Three Animagi and a Werewolf

Chapter 44: Last of the Bloodline

Homecoming

Remus was dreaming. He had had the same dream three nights in a row. In it he was kneeling in the dim hall of the cottage, with the debris from a terrific fight scattered all around him, with wallpaper hanging off the walls and plaster crumbling from the ceiling, and in front of him, on the floor, lay the dying figure of his father. Remus was clutching his hand, and it felt limp and clammy. His father tried to say something to him, but Remus couldn't hear what it was, couldn't hear anything at all, because all he could think about was that he mustn't lose control, that he mustn't show the panic that was rising inside him. But the tears that streaked his face would not be stopped, they fell relentlessly, staining his cheeks, their salty taste wetting his lips, and finally dripping to the floor.

*Dad is dead,* he thought, and to his own mind his voice sounded like that of a frightened child. *He's dead, he's dead, he's ...*

A sob escaped him so suddenly that he woke up, to find himself lying on a camp bed in an unfamiliar room - Harry's room, he reminded himself - the pillow beneath his head wet with the real tears that had leaked from his eyes while he slept. Remus took a few long, gasping breaths and ran his hand over his face to dry it. In the pale moonlight, the shadow of a teddy bear seemed to loom over him menacingly. Everything seemed threatening in this new, cold world, the world he had been living in since Friday night. Since his father had died.

There were moments when it still didn't seem real, when he thought it couldn't possibly have happened. And then there were moments when he sat by his mother's bedside at St. Mungo's, pleading with her to eat and holding her every time she broke into a renewed fit of sobbing, feeling her cling to him as if her life depended on it, wishing he could allow himself to fall apart like she was - but knowing if he did, she would have no one, nothing to hold onto. His father would not have wanted him to succumb to grief. He would have wanted him to support his mother, and to go on fighting as before.

The strange thing was that, in his waking moments, Remus didn't find it all that hard not to cry. He had actually tried to, that night, when he had gone upstairs to hunt for the Runespoor. He had sat down on the end of his parents' bed, his heart beating wildly in his chest, his body as cold as ice, his breath coming hard and fast, and waited for the tears to come, but they hadn't. He had told himself over and over again that his father was dead, and yet he hadn't been able to cry. Perhaps it was better that way. What use were tears, anyway?

Remus turned the pillow dry side up, and settled his head on it once more. But he did not close his eyes. Whenever he did, he invariably travelled back to that darkened corridor, he saw the blood and heard his mother's heart-broken scream. It was better not to sleep at all than to keep going through that. Better to wait for morning.

* * *

Surprisingly, however, Remus fell into a dreamless sleep after that, and the morning was quite far advanced by the time he was dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. The voices coming through the half open kitchen door told him he was not the only guest in the house today. He could hear both Sirius and Peter's voices every now and then.

"... not suggesting anything," Sirius was saying. "I'm just telling you I don't understand it."

He was answered by a not quite distinguishable murmur, that is to say, Remus realised it was James's voice, but he couldn't hear the words.

Sirius replied, "I know, but ... just think how you reacted when your mum died."

"We're not all the same, Sirius," Lily retorted. "And may I remind you that any disagreements you've had in the past have never exactly ended with you covering yourself with glory?"

"Oh course," Sirius said a trifle haughtily, "if you two have been having a heart-to-heart again that I don't know about ..."

At this point, Remus reached the kitchen door, and cleared his throat. Five faces turned towards him, and only one of them - Harry's - looked entirely pleased to see him.

"Good morning," Remus said.

"Morning, Moony," Peter answered quickly. "Sleep all right? Do you want some tea, there's still some in the pot."

"I'll get it myself, thanks."

Peter sat back down again. Remus crossed the room to where the tea pot stood, poured himself a cup of tea, added milk and sugar and stirred it slowly. At last, tea cup in hand, he sat down next to Peter and looked across the table at Sirius. He opened his mouth to speak, but what he said simply astounded everyone present.

"Could you pass the butter, please, Sirius?"

There was a slightly awkward pause, then James leaned across the table to where the butter stood, picked it up, and handed it to Remus, who took it with a word of thanks and began to spread it on a slice of toast. He took a bite, chewed and swallowed and washed it down with a sip of tea before he spoke again. Then he pulled a face.

"Don't tell me - you let Wormtail make the tea?"

"I used half a spoonful of tea per person, like you told me," Peter said defensively.

"One per person, Peter. And one for the pot, remember?"

"Blast. Sorry."

"Never mind."

Remus pushed the weak beverage aside and finally addressed Sirius. "So," he said, "I take it you're worried about something?"

Sirius shrugged. "It's no secret I don't always get what goes on in your mind. I just wondered what made you hesitate about letting the Healers give your mum the bezoar, that's all."

"I see. I suppose it must have seemed rather strange."

"It's none of our business," Lily said with a frown, lifting Harry out of his high chair, where he was clearly getting bored. "You don't have to explain."

"No, I think I do. Under the circumstances, I think Sirius has a right to ask. I think we all have a right to question each other's behaviour, in view of what happened, and what Lothian said. Someone in the Order is a spy. It could be anyone, even one of us."

"Nonsense!"

"I don't believe it either, James," Remus continued. "But we shouldn't take your father's warning too lightly. Remember we don't just have his word to go by that there really is a traitor. Someone arranged a diversion to keep us all busy Friday night, someone arranged for the whole area around the Banshee to be protected against Disapparition, and someone knew that Mum would be on her own in the house - until Dad came home. Someone also told the Death Eaters Sirius's password and gave them something, a hair or something else, to use as an ingredient for Polyjuice Potion. That's evidence enough that the warning was true. We should all be careful who we trust."

"Oh please, don't let's start doubting each other," Lily protested. "We're all we've got."

"And we should be open with each other. Sirius is right," Remus said. "So ... You want to know why I didn't immediately jump at the chance that a bezoar might save my mother's life?"

"Well," Sirius murmured, a little taken aback, "I only wondered."

"It was a case," Remus said, "of choosing between what I wanted and what was best for her."

"She was going to die if she didn't get that bezoar!"

"Yes, and perhaps that would have been for the best."

Sirius gaped at him. James, however, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded slowly.

"I see. You thought that if she had been allowed to choose for herself, she might well have chosen differently. You wanted to do what you thought she'd want."

"Only I couldn't," Remus said heavily. "I tried, but I didn't have the courage. And now she asks me why - why I couldn't just let her die, why she had to survive, when Dad is dead," he finished.

He took another sip of his tea and didn't even react to its weak taste this time. With Harry still in her arms, Lily sat down on the other side of him.

"If she wasn't meant to live," she said gently, "then she would have died, whatever you decided. But she didn't. She's still with us, and it's not up to us to know why. Maybe ... maybe it's because she's still needed. Maybe you still need her."

Remus shook his head. "When I see what this has done to her ... I almost wish I had let her die."

"But only almost," Lily said with a smile.

"And what about your dad?" Sirius asked.

Remus looked up. "What about him?"

"What about him?" Sirius echoed. "He's dead, damn it!"

There it was again, that hot and cold feeling, that pounding of the heart. But still no tears. With a gulp, Remus murmured, "Yes."

"What Sirius means," James said carefully, "is that you don't seem to have mourned him yet. We realise this has been a shock, and it can take a while for these things to sink in, but it's been a couple of days now. You do realise that it's not good for you, bottling things up?"

"I'm not bottling anything up, James. I'm doing what I think he would have wanted: supporting Mum as best I can, and getting on with things."

"It's not good for you," James repeated.

"It's all I can do at the moment. I'm not like you, James. Any of you. I've been practising control over my emotions for a very long time."

"And now you don't know how to stop?" Lily suggested.

"Perhaps," he confessed. "Or perhaps I just don't need to vent my emotions like other people do. Besides, I have Mum to think of."

"Your mum," James interrupted him quietly, "once taught me something very wise. She told me that I would be no use to anyone, if I didn't deal with my own grief before I tried to help others through theirs. I know the state she's in is every bit as bad as you say it is, but you're not helping her by trying to be strong for her sake. And I don't believe you're that different from the rest of us. It will come out some day, and it'll be the worse for having kept it inside. Yes, Faith needs you to lean on, but she's relying on a support that's not as strong as she thinks, and it will be hard on her when you suddenly break down. Better get it over with."

"You mean well, James, I know," Remus said. "But I'm not going to break down. You know better than anyone that I've learnt to keep myself under control."

"You've never dealt with anything like this before," James protested heatedly. "We have, remember? All of us. Peter lost his sister, Sirius and I lost Mum, Lily lost both her parents. We've all been at the point where you are now, and we all know you can't keep it inside forever, no matter how good you are at controlling yourself. Something's got to give eventually."

* * *

On Tuesday, Faith was allowed to leave St. Mungo's. Though Lily and James offered to have both her and Remus stay with them for a little while longer, Remus politely refused, saying that he thought the sooner they got back into their own home and found a new sort of normality, the better. His mother was visibly nervous about coming back, even though both Remus and Malcolm promised they would not leave her on her own in the house until she was ready to be. Standing in the clearing, she refused to go inside for a very long time.

Finally she asked in a small voice, "What's it like inside? Is everything ... the way it was?"

"We've cleaned it all up," Remus reassured her. "Come."

He offered her his arm, and she took it at last, allowing him to lead her up to the front door. Malcolm unlocked it, and with a wave of his wand turned on the lights - there were more of these now than there had been before. The walls and ceiling had been mended and painted and papered over. The grandfather clock showed signs of having been damaged, but was ticking away as always. A couple of smaller items of furniture were gone, and one or two of the photographs on the wall had been given new frames. The kitchen door was still missing, and had been replaced with a length of material like a curtain for the time being, and there was a rug on the floor that Frank and Alice Longbottom had brought round yesterday. Faith stood staring at it, remembering John lying there, tears starting into her eyes again at once.

"Would you like to lie down for a while first?" Remus asked her softly.

She nodded, but then said, "Oh, but I ... I don't think I can ... I mean, the bedroom ..."

"That's been repaired, too," he told her. "But if you prefer, you can have my room, and I'll sleep in there for a few nights."

She turned to him gratefully, and leaned against him.

Malcolm, trying hard not to stare at the floor himself, but keeping his eyes carefully averted, muttered, "I'll put the kettle on."

Remus nodded, and started to lead his mother upstairs. Shortly after, all three of them were drinking tea in Remus's bedroom, Faith sitting up in his bed with a shawl around her shoulders, Malcolm staring out of the window at the forest in the afternoon sunlight, lost in his own thoughts.

After an age, he asked hoarsely, "Faith, do you have any idea who they were?"

"What?"

He turned away from the window. "The Death Eaters," he said, and there was a new hard edge in his voice. "The ones who came here. Apart from Lothian, who were they?"

"I-I don't know. They were all masked."

"I realise that, but they must have spoken, they might have dropped some clue."

Faith said shakily, "I wasn't looking for clues to their identity. I was terrified."

"But there's got to be something!"

His sudden roughness startled Faith, and brought tears to her eyes again.

"Drop it," Remus told his uncle sharply, sitting on the edge of the bed quickly and taking his mother's hand.

Malcolm took a few deep breaths. "I'm sorry, Faith. I just wish I knew who was responsible. Why John ... who ..."

He turned away, hiding his face, running his fingers through his hair. His sister bit her lip. She closed her eyes, reflecting for a moment.

Then she said, remembering, "They were all men, I do know that. The one who had the Runespoor ... he was a thickset sort of man. His eyes were grey. Cold. He obviously enjoyed frightening me. When John ..." She broke off for a moment and shuddered. Remus squeezed her hand, and she went on. "John asked them to let me go, and this man ... mentioned Greyback."

Malcolm turned back to face the other two. He and Remus exchanged a glance.

"Macnair?" Remus suggested quietly.

"Could be. You'd know that better than I would, I think."

"He takes pleasure in holding power over others. He's thickset, too, and he collects dangerous magical creatures. And he knows Greyback."

"Runespoors aren't all that dangerous as such," Malcolm pointed out, "if you leave them alone. But with Voldemort's influence and Macnair's ... What about the third man, sis? You said there were three of them."

"He was some sort of foreigner," she said. Remembering suddenly, she exclaimed, "Lothian mentioned his name! His first name, I mean. Something beginning with ... A, I think ..."

"Albert?" Malcolm suggested. "Augustus?"

"No, no, it was something foreign."

Malcolm thought again, then suddenly stiffened. "Antonin?" he asked heavily.

"Yes! That's right. Do you know him?"

He nodded grimly. "Antonin Dolohov. That fits. He enjoys making his victims suffer, he's cruel, he likes to draw blood ... I'm sorry," he added, as Faith made a horrified murmur. Then he repeated to himself, "Dolohov ... if he ever crosses my path again ..."

"Be careful, Malcolm," Faith begged. "For God's sake, be careful."

* * *

An Unexpected Guest

The day of John Lupin's funeral was a mild one, the kind of day on which the sun shone in a clear blue sky, birds twittered, and a gentle breeze spread the sweet fragrance of flowers everywhere. It was hard to believe that anything bad could happen in such a beautiful world. And yet under the shade of the trees, people had gathered to commemorate a life cut short, and mourn a brutal death.

Faith Lupin stood beside her husband's grave, a shrunken, delicate figure clothed in black, a handkerchief held to her face beneath the fluttering black veil. Remus stood by her side, his black dress robes buttoned to the very top despite the warmth of the day, one arm draped comfortingly about her shoulder, his face impassive, almost mask-like. By contrast, his uncle stood facing the assembly, betraying his grief with every word as he spoke warmly of the man who had been his closest friend and like a brother to him since his earliest childhood.

The gathering was small, for although many people had read the news of John Lupin's death in the Daily Prophet, few had dared to attend. It was widely known by now why he had died and who had ordered his death, and fear had kept many away, despite the popularity he had once enjoyed among his fellow workers at the Ministry.

Malcolm ended his speech when his voice finally gave out, and walked slowly away from the grave, stopping at a distance with his face averted while the others took their turns paying their respects. He heard hesitant, uneven footsteps approach him.

"That was a beautiful speech," Laura Lovegood said softly. "I'm sure your brother-in-law would have been honoured to hear you speak of him as you did."

"Maybe. I only wish he could have heard it - that I had bothered to tell him while he was alive just how much he meant to me. He was too good for this world, I've always said that. I just ..." His voice quavered. "I didn't want him to leave it."

Laura hesitated, then reached up a hand and gently rubbed his shoulder. Without bothering to wipe his eyes, Malcolm turned around to look at her, but suddenly he froze with an exclamation of surprise. Laura turned her head, following the direction of his gaze. There was a woman walking towards the grave whom she had not noticed before, moving forward unnoticed by the mourners now moving in the opposite direction. There was a prim and haughty look about her, and she held herself very erect. She wore a black dress trimmed with lace and a matching black hat, under which her pure white hair was tucked up neatly.

"How could she?" Malcolm breathed, his grief momentarily forgotten as it gave way to barely suppressed anger. He glanced from the old woman to where his sister now stood, being hugged by a rather tearful Lily Potter. Without another word to Laura, he strode over to his nephew.

"Remus," he hissed in the young man's ear. "Have you seen ...?"

Like Laura, Remus turned his head to discover what his uncle was looking at. For a moment he did not understand. Then comprehension dawned.

"Is that ...?"

Malcolm nodded. "Your grandmother, yes. Though what the hell she thinks she's doing here ... I'll deal with her, you get your mother home before she sees her."

But it was already too late. It was never long, these days, before Faith started searching for her son if he was ever out of her sight, and as she looked for him now, she spotted at once what had diverted his attention.

"Belvina?" she exclaimed.

The old woman heard her and looked up. She had a narrow, pointed face, severely lined, and there was little about her that resembled her son, except the colour of her eyes, which were of the same shade of clear blue as his had been. Her lips were pressed tightly together, even as Faith moved unsteadily towards her, Remus and Malcolm hovering close behind her. The other guests moved closer together, murmuring amongst each other. Harry began to gurgle in his pram, and Lily pushed it back and forth in a soothing motion to quiet him. Everyone waited for the old woman to say something, but she remained completely silent, and didn't even move. Faith reached her at last. She glanced sideways towards her husband's grave, then back at the woman in front of her.

"Belvina, I-I'm so sorry."

"Don't, Faith," Malcolm said sharply. "Don't apologise to her, you owe her nothing." He stepped protectively in front of his sister and glared down at the old woman. "What do you want?"

Her eyes returned his stare steadily. She spoke in a precise, slightly husky voice.

"I came to see my only son buried. I believed even your family would not begrudge me that, though I did have to learn the news of his death from the paper. Apparently I was wrong. Even after his death, you would keep me from him."

"That's not true," Faith said unhappily. "I never wanted to keep you from him, I didn't want to cause any division between you."

The look the old woman gave her was hard and cold.

"It wasn't her fault he threw you out," Malcolm backed his sister up. "It was your own. Just because you were jealous, and couldn't bear the thought of him loving anyone more than you!"

"Malcolm, don't," Faith begged him. "Please, don't rake up the past. Not now, not here. John wouldn't ... He wouldn't have wanted us to quarrel. Belvina, please," she appealed to her mother-in-law, "don't be angry any more. Come back with us. Have some tea?"

For a long moment, the old woman showed no reaction at all. Then, however, she gave a sniff, relaxed a little, and said in a slightly less harsh voice, "Very well."

Under the puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, Faith gave a very weak, watery smile.

"Someone will have to take you by side-along apparition." She glanced at Malcolm, but his expression was sour. Remus took half a step forward, but his grandmother's expression hardened again at once and he stopped abruptly. It was then that Dumbledore advanced, and tucking a large parcel that he was carrying under one arm, held out the other.

"I would be happy to escort Belvina back to the cottage," he said. "That is, if I am invited to a cup of tea myself."

Faith shot him a grateful look. "Of course you are. Thank you, Albus."

She took Remus's arm, and those of the attendees who were returning with them all followed the Hogwarts headmaster's example and Disapparated from the little cemetery to the Lupins' cottage. Belvina cast a rather disapproving look over the overgrown front garden with its rickety wooden fence, and in particular the plain but sturdy little hut that stood where the greenhouse had once been. She glanced from it to Remus, as though she guessed what its purpose was, and he avoided her eyes by quickly guiding his mother towards the front door.

* * *

Old Wounds

Professor Dumbledore and Belvina Lupin followed them into the house, and into the living room. There was an awkward moment when the old woman made a move towards the arm chair nearest the fireplace, the chair that she could not know had always been John's. James leapt into her path so suddenly that she stared at him in surprise.

"I ... er ... shouldn't sit there, if I were you," he said, thinking up a quick excuse. "The springs are a bit dodgy, you'd sink right down. I'm sure you'd prefer something a bit more solid."

He caught Sirius's eye, and his friend joined in quickly.

"He's right, you sit down in that chair and you may never get up again, it's so low. I'll get you one from the kitchen, if you like," he offered gallantly, with one of his most charming smiles.

It worked. John's mother inclined her head. "That would be good of you, young man."

"No problem. We'll fetch a couple - Pete, come and give me a hand?"

They returned a few moments later with three of the less damaged chairs from the kitchen, and Gordon, Belvina Lupin and Dumbledore sat down on them. Lily pushed Harry's pram up beside the arm chair and secretly directed her wand at it, murmuring a charm under her breath. James saw what she was doing and smiled. He strode over to the arm chair himself, and lowered himself carefully - which was lucky, because he sank down even lower than he had expected. Straightening up again, Lily said that she would go and put the kettle on, and with a gesture indicated to Remus to leave it all to her, and stay by his mother.

Faith had removed her hat and veil, and was now sitting on the sofa, with Malcolm beside her and Remus at her shoulder. Peter took the remaining arm chair and Sirius, after taking his godson out of the pram, squatted cross-legged on the floor. Lily, when she returned, sat on the arm of James's chair. For quite some time, no one spoke.

Then Dumbledore, setting his tea cup down on its saucer and reaching for a custard cream from the plate Lily had brought in with her, said pleasantly, "So, Belvina, do tell me, how is your garden these days? Do you still cultivate those magnificent self-fertilising shrubs you used to have? I was speaking to Pomona Sprout only the other day, and we agreed that we had never seen a finer shrubbery than yours."

He kept the conversation going along these pleasant, innocent lines for a remarkably long time, occasionally helped by Gordon, while little Harry provided a distraction for everyone else by gleefully discovering Faith's basket of needlework, and uttering his disappointment loud and clear when it was whisked out of his hands to prevent him playing with pointed objects, and all he was left with was a ball of bright scarlet wool. This he began unravelling, and then proceeded to wind it round and round his godfather's head, like a bandage. He then got gingerly to his feet and proudly managed to totter the couple of paces to Remus's legs, which he clung to at once. He plopped back into a sitting position, and continued his work by winding the red wool around Remus's right ankle.

Dumbledore was still talking, but Belvina, it seemed, was no longer hearing him. Sitting perfectly erect, her tea cup poised an inch above the saucer, she watched closely as her grandson set aside his own cup, crouched down and fruitlessly attempted to gently prise his trousers out of little Harry's grip, and free himself from the wool. Sirius looked up and spotted her, and he nudged Remus and jerked his head towards the old woman. Remus turned slightly, and his grandmother looked away. He stiffened, and straightened up. Harry, who had just remembered that one of his favourite toy's was tucked safely in Uncle Moony's pocket and had been about to go looking for it, let out a wail of disappointment. Belvina's head snapped back, her expression startled.

"What did you do?" she demanded.

Everyone stared at her - everyone except Harry, who had pulled himself up on his feet again and was tugging at Remus's trousers now. There was an awkward silence that even Dumbledore did not endeavour to interrupt. Remus returned his grandmother's stare evenly. He reached very slowly into his pocket, and she watched apprehensively. Harry shrieked with joy as the gold locket came into view, and grabbed it hurriedly the moment it hung close enough to him.

"Sweetheart, don't snatch," Lily reprimanded him, leaving the arm of her husband's chair to pick up her son and scold him.

Faith stammered, "That ... that's a lovely brooch you're wearing, Belvina. An Augurey, is it?"

The older woman touched the brooch pinned to her chest.

"Yes. My mother left it to me." She paused, then added rather pointedly, "It's real silver."

She glanced at Remus. This time, he spoke.

"Did you think you'd need it for protection?" he asked.

To everyone who knew him, his tone of voice seemed very odd. While he nearly always spoke quietly, he did not usually speak as quietly as this, and there was something so carefully guarded in his speech that it was plain that he was holding something in.

His grandmother looked at him for a little longer, then averted her eyes again and went on distantly, "Yes, my mother's brooch. She left me many beautiful items of jewellery. You may remember the string of pearls ..."

"I'd appreciate it, on the whole, if you stopped ignoring me," said Remus suddenly, and sharply.

But still the old woman avoided looking at him. Instead, her eyes swept the room and came to rest on John's old violin. She got to her feet with an exclamation, and picked it up, stroking it fondly.

"Christopher's old violin," she said musingly. "Oh, I do miss hearing it play."

"Take it," Faith said quickly. "I ... it ought to be yours."

"No!"

The syllable practically exploded from her son's mouth, so suddenly and violently that even Harry stopped his gurgling.

"Remus, dear, we neither of us play," his mother said. "She might as well have it."

"It plays by itself," he snapped. "Dad spent hours teaching it all his favourite tunes, and I won't have you giving it away because she's come back, today of all days, and made you feel guilty for things that were never your fault to begin with."

Faith looked anxious, but Malcolm actually grinned grimly for the first time in weeks. And then Belvina Lupin finally spoke to Remus.

"Not her fault? My son left me because of her - because of you. You owe me something, both of you!"

"We owe you? We owe you? For what? For turning against Mum when Dad decided to marry her, just because you were jealous? For trying to come between them, for making Mum feel guilty, feeling she had come between you and Dad? For calling my mother a Mudblood, or me a filthy half-breed? For which of those do we owe you?"

Belvina went red. "I never ..." she began, disconcerted for the first time, "I didn't ... when did I ever ...?"

"The last time you were in this house," Remus reminded her. "The night Dad told you to get out and stay out. Yes, I was a child, only four years old at the time. I suppose you thought I was out in the garden, or else that I wouldn't understand, but I was there, and I understood every word. I understood that you had turned to hating me for what I was, so much that you would walk out on your own son. I understood that you were the reason my mother was crying herself to sleep. Why did you come today? You turned your back on him so many years ago, why come back now? Just so you could make Mum feel guilty all over again? Or so you could get a good look at her half-breed son? So could study me like some animal, as if you can't quite believe I'm capable of human speech? Or did you come because you thought you could get a few things off of us, things like Dad's violin?"

"It was Christopher's, it was my husband's, and he left it to my son - my son!" she emphasised.

"He was my father!" Remus roared, taking a step towards her so suddenly that she shrank back.

And then Harry started crying in earnest. Remus froze where he stood and stared at the child, huddled in Lily's arms. He caught a glimpse of Lily's face, and staggered backwards. Malcolm, his grin completely vanished, sprang to his feet, and so did James.

"Moony ..." he began, but Remus had already turned to make for the door. The wool that was still tied around his ankle caused him to stumble, and he pulled out his wand impatiently and severed the string with a blast that left a scorch mark on the rug, before storming hurriedly out of the room. Malcolm made to go after him, but Dumbledore stepped in at that moment and held him back.

"Let him go," he advised. "Leave him. Give him some time. And then let me talk to him." He smiled pleasantly around at the assembled company. "Belvina, you haven't finished your tea. Perhaps you would rather leave it. I'm sure Gordon will be only too happy to take you home, if you're ready."

"Certainly," said James's grandfather, rising stiffly. "I was just leaving, anyway."

* * *

Remus had opened the back door in the kitchen and was leaning against the frame, staring out into the garden without seeing, and steadying himself with long, deep breaths. He was deeply shocked by what had just happened, particularly as he could not for the life of him explain it. He had never been aware of feeling such bitterness towards his grandmother, and he had certainly not known that he had it in him to lose his temper like that. It wasn't like him, it was more like something Sirius did. Where had that outburst come from? What had he been thinking, becoming so heated, so violent towards an old woman he hadn't even seen since his early childhood, and with so little provocation, really? How could he have acted like that in front of his friends? And Lily ... Lily had looked, just for a moment, a little scared. He couldn't bear that, couldn't bear to see her look at him with fear in those green eyes from which he was accustomed to receiving affection and sympathy.

His precious self-control had let him down, and he felt utterly bewildered. The cold shivers were back, and so was the burning feeling. His heart was beating more rapidly than ever, his breathing was unsteady, he was sweating, he was trembling, and all these sensations frightened him. Behind him Dumbledore pushed aside the curtain that served as a makeshift kitchen door and stepped into the room. For a long moment, the headmaster said nothing. When he did speak his voice was quiet and gentle.

"Do not interpret what has happened as something it is not, Remus. It was your grief that talked just now, not that part of your being that you spend so much of your time suppressing, if that is what you're thinking."

"It didn't feel like grief," Remus said without turning round.

"What did it feel like?"

"I don't know."

Behind him, Dumbledore set his parcel down on the kitchen table and opened it, taking out two items which he left there.

He said, "You cannot be expected to recognise a feeling you have never really experienced."

"But I have experienced it. When Professor Darkhardt died ..."

"Ah, but that was a very mild form of grief, nothing compared to what you are going through now. I am sure you admired and respected Professor Darkhardt, but you cannot tell me that what you felt for him was anywhere near as strong as your feelings for your father. I saw you and him together many times. There was a very special bond between you, Remus. One that, when it was forcibly broken, tore a gaping rift in your life, and has left you standing with a far greater burden on your shoulders than you had ever reckoned on having to bear. Suddenly this house and everything it entails is yours. The responsibility is yours. People you used to turn to for guidance, whom you relied on to help you along, have suddenly proved much weaker than you thought them. Your uncle is still mourning his wife, not to mention the added blow of losing his childhood friend. He is a lonely man, greatly wrapped up in the torment of his own broken heart. Your mother is ill and frail and consumed by grief, and now turns to you rather than the other way around. And all of this because the one person you could always rely on, the one person who never let you down, who believed in you and helped you to believe in yourself, perhaps the only person who was really able to understand you, because he was so much like you himself ... has been taken from you in a manner more cruel and lamentable than any of us could ever have imagined. Is that something you have ever felt before?"

As the truth and weight of Dumbledore's words bore down on him, Remus slowly shook his head. His heartbeat was slowing down, but he was still trembling. "No," he said in a hollow voice.

"And how," Dumbledore asked kindly, "does it make you feel?"

Remus thought for a moment. Then he said, "Empty. Angry. Confused, betrayed, frustrated - I don't know. I suppose ... scared," he finished shakily. He turned around suddenly. "I didn't expect to feel any of these things. I expected to feel just - well - sad. In my dreams, that's how I do feel. But when I'm awake, I-I can't. I have too many other feelings to be able to feel sad, tearing me in so many different directions that if I don't hold them together ..."

"Then something will snap inside you, and something will happen like what happened just now. But perhaps next time the object of your outburst will be someone who means more to you, and you will regret even more that your words cannot be taken back. Already you have shown people whose opinion means much to you a side of yourself that you had hoped would never come to the surface."

Remus felt his jaw tighten, his fist clench. It seemed that Dumbledore knew more about his feelings than he knew himself.

"Then you do think that, for a moment there ... that I let ... I let the wolf take control."

"No, no, you misunderstand me, Remus. I was speaking of the raw, very human emotions you fight so hard to conceal under a mask of placid imperturbability. Such a mask cannot last forever, Remus. I know you are afraid to let people see what you really feel, but sometimes it is unavoidable, indeed necessary, and these people will not think any the worse of you for it. You seem to believe that you must cope with this new burden alone. That is not so. You have friends who care about you very much. They can help you, though only if you will let them. They can heal you. Let go of the past, but properly. Don't pretend to have done so and try to move on, when in your heart you are still clinging to the memory of what can no longer be. Take some time to think fondly of your father, and mourn him as you should. But then stop thinking in terms of what he would have done, stop trying to replace him. Look forward and be yourself, do what you feel to be right. And trust me, Remus ... you will be doing what he would have wanted."

Dumbledore smiled, and patted the articles he had put on the table. One was a leather pouch, the other a stone basin decorated with runes.

"I have brought something with me that your father asked me to keep for you. I should like the Pensieve back when you have finished with it. I have no wish to pressure you, but I would ask you not to keep it too long, for your own sake. Cherish what he has left you, but do not dwell on it. Look to the future, Remus."

With that, he swept back out again through the curtain. Remus approached the table slowly, and carefully opened up the pouch. It contained four vials, which in turn held something silvery and cloud-like. He recognised his father's handwriting on the labels stuck to each vial - it caused the contents of his stomach, such as they were, to give an unpleasant lurch. One vial had his name on it.

* * *

Saying Goodbye

Remus gazed up at the moon. It was big and bright and full, and it cast a beautiful, silvery light on the castle grounds below, where the leaves of the Whomping Willow rustled peacefully in a light breeze.

"I wanted you to see this," said his father, standing by his side and breathing deeply of the night air. "Just once, to be able to look up and see the full moon through human eyes, as I see it. I always think of you on nights like this. I lie awake, watching the full moon and wondering how you are, wishing there were something I could do to ease the pain."

John Lupin sighed, and turned round. He walked away from the window and went to sit in the chair behind his desk in the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher's office at Hogwarts. Remus followed and stood opposite. He looked straight at his father and studied him closely, memorising every detail - the clear blue eyes, the greying hair, the faint lines around the eyes and mouth.

"After Edgar died last week," John was saying, "his sister Amelia came round to speak to Albus. I think she wanted him to let her join the Order, but he refused. He won't let anyone else join at the moment. I'm not sure why, but I have my suspicions. I think ..." he paused, looked around him, and lowered his voice. "I think it's possible there might be a spy in the Order, Remus. I don't know who it might be, but I can see no other reason for Albus's refusal to let Amelia join. And not just her, there have been others, too. He won't let any of them in, and I suspect it's because he no longer feels it's safe enough. Not that it was ever terribly safe, but now ... Well, all I can say is that I hope you will be careful. Look out for yourself and your friends, and don't trust anyone too much. But that wasn't what I really started out to say. Amelia Bones told me that she hadn't seen her brother for about a month before he died, and there were many things she would have liked to say to him, if only she had known she would never see him again. I didn't want that to happen to me - to us."

He smiled. "That's why I'm sitting here now, all alone in my office, talking to myself. So I can syphon off this memory and give it to Albus for safekeeping, to pass on to you, should anything happen to me. I am creating similar memories for your mother, for Malcolm, and for Bridget. I hope they're all well. Your mother will need taking care of, with me gone, I'm sure. It won't be easy for her. But I know I can rely on you to look after her. Because you're a good boy, Remus. You're brave, you're honest, and you're caring. I couldn't be more proud of you. That's why I'm leaving this message, because I want you to know that. I want you to know that you mean the world to me, and I'm not just saying that because you're my son. I also want you to know that, if I die tomorrow, I will go with an easy mind, because I'll know that I have left everything in good hands."

He turned his head to look out of the window once more. Quietly, he went on, "I am not insensitive to how heavily this may weigh on you, but I want you to know that I trust you to do what is for the best. I'll always be on your side, my son, and I'll always be at your side. I've told you I think of you whenever I look at the moon. In those moments, you're never really alone. I'm with you, wherever you are, and whatever the distance between us. That's never changed, and it never will. I'll always be close - much closer than you think. And now ..."

He sighed, and leaned back a little in his chair, looking at a point just to the left of Remus. Remus shifted so his father's eyes seemed to be looking straight at him once more. "It's time to say goodbye, my boy," John said. "Good night, and God bless. I love you."

* * *

Remus returned to the reality of his own kitchen with a dry feeling in his mouth, and a stinging sensation in his eyes. But he no longer felt cold, nor did he feel hot, nor was he sweating any more. He heard movement behind him.

"Remus?"

It was Lily's voice, cautious and gentle, but he did not respond to it.

"Sirius and Peter have gone home," James added quietly. "We just wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Remus echoed faintly, his shaking fingers tracing the edge of the Pensieve. "Yes. It's the only way to move on, isn't it? If you don't say goodbye, then there's no closure, everything just seems to be hanging ... waiting ..."

He looked round at them both and asked, "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything," James said quickly.

"Will you come back to the cemetery with me? I'd like to say goodbye, but I don't think I can make it alone."

Lily and James both smiled at him.

Half an hour later saw them back beside John's grave. They had left Harry back at the cottage with Faith and Malcolm. No one spoke. Remus stared down at his father's grave, and as he thought about the memory John had left him, and the many other memories they had shared over the years, the tears finally started to fall. Lily and James came up on either side of him. Lily slipped her arm through his and hugged it tightly, resting her head on his shoulder, while James's arm came to rest on his back. Remus bowed his head and covered his face with one hand , the tears shaking his whole body and wrenching muffled cries from him until, eventually, there were no more tears left, and Lily and James took him home.

* * *

The next morning, Faith came downstairs to find Remus, his eyes still distinctly bloodshot, just closing his father's suitcase.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I've put a couple of things in here that I thought Grandmother might like to have."

"Such as the violin?" Faith asked.

He nodded. "That, and Dad's wand. The Death Eaters dropped it outside the back door after they conjured the Dark Mark. You don't mind?"

"If it makes you feel better."

"Not really, but I think a peace offering is indicated. I think it's what Dad would have ..." He caught himself, remembering Dumbledore's words. "I think it's the right thing to do," he amended.

Faith touched his cheek, and then hugged him tightly.

"I'm so sorry," she said tearfully. "I realised yesterday just how selfish I've been, and I'm sorry. It's just that I loved him so much, and I don't know how to cope."

"I know."

"But I shouldn't be burdening you like this, not when I know how upset you must be yourself."

"It's all right," he assured her, "really. I only hope I didn't frighten you yesterday."

"You could never frighten me, Remus," she replied, a tremor in her voice. "At the moment, you're all that makes me feel safe. Don't stay out long, will you?"

There was a knock at the door at that moment.

"That'll be Uncle Malcolm." Remus kissed his mother on the cheek. "I won't be long, I promise."

* * *

The house where Belvina Lupin had been living for the past fifty-three years was not at all the sort of place Remus would have expected. He could not remember ever having been here before, although he supposed he must have, in the days when his grandfather was still alive and he himself had not yet been bitten. It was a comfortable, semi-detached house on an ordinary Muggle street, with lace curtains at the windows and an electric doorbell underneath the brass door number. It felt strange standing on the doorstep of the house where his father had grown up, and where he and his uncle, and later his mother, had played together and formed a bond for life.

It was a couple of minutes before the door was opened, and Belvina Lupin herself stood staring at her grandson in surprise.

"Well, well," she said dryly. "I didn't expect to see you again."

"I've come to apologise", he replied quickly. "May I come in?"

The old lady hesitated, then stood aside to let him pass. She led him along the rose-papered hall and through a door at the end that led into an old-fashioned, but quite homely lounge. A couple of photographs in silver frames were lined up along the window ledge of the bay window overlooking the front garden. Remus recognised one of his father as a boy, and one of his grandfather. His grandmother stood facing him, waiting for him to speak. He picked his words with care.

"I owe you an apology," he said evenly, "for my outburst yesterday. I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did. I lost my temper, and I'm sorry."

She did not answer him directly, but said, "My son was always very even-tempered. And I do not remember your mother ever shouting at anyone either. I suppose, then, that you must have inherited your uncle's temper - or else that it stems from your ... condition."

Her words stung, but Remus was determined not to make the same mistake two days running. He answered her guardedly, "I have been accused of being too placid before, but never of having a hot temper."

Her eyebrows rose. "Indeed? You surprise me."

There was an awkward pause, in which Remus looked once again at the photographs on the window ledge. His father's boyish face seemed to be looking straight at him, blue eyes shining, the lips parted in cheery laughter. Belvina followed his gaze.

"He was a handsome boy, wasn't he?" she said in a dreamy sort of voice. "And always such a good boy, too."

"He grew into an even better man," Remus could not help but say. "But you would..." He broke off abruptly.

"I wouldn't know? No, I wouldn't know, because I hadn't seen him for seventeen years. Because he chose you and your mother over me."

"He shouldn't have had to choose," Remus remarked.

To his surprise, the old lady nodded. "Perhaps you're right."

He hesitated, then asked her, "Why did you come yesterday? After all the years of not seeing Dad when he was alive, why did you come to the funeral?"

Belvina Lupin sank into a chair, and as she did so, Remus noticed for the first time how weary she seemed, and how pale.

"I had been meaning to visit my son for several weeks," she said, and her voice was slightly wheezy. "I thought about it day and night, but I kept putting it off, telling myself that there was still time, that I would know when it became too hard for me to go out, and that I could then make my one last visit before I died. I never dreamt that he had less time even than I did."

Remus put down the suitcase that he had been holding all this time, and pulled up a chair. He sat down and asked gently, "And how much time is that?"

"A month, perhaps. No more."

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "I am not. I only wish ... I wish that I had done what I planned, and called on John before it was too late. For seventeen years my pride prevented me from admitting my loneliness, and now ... Perhaps I shouldn't have come at all. Perhaps it would have been better to stay away."

"But you wanted to say goodbye to Dad?"

The old woman raised her head a little and studied him, for the first time, without contempt or haughtiness, simply with interest. There was confusion, even wonder in her voice as she replied, "No. I I don't think that was it. I think I wanted to say goodbye to you."

"Me?" he exclaimed.

"Yes. The grandson I never knew. I never found out whether you were like my son ... like your father," she amended. "I spent years trying to believe that you were nothing but a monstrous half-breed, and consequently that I had been right to distance myself from you. But when I realised that I had finally lost John for good, for the first time I started to hope that I might be wrong, that there might still be a piece of him left in this world."

"You must have been quite disappointed then. I'm afraid I'm nothing like Dad."

She cocked her head a little to one side. "It's true you don't look like him at first glance, you have your mother's colouring. But ... there was something about the way you moved when that little boy approached you that was terribly familiar, even after all this time. It was like watching John, as though he hadn't completely gone after all, but then ..."

"Then I lost my temper, and you thought you'd been right about me all along."

She nodded. "I did. I came back here, reassured that I had acted correctly after all. I didn't expect you to come today, to apologise."

"I am human most of the time," he pointed out. "I'm not a complete monster."

"No," she admitted grudgingly, "I can see that now."

Remus reached for the suitcase beside him and opened it. He took out the violin and his father's wand, and held them out to her.

"I brought you these," he said, "because I thought you might like them."

The old woman stared at him. He was startled to see that there were actually tears springing to her eyes. She shook her head.

"Keep them, Remus. I'm sure it's what your father would have wanted. And take this." She reached up and unfastened the brooch she was wearing, the same one she had worn the previous day. "Give it to your mother. Wait, I'll wrap it up ..."

"There's no need," he said quickly, as she fumbled for a handkerchief. He took the brooch from her outstretched hand. "Silver is no more harmful to my kind than it is to anyone else - I doubt that any mortal being could survive a shot or a stab to the heart, be it silver, gold or any other material."

The faintest smile tugged at the corners of his grandmother's mouth. Remus placed the brooch in the suitcase, together with the wand and the violin.

He said hesitantly, "I'm not going to pretend that I didn't mean some of the things I said yesterday, or that I don't still think them now, although I am truly sorry for the way I said them. But Dad taught me not to hold grudges against people for their fear of me. He said it was something deeply rooted in so many people's minds that it would take generations to create a world where people were no longer governed by prejudice, if it were ever possible."

"Your father was a wiser man than I ever knew," said his grandmother quietly.

"Yes. What I'm trying to say is that I can't promise I will ever entirely forget those words I overheard seventeen years ago - but I wouldn't like to think of you left all alone, now that ..."

"Now that I'm dying?" she finished for him. She sat up a little straighter, and with an abrupt return to a brusquer, prouder manner she said, "I've been alone for seventeen years, I can manage another month. I don't require your pity."

"There is a difference, I think, between pity and compassion."

She said with some surprise, "It would appear that you, too, are wiser than I imagined. But honestly, Remus, I think that we have too little time left now to cover the distance that seventeen years have put between us."

"Perhaps. All the same, I want you to know that I'm there if you should find you need me."

"Well," muttered his grandmother, apparently completely taken aback. "Thank you ... my boy."

* * *

The Key to the Hall

June came to a close, and July began. Remus was beginning to think that perhaps seventeen years had been too long, and started studying the obituaries in the Daily Prophet more closely for news of his grandmother's death, when one day he received an unexpected summons from her. She was in St. Mungo's, it seemed, in the final stages of the unknown disease that was ending her life, and surprisingly enough, she requested Remus to visit her there. Despite his uncle's protests, he went as he had promised the old woman, and in the end she did not have to die alone after all. The small amount of money, however, that was all she had to bequeath and that she left him in her will, Remus refused to touch, instead giving all of it to the hospital, even though it would have been a welcome windfall. He had not, so he explained to his friends, forgiven her as much as all that for the anguish she had caused his parents years ago.

Very soon even July had swept by. Harry's first birthday had come and gone, and henceforth he spent most of his time zooming around the living room on the toy broom Sirius had bought him.

Come August, Remus finally managed to persuade his mother to stay in the house on her own again, first for only an hour, then for longer and longer periods. It was necessary, because Malcolm had finally agreed to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts as from September, which meant that there would be no one to stay with her when Remus left the house, at least not permanently, for Lily popped in to see her as often as she could. Faith was very nervous about being alone at first, but in time she became more confident. She seemed a little stronger again, too, though it was clear that she still relied heavily on her son, but Remus did not seem to mind that.

October was cold and blustery, and Remus shivered as he locked himself up for the full moon, performing the charms from the inside of his little prison, as he called it, that his father had used to perform for him. He stepped on a footstool and placed his wand high up on a ledge. Then he wrapped a woollen blanket around himself and waited for the moon to rise in the sky, thinking to himself that he must remember to ask his friends to help him close up the cracks that let in cold autumn draughts.

While he sat alone in the hut, the Potters, along with Sirius and Peter, were in the warm and snug drawing room at Gryffindor Hall. Sirius and James were playing with Harry on the hearth rug, taking it in turns to roll around the floor with him boisterously and let him use them as climbing frames. He giggled with glee as Sirius held him while he bounced up and down on his stomach, becoming happier the louder Sirius groaned, although the big grin on his face belied the pain he claimed to be in. As it was his turn to have a rest, James hauled himself closer to Lily's chair and rested his head on her knee.

"If this is what he's like when he's only just starting to walk," James panted, "I dread to think what he'll have us doing when he learns to run."

"You'll be running after him, I expect. And we'll all need eyes in the backs of our heads," Lily replied, stroking James's thick black hair.

"I think we need those already," Peter remarked, jumping up and snatching Harry off the ground behind Sirius, who was turning round in circles on all fours like a dog chasing its tail, looking for his godson.

James smiled. Then he glanced across at his grandfather. Gordon was staring into the fire Harry had just been heading for, but seemed very far away.

"Sickle for your thoughts, Grandfather," James said.

Gordon gave a start. He turned his head and said apologetically, "I'm sorry. It is very rude of me to lose myself in thought when I have guests."

"I think of Mum, too," said his grandson, shrewdly guessing what thoughts were going through the old man's mind. "All the time. But I think she'd prefer us to think of her while we're enjoying ourselves, rather than brooding."

"Yes, I dare say you're right."

James persisted, "I spoke to Cronky earlier. He says you've not been watching the security around here like you ought to. How long has it been since you last changed the password to the secret entrance?"

"A few weeks, I expect."

"More like a few months, I think," Lily said gently. "James is right, it is time you changed it again."

"I don't see why. No one uses that entrance except James, only you two know the password anyway."

"But we agreed earlier this year that all passwords should be changed on a regular basis, otherwise someone might eventually figure out the right one, just by trying."

"Very well, I'll change it tomorrow," Gordon sighed. He bowed his head to Lily. "And I'll let you choose what it's to be."

She frowned, thinking. Her hand was still resting on James's head. She looked down and met his eyes, and she smiled.

"Prongs," she said.

Gordon's eyebrows rose, but he said, "Well, if you think so, that's what it will be."

* * *

Peter was in a quandary. The information he had picked up at Gryffindor Hall was precious. He knew the Dark Lord would give much to know what he now knew, the password to a secret entrance no one but the old man and the Potters, and possibly Sirius, had known before. Voldemort would be exceptionally pleased with him if he could provide such valuable information. However, passing on a detail such as this at this time was bound to lead to his being found out. If security at the Hall were breached the night after he, Peter Pettigrew, had learned of the password, he doubted whether James's trust in him would outweigh the evidence against him. He would never suspect Sirius, he would know who was the spy. So Peter waited. Days passed. A week. Still he was waiting, biding his time. And then, on Saturday morning, Remus called on him at his father's apothecary, where Peter was helping out, to tell him about the previous evening's Order meeting, which Peter had missed.

He ended his visit by saying, "I'll see you tomorrow then, at the Hall? James said to use the back door. You know the password?"

"Yes," said Peter, and hoping that he was successfully concealing his eagerness added, "do you?"

Remus nodded. "James told me yesterday at the meeting. Goodbye then, Peter. Goodbye, Mr. Pettigrew."

He shook hands with Peter's father, and then departed. Peter withdrew into the back room to think. At lunch time, he told his father he had something to take care of, and he slipped on his cloak and made sure his mask was in his pocket.

* * *

Death in the Family

It was the evening of the twenty-fourth of October. Gordon Gryffindor sat in the drawing room while raindrops pattered against the window panes and thunder began to rumble in the distance. He was seated in an old high-backed chair facing the fireplace, and by his side stood a small mahogany table on which his wand lay, and an oil lamp flickered softly. The old wizard stared deep into the glowing embers in the hearth. The fire was dying, there were no more flames, just a hint of red among the coals.

He took a sip of elf-made wine from the silver goblet in his hand, and raised his eyes to the photographs on the mantelpiece. There were two. Bridget's face smiled down at him from one of them, which showed her and Malcolm standing out by the lake on a sunny day last June. The other was a picture of James, Lily and little Harry, all smiling and waving at him. But neither photograph was able to bring a smile to his lips tonight. Tonight, he felt like the fire - wasted and weary, tired of the effort it took to crackle and burn. He took another sip. There was a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by another crash that sounded nearer at hand and ... different. Hardly like thunder at all, more like ... something exploding.

Gordon listened carefully for another sound, but there was none for a few moments, not until, with a loud crack, Cronky the House Elf made an appearance right in front of him.

His wrinkled old face was full of fear, and he announced with urgency, "Master, there is strangers in the house. Bad people, sir. Death Eaters. They is coming in through the kitchen garden, sir. Cronky is telling the others to hold them up as long as possible, sir, while Cronky warns the master ..."

"Death Eaters?" Gordon repeated calmly. "How many?"

"Half a dozen, sir. They is killing Clammy and Chubb, sir, and maybe more since Cronky has come to warn you."

He twisted a corner of the scarlet tea towel he wore around one of his gnarled little fingers.

Gordon said, "Go up to the mistress's room, Cronky, and empty out some of her clothes. Give something to each of the House Elves and take something yourself. Then leave. That is an order."

The old House Elf's eyes widened. "C-clothes, sir?" he questioned in an awed and sorry voice.

"Yes, Cronky. Clothes. I don't want any more of your family dying for me or any of mine. Do as I say."

"Y-yes, Master. If that is what you wishes."

"I do."

Cronky bowed as low as his withered old frame would allow, and departed with a crack. Gordon finished his wine and placed the empty goblet on the table beside him. He reached slowly for his wand, and rose from his chair. He picked up both the pictures from the mantelpiece, and cast them into the hearth for the simmering ashes to destroy. Then he faced the door and prepared to face the intruders, and give them a fight they would remember before they killed him.

A few minutes passed and then, with another loud crack, Cronky reappeared. He had tied a blue silk scarf around his neck, but was still wearing the scarlet tea towel embroidered with a gold lion, and a determined expression.

"What are you still doing here?" Gordon asked. "I ordered you to leave."

"Begging your pardon, sir," said the Elf, "but Cronky is free now. Cronky may stay or go as he chooses, he does not take orders any more. Cronky chooses to stay."

The creature's words made Gordon smile at last.

"Very well," he said. "Be a fool, if you must."

Cronky shrugged. "Cronky is old, sir. Cronky has not much left to look forward to. But Cronky is proud to have served you, and will fight by your side until the end."

"And I am grateful, and honoured, my old friend," the wizard replied, and stooping, held out his hand.

The House Elf hesitated, and then grasped it with a beaming smile of his own.

Soon after, the Death Eaters entered. The fight lasted for about half an hour, at the end of which half the Death Eaters lay sprawled on the floor, never to rise again. Two nursed severe injuries and the last panted heavily, reaching up an unsteady hand to remove the mask that hid the face. Paula Lestrange stood looking down on the twisted body of the venerable old wizard and the pitiful remains of the ancient House Elf, and gave a shout of triumph. She looked around her. The chair had been smashed to pieces, but the little mahogany table, miraculously, had survived the fight, and on it the empty goblet still stood as though waiting to be used again. In the hearth, the ashes no longer glowed, but faint wisps of smoke still curled over a small heap of something papery.

The Death Eater bent to examine it. She found several charred, unrecognisable pieces of what might have been a photograph, and was about to turn away, when she realised there was a second picture underneath. It was blackened and shrivelled, but she could still make out the faces of the people it showed. Malcolm Marley and a woman with thick, dark, curly hair. She presumed this must have been Marley's wife, the one who had been this old wizard's daughter, who had previously been married to Lothian and whom he had killed. But there was something oddly familiar about the woman in the picture, as if she had seen her somewhere before. But where? And then it came to her. Platform 9 ¾, back in the days when her mother had asked her to see Peter off when he was leaving for Hogwarts. This woman had been there, too, seeing off someone else, a boy of Peter's age, James Potter ... her son. But then James Potter had to be the old wizard's grandson, another heir of his blood line. It was impossible that he was Marley's son, however. Paula pictured him to herself. Dark-haired, hazel-eyed, very much like ... like the Death Eater who had once been married to his mother, and who upon her death had claimed that she had died childless.

The Dark Lord, she thought with a grim smile, would be very interested to hear this.

* * *

Malcolm stood under a sturdy old oak in unfamiliar grounds, the collar of his travelling cloak turned up for protection against the rain that was pelting down on the canopy of leaves above him. He was watching the drive leading up to a many-gabled manor house in its own grounds, whose dark windows reflected the intermittent flashes of lightning that illuminated the world for split seconds, and cast eerie shadows on his careworn, bearded face.

It was cold and his hair, which had grown longer again in the time since his sister had stopped insisting he let her trim it, was dripping wet, not to mention the fact that his shoes were proving less waterproof than advertised. But Malcolm was not about to go home. It had taken him months to figure out where Lothian lived and gain access to his grounds, he was not about to leave now.

Thoughts flashed across his mind like the lightning in the skies above. Thoughts of his wife lying limp and dead in his arms in the pouring rain, of feeling his heart wrenched from his chest in one drawn-out scream; thoughts of his best friend dying right before his eyes without being able to do a single thing to prevent it; thoughts of his sister, pale and feverish in a hospital bed, near death then and even now still carrying traces of a deadly venom in her veins. All these thoughts came together to form one thought that burned like fire in his brain: the thought of revenge.

Other thoughts forced themselves upon him, in contrast to his sinister mood. John's messages, wisps of silvery memory in crystal vials. Malcolm had seen them both, the message John had left for him and his message to Bridget. He knew that John had meant them as a comfort, but all they had done was remind him of his pain, of the immense loss that he had suffered, for John had sealed them in their vials before Bridget had been killed, and they spoke of his affection for them both, and his wishes for their future together, a future that he had not then known would never come to pass. Thanks to Lothian, thanks to Macnair, and thanks to Dolohov.

Malcolm knew that neither Bridget nor Faith, and certainly not John, would want him to exact vengeance for what had befallen them. But without them by his side, holding him back, black thoughts clouded his brain and he was determined to get all three Death Eaters for what they had done to the people he loved - and through them, to him. He had no illusions that he would get away with it, not with the Ministry so deep in Voldemort's pocket, but if Azkaban was the price he had to pay, then he was willing to accept it.

A feeling of guilt mingled with these reflections. When he had first talked of hunting Lothian down and taking him out, he had not been alone. James and Sirius had promised to go with him, had insisted on being there when Bridget was avenged, but now the time had come and Malcolm had not told them how far he had progressed. He had crept here alone this night, and had left them in the dark. It was one thing, he had thought, for him to be willing to sacrifice his own bleak future for revenge. But he would never forgive himself if he led James and Sirius to their doom.

That was why he was here alone. He did not need any help to defeat the Death Eater in any case, of that he was sure. He would give Lothian a fairer chance than John had had, but that was all the mercy the man could expect.

The lightning now became more rare, the thunder more distant. The rain eased up, though only a little. And then, at last, a figure appeared on the path. Malcolm drew his wand and watched eagerly as Vindictus Lothian approached the house. He prepared to creep closer, but then he saw something that stayed his movement, and turned his blood cold. Other shapes were appearing from the other side of the grounds, four of them, all masked and robed and bearing down on Lothian, and one of them exuded a terrible power which Malcolm had, apparently mistakenly, thought he had overcome, but which his body was now proving still had a strong influence on him. Voldemort was here, and in his anger, he was drawing on all the power that surrounded him, including the link that had once been forged between him and Malcolm. Something had aroused the Dark Lord's fury, and it was lucky that the object of it was so close to him, or he would surely not have missed the presence of the enemy lurking in the shadows.

Malcolm withdrew further into the underbrush and strained his ears. He stayed and listened just long enough to discern what was about to happen, then he turned and fled.

* * *

Malcolm's Patronus was a falcon. He remembered as he cast it and taught it the words he wanted passed on how he had teased John years ago for having a Patronus whose neck was likely to be wrung for someone's dinner. He had not realised, at the time, that certain teachings prized the cockerel as a creature of the home, a protector of its family to the very last.

The silvery falcon took flight, soaring northwards above the tree tops, while Malcolm turned on the spot, his mind focused determinedly on Godric's Hollow.

* * *

Lily Potter had just changed for bed when her husband answered the urgent banging on the front door. There was a murmur of voices, and then a shout.

"Lily!" James yelled, bounding up the stairs and bursting into the bedroom, panting desperately, "Get dressed. Grab a couple of necessaries, but be quick, I'll get Harry - we're leaving."

"What?!" She stared at him, utterly bewildered. "Why? What's happened? Who was at the door?"

"Malcolm. I haven't got time to explain, just hurry, will you?"