Man-eaters of Kumaon

Chapter 3

Her name was Lakshanya, seventeen years old, and she was the cause of much strife in her family. She wanted to go to university in Haryana to become an engineer; she hoped to design water projects for the Himalayan hill stations so the women wouldn't have to spend half each day carrying water on their heads. Her mother supported the plan, certain that she would find a wealthy Punjabi man to marry, but her father did not want his daughter so far from home. When she was attacked, she was defying her father, sneaking to entrust a neighbour with a letter to the university in Chandigarh.

All this Remus learns from Rakesh as the men of the village search the jungle. He knows they won't find anything, but he searches with them. He is certain they are angry with him for not killing the creature when he had the chance, although they seem quite impressed that he fought it and survived. As twilight nears, they return to Pakhari, Remus and Rakesh trailing behind the disappointed crowd.

"Your map," Rakesh says.

Remus waits.

"The kali vastu lives in the dark places the jungle." Rakesh pauses. "Places we do not go."

"I know," Remus tells him.

Remus does not know what Rakesh has told the villagers, but they seem satisfied that he is doing what he can. And however little it is, he is doing more than they can. For the next few days, he continues to map, and the heartwood begins to coalesce on the parchment. There are no patches of heartwood actually disconnected from the rest; these would surely wither and die. But the continuity of the forest is tenuous and strained, resembling a budding amoeba or an untamed horklump colony. Remus marks the attack locations and calculates how often the kali vastu needs to feed on human-sized prey. No more than every few weeks, he decides, and explains this to Rakesh two days before the full moon, while waiting in the village for Mr. Chandrasekhar's driver from Nainital.

"When you return from Nainital, you will go into the jungle?"

Remus hesitates. He is not entirely sure how to penetrate the border of the heartwood, and he certainly doesn't know how to kill the kali vastu. But he says, "Yes," and feels slightly guilty for the half-lie.

The driver arrives shortly after noon. His name is Salil, and he is driving one of the curiously-styled black vehicles that looks as if it's been lumbering around on Indian roads since the 1950s. He diligently wipes all the dust from the car with a dirty rag while Remus is fetching his case from the bungalow. As they drive away on the rutted track, Salil reveals that he is a wizard himself, and tells Remus in very rapid, very broken English that Mr. Chandrasekhar is an important man in the wizarding community, holding some official title that sounds, on Salil's galloping tongue, like "Second Half-Secretary of Mutative Presumptions". Remus spend a few moments wondering what sort of Presumptions would be considered Mutative, then remembers that he is in an Indian car, with an Indian driver, on a narrow, winding Indian road, and concentrates on his plan of escape should the driver's chatter inadvertently cause a plunge into the ravine.

Remus holds his breath for about an hour, eyeing the signs painted on the road-cuts with trepidation: Better to arrive late than dead! He wonders if the Hindi lettering says the same thing, or if loosely translated road signs are just another aspect of the Indian experience that Fangworthy neglected to mention. But as they descend into Nainital, Remus admits that Fangworthy wasn't entirely exaggerating his praise of the "jewel of Kumaon". The town is a collection of pretty, colourful buildings climbing the hills around a large green lake. From the road, Remus can see a lakeside promenade crowded with tourists.

Salil explains, in his stumbling rapid-fire English, that the lake is called Naina Tal because it is believed to be one of the emerald green eyes of Sati, Shiva's wife. Intrigued, Remus asks how her eye came to rest in the Himalayan foothills.

Salil enthusiastically tells the story of how Sati immolated herself at Haridwar because her family offended Shiva, and Shiva took her charred remains in his many arms and began a wild, grief-stricken dance that threatened to destroy the world. To stop the dance and save the world, Vishnu took the body from Shiva and chopped it up, scattering the remains across India.

Remus does not ask where her second eye landed, or any of the other pieces.

Salil turns away from the main road before they reach the heart of town. A narrow lane leads to a tall iron gate; he stops the car and jumps out to open the gate, then stops again and jumps out to close it after he has driven through. "Mr. Chandrasekhar's estate," he says. The lane curves up the hillside toward a two-story yellow Colonial house fronted by ragged flowering bushes and cracked cement steps.

"Mr. Chandrasekhar is away until this evening," Salil says, taking Remus' case and leading him inside. The entrance hall is cool and dim. Its high ceiling and elaborate woodwork paint a picture of grandeur, but the effect is ruined by the water-stained plaster, blistering wallpaper and crooked staircase. Salil shows Remus to the second floor and into an uncomfortably hot room with lurid yellow walls. "The WC is here," he points to a closed door across the hall. "Please, if you need anything, tell me or Alok in the kitchen. Mr. Chandrasekhar will be back for supper. Eight o'clock. You would like tea? Perhaps you wish to walk to the lake?"

Remus nods thoughtfully. He feels the same edgy restlessness that always accompanies the approach of the full moon and decides a long walk will definitely help. Remus washes his hands and face while Salil brings tea and some dry chocolate biscuits.

Standing at one of the windows, Remus sips the tea and watches the light play through the leaves. He tries to see it as a thing of beauty, tries to appreciate the wide bed and hot tea and running water, but a sick, squirming sensation is growing in his gut. This is no holiday. This is the day before the full moon, and already his skin feels tight and itchy, as if it doesn't quite fit.

The teacup rattles in its saucer as Remus sets it down. He wrenches two of the windows open, cracking a layer of paint that has sealed them shut for uncounted years and hopes a cross-breeze will clear the stifling air by the time he returns. He hurries down the steps and out of the house.

Remus walks briskly and reaches the lakeshore in less than half an hour. He forces himself to slow down, to watch the strolling families and enthusiastic vendors, to enjoy the view of the boats on the water. He is amused by the impressive wooden "Nainital Yacht Club" on the lakeshore and briefly wonders what stubborn Englishman succeeded in starting a yacht club in the Himalayan foothills.

Soon his amusement fades, though, and he finds himself standing at the edge of the promenade, hands in tight fists in his pockets. From here, so close to the water, the lake in no way resembles an eye. Yet he thinks of charred, green-eyed Sati lying beneath the land and gazing upward at the flawless blue sky as children scramble all about her, shrieking in Hindi and disregarding their parents' pleas to stay away from the water.

He tries to ignore the children's shouts. It is ridiculous, he tells himself firmly, to be this anxious a full thirty hours before the moon rises. There is no need for the tension in his neck or the soreness in his jaw that comes from clenching his teeth while he paces the promenade.

A painful knot grows in his chest and he is overcome by the sudden, suffocating desire to be laying on the sofa in the London flat, his head resting in a familiar lap, eyes closed against the afternoon sunlight, half-listening to murmured assurances and funny, distracting stories, enjoying the sensation of one strong hand resting possessively on his waist, the other combing gently through his hair.

Remus rubs a hand over his face, taking in a long, slow breath. The pain in his chest does not recede, but it shifts, as he exhales, into white-hot anger at his own traitorous instincts.

Six months have shown him that he cannot control his memories; he cannot rein in his emotions this close to the full moon. Yet he tries, and he will continue to try, he promises himself, until the hands, whispers and laughter fade, until the memories are pale and vague, easily pushed aside.

Remus turns decisively away from the lakefront and strides through the narrow, crowded streets of Nainital. He scowls at the squalor tucked into every shaded alley, the quiet resentment in every shopkeeper's imploring smile. From within, the hill station's lustre has faded. He walks until the heat and humidity are lead weights on his shoulders. As the sun is setting, he returns to Mr. Chandrasekhar's estate, relishing the pain in his moon-tight muscles and walking recklessly in the roadway, trusting the mad Indian drivers to either swerve or recognise a viable target when they see one. The gate screeches as he pulls it open and a sharp edge catches the palm of his left hand. Closing the gate and licking away the spot of blood, he walks slowly up to the house, his manic energy draining away as if someone has pulled the stop.

It is not yet eight o'clock, so he climbs up to his room without pause. The open windows have helped, and the air inside is fresh at least, if still unreasonably hot for May. Remus shuts the door and collapses face-down on the bed. The duvet smells like dust and mould. He turns his head to the side and concentrates on breathing very, very slowly. On the wall beside the window is one of those garish prints of some blue-skinned deity with too many arms and a large, misshapen head. Remus decides that the Hindu icons are surely the ugliest godly representations in the world. His fist tightens around the edge of the blanket, and he shuts his eyes. The nauseating yellow walls are replaced by a shadowy, raging vision of Shiva dancing to destroy the world in his grief.

* * *

A quiet knock wakes Remus some time later. He is alert and upright in an instant, heart racing, gripping his wand and gaping stupidly at the unfamiliar room. Salil's quiet voice announces, through the door, that Mr. Chandrasekhar has returned and supper will be served in ten minutes. Does Mr. Lupin care to wash before coming down?

Remus mumbles an affirmative reply, shoving his wand back into his pocket and holding a trembling hand before his face. It has been months since he last awoke like that, leaping from the bed in full expectation of Death Eaters blasting through the door. Taking in a slow breath, he is still for a moment, until his limbs feel less like tight-strung wire and more like flesh and bone. With a frown he pulls at his shirt, damp with sweat, and goes through his case for a clean one before washing up and going down to supper.

Mr. Chandrasekhar is already seated at the massive, ornate dining room table, a spread of dishes before him. He stands when Remus enters, several inches shorter than Remus and wearing a suit--a fine suit, by Indian standards--with a silk tie. He smiles broadly and takes Remus' hand in his own. "Mr. Lupin, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I trust the drive from Pakhari was enjoyable?"

Remus returns the smile and takes the chair Mr. Chandrasekhar indicates. "Quite enjoyable," he lies with no compunction. He considers his next words carefully. Remus has long ago learned that most people prefer him to stammer, apologise or pretend he doesn't know what lycanthropy is all about; guarded euphemisms are all they can handle. But Remus has long since given up caring about what most people prefer, so he adds, "I must thank you for making these arrangements. There is no safe place in the village for me to spend the full moon."

He watches his host's reaction.

Mr. Chandrasekhar continues to smile and sits at the head of the table. "Please, please, do not mention it. Professor Kettleburn is a very good friend, a very old friend, and he speaks highly of you. Did you know, we were students together at the G.B. Goodwing Institute in Leeds? Please," he motions to the food, "help yourself."

Remus spoons some raita onto his plate as Mr. Chandrasekhar pours the tea. It is, Remus notes, plain black tea, not the milky-sweet spiced chai he has grown used to in the village. "I didn't know you were schooled in England."

"Oh, yes. And many years later, Kentworth--Professor Kettleburn--came here, to Uttar Pradesh."

"The occamy."

Chuckling, Mr. Chandrasekhar passes a plate of chapati to Remus. "The occamy, and my beautiful sister, yes. Alas, she had already married a rich man--a banker with Gringotts India, in Lucknow--and Kent went back to England with the trophy only, not the wife."

Remus is interested in this bit of gossip about his former professor and presses Mr. Chandrasekhar for more details. The conversation evolves comfortably, Mr. Chandrasekhar expressing the appropriate shock and regret at Remus' graphic account of the class in which Kettleburn lost his right leg, while Remus learns a great deal about the wizarding community of India.

"We are not organised," Mr. Chandrasekhar admits, shaking his head. Remus cannot stifle a small laugh. "Ah, yes, you passed through the Ministry offices in Delhi? The very worst of Indian bureaucracy concentrated into one small building. There are many, many powerful wizards in India, but we do not share our gifts, we do not teach our children the skills they need. A young person wishing to learn anything beyond simple charms for cutting grass or drawing water must leave, as I did, and go to France, England or America to learn. Then he returns to the hills officially tainted by western influence."

Remus makes a small sound of regret and is silent while he considers how to broach the next subject.

But Chandrasekhar does it for him. "Tell me, how goes the hunt in Pakhari?"

Rather than answering, Remus asks, "Do you know of the heartwood?"

Chandrasekhar raises his eyebrows in surprise, but answers, "Yes, I do."

"The kali vastu--the creature--lives in the heartwood."

With a sigh, Mr. Chandrasekhar admits, "I suspected as much. I did not write to Kent of my suspicion for fear he would not heed my plea." To Remus this seems a rather thin excuse, but he says nothing and Chandrasekhar continues, "There is an old story told among the wizards of India that the heartwoods once encompassed the whole of the Himalaya--an exaggeration, of course, but even so, there is very little heartwood left in India. The jungle near Pakhari is one of many small, dying bits. It must be difficult to track the kali vastu through the heartwood."

"To tell you the truth," Remus says, "I haven't been able to penetrate the border yet. I've been mapping the boundaries."

"Mapping a heartwood? That is quite a task. Kent did not tell me you have talent in magical cartography."

"It's more of a hobby, really." Remus sips his tea, then adds, "But until I can identify the creature and enter the heartwood, the best I can do is warn the villagers which parts of the jungle to avoid after dark. I hope Professor Kettleburn told you that I am not a hunter."

"He says you are a young man with a gift for magical beasts."

"Being one myself."

Chandrasekhar laughs. "Yes, yes. Though you should be careful with whom you share that information. In India, as in England, werewolves are not welcomed at many tables. Pagalcandrami is the word the Indian wizards use, a slang corruption from the Hindi, meaning roughly 'mad man of the moon'."

"Yet here I am," Remus points out, "at your table."

There is a silence while Chandrasekhar refills the teacups. "You have seen the Ministry in Delhi," he begins. "Did you see the pamphlets? There are piles and piles of pamphlets: restrictions on travel, on charmwork, laws against importing magical texts, tariffs on simple potions ingredients. Do you know why we have so many laws?"

Remus shakes his head.

"What do you know of Indian history?"

Remus admits, sheepishly, "Very little."

"You know about Partition?"

"That I do know."

"It was much worse for the Muggles, of course--Muggles will use their religion to make every conflict worse--but for many centuries, the largest population of wizards in India was in Kashmir. They were very powerful wizards, a learned and ancient sect, but so removed from the world they became unwise in the ways of politics. When they found themselves caught between two nations at war, they reacted very badly and attempted to end the Muggle conflict using magical means."

Remus blinks. "I've never heard that."

"Their attempts were short-lived and disastrous," Chandrasekhar explains. "And largely ignored by the Muggles, who were too busy fleeing, fighting and burning one another to death on trains to notice the magic. But the Kashmiri wizards did succeed in throwing the wizarding population of India into disarray--even more so than the abrupt separation from the British Ministry of Magic had--and I'm afraid the only solution we found was to restrict and regulate, to monitor and disallow anything that might lead to another Kashmiri tragedy." Chandrasekhar pauses. "There are very few wizards in Kashmir now. The old ones have all left; the few that survived Partition relocated to Tibet. The sect is in Lhasa, slowly dying. The young men who remain in Kashmir are a troubled group with very strong ideas about the place of wizards in this world."

Remus is silent.

"I am sorry," Chandrasekhar says suddenly, and he seems truly abashed. "I have spoken carelessly, with wizarding Britain still recovering from its own troubles. Kent tells me you were among those who fought this Dark Wizard--what was his name?"

"Voldemort," Remus says quietly.

Chandrasekhar does not flinch or cringe or shudder at the same, and Remus feels the absurd desire to thank him for that lack of reaction. "Yes. And here I am, rambling like an old man about problems of the past. I beg your pardon."

"There's no need to apologise. But," Remus says, "you did not explain why you invited a--what was the word? Pagalcandrami--into your home." He attempts a smile, though it feels more like a grimace.

Chandrasekhar smiles, too, a bit sadly. "It is no great mystery. It is my small way of allowing the magic to return to India. For you are a magical creature, even if most would call you cursed."

Oddly pleased by Chandrasekhar's frank words, Remus finds himself truly smiling. He does not remember the last time--if there ever was a time--when somebody referred to him simply as a "magical creature", rather than "Dark Creature", "beast", or "monster".

"Well, I appreciate your hospitality, whatever your reasons," he says.

Chandrasekhar makes a dismissive gesture. "I should very much like to see this map of yours--when you are finished?" He glances at Remus' plate, which has several spoonfuls of uneaten rice. Remus finishes quickly then hurries upstairs to retrieve the map, feeling contentment settle over him at the prospect of an evening spent discussing magic with Mr. Chandrasekhar. His earlier anxiety, his anger at himself and the approaching moon, disgust with the crumbling old house and crowded hill town, have all faded, and he chides himself for succumbing to mere homesickness in so welcoming and friendly a household. He collects the map and finds Mr. Chandrasekhar with a fresh pot of tea in a book-lined study, the room warmly lit by candles and sconces.

"Let us see then," Chandrasekhar says, as Remus spreads the map on a wide wooden table. "Ah. Why, this is quite wonderful! An impressive bit of magic."

Remus grins at the compliment.

"Where did you learn to do this?"

His grin fades a bit. "In school, some friends and I...took an interest."

"Ah." Chandrasekhar looks at him steadily for a moment but does not pursue it. "So, tell me, what have you learned about the kali vastu?"

Remus fills him in quickly on the most recent developments, including the death of the young woman a few days ago. Chandrasekhar purses his lips at this information and shakes his head. "You saw the creature?" he asks.

"Yes. And I've been meaning to ask, is there a chance--are there lethifolds in India? I have never heard of one to act so boldly or to leave parts behind, but it looked a bit like what I've always imagined a lethifold would."

Chandrasekhar replies, "Yes, in India, but not in Uttar Pradesh. Only in the west and south--Kerala, Goa, Karnataka, there are abundant lethifolds in those places, and a rash of incidents about twenty years ago in Madras. There was one report, highly suspect, from the Terai, many years ago. But most believe the lethifold prefers lower elevations."

Nodding, Remus agrees. "That's what I've read. Though it may be related, somehow. It seems to be immune to certain magic. I tried to Stun it and to catch it in a Laqueus snare, but neither of those worked."

"You could not use magic against it?" Chandrasekhar asks, frowning.

Remus hesitates. "The Bleeding Curse affected it," he admits after a moment. When Chandrasekhar does not voice disapproval at using so violent a curse, Remus asks, "Have you ever heard of anything like this, the kali vastu, before?"

"No, never," Chandrasekhar says, as Remus expects him to. Chandrasekhar's letter to Kettleburn had suggested as much; after eliminating tigers, leopards, uncharacteristically hostile Himalayan bears and most magical predators, very few options remain.

"But." He stops, sips his tea. Remus waits. "I had hoped the creature was not part of the heartwood," Chandrasekhar adds, finally. "The heartwoods of the Himalaya are stubborn and powerful."

He seems to be leading up to something, so Remus does not reply.

"I have a friend in Haridwar, an old man, a very powerful wizard. He did not go to Lhasa with the rest of the Kashmiri sect. He has studied the heartwoods some, and he may be able to help. I believe he is in Dharamsala for another week or two, but he will return to Haridwar soon. In his library he has Montmorency Maxwell's Indian journals, the originals, not the heavily abridged copies that one can find in bookshops in England. Maxwell is perhaps the only scholar who studied the heartwood in any depth, and my friend Matsyamohandra has continued the work, a bit."

The name tugs at Remus' memory, and he asks, "Not the same Maxwell who wrote A Brief Guide to the Animagus Transfiguration?"

"Indeed it is," Chandrasekhar confirms. "He spent his last fifty years or so in India, mainly Calcutta. Many of his later experiments were conducted in the Himalaya. You have an interest in advanced transfiguration?"

"A theoretical interest only. I've never been very talented with transfiguration," Remus says quickly. "But, this friend of yours," he continues, eager to change the subject, "he has studied the heartwoods?"

"Indeed. Perhaps you would like to speak with him?"

"I would love to."

"I will contact him and arrange for you to go to Haridwar. Have you been? No? It is a very powerful place. Even the Muggles know this; the Hindus consider it one of their most holy cities. If you bathe in Ganga on the sacred ghats, all of your sins will be washed away." Chandrasekhar appears to be amused by this belief. "But it is a very important city for wizards as well. You will enjoy visiting, and my friend Matsyamohandra will welcome you."

They speak for some time longer, then Chandrasekhar offers to take Remus outside to see the small building in which he'll spend the following night. They go by torchlight into the forest behind the house, which is alive with the night sounds Remus has grown accustomed to. There is a low wooden building set some distance through the trees, with a single door and no windows. "Before the Muggles brought electricity," Chandrasekhar explains, pushing the door open, "the man who lived here, an Englishman, used this as an icehouse in the summer." The walls are thick and sturdy, and Chandrasekhar assures Remus it can be magically warded and silenced. He waits for Remus to nod his approval before shutting the door and gesturing back to the house. As they walk, he says, "I do have some books in my library, historical books, some of which may make mention of the heartwood. You are welcome to them, tomorrow."

Remus thanks him and bids him good night.

* * *

Salil brings tea and toast to Remus' room in the morning, which Remus accepts gratefully despite the low-grade nausea that always troubles him the day of the full moon. It is still quite early, so after shaving and dressing he walks into Nainital to stand on the promenade for a few minutes, watching the vendors set up their carts and spread cheap religious icons and strange plastic Muggle items on blankets. But he doesn't linger; he returns to Chandrasekhar's house and finds a stack of dusty books in the study. The kitchen boy, Alok, sets a fresh pot of tea on the table, and Remus begins to read. He makes a few notes but finds, for the most part, information about the heartwoods in India is much the same as it is in England: limited to a few dismissive, offhand comments about the "great mystery in the jungle" or "the dark places of the hills". Around noon, Remus refuses Alok's offer of lunch and returns to his bedroom to rest. He falls asleep with the Corbett paperback on his chest.

Tense muscles and crawling skin wake him a few hours later. It is mid-afternoon and the heat of the day is unforgiving. Remus takes his book to the veranda in the back of the house to escape the airless bedroom. He pulls a chair into the shade and sits down to read, steadfastly ignoring the growing discomfort in his muscles and the prickling sensation that has, since the age of five, made him imagine thick, rough fur straining to break through the surface of his skin. For several months as a boy he refused to go to the Muggle school on the days leading up to the full moon, even when he otherwise felt fine, for fear that the wolf's coat would erupt through his skin and his secret would be revealed.

Alok comes out to ask if Remus would like some tea, and he accepts, reflecting that however compulsive the British may be about their tea, they have nothing on the Indians. He opens the book to his marked page and begins to read.

Few of us, I imagine, have escaped that worst of all nightmares in which, while our limbs and vocal cords are paralysed with fear, some terrible beast in monstrous form approaches to destroy us; the nightmare from which, sweating fear in every pore, we waken with a cry of thankfulness to Heaven that it was only a dream.

Remus looks up, into the deep green of the jungle. In the distance, lit by a shaft of sunlight, there is a cluster of white orchids in full bloom. He knows how the passage will end. The girl on the cliff cannot escape; she can only watch in mute fear as the tiger stalks along the narrow stone ledge, a hungry grin on its magnificent face.

How strange, Remus thinks, that his greatest worry had once been the humiliating laughter of his Muggle schoolmates should they discover the fur crawling, live as worms, beneath his skin. The fear came later because they told him it must. His parents, the Healers, the books he read by torchlight when he was supposed to be sleeping, the gleeful shrieks of terror as a Gryffindor fourth year pretended to be a slavering werewolf, chasing laughing girls through the common room, oblivious to the scrawny, trembling, pale-faced first year hiding behind his Astronomy chart in the corner -- every one of them told him the same thing: we fear you, and you must therefore fear yourself.

So he had, and his fear became a living, pulsing black terror that grew and stretched to fill every corner of his mind.

Until, at some point, Remus began to approach the transformations with a calm that his parents and friends found decidedly eerie. The full moon became the tiger creeping along on the cliff. There is only so much one can dread the inevitable.

Remus goes into the old icehouse well before the sun sets, for Chandrasekhar's peace of mind as much as his own. Chandrasekhar seals the building magically, says something reassuring and meaningless, then casts an Imperturbable Charm, and the familiar sounds of the jungle vanish.

The silence is disconcerting. India, Remus has learned, is never silent. The jungle is always alive with noise: insects and birds, deer and pigs and monkeys, villagers calling across the valley, the rhythmic chopping of grass, the lumbering gait of the buffalo. He has grown used to these sounds and learned to listen for them as he walks the edges of the heartwood; he is comforted by their unfailing presence. But Chandrasekhar's charm is effective, and Remus strains for several minutes to hear anything beyond his own quickened breath before finally focusing on an almost imperceptible scratching in one corner: a beetle burrowing in the dirt.

Almost as bad as the heavy silence is the heat. Remus removes his clothes, folding them neatly in a corner--not the beetle's corner, for he has no wish to disturb its industry--and settles back on the dirt, staring at the splinters of sunlight coming through the roof. He is aware of the thin film of sweat over his body, so he thinks about the coldest he has ever been. Lying in wait outside a January meeting of suspected Death Eaters in Inverness. Sprinting from the Hogwarts lake to the castle, drenched and nearly hypothermic after the splashy conclusion of a snowball fight that landed four boys in the infirmary, laid up for two days with fevers and hacking coughs. Waking up to the brush of frosted grass on his cheek, naked and lost in the Forbidden Forest after one of their early full moon excursions, before stag and dog had learned to control the wolf. Vividly he remembers the rush of fear at the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by relief as a centaur stepped into the clearing and looked down at him with an expression of bemused curiosity. That was when he first learned about the remnant heartwood in the centre of the Forbidden Forest; the centaur spoke of dark places in the wood where the creatures do not go, where time and space were bent and unstable. Shivering and hugging himself awkwardly while the centaur rambled, Remus inched sideways into a patch of weak sunlight that broke through the trees and tried to think of polite way to extract his cold, naked self from the conversation. The centaur was startled and Remus nearly shouted with joy when they heard a voice calling, "Moony! Moony, where the hell are you? Remus!" accompanied by the racket of long teenage limbs crashing through the trees. A relieved face appeared from a behind a tree, black hair damp with perspiration, breath a puff of smoke on the November dawn. "There you are! Christ. Bloody hell, you gave us a scare." A warm cloak was placed around his shoulders, and Remus could barely speak for his chattering teeth. He hobbled painfully out of the clearing on bloodied, half-frozen feet, glancing back to see that the centaur had vanished into the gold-lit wood. He stumbled and a long arm caught him around the waist, holding him up. "Fuck, mate, don't ever do that again. Ever. Spent the whole night--Merlin, just don't do it again, okay?" He promised. He tried.

They learned, eventually, that he had no control.

Lying on the dirt floor in the abandoned icehouse, Remus examines his memory and ponders the peculiar cowardice of the human mind. It wasn't James who found him in the forest that morning, though he struggles in vain to place James' face in that frozen winter sunrise. There were other times, other mornings, when it was James or Peter who helped him back to the Shack. But not that November morning. His feet had ached for days afterwards and a shadow of guilt tugged his mind--what if I had run into Hogsmeade?--but it wasn't a bad morning. There is nothing about the shivering, stumbling walk back through the forest that deserves to be twisted and wronged and made untruthful in his memory.

Nothing except the face.

Remus closes his eyes, listens to the steadily burrowing beetle in the corner, and waits for moonrise.

* * *

His mother is singing. Part of him--in a deep hidden corner, a fierce red glow of instinct--tries to take the words and change them, swallow them into his gut and stretch his neck in reply and howl. But his throat, when he tries to answer, manages only a rough pathetic bleat. A cool hand soothes the hair back from his eyes. She stops singing but it's not his mother anymore, though still a woman, saying, "Now you know what happens when you mix too much boomslang skin into the Daft Draft, I trust you won't do it again, Mr. Gudgeon?" There is a warm weight against his right arm. He tries to shift it but his concentration is broken by the press of warm gentle kisses down the line of his jaw, and then there are long slow strokes of a canine tongue on his shoulder. He raises a hand to push the dog away, protesting with a mumbled, "Mmmph."

"Mr. Lupin, are you awake?"

Mister Loop-in. Remus opens his eyes. Salil is crouched beside him in that seemingly painless flat-footed squat that all Indians can manage, rinsing a wet rag in a basin of water. Remus is on his side; he tries to roll over and finds that his back is against the rough wooden wall of the icehouse. Closing his eyes again, he permits himself one soft groan, then takes in a deep breath and sits up.

"Thank you," he says, looking around confusedly for his clothes. He is curiously unembarrassed to be naked, dirty and bleeding before Salil's candid gaze. Nothing like a few weeks of bathing at an outdoor pump in full view of the village to cure his shyness, he thinks. Salil hands over his trousers and shirt, and Remus notices the sunlight shining through the open door. He remembers transforming back at sunrise, bewildered and fascinated by the plethora of new scents indelibly etched into his wolf-mind. His fingers ache, and his nails are filthy and torn. To his surprise, he remembers clawing at the wooden walls when the moon first rose and later trying to dig underneath when he caught the scent of some animal outside. Ordinarily, his full moon memories are fleeting, snippets of scenes and sensations that he can piece together, with great concentration, to form a vague dream-like recollection of the night. But this morning his memories are lucid and strong.

Remus rests on the dirt for a moment after pulling his trousers on, and Salil begins dabbing at his shoulder with the rag. "No, please," Remus says, wincing. "I can clean it with magic. Inside." Salil's eyes widen with understanding, and Remus realises just how true Chandrasekhar's words were the night before regarding the state of magical education in India. But for now, he wants to get off the ground and into the soft bed, so he struggles to his feet and allows Salil to help him into the house. Alok brings tea while Remus is investigating his injuries and performing the familiar healing charms, and Remus drinks only half a cup before falling asleep again.