Angels Working Overtime

She opened her closet. A time capsule of sorts; a portal to a happier age. There was little in here that she wore anymore; she subsisted on sweat suits, her gardening grubbies, and a single set of black robes when she was in wizarding London. Still, it was all there, and sometimes at night she could feel it waiting for her, beckoning her. On nights like that she usually slept in the living room, on the sofa or the recliner. Today, though, she felt like she needed to face it.

She gripped the material and spread out her wool cloak. Black, with silver fastenings. She was short, very short, always had been about the same height, so the same cloak had carried her through her Hogwarts days and most of her adult life. She had wrapped it around herself to trudge down to Herbology in November, slung it over her shoulder while walking down the streets of Hogsmeade on a warmish October day, got tangled up in it while having snowball fights with her friends in December. She had also put it around him when he was out in the freezing rain without his own cloak. Tears pricked her eyes as she pushed the cloak to one side.

The next item in the closet was her fancy dress. She touched the silky fabric, rubbed the chiffon of the sleeves between her fingers. It was a sort of amber colour, one that he had told her looked particularly good on her. "It brings out the highlights in your hair." She hadn't worn the dress in eight years. She ought to give it away, but she told herself that she was saving it--for what, she didn't know, but she was definitely saving it.

There were other things in the closet, but she could no longer look at them. She was crying already. Unable to even close the doors, she backed away and sat on the bed, burying her face in her hands.

The bedroom door banged open. "Hey, Mum, you'll never believe who I just saw. I saw--Mum? Mummy, are you okay?"

"I'm f-f-f-fine."

The bed sagged slightly as another body added its weight to the top. "Mummy, what's wrong? I've never seen you cry."

Shannon shook her head. "It's just...I..." She waved a hand at her closet, unable to continue.

Libitina, all of ten years old, took stock of the situation, jumped up, and closed the closet door firmly, then rejoined her mother on the bed. "Mum," she said softly. "If you want to talk about it...I'm here. That's what friends are for, right? And you've always been my best friend."

Shannon swallowed and wiped at her eyes. "Oh...I can't explain it, Libby. It's just...the memories got to me is all."

Libby looked up at Shannon. "Mum, what memories?"

"The dress," Shannon said softly. "He always liked that dress."

Libby peeked into the closet. "You mean that amber-coloured one with the flow-y sleeves? I like it too. I bet it looks really pretty on you." She closed the closet. "How come you don't wear it anymore? In fact, I don't remember ever seeing it before."

Shannon looked away. "I...I c-can't. Your father always told me...told me how pretty it looked on me..." Her voice broke.

"Oh," Libby said quietly. She crossed back over to her mother's bed and snuggled up next to her. "Mummy? How come you don't ever talk about Dad?"

"I don't know. I guess it's just too hard. I miss him so much."

Libby looked up at Shannon. "But why couldn't you at least tell me?"

"I guess..." Shannon swallowed. "I don't want you to be sad."

"Then we can be sad together," Libby said softly.

Shannon looked down at her daughter. Tears welled up out of her eyes again as she hugged her daughter close. The two sat in silence for a long moment. Finally, Shannon pulled Libby back so the two sat cuddled together against the large, fluffy pillows.

"So what was he like, Mummy?" Libby asked.

"He was..." Shannon shook her head. "It's hard to explain him. He was shy, quiet...most of the time...but my, did he ever cut up with those friends of his! Although he was always the serious one of the group. He was a marvellous singer...he played the piano."

"Like you?"

"Well, sort of. I'd had lessons...he was self-taught. He was good, though. He sang tenor." Shannon smiled a little at a memory. "He was so supportive of me...I remember once, I was in an opera--"

"Which one, Mum?"

"La Traviata."

"Ooh, I like that one."

"I did too." Shannon smiled a little wider. "My father--your grandfather--had to work, and my sister--your aunt--didn't like opera. I didn't expect anyone to be there, but when I took my bows at the end of the show I saw your father sitting out in the audience. When I got back to the dressing room, there was a huge flower arrangement from him on my dressing table."

Libby smiled. "Aww, that's so sweet. Is that when you married him, Mum?"

"No...no, I only married him about a year before you were born."

"Why'd you wait so long?"

"Well, I had to go to Africa suddenly for my job, and he was still in school. I thought I'd be back in six months, tops, but I wound up getting stuck there for thirty-two years."

"Gosh!" Libby said in awe. "What were you doing there?"

"I was a doctor, Libby, and it was a war zone. I was healing sick people and trying not to get killed."

"Oh." Libby was silent for a moment, then looked up at her mother. "Mum?"

"Mmm-hmm?" Shannon looked down at her daughter.

"I know how much you loved Dad, but you make him sound like an absolute saint. I know nobody's that perfect...didn't he have any flaws or problems or whatever? Like, I don't know, a big nose or a hair-trigger temper or a foot fetish or something?"

Shannon hesitated, then sighed. "I suppose you have as much right as the next person to know, Libby. Your father was a werewolf."

Libby's head shot up. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack."

Libby bit her lip. "Is that why he died, Mummy? Did somebody shoot him?"

"Yes..." Shannon said slowly. "...And no. He died because he was a werewolf...but he wasn't shot. See, Libby, generally speaking, an anthromorph--someone who can change into an animal--only lives three times as long as the average life span of the animal they change into. Werewolves are the same, only in their case, they live three times as long as the animal they change into starting from the time when they were bitten. If he'd been older when he was bitten, he probably would have been all right...but your father was five years old when he was bitten."

"How long do wolves usually live?" Libby wanted to know.

"Five to seven years in the wild. Ten to twelve in captivity. The record is twenty."

"So...wait, was Dad in captivity or the wild?"

Shannon smiled sadly. "Captivity. Living with humans qualifies as captivity, and besides he had people to take care of him."

Libby counted on her fingers, frowning a little. "So he was thirty...thirty...no, he was forty-one, right, Mum?"

"Actually, he was fifty-one," Shannon corrected her. "Like I said, he had people to take care of him, so he lasted a bit longer."

"How old were you, Mummy?"

"I was fifty-three."

"And I was two, right?"

"That's right."

"I didn't know you could have a baby at fifty-one years old."

"I didn't either. You were certainly a surprise, precious."

The two shared a little laugh. Libby leaned her head on Shannon's chest. "I wish I'd got to know him. Did he...did he at least get to know me?"

Shannon smoothed her daughter's hair out of her eyes. "Of course he did, baby. He said you were the most beautiful, precious, adorable, perfect child in the whole wide world. You were the apple of his eye. He thought the sun rose and set on you."

Libby's eyes filled with tears. "I miss him, and I didn't even know him. It must be so much worse for you, because you did."

"You have no idea." Shannon hugged her daughter close, and mother and daughter cried together for a bit.

"Why did he leave us?" Libby asked tearfully.

"Oh, baby, he didn't want to. You didn't hear him...or if you did, you don't remember. You and I were with him almost all the time at the end...he said that he was ready to go, that he was just too tired and worn out to keep going, but that the only thing he was upset about was that he didn't want to leave us. He didn't want to take us with him either--he said that under no circumstances were we to give up, we had to keep going--but that he was going to miss us so much." Shannon stroked Libby's hair. "I miss him too...you'll never know how much I loved him." She stared vacantly at the mirror. "I cried the day he died. It was the first time I'd cried since I was four years old."

Libby buried her face in her mother's chest. "You must've been very brave."

"No...somebody had to be the strong one when my mother died. My father wasn't there and Morrie was too little, so it fell to me."

"I'm glad you're my mother," Libby whispered.

"I'm glad you're my daughter," Shannon whispered back.

Libby wiped her tears out of her eyes and looked up at Shannon. "What did he look like, Mummy?"

Shannon hesitated. "Here...I'll show you." She pulled open the top drawer in her bedside table and pulled out a tri-fold picture frame. In the centre was a family portrait of Libby as a small infant, perhaps a year old, and her parents. Her mother held her; her father had his hands on Shannon's shoulders, positively beaming with pride as he looked at his tiny daughter. On the left was a picture of Libby's parents at school. Her father was clutching a large tome under one arm; Shannon was holding a book. Closer inspection revealed it to be Saint Maybe. The third picture, on the right, was their wedding picture.

Libby studied the pictures closely, then smiled a little. "He was real handsome. He looks a lot older than forty-nine in this picture, though."

"Side effect of the lycanthropy, I think." Shannon tugged at Libby's hair, which was the same colour as her father's, brown with one or two silver strands in it. "Or maybe it was just something that happened in his family. You look a lot like him, you know."

Libby looked in the mirror. "Do I really?"

"Mmm-hmm. You have his hair, his nose, the shape of his face...you have my eyes, though."

Libby looked a little closer. "Yeah...I do have your eyes." She turned to her mother. "Mum...I have to ask. Do you ever look at me...and think about Dad?"

Shannon was silent for a moment. "Sometimes," she said finally. "I don't think about you as your father, if that's what you're asking, but I think about him sometimes when I see you. I think about how much he loved you...and how much he'd love the young woman you've become."

Libby gave her mother a watery smile. "Mum, don't. If you start then we'll both start crying again and we'll drown."

Shannon chuckled in spite of herself. "Come here, baby." She held out her arms. Libby did a flying leap from the dresser and landed square in her mother's arms. Shannon gave a small oof as her daughter hit her. Both of them started laughing. It was a game they had played for years, starting when Libby was three and afraid of monsters.

Libby picked up the tri-fold picture again, studying it. "Can I have this?"

"No, but you can have this. I've been saving it for you...I was going to give it to you when you got married, but I didn't think you'd ever ask me about your father, so..." Shannon reached into the drawer again and pulled out an ordinary four-by-six photograph, developed in the usual wizarding style. It showed the same man as was in the other pictures, grinning proudly and gripping a pair of tiny legs. A little girl, obviously Libby, perched on his shoulders, her mouth red and sticky from a Popsicle, grinning and waving furiously.

Libby touched the photograph, then smiled up at her mother. "I'll treasure it forever."

"I know you will." Shannon kissed the top of her daughter's head. "'Cause if you don't, I'll have to sentence you to death."

"Oh, yeah?" Libby scoffed playfully. "How are you gonna do that, huh?"

"Death by tickle torture!" Shannon began tickling Libby's ribs.

Libby squealed and squirmed, laughing. "Aah! Mum! Ow! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

That night, as the two fell asleep, there were three new decorations added to the house. The framed photograph of Libby and her father sat on Libby's bedside table. The tri-fold picture frame was perched on top of the old Yamaha upright in the living room. And an eleven-by-seventeen studio portrait of Remus Lupin smiled down from the bedroom wall, watching over his wife and daughter as they slept.