Letters in Praise of Emptiness

The chamber immediately beyond the doorway was long and barren, completely empty of decoration and barely illuminated by the light from the entrance. Remus could see his own shadow on the floor and a doorway at the far end, but the light seemed hesitant to follow Clara's blue torch as she walked quickly through the room. She did not pause at the second doorway. Remus hurried to follow.

There was no second chamber. The doorway led into a dark corridor, about ten feet high and just wide enough for three men to walk side by side, lined with huge blocks of stone. Worn, angular letters were carved into the walls, but in the flickering light, Remus could not read them or even recognise the alphabet. The air in the corridor was cold and stale, and neither Clara's bare feet nor Remus' shoes made more than a scrape of sound. He found himself straining to hear something more, listening for his own breath--and for Clara's before he remembered that she didn't breathe--but every sound was damped by the pressing mass of the stone.

Remus swallowed and hurried again; Clara moved remarkably quickly for someone with such short legs, almost as though she were gliding effortlessly rather than merely walking.

"Nicodemo said the fortress was built to protect the caves?" He was appalled to hear his voice tremble uncertainly.

Glancing over her shoulder, Clara nodded curtly. "So it is said. That is what the wizards who passed the fortress to the monks believed."

"Who were they?"

"They were men who guarded the caves," she replied.

"Why were they guarding the caves?"

"That is what they had always done."

There was a heavy iron gate ahead in the tunnel; Remus felt a slight breeze rising from beyond it. The corridor sloped gently downward. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to have asked these questions before descending into the darkness. Men did not construct immense fortresses to protect mere geological curiosities.

As they approached the gate, he wondered whether the fortress had been built to keep people out--or to keep something else in.

"No other reason?" he asked, eyeing the gate warily.

Clara stopped before the iron gate and handed the torch to Remus. "None that they could remember," she said. She held both hands out, palms toward the gate, and pronounced, "Vyatta." A low rumbling filled the corridor, groaning through the stone, and the gate slowly lifted. Clara took the torch from Remus and added, "Whatever reasons they had were long forgotten, lost with the memory of the builders. I was not here then, but those who were say that the men, the guardians, knew only their task, and nothing more."

Following Clara through the gate, Remus tried to imagine a history so long and shadowed that even the minds of wizards and vampires could not grasp it. He pictured Hogwarts thousands of years in the future, overgrown with predatory vines and crumbling beneath the steel-grey Scottish sky, suits of armour rusting to dust, colourless portraits fading until only vague traces of shape and whispers of motion remain and the magical walls surrendering to a decay that could not be measured in months or years or lifetimes.

If you live long enough, she had said, you will watch everything disintegrate. Do you think you are so different, wolf? He remembered her low, dry laugh, the careless wave of her hand dismissing his reply as childish nonsense.

After the gate, the corridor changed; the sturdy blocks gave way to curved, rough-hewn walls of stone. Remus felt that he was walking down the throat of an ancient, sleeping beast. In the pale blue torchlight he saw, immersed in the dark grey stone, lumps and lines of pale grey and white scattered unevenly along the tunnel and jutting out in odd places, as if they had been melted into the stone.

Bones, Remus realised with a start.

He and Clara walked in silence, always descending. The tunnel never branched or turned; it crawled unerringly into the earth, lined with strange skeletons and caressed by a slight, almost imperceptible breeze from below.

After several minutes, Remus noticed rough, rust-coloured scenes painted onto the walls. He cleared his throat and asked, "What are these drawings?"

Clara slowed her pace and looked back at him, then turned her gaze to the faded paintings. Lanky figures stalked along stone, primitive but menacing, with elaborate headdresses and long spears. Huge, unrecognisable creatures with twisted horns followed the men. "Stories," she said, reaching out toward the wall but not touching it. "Created by the old guardians, tales of men and beasts that came from the cave."

Ah, Remus thought, I knew it.

"Things came...from the cave?"

A quick smile flashed across Clara's face. "They are only stories," she told him, in the tone of a mother reassuring a child. "Nothing has ever come from the cave."

"Then why did they paint these pictures?"

She considered for a moment, her expression unreadable. "When a man passes his entire life watching the darkness," she answered finally, "he will, eventually, imagine what might emerge." She started walking again, then said over her shoulder, "There is always more horror in the mind of a man than in the world that surrounds him."

"I don't know if that's true," Remus countered without thinking.

Clara laughed quietly. "Perhaps not, but you are very young."

You are so very young, wolf.

Remus tried to quash the memory and the surge of annoyance. He thought of his fourth-year Defence textbook, Silver, Stake, Salt and Slug: Characteristics and Weaknesses of Dark Creatures Throughout the World, and imagined scribbling notes in the margins of the vampire chapter: Pale. Undead. Likes old castles. Sunburns easily. Feeds on blood. Insufferably patronising.

That's not fair, he scolded himself. Twenty-five years is barely a flicker in the centuries she has lived. Regardless, he did not want to contemplate the thoughts that might surpass all the horror the world could provide.

Gradually, the tunnel levelled and widened. The current of air became both warmer and stronger. Remus had fallen several steps behind Clara and felt a moment of anxiety when the torchlight dimmed unexpectedly up ahead. The tunnel ended, and Clara had stepped into a much larger chamber. She looked back and waited for Remus to follow.

The torch cast a sphere of ghostly blue light around them. Remus could see walls jagged with innumerable nooks and shelves, solid rock and bone in a pattern of dark and light. He had the impression of a vast space extending above and before him, a great emptiness that dwarfed the meagre, wavering flame.

In that immense space, just discernable in the dim light, every shelf of stone, every alcove, every bone that jutted far enough from the wall was covered with chaotic, disordered piles of parchments, papers, envelopes and scrolls, painted boards and long cloth rolls, thin slabs of carved stone heaped on the floor, dry, brown clusters that looked as though they had once been leaves, leather-bound books, thick folios and neat stacks of cards tied up with ribbon. Scattered amongst the jumble of inscribed items were odd assortments of personal effects: a wide-eyed porcelain doll, a lacquered, red jewellery box, a handful of greenish bronze coins and a gilded mirror that looked as if its surface had been etched with acid. Jewellery--rosaries and pearls, signet rings and fine gold chains--hung from narrow protrusions of bone.

"What is this place?" Remus was aware that he was staring open-mouthed at an unexpected sight for the second time in as many days.

"This is the guhaa. It swallows what we discard."

"All of this--it came from the monks?" Remus asked incredulously.

"No," she said. "Many of these things are much older than the monastery. The guhaa has been collecting for longer than anybody knows. When the first monks took the fortress from the guardians, they agreed to allow the tradition to continue." She started walking slowly through the chamber. "Before, the pilgrims came to the fortress on foot, hundreds of them every season. But now, there are only a handful of letters each year, most sent by owl or charm. It is very rare for a person to make the journey."

Remus began to state that he had never heard of such a thing, but he stopped himself, knowing that Clara would reply by reminding him that he was very young and there were many things he had never heard of. Instead, he asked, "What do the letters say?" The ones he could see were written in dozens of different languages, ranging from elegant English script to ancient hieroglyphics.

"We do not read them."

"But--do you know why people write them?"

"It was an ancient rite," she explained, "a ritual that used words to capture what a man wished to be rid of--perhaps his enemies, perhaps his fear--and he would carry them to this place, cast them into the andhakaara. Such magic has been outlawed and forgotten in much of the wizarding world, but we do not discourage those who remember."

Remus nodded slowly; it sounded like a variation of the Soul-Severing Curses or Exuviating Rites that had long been considered Dark Magic in Europe. "Simply piling the letters in a cave, was that enough?" Remus wondered aloud, trying to recall what he learned of the practices in his N.E.W.T.-level Defence class. "Was it ever effective?"

Clara looked at him for a long moment, and Remus thought she wasn't going to answer. Then she said, "Come. This way."

They wound through the piles of letters and scrolls, stepping over a rusted sword and shield, following the gradual curve of the chamber. A small noise caught Remus' attention, so faint he thought at first it was only the blood in his ears. It was a slight rustling, like leaves in a distant forest or a solitary flame, and it grew steadily until he was almost certain he could hear individual voices whispering. The breeze was stronger, deeper in the chamber, and in it Remus could smell hints of life, a faintly organic scent that reminded him of summer days in dense Indian jungles. The whispering seemed to come from all around, and he eyed the haphazard piles of parchment nervously, telling himself that just because there were an awful lot of words, it didn't mean the writings had somehow learned to speak.

Remus nearly bumped into Clara when she halted abruptly. At first he didn't know why she had stopped, then he saw that they were standing before the entrance of a small tunnel. It was featureless and completely unremarkable, nothing more than a round hole in the wall.

"Andhakaara," Clara said.

As Remus stepped closer, he noticed two things. The light from the torch did not enter the tunnel at all, and both the whispers and the breeze seemed to be flowing from its impenetrable darkness. Remus took another step forward. The space was not perfectly empty; threads of the finest gossamer, as black as the darkness behind it, shifted in the breeze.

"What is it?"

Behind him, Clara replied, "It is the darkness. It swallows what we discard."

Remus stared for another few moments, then stepped back, disliking the sensation of whispers and warm air crawling over his skin. "But these things," he gestured toward the endless writings, "they haven't been discarded. Was that part of the spell--to throw the words in there?"

"That was the ritual, or so we understand. The guardians had decided, long before they gave the fortress to the monks, that nothing more would be cast into the andhakaara."

"Why did they stop?"

Clara shrugged. "They did not say. We do not know."

Remus stepped away from the darkness, moving backwards so as not to put his back to it. He looked over the collection of forgotten letters and scrolls, then said, "Why do you let the practice continue, if nobody performs the ritual anymore? It's a rather strange task for Buddhist monks to--"

A spot of colour caught his eye, and he stopped.

Clara began to answer, "It is not so strange, not at all. This practice of discarding what ails and frustrates, it is no different from what we aim to achieve."

A line of ribs--larger than a man's--protruded from the stone.

"It is the truth for every living thing," Clara was saying, "there is pain in life, and nothing is permanent, however we might cling."

Your devotion to them, your loyalty, your ideals, how far will you carry such nonsense, wolf?

"It is the same for all aspects of life: worldly goods, ideas and thoughts, pride and arrogance. Friends and enemies. To free ourselves from the pain of life, we must abandon our adherence to these things which are impermanent, recognise that no part of ourselves or the world is stable and unchanging."

Only a child believes that his life can remain unchanged, that his parents will keep him safe, his home will keep him warm, his games will never bore him, his friends will never be tired of him.

"Those who send their fears, their sadness, their loss to us are releasing a small part of themselves. These letters, these things, each of them is a release of pain, a step toward the simplicity, the emptiness in which there is no suffering."

Hanging from one of the ribs was a ruby teardrop on a silver chain.

But it will change. It will not last. Even the blood that flows through your veins--cold fingers--even that will fade--tightening grip--no matter what master you serve--rapid pulse beneath his skin--no matter what battles you win.

Clara's voice suddenly stopped. Whispering filled the chamber once again.

Pale fingers touched his arm, and Remus started, quickly pulling his hand away from the necklace.

"Come," she said sharply. "We have been in the guhaa for too long."

You have been amongst humans for too long.

* * *

They emerged from the cave, blinking in the light. Clara extinguished the torch and offered to show Remus the other parts of the fortress. He accepted eagerly; following her about the monastery, asking as many questions as he could think of, concentrating on Clara's antiquated accent and ignoring the murmurs of memory in the back of his mind. She took him through large chambers filled with artwork from all over the world, cosy studies where monks were translating ancient documents, sunlit meditation rooms high in the towers, and a vast armoury in the cellar that could provide swords for an entire army. Every blade was gleaming and sharp, without a trace of rust.

When Remus asked about the weapons, Clara merely shrugged and said, "They were here before the monastery. Would you like to see the library?"

The library occupied several stories in one of the round towers; curving staircases led between the levels, illuminated by sunlight through narrow windows in the stone. Remus spent a few minutes wandering the shelves. Most of the books were in languages other than English. That's one advantage to being a vampire, he thought. Plenty of time to become multilingual.

When he walked back to the centre of the library, he found Nicodemo speaking with Clara. Nicodemo smiled at Remus and asked, "Would you like to rest for the afternoon? Or perhaps you would like a midday meal?"

The thought of more preserved bread turned Remus' stomach, so he politely declined the meal and followed Nicodemo back through the labyrinthine monastery to his tower room. As they were ascending the staircase, Remus remembered that there was one question he hadn't yet asked.

"Could you tell me--where will I be staying tonight?"

Nicodemo stopped and turned to look at Remus in surprise. "Why, outside, of course."

Remus blinked. "Outside--is that safe?"

"We are quite isolated here and protected by our wards. It is a simple matter to modify the charms so they will keep your wolf-form contained in addition to keeping the humans out."

"Simple?" Remus repeated. In his experience, immune to most magic, the spells required to keep a werewolf contained were anything but simple. He had asked Professor Flitwick once, out of curiosity, and received a lengthy lecture about the charms surrounding the Shrieking Shack and why they had taken several months to construct. Remus continued, uncertainly, "I thought it was rather difficult."

"A permanent ward is far more complex, of course," Nicodemo agreed. "But for just one night, the spellwork requires nothing more than devoted concentration." Then he smiled and added, "It is a meditative task for us, one that we welcome eagerly. It has been some time since we had reason to focus our magic in such a way--indeed, we should be thanking you for the opportunity."

Though he was still wary, Remus did not protest further. "Have you done it before, then?" he wondered. "Clara mentioned something about other werewolves visiting the monastery."

"Yes, others have been here, in the past. There are stories and myths--perhaps you have heard them--that claim this land is beneficial to werewolves, even that there may be a cure lost amongst these peaks and valleys."

Remus nodded; his parents had investigated those rumours when he was a child, though they had never travelled to the Himalaya or Tibet. Nicodemo started up the stairs again. "It is nonsense, of course, but we are pleased to provide shelter and comfort to those who seek it." They arrived at Remus' room, and Nicodemo said, "The moon does not rise until late tonight. Come down at sunset. Until then, rest well."

Remus shut the door to his room and stepped over to the open window. It was just after noon and the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. So much space, he thought. Though it was ridiculous, he felt almost guilty for being pleased with the arrangement.

After staring for a few minutes over the empty landscape, Remus stepped over to the bed and lay down, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the tense, prickly, uneasy feeling in his muscles and skin. The room was too quiet, and he could not push from his mind the whispers in the cave or the mocking voice in his memory.

He had argued with her. Even at the time, he had known that it was foolish; a far wiser course of action would have been to listen to her proposal, pretend to consider it, and be along his merry way, armed with a possible new connection to Voldemort's followers. But he hadn't taken the sensible course. He had argued, debated, countered her claims while he grew increasingly frustrated and she merely laughed. You are so very young, wolf.

Remus lifted an arm and dropped it over his face, blocking the sunlight. Merlin, I was an idiot. He hadn't even learned anything useful. The many fascinating ways in which vampires hunted Muggles, the subtle difference in flavour between a man's blood and a woman's, the complex historical reasons that vampires had always resisted classification and legislation by wizards, why a meal drank through the wrist was often more satisfying than one taken through the neck--she spoke at great length about all of these things, but she was too careful to reveal anything about her supposed master. After a few hours, Remus had started to suspect that she didn't serve Voldemort at all, or if she did, it was a temporary arrangement, a convenient affiliation rather than a slavish devotion. When Remus voiced his suspicion, she had laughed scornfully and asked, What does it matter to you? Your side of the battle or mine, it makes no difference. The humans will never release you from your cage.

He had remembered the clank of a steel door and his father muttering an Imperturbable Charm while his mother wept, trembling in a dusty corner as the Shrieking Shack groaned and creaked around him, Madam Pomfrey's cool hand on his forehead, three faces grinning with excitement, the droning voice of the Registry official reading the Code of Conduct--and he hadn't said a word.

Her laughter had faded. You are so very young, wolf. To us, you may be a child, but to them you will always be a monster.

Remus turned onto his side and exhaled slowly. He could no longer remember the words he had used to argue, if he had argued at all.

* * *

At sunset, Remus met Nicodemo next to the white Buddha. The monk led him through one of the six great doors, through the fortress to a modest outer door. Just outside, there were several pens of tiny mountain goats.

"We do not kill them," Nicodemo explained.

The animals did not move as the men passed; their eyes were dull and disinterested. Remus watched them silently for a few moments, but the creatures did nothing more than breathe and blink.

Beyond the pens, the valley opened wide and empty, darkened by the long shadows of the mountains.

Nicodemo asked, "Do you wish for us to find you in the morning, to bring you back to the fortress?"

"No," Remus replied promptly. "I'll find my way back."

"It is a large area," Nicodemo persisted. "Are you certain?"

"Yes. I'll be fine. Thank you."

"Very well. Then I will leave you. Your clothing and wand will be quite safe inside." He motioned back toward the fortress and the wooden door that led inside. As he returned to the fortress, he said, "We will strengthen the wards now."

When Nicodemo was gone, Remus undressed and folded his clothes neatly on a stone bench just inside the door. Walking gingerly past the goat pens again, he wished he had brought a pair of sandals he wouldn't mind losing; the ground was uncomfortable for bare feet. The goats stared.

"You needn't be rude," Remus reprimanded them. "You act as though you've never seen a naked werewolf before."

The goats did not move, and they did not respond. Their empty eyes made Remus uneasy as he hurried away from the fortress. A faint chanting rose from within the monastery.

He walked for about twenty minutes, climbing a low hill near the monastery and finding a relatively smooth patch of ground on which to sit and wait. Leaning back on his elbows, Remus looked up at the sky, a canvas of breathtaking blue. He was in shadow, but the highest peaks were still illuminated by the sun. Except for the faint rustle of grasses and shrubs in a slight breeze, there was no sound at all; he was surrounded by the absolute silence of wilderness.

The humans will never release you from your cage, she had said again, toying with her ruby teardrop necklace. They were arguing in circles. Remus had no idea how long he'd been in the room, with no clock or windows to gauge the passage of time. It was uncomfortably hot, and he was thirsty and tired of her voice, tired of sitting on the stone and tired of her mocking laughter. They will not care whether you help them win this war. You will still be an animal.

He had replied resignedly, I know. I know that. But I'm fighting anyway.

After a long silence, she had waved her hand. The heavy wooden door swung open, and she said indifferently, Go, then. Go back to your keepers and your cage. She hadn't watched him leave.

Remus closed his eyes. The wind grew stronger; he shivered but did not move.

When the moon rose over Ladakh, there was no cage. And the wolf ran.

* * *

Remus woke to the warm touch of morning sun on his skin and the sharp pain of a stone jabbing into his thigh. He took a deep breath and rolled onto his back, immediately aware of his marked lack of injuries. His hands and feet were bruised and cut, but a quick survey revealed that he had no major gashes or bites. He remembered running, and the sudden impact of magic when he encountered the wards. He was utterly exhausted. The prospect of sitting up was daunting, so he shifted a bit to avoid the sharpest stones, hoping to gather some energy for the walk back to the fortress, however far that might be. Remus knew that he had probably been foolishly stubborn in refusing Nicodemo's offer to help him back to the fortress in the morning, but there were birds singing nearby, the air was fresh and cool, and he was content to rest on this rocky hillside.

Content to remember. The outer door had been a Portkey. When he strode past her, hurrying lest she change her mind, he was shocked by the sudden tug of magic as he touched the doorknob. He appeared on an empty street in the middle of a sultry summer night, wandless and alone, with no idea where he was, where he had come from or how long he had been gone. A few minutes of wandering revealed that he was in London. He found a familiar street, pictured a map in his mind and started walking. The sky was just brightening in the east when he reached the Muggle neighbourhood in which the Order headquarters were located. It occurred to him, as he neared nondescript old house, that somebody might have followed him--Moody's voice echoed in his mind: Eyes and ears in every direction! Eyes and ears!--so he circled, hid and waited for a while before approaching the house. There was no one behind him, no sign of magic or wizard, and he was not surprised. Walking up to the front door, he felt the shiver of magic as the protection charms recognised him. The door burst open before he took another step.

Remus! Remus, dragon's balls, Moony, where the fuck have you--

He was nearly knocked over by a crushing embrace.

A second low voice growled, Stand back, fool, you don't know that's him.

The angry retort--Hell, Moody, this is--was cut off by Lily's calm voice from the doorway, hurrying them inside. Remus allowed himself to be dragged into the house, his hand caught in a fierce grip. He sat down in a chair and was surrounded by questions: Where were you? What happened? Are you hurt? Who was it? Did you know them? Are you hurt? What happened?

A few words filtered through the flurry of excitement, and Remus looked up suddenly. Lily was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, baby Harry on her hip, and he repeated what she had just said. Two days? She nodded solemnly.

The grip on his hand tightened. He looked down and saw pale white fingers closing around his wrist, saw the four crescent wounds left by her fingernails, now covered by four small scabs. Extracting his hand from the grip, he tried to focus on the questions Moody was asking, but all he could say was, Can I have some water, please? He drank thirstily and provided non-answers to Moody's rapid-fire questions. He didn't know where he'd been, he didn't know her name, he didn't know if anyone else had been involved.

He did know that it had been a lost opportunity. He nodded in agreement when Moody said, You should've accepted her offer, pretended you were interested. We could use another spy--

A chair scraped along the floor, and a hand rested on Remus' shoulder. Enough, Moody. I'm taking him home.

Should've taken the chance--

Enough. Come on, Remus. Let's go home.

Taking in a deep breath, Remus sat upright and blinked at the sunlit mountains all around. The monastery was nowhere in sight, and he didn't know which way he should start walking to find it. Standing on shaky legs, he decided to climb the nearest low ridge for a better view. It took longer than he expected, and when he reached the top he saw the spire of the fortress over a distant hill in the opposite direction.

"Bollocks," Remus said, with feeling.

He started down the ridge, stubbing his toe on a stone and swearing that he would never remove his shoes, ever again.

* * *

After returning to the fortress, Remus slept through the remainder of the day, woke to find a meal of bread and tea beside his bed, ate and slept again. He awoke before sunrise the following day, grasping at the end of a dream in which a grey stone room expanded to a massive hall, filled with whispers and shadows, the only speck of colour a teardrop ruby that swayed on its chain in a soft, warm breeze. The breeze that brushed his face when he opened his eyes was cooler, and the whispers grew into words.

It doesn't make sense. Why would she just let you go?

I don't know.

What did she want? Did you tell her anything? Did she take anything?

She took my wand. I didn't tell her anything, nothing important. Look, I'm--

I don't like it. What did she say?

She said a lot of things, none of them useful. I'm going to--

Well, she's a vampire. You can't trust what she says anyway.

He had been so bloody tired, hot and sticky, wanting nothing more than to shower and collapse on the bed for several hours of oblivious sleep. The words rankled, and he snapped, Well, I'm a werewolf. You can't trust what I say, either.

Fuck, Moony, I didn't mean--

Okay. Fine. I'm going to shower, and I'm going to sleep.

I didn't mean that. Don't be stupid. Remus--

I'm going to shower. He brushed the hand from his arm, turned and walked away.

"Right," he whispered. "Don't be stupid."

Remus sat up and rested on the edge of the bed for a moment. He ran a hand over his face and yawned, then reached for his rucksack and searched for his clean clothes. His fingers brushed the leather collar, but instead of recoiling he pulled it out and studied it in the dim light. After a moment, he set it aside and dressed, then hesitated only a moment before slipping the collar into his pocket.

He left the room and descended the tower. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he heard a chanting from one of the towers. He leaned against the railing overlooking the central chamber, listening the haunting voices and watching the colours and shadows change as the tower slowly brightened. The metallic winged horses on the walls seemed almost liquid in the shifting light, and the portraits were waking slowly, bidding each other good morning in various languages. A single shaft of sunlight focused on the Buddha's smiling face.

"Are you rested, Mr. Lupin?"

Remus looked over his shoulder. Nicodemo was walking along the corridor, smiling pleasantly.

"Yes, thank you," he answered. He opened his mouth to say more, then changed his mind, and instead looked again at the Buddha statue. A matronly woman with plaited grey hair was spreading flowers along the pedestal.

"You wish to ask something?" Nicodemo encouraged gently.

"I would like to go into the cave again."

Nicodemo raised an eyebrow.

"There's something that I...want to leave there."

For a long moment, Nicodemo said nothing. Then he nodded.

Nicodemo lit a torch and led Remus through the empty chamber and stone corridor. He did not move as quickly as Clara had and seemed less perturbed by the dark tunnel, but he said nothing until they reached the chamber of letters. There, he handed the torch to Remus and said simply, "Go on. I will wait."

Remus hesitated--if he were the one waiting, he certainly wouldn't want to be left in the dark--but Nicodemo didn't seem to mind. Remus walked slowly through the chamber, winding around the piles of writings and stepping over the rusty sword. He stopped before the andhakaara and reached into his pocket, drawing out the collar and looking at it in the pale blue light. The whispers from the tunnel seemed to ebb and grow with the warm, gentle breeze, and for a long moment Remus stood there, running his thumb absently over the word Padfoot and remembering.

Go, then. Go back to your keepers and your cage.

He stepped away from the darkness and found the ruby teardrop, hanging by a silver chain from an ancient bone. He touched the jewel; it felt unaccountably warm, as if somebody had been holding it in his hand. Remus glanced at the darkness, looked back at the necklace, then reached out and hung the collar on the same narrow rib.

Turning quickly, Remus walked back to the entrance of the chamber where Nicodemo was waiting. Nicodemo took the torch from him and said, "The darkness will swallow many things, but the shedding of words and objects is only one step. You are welcome to stay here, Mr. Lupin. Our doors are open to all who find us."

Remus smiled to himself. A few years ago, he thought, before the ashram and its students, before his journeys through the magical lands and history of India, he might have found the offer appealing.

But now, he shook his head. "Thank you. You've been nothing but kind, but I have work to do."

Nicodemo smiled and started up the tunnel, out of the cave.

THE END