Once a Wolf

Canto Two: The Plain of Burning Sand
Section 1

"About his lips, the gather'd foam he churns,
And, breathing slaughters, still with rage he burns,
But on the bleating Flock, his fury turns.
His Mantle, now his Hide, with rugged hairs
Cleaves to his back, a famish'd face he bears.
His arms descend, his shoulders sink away,
To multiply his legs for chase of Prey.
He grows a Wolf, his hoariness remains,
And the same rage in the other Members reigns.
His eyes still sparkle in a narr'wer space;
His jaws retain the grin, and violence of face."

--"Metamorphoses"
Ovid

Chapter 5

"It is ironic that current Wizarding society forces werewolves to live as savages or paupers because the first werewolf had been a king," Julien Charlebois informed the small classroom of lycanthropic children who clung to his every word. "His name was Lycaon and his father Pelasgus was the first man to settle on the island of Arcadia, thus becoming a tale of creation for future islanders. Being that his direct parentage was to Mother Earth, the Arcadians elevated Pelasgus to demi-god status.

"Lycaon was a proud man full of conceit and took full advantage of the demi-god status he shared with his father. He built the namesake city of Lycosura on Mt Lycaeus to establish his longing for power and eternal recognition. He had the bold audacity to tax a derisive version of his own name as a surname to Zeus. The god was then forward known as Lycaean Zeus. However, Lycaon's most notorious accomplishment not only angered the great Zeus but damned us werewolves in the eyes of the world. The king desired to prove to Zeus that the god was not superior to him. He invited Zeus to a banquet where the flesh of a human infant was served in defiance."

This information elicited gasps from a handfull of the younger pupils as it always did for each new class and Charlebois felt guilty for it, as he always did. Nevertheless, they needed to discover the provenience of what was their werewolf inheritance.

"Unwittingly, Zeus consumed some of the babe's flesh. Furious when the insidious deed was reveilled to him, Zeus punished Lycaon for his behaviour by transforming him and his sons into ravening wolves for a nine year period. Gracious god that Zeus was, he gave Lycaon an opportunity to reverse his wolven form: they would turn human once more after those nine years if they abstained form tasting human flesh within that time.

"This curse of lycanthropy was inherited by Lycaon's sons through each generation and not all of them met the requirement to revert back into human form. These wayward sons of Lycaon evolved into the werewolves of today. Mt Lycaeus is now known as Diaphorti or Mt St Elias. This location has become a summit of mystery and fear, for any one foolish enough to dare enter the precinct of Lycaean Zeus shall perish within a year. It is also said that shadows cannot be cast inside the parametres of this hallowed ground.

"Yet while the Wizarding world condemns us, this part of the Muggle world worships us. A cult of Lycaon exists to this very day, a Muggle-based group who believes Lycaon to be a dark extension of Zeus himself. This group of devout followers makes human sacrificial tributes to Lycaon, supposedly transforming into wolves themselves, and the officiating priest wears a wolf skin during the ritual."

A boy of nine years of age sitting near the front of class sheepishly raised his hand. Charlebois recognised the boy as Aaron Talbot, a pup brought back after the last full moon by the Seek and Vindicate Expedition (S.A.V.E.) Rescue Faction when they did their post-full moon routine comb of the forest for the newly bitten, particularly children left by ignorant parents. This class was held for all new pups just before they received their insignias representing their new society. He nodded in the boy's direction and called his name in address.

"My daddy wouldn't let me touch my mummy after the doggie bit me," he said meekly. "I tried to hug her but he pushed me away. They ran into the house but they wouldn't let me in."

Charlebois' heart wrenched at the child's anecdote. It was his duty as Alpha to protect the new pups. No-one would bother with them if he didn't enfold them in his protective embrace. He stooped down to Aaron's eye level then placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"You no longer need to worry, Aaron. Your place is with us now and you will never be locked out of your home again."

He nodded his guarantee to the boy who gave him a slight smile. Charlebois rose to his full height then offered the same paternal consolation to the others.

"I assure you, children," he began, "I tell you these stories about Lycaon because it is important that you understand them. Now that you are all werewolves, it is imperative that you learn your new history and know the truth of what you've become. Most of everything you know is false: fairy tales or exaggerated lies.

"For example: your lives did not end the instant you were bitten. Instead, you stumbled upon a miraculous rebirth. Your lycanthropy may beleaguer you at times but you must look beyond the lies you've been told. Look at your lycanthropy not as a curse but as a gift. Just as the world now views you in a new light, you too view it in a different light. All of us deserve better treatment than what we receive. Never forget that." He offered them another warm smile before his eyes caught Constantin Korzha at the rear of the room. Then he told the class: "You are dismissed."

Chairs scuffled against the floor and muttered conversations buzzed the room as the children left to rejoin their foster parents throughout the village. As they exited, Charlebois sat upon the battered teacher's desk and awaited Korzha's approach as the other werewolf made his way through the throng of orphans.

"Touching lesson," the Rumanian remarked smartly.

"Someone must teach the new pups that they are not the nemeses of society," Charlebois told. "Nascence of lycanthropy and of werewolves as a people must be corrected first at home before it has hope of correction elsewhere."

"And you believe these tabula rasa whelps will be the start of a new revolution?"

"Unfortunately they are not pristine as you think. They've been tainted by society to believe the slander Ministry officials spew and must learn differently."

"These woebegone brats are worthless, Julien. We are the present, not them. Your attentions should be focused on us and our work in the here and now. Leave the whelps on the back burner untill we are in control."

"You ask me to turn my back to the future? I think not, Constantin. The children are our future, they must be taught right for they will carry over the work of the present."

Korzha's smarmy expression made Charlebois want to strike him as much as Korzha desired to hit Wedgewood. With each passing day Korzha encroached into Charlebois' Alpha-Male position and though Julien was a thirty-nine-year-old man, his years as a wolf were long in the tooth. He would be unable to defend his rule for much longer, something he feared immensely.

Once Korzha gained Alpha-Male status he would undoubtedly become a despot to the village and subsequently to the Wizarding world. His impolitic antics would spoil the hard work Charlebois lived to accomplish and a hefty vengeance would be exacted upon those who crossed him. There would be hell to pay with Constantin Korzha's fanged tyranny and Charlebois, who would be the first to go, would eventually be powerless to prevent it.

"Your way is not the right way, Julien," the young werewolf snarled. "Your way will make us obsequious lap dogs for the Ministry."

"And what do you propose we do, Constantin?" Charlebois riposted, calm in the face of the adversity.

"Vorbeşti căcat, Julien! Words are meaningless to those people! They only know action and unrest. The rubric of their society must be felled by force, not reason. Return their injustice with violence to teach them we cannot be bullied. Thick as they are it will take a while for them to understand this but once we acquire enough strength we will decimate them from the inside out."

"How do you expect to put these plans into action, my friend?"

"As I said: from the inside out. It would be difficult for them to hoise their wicked pride on the flag pole of hypocrisy."

Korzha's implication began to dawn onto a horrified Julien.

"Surely you don't mean..."

"Will a Ministry official issue laws against a community of people he himself belongs to?" Korzha clarified brusquely. "Put them in our place and see if they will be so eager to oppress."

Charlebois was aghast at the notion.

"You cannot mean this, Constantin. Violence without predication is a separate matter but infecting Ministry officials with lycanthropy is inexcusable and is a behaviour I cannot endorse."

Korzha gave his Alpha a facetious smile as he edged closer like he was about to tell his greatest secret.

"Your time is short, old wolf. Your reign is on its last grains of sand in the hourglass; I already smell the decay of your power and the very flesh on your decrepit bones. You cannot hold me back forever, Julien. A newer, stronger breed of wolf is poised for power. In the moment of its arrival I will be there to finish you off."

With a snarl, Korzha left Charlebois behind with the needle of dissent pricking deep in his arm.

****

It was late Friday afternoon and Covent Garden was so jam-packed that Lupin nearly missed the comely brunette witch. She wasn't in her typical spot which was occupied by a large group of German tourists busy snapping photos of each other. He couldn't suppress a slight smile at a tourist's enthusiasm for what natives took for granted. Besides, if ignorance was bliss then Muggles were unwittingly in paradise.

The witch was in fact sitting closer to where he usually performed and he hesitated to go back to the spot. Around dinner time he ventured over to the nearest shop and purchased a few pieces of penny chocolate to distribute to the children; upon his return he help but to search for her, as he had been doing the entire morning. Not locating her, he couldn't help but be disappointed.

While performing his stunning feats of thaumaturgy, Lupin's eyes inadvertently fell upon her. Her angelic visage dazed him so that his eyes were as wide as a stag caught in lights. The bewitchment was broken only when the pebbles he was levitating rained down upon him, sending his juvenile audience into riots of laughter. Playing along to dismiss his error as comedy, he returned their glee then handed out the sweets in his pocket. He glanced over at his heart's desire who kept her pretty nose buried in the paperback accompanying her.

Shakespeare's Sonnets. Lupin recognised the cover as being one included with the detritus within the battered case resting at his feet. A connoisseur of fine literature himself, he frequently browsed the book shops of Charing Cross Road in Leicester Square where he purchased the very book. Her appreciation of The Bard was one thing more they had in common and was a possible ice breaker for him.

Shaking his head, he took a few steps in her direction but stopped, the courage he mustered the night previous vanquished by fresh doubt. His heart was as empty as his stomach and brimmed with hurt. A terrible resurgence that approaching her would be equivalent to strolling over a minefield secured his passivity. His accursed existence was tiresome. He longed to be a normal man free to do as he pleased!

His growling, hungry stomach disrupted his laments and he placed a discreet hand over his middle to quell its complaint. Having not eaten since the gifted meal at the Dragon's Breath, he was light-headed and decided to look for provisions to satisfy his hunger.

As he stepped back to reclaim his case, a tug on his coat sleeve drew his attention to a small flame-haired boy who couldn't have been more than seven. A warm smile spread across Lupin's full, weather-cracked lips.

"May I help you, kind sir?" he inquired gently.

"I want more chocolate," the boy bluntly responded.

"You do?" Without realizing what he was doing, Lupin leaned over untill he was eye level with the boy. The incriminating dog tags, which he secretively kept hidden in shame beneath his clothing, slipped from the unbuttoned top of his worn shirt and suspended in the space between them. "How many would you like?"

"I want four!"

"Four? Five would be better, don't you agree?"

The boy nodded.

"I will give you five pieces if you can recite the multiplication table for the number five. Is that a deal?"

The boy nodded again then set to the task:

"Zero times five is zero..."

"Uh huh."

"One times five is five..."

"Go on."

"Two times five is ten..."

"Keep going."

"Three times five is fifteen..."

"Correct."

"Four times fi--"

"RICHARD!!"

A woman's shrill disciplinarian voice interrupted. Lupin stood to full height as he and the boy watched while the child's distraught mother, a witch with equally red hair and blazing violet eyes, eyes affixed palpably to the exposed dog tags dangling precariously from around his neck, stomped to her son's side. Lupin's heart sank to his stomach like a stone to the bottom of a pond.

"Get away from that wretched thing!" she scolded, humiliating Lupin with unwanted interim attention received from surrounding Muggles.

Lupin didn't look the red headed witch in the eye. His basest instinct reminded him that looking an enemy in the eye constituted challenge. He wanted no confrontation; he only wanted to be left in peace.

Grabbing her son's arm, the witch yanked him away and stood between Richard and the werewolf.

"Keep away from my son, you filthy mongrel!" she berated the submissive, quiet Lupin. "Don't you dare go near him again! If you do, I shall report you and have you executed, you mangy wolf!"

Lupin wanted to disappear and regretted choosing to earn a living in this manner for now it could possibly get him killed. It seemed he always foolishly pressed his luck with children. Why couldn't he just stay away as the Werewolf Code of Conduct demanded of him? He gulped and wished he was dead. He belonged on his knees performing unspeakable acts upon questionable men in Knockturn Alley, not performing magic for children in Covent Garden. In the cresting maelstrom Lupin became numb and dissociative.

Leave me alone! he pleaded inside his head.

The witch whirled around upon Richard, warning: "Keep away from that disgusting animal!"

"He was going to give me chocolate!" whinged Richard.

"It's a werewolf, Richard, it would've poisoned you with its disease! Never eat anything a werewolf gives you! Do you want to become a werewolf?!"

As the woman dragged the protesting boy from the scene of contretemps she caused the demeaned werewolf, Lupin's eyes peered beyond the sibilant witnesses to the pretty witch, praying that she hadn't seen the degradation. His heart sank to his bowels from his stomach when he noticed her eyes upon him.

Wonderfull, he thought as he sidled to retrieve his case then stooped to pick it up. Now she knows I'm a werewolf! She's repulsed and wants nothing to do with me! Parting is such sweet sorrow; I shan't see thee on the morrow!

After this debacle he knew he wouldn't stand a chance of earning any more money so he gathered what he had and bumped into someone as he started walking away.

"So sorry," he muttered quietly.

It was the pretty witch. He blanched and froze, feeling ill as his throat tightened and unsure of how to handle this.

Brilliant! Just what I needed to cap off my day!

Used to life's cruelties, he expected additional reprimand for having contact with the children but instead was given an effulgent smile that held a compassion of which he rarely was the recipient. A congenial bond formed between them when she clasped his large calloused hand with her delicate one and held it firmly. He felt this bond wrap around him like a shield from the curious, heated eyes of speculation. Self-consciously, he discreetly veilled the dog tags back inside his shirt, against the heart they newly stabbed like a dagger, to conceal them from her.

"You deserve better," she murmured in a tone, making him believe her.

For the first time since noticing each other, their eyes locked at point-blank range and a surging knot coagulating in his throat threatened to tell her everything. He nodded, unable to speak, overwhelmed by her kindness.

"You don't look well," she assayed. "Your movements suggest your body aches, that your joints are stiff."

"The cold does that to a person," he responded in his hoarse voice.

He found he could not look in this woman's eyes any more than he could look in the red headed witch's eyes in spite of the fact that she posed no threat to him...at least not as much as he perceived.

"It's more than that," she stated. "You're hurting so much you can hardly move."

He shifted his weight nervously then bitterly smiled.

"I'm practising to be a contortionist," he responded wryly.

"Funny. I reckoned you were a werewolf."

Lupin's skin felt like ill-fitting clothes on a too-tall frame. So she was going to punish him for his violation or take the flame-haired witch's side.

She pressed something against the palm of his hand which he instinctively closed his fingers around. When he gazed into her forget-me-not eyes he discovered mercy abound. Distracting himself from the discomfort of a kindness he was unaccustomed to, he toyed with his belongings as a gust of cold wind blew the muffler from around his neck. He watched in dismay as it tumbled in its escape, thinking Oh well, it needed a washing any way.

Then he felt new warmth encompass him and realised that she had taken her muffler from around her own neck and was wrapping it around his.

"Call me sometime soon," she softly urged. "I can help and am a good friend to have."

With that, she released his hand and he watched as she disappeared into the dense crowd of bewildered tourists. Only when he could no longer see her did he peek into his hand. It was a business card. A small white card he'd crumpled in taking. Printed on its face in a clear, concise font was:

EVANGELINE REDGRAVE
WEREWOLF RIGHTS ADVOCATE
WEREWOLF SUPPORT SERVICES
DRCMC

Lupin attempted to blink the disbelief from his eyes. Her offered solatium compensating for his emotional injury was too good to be true. She wasn't a spy trying to vex him with a falsehood as he originally suspected! She was a saviour who cared about him!

Evangeline! An angel befitting of her name!

Feeling marginally better, he tucked the card away inside his pocket for safe keeping and fond memories, doubting that he would ever see her again. Gathering his possession along with remnants of his dignity, he left his area at the portico of St Paul's to venture through the tourists and performers of various sorts, heading toward his favourite section of London: Leicester Square.

He needed the walk, he reasoned, to work off the frustrations of wizarding ignorance. He was a mixture of rage and bleakness and thought that visiting the bookshops would help calm him. Soho teemed with its usual youthfull activity and Lupin found his renowned patience tried. It was a struggle for him to pass through the crowds, wishing just this once that the Muggles knew what he was beneath his skin so they could make way for him in fear.

The walk to Leicester Square was brief but Lupin was importuned by aching muscles, taut joints and laboured, congested breathing. He felt less like a thirty-three year old and more like an elderly cripple with every hobbled step he took. His raspy breathing alone signalled a need for another opium fix accompanied with the arthritic creak of his joints. Yes, he felt ancient and depleted of physical energy, a man who only wanted to curl up in a warm bed to sleep.

But for Lupin there was no warm bed he could use as a safety net to help him through the day. All he had were these cold, busy streets, false hope from a worthless business card in his pocket and an agony that gnawed at him like a rat. Classic bastard rat behaviour. It was the rat's fault for all of his pain; the rodent was responsible for everything and Lupin's one wish was to be in a locked room with the rat on a full moon night. It would be the only time he would express gratitude for the moon's power over him.

His wandering mind left the tirade it was on long enough to discover that he was on Charing Cross Road. Standing on the corner, he gazed down the bustling street, contemplating going into the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. It was conceivable that Tom could be convinced to grant him a warm bed for the night. He decided to weigh that option and come back to it later.

For now, back to the book shops. Large booksellers like Borders and Foyles were too costly for him so he opted for the second hand shops scattered about the street. Here nestled in the dusty rooms crammed with books from floor to ceiling was where he was happiest, second only to standing before class giving lecture. Robbed of one comforting environment, here he found himself in another.

The stale, musty scent of the yellowed printed page eased his troubled mind, his problems absorbed on the dog-eared plains embossed with ink. He loitered in an aisle, perusing every genre from romance to reference, envying the simple lives of lexicographers and the dramatic acts of poets. He frequently entertained the idea of penning his own work, combining his dual passions of books and teaching by writing a Defence Against the Dark Arts text. Who better to write one than a dark creature such as himself?

But who would publish a werewolf's work? Granted, it was an ideal opportunity for a werewolf to acquire gainfull employment since there was no routine days that would be missed due to full moons and in-person meetings with a publisher could be scheduled around that or be nonexistent altogether if an agent was involved. That did not mean he couldn't be discriminately rejected, however. Prejudice would still loom because he would need to report his income to the Ministry and inform the publisher that he was a werewolf making conflict expected.

He bought a select few tatty paperbacks, one for each of the five booksellers he visited on Charing Cross Road and the pedestrianised Cecil Court before exiting the world of endeared classics and pulp fictioneers alike to venture through crowds of others milling about and found himself at the Earlham Street Market. Here was where he went on an ardent sartorial hunt for decent second hand clothing to purchase with the remainder of his meagre wages.

It was no easy task sleuthing through the piles of worn, mismatched articles of clothing for something decent enough to keep him warm during the winter. Everything was faded to sickly colours that nobody liked to wear: browns turning to tans, blacks to greys, things that were once white, myriads of vomit-inducing greens, and the ugliest of plaids. Some things were thin, some were holey and ripped, and others were stretched out. Most of everything was too kitschy even for a despicable werewolf with no other options. Understanding that his entire life was second hand, he managed to find a few piebald jumpers and suit jackets that would be utile in providing warmth, three pairs of socks that were still thick although one had a hole in its toe, just as many pants and trousers to finish off his earnings.

In wearing these purchases, he would give the air of a vagrant. It would have to do untill he was able to find other paid work. After the debacle in Covent Garden he could not return to the scene of his humiliation. Usually he could solicit himself as a tutor servicing his students inside their own homes or use his DADA acumen to banish all sorts of pests such as garden gnomes, doxies, and boggarts from households willing to pay him. But this meant he would show up on the doorstep, begging for work of any kind while he tried to maintain some decorum.

It felt impossible to possess dignity after potential employers saw his state of dress. He was tired of looking like a rag doll crudely sewn from a motley handfull of scraps. This, he knew, had others quickly draw the right but condemning conclusion that he was a werewolf. Furthermore, he was a werewolf with a jejune addiction to opium that presently tormented him with shortness of breath, a dull ache of his body and lingering nausea accompanied with the sweaty chills of a high fever.

He needed an opium fix to erase the symptoms and he needed it now. He needed opium like he needed food, water....oxygen. Traipsing through citizens and tourists, he searched for a secluded place where he could smoke some of the opium Snape gave. His only reprieve was a random dirty alley which induced memories he'd rather forget.

Sitting on the pavement with his back against the brick wall, he reached into his inner coat pocket and found his deliverance. Slowly the pain and nausea ebbed away and he wiped at his brow to remove the perspiration.

Everything was going to be fine. Everything was good now.

Lupin's body began to be relieved from pain and the werewolf felt himself slip into a euphoric abulia. Drawing his case beneath his legs in an instinctive gesture to protect what he owned, he gazed around in a walleyed state and judged that he would be safe enough to rest a while. Pulling the collar of his coat and Evangeline's donated muffler up, he nestled in the woolly warmth with Evangeline's essence. Lilac, to be precise.

Amid these miniscule comforts, Lupin smiled warmly then slipped into a fitfull sleep.