Remus Lupin and the Revolt of the Creatures

Chapter Fifteen: The Rejected Gift

The yellow fog wrapped him in the familiar illusion of warmth and security. A shelter like this had been at times for him the best place available for having a rest while still, endlessly, drifting, escaping all attention, his own included, thus disappearing from himself, forgetting any more fundamental reason for his persistent solitude. In far-away lands the mists had been lighter and unpredictable. And they had lifted so as to expose him to expanses of sea, to alien outlines of islands - and other lonesome drifters - he had not exactly yearned to approach.

But when setting off towards ever more notorious quarters in London, once again, Remus knew that this thick all-encompassing veil hid from him - as well as him from - nothing better than the ramshackle buildings lining the alley. Perhaps some malevolent men and other creatures, too.

He had been cautious enough, arriving at the fireplace of a more expensive pub than any he had ever frequented, and in a borrowed decently patched cloak with a hood to cover his head. Had Urgy given him some more accurate directions, he could have apparated at least a stretch of the journey, but there was naturally no floo network connection to his destination.

In front of him the air gradually lost its dim golden glow. The last lantern was soon far back on the alley which he had known too well, at the time when he had wandered around looking for menial work, two years and fifteen years earlier. Now the cobblestone gave way to mud, and that felt peculiarly comforting for his feet, which were already used to the mercifully soft ground in the countryside.

This neighbourhood was not merely avoided by wizards. They lived in denial of its existence, and even - or perhaps particularly - during the time when he had stayed not far from here, in Mrs Porchead's building, Remus had tried his best to adhere to the same attitude. Now, for the first time ever, he was stepping to this world, to which he had not wanted to admit he could belong.

There was no specific borderline, no wall with a gate or without any. Perhaps like this it was easier for wizards to forget that there was a populous settlement of non-humans and part-humans so close to them. The paving simply ended. After a couple of broken lanterns there were none. And a few buildings with boarded-up windows confirmed the message that no decent people could have any business further than this.

Before Umbridge's time it had not been considered necessary, either, to keep the worst rabble confined within these quarters of their own by walls or force. Particularly during the couple of years after the first war, when he had still remained in Britain, mainly in London, Remus had often seen groups of non-humans and part-humans on the streets of the poor wizard neighbourhood. Some had competed for the same jobs with him, whereas others had offered their fey services: fertility magic, natural remedies for illness, or inhuman physical strength.

However, Remus's old neighbourhood had been different when he had returned as an ex-professor of Defenc, but hiding this experience as well as his identity and, when possible, his disorder - his half-humanity. Now patrols kept checking suspicious folks for visible non-human features. All those whose full humanity was in doubt were interrogated on their purposes of leaving their own quarters. Only those who had jobs or property in the area were tolerated. The others were ordered to remain where they belonged.

As for the goblins, the poorest among them owned enough gold to invest on the land and buildings of the shabbiest wizard neighbourhood, so they stayed and prospered. But those with faun, veela or giant descent had become rare to see, not to mention any darker creatures.

Remus had walked as swiftly as possible, using the gutter as well as the obscure figures of the tall buildings as his direction signs. Now he needed to stop for a moment to orient himself. The gutter had overtaken the alley in all its breadth. In order to avoid wading in deep stinking water Remus had to move close to the walls on either side and, when continuing his way, to cross the stone steps by each door he passed. Following Urgy's advice, he kept to the left.

He still did not want to risk exposing himself by shedding light with his wand or by conjuring flames on his palm. Therefore the light seeping out through the cracks in the shutters was welcome. Yes, while the buildings were smaller here than on the border zone he had left behind, they were obviously all inhabited. And they were not fragile, temporary shacks like in the shanty town of the Ancient Village, where landowners must have repeatedly destroyed the dwellings of the poorest witches and wizards. The earlier generations of non-humans had evidently combined their indigenous magic and human skills when constructing these houses. It might well have been beyond the wizards' ability to demolish them.

As early as in his childhood Remus had learnt from Mr Grubber and other proud, mainly part-human members of the theatre group about the history of settlements like this one. A couple of centuries ago when muggles had started exploiting the resources of the land more effectively, some non-human magical creatures had found their traditional habitats too severely threatened, despite their ability to hide in alternative dimensions. It had certainly been hard for them to give up the material pleasures they had earlier enjoyed when playing freely in wilderness. Above all, some of them must have missed the interaction into which they had occasionally ventured with humans when adopting their humanlike forms according to their whimsies. That was why a lot of fauns and veela, giants and goblins, and even elves had sought more permanently close relationships with witches and wizards. So as to combine their strengths to hide from muggles, and to share the blessings of life and of magic.

Those who had been most fond of humans had sacrificed some of their own traditions. Others had preferred producing new safe living space for themselves in such large magically expanded areas as the hidden region beyond the Ancient Village of the Cotswolds. There were still communities of more and less well-known breeds in which the indigenous cultures were treasured. But these ancient walls of stone and wood were relics of an urge to adaptation and integration.

The non-human ancestors of these part-humans and few pure non-humans who were now forcibly pushed to remain in the margins of the magical society had learnt to build in the human fashion. They had abandoned a lot of their ways of life as well as meadows, woodlands and mountains when choosing to live in crowded neighbourhoods, so as to side with magical humans of London and other big towns.

Their descendants had struggled against the rising discrimination. The goblins had been the first to response with rebellion. But soon their access to gold and precious metals had bought to the richest of them a relatively high status and a grudgingly-given respect in the society.

Only during the first war against Voldemort had the scattered cultural movements of various creatures adopted a political tone. Dame Philomela's theatre had been one centre of these attempts at reappraising the traditions and at a multicultural unity against the repression of the rights of the creatures. Only meagre measurable progress may have been achieved.

Remus himself had grown up involved in the multicultural way of life. Still, he had hardly paid attention to the wider political aspirations when, as a young man, he had struggled for opportunities and later for survival, overwhelmed by his own hardships. But now that he thought about it, he realised that in the aftermath of the first war the society had been quite tolerant towards any creatures which had not been considered dark - at least towards the ones who had adapted themselves to human habits. No, not actually towards the various cultures of the creatures.

Now Robin in particular enjoyed explaining to Remus in fervent monologues how the movement was strengthening again with open emphasis on social reforms. Umbridge's rule had frustrated the new generation. Perhaps the young part-humans were right, concluding that they had nothing to lose when embracing their fey heritage, despite the wizards' prejudice against it.

Not all of them had been raised to deep insight into that heritage. But they gradually acquired determination in demanding that they - with anything they chose to embrace and were able to embrace - be included in the society with a chance to satisfy their needs and to contribute to it as its equal members. Most of them simply had human needs for shelter and food. Some of them certainly had inadequate magical ability to live purely in the fashion of their non-human ancestors, even in case they were enlightened about it.

They could have given up attempts at improvements in their situation, but the new laws illegalising propagation were obviously unacceptable to them. Thisby and her two suitors were certainly not the only ones who defied the rules and went even further than attempting a rather conventional wedlock within their own breed or with humans. This little half-veela at least tried to adhere to her wizard father's wish for monogamy. A lot of other creatures were certainly happy to embrace any customs which humans refused to understand.

Some merely questioned the policies of the establishment. But others were empowering themselves with rediscovered indigenous values and skills - and new combinations thereof, when overcoming mutual suspicion and uniting across the boundaries of breed.

Umbridge probably belittled the risk for riots. Or perhaps she was looking forward to riots - to an opportunity to crush them all.

Why did not even this thought raise anguish in Remus at the moment? He was startled to realise how serene his mind was, despite the fact that he was - alone and on the basis of a rather vague and even suspicious request - encroaching upon such territory where wizards were not supposed to go.

He walked on and kept checking the signboards above the doors he passed. If there was any board, it was always attached in the old-fashioned way, perpendicularly to the wall, so he could see it easily enough in the light of the windows, which were placed rather high on the walls, and before reaching the door. Everything here was old and seemed to be kept from collapsing only with the original magic.

Remus had not been exactly happy to come, particularly not now when there was only a week left before Halloween and too much left to do with Harry and to tell him. But now he was getting curious to see how people lived within these walls. And there was more to it than that.

He had still seen nobody. He could not claim to have heard any sounds either, certainly no footsteps or laughter or whispering. Still, in this gloom and silence, which should have been ominous, he sensed a strangely comforting presence including all that and more. Music, or rather a rhythm.

When he stopped and leant against a humid stone wall and closed his eyes, he felt the rhythm penetrate him. Nothing alien, after all. He had rediscovered this blessing almost immediately at the moment of his homecoming, again when his first companions had settled in the house, and when resting in their shelter after the September full moon - and certainly under that moon. He had just not expected to feel it here. And now that there was nothing else familiar around, no people or places he had known, its abstract form was bare and obvious. The balance deriving from the source...

Was it true, a reality? Or was it an enchantment, here as a trap for him? Perhaps he was enthralled by it, but he wanted to believe it was simply what the inhabitants had managed to cherish. They had to naturally cling to it as their warmth against the cold of the world outside.

Yes, he had sensed it as a child. But only at a time beyond any conscious memory had he known it simply like this: not mixed with perceptions of beauty or with everyday actions shared with friends, but, instead, as a separate entity, in the existence of which you chose to believe. Yes, now he was certain he had once known it like this, without doubts or tormenting curiosity and the consequent denial. As a secret treasure shared by Gumby.

The creatures here were sharing it with him, and for once he felt he could be like them - more than human. This rhythm of creation was present - as a persistent celebration of life, defying the deprivation and despair - probably for anyone receptive enough to sense. But Remus had also been invited, even though he did not know by whom and for what purpose.

He opened his eyes and resumed his brisk walk, eager to find the inn Urgy had named.

If anyone here needed help urgently or otherwise wished to join Remus or perhaps rather the Merry Thespians, why would it not have been enough to talk to Urgy and come to the Cotswolds with him? The request had been totally unexpected.

Nymphadora had certainly not crossed the border zone. She had continued to talk only to goblins, and they had their own pubs in Remus's old neighbourhood. Urgy had returned to London for further negotiations with those goblins who had expressed their interest in the opposition.

Or perhaps the preliminary attraction was the theatre as entertainment business. The goblins had suggested that they invest in the performances, and it was tempting to accept the offer, as their gold could help them all through the winter. Laughing at the goblins' unfailing focus on increasing their wealth, Robin and Remus had seen a problem only in the fact that they did not know what kind of profit they could possibly promise. Perhaps some more buying power for the goblins' new potential customers, if they should achieve the reforms so as to secure some chances for reasonable income for part-humans as well as uneducated witches and wizards.

Yes, a revolution was a business venture in the eyes of some of those involved. In the same way the war against Voldemort served Umbridge in her aspirations.

Another thought of Umbridge now forced Remus to remember the possibility that this visit could be a trap arranged by the enemy he loathed most. But the amazing pleasure he felt, when following this filthy alley, hardly left space for worries about - or even for rejoicing in - his recklessness.

Besides, in his message Urgy had promised to arrive at the same place. Or was it a promise - or a hint at a demand for a ransom? A young half-giant told me that someone wants to meet you at the Dewbowl Inn in the denied neighbourhood after sunset tonight. Continue beyond the end of the alley behind the Golden Flame Groceries, and stick to the left. Please come alone. I'll be there, too. Urgy.

There it was. At the moment when he formed the name Dewbowl in his mind he had heard hinges creaking, and now right in front of him a streak of bright rosy light was spilling upon the calligraphy in a rusty signboard. The first thing he saw between the opened shutters of the window just above his head was a pair of horns sticking out of a mop of dark hair.

The faun or half-faun heaved himself up to lean his elbows on the windowsill. Remus could not distinguish the facial expression, but the tone of the voice was amused. "Ah, another guest of the kin we seldom serve. You're welcome tonight."

With a louder creak the door flung open. A waft of warm air, saturated with herbal and floral fragrances, surrounded Remus before he had even crossed the threshold. However, he had to stumble up a few steps of a murky staircase to reach the open entrance to the pub.

The shimmering lights filling this room spoke to him of perfect pleasure, enticing him to forget why he had come, to forget the world outside from which he had come. His cold fingers slipped from the grip of the wand inside of his pocket as well as of the doorframe. He felt like reaching for the luminous faces, as only a few among the creatures had turned towards him, while he yearned to be welcomed by everyone.

At that moment, though, he was startled to recognise a melody played shrilly on a shawm. Only now did he become fully aware of the constant flow of music as part of his holistic experience of enchantment. This melodramatic combination of tunes belonged to one of William Wotton's most popular ballads, which the composer had tried to teach his son, too, to play on the lute. Remus had never quite fulfilled his father's expectations in this field, but William had always remained gentle and still simply laughed when, after leaving Hogwarts, Remus had sunk as low as to dancing to disco music. A couple of years earlier when the muggle soft rock Lily had introduced to the Marauders had made Remus more eager to sing to himself than ever before, William had doubted his late muggle-born mother would have appreciated this living form of her cultural heritage in her grandson's interests. William's own work followed almost purely wizard traditions, which shared features only with older muggle music, with occasional influences from other breeds, thanks to his part-human artist friends.

Perhaps a faun played this melody as a joke rather than a greeting. In any case it served its purpose and stopped Remus from losing himself into the enchantment. He felt alarmed, too, realising that at least some of the creatures here knew exactly who he was. Pushing the hood down, he took a couple of steps forward and looked around.

Now he could discern individual, more and less pleasant features in the crowd - as well as the rags, and the shabby state of the interior beneath the shimmer of the fey light. Most of the pub customers were sitting on the top of the long wooden tables, whereas the benches, having been pushed against the walls, were occupied by others, who had chosen to lie down to sleep. Remus caught the eyes of a faun, who winked, but nobody approached him.

Heading for the bar, he passed a snoring half-giant. The man was less huge than Hagrid, obviously younger and not so well-nourished either, but the two benches he had occupied can't have formed a very comfortable bed for him. However, he had company. A part-veela was huddled against him, but she opened her eyes and showed the petal of her tongue, too, when Remus got close to them.

Turning his head away, Remus witnessed a company of fauns and half-fauns in a game of darts of their preference: they encouraged tiny sharp-peaked birds to fly, with eyes closed, against a dartboard. The faun who was winning cried out loud and started celebrating by sharing his drink, pouring a few drops into each bowl on the table. Perhaps the faun's small bowl had been filled sparingly with Thisby's favourite drink - the precious mix of dew, swan milk and blood of roses.

Now Remus reached the bar - to find the barmaid sitting up on the counter, stirring a goblet with a finger. This drink was different: it started to emit colourful steam in addition to enticing odours. Such cider was for goblins, and this young lady was unmistakably a part-goblin herself, remarkably taller and plumper than Mrs. Porchead. Her large mouth was garishly-coloured and at the moment twisted into a satisfied grin. She pulled up a finger of respectable size and licked it, caressing the jewels on her rings with her tongue. There were only a few rings, but she had placed most of them on this finger.

"Come, my love! I've prepared it for you." With this call, she finally lifted her eyes and fixed her sharp gaze on Remus.

To his relief one of the goblin gentlemen, who had gathered, perhaps for business negotiations, a bit further down the bar, moved closer and grabbed the goblet, pressing a Galleon to the barmaid's hand. "Buy yourself one, Miss Lacy," he said.

"Excuse me," Remus ventured to say, glancing at each of the two of them in turn. "I wonder if you've seen here tonight someone called Urgy, from the Cotswolds."

Miss Lacy waved her fingers towards the shelves behind the bar. A bowl and three crystal bottles arrived in front of her with a quick flash of light each. Still, she replied without delay, while her customer was merely measuring Remus from under his bushy eyebrows with such moderate curiosity that it was impossible to say how much he knew. "That's not the creature you're supposed to meet. The one is waiting outside in the garden, so you'd better get out of here, too. No, wait. You're paying... Pie and chips, and a pint of apple cider."

Remus gave her nothing but a smile. "Thank you. I'll be back."

"I knew I could trust you," she said pointedly, but there was a trace of amusement in her voice, too.

Relieved, as the details of what he owed to the pub did not indicate a lady with veela blood, Remus made his way to the half-open door opposite to the entrance. This was where the floral fragrance derived from. The few trees behind the building were breathing out air soft as that of a spring night.

Having crossed the narrow, dilapidated porch and while descending the stairs to the garden, Remus noticed that the blooming branches sheltered seemingly mismatched couples and small companies of young part-elves. Some of the frail creatures with large eyes, and with luminous manes or delicate horns, were gathered around some kind of water pipes, not very different from the narghile Remus had seen in the orient. But no one here was having dinner.

In reality it was a cold October evening in this garden, too. The mist was shrouding the enchanted blossoms and mixing with the rose-scented smoke of the pipes. Beyond the circle of the fey luminosity and music, in the far corner of the garden, Remus discerned first a tiny, quick reflection of light accompanied with a final clink of cutlery. Then he noticed the hunched figure of someone who was pushing a plate aside.

Before Remus had reached the solitary table, the man rose to stand taller than him. The upright bearing and the eyes turned down to look into his brought momentarily back a memory of being treated condescendingly. But these eyes were bright - perhaps blue - and the wrinkles in the corners completed the warmth in the gaze. Besides, the man reached out his hand, saying hoarsely, "They call me Paul."

"Remus. Pleased to meet you."

The first impression had been so pleasant and so clearly dominated by strength that only when feeling how chapped the skin of the sinewy hand was, and when allowing his eyes to wander from it, first up the arm, which was covered with tattered sleeves of shirts and robes, did Remus notice that the man was dressed like a beggar. He was actually rather thin than wiry, and unless he was much older than Remus's parents would have been, he looked clearly older than his age. His shaggy hair and beard were grey. The layers of his squalid pieces of various muggle and wizard clothing seemed to have been added on top of each other in vain attempts to cover the holes in each previous layer. The overall look, when the man had sat down, was so grey and - in this neighbourhood - inconspicuous that he would easily have gone unnoticed in the gutter. Besides, Remus could no longer help admitting to himself that he had recognized the stench which unmistakably indicated homelessness. He could, however, not believe that this man was an ordinary beggar.

When Remus had settled down opposite to him, the man said, after a fit of coughing, "Thank you for the meal. And I suppose I must first apologise..."

Such surprising politeness made Remus feel so genuinely comfortable that he replied without any further thought. "It's my pleasure."

"It's... hardly been pure pleasure all through these years, has it?"

What was this? The man - this Paul - was gazing at him, and suddenly the warm eyes were brighter than before. The bearded chin trembled, and the man wrapped a shred of cloth tighter around his neck. Remus realised how cold he was, too, as if the sensation had been transferred to him. As if the two of them had shared the misery of... all these years?

The hoarse voice continued, "I thought you knew about me. Now at least you must know... that I used to be Ice-Stare's friend."

Remus wanted to close his eyes but changed his mind. He had to continue to see this man in front of him, and he had to talk, without allowing emotions to dominate his thoughts. This man was the friend Ice-Stare had lost, the one who had been punished.

"Yes, Ice-Stare mentioned you. He was the first to tell me anything. But I had actually... in a dream I had just regained a conscious image of... that night."

"Would you have recognised me?"

"No."

"Of course not. If there had been any reason in my eyes for you to see and possibly remember, everything would have turned out different."

Without closing his eyes Remus now saw the image of his nightmare again. The soulless gaze of the shiny yellow eyes. He smelled the breath of the beast, felt the hairy head leaning on his shoulder. The very first pain.

He had clutched the edge of the table. The bare tabletop was worn and smooth, and he tried his best to focus on the glasses on it. Yes, in addition to an empty plate there were two large glasses, and one of them seemed to have not been used. Now this man poured half of what was left of his pint of cider into the other glass and pushed it towards Remus.

Having avoided alcohol almost without exception for five years, Remus should have found it easy to refuse, even in case he had not had any reservations concerning his companion. However, now he had the irrational feeling that there was no escape. He had to share whatever he was offered. At least, by accepting it, he could control it.

He grabbed the glass and, staring at the face in front of him, tilted it to let the liquid wash his mouth but, careful not to swallow, and checking that the man was watching, let it all out and back into the glass. He should have felt repulsion, thinking that the cider had been in contact with the mouth of not only a filthy beggar, but of the werewolf who had deprived him of his identity, his health and his rights as a human. To his surprise, however, the odour filled his mind with sweet reminiscence of the drinks shared with his best friends in their youth.

He caught himself smiling and explaining teasingly but sincerely, "I'm sorry. I abstain from alcohol. I wager you wouldn't have liked to waste the only drink you... I'm going to pay for."

"I'm happy to take it back, if you really don't want to drink." A wide smile lit up the bearded face for a moment, but sadness returned to the eyes.

Remus quickly pushed the glass back. Paul reached for it immediately and took a swig, even though the other glass was not empty yet. Staring into the glass thoughtfully he pulled a ragged sleeve over his hand and wiped both his mouth and his nose.

"You know, it was meant to be a gift," he muttered, finally lifting his eyes.

It took Remus a moment to comprehend that this did not refer to what had just changed hands. And he knew he had instinctively attempted at a misunderstanding, reluctant to accept the topic. Not replying, he leant back but could not resist meeting the persistent gaze.

The man's eyes were gleaming, and he seemed to be impatient to offer a detailed confession. Still, he started by clearing up the background, speaking slowly. "Children to be presented with it were chosen carefully. Our chief Iron-Fang, of course, made the decisions. But he listened to our suggestions."

The calm and calculated voice suddenly irritated Remus. He took hold of the edge of the table again and pushed his chair backwards. This beast was proudly explaining what he had achieved in the glory of his days. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Please. You're right. You don't. He had no obligation to listen. You know, I have other suggestions now, and I'll just ask if you want to consider... because I believe it would benefit all of us, and because - I admit - I am fond of the idea, as I was then, thirty-three years ago..."

Remus could not decide whether this man was cunning or sincere. Perhaps this dilemma fascinated him enough to make him listen. Besides, he could not help his curiosity.

"I had come down to the Ancient Village to do some purchases for the pack. Salt and such stuff... imported ingredients for potions, like powder of Hungarian Horntail horn. I was not supposed to stay, but I had tasted muggle booze at the White Thestral a couple of times before. You know, the dregs of magical world, those merely human wizards who had started to gather in that neighbourhood... they were lost to all shame and sold their labour to muggles. One of the best things they brought back to their seedy pub was the drinks of this primitive form. At the first time I had bought a bottle on the street out of curiosity. And now I had to admit I'd already started to crave for alcohol without any magical tampering."

The man had launched into story-telling, obviously enjoying his own ability, even though the head-cold had almost made him lose his voice. He was interrupted by another fit of coughing, but after another swig of cider he continued. "So I went to the Thestral, and I was persuaded to join a small company of friends. They sounded a bit more cultured than the rest. They knew something about some kind of art... obviously nothing that could compare with our art in the pack, I thought then, of course. But later that night I was drunk enough to follow them to a theatre. I don't know how great the performance was, but something impressed me."

Remus felt half reluctant to listen. The pleasure this man took in his monologue reminded Remus of Ice-Stare. He tried to focus on analysing the formal similarities and differences in their ways of speech, the results of their experiences of the past three decades. But he could not escape the story, which now proceeded to take over his own past, depriving him of the control of it.

"The leaders of this theatre had brought together all kinds of half-breeds and were determined to show that whatever they had preserved or could revive of their fey heritage was worth being proud of. She gave a speech at the end. Mrs. Philomela Wotton, a gorgeous woman, standing on the stage between her brother and husband. And then her son ran up to her. Not six yet, I thought immediately. Bright, strong and beautiful. And I knew I wanted you."

The longing in that warm gaze... Was it simply added for extra effect by a storyteller, to complete his craft? It had to be...

"When the chief asked me what I knew about good magical families in the Cotswolds, with suitable children to add to our pack, I didn't hesitate to name the Wottons of Bagendon. And when the moon was full again I had this task to fulfill... I was supposed to bring you home with me. Definitely not to wound you badly. I am alone responsible for that. Please forgive me."

Without a warning the man stretched his hand across the table. Remus caught himself folding his arms protectively over his chest. The pain was flooding him.

The sympathetic eyes were scrutinising Remus, unable to conceal the hunger for insight, while the voice was a barely audible whisper. "I can't remember anything of the night."

The claws pressing against his chest... Remus was definitely not going to share anything of the nightmare. He regretted having already indicated how he had been mauled, and, too late, he dropped his arms on either side.

"In the morning I was feeling inexplicably sick," the man continued, scarcely compensating for his obvious joy in sharing his story by desperately wiping his nose again, "when my friend Ice-Stare woke me up. That was the last time I saw him. I'd been called to the chief. He could hardly hold back his fury when he ordered me to collect the boy at St. Mungo's. If he was still alive, I was told. So I knew I'd gone astray more terribly than I had dared to believe immediately when realising I'd lost my mind soon after the moonrise. Each renewed ritual of blood usually worked well with me..."

He had to be talking about the rituals which allowed the werewolves in packs to channel their aggression, in a controlled fashion, for profitable biting. Perhaps he did not know - or he was forgetting - how little Remus knew about packs.

"The failure must have been due to the booze I'd smuggled from the Ancient Village. I hadn't resisted trying if it would change my perception of the emergent change. At that time, of course, I couldn't fully appreciate the impact of companions, and these moments of the cycle were unpleasant enough, even though I was rewarded by the blessing of becoming the wolf. And although I had grown up believing that this was the noblest form of life, I had become too curious about other forms. The chief must have made a mistake, sending me out on errands too often. I didn't know if it was the booze, but after my later experience I'm now almost certain... In any case it made no difference. Iron-Fang didn't care about the cause."

Did it make a difference whether Remus heard this story or not? He felt cold and extremely tired. He caught himself clinging to some words irrationally: the impact of companions, the blessing...

"I'd almost killed the valuable child, and after the bite I'd evidently stayed, slowly savouring the blood, until sounds of the people looking for him had made me escape. And in this case it would have been particularly important to drag the child to hide with me until the moonset, so I could have carried him home. Iron-Fang had doubted the Wottons would surrender their bitten son, even though what wizards call dark creatures were not involved in their cultural movement of part-humans. He was right. I had to wait at St. Mungo's only to hear that, despite the best efforts of the ministry officials, this time the new werewolf would be kept by his parents. The representative of the Werewolf Registry knew what this exceptional situation meant. I would not be accepted back."

There was a sigh and a silence. But at the moment when Remus lifted his head and the man caught his eyes, mesmerising him to keep the contact, the story continued, ever more intimately.

"The two of us were marked in the register as solitary werewolves on the same day. You know too well what that meant. In theory we were to be in the protection of the ministry exclusively - with no right to be supported by anyone else or by ourselves. With no rights. I didn't know if I even hoped that you'd survive. Of course, I couldn't understand that the ministry's inefficacy and your parents' love would make it possible for them to take care of you. I had been thrown to the world all on my own. Like those who had never belonged to packs. That's how your parents punished me.

No, he did not blame his chief or his pack, of course not. Had he hated the Wottons? Did he hate their son? With anguish Remus comprehended the answer: of course not. He continued to love what he had lost: his chief, his pack, the boy he never got.

The empty glass hit the table with force, and the monologue continued. "He never called me back before it was too late. I mean Ice-Stare. I used to be his friend. He's inviting everyone now. You must know that. He's flattering us. Each werewolf who survived on his own. He thinks he knows what we've been through. What does he know!"

Yes, Ice-Stare had claimed to know Remus, too - and to admire him.

"He became the chief when Iron-Fang was murdered. Yes, murdered, towards the end of the first war. Either by Voldemort or by the ministry - not because they needed to get rid of him, but because Voldemort wanted us to blame the ministry, and the ministry wanted us to blame Voldemort. It doesn't really matter who happened to be the first to get to do it. He could have found me and got me back. I mean Ice-Stare."

The man had now folded his arms and lowered his head between his shoulders, but he continued to look up at Remus. "He must have thought I wasn't worthy. I'd been lost. I'd destroyed myself by the time he replaced Iron-Fang. He could have healed me, but I wasn't worthy of being sought. And I didn't need him to save me. Unlike what he believes, we are never alone. You know that - at the latest after your visit to the village."

There was a pause, but Remus still considered it unnecessary to contribute anything. He realised he had leant forward, though, and placed his arms on the table.

"I was first shown by the Registry to this place, which doesn't really exist for them. To be persecuted by those whom they persecute. I had one thing to live for: what had caused my failure. I knew nothing about living outside a pack, except the pub, the primitive booze. That's what I needed so as to ease my mind somewhat, and I lived to find ways to get a drink. I don't even know if I bit and killed others during the first months. If it was part-humans, the ministry wouldn't have reacted. But soon the others found me, and they chained me like they chained themselves. To protect themselves from the rising anger. I tried to fight back, and I would have, even if I hadn't been pissed. They were uncultured. Bitten as grown-ups. I had no more respect for them than for non-wolf creatures. It took me years to learn to know them, to learn from them, to teach them. Drifting from here to the Cotswolds slums, to the wilderness beyond the Ancient Village, to the Continent, and back."

Forming the sounds now evidently caused pain in Paul's throat but he could not resist completing his story in his verbose style. "Back here I've realised we can be a community, if I choose to see it like that. We are few. Too many have been executed, or have destroyed themselves. But the rest of us... We continue to take care of each other, more or less selfishly. And now he wants us to become the dregs of his pack. Some are joining him. But most of us find his world alien. We are free. None of us is better than the other. We are poor and close to death at any moment, not only at full moon. But we try our best to keep each other alive. As if there was hope. Isn't the part-human nature incredible? We cling to this life... yes, of course, just because there's no hope, as there is nothing beyond for us. Now you must believe we are a force. We won't join Ice-Stare, when we can stay alive and free by serving you, instead."

This was overwhelming. Remus could hardly picture in his mind all these creatures who wanted to join him. His incredulity manifested itself in a question he addressed rather to himself. "Me?"

"Yes, or actually the two of you. Hecate Fair-Shanks and you."

All right. Remus felt tempted to give up any attempt at control or comprehension. Or could it be...? A wave of bold hope moved him, like when Brünnhilde Pilz had found him as a destitute and asked for his services, promising to take him on a carpet with her to Africa, or like when he had dared expect to someday know his Animagus friend intimately as the man, not only as the dog.

"Hecate Fair-Shanks? Is she perhaps one of Ice-Stare's most trusted female warriors?"

"Yes, of course. Or rather she used to be... I thought you knew her, too. I've understood that an encounter with you made her start to question..."

A bright flash lit the bearded face and revealed, for a moment, the scars crossing the hollow cheeks. Before Remus had enough time to conclude its source, the light was gone, and he was startled by a touch on his shoulder. But he recognised Urgy's voice.

"Excuse me, but you'd better leave now immediately. There's a patrol. Apparating straight out of here is not possible. But the ministry men are only harassing creatures inside the pub, and it seems they don't suspect there's something special going on out here."

Paul had drained the other glass, too, and stood up, before Remus had a chance to thank Urgy.

"I'll show you the way out of the garden. Perhaps we'll have a nice little riot here."

Having started to follow, Remus slowed down his steps. He felt a desire to stay and do something useful. What else could he do anyway, after saving himself as an irreplaceable leader? Control what was happening in the opposition? Perhaps in any case he was only contributing to the destruction of any precarious balance there was still left in the magical world. And perhaps, after all, it was not wise to even look for a better balance now when the enemy they had fought in his youth was back. He needed to know so much more about these potential allies than was possible. It would be a lot easier to simply fight at an opportunity like this.

Paul had now reached a high stone wall behind some blossoming trees, and turned to see that Remus had stopped. He seemed to understand why Remus was hesitating. "We're not... I mean, I suggest the two of us don't take part in this. We've hardly got started with planning our co-operation. Now perhaps you who've got a wand... no, of course, a goblin is even better suited for opening a door in this wall."

The stone melted away under Urgy's fingertips. The three of them stepped out to a dark alley, and Urgy closed the wall again behind them.

Paul was the first one to talk. "Here apparition will work as well as goblin magic, so you can go before you're noticed."

"And you?" Remus said, almost holding his breath, and realising that he, in turn, actually meant, "The two of you."

"I'm not in the shape to apparate. And in any case it's better I'm staying around here, lying low in my usual places - as if nothing was going on."

"So you can't come to the Cotswolds now. How about... Hecate?"

"She's over there, in her... our village. She comes here at times, as she's supposed to recruit werewolves for Ice-Stare."

"And she recruits them..."

"Both here and inside the pack - to join her own opposition." Paul's voice had become ever lower.

But Remus could not help continuing. "I assume she mustn't raise suspicion by coming close to my home. Perhaps you can arrange for her to meet me... if you think I've got something to offer."

"You must know that better."

"I must, yes. I'll give you what I can - what I've got. Oh, I forgot to pay the check. You'll do it yourself, and I hope Miss Lacy will serve to you another time, too, and you'll get something else besides drinks..." Remus grabbed quickly the man's hand and forced his small moneybag into it.

For precaution he'd been carrying almost all the gold there was left of what he had got when selling the paintings before leaving London, only a few Galleons. He was ashamed to offer something like that. So little in the light of what he had just said about supporting the werewolves. So much for someone who was hardly managing to scrape up enough for a wretched meal. He did not want to find out whether Paul felt contempt or shame, too.

No more words were exchanged. At the last moment, when preparing himself for apparating, in the flash of Urgy's magic, he registered the surprise on Paul's face and remembered that he had not even considered a reply to the apology.