Remus Lupin and the Revolt of the Creatures

Chapter Nineteen: Best Friends

The red pressed against his eyes. Then a cold weight on his forehead switched the colour off. The sensation of pulsing ache was familiar enough to reassure him. He was right here, all of his body up to the tips of his fingers, too.

Someone was touching him, as well: uncertain hands under his armpits. "You must take the potion," a low voice said.

He forced his eyes open. The face above his chest was hidden by curtains of lank hair, and the silvery light behind this dark figure dazzled him, so that he could not see more. He closed his eyes again.

You must take... Who was saying that?

When he felt the rim of a goblet on his lips, he jerked his head aside. The movement made him slip from the hold of the supporting hands - and he fell against a pillow. Yes, he was lying somewhere soft and warm.

He had returned home once more, and there was no reason to fight or worry. Instead, so much space for the past to enter again. You must take...

"And don't thank me," the Potions master had said. "Dumbledore continues his experiments, and I'll do the work. The demanding work has always been done by wizards like me. We continue to risk our lives, while his special treatment is reserved for beasts. But Black will be caught and sent back to pay for the murder he attempted, using you. There have been more murderers among you - the headmaster's pampered Gryffindor bullies: more murderers than you think."

And in June Snape had offered his condolences with a sly smirk. "I always knew Black was a good man, not as bad as he would have been, if he'd succeeded in a murder. Oh, did I forget to mention... Of course, back in autumn eighty-one I learnt about the Dark Lord's plans to use Pettigrew."

The voice in his memory was subdued by the effortless humming of a captivating melody, and he could sense cool gentle glow through his lids. Without seeing Thisby he was finding respite in his many blessings again. Still, something recent - something that he did not quite have the mind to think about yet - demanded him not to forget what could have been only - and for some reason he was not sure any longer he was allowed to say "only" - a nightmare.

"Was it Snape? Peter..."

"Hush, Thisby said," and her voice smiled to him reassuringly. "There's nobody like that here - only the creatures whom you've let in yourself. That was Jonah. He's been tending to you."

***

Leaning back in the chair as the magic from decades ago customised it perfectly to support his frame, he grabbed the spoon with his left hand. A thick bandage still covered his right from knuckles to halfway the forearm, and the ache had not subsided. This was the first time he came to sit at the table to have a proper meal since... When the spoon got dipped into the thick soup in the hand-painted bowl, this image returned first: the poorly-transfigured piece of cardboard shoved close to Nathan's apathetic face.

"My pack... The boy -Nathan - and the others! Jonah, please! What happened to my mind? What happened to them all?"

In his sudden anguish Remus was already about to dash up, when Jonah appeared from the kitchen, with Kostas's wand pointed to guide two other bowls through the air in front of him. The food landed on the tabletop, upsetting a vase filled with forget-me-nots, while Jonah put his hands on Remus's shoulders.

"The child's recovering well, Thisby says. He's started to eat. She went back there then almost at once, left me to take care of you, and now she's gone for another visit."

"There?"

"To the barrack," Jonah explained. "Where this Bafflegab guy got you."

There were too many questions to ask, and too many priorities.

But Jonah sat down next to Remus, moving the reassuring touch down his left arm. "Thisby says you'd better get some of your strength back first, so... It was all right what her magic did - or his magic, or both, whatever. It shook it all out from your head for a while, for the whole day and night and this morning. And there's nothing you should worry about. They got him, the hags did. And your... pack has all settled in over there."

Overwhelmed by the flood of memory, Remus was relieved that at least he had not been out of it for several days. "All of them, unharmed?" he hurried to ask, clinging to the hope.

"Yes, and Paul wants you to know that they didn't harm anybody else too badly either."

Remus could not help smiling. "He's so considerate now, isn't he? And Bafflegab?"

"He died in a hag's hands. But now, look - Frank's joining us. He still likes coming to eat after almost everyone's gone."

Indeed, Frank had appeared in the doorway from the kitchen, looking even taller and stronger than Remus had remembered, healthier. However, he scanned the room warily, and having noticed both Remus and Jonah, he slouched a bit and hesitated. Then he headed to round Remus so as to reach the place where one of the bowls had slid farther than the other. But when he was passing, at the last moment Remus reached out his hand - the right one, without stopping to consider how well he could make it function - towards Frank's hands, which, as usual, both rested above his chest, so as to greet him. The tips of these stiff fingers ended up brushing against velvety fur. For the first time ever Remus had touched Frank's wat.

"Hello. How are you doing?" he said, not withdrawing his hand.

After the first alarmed twitch there were a couple of slight nervous movements, but he could sense the animal calm down. Despite this pleasant outcome of his clumsiness, he quelled the curiosity and refrained from exploring the creature with a bolder caress.

Frank seemed pleased, too. Without looking at Remus, he grinned and nodded, as if he had listened to his pet's reply to the question. Then he moved on to sit down, leaving only one chair empty between the two of them. Holding the wat in his lap, he bent over the table and started to ladle soup into his mouth. There were some traces of a small smile left and visible between the spoonfuls, but he did not look up even when Jonah launched into talking to him.

"Did you finish your spinning work? I bet you did. You're so fast." After a pause Jonah continued in the form of his report to Remus. "Almost everyone here works on the wool now. I think the rest of the sheep are going to be sheared today."

"But that's excellent."

"Of course, not everyone's here. Rose herself - she took a group of those who can best help fix the barrack... and defend it."

Jonah's casual tone had turned cautious and he glanced between Remus and Frank, who concentrated fully on feeding the rest of his soup to the wat.

"It's all right," Remus said, attempting at a reassuring voice - while realising how he had involved the children in a conflict which would not have needed to concern them.

An attempt at an explanation to Frank served in clearing his thoughts. "You must have noticed that my little outing was not a complete success."

Perhaps they would all have been better off without him. Bafflegab, too... He had probably been there only because Umbridge had known or guessed that Remus would come.

Now in any case this was no longer his place to stay, even though the quiet moment in the comforting company could have made it tempting to fall back to forgetfulness. He tried to focus on the simple satisfying experience of eating, but he could not ignore the impatient thought that its purpose was to quickly make him strong enough to be of some use to somebody. Of course, it might have been most reasonable to apparate all the way, but he did not know how soon he could venture to do that, and he did not want to wait.

"Thank you, Jonah, for everything. I'll hear the rest from Rose and Paul themselves. I must go now." He moved his chair backwards and managed to get to his feet before Jonah stopped him.

"No, you mustn't. I mean, we can only hope you are able to walk outside. Just before you got up and down here, I told Mrs Hopchin that you might be, after having some lunch. She came to say that there's a visitor for you, a friend. You'll see there're important things for you to do here."

***

The cosy, warm room had looked so dusky that it had not occurred to Remus it could be only early afternoon on a bright, almost cloudless day. This is how he perceived the day at the moment when he pushed the door open: perfectly clear, crisp air through which every nuance of any colour left in the wilting landscape shone to him in enchanting invitation to explore and store in memory, so as to perhaps depict it in a painting, someday during an unforeseeable peaceful era.

He took a step out and lifted his face towards the sun. When the light dimmed, he could have first explained it with an occasional cloud - had a stab of pain in his head not made him seek support of the door. Everything in his vision was blurred down to shades of grey and to figures with soft edges. He hardly dared to turn and look when he heard Jonah's voice.

"How are you? You know, Thisby said that bright light could still disturb you."

"I'm all right."

He had to be. His sight would be back to normal soon. And he could still see the concern on Jonah's face - unless he only heard it - as well as Frank stepping closer and offering an arm like to a lady.

"Want to come with me - you and your pet?" he asked as cheerfully as he could. "I suppose we'll just go across the orchard."

After walking a stretch in the bleak haze he continued, "Can you see someone waiting over there? I think I can." He had started saying the last words before he realised that Frank was replying.

And the reply was not a nod, but, for once, a focused outtake - or perhaps intake - of breath. "Yeah."

"Yeah, you must be right. There is someone there, among the apple trees, leaning on one, right? Perhaps I should have asked whether Mrs Hopchin had mentioned who wanted to see me."

But any worries about his inability to recognise the visitor disappeared before he even tried to distinguish the facial features. While he was instinctively looking down for a moment, so as not to stumble when leaving the lane, the visitor approached swiftly. Remus might not have been totally aware of the fine fragrance back at Halloween, but now the scents of orange and ginger were familiar enough to prepare him for the eager grip of his upper arms.

Prospero's first words, however, lacked the solemnity he expected, even all politeness, while the delighted, almost tender tone made them sound like Good to see you. "You look terrible."

Just as when they met for the first time, Remus was unusually conscious of and uncomfortable about the way he was dressed. Thanks to Jonah he was at least reasonably clean. "Obviously. If you wanted to see someone good-looking, you wouldn't have come to me. But this here is Frank Longbottom. Frank, this is Prospero."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Longbottom. But seriously, Remus... Forgive me. I can see I should not have made you come out."

"I'm used to wounds on my arms, as well as to overall terrible look. But I have nothing against getting back in, and I trust that, even with the wand in my left hand, I'll manage to conjure the parchment to allow you entry," Remus was saying before he became aware of his attempt at hiding behind all these words from the visitor's unfair perspicacity. "Having you as my guest will be an honour and a pleasure."

***

When pulling the door open and letting the others enter first he wondered if Prospero had expected this gesture of trust. Remus had not needed to stop to consider anything, as if he had dreamt of this visit and seen exactly how he would receive it.

Now he actually saw very little, but he was determined to wait calmly for his eyes to get used to this lighting, which had not bothered them before. Jonah had cleared the table, left the vase, yes... but in his eyes the flowers had lost their blue colour.

There was a tap on his shoulder. Then he realised that Frank was already retreating towards the kitchen.

Perhaps Remus was still tired: he was slow, behind in his perception. Now he had to peer around to finally notice Prospero standing near the bench on which Simon had lain down on his first night here.

He almost managed to offer, "What would you like to have to drink or..."

"Thank you, I am fine. I have just enjoyed Mrs Hopchin's hospitality."

As Remus stepped closer to him, Prospero's features remained soft, as if out of focus. As if not truly here. The resulting anguish was hard to ignore. Perhaps it showed, too - made Remus look more ill.

"Please, I think you need some more rest," Prospero continued. "And would you allow me to... I mean, has your wound been examined by any goblin or half-goblin, and what do they say?"

Remus sat down on the bench and pulled the sleeve up to the elbow. "I don't know if anyone besides Thisby and Jonah... I suppose you can take off the bandage, if you want to see what Bafflegab did. But I don't think the wound is anything particularly serious."

Prospero knelt close to him and reached to arrange some pillows, then to push him to lie down. The touch of the fingers, as well as any performance of magic making the bandage unwrap, was hardly perceptible. Instead, the ache intensified, as if unleashed, and Remus concentrated on not moving and on breathing deeply.

"No, you are right," Prospero said. "This is no extraordinary wound, even though he did it more roughly than they usually bother to do."

Did what? Remus turned his head cautiously so as to take a look. He saw only a dark zone circling the wrist. Exceptionally he felt no urge to examine the wound in detail, and he refrained from commenting.

"There is a strange aura... Oh yes, some magic of the veela. Miss Thisby, I assume..."

"Yes, Jonah just explained to me in the morning that a part of the wrist bone had been fragmented, and Thisby did something to it to make it start healing gradually. But the wound itself is... ordinary?"

"Yes. This is the routine procedure. Umbridge must have been eager to have you properly stigmatised." Prospero drew a shuddering breath but hurried to continue. "Perhaps she wants you to live with it for a while, too. Therefore I should say it is possible that she knew about the hags - and intended to get rid of Bafflegab."

The routine... Remus squeezed his eyes shut. Now this young man saw how it was all not only an illusion. This wound was not only a random injury. All right, he had seen it, and did he now wish he were not here? He was still talking about Umbridge and Bafflegab, and Remus needed to listen. Even in case it was all just guesses, this discussion could help him sort out his thoughts, figure out alternative explanations, perhaps prepare himself against the next cunning plots.

Yet, now Prospero hushed. Perhaps he had talked only to cover his shock, his disappointment. Whose dream had it been that the two of them could share something in common? His fragrance was now less perceptible, too, so he was evidently not bent close any longer. Before he had enough time to leave, Remus had to sit up so as to focus on resuming the discussion. The ache on his arm was getting ever worse now when the bandage was not supporting the wrist... and yes, he could bear worse than this.

Opening his eyes, he faced the fact that his sight had still not got normal. At the same time he escaped this and any other bitter thoughts by moving abruptly, so as to struggle to a sitting position, while this made the pain sear through his whole right side. The bandage shone dimly against a dark pillow and he managed to grab it in his left hand.

But Prospero's fingers closed over his, smooth and strong. "Let me. I should not have delayed in wrapping it back. Miss Thisby knew well how to make the injury a bit less painful. I am sorry."

Remus gave in. Leaning against the wall, he watched Prospero under half-closed lids. The slender fingers did not hesitate to touch him even as much as they had hesitated before the wound had been revealed. There was no healing magic at work, but there was something soothing about them in any case. He was now able to speak in a calm voice again. "It's all right. I could have tied it myself. A bit clumsily, I admit."

"No, I mean I am sorry this was done to you."

"Why should you be? I am one of them. I want to be."

Prospero sat up onto the couch next to Remus. "Still. You are not only that."

"I decided to join these werewolves, so I doubt I'm any longer the person you want to talk to. I'm not staying here..."

"But you cannot escape the responsibility! You are the leader to unite us all. Umbridge wants us to abandon you. Yes, perhaps that's why... I first thought she only meant to torture you - physically and mentally. But she also did not want you to die before your various followers would first cease to regard you as someone obviously worthier than... any common werewolf. As someone whose memory and example would still encourage them to continue their joined efforts. And she is wrong. This stigma does not need to alter anything."

"For me it does."

"In that case it presents you with something, but deprives you of nothing at all."

Remus caught himself smiling again. Even gazing at the mere blurred image of the face now gave him pleasure. "Who are you? I mean, how can I be given so much - someone who has faith in me like this?"

"They all believe in you. Perhaps unlike some others, I am able and willing to talk to you about it. I also believe that, in addition to this gift of confidence, I can offer to you, if not sure facts, at least some well-informed guesses."

This young man was incredible. Young for a goblin, he had said. He possessed both youthful faith and the awareness of someone more mature. His guesses had to be worth hearing, while this also gave Remus a chance to avoid discussing any more intimate issues, so he encouraged Prospero to go on.

"You mean, concerning Umbridge and Bafflegab?"

"Bafflegab was becoming more trouble than use for her. Almost all goblins are now on your side in any case. I think she truly wants only human allies."

Prospero had turned his head, so as to face Remus, and was tilting it. He spoke more slowly now, as if measuring his words carefully. However, perhaps he was actually examining Remus, assessing any injury he had suffered in addition to the harm done to his wrist, whereas the speculations concerning the enemy were flowing effortlessly. "It is possible that she calculated how Bafflegab would not - when following her instructions - manage to defend himself against all of the invaders. She must have sent him to brand you, and the strategy also seems to have been to cause both immediate and long-term harm to your wand arm. I wonder how much she knows about the capacity of your left hand, but perhaps she particularly enjoys preventing you from using the magic of educated wizards."

"Bafflegab had seen me use some magic of needs and flames. You can't be familiar with the details of my first encounter with him, are you?"

"I am."

Before continuing, Remus had to smile in response to the gently amused tone of Prospero's voice. "I think that with his light he paralysed at once also the left hand, or perhaps my mind, momentarily. I felt totally incapable of any defence. Besides, the light must have caused this problem I now have with my sight."

"It's not the same kind of blindness that... the stepfather of one of your followers was afflicted with, is it?"

How did he know about that, too, and care to remember? Despite the sudden hesitation in Prospero's voice, Remus did not want to accept the thought of losing all hope. He had to seek solace in talking, in posing questions, even if he did not expect answers. "We can't be sure if in his - Kostas's - case there was an abrupt complete loss of sight. I can still see something - no colours, nothing in focus really - and I wonder if... it's getting worse."

In a lingering movement Prospero's hand brushed over Remus's face, filling his nostrils with the scent of orange and ginger. "No, I trust it will pass. Just have faith."

***

Harry,

I was brought back home so soon that my solemn preparation for the sacrifice of abandoning all this now looks ridiculous. But I still intend to join the werewolves; I'm only waiting for another brief visit.

While restless, I am also grateful for this chance to still continue the story I've wanted to offer to you. Perhaps I should be able to think of something more useful for you, and this is for my solace, my indulgence. At the same time I am almost terrified to face my past mistakes and losses in this way - and even more now that I'm using my left hand, which normally serves me by channelling emotions through images - at least as much as I am scared of new ones. Could this help you admit to yourself that you are scared, too, while you are, without hesitation, approaching the task appointed to you? Could this help you still question the inevitability of such a fated tragedy as well?

The tragedy of your parents and their friends could have been avoided. The only consolation is that we were not meant to know how - not even to predict what we were approaching.

We had the boldness to proceed despite any danger, or perhaps we rather had the trust that nothing could go wrong. No, maybe finally only Lily had the trust - at those moments, too, when something that had gone wrong was undeniable reality for the rest of us. But there were times when I was too scared to look and see the disaster.

***

I squeeze my eyes shut as soon as the cold glow of lumos appears. The approach of her footfalls sounds hesitant. No, Harry, these ones are not Lily's yet; she never hesitated. Pomfrey's. But you still wouldn't know what I am talking about. I haven't shown you the tunnel; I won't let you touch this blood. This is my nightmare, not to be shared with you, Harry.

Where my hands used to be - where I was me, seeking to sketch images of life, and seeking a human contact - I have only ache, only something ripped to shreds. Still, there is no such mercy as putting an end to it all, or just switching off my mind for these moments. As if the wolf always knew well how to only torture me - how not to cut the veins deep enough to let me bleed to death before regaining consciousness. Did it control in the same way what it did to the other boy?

What have I done? Whether I've killed him or turned him into the same kind of monster, I do care, while I still can't tell which would be worse. What it can possibly be in me that cares, I don't know, when there'll soon be nothing left. If I've ever been any kind of a person, I am certainly no one any longer. This nobody will be sent away, locked away, chained up for the last procedure - most probably another tedious one, executed by the least competent, the most ineffective officials. There is only a beast to be executed - or rather disposed of.

The scent of healing herbs that has impregnated her robes reaches me through the stench of my pain and guilt, but I try my best not to stir. She does not need to move me or lay her fingers on my skin. The mere tentative touch of the diagnostic magic from her wand unleashes such agony in my injuries that beyond it I catch an odd sensation of relief. I'm dying as soon as now, am I not?

Disappointment, weary fear arises when I open my eyes to see the ceiling in the hospital wing. I dare not think what will happen now. And I can hardly believe that it has all been real.

No, the boy's face in the tunnel was nothing but a product of my imagination. Perhaps I was inside the Shack, too, all the time, and I only mauled myself so mercilessly, and had weird hallucinations, just because for some reason my friends failed to keep me company. Perhaps I'm not even hurt so badly. My limbs are resting comfortably...

No, that's it. Pomfrey applies the extreme magic to let me lose physical sensation only when she needs to relieve me from exceptional pain.

I am actually able to turn my head without feeling anything at all. I can see my arms folded, my hands resting on the blanket. They are all covered with bandages, and there's blood still seeping through. That means the wounds are too numerous, so that closing them all at once with the most powerful healing charms would shake the balance of my body too forcibly. Or Pomfrey's been busy tending to someone else. I can just hope she's here now to tell me...

There is no feeling in my body to distract my mind from the question. "Have I..." My voice is almost completely gone. Although I'm not sure anyone heard the first attempt, my best chance must be to try to utter one more word. "... killed?"

"No, child."

Her soft voice close to me, answering so promptly, is some kind of comfort - or perhaps I can't afford considering it anything else - while I don't know what the single word implies. I'm hoping for the best so hard that the continuation could as well be only hallucinated.

"Nobody got killed. Nobody got hurt except you."

"All the blood..."

"Yours. Now sleep."

***

Harry, I've got something for you here, when I wake up again, something I've wanted to show you: James and Lily together. They are a wonder and a joy to look at. (And now that I can't see the colours on my palette and must face the prospect of never painting again - after wasting so many chances to do it) I can only hope to reach the moving image by describing it in words (these words which I, barely distinguishing the lines they form, am not able to read), so you can watch the pair of them, too.

Some agitated whispering draws my eyes immediately from the bleak shadows in the ceiling towards the door. Through the lingering stupor I remember that there is no terror left, no need for concern even, so I can let the vigour in the image enthral me. The candlelight flashes on James's spectacles as he shakes his head. He slams his back against the door - then lifts one hand to ruffle up his hair, more half-heartedly than usual, though, as if in disbelief of the sight in front of him. In my vision his compelling figure, strong and healthy - yes, just like yours, last I saw it - is now overshadowed by hers.

The glowing mane sways from side to side against her back, down to her waist, as she steps briskly up to him. And there is no shadow left, after all, on what I can see of his face behind her: he's blushing. Her white slender hands have grabbed his shoulders; she's pressed her lips on his chin. Not on his mouth to exactly force him to stop the responsibly subdued rant.

"...bother to think at all how fatal..." he's saying, but she does stop him momentarily.

I'd have reason to feel indignant. Is this a time and place for their first kiss, no matter how fervently James has been looking forward to it, making schemes for achieving it? But I feel so blessed - worrying about nothing, as a broken body is in my case something I'm only grateful for - that sharing his triumph is an additional pleasure, a gift they've brought to my hospital bed. Besides, she's evidently comforting him, stroking his arms in a calming manner while she also resolutely moves him aside from blocking the door.

I can trust him completely: he won't reveal my secret to her even in this distress, which looks so unusual, although perhaps he always hides a part of it in front of me. I'm touched to see him let tears roll down his cheeks - to see him actually cry for me, and in her presence. But then I discern the anger and I'm getting confused even before the words, "And I trusted him as my best... my brother!"

There's no doubt about who has angered him.

At that moment Sirius flings the door open and it hits James on the shoulder. "Sorry," he mutters hastily. His face shines pallid next to James's flushed one, and the bloodshot eyes dart glances to either side, then fixate at me, at my hands perhaps.

"Sorry?" James shouts. "You want to say that to Remus, right?"

After a fleeting moment Sirius does not meet my eyes again, but unlike the others he has cared to check and knows I'm no longer unconscious. His voice is still low, smothered. "Yes, and you're doing your best to stop me."

"And you think you can fix anything by just saying sorry!"

Staring at my hands, Sirius has hardly noticed that James's fists are ready for a fight. "It's up to me what I say to him. Snivellus should give the promise directly to him, but refuses to see him, and Peter keeps repeating he hates hospitals, so what are you doing here - the two of you! Don't you dare tell her..."

"Are you giving advice..."

"Leave us alone!"

"All right, tell him what you've done, and you'll see if there's anything left of any 'us'."

***

Yes, leave me alone with him, Harry. I can bear to face his remorse again. I'll smile through the moment when I believe he's going to apologise simply for his absence, perhaps for delaying Peter and James, too, so the wolf had to spend the night in frustrating solitude. He looks so wasted and lost, I feel like stroking his cheek, brushing the damp tendrils from his forehead, but my muscles won't obey me - I can't lift a finger.

"You can touch me," I manage to whisper.

It wouldn't hurt. I can hardly feel the weight of the blanket. Thanks to Pomfrey's special treatment, a caress would not even comfort my body much, but I'd share the consolation with him. And he's already learnt not to fear skin-to-skin closeness - not with me, at least not around the full moon.

But now he won't touch me. He falls on his knees beside my bed and rubs his forehead with a trembling hand. "He - Snape... sneered and said to me that he'd followed us before. The spying bastard!" After muttering the first words, Sirius has now provoked himself to launching into a fluent account. "He said he knew it was that night again. So I thought he'd already figured out what you... your secret. James says I didn't think. I did, I do, I think too much. Is it my fault that some others are such bloody idiots?"

"I thought," he continues in a more confident voice, "I could make him think that we had nothing of that sort to hide. So I told him how to get into the tunnel and after you. He'd learn a lesson... The wolf would scare the shit out of him. I hurried to open the door to the tunnel, so he'd get to see the wolf down there or in the shack. Or he wouldn't have the courage to go all the way, and he'd have no proof against you."

He's now lifted his face towards mine. "He wouldn't believe I wanted to expose you, so he'd think the werewolf had to be someone else - someone you just came to see with Pomfrey, perhaps a relative. How was I supposed to guess he never thought of werewolves at all? He had some stupid ideas about some treasure of powerful magic we worked on with help from the influence of the moon. And why did he have to go there earlier than I said he should? So he actually recognised you when you were half..."

Can this be how he says sorry? And for what? Perhaps I'm lucky to hardly have a clear idea of how what he is saying can make any sense, while he believes he's reaching an obvious, all-encompassing conclusion.

"I told James what happened and he caught up with Snape. But, of course, he couldn't become the stag in the tunnel, so the Animagus secret is safe. And your secret is safe, too. It's my fault that Snape knows. But Dumbledore made him swear he won't tell anyone.

That was it: his confession. He's been staring at my face for a while and I realise that now, finally hushing, he looks relieved. There's something here I can't start to comprehend. The complete relief. He's just forced me to know it was real, after all: the tunnel, and Snape was truly there. James, too. What I could have done to them both! Can I rest assured I really didn't do it?

Later I'll try to tell myself it's no use letting this upset me: something that could have happened but didn't. But can't he see it's not about keeping or revealing secrets - that it's about life or death, about humanity or losing it forever? It's about integrity: mine and everyone's who is involved. He mustn't play with us, no matter how good a player he thinks he is. What can caring for me - or for James - possibly mean to someone who acts like that without thinking - or worse: without seeing the point before or after, despite all that thinking?

I can't say anything to him. Just so tired, in resignation, I close my eyes, and I don't even know whether I am crying or not. Nothing will be the same again, or change from this moment where I've been deprived of all feeling, until he dares touch me, tries to convince me. I won't make another initiative, telling him again that he can...

***

Harry, can you believe Dumbledore didn't even question whether everyone would be convinced - everyone involved completely happy with his brilliant solutions. He beckoned me to sit in front of his desk, in the chair next to Snape's.

"There's no need for secrecy," he said with a wink. "An unfortunate event: a prank and an accident. But no serious harm done. Everybody knows that Mr Potter saved you both from the Willow. Mr Black was reckless to challenge fellow students to approach that tree. The branches can inflict quite some injuries. But I believe in rewards instead of punishments. Well, a detention was due and has been served without delay. I will think of a proper reward for Mr Potter. What do you say, if I make him the Head Boy? You, Mr Lupin, are just a victim. Isn't that correct, Mr Snape - a victim, just like you?"

That was how there would be no punishments for Dumbledore, either; he was innocent of taking any risks, of breaking any rules, of hiding anything from the Ministry and the Hogwarts Governors, of experimenting with a part-human. Of course, I had to be grateful.

I could not stand seeing his complacent smile. Instead, I stared at what I could see of Snape's profile: the curve of his nose behind the too long, lank hair. Snape did not acknowledge my presence at all - not in this meeting where he was supposed to confirm that he wouldn't betray my secret, and not during the following years. Any attention I've got from him ever since has been expressions of contempt.

"He just fears you," Peter whispered to me in the corridor, where he had been waiting with his schoolbooks.

I think he knew well what he was talking about. He must have relearnt to fear me. This incident had reminded him of what werewolves are: he had seen me through Snape's and James's experience. That's why probably he hesitated to get close to me even after the wounds had stopped bleeding - to make use of the opportunity to be my closest friend again.

After settling back in the dormitory I kept finding the black dog curled up at the foot of my bed. But in my eyes he had turned into an omen of death. So as to reach some kind of serenity, I needed to ignore him.

Peter would come to show me the homework, but he was awkward and couldn't make himself talk about anything else. I didn't care to make the effort either. He soon drifted to spend his time with James, while Padfoot and I were stuck on the simple contact of his furry back against my leg when I was lying down, reading.

Perhaps Lily simply found it unbearable that Peter constantly forced his company on her and James, or found the whole of our Marauder interaction disappointing, now that she'd finally taken the step to join us. In a week she acted.

After she had - to everyone's amazement - skipped the late afternoon classes, her owl brought to James a message in which she insisted that all four of us meet her behind the Hog's Head as soon as possible. I could not help cherishing the shared excitement when we stole through the corridors towards the start of one of the secret tunnels - the one you, too, have used so as to get all the way to Hogsmeade, to Honeyduke's cellar.

Peter had turned into the rat, but James's cloak was no longer exactly big enough to make even three of us totally invisible. I found myself stumbling between James and Sirius, involuntarily pressing against them, dizzy from their smells of adolescent sweat and posh perfumes - and from the sweet self-delusion that we were back in our harmony: the four of us as one, particularly the three, as I'd had to admit, also in three evolving pairs - with the inspiring traces of mutual jealousy, the respective secrets adding only intrigue and depth and no threat.

At the moment the driving force, the scheming mind was outside of us, but I did not care. Before the so-called accident I had been looking forward to promptly welcoming Lily to our midst, to make her promising changes in the balance. Still, after reaching the dark tunnel I could not make myself contribute to banishing the awkward silence in which we continued to hurry towards a destination we did not care to guess. Only James attempted at a proud and enthusiastic comment, "I told you that she'd be another Marauder." It occurred to me that Lily might have only decided to make us feel that we could still enjoy intense closeness in purposeful action, whereas there was, in fact, nothing noteworthy going on in Hogsmeade.

Sirius went dog and sped after Wormtail. James turned to glance at me in the light of his wand and the guilty look on his face showed that he had only now realised how hard it was for me to keep up.

"It's all right," I said. "Don't let me slow you down. I'll see you, if you're still there when I arrive."

"She wants all of us."

"She wants us to... forgive Sirius."

He quickened his step again, probably without noticing. "She doesn't know what he did."

"You can tell her, if you want to." Unless he thought it risked the relationship. In my view he should not have kept a secret like this from her, but it was up to him.

"Are you sure? That you can trust anyone after...Thanks!" he said, lifting an arm across my back and leaving his hand to squeeze my shoulder almost painfully. "She can try her best to convince me after that, if she still wants to."

***

It was the beginning of March. Did I forget to mention that? I had not come of age yet, not been summoned to the Registry for the confirmation of my status - or rather lack of status - in the society. For almost a whole year the wolf had not been lonely, and I had got tempted to believe that I was as human as I needed to be. Yes, now again that I was no longer regularly woken up by the nightmare in which the disaster had not been avoided, I was resiliently building up my hopes for the future anew. I could see this clearly in the evening light, which caressed the cold landscape with a promise.

She was not exactly lurking in the shadows, even though nobody could have spotted her when passing by on the high street. As soon as we had waded through the junk in the alley between the Hog's Head and the neighbouring shack, and rounded the corner, we saw her squatting on the slope among some birch trees.

The trunks shone purer white than they ever had appeared against snow, and the bare branches were painted with pale purple. But the only bright colour was in her. Instead of wearing her pointed hat, she had covered her head with a green scarf, wrapped it around her neck and tied it behind. She had even pulled it down on the forehead, so that only a part of her fringe glowed in its' complementary colour between the dull-lustre fabric and her emerald eyes' twinkle.

When she leapt up to greet James with a quick peck on the cheek, and the rest of us by reaching to squeeze our hands, I noticed that she'd been sitting on a rolled-up carpet.

"So you aren't against breaking rules any longer?" Sirius said too abruptly.

She smiled and could not hide a trace of smugness. "Oh, I've had it since the first year."

"Had what?" I had to ask.

"This carpet, of course."

James knelt to help her unroll it.

Peter hurled himself on it. "It really is... It's big! And it is authentic. I know. The fringes curl when you stroke them - look - just like the black-market salesmen say..."

He trailed off, blushing - unnecessarily. I doubt his father had ever seriously carried on that business either. Lily, instead...

She might have mentioned her secret to James first, but she had evidently not offered much as an explanation.

James still looked as much puzzled as awed. "You bought an illegal artefact when you were what... hardly twelve - and you've kept it for five years?"

"It's not such a big deal. Who says I've ever worried about breaking rules, if it doesn't harm anyone, and if I trust I won't get caught?"

Peter's admiring gaze kept shifting between her and the carpet. "But this is risky, sitting out here on it alone, or with us, for that matter! Someone can see you from upstairs of the Hog's Head at least."

"It's safe here. Aberforth takes care of it - of the carpet, too, actually. He helped me buy it, and I keep it at his place. He's a good friend since the first year."

James did not quite succeed in sounding only incredulous - in keeping all jealous indignation from his tone. "You don't mean... the barman?"

Sirius snorted. "Your selection of friends..."

But Lily immediately launched into fluent explanations, hiding any potential insecurity. "Wouldn't you get bored with the topics most young girls talk about? I've always liked some more mature discussion for a change. Besides, I'm not trying to be friends with Snape anymore."

The mention of that name made James and Sirius glance at each other, as if they had still been capable of effortless co-operation in banter against her, of completing each other's sentences, reaching irresistibly insane arguments. They failed to say anything, and she continued, "That's not the point... or maybe it is. I meant to only reveal this little secret. So you can decide it'll be all right, if I get to know some of yours."

"You wanted to just show the carpet to us - not to let us use it?" Sirius asked.

"Of course, I planned to offer you a ride to make you see how much fun we can all have together. But I happened to overhear something interesting... Now I'd also like to take you to a little mission of espionage."

Before she had finished, Sirius grinned and pushed James to sit, flopping down next to him on the carpet. "Come on, then. Let's see: has little Evans managed to buy a real flying rug, and is it as great to ride as a broom?"

"Now? You mean we'd fly out now?" Peter cut in. "The sun's still up."

Lily drew out her wand. "I can make the carpet and us a bit less visible. Only for a while, I admit. This charm... is not so easy."

While the rhythm of her speech slowed down, she grabbed my arm and guided me to kneel onto the carpet next to her, facing James. She had already lifted her wand over him, and he was about to protest by shoving the hand aside. The wand hit him on the head and her lips formed an incantation silently.

He gasped, and so did the rest of us immediately after, as he appeared to turn into glass. I realised we did not actually see through him, but his form had acquired the exact colours and patterns of what was behind him. Yes, she had Disillusioned him. You know how it feels and looks, but we had never seen this advanced charm before.

"What did you do to him? That must be dark," Sirius yelled.

"No. There's no harm. It's just Disillusionment. Aberforth taught me. You know I wouldn't hurt James. So you'll let me do it to all of you, all right?"

"Come on! It's fine," James added, fascination evident in his voice.

After reaching out to make sure that I could still touch James's hand - that my fingers could sense no difference, I only nodded when she glanced at me. Yes, I trusted her.

The cool of the charm dribbled and washed over me, making me shiver. It was unnerving to see my newly-reacquired body change like this, but I was glad to join James before Sirius, who hesitated no longer, either.

Peter, instead, babbled in order to win time or to hide that he was scared. "But that makes no sense: disillusionment. How can this be disillusioning? Does it mean that our visible bodies are only illusion?"

***

When we were all soaring above Hogsmeade, all beautiful, merged into the sunset sky, and also thrillingly insecure, huddled on the almost invisible, Disillusioned carpet, with our sights unable to reach any recognisable images of ourselves or of each other - Peter leant against me like he had never done after the day when we wrestled on the hillsides above Clun. I, in turn, sought Sirius's hand, for once without any fear that he would recoil.

And his lips touched my ear when he whispered, "Wish her spell wore off now. I bet James's got his hands under her robes."

She'd started to steer the carpet against the wind, and it was so cold up there that I could hardly catch my breath. Not to mention trying to figure out how she could be able to offer us this. Only later did I learn that Dumbledore had let her come to the village as a first-year, so as to facilitate her getting to know the magical world, and also introduced her to his eccentric brother Aberforth. And that her proud parents let her exchange enough Galleons for anything she might need, while she, used to crossing the limit of the conventional, could see no purpose for legal restrictions when magic was fun and useful.

So much fun we had that her words about a mission had been forgotten, if registered at all. But now we heard her snap after repressing a giggle, "James! Not now! We're almost there."

The carpet had followed the railway and was reaching the next station south of Hogsmeade. It hovered above the high street of this small town for a moment, then lost height so quickly that we gasped.

She had to shush us, whispering, "I heard how Goyle ordered Snape to Apparate here after sunset."

We almost hit the bell tower and landed on the roof of the church.

"To the graveyard," she added in an ever softer voice.

Struggling not to slide down the steep roof, we climbed to sit on its ridge. The waning gibbous moon would not be up for several hours, but the twilight lingered while the open sky was filling with stars. All the glow that remained on earth seemed to condense on the white-blond ponytailed hair of a cloaked figure, who was walking in inpatient circles among the tombstones.

"It's Lucius," Sirius whispered, and added or perhaps rather corrected, "Malfoy."

I knew Sirius had played with him as well as the Lestrange brothers before coming to Hogwarts, but I doubt he had let even James suspect that these older boys had rather treated him as their plaything.

There was a loud bang signalling an inexperienced Apparition further away, towards the centre of the graveyard. Malfoy turned presumptuously to the opposite direction and approached the church without glancing back. Perhaps a similar reaction had prevented him from detecting us despite the sounds our arrival must have made. And that was how he ended up holding his confidential meeting with Snape almost directly beneath us, only a few yards from our prying ears.

"Just listen," Malfoy said haughtily, having hardly spared a nod to Snape as a greeting. "The Dark Lord has decided to allow some halfbloods to join his party. Of course, any candidate he can consider must have old pure blood on one side. And the right attitude. He wants some young members, too, so I've been given a list of sixth-year and seventh-year Slytherins. You have the honour to have been included.

Snape had hastened to the spot, but now he did not express any enthusiasm, if not open reluctance either. He looked aside, avoiding eye contact, and I could not help wondering if he was hiding fear - once again, perhaps - or feelings of inferiority. "So that's why you wanted to meet me here... Why here? Why all this trouble and secrecy?"

"Here - so you could prove you've come of age and learnt at least some skills of an adult wizard. You've done that, even though you'll have to improve your punctuality. Besides, Dumbledore doesn't approve of his students' pledging allegiance to any political parties, so I wouldn't be welcome at Hogwarts on the mission of inviting members. You'll receive information on your responsibilities by owl, and there will be a convention in London over the summer."

"I... don't know. I haven't thought of joining any group before I finish school."

"Yes, you do know. I've just told you. It seems you need someone to think on your behalf, or you'd remain as ignorant as Dumbledore wants his schoolchildren to be. The Dark Lord has considered it wise to extend his plans to some people like you."

"I'm as capable as you of considering alternatives."

"Your alternative is Dumbledore's plan for you. And you know he doesn't appreciate your best talents or your best heritage. Perhaps you've chosen to be the victim, protected by Potter and other bloodtraitors, and mudbloods."

I turned my head to see my friends' reactions, remembering at the last moment that I would hardly distinguish their poses. After all, James was almost completely back to normal, and Sirius was quickly becoming more and more visible in front of my eyes, mesmerisingly close to them, too. I could see Lily beckoning us to creep back onto the carpet.

"We must go," she whispered. "Because the charm is wearing off. Because it's not wearing off of Peter."

Perhaps in him there was such a desire to hide that in his case the Disillusionment could not work normally - not as the short-term disguise which Lily now mustered. In the deepening dusk it was hard to see, but she maintained that he was becoming alarmingly fully invisible. As soon as we were out of hearing distance she had to resort to a spoken incantation so as to bring him back. To bring the illusion back, as Peter said immediately after, looking solid but still dazed.

***

A snap of little claws against the tabletop on his left made Remus lift the quill from the parchment - no, from the thin cheap paper he had used for these recent inordinate ramblings, most of which he would never give to Harry. He did not turn his head, though, and hoped that Frank's pet, his only companion on his loft in the wee hours of the morning, had not been startled enough to scurry away. It had probably only made a small abrupt, involuntary move, revealing that, indeed, it had no soft paws of a cat. Holding his breath for a moment, he could hear the creature try to suppress its panting. He moved the quill to the bandaged hand, only to confirm that there still was no strength in these fingers for a firm grip.

"To bring the illusion back," he repeated.

He felt like reading at least the last paragraphs aloud. Having normally no desire for something like that, he now wanted to do what he could not - what he could not have done, even if there had been better lighting than a single candle. Instead, he half closed his eyes, reaching the left hand towards what had once been sold to him as a wat but never properly examined.

At that moment, with these damaged eyes, or perhaps rather with his fingertips, he started seeing more clearly than ever - seeing someone who had for a long time wished to remain invisible. The velvety fur was shorter than a cat's. He caressed it tenderly, refraining from pressing hard enough to imply that he would not allow an escape. The back arched under his palm, the whole small body trembled, but he sensed no extreme tension, no readiness to spring off.

He ventured to move his fingers in search for the front paws. For a moment he hesitated again, preferring to look at - at least in his mind to simply see - the shades of the fur: there was more white among the grey than last time he had seen this rat. He had just now remembered that he would feel the stump of the amputated paw. How could he have forgotten that there would be more than a single toe missing? These physical losses alone were small sacrifices, if compared with the murders Peter had committed when suffering them, and with all the rest of the tragedy he had caused. Still, at this moment Remus caught himself allowing only pity to shadow the joy of reunion with one of the friends whom the recording of his memories had made so alive as the innocent boys they had once been.

"I think," he said, "I can promise you'll have nothing to fear from me. You've lost enough, too."

***

"We must believe in escapes. Or perhaps not," Remus whispered to the darkness, to the presence he could perceive on his pillow, next to his face. "They exist and it can be proved."

Perhaps in Wormtail's complete Disillusionment there was no mind in anything close to a full capacity - not quite here, not able to truly communicate, so Remus continued with a bad excuse to say to himself what he needed to hear. "Just think about Padfoot. He got out of prison. The last one, too, in the end."

This thought made him vulnerable, and as long as he was lying here he was inclined to crying. But it was easy to get up abruptly. There was no quilt or blanket in his bed, and he had not got undressed. He stepped to the edge of the loft and pulled the curtains closed.

"It was all meant to happen," he said without turning. "I'd rather not know about it, if you truly wanted to hurt us all. I doubt you did. But if you need to say you did, I'll hear it."

He waited for a moment, and felt only relieved when there was no response.

"We had some good times, didn't we? All four and five of us, together. There were shadows, but now it all shines bright. You know, Pads told me how, after having returned to me, he was regaining the past, the images of me, too. I think this is what he meant: the way I now also see you, so the two of us can truly be here."

He glanced back, and there was a man sitting on the edge of his bed.

Peter's back was hunched and his both hands were squeezed between his thighs, the silver hand almost out of view. But he had lifted his head enough to gain eye contact. Perhaps not quite willingly - just as if he had realised that the last chance depended on this connection.

Remus could not help doubting that they both had the courage for this. Any move was risky. Talking too much about those for whom Peter probably - and not quite unreasonably - felt he had been abandoned. Talking about anything beyond the good old times, in case only the best memories could enchant Peter so that he would see some value in life, in himself.

Peter's mouth twisted, and slowly a smile opened up, revealing surprisingly shiny teeth. Perhaps Frank had laid the groundwork well. Remus recognised the robes - clearly too big for Peter - as the plain clothes from St. Mungo's Frank had replaced with what he'd got from Neville. This was, after all, evidently not the first time in ages that Peter had ventured into his human form. The little hair that was still left on his balding head was at least as greyed as Remus's, but he looked healthier than Remus had expected.

Slowly, again, Peter nodded. In turn, the rhythm of the muttering he launched into sounded unnaturally quick. "We're having good times. Hard times, everybody knows, I know, I'm not insane, I know it's still the hard times, but good times for the three of us - this couple of lovebirds still so young, younger than ever, and me, I'm his best friend, still the best friend."

"So you're feeling good enough in this house," Remus said cautiously, "in this company?"

He hardly dared stop and think what all this meant - how understandable it was that Peter's mind had been damaged. Just as Sirius's had been, while Remus had not wanted to accept it.

"Oh, it's perfect. No baby, no baby boys yet or left, the boys are us again, we're the boys, so just good times. The lady's still lovely enough to look at. I know she was a redhead before and bold like you. Let's get married, let's have a child." With his neck stretched forward and his head tilted, Peter continued without stopping to draw a breath, inhaling sharply while talking. "And you dare tell me what you do with the mutt. As if I haven't seen enough, haven't tried to get between and stop it. All right, tell me, but don't stare at me with that dreamy smile, assuming that I'll be happy to share another of your secrets. At least try to keep it a secret, don't move in with him and make everyone guess what this brotherhood has been all about. It doesn't matter to you - you're a freak in any case, but have you thought how it'll harm the others?"

Remus now stood still with his back against the curtain. He felt dizzy, almost ready to lean on it and fall down, fall into darkness, at least let Peter fall, both of them damaged enough to leave the better and worse wars for others to fight.

But everything he could see in focus, even in colour, if faded, was now attached to this man, whose unwavering light blue eyes were fixed at him. He wanted to cling to that, even though the manner in which they would need to talk about the old times had taken him unawares.

How much had he harmed them all? Realising that Peter had hushed after repeating, "Have you?" he blurted out in defence, "You left us first: you went to Wales soon after the wedding, after the recruiting began in earnest. I had nowhere else to go when I could no longer pay a rent, after my parents..."

"That's where you always wanted to be, with him - don't pretend."

By the last word Peter's snarl was accompanied by no more smirks but a grave face - no, an expressionless, empty face. He made an attempt at straightening up, then curled up on himself instead - and was hidden by the bitter darkness.

***

"Don't pretend." Any accusation in the repeated phrase was soft, almost tender, as Remus heard it at the foot of his bed.

Lying here, worried that Peter might not appear again, he had probably fallen asleep, after all. At least his eyes must have closed, as now they opened to meet the stare which lighted his world.

"I don't," he said without moving his head from the pillow. "I didn't. I tried my best to persuade you to come back and join the Order, too, only when... he didn't take care of me."

"So why didn't you let him do that? What stupid pride made you move out for the next winter, or did you do it all just to fool me into getting involved? Then when I've done my vows to Dumbledore, you're back with him and the two of you don't ask me to stay, too, at least until I've found a flat, not even offer me any help to find one close to yours. And in the Order it's not at all like you told me - nothing like safe parchment work. Of course not, only beasts are treated differently." Despite the flavour of insanity, Peter's breathless babbling sounded now less absurd than when he had first started to talk.

There was something so surprisingly familiar in it that Remus felt confident in throwing in his argument. He did so before fully realising how the two of them were competing in bitterness. "Of course, they gave you the kind of tasks a full human, a full wizard, deserved."

"A full what? A halfblood! They sent me to try and protect Muggles, to be killed among them. Not a big loss, they thought: little Pettigrew with his couple of NEWTs. Trolls in all the subjects I had no time to study when I was learning to be the rat for you. The rat exploring the castle and the grounds for the three of you. And the rat was part of our shared secret, so I couldn't let anyone know my value."

Peter was now kneeling on the bed, inching towards him. "How do you know I won't attack you - that I don't still serve your enemy - at least one of your enemies?"

"So you know I've got a whole bunch of them?"

"Oh, I've heard enough, and an invisible Animagus can read, too. So aren't you scared of me?"

Perhaps he was scared, or disgusted, or disappointed - or just more tired to sort this out than he had expected. "You're attacking me with your questions, but what else can you do that you couldn't have done even before I started suspecting you were around? You could have blown us all up to smithereens any time."

"Stop that! I can't bear to see that, don't make me..." Peter cried out, recoiling, and while continuing, to Remus's relief he kept a distance, sitting on his heels. "And you claim to be a pacifist. You claim to hate violence, but you avoided it only because you were forced to, so you wouldn't spoil Dumbledore's half-breed experiment. At the same time I'm forced to see how Muggles are tortured, to fear every time that it's my turn... I'm sent where they fight in the worst ways - causing with magic the same damage as Muggle weapons do. If I wanted to survive, I just had to..."

"So that's how you chose the other side..."

"No, I didn't choose anything! Your Sirius's cousin just came and said she knew who'd appreciate my services. She was a beauty, Bella. You know, like him. How could I resist her? And soon it was no use regretting, with the brand on my arm. You must understand that now." He reached out with his silver hand towards Remus's right wrist.

Remus could not hold back his repulsion. "No!"

But Peter smiled, placing the hand back on his knee. "No? No, you didn't mean that. At least you want to understand."

***

In the bleak, lonely afternoon Remus set out to chronicle what had followed his school years and preceded Peter's disappearance and Harry's orphanhood. This was now for him a task he needed to complete so as to proceed both to take a full active role in the current war and to resolve what was haunting him in a more real way than a mere memory. When spreading the sheets of paper on the dinner table, and sitting down to face the door, he caught himself rather wishing to be summoned out than to be interrupted by Peter in a visible and human form. He did not stop to consider if he could mention Peter's presence to Harry. He simply knew he was not alone - and had to go on blindly whether this was a blessing or not.

***

Harry,

I know no longer for whose eyes I'm writing this - who will see these words and through them the young men and women, the life left to be cherished.

I'm not sure it's good to do this, and I feel trapped in desperately painting these images of the past. The world closer to me has dimmed, but I want to hear exactly what's going on around me on the estate, and I'm impatiently waiting for someone to come from the barracks and the wilderness to tell me more and give me a reason and a chance to act.

Back in 1978 we were eagerly looking forward to the war needing us. At least the two of us were. Sirius, having been accepted to the Auror training together with James in the autumn after we left school, wanted to use his ever-improving skills against bigots - while as early as then he doubted the Auror office was devoid of bigotry. I had soon realised that the opportunity to pursue a degree in Dark Creature study offered me no more than superficial knowledge or rather misinformation, and Dumbledore's scholar friends were not likely to even try to persuade authorities to ever employ me in the field of being and beast control. I didn't know whom to fight first. Unlike Sirius, at least I knew I did not want to fight the love which provided me with a private space of peace tinted with nervous joy, even though I had to hide this love, some of its passion from him, too.

We could hardly imagine that somewhere out there the war was already being fought in earnest. Only now have I learnt from my new allies how uneducated wizards as well as part-humans and non-humans were set to kill each other. What we heard was that the Ministry needed Galleons for the war effort, but we saw no fighting and knew no one who'd have been involved in concrete acts against Voldemort or his allies.

Around summer 1979 disappearances started among people who counted. That's when Dumbledore agreed with the Minister that he'd form a secret elite group of volunteers. But until James and Lily's wedding in August our lives were almost as sheltered as in our school years.

Soon after leaving Hogwarts we all gathered in London mainly to have fun, to explore the worlds at their most bustling: the Muggle as well as the magical one, and their borderlines.

Peter managed to locate a suitable grandaunt at whose place to take up quarters. Thanks to her contacts he got the chance to study in Oxford despite his poor Hogwarts certificate, and as a student of full standing, unlike me, he could have lived there in the community of students. But he preferred the friends he knew, and I doubt he ever passed a single post-Hogwarts course.

James first shared the flat Sirius bought with the gold left for him in a will by an uncle who wanted to irritate the rest of the family. And I let my parents understand that my excellent performance at Hogwarts secured for me such a scholarship which covered reasonable housing expenses.

***

"Bloody brilliant!" Peter exclaimed, flopping onto the bed I had conjured for their first visit, further improving the charm I'd practised before my parents' inspection of the unfurnished room I had rented.

Any large sophisticated items I accomplished would vanish soon, so having to content myself with a tiny flat had its advantages. When I invited more than one person at a time, it was obvious they were supposed to only have a look at how I lived, and we'd quickly head somewhere more spacious to spend the evening.

"It's a great little place - not too much to clean," Sirius said when all four of them jostled each other back towards the door.

"Why don't you just apparate down," I hurried to suggest, hoping I'd avoid any new comments on my neighbours and on the peculiar beastly stench they left in the stairwell.

"You get to live all by yourself. That must be the best thing - or the second best, after the dorm," Peter said in a wistful and admiring tone.

Sirius was continuing, "And since there's no proper kitchen you don't need to cook much either."

"Instead, James will take turns with Sirius," Lily cut in, "and practise to prepare decent meals."

Peter was immediately alert with a playful question, while his voice was too grave in its hopefulness. "So you promise not to marry him before he learns?"

"I'm afraid I can't promise you anything - can't wait forever." Lily was hardly less serious than Peter.

***

For two years she devoted herself to her curse-breaker apprenticeship. She enjoyed travelling to exotic places as well as returning for periods of office duty at Gringotts - for wild partying at the flat she shared with Alice.

Despite her curiosity to meet new people she was faithful to us - to all of us, not only to James. We were her confidants. Besides, in the end, she did not expect James to learn cooking, and she often insisted on cooking for me as well. Before you were born she had the energy to take care of everyone, so you can imagine the force of the acts of love - as she called them - directed at you as her sole focus. When she had to choose between opportunities abroad and responsibilities in our magical community, she could only decide to stay and together with her friends offer her services to the Order.

And as she knew she was also ready to have a child, she waited no longer. She proposed to James.

***

The white dress emphasises the rosy glow of her fair skin. I'm afraid I paint both sunsets and sunrises as similes in my speech, after I haven't resisted the abundant free punch. Anyone could forgive me that, when I manage to keep a relatively low profile until the photographer has passed out, and I doubt my old dress robes are short enough to embarrass anyone but me (whereas I wish I hadn't been subjected to the image of the bride's sister in a mini skirt).

But this is the unique opportunity to drag my true love to waltz with me in public. While spinning him around I notice that Peter finds it hard to join in our merriment.

***

There were so many reasons for Peter to leave London that I could not imagine I had any role in it. He'd got enough of the grandaunt, who was losing her mental faculties in addition to having broken her hipbone and now making him run back and forth with her chamber-pots. At the same time he had been offered a job in Amlwch, and there were good career opportunities over there for his girlfriend as well, he said.

***

"You have a girlfriend?" James says, emphasising more than one word and clapping Peter on the back. "I'll get another round, so we can celebrate. And you must show her to us," he adds, as he stands up to head for the bar.

Peter smiles mysteriously and says their jobs won't wait.

"Where was that? Alm what?" Sirius asks, and it's hard to say if he sounds suspicious or indifferent, or scornful.

"Almwch," I say. "It's in North Wales, right?"

"In the Isle of Anglesey. Look, I've got a tourist guide. Beautiful, isn't it? Healthy sea climate and all. Actually, I have some other relatives of my mother's over there. Perhaps you can't remember but I always wanted to move to Wales."

I doubt the others ever knew anything about that, and I feel his smile switches off when he glances at me. After a moment of loaded silence he continues. "And of course I wouldn't go abroad and leave my country, with the war and all..."

"And what kind of great jobs do they have for you in the farthest corner of your country?" Sirius asks.

I'm reading the guidebook. "The economy in Muggle Almwch has declined, but the place is still famous for holding the record in pub-to-person ratio... I reckon there'll be one pub for Pete to run and one for each of his birds."

***

I didn't wish to lose his friendship, or to lose contact. That autumn I realised that any day I could truly lose one of them, and the fear became real and compelling after my parents had been killed. In a way I could have been relieved that at least one of the Marauders did not risk his life in the elite group of fighters. But I felt that no one in Britain could be considered completely safe from violence. Innocent people ended up dead when stunned by Aurors in precaution. I wished I could have those I loved as close to me as possible for whatever time we had left.

During those last two years I made more attempts at portraits than ever in my life. I'm afraid I've never fully recovered from the additional loss I suffered when all my works I hadn't given away or sold before were destroyed in Sirius's flat after he was imprisoned.

In September 1979, when Dumbledore offered me a tailored role in the Order, I got the courage to suggest that the beastiologists at Oxford also broaden their experiment by allowing me to study something as deeply human as Magic of Images (something exclusively human, as they thought, ignoring the superior elfish magic). The university agreed, when Dumbledore presented my wish as his own idea. I was dying to learn how to better record the life around me, and thrilled that I finally had access to guidance for approaching real, moving art.

Peter got included in the numerous sketches and nostalgic schoolboy group portraits which served as opportunities to practise depicting human body. I could rely on my extraordinary visual memory, so much that some of the art teachers, too, who were not supposed to find out about my so-called breed, started saying there was something uncanny in the way I worked. Some of these pieces, which were valuable for me as such, not only as exercises, I sent as gifts to Peter in early 1981, when I felt desolate enough to start persuading him to return to London.

I'd like to confess that Sirius and I lived together as a couple from Christmas 1979 until October 1980 and again from March 1981 until... the end. But I'm not sure it's true beyond my perspective. If this isn't more than you want to know, perhaps someday I'll have the chance to tell you in a bit more detail about the hard, beautiful times the two of us shared. And I trust you would never suspect that my moving out once was his fault. It was just something to do with my stupid pride, as Peter says... would say. Or my insecurities. Then again, if you'd rather not have heard anything like all this, you can rest assured the whole thing was not his fault either.

He did not invite me to share the flat when James became a married man and moved out. I must admit that for more than one reason I kept hoping he'd soon do that.

After paying the rent for my room, I hardly had enough of my scholarship left for feeding myself, not to mention buying anything like new clothes. And I detested the idea of my friends or parents realising this. In my urge to prove that I had what it took to be independent, I nearly managed to convince even myself that the contents of my wardrobe and diet were a voluntary choice of lifestyle.

Sirius kept providing me with material - and not only as a gorgeous model and a source of inspiration - for my art, and I couldn't make myself stop him. Instead, he often failed to notice my dire lack of more basic things. In a way this was a relief, as I would have found it hardest of all to accept any charity from him.

Now I must wonder what I used to believe love was about, but I was sure it could not possibly be about taking care of someone's needs. I loved James and Lily, and my parents, because they were such wonderful persons who could, for instance, give me some handout in the form of meals and even coin, as if according to an unspoken agreement that we'd all pretend they weren't doing it. But I wanted Sirius to love me, and to ask me to live with him - to do it not at all because I needed a place to stay for free, but because he loved being with me.

So many times Sirius behaved in the presence of others as if there were no special bond between us. In fact, when strolling around parks and streets with me he often chose to be the dog. So many times I asked myself how I could expect someone with his looks, his style - his background, too, regardless of his decision to cast it aside - to ever want to be suspected for having a pauper like me as his partner.

This must sound terribly unfair. Of course, our relationship would have been illegal, even if I were human. But even back then, even during the war, when it was not wise to trust many people, I saw that abundance in expressions of affection between close friends led to nothing worse than benevolent gossiping. My view might be skewed, though, since I had grown up in an extremely tolerant community, and accepting the fact that I belonged to a minority in this sense, too, was not too hard for me. Sirius, instead, despite all his radical ideals, was far from ready to admit something like this about himself to anyone, even to himself.

I now believe that he always loved me. He was simply at a loss with it - for a long time, until last winter, perhaps.

Ever since I moved to London, he was keen on seeing me regularly - and alone, too. We often spent a night, or a day, together in his flat, or in mine, if James was at home. But whenever anyone else was present, he acted as if we'd never shared those moments of pleasure, of ecstasy, of comfort. Our intimacy included talking, too - talking about anything except our relationship.

I managed to move in without ever talking about it. Soon after losing my family and home here I was also evicted from the rented room, and I finally sought shelter at his place. I could have relied on Lily, but she'd suffered from bad nausea due to her pregnancy, and I think she was with her mother, and in any case I just wasn't in the shape to talk to anyone. I managed to go to Sirius's exactly because he was away, with James and other Auror members of the Order on one of those prolonged, risky missions. By the time he'd figured out that I wasn't only on a surprise visit to welcome him back, perhaps something had changed in his attitude, too. Perhaps he had realised that someday he might not return, and as long as he did, he wanted to return to me without any more delays.

All three of them got badly hexed and wounded several times. Yes, Lily, too - albeit only after summer 1981, when she stopped breastfeeding and asked to be sent on missions like any other fighters.

However, the main reasons why I did my best to take advantage of the increased availability of instruction in the field of Healing - starting as early as autumn 1979, in addition to the art classes - were rather self-centred. Later I applied for courses of Curative Potions, so as to get close to following in my mother's footsteps. Above all, I needed to learn to tend my self-inflicted wounds. Even when living in Wales, Peter still visited me briefly at full moons, but not every month, whereas the other two Animagi would often be unable to help me - out there on their missions, suffering their own wounds.

After returning and joining the Order in early April only that year, by autumn 1981 Peter seemed to have got used to his role. At first he was obviously bothered by the differences between his tasks and mine. I appeased my conscience by telling myself that he couldn't possibly have decided to join only due to what I had told him about the membership. My letters can't have had much of an impact on him: whatever I had sent to him had not made him visit me often, ever invite any of us to see him and any girl in Wales, or come back to stay when I had needed him most.

The worst thing about my unpaid services to Dumbledore's organisation was that his demands made it ever more difficult for me to do any work for money. I could have found some time for that, had I given up art as well as attempts at proving that someone like me could be a successful student, but it was impossible to commit myself to doing even the lowliest menial tasks with any regularity. Instead, my Order duties were seldom dangerous. Perhaps once in a couple of months Dumbledore would assign me to reconnaissance missions with strict orders not to resort to magical or non-magical violence. Mainly I would just be summoned at any hour to urgently decipher intercepted messages.

Peter in turn, together with our Muggleborn members, was ordered to locations where there were threats of attack on Muggles. If something actually happened, he was supposed to send for reinforcements and do his best to hold back the enemy. He'd freak out and disapparate. In a few months, however, he seemed to have hardened and even gained such confidence that he often actually ended up not asking for help swiftly enough.

The Auror members' missions must have got more and more dangerous, and by autumn 1981 also more frequent than monthly. But James only complained when Lily, too, started participating. Each single mission was - particularly for the one waiting at home - a test of faith.

At least Lily retained the trust that nothing could truly go wrong, ever. She seemed to have decided that her little family was blessed. The force of her initial denial - which suited well the devoted new mother's spontaneous escape to a world which was inhabited only by you and her - was not even fully needed, as a year had passed and we heard of no evidence of any threats against you, or against Neville either. She was not the only one who found it easy and pleasant to believe that Dumbledore had made a mistake when concluding that these babies were in particular danger.

Both Lily and James were, of course, worried about each other, but they trusted in their own skills. The deaths of other Order members, particularly of young people like Fabian and Gideon - you know, Molly Weasley's brothers - did shake them. But they recovered as life went on. It could have been different, if they'd lived in constant immediate danger (like those recruited among uneducated wizards or among not-fully-human and not-fully-magical people), but most missions lasted mere hours, only a few took several days.

In early October I heard some talk about a spy among the Order. But soon no one said anything on the topic to me any longer, so I thought the suspicions had been proved wrong. Only in November did I find out that I had been one of the main suspects.

As I experienced it, the last month was beautiful, despite the amount of separation and fear. Dumbledore seemed to have mercy on me for once, and I got the chance to study for my Potions exam without interruptions. Sirius had finally convinced me it was no use and there was no need to beg for lousy jobs. As I couldn't afford the ingredient expenses for practical classes, I concentrated on learning the theory as perfectly as possible, and that kept me busy enough night after lonely night.

Sirius told me ever less about his ever more frequent missions, their length and purposes, either beforehand or afterwards, but I thought - unlike I would after Halloween - that this was due to intensified secrecy in the Order, and partly to his carefree, even careless attitude. Yes, I had learnt to accept even inconsiderate behaviour as something he could not easily change. I believed he simply didn't regard his absences as something worth talking about.

After his brother's death the war seemed to have become mentally less taxing for him. It consisted simply of a succession of challenges to survive. No confusion, no contradictory feelings any longer, as far as I knew. I sometimes wondered if he had needed me more before his loss, and whether hurrying to look him up soon after had been based on my needs and meant almost manipulating him to invite me back. At least we were now the only family left for each other, at least the only potential closest family.

In his absence I would hold to images of him constantly, as if my mind were able to keep him safe and sound. Since I often didn't even know for sure if he was on a mission, I chose the jealousy in imagining that Padfoot was roaming through woods with Prongs, instead. Images of the dog in my mind were at least a slightly less distracting illustration for the textbooks through which I waded in all those dark hours. In daytime I welcomed images of the man I loved.

Towards the end of the month all my solitary daylight time was dedicated to making countless sketches of him from memory, and to preparing a major painting.

***

I've worked on the birch trees for several weeks now. They grow so near our balcony that my outstretched hand reaches the branches. Having lived here since these leaves burst out of the buds and throughout another summer, I'm familiar with the nuances of their reactions to light and humidity, to temperature and any movement of air, to my touch.

This top-quality aquarelle canvas with special sensitivity for concealing and resurrecting line and colour can allow a beginner like me to succeed. I've known all the time what I want to include.

The composition was first outlined determinately by my right hand - with the fingers of my left hand brushing the rich green foliage, then stealthily lingering on the warm skin of his knuckles while fumbling for his cigarette. The initial elusive pose is in the profile. He's with me and he's not.

Now last time's background image, too - the dance of the verdant branches hit by an early autumn storm - is hidden, but the rippling my fingertips can feel on this fresh white surface confirms that nothing has been lost. I captured that movement, although the rain had driven me to move the easel from the balcony. Since I'd ventured out for too long and got drenched, I was so cold that I also needed to soon close the door and to complete the scene while watching it through the glass. Still, the life in that picture did not escape my compassionate brush strokes.

This reassures me when I start wetting the canvas for today's scene. Depicting the birches in their golden glory may look like an easy feat, but just because of the temporary serenity it is a challenge to catch the subtle anticipation of further change. If the merry and desperate glow of my colours succeeds in conveying the vulnerability of each leaf, this view will flow into the next ones. Into the thinning of veils in shades of bronze, into their opening for the chill to enter. Or for someone to leave. This year I won't.

Until late into the fading afternoon I can pretend that some of the dazzling sunlight has been stored in a solid wall of trees so that they radiate enough heat to reach me. Finally I'm sure that further touches could only spoil the tints of yellow. That's when I allow myself to resurrect the graphite pencil lines of the sketches for the figure I've been dying to work on again. Now I notice my hands are getting stiff, but I don't want to waste any time on preparing a mug of tea to warm them up.

I'm staring at the landscape through the window again, to let my memory show me more than the outlines of my model as he would lean against the railing. I erase the extra graphite with wand magic and go over the important lines again. My fingers are just starting to tingle, as if they could already sense the figure stirring, when I hear his keys and my heart leaps. A spontaneous flick of my wand hides everything except the latest completed background.

I hardly have time to fear I'll meet the worst sight of him I've dared imagine: exhausted, perhaps wounded, sliding down with his back against the door. I'm only dropping my pencil, turning away from the easel, so as to rush to the hall to hold him, when he surprises me by striding into the room. His heavy boots leave muddy stains on the floor which I'll be happy not to clean.

There's such an unexpected amount of energy in him that he's overwhelmingly close to me almost too soon. I can see he has not shaved for a few days, but there are only the comforting smells of leather and dog, of garages and woods. His rough, cold hand lands with force on the nape of my neck, then the fingers slide softly along my chin, touch my lips, and flee.

Having hardly spared a glance at my work, he's already stepping out to the balcony. But he leaves the door open and as soon as he's lit the cigarette, he turns back towards me, leaning with his hips against the railing.

I don't know if I'd better just concentrate on looking, as long as he stays in the middle of my landscape. But I decide to take the risk. I drag the easel and my palette to the balcony.

No words are spoken, just like every time when he came to me in the middle of the night and left me wondering whether his touch was a dream. There is hardly enough light but more than in those secret moments of intimacy. The birches still glow like torches, and he tosses the hair from his face, and his mouth opens more than is needed for placing the cigarette between his lips.

Now he knows what I'm doing - perhaps understands why I want to do it out here in the open. And he's not escaping it: his eyes meet mine every time I look his way, and his relaxed pose assures me he won't get impatient. I'm taking my time, fleshing out the figure in my fragile medium, forcing myself not to tremble from the cold.

I trust that this time he doesn't care if we can be seen by someone from the street or from another balcony. When I move the paint brush to the right hand, he'll step closer and grab the left, frozen one between his palms. Having stayed almost still for my sake, he'll be shaking, too, and we'll be standing in a tight embrace while I give the final touches to the portrait. I dare hope he won't be gone before the light of the dawn.

***

He stayed until the next evening and actually, for once, let me understand that he'd be back again by the next morning. Exceptionally James and Lily had been assigned to the same mission and since all three of them were leaving together, I assumed that what Lily promised applied to him, too. James had asked Peter to babysit, and Peter had asked me to help, not hiding from me that he didn't quite master handling a fifteen-month-old.

***

The two of you are a sight finer than I could see in a dream. You don't care about the toys I'm offering to you, having sat down on the carpet to play. You keep stepping in front of your godfather and he keeps turning, as if desperately trying to escape while you do your best to stop him from leaving. It's like a dance, and I stare at you, then turn my eyes up at him, mesmerised and almost jealous. You laugh and grab his robes. Over them he's wearing the leather jacket - not less for style than for warmth. He seems to be as fully enchanted by you as always, like another child in a grown body - a finely grown one.

But the moving picture is shattered when he stops to talk with distress in his voice. "I still think you'd better take him to Alice."

Startled, I drop a toy hippogriff and it scurries under my robes. He's always been overprotective of you, serious about his role as the godfather, but he's never hesitated to share you with us, who take you to no spontaneous outings anyway. He's the one who decides that a motorbike ride is completely safe for a toddler when the bike is handled by a master motorist like him. And I never object too fiercely, since I get on these rides, too, when you come along. Your presence obviously makes him feel less embarrassed about being seen with me in public.

I can see that Lily is uncharacteristically nervous but determined to reassure at least herself. "It's all right with the two of them together."

Sirius's eyes dart from me to Peter and back again. Once again I have to wonder why he cannot allow a slightest smile to hint at what we shared just before leaving our place. And this time he seems to assess Peter and me in the same suspicious way. The only difference is a trace of regret and sadness spared for me.

At least I've got your attention since he started focusing on the adults. I seek solace in the rapture with which you chase the hippogriff as I send it bouncing across the floor. "You know we'll manage with Harry," I say to no one in particular. "But I wish I could go, instead of one of his parents."

I look up to catch James shaking his head and snorting at me. "No, of course you're not coming. People like you get other kinds of missions from Dumbledore or..."

"Enough." Sirius has interrupted him by slapping him on the head. I can see playful tenderness in that touch - whereas the look he casts at me lacks all warmth, even the earlier sadness.

I know he will not kiss me good-bye in front of them. And I fear that this time he does not want to leave his cigarettes behind so as to come back and see me alone, and anyway Peter is here. In my persistence I stand up to follow them to the door, in order to give him a chance...

But Peter grabs my wrist and drags me to sit on the couch. "Let them go. Dumbledore chose them. Stay to play chess with me."

***

Later on the following day - when Sirius had, after all, not come home - Dumbledore summoned me urgently, so as to send me to Cornwall on a mission led by a senior Auror member. He mentioned in passing that the Potters had been hidden with a Fidelius Charm. It was a sudden decision, based on some new information on the enemy's plans. Besides, during that latest brief mission Lily's as well as James's parents had been attacked. I could not even offer my condolences.

I did not get to see any of my four best friends again - or to return home - before it was all over. All I had left was the contents of my briefcase as I had first packed it for the sleepover in your house - including the album of photos I'd planned to show and still haven't shown to you.

***

Remus had tried his best to ignore the sound of breathing behind his back. But now a heavy weight on his shoulder made him drop the quill, which he had managed to hold in his right hand all through the last two paragraphs. The wrist bones had almost healed, and as the ache had finally subsided, he had not allowed Thisby to cover the brand again. While he determinately kept his head down, the jagged edges of the black scar grew into sharp focus. He turned his gaze to the paper and was now able to read the words: I did not get to see...

Throughout another day the room had been hopelessly gloomy, the shapes of the objects blurred in his eyes, and now... There was white light shining over him. Was it simply the glow of the setting half moon? Was it intensified so - and above all, was he receptive to it - when it was reflected from the silver hand and from the aged face of a lost friend?

"You don't want its weight, do you? This hand's, I mean," Peter said.

To his surprise Remus realised that the grip was not unbearably repulsive. "It's all right," he said.

But Peter let go of his shoulder and sat down, pulling a chair close to his. "It actually helps more, if you touch me instead of this thing. If you hold my arm, I can bear to stay a man long enough to tell you... Now it's my turn... your turn to listen."

The silver hand shone again on Peter's knee, and Remus placed his left hand just above it, touching a slice of bare skin as well as the sleeve. He would not move. Only his gaze would wander to caress the elaborately crafted furniture, the spines of the books, all the lost details which had once again been resurrected for his sight to prove that he was right here in the scene of his past, present and future. Peter's tale - true or distorted - would only anchor him more fully to the reality of his life. He would listen - not interrupt or reject whatever Peter had to say.

"I need you to listen and understand. You can tell me I'm right: this is the way it happened. This way I can perhaps live with it.

"So you see, it goes like this. At first there isn't much reason for regretting. I can almost forget they expect any service from me. It won't involve any blood-shedding in any case, they assure me. I continue to work for the Order, only feeling safer than before. I'm valued by my new master, so I won't be harmed when they slaughter Muggles and I'm around. And I'm allowed to remain close to my old friends. 'Yes, it's all right. You may help them in anything, even hiding.' The Dark Lord is just waiting for some masses to do their fighting, to kill each other off - some inhuman creatures they are, I think, that nobody cares much about - and soon he'll end the war and all will be well.

"I don't give their secrets to the Order, and I don't give many secrets to them. Only to Bella... I tell her about the rat - I mean, I show her. She jeers me, condescends to jeering me in passing, so I show her what I can do, and she laughs. And she says the best way to prove myself is to make my old friends trust me more than each other.

"I'm a good friend. It's not my fault you look less reliable, is it? Oh, you don't realise they suspect you. Dumbledore, of course... Our friends think it must be you - only for a few days, but that's enough. They're forced to choose the Secret Keeper so quickly. I don't know exactly why, just that Dumbledore's suddenly ordered them to do it without delay.

"Nobody tells me the Dark Lord is ready, ready to end it, until... He himself summons me and takes the secret from my mind. He... makes it hurt and then I just can't help it: I'd do anything, I want to give it away and then it's gone, so quickly. There's nothing I can do to save them. Or to explain what then happens to the Dark Lord and why. I'm still sprawled across his stone table when Bella rushes in. She thrusts her wand at me and pushes me down to the floor with a wordless spell, screams that I'm too worthless to have managed to mess things up.

"She's out of her mind: her master's gone. 'I'm going to kill you!' Sharp kicks hit my side, and I try to curl up, to lift an arm to cover my head. 'Kill you...' Now her hand is on my throat, but she gives up squeezing, strokes my skin instead, and whispers, 'No, I'll keep you, like in my old plan. You weren't so fond of the part about your bloody finger, but what's a little sacrifice when you can be all safe, my pet rat? Yes, let them all think you're dead, and you'll be all mine to use - to serve the Dark Lord when we find him.'

"I watch her scribble a hurried note and send an owl, then she returns to drag me up. Pulled by her, I stumble out through gates no longer sealed by his magic. Every bit of my skin still burns like when the Dark Lord touched me. I'm out of my mind: James and Lily are gone.

"'Now the note will lure my blood-traitor cousin to come and kill you,' she says. 'Let's make him think that he caused all of his friends' deaths. Dying is not bad enough for him, no. He'll rot in Azkaban for killing you all, and he'll regret he ever befriended any bloody brave Gryffindors. He'll hate himself as much as he hates you now.'

"We're now surrounded by all these people. She's grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me along the streets. There's no strength in my body. Or no will strong enough in my mind to control it. 'You'll use the spell I taught you' she says. I don't know how I've pulled out my wand. My fingers tingle with the magic in it - with her magic that's got a hold of me.

"And some of the Muggles stop to stare, others try to get away when she... She draws a knife, and I look around for someone sane to help me, and through the crowd I see his head. And then she's backing away and there's just this pain in my hand, and I have to see... the blood... A finger's gone and I'm sobbing when I see his face and he hates me, he despises me. Lily and James, I cry. I hate... I don't know whom I hate, it just hurts. Yes, I hate her. She may think the rat will scurry right back to her, but no, I won't. To survive I must transform, yet I won't let her find me. I can only hope that Sirius, too, will escape. My wand does what she wanted. I hear the explosion, but only the rat smells the blood.

"The killing curse is easier, clean. There's no stink of death. I can just turn away and not look at the pretty boy on the ground. I'm busy enough anyway, not saying a word to the other one, who looks too familiar, not thinking about what I'll do, what I'll do to myself too soon, if the potion they've made me drink keeps me going through it all. I'm a good servant again, but how I wish your lack of mercy hadn't driven me to look for protection, to look for his servants and for him.

"After a life as a pet, after the years when I almost managed to forget that anyone of us existed any longer - and after I was attacked by the two of you. What the years had done, what I had done to the two of you... Oh, you just wanted to kill me, and the boy... he had a better idea: you could let them take my soul.

"No one will take my soul. They can take my mind - layer by layer. Take the... flesh, piece by piece. Take all this illusion. I've left it behind before. When they made me go through it again.

"The pain in this fake hand didn't give me any peace, so I kept changing, and she found it amusing to close the rat in a cage. The Dark Lord let her do it, and he laughed with her, rewarded her when she got the idea I could go and explode some of my kind - other little animals, and a Gryffindor, a school mate. She remembered Amelia was in her cousin's year, my year.

"That's when they guess I'll fail to do it, so he asks his ally to get a backup. She comes herself, Disillusions the two of us, and carries me into the pet shop closed in my cage. Not Bella - I mean the ally, Umbridge. In the cage there's an orb that'll blow it all up. But she first points her wand at Madame Bones, who's greeting warmly the cats near the counter as well as the shopkeeper. One moment I can see the victim, the lady of authority in the plum robes, her square face, the smile you used to put on that face and the next - I see the face, the whole head... explode. Pieces of flesh, showers of blood.

"After that moment I can't see... any me any longer. No illusion left, but I know I'm there. She marches out, with her illusion gradually rippling back, darker than the day, but the impact of her spell has broken the door of my cage, and what's left of me darts to a hole in the corner and now... watches the explosion. My soul's there and it knows.

"First I'm all alone. I'm starting anew, watching the workmen who come to rebuild. That's a beginning, another world, clean and empty - safe enough even after you've come. You don't attack anyone now. You're on your own. I can see it in you and I can remember he's gone for good. You bring the pictures and they keep changing in my eyes. I keep watching them while I get company: animals - invisible ones as well. I get to eat some of the food put out for them. Then Frank comes and sees me like children see the wats, and when he holds me I see what's left of me, only what's left, not the paw I don't have. You and Hagrid make me nervous but when I cling to Frank, he understands. When the two of us are alone I tell him I'm Wormtail and he accepts it, as if he remembered that being Wormtail means being the best friend."