31: The Fallen.
The chaos at Hogwarts at least showed a hint of organisation.
The entrance hall was an unabashed disaster area. The focal point of much attention was the twisted, scattered wreckage of what appeared to be the remains of one of the enormous iron-bound silver chandeliers that had hung over the heads of the children of Hogwarts for generations. Several Aurors, a couple of Hogwarts professors, including the distinctively tiny figure of the long-time teacher of Charms, Filius Flitwick and a stringy, disconsolate form clutching a dusty cat that could only be the infamous Argus Filch were gathered together in thoughtful contemplation of the damage.
But Rey’s attention had snapped immediately elsewhere. A cluster of determined looking figures dressed in the distinctive hunting gear of the Werewolf Capture Unit had formed a wary huddle not far from the crushing remnants of the chandelier, handling a set of sturdy chains and a vicious looking muzzle as they bent down over a bloody heap of fur…
The sharp press of the young Auror’s hand against his shoulder was all that prevented a sudden surge forward. She darted in front of him, eyes wide and gaze intensive.
“That’s not Remus,” she exclaimed hurriedly. “They’ve taken Remus to the Hospital Wing. She glanced over her shoulder and Rey could see her jaw tightening with rage. “That’s Kane,” she said coldly.
Kane.
Reynard felt an odd numbness tinged with remote anger spread like cold fingers across the pain and anguish lodged in his chest. He stared, simply stared for a moment at the severely injured werewolf slumped unmoving on the stone floor, drinking in a form he had last seen stained in the blood of his three-year old, the motionless body of the man, the feral, the creature that had so horrendously impacted upon his family and his life. He watched as the sturdy men of the WCU encased clawed paws in tangled chains, snapped the fierce muzzle firmly down over the vindictive jaws and secured the bindings around the limbs tightly to a strong pole that was hefted onto several shoulders to leave the terrible predator dangling limply as he was hoisted up and carried determinedly outside to the waiting Portkey-cage and a specialised cell at the Ministry.
He should have felt elated. Instead he felt sick.
In the silence of his mind, a sullen dark-haired little boy of his blood but not his own stared accusingly at him down the years.
The young Auror’s grip on his shoulder tightened as the unconscious werewolf was hurried past by his bearers and disappeared through the vast front doors out into the moon-washed grounds and the custody of the Ministry of Magic.
“Good riddance,” he heard her mutter.
A sudden realisation swamped his body like the cold of arctic ice. Of course. The moon was still up.
Kane was still a werewolf.
And so Remus was still a werewolf.
Reynard had never seen his son in his full moon form. In the early years of course, it had been far too dangerous but even after the success of the Wolfsbane, Remus had always passed his monthly purgatory in careful isolation. It was not a matter of which they had ever spoken both had instinctively known; Remus had not wanted to be seen on such nights any more than his father had wanted to fall witness. A silent pact had existed between them, an unspoken promise, that this was something that neither would ever force the other to endure. The true horror of the change would remain a mystery.
Apprehension chilled him, his fervoured rush to his son’s side abruptly stilled. How could he now break such a pact? How could he bear to see him in the form he had so long hidden, in a shape he so despised?
How could he bear to see him look like Kane?
“Tonks!”
There was a sudden stampede of footsteps. Abruptly jerked from his grim musing, Reynard found himself face to face with young James Potter.
For an instant, Rey wondered if his distress had driven him into some kind of insanity, if his desperately recalled memories had somehow sprung to life. Were the vivid and colourful spectres of the long dead suddenly haunting Hogwarts?
Reality kicked in a moment later. He had often been told of how greatly young Harry resembled his father but seeing him in person the similarity was far more shaking than any amount of newspaper photographs. Harry Potter looked tired, battered and injured but his face was set with a cocktail of steely determination and confused distress. In his hand, he was grasping a battered old piece of parchment capped with curly green handwriting.
And the boy was not alone. A bushy haired girl with a recently healed cut on her face hurtled impatiently to a standstill beside a lanky redheaded boy and a smaller girl with hair of an equally volcanic shade. A round-faced, plump and bemused looking boy tumbled over to join them a moment later.
“Tonks, do you know what’s happening?” It took a moment for Reynard to realise that this singular and rather unfeminine moniker belonged to the young Auror who was keeping him company. In all the confusion, he had not thought to ask her name.
“Nobody will tell us anything, they just keep trying to send us back to the dormitories with everyone else! They wouldn’t let us go with them to find Hagrid even though we had to tell them where he was!” Harry flourished the piece of parchment indignantly for a moment before rushing on. “And now they won’t even let us back in to see Professor Lupin! We did everything we could to help after that thing almost cut him to bits! He’s dying in there and all they can do is tie him up and…”
“Harry!” The sharp exclamation from the bushy-haired girl cut the rest of the rambling tirade away into nothing. She was staring at the pale-faced Reynard with a kind of horrified recognition. A moment later the boy’s emerald eyes had also fixed upon him and widened.
“Harry,” The young Auror “ Tonks, he supposed “ was gazing between Rey and the young man with sincere sympathy. “This is Professor Lupin’s father.”
“I…” For a moment, the dark-haired adolescent seemed at a genuine loss for words. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” he apologised sincerely. “I should have seen, you look just like him…”
Reynard managed a wan smile. “I imagine you and your father have been similarly compared,” he observed, maintaining a level tone with difficulty. “You gave me quite a start when you first came over.” His voice faltered slightly. “I thought I was seeing ghosts.”
Harry said nothing. He simply bit his lip.
“Reynard!” The hail caught his attention sharply. Striding towards the small cluster of figures, hat bent and charred, robes dishevelled and hair leaking free of its restraining pins, Minerva McGonagall certainly looked as though she’d been in a fight. Rey had known Minerva for most of his life; a contemporary from he and his wife’s school days, albeit in a different House, she and Diana had become good friends during the years they had shared as colleagues on the Hogwarts faculty. Although they had rarely seen each other in the long years that followed, both he and Diana had continued to count Minerva as a trusted friend.
She was regarding him now with a combination of apprehension and sorrow that was deeply alarming.
“Reynard,” she greeted again more solemnly. “Albus is meeting with representatives from the Ministry or he’d be here to see you himself. I’ll take you to Remus.”
An abrupt gesture forestalled the pursuing motions of the teenagers as she regarded them with aggravated sternness. “I’m not going to tell you five again,” she declared firmly. “I want you upstairs in the Gryffindor dormitory to be checked out by the Healers we’ve sent to…”
“But we’ve seen Healers!” The smaller redheaded girl gestured in the direction of her bushy-haired companion’s closed cut. “We just want to know…”
“Miss Weasley!” At this tone, the silence was instant. “You’ll be told what you need to know when you need to know it! For the last time, upstairs!”
Taking a deep, infuriated breath as the indignant teenagers reluctantly shuffled away, Minerva turned and nodded more graciously in the direction of the spiky haired young Auror. “Thank you, Miss Tonks,” she added politely. “Reynard?”
Also nodding his gratitude to his escort, Reynard turned and followed swiftly in pursuit of the Deputy Headmistress.
The Hospital Wing was alive with activity. Lime-robed Healers that could be spared from the village had been drafted in to tend the most battered of the children as they crouched dazed but obedient on the rows of beds “ in another bed, partly curtained off Rey caught a glimpse of a dark-robed, black-haired figure lying unconscious that could only be the infamous Professor Severus Snape. Near the door, two beds had been pushed hurriedly together but his makeshift arrangement had still failed to contain the enormous, bearded figure that lay sprawled across them, his face showing signs of a severe battering, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged and slow. Two Healers were straining together in order to roll his vast form sideways so as to better examine his injuries. Strangely, there was no sign of Poppy Pomfrey.
Minerva was examining the scratched children with an expression that mingled seriousness with relief. “We were very lucky,” she said softly. “Several of the students acted very promptly when Kane first transformed and their actions meant that by some miracle, no children were bitten or killed. All the injuries are minor.” She laid one hand gently against Rey’s wrist as he rested a moment against his cane.
“They remembered things that your son taught them,” she added, with a note of pride whispering against the sorrow in her tone. “He saved their lives tonight in more ways than one.”
Rey did not trust himself to speak. He simply nodded.
Minerva’s features braced as she released his hand with a final, reassuring squeeze. “He’s in Poppy’s office,” she told him quietly. “We thought it best not to have him out on the ward for now.”
Of course. It wouldn’t do to scare the children.
The unworthy thought slipped through Rey’s mind before he could prevent its passage. Biting down on his lip, he moved to follow Minerva as she led him gently between the rows of beds in the direction the entrance of Poppy Pomfrey’s inner chamber, his mind tumbling again at the prospect of what he might find.
Remus the werewolf. Fear and apprehension stabbed against the cold emptiness inside his chest. Would there be anything of his son there that he would recognise? Would there linger any hint of the child he so loved? Or would he be forced to sit and watch the slow demise of an unfamiliar monster without ever again truly seeing the last person in the world that he had left?
Would he ever see the face of son he knew and loved so much again? Or just watch a werewolf die?
Please, he pleaded silently to whatever deity or spirit might care to be listening. Please, if you must take him from me, wait until he’s human. Don’t leave him in a shape he despised for an eternity. Give him the dignity of leaving this world as himself…
The door to Poppy’s office was slightly ajar. The sounds of thrashing limbs, of wolfish whimpering drifted from within.
With a final, concerned glance at her companion, Minerva pushed open the door.
And Reynard’s world shifted.
A lean werewolf lay writhing on a battered, bloodstained mattress in the corner of the room, twitching and jerking uncontrollably as he unconsciously strained against the padded ropes that bound him down and held him firm. His thick grey fur and the rough bandages that loosely covered what Rey assumed to be the worst of his injuries were soaked in alarming quantities of blood. In spite of the frantic motion, his eyes remained firmly closed.
Rey was thankful of that. He had no wish to see that eerie golden stare again.
Poppy Pomfrey was kneeling awkwardly beside this most unusual patient, her hands and protective apron stained scarlet as she sorted through fresh bandaging from a wooden box by her side. Both her wand and a collection of potion bottles sat untouched and useless on her nearby desk. As her gaze lifted to greet the new arrivals, her eyes fluently expressed both her anxiety and her resignation.
“He’s still deeply unconscious, though you wouldn’t know it,” she stated without preamble. “And since all I have to work with are bandages, I’m having real trouble stopping the bleeding. Healing spells bounce off him just like any other magic at full moon and I’ve no idea how any of my potions will react with this physiology. I even thought about trying those Muggle stitches but I can’t keep him still enough; I had enough trouble getting the bandages on.” She sighed, her features rich with regret and frustration. “I’m doing everything I can, but I’m completely at a loss. There hasn’t been much written about trying to heal a transformed werewolf.”
Minerva had gone pale. “What are his chances?” she asked with difficulty.
Poppy hardened her jaw. “Hard to say,” she confessed, unable to conceal the note of distress in her tone. “In his weakened condition, the transformation back will be the test. If he can survive that… well, I can’t say he’ll be out of the woods but I’ll at least be able to start treating him and make a better assessment of his wounds.” She swallowed hard. “If he’s alive come the morning, we’ll speak again.”
Reynard barely heard them. He was transfixed by the thrashing wolf that twisted and writhed before him, swathed in grey fur and bloody bandages, a creature so unlike the son that had brought so much joy into his life as to be incomprehensible. Could this really be Remus? Could this wolfish form truly enclose the quiet dignity and gentle humour of his only child? And why, even in the sleep of injury, could he not be allowed to rest?
“Why is he writhing like that?” Rey barely recognised the sound of his own voice. “I thought he’d be still.”
Minerva’s hand closed soothingly upon his shoulder as Poppy sighed. “He’s been like this since before I arrived,” she admitted wearily, her eyes examining the tortured werewolf with sorrowful fear. “I had to tie him down to stop him exacerbating his wounds. I don’t know what’s going on in there, but I don’t think I like it.”
A memory flashed like vivid lightning across Rey’s mind. Another hospital room almost a lifetime ago now it seemed, and a little boy with gold stained eyes fighting a desperate fight…
Icy dread mingled with burning fear at the sudden realisation.
The wolf.
It’s there. And he’s fighting it.
Remus.
Doubts, confusion, all were pushed instantly aside. Whatever form he was forced to wear, whatever shape he was contorted into, this was and would always be his son.
Pulling gently free of Minerva’s grasp, Rey made his way awkwardly over to Poppy’s side. Ignoring her quizzical look, the older man grasped his cane in one hand and took a firm grip on the edge of the desk with the other. And then, with an agonised grimace, he lowered painfully himself to the ground.
Both Minerva and Poppy leapt instantly to his aid, but Rey shook them off impatiently as he managed to settle himself uncomfortably in a sprawling sit with his cane propped up against a nearby chair. Ignoring Poppy’s critical stare as she dropped back to her knees at his side, he stared down at alien body to which his son was bound. Then awkwardly, tentatively, he extended one hand towards the frantic head and gently raked his fingers through the bloody fur.
“Reynard…” Poppy’s voice cracked slightly as watched him repeat the soothing stroke in spite of the werewolf’s struggles.
“You said we’ll know in the morning.” Rey’s voice was no more than a whisper.
Poppy nodded. “That’s right.”
Rey’s eyes never left his transformed child, his hand not once ceasing in its gentle motion. “Then I’ll wait here.”
Minerva was biting her lip as she stared down at the father’s slow comfort of his agonised son. “I have to go,” she said awkwardly. “Poppy, if anything…happens…”
“I’ll send word,” the Matron assured her at once. With a final nod, Minerva turned and hurried from the room.
Rey did not hear her leave. He did not see the sorrowful stare of Poppy Pomfrey. He knew of nothing but his son.
“It’s all right, Remus,” he murmured softly. “Whatever happens, you won’t be alone.”
He could almost feel Diana by his side. He could almost sense her as she mirrored his comforting stroke.
And now they could only wait and see what the morning’s light would bring.
A/N: I have no idea whether or not a werewolf will stay a wolf if it dies on the night of the full moon or whether it would revert to human. For angst purposes, I'm assuming it would stay as in whichever form it happened to be using.
Time to confess, I think. When I first wrote this part of the fic, these last two chapters did not exist - I jumped straight from the "classic blackness cliffie" into Rey already in the Hospital Wing and a direct reveal of the fate of Remus come the morning. But whilst I was at work the week before I was due to post what was then chapter 30 and is now chapter 32, I was viciously assaulted by the image at the end of this chapter - Reynard bending down to stroke his transformed son in the Hospital Wing. Then the thought of what that journey must have been like for Rey occured, seeing Hogsmeade and the direct aftermath of the fight and it just wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. So I did. :)