Remus Lupin and the Revolt of the Creatures

Chapter Ten: The Shelter of Companions

The moments of transforming back were a lot more painful. The wolf did not want to lose himself now. He was rolling on the stony ground in agony, until the convulsions forced him completely rigid. His shiny fur thinned off; soon his curved claws and strong teeth were gone. He was lying bare and defenceless, mourning the loss, while his insides changed with the characteristic quickness of the outcome of the moon's disappearance behind the horizon. This process was always more intense than the gradual transformation from man into wolf, but this time he did not vomit.

He did not open his eyes. He did not even want to move to feel too clearly that he had no supple limbs of the wolf left. But without mercy the cold ground forced him to sense the shape and the dimensions of his body. Once again like a new-born child, but having lost a previous life, he had to learn to know who he was.

One half of his face - which he had shaved carefully on the previous morning - was resting on cold stone, but the other half was pressed against feathers. The bird's chest was wet of his tears.

Only when she was suddenly gone, did he appreciate Hedwig's company. He actually forced himself to sit up and looked around to see if she was flying away. As a wolf he had smelled and heard her presence so clearly that he had forgotten she was still Disillusioned, and he remembered it only when the bundle of his clothes and shoes as well as his wand appeared in mid-air and fell on the ground in front of him. He reached for the wand immediately, so he was ready to lift the charm as soon as he felt her weight on his shoulder.

While now admiring the pure white of her feathers, which she had cleaned of the ash during the night, and seeking reassurance in her tender eyes, he was further reminded of his dependence on the one dominating sense of the humans. He was painfully aware of how grateful he should have been for even the imperfect and temporary gifts of other keen senses he had possessed. But this morning he felt more clearly than ever the depression, in which the transformations easily left him. He had not tasted any chocolate since what Mrs Figg had given to him, so he could not possibly be addicted to it, but the sudden craving for it rather brought to his mind the fact that there was nothing else to eat either.

Unlike before the full moon, he did not feel like torturing himself with hunger and cold. He forced himself out of his passivity just to get dressed in his robes, which were not nearly warm enough. After that he remained sitting where he was, huddled with his arms around his knees.

"Hedwig," he said, closing his eyes again.

She had patiently returned to his shoulder. He was still clinging to the experiences of the night, and by blocking out his vision he tried his best to relive all the sense perceptions. And he sought consolation in his human ability to produce a verbal representation of it all for himself as well as for his companion to hear.

"Hedwig, my mind and body were one. I did not lose my mind. I was in control of the wolf in all his grace and power. I smelled the night air. I heard the shrubs bend under my paws. I felt the thorns sting and the berries crush. I smelled the sweet nourishment and I tasted it in my mouth. I sniffed in the wind, longing for the odour of the dog. I listened to discern the sound of the galloping hooves. I stopped in anticipation of the rat bumping into my hind legs."

He had lifted his face, and as the wind cooled his tears, he shivered painfully. But Hedwig pressed against his neck and cheek and hooted in a cautiously cheerful tone, suggesting a happier memory.

"Yes, you pulled me out from the desperate search for the past. Your wings moved the air and brought new enticing fragrances to me. I heard the movements and the breathing of the tiniest creatures. I smelled their presence. I was one with you and with them. My pulse and my muscles shared the rhythm of the night, as my senses were filled with the life around me - and with the death. I winced at the brief whining of the mouse you squeezed in your claws. The craving and the repulsion caused by the odour of his blood was the same that I always feel when suspecting the sad necessity of righteous violence. I felt the boost of energy in you and heard his offspring escaping in the grass. My snout was plunged into the ice-cold stream, the water caressed my bowels, and when I drew the next breath, I knew no more of any separate sense. They were all one, and the glimmer of the moonlight was part of the all-encompassing pattern of the blessing. I followed you in it and you followed me in the never-ending night with no worries about time. Time was the repeated rhythm in everything we heard and felt on our skins and inside of our bodies, in everything we smelled and tasted and saw."

Now the words were all he had. The bitter ability to capture the eternal infinite pleasure in a limited number of phrases had brought a relative reconciliation. He had listened to his own voice expressing the desperate reassurance that he was still in possession of the experience. But he hushed by allowing his yearning to reveal itself in a sob. There was no need to demonstrate strength to his loyal friend.

At the same moment he realised that he was really acting like a child. He knew he had not lost anything that he would not be able to gain at another full moon. All he needed was to survive in his man form, and he would find himself in the wolf again - find himself as a part of the creation. Then again, that was not all. His dependence on other creatures had become a more complicated issue than ever.

Would the werewolf lady survive? What had happened, and what would happen? Time in its significance to the humans had returned, although he had tried to slow down the transition. He knew that for another twenty-four hours he would be unable to apparate anywhere. He had lost his broom. And the woman's gift was gone. Even without the childish submission to depression, in the aftermath of the transformation he was hardly strong enough physically to walk a short distance to seek shelter.

He felt too weary to word these emotions and thoughts to Hedwig, but she seemed to know them all the same. By tugging him on the sleeve she urged him to get up and guided him to a southern slope where he would be able to rest. She would fly to the village and towards the valley to gather news.

Lying among the long withered grass, he allowed the dullness of his senses to help sleep overcome him.

"There you are."

He was woken up by a hard poke on his side. Utterly confused about where he could possibly be, as he had already recognised a smell of cheap tobacco and liquor, he opened his heavy lids and was startled by the unshaven face bent close to his. And he felt such a warm sensation that he was about to gather his strength to sit up, but he contented himself with turning on his side and lifting his head, supporting it on his hand.

Mundungus Fletcher had thrown himself on the ground next to him in the same position. Remus could not help grinning blissfully, as his Order fellow patted him on the shoulder in an awkward manner.

"You all right, Remus?" There was concern in the question and in Mundungus's bloodshot eyes again, although he had returned Remus's grin. "I guessed 'Arry's owl'd take me to you. Mock 'ad said as 'ow she'd gave the message to all them little birdies. But I didn't know what 'ad 'appened to you."

"I'm all right. I had a good night." He heard his own voice as a hoarse whisper, but he smiled again purposely to hint at a pleasant secret.

Mundungus returned a more uncertain smile and hesitated before asking, "They didn't get you to join them, did they?"

Remus merely shook his head and he felt his smile widen now spontaneously. But he had to let his head down on the grass again, and closing his eyes, he hoped that Mundungus would take the first turn to offer explanations. He could not bother to try to guess what else Mundungus had seen and who else had come from London. He simply wondered how long he had slept, since he had not perceived the position of the sun while concentrating all his attention on the face so close to his own.

He felt strangely secure and relaxed with Mundungus next to him. Despite his urge to hear the news, he was about to fall into a slumber immediately. But as soon as his body was in complete rest, a shudder ran through it and he could not stop shivering. At the next moment he felt something heavy spread over him. He opened his eyes to look thankfully at Mundungus, who was even doing his best to wrap the filthy overcoat around him to protect him against the cold of the ground. One reason for the exaggerated bustle was revealed soon, though.

"Maybe you need some of this, too." Mundungus had fumbled in the numerous pockets of the coat, until he had found a flat bottle. He shook it appraisingly.

Remus hurried to relieve him of his worries. "Thank you. No, that would make me more ill. I could do with something to eat, though."

Mundungus glanced at him and unscrewed the top, but he obviously needed to see Remus smile, before he decided to empty the bottle. Lying down again, he sighed apologetically. "Blimey, what a day!"

"Tell me," Remus said, huddling himself up under the coat and now determinately keeping his eyes open.

"You need to eat. My mates'll 'ave to take care of that."

"Your mates? Tell me."

After searching for a more comfortable position, Mundungus forced himself to look into Remus's eyes when finally muttering, "Owe you an'pology. Mock went round all my regular pubs, but... I'd met this lady, see. 'Er fella sold me the carpets, you know, but they caught 'im anyway, and she was a bit lonely. So it took some time for Mock to find me. 'Fraid it was almost dawn. I sent an owl to 'eadquarters. Told 'em I'd apparate straight to the Cotswolds. I was more 'n a bit tired after comforting this lady an' all, but she'd 'ad enough of the booze that I could make it in one piece to the theatre. The Old Place in the Ancient Village of Long Compton - Mock filled me in. And 'ere they knew sumfink about it, but not all. Don't worry, I didn't tell them nuffink 'bout You Know 'Oo an' all that. They'd got the warnin' all over, an' they 'adn't 'eard of no-one bein' bitten yet. But there was some people wanted to come lookin' for you. There wasn't no risk for us, 'cos the sun was up when I got the carpet ready."

Mundungus paused every now and then, but every time Remus only nodded to make him continue.

"When we got near the werewolf place, we saw all them naked people walking up to the village. Didn't look like no party. An' the village was all quiet. One of us went down for a moment to spy and 'eard that a guest 'ad excaped after tying the chief with some magic of flowers. I thought that sounded like you. So we flew out but we couldn't 'ave found you without 'Edwig. She come to us an' just showed us the direction. Now she's flyin' round the whole of the Cotswolds, checkin' if some'n's been bit. The others should be 'ere soon, they're just comin' a bit slower, 'cos the carpet..."

Another pause enticed Remus to point out, "If you have a flying carpet, we can get home now."

But Mundungus shook his head. "Sorry, screwed up again. It was a fake. Turned back into an or'nary blanket soon after the village. I di'nt pay much more'n the price of blankets for 'em, anyway. Got your friends on it almost this far at least."

"My friends?"

***

The moon was waving and winking at him between the wild clouds. He was wrapped in the famous flying blanket, and Mundungus in the tattered overcoat, and with the grimy black pipe in his mouth, was moving among the company, making an inventory of drinks. They had all gathered in a tight circle around a campfire, and Dave the half-giant was like a rock, radiating the warmth of the day, but remarkably more comfortable for Remus to lean against.

Across the fire he saw some more fauns entering the circle of golden light from out of the shadows. One leaped over Peck's shoulder to sit on his lap and was introduced to Tumble. A couple of others gathered very close to Mr Grubber so as to watch him giving the final touches to a bow cut of yew. Only for a moment did the old half-goblin seem irritated by the distraction. He started to lecture and to demonstrate the superior qualities of his self-made new weapon, and in a moment Remus heard him laugh out loud. Grap and Urgy stood up and their dragon leather boots shone in the flicker of the flames. The steady stronghold that Dave had formed now suddenly trembled, as he fitted an arrow on an enormous bow, too.

"'Igh time to start makin' some dinner, don't you think?" The words were whispered by Mundungus, who had returned to Remus and now offered him a hand to help him stand up.

At that moment Robin's beaming face got everyone's attention, as he sang a strange spirited melody before giving the instructions. "We'll proceed in a wide semicircle to drive them towards that clearing under the ridge. Let's spread out now."

Remus found himself following the company through the woods. He still felt extremely weak, but it was probably mainly due to the fact that he had hardly eaten anything at all for forty-eight hours. It was weirdly both fascinating and disturbing to realise that what the creatures were up to was related to exactly that fact.

"What are they - we - hunting?"

He had meant to address Mundungus, who was holding his arm.

But Robin had approached them with long strides, as he had been checking that they all proceeded in a line. He put his strong hand on Remus's shoulder and adjusted his steps to theirs. "The quirrells are out in search for prey in the moonlight."

"The quirrells are no dark creatures." Remus had meant his voice to sound simply thoughtful and questioning, and he himself felt irritated by the trace of defiance in it.

But Robin did not get annoyed. "Who says we have anything against them. Some of them will just make a good dinner to feed us tonight. They aren't too easy to hunt either, and their natural animal enemies aren't numerous enough. When the quirrell population grows too big, it disturbs the balance."

"You're Defence professor. You must know. Them quirrells get easily possessed by some'un with evil intentions."

Robin looked over Remus's head at Mundungus when replying, "I've heard about such a belief, too. That's not the reason why we hunt them. But maybe we actually catch the weakest individuals - those which would be possessed and cause harm."

Mundungus sounded exceptionally interested. He - among these friends - was perhaps the least capable of adopting the role of a hunter, but gossiping related to the topic suited him well. "You know the wizard what was possessed by You Know 'Oo a while back. 'E tried to teach Defence, too. 'Is name was Quirrell. Maybe 'is family took or got that name 'cos they was weak like that."

Remus felt he had to participate in the conversation, too. Talking did not consume his energy. On the contrary, it took his attention away from the physical effort, until walking through the woods in the night air actually made him feel healthier, although he was still physically the opposite to the strong creature who he had been the night before. "I don't know about Professor Quirrell's family history. But the quirrells you hunt are simple magical animals. Anyway, all my best friends seem to be carnivores, and I accept them like that."

"You eat meat yourself, don't you, Remus? Never 'eard you say no to a steak at 'eadquarters."

"No, I can hardly afford to say no to anything I'm offered. Besides, if Molly has fried a steak, it's no longer in my power to save the poor creature. You know I'm a man of strict principles. But I don't claim to be strong enough to follow them all in practice. What I manage to do is to follow a principle when that is the easier choice - closer to passivity, like refraining from attacking, sometimes from defending myself, too. And I'm too much tempted to act against a principle by refraining from turning down a free meal. Yet, I can't imagine myself killing in order to eat."

While saying the last words he realised they were not true. What a hypocrite he was. Was he simply too fond of certain phrases to replace them with the wording of his true desires? But even the wolf had felt the repulsion in addition to the craving, and had not hunted or even wished to share the prey with his companion the owl. Was the wolf his better self, in the end? Then again the wolf could live the one night which there was for him each time even without nourishing himself.

He was suddenly aware of a curious gaze, and he wondered if Robin was trying to read his emotions in his facial expressions or to just assess the signs of starvation in his features.

"That's the noblest reason for killing," Robin said softly, "Especially when you are in desperate need."

"You must be right. I'd better start imagining - or doing it without imagining." Remus felt breathless and realised that they were climbing a long, gentle slope.

"I can't imagine you doing anything without analysing it."

"Maybe this talk has been enough and now I can act, for once, on the basis of my primal senses. At least I'm starved enough at the moment."

"If you want to make your contribution, you can use a weak stunning spell. Those who have knives will finish off the stunned ones. We're arriving at the edge of the clearing where it's easiest to catch these creatures. You'll see their white tails clearly in the moonlight. There's enough challenge in aiming at the head, though."

Remus was startled by the sight in front of him. The clouds had scattered, and the space between the woods and a high cliff was bathed in white light. The sharp contrasts between the patches illuminated by the moonlight and those in shade reminded him of the black and white image into which the scene of his traumatic experience of violence had turned thirty-three years earlier.

But this image was in constant motion. The gusty wind was shaking the shrubs and the stunted trees, and among them the whitest patches were leaping restlessly, even desperately from side to side. The quirrells were obviously terrified by the presence of a crowd of big creatures and they must have just noticed that the cliff blocked their way.

Remus saw one quirrell stay still - balancing on a thin branch - for long enough for him to discern more than the white furry tail. The creature was as small as a starved stray cat. He saw the soft paws, which could hardly have got a hold of a tree trunk, not possibly of a bare stone wall. He saw the beady eyes and the trembling slim snout, which had sucked or rather magically summoned the nectar of the humble flowers of these ridges - and had now served its purpose in the chain of life.

He pulled out his wand, and as the first arrows left the bows, he whispered gently, "Stupefy!"

The quirrell fell down softly and stayed motionless on the ground. But for quite a while the clearing remained teeming with purposeful slaughtering, and he alone stood still, listening to the shrill alarmed cries of the prey and smelling their blood.

***

By the time he had, supported by Mundungus, managed to walk back to the campsite, there was an enticing fragrance of a square meal emanating from cooking pots on the fire. Dave welcomed him back to the shelter of his bulky figure and handed him a large soup plate. The meat had been spiced with herbs and cooked with sweet roots. Satisfying his hunger with this food gave him the astonishing sensation that he had never eaten anything real before.

The moon waved him goodbye, and gentle darkness surrounded the red glow on the circle of faces. The contented murmur got interspersed by more and more frequent bursts of laughter as well as by less and less fumbling attempts at melodies. Just when Peck's shawm had invited Tumble to jump up to start a dance, the tune was disrupted to remain a fanfare announcing the arrival of the messengers. The message itself was the most triumphant music.

A flock of amazanthines sprinkled the clearing with the lustre of jewels in unattainable flashes, as if too precious to be captured into anyone's possession. But their song was a continuous hymn, built up in a canon. And it still echoed in the fragrant air, after the birds had hushed and risen high up to remain above the company, like circling stars with a warm twinkle.

The solemn atmosphere changed, when each faun launched into translating the message to the other creatures. The fragments of excited conversations caused a mixture of proud amusement and embarrassment in Remus. Hedwig had apparently described the events in the village to the little birds. He felt like communicating a gentle reproach to her, when she now flew straight to him and perched on his knees. She looked so happy, however, to find him, for once, with no pain, happy and well-nourished, that he did not muster any complaint, after all. But he yearned for detailed news concerning possible casualties. He looked around expectantly and was relieved to see one of the fauns approach him.

The faun squatted himself in front of Remus and bent his head low, covering his horns with his right hand and reaching out his left open palm slantwise down and towards him. The silent homage got everyone's attention, and all the fauns joined in it, albeit remaining at their places in the circle - while the other creatures exploded into a remarkably less restrained applause.

Remus did not know what else to do but close his eyes for a moment and bend his head, too. "Please tell me about the damage the werewolves caused," he asked as calmly as he could.

"This is the message originally worded by Hedwig. The massacre would have been a lot worse, had you not been involved at all."

"So there are casualties, after all?"

"Only two muggle families. They were not merely bitten but killed."

"Just random killing..."

Remus felt that his own quiet words had escaped automatically as a phrase to express indifference and belittling. But at the next moment his mind was filled with the same hopeless guilt as during the trial in Wizengamot.

Random fights, an occasional killing, the woman had said. With the guidance of their chief the werewolves would not have wasted their aggression on something like that. They would have bitten young wizards to gain more warriors for their army. No matter how terrifying the long-term prospects would have been, Remus could not help assessing the immediate damage caused by such controlled violence as a lot less grave than this: depriving two families of their lives. And that made him aware of the fact that he had come to truly consider whether the bite could be a gift and not exclusively a curse.

He had covered his face with his both hands and he wished he could have closed his ears, too, from the praise repeated in the cheerful chatter and from the re-established attempts at dance music and community singing.

"They would have done both biting and killing in a bigger scale, had you not stopped the chief."

Hedwig now pressed against his face, communicating the same nonverbally, so he knew that the faun was really translating her personal interpretation of the events. And he could not help suspecting it was only distortion in the favour of his peace of mind.

He had to force himself back from the edge of useless despair. The only consolation was the notion of eternal fallibility. And it was indisputably impossible to attain any knowledge concerning what would have happened, if he had chosen differently. He suddenly felt sympathy with Dumbledore and wished he were able to discuss this issue as well as their previous, shared mistake with him.

But the challenge now was to simply accept the celebration of this situation, which was not the worst they all could have imagined. They all needed the blessing of this moment, and he probably needed it more badly than anyone else.

He met the eyes of the faun, who was still squatting in front of him. "I mourn the useless deaths. But I'm grateful to all of you for taking part in preventing even more tragedies. Let us celebrate the unity among the creatures." Bowing to the faun, he managed to smile.

The mysterious eyes sparkled in a wild fire, as the faun jumped on his feet, turned around swiftly and cried out in a shrill lament, which overpowered all other music. Remus suspected that the beginning of the song which emerged at the moment was a translation of his own words, but the hopeful conclusion grew into an endless carefree triumph in numerous variations, as others joined in it and continued it. To these creatures even a tragedy was a reason for persistent zest for life, and he felt like surrendering to it.

He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself and leaned on Dave again. Caressing Hedwig's feathers, he kept observing the company, allowing it all to soothe his mind or at least to take the sting out of his anguish. He actually took pleasure in - instead of a conversation with someone like Dumbledore - venturing alone to approach the memory of his fear on the day before the full moon, now that it had been replaced by something significantly more complicated than unambiguous relief.

It was astonishing that he could reach this much of peace of mind so soon after he had narrowly escaped damning himself for eternity. The fear which had made him take the risk had been nothing compared to what he had felt only hours later, when having realised the mistake he had made. He had foolishly sought companionship among his kind, ignoring everything outside his personal needs. Fortunately he had been wrong to such an extent that those creatures of other kinds whom he had lost faith in, doubting their ability to understand his exceptional ordeal, had actually been able and eager to save him. In the end, they had helped him escape, and they now offered him new hope.

A long time ago one of his friends, too, had perhaps simply chosen foolishly where to seek protection - and had not managed to escape. Had Peter never been understood and helped in his fear? The most painful thought now fought for its way into Remus's vulnerable mind. In the shelter of this community he actually dared allow it to enter.

Had he refused to see the unyielding fear in his best friend and thus denied the help which could have saved him? He had always preferred seeing the best in Peter, but such good intentions had perhaps not led to the support which should have been given. What Peter had found, when probably overwhelmed by fear, had destroyed his life - their lives.

Once again Hedwig's feathers were wet and salty against Remus's lips. But the laughter and music all around persistently protected him against despair. He was startled by a vague question he had never posed before. Would it still be possible to help Peter escape?

***

Having apparated home in the morning, Remus gave up trying to avoid Thisby's embrace. But he refused to give her any account of the events. He might have been afraid that Peck and Tumble's exaggerated version would feed further the suffocating admiration which she directed towards him, but the faun and the half-faun were to return more slowly with the help of their own magic, as well as of the floo powder. So he resorted to sharing a quiet moment with Gumby and allowed him to explain it all to Thisby. He soon withdrew to the relative seclusion of the loft. Hedwig had promised to fly to collect a note for Harry, before returning to Hogwarts.

He forced himself to write nothing but a couple of simple lines.

***

Harry,

Please let me know how you are doing. I need to know. And I hope I can do something to help you, if there's anything you need. The times are not easy, so I don't think there's anybody in no need of other creatures. Tell me how your classes with Snape and the other teachers have been. Hedwig has done a great service to me, and not only to me.

Take good care of yourself.

Remus

***

He knew he had to refrain from trying to persuade Harry into intimate interaction by threatening him with the fear which he had felt himself and which he now sought to replace with a more optimistic view. He had been close enough to losing himself to now realise that Harry would have lost something, too. Still, he could not imagine that Harry would have been ready to share his autobiography in the form it was now taking, after the invasion into his consciousness of the most beautiful and painful memories of Peter.

***

Peter was the first boy I talked to on the Hogwarts express. He was the first child of my age I talked to since I was five. I remember how awkward I first felt, and how sure I was he felt the same. It was an ambiguous feeling. While it was wonderful to have something like that in common, the fact that we were both shy made it almost impossible for us to start making friends.

I first noticed him on the platform, but he was not the first one I paid attention to. When my father had grabbed me from my mother to hug me for the third time, I noticed that nobody else was taking such tender farewells of their parents. I returned the last kisses half-heartedly, while stealing glances at the crowd of children, concentrating my attention to the smallest boys and trying to guess who could be first-years. Even those excitedly grinning and bouncing creatures seemed to have already formed small groups of friends. A lot of them may not have really known anyone yet, but they were poking at each other, making the first contacts.

I saw a tall boy with long black hair turn abruptly and walk or rather rush away from his parents. As he threw the hair from his face with a quick movement of his head, I was startled by the grace of his features and by the power of the emotion in his infuriated gaze. At that moment he almost bumped into another black-haired boy. This other boy's hair was a mess standing up to all directions, and he grabbed a golden snitch, which had almost escaped from him, flashing a wide grin to the first one. And the long-haired boy's face suddenly lost all its sullenness; it lit up and shone in my eyes as a painfully beautiful image of the invincible power of youth.

I know all that sounds weird, but I had spent a half of my short life in solitude and among artists, living through books and theatre, dreaming of heroes, of finding a companion and of becoming a hero myself on his side. And suddenly there was this boy, an incarnation from the tales and dreams. I could not think of approaching him, but from that moment I yearned to be his best friend.

Yet, Peter was the one I dared approach. I wouldn't have noticed him on the platform, had his father not raised his voice. A short man with a neat moustache suddenly started yelling at his wife. She turned her head aside and happened to face me, so I could see her eyes fill with tears. Her mouth remained strangely expressionless, and she simply walked away. The man continued to yell and soon followed her. That was when a saw the boy who had been standing beside the couple. He was not taller than me, and he looked down, so his face made no impression on me. Still, after boarding the train I recognised him in the only compartment without a company of two or more, because he was sitting there stooped in the same way.

I'm afraid that after the train trip I didn't really concentrate on Peter, although he clung to me. My dream seemed close to coming true when I was the second boy to be sorted as Gryffindor, Sirius Black having been the first one. I walked straight to him and reached out my hand, sitting down at the house table beside him. Shaking my hand briefly, he appraised me with a fleeting look at my face, but he continued to fix his attention to the sorting, while some older Gryffindors still cheered and greeted me by patting my back. When soon Peter - still trembling albeit relieved - and immediately after James Potter - tossing his snitch to Sirius - joined us as the only other Gryffindor first-year boys, I was determined to keep us all together. I knew I would have to overcome my shyness and to struggle against getting isolated with Peter alone. That is why I must have been the fundamental force for the formation of the Marauders.

The tradition at Hogwarts had already separated us from those not considered worthy of the heirloom of Godric Gryffindor, as well as offered us a shared abode secluded from other Gryffindors, too. But I hurried to suggest that we confirm a further, specific alliance, before Sirius and James got any chance to drift away from Peter and me. Maybe that's why the Marauders never had a formal leader. Nominating one of us as the king of the Marauders would have suited the parallels which at least I and probably even the others had in mind, but it was not obvious enough who among us was the most dominating one. Since the original suggestion was mine and it was not the last good one I made, neither Sirius nor James could easily overrule me. They never truly did, although it might have looked different in the eyes of an outsider.

Yet, Sirius's suggestion for what we could call our company did beat mine. I suggested "King Arthur's Knights", but there was already too much of a revolutionary in Sirius to allow him to serve even an imaginary ruler. In the same statement in which he demanded us to call ourselves marauders, he declared that there would be no ruler superior to the others among us either.

Yes, those were serious negotiations. In reality we were only little boys, scared of our teachers, doubting if we had what it would take to learn what was demanded from us. We even feared the older students. Some of us missed our parents, too - namely James and I. But at least to me the formation of the Marauders not only offered an escape, but actually changed the reality by adding a new dimension to my identity.

***

Those memories were all that Remus had an urgent need to elaborate on verbally. He had no desire to talk to Dumblerore anymore, but trusted that Mundungus would report to the Order. As early as at lunch he explicitly informed all the members of the household that everything was back to normal. Thus he returned immediately to the quiet life at the Wotton estate, as if nothing remarkable had happened. He and Gumby had already worked on establishing the routines of labour to keep everyone busy, and those offered a clear script to follow. His own duties included educating Thisby in connection with other tasks.

When in the evening of the same day Thisby joined Remus to help him finish the kitchen chores, and to practise writing by preparing a list of what would need to be done on the following day, he noticed that her appearance looked rather filthy for the kitchen. He had checked that Gumby had found a few robes of his mother's for her, but she seemed to prefer wearing the same green robe day after day, although it would have needed washing. She was probably used to owning only one outfit. Besides, he felt sad to see that a sleeve of the once beautiful robe was torn.

"Did you tear the sleeve of your robe?"

"Yes, so what? It must have got stuck on a branch in the woods the other night," she said carelessly lifting her arm to glance at the rip.

Although Remus did not say anything, she noticed that he expected something from her.

"So what?" she repeated. "Yes, it's a pity, but this robe is still far better than anything I've had before since I can't remember when."

"You now have a couple of other robes, too, so you could also wash it every now and then. And it won't stay in a good shape for a long time, unless you do something about rips like that."

Thisby's confused stare made Remus chuckle.

"Of course! Who would have taught you to patch your clothes?"

She echoed his amusement when confessing, "It was an achievement from my mum to realise that I needed clothes in the first place, and to get me some. I got used to wearing rags, when I was a little girl. So how can I possibly fix them, if they become so worn-out that the shreds can hardly cover me decently, not to mention keeping me warm? I have some magic ability to make them look better for a moment, but the effect doesn't last."

"My magic has the same shortcomings. You need to do it in reality, with a needle and thread, and it's easier when you don't put off doing it for too long. May I show you?"

Thisby examined his appearance curiously, perhaps noticing for the first time how neat he looked even in the old patched robes which he wore at home. Then she shook her head, as if remembering there was something else in him to admire. "But you've had so much to take care of. Serious trouble, all that..."

"This is what's important now. And I'm just going to help you start taking care of it yourself."

He summoned his small sewing box from the loft, and carefully, without touching her arm, he started fixing the rip on her sleeve.

"I actually learnt this from my father... You should try and continue yourself, but you can't do it now until you change to wear something else."

"Yes, I can. I can move the needle like I move myself. Leave it."

She simply stared at the needle, and it had done a stitch so quickly that Remus had not managed to perceive the movement. Still, after every tiny step she needed to stop the needle and to concentrate hard. And she had to stop and laugh at the same moment when Remus realised he had smiled at her engagement in the task.

"This is fun. I think I'll be good at this, but I must practise." Then she suddenly got serious. "Do you know something? This is the second subject I'm learning. So I'm a real student now, like they say Dame Philomela was. And you."

***

Patching everyone's clothes soon became one of Thisby's favourite chores in the household, and she developed her skills up to virtuosity. Still, it only satisfied her need to appear useful or even irreplaceable in the eyes of the others. Whenever there was not too much practical work to do, she would read the textbook on Healing. She had quickly become fluent at reading veela, but in order to understand the meaning of the ancient script on natural remedies she needed long discussions on the topic with Remus. To explain his understanding on the healing magic of the veela, he naturally referred to the basic principles of healing as defined by witches and wizards.

One evening during the week after the full moon, as she approached him, carrying the book, she had a new request. "Please help me learn to read English now, so I can study your type of healing, too."

"I trust you'll learn to read this language quickly. But there are a lot of other books for you to read in English. You can start with something easier..."

"No, please, this is what I want to read." The plea in her eyes was sincere and trustful.

When the two of them had got to know each other as persons, Remus had been relieved of the threat of seduction, so that he was now able to simply rejoice in the wondrous play of green and blue shades in her gaze. And she had learnt to trust that he would understand and tend all her needs.

"All right, but I think you could start with a more basic textbook on Healing. I'll look for a suitable one for you. We must have a lot of those because both my mother and... But are you sure that Healing is what you yourself are really interested in?"

In the middle of his talk he had been startled by the realisation that he was making a decision, even when supporting her ideas. Could he trust that granting her wishes would be the best for her? He hoped she would be able to answer his question, so the responsibility would not be his alone.

And she reassured him by nodding sagely. "I think I know what you mean. I want to study it because Dame Philomela and you did, and because it is such an important part of the veela culture. Is it not me myself, then? I am what I learn from you - from all of you, I mean. Perhaps I'll become something else, but this is how I start."

"You must be right."

He gazed at the book, which had belonged to his mother and maybe to her mother as well. He lifted his head and saw the room around him, as if he had earlier not really thought about where he was. He spoke slowly. "I used to think that I was doing something unique - when opposing the Ministry, I mean. And now I see that it's just what I learned as a child."

***

At home in the Cotswolds I had learnt to be completely honest.

I don't think I was actually nervous about the prospect of the first transformation away from home. Both the headmaster and the healer from Hogwarts had visited the Wotton manor, and we had discussed all the details of my needs and of the required safety measures. It was, of course, somehow distressing that during the summer I had been forced to think and to talk about the monthly ordeal a lot more than I had ever voluntarily done. Besides, in those years the experience was perhaps at its most horrendous. I had enough strength to remain conscious until the outer physical change, and the wolf had grown strong, too, and was totally unrestrained. Every month I suffered more both from the pain of the transformation itself and from the wounds the wolf inflicted on himself in the absence of any other victim. Still, I told myself I was too brave to care who closed me up in a secure place or who tended my wounds.

But although I had never wanted to talk about the meaning of the waxing moon even to my father or to Gumby, I felt miserably dishonest knowing that my new companions were not aware of it. Every inquiry concerning my health made me feel more ill, the more successfully I evaded it. My friends or even the first-year Gryffindor girls could obviously not help noticing that I was getting to look more and more wretched during the week before the full moon.

And I had to admit I was plain scared, when Madam Pomfrey took me to the Whomping Willow and through the secret tunnel, and when I saw the uninhabited house. Not only scared of myself. How was I able to know there were no other monsters around? I knew there were others. Nobody had talked to me about them, but that was just because I was supposed to not become completely like them. And the wolf in me wanted me to get to them. In our own cellar I had been safe.

Now I was scared, and it made the pain and the aggressiveness so much worse that Madam Pomfrey was startled. Perhaps she suspected that she had miscalculated the timing of the ordeal. In any case she left me quickly, and I suffered by myself for a long time before I finally saw my appearance change and I lost my mind. And the last emotion I was aware of was a fierce yearning for a mother - a wolf mother.

As I regained consciousness, it was dominated by an overwhelming ache in my wounds. I struggled to feel the abating wave of the transformation pain, so as to allow its pleasure to take the sting out of the rest. But I was bleeding terribly and almost fainted before Madam Pomfrey came back.

In the hospital wing, as she had soothed my pain enough for me to be able to think, I was afraid she would ask the headmaster to send me back home. I was sure it had been so much worse than she had expected. And I thought I'd have to lose the Marauders. I didn't deserve their friendship. I had not been honest. But Madam Pomfrey healed my wounds so well that they didn't suspect anything serious.

And according to my habit I immediately pushed the ordeal to the back of my mind. I just wanted to eat and sleep a lot, and especially eat chocolate, which we had fortunately got from Hogsmeade on our first forbidden trip. But the feeling of guilt never disappeared. Not even when I learnt to trust that I would not be taken away by any other wolves even in that house, so that I stopped getting so scared and wretched before the full moon. Still, until the end of the first year I was carefree enough, and I got used to having a secret.

Only now do I realise what a feat it was to lead a normal life as a good schoolboy and as one of the Marauders during that first year. The obligations included in these new roles evidently also helped me to focus on something positive and productive. But I was mainly deprived of what I had relied on earlier - of the constant soothing effect of physically intimate interaction, which had been a normal part of my large family's lifestyle, and of painting.

***

Remus moved the quill to his left hand and stared at the parchment. Before he had read through the last paragraph, the hand had started drawing delicate lines in the margin. He was sketching a tree. Was it the Whomping Willow or one of the trees by the campsite?

He had woken up early out of a strange dream. His hand was drawing a vine around the tree trunk now. But he could not be sure if he had seen and smelled the flowers in the dream. Had he been embraced by the vine? Or by a companion, and if he had, by whom? It had all escaped him, as he had promptly got up and continued the description of his first transformation at Hogwarts twenty-seven years earlier. And perhaps quite uselessly, as that description was certainly not something he could let Harry read.

Why had he written all that? As if his right hand had, for once, not followed his logical mind's lead. He had never tried to write poetry. Since the age of five he had learnt to use either hand, whichever had been less injured. The wolf, every time deprived of any other victim, had been most prone to maul the front paws, and neither his mother nor Miss Emeline had always been able to heal the wounds completely in less than a week. Still, if possible, he had always preferred writing with his right.

But his left hand had done its best to escape from the domination of all his orderly thoughts. The left drew his desires, and painted his pain.

Later his logical mind had learnt to follow, but only to analyse afterwards, and to admire without pride. His poetry was beyond verbal language. It was images rising from somewhere deeper in him than words and thoughts. The images were his, part of him, but he could not consciously claim them as his achievements. Even less, if the painting was a real magic portrait, in which case he felt that he was simply a tool. He merely borrowed the image of another creature. To complete a large painting he resorted to logical planning, too, and even took the brush in his right hand at times. But especially in order to channel another creature he relied on his emotions and thus on his left hand. That was the one which Mrs. Porchead had wounded and which he had healed for Hedwig's benefit.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound of laughter from the kitchen. His left hand sketched a smiling face behind the flames of the campfire. That scene had been a living painting, and he had stayed at the edge watching it. But the creatures had all embraced him and drawn him into their circle.

"Remus."

A sweet caring voice had named him and confirmed who he was. The wolf had been gone, and they had accepted the man as their leader. At first he had not thought that all of them even paid attention to him. A couple of them had just seen that the weakest in the company was nourished and made warm the best they could in the circumstances. But even though he had refused to think - or rather been distracted from thinking - about it, the fauns' homage had revealed to him that they had actually all come to gather around their leader.

"Remus, are you up yet?"

The voice was still a soft whisper, but the rhythm of the hooves confirmed that Tumble was approaching across the hall. It was apparently Peck's turn to make breakfast, and Tumble had got up with his friend but was now looking for other company.

"Yes, Tumble, just come up here."

Remus felt that a blissful grin on his own face reflected those on the parchment. The gold of the candle on his desk had hardly started to pale in the gloom of autumn dawn. As the clatter of the hooves indicated that his half-faun friend was climbing up the steps to the loft, he turned to watch the warm light first set the auburn curls on fire, then shine on the almost unearthly hue of Tumble's complexion.

Something in Tumble's movements, as he appeared swiftly but as if calculating which pose to hold immobile for a moment, revealed to Remus that the actor was constantly conscious of the impression he made. Was he truly free only when out on the fields and woods on his own? And was he ever alone, but always with Peck or other fauns? Was his carefree behaviour only a façade after all?

And for the first time Remus saw a parallel of James and Sirius in Peck and Tumble, who had earlier appeared to him only as Thisby's suitors. How could he have neglected seeking their true friendship? Was the reason some kind of resignation rather than a feeling of superiority?

Tumble lifted one hand on top of his head, where the tiny horns could hardly be seen among the messy hair, and bowed. It could have been hard to say if he was making fun of himself, of the fauns or of his host, but Remus chose to interpret the twinkle in the eyes as a sign of affection rather than anything more complicated. Realising that he had already been grinning all the time, Remus returned the polite gesture and reached out his hand to invite his friend closer.

And Tumble stepped to him, put an arm around his shoulders, and bent to look at the parchment innocently, with no fear of reading something confidential. He did not know how to read, after all, but had only recently promised to let Thisby teach him, after she first learnt to read English. But what he saw apparently astonished him.

"I thought you only write. And Thisby said you use your right hand."

With his right hand Remus pressed Tumble's hand firmly against the shoulder, where it had been laid so lightly and naturally, and he completed the sketch of a figure standing next to the campfire ready to dance. "Yes, I use the right hand for writing, but my left is tempted to take over. And I don't discourage it from painting, too, whenever there's a chance. The colours soothe my mind even better than these lines do, almost in the same way as..."

He knew it was not customary - and hardly ever necessary at all - to actually spell out what was just a natural part of what the creatures had always shared in this house and at the Old Place. Was he the only one who was too much aware of every touch?

He may not have been, before he started school at Hogwarts, because he had got what he needed. And only now did he realise that the monthly need to renew the cognition of his physical dimensions made him yearn for caresses so badly that he had been willing to accept any random poke or even a hit as substitution - until in resignation, or maybe even as redemption, he had isolated himself. Even during the twelve-year era of the Marauders, as he now decided to name that part of his history, he had seldom enjoyed adequate physical intimacy, and until the deaths of his parents he had sought to somehow recharge himself during holidays.

But when finally returning home after all the years of deprivation, he had not expected to gain so much. Only the werewolf lady had taught him that the most precious gifts could be found at the darkest moments. And from now on he was not going to reject any source of strength. Any creature whom he tried to help would help him in return. And he had to act, too, while not necessarily stop dreaming and contemplating his past.

"When are my new friends moving in?"

Tumble laughed briefly, as if he had understood and shared Remus's impatience - and as if they had all been preparing themselves only for celebrating the pleasures of life together. Maybe it was not important to emphasise a difference between enjoying and defending what they had in common and regarded as valuable.

But Tumble had his most thoughtful tone in his voice, which implied he had not forgotten that Remus was gathering an army. "They will come, one by one, or rather in pairs. We'll call you to show them the parchment, whenever we see someone has arrived at the borders."

During these few days several fauns had already come and read the fiery letters of Dumbledore's handwriting, in order to be able to enter when in need or needed. Before falling asleep next to the campfire Remus had asked Dave to give forward in the circle a message that any and all of them would be welcome to live at the Wotton manor, or to be free to come and go. But everyone who came would have three enemies - Voldemort, the ministry and Ice-Stare.

His left hand had already started with Ice-Stare. That was probably the right thing to do. While illustrating his autobiography, he could as well also portray his enemies for everyone to recognise whom the new brotherhood was to oppose. "As a leader I must get serious now, don't you think?"

He glanced at Tumble's face and they shared a chuckle.

"That's him without hair now, right?"

"It'll turn out better after some practice. I haven't drawn any caricatures for a long time."

***

I didn't paint during the first school terms. Somehow I felt that painting was a part my secret, which Dumbledore had forbidden me to ever reveal to anyone at school. Such a feeling may have been irrational. But resorting to colours to express my pain and desires was too closely connected to the reason for my long isolation from other boys of my age. And since the day of my arrival at Hogwarts I was sure I wanted to be one of these normal boys. So I reckoned it would have attracted too much attention and proved me different, if I had used oil paints or watercolours.

Now I wonder why there's no art education at Hogwarts at all. I could only allow myself to draw funny sketches with a quill on the margins of my notes, and that's what the other Marauders appreciated. I was able to entertain them. They were too lazy or sure of themselves - and often distracted by some planning of a prank - to take notes during classes. I always took notes for their benefit, too, but I wrote exceptionally fast, so the teachers never doubted anything, when other students continued to write and I had actually started sketching caricatures. The only risk was that Peter could disclose this secret of mine through his chuckles, while I myself always kept my face serious. But I soon got used to not drawing anything serious.

My excellent visual memory - which was actually weird, as I gradually discovered - made studies rather easy for me. Still, I spent lots of time on studying, because the better I did, the more I demanded from myself.

But a part of my hiding behind a book was always due to a desire to widen the horizons of my consciousness. Well, that certainly sounds fake sophisticated. Harry, I hope you don't think that I am - or that I was - too arrogant. I'm not saying - although I may have secretly thought so at that time - that what I was interested in was more valuable than what the other Marauders concentrated most of their energy on. Besides, they may have had their hidden private worlds as well. But I had learned so much from ancient stories and from all those with whom I lived in the Cotswolds that I enjoyed building up stories - or just imagining theatre performances - in my mind, as well as envisaging images which I wished I'd have the chance to paint.

And I simply got bored with the repetition of the daily jokes, the animosities against Slytherin students, and James's intensifying attempts at getting Lily Evans's attention. I don't mean to belittle those issues, although they didn't get my full attention.

The jokes and harmless pranks were actually one of my main concerns. I needed them to cover the fear of pain and the feeling of dishonesty. Now I understand that they also brought Uncle Francis back to me, in myself and in my new friends.

The idea we shared with other Gryffindors as well as with the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs concerning the members of the Slytherin house first fascinated me. They were a parallel with any enemy in my imagination. But during the following years I learned to question the justification of stigmatising all the students who had been sorted to that house. And it's hard to say if I was happy when I later realised that James and Sirius had good reasons to harass a certain Slytherin of our age, Severus Snape - reasons beyond our suspicion that there was something between Snape and Lily Evans.

I always admired James for persistently loving Lily - and her for resisting his charm for several years. At times I had doubts about how well he knew what love actually meant. And his feelings for her naturally developed as he matured, although there were times when I thought he wasn't maturing at all. But the doubts were perhaps mainly due to the fact that I wasn't mature in that respect - maybe in particular not physically.

I was, of course, an anomaly. On the other hand, I was used to physical intimacy within my large family - so much used to it that the actual reason why I suffered so desperately, especially before and after my first transformations at Hogwarts, was perhaps the lack of physical consolation even in the form of a casual touch. I had quickly learnt the code of conduct among school boys. Knowing that the touch would mean too much to me, I actually became more restrained than some others, and I seldom took part in something like wrestling matches - any more than in competition for any girl's favour. Another reason for avoiding friendly fights like that was, of course, the risk of any rise of aggression, which I had started to learn to avoid a couple of years before I came to Hogwarts. And the third reason was my physical frailty, which bothered me. I didn't hide the fact that I wished I had been stronger. I hardly hid anything I wasn't obliged to hide.

I admired Sirius openly. Not only his physical grace and strength. Not only his carefree and self-assured behaviour, which turned out to be a mere façade. I was happy to know that he also truly respected something in me - and not only my studiousness, which benefited all of the Marauders in the form of detailed notes in my beautiful handwriting. We had something in common that neither of us could share with James, even though James and he spent a lot more time together, playing Quidditch, watching girls, and skipping classes just in order to hang around and carry out some rather primitive type of pranks. The brilliant ones among all our pranks were, of course, based on some long-term planning or spontaneous ideas of - well, not solely mine but let's say shared effort.

What I shared with only Sirius was the fervent idealism. His approach and experience were different from mine, but that was what made our interaction fascinating. I wonder which one of us was actually more of a realist.

My approach was based on principles taught by my parents, and most of the concrete examples were mere legends. On the other hand, I had not only seen but also taken part in how those who were considered lesser members of the magical community lived. During my teen-age years I learnt to know something about their perspective of the justice in the society and about their ways of coping and of even opposing the rule.

As I pointed out earlier - when discussing the naming of the Marauders - Sirius was a sworn rebel before me. Later I realised that he was still mainly opposing the rule of his parents in the manner of a preteen boy with an exceptionally hot temper. The sorting hat, of course, saw his unyielding boldness. But the tragic conflict between him and his family was built up gradually during our first years at Hogwarts. One issue affected another. The disappointing fact that he was sorted to Gryffindor, against the family tradition, made his parents favour his brother over him even more openly than before - and mistreat him blatantly. He had already been ready to criticise the pure-blood ideology simply because his family supported it.

But I dare assume that I helped him become more aware of the necessity to demand changes in the official policy. I had my faith in legal means. He talked about a revolution. And I couldn't help being tempted by the romantic tone in such ideas and, most of all, in his person.

It may seem ridiculous to you, Harry, since you're a man compared to us during our first years at Hogwarts, but we really started discussing politics at the latest when we were twelve. Our talk was childish and unrealistic, of course, but it was fun and exciting, and from our perspective real and serious as well. Serious - I can never use or hear that word without thinking about the pun related to his name. Sirius could not stand being serious for a long time - or maybe rather anybody suspecting that he was seriously serious about anything. Later, during our fifth year, he gradually allowed me to know that he was, after all, but at times he insisted on hiding it again.

Peter, on the contrary, did not usually bother to hide anything. In any case you won't see me blame him for anything he did or was - at least not when I'm writing about him as a schoolboy.

As soon as he could overcome his shyness for a moment - and that was when he was alone with me, or alone with either James or Sirius - he let us know all his worries. His family wasn't exactly poor, and I think the reason why he first talked mainly about the lack of money was due to the fact that he honestly didn't understand there were more serious problems behind that. He must have suffered from the hatred between his parents, but he probably didn't know that there was anything unusual about that. Just like until the age of nine I thought that every young boy was locked up in a cellar to wound himself once a month.

But money was what Peter heard his parents talk and argue about, so that was his main concern. Was he not cunning enough to even pretend that he had what he needed? Maybe he was cunning enough to make us treat him to sweets. We weren't actually supposed to need any money at Hogwarts during the first two years, when we were not allowed to visit Hogsmeade. But as James had got an invisibility cloak from his father and we had soon discovered a secret passageway - paradoxically with unintentional help from Lily Evans, who without our knowledge also used that way to get to Hogdmeade - we needed money for sweets. I had never had the habit of buying anything by myself and had been given only a small amount for precaution. I actually almost ran out of money during our first Marauding trip, since I had promised to bring chocolate for Amelia, too.

Yes, the fragile bond between me and her started to grow so early. But there was nothing like James's devotion to Lily in it - at least not on my side, and probably not even on hers. Amelia Bones may have had a rather strong romantic facet in her intimate world - at least at the age of eleven - and she may have effectively picked a suitable boy as the object of her tender feelings. I must have appeared as the most respectable one among the Gryffindor first-year boys, and she had learned at home such a responsible attitude to studies and such a social conscience which weren't very different from mine. As she was friendly to me and expressed worries concerning our adventure, I simply wanted to sooth her mind by a promise of the best I could think of. It was as natural as the generous - albeit objectively humble - gifts among those with whom I had grown up and who were eager to share whenever they had anything. She may have seen it as an encouragement, so we gradually got to know each other better.

But I was writing about Peter. Why does he - and why did he - always get pushed aside? He relied on me. When all that he knew he needed was more money, he persuaded me to make bets on anything possible. As he was scared of getting hurt or caught in fights and pranks, he often pulled me aside to join him in the mere audience, when James and Sirius carried out something foolhardy. That gave us a chance to bet on the outcome.

From the beginning his source of income appeared rather uncertain. On the first morning he wanted to bet they get detention on some mischief they do during the following day. My guess was they do it on the same day, and he lost a sickle, even if I told James and Sirius not to try to get up the stairs to the girls' dormitory to place a tarantula in Lily Evans's bed. I had read in Hogwarts A History that a male touching the steps would turn them into a slide.

Instinctively I felt that the betting was wrong, especially when Peter kept losing. I had not yet learnt a principle against it and had not understood the rational reasons for not promoting it within any community. Gambling was not a rare activity among those I grew up with. In any case, I made more money for chocolate, and I soon realised that Peter wasn't as poor as he thought he was. No, I don't think he cheated on us. He simply felt he should have had more. So as long as I could predict the outcome of what we were betting on, I soon let him start winning his money back. I was happy to see how good it made him feel.

Getting richer made him feel more secure - and I couldn't completely understand it. I somehow related to him in that matter only years later, when during the hardest times I sometimes managed to get enough money to know for sure I'd be able to eat on a couple of days.

More importantly, I'm afraid it took me too long to realise what Peter truly had been deprived of and what he needed from me.

***

Remus,

Thank you so much for both of your letters. I'm sorry I haven't written to you. I knew why Hedwig left. I remembered the full moon and I asked her to fly to you. But now I think she'd already decided it herself. She came to me again and again during the day before and on that day, until I thought she'd be late. Afterwards I understood she'd been asking me to write a letter, too. How can the two of you understand each other so well?

I'm not good at writing letters. I still don't know what to write. Now Hermione says she'll write to you, after she's finished some essays for Potions and Defence.

The new Potions Professor is from Durmstrang. Her name is Brünnhilde Pilz. She is rather demanding, but fun, not bad. Snape is bad, and I doubt I'm learning what I should. I've learnt not to think about anything in the evenings. Most of the time I play chess with Ron. Unless he goes to do homework with Hermione. She scolds at me, but I don't care to do much. We have no exams this year, so I don't know if it makes any difference - I mean in my case.

Once a week I have Quidditch, but you know, it's funny how I just fly alone above the others. Like in another game. And the following evening we have the DA meeting. I teach them Rafinarisma. It's not fair I can't say that you taught it to me, but Snape could find out. Now he thinks we're playing with some easy childish tricks. Sorry but that's how he calls it. He says some muggle-born can find an ancient spell in a book but not understand that nobody could make it work in real situations. Luckily all the members (we still have no Slytherins) hate Snape enough to care to practise it with me anyway. The club is not forbidden now. And somehow it's not so much fun like this.

Look, I wrote a lot! I've been alone, because I didn't want to go to the library. But now it's getting late and I must start emptying my mind.

The drawing of your house was great. I wish I could visit you. But they don't allow me to go even to Hogsmeade. I hope everything's fine with you.

Harry

PS. I thought I stopped thinking, but there's something else. You know about it, of course, but... Minister Fudge is now serious in the war against Voldemort and the Death Eaters. The Prophet now always reminds us of the threat from the enemy. And Minister Fudge is arming the wizard community. It's just great. I really don't know why you have something against him.