A Gift - A Short Story about Remus in Paris of 1984 - 1986

He pulled the frayed cuffs of his two shirts over his hands, folded his arms, and huddled in the corner of the bench. If he was supposed to walk around the Latin Quarters all through the coldest hours of the night, his legs needed some rest. It was still dinner time and he already felt that sleep could overcome him at any moment. He had stayed up for too many nights and hardly got a chance for undisturbed sleep during the days either. It was getting too cold to lie down outside even in sunshine, and there had been more rain than sun lately. Now the sky was clearing up, but that foretold an even colder night than the previous.

Cold. The cold filled his mind, as it had caught a permanent hold of his thin and weak body. He barely even thought about food any longer. Having gone hungry for such a long time that the rare occasions when he got a bite of something mainly led to increasing pain in his stomach, he hardly dreamed of a warm meal. Warm, yes. Just a warm cup to hold in his hands. And a warm place to lie down and sleep. Just sleep.

I recognized him from a distance, before I had finished crossing the Pont Neuf. I may have laid my eyes on Remus's sleeping face only a couple of times before, but I had examined it carefully at any such opportunity.

At the first time I had started suspecting that he shared my condition. Later I had felt pity for his physical frailty. I was never exhausted like him after the full moon. If I had been, I wouldn't have come to attend the lectures. But he had been an extremely conscientious student and genuinely interested in the history of both magical and muggle art, too. When we had shared our secret, and I had advised him to have a rest for a couple of days after the transformations, he had grinned and confessed that he could sleep better in the lecture hall, which was warmer than the room he had rented.

But that had been during the previous winter. I had not seen him after the spring term. He had said that he might not continue the studies, since his scholarship would not be extended for another year.

I was so startled to realize it was him sleeping on that bench and even without a jacket that I stopped and just stared at him. His beautiful face was thinner and paler than ever, and his hair, now almost shoulder-length, was probably rather dirty, as it hardly shone golden brown in the light of the streetlamp.

Though I felt like rushing to him, embracing him inside of my coat, and taking him quickly to my bed to warm him up, I found myself hesitating. I knew he would be embarrassed to let me witness his destitution. He had never asked me to visit him in his room, and he had never agreed to come to my apartment either. We had only spent one night a month together in my cellar, and he had always insisted on returning to his place in the morning - even if that had caused inconvenience to me, too. I had, in turn, insisted on accompanying him all the way to his building, as I had been afraid he could have collapsed of exhaustion on the way. Seven months, seven full moons we had shared, before I had lost contact with him. My heart was overflowing with joy at the sight of him, and I knew this time he would not be able to reject me.

Just when I moved, a group of young boys passed me, heading towards his bench. One of them kicked him on the legs, and they continued their way laughing. So I saw him open his eyes, and by the time I was standing in front of him, he didn't even look alarmed.

There was actually a rather dazed look in his amber eyes. No sign of the grief I had always read in them before. He shivered and stared at me for a moment. When I said his name, he moved slightly to sit up straight, and he let out a vague sound of astonishment. He even responded to my gesture by reaching out his hand. I took it in mine and sat down beside him. The hand was terribly cold, and I was sure it wasn't the only cold part of his body. He was hardly able to talk and seemed to concentrate on attempts at concealing his awful state. And I found myself helping him to do that, asking questions which he could answer by nodding or shaking his head.

He shook his head, when I explained that I was on my way to have dinner at a nearby restaurant and that he had to join me. But I insisted and mentioned casually that it would be my treat, as it was my idea. Soon enough I simply pulled him up, holding his both hands, and I took him with me, wrapping my arm casually, as well, around his shoulders. In my other hand I carried his small battered briefcase.

Remus allowed Jean to support him. He doubted he would have been able to stand up without those strong arms, which so unexpectedly had appeared to help him. Having been startled from his sleep, which he had evidently not managed to fight, he was not quite sure if this friend had actually woken him up. No, Jean did not ask why he had been sleeping there. Anybody could sit down on a bench for a while; there was nothing suspicious about that. But Remus did not dare to try to talk. His voice would certainly have trembled, if he had succeeded in uttering even a single word. He was now so cold that he felt nothing could warm him up ever. Still, Jean's hand squeezing his had caused a faint notion of pleasure in addition to pain. He could not resist when Jean guided him somewhere. It had to be a warmer place.

The first waft of warm air and delicious smells made him dizzier, but Jean walked him across the restaurant and made him sit down on a red velvet sofa behind a table. He could not help continuing to tremble, and the change of temperature caused him pain, first in his fingers, which had been mercifully numb. Yet, the warmth around was already soothing his mind, at least. His first instinct was to curl up on that soft seat and just sleep.

But he slowly lifted his gaze from the torn and filthy knees of his trousers to the glistening cutlery on the pure white tablecloth and finally to his friend's dark bearded face. Jean was staring at him, which was probably natural. But there seemed to be more than shock and pity in the expression. The smile, though characteristically wide, was rather embarrassed, whereas the chocolate brown eyes below the bushy eyebrows twinkled with something that looked like pure joy.

Remus knew his own face had to be quite blank. He could have ventured to say something now, but he had no idea if Jean had just asked him a question. Maybe it would have been fair to simply thank his friend, but that would have sounded sentimental, pathetic. Then again, he was pathetic, wasn't he?

Before he could make up his mind, Jean had turned to look around, evidently in order to gesture to a waiter.

"Is it all right, if I order for you, too? I know what to recommend..."

"Jean, I can't..."

Remus was interrupted by a description of meals, which made him ever dizzier, but he would hardly have been able to continue his phrase in any case. He felt increasingly uncomfortable, and it took him a moment to realize that besides his embarrassment, the ache in his stomach was intensifying, too. He glanced around almost in panic and noticed the door to the men's room not far from the table.

At least he had saved them both from the waiter's expressions of contempt and disgust. Jean had probably not heard his whisper of excusing himself, and he had not looked back, but staying away for a while would certainly not be too alarming. Fortunately it was possible to lock the door. It would have been just like Jean to follow him.

Remus was sitting on the toilet lid, with his eyes closed and clenching his stomach. There was not much he could do to get rid of the gas inside to ease the pain, before eating a little bit first. He would have to return here soon at least to belch. Gradually the prospect of a warm and even delicious meal started to fill his mind with simple joy. Opening his eyes he caught a sight of himself in the mirror. He walked across the room to lean on the edge of the basin and gazed at the image for a moment. It was no surprise that he looked absolutely awful.

He did not have to decide to clean himself up particularly in order to look a bit more decent at dinner. At any opportunity, whenever he got to use a bathroom, he would do it. Unfortunately his briefcase had stayed by the table where Jean must have placed it. Because of this special occasion, he could have even used his wand to achieve an illusion of a neat appearance, though the effect would not have lasted long. More importantly, he wished he could have used his razor. He hated his own facial hair, as since his adolescence he had been determined to emphasize the contrast between his two forms.

But the basic essential routine was to get washed the best he could, so as to at least decrease the stink, which almost made even him feel sick. He had not had a chance for this for several days. Without any further thought he took of his three shirts all at once and separated the ragged t-shirt from inside the others. Carefully stopping the water from spreading too much, he washed the armpits of the t-shirt with soap, wringed those parts out, and spread the shirt on the radiator to dry at least for a moment.

He had tried his best to ignore how much more being half naked made him suffer from cold. The cold was, in any case, somewhere so deep inside of him that even the warmth of the restaurant and this heated bathroom had not relieved him from its grip. Only now did he glance at his reflection again to register the state of a couple of the wounds he had inflicted on himself during the previous transformation. He must have been too weak to perform the healing charm properly. The gash in his left upper arm, at least, had clearly got inflamed, probably because of the dirt. Rejoicing in the touch of the warm foam he washed his face, arms and chest carefully and dried himself with tissues. He sneezed several times and was happy to be reminded to stuff some tissues into his trouser pockets. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about the trousers.

He decided to wash his feet, though. Having taken off his broken shoes, he considered if he should have thrown away the socks, which were more of hole than anything else. But he ended up washing them carefully and placing them to dry on the backside of the radiator, so he would be able to fetch them just before leaving the restaurant. He was gradually getting impatient and starting to wonder if the waiter had already brought the food. Still, he realized that this was a rare opportunity for washing his hair as well. He could possibly stay inside long enough for it to dry.

Finally, when his hair was only slightly dripping onto his shoulders, he pulled on the still damp t-shirt and the two other shirts, which had definitely seen better days, too. By folding the sleeve ends he achieved a bit neater look, and he grinned at his reflection, relatively satisfied.

When sitting down opposite to Jean, he determinately wore the same grin. Yet, his friend looked clearly worried.

"Are you all right?"

Remus had decided it was less embarrassing to be frank, as it was quite obvious what had delayed him - or at least he hoped that Jean saw some difference in his appearance.

"Great, thanks. Better at least than for quite some time. Let's say I really made use of the bathroom."

"You'll feel even better after this meal."

"It really looks and smells delicious. Thank you, Jean. But as I tried to tell you, I can't eat a lot at once. I hope you'll excuse me after a while again."

Surprised by his own ability to talk so fluently and even honestly, he settled to enjoy the meal in his best civilized manner, which he had seldom practised since he had left his parents' house. Still, he could not resist the temptation of cupping the soup bowl with his hands for a moment. A fancy three-course dinner was certainly a lot more than what he needed, but starting with a soup allowed his stomach to adjust to more solid food gradually. After another visit to the men's room, he was able to eat almost half of the second course, too.

Little by little the warm meal seemed to thaw out some parts of him which had been freezing longer than he could remember. But he kept being shaken by frequent shudders, and he was afraid there was a high fever developing in his body. Besides, the saturation turned into new drowsiness to complement his extreme fatigue. After once leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment, he realized that he absolutely had to refrain from doing that, unless he wanted to leave Jean in an even more embarrassing situation than what they had already shared.

Jean, too, was eating slowly. He was narrating pleasant incidents at the Enchanted Art Academy, memories of the two terms they had studied together, and events of the new term. His stories were getting more and more hilarious and even absurd, as if he had realized that he had to try his best to keep Remus awake. Was there more to it than an easy topic and avoiding uncomfortable issues? Remus was inclined to believe it was all simply a gift, a chance to escape the cruel world for a moment.

So was certainly the dessert, which Jean ordered as a surprise. He remembered, of course, Remus's craving for chocolate, especially as solace in the depression after the transformations. The tiny portion was like a piece of art, too. Admiring it, anticipating the blissful taste and doubting that he would be able to finish the portion, Remus felt tears brimming in his eyes. The tears he had fought back all through the weeks of ultimate deprivation and desolation.

Jean loved him. This gift, as such, could have been given by anyone with human compassion or just an urge to brag of wealth. But since they had entered the restaurant, maybe since they had met in the cold of the evening, Jean's eyes had been shining of tenderness, and even more than that of simple joy at having found Remus. That familiar gaze reminded Remus of how Jean had always taken care of him, communicating gratitude for his sheer existence and asking for nothing else in return. Remus had, indeed, given nothing in return. He had never agreed to any intimacy, physical beyond the monthly desperate embrace to bear the transformation pain, or even mental, beyond the interaction in developing their personal theories of art.

But Jean had loved him for a long time. The insight hit Remus painfully. It threatened to break a dam, to let loose the memories of his school years which he had refused to share with Jean. The memories he had left behind in England. The nightmares he had escaped only in the absolute misery when even the thought of hunger had been overpowered by the primary fear of freezing to death. Now he had been saved again and brought back to the guilty awareness of having survived alone.

And he had been condemned to bitter solitude. He could not possibly accept Jean's love.

For the following days I was to mainly watch him sleep. Having almost carried him - and he was not a heavy load for my muscles - from the restaurant to the border of the hidden quarters, and having entered as usual through the gateway in the bushes behind the statue of Saint Genevieve, I took him to the fireplace of the first café and through the floo network straight up to my studio apartment. He was sound asleep by the time I laid him on my bed, and I just tucked him in. I didn't even suggest a proper bath until after a couple of days, when his fever had started to decline. Fortunately, however, I urged him to let me help take off his filthy clothes the first time he woke up, so I discovered his inflamed wounds.

That's when I started suspecting that Remus had deliberately neglected to take care of himself. I had noticed how he had done his best to tidy himself up before the dinner, but now I doubted he had done it for his own benefit. I know it's not too difficult for a werewolf to end up destitute, but his wits would have rendered it possible for him to cope somehow, had he truly willed to.

Now he allowed me to tend his wounds, to dress and to feed him. He agreed to stay under my roof. All the while I had a nagging suspicion that it was not his genuine desire to be helped. He did it for me - so as to thank me for my help. But that didn't make any sense. In case he had wanted no help in the first place, I hadn't given him anything. I had just been selfish.

I had to admit to myself that I had wished he could have become my permanent mate. I had even hoped that his destitution would have almost forced him to. But I realized that I was ready to give up. I would love him regardless, and all I wanted was to know that he would take care of himself or let someone take care of him, so that he would be in as little pain as possible.

I was getting confused in my thoughts and I needed him to help me sort them out. During the first weeks he was uncharacteristically quiet, but when gradually reconciled to the comforts I offered, he started indulging in discussions like during the previous winter. He still avoided all profoundly intimate issues. Yet, talking to him always guided me to deeper understanding of my own ideas. All conversations beyond daily routines were seemingly limited to theories of art and philosophy, but such topics, indeed, encompass life. Thus, as time went on, I learnt to interpret his person, as well as myself. Still, I wondered how different his interpretations were. Only months afterwards did he say something explicitly about himself.

Yes, I did manage to make him stay for five months, until the spring. Having regained some health, he enjoyed long walks around muggle Paris. He seemed to feel trapped, if he stayed too long within the borders of the hidden quarters, not to mention inside the apartment. So I gave him warm muggle clothes, too, but I warned him against staying outside drawing anything but quick sketches. He mainly obeyed me. His visual memory was, indeed, so extraordinary that he hardly needed to make any sketches of his first impressions. And he didn't mind staying in the apartment for days when he was working on a landscape. After agreeing to use freely my equipment and materials, he seemed to heal more quickly in every respect. While painting he never looked trapped.

His art at its best was powerfully or delicately expressive. Some scenes conveyed utter desolation, while others were simply pretty. But towards the spring he produced some incredible pieces. Raging elements with a haven of peace in a most unexpected place. I could just hope that his own interpretation was that the fortress would hold. Or maybe that its defender could step out and calm the storm, or cope.

He never painted portraits. Having learnt this during the previous winter, I didn't press the issue, though I felt he was limiting himself unnecessarily - or for a reason.

Instead, I did not give up before he agreed to hang a selection of his watercolours and oil paintings in one of my exhibitions. But I guess the audience who came to see and buy my exaggerated renditions of sadism, paying ridiculously high prices for them, were not the people to appreciate his art. However, he sold some pieces on the street, and he insisted on handing the money over, if not to me, at least to our common use in the household. When he left, he gave most of his paintings to me to keep or to sell, as I would choose to. As long as he stayed, we shared everything and never calculated the money we spent on each other.

Sharing everything was such a blessing to me that I wondered how we could have restricted it to the nights of the full moon during the previous winter. The transformations became so much easier now that we prepared ourselves for them together and tended each other's wounds.

After finding out that I was a werewolf, too, Remus had first been utterly scared to continue to interact with me in any way, not to mention spending the full moon together. It had taken me almost a month to convince him that I had good experiences of transforming with another werewolf who also sought to control the aggression.

It's true that I may not appear as the most peaceful person. I allow myself to lose my temper at any time of the month. Born as a werewolf and raised by my bitten mother, who secretly kept me away from the rituals and actually abandoned me by making me escape from the pack alone at the age of ten, I have been forced to use my aggression to survive. But these violent tendencies have carved their own routes in my life, so as to prevent frustration and to actually help me fight the fatigue, easily caused by the monthly extra burden, as well as face the pain, which I can never escape. I mainly channel the aggression to my art, which may look even artificially expressive with the condensed destructive emotion. I play with the colours and the twisted shapes, and at full moon I play like a pup, not like a monster. But before Remus became my teacher in controlling the beast, the pup could not help - and did not really mind - hurting himself and others.

At the very beginning of our acquaintance, my outbursts must have made Remus inclined to dislike and avoid me, but I don't give up easily when I know what I want. And I had wanted to become his best friend from the moment when I had perceived the unyielding grief in his eyes - as well as his considerate support to everyone else even in the slightest trouble.

That had been before I knew about his lycanthropy. Having stared at his sleeping face on that day after October full moon - and noticed the new scars of magically healed wounds on his cheeks - I had felt overjoyed both on his behalf and mine. It took me quite a while to realize that lycanthropy was not his only tragedy. Helping him turned out not to be so easily achieved by simply inviting him to make me happy.

I'm amazed that he never comprehended how much more he had always helped me during the transformations. A few years earlier he had found a way of coping with the assistance of an animal companion. He had soon asked me if I could consider taking a cat as a pet. Only afterwards did I realize that he had not managed to do the same and to thus make sure that he would always have such an animal with him whom he was intimate with. The reason had been simply that even when he'd had a place to stay - and because he'd had it and spent almost the whole of his scholarship on the rent - he hadn't had enough money to feed a cat regularly, or at least not properly enough according to his standards, so that he could have taken the responsibility for a pet. He had kept some birds, though. And he had explained to me how their company, especially during the last moments before the transformation, helped the wolf's mind to calm down, even if purely human control was lost.

So I had taken a cat during that previous winter. Before that our shared full moons had ended up as rather violent wrestling. And at the first time, after transforming back, Remus had left me without a word, when I had explained what I remembered about the night. Now I know for sure that he had decided not to break up our friendship but to come back to my cellar after four weeks, only in order to help me. With a bird and later my cat in the company, we had gradually learnt to harm ourselves and each other less and less.

Now when sharing everything for five months, we - as wolfs - inflicted wounds on each other only by accident during friendly play. But Remus was still unwilling or unable to talk about what we could half remember, half only imagine about the events of such a night. He was always utterly depressed in the aftermath, no matter how well we had managed to repress all destructive tendencies.

On the morning after March full moon, when we had just come up to the apartment and healed the scratches on each other's body, I allowed my irritation to burst out.

"How long are you going to brood over the fact that you're a werewolf! We are in excellent control of it. We enjoy these nights! What is the matter with you? You never tell me what bothers you. You never tell me anything about yourself! I do everything to make you happy, and you continue to behave as if you still had some mysterious tragedy in your life!"

He stared at me for a moment and slowly started to get dressed. I kept shouting at him and tried to stop him, when he turned to open the door. But he took the cloak and said:

"See, I take this, so I'm not going across the border. Just for a short walk."

I knew that after the transformation he was always too weary to walk more than a short distance.

"Only around the quarter? Please!" I whispered.

My anger had suddenly died and been replaced by concern. But he was already gone. Fortunately he came back before I had time to get dressed and to go after him. After taking off the cloak, he threw himself to sit on the couch by the fire and asked calmly:

"Do you want me to tell you why I am permanently sad?"

"Yes," I said, sitting down at his feet.

Staring at the flames, and slowly, pausing to smile every now and then, he launched into storytelling. I first got the peculiar impression that he was inventing the tale along the way. Then it occurred to me that he was either wording it for the first time, or he had forgotten the words and was now struggling to remember them.

"Once upon a time," he started, "there was a wolf, whose three best friends were a stag, a rat and a big black dog. The dog must have been his dearest friend of all. For various reasons. As you know..."

At this point he glanced down at me and whispered in a strange stifled voice:

"I never wrestled with any wolf, before I met you. But it was somehow easier to play like that with the dog than with the stag or the rat."

Resuming the relaxed rhythm of the tale, he let me know that those three friends had become Animagi in order to help him stop harming himself so badly. They had succeeded in it, when he had been almost sixteen, and they had all already been best friends for over four years before that. He described those boys, their looks and their characters in detail, as well as their shared adventures. Leaning against his legs, I started to gaze at the fire, too, rejoicing in his eloquent, tenderly humorous narrative. Until I realized that his soft voice was wavering, and glancing up I saw his face all wet of tears.

I was ready to hear a typical story of betrayed love, but he went on to describe the civil war, which had plagued the British magical community during the years of his early adulthood. He recounted his parents' cruel deaths, but through tears he continued without pausing any more. Until suddenly it was The End. The end of everything, except of him alone. I could hardly grasp it. Before realizing what I was doing, I gasped out:

"What?"

He had curled up on the couch and covered his face with his both hands. But startled by my voice, he moved, bent close to me and, gazing into my eyes, repeated:

"My friend Sirius Black murdered Peter, James and Lily."

A strange smile appeared on his lips for a moment and he nodded, as if confirming that he had done his duty. And instead of turning his eyes away from mine, he closed them. He startled to tremble and returned to the foetus position. After that he didn't move or make a sound until the evening. I don't know if he heard what I said to him, or if I said anything that could have made sense. I don't know if he felt my touch, or if I should have even tried to comfort him.

That day when staying beside him and crying, I came to understand that his revelation was a gift to me. He did not confide in me because of any urge of his to share his tragedy with someone. Instead, he forced himself to allow the grief to overwhelm him again - after four years - in order to be able to reveal it to me, only because I yearned to know him better. I felt so guilty. What pain I had caused to him by disclosing my love! My only consolation was that he might have needed to confide, though he had not admitted it to himself. Maybe it could do good to him eventually.

But I felt hopelessly trapped when I watched him in such pain. If I should manage to comfort him with my love, would he feel forced to give me something in return again? And would that something have to be his hurting himself?

He was the one in a trap. He was too good. The only way to live he knew any longer was to constantly sacrifice himself. Any interaction he submitted to, and particularly sharing the full moon with me, was merely a sacrifice for my benefit. While he was evidently naturally inclined to help anyone in need, he felt especially obliged to do something for me. Not to thank me for anything, since he had not wanted anything. But because of my love for him. Did he still feel that love was something that needed to be returned? Life itself was a burden for him; he carried it like a cross. And the only way for him to approach peace was to give up satisfying his basic needs.

I remembered the daze in his eyes when I had found him freezing on that bench. He had been happier at that moment than ever during the previous year. By accepting the food and shelter I offered him, he actually condemned himself to life again. To the awareness of his past and future. He had no hope for the future.

I dare assume I had at least a tiny role in gradually teaching him to enjoy the simple pleasures of the present moment. He had started learning during the year we studied together, but he had not been aware of it yet. And when he had realized it, he had escaped it - insisting on torturing himself. As if the monthly ordeal had not been enough.

The revelation as such might or might not have helped him to start recovering. It was not easy for him to accept the fact that he had been meant to survive and thus meant to continue to live. By loving him I perhaps forced him to receive some basic things to satisfy his needs, when he hardly had any will to satisfy them. I may have reminded him of how he had enjoyed simple things since his childhood, when life with its wonders had opened up for him, regardless of the repeated unavoidable pain. Maybe he realized again that life as a whole - as well as my humble love specifically - was a gift which he simply had to receive by cherishing any pleasures available and by allowing them to sooth his suffering mind and body.

Still, he had to reject my further gift, a comfortable life with me. The pleasures had to be few and far between or extremely modest for him to accept them. And I had to content myself with that.

So he left me to go drifting. When I could trust that he would be good to himself, I managed to give him the impression that I didn't desperately need him to stay. That's how I set him free. He promised to come and see me some time. And he promised not to starve or freeze to death. There would be people offering him what he needed to survive, he said. Not so many like me, but those who would help him in hope of something in return.

"But you gave me something in return, too," I said, "something that hurt you so much that only a saint would make such a sacrifice."

"Don't flatter me. And you did not love me in hope of anything."

"I hope not. At least since the gift you gave me in return, I've prayed you won't ever try to give me anything else."

"That's why I'd better leave. But I'll be back some day. To continue these incredible discussions."

So he was gone. And each of us was alone again at full moon. I wasn't for long. I needed a companion. But I knew he would find satisfaction in the struggle of controlling his mind on his own, even in the failure.

The trunk of the old elm tree was smooth, and it supported his tired back, as if it had been formed perfectly to offer comfort to him. Remus sighed in contentment and smiled at the wish that the tree could have sensed his gratitude. He stared up at the amazingly familiar shapes of the branches, which could still be discerned faintly against the darkening evening sky, and he almost welcomed the memory of the lane leading to his childhood home - or leading away from there.

He opened his briefcase and took out his wand. Elm and dragon heartstring. How could he even pretend to forget, or claim that he did not belong to a family? The trees on all his fathers' lands. The courage of all his mothers' hearts. He might have lost them, but he carried the reminiscence and the remaining strength.

He might not have become the most powerful or the most fortunate wizard, but he had learnt some magic of comfort at least. Reaching for the battered kettle, which he had filled from a brook just before finding this perfect shelter, he tapped it twice. He took out a mug and a small loaf of bread. Soon, cupping the warm mug in his hands, he smelled and tasted oil of bergamot in his favourite tea.

When he had finished enjoying his meal, the last glow of the day had been extinguished from the sky. He packed everything in the briefcase, except a quilt, which he had returned to its original size by breaking a shrinking charm. With the briefcase as his pillow and wrapped in the quilt, thanking Jean for his gift, he curled up to sleep.

But he still turned on his back and peeked at the sky through the branches. It was new moon, and the stars were bright. Without anguish, with melancholic tenderness he wondered if the Dog Star was twinkling above. What had he read about stars in the muggle science books? He was now receiving the light which they had sent towards him ages ago.

And his heart was filled with gratitude for another gift he had, after all, received after volunteering to share his grief. What had Jean said about his loss and his love? Remus might have lost Sirius, like he had lost them all - and worse: lost the love and the trust, when his dearest friend had turned out to be a traitor and a murderer. But he knew that the love had been there once. He was quite sure. Ages ago Sirius had loved him, loved them all. While holding to his remaining strength, Remus was still receiving a reminiscence of that love.