Transition

3: Bargaining

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.
--Friedrich Nietzsche

Bill spent two months crawling through ditches and wondering if Remus ate three square meals a day. It was late August by the time he was let off duty and told he could return back home; back to headquarters and back to Remus. He'd started referring to headquarters as home sometime after he began waking up twisted in sweaty, sticky sheets with Remus' name caught in his throat.

His father had asked him if he'd been having nightmares once. Bill hadn't known how to answer. But none of that mattered right then, because Bill was on his way back home, where the breakfast table was always set for two and once a month a werewolf prowled the root cellar.

It was a particularly hot day when Bill returned home. The stifling dead air inside 12 Grimmauld Place almost choked him. It smelled so strongly of potions he could taste it. Something was brewing, in more ways than one.

He made his way to the kitchen, following the heady scent of the potion-in-progress. Stopping in the doorway, he looked at the scene before his eyes.

Remus was never much of a potions master, and right then it was the most apparent thing in the world. He was frazzled but determined and had such a look on his face that Bill was convinced he was trying to improve on the Wolfsbane Potion or something.

He looked up from his spell book and smiled at Bill. "Welcome back," he said and then his attention was on the tome in front of him again. Bill felt somewhat neglected.

Bill sidled around Remus towards the fridge. "Is there anything to drink?"

Remus considered, like he hadn't been in the fridge for days. "I think so. Harry bought some juice the day before yesterday."

"Harry's here?" Remus seemed a bit better than he'd been before Bill'd left. Maybe he'd finally gotten over the whole mess.

A nod. "Just upstairs. Oh!" he turned back to the book in a hurry before stirring his potion and muttering a couple words over the cauldron. Bill looked pathetically at the spellotaped wand Remus was clutching so tight his knuckles were white before heading up the stairs to see Harry.

Around five, when Remus was usually setting out dinner, Bill made his way down to the kitchen. The potion was simmering on the stove and the spell book lay open and abandoned on the kitchen counter. Curious, Bill bent over to see what Remus was doing and bit back a scream.

Vol de mort

Voldemort? What in the name of Merlin was Remus doing with anything bearing that name?

Bill read on.

Though its success is shady at best, the vol de mort spell was especially popular in old France during the time of the Plague. Wizardkind and Muggles alike would call on village medicine men to cast the spell over their dead relatives. The spell is, obviously, meant to revive the victim. There are scattered reports of success, but none of the prescribed methods have done much more than make sparks in any laboratory test.

It hit him. Remus was trying to resurrect Sirius. He stepped back from the book and out of the room, wondering what he should do about it.

Bill went to bed that night without supper.