32: The Lull of Moonset
Darkness.
Images rushed and buffeted his mind, hands grasping at him, distant voices, flashes of his father shaking, his mother sobbing, Moody’s fury, Dumbledore’s disappointment, Kane the feral, Kane the wolf, children’s voices, children’s screams, both others and his own that tore at his instincts and his soul, golden eyes, the feel of teeth in his side, claws in his neck, the agony of combat and the creeping, repulsive compelling scent of his own blood spreading across the floor, splattering over the walls of the Shrieking Shack as he tore at own limbs and body in furious desperation, consumed by bloodlust and frustration. Images of dark forest, of crooked houses and a towering castle beneath a bright full moon, of a stag, a rat, a dog, a dark cellar with a high window and distant, anxious voices, of the desire to hunt, to kill, a long dark tunnel and upright shadows staring in horror, the scent of prey, the smell of fear and finally the chance to taste the blood he had yearned for but been denied all his life…
It would be fulfilment.
No.
He did not want to fight. But he could not let it win.
He was human. He would die human.
The clawing of the wolf intensified, that dreadful, too familiar chill across his mind. It sensed his weakness and surged.
No! Leave me alone!
He fought to remember everything, anything that was not wolf, the memories that made him Remus. His mother’s kind face and her gentle arms as she lifted him from the blood-soaked stone and carried him to his room, his father’s reassuring smile in the doorway, the laughter and joy of his friends, untarnished by war or age or circumstance, his friends in the Order, the surge of pleasure and pride and satisfaction that came with teaching his classes and seeing the students joy to learn, the laughter of the kids in the wake of Kane’s downfall. Kane had fallen. Kane was on the verge of defeat. To give him such a victory now would be unbearable.
The wolf snarled.
And then there was pain. Pain that pierced him, tore at him, that penetrated even the depths of the darkness into which he had fallen, a pain that he was sure would finally spell the end of his long battle through life. If he could just hold the wolf off a moment longer…
And then suddenly, astonishing, everything changed. The chill slipped back, fading, the sense of the wolf retreating with a parting growl as it curled itself back in its secluded corner of his mind and left him alone with his pain.
The fight was over. He had won.
The darkness swirled then, wrapping around him with a numbing relief that stole away the agonies. Gently, it began to pull him downwards.
And he didn’t care. Remus Lupin was at rest.
A moment later there was nothing but the black.
* * *
Lightness.
Feeling.
Sound.
The blackness was retreating. Light burned at his eyelids.
A slow creep of sensation whispered its way along limbs he had thought left behind forever. A moment later, it prodded awake the pain.
A lot of pain.
Every joint ached. Every nerve tingled. Every bone throbbed. His stomach burned in streaks of fire. Heavy, oppressive, almost violent tiredness clung like a weighty shroud around both body and mind.
He groaned. It seemed appropriate under the circumstances.
Voices. Yes, there were definitely voices, two voices, two familiar voices but right at that moment his brain wanted nothing more than to settle down in a gooey heap and never be disturbed again; hence, it did not respond well to a prod for information. Identities eluded him.
He could not wake. For all he wanted to, the strength and coherence he needed was absent. The weight upon his mind pressed him downwards, yearning once more for the dark.
Hands. A hand, course and callused, had wrapped around his own, squeezing with gentle reassurance; a second hand, different, smoother, smaller, caught his chin in a soft grasp. Something glassy was pressed against his lips, followed by the trickle of cold liquid that slid into his mouth to be instinctively swallowed, a potion of some kind that tasted vaguely of melon sorbet. A shiver seemed to pass through his body but not a sense of cold; instead, the feeling was oddly warm and comforting, as the heaviness in his mind, the detachment, seemed to ease into a soft, downy drowsiness that enfolded him like warm blankets and lowered him back towards sleep. This time, as he slipped gently back into the darkness, he knew he would return.
* * *
The hand. It still held his.
Drifting absently in peaceful slumber, Remus slowly became aware of the gentle grasp of fingers tracing absent little circles on the palm of his hand, of the slow stroke of a thumb against the knuckles, little movements that slowly but surely lifted him back into the conscious world and roused him from his torpor. The imposing weight of disorientating, pall like darkness against his mind had dissipated into nothing more than a nagging tiredness and heavy limbs, the pain reduced to a dull roar, although the skin of his stomach still felt vaguely as though it had lost a round of combat with a cheese grater. His thigh was also alarmingly tender and little trickles of pain slithered down his right side. His bruises, he suspected, were pretty universal.
Still. All things considered, it could have been a great deal worse...
Realisation struck with the force of a feral werewolf. He was alive.
And he was sane. Or as sane as he ever got.
Questions he’d never thought he’d get to ask suddenly became real again. What had happened to Kane, the students, the village? And what had happened to him?
He’d wanted to die. He’d let himself. He’d thought he had no choice.
Why hadn’t he?
The wolf had been winning. Death had seemed the only escape. But the wolf had retreated.
Why? And what if it comes back?
Why wasn’t he feral? Why wasn’t he dead?
“I’m not dead.” The words escaped his throat in a whisper almost unconsciously, echoing into the silence of the room beyond. The hand stilled, tightening sharply.
And then, a familiar voice tangled with emotions cut into his retrospection and dragged him finally awake.
“Not through lack of trying, apparently.”
Remus blinked as light invaded his eyes. Recognition flooded through his tired but clearing mind as he sought to focus his uncertain vision on the silver haired blur that hovered by his bed.
“Dad,” he murmured drowsily, but his voice rich with anxiety. His rush of questions swirled in his head, battling with his own sense of exhaustion as he fought to rid himself of the last remnants of the dragging drowsiness that had earlier seemed so all consuming in order to ask what he so desperately needed to know. Whilst his father could not help with the latter, he could at least answer the former.
“Kane, the children, Hogsmeade,” he managed to mumble. “What’s happened?”
“Hogsmeade was attacked by Death Eaters but Dumbledore drove them away.” There was an odd frosty quality to his father’s voice as Remus struggled to solidify his image. “There were a few fatalities; two Aurors were lost in the fight and several of the villagers but others can tell you better than I about that. The children are all fine by some miracle, no more than scratches on them. And Abraham Kane is alive but in custody.”
Remus managed to regain control of his rebellious sight, finally cutting through the remains of the weary fuzz as he focussed awkwardly on his father at last. Their eyes met and held.
Remus felt an ominous surge in his chest. He knew that look.
“Dad?” he ventured cautiously, forcing himself to concentrate as he slurred the words. “Are you all right?”
Reynard Lupin regarded his son for a moment, silhouetted against a swath of Hospital Wing curtain, his tight expression conveying far more clearly than any words just how difficult he was finding it to reconcile his relieved desire to embrace the battered form of his only child and his fervent urge to give him the scolding of his life. When he spoke again, his voice remained stiff and cold, but with an undeniable hint of a tremble.
“You know,” he said softly. “Once in a while, I would like to see my only son for reasons that don’t involve his having spilled his lifeblood across a wide area of floor. I’ve spent too many years sitting at your bedside already, thank you.”
Guilt welled up in Remus’ chest. He could see now the tension that racked his father’s body, the tightness of his jaw, the turmoil of emotions in his brown eyes. He could read the fear of loss on his features, mingling with the release of its thwarting. He could feel the sudden, anxious press of his fingers against his son’s palm.
His father had been terrified.
Gently, he squeezed the hand back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, shifting his position with heavy awkwardness in order to better face his father. “I’m so sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was upset you.”
Reynard clenched his teeth. “Perhaps you could have thought of that before you decided to have a full moon scrap with a feral werewolf? With Abraham bloody Kane?”
The urge to scold definitely appeared to be winning and Remus really wasn’t sure he had the energy to take it. “Dad…”
His plea was cut off sharply. “Do you know what day it is today? Do you?”
Shocked and a little intimidated, Remus mutely shook his head.
“Tuesday.” Reynard glared emphatically but his hand was noticeably shaking. “Tuesday afternoon, to be exact. Do you happen to remember what day it was when you last paid a visit to the land of the living?”
Oh dear gods. No wonder he’s so stressed. “Friday.”
“Friday,” Reynard repeated sharply. “That would make it almost four days you’ve been unconscious. Four days I’ve been sat by your bedside, waiting for some sign that you haven’t buggered off to the Great Beyond. Four days of fielding polite phrased sympathies and anxious questions, four days of wide-eyed children tugging at my sleeve and asking after their favourite teacher, four days of being patted on the shoulder by nice people who really did have no bloody idea what I was going through. The Aurors are lurking around like pallbearers at a funeral; the only reason that officious bastard Dawlish doesn’t want you dead is so he can accuse you of something, though I’m not sure Saving Lives With Intent is quite what he had in mind! And do you know there’s press out there? They came to cover that attack in Hogsmeade but they soon sniffed out about Kane’s capture as well. If that bloody Skeeter woman comes near me one more time, I’ll jam my cane up her nose and wiggle until her glasses fall off!”
Remus couldn’t help himself. He snorted a chuckle.
Reynard caught him with a glare, but a hint of the fervour seemed to melt out of his tirade at his son’s suppressed smile. When he spoke again, his tone had softened slightly. “Remus, you promised me you weren’t going to do this anymore. You said you’d be careful.”
Remus sighed as he tightened his grip on his uptight father’s hand, trying not to resent being told off for doing what he thought was best; it was obvious that Reynard desperately needed to vent four days of bottled up emotions whether his son had the energy or not. He told himself determinedly that his father had every right to be bloody unreasonable. He was not going to snap at him for it.
“Circumstances rather got away from me,” he said wearily, although despite his best efforts, there was an unmistakable edge to his tone. “I had a choice between a full moon scrap with a feral werewolf or sitting back on my haunches and leaving him to eat the children. I did what I thought was the right thing and I’m sorry if you don’t agree but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hadn’t tried my best.”
Reynard huffed, but not very sincerely. “So he gets to eat my child instead?”
“Dad!” Remus thumped his head back against his pillow as frustration suddenly bubbled over his respect for his father’s distress. “Please, for goodness sake, stop this! I am not eaten! No part of me is digesting! Would you please either try and be reasonable or tell me what else I could have done!”
There was a long silence. Reynard stared down at his tired and suddenly irritable son who lay with his head half-buried in his pillow as he matched his father glare for glare. The anger drained slowly from his features, to escape in the form of a sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I know you’re right. You saved a lot of lives last weekend and you brought your mother’s killer to face justice. But you also scared me near enough to death for the second time in a fortnight. And when your only child, your only real family, the only person left in this world that you really, truly love is lying unconscious and practically dead, the fear rather overcomes the pride.”
Remus sighed too. “I understand.” He fought with himself for a moment. “I did think about you,” he confessed. “When I thought I was…” A squeeze of the hand conveyed a world of understanding. “And I even apologised to you, though I don’t think you heard.”
Rey chuckled softly, breaking a smile for the first time since his son had woken. “Afraid not,” he said with deliberate casualness. “Obviously you weren’t projecting very well.”
A flood of unpleasant memories swam through Remus’ mind, his fight with Kane, his fight within himself and that single, desperate moment when he had been willing to step into nothingness just for some kind of peace. The wolf had been winning.
“I had a little interference,” he muttered shakily.
Reynard picked up instantly on his son’s distress, leaning forward as he rested his cane against the bedside table on order to grasp Remus’ arm with his free hand. Concerned eyes met fearful eyes and sought to reassure.
“What’s wrong?” Every trace of anger and irritation had vanished from Reynard’s tone in light of his son’s obvious discomfort “ only sympathy and concern and an odd kind of understanding remained. “What happened?”
Remus took a deep breath. How could he tell his father that his worst nightmares might be coming true? How could he tell him that he had broken his trust in going after Kane, that he had allowed the wolf to enter his thoughts and control his actions not once but twice? How could he tell him that his only son was terrified of turning feral?
Because he could tell no one else. And his father deserved to know.
And so he told him.
Told him of his first encounter with Kane in The Howling, of the exact words the feral had hurled at him in the Hogsmeade alley. He told of his fury at his father’s admission regarding Diana Lupin’s fate, of his foolhardy trip back to the werewolf haven and the confrontation and loss of control that had resulted. And he told most of all of the dreadful moment when the thoughts and desires of the wolf had crept into his mind in the entrance hall of Hogwarts and almost stole his sanity.
He told of his terror that his loss to the wolf was only a matter of time.
The silence that followed the end of his confession was vast and lengthy.
Remus stared at the ceiling, carefully avoiding his father’s gaze but acutely aware of it as he struggled to compose himself after his sudden outpouring. The grip on his hand felt like a lifeline. He had to hold onto this, family, human feeling, if was going to keep himself from…
“I don’t think it’s as bad as you think.” Reynard’s voice interrupted his thoughts. It was soft, and surprisingly calm “ Remus, who had been expected another outburst, glanced over at his father to find solemn eyes and composed features.
Didn’t he understand what I said?
“Dad, I almost turned feral. Twice. In one week. I don’t see how that can be misinterpreted.”
“You had extreme provocation.” Rey bit his lip sharply. “If I had heard Abraham Kane describing how he killed you mother like that, I think I would have turned feral and I’m not even a werewolf. And you stopped it. You realised what was happening and you forced it away. When it came to the crunch, you were the one in control.”
Remus tried to sit upright and immediately regretted it “ the spasm of sharp pain across his stomach and the dizzy surge through his skull drove him back down to his pillow with a gasp. Wincing, he waved away his father’s concerned reach for his shoulder and fought to catch his breath.
“But the entrance hall,” he managed. “I was on Wolfsbane, dear gods, I was drugged up to the eyeballs with the stuff, and it still broke through! How could that happen if I hadn’t made it strong, given it a chance to get in? How could it…”
“Remus.” Reynard’s interruption was sharp. “Calm down. If I overheard something correctly, I don’t think that was your fault either. Wait here a moment.”
Rising awkwardly, the older Lupin reluctantly released his son’s hand, grasped his cane and limped stiffly through the gap in the curtains. For the first time Remus realised that he could hear voices beyond the confines of his shrouded bed.
And then there was a sudden familiar rush of staccato footsteps and an abrupt explosion of words.
“…should have fetched me immediately! I was just in my office! Honestly, unconscious for four days, he’s bound to need checking over, it was only paperwork for goodness sake! Didn’t like to interrupt, good grief, like father, like son, you’re as bad as each other! What a pair of…”
The curtains burst aside as the tight-lipped form of Poppy Pomfrey strode imperiously over the bedside brandishing a potion bottle and a steely expression. Her gaze softened slightly as Remus risked the little half-smile that had always proved so effective at calming his mother. His father, limping awkwardly back into the curtained off area, gave him a look that spoke volumes about exactly who was and wasn’t being fooled.
Poppy numbered amongst the former. Settling gently on the edge of her patient’s bed, she smiled warmly back.
“Remus dear, how are you feeling?”
“A bit achy,” Remus admitted in what was a gross understatement. “My stomach’s sore.”
“I wonder why,” Reynard drawled dryly.
Poppy shot the older man a sharp look. Looking thoroughly unrepentant, Reynard settled himself back into his chair and tossed his son a wink.
“Let me take a look,” Bustling to her feet, the Matron carefully drew back the covers as Remus obediently lifted his pyjama top to allow her to make an examination. “It’s no wonder you’re a little tender; you had a nasty infection in these wounds by the time I got a proper look at you. I was down in the village of course, helping the wounded after that awful attack when young Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley came stumbling out of Honeydukes of all places babbling about an attack in the school. Of course the Aurors and St Mungo’s Healers had things well in hand by then so we rushed back as quickly as we could, but well; the damage had been done. The children did their best for you of course, carrying you and Professor Snape to the Hospital Wing and trying to clean the wounds, but it was well beyond anything they had learned.”
Remus winced as the Matron’s finger prodded gently at the longest and deepest of the scratches; Poppy gave an apologetic nod before launching back into her chatter. “You were writhing all over the place when I arrived, and in a right sorry state. I’ll admit “ I was at a bit of a loss at first. I’ve never had to treat you before you’d changed back before and the anatomy of a transformed werewolf isn’t something I ever thought I’d need to know, not to mention that your other form is rather inconveniently immune to any kind of healing magic.” She smiled. “It was a bit of a relief when you turned back again and I could treat you, even if you did go alarmingly quiet.”
Pain. Pain and the retreat of the wolf. Remus absently rolled over to allow Poppy to examine the scratches down his side, lost for a moment in the recollection of the last moments of his unconscious battle. That was it. That was why the wolf had retreated so suddenly; the pain had been his transformation back. The full moon had passed and so had the time of the wolf.
And he had been able to hold out. Perhaps his dad was right. Perhaps he was not so vulnerable after all…
“You were completely unconscious until this morning.” Poppy was oblivious to her patient’s distraction, her garrulous turn apparently an expression of relief. “You stirred a little, first thing, but you clearly weren’t ready to be awake so I gave you some Sleeping Potion, a healing draft and a little something to help clear your head for when you were ready to rejoin us.” She smiled. “It’s nice to see you so alert at last! I was worried that the aconite in your system might slow your healing a great deal more than it has, even with the smaller doses…”
“Poppy.” Reynard leapt headlong into the rambling sentence, shooting a quick meaningful glance at his surprised son. “I’ve been meaning to ask about that actually. When you were treating Professor Snape a few days ago, I thought I heard the two of you say something about having reduced the potency of the potion you gave Remus?”
Remus stared at the Matron, who flushed slightly and gave an awkward half-smile in the face of his stunned and slightly accusatory glare.
“That is true,” she admitted softly, addressing herself to the younger Lupin. “After that collapse of yours on Wednesday, I left you asleep in the Hospital Wing and went straight down to the dungeons to have a word with Professor Snape. Don’t you look at me like that, Remus Lupin!” The scolding was abrupt and quieted his half-started protest. “You know what a state you were in. Your body was still weak after your last injury and you weren’t handling the effects of the tight dosages as well as I’d hoped. I was so afraid that if I didn’t do something about it, I’d be the one who found you dead come moonset!” She took a calming breath. “I was lucky to catch him “ he was off to some meeting with a potions colleague I think. But he told me that it could be done “ we calculated almost to the droplet how much would be needed to ensure you stayed in control. We were a little concerned, I’ll admit, at how close it might be but Professor Snape assured me that as long as you weren’t around too many people after you’d transformed, you would be able to use your own strength of will to make the Wolfsbane stick. And since you saved the children rather than eating them, it doesn’t seem to have had any ill effects on your change in the long run.”
Remus stared. “It was weaker?” he managed.
“A little, yes.” Poppy gently pulled the sheets back into place and patted the coverlet reassuringly. “But it was for your own good, really. And all’s well that ends well. No leaving that bed now “ you’re on strict bed rest. I’ll get you a draft for the pain.”
And then with a final, encouraging smile, the Matron turned and strode through the gap in the curtains.
Remus was stunned. Could it have been that simple? Was it the weaker Wolfsbane that had allowed the wolf its moment in his mind? The full moon was after all its time. He had been the invader.
And Snape had known. No wonder he had been so insistent that Remus should not leave Hogwarts on the night of the Hogsmeade raid, a potentially wild werewolf loose in a bloodstained battleground. And he had been so wary of Remus, almost unusually so when they had spoken in the Great Hall “ he had known there was a chance that the presence of so many people would aggravate his colleague’s rather less subdued than usual wolf…
A touch against his wrist made him start “ Rey smiled at his son. “Feel better now?” he asked softly.
Remus gave smile in return. “What, because I’m not turning into a raging feral but merely on weaker medicine?” He laughed softly. “Much.”
“Good. I told you it wasn’t as bad as you thought.” Reynard leaned back in his chair with a sigh of relief. “You know you probably ought to brace yourself,” he said cheerfully. “Poppy’s been keeping them out up until now, but there are a large number of people who will want to visit you now you’re conscious. There’s practically a waiting list. Tomorrow will be a busy morning, I suspect.”
“Wonderful.” Stretching, Remus adjusted himself more comfortably against his pillow and closed his eyes. His burst of alertness had finally caught up with him; he was suddenly ridiculously tired. “Those with chocolate receive priority.”
He heard Reynard chuckle. “Ah, Diana’s little boy indeed. But will you still have room for your old dad?”
Remus raised a lazy eyelid. “Do you have chocolate?”
“I can get it.”
“Then I can probably squeeze you in.”
“I’m so grateful.” Reynard tapped his cane absently against the foot of his chair. “I see now where I’ve been going wrong all these years. Perhaps if I ply you with chocolate, the next time I see you won’t be because you’re seriously injured and in hospital.”
Remus sighed, fighting an abrupt yawn. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He smiled suddenly. “Look we talked about a Sunday dinner a while ago. How about I come home for a weekend visit sometime soon?”
Reynard grinned brightly “That’s a good idea. I can do a roast.”
There was a lengthy pause. Remus stared at his father. “You’re going to cook?” he ventured incredulously.
Reynard raised an eyebrow in vague offence. “You have a problem with my cooking?”
“No, no.” Remus closed his eyes once more, settling back with a dozy but nonetheless cheeky half-smile. “I just thought we ought to alert the emergency services. It’s only polite to give then time to stock up on stomach potions and practice their dousing spells.”
A second silence followed sharply on the heels of the first. When Reynard finally spoke, his voice was a mixture of fondness and downright irritation. “Of all the traits you could of inherited from your mother,” he drawled wearily, “You had to get her sense of humour, didn’t you?”
“Keeps you on your toes.” Sleep was definitely looming. Quite why he was so tired when he had undeniably done very little for the last few days, Remus could not say. But he had learned long ago that there was no arguing with his body.
Reynard too could see which way the wind was blowing; Remus heard the familiar creak and groan as his father came to his feet and felt a gentle pat against his arm.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” his father said softly. “I’ll tell Poppy and your hoard of fans to come back later. Sleep well, son.”
“Thanks dad.” The reply was barely a whisper.
He heard the gentle swish of parting curtains and the uneven footsteps of his father as he retreated in search of food. A moment later, Remus had drifted once more into the restful peace of sleep.