The Way Back to Daylight

Author's Notes: See the Prologue.

Night and day lie open the gates of death's dark kingdom:

But to retrace your steps, to find the way back to daylight--

That is the task, the hard thing.

- Virgil, Aeneid, VI. 128-130 (Oxford World Classics Ed.)

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Chapter Three

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It was too dark to see anything, but Remus could smell sawdust and Muggle cleaning products, and the nose-tickling musk of ancient paper. Sybill's hand was still wrapped around his wrist, her rings biting into his skin. With her other hand, she took her wand from her robe and muttered, "Lumos".

Remus glanced around. There were shelves of neatly-stacked boxes, wooden and metal, piled higher and further than the reach of Sybill's light. It looked like a storage facility, definitely Muggle, but Remus was still at a loss. Each box was marked in black with a letter and a three-digit number. Many were also stamped with a familiar symbol: an ornate, scarlet 'BM'. Unfortunately, Remus couldn't remember where he'd seen it before.

"Where are we, Sybill?" he tried asking, after lighting his own wand.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she retorted. "Are you going to stay put?"

He nodded, and she finally let go of his wrist.

"I've come here to fetch something," she told him, with a skewed, toothy smile. She looked like a Muggle cartoon witch; glinty-eyed and wicked, about to turn him into a toad with the flick of her wand. "Prepare to be flabbergasted."

"I can barely contain my excitement," Remus muttered, rubbing his wrist where one of her rings had drawn blood. He wanted to escape as soon as possible, but knew he couldn't leave Sybill alone. As much as he disliked the woman, she clearly needed medical attention.

Probably best to humour her, he thought. Lull her into thinking I believe her, then Apparate us both to St. Mungo's.

Sybill began searching through the boxes, lifting and opening them with broad sweeps of her wand, until she finally levitated one from the shelves.

"He told me it was fifth from the bottom, the twat," she whispered to herself. "Couldn't find his arse with both hands."

She floated the box waist-height in front of Remus, and pried off the lid with a murmured spell. Remus peered inside. It was full of carefully-wrapped objects, each tagged with a brief description. The one at the top read: Tuscan region, c. 600-550 BC: silver-rimmed lacquered bowl. Archived 13/10/1961, in spidery blue cursive.

Remus finally realised what the 'BM' symbol stood for.

"Ah," he said. "We're in the British Museum."

"The main underground storeroom, to be precise," Sybill replied, as she unwrapped the bowl. She ran a finger around the rim, her mouth curling with contentment. "Gorgeous. I used to have one just like it."

Remus couldn't help himself. "You've brought me here to find your old tea set?"

"Don't get smart with me, wolf." Scowling, Sybill re-wrapped the bowl and placed it back in the box, then reached in again and pulled out a longer, thinner package, bound with yellowing twine. "Here we are."

She made short work of the wrapping, and in a few moments was holding what looked like a thick, leafless twig, plucked from the branch of a tree. Remus leaned closer; yes, it was definitely twig-like, but it wasn't wooden; it was tarnished metal, gold or copper, with a dull gleam.

"This," Sybill whispered, "is all that remains of the golden bough."

"The golden bough?" Remus asked, trying to sound surprised.

Sybill gave a dry, unpleasant chuckle. "You think you can fool me, do you? Honestly, what do you take me for? I'm thousands of years old."

"Right, yes," said Remus, with a solemn nod.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, here -" she shoved the twig at his wand-free hand, and he took it automatically.

It was a dry, cold rasp of metal against his fingers, and then suddenly it wasn't; suddenly it glowed and pulsed, and his hand started shaking. His skin tingled from his toes to the tips of his ears. Everything glittered with life; everything was haloed and glorious.

He hadn't felt such bliss since he'd last been stoned, sprawled skinny limbs on the carpet, his head on Sirius's lap with hands stroking his hair, watching a candle burn down to its base. It didn't make sense; it was like flying and falling at once; but it was real, it was happening, and Remus knew he'd been wrong.

"Oh my God," he murmured. "This...this is..."

Sybill smiled, but her eyes were hard. She no longer looked like a cartoon; she was older than Rome, older than Christianity, and she longed for death. "You feel it, then? The lure of the sunless lands?"

"Yes...oh, yes."

"Aeneas felt it, too."

"Aeneas...?"

"Oh, here," she muttered, snatching the twig from his hands.

Remus shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "The bough," he said, dazed. "You...you're telling the truth."

"Took you long enough."

"But it's the bough. That means...will I really be...?"

"Of course, you ninny. Weren't you listening to my prophecy? Only the wolf desires to follow the path of ancient heroes into darkness."

"The Underworld," Remus breathed, staring at the remnants of the golden bough.

It had been Aeneas's ticket to the afterlife, used as a way past the ferryman and an entry to paradise. It was a sacred object, precious to Pluto's Queen. To Remus, however, it represented only one thing: a means to find Sirius.

"Yes, the Underworld," Sybill replied, matter-of-factly. "Aeneas wanted to see his father and learn about the future, but I've got a feeling you're only interested in the past. There's the prophecy to take care of too, of course."

"Are you suggesting...are you saying you're going to guide me through the Underworld, as you guided Aeneas?"

"So now you believe I'm the Sibyl of Cumae?" she challenged, crossing her arms.

"Who else would know the bough's location?" he countered. "There's only one thing I can't fathom; didn't Aeneas leave the bough in the Underworld, at Pluto's palace?"

"Well," said Sybill, with a wicked smile, "I saved a few twigs on the sly; thought they might come in handy. As it turned out, Apollo was well pleased with me."

"A few twigs?"

"The others are all gone, now. Lost, or else given to people like you. Aeneas wasn't the last one I led to Pluto's kingdom, but you'll be, I hope. When Trelawney dies, I'll finally shake off this mortal coil. At least, that's what Apollo tells me, but who knows with him? He'll probably stick me in the body of a rat. That foul swine of a -"

"Sybill," Remus cut in, "do have any idea what the prophecy means? Who are the two valued brothers? Who is the wizard who surpassed all others?"

"If I knew what it meant, I would have told you already," she snapped. "I'm only the messenger. It's up to you to follow the instructions and see where they take you."

With her thin, wrinkled lips curved into a frown, she tucked the twig into the side-pocket of her robe, then closed the box and levitated it back into place.

"Well, I'll be off," she said, in a brusque voice. "You've got three days to decide whether you want to come along."

"Should I give you my address?" Remus asked, but she'd already Apparated.

---

Remus Apparated straight to his rented cottage, the engagement gift completely forgotten. For the first hour or so, he paced circles on his living room rug, wanting to talk to himself but not sure what to say.

His circles grew wider, and soon he found himself near the liquor cabinet. He took out a bottle of Ogden's Finest, opened it, and in another hour was slumped on his favourite plush armchair, wondering whether he'd hallucinated the whole afternoon. Perhaps his parting of ways with Tonks had done more damage than he'd realised.

There was no one to talk to; no one to tell him he was right or wrong, or to give him any advice. In the past, he would have headed straight for Dumbledore's office. He imagined, though, that if this were still possible, even the Headmaster would think he'd finally lost the plot. Sybill Trelawney offering to guide him into the Underworld, to fulfil a prophecy and meet his dead lover? It simply wasn't possible.

Remus spent the first night this way, sleepless and full of doubt, drinking Firewhiskey from the bottle until he was too exhausted to lift it.

---

Remus slept through most of the first day. When he woke, he fixed himself a hang-over draft, purple and bubbling, and decided there was no harm in packing. Sybill probably wouldn't turn up at his door in two days, and probably wasn't going to lead him to Sirius, but she might. It was best to prepare, just in case.

During Sirius's twelve years in Azkaban, Remus had been forced to learn many survival skills. Amongst other things, he could identify edible plants, build a watertight canoe, light a fire without a wand or matches, haggle a half-price discount, play a mean game of poker, cast wordless protection wards and warming charms, and chain his werewolf form to everything from tree roots to motel radiators.

Most importantly, he'd learned how to pack for long journeys. In the eighties, he'd travelled across the globe, from the Arctic Circle to the tip of South America, to the deserts of Australia and the snow-capped mountains of Japan. Even when he'd returned to England, he'd spent months sleeping in hostels and bus stations, unable to find steady work because of his condition.

He owned a wizard's backpack, of course, which allowed him liberties Muggle trekkers could only dream of. He'd bought it in 1981, with the last of his savings; second-hand, but there'd been nothing wrong with it except for its faded, out-dated grey material. There was room for two years worth of rations, three changes of clothes, a razor, a self-toothpasting toothbrush, a clock-compass, a wand-repair kit, and even a couple of books.

The pack was stored in miniaturised form at the back of his wardrobe, still in good condition. He brought it on field excursions, often week-long and arduous, and it had never let him down. Also, he had a regular supplier of camping rations, an elderly witch running a tiny shop in Nottingham. She was more than happy to transfer two years worth into the pack, despite the short notice. Remus was not so happy to part with three hundred galleons, but told himself it was small price to pay for peace of mind.

As for the books, he packed the Aeneid and Metamorphoses. There were many others he wanted to take, but even the slimmest volume couldn't fit.

---

On the third night, Remus sat on the end of his bed and talked to Sirius. Sirius wasn't actually there, but that was beside the point.

Sirius was slouched against the bedroom's floral-papered wall, dressed in his Hogwarts school uniform. His Gryffindor tie was looped around his head, pirate-bandana style, as he'd worn it when he was fourteen.

"You shouldn't go, Moony," he said, in an adolescent mumble.

Remus raised his eyebrows. "Why ever not?"

"Well, y'know, there's Harry, and Tonks, and your job," said Sirius, counting them off on his fingers.

"That's true," Remus replied, with a thoughtful frown. "It's also very considerate of you. I don't remember you being so selfless when you were alive."

Sirius shrugged and started picking at his bitten fingernails. "Well, you've always been a considerate sort of bloke. A bit too considerate, if you ask me. Wouldn't it be a touch out of character for you to just, y'know, sod off to the Underworld to say hello to me?"

"Padfoot, let me explain something to you," said Remus, as a familiar crease formed between his eyes. "I'm not particularly considerate. You just think I am, because you're the most arrogant berk who ever walked the earth."

"Shut it, Moony."

"All I'm saying is that, in comparison to you, King Henry VIII would seem a kind and selfless individual."

"Fuck off, I'm not that bad," Sirius insisted, glowering at Remus. "And look, you know I'm right. You're just trying to piss me off, make me stop talking about it, but I won't. I don't like the idea of you not doing the right thing."

Remus decided another tactic was necessary. "Look, Padfoot, we can argue until we're blue in the face, but it's up to me and I've made up my mind."

Sirius rolled his eyes and tugged on his bandana. "Explain to me, then, why a bloody suicide mission is the best thing to do."

"All right," said Remus, rubbing a hand across his face and through his hair. "I'll start at the very beginning, shall I?"

"Go on, then," said Sirius, with an impatient huff, his arms folded. "This had better be good."

Remus took a deep breath. "I love you," he said.

Sirius waited, and waited, and started tapping his foot impatiently, but Remus didn't say another word. A fly buzzed around the room, bumping into walls and echoing in the light fixture, then diving under the curtains to collide against the glass. Remus kept silent.

"Is that it?" Sirius asked, finally, his eyes narrowed with outrage.

"That's all," Remus replied. "Were you expecting something else?"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and that's saying something. Think of all the time I spent with Wormtail."

Remus rubbed his eyes. "Go away, Sirius. I'm too tired for this."

Of course, Sirius was gone.

---

The next morning, Remus sent Harry a letter, and watched from the kitchen window as his owl, tiny and brown, disappeared into the summer sky.

Dear Harry,

I'm about to embark on a journey. If I tried to explain it to you, you would think I was mad. All I can tell you is that I'm looking for our fallen star, but I don't intend to join him. I know it's selfish of me, but I must go and I won't apologise for it. I've lost too much to miss this opportunity.

All of my possessions are yours to do with as you wish, including my owl. I've paid this month's rent and informed the university of my retirement. However, I haven't sent a letter to Tonks. The news would only upset her. She'll return from Romania in February, so if I'm not back by then, you'll need to let her know. I'm sorry for putting you in this position, but I can't see a way around it.

I feel terrible about missing your engagement party and perhaps even your wedding. I wish this opportunity had come at a better time, but it can't be helped. You should know, however, that although I've never been a parent to you, or even a godfather, I do love you. I met you on the day you were born, and I've loved you ever since.

Take care,

Remus

He spent the next few hours sitting at the kitchen table, drinking Orange Pekoe tea and reading one of the books that hadn't fit in his pack; The Little Prince, a favourite since childhood. He'd just finished it, and was standing to put it back on the shelf, when someone knocked at the door: three sharp raps.

Grabbing his pack, he dropped the book spine-down on the table. Its dog-eared pages lay open at the part that had been read most often.

---

"'People have forgotten this truth,' said the fox. 'But you must not forget. You become responsible, for ever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose.'

'I am responsible for my rose...' the little prince repeated, so as to remember."

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince (Penguin: London, 1995), p. 72