A/N: I have nothing to say other than Please Don't Hurt Me(!) before I retreat to the safety of my deeply buried, titanium lined anti-reviewer rage bunker and wait in dread...
29: The Alpha of Hogwarts
Children.
They were everywhere, all around him, swathed in odours of fear, confusion and terror so potent as to almost knock him backwards, a swarm of robed figures hurtling across the entrance hall, tearful and screaming, dishevelled and wide eyed, the thunder of their footsteps powerful enough to tremble the ironbound silver chandeliers overhead. There was blood, a little, but no more than scratches as far as he could tell. If there were bites, he would never forgive himself.
Quite where this sudden interpretation of his senses was coming from, he was not sure. But now was not the time to question it.
Although there seemed to have been some superfluous attempt to evacuate the youngest first, it had quickly fallen by the wayside – students streamed out indiscriminately, some fighting each other to gain the freedom of the open hall, the escape of the stairs. He caught a glimpse of a pale and panting Draco Malfoy slapping his way past a cluster of third year Hufflepuffs and fought a furious urge to bound over and snap at him.
He was seen of course – indeed, as he surged forward towards the doors against the tidal flow of black robes, a lean grey werewolf in a field of children, he was rather hard to miss. Some few screamed and darted hurriedly aside but many more, after a moment’s start, nodded in recognition, mutters of “Lupin” and “potion” and “just like Nick said” revealing that the Gryffindor ghost had found a moment to expose the source of his knowledge of Liber Emitto. Though the frightened mass seemed wary, he was not hindered.
At last, he managed to shoulder his way forward enough to catch a good glimpse of the Great Hall. The windows beyond the staff dais had been smashed, presumably by those few children lucky enough to reach them before Kane’s transformation had completed. As for the rest, the four vast House tables, not to mention the Staff table and several of the benches had been turned on their sides, stacked high and magically bound together to form a sturdy barricade that had enclosed the broad steps that dropped down from the doorway in a wide alcove to spread across the edge of the Great Hall. Broken off chair legs, cutlery, plates and pieces of wood were piled high as a cluster of defenders, most notably the older members of Harry’s DA, the Prefects and many of the sixth and seventh years alternated between levitating and physically hurling the debris over their barrier to where the wooden planks were splintering against repeated, violent impacts from beyond. A seventh year Slytherin from a vantage point halfway up the steps moved to aim his wand directly at the source of the damage, but a sharp haranguing from several of the sixth years convinced him not to waste his energy. Direct magic on a werewolf was useless.
And I taught them that. Good kids!
Finally, the last of the masses shouldered their way through the great doors to spill into the Entrance Hall, shoed along rapidly by several anxious ghosts. Exchanging hurried looks and fearful glances in the direction of the dangerously spitting wood and the flash of teeth beyond it, the defenders of the barricade abandoned their posts and fled in pursuit of their schoolmates.
Remus bounded forward at once as a particularly violent blow split the planking of the table, a large and alarming crack splintering like lightning across the wooden surface; abandoning all pretence at human dignity, he barked and snapped a hurry up in the direction of his pupils. Hermione stumbled into the entrance hall grasping two wands in her hand, her robes and hair askew and a long scratch staining her cheek and forehead scarlet; she flashed a quick and grateful smile in the direction of her currently lupine professor before swivelling on her heel to frantically beckon to her friends.
There was another alarming crack. An ominous growl echoed through rafters cloaked in illusory night sky.
The rising full moon gleamed.
“The doors!” Hermione rushed forward as the last of the stragglers, namely Ron, Harry, Ginny, Dean and Neville stumbled the final few steps into the entrance hall. “Close the doors!”
Lingering figures rushed to help, grasping the wide flung doors alongside the six from Gryffindor and heaving the solid weight of ancient wood back towards closure. The pervasive scent of the terrified children had cleared slightly as the mass of students scattered into the castle beyond; now the predominant smells were the sweat and emotions of this cluster of teenagers, the wild fury and bloodlust of Kane, and a distant familiar hint of…
Remus glanced around. He was near. He could smell him, that same well-known if not particularly well-liked odour, but no longer steeped in magic or fear; indeed it lacked in emotion altogether, to lie still and base and tinted along the edges with blood and pain. And then he realised. The smell was drifting from beyond the closing doors.
Nick had said that Severus Snape had been knocked unconscious.
Oh no.
But surely someone would have thought to…
Bugger!
Darting forward to the edge of the narrowing gap, Remus quickly glanced down at the tumbling barricade, sweeping his eyes over the splintering wood, the snap of jaws beyond a slumped pile of black cloth and…
Black cloth.
A pile of it. With a head of greasy hair.
Oh gods.
For a brief moment, a part of Remus was tempted to not to intervene. But it was, alas, an extremely small part.
Shaking himself, the werewolf surged forward through the almost sealed slit of the doors and plunged sharply down the steps.
“Professor Lupin!” Harry’s cry reverberated behind him as he skidded to a halt beside Snape’s slumped and motionless form, his pallid features even paler than normal as a trickle of blood seeped from his skull. With as much care as he dared have time to take, Remus clamped his jaws around the scruff of Snape’s robes and, ignoring the deeply unpleasant sensations of taste and smell that swamped his mouth and nose, he turned and began to drag his colleague’s limp dead weight of a form laboriously back up the steps.
Snapping bursts of wood sounded in terrifying proximity. A silver streaked muzzle snapped its way through the heavy oak like deadwood to expose a sight that came literally from the younger wolf’s worst nightmares.
Knowing that Kane the feral had bitten him was one thing. Seeing that same wolf again was quite another.
Golden eyes met golden eyes. The bright glare of the Great Hall seemed almost to melt into dark woods, bitter cold and pain.
Inside of Adult Remus, Three-Year-Old Remus was screaming. And borne by the power of the moment, by the strength of recollection, his wolf tore at his Wolfsbane fuelled domination and scratched for freedom against his mind.
Lost in the terrors of the past, in the turmoil within his own head, Remus froze in his tracks.
And Kane’s eyes glinted in triumph.
“Snape! We forgot Snape!” Hermione’s horrified distant gasp from somewhere behind smacked sharply against his consciousness like a glass of cold water from Poppy Pomfrey’s hand, accompanied by a muffled and uncharitable mutter that sounded suspiciously like “Let it have him!” from Ron. Wrenching his eyes away from the hypnotic glare of the older wolf and the echoes of his past, Remus struggled back into motion and resumed his awkward rescue even as Kane, snapping and snarling, fought to shoulder his way though the last of the flimsy and shattered wood that blocked his path. A clatter of footsteps announced that duty had won out over dislike for his pupils also; a cluster of hands appeared to grab hold of the Potion Master’s long black robes as Harry, Ron, Neville and Ginny each grasped their least favourite teacher by the nearest available limb, snatching him from Remus’ grip as they hauled him unceremoniously back towards the top of the steps and the frantically gesticulating Hermione.
An explosion of splinters and a ferocious howl of triumph announced that their time had run out.
With a furious heave, the four Gryffindors all but flung the limp form of Severus Snape through the gap in the doors as they dived back into the entrance hall. Haring in pursuit, Remus hurled himself awkwardly after them, skidding sharply on the well-worn floor as he lost his balance and tumbled head over heels into the chamber beyond to land at the feet of a slightly shocked Dean Thomas. Staggering upright, he caught a glimpse of Harry thrusting himself against the still slightly ajar left hand door as he tried to use the force of his weight to slam it closed once and for all.
Kane was heavier.
The-Boy-Who-Lived was thrown violently backwards as the door catapulted open with the full force of a feral werewolf’s charge.
The screams echoed once more as most of the helpful souls who had lingered behind in order to offer aid, scattered like birds into the castle beyond.
The werewolf that was Abraham Kane pulled himself upright with a shake, long claws flexing, the silver streaked fur of his neck and muzzle littered with splinters of wood, his golden eyes ablaze and fixed with relish upon the prostrate and disorientated form of Harry Potter. He braced to pounce.
Remus didn’t even hesitate.
He could hear Hermione’s scream of horror as he hurled himself forward, aware subconsciously of the dozen or so teenagers that remained as they gaped in shock and terror, too slow, all too slow. Kane launched with ferocious single-mindedness into his attack, leaping through the air with claws extending and maw gaping wide with the intent to slice to ribbons the pale, dark-haired frozen boy who lay shocked and gasping as he realised the danger too late.
He was totally unprepared for the stunning impact that hurled him from his target and flung him to the floor in a tangle of furred limbs not all his own.
Remus winced as the pain of his frantic charge and slamming head on blow shuddered through his limbs and muzzle as he scrambled awkwardly clear of the other werewolf and braced himself for retaliation. He had to say this much though; for a decent turn of speed and force you couldn’t beat an overdose of adrenalin.
“Run!” The echoing cry belonged to Ginny Weasley; risking a quick glance over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the remaining kids, Ron and Neville dragging a slightly bemused Harry to his feet as other DA members who had not yet made a getaway reluctantly heaved the still torpid form of their Potions Master to their shoulders and staggered towards the stairs. Good! Now all he had to do was hold Kane off for a minute or two…
Pain rocketed through his body as he was slammed to the stone, teeth flashing and snapping at his face, his neck; it was only by a lucky, desperate swipe with his forepaw that he avoided the raw and abrupt dissection of his jugular. A streak of agony down his back thigh told him that first blood again belonged to the feral; piling all the strength he could muster into his back legs, the werewolf kicked out viciously to hurl Kane’s heavy form back against the nearby wall. Panting, shaking and breathing hard, his back leg streaked scarlet and throbbing painfully, he dragged himself upright and turned to face the next attack.
Kane was not there.
Behind him there were screams.
No!
Wheeling round, he caught of sight of the powerful form of the other werewolf as he thrust himself across the entrance hall towards the struggling band of children and their unwieldy black robed load.
It was immediately clear that they would not make the stairs in time. And even if they could, what would be the benefit? The position was barely more defensible than the hall unless they could gain a good two flights and get a couple of moving staircases between themselves and the feral. And even then werewolves could leap…
Desperately Remus hurled himself in pursuit, but he knew even as he did that he would arrive too late.
The bleakness of their situation had dawned on the children too. It was Harry who acted most quickly, rushing quickly to stand between his friends and the charging wolf as Hermione snatched an unwieldy battle mace awkwardly from a nearby suit of armour and thrust it into his hands, before palming a smaller mace for herself.
The weapons could barely be lifted.
Oh no. Please no!
Kane was almost on them.
Frantic, terrified and desperate for any kind of distraction, Remus did the only thing he could think of.
He howled.
It wasn’t the prettiest of sounds, ragged by means of his breathlessness, awkward and fairly tuneless, its echo bouncing from wall to wall with an unpleasant clash of harmonics. But miraculously, it worked.
Kane turned his head at this primal challenge. And an adrenalin-fuelled Harry struck.
It was a blow worthy of Diana or Reynard Lupin.
The feral crashed to the ground with a whine of pain, struggling on the floor as he fought to orient himself but a moment later he was reeling again as Hermione flung her weapon with all the force she could muster and bounced it spectacularly off his skull. He tried to rise, staggering awkwardly and teetering for a moment as he bared his teeth at the retreating children. But then, at the impact of Ron’s forcefully flung helmet, he slumped inelegantly to the floor and gasped for breath.
But this was no victory. Painful experience told Remus that a feral could not be kept down for long.
The stairs were still too far, too much of a risk especially whilst dragging the unconscious Head of Slytherin along with them. The entrance to the Great Hall was closer but still snarled up with the barricade – Kane would be on them long before any realistic dash for the smashed windows could be made. But beyond the suit of armour, between two heavy tapestries, lay an engraved panel of wood…
Yes!
The Great Hall entrance was bricked up, it was true. But the kids had wands, and failing that there was always the chute halfway down that dropped straight into the safe haven of Hogwarts secret harbour. Surely no one would have bothered to brick up that…
Changing direction abruptly in mid-stride, Remus scrambled over to the wooden panel and for the second time that evening, pushed his nose against the release. With a click, the panel slid smoothly back; turning instantly, Remus abandoned his human dignity once more as he sent up a raucous string of barks.
The kids caught his meaning at once. Dragging Snape rather insensitively by his feet, they charged en masse for the dark entrance in a wordless rush and bolted one by one into the newly appeared hole.
Harry had paused at the entrance, side by side with Neville as he helped his friends manhandle Snape hurriedly over the raised lip of the tunnel. Nodding once to his old friend’s son, Remus turned to check on Kane.
He saw a face full of teeth. At close range.
“Professor Lupin!”
The cry was the last thing he heard as a ball of silver fury engulfed his world, a tempest of snapping teeth and slashing claws that battered him over backwards in a whirl of bruising, piercing pain. Fear, agony and adrenalin overwhelmed him in an instant, shockingly fuelling an instinctive fight-back as his stunned mind yielded to anything that would keep him alive – he lashed out with a growl, hacking at the feral’s muzzle with claws of his own as he surged back to his feet, lunging with his jaws agape to meet the other werewolf’s thrust in a titanic crash of teeth. Momentum deflected by the impact, the two wolves staggered back, circling instinctively as hackles rose and low growls whispered from their throats.
He assessed his opponent. Silver streaked fur coated a sturdy, muscular form, compact and powerful, broad of jaw and long in tooth. Despite his older years, the feral’s experience in such matters was far superior, his stamina undiminished by age or illness. On the other hand, he himself, though younger and rangier than the elder wolf, was lean and lacking the strength, speed and finely honed instincts that would be necessary to an emphatic victory. His recent sickness had not contributed much to his physical condition.
But he was determined. He would not fall.
My school. My territory. This is going to end.
Without warning, the feral struck, a slashing thrust with claws extended that caused him to dodge agilely backwards, ducking under the swipe and surging forward with an attack of his own that scraped the shape of teeth into the feral’s upper foreleg. Howling with pain, the rejoining slap of paw and claw sliced parallel lines of agony down his side –with a yelp he darted backwards, circling once more as the feral ducked his head, limping slightly as his growl dropped into a yet more ominous register.
The feral was good, as he’d suspected. He was strong, powerful and quick to react – a fine hunter and a vicious fighter, worthy of respect. He would have to take care.
An opening! He darted in sharply, snapping his jaws at his opponent’s neck with vicious force, missing a battle-winning crunch of windpipe by scant millimetres. The feral’s injured leg deflected the force of the blow as he twisted out of the deadly assault and lunged in for an attack of his own, missing responding in kind by a very a similar margin. Both reared instinctively to block each others slashing blows, thrusting the other away to tumble and roll back onto all fours and step once more into the wary pace of circling.
Golden eyes met golden eyes. Hackles bristled. Teeth gleamed.
In the corner of his eye, there was movement. Pale upright forms, three or four at least, gathered in a cluster at the edge of his vision, pressed against the dark opening of the wall, glancing uncertainly amongst themselves and muttering, snatches of their oddly familiar words drifting in echoes across the hall to shudder in his ears.
“…can’t just leave him!”
“He’s doing this so we can escape! We have to go or what’s the point?”
“But he’ll be killed!”
“Harry’s right, we have to do something…”
“Like what? Let it choke to death on our bones?”
“Just stop being so negative and think of something useful!”
“Wait! I think I know…”
Disdain welled up inside of his mind. Pathetic. Witless, boneless, spineless… Why did he waste his time with them, trying to be like them? He was stronger than them, better than them, all of them. They had no power on their souls, no truth or understanding of their weak and feeble existence – why he had more in common with the feral than he ever wanted to have with them! At least the feral could be respected.
Why was he wasting his time fighting one of such strength, such power, when there was easier, better, weaker prey to be had…
The thought hovered. It burned against his mind.
And realisation struck.
No!
Remus recoiled in horror from himself, staggering backwards with shock as he thrust the terrible thought and the power and strength it had saturated his body with back into the deepest recess of his mind. What was he thinking? How had he managed to lose himself so thoroughly in the fight that the wolf had crept into control? The adrenalin drained from his body instantly, clarifying the moment; in his fear, his shock at Kane’s vicious attack he had reached out for anything that would help him in this unfamiliar body…
And the wolf had answered the call.
And he had let it.
And it was still there, scratching for freedom, howling in his brain. He could feel its violent yearning as it surged forward in a terrible onslaught and wrestled against the tang of wolfsbane to regain control once more and reign supreme as was its right from time immemorial beneath the glowing full moon.
Consumed by the battle within, the battle without was forgotten.
The pain was a sharp reminder.
His stomach exploded with agony as the feral Kane’s claws sunk into his vulnerable underbelly and sliced open his skin. A second blow hurled him backwards, slamming against the stone floor in a bruising blow. The scent of blood, his own blood filled his nose, repulsive and delicious, calling to the wolf as his own mind reeled and shrieked in horror.
He was dying.
He knew it. His wolf knew it.
The familiar black sparkles were circling his eyes like vultures. They echoed with ominous depth.
And the wolf was raging. Such injuries were nothing to it; it had inflicted worse upon itself in its time. It had the instinct. It had the power. It could still win.
If he let it.
He couldn’t though. He couldn’t.
Could he?
Kane was advancing, weaving towards him, mocking him as he managed to stagger to his feet, backing away as he dripped blood in a steady, dangerous trail that spread out to mark his wake, stretching from a scarlet pool were he had lain moments before. Pausing with a deliberate cock of the head, the older werewolf bent his head and languidly lapped at his blood.
Was that what he wanted to be?
Perhaps he could hold it, channel it somehow, use the instincts but not the bloodlust. He would, could not let it take control. But just to allow it to help him, to get back that instinct, that edge that had allowed him to put up at least a show of a decent fight, to hold his own, to give himself just a chance at survival…
No.
His survival could not come at that price. And his brush with the wolf moments before had taught him well. The wolf might have the power to stop Kane, but he knew, just knew, that it would not.
It would turn around and help the feral to hunt and kill the children.
That was the nature of the werewolf.
Death it was then.
He was trembling like a leaf in frantic gales, bleeding profusely and losing his battle with conscious. Kane’s next rush would finish him. He did not have the strength left to fight back.
And Kane knew it. His golden eyes gleamed with victory, his cocky stance arrogant and supreme, the feral bared his teeth in a mockery of a grin and launched his final deadly charge.
Remus closed his eyes. In a moment, it would all be over.
Once and for all. Just as he’d sworn.
But I didn’t think it would be like this.
I’m sorry, dad. I’m so sorry.
Claw scrapes rushing closer. He braced himself for pain and silence.
But it never came.
There was a shout. A snap. A whistling noise. A rush of light.
And then an ear-splitting crash shook the rafters and trembled the ground, echoing from side to side in harmony with the agonised screech of terribly injured wolf.
Remus opened his eyes.
And stared in pure disbelief.
The werewolf that was Abraham Kane lay crushed, bleeding and unconscious beneath the mighty fallen wreckage of one of the entrance hall’s ironbound silver chandeliers. And staring at the carnage, eyes wide and shocked at his own daring, wand still extended in a shaking hand, was none other than Neville Longbottom.
There was a moment of stunned silence, broken only by the clattering spiral of a piece of broken silver spinning to its rest and the slow settling of twisted metal over the motionless body of a defeated werewolf.
Kane had fallen. Kane was still.
It was over. It was over.
And they had won.
And then the stupefied tension broke. A grinning Harry Potter slapped his hand down on Neville’s shoulder with a sudden, slightly hysterical laugh. Ginny Weasley, mouth agape gave a sudden victorious whoop. Ron Weasley, his red hair dishevelled, stepped forward, apparently unaware of the death grip in which he had grasped the hand of Hermione Granger as he stared down at the debris and their prone attacker with utter astonishment.
“I do not believe that just worked,” he said.
A tentative grin began to spread its way across Neville’s plump cheeks as he glanced over to the battered form of his wolfish Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and shrugged awkwardly.
“Well,” he muttered shakily. “Professor Lupin did say it might stop a werewolf if you hit it hard enough with a large lump of silver.”
If Remus had been capable of smiling, his grin would have stretched from ear to ear.
He glanced down. There really was an awful lot of blood around his feet…
The black sparkles surged in triumph. The wolf shrieked. His legs buckled.
Oh no. Not again.
“Professor Lupin!”
No more. No more battles. No more pain.
He could hear the clatter of sudden footsteps charging over the stone floor in his direction. He also knew that they were destined to be too late.
It’s over. It’s done.
The wolf was clawing at his weakness, fighting for control. And in that moment, all he wanted was his freedom. Thirty-four years of fighting to stay himself was enough.
Death was better than letting it win. And his strength to fight was gone.
Rest in peace, mum. Forgive me, dad.
Remus Lupin let go.
The ground rushed up to meet him as the darkness engulfed him and decisively swallowed him whole.
A/N: *peaks out briefly from the safety of her bunker, lurking securely behind a heavy duty anti-riot shield* Sorry...
On another note - Neville and the chandelier. The chandelier is the other idea that came to me right at the very start; quite why dropping a chandelier on a rampaging werewolf latched itself so enthusiastically in my brain is a mystery to me but it was inescapably there and therefore had to be done. But I did not pick who exactly would do the dropping until I wrote "The Werewolf Lesson" and made the silver joke and my brain abruptly erupted with an interesting idea that meant Neville would get a much deserved moment of glory. :) Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going back into hiding until I'm sure it’s safe...