and what happened during the battle and it's aftermath? I'm afraid that all those things are covered in a number of works in progress including "The Towers of Sadness" and "The Dogs of War". They may be posted on Fiction Alley, if they'll accept them and, particularly with "The Dogs of War", if I can keep them down to an R rating.

Black Dog

Chapter Seven

Jeannie was so proud of Dog. Now she had laid down the law he seemed quite eager to comply, though rather shy about letting her catch him in human form. By day he was pure unadulterated Dog, rolling in the yard, barking at unusual noises and pursuing next-door's cat with gusto. If cornered, the cat would turn on Dog and Jeannie loved to see how Dog would suddenly develop an interest in something else, having learned the hard way that those claws were sharp. It was only at night or when he was sure he would not be disturbed that he made the change into his human form. She had made a trip to the local charity shop and had bought some more jeans and a couple of shirts and he changed his clothes regularly, depositing the worn ones carefully in her linen basket. When she awoke in the morning there was often a damp towel in the bathroom that had been dry when she went to bed, but Jeannie rarely saw him. On a couple of occasions she caught a glimpse of him reflected in some shiny surface as she entered a room only to find Dog grinning up at her when she turned the corner and twice saw the flickering as Dog's form faded and the man's began to appear but found that as soon as she moved Dog would return. Only on one night did she spot him for any length of time and that was only because she was still. Falling asleep in her chair while watching a late night film, Jeannie awoke just before dawn. The television was still on, the blue light flickering on the ceiling but Jeannie was transfixed by the sight of the man who was moving slowly and rhythmically in the small space at the foot of the stairs. Barefoot and bare-chested he was carefully going through a routine of movements, balance moving from foot to foot, from toe to heel, arms extending, hands making gentle and peculiarly beautiful gestures, in a silent and unutterably lovely dance. Clean-shaven now, his face was intent but relaxed, eyes half closed and lips curved in an unconscious smile. Jeannie sighed as his movements speeded, each one sure and controlled, betraying a perfection of coordination and strength. Finally he arched his body back, palms of his hands touching the floor, and whipped his legs up into a handstand, his hair tumbling down around his arms, the longest strands almost touching the floor. He remained poised for several moments then pushed off with his arms, twisted in the air and landed once again on his feet. Jeannie must have gasped or maybe a movement caught his eye because he whipped around, hands raised defensively.

"That was beautiful," Jeannie spoke very softly. "What was it?"

His face twitched in panic and he stooped, his height contracting and darkening, and Dog reappeared, and approached, tail waving very slowly, to lay his head on her knee. Jeannie felt the disappointment of this quite keenly and wondered why Dog should be so affectionate when the man seemed to be so wary.

Dog was almost as confused as she was. He was gradually finding the will to transform more accessible. The turning point for him had been the night she shut him in the bathroom. Up until then, turning from the comforting, undemanding and, above all, safe shape of the dog had been associated in his mind with the pain of grief and loss and a cowardly little voice had urged him to hide, hide in the warm darkness of black fur where no one would suspect, no one could accuse. But shut in and abandoned, he had paced and whined and decided to once again appease his jailer. Initially, hands unused to manipulation had laboured over turning taps and managing buttons and laces but then he began to remember things, the gush of warm water, the pleasant feel of clean fabric against clean skin. With memory had come shame at the dirt in his hair and beard, the grime beneath his nails. And, ashamed, even when clean he had hidden from Jeannie but she had followed him and made much of him and he had basked in the warmth of her approval. Now, to please Jeannie was his one intent and so he changed his clothes and washed his face and body and painfully scraped the razor over his jaws. The face that looked back at him from the mirror in the depths of the night or the pale grey of early morning was not one he recognised. There had been a man, once, with the same blue eyes and black hair but he was long dead and Dog could not even remember his name but did remember, as though in a dream, that he had once been accounted handsome and hoped that Jeannie would approve. For Jeannie was the centre of his whole existence, without her he was nothing but a stray. At night, while Jeannie slept, he roamed the house on four legs or two. As a dog the runs he took with Jeannie were enough to satisfy his need for activity but as a man he was tense and nervous and one night found himself moving in a particular way that eased his nervousness and left his muscles aching pleasantly. He repeated the series of movements like a mantra, speeding them and refining them and feeling his body strengthen and grow more supple over the weeks. The night Jeannie watched him was another watershed. Until then he had tried to please her as a good dog should, by being clean and well behaved. But when he had turned and seen her face it had been quite obvious that she was very pleased with him merely for being; that she was enjoying looking at him. He had become the dog again and she had been disappointed so perhaps it was a good thing to be pleased by looking at one for whom you cared. The next night while she slept, he crept upstairs on four paws and paused at her door. She was asleep, curled on her side, one arm doubled under her head. Dog sat and watched her for a while, watched the shadows of dreams chase themselves across her face, until she sighed and turned onto her other side. Then he went back downstairs to his blanket.

He climbed the stairs frequently after that, sometimes even advancing as far as her bedside to breathe in her scent and assure himself that she was happy and in no distress, always returning to his blanket as soon as he was sure that she was all right. But one night he left the bathroom in human form, rubbing the water from his hair with a towel, and stopped on her threshold, folding the towel around his neck and leaning against the doorjamb. Jeannie was curled up as usual but as he watched, she moved restlessly and turned her head on the pillow. The sound she made was almost too soft to hear but it was sad and Dog moved forward without thought. He dropped to his knees at her bedside and touched her cheek gently with his maimed hand, then gathered her shoulders into his other arm.

"Ssh," he whispered, the human sound coming harsh and aching from long unused vocal chords. "Ssh now, Jeannie."

Jeannie sobbed again and leaned into his embrace, her arms encircling his chest, her hands clutching at the muscle of his shoulders and he bent his head to brush his lips across her forehead. Her mouth rose blindly to meet his and Dog gave a sigh of pleasure at the touch of her lips, tightening his arm around her and trailing his fingertips across her cheek and down her throat. Jeannie sighed as well, then her eyes opened and she gave a frightened gasp, pulling away.

Dog released her, jerking back from her wide eyed gaze, and cringed. Jeannie had the barest glimpse of his horrified expression before the black dog turned tail and raced from the room. Jeannie, eyes half open, shook her head and lay back on her pillows. "I must have been dreaming," she murmured to herself as she sank back into sleep.

Dog transformed briefly in the kitchen, wrenched open the kitchen door, stepped outside, closed it again and stood looking up at the sky. A cold rain was in the air, chilling the sudden inexplicable heat in his blood, the drops trickling down his face like icy fingers. When he had touched her he had wanted - he wasn't sure what, but he had wanted it very badly. She had been so soft and warm. He had wanted to hold her like that forever to make all the bad dreams go away. And she had felt so good. Her lips under his had lit a fire that was still burning him and something in him had laughed, pointed out how vulnerable she was, had urged him to grip and crush and take. She had opened her eyes and had been afraid of him and that something had exulted - this must be bad. Shut out in the garden, he couldn't be a threat to her, so he stood in the rain until his breathing steadied and he began to shiver, then took refuge with the dog once more and curled up, nose on paws, on the doorstep. After a while he slept but a small part of his mind kept going over how she had looked when she slept and how her mouth had felt against his.

Jeannie was horrified when she realised that Dog had spent the night in the garden. He had whined plaintively in response to her rather panicky calls and she rushed to the door to let him in.

"There you are," she cried as he slunk past her into the kitchen and went to sit on his blanket. "How did you get out there, you silly thing?"

Dog sneezed and lay down.

"Oh, Dog," Jeannie took the threadbare towel she kept for his use, and knelt beside him.

"Come here," she coaxed and began to rub the rain out of his fur. "I suppose this is about - last night. Did you - did you really come into my room? Please, Dog, I'm not angry with you. Please, look at me."

Dog didn't raise his head but his tail gave the smallest of wags.

"Maybe I'm the one who should apologise," Jeannie mused. "After all, all you were doing was giving me a hug because I was having a nightmare, I'm the one who started - well - you know. I'm sorry."

Dog raised his head at that and Jeannie rested her cheek momentarily between his ears.

"I'm sorry, Dog," she whispered. "Do you forgive me?"

Dog butted her playfully with his head and gave a low wuff. Clearly he did.

But Dog could not forgive himself. The protective love he felt for Jeannie as a dog was safe for her. He could do her no harm. But in his other shape the urge to protect was overlaid by other conflicting and confusing impulses that sparked dim but frightening memories - memories that filled him with horror and shame. From that morning he took care not to approach her in human form or to climb the stairs to the bathroom when she was asleep, afraid of what the beast that was within him might do.

*

As the spring gave way to summer and the evenings grew lighter, Remus and Hermione got into the habit of setting the dinner table in the garden on any night that was fine enough. High hedges screened them from Muggle neighbours and their position on a hillside gave them the best of the evening sunlight, so Remus would carry out the pine table from the kitchen and they would settle down to wait for Harry, sometimes with a bottle of wine, sometimes as tonight, with books and papers to while away the time.

The garden had barely been touched since Harry had bought the house and it's rather scruffy shrubs and tussocky lawns were a far cry from the manically manicured plot at Privet Drive. Remus remembered that sad place as he had last seen it, blackened and roofless, lit only by the greenish glare of the floating skull. For Harry to have used the money from the insurance claim to buy their present haven may have seemed a little macabre, but Harry was nothing if not practical. One way or another, the Dursleys had owed Harry for their years of neglect and abuse. Death at the wands of Voldemort's minions may have been a high price to pay but none of his friends could see why Harry shouldn't benefit. Besides he had needed a proper home to bring Hermione to, and the three of them had settled down together very happily. In many ways the place was ideal. In it's own small grounds, they were not overlooked, there were many rooms with fireplaces suitable for the Floo network and it was blessed, from Remus point of view, with a sound dry cellar with a solid, lockable door. Remus was aware that he was, to some extent, a chaperone for Hermione and, to another extent, a substitute for Sirius, but felt no sense of being a charity case. His earnings supplemented the 'family's' income, he did his fair share of the housework and he had more than earned his right to consider this place his home by his unstinting care of Hermione. At first she had clung to him like a frightened toddler but now was beginning to strike out alone. It warmed his heart to see her growing in confidence and enthusiasm though he suspected that never again would she be as self-assured as she had been at Hogwarts and in the years immediately following her graduation. However, she could laugh and smile again and, though still chary of leaving the house on her own, would often accompany him on his trips to shop for food or to the Regio Occultus at the British Museum. The Museum had jumped at the chance of employing Remus, his credentials as a translator of Ancient Runes were impeccable, and made no objection to him working from home when Hermione was in no state to be left for any length of time. Later they had been pleased to employ her as his assistant and he put down much of the rapidity of her improvement after that to the simple fact that a monthly salary showed how much she was valued in a way that the most earnest reassurances from Harry or Ron or Remus were unable to. She was good, too, he thought as he poured the wine and leaned back in his chair, studying her profile at she turned a page and reached for her glass.

Hermione caught his eye and smiled.

"Are you off out tonight?" she asked.

Remus shook his head.

"Selene is on late shift," he explained, "and doesn't get off 'til ten. She'll be over as usual after the full moon to patch me up and we've made a - er - date for Thursday."

"She's a nice witch," Hermione commented. "Are you taking her anywhere special?"

"Zelda Cook has sent me tickets for her summer exhibition preview," Remus held up his glass to the sky and peered into the rich redness. "Fifty paintings all done in "shades of blood and ash". It sounds a little oppressive to me but Selene said I ought to go to show some lycanthropic solidarity. I said that OK Zelda's a werewolf but would it hurt to use green or yellow once in a while?"

Hermione smiled again. It was nice to see Remus looking so well. When they had first met he had looked old and tired. Now, eight years later, he looked younger than he had that day on the Hogwarts Express. His brown hair was streaked with white now, rather than drab and greyish, his face was a little fuller, less cadaverous and his eyes, though at times shadowed with pain, were clear and calm and wise. Hermione had always imagined Remus as a self-contained loner with all his attention focussed on Sirius, Harry, Dumbledore and his few other friends. It had come as something of a shock to discover his keen pleasure in partying now that his lycanthropy was no longer such an issue.

"I'll probably go though," he was continuing, "if Harry's going to be here, of course."

"I don't need Harry to babysit," Hermione protested. "I can take care of myself...."

"What?" Harry was just coming through the kitchen door, a bottle of mead in one hand and a glass in the other. "You don't mean to say you'd sooner spend an evening alone than with me?"

Hermione laughed and shook her head.

"Of course not, but if you're working a bit late I don't see why Remus and Selene should miss their fun."

"Zelda Cook's exhibition launch fun! There's a novel thought," Remus mused as he set his wine glass on the table and stood up. "Now Harry has graced us with his presence we can eat. Ten minutes, all right?"

"Fine," Harry threw himself into the deck chair Remus had just vacated and sighed as he poured his mead.

"Hard day?" Hermione asked.

"Just tiring," he replied. "It looks like the reforms to the Magical Beasts Act will go through - assuming the werewolf community accept the necessity for self-regulation - but the free countrywide provision of Wolfsbane Potion is assured."

"That will make life so much better for the vagrants," Hermione agreed. "Have you seen Ron today?"

"Yes," Harry beamed, "and he was with me when Draco brought me some good news. They still can't be civil to each other, you know, even after everything."

"I can imagine," Hermione smiled.

"It was almost like old times," Harry chuckled. " 'Malfoy'. 'Weasley'." His impersonations were accurate and filled with mutual loathing.

"What was Draco's news then?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, now that was interesting," Harry set the mead bottle down in the grass and took a sip from his glass. "I was going to tell you both over dinner any way. You know that the Experimental Charms bods have been working on a detector for magical signatures? Well Draco called in a few favours and took a prototype up to that kennels in Stafford. I gave him my knife, remember the locating charm Sirius put on it for me, and he used that as the control and has found a trace, a very faint trace, that more or less confirms that Sirius is still carrying his wand. Now all we have to do is find some way of amplifying the trace and we might be able to find him."

Hermione looked down into her glass.

"Wouldn't you have to be very close to him to pick it up?" she asked.

Harry shrugged and grinned at her.

"Ever practical, eh, 'Mione? Yes, we would but it's got to be worth a try." He paused and sighed. "We've got to try, Hermione. Who knows what could be happening to him."

"Harry," Hermione twirled her glass between her fingers, watching the red swirl up and up the sides. "Are you sure about this? It's been almost a year. Are you sure - sure he wants to be found?"

"Hermione," his voice was very gentle but firm, "we have no choice. We have to find him. We have to bring him back. We have to find out what happened to him."

"And then?" she asked, her voice rising. "What then? Will he come back here? After what he did to Remus? After what he did to - to all those people?"

"Oh, Hermione," Harry's voice almost broke as he left his chair and came to kneel at her side. "You're not still having those bad dreams, are you? Remus forgave him long ago - what am I saying? Remus never felt there was anything to forgive. What happened was horrible but necessary. That whole werewolf business fooled Voldemort completely." He took her hand, holding it against his cheek. "There were bound to be casualties," he paused remembering, "but the ones who died were as committed to the cause as we were. It was a brilliant plan, Hermione, and it worked perfectly. There were some we just couldn't save but we can save Sirius."

"You don't understand, do you?" Hermione tugged her hand out of his and stared at him. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this but, I'm telling you, Harry, if you bring that man to this house I will not be here."

It was Harry's turn to stare.

"I don't understand, you used to love him as much as I do, as Remus does. Hermione, where else would he go?"

"Azkaban?" she suggested, wildly.

Harry drew sharply back from her, his face twisted with shock and the beginnings of anger.

"Hermione," he breathed, "I don't know how you can say that. Never, never say that where Remus can hear you. Sirius did some - truly terrible things but you can't think it was of his own free will!"

"No?" Hermione stood up and glared down at him. "What about the Creevey brothers? Or are you saying that they were lying? What about Remus?"

"Remus?" Harry's eyes were suddenly wary.

"Last week when you were both out," Hermione said defiantly, "I had a very informative hour in your office going through the witness statements. Alohomora, Harry. Or did you think I was still incapable? Remus wouldn't have lied, not to you, and yet you still want that - that monster here in this house?"

"That monster," Harry snapped coming to his feet so abruptly that she flinched back from him, "is the only reason that most of us are still alive. You understand that, I know. It was your plan he was following, for god's sake!" He glanced nervously towards the kitchen where the clattering of plates and a cheerful curse from Remus warned that dinner was almost ready. "Look, Hermione, now is not the time to discuss this. After dinner we'll give Remus the slip and, if you like, I'll go through those statements with you. Believe me, Hermione, much of it isn't as bad as it sounds. Let's have our meal and later we can talk about it rationally."

"Perhaps I don't want to be rational," she spat. "Perhaps the thought of setting eyes on him again turns my stomach."

Harry met her angry glare with a cold and implacable look that she had come to know and admire during those darkest of days. The look with which he had sent so many to almost certain death. The look that had been on his face when, his arms about the shoulders of a shaking and hysterical Draco Malfoy, he had said, "That's what we needed to know, we attack tonight."

"That's enough," he said. "When I find my godfather of course he will be welcome in my home. You suffered as much as any of us, Hermione, but you have no right to try to make me choose between you."

She took a step away from him, fists clenched, then her gaze wavered and her shoulders slumped.

"No," she replied, dully. "You will do what has to be done. You always do." She turned away and began to walk back towards the house ignoring his worried call but paused on the threshold, squaring her shoulders and turned back to face him.

"If - he has his wand," she said, "sooner or later he will use it. If you're serious about finding him ask Ollivander to recategorise his wand as belonging to an under-age wizard."

Harry's angry expression faded.

"Of course, if he uses it anywhere other than Hogwarts the Ministry detectors will pick it up. Hermione, you're brilliant."

"Brilliant," she agreed and stepped into the kitchen, passing Remus as he stood with their plates balanced along one forearm.

"Hey," he called, "it's almost ready." But Hermione didn't reply.