There'll Be Bluebirds

Teddy opened the door of the Defense classroom. Gareth sat at the desk, grading first-year essays. Teddy could hear him muttering under his breath at some of the thicker students' responses. He hung back near the door, adjusting the heavy bag on his shoulder, wondering if he ought to interrupt. 'What is it, Teddy?' Gareth asked, without looking up.

'How did you know I was here?'

'That door squeaks,' Gareth replied, looking up. 'And I could see your hair in the window's reflection.'

Teddy rolled his eyes, but slid into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him. Gareth pointed his wand at it, and the door opened a bit. Teddy gave Gareth a questioning look, but Gareth just shook his head. 'I was wondering, sir,' Teddy began, 'if you could recommend a book...?'

'Your Defense essay isn't due until the beginning of June,' Gareth said.

'It's not for the essay.' Teddy shifted slightly from foot to foot. 'You used to be an Obliviator, right? Before you went to America?'

'I was.'

'Is there a book or something you can recommend about memories?'

Gareth frowned a little. 'Why are memories so important to you?'

Teddy looked down at the scarred wooden floor, scorch marks from errant spells and hexes streaks of black against the dull bronze of the wood. He traced one with the toe of his shoe. 'They just are.' He wound his hand around the strap of his bag. 'What was the youngest person you ever had to Oblivate?'

Gareth set his quill down. 'She was three years old,' he said dully. It had been one of his first cases. A Muggle family had been brutally tortured, just before Voldemort had disappeared. He could still hear the child screaming in fear and terror.

'Do you think she would have remembered it, even if you hadn't removed the memory?'

Gareth squinted at Teddy, belatedly recalling Teddy's parents had died when he was only a few weeks old. 'I don't know. Nobody really knows at what age a child begins to create memories.' He pulled a scrap of parchment across the desk and scribbled the title of a book on it with his quill. 'This ought to be in the library. Ask Madam Pence to show you where it is.' He quickly scrawled a note at the bottom of the parchment. 'Just in case it's in the Restricted Section...' He paused before he handed the note to Teddy. 'Memories can be dangerous, Teddy,' he said, with a hint of warning in his voice. 'You might not like what you find...'

*****

Remus held up a pair of trousers to the light, critically examining them for tears or other damage that he'd have to repair before he left the next afternoon. Satisfied they were serviceable; he neatly folded them and laid them on the foot of his bed. His only other pair, other than the ones he currently wore, were draped over the arm of a chair, waiting to be mended. His thick traveling cloak was fairly new - he'd purchased it the year he taught at Hogwarts. His socks were nearly beyond help, but seeing as how he'd never learned the art of knitting or weaving, he'd have to content himself with darning them yet again. There wasn't much in the way of the original yarn left in his socks, he'd darned them so often before. And while he did have the reserve of gold in his Gringotts vault from Sirius, Remus refused to consider touching it. Not for something as trivial as socks. He held up one of his four shirts, noting a small rip near the placket. That would have to be mended as well. He studied his one good jumper, sighing as he saw the fraying yarn at a shoulder seam, adding it to the growing pile of clothes that demanded his attention before he went to Merlin-knew-where. The rest of his jumpers were already in the pile.

He gathered the clothing into a messy bundle and carried it into the sitting room. The light was better in there and he wanted to make the necessary repairs to his clothes as unnoticeable as possible. Sitting on the small table next to his one comfortable chair was the well-thumbed copy of Paradise Lost Dora had given him for his birthday. Remus debated with himself about adding it to the small knapsack that slumped against the side of the chair. It already held a new journal and a supply of Self-Inking quills that he'd used the last of his tutoring fees to purchase in a reckless splurge.

Remus perched in the chair and dropped the bundle of clothing at his feet, reaching for the small box that held several needles, spools of thread, and a small ball of yarn that matched his socks. His hand brushed the cover of the book. Remus picked it up, balancing it in the palm of his hand. He thumbed open the cover and stared at the inscription. He knew if the book was found, they would know just what Dora meant to him. Remus bit his lip hard and with a small pang, carefully tore out the flyleaf. He dropped the book into his bag, then grabbed the box.

Remus expertly threaded a needle and picked up the trousers and fingered the rip in the knee. They had caught on a splintered section of the door to the storage area in the basement where he transformed, when he'd slipped down last week to reinforce the charms on it. He licked the tip of an index finger and wrapped the end of the thread around it, rolling it off his finger. He pulled the tail end of the thread, forming a small knot and stabbed the needle into the dark grey wool of his trousers. Tiny, even stitches blossomed in a neat row behind his quickly darting needle, gradually closing the gap in the fabric.

The sound of a booming knock made him jerk and he jabbed the needle deeply into the pad of the opposite thumb. Swearing under his breath, as he sucked the offended thumb, Remus shuffled to the door, and yanked it open, an irritated look on his face, the trousers dangling from one hand. 'You didn't bother to inquire after me before you opened the door,' Kingsley admonished.

'That's a lot of rubbish,' Remus muttered. 'They could have hostages or use Polyjuice... And it's not exactly a secret that you prefer marmalade to jam on your toast.'

Kingsley chuckled, the sound rolling through the open door. 'True. But Scrimgeour feels it's much preferable to do something, rather than pretend problems don't exist.'

Remus stepped back to allow the Auror inside the flat. 'And distributing useless solutions is going to make the problems disappear?'

'Not exactly.' Kingsley shut the door behind him.

Remus dropped the half-mended trousers and faced Kingsley. 'I'm afraid I haven't anything to offer you in the way of refreshment,' he said off-handedly.

'I won't stay long,' Kingsley murmured. Remus retrieved his trousers and resumed his mending. Kingsley dragged one of the chairs from the kitchen table into the sitting room and folded himself into with cat-like grace. He studied Remus for several moments, leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees. 'Haven't seen you since that imbroglio at the Ministry... How is it, then?' he asked gently.

Remus glanced up at him, frowning slightly. 'Fine.'

Kingsley sat back, folding his arms over his chest. 'Really?'

Remus knotted the thread and bit off the end. 'Really.' He picked up the shirt, continuing the process of mending the tears in his clothing. His hands shook as he tried to thread the needle, picturing the cemetery in Godric's Hollow, the austere white headstones bearing James and Lily's names, knowing there wasn't anything of the sort for Sirius. For some reason, that bothered him more than Sirius' death.

Kingsley wisely refrained from commenting and gazed with interest at the stacks of books near his feet, tactfully giving Remus time to collect himself. 'Do you have a plan for the werewolves?' he asked.

'Beyond trying to persuade them one at a time?' Remus snorted. 'No.' He stitched quietly for a minute. 'I thought I'd try with the ones that were bitten recently.'

'Good plan.'

'I figured they haven't had enough time to become indoctrinated with Greyback's propaganda.'

'And if they have...?'

'Do you really think I have much chance of success regardless?'

Kingsley sighed. 'No.'

Remus shrugged. 'Maybe I can reach one or two of them...'

'How?'

'I honestly do not know...' Remus muttered. 'It's not as if we have it so good with the Ministry. Trying to persuade people to abandon someone, that's at the very least promising them a life that isn't on the fringes of society, is going to take more than a few empty platitudes,' he added bitterly.

*****

1 September 1996

As I do not have the gift of prophecy, I cannot say if I shall be able to record the events of my life over the next several months with any sort of regularity.

Is it cowardly to admit fear?

I've never spent any time at all in the company of other werewolves. I've never sought their company, nor have I desired it. I fear I might lose myself - the part of myself that keeps me human - if I stay with them for any length of time.

And I risk this for what? For the miniscule chance that I might bring a few to our side? Is it an act of treachery to question if Dumbledore does indeed know what he asks of us? I can be useful here. This is a fool's errand. For the greater good... And yet, I'll do it. I'll do it, because I'm the only one that can. And I'll do it because, if only one turns... If only one turns to our side, it's still one more than we had before.

*****

Remus dropped his knapsack inside the small room allocated to him in the abandoned farmhouse. His sensitive nose twitched violently at the musky odor of so many werewolves convened in one location. The small camp bed reeked of a substance Remus would rather not identify. He jabbed his wand at it, sniffing cautiously over the stained mattress. The stench had lessened considerably, and another jab lifted the worst of the stains. Remus gingerly spread the sleeping bag he'd borrowed from Arthur over the camp bed, and perched on the edge. 'You even reek of humans... Didn't think we'd see you here,' said a sardonic voice from the door.

Remus glanced up at the man leaning insolently against the door frame. 'You were in St. Mungo's last Christmas,' he said evenly.

'And now I'm here because I haven't anywhere else to go,' the man said bitterly. 'My family won't have anything to do with me.'

'That's their loss,' Remus retorted. 'With precautions -'

'Like those so-called "precautions" that kept you employed at Hogwarts?' the other werewolf snorted.

'I was talking about the ones I've been using most of my life,' Remus said smoothly. 'The Wolfsbane was merely one more tool in my arsenal. Sadly, I'm not much of a potion-brewer.' He paused for a moment, head tilted to one side. He rose from the edge of the camp bed, extending his hand. 'Remus Lupin.'

The man stared at him warily before taking Remus' hand. 'Matthew Jones.' Matthew examined Remus' face. 'How old are you?'

'Thirty-six,' Remus told him.

'You look like you're--'

'Older, yes.' Remus stooped to haul the knapsack to the bed. He carefully unpacked his scant belongings. 'It'll do that to you. Or have they,' he said, indicating the open door with his head, 'neglected to tell you that?'

'They told me it was because you keep trying to live among humans and it's because of the strain it puts on you.'

Remus swore under his breath. He should have known the other would have discussed him. 'Some of it, I'm sure,' he said, shrugging nonchalantly. 'How old do you think Greyback is, by chance?' he challenged.

'I... I don't...'

'He's only fifty,' Remus said quietly. 'Looks like an old codger, doesn't he? For a wizard, anyway.' He tucked the journal under the sleeping bag, along with the copy of -Paradise Lost. 'And if you think it's going to be better under Voldemort...'

'Of course it will!' Matthew hissed. 'Haven't you heard the latest? The Ministry wants to register us! Like we're common criminals! They want to take a page out of Muggle history and force us to visibly identify ourselves.'

'I know.' Remus patted his shirt pocket. He could feel the small moleskin pouch Hagrid had sent to him a few days before. Hagrid was a firm believer in ensuring people had something to safeguard their belongings when on a mission. The flyleaf of Paradise Lost was folded into a tiny square and tucked inside, the outlines stiff against the soft moleskin. 'They already keep tabs on us, you know.' He stowed the knapsack under the bed. 'There's been talk of registering us and tattooing us or something like it since I was in school. Problem is, how do you force someone like Greyback to register, hmmm?'

'Why aren't you angrier at them?' Matthew cried.

'I'm not angry at the Ministry as a whole,' Remus corrected. 'Just the ones who refuse to see lycanthropy as a manageable condition.' He shrugged. 'And why should I waste my time or energy railing against something I can't change just now?'

*****

2 September 1996

Of all the things I've been told, nobody's ever said I "reek of humans". That is most definitely a new one.

I wonder now, if it was fortunate for me to have received the bite at such a young age. I haven't known anything else, but a life as a werewolf. Granted, it does not follow that I particularly enjoy it, but nonetheless, perhaps it has been good that I have no memories of what it was like before. I can be bitter about being a werewolf and forced to live outside society, but I cannot imagine what it must be like to remember one's life before and compare it to the life you used to have.

This is going to be much more difficult that I had imagined.

Not only must I fight against their new-found prejudices against humans (and the idea that they are no longer human), but I must also fight against the perception that their lot will be much improved under Voldemort. That is hardly the case, but they're so dazzled by the bare whisper of the thought of being able to live as they want, they are blind to the fact once they're served their purpose under Voldemort, they - rather, we - will be cast aside like so much rubbish. Voldemort might very well enjoy the havoc Greyback can wreck on Muggles and wizarding folk alike, but I daresay, he won't want us to sully the wizarding bloodline.

Vaguely ironic, no? Especially when you consider all those years he spent living in the bodies of snakes.

*****

Teddy slowly paced between the shelves of the library, his head tilted at an awkward angle, pausing every few steps to scan the title stamped, burned, or otherwise marked on the spines of the books. He consulted the scrap of parchment Gareth had given him every so often, checking for the title. And the end of the row, Teddy straightened with a sigh, rolling his head around his neck, the knots popping loudly in the quiet library. He eyed the next row of books apprehensively, not quite willing to wander down the row, listing to one side, searching for one small book in the legions of books that snaked through the cavernous room. But he wasn't quite willing to approach Madam Pince, either. Truth be told, she frightened him more than McGonagall with her sharp manner and dour personality. But faced with the reality of the task looming in front of him, Teddy decided discretion was the better part of valor, swallowed his pride and fear, and marched to the desk.

Madam Pince was perched on a tall, narrow stool, glaring at something in a large book. 'Yes?' she barked.

Teddy's eyes grew round, but he managed to slide the parchment across the desk. 'I was looking for that book...' he stammered.

Madam Pince's brows rose over the rims of her glasses. 'This is rather advanced for your age, don't you think?' she sniffed.

'Professor Shacklebolt said I could read it,' Teddy objected. He pointed to the scrawled signature at the bottom. 'See?'

Madam Pince said nothing, but then again, she didn't need to. The look she gave Teddy was quite eloquent in its severity. But she flicked her wand and a book from the Restricted Section zoomed into her hand. She hesitated before handing it to Teddy. 'I trust you won't be trying any of the spells in here?' she demanded.

'No, ma'am,' Teddy said meekly.

Sighing, Madam Pince pointed her wand at the book. It glowed for a brief moment. 'It's due back in two weeks,' she told him, sliding the book across the desk.

Teddy took the book, and carefully stowed it in his school bag. 'Thank you.'