Consequences

Chapter 12: Shifts

I slip out of the door, close it quietly behind me and turn, only to come face to face with a figure on the stairs; the dim light of the corridor reflecting in his solemn expression.

Remus.

‘Morning,’ he says in a rather cold tone, barely looking up from his paper.

‘Morning,’ I reply trying to sound somewhat awake. I turn up the stairs and he follows me in silence. When we reach the top floor landing, he turns left without a word.

‘Remus?’

‘Yes,’ he replies, not turning around.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Brilliant,’ comes a sarcastic response. His bedroom door shuts with a bang.

Perhaps his errand in Hogsmeade was not a success?

After a hot shower and some clean clothes, I head downstairs for breakfast.

I was just going to have cereal but Molly has already made a huge pan of scrambled egg and there are sausages and bacon and toast, so the lazy girl in me has no excuse for not eating a “proper” breakfast. The twins and Bill are just cleaning their plates, and Arthur gives his wife a quick kiss before heading for the fireplace.

‘Morning, Tonks,’ he calls, lifting his hat in my direction.

‘Morning, Arthur.’ And he’s gone again in a flash of green flame.

‘We better be off too.’ Fred says, as he and George get up from the table. ‘George told McNasty’s they could pick up their order at nine.’

‘They wanted to pick it up at nine. And since they’re ordering three hundred cases I thought they shouldn’t have to wait for you to drag yourself out of bed.’

‘Forgive me but who was up ‘til one this morning packing those boxes?’

‘Lee and Verity.’

‘Shut up, I helped.’

They argue like this all the way to the fire.

‘Bye Mum, thanks for breakfast.’

‘Thanks Mum, bye.’

‘Bye boys.’

Two flashes of green and they’re gone as well.

Sitting across from Bill at the table, I help myself to breakfast. Molly comes and sits beside me with her tea and toast.

‘Is Remus all right?’ I ask her.

‘I think so, why?’

‘Met him on the stairs a little while ago. Seems a bit grumpy. Did his errand not go well?’

‘Went very well, from what he was telling me,’ Bill pipes up, setting down his paper and picking up his coffee.

‘Yes,’ Molly adds. ‘Signed up a new Order member. Apparently, Dumbledore is thrilled.’

‘Dunno what that was about then. Can you pass the butter please, Bill?’

*

Nymphadora Tonks is unwell.

I have that horrible dizzy, sick feeling you get when you do a full day’s work with out sleeping. Still, when I lie here and shut my eyes nothing happens. Absolutely nothing. What did Madame Pomfrey suggest? Reading? But I finished my book a few nights ago. It was good, but not as good as “The Tartan Rogue.” Take a hot bath with the lavendery stuff? Chamomile tea?

It’s only half past three but I could have a bath, I suppose. Dragging myself vertical, I head into the bathroom and unfortunately, catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. No wonder I was told to leave work after only eight hours: I look sick ... and old. The dark circles are back under my eyes and my skin has a rather grayish look to it. Fixable? Yes, but I shouldn’t have to.

Would Remus be in his room? What got his knickers in such a twist this morning? Did he receive some bad news between the ground and third floors? Was it me? Was it because I came out of Charlie’s room? Is he disappointed that I couldn’t handle things on my own?

Being silly. Silly and paranoid, not a good combination.

But still ... I knock on his door.

There is no response, so I do it again. Would he mind terribly if I borrowed his book? Probably not. Turning the knob slowly, I push the door open and enter his rooms. He’s not here. Well obviously, he didn’t answer the door.

The big book lies open on his bedside table. Sitting on the edge of his bed I pull it onto my lap. It’s open to a story I’m familiar with this time. “The Children of Lir.” My mother used to read it to me when I was little. Only my copy was just a little book with pretty paintings and glittery swans on the cover. Don’t know why I do it really, but instead of taking the book back to my bedroom to read, I slide down onto his bed. The old book smells all musty, and the pillows smell of sandalwood and ... I’m just so comfortable here.

Bad was our stepmother with us,
She played her magic upon us,
Sending us north on the sea.
In the shapes of magical swans.

My eyes close of their own accord and everything around me fades away.

*

The door slams shut.

I don’t know how long I slept for but I’m awake now. This isn’t ... no Remus’s room. Remus’s bed. A light comes on in his sitting room and I hear someone light the fire. Remus must be back. I should probably go. I’m almost sitting, when the shadow in the doorway stops me cold.

‘Colloportus,’ he says firmly, pointing his wand at the adjoining door.

Staring at it, I hear the tell-tale squelching noise. Why did he seal it?

But then his shadow disappears from the doorway. Suppose I should get up, announce myself and apologise for my intrusion. Surprised he didn’t look into the bedroom. But then why would he? Doubt he’s expecting to find me here.

Is that the wind? It’s so loud. Thunder rumbles overhead and the rain begins; crashing violently against the windows. Great, another storm. There are no more noises from the other room. The light dims and I can only assume he’s extinguished the lamp. Ah, well, I had better get this over with. Sliding carefully off the end of his bed I move to the doorway. The only light in the room is from the fire facing me. I can feel the warmth from it all the way over here. At first I don’t see him. But he’s there, folding something over the back of the settee. He’s shirtless. He checks his watch as he walks around beside the armchair, his long lean form silhouetted before the fire.

He’s not just shirtless.

Bugger; perhaps not the best time to announce myself.

What do I do now? I could run for it. But being caught, running for it by naked man would be too traumatically embarrassing. I could just go back to bed. Pretend none of it happened. Pretend that if he just turned a bit more toward me I couldn’t actually tell if the Hippogriff theory is true.

Stop it.

He checks his watch again and then takes it off his wrist, putting it up on the mantelpiece and taking two objects down in return. One is his wand, the other is a thin strand of silvery material.
He wraps it around his left wrist and gives it a tap with his wand. It gives pinkish glow and he returns his wand to the mantel. A Gleipnir shackle. We use them at work. If I were to look around the room I would probably see its twin embedded in the wall or the floor somewhere. Why is he chained? He isn’t moving anymore. His hands grip the back of the chair, his shoulders are hunched, his head is down, eyes closed.

Like he’s waiting for someone to strike him across the back. Like he’s waiting ...

I take another step toward the door. For a moment he looks like he’s going to sneeze. Then his head snaps ‘round and he’s looking right at me.

Shit.

Shit, it’s Saturday night.

The moon.

The muscles in his back ripple, he turns his head away and drops it down again.

Did he see me?

It’s starting.

I can lengthen or shorten muscle and bone, I can change the texture, colour, contour of my skin. I can mimic any race. Hell, I can turn myself bright purple if I like. I can be whomever I choose to be. I do it for work. I do it for the Order. But a lot of the time, I do it for fun. It’s easy. Simple.

Not ... Oh, God ...

It’s like he’s being pulled apart.

His skin is split, a resewn, his bones are broken and twisted and reshaped. He throws his head back and clenches his teeth, his fingers digging into the back of the chair. And I want more than anything to go to him, to touch him, comfort him; tell him everything is going to be all right. But I can’t, I know I can’t. All I can do is stand here. Useless. When the pain becomes too great he cries out; doubles over. And I bite down hard on my lip, feel tears on my face as I watch the skin down his spine split and pull away. There is blood. New flesh explodes from underneath and I cover my mouth with my hands to stop myself from screaming.

There is nothing magical in this. It is sick, and twisted and torturous to witness let alone endure. His back arches and his chest is the next to open, right down his breastbone. Then his shoulders are pulled forward and flattened, his neck lengthens ... I swear if it weren’t for the wind I could hear the sound of his jaw breaking. Stepping back, I sit on the edge of the bed and shut my eyes. I can’t look anymore.

Soon his screams become a long low howl; it sends shivers up my spine.

When I’m brave enough to open my eyes again, the man who stood before me is gone.

In his stead is a large, tawny wolf. But not a wolf. A run-up wolf with strangely elongated limbs and a long muzzle. It’s coat is brown and grey, with flecks of gold, much like his hair. It is covered with fur, yet I can see the muscles in its shoulders as it circles the chair.

I daren’t move. Try to keep my breathing as light as possible. I don’t want it ... no, him ... I don’t want him to know I’m here. If he doesn’t know already. So I just sit here, still biting my lip. Concentrating on the feeling of tears running down my face to my jaw. They sting a bit.

I know he’s a werewolf. I’ve known that since the first day I met him and I admit that it did scare me to begin with. Terrified me, actually. But he and Sirius ...that feeling didn’t last long. I know he’s a werewolf. I know he locks himself away once a month. I know he’ll be sick tomorrow. But while I’ve never had to witness this ... I could suspend belief. Does that even make sense? That I could lie to myself and pretend that is was something lesser. That it wasn’t real.

This is so unfair.

The tears continue, I can’t stop them. Why try?

He lies down on the hearthrug and shuts his eyes. Waiting. Waiting for the night to be over. For the moon to wane. Does he go through the same torture when he becomes man again? I don’t think I can watch that twice.

Isn’t Wolfsbane supposed to lessen the pain? Was that lessened? What is it like without it? How much has he suffered? Wolfsbane potion is a relatively new discovery. Most of his life he hasn’t had it. As a child he never had it. As a child ... I can’t help but think of his mother. What is it like to watch your child go through this? Just a little boy. It’s hard enough watching the man; my friend.

The man disguised before me is funny and charming and sweet. He makes me laugh when I need to. He always wins at Exploding Snap but it doesn’t stop me from trying to beat him. He can put thirty-seven liquorice slugs in his mouth at once, beating Sirius by three. I could only do twenty-two. I made him snort spaghetti out of his nose once. And two nights ago ... he was dancing with a blonde tart in an old club, we had far too much to drink and I kissed him.

I’m hoping he’s asleep. That he can just sleep the night away. That he has nice dreams, of pretty girls, or chasing rabbits, or whatever takes his fancy. That he isn’t stuck here. I try and shift to lie back down, my head at the footboard so I can see him. The bed doesn’t make a sound, thank goodness, so I slide to the mattress, resting my head on my arm; just watching him.

I’ve been on a werewolf hunt before. My first month on the job. I think they sent me along as a kind of initiation; Lord knows I wasn’t much help. Scrimgeour, Proudfoot, Merch and me in The New Forest. There had been reports in the Muggle papers of attacks on cattle and deer. People speculated it was a wild cat. Probably escaped from a zoo or a wildlife preserve. Wildlife officers looked into it but nothing was found. Then someone saw it. Saw it disembowel a pony. The reports suddenly changed. This was no cat. It was a wolf and a giant one at that. Panic spread rapidly, and rightly so. People locked up their pets and their livestock, and double bolted their doors. But there were a few, a few foolish Muggles who thought they could capture it and a few others that thought they could kill it. It was the leader of the latter that would be its first victim.

We knew then, it was no ordinary wolf.

A film crew from London had decided to try and catch footage of the creature. There had been no attacks on men for nearly a month. But there had been reports of poachers in the woods. There were rumours that the wolf or wolves, were a cover for illegal poaching and that perhaps the death was a murder and not a random animal attack. They picked the wrong night. The survivors would tell us that they had chosen the full moon because it provided natural light and an eerie atmosphere. They had no idea it would leave four of them dead, and a fifth a permanent resident of St. Mungo’s extended care facility.

We arrived on the scene as it unfolded. There were two of them. We had suspected more than one. A silver one and a rusty-coloured one. The silver was feeding on the body of a man and the rusty one was attacking another man. The man was still moving, screaming. Proudfoot threw a curse out at the wolf. I can’t remember what exactly. It knocked it backward, but the creature turned and charged. It happened so quickly; it took Proudfoot off his feet. There was a loud voice and a near deafening crack, green light shot out of the darkness and a moment later the wolf lay dead.

Scrimgeour had killed it outright.

The silver wolf had been captured. I don’t remember how. Just remember Proudfoot pushing the dead man off him and getting to his feet. He was uninjured; although Scrimgeour made him strip down to prove it. Scrimgeour had reacted fast enough and saved his colleague. Saved him from death, saved him from this. I blink hard to clear my vision, to see Remus asleep by the fire.

How can this be?

The man on the ground was still screaming. The man the rusty wolf hadn’t quite killed. His face was a mass of blood. One of his eyes was gone, I remember that. His clothing was torn and there were chunks of flesh missing from his body. Merch sent up the signal and soon there were wizards and witches all around us. The man disappeared with the Healers. The rest of the crew were rounded up and interviewed. Their memories were modified. It was an explosion that caused this, they were told. Faulty equipment. Nobody’s to blame. There was an explosion and a fire and that’s how these deaths occurred. The bodies of the victims were modified to match the explanation. They were also told that the fifth man had died. His body was destroyed in the explosion.

We knew he would never return to the Muggle world. Not only would his scarring be too great for a simple explanation. But he was now a threat, as well.

The wolf’s name was Brennan Caede. The silver wolf that is. The rusty one was his nephew Marcus. The two had recently moved into a small cottage on the outskirts of Lyndhurst. Caede was well into his seventies. He had long grey hair and a deeply lined face. He was not the wolf I had seen but a frail old man. And I pitied him then, like one would pity an old dog.

But that was before he spoke.

He was not upset or disgusted at the carnage he had caused, but gleeful and proud. He licked his lips, and sucked on the ends of his grey, matted hair; just to taste any dried blood that still lingered. He made comments about me. Comments that caused Merch to step in front of me and block me from view. Comments that I dare not remember. About taking me from my bed at the waxing of the moon, of rape and torture, of tearing my flesh from bone as the full moon rose the following night. He told me I would beg for my death but that he would not kill me. His words would haunt me for weeks.

Scrimgeour told me later that it was all a joke. A fabrication just to solicit a reaction from us. But he was wrong. The look in Caede’s eyes as he spoke it I have no doubt he meant every word.

I will admit the term werewolf, for me, will always conjure up images of Brennan Caede. Will always make me recall that conversation in the cells.

Caede, even when he returned to a man’s form, remained a monster. Shutting my eyes I try and push the thoughts from my head. The leaves fall to the ground: it’s autumn.

You’ll think it’s just the wind in the trees.

Tell yourself to go back to sleep.

You won’t hear me coming until it’s too late. By then you won’t be able to move. I’ll lift you into my arms and carry you into the woods.

You’ll wonder if you can trust me.

I’ll tell you to trust me.

But I’ll bind you into the roots of the great willow tree ...

I’ll make you scream ...

The old willow.

There’s an old willow in the woods behind my parents’ house. How did he know? But he couldn’t’ve known. I can see it, bathed in moonlight, like I have a hundred times before. When I was little the stars shone there. When I was little, I would dream those trees were filled with flower faeries and wood elves. That the forest was home to unicorns and hidden castles. All waiting for me to discover them. But now ... now Caede is in those woods and everything is dark.

He leans over me. Blood-matted grey hair, as he looked that night. Watch his cracked lips and yellowed teeth as he speaks.

I will make you come in spite of yourself ... I will make you beg me.

No! But it’s like I’m weighted down, I can’t move. Weighted; his weight. I can’t move. I wrench my arms but the tree’s roots cut into my wrists. I can’t move!

He’s talking to me, muttering against my ear. I but he’s speaking so quickly I only catch every few words ... cut ... rip ... tear ... beg

No!

I can feel the cold blade of his knife against my breast.

‘Please, no.’

Then the sharp sting of the blade as the knife sinks into my flesh. Hear the sound of my own screams echoing in my ears mingled with his laughter. His knife finds my side the next time. And the next. I can feel the warmth of the blood as it washes over my skin. He lowers his head to my breast ...

There’s nothing I can do. I can’t fucking move.

But then his hands are on me again. On my face forcing me to look at him, at his patronising smile. Blood on his lips, his teeth; my blood. He lowers his mouth to mine, his tongue pushes past my lips and I clench my teeth as hard as I can. But his hand is under my chin, his thumb digging into the side of my jaw. It hurts so much and I know if I don’t open my mouth he’ll break it. I can taste blood.

His fingers on my belly, his knife on my hip, rough hands pushing my thighs apart...

‘Please,’ I hear myself crying.

But it’s the woods and it’s dark and there’s no one ...

To my right I hear a long, low, menacing growl.

That’s never happened before.

Caede turns his head in the direction of the noise. And something springs at us from the shadows, something big.

Fucking wake up!

Now!

Open your eyes!

I can’t. But I can and I do. Finding myself staring at the light from the fireplace playing across the ceiling. I can still feel him, feel the weight of his body on mine. I sit up just to prove to myself that I can, hugging my knees to my chest.

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.

Caede is dead. He received the kiss in Azkaban.

His body withered and died alone and soulless.

And I’m glad.

I wipe the tears from my face with my palms and in turn wipe my hands on my robes. I can’t hear the wind anymore. The storm must be over. Turning to my right, I get a bit of a start; he’s so close. The wolf, standing not three feet from the doorway, watching me. Probably on the end of his tether. Well he knows I’m here now. Of course he does, my breathing is ridiculously loud, and I can still hear my heart in my ears.

Stupid dream.

‘Sorry,’ I say to him, ‘you gave me a bit of a start. When I fell asleep you were over there.’

He just looks at me. Don’t know why I was expecting something more. It’s not as though he can answer back. Giving him a rather weak smile, I slide off his bed. ‘I should probably go. Yes, good idea.’ I cross to the door and quickly mutter, ‘Alohomora.’

The door opens, I seal it behind me and find myself once more standing in the bathroom. It’s nearly five. Walking through to my bedroom I open the window and just stand in front of it, letting the cool wind of the London morning wash over me, chill me, wake me. It’s been well over a year since I’ve had that dream. Usually it lasts longer, usually it’s the pain I swear I feel that wakes me.

It’s Sunday. I have to work, should just go in now. It’s only a paperwork day for me. The earlier I go in, the earlier I’ll finish and then perhaps I can get some proper sleep. Perhaps then the memory of that dream will have faded.

Hope Remus is all right.

Hope he’s not angry.

*

Filed all the paperwork I’ve been avoiding for the past two weeks. Explained what curses, I’ve used, on whom/what, and why I used them. Reported on any injuries (That form was six feet long in itself.). I think I was suffering from quill cramp by the time I was finished and I still had to go see a healer to have my dressing removed and a final examination. Seeing a Healer, of course, meant sitting in a waiting room for two hours, for an examination that took less than five minutes. But at least I no longer have a bandage, and the red mark where the cut used to be, I’m assured, will not leave scar. Good. Having two tree-related scars on one arm would just be too embarrassing.

So, after wasting another hour going back to work, copying and filing the forms I had to get the Healer to sign, I am finally up to date. And thankfully, back at Headquarters.

Down in the kitchen, Molly is chopping things on a large wooden chopping board and there is a pot bubbling on the cooker. The room is warm and smells wonderful. I love being in the kitchen when Molly’s cooking. It’s a lot like being in Mum’s, only with no mentions of my love life, or lack thereof, and the fact that she’ll probably never have grandchildren.

‘Wotcher, Molly.’

‘Hello, dear,’ she smiles. ‘How was your day?’

‘Long. What about you?’

‘Quite lovely actually. Arthur’s had the day off today. So we’ve had a bit of time.’

‘That’s great. You two deserve it.’

She smiles at me again and continues her chopping. ‘There’s tea in the pot, dear, and I think there are still some sandwiches in the larder, the boys didn’t quite get through the lot. So if you’re hungry, don’t be shy.’

‘Thanks, Molly. I think I will.’

A few minutes later, I am drinking a large mug of strong tea and making short work of cheese and chutney sandwiches.

“Have you eaten at all today?’ she asks me.

Suppose I’d better slow down a bit. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Been too busy.’

‘Thought you may not have, since you left before breakfast. Sorry, it was a bit late this morning. but ... well ... Arthur, and I’m afraid we had a bit of a lie in. It’s ...’

‘S’all right Molly.’ Please don’t go into detail.

Thankfully, she leaves it there. She picks up the chopping board, but instead of adding the ingredients to the bubbling pot, she scrapes them into a black cauldron sitting on the end of the worktop. After washing her hands, and drying them on her apron, she takes a dinner tray down from the cupboard and arranges a bowl, plate and cutlery on it. ‘Are you taking Arthur a tray?’ I ask.

‘No. Arthur’s fast asleep, bless him. This is for Remus.’

‘Remus?’

‘Yes. He’s had a good, long time to himself today, and hopefully he’s had some sleep, but he needs the Salveo Potion,’ she nods toward a cauldron.

‘Salveo Potion?’

‘Yes, for the pain dear. It relieves the muscle and joint pain and helps him to heal.’

Fuck. The knot that now permanently resides in my stomach, tightens instantly. Guilt for leaving how and when I did this morning. About not staying with him. But I couldn’t stay, I couldn’t see that again. I couldn’t but he has to ...

Molly’s arm slides around my shoulders and she gives me a tight squeeze. I blink furiously to make sure I’m not crying before I look up at her. ‘He’ll be all right, dear.’ She smiles. ‘Now butter that bread, I suspect he’s hungry by now.’

She picks up the bowl and the ladle and turns from me.

She’s never let me help before.

We must be bonding.

But then, I suppose this knife isn’t sharp.

*

As we climb the stairs, she instructs me on the method to the Salveo. It’s easy-peasy really, just boil up the herbs she’s already cut for me, add Miller’s Oil, wait five minutes, then add Arbutus. It’s best applied by a second party, she explained, but Remus will most likely refuse help. Damn male pride and all.

I knock on the door.

‘Just leave it in the hall, Molly,’ comes his voice from within.

Molly looks at me, a rather disappointed expression on her face.

‘Remus, it’s me,’ I say, leaning my head back against the doorframe.

There is a long pause. ‘Just a minute,’ he says finally. Molly smiles broadly and, leaving the dinner tray hovering beside me, retreats down the stairs. I wait a minute, or two, or three before I hear, ‘Come in.’

The door shuts behind me. The room is warm, the fire in the hearth is bright and cheerful. He is sitting on the settee, by the fire, a bed sheet wrapped firmly around his waist.

‘Hi,’ I say in a voice that I’m hoping sounds bright.

‘Hi,’ comes his soft reply.

Dropping the cauldron beside the fireplace, I pick the tea tray out of the air and set it on the coffee table in front of him, pulling back the cloth.

‘Just soup. Now, I didn’t make it myself but I was allowed to butter the bread.’

He chuckles. ‘Thank you.’

‘Molly said you wouldn’t be able stomach anything else at the moment.’

‘She’s right.’

I fill the cauldron with water, as instructed, hang it on the hook in the hearth, and sit beside him on the settee. For a time we both just watch the fire in silence, waiting for the water to boil. I don’t really know what I can say, except ...

‘I’m sorry,’ I find myself blurting quite suddenly.

He scans my face and I really want to look away. ‘Why were you here?’ he asks.

My gaze finds the fire again. ‘I didn’t mean to be. I just came in yesterday afternoon to borrow your book and I fell asleep on the bed and ... I hadn’t slept ... and I didn’t think ... stupid ... I shouldn’t have been here. I know. I’m sorry.’

‘How much did you see?’

I still can’t look at him. ‘Everything,’ I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything, just nods and picks up his bowl. His hands shake a bit and I wonder if that’s an after-effect too.

The water begins to boil. Delving into my robes, I retrieve the little bottle Molly gave me and sprinkle Miller’s Oil over the surface of the water. A sweet smell fills the room, like the forest after the rain. I stir anti-clockwise three times, slowly, before turning back to Remus. He’s watching me.‘Five minutes,’ I say, holding up my hand to show five.

He nods again. And then, to my relief, he smiles and picks up his bread. ‘You say you buttered this yourself?’

‘I did.’

‘Excellent job.’

‘Thanks.’

The minutes tick by and I take the cauldron off the fire and add the Y-shaped twig from my pocket, watching it hiss and dissolve as it should. I give it one clockwise stir before removing the cauldron to the edge of the hearth. I retrieve the ladle from another pocket and fill the wooden basin Molly gave me. Funny, in the cauldron it looks clear but in the basin, it’s thicker and silvery. Reminds me of a Pensieve.

Putting the basin down on the coffee table, I pick up the sponge.

‘Where do I start?’

As predicted he shakes his head and takes the sponge from my hand. ‘I can do it myself, thanks.’

‘Oh come on, Remus.’

‘I can do it myself,’ he repeats forcefully, not looking at me.

‘Molly said it should be done by someone else. That you can’t possibly ...’

‘I don’t give a damn what Molly says, I can do it myself!’

‘Okay. Have it your way.’

‘I’ve been doing it myself for years.’ He dips the sponge in the liquid and dabs it on his left shoulder. Taking a few steps backward I slump down into the armchair and watch him. He probably wants me to leave, but since I’m determined to be of some use, he’s going to have to ask me.

He’s not doing a very good job, probably because he can’t seem to lift his arms up. I suppose, if he slogs on for an hour or so, the potion will have taken enough of an effect on the muscles for him to be able to finish.

This is ridiculous.

Getting up, I walk back over to him and stand over him, in his personal space, so that he is forced to look up at me. But I don’t say anything, just hold out my hand. He pauses for a few moments studying me before relenting and giving me back the sponge.

‘Shift ‘round so I can do your back.’ He obeys, dropping his arms to his knees and putting his head down. Picking up the sponge, I dip it into the silvery liquid again and move behind him. Starting at his neck, pushing it up into his hairline. He shivers, even though the liquid is warm and I watch it run down his back. It remains on the surface for a few moments before disappearing into his skin. Down his spine is a massive, thick, red line, where the skin was stretched and torn. I saw blood here last night; there is no trace of it now. There are other lines too, marked in red. Over his shoulders, his ribs, the sides of his neck. I cover each with the silver potion as gently as I can. When his back has been thoroughly covered, I move in front of him; sitting on the coffee table. Leaning forward, he puts both his hands into the basin beside me. A pained expression crosses his face as he clenches and unclenches his fists in the liquid.

‘It hurts?’

He nods. ‘But not for long. See,’ he flexes his hands as he withdraws them, ‘good as new.’

‘Suppose that’s why you can’t just fill a bath with this.’

He nods. ‘It’s too much. I’ve tried it.’

Soaking the sponge again, I slide to my knees in front of him.

‘Can you lie back?’ I ask.

He gives me a rather strange look for a moment. ‘You don’t have to ...’ he says again.

‘I know I don’t, Remus. Shut up, will you?’

He chuckles. And leans back. I start with his shoulder and then his arm, turning it over as I go. His arms are the worst. Not for the red marks but for the scarring. Some are thin and long, Others are thick and raised. There are puncture marks; bite marks. I don’t want to know.

‘Self-inflicted,’ he says simply.

Am I that transparent?

I just nod and continue, moving to his other shoulder; I can’t think of anything to say.

‘Why didn’t you sleep Friday?’ he asks. ‘You’ve done so well, this past week.’

‘Long story, but I went to the pub with some people from work ... and, well... ran into Jon.’

‘Oh. How was it?’

‘Wasn’t horrible but ...’ I run the sponge down his forearm to his wrist before looking up at him again. ‘No, it was horrible.’

‘Sorry.’

‘S’all right. My fault anyway, isn’t it?’ I run the sponge across his collarbone and over his chest. His eyes close, he clenches his teeth, and I wonder if perhaps this hurts more than he’s letting on. There are scars on his chest, sides and stomach as well, longer than the ones on his arms, but not as many. There are eight thin, faint, ones running from his shoulders, as if claws were pulled straight down his chest.

But that’s exactly it, isn’t it?

‘So what did you do?’ he asks.

‘Wandered about for a bit.’ I run the sponge down his ribs following the path of another red line and then move it across, over the muscles of his abdomen. Another scar marks a horizontal line just under his belly button, thick and raised, but most likely quite old. I brush it carefully with the fingers of my free hand before following it with the sponge. One of the red lines intersects it but my fingers barely touch him before a hand clamps over my wrist and he stops me.

‘I’m sorry, did I hurt you?’

The intensity of his expression softens and he smiles. ‘No, erm ...I’m just a bit too sore there.’

I nod and pull myself off my knees, sitting once again on the table; facing him.

‘You wandered around?’ he asks, bringing us back to our conversation.

I nod and cross my arms across my chest. ‘I really wanted sleeping draft, Remus.’

His eyes lock on mine immediately. ‘But you didn’t?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I didn’t. Instead, I woke up Charlie.’

‘And you and he ...’ he asks with more than a little apprehension in his voice.

‘We talked. Actually, we shouted at each other for a bit, but worked a few things out. Then he fell asleep and I read his books.’

Remus smiles and I relax my grip on my arms.

‘Think I know far too much about the mating habits of the Highland Heidra, now.’

‘Really? And how do they ...?’

‘End to end on the sides of cliffs, apparently.’ I try to demonstrate with my hands but it proves far too difficult and embarrassing.

‘Interesting.’

‘Well, then she bites his ... Let’s just say he’s not mating with anyone else that season.’

‘I didn’t need to know that.’

‘Neither did I, but it was right there in the book. Diagrams and all.’

He laughs. I return the sponge to the basin once more letting it fill, standing between his knees.

He looks up at me. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m not finished yet.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No.’ I take the sopping sponge and squeeze it to the top of his head, letting the silvery potion coat his hair and run down the sides of his face. He laughs and shivers and I do it again. His hair is soaked and I run my fingers through it, making sure the potion reaches his scalp. Then I dip the sponge again and start on his face. Making a thick silver line from the top of his forehead to the tip of his nose. ‘Close your eyes,’ I whisper. He obliges, and I move the sponge carefully over his eye lids and down the sides of his face to his jaw. Thick red lines mark the underside of his jaw as well. Where skin was torn, and bone broken. I can see it all in my head as I gently stroke the sponge over the lines. In my head I see him grip the back of the chair, see his body twist in pain, see the wolf erupt and shatter the man.

His hand is on the side of my face. He brushes the tears from my cheeks and shakes his head at me. ‘Don’t. Don’t, please, not for me.’

I bite my lip and draw a deep breath, but I don’t think it does much good.

He smiles softly and tucks a bit of hair behind my ear. ‘It’s not worth it, Xena.’

I can’t help but smile at the silly name.

He chuckles and squeezes my hand. ‘Now how ‘bout buggering off for a bit so I can finish properly and don’t have to spend the entire evening in a bed sheet.

‘Okay.’ I nod and turn to go, but I stop when I reach the doorway. I know the question I want to ask. ‘Remus?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I stay with you tonight?’

He gives me a quizzical look. ‘Why?’

I shrug. ‘Because I want to.’

He nods and smiles. ‘Of course you can.’

*

Why is it I feel about a hundred times lighter knowing I don’t have to face the night alone?
Back in my bedroom, I decide the best course of action is to take a shower and put on my fuzziest pair of pyjamas. It is only seven-thirty but I really don’t care.

The shower is hot and steamy and I even manage to get some of that lavender stuff to float around in it too, which is nice. I actually feel tired and relaxed quite a change for me. I’m just drying my hair when I hear the shower go again. Remus is up and about and probably trying to get excess potion out of his hair.

I find my warmest pyjamas and pull them on. They’re pink and almost the same colour as my hair, but they’re also thick and warm and I love them. The shower stops and I wonder how much time I should give him before knocking on his door again.

Ten minutes?

Twenty?

Twenty seems more fair.

But it’s a long twenty.

*

‘Pyjamas already?’ he says as he answers the door.

‘You’re one to talk.’ His pyjamas are navy. Not a snowman in sight.

‘There was no point in me getting dressed today.’

‘There was no point in me getting re-dressed tonight.’

‘Suppose. Come on,’ he says, nodding toward the sittingroom, ‘fancy a game of Snap?’

We move into the other room and I sit on the settee. Remus pulls the armchair up opposite, picking the Snap cards up from the coffee table. There’s a knock at the door. We exchange looks and he gets up to answer it.

Molly stands in the hallway with a new covered tray. ‘We just had supper and I thought you might ... be hungry enough for it by now.’

‘Thank you.’ Remus smiles.

‘It’s dinner for two in case ... Oh, Tonks is still here.’

‘Hi, Molly.’ I wave.

‘Well just give it a tap with your wand. It’ll set itself up,’ she says.

‘Thanks Molly,’ Remus repeats.

‘Sorry to interrupt. Have a nice night. Remember, just one tap.’

With that she is gone, disappearing down the stairs.

Remus sets the tray down on the coffee table and, with a wary look at me, taps it with his wand. The coffee table vanishes. It is replaced by a small, round, dining table with two chairs, complete with a white tablecloth a small candelabra, red roses, wine goblets and two covered plates. Music fills the air; an old Ceslestina Warbeck song:

Oh, come and stir my cauldron,
And if you do it right,
I’ll boil up some hot, strong love,
And keep you warm tonight.

Remus looks confused.

I have to laugh. ‘Sorry. Arthur’s had the day off and Molly’s in a mood.’

‘Ah, well, all right,’ he says, still rather stiffly. ‘Shall we see what we’re having for dinner?’

‘Sure.’

I’d forgotten it was Sunday. Full on roast dinner, huge yorkies.

It’s absolutely delicious. But we haven’t been finished for long when the table starts shaking lightly. Picking up my half-finished goblet of Elderberry wine, I look up at Remus.

‘We might want to get up,’ he suggests. I nod and we do.

The dinner table and chairs disappear and the coffee table reappears, and the tea tray becomes a tea tray once more. This time with a pot of tea, two mugs and a plate of rock cakes.

Remus and I look at each other and laugh.

‘Tea?’ he asks, as if it were an everyday occurence.

‘No, I can’t possibly; haven’t even finished my wine yet.’

‘Mind if I do?’

‘Not at all.’

He pours himself a cup and picking up a rock cake, sits on the settee beside me. He examines the rock cake for a minute before putting it back.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Sultanas,’ he says.

‘Give it to me.’

He gives me an odd look.

‘Give it to me,’ I repeat.

He hands me a rock cake. Setting my wine goblet down on the table, I take the it from him and tap it gently with my wand, once, twice, before handing it back to him.

‘What have you done?’ he asks suspiciously.

‘Look at it.’

He examines the rock cake and smiles. ‘Dates.’

‘Better?’

‘Transfiguring food, how very domestic of you.’

‘Nah, worked that out in third year. House-elves hated me, but they never could prove anything.’ He laughs and I shake my head at him. ‘Fancy not liking sultanas.’

‘They’re disgusting.’

‘Loony.’

Still chuckling, he leans in to me. ‘Moony, actually.’

If I was still drinking my wine, I would have to hurt him. I find myself giggling for far too long; partly because it was funny and partly because the feeling of his breath against my neck tickles like mad. But my laughter soon turns to yawning, a reminder that I didn’t actually sleep last night.

‘Well Moony,’ I say, standing up and stretching. ‘I’m very tired. Think I’m going to bed.’

‘Be there in a minute,’ he replies.

I look back at him and for a minute, we are both caught in the domesticity of how our conversation sounds. He ducks his head down for a moment, grins and runs a hand through his hair. He’s lovely when he does that.

After stopping in the bathroom to clean my teeth, I make a small fire in the bedroom hearth and climb into his bed. He ambles in from the sitting room a few moments later, extinguishing the lights and shutting the door behind him.

He seems to be feeling a lot better. Even now the red lines have faded to pale pink. He smiles and disappears into the bathroom. I’m in mid-yawn again when he re-emerges. Chuckling, he snuffs the lamp and climbs into bed. I turn on my side, away from him and watch the flames dance in the fire until my eyes get too sore to stay open. Letting them close, I relax and listen for the sound of his breathing. Allowing myself to linger on the events of the past twenty-four hours. So much has happened.

‘Is it always like that?’ I find myself asking. That question is better asked in the dark, I didn’t have the courage to ask it in the day.

‘Yes,’ he says simply.

‘And does it always leave marks?’

‘Yes. But they fade quickly. By tomorrow they’ll be gone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, once again chewing my lower lip. ‘I’m sorry you have to go through that.’

I feel him shift behind me; feel his hand on my shoulder.

‘Xena, I’ve told you, it’s not worth it.’ His hand moves to the side of my face and then through my hair. I roll onto my back and look up at him. He smiles gently down at me and the firelight plays soft shadows on his face. He’s so close. I can feel the flush in my cheeks. Feel the warmth spread down to my toes. His fingers continue to play in my hair and I continue to study his face by the firelight. His eyes are beautiful, his eyelashes are longer than I thought them to be. But then I’ve never seen them like this. What had been a red line on his cheek is now all silvery and the firelight shimmers on it, and his lips ...

Have I had too much to drink?

Half a glass hardly constitutes ...

Then what?

‘You had a nightmare last night,’ he says quietly. And I feel my chest tighten.

‘Yes.’

‘What was it about?’

‘Just silly, work-type stuff.’

He shakes his head. ‘You were crying . You were frightened.’

‘It was nothing.’ But I know that’s just not true. And I know that he doesn’t believe me.

‘Didn’t sound like nothing.’

His hand moves through my hair again, his fingertips brush my neck and I shiver. ‘Are you cold?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I lie.

He pulls the covers higher over both of us. It’s all I can do not to turn to him, not to slide my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder, like I have done so many times before. He’s been through so much. He doesn’t need have to deal with me as well. With how I feel about what happens to him. Or how I feel about some stupid dream that never really happened. It all seems rather ridiculous compared to his pain. So, instead, I turn away again. Face the fire once more. He moves closer to me now, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. His arm slides around me and I find myself moving backward just a bit, just until my shoulders make contact with his chest and I feel his head resting against my own. His arm around me tightens and I take his hand and thread my fingers through his. Hugging his arm to my chest, I press my lips to the back of his hand.

‘Goodnight, Remus.’

There is a long silence before I feel his breath in my hair. ‘Night, Xena.’

~