21: Caught Out
Oh Bloody Hell. He was doomed.
Half crouched beside a table on his knees in the heavy anonymous gloom of The Howling, lost behind a sudden roar of horrified and indignant cries and the rushing footsteps of the suddenly energised crowd, Remus could not see exactly what was taking place. But he had instantly recognised the strident voice as the Auror squad had burst through the wards and wooden door of The Howling as they sought to bring the werewolf pack to bay.
Dawlish.
Dawlish, who suspected him of colluding with Kane. Dawlish who, so Kingsley had warned him, was quietly investigating his background. Dawlish who, it seemed, was absolutely determined to catch him on some charge that would end his career and possibly his freedom.
And now here he was in an infamous underground werewolf club, the same club in fact that Abraham Kane was currently frequenting, known to the barman as the feral’s cousin and just recovering from a very public spell of temper that had bordered on a feral incident.
He might as well of handed Dawlish his freedom on a silver platter, garnished with any hope of respect. The Auror was going to throw away the key.
A Hogwarts teacher in The Howling. If he was lucky, he would lose his job and any chance of any kind of employment in the future. But if Dawlish happened to be in a book-hurling mood, he would most likely be spending the rest of his days in Azkaban for collaborating with Voldemort’s feral werewolf.
All things considered, this excursion no longer seemed like such a bright idea.
Remus probably would have carried the thought further had all hell not then broken loose before him. The Aurors had seen Kane.
Indeed, as the lead Auror was hurled into the air to slam into the far wall and slump bloodied and stunned to the floor, he was rather hard to miss.
For a moment, the collection of Magical law-enforcers that had half-forced their way through the doorway froze like rabbits facing down a Hungarian Horntail.
Oh dear.
Two feet slammed violently into the chin of the nearest Ministry worker, catapulting him backwards with a cry of pain. With shocking ease, Kane somersaulted the prostrate figure, dodging the swipe of a female Auror casually as his claws sliced open the skin of her arm with a slash. A stunning spell whipped past his head “ with a sudden grin, Kane vaulted a table one handed, twisting in the air as one foot connected sharply with the offending wand grasped in the hand of Dawlish. The other foot smashed into his face and flung him to the ground.
All at once the air was a sea of spells. Remus, his wand finally in his hand, had managed to rise and half-started forward, willing to risk the censure of recognition to prevent Kane from making an impossible escape. But the lightning flashes of magic that skewed wildly in the dark interior of The Howling drove the watching werewolves into a sudden stampede as chairs toppled and bottles exploded around them; with an unceremoniously thud, Remus found himself hurled back to the floor, narrowly escaping the shocking whine as a splash of red energy cut the air where his head had been moments before and blasted a small crater in the wall.
Swearing, the professor tried to rise once more, only to tumble yet again as a less fortunate denizen of The Howling took the full force of a stunning curse and slumped heavily on top of him.
Kane was doing rather better. Evading the initial barrage with irritating smoothness, the feral snatched at and successfully grasped the nearest figure in Auror robes and wrapped a clawed hand around his throat as he lifted him, twisting the shocked body in the air to absorb the surges of magic, a literal human shield. His victim twitched and convulsed against the impact of his colleagues spells, slumping limp in his clasp even as the astonished Aurors instinctively saw a friend’s distress and held their fire. And in that moment of hesitation, Kane struck.
A cluster of Aurors had gathered in the one and only doorway, eager to block the feral’s only escape. But they tumbled like ninepins an instant later as the unconscious body of Kane’s human shield hurtled through the air and struck them down.
A blur of speed, Kane leaped, digging his clawed fingers into the top of the doorframe, dragging scratches through the woods with an agonising screech. The rush of reinforcements that had surged to fill the gap were hurled from his path with the full force of his double footed blow; a moment later, he released his grip and swung away into the night.
Shoving away the large, leather-clad, motionless form that had pinned him down, Remus scrambled yet again to his feet, desperate to enter the fray. But the echoes of shouting and bellowed spells that drifted down the basement stairs through the cold night air told him fluently that it was already too late. Kane had not been caught.
So the feral had escaped. And he was the one going to prison.
Irony had never tasted so bitter.
Stunned silence filled The Howling in the aftermath of Kane’s escape. Groaning Aurors stumbled to their feet, grasping bleeding cuts and blossoming bruises and indeed proved the lucky ones; several did not rise at all. And it was not only Aurors who lay shocked or unconscious; a dozen or more werewolves, victims of the Auror’s misfired spells, were scattered across the ground, convulsing violently or failing to move at all. Tables had been shattered, chairs overturned, bottles and glasses destroyed by badly aimed magic and the fall of the bodies it had claimed. The door, already battered by the Aurors forced entry, stood smoking off its hinges, several large chunks scraped from its frame in the wake of Kane’s athletic bound for freedom. A further mound of sore and limp bodies were heaped across the threshold. Around the perimeter of the room and tucked against its darkened corners and crevices, the remaining werewolves clustered, their eyes wide at the disaster scene that had moments before been their so-called haven.
And staggering to his feet, mussed, battered and bleeding from the nose, Auror Dawlish snatched up his fallen wand from the dance floor and swept his gaze across the room with murder in his eyes.
Remus ducked his head instinctively and prayed the shadows would conceal his face. He knew even as he did so that he was merely delaying the inevitable.
Dawlish’s voice rampaged across the shocked silence. “The next one of you that moves I will personally escort to Azkaban! Now you will line up and you will wait until a member of my team comes to question you. If you are good little werewolves, you’ll get nothing worse than a night in the holding cells and a slap on the wrist! But if you refuse to answer our questions, if you try and lie to us, or you give any kind of trouble, you’ll be greeting the Dementors or the great beyond come sunrise! Am I making myself clear?”
A small grumble of assertion rippled grudging through the werewolves. Dawlish had made himself very clear, but he was not about to win any popularity contests.
A younger Auror, the pinkness of his face implying he would have a fine black eye and swollen cheekbone come the morning had approached Dawlish from behind, his expression anxious. The fierce gaze with which he was then pinned by his boss did not appear to do much for his mood.
“Sir,” he said softly. “I’ve done a quick count and there are too many of them. We haven’t the facilities to question so many at once. If we try and interview them all back at headquarters, we’ll be at it for days. And since the new legislation failed without Madam Umbridge, we can’t question them more than a day without offering bail. They have to be processed tonight…”
He tailed off, sensing the danger as Dawlish’s battered face rapidly darkened, shutting up prudently under the sharp stare. For a moment, the older Auror took a moment to mutter to himself about too many filthy werewolves lurking about on his watch before he glanced around and made a snap decision.
“Then we’ll interview them here. There are tables enough left in tact. Question them one by one in those alcoves and then take them outside and Portkey them to the cells as planned. Get every non-injured operative in here and set it up. Now.”
The younger man nodded at once and vanished as Dawlish turned back to survey the scattered werewolves before him.
“Right.” Dawlish was frowning grimly. “I want the owner of this dive out the front. The rest of you will get the hell away from the walls, and wait on the dance floor. My people will ask you a few questions and then you will be offered our hospitality for the night. Acceptance is compulsory.” His lip twisted. “Well? Move!”
Amidst much grumbling and shuffling of feet, the recalcitrant customers of The Howling reluctantly obeyed. Huddled in with the masses, Remus allowed himself to be shepherded into the cluster, thinking sardonic thoughts about Dawlish giving lessons in charm. It would take nothing short of a miracle to see him escape from this mess unscathed. Even if he somehow managed to get an Auror from amongst the Ministry’s most carefully trained observers who wouldn’t recognise his face from the paper, even if he managed to lie his way through an interview and give a false name, Dawlish, his grasp firm around the arm of Friedrek as he dragged him from the crowd, had set up his table right beside the exit. He would surely be seen and recognised as he was escorted to the Portkey and the cells.
Gazing at the ceiling and trying not to breath through his nose from his unenviable position amidst a large pack of sweat-soaked figures clad in leather, Remus sighed wearily. Well, this was it. The end of his career. The end of any hope of another one, any hope of a normal life at all. Most likely the end of his freedom. Possibly even the end of his position of trust in the Order. Perhaps even the end of his friends respect.
And he had broken his promise to his father. His disappointment would hurt most of all.
Nice going, Remus. A fine evening’s work.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here. A fine sign for the door of The Howling, if it was ever fixed. Or possibly, the story of his life.
He had nothing again. No future, no job, possibly no friends or family, no prospects, no dignity and certainly no…
Hope.
A single glorious ray of hope.
Remus’ breath caught in his throat. His gaze had fixed upon a bobbing mass of raspberry coloured spikes approaching the group of werewolves with reluctant unwillingness, heart-shaped face crinkled against the overwhelming odour and Auror robes askew.
Tonks!
What she was doing on this mission, Remus did not know and frankly did not care. But she was an ally in a sea of enemies and right now he needed all the help he could get.
She had come to collect a werewolf for interview. All he had to do was ensure that werewolf was him. The rest they could work out later.
Twisting quickly through the crowd and ignoring the sullen mumblings of protest, he ducked around a particularly hefty figure and forced himself into her line of sight.
For a moment he feared the gloom of The Howling and his dyed hair would conceal his identity in the one crucial moment he needed to be recognised. But then her eyes caught upon him and widened with sudden shock as she registered his features and realised in a rush the precariousness of his situation.
Abruptly her face hardened. “Make gestures at me, will you?” she exclaimed sharply, shouldering her diminutive frame harshly into the reeking mass as her hand slapped round his wrist decisively. “Well, we’ll see about that!”
With a rough tug, Remus felt himself hauled free of the crowd. With one hand fixed firmly around his arm and the other shoving hard again his back, the werewolf found himself being unceremoniously bundled into an alcove and deposited none too gently on a battered stool retrieved from the bar. Her expression steely, Tonks dropped down into the chair on the opposite side, brandishing a notebook in one hand and her wand in the other.
Remus opened his mouth to speak his gratitude when he saw Tonks’ eyes flash over his shoulder with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Sharply, he stifled his words as a shadow loomed behind him.
“You all right there, Tonks?” This Auror was reasonably undamaged, young, male and ever so slightly cocky in his manner. He beamed generously down at the raspberry-haired Metamorphmagus as he slapped a clammy hand down on Remus’ shoulder and squeezed with unnecessary force. “If he’s giving you trouble, I’ll be happy to take him off your hands...”
Tonks interrupted with a smile that was slightly less than sincere around the edges. “Thanks Rowley, but I think I can cope. Unless you need my help of course, with these werewolves being so scary and all. I’ll be happy to tell Dawlish about how I held your hand all through the interview and cleared up the patch where you’d wet yourself…”
Rowley’s smile wilted slightly. With a last half-hearted flash of teeth, he turned and moved away.
Remus fought not to grin. “So that was the legendary Rowley,” he muttered softly. “King of the raging pillocks.”
Tonks grimaced. “Honest to God, I swear he thinks all women were put on this earth for the sole purpose of giving him late night exercise. If he tries it on with me one more time, I’m going to coat him in ferrets and feed him to Buckbeak.” But then her gaze fixed upon him with the fire and force of a ballistic dragon as she grasped her notepad sharply and lowered her voice to a hiss. “But he’s not the only raging pillock around today. Remus, what the hell are you doing here?”
At his awkward silence, her eyes drifted to his neck, the scars fortunately hidden by the shadows, and drew her own conclusions. “Please don’t tell me you came looking for Kane by yourself.”
Remus twisted his lip slightly. In the cold aftermath of his angry confrontation, his emotions were shaky and he was certainly in no mood to offer a full explanation for his actions. “All right. I won’t.”
Tonks huffed in exasperation. “Don’t be so bloody contrary. This is serious! If Dawlish sees you here…”
Remus pulled a face, busy enough fighting the chilling rush of his own immense stupidity without having it pointed out by his friend. “Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind.”
“Then what in Merlin’s name were you thinking?” But Tonks it seemed was not prepared to let this go. “Is this about last weekend? Remus, no offence, but you’ve never struck me as the vengeful type, so why…?”
Remus stared awkwardly at the table, aware on the peripheries of his vision of the huddle of werewolves being dragged around for questioning, of the Aurors lurking in the gloom. This was not the place to go into his bite and his family history.
“It’s personal,” he managed, biting his lip as he met her gaze almost pleadingly. “I have my reasons and Albus knows what they are, even if he doesn’t know I’m here. Please don’t ask, okay?”
Tonks sighed, her eyes thoughtful but also vaguely accusatory. “Kane said something else, didn’t he? When you two were alone in that alley. Something you didn’t tell me.”
Remus did not speak. He simply nodded.
“Do Dumbledore or Mad-Eye know about this?”
“They know.” He sighed wearily, burdened by the sudden weight of an over heavy past. “But I don’t think they know that I know. They were aware of it before I was.”
She rolled her eyes. “More secrets. Oh great. Are you sure you trust Kane to be telling the truth about this mysterious whatever? He’s not exactly a paragon of honesty and he does like to stir.”
“I wish.” Remus rubbed a weary hand across his brow, ignoring the dark streak of badly applied hair dye across his fingers. “I didn’t get the facts from Kane. I got them from someone I’d trust with my life.” He smiled bitterly. “Kane was just kind enough to point me in the right direction.”
“And then you came to find him here.” Tonks’ gaze slipped to the trail of devastation that had marked Kane’s escape. “Let me guess. You’re the reason he was so hacked off.”
Remus grimaced. “Admittedly, I may have contributed.”
The young Auror’s face fell “ for the first time she spotted the smear of blood on her companion’s nose. “Someone said there was a fight. Tell me you weren’t fighting with Abraham Kane.”
Rather self-consciously, Remus wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Again, I won’t, if that’s what you want. I’d be lying though.”
“Oh god.” Raspberry spikes slumped into a weary hand. “Mad-Eye is going to spit fire when he finds out about this. Fighting with a feral! Remus, what on earth possessed you?”
My wolf. Or near enough. With a shudder, Remus forced back the thought, the horrifying closeness and ease with which Kane had tapped into his greatest fear and played with his emotions. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that now.
At his lack of answer, Tonks rolled her eyes and resignedly examined the ceiling.
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” she muttered, dropping her eyes as she glanced over to the entrance. Dawlish, his examination of Friedrek complete, was checking the face and hands of every werewolf that passed. “What matters now is how the hell we’re going to get you out of here without both of us being fired or arrested.”
Remus gave a wry and weary smile. “I haven’t a clue. But all suggestions will be gratefully accepted.”
And then, a sudden grin slipped over Tonks’ face, the kind of grin that Remus recognised as a genetic trait of the Black family line, a grin in fact that had led to more detentions than he had ever cared to count. An ominous feeling welled up within.
“All suggestions, eh?” The Auror’s lips were curling with alarming mirth. “In that case, I might just have an idea.”