Howling

Howling

There is no such thing as a lone wolf.

Yes, muggles have romanticized that image-a sole killer, devoid of love; filled only with bloodlust, red eyes glistening above alabaster fangs-but it is pure myth. Indeed I believe it is only a manifestation of humanity's desire to externalize their own flaws onto the sharers of their earthly throne that creates it. They demonize the wolf, making it an image of malice-of unfettered thirst and ravenous hunger.

In truth, a lone wolf is most often a dead wolf.

For twelve millennia dogs have stood by humankind, both wizard and muggle, quietly endured their scorn, reveled in their love, taken their abuses. All of this stems from the nature of the wolf. I defy any man of science to find a creature more affectionate, more loyal, more paternal, than Canis lupus. This life of love is born of necessity. Wolves, for all their four million years on this earth, have been social animals: Pack Hunters.

Each wolf relies totally and completely on its pack for strength, for warmth, for nourishment-for sustenance in its every manifestation. The pack is the ultimate team-the truest fellowship, the deepest friendship.

A wolf alone cannot survive.

The pack is the wolf's life. Without it, there is no one to depend upon, and no matter the strength of an individual, the need for companionship is ultimate. Really, the stronger the individual, the greater the need, for the ability to love is simply the greatest of all talents. No power is stronger, no bond tighter, no sun is warmer than love. A wolf with no pack wanders, unable to hunt properly, living off mice flushed from the snow or tall grass. Should they falter-slip, fail, there is none to bring them fresh meat, none to lick their wounds. They may die of a myriad causes, from starvation to sheer loneliness, but the end is always sure, and always empty.

They are not condemned to this fate, however.

A wolf may join a new pack, should they lose their old one. It spreads the blood (for in any pack, only the alpha pair mate), and keeps the individual alive. Yes, it is complicated. Few applicants are successful, for they may not challenge the order. A lone wolf stands no chance against the combined might of a pack, should it incur upon their territory.

Wolves do not howl at the moon.

No, that's another myth of the muggles-and wizards, really, but at least they have us to substantiate the claim. A wolf does not lift its head in song to the moon. Rather, that long note-unique to the wolf-that most haunting of melodies, is let loose as a locator.

'Here am I, look well, for I stand with pack,' it may say, when it is a thread in a beautiful tapestry of voices.

Or it may have another meaning: 'I stand alone my brothers, whither rovest thou?' in response the rest of the pack howls, for they are broken should any be missed.

The lone wolf howls.

The epitome of mournful, the very most melancholy of sounds, is the howl of the lone wolf. They will die, alone, empty, if they do not receive an answer. The call is sent out, again and again, cold night after cold night, winding its way through the frigid, silent air, for an answer must come. That answer is a promise. It is as much an indicator of physical position as of potential sanctuary.

The night song snakes from the wolf's muzzle, a hand stretched out in hope, waiting for the firm grip of another to pull it to solid ground.

For love is the sole power. Alone one is nothing.

It was his lack of understanding, his simple inability to comprehend this Law, that sparked and fueled my hatred for Severus. The fires within my soul-those same fires by which I gave my share of the pack warmth-were stoked by his rejection of others. An outcast is voluntary. He never howled, and has always wandered alone. Only one fate awaits he who walks a one-man path, and my childhood contempt has become pity-almost concern.

"What are friends," he once spat at me, on a long-ago afternoon-one of the least pleasurable of my life, for I had been assigned to clean out the Charms classroom with him, "but childish distractions? How far does friendship get you in the real world? Tell me that, Lupin, enlighten me as to what job will hire you because you were Potter's servant? Or because you wasted time sticking up for Pettigrew? Oh, I know, Lupin, you'll tell the Minister of Magic that you've got years of experience skiving classes with Black, and he'll hire you on the spot."

Until that day I honestly do not believe I knew the origin of the expression 'to have one's blood boil', but boil mine did, in a black kettle above a raging flame, one I fed regularly. It is not a fire of malice, its sprite like arms did not reach out in hatred, nor was it kindled by anger.

No, it was the warmth of the Pack, my personal hearth.

I am not a terribly open person. I never have been. I do not involve myself with many humans, and I left the social calls to Prongs in our school days. But I was always open with my pack. I knew I had them, that they would be eternally present and eternally accepting.

What did I care if I was well liked at school?

Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs liked me as what and who I was, lycanthropy and all, and that was more than enough.

There is a muggle book-a truly excellent one-that contains a verse like a howl itself.

As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk the Law runneth forward and back -

For the strength of the Pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the Pack.

Prongs understood that.

I have been walking through this empty house-well, no-I don't think it's actually empty, I'm sure someone is around, doing some work for the Order, no doubt, but there is a void in these rooms that no number of people can fill.

It is not a matter of people being here, it is simply a matter of who those people are.

I stop now, though. Something inside me is flaring in all directions. Exploding, erupting, condensing, twisting, writhing of pain, dancing from joy, all at once.

Prongs.

My...Prongs.

My antithesis.

My other half-the matching piece to my soul.

We agreed on perhaps three things. One of those was that love in any form is greater, more powerful, and more awesome than anything else. Prongs and I were total and complete opposites.

Light to my dark.

Knight to my wizard.

Athlete to my poet.

Day to my night.

Yin to my yang.

Right to my left, white to my black, extrovert to my introvert, powerful to my pensive, stag to my wolf.

Never for an instant did I worry, when I first saw Prongs transform, that I might be overcome by my lupine urges and eat him.

It was Prongs. The day he let me beat him in a physical contest would be the day Albus went over to the Dark Side.

Noble, courageous, chivalrous to a fault, arrogant, entitled, inconsiderate, insightful, protective, bullying, stubborn, loving, Prongs was the best alpha any pack ever sought direction from.

The wolf pack is not a group of mindless cronies following their omnipotent leader. Each wolf serves a role, facilitating the running of the pack, be it determining goals, organizing action or any other function.

Never let it be said that Moony surrendered his will.

Prongs would never have demanded it anyway. Perfectly, we meshed.

He was the pilot, the one with the strength to perceive a goal and start towards it. When he wanted something, nothing and no one crossed his path.

But who laid that path? Who set out the road for him to take? Who organized the schemes, and brought his dark, devious mind to bear upon them?

I did.

Prongs kept my ideas grounded in reality, and we achieved any goal he set for us. How could we not, with his determination and my planning?

I realize I am weeping. I'm not really surprised. The memory of Prongs, of the Boy-who-was-late-for-everything, of the fawn who never fawned, flows in my veins. It sings to me like the night once did.

I raise my head to the dark ceiling and a howl escapes my human lips.

It is a long, serpentine cry, floating through the silent air like a cloud on a windy day.

The night. I loved the night.

It was my home, my element.

I flowed through it like the wind. I swam in it, drank from its dark liquor.

My nights serve no purpose now. They are empty-as they have been but once.

I have howled before.

Prongs has been dead for fourteen years, his mate along with him. Of course, she was more than Prongs' Mate; she was Lily. Our Lily. I loved her as I loved the others. True, it was hesitantly at first. I'll be the first to admit that I am slow to trust humans.

It comes like a silver bullet to my stomach.

I'll be the first.

Prongs!

Prongs would have been the first!

Prongs was always there to tell me off for being a 'crazy old hermit'. He would have been the first to say that!

Prongs!

My Prongs! My inconsiderate, self-absorbed, best friend!

His son is very much unlike him. Thank the moon for that. There could never be another Prongs-no, and the world hasn't recovered from the last one anyway.

I howled a week from that night. November sixth, so many years ago. Fifteen.

A dog's life can pass in fifteen years.

An infant can become an adolescent.

An adolescent can begin a family.

It was on that night that I last stood empty like this. Drained, doused.

Wormtail I thought killed, Padfoot, worse than that; disloyal, Prongs and Lily were dead.

Moony stood alone.

I howled that night.

I howled, and never was an answer given. Never did I hear the notes of that sweet, dark song blowing through the chill night air.

Monetary comfort, a stable job, a fixed home-none of this has ever held much power over me, not so long as I had love.

But then I had none but that which I felt for my memories. Through stories that played through my mind like the most enchanting of books, I could still love my pack, and in that way, keep them from true death.

Still, a wolf cannot live alone. Throwing my head to the black winds I had howled. I was separated from my pack, a mind with no heart, body or sight.

At long last I was resurrected.

Padfoot returned to me, and I to him. There is one thing in my life I can never, will never, and do not wish to forgive myself for.

I thought Padfoot a traitor.

Stupid!

Blind!

I have no idea what possessed me...no, that's not true. I knew only one thing. Someone in my pack was disloyal.

The wolf who breaks Pack Law-who attacks another member, or steals a kill, or does harm to the pups-must die.

It was almost beyond my comprehension.

No, it was beyond my comprehension. I was blinded by my confusion. How could Wormtail, Padfoot or Prongs betray us?

Yes, Albus has said, time and time again-and I do not doubt him for a second-that Voldemort's greatest weapon is his ability to sew the seeds of discord and enmity

No one should have been able to turn us on each other. It is no excuse. There can be none.

I betrayed Padfoot.

But he saved me, and I him, I suppose. The four of us stood again that night in the Shrieking Shack. How appropriate that it should have been a Full Moon, the cause of our greatest happiness, our most powerful contentment.

It took a nod. A single motion, a simple one, but one I had seen a hundred thousand times before. Padfoot's solemn movement spoke for fourteen years of explanation.

With a sole act he unplugged the dam that held back the truth from my mind, and it all poured in.

Wormtail had betrayed us.

Wormtail had killed Prongs, and sent Padfoot to Azkaban.

I have come to terms with this.

The second Padfoot nodded I knew all that had happened, and understood it. I could believe it at last.

Padfoot.

Padfoot the guardian, Padfoot the shrewd, Padfoot, who was black in more than name.

It was Padfoot who protected us all. I was skeptical of Lily at first, but Padfoot was downright suspicious.

He prowled the edges of our pack, scouting for any sign of external assault. As much as it was my job to hold us together inside it was his to secure our borders, to fasten our locks.

If Prongs were the cover, I the binding and Wormtail the Whatever-You-Call-The-Back-Cover-Of-A-Book, Padfoot was the dust jacket.

It was his protectiveness that caused his death. That was foreseeable, and that fact makes me cringe visibly-were anyone here to see me. He died because he came to a friend's defense.

Not one of us would have it any other way.

Inside me two serpents, affection and sorrow, twist, each trying to break the other's spine, and neither succeeding. I cannot contain them any longer, and I life my head.

Another howl passes my lips, both mournful and joyous.

Hard pressed would anyone be to find a more insightful, acute, honest person than he. As fiercely loyal as Prongs and I, but twice as demonstrative of it, he never in his life shied from giving his opinion on someone, whether it was approval or disgust.

When Prongs, Wormtail or I did something stupid, he was the first to tell us (and hex us). When one of us did something he respected, he let us know.

Let the next teenage girl who says that guys don't express their feelings get a dog. A Newfoundland, or a German shepherd.

Padfoot was as much a dog as I. So many times, we ran, neck in neck, paws beating in tandem against the dewy grass. Prongs led the way, magnificent antlered head held high, but it was Padfoot and I who ran side-by-side.

I remember each one distinctly.

Padfoot was proud of me. I never deserved that pride-not once. I was proud of him, and Wormtail, and Prongs, but Padfoot was proud of me-he told me, came out and said it, that he respected my "Moonyness", by which he meant what he saw in me as individuality. Padfoot was, if anything, shrewd and honest. I will not insult his memory in some self-deprecating stint.

This house smells of him. It should, I suppose. It was his. His family's, to begin with, but in the last few months he made it his own. His hatred of his parents was as much a part of him as his love for making Prongs' life difficult (and woe to anyone else who attempted that, while Padfoot was on guard) and in time, he wove it into his home. Buckbeak and I are aspects of that. Our presence here is more or less a provocative measure-an insult to his mother, who absolutely abhors the both of us.

I believe she thinks there's hope for Beaky though.

The room I stand in (it's the drawing room) is in total disarray. Knick-knacks, mostly broken, lie on a table where Padfoot had been working on them. Books are on the floor-a shiver goes down my spine at that. I was never what you'd call a model student, taking most Professors as adversaries unworthy of respect, and I hardly ever studied (though compared to Padfoot and Prongs I was a regular teacher's pet) but to me, books are sort of sacred, no matter what form they take.

Chaos. Complete chaos.

Padfoot loved chaos.

I move to pick up a book that's lying open on the floor-its spine will be affected if it stays in that position too long-and stop. I cannot bring myself to touch it, not yet. No...and at least the pages aren't bent.

Padfoot would say I'm obsessive.

Again I get a lesson in the validity of clichés. My heart literally feels as though it has been slashed, torn indelicately and left asunder.

I lift my head back and howl again.

A low, long, ululating note.

Here I stand, alone, look well and find me, for I wander pack-less in the moonlight.

My sensitive ears hear a door opening quietly. I turn to it.

Two women poke their heads around it.

Professor McGonagal-Minerva, now, and Nymphadora, her hair long and walnut brown today, making her look not unlike her mother.

"Er, Remus," she says, an expression of equal parts confusion and concern on her features, so harshly matured since the Battle of the Fountain, "y'alright?"