To Face the Wolf

Remus Lupin

About nine o' clock in the evening, Remus finally returned to his rooms, not in the best of moods. He had been obliged to give Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle detention, even though he knew Draco Malfoy was the brain behind their badly executed prank. Unfortunately, the two other boys refused to tell on Malfoy, as if he had some kind of hold on them. Maybe he had. And then again, maybe they were simply loyal. Slytherin Hufflepuffs. Hard to imagine, and yet...

Looking up, he saw the next Slytherin approach through the corridor. The Potions Master had a book with a plain, dark blue cover in one hand.

'Good evening, Severus,' Remus said, dredging up his courtesy from underneath several layers of fatigue and exasperation. 'On your way to the library?'

'That's none of your concern, Lupin.' Without faltering in his stride, Snape gave him a berth just wide enough to be insulting but too narrow to signal fear.

Not that Remus didn't catch a whiff of it anyway. It smelled the same as it had twenty years ago. He sighed and said: 'Or were you planning to return Hermione's book?' It wouldn't do any harm if Snape knew that at least one of his fellow teachers was aware of the confiscation.

This time, Snape did halt. 'Ah, yes, that book,' he said as if he wasn't holding it in his hand. 'Very interesting to hear you mention it, Lupin. Don't think I'm unaware of its... recent history.' Swiftly, he strode on.

It was good to know the remark had registered, Remus thought; now he'd only have to make sure Snape wouldn't take it out on Hermione, and that much he was able to manage. But what the blazes had Snape been talking about? What recent history, beyond his own act of confiscation? Remus couldn't make sense of it.

All the same, his mood had definitely improved. And so he couldn't refrain from chuckling when, on entering his room, he saw Finrod sitting cross-legged on the couch, dressed only in a fraying red towel and busy darning a sock.

'If I didn't know better, I'd swear I'd acquired a house elf!' he said.

'But Finrod is your house-elf, good master,' the other replied gravely, gazing up from the sock. 'As the Potions teacher has been telling Finrod. So I is making myself useful. Did master know all his clothes needed mending, sir?'

Remus's chuckle changed into a cough. 'Severus Snape said you were a house-elf?'

'So he said, lordly one. Finrod is your very own house elf. Is all in the Talking book, he tells me. Finrod is to serve you as his master, Mr. Lupin, sir. So I is dressing myself like the other house elves now.'

Remus joined him on the couch, looking the other's torso up and down. The bite scars had all but vanished; only a few fading lines remained. He resisted the impulse to touch them and find out if there was any roughness left.

'Maybe now good Headmaster Dumbledore will be admitting Finrod hasn't turned werewolf,' he heard Finrod say.

Was there a hint of amusement in his voice, or was it apprehension that made it sound a bit odd? I don't think he's absolutely certain he won't transform. 'Somehow, I doubt he'll fall for it,' Remus told him.

Finrod didn't look at him, intent on the sock. He had very nimble fingers - not to be wondered at in a harper.

'But let's assume you are a house elf for a moment.' Remus went on, more than ready to abandon the werewolf topic. 'House-elves must obey their masters. So, what if I tell you to stop darning?'

'Is good timing, Professor Lupin, sir,' Finrod replied promptly and cut the yarn with his perfectly white teeth. 'Socks are being all whole again.' He picked up the other sock from the armrest of the couch and held the pair up, beaming with pride, or faking it very convincingly. 'As good as new.' He was right. A real house-elf couldn't have improved on his work.

Remus smiled. 'They're yours. Which means, in case Snape omitted to tell you, that I've released you from my service, perceived or real. I am able to mend my own clothes, though their present state may have led you to believe otherwise.'

Finrod leaned back. 'I'd hate to think you're firing me because of any inadequacies on my part,' he told the ceiling, shedding the house-elf speech. 'I'd rather believe you're uncomfortable exploiting a race that seems to confuse service with servility, and humility with humiliation.'

That Remus was reluctant to order the Hogwarts elves around was true, though not for the reason Finrod had just mentioned. He had always taken them for granted. As far as he could tell most of them took pride in serving their masters well, an attitude that had little to do with abasement of any kind. If some of the masters chose to abuse their power, did this have anything to do with the position of house-elves in general? If the elves themselves chose servitude, did anyone have the right to consider it wrong? If it was a conscious choice, and not just a habit.

The idea of someone like Finrod - who had ruled as a king - doing household chores as if he were another Dribbly, was blatantly absurd. But why? And why would it be any less absurd when the Hogwarts elves carried out such menial tasks? Remus realised he didn't really know the answers.

'House-elves aren't humans,' he said at last, shrugging, 'and neither am I; that's probably why the idea of bossing them around doesn't sit well with me. It's the Headmaster who ordered Dribbly to bring up your meals from the kitchen.' Coward. Skirting the issue. I'm just tired, he told himself.

'Remus,' Finrod said, 'I'm not human either. And I strongly suspect I would not be considered the equal of wizards and witches, if they were to classify me. I believe your Potions Master hoped to take me down a notch by calling me a house-elf.' He finally turned his gaze away from the ceiling.

Remus promptly averted his; as the other still wore nothing but a towel he began to feel a voyeur. He wondered what Finrod was thinking, and decided to divert the conversation. 'Now that you mention Snape - what book did you say he was referring to?'

'He called it "the Talkin' book". I suppose he meant to say "Talking" - do you wizards have texts capable of speech?' Finrod smiled. 'I didn't have the honour of meeting any while browsing your shelf.'

Snape had stopped dropping his aitches and generally improved his pronunciation after coming to Hogwarts (though it had hardly improved his image). Had he reverted to his childhood speech? 'We have such books,' Remus replied. 'But they're mostly in the restricted section of the library and I've never heard any of them talk about house-elves. So I haven't got the foggiest idea what Snape meant, if he didn't give a title.' Unless... 'I'll ask him tomorrow.' Remus rose. 'Do you mind if I go to bed now?'

'One last question,' Finrod said. 'Severus Snape also told me that the escaped convict who seems to be such a threat to the students, is a friend of yours. Was he speaking the truth?'

Remus took a deep breath, glad he was looking at Finrod's throat instead of at his eyes. 'I shan't deny Sirius was my friend, once. Or so I thought. But he betrayed the man who was like a brother to him and killed another friend, and a dozen innocents. He was sentenced to life imprisonment. I haven't - seen him since.' If his memories of Sirius had been less incriminating, he'd have asked the other to read them. But Padfoot had to remain a secret, or Finrod would want him to go to the Headmaster and confess. And if he does, how can I refuse without losing his friendship? It will rip me apart more painfully than the werewolf's teeth ever did.

'Then you're his friend no more?'

'I wonder if I ever was.'

Finrod raised his eyebrows. 'You didn't have to say that. Still, I'm glad you answered me.'

Remus felt empty, both morally and emotionally. This wasn't right. He did not deserve Finrod's trust, for he couldn't return it, not without giving himself away. It was unfair; he was unworthy of this friendship.

His retreat to the bathroom felt like a flight, though his steps remained calm and measured. For the umpteenth time he wondered if it would really be so horrible to go to the Headmaster and suffer the past to cast its shadows over him. Having a bad conscience was becoming a bad habit, much like an addiction one is unable to break.

That night, Remus lay awake for a long time, disgusted with his own cowardice. It was hours past midnight when he drifted off at last. Much later still, he woke briefly to the sound of the window being opened, but he was too sleepy to care.

***

Crookshanks

The Cat-kneazle Familiar who had Hermione Granger for a Witch left the castle by one of the secret exits. The black Dog had used this passage, too: his Smell lingered; though it was fading. The Dog was all right, as far as his Kind went, though maybe it was because Dog was not really his Kind. He did not bark much, he was not stupid or submissive or overbearing, and he had been badly wronged by the brown Rat. The Dog was dark on the outside, while the Rat was dark on the inside and deserved to be crunched.

Crookshanks's mouth watered, even as he remembered his promise not to eat it even if he caught it. He paused for a round of grooming to get a grip on himself, temporarily dropping the slightly chewed piece of Paper he held between his jaws. He had tried to catch the Rat several times now - to take it to the Dog, of course. But the Rat was very clever, and as quick as could be expected of someone who feared for his very Life.

The Dog was afraid, too, though not for his Life. Crookshanks was not afraid, except to make his Witch unhappy. But doing right by the Dog was too important, so he could not in all conscience stop trying to catch the Rat.

Picking up the slip of Paper he continued down the passage until he emerged in the open on the Forest side of Hogwarts. Reaching the foot of the castle Hill he streaked across the moist Lawn like a Firebolt cleaving the chilly night. The Moon above was halved, lending him only a faint shadow to race at his side. The Moon Wolf dwelling in the castle was the Dog's friend, but the Dog was no longer the Moon Wolf's friend. This made the Dog very sad. Crookshanks wished he could tell the Wolf about this. But he always found himself in front of a locked Door during the nights when the Wolf was there.

The Forest loomed ahead. It held many good Smells and pleasant Spots, but there were patches of Dark as well, and traps that might not let him go. Those were to be avoided. It housed Creatures one could befriend and Creatures one did better without. Crookshanks was not familiar with the entire Forest yet, though one day he hoped to be.

He sensed that right now, its farther eaves hid Presences that were more like Absences, as they had no true Being themselves but mostly consisted of Emptiness and Hunger and Cold. They had no business roaming here. Maybe he ought to warn the Dog.

Suddenly he halted. His ears caught a small sound much closer by. This had to be a Presence, not an Absence, but of a kind he had never known before. It was entering the Forest and it walked on two Feet, but it was too light-footed to be Human.

Crookshanks withdrew beneath the appointed Bush to observe the passing of whatever it was, as curious as a Cat-kneazle could be.

***

Finrod Felagund

As soon as the cat came into view Finrod decided to follow it. He hadn't bothered to dress when he rose from the couch, so he would have to leave as he was, in his bare skin. Hurriedly he slung his robe around his neck, intending to put it on as soon as he could. The Eldar were sturdy and strong, but the nights were still cold, and after the Ice he had vowed never to freeze voluntarily. Quickly he left by the window for the second time, taking care to keep the ginger tom in sight. He had to run to keep up its pace, but the animal either did not notice it was being followed, or it did not care.

He hoped it would lead him to Humor; he had seen the two together before and there had been no hostility between them. The cat held something in its jaws, and Finrod wondered if it was taking the object to the black dog. When it slipped into the forest, he was about fifteen steps behind.

The quietly breathing forest was a maze of black, grey and beige. Looking up he could see a few of Varda's stars - the only familiar things in this unfamiliar place - twinkle through the trees. The wan light of the half moon, filtered by a web of twigs, cast enough light for his Eldarin eyesight to avoid stumbling over stock and stone but too little to penetrate the deepest gloom. Fortunately he saw the cat, still with the unknown object between its teeth, climb out of a shallow gully to his left and slip inside the darkness of a thicket. When it failed to reappear, Finrod melted into the shadows and put on his robes, rustling no more than a small animal scurrying through last year's fallen leaves. He could wait.

Listening to the nightly noises of the forest he sensed the same vague, distant threat that had been there on the day he met Humor. It was further away this time, but not gone. What was coming his way right now was more substantial, and a great deal noisier.

It was the dog, racing toward the thicket where Finrod had seen the ginger cat vanish and kicking up leaf-mould and small twigs with his hind legs. Before one of the bushes he sat down, sniffing and thumping his tail twice.

After half a dozen heartbeats the cat appeared from under the bush, turning up its muzzle to offer whatever it held in its mouth to the black dog. Finrod bent forward. He could actually hear the cat purr.

Humor opened his mouth in a canine grin. Then he raised itself on his hind legs, stretching up, his form blurring and shifting - and the next moment a human being stood where the dog had been. A man, tall, emaciated, face like a skull, matted, night dark hair hanging to his elbows and claw-like hands. He wore rags instead of robes and an invisible cloak of dark doom. Even in human form he looked like a harbinger of Death.

'Thank you,' he said in a hoarse voice. He took the thing from the cat's mouth and stared at it as if it were a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown.

After a while he blew on it (to dry the cat's saliva?), waved it through the air and tucked it away among his rags. When he knelt down to pat the cat Finrod decided it was time to show himself, sensing that the man was about to change back into a dog.

He stepped out of the shadows. 'Sirius Black?'

The man's wheeled, and Finrod could smell the shock and fear he exuded. 'I mean you no harm,' he said quickly, showing his hands. 'Look. I have no wand.'

The other breathed heavily, staring at him with eyes that seemed grey-blue rather than pure blue now.

'You have seen me before - Humor...' Finrod went on slowly. 'I knew there was more to the black dog than met the eye.'

The cat, its ginger hairs raised, crept slowly towards him with its belly close to the ground; was it trying to protect the human? Finrod almost smiled, but it would be inappropriate in the presence of this suffering soul. 'I know you are a wanted man. They say you are evil: a traitor, a murderer, come here to kill a student by the name of Harry Potter.' Sirius Black made an abrupt movement; Finrod sensed how part of his fear turned to guilt, thick and oppressive. The shadow of a moving branch rippled across his face.

'But having seen the dog's mind, I am not sure what to think,' Finrod finished.

The cat halted. The gaunt man did not reply but merely stared at him, still taut as a bowstring and ready to bolt like a wild creature. If Finrod was any judge of mortal men, he would say that Sirius Black's grasp on his own humanity was tenuous.

Finally, the other opened his mouth. 'No wand, eh?' he croaked, still crouching on the forest floor. 'Seen you with the Willow. Heard you. Bet you don't need one. Where's the rest?'

'The rest?'

'Aurors. Ministry types who'll pounce on me once you've lulled me into a false sense of security. Dementors.'

Finrod shook his head. 'I came alone. Straight from Remus Lupin's rooms. What are -'

A strangled sound from Black interrupted him. 'Remus... He's here?'

If Finrod had been wondering whether Snape was right to suggest that Remus was in league with this man - and he realised now that he had - this was his answer. 'He's a teacher at this school.'

'What did he... say about me? Warned you against the mass-murderer Black?'

Finrod hesitated. 'He doubted your friendship,' he replied finally. To his left a tree, swaying in the nightly breeze, rubbed its branches together with an eerie creaking noise.

Black groaned, his bony fingers digging into the leaf-mould. 'Serves me right for distrusting him.' His too bright eyes - did he have what mortals called a fever? - stared into the middle distance for a while. Then he blinked, baring his teeth in a grimace. 'When you see Crookshanks - that's my ginger friend - chase a rat, lend him a hand, will you?'

'Mr. Black,' said Finrod, who began to doubt seriously if the man was in his right mind, 'if you want me to catch rats for you, I'd like to know why -'

Suddenly, the other shivered, breathing heavily - and then he began to whimper. Expecting to see him transform into Humor, Finrod watched him intently.

But Sirius Black remained a man. Instead of transforming, he retreated on all fours, trying to hide beneath the thicket, pressing against it as if trying to melt into it. A few twigs snapped. Following Black's stare, Finrod saw a shape approach slowly through the forest, gliding rather than walking. It was about fifty feet away and seemed taller than he was, cloaked, a hood completely obscuring the face. This was the source of the cold shiver he had felt earlier, Finrod realised - and the cause of Black's dread.

With a hiss the ginger cat darted away through the gully. Black sank to the ground, breathing in audible gasps, and the hood turned into his direction, as if it was searching for him. So the wizard was the target? Without thinking twice Finrod stepped between hunter and prey. 'Who are you? What do you want?' he asked.

The figure did not reply, nor did it halt or even waver. A claw slipped from the folds of the cloak, glistening wetly in the dim moonlight. Finrod felt his skin crawl but stood his ground. 'Speak!' he commanded, drawing himself up. He ought to be able to see the thing's face by now, but he began to wonder if it had one.

An image assailed his mind, unbidden: a cloaked, towering figure high upon a cliff overlooking the shores of Araman, about to utter a dreadful curse. He braced himself for the words he knew were coming, but nonetheless they hit him by surprise: To evil end shall all things turn that ye begin well... slain ye may be and slain ye shall be...

The figure was upon him, raising its slimy, scabbed hands to pull off its hood.

But even while Finrod remembered the words of the Prophecy they lost their sting. For him it had already come true; whatever he was doing here, he did in borrowed time. A gift. Being here was a gift, and he must find a way to use it well.

The stark image of Araman receded, to be replaced by something he had never seen, because the eye needs light to see, and this was Darkness, Emptiness, Hunger, a something that was nothing, a hole, a void. He was reminded of Sauron's pitch-dark dungeon, of the bottomless gorge of the wolf, and then, unexpectedly (or not) of the Ancient Spider, Ungoliant, of whom it was told that in the end she had devoured her insatiable self...

.... and the thought came to him, crystal clear in its transparency, that all that nothing can feed on is nothing, because it cannot contain anything that is something...

.... and then the darkness, the void, the emptiness, the hunger, bent toward his mouth to claim a kiss.

(TBC)