Remus Lupin and the Revolt of the Creatures

PART THREE: THE SACRIFICE

Chapter thirteen: Volunteering to Change

Harry,

When I was young, still at Hogwarts, it was less hard for me to accept help. You know that's why your father was an Animagus.

Perhaps you'd like to show me when you're here... I mean, could I ask you to conjure your Patronus, so I'd see the stag's form? That's how I usually saw Prongs: galloping in wide circles around us, with his crowned head high.

Whereas Padfoot... the two of us both remember him too vividly. You saw first the emaciated stray with matted fur, but I hope you noticed a difference during last year, when... I want to believe not everything was torture for him.

At the time when I first learnt to know Padfoot, he was just a puppy - sometimes clumsy on his still slightly too big feet when he got excited. It's hard for me to have vivid images of my friends at the full moon nights, although they told me about it and... Sirius told me again last year. But he was the one who transformed most often, in the dormitory, too - to play rough or to cuddle on our beds. At times I felt I knew Padfoot more intimately than Sirius in his human form. I recognised his moods in the movements of his ears and tail. I buried my face in his thick fur, and I could trust that no hugs, or sentimental words or even tears would embarrass him.

It feels like a sacrilege to try to capture some of that real presence in words, and I'll do it only to preserve it for the time when my mind is gone, and my body is not here either to treasure the memory. I wonder why I seldom tried sketching the big black dog. Whenever he was there to be my model there was something overwhelming about him that made me forget to do it. When he wasn't, I was too busy trying to forget him.

I never felt compelled to forget the others. I can remember Wormtail's shiny fur, too. The pride in the rat's beady eyes whenever he volunteered on secret missions. Both on full-moon nights - as Sirius told me - and at other times Wormtail always did his best to get attention or to sneak close unnoticed - always trying to get between the two of us... Padfoot and me. I should not say that, when I'm trying to make you see how I loved Peter, too, and he loved us, and perhaps I didn't love him enough.

Do you think our animal forms, if any, are predestined for us? I believe the answer is somewhat complicated. When we are born we are not loyal like dogs, majestic like stags or... Our complex experiences - involving choices as well as influence from those around us - make us what we are, and we continue to change. Besides, the symbolism in Animagi is not unambiguous.

After losing them I practised not to miss them, although I could not forget. I still love them as my friends, each of them in his two forms. Once a month I have to remember that they ventured to change themselves in unpredictable ways in order to help me. This thought makes it hard for me to accept the fact that I must be reconciled with an animal companion, who is a blessing, too. Especially after the year when I shared full moons with Padfoot again, I have - perhaps subconsciously - sought also such companions whom I probably should avoid.

This month again I am restless, but I'm determined to persevere, knowing that you will be here soon after. In the same way I managed to feel better thanks to the sole existence of my friends, every time when waiting for my transformations ever since the beginning of our second year at Hogwarts until I turned fifteen.

The mere thought that they knew helped me. That they knew what I was and they didn't mind being my friends in any case. During my second year at Hogwarts the effort to cling to their images during the pain brought back my first experiences of transforming away from home. The fear of the monsters finding me, mixed with the yearning for someone - a mother, or a pack. I had been reconciled to being alone, and now this feeling startled me. I forced it aside and I think I succeeded in limiting it to my mind, reassuring myself that it was enough to have a mental connection - or an illusion thereof - until the moment I lost my mind. This exercise helped me take some attention away from my body, which no one would touch. My body had no consolation and it was still scared of the pain, but my mind was learning to be proud of the fact that I would not hurt anyone else.

My parents had always checked that there was not a smallest hole in the walls of my cellar room, so that not even a mouse should be in the wrong place at the wrong time and fall my prey. They understood that the beast would still assault himself as well, lusting for human blood. Killing and devouring the animal would only make me more alike an animal.

Fortunately they were not mistaken in everything. With the exception of the full-moon nights they did not prevent me from interacting with animals. It would have been quite unnatural and difficult on a farm. Some of the magical animals on the Wotton estate avoid physical contact with humans - and with most part-humans, too. For instance the amazanthines. I doubt you've heard about them, and I trust you'll hear them, perhaps see them, too, when you are here... But particularly taking care of the sheep became one of my favourite tasks. Perhaps because it was easy work for someone lazy like me. I'd take them to pasture and stay with them the whole day, reading a book or sketching. A wolf as a shepherd. I laughed at myself, but I always felt good in the sheep's or any animals' company. Only during my exile, though, when it was often hard to get animal companions, did I realise that I was actually able to communicate with them, particularly - curiously enough - with beasts of prey and raptorial birds, like cats and owls - albeit only on the level of general emotions.

I still don't know to what extent my tendency to love animals is based on how I was raised - and to what extent it's inevitable for a werewolf. Yes, I told you, didn't I? That evening in the Shrieking Shack when... I - we - tried our best to explain everything to you. A werewolf is dangerous only to humans, or more accurately: to creatures in human-like form who possess an intellect, or perhaps rather simply a self-conscious mind comparable to ours - however that can be defined. This is not generally known among wizards. Only in the restricted section of Hogwarts library and later among banned books on Knockturn Alley did I find some imperfect and not necessarily reliable reports on animals having survived full-moon nights in the company of werewolves.

I was never encouraged to learn more about werewolves, and actually until this past summer I have managed to avoid gaining any insight into their lives. My parents only told me that almost all of them were damned... and I was gradually made to comprehend that they really meant what they said: damned for eternity, having lost their immortal souls due to biting or killing. Those who embraced their dark sides revelled in murderous deeds regularly, damned since the first time they tasted human blood. And most of those who stayed outside packs were isolated physically and mentally all through the month - until they made a mistake, perhaps failed to lock themselves up because they simply could afford no place to stay and no chains either. I was fortunate to have parents who continued to see in me the same child they had known. They were determined to do everything to keep me as human as possible.

Officially Arthur Wotton had died. Nobody outside the family, which I always considered extended to include the Merry Thespians, knew that Remus Lupin was my parents' own son - and a werewolf. My mother's theatre group had always offered shelter to so many among the wretched of the society that there was no suspicion evoked in the Cotswolds when people found out that there was a young boy actually staying at the estate after the Wottons' own son was told to have died - and later that the eccentric couple financed education at Hogwarts for this orphan.

The officials at the Werewolf Registry knew, of course, but in their understanding I was nobody's legal son - no legal human at all. Besides, this branch of administration is probably the most neglected within our generally ineffective government. After registering the obligatory new names, which are meant to function as warnings, the authorities don't bother either to publish lists of werewolves or to do any regular check-ups.

As long as a werewolf doesn't kill or bite, claim any inherited property, or get caught having worked in a job reserved for full humans, they trust that werewolves will conveniently starve to death or otherwise destroy themselves, in isolation if not in a pack. Now, of course, during the last couple of years, Umbridge's legislation is likely to enhance this strategy. It is now a punishable deed to employ a werewolf even in menial work - such tasks which wizards avoid and which are always done by part-humans or non-humans. I doubt many employers need to be punished, although some can still be bold enough to defy the law. Almost everyone is happy to shun the werewolves, and almost all werewolves must have isolated themselves from the wizard society.

The point of this long story is that I was fortunate never to be isolated except once a month, until I chose it myself, after... I had lost my parents and my friends. But it never occurred to my parents that the wolf might not need to be completely isolated either. I seem to be rambling about the lot of the werewolves, but I actually wanted to show you how courageous your father and his two - or three - friends were.

I wager you did not know how profoundly original an idea it was that Animagi would be able to help me. As I said, we eventually found some information in books, too, but it all started from an observation of mine. It's almost incredible that three thirteen-year-old boys dared to start - and were to persevere and complete - a hazardous effort on such grounds. It's perhaps less incredible that after the love and support which I had enjoyed in my early childhood I didn't hesitate much when I was offered help for both my mind and body.

On that winter evening, about a month before I turned thirteen, I had not asked Madam Pomfrey to stay with me in the Shack until the last moment. By this time she was no longer unreasonably afraid of me, and I didn't threaten her by any aggressive acts, like throwing pieces of furniture, or even half-intentionally hurting myself in my agony during the hour preceding the final outer transformation. Still, she would not touch me and I would not ask her to, and her staring at me with concern and half-hidden, guilty disgust only increased my pain. Besides, I was learning to almost enjoy the moments alone when I cherished the images of my friends in my mind, struggling to ignore what was happening to me.

Madam Pomfrey had left, both bolting and charming from outside the door which led to the tunnel. All the walls were enforced with magic to prevent anyone from entering or exiting despite their flimsy look, and I had the whole house for the wolf to roam in. Unlike during the first year at Hogwarts, however, I didn't care to wander around in the rooms while waiting. I preferred sitting immobile, focusing on my human mind.

On those winter nights the house was almost inhumanly cold, though. We could not light a normal fire, because the smoke would have announced that the famous Shrieking Shack was not inhabited only by ghosts and banshees. Instead, Madam Pomfrey had put a heating charm on the wall of the fireplace, and although the charm was wearing off, I could still feel some warmth when leaning my back against the tiles. So I was sitting in the bedroom upstairs, huddled in the corner next to the fireplace, with my knees pulled up to my chest, and wrapped in the moth-eaten, torn coverlet. Madam Pomfrey had taken my clothes with her, so I wouldn't tear them to shreds, too.

Once again I eyed the clawed wallpaper and the pieces of shattered furniture, which were scarcely visible in the gloom any longer, wondering if the large bed had been strengthened with some spells, so it would stay intact. I hardly ever managed to drag myself up to it at moonset, but Madame Pomfrey usually arrived promptly and lifted me onto the bed, where she stopped the bleeding of my worst wounds before taking me back to the castle. She must have used a Scourgifying spell, but I doubt the coverlet was ever properly washed. I couldn't help revelling in the odour of my own dried blood which I now without doubt distinguished around me clearly, pungent and disturbingly enticing, overruling the smells of dust, dirt and mould.

But due to this sensation my body stiffened, as if memorising the worst pain, which my conscious mind refused to store. I had to relax, because the strengthening convulsions were harder to ignore in stretched muscles. The dull ache had now grown into a burn which returned rhythmically, more piercing each time, and I did not want to wait for the next wave of pain and think what was happening to me - no, in me. I considered throwing the coverlet away so as to stop dreaming of blood, but I also needed all the warmth to help my body relax.

Instead, I closed my eyes. Now it was time to dream of something better than I had ever imagined. Friends of my own. The idea itself made me feel blessed. The words: friends, mine. I couldn't help thinking that nobody else had chosen me voluntarily - not my parents, not their friends. But these friends were mine. Still, the abstract thoughts led to uncertainty, questioning... My parents had chosen not to abandon me, because they had been tied to me and it wasn't easy to sever the ties. How about Peter, James and Sirius... They had happened to get me as their dorm mate. Was it simply easier for them to continue as if nothing had been revealed? Was it perhaps an exciting adventure to share a secret like mine? So what else did I expect? I didn't want to think.

I wanted to sense them with me, or at least their being somewhere out there - and in my mind, therefore mine.

Now here they are.

I ease my aching body in a soft armchair closest to the fire, focusing on the flicker of the yellow light on Peter's hair. How the flames colour him beautifully. A glimpse I'd like to capture in a painting. It's a special pleasure to discover the beauty in Peter, as he seems to fight against it. He sits round-shouldered, peers through his thin fringe. Chuckles quietly, seldom flashing open smiles. I like to believe he smiles most often to me. Now he laughs aloud, and his chess pieces join in the merriment, while mine kick me on my fingers. I have concentrated on the lines of his plump cheeks and the dancing shadow of his pointed nose, while I should have considered my next move. He's beaten me in the chess match, and when I realise this with strange satisfaction, I reach my hand to congratulate him solemnly by shaking his. He is getting used to these gestures of mine; I can feel it in the firm grip of his chubby fingers.

There's an even more confident hand on my shoulder. James. "Mooning about again? Of course! But it's incredible you can make Peter win."

He shakes me a bit too roughly, but it's not hard for me to hide the fact that he is hurting me.

"Make him win? You know Peter is good at chess."

It's true: he's learnt so much; I've taught him.

As James is bent over, I manage to make him lose his balance by reaching to tackle him around his neck. Or perhaps he does it on purpose, so we both end up lying on the hearthrug. When he pins me down on my back I can feel we are both half pretending. He's almost too gentle to me, but he knows how to hide it, too.

He's already turning away, but I capture this image. The new fashionable glasses seem to cover a half of his face, which looks small in the shadow of the abundance of unruly dark hair. He gets up nimbly and spares me a fraction of a grin, offering the rest of it to Sirius.

Sirius. He's standing behind a couch, and before he leaps over the back of it, so as to settle in a casual pose, I catch on his proud handsome face a trace of... jealousy.

***

That's when I heard the rustling. In an instant all my senses were back at the current moment. I was shivering with cold. And my limbs were all rigid; the ache had taken a hold of them. I had to concentrate on an attempt to breathe calmly. When the convulsion abated for what I knew would be a brief moment of slightly more bearable pain, I tried to seek the cause of the sound. I hoped it was only the draft of cold air, which the spells didn't stop from seeping through the cracks in the walls and in the boarded-up windows.

There was hardly any light. The sun must have set. But I still had to rely on the dominating sense of humans. The rustling, now closer, gave me a foreboding, and I had to see in order to know if it was true. I needed light.

If there was a small animal in the room, how would I manage to make it escape? I could scare it away, but it wouldn't get out of the house. And I was hardly able to move these limbs anymore, whereas the wolf... Did the poor creature not sense the beast in me yet? How could it be getting closer, or was my hearing or my imagination deluding me? I needed to see what it was.

Now I felt it touch my left foot. I couldn't move my legs; they were all cramped. Instead, I reached out my hand to shove it away, whatever it was. And there was a flash of light and I saw it. A rat. The image stayed after the flame died. An upturn shaky nose and whiskers, beady eyes.

I could hardly spare a passing moment to register the wonder that I had conjured a cold flame on my left palm again. After acquiring my wand I had not cared to practise the skill Mr. Grubber had taught me, and something like this had never happened, never when I had needed light in a tight spot on a kitchen raid or other missions of mischief. I had usually had my wand with me, but in any case this sudden thought made me tremble in suffocating anguish. I had to believe this situation was truly exceptionally grave. Of course, I didn't realise that there could be alternative reasons for such a desperate need to see the rat that the wandless magic had worked.

The rat. It was stubbornly nuzzled to my foot.

I wanted to shout but my voice came out as a whisper. "Go away."

I managed a feeble kick, but in a moment the soft frail body pressed against my skin again. Why? There had never been even mice before, at least I had never heard or seen any. Perhaps the severe cold had driven this one in, but why did it cling to me? Was it someone's pet rat? It didn't make a difference if it was a pet or wild, more or less magical. It would be torn and devoured...

I couldn't bear the thought... No, there were no images of fangs crashing the tiny body. Just helpless concern, a sensation of tears running down my cheeks, until the next wave of escalating torment blurred my mind.

Only later have I wondered whether the rhythm of the stabs of pain had strangely eased for a while. Now I hardly had time to realise that this was, unexpectedly, the final convulsion. My skin burned, and the extreme pain on my face was mixed with the first sharp perception based on canine senses as the last image to fill me before my mind was gone. The pungent, enticing odour of blood. My own blood.

***

My mind returned, filling with simple pain. In almost soothing waves, in a quick rhythm, stings of pain followed each other, each a trace less devastating than the previous. I savoured their progress, which brought a temporary, delusive but welcome relief. It was over, and I had my mind and body again. My treasures, ever new and valued, even when crippled, mauled and unable to focus on anything but hurting. The familiar warm trickling of blood all over my skin, and the ache on the bruises on my right side against the hard, cold floor, which was sprinkled with some sharp splinters of wood. This is how I sensed my dimensions again.

But this time I was startled, feeling suddenly something else. Soft fur against the back of my left hand. And I remembered. Now I didn't want to look. Had the wolf not eaten it...all? I couldn't... I had no strength for these thoughts now. Did I pity the rat or myself?

The tiny body was still warm. I moved my hand away. And the rat moved, too. I forced my head to turn slightly, trying to ignore the ache and to focus my gaze. The beady eyes were staring at me. At the moment when I could hear the footsteps on the staircase, the rat was already gone.

Madam Pomfrey used the levitation charm to lift me onto the bed. However, she didn't completely avoid touching me now. Stemming the flow of blood was wand magic, but with her fingertips she applied some ointment around the biggest wounds to alleviate the pain, which was no longer soothed by diminishing convulsions or the warm streams. I revelled in her cautious touches and I was itching to share another, unexpected pleasure with her.

I had not harmed the rat. I might have told her without hesitation, had I not known that my throat was too sore of shouting and howling.

"You know... something..." I said it to James.

Nobody was supposed to see me when some of the closing wounds still looked too suspicious on my hands and cheeks, too, but he had sneaked into the hospital wing under the Invisibility Cloak. He shoved another piece of chocolate into my mouth, and I allowed it to melt. He must have thought I wanted to say something unnecessary like how much I appreciated their friendship. After first lifting his hand, as if to punch me, he grabbed the cloak from the bed instead and disappeared under it, saying quickly, "Sorry. Transfiguration. I'll give the cloak to Sirius for the lunch break."

"There was a rat in the shack with me..." I said to Sirius.

"And now it's..." It didn't take long for him to reach a conclusion and to flash an uncertain grin. "Did you... throw up?"

"It was there still in the morning?" Peter said in the dormitory on the following day, with incredulity apparent in his voice. "It was with... it... all night... A rat spent the night there with you? Together with you! A rat..."

"What if..." Sirius cut in, "if we were rats, we could be with you."

"Maybe I just failed to catch it."

"I doubt you even tried," James said. "You said the rat was right there, by your side... not scared."

"Is it possible..." I said mainly to myself. "You know, I must find out if..."

"If we could be rats!" Peter's voice was strangely stifled, but he chuckled, and I couldn't tell if there was more than simple amusement behind it.

"Don't be silly," I hurried to say. "If the wolf kills animals or not..."

***

The lighting provided by the grey sky was soft and perfect for painting. Remus's left hand hardly cast a perceptible shadow, nothing to cover the picture on the aquarelle paper he had attached to his old easel, as he was sitting on the cushions he had brought to the stone bench by the western wing, facing east. It was early afternoon, and he felt still slightly irritated by the suggestion, even though Gumby had - as he always did - chosen the words carefully to emphasise that even an elf like him did not know the truth about anything but the past.

"Perhaps you'd better stay and have a rest," Gumby had whispered after lunch, when everyone had been ready to return to the fields.

The elf knew, of course, about Remus's long-term sleep deficiency. Even after long days of hard physical labour he usually managed to keep himself up, working with Thisby and after that, for several hours, writing about the distant past.

Thinking of Sirius had become bearable in this way, when keeping his right hand busy and his mind focused on finding the best expressions to convey his memories vividly to Harry. Instead, he had got used to avoiding moments awake in bed, so he put down the quill only when there was no doubt he would fall asleep immediately. He was not sure if there was anything to fear. In any case, this was the strategy he had adopted after losing Sirius for the first time.

Back then the haunting thoughts had been a lot more confusing; what there had been left for him in life had been simpler - and harder. No hope. Nobody to be taken care of, nobody to take care of him.

Still, he had persevered. Forcing himself to study day and night in order to complete degrees in various fields, as if any academic qualifications could have made it possible for him to keep both a roof over his head and bread on his table - to keep the wolf from the door, literally. After a couple of years he had left for Paris, so as to still try to bury his grief in a life of a conscientious student, barely surviving on a meagre scholarship - but now focusing on the field which appealed to him best, on art. Only in 1985 had he started to gradually let other people - or in fact one werewolf - to get a bit closer to him, and only afterwards had he comprehended the depth of his depression.

However, as soon as during those two first years still in England he had, in fact, been comforted by his best memories. He had pretended to push Sirius aside in the images filling his mind when he had finally closed his books and hoped to fall asleep immediately. When hunger had kept him awake, he had dreamt of nothing but the food offered to him in the past - by his friends. Clinging to the images of only the food, he had still heard Sirius's voice and kept talking to him in his half-conscious mind.

Why not actually talk to him now? This time there were no thoughts of betrayal, not even doubts. Only bitterness, perhaps, and certainly sadness for how short the time given to Sirius had been, after all the lost years. Perhaps that was why Remus was afraid he would have indulged in talking to Sirius and submitted to voluntary depression - exiting from this life, which was still his responsibility. Besides, now that he never had to go to bed hungry, he would probably have slept. Staying up writing was the best way to cherish the memories of Sirius and to let Harry, too, benefit from these treasures.

But now, two days before the full moon, he realised himself, too, how weary he was. The waxing of the gibbous moon always caused instability in his body and mind, made him require more rest and find it harder to relax. As a child he had become ill on these days; during the lonely years he had believed that all other physical suffering protected him from being too sensitive to the transformation pain, and perhaps to the grief, too.

Recently, however, he had started to believe that physical strength was an advantage in the transformation. The pain had to be alleviated by other methods than starving and torturing his body beforehand.

Since the summer he had sensed new restlessness when anticipating the full moon. He longed for companionship, and this longing could not be satisfied by any of the inhabitants of the Wotton estate, no matter how much he loved them as his new family.

The house was now full of creatures, mainly young men and women, Rose and Jonah's friends, since most of the fauns and of other non-humans and part-humans preferred coming and going freely. That was actually why Remus had agreed that his contribution on the fields was not absolutely necessary on these hardest days of the month. And that was why he had brought his easel outside: the only rooms with large windows - for instance his old room in the west wing - were occupied by new members of the brotherhood.

He wanted to do something productive in any case. Now, in order to let a layer of watercolour dry properly, so he could add some details on the dried surface, he took out some pairs of socks he had brought with him so as to darn them.

Thisby was now busy with both drama performances and healing, as well as both studying further and teaching to others - to several young witches and wizards - what she had already learnt. She still enjoyed mending clothes, too. Since she often found it hard to focus on one thing for a long time, she took breaks and almost relaxed when charming her needle to move. Still, there was now so much work in keeping the whole crowd clothed - and well enough for the approaching winter - that even though some new members helped in the task, Remus did not want to burden Thisby with the mending of his clothes.

This task was something he had hated before, particularly because it was so hopeless. The worn-out fabric of his robes tore easily again. He had to fix something daily, and his appearance remained shabby in any case. Still, he had learnt to take pride in patching and darning his clothes as neatly as possible, even though he knew that nobody would pay any positive attention to them. Even during the hardest times of his drifting years, when depression had made him stop taking care of himself, he had felt ashamed of the neglected state of his appearance - or perhaps rather guilty for embarrassing anyone else who was ever seen in his company.

Now it felt good to indulge in this familiar task. It seemed to represent the things which had become easier to bear in his life. He hardly felt the needle pricking his fingers, calloused as his hands were now due to all the other meaningful work he had done.

The painting, too, had a purpose beyond his pleasure. He hoped Rose and Simon themselves would like it. He had not come outside to paint in order to depict the landscape in front of him. His exceptional visual memory had made him used to painting what he could see only as a mental image at the moment. His werewolf artist friend, who had taken such good care of him in Paris, when he had finally accepted it, had not allowed him to stay outside making more than quick sketches. Still, the crisp October air reminded him of winter in Paris - and of the time he had refused to paint portraits.

When he lifted his gaze from the darned sock to take a glance at the almost finished painting, his attention was attracted to someone standing among the farthest apple trees by the lane. Was that another child from the poor neighbourhood of the Ancient Village?

Walking towards the visitor straight across the orchard, Remus pulled out his wand. He could not help feeling that the calm following the arson attempt was deceptive. But no, this witch was no threat. He could recognise her now, and that was particularly surprising, since she was someone whom he had sometimes not succeeded in recognising immediately even when he had expected to meet her.

The frantic waving of her both hands when he had crossed the line of the charm and she was able to see him was unmistakable. However, he had already, before she rushed to him, stumbling among the high grass, been startled by the familiarity in her self-assured relaxed pose and in the shoulder-length dark hair blown by the slight wind around her graceful head.

He was afraid that Nymphadora was able to sense his emotion in the trembling of his body, as they embraced briefly. He dared only glance at her face in order to register her snub nose and the freckles around it in her pale skin as her unique additions to the look of the Blacks - as traits of the Tonks family. As far as he knew, this was her true appearance. She played with her features so often that these authentic ones reminded him of the time when the energetic little girl had still not demonstrated her special talent of Metamorphmagus.

Remus turned quickly away from her wide grin and focused on conjuring the parchment. In order not to appear as unfriendly, he had to hold her hand when leading her to the yard, after she had read the Secret Keeper's handwriting. Perhaps she, too, was reminded of the time when she used to call him uncle.

In any case she was as observant and determined as could be required from an auror and an active member of the Order. While Remus had taken it for granted that they would head for the front door, she had evidently noticed the easel as well as the workbasket on the bench, and she was now guiding Remus back where he had been working before the interruption.

She was uncharacteristically quiet, though. Only a moment before they reached the bench did she launch into babbling. "It's so beautiful here. Pity my parents never let me come for a visit. I so much wanted to, after Sirius..."

The pause forced him to meet her grey eyes, and the wary look in them unexpectedly made him smile. "Sirius... had told you about my home before you met me. He'd been here on our last summer holiday. Perhaps he wanted you to think that I was something special despite my appearance and the room... Can you remember that... the first time...?" He pushed the workbasket aside, and they both sat down.

"Yes, but I can also remember the other flat," she replied slowly, now staring at the painting, "where you moved to live with him... He looks like him - like Sirius."

Remus felt embarrassed, as he now saw clearly what he had not consciously intended. He had smoothened Simon's rugged features... Yes, he had captured his first impression of the young man with a teasing smile. Rose was bent over him to rub ointment around the wound on his temple, but he had turned his eyes towards the viewer, grinning bravely.

"It's a young couple from the Ancient Village," Remus explained. "Simon was wounded when they came here... You look like Sirius."

Now he could no longer resist the temptation to revel in her features. The softness of her usual heart-shaped face had given way to the stronger chin and the high cheekbones which had declared that the little girl was her mother's daughter.

"This is just my natural looks," she said defensively.

"I know."

"I've just been thinking... It was stupid of me when I was a teenager... to start shaping my face prettier every morning. Like applying makeup."

Remus looked away, fearing that the admiration was too evident in his gaze. "You don't need any."

"But I could mould my nose to be like the Blacks'. Now since... sometimes I can't resist doing it when I'm alone. Do you want me to?" The hesitation in her voice was quickly turned into reckless eagerness. Unable to refrain from glancing at her again, Remus was startled by another bold grin of hers.

"No! Thanks," he hurried to say.

"Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. It's all right. I suppose there's no harm in doing it for yourself. I hope... as I must be doing the same thing when painting like this, and writing about him to Harry."

She shook her head with a thoughtful frown, but soon launched into talking, shifting her tone from solemn to mocking and again to sincerity. "As long as you remember who you are, and enjoy the gift of your unique life. That's what my mother used to say. And says still, every time she sends an owl. I should be happy I'm not really alone, but sometimes parents are just a bit too much. I'm glad they are far enough in Australia."

"And safe. They are not planning to move back, I hope."

"No, fortunately they have to think of my little brothers. The boys would be tempted to join the Order. But Mum really mustn't get involved with her sisters in any way."

Without fully intending, Remus had picked up a paintbrush. He hesitated to add shading to the faces for lack of undivided concentration. Besides, perhaps he would be able to finalise the painting in the young couple's presence and to approach a real portrait. Slowly he began to deepen the shadows of the background, while allowing his thoughts to evolve and to become expressed spontaneously. "I wish I could see your family, though. Andromeda came to visit Sirius at Grimmauld Place only once. I wish... She is a remarkable woman. But that thing about remaining yourself... is it sometimes hard - because of the changes?"

"I change my looks only when I want to. You know, it's not like I would be changing against my will."

"No?" Remus had not turned to look at her, but his hand did not feel steady enough anymore.

Nymphadora, in turn, sounded totally confident. "No. It's not hard at all to mould my nose. Or to keep myself as an old hack the whole day. The difficult part is not acting and talking like me, Tonks. If I'm supposed to be in a disguise, I mean. But I don't need to... struggle to stop changes from happening or something..."

"You don't change involuntarily. But something changes your will."

"That's true."

Remus cleaned the paintbrush in a bowl, watching the water turn darker. "Sometimes we don't know... Never mind. I make things complicated, when there's no need. In my case it hardly matters. I'll transform anyway."

"Yes, that's why I came to see you."

"What... do you mean?" He could not help smiling, because there was actually no need to ask. Nymphadora simply said what she meant, and it was impossible to feel irritated by her.

"Because there's only one more day before the full moon. I'm sure that's why Dumbledore..."

"So this is an Order mission. He asked you to come and check I'm not feeling so lonely that I'd go and do something stupid with some enemies this month?"

"He didn't word it exactly like that. Anyway, Arabella also came to Grimmauld Place..."

"Mrs Figg... How is she? I hope she's not too much involved in the Order work."

Nymphadora began to fumble in the pockets of her robes. "No, I don't think she is. But she's followed the news, and she came to ask if somebody could bring this to you. Where is it now? I'd better not shrink things..." A tiny object slipped from her fingers, but she spotted it immediately in the grass and returned it to its original size by undoing the charm. It was a goatskin bottle. "Her special herb beverage. She says you must drink it hot."

"Oh, that's too kind of her. You must give my warmest regards and thanks to her. Too kind of everyone to remember the full moon. But I'm afraid Dumbledore had another reason, too. He must have read in my mind that I was worried about you... When we talked about the goblins - how you spend your nights at the pubs." Remus was surprised to realise that he felt no longer irritated by the all-knowing wizard.

Nymphadora, instead, now turned away and wrapped a strand of hair around her index finger. However, it did not take her long to decide what to say. "I don't drink much. And I don't get involved in any stupid affairs. I haven't got time for that."

"Let's go in, so I can heat the herb drink and serve it in goblets. It's not bad and you must try it, too."

"No, not yet. I'd like to smoke and I like it only outside." She had found a pack of Muggle cigarettes in her pocket. Having tried to flip out one cigarette, she immediately - without any signs of frustration - bent to pick up the whole contents of the pack from the ground.

"That's the only way I've sometimes almost liked it," Remus said when helping her, and she refused to take back the last cigarette.

"What - after picking your cigarette from the ground?"

"Something like that too, actually, although I meant smoking in fresh air." Remus bent the thumb of his left hand against the palm and folded the fingers to protect it.

Nymphadora did not hesitate to stick the end of her cigarette under his fingers so as to light it. "You do it in the goblin way," she muttered with only slight surprise in her voice, while taking the first drag of smoke.

Although he was not going to inhale the smoke, Remus perhaps needed to share the moment like this with her: the heat was condensed again easily on the nail of his thumb. He leant back against the wall and now looked at her and at the cigarette between her lips without anguish, happy to notice how relaxing it was to talk to her, while they had too much to talk about.

"I really like some of them, you know," she said. "Goblins, I mean. But I'm just looking for some people to talk to. It's not only the pubs I visit. I've also been to St. Mungo's. I can look like the little girl again, and sometimes Alice and Frank laugh when I play with them."

"They really do? I'm so glad about that. But there still isn't any way to get them out, is there?"

"I'm afraid no. Perhaps for a holiday, with a short break in the research."

"I really should have... I should continue to visit them, despite the risk..."

"The risk? Oh, you mean... it's a place where you used to go regularly. Last winter at least, I remember."

How could he have almost forgotten Frank and Alice - again? "Yes, I'm afraid it was only during that year," he confessed.

"I started going only this autumn. And it's true I go to the pubs more. But the Order needs contacts with goblins."

"I hope the harvesting ball was a success - in both respects."

Nymphadora pulled her feet up onto the cushions and huddled herself up snugly, wrapped in her thick cloak, as if settling to have a thorough conversation on the topic. "Yes," she said, grinning again, "thanks to you I had quite an interesting night."

"I wonder if the alibis were actually necessary."

"It was useful, really. Both Kingsley and I invited those whom we had evaluated to be something like... genuinely supportive of our cause. And I don't mean simply loyal to the Ministry. I reckon it's hard to explain. Sometimes I don't know what our cause is and... Can we be sure it's not against yours?"

"I didn't expect it to work perfectly. I wanted to save some of Umbridge's enemies from being accused for her crime. But now it seems that some goblins are her allies."

"Not those we invited. I hope not."

Remus did not envy this young woman, who certainly had more than a personal loss to confuse her mind. In the first war everything had been - or at least seemed - a lot less complex. There had not been any conflicts between the roles of an auror and an Order member, at least not in the understanding of a twenty-year-old. No doubts about who was good and who was bad. With a werewolf friend as the most prominent exception. That single doubt, of course, had been enough...

But he needed to focus on the goblins now. "Can you tell me about them? Did anyone at the ball happen to mention Bog Bafflegab?"

In the Prophet, which Mr Landor now sent to the Wotton Manor every day, there had been nothing new, except more reassurances by Umbridge: more blatant promises to stop the half-breeds from propagating, while their existence was explained as the Dark wizard's invention; more praise for young volunteers, whose sacrifices would be repaid in glory. The dismissals of two auror trainees had apparently not been considered important enough to deserve a mention in the paper.

The Quibbler, instead, had reported these dismissals immediately, indicating that the young wizards were the same ones whom the special issue of the previous day had featured in several photographs. Now Lovegood had taken to publishing a cheap tabloid daily - and to always sending a few copies through Mr Landor to Remus and his friends.

The excellent pictures of the arson attempt had first, however, appeared in the familiar bright-coloured magazine. Some of the photographs were complete with such colour and movement that they set the whole magazine on fire, if you stared at them long enough. On the following pages, instead, you could take your time examining close-ups of a goblin face and two human faces. Bud Pinchbeck with his camera had returned to the alley outside the theatre - or had perhaps not disapparated at all any further than that. The building could be discerned in the background of some of the pictures, and in one both Remus and Robin as well as Lovegood himself could be recognised, not in close-ups though, guiding the culprits out. Rose had been cut out, and both her name and Tim's had been left out from the article written by Lovegood. Besides his own truthful account of the events Lovegood had included interviews of some eye-witnesses, who had owled for patrolmen to take the incapacitated group away.

The old goblin had been identified as a dissident known by name Bog Bafflegab. He had persistently, for decades, demanded that goblins stop compromising their traditions, co-operating with wizards, and sharing their wealth with any lesser magical creatures, including humans.

"Yes, in fact..." Nymphadora said, having looked thoughtful for a moment. "The guys I meet at the pubs talked about Bafflegab even before the Quibbler made him so famous again. But I didn't invite the ones who praised his ideas. Simply because they wouldn't come to a gathering arranged by wizards. Anyway, it's been more popular to criticise him. Most poor goblins accept Fudge's government without much thought. And now there's a rising trend to question prejudices against other breeds. I think many of the goblins I invited could at least consider your ideas - if I've got it right - that creatures should unite against Umbridge's laws."

"That sounds great, Nymph... Tonks. You could ask them to come and see a show of the Merry Thespians. And I'll also suggest that one of our goblin or half-goblin actors visit London so as to invite them. How about the goblins Kingsley was supposed to invite: the owners of Gringotts and the mines?"

"The rich goblins... Those are the ones the Order tried to negotiate with last summer - almost in vain. They pretend to co-operate with the Ministry, but they guard their secrets."

"And they guard the wizards' Galleons as well as their own. The ministry can, in fact, honestly refer to the fact that there's no gold in free disposal to invest - if they even claimed to care about the deprived of the society as anything but cannon fodder..." Remus had to smile at himself, getting entangled in eloquent preaching again - and this time incorporating the vocabulary of his new followers.

Nympadora looked excited, too. "You must be right," she said. "They would be valuable allies for the Order and for you. The curse laws ruined the little success the Order was about to achieve in July. Obviously they were happier to listen to Kingsley after he had resigned. But I doubt they are as ready to share anything with other breeds as..."

"As those of us do who have less to lose. Perhaps we can't claim to be any better."

Nymphadora punched him on the side with her elbow. "Don't say that. You've been ready to share everything you finally got back, and with people who had nothing to give in return."

"But, after all, they had a lot more to give than I could have imagined... Perhaps those goblins, too, would get what they want - more wealth, I suppose - if they didn't demand good prospects before agreeing to co-operate."

"Now at least there's been a start. At the ball we got the goblins to communicate across the barriers of differences in wealth."

Instead of making clear plans of action Remus caught himself sharing with her the building up of a vision. "Things will change. Slowly, perhaps," he said. "Those who accept the changes have a chance to control them. A revolution must be a slow process. I should have the patience. I get feeling restless, particularly when some changes are forced on us. But sometimes I struggle against a change when I don't need to. When something is inevitable and has its purpose, although I can't see the purpose clearly yet."

He turned his gaze from the line of the rolling hills in the horizon to meet the sparkling curiosity in the familiar grey eyes. "Now I'm getting self-centred again. I'm talking about myself... about the wolf. If I manage to change my will and accept the transformation, perhaps I'll be able to embrace it."

"You mean that you would control the transformation?"

"I can't avoid it. But I can perhaps - slowly - learn to transform willingly. I don't know if it's going to make a difference. You don't need to think about this too much, although you did help me understand... You can tell Dumbledore that tomorrow night I'll stay in my cellar, and there's no need to worry."

***

His new friends were unlikely to succeed in not worrying. Particularly those who had recently moved from the Ancient Village and did not know their host well yet. They had all made their decisions fully aware of what he was. If they were bold enough to defy Umbridge and to turn down what the ministry officials offered, siding with a werewolf was a mere exciting addition to their rebellion. Except when they were forced to realise that after the following sunset the man who was now sitting at the end of their dinner table would turn into a murderous beast.

The young people were chatting in pairs and small groups at the table and on the benches along the walls, and Remus could not help noticing that the company was unusually quiet. It was perhaps his own fault, as he had not let anyone ignore the approaching full moon. During the recent couple of days he had taken care of talking to everyone separately, or to few at a time, when opportunities had risen. He had shown to them the cellar room, which would be further fortified by Gumby's magic. Even though he could guarantee that the wolf would not break free, he had admitted that it was understandable, if people wanted to stay locked behind stone walls and strong, charmed doors.

"Even though," he had said, "I lock myself up, so that the rest of you could be free at full-moon nights, too. Of course, I'm not the only werewolf, but as long as you stay close enough to the house you will be safe even outside. The Fidelius Charm stops werewolves in their wolf form, too."

He had also encouraged the young people to ask questions. Someone had heard about the Wolfsbane Potion and had been surprised to now learn that a werewolf could try to control the beast without the potion.

"I had the chance to take it for almost a year, when I was teaching at Hogwarts. In fact I was obliged to. Since then I can't possibly afford it. But I've discovered that I'm actually better off without it. Not on my own, but with an animal as a companion."

Nobody had ever heard of such an idea that a werewolf could be no danger at all to animals. Perhaps now, after twenty-five years, it was finally time for Remus to do his best to spread that piece of information. For instance by asking Lovegood to publish a little article in the field of beastiology, now that the Quibbler was improving its reputation as a reliable source of knowledge.

It would not be easy to root out the prejudices. Still, something was already changing. Remus tried his best to focus on the conditional trust he had earned.

He had to struggle against the irritation when, settling for dinner, none of the new inhabitants chose seats close to him. It was probably wise of him not to make any initiatives either. He had done his best to get to know everyone personally, but at this point he had to respect their confusion, even fear. Besides, there was a risk that in case he indulged in lively political debates so close to the full moon, his aggression might become unleashed and lead to alarmingly uncharacteristic behaviour.

But this month he had actually hardly needed to suppress any bursts of anger. Was this surprising calm connected to the different kind of restlessness he had felt before the past few full moons... ever since he had lost Padfoot as his companion? There had been so many different emotions as well as new challenges that he had only now started to gradually become aware of this change.

Did some strange new longing affect him subconsciously as early as in July? Perhaps his sense of duty had not actually been the only thing to keep him visiting werewolf communities when the moon was waxing and his guide and old friend Jean Reno left him to continue his Order mission alone.

There were still too many unsettled issues to think about, for instance Jean... They had separated in a burst of anger. Now Remus would have been ready to admit that Jean had been right when demanding him to write to Harry, and to talk about his loss, once again. But he had neglected contacting Jean after the mission, as if he had not been grateful. Not only for the guidance at the beginning of his tour. Also for having been saved, almost completely against his own will, over ten years earlier, when he had been close to not resisting death. Besides, now Remus understood better that entering werewolf communities had been a more stressful experience for Jean, who had escaped one at the age of ten.

What was the truth about these communities - if there was any? All truth had to be subjective, and perhaps each community was essentially different. In any case there was something that unexpectedly attracted Remus.

It suddenly occurred to him that he could have now left for Paris - not only for the full moon, but to live with Jean. The hot-headed, successful artist probably lived with someone else again, though, probably with another werewolf. Besides, of course, Remus could never abandon these people: these new friends any more than Harry. But even that was not all. He had gradually become aware of the new passion: he longed for a role in a werewolf pack.

He had to suppress that urge. Harry and Neville would be coming in a couple of days and he could not possibly take another risk now.

Instead, he indulged in cherishing the memory of the lady whom he had wrapped in blooming vines, according to her wish. He would have to cope without the intoxicating strength she had poured into him. But he could at least hope to meet his own wolf again. The wolf who had once again roamed the wilderness without time - and, unlike ever before, not been completely lost at moonset.

He had retained the experience in his conscious mind. He had been able to recount each perception, when talking to Hedwig after transforming back, and since then he had longed to be the wolf again. Even though this month he would be trapped in the cellar room, he would be looking forward to meeting the wolf like a friend. He would still suffer - without the true pack. But he would perhaps be closer to embracing the wolf's mind and body than even when Sirius - wording the best memories of shared full-moon nights - had helped him through the pain. Even with Sirius holding him he had always feared the pain and never welcomed the wolf. Now perhaps he would be closer to transforming willingly.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Remus was startled by a touch on his arm. He turned to offer a gentle smile, which had been his only communication with anyone who happened to catch his eyes during this meal. It was a pleasant surprise to notice that Jonah had sat down next to him.

"You should be eating more," the boy said.

Remus could not stop a genuine smile and the honest words. "My best friends always said that."

Jonah opened his mouth, but resorted only to a grin while pushing the bowl of potatoes closer to Remus.

Now realising that he had eaten only salad, Remus started filling his plate. "I'm just absentminded today. At least I hope I haven't started taking good meals for granted, so that I don't even notice anymore whether I'm eating or not."

"Perhaps I'd rather go hungry every other day than stop enjoying food. But I hope I don't have to choose," Jonah said. "I don't know... I think you are able to appreciate all the good things. But today... Are you worried, or hurting already?"

"No, neither. Thanks for asking, though. I've just got a lot to think about."

"You said two sons of some friends of would come for a visit from Hogwarts soon after..." Perhaps Jonah was intentionally guiding the conversation to a pleasant topic to ease Remus's mind in case he did have some worries, after all.

Remus accepted the topic willingly. "Yes, Harry and Neville."

"How old are they?"

"Sixteen."

"You don't mean Harry...?"

"Potter, yes. James and Lily Potter were my friends. Neville's parents, Alice and Frank Longbottom are still... They, too, are victims of the first war, but perhaps not so famous: they've been at St. Mungo's for almost fifteen years."

Jonah's excitement gave quickly way to embarrassment, as the topic turned out to be not exactly cheerful, after all. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

Remus decided not to continue by mentioning the rest of his old friends. "It's all right. Not so rare in my generation, as you must know... I'm actually looking forward to the arrival of a more exceptional friend tonight or tomorrow. Harry's owl Hedwig."

"Oh... Is it - she - the bird who'll...spend the night with you?"

"Exactly. She actually came here a couple of nights ago, but I sent her back to take some letters to Harry."

This month Harry had, indeed, taken care of providing Hedwig with a note for Remus, so she had flown to the Cotswolds well in time. It had been only a couple of lines but heart-warming all the same: Neville and I can hardly wait. It'll be marvellous to see you and your house.

Soon after her arrival Hedwig had found the parchment on which Remus had been writing the night before the arson attempt, and she had kept pecking at it until he had asked whether she thought he should finally send his letters to Harry. She had promised to fly back to Remus again without delay.

He had to admit he was a bit nervous - about Harry's reaction to the letters, to which he had attached a note saying: Something for you to read while waiting. Feel free to skip the boring parts. I'm apparently too wordy when I finally get started. Instead, he simply could not afford doubting Hedwig's return. He was surprised, however, by the coincidence, when this particular thought was interrupted by Jonah's cheerful voice.

"I think she's here."

He turned to follow the boy's gaze at the window and discerned the familiar white figure. Perhaps this extraordinary bird was able to communicate her approach, guiding his thoughts to her. He had hardly stood up when he heard the incantation.

"Alohomora!"

As the window was flung open, he quickly nodded and grinned his thanks and acknowledgement for Jonah's achievement. Rose had actually started advising her brother, among others, in wandless magic.

"Welcome back again, my friend," Remus said, walking towards the window and extending his arm for Hedwig to perch onto. "Now you won't have to travel the long distance until Harry's visit is over."

Instead of flying to him from the windowsill, she stretched out her leg. She was carrying a letter. It could not possibly be a detailed response to Remus's extensive pieces of autobiography yet, but he could not help feeling as if he had proposed to the love of his life and were going to hear his verdict. Recognising Hermione's handwriting did not make him feel better, but the first words, added to the top of the parchment, did.

Remus, Harry says, "Thank you so much." I think he's so happy about your gift that he doesn't know what to say. He's just started to read. We're sending Hedwig back immediately, so I'm just giving her this letter I had written earlier. I had planned to let Harry bring this to you, but now you can have it sooner. Take good care of yourself.

"Thank you, Hedwig. Is it all right if I introduce Jonah to you, and he can introduce everyone else you don't know yet?"

Soon Jonah started his tour around the room, talking to Hedwig quite as naturally as he was used to talking to his baby sister. Remus turned his attention to his plate and to the letter, determined to enjoy simultaneously both the food and Hermione's news.

***

Dear Remus,

I apologise for not writing earlier. Believe me or not, but we haven't stopped thinking about you. How could I have, after I've subscribed to the Quibbler! Ron says that you've turned into a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, so we must doubt you exist at all. Sometimes I wonder if Harry has any sense of humour. But I think you really mean a lot to him. That's a particular reason for me to say that you must stay safe and take good care of yourself. I know I shouldn't give advice like this to a professor, and the best professor I've ever had, but I'm afraid you are as eager to take risks as Harry is.

I've missed talking to you. Maybe I could have sent you something of what I've been writing down to clear up my thoughts, but it's been just notes and drafts, too incoherent. I mean my plan of action for Support Elves' Empowerment. But I haven't really had enough time to reach any conclusions.

School work is more demanding than I expected. In some subjects studying is easy - predictable: Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and such. Particularly two professors, however, manage to almost undo the benefits of all the studying I did beforehand. Professor Snape, of course. He gives us new topics outside the textbook. By us I mean Gryffindor students. The Slytherins get assignments based on the book. I don't really mind, as we can now learn a lot more than they do, but I don't think it'll surprise you that Harry and Ron are cross.

Nothing Harry does is ever good enough for Snape. I'm afraid Harry doesn't care to study much in any other subject, but in Defence he won't give up. I doubt he understands how good he is and how quickly he's improving, even though we do our best to praise him, and we can do it honestly. I think Dumbledore's Army is going even better than last year, but somehow I feel Harry doesn't enjoy it. Anyway, he teaches us Rafinarisma, and the possibilities in that spell are incredible. But you must know that. I just hope we are doing it correctly. On the other hand, perhaps I shouldn't say that, as it must be different for everyone... Harry doesn't want us to practise anything that Snape says is important.

I think this is actually Snape's strategy now. He gives pointless assignment topics to Harry, and when Harry looks for something like how to feed a Hinkypunk, in the sources he's been referred to, he finds a general defence technique in the same chapter. From pure spite he decides to study the essential topic and write about that instead, so Snape can give him another zero, while he's worked hard and learnt something important. Perhaps the professors (both Snape and Dumbledore) are satisfied, but Harry is in a terrible mood all the time. Besides, I wonder how he'll ever learn all the different things he'll need for NEWTs next year, and how he'll get accepted for the auror training.

He can't avoid learning something in Potions in any case. Professor Pilz is wonderful. She gives everyone a hard time, when we can't imagine what to expect. I don't think you know her, as she's from Durmstrang and she's been travelling somewhere in the south. You should see her, so you'd know what I mean when I say that nobody can be scared in her classroom, no matter what happens. She's blond and tanned, and big, taller than any other professor, except Hagrid, of course. Not exactly graceful, but she certainly has quite strong muscles in her plump arms, too. She seldom cares to levitate even the heaviest cauldrons, or to use a wand for much of anything. I think she's as old as Professor McGonagall, but she looks so healthy, and somehow she's like a little girl when she laughs. Now I'm babbling, but really - when she asks us to just experiment freely, we can trust that she'll control all the explosions. I used to think that there was something sinister about Potions, but she makes it look completely different. Even Neville enjoys her classes. When we are supposed to follow some basic instructions - for a change - and someone makes a mistake, the topic of the lesson can change suddenly: she shows us how to turn the spoilt potion into something useful.

Professors Pilz and Snape both cover so much more material than there is in the curriculum. Since I also help Ron with his essays, I really have a lot less time for SEE than I thought I would have, after preparing myself so well for this year.

I hope you won't laugh at me, but I wanted to make a field study, like the one described in "The Indigenous Culture of the Elves". Do you remember? After borrowing the book from me you said it was time for action. Anyway, as the study was quite old (almost a hundred years old), I felt like trying to check how the ancient culture manifested itself among the house-elves here and now. And especially if there were still any signs of a living connection to the source of wealth. That's what I suppose you meant with the part that could be more relevant... you know.

It didn't go so well, perhaps because I couldn't live among the elves here more genuinely than by trying to spend a weekend in their company. Besides, they already knew that I had done my best to force some changes on them. That's why I asked Ron and Harry to go to the kitchens instead of me, but you can guess what their response was. I realised I would have made the elves only suspicious, if I had suggested that I participate in their work. Instead, I asked if I could stay and read my books in the kitchen, saying that I couldn't concentrate elsewhere. In addition to some real schoolwork I wrote down my observations, but it only made me feel like a spy. And I'm sure they hadn't forgotten my presence even when I started hearing some more interesting conversations.

Finally on the second Sunday Dobby came to talk to me seriously. He levitated to himself the book I had been hiding under my rolls of parchment, and he said they knew what I had read. He grinned at me, and while he looked as funny as ever, wearing on top of each other several of those hats I made last year, I realised that his English was a lot better than before. It was still simple, but somehow it conveyed more than my complex and confused sentences do.

"Dobby was meant to accept clothes," he said. "To help both of us realise that trying to make us free like that is not the solution." He paused and nodded towards my parchment. After I'd picked up my quill he continued in a half amused, half solemn voice, "We will continue to serve. We serve our purposes. You will learn what you need to. Wizards see us in the way they want to. In their eyes we have given up our rights. But we have chosen to appear like this. We have never sacrificed anything essential. We will serve your friends better than you know. But we can't know beforehand if you are meant to learn more about us."

I would love to know more about the elves. But after his speech Dobby gently drove me away from the kitchens, saying that this was not the way.

In the end SEE is quite a solitary effort. My new ideas about the empowerment on the basis of elfish culture rather turn my few followers against me. I suppose I'd better not talk among the students about what I can vaguely guess the elves would have to offer to us. You've made me doubt it would necessarily be used for a good cause.

Nobody else is interested in the elves. Perhaps it's good that Harry doesn't spare them a thought. I'm surprised how well he manages to ignore everything Draco Malfoy says about Kreacher and... I wonder if it's all true.

Malfoy doesn't have much to brag about. In September he talked about the inheritance Wizengamot would soon confirm to be his. He was the only heir - the last male in the noble and most ancient family of Black. A relative of his had died insane, and a silly will just needed to be declared void. It doesn't close Malfoy's mouth that his own father was sent to Azkaban last summer, at about the same time when Sirius was declared innocent of the crimes for which he had been imprisoned for twelve years. Harry hexed Malfoy a couple of times when he had to hear about the insanity of this relative. But as far as I understand, Fudge doesn't want the Order to lose the headquarters, or Harry to lose any property, as they are now allies. So Malfoy can now only brag with the house-elf who refused to obey silly wills. He maintains that Kreacher is now his, and keeps hinting at some outrageous things the former owner was crazy enough not to demand the elf to guard as secrets. I suppose it's only because you're getting more and more famous that now Malfoy hints at something outrageous between the insane master and you.

I don't really care if it's true. Or of course I care, but it doesn't really make a difference to me. And of course I wouldn't consider it outrageous. In any case I understood that you didn't want to talk about some things last summer. If you still don't, please don't read the following paragraph.

I'm afraid I never properly offered my condolences. I feel I'm so stupid and helpless in these situations - the same with Harry. But I suppose we can't expect you to take up the issue and say how much you miss Sirius. That's why I want to say that I think I can understand somehow. That he was your best friend, one of the best in any case, and the last one of the old friends after you had already once lost them all for such a long time. And I was really worried about you when I realised you had moved out, and I didn't understand why you had to do that.

But now I believe it had its purpose - you going away from Grimmauld Place, and from London, I mean. Actually now that I think about it I'd like to say that everything has its purpose - even you and Harry losing Sirius again, but I don't really know. Perhaps you are better at believing and it helps you.

In any case, if you think it's all right that I say this to a professor of mine, I hope you are not doing something too desperate. Of course, I trust you'll do only what you consider wise. But I want to make sure you know that there are people who love you.

Yours,

Hermione

***

His hand brushed the coarse surface of the boulders of stone. These cellar walls had witnessed some of his worst full moons. The most painful moonsets after the rapidly strengthening wolf had no more found anything in the room to destroy except his own body. The terror of the first transformations after he had been told what the pain meant. The return of the unrestrained aggression during the summer holidays after his fifth school year. Still, Remus felt he had come back home here as well.

The patterns formed on the stone by varying shades and shapes were all familiar to him, due to the repeated intense moments of focusing outside of his body - the desperate attempts at finding beauty in this trap. Even when the pain had blurred his vision, he had often - instead of hugging himself - pressed his palms against the uneven, cold face of the wall, challenging his mind to imagine its opposite: someone's smooth, warm skin. Now the touch of the stone made him smile in reminiscence of the beginning of his necessary belief in how the worst could be turned into something good. The only tiny window near the ceiling faced east, and on cloudless mornings the rosy light of dawn had painted the stone into the womb in which had been born anew, relieved by the gradual lessening of the pain.

At the moment the agony was threatening him again. While the familiar ache was spreading from deep inside of him, he kept walking around the room, as he had used to do as a young boy. But he did not do it in anguish any longer. Rather as if he had come to check out the venue of some ordeals which belonged to distant past.

By the beginning of his exile he had not yet realised that the presence of even a non-magical animal could help him stay at least a bit calmer. In this cellar he had always been alone. Now, however, Hedwig was perched on his shoulder as a hardly perceptible weight any longer. Furthermore, he already knew that the weight was turning into its opposite and she would take the sting out of the pain, as well as help him control the wolf's aggression. Besides, there was some hope that he would share wholly as blessings both the wolf's senses and the lack of human traits - of the sense of time, particularly. Finally, perhaps he would, for the second time ever, become and remain aware of his experiences as a wolf.

In these circumstances - without freedom and without the sharing of the ordeal in a true pack - he did not expect any overwhelming joy in his reunion with the wolf. Rather some kind of reassurance, and perhaps a chance to learn to know his other form a bit better, so he would benefit from this knowledge later. He certainly hoped that nothing more dramatic would happen during this full-moon night.

The amazanthines had continued to spy on Chief Ice-Stare, and the fauns had kept Remus informed. It seemed that throughout the month there had been some unusual dissatisfaction among the werewolves. Perhaps it was only due to Ice-Stare's failure to bring new members to the community, since he must have spoken about the glorious future to others besides Remus.

Could Remus trust that Voldemort had not given new orders to whom he believed to be his allies? No Death Eaters had been reported as having escaped from Azkaban, and perhaps Voldemort was once again biding his time. Fudge could not be expected to be active in taking concrete initiatives, and Umbridge did not seem to be predominantly interested in werewolves.

At least Remus hoped he would have one more month before he would need to try to interfere in the best possible way. If he was to fail and lose everything then, at least he would have done something to help all these young people continue their struggle.

He had to trust that at least magical people would not neglect any safety measures this time. The Daily Prophet had not reminded its readers of the tragedy of the previous full moon. That had made Remus fear that the ministry knew Ice-Stare would try to strengthen his pack now, and that Umbridge would be only happy about new victims - new evocative publicity for the threat from part-humans, perhaps even particularly from Remus. He knew, however, that at least in the Cotswolds the members of his own brotherhood had repeated the warnings printed in the Quibbler, and reminded everyone without a proper shelter to gather at places like The White Thestral.

The latest amazanthines, however, had told Peck that this time the local werewolves were not suppressing their aggression on the day preceding the full moon. There had actually been fierce disputes, even physical violence on the alleys of Ice-Stare's village in the afternoon. These news made Remus trust that the pack would enjoy this full moon in harmless play following the regular type of ritual, in which he had participated in Norway. Perhaps Ice-Stare was patient enough to rebuild the solidarity among the pack by a successful routine celebration. Still, Remus could not help wondering whether there was any serious opposition - or at least a chance to build some opposition - against the leader of the pack.

This was not the first time he was ready to somehow welcome the relief from his everyday worries, as well as from gnawing feelings of loss and bitterness, for one night. But now his concerns were more complex than ever, and he knew that other creatures depended on him, or at least he had something to offer. That was why he could not even dream of a final liberation: allowing the wolf to inflict on himself some fatal wounds.

However, now the anticipation of relief was complemented by something more positive. As early as in his latter school years he had been told about the grace and power of the wolf. Still, despite the admiration he had felt for his friends' Animagus forms, he had always found every thought of himself in a canine body repulsive.

Last month, for the first time ever, both his body and his mind had retained vivid and fond memories of the supple limbs of the wolf. Of the timeless life sensed as one in himself and around him. He longed to regain the part of himself of which he had been deprived for thirty-three years.

He wanted to have no more time for doubts. Too quick to know what they were, he had to push them aside. This positive attitude was, of course, partly due to his need to transform willingly. But why would he not be allowed to change his will intentionally, too? He still did not know whether he could possibly manage to stop the wolf's aggression, if he should encounter anyone in human form during a full-moon night. While he did not mean to embrace any violent tendencies, he actually did not know yet what his true nature as a werewolf was.

Tonight, in any case, he simply missed the wolf. He loved the wolf as a friend regardless of all the pain he had suffered - probably partly due to his own choices and misunderstandings as well as all the complex situations, which could not be attributed to the wolf alone. In the same way as he still loved Peter.

This thought startled him and made him stop and lean his back against the wall. He had hardly noticed how the change inside of him had consumed his strength, so that he had staggered around more and more slowly, seeking support from the wall. The waves of pain were hardly sharper than they had been in the presence of the werewolf lady. Hedwig had to remind him of the need to undress.

When naked, he sat down on the floor and, pulling his knees to his chest, he had to fight against the usual fear and resistance to the final change. But Hedwig stayed loyally on his shoulder. Pressing his cheek against her feathers, he indulged in recalling the faces of all his friends, the new and the old ones.

Now he could recognise the merciless final convulsion. When the burning reached his skin he was taken unawares by an unusual urge to try his best to focus his vision despite the ultimate pain, in order to watch the outer change. Still, he chose to squeeze his eyes shut and to concentrate on the image of the fully transformed wolf - on its perfect grace. To concentrate on welcoming the wolf.

Now there was no more hurting. No exuberant joy, either, only simple pleasure in stretching his faultless body. No harsh smells of the wilderness. Only one friend present, real in the sound of flapping of her wings, in her familiar reassuring odour, in the teasing rhythm of her peak through the fur on his skin, in the white image shining against the dark walls.

No memories of past suffering. Only shadows of lost blessings: past companions. The dream of a female wolf sleeping on a bed of flowers. The enticing blood on the neck of a strong, playful wolf. The smoky velvet fur of a gentle mother cat. The licks of a big black dog. The antlers of a watchful stag. The frail soft body of a rat on his back - or against his left hand.

These were only shadows. The wolf was abandoning them now. There was no past or future for him. Only this moment, resignation to the circumstances, too. No wish for what he could not have now.

Except triggered by the owl's teasing communication. She was telling him that he had perhaps not lost one or two of those companions. She was, indeed, encouraging him to now lie down and rest, gather strength for the man who had not slept enough. But when he leapt up, too eager to resist using his own strong muscles, she guided him on tours of the cellar room, pretending to search for the rat. Which one - he did not ask. But gradually an image grew clearer in his mind. A simple image - exclusively visual, with the exception of the sound of laughter and a vague smell of burning wood. The dancing light of flames on a round face, the shadow of a pointed nose. A shadow of a human - and no urge to bite or devour, to harm in any way.

***

"Well, yes. I have to admit I wasn't so happy to read about... Pettigrew."

It was probably good that Harry did not feel compelled to evade the issue. When starting to respond he kept his head turned away, allowing his gaze to wander from the brook in the valley to the edges of the pasture. At the moment he uttered Peter's name, however, he cast a quick but firm look into Remus's eyes. No persistent demanding stare, but simply a glance to emphasise the honesty of the open statement.

Remus's behaviour had perhaps been more evasive. He had allowed his two guests to look around in the house according to their own interests and simply enjoyed watching them. When the rain had stopped and they had started a tour of the estate, Neville had soon asked if he could stay and examine the herb garden more carefully.

Thisby, having worked in the garden alone for quite a while despite the rain, had been eager to introduce in detail the herbs, their uses and the care they required. Harry had elbowed Neville, teasing him for his urge to stay with the lovely half-veela. Her looks and voice had obviously made an impression on both boys, perhaps particularly because she had not directed her enchantment on them but, instead, acted almost as if she had been Remus's wife - scolding him for still not wearing a cloak, and letting playfully her soiled fingers brush his cheek.

However, Remus suspected that Neville was considerate enough to take the opportunity to arrange a moment for him to spend alone with Harry. Determined to offer the same undivided attention to Neville soon, he had led Harry towards the meadow with his parents' grave, pointing already up to the sheep shelters, where they would head next.

Alone with Harry, he still felt tempted to stroll beside him without exchanging any deeper remarks. He caught himself pretending to have returned to James's visit when the two of them had been sixteen. Quick but intense flashes of eyes which reminded him of Lily, however, forced him to face the long-awaited situation: he was finally able to welcome this boy to a home. Still, Harry had been the one to first take up what Remus had already managed to offer.

"Thanks for the long letters," he had said abruptly. "They were great."

"You're welcome. I did intend to write what would interest you. But I'm afraid some parts turned out a bit long-winded, or otherwise not quite what you can enjoy best."

Harry's straightforward comment on Peter now startled Remus. He had hardly cherished any hope that he could help Harry feel sympathy for Peter yet. Still, he had expected Harry to rather ignore this topic instead of tackling it immediately.

"And I'm still at the beginning of the tale. I wonder if you'd like..."

"Yes, of course, I want to know more."

"Look, you can see the brook down there, and now I'll take you..."

But Harry was staring at the tombstone. As if during a discussion on Peter he would have needed any additional stimulus to remind him of his own parents' deaths. "Dame Philomela and William Wotton... 1979," Harry read. "You told me about them..."

"About their lives. I'd rather tell you more about your parents' lives than about the deaths."

"But we must... remember all the deaths. To stop more deaths from happening, and to revenge."

"Don't you think we must choose between those two goals?"

"I don't understand. You're everyone's enemy - and still a pacifist."

"Not quite everyone's. I hope not. The prophecy doesn't say anything about you and Peter, so it's up to you."

"And up to him."

Remus felt he was a coward as he did not mention Sirius's unrelenting attitude.

But Harry did not agree to be led to discuss more abstract principles. "You were ready to kill him - together..."

"No, I never meant to... All right, I confess that for a moment I felt like killing him, and - what's perhaps worse in practise - I made him understand that I really meant to do it. But do you think I was able to see anything clearly at that moment? Perhaps I mustered a façade of determined action... of being in control of the whole situation. But I didn't manage to consider Peter's or Sirius's good any more than what it would have done to my soul if... You know, I've concluded that what happened was actually the best alternative. Both my friends were at least free and had their souls - whatever was left of them. What I regret is that by ignoring the approaching moonrise I undid Sirius's hopes for being declared innocent... and that I scared Peter off. I kept looking for Peter during the following year, but after what I had said... how could he have contacted me for shelter or advice?"

"How could you... still think of helping him?"

The monologue and the uphill had made Remus breathless. He was already used to the lack of self-inflicted wounds, and the inevitable post-transformation stiffness of his body, instead, was now relatively more disturbing than after the worst full moons. Besides, his legs felt heavy particularly in comparison with the vivid memory of the canine limbs. That was, perhaps, why he did not actually rejoice in the chance to explain his attitude towards Peter sooner than he had expected. He stood still for a moment to draw a deep breath, before continuing both his stroll and his explanation in a slower pace.

"You know I mourned him, too, for thirteen years. And he had been a friend... even my best friend. It must be hard to imagine how I felt and how I still feel... There have been times, of course, when any thought of Peter has been unbearable because of the threat of devastating rage. Even in case Peter had been forced to the betrayal, he should, of course, not have let Sirius pay for it. Even if the deaths of the twelve outsiders had been an accident - after Sirius had been taken to Azkaban for that, Peter should have come out to plead guilty. Perhaps I should have concluded it best to kill Peter - to save him from a worse fate. That would have been a selfless choice, but I don't claim to have been able to think like that. It was an impossible, overwhelming situation. I don't know how to explain the emotional turmoil... But you must understand that it would not have made any sense to kill Peter. Killing him would have made it very hard to prove Sirius's innocence ever. I must say that I'll be - perhaps literally - eternally grateful to you for stopping us."

"I didn't mean to set him free."

"No, of course not. You felt he deserved something worse than death."

"I didn't want the two of you to become murderers. I said he had to be handed to the ministry, to the Dementors."

Remus was happy they had reached the first sheep shed. He sat down on the bench and leant his head against the stone wall. "His soul would have been sucked out. So easily, without stopping to consider what we were doing, we would all have taken part in what no human has the right to do - if I had not transformed..."

"But that's how we didn't get anyone to believe... and he got the chance to help Voldemort again!"

Not surprised that Harry was too upset to sit down, Remus closed his eyes. "I didn't decide to help him escape. We just have to accept that all this was meant to happen for a purpose."

"Things just happen... predestined or something." Harry surprised Remus by actually sitting down beside him.

"Still, we must choose what we want to do - even though in the end we might be unable to act according to our plans."

"I don't know what else I can want - what else there could be left than revenge. That's what we want - Neville, too."

"In that case perhaps your time here can be a holiday. You can just relax and agree to do something unimportant for a change. Like sightseeing. Over there, that's where I was bitten in June 1963."

Remus felt like grabbing Harry's hand and leading him into the woods. In the vivid dream right after his homecoming someone's green eyes had encouraged him to move on. But it must have been nobody but Gumby. The two of them were not approaching the woods, not even standing up. The post-full-moon weariness in his body was, after all, accompanied by traces of the familiar threat of depression.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly. "You must be still tired because of the full moon."

"Not too tired, don't worry. Thanks to Hedwig, once again. Besides, I think I've finally learnt something about transforming willingly."

There it was again - perhaps disguised as cynicism, or even something harder to recognise - and it amused him: the recklessness which compensated for the depression and which he had for years tried to deny. He was actually disappointed when Harry missed the potentially alarming confession that he was on his way to embrace the wolf. Or perhaps Harry just wanted to avoid another difficult topic and another confrontation.

"Willingly..." Harry said. "You've just started telling me how my father and... the others volunteered to change for you. That's what I'd like to hear more about next - on this holiday."

"I'll be happy to tell you. But I wouldn't like to argue with you. I'll tell you the story of the three Animagi - and of the beast and of the beauty - and you can interpret it in the way you want to."

"That's fine... sounds great, I mean. Can you start now?"

"I'd better take every opportunity. And I'll continue to give something to you in written form as well. I have other things to do, too, and you can take part in everything we do here, if you don't mind. And I'd like to reach the climax by Halloween. You are allowed to stay until the end of the month and spend Halloween here, aren't you? Of course, you'll only stay if you like it here..."

"I'm sure I will - we both will, Neville and I."

"Thank you. Your visit really means a lot to me. Now what do you say, if I take you for a stroll in the woods, so we won't be interrupted by anyone working on the fields? The next part of the story is perhaps a bit controversial, but it may raise more general questions in you, so I'd better offer it to you orally."

Remus could not resist challenging Harry. He was not hiding his problems or his ideals. At the same time he suspected that he was somehow manipulating the boy. Taking him into the woods was mainly symbolic. It would have been hard to explain to Harry what it meant to him. Still, giving the impression that it meant nothing special was dishonest. On the other hand, was it ever possible for two individuals to share the same meaning of anything?

They walked in silence across the fields. Absorbed in his thoughts, Remus watched the young people working further away, in order to greet them with a wave of his hand when they happened to look up and notice him.

When they reached the edge of the woods, Remus was for a moment overwhelmed by the wilder, harsher smells of life and decay: enticing and repulsive. The light was suddenly scarce. The jubilant chorus he remembered from the schoolboy's summer holidays had been replaced with ominous silence. A single cry of a lonely bird startled him, and he stumbled on the roots.

At that moment he felt a firm grip on his elbow. Regaining his balance, he pressed his other hand over Harry's hand, and without any conscious intention he flashed a wide grin.

"Have you not... Do you come here often?" Harry asked.

"No, I haven't been here after I regained the memory of the bite - or after my parents died. But I used to come here when I was young."

"So I hope this makes you feel young again."

"You do. Thank you. Let me start now, while we're taking this path towards a clearing."

The long grass in the orchard and on the meadows had already soaked Remus's shoes and the hems of his robes, but now he did not feel cold at all anymore. The wind was shaking the tops of the trees enough to make some heavy drops fall as belated rain; down here among the trunks, however, the air was almost still. Besides, new excitement made them both walk fast.

Reluctantly Remus had let Harry pull away the supporting hand. Still, the connection had not been disrupted. He stayed beside Harry despite the narrowness of the path. The undergrowth was scarce, and circling a tree every now and then felt like a game which made his steps only lighter. He turned to seek eye contact as often as he could, and Harry did the same while listening intently and throwing in his comments.

"You know, they were all curious. Just like you. After the initial absurd idea that they could keep me company like the rat had... they wanted to find out how it would be possible."

"Did you know that McGonagall was an Animagus?" Harry asked. "She was your Head of House, too, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was, and we knew. But it had never before occurred to us to play with the idea of becoming Animagi."

"Had she warned the students against it, explaining it was illegal?"

"No, actually she had not. She had simply stated that there were only those Animagi who were listed in a register. And we'd somehow got the impression that the ability was innate - something you couldn't learn and practise. But Sirius was enough of a dissident to insist that she had misled us..."

"Sirius..." Harry said it tentatively. Was this the first time he uttered the name ever since...? Still, he repeated it without actual need, and more firmly, with pride in his voice. "Sirius had the best ideas, didn't he? Together with James, of course."

"Well, for the original idea we must give credit to Peter." Remus glanced at Harry's face and couldn't help smiling as he saw the displeasure he had expected. He caught himself still tempted to challenge the boy: to continue to narrate facts Harry did not like to hear, and even to colour them according to his own interpretation. "It was, in fact, not so unusual," he said, launching into an explanation. "James and Sirius were the bold executors - or at least they hardly ever agreed to stay out of the heat of action. The best mischief was normally the result of co-operation on every level, and Peter and I ventured to carry out missions, too, of stealth in particular. We were not suspected as easily as our more famous fellow pranksters. On the other hand, each of us had original ideas. But it's undeniable that Peter had somehow the most extravagant imagination. And in this case it was Peter's vision first, although Sirius hurried to adopt it, too - during the first discussion, which I reported to you... according to how my memory serves me."

"Your memory might serve you wrong - or right, as you want to take it. You want to defend him, to show him in a better light."

"Whom? 'The rat'?" The last word slipped from Remus in a mocking tone without a second thought. That was what Sirius had insisted on calling Peter all through the last two years: "the rat".

In Harry's voice the bitterness gave way to more enthusiastic conviction. "Yes, that's what he was, after all, wasn't he? A dirty rat."

This was exactly what Remus had openly said he wanted to avoid. Still, he caught himself partially enjoying the moment: the illusion that, after James in that memory of the summer visit, another Marauder - Sirius himself - had returned to him in Harry's form. In any case he refused to reveal this to Harry. "Let's not argue about what Peter was years later or what he is now. Being a rat would have had no negative connotation all through those years anyway. A rat was the creature who was able to stay by me through the full-moon nights. It was Peter's crazy idea to become one - and it seems he stayed loyal to that initial idea."

"But James and Sirius developed the idea to something better... or they had something more in them."

Remus turned to face Harry, who had remained a few steps behind ever since the rat had been mentioned. "I'm sure they had a good amount of ambition. And they acquired admirable forms as Animagi. But who can say that Wormtail's form was not as good or better in the end... and no, I don't mean the very end, or what I thought was the end... in 1981. I mean that a rat served me and the Marauders well."

"Served you?" Harry said suspiciously.

"Yes, he did. A stag and a dog were certainly not able to roam the corridors of Hogwarts at night unnoticed. And Peter didn't need to defend himself against the wolf with the help of a strong body. Even without their human minds the three of them would have been safe in any animal forms. It's turned out to be the truth that at least this werewolf has no urge to kill..."

"But you said that the two big animals could keep you in check."

"That's true. As I told you... We were foolhardy. I didn't force them to give up the idea to set the wolf free to run under the moon. In their company the wolf soon stopped harming himself, even gnawing the front paws, but they said he was still restless. And they were reckless enough to insist on putting an end to the rest of the wolf's suffering. The full-moon celebrations must have been pure bliss. Running free with them... Prongs and Padfoot just needed to stop the wolf from going towards people of the village. Afterwards they laughed and talked about near misses."

"So you... the wolf still wanted to bite and kill humans, of course?"

Why had the conversation taken this turn? This was not what they wanted to talk about, but Remus had to do his best to reply.

"I don't actually know if smells of humans attracted the wolf and made him murderous while he was in his friends' company, but that's what we have to assume. I could hardly remember anything after those nights. To be honest, I wasn't honest to them, or to myself either. I pretended I had managed to store something of it in my human consciousness. And that's why they actually told me less than I wished. Until a year ago I confessed... and asked Sirius to tell me, to describe how we had enjoyed each other's company during those full-moon nights. I asked him to remember, while it was so hard for him to reach any of his best memories. And he did it in order to share it all with me. And he shared all of it. He talked to me about it - even about Wormtail as my loyal companion. For the first time ever Sirius - as a man, too - stayed with me even while I was transforming, and we roamed the wilderness together again."

"He left the house to spend the full moons with you?"

"Yes, he did, almost every month. Once again we were reckless. But that was one of the best gifts I received from him..."

"And he from you, don't you think?"

This second question finally broke the painless flow of memories. Remus continued to stare at the foliage, willing the tears to stop from forming. "Sorry, I got carried away," he managed to say. "This was not what..."

"I... wanted to know about this, too. But, really, I was going to ask... about the Animagus transformation. How did they actually do it?" Now Harry was walking faster again, and his casual glance back made it easy for Remus to go on.

"Well, slowly. I told you it took them almost three years..."

"But how? What do you need to do to change?"

"I hope you're not thinking that you should become an Animagus - so you'd be like your father and..."

"No, it's not that! And what if it is?" A defiant gaze showed that Harry had no need to hide his emotions - but no patience to discuss them either.

Remus had to try his best to get to the point, too. "It requires a lot of time and concentration..."

"But I don't have to start from zero like they did - if you agree to tell me what you know."

"And you know I've set out to tell you everything I know. Still, it's illegal."

"So what? You don't hesitate to break laws anymore."

"I don't break reasonable rules except to serve a good cause... All right, perhaps in principle I could train you to change without any major risk, in case that is truly what you need... You could even apply for a permission to practise. The ministry might not deny it from the Boy Who Lived. But you couldn't appoint me as your official tutor... perhaps Minerva, although I'm sure she wouldn't like the idea. Not now. You know, there are other things you should concentrate on."

Remus caught himself actually fearing that this reasoning would convince Harry - either to give up the idea or to approach Minerva and the ministry. But these worries immediately turned out to be unfounded.

"They did it while they were top students," Harry said impatiently. "James and Sirius, I mean. And an animal form can be useful... when I'm fulfilling my duty, too. And I could be with you just like..."

"Harry, please... Thank you. I don't want to say I don't need it. But, to be honest, I could almost have said it to Sirius a year ago. I had learnt to stop the wolf's aggression with the help of an ordinary animal. When I just had a place where an animal could be locked in with me. Of course, the wolf must have been a lot happier when running free with a friend. But now... I don't think you should regard me as even a part of the reason... Perhaps some day, when all this is over. In any case I'd like to advise you not to hurry with learning now something like this."

"But now is when I want to start at least. At this age they had already become Animagi."

"You need to be yourself, not..."

"But this is what I am - how I'm becoming myself. Learning from them and from you."

It had been extremely hard for Remus to even consider refusing to teach something to this boy. And now Harry appealed to him by denying his arguments in the same way as Thisby had. It was almost a relief to feel it was acceptable to say, "I'll tell you what I know, if you promise not to hurry. You'll see that you can't force it anyway. This is wandless magic, you know."

"Yes? Wandless. And that means...?"

"That means I can't resist deviating from your curriculum in this way. I believe you'd better know something about this kind of magic. And whenever this kind of magic is concerned - you'll learn only what you need."

Harry was apparently too excited to ponder now what Remus had said. "So you promise to help me? I don't think I care about permissions or official tutors. I want to do it just like... Perhaps more quickly because I have your help... All right, perhaps not quickly, but..."

"You mustn't forget I never learnt to transform."

Somehow that sounded like a bad joke. After his almost uncharacteristic babbling Harry was speechless for a while.

They had arrived at the edge of a small clearing, and the lack of a single path to follow, together with the turn in the conversation, had made them both stop. Remus took a step aside and leant against a trunk of a tree, taking in the sight.

He had often been sitting on the grass of this clearing in glorious summer sunlight, and at the moment the colours of autumn were hardly glowing in the light of a cloudy afternoon. He now knew this place in another illumination. But somehow the black and white image of his nightmare had started to move, to acquire nuances. The blood on his palms had, after all, become a sign of bearable pain.

Harry broke the silence with hesitant words. "You could have become an Animagus, too, couldn't you?"

"No, I doubt it. It's no use speculating what I would have become, if I'd never been bitten. By the way, I think it took place right here... Of course, there's no research on this kind of matters, but I assume a werewolf's body is too unstable and... at least in the case of a solitary, deprived individual it's too weak for the performance of such magic."

Harry settled to sit with his back against another broad trunk. As Remus had no cloak to protect him against the damp ground, he remained standing, but he turned towards Harry, determined to stay on the topic.

"That's not the point now. But you'd better realise that I had quite enough of transformations recurring in my life, so I wasn't exactly fascinated by the whole prospect - not on my friends' behalf either. You must understand I didn't indulge in the project quite in the way they did, although I could hardly resist receiving any new exciting knowledge. Soon I was absorbed in studying the topic together with them. But at first I concentrated more on trying to find information on werewolves' reactions to animals. It was rather frustrating... I'm sorry. This must bore you. They didn't want to listen to my doubts either."

Why was he talking about himself again? This did not really concern Harry's aspirations, but he was, of course, still tempted to continue his tale.

And Harry, despite his impatience, did encourage him. "I'll listen."

"If you mean it... The beginning of the project was just tiresome work at the library. We used to sneak to the restricted section at night. While the three of them ploughed through books about Animagi, trying to find some practical instructions, I ended up reading quite repulsive descriptions of the unrelenting aggression of my kind of monsters. It made me feel sick, and that worried Peter."

Now avoiding eye contact, Remus continued as if he had been writing the account. "I thought he wanted to give up, too. After a few nights he asked me - in the presence of the others - to stay behind in the dormitory with him, saying he was just tired, but certainly knowing that James and Sirius thought he was backing out. But he was just covering up for me, and when we were alone he said, 'Don't worry. What does it matter how other werewolves act?' I can still see him in my mind. He was sitting on my bed, as I was lying there, pretending to read. He was pale and shaking of fear and excitement. And he said, 'You didn't hurt a rat, and I'll be a rat. Then I'll be there to tell you not to hurt yourself either.'"

Remus felt compelled to close his eyes for a moment. To his relief Harry said nothing.

"Thank you for listening. I promise to tell you later more about James and Sirius, too. And about the wandless magic."

"And what I have to actually do, so that I can change."

"But you mustn't expect something like the Patronus lessons."

"All right. Oh...Would you like me to show it to you now?" Standing up nimbly, Harry pulled out his wand.

It took Remus a moment to realise what he was talking about.

"As you asked me in the letter... I haven't tried the spell since the OWL exam. But you know, I gave some Patronus lessons myself last year, so it shouldn't be difficult any more, especially not at a happy moment like this."

The mere fact that Harry had not forgotten the request made Remus smile. "Oh yes: Prongs. Yes, please."

With his eyes half closed Harry concentrated for a moment, smiling. The spell was like a triumphant explosion. "Expecto Patronum!"

A dazzling silver figure burst out of his wand. A stag.

Prongs was now galloping in a circle around them, with his proud head high. But the hooves made no sound, and this stag shone like the moon itself, in nauseating motion. As if sensing Remus's desperation, the stag slowed down, almost stopped and bowed his head. The gaze that met Remus's was hopelessly distant. Still, the stag's form vanished first, and the vision of the eyes remained in surprising warmth.

James's love was still there, protecting Harry. It had been there even before Harry knew. Before he had succeeded in conjuring the Patronus, even before he had known how his parents had given their lives for him. All through those seemingly hopeless years when the child had been abused by his relatives. When Remus himself had been drifting, not knowing a purpose for his survival. All the love they had once received had still been there to save them from breaking down. To finally bring them back to where they belonged.

"How about yours?"

"What?"

Startled by Harry's question Remus turned to him - to now see the image of James in him more clearly than ever. Harry was not shorter than James, after all, and now, unlike in July, he looked healthy and strong.

"How about your Patronus?" Harry repeated. "You've never shown me or told me what yours is."

"I told you I'm not good at..."

"But you used the spell on the train. Ron and Hermione told me how you drove away the Dementor."

"They must have told you that the Patronus had no distinct form. It was barely able to banish one Dementor."

Harry looked embarrassed. He clearly hesitated to say anything that would have forced his teacher to confess more openly such a shame as inability to conjure a corporeal Patronus.

"I learnt the spell when I was young. Not when I was thirteen or sixteen. But soon after we had left Hogwarts and the war had started. When we were invited to the Order. After that... after the end of the war it got harder to focus on a happy memory, although I think the subconscious memory which the Dementors forced me to relive remained always the same. Now I wonder... if it will be replaced by something else, as I've regained that nightmare into my conscious mind. In any case, when I'm not actually facing a Dementor, and at a happy moment like this... I suppose I'll succeed, too. I admit a big part of the problem is that I've never been exactly proud to show my Patronus - the form of what is supposed to protect me."

"Why..." Harry started.

But Remus was already lifting his wand.

His happiest memory. He picked the same one he'd always been prepared to use during the past year. The memory of the summer evening when he had got Sirius back. Offered him a bath and the better robes, and the food he had brought from the restaurant where he worked - compensating for that miserable February night when he had failed to offer anything. How they had supported each other when climbing up the stairs, laughing at Mrs. Porchead, at themselves. Finally, healing the wounded paws...

"Expecto Patronum!"

A silver light like the moon blinded him. Half reluctantly he screwed up his eyes to discern its form as soon as possible. But the image only glanced at him and turned away, like always. After one circle it ran straight across the clearing, towards the opposite edge of it, and the outlines of its hind legs, its tail, its alert ears were painfully clear. This time, however, having almost disappeared among the trunks, the canine stopped and turned to stare at him once more, as if asking whether he was ready to follow. Then it was gone.

"Is it Padfoot?" Harry asked.

"No, I'm afraid it's only a... wolf."

Remus was thrilled to realise that in this confession there was neither shame nor bitterness, not even humility left.