Man-eaters of Kumaon

Chapter 1

He dreams, as always, about hands. Pale, elegant, spidery hands, fluttering through an indistinct darkness. He watches the hands dance across his skin, their swift motions somehow detached from the gentle pressure on his thighs, stomach and chest. Long fingers play across his abdomen, fading to a soft scratching whisper of a touch--

Remus opens his eyes.

The darkness is absolute. He blinks rapidly, several times. The dream whispers are replaced, all at once, by the alien din of the jungle. A tickle of motion lingers on his bare chest, a half-sensation, barely a touch.

He blinks again and gradually the room sharpens; he can see the outline of the doorway, the patterned curtain moving gently, the whitewashed ceiling and the silhouettes of two geckos, just above him, curved in an uncanny yin and yang symmetry.

Still, there is the tickle on his chest. He reaches up to scratch idly, and his fingers encounter something both foreign and familiar.

"Oh, fuck."

Remus bolts upright and swipes at his chest frantically. He hears the cockroach hit the floor, somewhere to his left. Squirming like a madman, he shakes the threadbare sheet off of his body and brushes at the rest of the narrow cot, running his hands over his chest and arms, neck and hair. Just as quickly as he woke, he calms down, but the sudden frenetic activity has his blood racing and every inch of his skin crawling. He swings his legs off the cot; the dirt is cool and solid. Then he pulls his feet up, remembering the cockroach--now an angry cockroach--and peers carefully at the floor before setting his feet down again.

After a moment, he stands up and steps over to the doorway, gingerly making the two metre journey with no close encounters of the entomological kind. He pushes the curtain aside and leans against the rough wooden frame.

The night is surprisingly pleasant. Still hot by English standards--by any standards, really, especially for April--but nowhere near as stifling as the day had been. After seven hours in New Delhi, another ten on that infernal Muggle train and the dirty, manic, heart-stopping drive from Kathgodam into the jungle, Remus was certain his lungs would never again know fresh, clean air. The night here is heavy with the odour of livestock and some distant field fire, but it is still infinitely better than the black exhaust and choking press of bodies in the city.

They've set him up in a little bungalow near the edge of the village, facing the jungle. It's barely a room, three walls haphazardly built off of the back of one of the larger houses. Remus looks about from his position in the doorway, fascinated by the complete lack of artificial light. It seems candles and lamps are dear, and the Muggle electricity is only on for a few hours in the evening. The moon, a thin waning crescent, has already set, and there's a thick haze--smoke from that fire, most likely--cloaking the stars.

Remus listens carefully to the jungle, trying to hear something beyond the persistent, raucous clatter of insects.

It sounds like a woman screaming, one of the villagers said. A demon, others protested. No, a sick monkey, yet another asserted, that is the sound. Remus had frowned and struggled not to laugh. Half-delirious with exhaustion, he'd forced his face into a mask of serious contemplation when Rakesh repeated the description, and decided to worry about what a sick monkey sounds like after a few hours of sleep.

They call it kali vastu, the black thing. They will not give it another name.

It took three buffalo, they said. Four dogs. Eleven chickens. Two children and one sick old man. But no goats; the creature in the jungle has no taste for goats. The children were from another village, five miles from Pakhari, young lads pushing the family bicycle along the muddy track because they'd come to retrieve a broken wireless from their uncle, who was good at fixing that sort of thing. The wireless had been smashed, the boys dragged into the jungle, the bicycle left in a twisted heap beside the road. No, they heard nothing that night. Sometimes the creature screams, sometimes it doesn't.

Somewhere, to his left, there is a heavy thud. His pulse quickens. Slowly, Remus turns his head.

A huge, lumbering, dark shape stands beside hut. It takes another step, and Remus jerks backward, knocking his elbow into the other side of the doorframe.

Then his mind clicks in recognition. Water buffalo. He can hear it chewing, barely ten feet away, and he can smell it, hot, pungent and dung-rich, stronger than all the other night scents.

"Stupid," he says quietly, not sure if he's addressing himself or the sad, angular jumble of skin and bones munching in the shadows.

Feeling remarkably calm for one who has braved the nocturnal challenges of assertive arthropods and insomniac ungulates, Remus rolls his head to release the tension in his neck.

It's the travelling, he tells himself, that is keeping him awake despite his exhaustion, the travelling and the sun setting five and a half hours earlier than his body expects, the violent assault on his senses, the sagging unfamiliar bed. It's the bloody impertinent cockroach in the dirty, stained, drooping, unfamiliar bed. And, he reminds himself, lest he forget, the bloody cockroach's mates, an assortment of scurrying beetles in various shapes and sizes, ranging from rather large to just plain absurd, whose decorative exoskeletons he noted with some alarm before passing out hours ago.

Nobody can be expected to sleep well his first night in a hut that would make a decent exhibit in a living history museum of exotic entomology.

It's not the dream. Not the hands, the long, lovely, bodiless hands, moving over his skin with confidence and skill, reaching detached from the murky dream-dark. They are hands that don't require arms, not that he ever looks, his dream mind knowing better than to follow the pale line of wrist and forearm, knowing better than to let his dream hands reach and trace the muscled arms and broad shoulders.

Remus rolls his head again. There must be some way to tighten the cot so it doesn't sag so much.

His dream mind knows to turn away from the pulse of the neck, to ease back from the line of the jaw, even when his dream lips and dream tongue ache with the tastes denied.

The water buffalo decides to seek its midnight meal in another patch of mud, and it lumbers away. Its scent lingers.

Isn't it odd, Remus thinks, rubbing his forearms slowly. He lifts one bare foot to scratch the other ankle, concentrating on the soft brush of trousers against skin. Isn't it odd that in six months of dreams, six months of disembodied hands, six months of quick, confused awakenings, isn't it odd that I've never once seen his face.

He had expected to be plagued by nightmares. He'd expected screams and sobs and night-sweats and tremors and soul-gripping terror.

During the chaotic aftermath--long hours at the Ministry that stretched into days, a haze of questions, headaches and a thousand different stories from a thousand different faces--he never once thought, This can't be happening, this can't be real, this must be a dream.

Somebody--who was it? He can't remember--gently took his hand and said, I know it doesn't seem real, Remus, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.

And all he could reply was, What a peculiar thing to say.

He yawns and rubs his hand over his face. What a bloody stupid thing to say. Nothing has ever been more real, that he knows. He knows it so deeply that he doesn't even bother to dream about it. There is no need for dreams when every waking thought is focused on the same nightmare.

He doesn't need to see a face in his dreams, because that face spent weeks laughing maniacally on the front page of every newspaper in the wizarding world.

Remus yawns again. Tonight, the jungle is patently devoid of screaming women and sick monkeys. He guesses that sunrise is hours away, though his internal clock is still stuck somewhere over Persia. He pushes away from the doorframe and turns back to the claustrophobic little room. The geckos have rearranged themselves on the ceiling, their yin and yang disrupted. One of the beetles has joined them, lurking in the corner, probably a beetle sentinel, or maybe a lonely beetle outcast.

Remus whips the sheet up and shakes it, just in case, then runs his hand over the thin mattress. He lies face-up and pulls the sheet over his chest; it is too short and leaves his feet exposed, so he tugs it down. After a moment's contemplation he pulls it up again, reasoning that should the cockroach rejoin him--or one of its many friends, for surely none of them will suffer to be left out once the tale of the mad flailing Englishman spreads amongst the insect community--he would rather it creep across his bare feet or trouser-clad legs than across his arms or chest or face.

Closing his eyes, Remus wonders, Why did I have to think about it crawling on my face?

But he is soon asleep, despite the ghostly touches on his skin, and he does not dream.

* * *

Rakesh enters the bungalow with a quiet greeting and a saucer of tea. Remus wakes slowly, suffering several moments' confusion at the sight of the strange barren room and the young man talking over him. He sits up and lowers his feet to the floor, gratefully accepts the saucer and sips the sweet, spicy tea. By the brilliant sunshine in the doorway, Remus guesses that it is midmorning at best, perhaps closer to noon.

"The men are waiting to take you into the jungle," Rakesh says, when Remus shows no signs of putting on his shoes or standing up.

Remus nods and rubs his hand over his face, then sips the tea again.

"You want food?" Rakesh asks.

Remus nods again and manages a rough, "Yes, thank you." Then, as Rakesh is leaving, he says, more clearly, "Just a few minutes."

He pulls his travelling case onto the bed and thanks whatever prudent instinct led him to fasten it the night before. He rummages and finds socks and a light cotton shirt. While buttoning the shirt, he pauses for a moment to wonder where all the insects and geckos go during the day. Remus finds his shoes under the bed and shakes them out before putting them on. He slips his wand into his back pocket and leaves his shirt untucked to hide it from view. He feels shabby and rumpled, but he realises that even his worst clothes are still better than the very best of the villagers'.

He meets Rakesh walking around the side of the bungalow. Rakesh is carrying a rusty metal tray with some food on it and another saucer of tea, and he seems surprised that Remus is outside. Nonetheless he takes Remus back to his own house, and while Remus eats, the men of Pakhari gather around talking. Every few minutes Rakesh translates something for Remus, but none of it is terribly helpful; their ideas about the creature's habits are difficult to follow without any understanding of the local geography. All the same, Remus listens politely, quietly sipping his tea. He is relieved when Rakesh notices that he is finished and announces that it is time to go into the jungle.

Remus carries only his wand, a bottle of water on a cord slung over his shoulder and a handkerchief in his pocket. Professor Kettleburn's contact in Nainital, Mr. Chandrasekhar, claims with absolute certainty that it was no ordinary jungle carnivore, no tiger or leopard, nothing that could be felled by Muggle methods. Kettleburn suspects it is an occamy, a distant relative of the animal that had brought him to these same Himalayan foothills forty-odd years ago, but after hearing the villagers' descriptions Remus is unconvinced. He has never heard of an occamy that claims prey as large as buffalo. Whatever the creature, magic is the only weapon he knows how to use, yet Remus feels naked as the only man on their foray through the jungle without a machete, and he is careful to keep pace with Rakesh's long strides.

Three men from the village are walking with them, ahead of Rakesh in a tight, muttering group. Two of them, like Rakesh, are wearing long trousers, dirty faded t-shirts and smooth-soled leather shoes; the third man, the eldest, is wearing only a ragged length of cotton about his waist as a loincloth and chappal sandals on his feet. Some of the young boys from the village are trailing behind. Remus can feel their eyes on his back; he hears them chatting playfully and suspects that they are talking about him.

After ten minutes, Remus acknowledges that the jungle is seething with living things, most of whom are currently trying to bite their way through his skin. He swats ineffectually at the mosquitoes on his neck. Marvelling at Rakesh's apparent insensitivity to their constant swarming, Remus endeavours for a few moments to achieve the same Zen-like immunity, but he gives up almost immediately and resumes swatting.

He wonders if there is an anti-mosquito spell in his Fangworthy's Guide to Wizarding India, which he has not yet read, despite promising Professor Kettleburn before leaving England.

After twenty minutes, Remus believes he will never stop sweating. The men of the village are unaffected by the heat, and Remus is painfully self-conscious of the way his cotton shirt sticks to his back and beads of sweat trail down his face. They are climbing into the steep hills north of the village, and the air is rich with the smell of organic matter. The foliage is thick, though they appear to be following some sort of trail. Unfortunately, the shade provides little relief from the heat.

After one hour, the young boys have lost interest in the trek and return to Pakhari for more enjoyable pursuits. About the same time, it occurs to Remus for the very first time in his life--though he feels no particular joy or import at the occasion--that he has reason to be glad he is a werewolf. Werewolves do not get malaria. Werewolves do not get encephalitis. Werewolves do not get cholera, Giardia or any other waterborne disease that is the cause of much intestinal distress in travellers, wizard and Muggle alike. So when the men stop to drink from a spring that is bubbling from the hillside, Remus does not hesitate to do the same. He listens half-heartedly to Rakesh arguing with the other men, pointing in various directions, obviously trying to decide where to go next. Remus feels a moment of panic when he realises that he doesn't quite know where they are in relation to the village. He vows to pay better attention for the rest of the day.

He splashes some of the cool water over his head, running his fingers through his hair and enjoying the feel of the droplets falling down his back.

"The men disagree about which way to go," Rakesh tells him unnecessarily.

Remus nods politely and wipes his face with his handkerchief.

"They are worried that you are not asking questions."

This surprises Remus, as the village men, with the exception of Rakesh, seemed to have lost interest in his pale English reticence only minutes after meeting him the night before. Remus explains, "I'm trying to learn the lay of the land. I can't find the creature if I don't know its territory."

He does not say, If it's a magical creature we're looking for, wandering blindly about the jungle is unlikely to do any good. In truth, Remus has no plan for finding the kali vastu, and he thinks--for about the fiftieth time since leaving England--that he ought to have said, "No, thank you," to Professor Kettleburn, even if the reward offered by Mr. Chandrasekhar is appealing.

"The men have never met a hunter who does not carry weapons," Rakesh says, sounding both sheepish and desperate. It is obviously a concern he shares.

Remus curses inwardly. He wonders what weapons Kettleburn carried in the days when he still had two arms and a liking for chasing dangerous creatures around the globe. His mind forms a picture of Kettleburn outfitted in true Hemingway style, long rifle in hand, hat brim shading his face, boot resting imperiously a dead nundu.

Remus decides to carry a machete tomorrow. It seems to be the tool of choice for men in the jungle, and it does have a certain satisfying style. He says to Rakesh, "It has never attacked during the daylight."

"Darkness may come unexpected," is all Rakesh replies.

Two hours later, Remus begins to suspect that Rakesh is right. There is something very odd about this jungle.

The men don't feel it, of course; they have lived in Pakhari their entire lives, and they are Muggles. They find nothing peculiar in the fact that they stop every ten minutes to argue about which direction to turn, speak in loud raucous voices, flail their arms about and stand very close to one another.

Well, Remus admits to himself, the shouting and flailing and standing too close is probably cultural, and nothing to do with the fact that they're attempting to penetrate the borders of a heartwood.

As another dispute is settled and the men start walking again, Remus follows with a bit more energy in his step. They turn to travel along the hillside, rather than climbing further, following a faint trace of a path.

"Soon," Rakesh says, after a few moments, "you will see where the kali vastu first killed." Remus is slightly surprised by that pronouncement; he had understood, from Rakesh's spotty translations the night before, that the creature only killed near the village and road.

He says nothing, content to follow for now, peering into the jungle on either side with renewed interest.

Mr. Chandrasekhar in Nainital did not mention a heartwood; Remus wonders if he is even aware of it. There are few enough magical lands left in the world, and most of them are deteriorating, like the Forbidden Forest near Hogwarts. Enough magic remains to keep Muggles out, but wizards can wander in with little trouble. Little trouble attributable to the Forest itself, Remus amends. The Forest's inhabitants are another matter entirely. Yet there remains, deep in the Forbidden Forest, a region that even wizards cannot breach.

Half an hour later, the men enter a small clearing on the hillside. A tiny wooden hut is set against the trees, empty and crumbling.

"This is where a man lived. He was korhi," Rakesh says, wrinkling his brow in concentration. Remus shakes his head, not understanding. Rakesh tries again, "A sick man. A disease. He lived apart, not in the village."

"A leper?" Remus guesses.

Rakesh nods. "Yes, yes. Leper. Korhi. He was a sick old man, his daughter lives in Almora. He was the first. The women were collecting wood, down the hill," he points vaguely, "and they found his leg."

Remus doesn't reply; the men are looking at him expectantly. "Only his leg?" he asks after a moment, keeping his voice calm and emotionless.

"Torn off below the knee, with tooth marks," Rakesh adds. Then he speaks rapidly to the other men, and they launch into conversation, probably a vivid discussion of body parts discarded by the kali vastu.

Remus wanders over to the hut and peers inside; it is empty except for a clay bowl and straw mat on the floor. The tiny space is filled with the stench of decay and illness, and he holds his breath while examining the flimsy wooden walls and crooked doorway. He is now almost certain the creature is not an occamy, for those predators, even when old, injured, or desperate, are notoriously finicky about the health of their prey. There are no scratch marks or shattered boards in the hut, nothing to indicate the creature took the man from his miserable home. Remus imagines an old man, restless and unable to sleep, struggling up from his straw mat and hobbling into the moonlit clearing, wanting only a breath of fresh air and facing instead a sudden, terrifying crash in the bushes, a hot gasp on his neck--

Or perhaps not, Remus thinks. Perhaps the creature moves silently, its advantage in stealth rather than strength. No one alive knows its methods. All that remains of those who see it are stray parts.

There is nothing to see in the clearing, nothing to be found in the pitiful hut. The men are disappointed that Remus shares no grand insights, but he remains silent and they reluctantly start down the mountain, toward the village. Remus follows automatically, his mind only half-attentive to the route. The gentle magical pull of the heartwood does not lessen as they descend, and though they seem to be travelling in a straight line, it takes more than three hours for them to reach the valley floor. Remus turns and looks up at the hill; as he expected, it is in no way high enough or steep enough to account for the miles and hours they walked that day. Rakesh sees his frown and gives him a silent, solemn stare. Remus wonders if the villagers are not quite as oblivious to the heartwood as he suspected.

The main road to the village winds through intermittent fields and untouched stands of thick, shadowy jungle. As they pass, people come from the fields to ask about their day. By the time they reach the spot where the two boys were taken from the road, the number of men in the group has grown to ten, and each one of them is trying to force his own version of the story on Remus. Rakesh tells Remus that the boys' father found the bicycle at the edge of this deeply shaded grove and went into the forest to find his sons.

"But he did not find them that night, so in the morning the men of the village searched," Rakesh explains. "Much later in the day, one of the men found one boy's foot, and the other's head, not far from here."

The foot and head were cremated, just as the old leper's leg had been. Remus is vaguely relieved; he had been worried that the villages might insist he look at the remains. It's thoughtful of the kali vastu, Remus decides, to leave a bit of its victims behind.

The crowd of men disperses when they reach the village, and Rakesh takes Remus through the nearby farms and fields to show him where the livestock was taken.

"And you found only pieces," Remus guesses.

Rakesh nods. "Feet."

* * *

Remus discovers that it is harder than it looks to eat dal and roti without flatware, but he is careful to use only his right hand and finds the meal quite satisfying. After thanking Rakesh's mother, a pleasant, smiling woman with a yellow shawl that covers her hair but not her face, he returns to his bungalow in anticipation of a good night's sleep. He has taken a candle from Rakesh, though he has no intention of using it. He simply needs some way to explain the wandlight should anyone see it coming from his room.

He removes Fangworthy's Guide to Wizarding India from his case and settles onto the bed with the goal of learning a few rudimentary Hindi phrases. In typical British imperial style, Fergus Fangworthy assumes that everyone an intrepid wizard will encounter on the subcontinent speaks either English or Hindi; he affords no more than a single sentence to the nation's seventeen other official languages. Remus is seized by a momentary panic, worried that the conversation that has surrounded him for two days isn't actually Hindi, that he has no book to consult, no way to learn how to say "thank you" in--he scans Fangworthy's dismissive list--Punjabi or Urdu or Marathi. Flipping through the index he finds Nainital, the nearest town, and turns to page 139. Nainital is the lakeside jewel of the Kumaon region, in the Hindi-speaking territory of Uttar Pradesh.

"Well," Remus says, relieved. "That's good."

He returns to the back of the book, and carefully pronounces, "Namaste."

There is a flicker of moment at the edge of his vision. Remus looks quickly to the left, his shadow jumping wildly in the blue-white light. On the whitewashed wall near the floor a cockroach is edging its way toward the bed. Remus frowns at it. He glances at the curtain billowing gently in the doorway, glares at the cockroach, then looks at the book in his hands. He turns to Fangworthy's table of contents and scans the chapter titles.

"'Magical Aids for the Healthful, Comfortable Traveller,'" he reads. "Page 12." Beginning on page 12, Remus finds an extensive list of charms, potions and magical items with which a well-prepared traveller ought to familiarise himself before embarking on a journey to India. He reads a likely-looking section entitled "Cleanliness and Safety", and discovers Linumpurgaritus for questionable bedding, Cibus rancidus for suspicious food, and Mendicus repellere, which Remus thinks would have made his brief minutes in the New Delhi train station far less trying. He recalls the mob of children crowding around him, hands grasping at his pockets and voices pleading for change with a few precious English words: mister, please, thank you, mister; silent dull-eyed families living on filthy blankets between the tracks; women in vibrant saris--unnerving flashes of red, orange and blue--poised, elegant, exquisitely beautiful despite the gritty surroundings; businessmen in polyester and tweed, hurrying through the choking heat, cheap taped and tied-up cases held close to their sides; porters with orange sashes draped over their greasy hair, shouting belligerently and trying to wrench his own tattered travelling case from his hands.

Suppressing an indistinct feeling of guilt, Remus reads the description.

Mendicus repellere. Many English wizards have understandably found this charm indispensable when travelling in regions of extreme poverty, overpopulation or inefficient local law enforcement. It allows the traveller to move about the scenery and enjoy the sights without the danger and distractions brought on by unwanted interaction with unfortunate Muggles who can occasionally behave with exceptional impoliteness, disrespect and persistence toward foreigners.

Remus entertains a brief feeling of exceptional disrespect toward Fergus Fangworthy and flips a few pages further, reading only the section headings. His amused enthusiasm is gone. Now he is merely tired and wants the damn cockroaches to be gone so he can get some sleep.

Then, near the end of the chapter, he finds "Insects and Pests".

Plagatis. This simple charm is especially useful for wizards travelling in regions where quality accommodation may be difficult to obtain. It is also favoured by sensitive or squeamish witches who wish travel without continual encroachment on their person by the lesser native species. The charm will expel any pests, magical or otherwise, currently in the accommodation and prevent others from entering until the spell is ended by Finite Incantatem.

Remus pauses, not wishing to lump himself in with the lot of sensitive and squeamish witches. But he decides that it won't hurt to at least try, so he reads the casting instructions, mutters the incantation a few times under his breath, then stands up and points to one of the corners of the room. "Plagatis cubiculum!" There is a momentary shiver of air, but no other sign that the charm has begun to work. Remus turns to the next corner and repeats, "Plagatis cubiculum!" Again, the same whisper of motion, like a light breeze, but nothing more. He casts the charm in the other two corners, waits for the magical breeze to settle, then peers cautiously at the floor near the bed.

The cockroach is still there. It has been joined by a cricket.

Remus tries again, speaking the incantation clearly and firmly, hoping no curious villager is listening and wondering why the Englishman in the bungalow is talking to himself.

The cockroach remains unaffected. It crawls a bit across the floor, then stops.

Remus thinks, It really is a very large cockroach. He sits down on the bed to reread the description and notices that two dusty green lizards have scurried up the opposite wall.

A third attempt with the charm yields no better result, and Remus tosses Fangworthy at the floor near the cockroach, sending the insect scuttling under the bed. It's been years since he was unable to perform a simple charm on the second or third try. Remus scowls at the book, then turns to the lizards and says, "Fangworthy probably just invented that incantation, to reassure the squeamish squealing witches. If Lily were here--"

But she isn't.

One of the geckos darts up the wall and onto the ceiling.

Remus reaches down and retrieves the book from the floor. His tired muscles protest, and suddenly his skin is hot and uncomfortable, coated with the day's sweat and dust. His shirt is beige with dirt, and salty stains mark the collar and underarms. He stands up quickly and strips it off, then searches through his case for the towel he remembered to pack at the last minute. Grabbing his wand from where he's lodged it between the bed and wall, he mutters, "Nox," and hurries out of the bungalow.

There is a pump at one edge of the village, surrounded by a platform of stones. Remus walks toward it purposefully. Several villagers are still awake, leaning in doorways and crouched in groups of three or four, falling silent as he strides past. He can barely see them in the dark, but he feels their eyes follow him to the open area just beyond the houses, near the road. Remus seizes the rusty pump handle and wrenches it up and down, listening for the quiet glurg in the pipe as the water rises. As the water spouts out, Remus curses himself for not bringing soap but scrubs his shirt beneath the flow anyway. When the shirt is thoroughly drenched and wrung, he dampens one end of the towel and washes his hair and face, chest and arms, then, thanking the obscuring darkness, removes his shoes and trousers and washes the rest of himself, relishing the chill of the water.

He pats his skin with the dry end of the towel and pulls his trousers on, slips into his shoes, picks up the wet lump that is his shirt. He wrings it out again and walks back to the bungalow. Examining the barren room, he takes his wand from his pocket and says, "Lineo." A long strand of twine shoots out the end of his wand and fastens itself to the walls. He hangs the towel and shirt over the line, removes his shoes, shakes out the sheet and lays down.

In the dark, in the quiet, his breathing slows. The bedclothes are rough under his freshly-scrubbed skin.

There is a time and there is a place, Remus tells himself, for these thoughts. He moves his lips but makes no sound.

He spent weeks--months, even--at the mercy of his own mind. Tossing Floo powder into the fireplace and half-speaking, "Pet--" before choking on the word. Walking by the park and watching for a crimson stroller and a flash of long red hair. Stopping to look in toy shop windows and noting the cost of the charmed wooden blocks, imagining them clasped in little hands. Opening the door of the flat and reflexively looking for the black leather jacket on the hook. Reaching across the bed and waking with a start when his hand encountered cold linen rather than a warm sleeping body. Looking up from his reading when he heard a motorbike roar down the street. Leaving the Prophet on the kitchen table, open to the half-finished crossword.

He even Apparated to the edge of Hogsmeade once, on a Thursday night in January. He walked as far as the shop across from the Three Broomsticks and stood there, hands in his pockets, for a long time. Inside a man was celebrating his birthday; the warmth and sound spilled out of the pub and across the frozen street. Rosemerta's hearty chortle, the teases and taunts of the man's friends, the breaking of glass followed by a roar of laughter. Through the front window Remus could see four men gathered around the little corner table. One of them was sitting on his chair turned around, his elbows resting on the back. They were not with the birthday party, but they were laughing, joking and drinking together on a Thursday night in January. Two months, and the world had gone back to celebrating birthdays and Thursdays.

Remus returned to the edge of town and Apparated to London. He stood in the centre of the cold, dark flat and listened for footsteps, listened for a voice, waited for arms to circle his waist and a chin to rest on his shoulder. He waited for a minute, maybe two, but no longer. Then he wiped a tear off his cheek, hung his coat on the hook, went into the bedroom and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, until the sun began to rise.

Remus closes his eyes. His shirt is dripping steadily--drip, drip, drip--and he shivers slightly as a breeze stirs the curtain and caresses his skin.

There is a time and a place, Remus thinks, but tonight his muscles are tired, and in the morning there is a heartwood to search and a monster to find.