Remus Lupin and the Revolt of the Creatures

Chapter Nine: Challenges of Leadership

The following evenings offered more opportunities for Remus and Thisby to continue their language lessons. Her fiancés said that they preferred working outside in the moonlight. Gumby pointed out that not much work got done, considering the time they spent, and it was clear that they were too much tempted to roam in the woods. Despite his gentle reproach Gumby must have known even better than Remus how a faun's mere merry presence on the lands would increase the crops and the fertility of the livestock. The shawm could be heard only occasionally to reveal that Peck and Tumble were devoted to music and dance, but the rest of the time they were probably having fun further away from the house.

Later every night they came to ask Thisby to join them, and she always agreed. Their youthful zest would make her face light up, and Remus would climb to his loft with a heavy heart.

On the third evening they were caught in the middle of practising Thisby's teaching method. She had, indeed, just startled Remus worse than ever by offering him a sense experience to help him memorise the word tongue - by licking his cheek. Peck and Tumble, who had come to ask her to join in their play, stood on the threshold dumbfounded for a moment and then rushed forward, and they would probably have kicked the intruder with their fierce hoofs and knocked him unconscious, had she not closed them both in her embrace.

"It was just a lesson of my mother tongue."

The explanation did not quite satisfy the fiancés. Thisby was persuaded if not exactly forced to promise not to offer her tongue to anybody before getting married, and Remus wholeheartedly participated in the unanimous decision.

***

Remus would have liked to pretend not to remember Robin's invitation. The three actors seemed to really have light-heartedly forgotten about their rehearsals and performances. But four days before the full moon an owl arrived to urge them all to come to Long Compton.

***

Harry,

During the past summer, when I found it so hard to write or talk to you, I thought I knew what the history was that I half desired and half hesitated to narrate to you. But it seems to keep changing. After returning home and again after contacting some people whose lives are connected to my parents', I see that the beginning is not simply on the Hogwarts Express.

Tomorrow I'll visit Long Compton, the place which is the most notorious for witchcraft in the whole of the Cotswolds area even according to muggle historians. My mother Philomela and her brother Francis Snug were born there to a family whose ancestors on both sides could be traced at least a thousand years back as powerful witches and wizards. Some witches had been exposed to persecution because of their urge to brew healing potions for anybody in need, regardless of the risk of revealing some of their powers, which were considered suspicious and heretical by the non-magical humans. It was, in fact, my mother's ancestors who made Long Compton known for witch-hunt.

It's perhaps fortunate for us that a long time ago the muggles lost the rest of their belief in magic, and became too proud of their own inventions to rely on magical remedies even against their new worst diseases. But the tradition of risking their lives for other creatures than their own kind was handed down in the family.

After leaving Hogwarts in 1948, three years before her brother, Miss Philomela Snug started to study Healing and Potions in Oxford. She eventually became absorbed in the more general theory of Potions and was alienated from such students who were eager to enter the practical career of a Healer. By the time when she defended her warlockal thesis On the Essence of the Interaction between Liquids and Emotions in the Long-term Effects of Magic, in 1954, she had found a new interest, though. Her brother Francis was about to complete - or rather not to complete - his degree in Divination, when he got involved with a group of artists. She helped him achieve some logical structure in a performance which he had drafted as so to combine the talents of his artist friends.

Philomela Snug looks beautiful but rather serious in a photograph dated 1952, whereas sister and brother smile to me freely and roguishly in another picture, which carries this inscription: To William, so you won't forget to follow us. At Christmas 1955. Even if this one is a black-and-white photograph, too, I can see the glow on young Philomela's face framed by her golden brown locks.

She always manifested incredible strength. But she would alternate channelling it through imaginative ideas with no concern for the routines of the reality, and through strict rules derived from principles. Unlike in my father, there was hardly any space for simple tenderness in her character.

Francis looked a lot like his sister, although his features were sharper and his chin rather weak. Taking care of his curly golden brown beard was one of his main concerns. He was slim and tall but not much taller than her.

She was a great woman in every sense. It must have been hard for Philomela's brother to step out of her shadow - and not only in her son's eyes. Francis possessed only the freely imaginative part of his sister's qualities. At some point, he may have become self-assertive in his natural carelessness, considering the pose and the exaggerated arty outfit he wears in the picture. His carefree grin must have always been genuine, because it's exactly the same in the photograph and in my mental image of him.

Forty-one years ago Philomela and Francis returned to Long Compton with some of their friends in order to set up a theatre. She had given up the research on potions and already devoted the previous year to writing both poetry and prose. Among the artists she had also met a certain young musician and composer. William Wotton from Bagendon, two years younger than her, had just decided to acquire a respectable profession, and he remained in Oxford for a couple of years more. The separation inspired both Philomela and William to some of their most emotional pieces of art, although he visited Long Compton frequently. After he had completed his studies of Herbology in 1957, they got married and settled in this house.

At their wedding she wore a determinate smile and an elaborate hairdo, which made her taller than the groom. Young William with his wavy blond hair and big blue eyes looked as dreamy and gentle as how I remember my father.

William's father as well as Philomela's had died in the war against Grindelwald in the early 1940's, and his elder brother Thomas was relieved to have a chance to leave the family farm and the prematurely aged mother, when the younger son unexpectedly decided to abandon his bohemian life and settle down to have a family. Thomas disapparated, and William never heard from him again. My grandmothers both died when I was younger than five. But I do remember Francis.

My uncle Francis took care of the material part of running the theatre, while leaving the structure of the repertoire as well as of each production to his sister. Thanks to his carelessness the troupe named the Merry Thespians never became capable of truly sustaining its members. They either had other main occupations or hardly survived by getting shelter at the quarters of the theatre and food from the pubs and inns which benefited from the flow of customers brought by the performances.

But only during the first so-called war, a few years before you were born - and now during the last few years - have there been a lot of such creatures joining who have no chance for making a living and who are actually persecuted. The quarters of the theatre have always been too well known as the hotbed of radicals for these creatures to live there permanently. That was why they kept moving from one refuge to another during the series of raids by the Death Eaters, when fully public performances, of course, had to be given up. It was probably not wise to let any members of the group come to this house.

It's different now that I've had the Fidelius Charm performed and because of another even more powerful protection. But seventeen years ago the Death Eaters either happened to hit at the right moment or had found out which night a group of actors were staying at my parents'. No, I was not supposed to write about how my mother and father died.

I was telling you about Francis. He was the most amusing and supportive uncle I could have wished to have. Maybe it was his influence and the memory of him that made me proud to join in - and, let's admit it, initiate, too - the Marauders' pranks.

When I was very young, I often followed my mother to the rehearsals and performances, and Uncle Francis always got sidetracked to playing with me. He also encouraged me on the stage and asked me to recite lines for the kings and heroes. That must have happened repeatedly before the assault. I remember the first time after it when Uncle Francis had persuaded my mother to take me with her. I had spent a few months on my own, and I now refused to go to the footlights. He did not force me to.

Instead, he took me backstage and started inventing secret nicknames for the actors and suggesting that he confuse them by transfiguring the props to something unexpected. Let's say turning the skull that Hamlet was holding into a tea cup. He got into the habit of continuously whispering to me his ideas for pranks against the actors. I responded with my ideas, and it became a competition between us, while we planned carefully which ideas we actually carried out. We had to beware not to get caught too often, or my mother wouldn't have allowed me to come. What made her most angry was our obsession of transfiguring the text of the manuscript to include jokes, which the actors sometimes noticed only after uttering them.

Uncle Francis had an obsession for premonitions, too. His almost completed Divination degree gave him some authority in offering services in reading hands or tea leaves, but sadly he had to admit that he never had true visions and hardly saw anything in the crystal ball, regardless of his theoretical knowledge of techniques and interpretation rules. He practised his skills of interpretation with anybody who agreed to recount to him any dream or random thought. His ideas were so imaginative that people found it hard to know if he was joking or serious. I believed he was always serious about divination, but I was young and naïve. He may as well have become more sceptical and continued his business only for fun - and in order to make some money to save the theatre from the ever impending bankruptcy.

In any case, he always acted consistently, as if he had believed in the premonitions he claimed to have discovered. He became another storyteller of my childhood, because he wanted me to know all the classic tales of prophecies. He explained to me how a prophecy would fulfil itself exactly through a person's effort to prevent it from fulfilling itself. Still, anybody who heard an ominous prophecy was supposed to try his best to act against it. I did not consider that very logical. He laughed and asked me if I thought he had ever done anything logical in his life.

One day Uncle Francis agreed to read a veela's hand. Instead of the beginning and the end of a life line he saw, of course, the circle of ever-returning youth. While holding her hand, he looked up into her eyes - and he barely kept his sanity to talk to me once more during the same evening. He told me that in the circle he had seen a vision. His professional pride of having finally had a vision probably gave him the strength to act in a way which he at least thought he chose consciously. The vision had shown him playing with me and a veela taking him away from me. He said that he had to leave me of his free will before that, and that to make sure the premonition would not be fulfilled, he had better marry a certain gorgeous girl, who had shown interest in him.

We or that girl never saw him again. I was nine years old at that time, and ten years passed until we had news from him through another veela, who had been named Titania by her human husband Nick Suffridge. She had decided to follow Nick to live among the mortals, and they both wanted to become members of the theatre group. Titania told us that Francis Snug had joined the veela to live among them in places hidden from us.

The daughter of veela Titania and Nick Suffridge has now moved to live on the Wotton estate. She is seventeen. and I'm teaching her to read. She could have inherited the best treasures of two worlds, but she has been deprived of more than you or I have. When she came to life - the veela don't talk of bearing a child so I don't want to use a word referring to that - the terror was reaching its peak and her mother had fled from our world. After Voldemort had lost his power, the two of them joined her father, who had survived among only a few others in the theatre group. But Nick was killed five years later, and Titania was attacked in suspicious circumstances.

***

"Do you know how my father died? He was killed seven years after Dame Philomela and Mr Wotton." Thisby's voice was light and conversational.

While walking beside Remus down the lane towards the village of Bagendon, she had suddenly crossed the bushes between them and come very close to him. She had even grabbed his arm and she now turned her smiling face up to him with an obvious intention to start a cheerful chat.

She seemed to have an ability to move short distances in no time in the way witches and wizards apparate. Because she, her two suitors and Remus each had different travelling abilities, they had decided to resort to the floo powder network again in order to go to the quarters of the theatre in Long Compton together, even though the disconnection of the Wotton estate from the network for security purposes meant that they needed to go to Mr Landor's place first. Now she had probably used her magic ability to approach Remus so quickly. But his efforts to concentrate on thinking about the ways of travelling - and even the already familiar feeling of discomfort connected to her physical proximity - failed to distract his mind from what she had just said and how she had said it.

He was overwhelmed by a sudden rage, and it did not become diluted by other emotions even when he turned to stare at her childish face. She looked healthier than a few days earlier, even if not exactly prosperous and young. The shadow of premature withering had been replaced by a passionate but desperate glow, like the reflection of light on the early autumn landscape. Still, there was something so irritatingly immature and superficial in her facial expression as well as in her voice that he was unable to resist the rising aggression or to turn his anger into pity. But he managed to turn the anger from her towards those who had forced her to grow old instead of growing up.

At the same time he noticed her expression change quickly. Through a brief phase of astonishment she became tense, too.

He stopped and closed his eyes. "Please don't talk about that to me now. You'd better not stay alone in my company these days. Now the moon has risen, too. Go after Peck and Tumble. I'll follow behind to Mr. Landor's house. But I think I had better not come to Long Compton tonight."

Before Thisby had overcome her surprise and even let go his arm, and while he was turning away to avoid her eyes, he saw an owl flying towards them from the valley. It arrived at great speed, and he had hardly recognised it as Paul, Mr. Landor's barn owl, when it shook his balance by perching on his shoulder. Thisby must have used her magic to detach the letter; she was already putting it in his hand. The note looked like it had been written hastily: Mr Landor's noble handwriting was lacking in its characteristic serenity.

Apparate straight to Long Compton but not to the theatre. Wait near the south porch of St Peter's and St Paul's. Your friends can go to Mrs Hopchin's and wait there until someone comes to tell them where it is safe to go by floo powder. It could be safer for you to return home but I suggest we hold an emergency meeting.

His confusion was reflected in a childish whisper, "What is it?"

Remus realised at the same moment that Thisby was trembling and that his pulse had quickened. Paul had left without his even noticing.

He took out his wand and burned the letter while saying quickly, "Move at once to Peck and Tumble before they reach the village. The three of you must not go to Mr Landor's house but to Mrs Hopchin's. You know the location, don't you? Use your magic, each of you. And stay there until somebody comes to fetch you. Maybe we'll meet later tonight.

He knew that he did not need to warn her. She was completely aware of the danger. She stepped even closer to him and wrapped her arms around him. But before he had started to feel the increased discomfort, she had disappeared. He could hear her urgent voice farther down the slope. He glanced at the moon and partly wished he could have returned home - but only partly.

***

Remus apparated beside the path lined by old yews. The sky above Long Compton was cloudy, and he stood leaning against a tree trunk for a while, listening carefully, until his eyes got used to the dusk. Reassured that there was nobody around, he walked slowly towards the church. When he could discern the graceful outline of the porch, he stopped and crouched behind a tree to wait.

His mind was filled with satisfying anticipation of action. He was curious to find out what had happened. During the last few days his urge to know what his enemies were up to had started to intensify his growing restlessness. Until recently he had been absorbed in enjoying and sharing what his home had to offer, and he had left the fear and hatred for the enemies behind, or set it all aside, as if it had belonged to another reality. In spite of the embarrassment caused by the performance of the Merry Thespians, he had been tempted to accept the deceitful reassurance that both the Death Eaters and the Ministry could be conquered easily through mocking laughter of the united creatures, if not through a solitary werewolf's howl.

With the moon waxing his uneasiness had grown, though. He had learnt to control his aggression far too long ago to allow himself to initiate an active attack. But he was tormented by a rising urge to know what was happening.

Besides, he had realised that his opposition was not a unique stance. His parents - or his mother, at least - had been involved in it, and so had been and were still the half-breeds and non-human creatures in the theatre group. The Merry Thespians were apparently in danger because of their performances, which must have become known by the enemies. The situation was probably serious, as Mr Landor found it necessary to share some information with the group and with him urgently.

As the elder of the magical community of not only Bagendon, but unofficially of the whole of the Cotswolds, he had always been careful not to openly support any new radical movements of lesser minorities. Remus had not perceived any significant discrepancies of principle between his mother and Mr Landor. But Philomela Wotton had been quick at changing her strategies and allies in active opposition, whereas Mr Landor calculated that he could serve the good ends best by protecting the radicals secretly and by giving them thus a chance to slowly increase the number of their supporters. It may have been wise of him not to let himself be stigmatised as an opponent of the Ministry by making publicly, as a local leader, such demands which he knew that the Ministry would refuse to even consider. It had mainly been the issue of equal rights for the half-breeds and the non-human creatures. Why did it suddenly irritate Remus that the Merry Thespians or his mother had never actually included werewolves in those creatures?

A dim light flashed among the yews a bit closer to the church and disappeared again. The dusk was still not too deep for Remus to see a squat figure approach the porch. He could not help chuckling by himself, when he had to conclude that it was impossible to tell whether it was Umbridge or Grubber the half-goblin, who had taken her role in the performance. He took out his wand, which he had been clutching inside of his pocket, and headed towards the porch, staying out of the path.

While proceeding slowly he questioned the necessity of being prepared to defend himself. The flash of light had obviously been a sign of someone appearing in the manner of the goblins, so the figure cannot have been Umbridge. But how could he be so sure? He was completely aware of the fact that he was looking for excuses to satisfy his need to at least pretend that he was going be involved in some violent action. Still, it struck him as potential truth that Umbridge had more connections to the goblins than what she had made public.

Intending to utter Mr Grubber's name so as to see the reaction, he knew how disappointing it would be to meet only a member of the Merry Thespians. To his astonishment, he was clearly less willing to repress his instincts than he had ever been for the past thirty years. When stopping behind the last tree, he had to force himself to concentrate on the thought of a peaceful refinement spell as the only possible response to any potential attack.

"Mr Grubber," he said softly.

The figure on the clearing in front of the porch turned to face him, and he pushed aside his disappointment. He walked quickly to Mr Grubber and they greeted each other with an embrace. They had not had time to talk after the performance, when Remus had hurried to take Thisby and her suitors home. Mr Grubber had always been a rather gloomy character, and only around the time when Remus had finished school, had he been openly granted forgiveness for all the pranks he had done with his uncle against this ambitious actor.

"You have grown up to a serious man," Mr Grubber had said to eighteen-year-old Remus.

It was a pity he had never seen how much more serious Remus had become as the result of the events a few years later.

"Let's move to the most southern house of the Ancient Village," Mr. Grubber now said quietly.

He waited only until Remus had nodded, and he disappeared in another flash. Remus disapparated, following him without much delay, while first trying his best to concentrate on defining where he was heading for.

The distance was not long, because what was known in the magical community as the Ancient Village was the hidden habitation westward of the originally 13^th-century church. On the site of the original village muggles could only see a large bumpy field. The wizard families of Long Compton had several centuries earlier sealed the entrance to this region and afterwards expanded its area magically, when most of the local people with magic abilities had decided to isolate themselves from those who had shunned them. More families from all over the Cotswolds had joined them, and so had all kinds of magical creatures. Thus, the small village of Long Compton or actually its hidden region had come to accommodate the largest magical community in the whole of the Cotswolds.

The Ancient Village itself was closest to the entrance, which any magical creature could pass without effort just by walking through the field. This name referred to the whole of such area which was densely populated by humans, even if not all the houses were actually ancient.

The hidden region had been expanded also beyond the control of the wizard families. Quite a few other breeds of magical creatures had the ability to produce living space for themselves, and when an entrance had been put up by wizards, they all had access to the world of men and animals. Some rare and scarcely known creatures had their habitations here, and the amazanthines were just one breed among them. Besides, the region included large stretches of wilderness, which accommodated some of the best known and most feared magical creatures of all.

As a child or even as a young man Remus had not been allowed to wander around in this hidden region and he had only visited the Old Place, which was how the quarters of the theatre in the Ancient Village were called. He had, of course, never been here since he had been freed from his parents' protection. And he now felt his pulse quicken again, when he realised that nobody would stop him from approaching the only local village of werewolves, too.

Even the southern corner of the Ancient Village was unknown to Remus, and he did not manage to apparate directly into the house which Mr. Grubber had indicated. After apparating on a lane, he quickly checked the points of the compass on the basis of the position of the moon, which he could sense in spite of the thick clouds. He concluded which one of the houses in close vicinity was the most southern one. Assuming that Mr. Grubber had meant they should arrive as secretly as possible, he decided to take the risk and apparate straight inside of the entrance of the house. He found it actually more satisfying to enter an unknown house in this way than to creep in the dusk and just hope to be attacked. Well aware of his reckless thoughts he simply enjoyed the tension which was spreading in his mind and body.

"Remus! Welcome."

Robin Bottom's warm voice and beaming face were so devoid of any expression of anxiety that Remus's disappointment would have turned into irritation, had he not noticed the relief expressed delicately through a wink addressed only to him. Robin obviously did not want to make the rest of the company too much worried about the safety of those who had still not arrived. The large room was full of creatures who had settled comfortably mainly on soft carpets and large pillows on the floor.

As Remus had evaluated from the outside, this house was not ancient but rather an example of modern experimental wizard architecture. The room had no distinct shape, no 90-degree corners or straight walls, either, and the floor was in several slightly different levels as well. The curved walls and niches of various sizes and shapes made the space quite cozy, while the high ceiling in a shape of an irregular cupola caused it to look less crowded than it was.

"I promised to introduce everybody to you, and let me do it now, although I wish you had come to visit us before we had to leave the Old Place."

Robin seemed to have waited for Remus near the entrance. They had stepped closer to greet each other by hugging, and even if Remus had glanced around to take in the surroundings and now nodded to some of the creatures whom he saw waving to him, he made Robin stay aside for a while and spoke to him in a low voice.

"And why did you have to leave? Mr. Landor's note explained nothing at all."

"He had to get you quickly away - all of you but especially you - while we didn't know yet where we could gather. Urgy just left by floo powder for Mrs. Hopchin's house in Bagendon to bring here your companions, who cannot move long distances with the help of their own magic."

"But what was the threat - in Bagendon and at the Old Place?"

"Mr Landor should arrive in a moment... Now come to meet some of the elf members of the troupe."

Five small creatures were sitting cross-legged on pillows in a niche which was a bit higher than any other part of the floor. They had all turned their wide earflaps to catch Remus and Robin's voices, and as soon as they noticed Remus watching them, they grinned and bent their heads in unison but only slightly. Approaching them beside Robin, Remus saw them astonishingly alike, and like Gumby as well, according to human standards.

The unique personality of each individual elf was to be recognised mainly through such senses which were alien to men, and even Remus could catch only a trace of the fundamental differences between them. His exceptional bond with Gumby had strengthened the accuracy of his visual sensitiveness probably even in general, but at least for the purpose of discerning the individuality in each elf's eyes. Of course, the manners which each elf had adopted in interaction with humans could be distinctive. These elves, who were active in the theatre, however, not only had the ability to change their manners flexibly, but possessed such a wide repertoire of potential manners that it was easy for them to confuse their friends of other breeds as to which one of them was who. Yet, Remus had always recognised and still remembered their eyes. He saw immediately that there were two he did not know.

The one who gave his hand to Remus without standing up was unmistakably the honourable one known by the name Enty.

"Good evening, Enty. I am happy to see that you have remained in the group. Do you co-operate with Robin on the manuscripts in the way you used to do with my mother?"

The elf replied only by nodding and by solemnly closing his remarkable eyes for a moment.

Robin spoke cheerfully instead. "I'm so lucky you do, Enty. It would be hard for me to get the lament parts flowing, and the whole performances would be truly lamentable without a colleague with experience and deeper understanding. You remember Mundy and Rumpy, too, don't you Remus?"

Remus shook hands with two other elves, Mundy and Rumpy, who had always been willing to take the traditional roles of house-elves in plays in order to show the cruelty of some wizards. He was also introduced to a novice actor and actress, Gutty and Titsy.

"We likes to take roles of free elves," Gutty shrilled. "But, of course, we takes what Sir Enty and Sir Robin gives us."

Titsy continued in an even higher voice, "They says we is no good at other than house-elf English yet."

"You will learn," Remus said. But he could not get truly interested even in the issue of learning, although he decided to talk later to both Gumby and Enty about these two elves' language ability. "Please tell me what has happened! What is this secrecy!" That was not a question but rather an irritated exclamation.

Enty frowned, and Remus realised that his tactlessness must have made the elf assume that the werewolf had not been tamed further during all those years.

"I apologise. I seem to have resumed the manners of my youth after returning home. But I really think I should be informed, at least in case what is wrong concerns especially me."

"Mr Landor knows the details of the events of this evening best... and there he is!" Robin raised his voice and made it even more cheerful than before.

The short and slender man who had apparated at the entrance almost without a sound, pushed a hood back to reveal his white hair and waved his hand to greet everybody in the room. He waited until all the creatures had noticed his arrival, and said in his deep reassuring voice, "Good evening to all of you, Merry Thespians. I am sorry if you felt you had to wait for me for too long. Excuse me for a moment more and I'll share with you all the information I've got."

Mr Landor turned to nod to Remus, who stepped quickly to him. The old wizard's face was so serious that it brought back the persistent memory of that December sunrise.

"I'm sorry there was no time to explain. I'd just heard that the Ministry had found out about your return. Yes, they found out as late as this morning, it seems. I thought it would be dangerous for you to move outside around Bagendon. Even though now I think it's more likely that they'll at least pretend to ignore you in order not to admit publicly that your opposition would have any significance. Besides, if there is any attack against you, it will probably be disguised to be done by either the Death Eaters or some minority creatures. But the actual news concerns everybody else as much as you."

Without waiting for a reply Mr Landor turned towards the centre of the room and raised his voice, "Loyal members of the Merry Thespians, I regret that I have to confirm the rumours. There was, indeed, a Knight Bus crash in Stow-on-the-Wold earlier this evening. At the same time a fierce fire destroyed a half of the holy woods of the centaurs, southwest of the Ancient Village."

The creatures broke into exclamations but hushed quite as quickly when the elder continued, "The special issue of the Evening Prophet states that the goblins of Lower Slaughter have declared themselves responsible for both incidents. Twelve have already been taken to Azkaban. I got the list of names from the Ministry. I am sorry..."

He lowered his voice, walking to Grap, hugging him and handing him a small roll of parchment. Urgy, the other goblin member of the troupe as well as Mr Grubber joined them. Remus had hardly time to realise that Thisby, Peck and Tumble must have arrived, too, if Urgy had succeeded in his mission, before he recognised her face among the crowd.

She had managed to dirty herself with ash again, and the stains on her cheeks emphasised her paleness. Her eyes met his, and in no time she was beside him, holding his hand. He squeezed it briefly but avoided looking at her or saying anything, since Mr Landor faced all the creatures again and raised his hand to stop the anxious murmuring.

But Remus missed the elder's condolences and calming words, because his mind was too full of aggression and of his hard attempts at explaining the emotions to himself. He knew too well without further pondering that the two cases of violence had such complicated links to the current politics - or to the war, if it needed to be called so - that there was no chance it could all have been anything but intentional, carefully planned killing of creatures, as the means of securing power. Was it just this process of verbalising that tamed the primitive instincts in his mind once again?

Or did he really feel a soothing effect in Thisby's intimate presence? The surprise that perhaps Thisby could actually have gained - or contrary to Remus's doubts always possessed - an ability to resist his emotion and emit her own freed him from any urge to express aggression verbally within his mind either. He turned briefly to her and rather read on her lips than heard her utter such sad but beautiful words in veela that he felt his eyes brim with tears like hers.

He needed to force to the foreground his earlier pressing curiosity in order to concentrate on Mr Landor's words.

"Fortunately, nobody has perished in the woods of the centaurs. The reporter of the Evening Prophet assumes that the reason for the attack could have been some veela who were staying as guests of the centaurs, and who were indebted to the goblins.

The crowd resumed the murmuring, which was pierced by a few shrill exclamations.

"That can't be true! A goblin would never give a loan to a veela."

"Please, calm down. Remember, whatever the truth is, both the Ministry and the Death Eaters wish that you turned against each other instead of uniting forces against them. But you have not allowed me to tell you about the casualties of the bus crash yet."

In the silence which followed Remus struggled against his irritation. Mr Landor still refused to be one of them. Why did he have to arrange this occasion like an opportunity to perform the role of a messenger in front of them? Remus had experienced enough of such public celebrations of real tragedy. There was a tension between his reluctance to hear the further news and the hunger of his instincts for fuel to feed his aggression. He had no choice in any case.

"For an undefined reason a pavement and a house did not jump aside, when the Knight Bus arrived in the vicinity of the Headless Queen. According to the Evening Prophet no one notorious got killed, but the incident will harm the relations between the wizard and the muggle authorities. The Ministry has now released the details of those deceased or injured. The number of fatal casualties was five. The driver and the conductor of the bus, Madam Marsh as the only passenger onboard at the time of the accident. And on the pavement a young wizard and a half-giant. Another wizard and half-giant were injured."

Mr Landor went on mentioning the names and consoling everyone in general and those in particular who had known any of the casualties personally. Remus launched into filling his mind with theories of the cunning plots which had included the killing of a few creatures, some known beforehand and others to be appointed by coincidence, among them the considerate new conductor of the Knight Bus... He was suddenly overwhelmed by pure grief for the death of that young man whom he had met once.

Thisby had taken him to sit down in a niche away from the most crowded part of the room. She was touching his mind again. He pulled his hand away from hers, not abruptly but decisively enough. He tried his best to express both gratitude and apology in a single glance at her, and turned away to control his mind himself.

And his mind was filled with a self-centred thought. How could he have ever believed that he had what it took to be a leader? He would not have been able to announce calmly such news to these creatures, and he was hardly able to comfort himself.

***

Harry had not replied to the one letter he had sent. Hedwig had not returned.

"Do you want me to lock you up in the cellar?" Gumby asked him in the morning of the day which would turn him into a beast.

Remus was sitting on the stone bench outside the window of his old room in the west wing. He had left his bed on the loft before dawn and was now startled by both his friend's voice and by the blinding light of the rising sun, which had suddenly reached his face from behind the opposite wing of the house. He was well aware of how cold he was, having stayed here without moving for several hours. And against any instincts he decided that he did not want to be warmed by the sun or comforted by Gumby - if there had even been any trace of an intention of comforting him in the elf's voice. The elf knew, of course. The question was necessary exactly because he was asking himself the same.

He feared the pain more than ever. The pain which would lead him to lose the control of his mind. After his careful preparation for the previous transformation he knew that even relative well-being just made the ordeal hit him harder. What about now? Having improved his health, slept and eaten well, he should have had the strength to bear it all. Still, he knew that without any other suffering he would be forced to concentrate all his senses on the tension in his body and mind. Not a trace of it would be overshadowed by an even more basic unsatisfied need. He felt tempted to torture himself. Was that what he had done for so many years? Maybe that was the truthful answer to Mr Landor's questions. Why had he never contacted anyone for help? And yet, he remembered repeating those words to Harry: "Don't let him torture you... I advise you never to torture yourself uselessly."

He knew he could as well just face the transformation without worrying. In case it got too hard, he could give up and allow his mind to transform, and he could take the wounds, which he would cause to himself, as a punishment. Gumby would make sure that nobody else would be in danger. But his efforts to control his mind completely had become an obsession. And now he thought he knew what was the natural way to do it. He needed a companion. And while in theory it could be anyone with animal form, he could not completely count on a creature who did not sense the time approaching in the same way he sensed it in his body and mind.

"No, don't. I'm going away."

"You are not sure it is wise to do so," Gumby's calm voice replied.

Remus had closed his eyes. There was a strange pleasure in having been forced to it by the burning of the sun on his face, while his body in the shade was almost numb.

"It's time to find out. I'm not irreplaceable anyway. Even Thisby can now learn further without me. And there have always been so many revolutionaries in the Cotswolds that they won't need me. They can continue to use me as a character in their shows, if they need a martyr. I trust you'll allow them to be protected here, if they need it. And let's not make it too dramatic. I intend to come back tomorrow."

"They don't want you as the victim but as the hero. And you are needed more than you realise. You are meant to come back. I think. Give my regards and have a nice day and night."

A touch of a small soft hand caressed his cold fingers, making them suddenly and painfully regain feeling. He heard a quiet popping sound, which indicated that Gumby had gone.

Remus went inside to fetch his wand and broom. There was a fire, although they did not normally light one in the morning, and he decided to warm up just enough to have the strength to apparate.

Thisby, Peck and Tumble soon arrived, laughing. He took in their carefree behaviour, and it caused a wave of aggression rise in him, although he knew he had no right to reproach them with having forgotten the casualties of the violence. He had spared no thought to anyone but himself the whole morning either.

"Good morning. I'm sorry I didn't prepare the breakfast. Can you take my turn, Tumble? I think I'll be back tomorrow but probably not by breakfast time. Enjoy the moon!"

Before even Thisby had time to react to his words he disapparated.

***

It might have been wise to at least find out where the settlement was located, or to even pay a visit to introduce himself during another phase of the moon. He had apparated just beyond the border of the Ancient Village farthest away from the entrance to the hidden region. Now he needed someone to give him directions, as the wilderness might be too wide for him to be able to reach his destination in one day by just flying around randomly.

He was lucky to see some children on brooms low above a piece of wasteland on the outskirts of the village. He walked to them and stopped to watch their play.

"Good morning, boys. I hope your parents have warned you not to fly too far."

"We are allowed to play here," shouted one boy, who was wearing an orange cloak, maybe in order to look like a member of a certain popular Quidditch team, although Remus could not remember which team it was. He did remember that orange was Ron's favourite colour, too.

"Yes, they've warned us, Sir," continued another boy, who tried his best to shake his broom to make it fly more unevenly in spite of the safety charms, which were compulsory on the junior models of brooms.

"I'm allowed to go anywhere," boasted the first one and added nonchalantly, "except the werewolf place, of course."

"Do you even know where the werewolves live?" Remus asked.

"Yes, of course. That direction exactly," the more arrogant boy said, pointing to the northwest. "Because if I try to fly too far that way, my broom turns back. Stupid baby charms!"

"It's not stupid to be cautious. And the werewolves are not the only danger these days, so you'd really better not go farther away than this."

Remus at least enjoyed being cautious to a certain degree. It made any potential risk seem more serious and exciting. There would have been a slight chance for the Ministry to find out that he had left the protection of his home again, and where he had gone, if he had openly asked for directions. He even pretended to walk towards the village, turned aside later and mounted his broom behind some trees in order to start flying towards the northwest.

The night had been clear and cold, but the sun had hardly started to warm the air before the sky was blanketed in heavy clouds. It was hard to say if the humidity was mist or rain drops. Remus was used to not wearing a cloak and he did not mind the cold, which he considered just fair and reasonable. In any case he did not intend to travel in the icy heights, because he had no idea how far his destination was. He steered his broom up just a bit higher than the treetops, as soon as he was sure he could not be seen from the village.

The fields below had been harvested, and beyond them the desolate lands turned ever barer where he proceeded. He wondered if this area, too, belonged to the space produced by the werewolves. They would certainly design a landscape like this, lands not fertile enough for cultivation and suitable only for pasture. He did not actually know if they kept cattle of their own, but he assumed they did, in order to avoid constant conflict with the full humans and not to extinguish the wild animals. He felt a strange combination of repulsion and craving, when envisaging the jaws and claws ripping the flesh of... not the sheep.

It seemed to take him a while to realise it would not be the sheep. Nobody had ever told him - and he had not found many reliable books - about the details of the lifestyle of the local werewolves. On his travels abroad he had learnt that the werewolves ate almost exclusively meat. But, of course, they had to do the slaughtering of animals when in man form. He had read that they sometimes ate some wild berries, too.

He peered forward as far as he could see through the mist and chose certain points for orientation, in order to make sure he would not fly off course later. Then he landed on a patch of heath on a stony slope. He doubted he could find any berries for a late breakfast. But in any case he felt like touching the ground, the vegetation, and if possible the animals living on these lands. He was not going this way so as to leave behind his principles.

Remus had learned a long time ago that in wolf form a werewolf was unable to harm any such creature which was in animal form. Even earlier, at the age of nine he had been told that tasting human blood - or, even in his man form, failing to refrain from fatal violence against humans - would damn him for eternity. Therefore, as an adult, he had concluded that he could not possibly ever have truly altruistic motives when dealing with humans. Never to harm other creatures than humans could be a less selfish choice. And treating animals well seemed to him to be a very easy, natural choice for a werewolf.

Still, he had read that those werewolves who lived as a pack did not try to control their aggression individually at all, and that they could act very cruelly towards each other, humans, and other creatures. When they were in man form, their aggression could easily be turned towards animals, too.

He had distanced himself from all that such a long time ago that he had come close to regarding his deviance from normal humanity as an opposite to what werewolves were supposed to be. Even his tendency to reclusion - only after 1981, though - had perhaps been as much the result of his opposition to the typically wolfish instinct for pack as of him being rejected by full humans or other creatures. Besides, as he had just realised, he must have sought relief from the physical pain during the transformation by exposing himself to continuous deprivation in every sense, both materially and socially.

But his experience from two months earlier had led him to build a theory, and he felt reckless enough to test it now. The recklessness itself, as well as a clear reluctance to carefully control all his rising but still human aggression, following the habits, which he had developed to virtuosity since his childhood, may have been a result of his return to his childhood home. He had rather successfully given up the reclusion, but the sharing of his home and ideology with these creatures, some of whom had accepted him before and still accepted him even without his parents, did not satisfy his yearning for a pack to belong to, a community of his own kind. In spite of his almost enthralled willingness to follow his instinct he was perfectly aware of his options and could not help considering them.

The idea to now voluntarily join the werewolves for the full moon was based on more than an intellectual theory. It was imprinted on his body and mind through such a starting physical and emotional experience two months ago that he could not possibly ignore it. The conclusion had been that truly joining others of his kind would both help him control his mind and ease the physical pain in the transformation. He did not know which blessing he was more eager to gain. But he told himself that if he could possibly have both, there was certainly no reason to hesitate.

Although the tension deep inside of his body had not started to exactly cause him any pain yet, he could anticipate it just too well. Having suffered it every month for thirty-three years, he was able to recall every nuance of that pain at any moment. Yet, he had learnt to push it away to the back of his mind, and other continuous hardships, which he had got used to consider fair and reasonable, had helped him not to torment his mind on the prospect of the unavoidable, recurring ordeal. Even the Wolfsbane Potion had not taken away the physical pain, and neither had the presence of his closest friends, even though they had comforted him with the anticipation of the adventure they had been ready to share, each in his animal form. Only at such times, when he had already been very ill before the full moon, had he passed the transformation in a partly numb state. But those times he had fortunately been locked up in a secure place thanks to his landlady, because he had ended up losing the control of his mind. Having been too weak to arrange even a full animal as his companion, he had always lost his human mind, and with the strength possessed by the wolf he had wounded himself, so as to return to man form even in a more wretched condition than before.

He definitely needed to have some help to continue to control his mind. Until the month before he had been bold enough to believe that he would gradually learn to master this control by himself. One reason for his decision to develop his struggle for the rights of all creatures into a more personal involvement and sharing must have at least unconsciously been the understanding of humanity as existing only in interaction. To preserve his human mind, during the transformation and all through the month and through his life, would be hard, perhaps impossible, without continuous living, emotionally significant contact with another creature's human traits.

And having - one month afterwards - built a new interpretation of the events of the full moon in Bygle, he believed that the werewolves who lived in communities had actually preserved their human traits. Besides, they perhaps demonstrated those traits especially strongly at the preparation for and during the course of their transformations. Their ritual both eased their physical pain and allowed them to help each other control their minds in order not to harm humans when in wolf form.

The more he tried to reason and analyse his options, the more strongly he felt the straightforward urge to join the ritual. And what was almost equally alarming, combined to the rising aggression he now felt an irresistible need to express it, before it would be too late, because the collective method of control, the ritual, would prevent him from doing it anymore.

But he had trained himself to individual control and he was determined to continue to practise it until the ritual. He could allow himself to think about the possibilities of a fight, in the way he had done during those moments of suspense before he had heard the news about the attacks. Still, he knew it was reckless to dwell on aggressive thoughts, because any unexpected additional provocation might spark off action.

That was why he wanted to calm himself now before entering the settlement, so he would not be tempted to return any aggression in the same way. He could not know if these werewolves would accept him, if he acted in such a controlled manner. But that was his only option in case he wanted to remain loyal to his principles.

As he had now allowed the aggression in his mind build up for several days, the only effective way to keep it at bay was the same defence mechanism which he used against his grief. Grief had never been forbidden even according to the strict demands which he had set up for himself. But he had needed to not only hide it from others but to protect himself against its overflow so many times that he knew exactly the method to try to apply in this situation.

He needed to fill his senses with stimuli and his mind with analysing the perceptions of beauty. Besides, the contact with nature through conscious sense experiences might help him strengthen his peaceful bond with the rest of the creation and thus to avoid the urge to actual violence against anyone, even in case the repression of the aggression should not be successful before the ritual.

He had sat down on a large flat stone, because the grass and the shrubs were wet. The stone was not exactly dry or warm either, but he had chosen a spot on a south-eastern slope, which must have been caressed by the rays of the morning sun at least for a while. Now the north wind parted the clouds for a moment and heavy drops gleamed on every branch and every blade of grass. Admiring these pearls he noticed something else.

Bending down to examine the shrubs, he was surprised to recognise them as whinberries. He knew that these small shrubs with edible berries were common on heathland and moorland in many parts of upland and western Britain. But only once had he experienced the collecting of whinberries as a social and even commercial activity. Yes, he had been told that the collecting continued at least in Shropshire until September.

But it had been late August, the last weeks of holiday before his fifth year at Hogwarts when he had joined the Pettigrews to wander over the moorlands around Clun to help them break their record of a crop of 700 kilograms of whinberries. These berries grew also near Hogsmeade, but Peter had claimed that even a thought of the berries made him feel sick.

Remus, however, had enjoyed Mrs. Pettigrew's whinberry pie. But even more than that he had enjoyed the taste of the berries, when alone among the shrubs with Peter, who had also always done his best to stay as far away from Mr. Pettigrew as possible. Thinking about Peter's father was certainly not the best way to get rid of aggressive thoughts.

But no matter how much Peter had complained about the slavery, expressing his astonishment at Remus voluntarily joining him in it, Remus believed that the weeks on the moorland had perhaps been the best time in the whole year for Peter. At least that year when his parents had agreed to invite Remus. Perhaps Peter had been more capable of feeling the harmony with nature on his own or together with one friend, than of ever finding the confidence to truly relax in a company of more than two.

The unexpected invasion of the Pettigrew family into his mind filled it with a distress of another dimension. But suddenly it turned into pure grief for Peter, since that particular memory of his friend consisted of the best potential qualities and opportunities as well as the vulnerabilities of the insecure Marauder. He had lost Peter, and once again he refused to think further than that.

He glanced at the slope and towards the horizon so as to take in the soft colours of the scenery, but quickly focused his eyes on the shrubs closest to him. He did not want to dwell on the memory of the watercolour which he had painted of the wild windy landscape. The figure of his friend had been standing head high in the middle of it, as if free of all worries and fear.

For once his current visual perception was unable to overrule the memory. But touching the berries, smelling and tasting them, realising how hungry he was, he finally reached a relative reconciliation. Knelt down to eat, he heard a familiar shrill sound from a distance. The amazanthine did not approach, the sound faded, and still, having nourished himself and lifting his face for the wind to dry his tears, he felt pure, as if all aggression had been washed away.

After he had mounted his broom and checked the direction, he resumed flying towards his destination, determined to concentrate his thoughts only on what he was heading for. The Order had not sent him to visit any of the werewolf settlements in Britain. He knew that Dumbledore had contacted them all personally more than a year earlier, soon after Voldemort had regained his body and the Order had got together. The werewolves had refrained from promising to support the Order and claimed neutrality. After one year, when the Ministry had legalised the immediate use of the unforgivable curses against any others than fully authorised members of the British wizard community, the pack of the Cotswolds had replied to Dumbledore's negotiation initiative saying: "If we negotiate, it will need to done with the Ministry or with Voldemort." As far as Remus knew, the Ministry had not negotiated with the werewolves, and he was not surprised that no such contact had been mentioned in public. If the Ministry had initiated anything, it would have been kept secret.

Remus did not really care to speculate about the possible role which the werewolves played or would play in the so-called war. He was going to approach them as an individual for his personal reasons. Still, he knew that going alone to meet creatures who could well be allies with either of his enemies meant taking a tremendous risk. His recklessness was probably unforgivable. But he enjoyed it, while he felt with despair that even his death or destruction, the undoing of his humanity would be no loss to anyone except to him alone. Deep in his body the first twinge of pain reminded him of what he was.

The sun had reached the peak of its course behind the restless clouds, and it was already heading down on his left, when he suddenly saw its light reflected on the honey-coloured limestone of a cluster of buildings. The houses looked as lovely as those nestled into green gently rolling hills all over the Cotswolds. But these ones - though built of the same local material - belonged to another world, to the uninviting landscape designed for only werewolves to inhabit. He felt that the steep stony slopes and the sharp ridges actually invited him to wander deep into the wilderness, while there was no true harmony between the wilderness and the surprisingly great number of buildings. There must have been at least two hundred houses there, crammed together between the ridges. Still, he turned his back to the hideaways and flew straight into the settlement, pushed by a fervent yearning for a companion.

As soon as he landed, four men apparated close around him. His approach must have been watched, as the guards did not look alarmed at all. They did not need to exchange a word among themselves before being unanimous about where to take him.

To him one of them said simply, "Welcome. We are taking you to meet our leader, chief Ice-Stare."

The four men were serious and completely calm. While guiding Remus along a lane towards a taller building, they talked casually among themselves about their work shifts. There was a disagreement, but both parties agreed to solve it later. Their restraining themselves from expressing any aggression was in sharp contrast with the behaviour of the werewolves of Bygle, at least of the healer lady and the interrogator, who were the only ones Remus could remember having met before the sunset of the full moon.

"Welcome, Remus Jaws Lupin. What a pleasant surprise!"

Only with gestures had the guards asked Remus to stop and stay standing in the middle of the small room with plain white walls, while they had stepped aside. A tall and broad-shouldered man had apparated in front of him. The deep lines on the man's face revealed a respectable age, and his shoulder-length hair, his full beard, and the bushy eye-brows above his penetrating blue eyes were grey, but the contrast offered by his dignified carriage and athletic figure was emphasised by the few springy steps he took to approach Remus, until he was so close that they could have touched each other. Still, he did not reach out his hand. Instead, he flashed a wry smile at Remus and continued to gaze into his eyes with serious concentration.

"Thank you, Chief Ice-Stare. I am truly grateful to you for welcoming me after all these years. I have always been guided to avoid any contact with you. But I suppose you know that Albus Dumbledore sent me as his envoy to foreign communities last summer."

"We know you well enough. You should have been one of us for... thirty-three years. Are you surprised that I even remember how many years ago you were marked and presented with the gift of transformation? I was one of those sent out to increase our population from time to time in those years, so I would earn a position among the inner circle closest to the leader of the pack. And I won't forget how once my friend, who had the same mission, failed to bring in a new member, although he claimed to have bitten a child successfully. It was even a child with strong pure blood, of one of the best families in the Cotswolds. That boy's parents were stubborn, and not even the Ministry managed to send Remus Jaws Lupin to us. My friend was punished by our chief, of course. You mustn't think I bear you a grudge. In any case I won't let you suffer from it right now. And I am happy you have now decided to join us. You've chosen the right time, too."

The polite words could hardly hide the ominous tone in the chief's voice, and most of all the persistent stare caused weird unease in Remus. The eyes reminded him of a nightmare: of non-human absence of reason. He decided to lower his gaze, as if in a humble gesture, and to respond to the words only.

"I was afraid I had postponed making up my mind for too long. You may say I should have come years ago, but at least I should not have put off my arrival until the very day of the full moon. On the basis of my experience in the foreign communities I assume it might be hard to concentrate on negotiations at this time of the month."

"I doubt there is any need for negotiations. In any case, this full moon is exceptional. This month we control our aggression before the transformation. We save the power in it for a valuable cause. This month the ritual will be arranged to prepare the community for strengthening itself. You are lucky. Tonight you will see something better than all the stories which the worthless non-wolves have made up about us."

The chief lifted his head even higher as if to gaze into a still hidden glory which awaited him in the near future. Turning his eyes back down to his guest was bound to express patronage. "No, I won't punish you now. You are proud of your ability to control your mind and behaviour. But that is not unique. We do it every month. Did you realise it in Bygle? Yes, chief Bloodhead has informed me of what happened during your visit in July. And when there is a good reason to postpone the violence, we are able to repress our aggression even before the ritual, at least some of us are."

A wave a panic was rising and threatened Remus's capability of behaving calmly. But his own aggression, which he had allowed to build up to an exceptional level, pushed him to determinate opposition. At the same time the chief's carefully controlled manner helped him to express himself in an undertone, too, as a strategy of postponing any objection until a moment which would allow him a chance of carrying out his opposition successfully. Besides, while the chief clearly meant to remain mysterious, Remus needed to know if there was an alliance, and with whom, behind the chief's plans to strengthen the community during this full moon. As for the method of strengthening it, Remus - to his almost unbearable distress - had very little doubt. He had to push the thought of the details to the back of his mind in order not to panic.

"May I ask what gives you the good reason this month?"

"That is an interesting question. We have been generously presented with reasons, which seem to mount up to a blessing. You chose, indeed, the right time. It may be the beginning of a blessed era for our kind. You, of course, having grown up and lived away from us, have not realised the full impact of the current conflicts on us. We have agreed to serve both sides, Voldemort and the Ministry, and we'll actually serve only ourselves. But you can give us a third and more complete reason. In the service of your rebellion we shall destroy all the full humans."

Remus felt he could not breathe, but he heard his own voice utter a simple objection, as if automatically stating a fact, without any tone of defiance. "My mission is not to destroy the humans."

The chief replied in an equally calm, almost gentle voice. "The humans all threaten and persecute other creatures. The half-breeds and non-humans possess an abundance of human traits. Their revolutionaries have achieved nothing through their ridiculous attempts at opposition. They have been too merciful and gentle, and so have you, since you were brought up to repress your true nature. But it is time for you to find yourself. You will be the leader of the non-wolf creatures first, and maybe you will earn a position as my successor. No negotiations are needed. You are subordinate to me, and tonight you will be reunited with your nature in an exceptionally powerful ritual. It will not only strengthen our community but also confirm your essence for eternity."

Reaching for his wand, without caring how hopeless it would have been to try to use it against four guards in addition to the chief, Remus knew that his facial expression conveyed anything but mercy and gentleness. At the same moment when he noticed that his wand had disappeared from his pocket, he saw an almost tender smile light up the chief's face.

"You have been unarmed, and there is an anti-apparation spell in this building. So you may wait in peace. Reserve your aggression until the moonrise."

Remus felt like giving up any attempts at even discussing the situation. He had no hope except for a desperate flight during the ritual itself. The realisation that at least this chief had consciously distanced himself from all so-called human motivations made the foolishness of his own idealism painfully clear. Thus he was suddenly freed from any urge to join the werewolves, even though he knew that there might well be subordinate ones still in possession of moral aspirations. The yearning for contact disappeared and left his mind with surprising serenity. The chief had probably not expected him to be able to continue reasoning.

"I thought you were satisfied with the wizard community's policies of not aiming at extinguishing you and of allowing you to take those bitten to join you. That is what the honourable chief of the Thessalonican pack explained to me."

"My predecessor was satisfied. But I am not. You - and my punished friend - are not exactly the only ones we've lost. The Ministry should have improved its policies and brought to us, by force, if necessary, all those presented with the gift."

"But how can you strengthen your communities in the future, if you kill or bite all the humans now?"

"Forgive me for having exaggerated. By saying that we'd destroy them all I didn't mean that some couldn't be allowed to live and even reproduce under control - probably in some kind of reservations, closed and supervised areas - so we could use them when necessary. But there will be time for us to discuss these matters after the full moon when your mind is clearer."

The chief was playing with a wand, which Remus recognised as his own. He flashed another wry smile and gestured to the four guides to step to Remus. "They will take you to refresh yourself, and an hour before the moonrise they will return and bring you back to me. It was a pleasure to be talking to you."

Placing Remus's wand on a window sill, as if provoking him to try to dash for it, the chief continued to stare at him and added, "You are doing well. This is how you gather some aggression to be released at the right moment."

***

Had he come here and offered himself, not only as the victim but worse - only to find himself alone again and lonelier than ever? He had offered himself to be forced to serve the cause of the most terrible discrimination and extermination.

Having been left in another small room, Remus had thrown himself on the bed, trying to concentrate on a plan for escape. His imprisonment could not be compared to what he had endured in Bygle. The guards had politely asked him to help himself for a light meal at the table, which had been set for one. Everything was simple but clean and neat in the room, and even the bed was soft and comfortable.

It was too comfortable. His mind was torn by tension not only between the rising instinct for violence and his habit of repressing it - but also between the two opposite wills: the will expressed in the chief's order to repress the aggression and his individual will to oppose the order and follow the instinct. He tried to concentrate on analysing and formulating the concept of this tension. But the full experience remained predominantly physical and emotional, and it reminded him of his first years as a werewolf. This month he felt the pain as more intense than for a very long time. His body was able to recognise it, as if it were now finally again filling all the routes carved in his nerves when he was a child.

For the first twelve months or so he had mercifully lost his conscious mind at the moment when the gnawing ache had turned into an overwhelming agony. But he had started to bear the pain for a longer and longer time. He had soon learnt not to call for anybody to come and help him. His father had told him later, during his school years that his parents had wished they could have locked him alone in a room, later in the cellar, only a moment before the last, visible stage of the physical transformation. But when he had been very young, his mind had transformed first, and his parents had found it difficult to control him in his stage of inhuman fury, which had probably been aggravated by the onerous pain in his frail body. So they had been forced to leave him alone, comforted by the fact that he was not aware of the ordeal until he regained consciousness, having transformed back.

They had been right. At first he had not consciously suffered so much. He had woken up feeling the echo of pain, as if a storm abating in his body, and the gradual easing of the suffering had actually become a pleasure to him. In a way he had enjoyed even the wounds, which he had got used to and become interested in examining, paying attention to all the details, slightly different each month.

But by the age of nine he had already got used to fearing the pain, which had got worse each month, because each month he had remained conscious a moment longer. His parents must have concluded from his groans that he had become able to preserve his human mind almost until the final, outer physical change. That must have made them realise it was time for him to be told what he turned into, before he would see it and be shocked by the experience.

Until they had explained it all to him, he had thought that the monthly ordeal was normal - that every young boy suffered the same. The result of learning the true nature of his condition had been his alienation from everyone. As long as he could remember, he had been surrounded by different creatures, and he had seen them all treat each other as equals. Some of them had not refrained from expressing strong reproach against him when the time of his ordeal had drawn near. Especially Enty, the most honourable of the elves, had made it clear that his outbursts of aggression were not acceptable.

Still, he had thought it was only natural that the adults would chide a young boy for his behaviour. There had been no other children in all the large family which the theatre had offered to him, but he had vaguely remembered the time when he had not been the only one punished for bad behaviour. He still smiled at a faint memory of his army of five-year-olds being scolded for making noise, breaking something or being late for a meal - and of himself declaring that as the leader he would take the full responsibility. But such a memory was from another land, from behind the borderline, on this side of which everything in his life had been clear-cut, beautiful or painful.

At the age of nine he had learnt that being young was not the only thing that separated him from all the other creatures. His parents had reassured him that he could grow up to behave just as well as anyone. He could learn to repress his aggression, and he would have to do it in order to live with them. But one night each month he would be a beast, and there was nothing to free him from the transformation and from the pain. There was no other creature like that.

Uncle Francis had been the only one who had made him forget that he was different. His parents had often scolded Francis for encouraging his restlessness, even violence. But Francis had disappeared soon after Remus had learnt the truth about his condition. He had never managed to completely drive away the idea that his lycanthropy was somehow connected to the disappearance, at least not until - ten years later - it had been confirmed that Francis had joined the veela.

A wave of pain buried him for a moment deeper than before, and he rose from it with a thought of the little half-veela. Had he stayed at home to go through the transformation alone, he might have wounded himself. He suddenly missed seeing and smelling his own blood. And he felt like showing his wounds to Thisby. He could have given her a lesson of healing. And she would be able to learn to heal him - to heal deeper wounds than anyone else could. The pleasure of the temporarily abating pain had lured him to a more daring dream than for years. But the realisation that this dream could have become true cleared his mind again.

Still, what use was it to engage himself in even rational thoughts of why it would have been better to stay at home? He had made the mistake of allowing his fear for the pain to tempt him to look for protection, as if it were possible to separate his personal issues from his duty to defend those persecuted in the conflict, which he still refused to call a war. The chief had made it clear enough that he would use Remus. It was also likely that the special ritual and its aftermath would change Remus's mind so that he would not even try to oppose the chief's will. As long as Remus still had his own will. he would have to resist. But the yearning to join the ritual had returned, and he did not know how long he would be able to fight against it. He had already started feeling that there was a positive side in his being here.

No, the only positive side was that he now knew chief Ice-Stare's plans. He had to find a way to inform the Order and to warn those in immediate danger, before he would be converted. And that was not an easy problem to solve, so there was really no time to be wasted on dreaming.

He forced himself to get up from the bed and looked around the room. There was a fireplace, but he was sure it had been made impossible for him to contact anybody through it. How could the werewolf village possibly have been connected to the floo powder network! Turning to look out through the window, he fumbled in his pockets to check that he really had no piece of parchment. Even in case his wand had not been taken away from him, he could hardly have been able to charm even a letter to fly out of the village, not to mention first transfiguring another object into a letter. Being stupid enough to get into a trouble like this, he should have been a lot more skilful wizard to get out of it. He was suddenly so angry with himself that he felt like smashing the window pane with his fist. The only thing stopping him at least for a moment was the pleasure he took in envisaging the blood on his hand. He had closed his eyes and was startled by a clattering sound from behind his back.

A large grey owl flew out of the fireplace. His first thought was that he had to find a way to write a letter to send with this owl. But why had it come? It had no letter on its leg or in its beak either. It perched on his shoulder and stared and him, hooting, as if mocking his slowness. It was Hedwig!

He caressed her ash-covered back, and a deep sigh relieved him of half of the tension and pain inside. Both he himself and Harry had known that she would always find him. But had Harry sent her?

"Is there no letter from Harry?"

Hedwig made a slight quick movement on her forehead as if raising her eyebrows. Though the negative answer was the only possibility and bad news as such, the gesture caused a warm sensation in Remus.

"Did you sense the approach of the full moon, after all? Did you decide to come to join me because of that?"

She closed her eyes quickly once with a hardly discernible nod of her head, opened them and closed them again as an affirmative answer to his second question. Like every time when he talked to Hedwig, it gave pleasure to Remus to wonder how the magical owls had adopted these same basic gestures as humans in Greece. Maybe they had both learnt them from the owls of Athens two or three thousand years earlier.

Another sharp twinge of pain ended the moment of relief. He wrapped his arms around himself. Unless the pain was to be a lot worse than ever before, there could not possibly be much more than an hour left before the moonrise. What could he do to send out a warning? He had no parchment or paper. If Hedwig had at least brought a note... Practically, was it good that Hedwig on her own had decided to come to him? And what did it mean that Harry had not sent her?

"Does Harry need help?" That was barely a whisper.

Would he ever be able to help Harry in any way? But this time Hedwig did not answer yes or no. She brushed her head against his cheek and hooted softly, reassuring him that she would stay by his side through the night.

"No, Hedwig, I must do without you this time. But I am more than glad that you've come. I need you to take an urgent message to as many wizard families in the Cotswolds as possible. Do you know how we could do it?"

Hedwig stared at him for a moment with such concern in her eyes that he thought she was only able to reflect his anguish and add her pity for him to it. But she finally closed her eyes in an affirmative answer and flew to the windowsill.

She hooted a strange tune, and in a moment the nearby trees and roofs filled with birds. One amazanthine flew straight in through a ventilation window. The tiny bird perched on Remus's finger and stayed, gazing at him questioningly. Having never before seen an amazanthine motionless, he was overwhelmed by its amazing beauty. It shone like a self-luminous multicoloured jewel but with soft silky feathers and a warm living spirit. He hated to stain its beauty with the message he had to send, but he understood that Hedwig had already asked for the favour on his behalf and that the tiny bird and all the others outside were ready.

A wave of hopeful energy emanated from the living jewel. Yes, the amazanthines and other magical birds could convey the message to the fauns, who in turn could warn the witches and wizards of the Cotswolds. Remus himself had no ability to converse with birds more accurately than on the level of general emotions. But Hedwig had turned out to be an exception. He had channelled her detailed memories through himself, and she had followed his requests, as if she had understood exactly for instance what time he had wished her to arrive for the painting sessions. Following the instructions of where and when to fly was a natural ability of magical owls. But Hedwig had also answered his questions and she evidently understood even his current problem and was now offering a solution. So Remus wanted to believe that Hedwig would be able to convey a detailed spoken message, if there were a chain of creatures with each link sharing a language. She would understand Remus, and the amazanthines would understand her, and the fauns always knew exactly what the little magical birds had to say.

The amazanthine turned its head to Hedwig, and so did Remus. "Hedwig, please give this message to all the birds and ask them to spread over the Cotswolds to look for the fauns or any other creatures who both understand their language and speak the language of the humans. I'm afraid all creatures except those with animal form will be in danger tonight, but especially humans with magic powers. So the message is this: Witches and wizards of the Cotswolds, be prepared for an attack tonight. Chief Ice-Stare from the hidden lands of Long Compton will lead his werewolves to kill and bite. And Hedwig, give another message to only one amazanthine, who must fly to Kennington, in the London borough of Lambeth, to find Mock the faun, who lives next door to Mundungus Fletcher. This confidental message is: To the Order from Remus. Chief Ice-Stare has secretly allied himself with both Voldemort and the Ministry, but intends to gain dominance himself. His werewolves will attack tonight to increase their number. Ice-Stare may manage to force me to become one of them. I've sent birds to spread the warning."

More than ever before Remus wished he could have been less wordy in his expressions. Feeling nervous he looked at Hedwig. "Do I need to repeat the messages?"

Hedwig raised her non-existent eyebrows as a negative answer. She hooted softly, flew past him, brushing his cheek with her wingtip, and disappeared to the chimney. The almost imperceptible weight of the amazanthine had gone from his finger without his noticing. Looking out, he saw no birds in the trees or on the roofs either. It was probably better that the birds gathered somewhere outside the village in order not to make the werewolves suspicious.

Still, he suddenly felt absolutely lonely again. After the hope brought by the birds the hopelessness of his own situation looked more devastating. Maybe Hedwig could still come back, but how could even she save him? He threw himself prone on the bed again.

The next twinge of pain somewhere under his chest was worse than those he had felt returning in waves since the last stretch of his journey. The encounters with the chief and with Hedwig had helped him focus his attention outside of his own body, but the lack of need to speak up his thoughts now made it hard for him to concentrate on anything but his most primal sense. He had learnt that giving birth made some creatures, mainly human females, feel something that could perhaps be compared to his ordeal. Could anyone be meant to suffer in such a way? For most creatures, like animals, it had to be an easier process; for the rest it was perhaps a rare sacrifice. Only for someone unwillingly giving birth to a monster in himself - and giving up himself at the same time - it had to be torture.

Willingness to give birth to the monster would probably have been the only way to ease the pain and to preserve his own mind to control its behaviour. And now he was less willing than ever to assume the wolf form, in which he would be led to join in the destruction. That was why the pain was overwhelming him.

It was circling inside of him, cutting through his flesh and bones, as if teasing him, telling him that there was still a plenty of time before it would reach his skin together with the horror of the visible change. Without full awareness of it he had turned on his side and curled up in the foetus position, and he was now staring at the white wall.

The wall gradually gained colour. He knew it was turning into his painting on the pet shop wall, and he was happy to enter it, to leave this room behind. He was just waiting for the next wave of pain to lift him on its crest. Now it came and took him. It did not throw him down on the gentle slopes of the hills. It took him travelling across all the scenes and seasons he - or rather Hedwig - had ever loved, and he was thrilled. If he had not been in such pain, he would have truly enjoyed himself. But Hedwig was not flying with him.

He looked around and saw that with him was just this wave. It was cleaning away everything, easily destroying the world, as he travelled, riding it. Behind him and on either side there was nothing but darkness. He looked ahead, and the darkness had covered it all. Only two lights were shining in the distance. The wave was suffocating him, and the only sense he had left was the sight, and he could see only those eyes. The only companion, who could lift him up again on another painful and beautiful journey of destruction, was approaching through the darkness - the shining yellow eyes with no sign of reason and utterly soulless. Had his soul been destroyed for eternity, too? There was nothing left but complete darkness.

He did not even want to feel the pleasure of the wave descending somewhere behind him. It would return forever and ever. And while it was gone, he was lying ultimately alone in the darkness. There was nothing left for him. He would not even feel the intensity of the pain next time; it would be dull and consuming, since he had no will to oppose the monster. Through no sense would he be able to feel anything with worth and significance any longer. He had lost himself. Truly, now he had finally lost everyone, and there was no grief or pity left. No pity for those he would destroy in turn. No feeling.

But at that moment he felt it. His nerves were unable to convey other message than pain, but the rhythm of this hardly discernable touch spoke a familiar language. It spoke tenderly and it spoke of hope. It is not too late, the touch said. You are still a man. You can feel your own face against my feathers. And it spoke of pity. It is not over yet. There is still more than an hour before the moonrise. You did not lose yourself yet, not even your human mind temporarily. You were just dreaming.

Just dreaming. And he did not believe in premonitions. Yes, his rational mind and his will were still there. He felt the next wave of pain spreading inside now closer to the surface, but he quickly opened his eyes so as to leave the darkness behind. The round gentle amber eyes were staring into his.

But he was probably sharing the last moments of his humanity with his faithful friend. He had no strength for opposition and escape. He could hardly lift his hand to touch Hedwig's feathers, which were almost black now.

"Are the messengers on the way?"

He thought that he had not even managed to utter the words, but Hedwig answered affirmatively. He had just started wondering how long it had actually taken Hedwig to just give the message to the other birds, when his hand slid wearily down from her chest and touched something even more familiar. She had brought his wand.

Twelve inches. Elm and dragon heartstring. He caressed the worn smooth wood with his fingers. It had been rougher when he had touched it in the same way after his last transformation, before heading for Hogwarts for the first time.

With the help of a letter from professor Dumbledore his parents had managed to get the wand license for half-humans from the Beast Division at the Ministry, and Mr Ollivander had not commented at all, after glancing at the license. Remus had been afraid that no wand would choose a part-human, but as if reading his thoughts, the wandmaster had winked at him and declared both solemnly and playfully that Remus's own wand had been eagerly looking forward to meeting him. It had not been too hard for Mr Ollivander to locate it either, thanks to Remus's well-known ancestors. The wood of his wand was of the trees that still grew on his fathers' lands, and his mother, too, had followed a family tradition when being chosen by a wand with dragon heartstring in its core.

He had renewed his ten-year license twice and had never used an illegal wand. It was too early to speculate if he would have a license after a couple of years. Maybe his license had already been invalidated without a notice.

The foreign werewolves acted as full wizards and witches, and they had their own wandmasters. Remus had no doubt that the local werewolves had powerful magical talents and were also skilled at using wands, although they probably had their own versions of spells. They seldom took new adult members, who could have taught them orthodox magic, because bitten children could be more profoundly converted to their habits and ideology.

Remus wondered if there was any truth or only bias in what he had heard about werewolf communities killing or banishing any squib children who happened to be born among them. In any case the chief's words had implied that they chose carefully whom they bit. At a time of war it would be rational to bite older boys or young men to strengthen their army. And when following their chief's plans, they would certainly not attack muggles - except for feeding purposes or in order to demonstrate their ability to cause terror.

He hoped that warning wizard families could save at least some of the potential victims. If someone was saved from being bitten, Remus's arrival would have served a purpose. To try to save himself from adding to the damage which the werewolves would have caused in any case, he had to be prepared to fight. Lying here, thinking about his childhood was no good.

Suddenly furious at himself, he clasped the wand and hid it in his pocket. He hated to admit it, but he was too weak to use it now for anything. Could he trust that the beginning of the ritual would give him strength and still allow him to rebel? If Hedwig were with him, he might succeed in not losing the control of his mind too soon.

"I could Disillusion you - turn you into an owl chameleon," he whispered. "Will you accompany me to the ritual, if there's a chance that the other werewolves won't notice you?"

Hedwig promised, and she flew to the other side of the room to return carrying a glass of red liquid. It made him think of blood and he lifted up his head to taste it with feelings of both craving and repulsion. But it was juice made of berries and it invigorated him. He did not refuse to eat some of the bread that Hedwig brought for him from the table, and he was soon able to sit up and concentrate on the Disillusionment charm.

He continued to sense the owl's presence so clearly that he wondered if the charm would fool anyone. But Hedwig communicated to him that it was a matter of the intimate relationship between the two of them. It was not hard for him to believe that. Since she had come back to him, the pain had remained bearable, not much worse than during the year when he had shared a basically comfortable life with Sirius and also been almost willing to transform, because it had offered an excuse to disobey the orders concerning Sirius's confinement at Grimmauld Place.

When the four guards came in, after knocking on the door politely, he was ready.

He had cleaned his hands and face at the washstand, so there were no ash stains to cause suspicion. His aggression had been carefully saved, and he had faith in the chance of controlling how to channel it at the moment they were all waiting for. He tried his best to smile, but did not care if the men noticed how much in pain he was.

Without any intention to show whether he was happy about joining in the ritual or not, he asked, "Do you use some kind of ointment in your ritual?"

"Yes, we do. Are you not familiar with the mixture of belladonna, nightshade and henbane? It burns on your skin and takes your attention from the pain inside. The more eagerly you wish to transform, the less is your pain and the better is your control over the wolf you become, so you get more pleasure from celebrating the moon with your pack. But tonight we are using an exceptional mixture. Exceptionally, when the leader of the pack considers it necessary, the ritual can be arranged to prepare us for catching human prey for food or biting humans in order to increase our population."

One of the guards kept talking in a calm pleasant voice, while they led their guest along a corridor to a wide porch. Resisting the temptation to glance at the sky, Remus fixed his full attention on the tall hairy figure in front of him.

The night had fallen, and after the door behind him closed, the only illumination was provided by a bonfire burning bright on the village square. Against this red restless light he could discern only the outlines of the majestic terrifying creature. He was even more startled by the amusement in Chief Ice-Stare's voice.

"Thank you. The four of you may go down to the square now and take your places in the circle. Come here, Remus Jaws Lupin."

The chief turned his back on him and, facing the fire, leaned against the railing. His bent figure gave deceptively the impression of a fully transformed werewolf. Remus approached slowly and saw that the fur worn by Ice-Stare was still just one made of hides. Touching the cold iron at an arm's length to the right of his host, Remus turned to examine his features in the warm light.

Ice-Stare must have been aware of his gaze, but continued to watch the crowd around the fire. "I have not been mistaken. I know how to choose my generals, although my choices may seem too radical to those who have no courage of imagination. Look at that mass. They survive only by leaning on each other."

He turned abruptly to look at Remus, and his eyes sparkled, reflecting the fire, just as his perfect rows of strong teeth did, so that suddenly his face seemed to express some warm emotion. He kept grinning while he continued, "I love paradoxes. Your denouncement of your nature has led you to train yourself to my service. I have followed the course of your life. There's no need to now discuss why. Some recent information from several foreign communities - but only when interpreted by my courageous unbiased mind - confirmed that you are the man and will be the wolf to serve me better than anyone who has grown to be just a member of the pack."

Remus did not break the silence which followed. He had no intention to start arguing and provoking Ice-Stare to explain his ideas further. He was not going to waste the rest of his strength, which was not much.

The chief did not reveal any disappointment, on the contrary. He examined his guest carefully from head to toes, and when their eyes met again, Remus was startled by the thought that even Thisby had not made him feel more admired. And the thought of Thisby must have saved him at the last moment from faltering and accepting the admiration, while he suddenly realised that his quiet opposition was exactly what pleased the chief.

"I was trained to physical strength, but that is not the most important facet of leadership. Your parents' foolishness - or what I used to regard as foolishness, while it turned out not to be that even from my perspective - prevented you from growing physically even to the power which you could have reached as a mere human. Without the support of a wolf mother or a pack - or the freedom of occasional biting of at least those who already had our gift - you had to wound yourself and wear down your strength. You learned to torture yourself, both the man and the wolf."

Ice-Stare paused again, but clearly did not expect a reply. Hiding his teeth, which he normally seemed to be fond of exposing, he arranged his features to an almost authentic expression of compassion.

At the same moment Remus felt that his very real physical frailty would soon make it impossible for him to simply remain standing. The repeated waves of pain had consumed him. The chief certainly saw his condition and also understood why the transformation was exceptionally painful for him this time.

Still, Ice-Stare admired him, assuming that he was holding out on his own. But Hedwig was perching as Disillusioned on his right shoulder, and while the chief had been talking, Remus had moved cautiously little by little further away to the right, hoping that the owl's presence would remain concealed.

Strangely the weight of the big bird had turned into its opposite. Her emotions constantly restored his serenity and relieved the pain, which he could still feel shaking his body in more and more frequent waves and closer and closer to his skin. He knew that he was well beyond the point of being able to disapparate, even in case he could have managed to escape from the porch, which probably belonged to the anti-apparation area defined by the security spell Ice-Stare had mentioned. It would be disastrous four any werewolf to even attempt at apparating during the ongoing process of transformation, when the matter of the body was extremely unstable and thus in a vulnerable state and would have inevitably got lost between the points of disapparition and apparition. Besides, in his current condition Remus hardly had the strength to do any magic.

He did not know how close the moonrise was, but each moment which the chief dawdled away with him here on the porch, postponing the ritual, could mean more time for the people of the Cotswolds to receive the warning and even for the Order to act. What the Order was to do was not in Remus's hands any longer, and even what would happen to him could be only in case the ritual could give him strength before depriving him of his human mind.

The ritual had started on the square. A sound of fierce drumming suddenly startled Remus, and he realised that he had lost his concentration on Ice-Stare and almost collapsed against the railing. He was trembling, and his vision was blurred. But when he lifted his head, he managed to focus his eyes on two creatures who were walking solemnly towards the porch.

"Were you afraid I would laugh at your weakness? I do admire your strength, Remus Jaws Lupin."

Ice-Stare's voice sounded suddenly so clear and loud in his ears that he turned his head, fearing that his host had moved closer. But the sparkling eyes were still gazing at him from the distance which had almost doubled since he had first touched the railing. Remus was tempted to accept another compliment - to bask in that rare praise. He was almost ready to even overlook Ice-Stare's insistence on physical distance from his guest. Any attempt at an escape could, of course, only benefit from the chief kindly allowing Remus to gradually move further away. Yet, again and again a feeling of utter disappointment returned - a feeling of having been let down.

Remus could hardly control his fury when thinking about the physical reserve in the manner of the welcome he had been given, the evidently conscious refusal to touch him, to even shake his hand - to even hit him. Having been abandoned to wait for the moonrise alone, he had not regarded such treatment as something he could ever easily forgive, even if he had to understand that in close contact it would be hard for the werewolves to oppose the culture of violence within which they had grown up. He had come here seeking solace and protection from creatures of his own kind. Seeking a human touch on his skin to help him not lose himself.

Still, at this moment he was tempted to forgive Ice-Stare. The chief had seen and adored in him - and still wanted to keep admiring in him - the exceptional ability to make it on his own, which must have been disclosed in whatever information on his life had been delivered to this village.

The penetrating gaze, now fierce with intensity and rather cheerful triumph, left Remus only for a moment. The chief gestured to those two who had now arrived at the foot of the porch and stood there waiting for his orders. Each of them was instructed to climb up the few steps on either side of the porch, one on the left of Ice-Stare and the other on the right of Remus. While the two were slowly approaching, the stare of the cold blue eyes returned.

There was a strange enchantment in it. Remus knew that any awe or compassion seemingly expressed in those eyes was as much a superficial refinement of calculating power-seeking, as the concretely perceptible warmth in them was simply the reflection of the bonfire on the square. Still, he was eager to push aside the earlier realisation of how much the chief's eyes had in common with the soulless eyes of his nightmare. The admiration offered by such a strong creature, such a powerful leader, almost overwhelmed his weak body and his vulnerable mind. He yearned to lean on this man. To beg for his touch.

"You control your mind autonomously. You depend on no other creature. Even in your absolute detest of my plans and the consequent reluctance to transform, you remain persistent. You control your aggression. You can bear the devastating pain. Do you think anyone among those in that mass - anyone among us who have lived our lives in this village - would ever succeed in that? No one would even remain conscious in such a situation - alone. When we are alone, this gift turns into a curse. But you have turned it into a challenge - and met the challenge. After that nothing will vanquish you. This ritual will merely make you stronger even physically, even in your man form. And free your mind of doubts, of illusions and of ideological commitments. You will see the truth. I have never seen greater mental strength. It must not go wasted. I will set it free to serve me and to earn the right to be served by everyone. By the whole magical world. The entire world."

Remus had turned his back against the railing and was forcing himself to concentrate on Ice-Stare's words in order to realise how wrong all those ideas were. He was dizzy. The pain was spreading to his hands and feet. But he could feel Hedwig moving behind his neck to perch on his left shoulder. Next moment he saw a woman standing in front of him, and not staring at him but just to the left of his face.

One of those two who had arrived so ceremoniously was reaching out her both hands towards him, holding a bowl. A strange invigorating fragrance brought back the enchanting smell of blood as well - and the feel of the claws caressing his chest, the image of a mischievous grin. But what was present outside of his mind, the odour of the ointment alone, cleared his mind enough so as to allow him to quickly glance to his right at Ice-Stare.

The chief had pulled the other woman to his embrace. Remus turned back and met the eyes of the one in front of him. She had parted her lips in an expression of astonishment, and he struggled to give her a small melancholy smile and even managed to wink at her. He could not tell if it was thanks to either of these expressions or the genuine anguish which his eyes must have revealed, but she nodded slowly and blinked hard.

Another glance to his right gave him an example of what to do with this woman, who had to be the first of those whom Ice-Stare had promised in his service. The chief and his woman were feeding each other from the bowl and rubbing the ointment on each other's skin under their hides. The woman in front of Remus had taken one step closer. Still leaning his back heavy against the railing he reached out his hand and touched hers.

She was taller than him, and her bare arms were muscular. In the light of the bonfire her bushy hair, as well as her eyes, was burning golden brown. The sensitiveness disclosed by the tears in her eyes was in sharp contrast with her apparent strength. Remus could not help seeing the resemblance to the very first woman in his life.

What would she give him, and what would she take away from him? He dropped his hand, but could not take his eyes off hers. The pain was very close to his skin now, and almost incessant and nearly on an even level. With Hedwig constantly taking the sting out of it, it did not actually handicap him any longer. He hardly noticed it. What was left was only enormous weariness. The Disillusioned owl's reassuring communication may have been enough to encourage him to accept the woman's offer, but Ice-Stare's voice, more cheerful than before confirmed his decision.

"You can see how even I depend on the pack. And this is not the first service I have received and given even during this evening. I live in regular interaction with this one and others. But you will not depend on them. Now you are to share the ointment with this woman just in order to have the physical strength for the fulfillment of the ritual of blood. Still, it will be no use allowing your deluded mind to have designs of taking advantage of that strength against my plans. The three of us are armed, and these ladies are not merely pleasure to the senses but true warriors of wand."

While still listening to Ice-Stare's words Remus did not let his eyes stray from hers. He felt tears running down his cheeks and could not help it, regardless of how that may have affected the chief's idea of his independence. Such demonstration of deep emotions could well have strengthened the impression that this was the one and only physical contact he was having with another creature.

The woman was now very close to him. Now the bowl was lifted to his lips. The ointment filled his mouth, first freezing it, then warming up and causing intoxicating satisfaction. Suddenly he knew he could find shelter for a moment against this woman's bosom, in her firm embrace like in his mother's. Her warmth surrounded him, the softness of the hides. Out of this womb he was born again through their shared pain.

Now she had fed a fire in him. Suddenly all his aggression was burning but he had the strength to control it, too. He grabbed the bowl and offered it for her to drink. While she was rubbing ointment on his arms - most tenderly, but reaching cautiously and almost timidly just up under the sleeves of his robe - he leaned his head on her shoulder and whispered, "I will rather let him kill me than agree to go through the ritual of blood."

She had refrained from revealing his Disillusioned companion to her chief. Remus would have rather let her, too, kill him, than give up the hope that she wanted him saved. He rubbed some ointment on her arms and felt her pour forth the very real physical power of her muscles into him. Catching her eyes he saw a mischievous glint in them, and he wanted to believe it was the reflection of his rising boldness. He guided her cautiously to move with him further away from the chief. Ice-Stare's attention was fixed on the other woman's breasts.

Handing the bowl to his partner, Remus reached to kiss her both cheeks, and softly and slowly he said, "Thank you. Goodbye. Take care."

He pulled out his wand and dashed away towards the stairs.

Glancing back while running, he saw her smile and pull out a long slender wand. She thrust it forward and twisted her wrist slightly and pronounced clearly albeit with fake urgency, "Stupefactus!"

A purple beam hit the wall next to his head. The sound of the plaster falling at his feet was covered by a shrill shout of alarm. He was thrilled by the unexpected vigour he sensed in his legs and in his whole body. No matter how desperate his bid for freedom was, he was already overwhelmed by a sense of liberation. An experience of strength like this brought back, from beyond his memory, the triumphant omnipotence of a four-year-old boy.

Having bounded down the stairs and seeing that one more stride would allow him to take cover behind the corner of the building, he could not resist stopping. He turned to face his enemies. At the same moment he realised how thoroughly he was enjoying the game - having finally got into the battle for which he had been itching during the past week, or for thirty-three years. And he had entered it in full strength. Or at least in such a physically confident state which he had not known since his identity and fate had been changed by the bite of a beast.

When he looked up to the porch he could not help grinning of exhilaration. The drumming on the square was beating the rhythm to his pulse. He could hardly feel Hedwig on his shoulder and he pushed aside the thought of a quick escape, which she communicated to him as the best option. He did not need her any longer. For a moment he wanted to believe that Ice-Stare was right. He did not depend on anyone. He was ready to fight those three, as he did not expect the woman to openly stand up against her chief, no matter how profoundly she had played his mother's role for a fatal moment.

But Ice-Stare was facing him alone. Both women had evidently been given an order to step aside. And up in the middle of the porch Ice-Stare was standing like Remus, holding his wand, which resembled a whip, but not aiming it at his opponent yet. Strange as it was, the chief did perhaps still not regard his guest as an enemy.

Ice-Stare had exposed his teeth again and this time in a weirdly self-assured smile. Was he so sure that he would easily subdue Remus, and do to him, then with him, exactly what he had planned? In an instant another interpretation passed Remus's mind. Ice-Stare was proud of him, proud of himself, having made the right choice. By Remus's unexpected demonstration of tenacity the chief's high opinion of his guest had been proved to be founded.

But the gaze of the penetrating blue eyes was not cold any longer. There was a tension on the face surrounded by grey hair and beard. The eyes were flashing with anger. Ice-Stare had to be in a very unstable and unsatisfactory state. He depended on the ritual at every full moon and he needed to proceed with it in schedule, especially if he was to channel the aggression of the pack to the biting and slaughtering which he had planned even before welcoming his unexpected guest.

Was this man brilliant or mad? Even in the exhilaration of the moment Remus knew how obviously wrong Ice-Stare's assessment of his guest was. The newly gained carefree boyish part of him wanted to laugh at the misjudgement. No matter what strength a solitary - and vegetarian - werewolf had been forced to develop, he had never felt strong enough in any respect. And recently he had realised that his humanity was secured in him only through interaction with other creatures. He depended on others. The significant difference was that Ice-Stare had to lean on the isolated and indoctrinated masses of his own breed, while Remus relied on solidarity among any creatures with adequate so-called humanity to willingly strive for equal rights and reciprocal care.

Yes, Remus certainly still had the control of his mind. New definitions of his ideals flashed through his consciousness at this crucial moment and reinforced what he was fighting for.

At the same time he was the mischievous boy and he laughed out loud. Ice-Stare was unable to see what he did not want to see. He had not seen what was in front of him and what had immediately been revealed to the woman's golden brown compassionate eyes.

The chief certainly was to be respected for tenacity, too. He had assessed Remus as superior in strength, and undoubtedly known that Remus was a convinced opponent of any violence, not to mention a reign of terror designed by a werewolf without any moral compass. Yet, the chief had in an instant redesigned his revolt in order to make use of the superior qualities of such a man against the man's own will.

Ice-Stare could probably trust in the force of the werewolf magic of blood to change that will. But he had not only ignored the role of the owl and the other birds, which must have been easily seen by his guards at some point. He had also misjudged the influence of Remus's perseverance and the personal sincere plea which he had communicated to the woman instantaneously in a hardly conscious manner.

She was now standing slightly further away from Remus than Ice-Stare and his partner, and she nodded slowly again. Ice-Stare would certainly not have been able to comprehend how the bond had sprung up between his apparently admirable but defenceless tool and one of his faithful warriors. Remus hardly understood himself how he could have seduced the woman to his side. Maybe the secret shared by the two of them since the beginning of their encounter had allowed them to reach the most intimate level in their interaction. Remus had hardly remembered that she also needed his touch to bear the torment. He had simply leant on her in all his vulnerability and - paradoxically - in his desperate need of independence. Just like a son relies on his mother. Still, this alone had both satisfied her needs and tied the two of them together with an astonishing bond of love. She had become the road to his survival.

All this flowed through his awareness into a warm feeling of security, while he was standing still, anticipatory of Ice-Stare's attack. In all his recklessness Remus was patient and calculated that he needed to wait not only for his enemy's first curse but for the second one, before reacting by anything but a simple dodge. He did not know the unique features of the wandwork developed by this pack, but his conspirator had already started teaching him. He had just learnt the local version of the stunning spell in its mixture of vulgarity and attempted sophistication.

Now she gestured towards her chief and demonstrated slowly a spiral movement. As soon as Remus moved his full attention back to Ice-Stare, he hardly had time to recognise the same movement in the violent slash of the whip-like wand and to register the tone and cadence of the furious incantation.

"Catenimpeda!"

Remus's new agility allowed him to dodge at the last moment. The chains slung by the spell clashed on the ground next to him.

The intoxicating sense of total control of his body tempted him to stray from his strategy. Instead of preparing himself to respond to Ice-Stare's next attempt, he could not resist casting a hex of less than serious mischief just for the fun of it. But perhaps this trick served to clear his mind for the pure peaceful defence, to which he had committed himself. If not all the righteous and vital aggression, at least the detest of the wolf in his enemy was channelled to one quick wave of his wand and an exclamation, which was almost stifled by his chuckles.

"Kouremenos!"

He had aimed at where he had expected Ice-Stare to move. The quality of the spell obviously took the chief by surprise, too. Ice-Stare stood perplexed for a moment. Then he looked down on his hides and saw them all shorn. By the time the chief touched his shaved chin and bald head, Remus was laughing, and a glance at the woman told him that she was avoiding eye-contact and struggling hard to suppress her giggles.

The fury in Ice-Stare's gaze at the latest made Remus aware of the risk of an unexpected type of assault. He was suddenly fully alert.

"Catenimpeda!"

"Rafinarisma!"

Without stopping to assess the nuances in Ice-Stare's wand movement or in his incantation, simply estimating the effect of the increased rage, Remus had immediately reflected the spell in his personal style of refinement. No heavy chains but blossoming vines entangled themselves around Ice-Stare from his neck to his ankles. He lost his balance, and swayed for a moment held up by his woman. Remus could sense vaguely the sweet fragrance of the blossoms and he knew that those two so close to the source of the enchanting scent would be tied to passivity.

He did not stay to mock his enemy or to force his conspirator to expose herself. He turned and took the stride behind the corner. Her husky voice shouting the stunning spell was followed by the rattle of some plaster.

He was now running down an alley after his leaping shadow. The bonfire behind was blazing high. The tempo of the drumming was quickening, but the only other sounds were her repeated shouts. Ice-Stare had been too proud to alert his guards. Everyone was busy in the circle of the ritual. The woman was easily catching up with Remus, but he rounded another corner - and allowed her to catch him.

In the darkness she immediately bumped into him. He spread his arms and hugged her tight. She hugged him back. They laughed out loud. They laughed at the chief but more than that they laughed their pleasure.

But with the pleasure of her touch he suddenly sensed the pain again. In a rush returned his despair. Not only would he lose himself to a wolf but she would transform, too. How deceptive the sense of control had been.

"Don't you fear," she said. She caressed his face with her strong hand. "We feel the pain because we've left the ointment behind. But that is all. I believe that your owl and what we shared will help you keep your mind. Now run. That way. Go up towards the mountains. The moon will rise soon and the pack will spread towards the valley."

"Will they bite and kill? Have they completed the ritual even without their chief?"

"They must have washed themselves in human blood."

"In human blood?"

"Part-human blood - their own. That turns them into violence after the rare restraint they've practised. But without the guidance of their chief their aggression won't be focused. Just random fights among themselves. An occasional killing, if they meet someone without animal form. And when sensing the owl on your shoulder, I realised that the birds we'd seen must have sent out a warning."

Remus only nodded in admiration, and she concluded, "So go, but tie me first in the same way as you tied Chief Ice-Stare."

"You'll be punished."

"On the contrary - if he fails, how could I succeed in subduing you? He will probably punish everyone, though. If your spell can be broken."

"This version has no counterspell. It'll lose its effect in a day."

She had taken a step back and was only holding his left hand in her right, together with her wand.

Despite the strength which she was still donating to him, he suddenly shivered. The night was cold, and he had been sweating in the heat of the duel, and now he was deprived of the warmth of her body. "Why don't you come with me?"

Was it a simple selfish wish? She did not give the impression of any need of a get-away, but in principle, of course, he wanted her to free herself from the culture of violence. To make that choice herself. She did not even seem to be part of it wholeheartedly.

"You don't want to belong to this place, do you?"

"I do belong to it. I have been through the most powerful rituals several times since I was six."

"So how were you able to conspire with me?"

"We don't share any values with Chief Ice-Stare. There are no values. We can easily stray on the basis of another ritual. Tonight it was the magic in your eyes, then in your touch. I've heard a lot of you, since I'm close to the chief. But you mustn't think I can evaluate your ideals and commit myself to them, either."

"So you know I fight for equality. You are as capable of joining the community of all creatures as anyone else."

"No. I have lost my immortal soul a long time ago."

"I can't believe that. I've felt it touch my soul tonight."

She squeezed his hand and let it go. "We'll transform in a moment. You must go before that. Hex me now!"

The distant glow of the fire hardly offered enough light for him to see a change in her features and in her tall and stately figure. But he sensed she had started to tremble, too.

"You need me to cast the chaining spell first, don't you?" Still facing him, she backed towards the alley, along which they had come running. She stopped close to the wall and leant against it, ready to fall when bound by the spell.

He had to trust that they would find her and take care of her in the morning. He had to hex her now as long as he was able to use his wand.

She gave him no choice either. Her wand was pointing at him. "Are you ready?"

The good intention required by the magic of rafinarisma had been hardly reached earlier in the duel, and only as a wish that Ice-Stare would not commit more crimes to have them weigh on him. But now Remus felt his mind fill with all the blessings he could hope for his loved ones.

"Catenimpeda!"

"Rafinarisma!"

Blossoming vines appeared around her, and he could just hope they did good to her. The transactional magic was complicated to analyse. The quality of the opponent's spell affected the outcome as well, and so did the circumstances in which the spells interacted. These had to be beneficial in this case. But Remus had no chance to dwell on that. He did not dare approach her. He lit his wand to check the expression on her face from the distance. The dulling fragrance affected her instantaneously, and he hoped the blissful smile meant that the intoxication would ease her pain of transformation. The vines tightened slowly around her as she slid softly down against the wall. They embraced her protectively, and he had to be reconciled with that. And run away.

His wand was snatched out of his hand. He was startled but realised at once that it was his own fault. How could he have thought of replacing Hedwig with anyone?

She pecked him, and he felt his wand against his cheek, too. She had returned to his shoulder, and he felt guilty of not knowing if she had been gone for a long time or just now for the purpose of taking the wand. Again he sensed her presence clearly, and he could hardly communicate his gratitude to her for what he had succeeded in, before a higher wave of pain shook his body and he had to rely on her further help.

Instead of merely soothing him, she communicated urgency. She tugged at the sleeve of his robes, and he understood she was advising him to get undressed now. He took off his shoes and all his clothes right there in the dark in front of the woman, wondering if she had closed her eyes, and he tied everything to a bundle for Hedwig to carry in her claws. What she carried adopted - just as she did - the colour and texture of the background.

She set out immediately, and he had to follow running, and listening to her soft hooting so as to keep together with her.

Now even without physical contact with her he did not feel weak and desperate. He first fixed his attention on the biting wind on his bare skin, then on the healthy heat generated by his movements. His movements had the vigour and the agility which the woman had donated to him. And he was no longer reluctant to transform. He had left the ritual and the pack behind. The alley turned into a path leading up towards the woods and ridges. He was looking forward to feeling the final convulsions, to stopping just for a moment and to continuing his way as a free wolf, free to roam the wilderness with his friend. And his heart was warmed by the thought of a female wolf resting on a bed of flowers.