The Dark Side of the Moon

"Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody." -- Mark Twain

The scent of incense filled the air, perfuming it with such a myriad of fragrances that they all came to mingle together, making it impossible to distinguish one from another as the smoke filled his lungs, acrid and heavy so as to almost nauseate, but as he moved further within the dimly lit tent, he could feel the little aches and pains dissipating and numbing, the pressure behind his eyelids dissolving away. But he could find no room to be grateful for such healing powers--it defeated the very purpose of why he had done what had gotten him there in the first place.

The solemn stranger, garbed in tattered clothing covered by a thin sheen of dust that had been accumulated from travel, had arrived in the gypsy encampment at nightfall that evening. It was a moonless, cloudless night, in which the sky had fallen inky and black, the horizon line blending in so that everything seemed to be swallowed up in the darkness. His silhouette had been described in the flickering flames of firelight as he came amongst them, speaking naught a word, and being nomadic as they were, the gypsies questioned not his presence there, simply taking note of the languid yet purposeful stride that carried him.

Two hours of patient waiting later, he had slain a creature that was preying on a young girl--who happened to be their leader's favored daughter. A vampire, he had noted simply, after the grim work of removing the creature's head had been completed. The stranger had then put his bloodied blade away, stuffed a clove of garlic into the dead thing's gaping mouth, and delivered the girl back to her concerned family.

They had promptly insisted upon rewarding him, though he attempted to communicate the fact he had not done what he did for his own gain. Their response had been merely that they were not intent upon rewarding him by monetary means, but through the gift of wisdom.

Now, as Remus Lupin stood within the shadowed confines of the tent, everything was flooding back. All the physical pain had fled him, the exhaustion clearing from his mind, and quite unfortunately that simply left room for what he had been attempting to block out. The mental pain, the emotional struggle, all mingled into an uncomfortable tearing sensation, along with impatience that he should not be there in the first place, that he should be out continuing his work while he had the new moon to hunt beneath--his strongest period within the lunar cycle, and furthest he could get from his change--even though better logic suggested that he would not find another kill that night.

He shifted his weight from one foot to another, glancing uncomfortably around the tent. Though the gypsies took up what could be considered a temporary setup each time they stopped, that did not mean that they failed to accumulate things over time, and around the place were littered various implements that gave him only vague suggestion as to the personality and life of the person that resided there.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, he was transported back to years before--what seemed like a lifetime now--reminded of Albus Dumbledore's office, the circular room with its revolving staircase, enough to keep even the critical aesthetic's senses whirling in wonder. It was a thought that brought a sudden pall to everything, the incense seeming suddenly a heavy and bitter flavour on his tongue, a stale scent in his nostrils. Memories of the past had filled his mind; memories that he did not want to relive.

"Come, please . . . sit."

The voice sounded from the side, causing him to start, the foggy haze of reverie lifting again. Lupin was grateful for this sudden distraction, though at the same time he berated himself for allowing his senses to be dulled in such a way. One slip could be the difference between life and death--and he hadn't even noticed the woman's presence in the room.

She was seated at a small, circular table, which despite the gypsies' notation that she was a mystic, was not littered with the usual implements of divination--no crystal ball or tarot cards, nor even any tea leaves. As he moved to settle himself across from her, relieving himself of the burden of his bag--yet at the same time warily keeping it close at his side--he was finally able to make out her features in the dim lighting.

The woman seemed neither young nor old, her skin fair and untouched by any lines. Her eyes were a clear amber shade, almond shaped and exotic in their setting beneath dark brows, and there all the wisdom that she had not only accumulated in her own life, but that had been handed down by others, could be seen. Her hair, the colour of a raven's wing, with no grey to be found, was plaited neatly, disappearing past her shoulders, and her hands were folded primly before her as she waited for him to become comfortable.

Finally, Lupin drew in a breath, somewhat impatiently waiting for whatever 'wisdom' would be imparted. He did not hold great faith in diviners, as they more likely than not simply read into what existed and attempted to predict the future from there. Sibyll Trelawney, Professor of Divinations at Hogwarts, had predicted him to come into serious illness once a month. Of course, the fact that all the professors were aware of his condition was not to be taken into consideration by her.

"You have sorrowful eyes."

Slightly taken aback by the use of this as a beginning for their conversation, he looked up sharply, grudging curiosity forming within him.

Her voice was mellifluous and lovely, and at the same time touched by the somber tone of one who looked upon much--and was saddened by what she saw.

"Grey, the colour of moonlight, of a calm nature, and of bitterness at the irony that they should be so similar to those things you long for but may never truly enjoy. The colour of despair. The eyes are mirrors into the soul, Remus Lupin, and within yours I see reflected much pain."

He frowned then, but the curiosity became greater. He had told no one his name or of his lycanthropy; indeed, in the duration of all his travels, he had spoken that of it to no one save perhaps himself, and that was in silent reverie.

"You carry a heavy burden, as you have for most of your life, and I despair to see such a loss of hope. You have earned much, but you have lost much as well. Those close to you. But all is not dark; even in the time of the most shadow, you may find light."

His brow furrowed at the cryptic words the woman spoke, and he sat forward, silently prompting her onward with his posture.

"Tell me of those you have lost," she said unexpectedly, instead of continuing with her introspection into his personality and demeanor. Her tone was not demanding, nor unkind--simply infinitely patient and understanding.

Exhaling a breath, Lupin sat back again, his expression contorting itself into one of pain. What could he possibly say? And why, when he had shared these feelings with no one, should he tell this stranger? For all her comforting words, could she possibly understand any of it, the feelings of hurt and anger and betrayal?

"I--" he began, but cut himself short. "The grief is still too strong, I--"

"No," she interrupted, her tone gentle, but firm. "You have not yet allowed yourself to grieve, and without proper acceptance of this, you cannot move on."

What if I don't want to move on? No. He couldn't explain that to her, nor could he expect her to understand it. "I . . . they were all I had," he finally stated, his tone dull. "They were the closest thing I had to family."

At this, the woman said nothing, simply remained silent and allowed him to continue as he would.

Slowly, Lupin drew in a breath of the heavily incensed air, closing his eyes--and they were sorrowful eyes--and allowing all the pain from the past two years to come rushing back at him. It was with a visible wince that everything that had been repressed returned, and he was forced to place a palm flat against the tabletop to steady himself.

"Remus, I am afraid it is with most saddening news I have come to you today."

He had felt dizzy, then, gazing at Professor Dumbledore, the man who had offered him so much, who had done so much for him, and silently begged for one last favor--that he banish that somber expression from his wizened countenance, that the grief should vanish from behind crescent moon spectacles.

"James and Lily Potter . . . have been killed by Lord Voldemort."

"James and Lily," he whispered, more to himself than the seer, "James with his nobility and daring, always the first to laugh or smile, always so confident and sure of himself. James who was so willing to love and to give, because he had known nothing else for his whole life . . ."

"Hi, I'm James Potter."

"R-Remus Lupin."

"Looks like you're a Gryffindor, too. We're in the same house together."

"He was the best of us when it came to lessons, and became Head Boy, but he never let it go to his head. And Lily, Lily with her flaming red hair and emerald eyes, so vivid and bright and full of life. Compassionate and understanding, and tolerant, too. She was a match for James, yes--when they met, we knew instantly. When they married, and had Harry--"

"And look at that, Remus, look at that aim. He's going to play professional Quidditch, I'll bet you."

"Don't pay him any mind, Remus, he's been corrupting the baby's mind like this for months."

"--and when they died . . ."

"And what about Harry?"

"Young Harry Potter survived. The spell bounced right off him and hit Voldemort instead . . ."

"But that wasn't even the worst of it." He opened his eyes and gave his head a shake as if to clear it. "Peter, poor Peter, never the best with a wand . . . but he tried, he always tried so hard to prove himself, even though we were willing to accept him just the way he was."

"A-and . . ."

". . . Sirius Black has been arrested for giving the Potters away to the Dark Lord, and for the murder of Peter Pettigrew--"

"Peter? Sirius? He couldn't--he wouldn't--"

"After James and Lily were killed, Peter went looking for Black . . . and he and thirteen Muggles were killed."

"But they're all dead now," he said coldly, and with finality. The way Lupin found it, the only way for him to move on was to harden himself to the situation. Never mind the deaths of three of his closest friends, and the imprisonment of the remaining one. The very pain of that in itself was enough . . .

"Not all." Ever-knowledgeable, the woman unclasped her hands, spreading them before her in the most animated gesture she had given since his arrival there. "One yet lives."

"Yes . . . yes," he responded with a heavy nod, shoulders sagging as he leaned back again.

"I want to see him, to talk to him, I'd know . . . I'd know, I could tell--he couldn't have done it, he would never, he must have been tortured or put under an Imperius Curse, or--"

"All the evidence points against him . . . he has been condemned to a life sentence in Azkaban."

"But a trial--"

"There was no trial. I am sorry, Remus."

He had been nearly hysterical to learn about Sirius's betrayal. It was enough to find that James, Lily, and Peter were all dead . . . but that Sirius had been the one to bring about their demise? That one of his closest friends was a murderer? Someone he thought he knew . . . but apparently not well enough. And yet part of him still attempted to deny it, to reject such knowledge, despite all logic and evidence that existed.

"He betrayed us," Lupin said softly, not even able to will himself to speak the name aloud. "He betrayed us all."

It had been incomprehensible.

It still was.

Sirius and James had been like brothers--no, they had been even more inseparable than brothers.

"Mr. Padfoot registers his extreme shock that Mr. Prongs is being such a nimrod, and would further like to add, ASK HER TO MARRY YOU, YOU GIT."

It was Sirius who had confronted him about his secret.

"Did you think you could hide it from us forever?"

"W-what?"

"The fact you go away once a month, the way you come back bruised and scratched and bloody, and just collapse onto your bed in exhaustion. The way you flinch at silver, or mark down the phases of the moon--"

"I-I don't k-know what you're talking--"

"You look like hell, Remus! I know, James knows, even Peter knows. We know you're a werewolf, and you can't hide from us anymore."

It was Sirius that always helpfully reminded him he was being stupid when he tried to ostracize himself.

". . . I understand if you all hate me now, but please don't tell--"

"Don't be a stupid git. You're still our Remus."

Everything seemed to come back around to Sirius. Sirius Black, who had been the most fiercely loyal of them all, the one who would do anything for the people he loved. He always wanted to fly higher, run farther . . . in the end, it was likely that very ambition that had destroyed all their lives.

And, a nagging little voice in his head said, that wasn't the first time he betrayed you.

"I almost killed Snape . . . if James hadn't gotten there in time--I was almost a murderer."

"I'm sorry, Remus--"

He had wondered why Sirius sounded so vehement about that apology.

"It's not your fault . . ."

"Yes," he'd responded shamefully, "it is."

"But even betrayal is not too strong of an emotion to overcome." The seer had finally spoken again, shattering the reverie that had fled by like a faulty film reel, the sights and sounds that, though recollected from memory, were still as vivid as when they had first occurred.

"No. I could never forgive him," he responded dully, casting his eyes down to focus on the tabletop. Somewhere in his mind, Lupin was not certain of such words, not as grimly so as he stated them just then. Sometimes, in the rare moment he was alone and unguarded, he wished he could speak to Sirius one last time--ask him why he'd done what he did . . . what had gone wrong. And perhaps, in that, find some closure.

"Even what seems the most grievous sin may be forgiven. Carrying this will be to the benefit of none, least of all yourself. You must accept it, and move on with your life. It is not impossible. You can learn to live again."

"I can't," he said stubbornly, shaking his head. "I haven't the will."

"Ah, but you do. You just don't see it in yourself. You may feel as if you have lost your friends to death, but death is simply a part of life, and even it may not take them from you completely. Take heart in the knowledge they are still with you, and wouldn't want to see you remain frozen in time because of their passing. Mourn for them, grieve your loss, and honor their memory by continuing to live."

Fumbling for his bag, Lupin took hold of it, then rose and turned back to the woman, his expression a grave mask of professionalism again--gone was Remus J. Lupin, and returned was the façade of the stranger that had walked into that camp. "Thank you. But I must go."

"I know. Go, and have heart."

Gazing at her for a moment longer, he finally gave a terse nod, then ducked out of the tent flap. The grief was acutely present, the bitter chill of the night air stinging his lungs after too long a time spent breathing in the heavy air of the tent. But it brought him to awareness, and made the entire conversation with the mystic seem even more of a hazy dream.

In all, he wasn't certain he came out any wiser than he had been when he went in. Nor was he certain it had helped at all, or that the woman had eve seen anything more than just what was there.

But as his grey eyes turned toward the sky, it was with a little less sorrow, and a little more hope.