For example; where does he go off to? Where does he get those scars from? Attempts have been made to investigate, but have all been unsuccessful â“ the Marauders will always flat out deny any knowledge of disappearances or secret goings on. As for the scars, they are always given unrealistic explanations about daring encounters with various magical creatures, which were destined to end in certain death ... but the creature always seems be overcome. It is plain to see that they are falsehoods created to entertain audiences and distract from the original enquiry.
So what is it that Remus Lupin is really hiding? And why is it so terrible, that such lengths are gone to in attempts to cover it up?
Chapter Six: The Annexe
[Remus]
I feel the dread all day, creeping up on me. As always, I will the hours to go slower and they therefore speed up. I canât concentrate on anything at all, I just pace around the house. Dad asks for help in the garden to try and distract me, but I cannot even concentrate on what is a weed and what isnât. Everything revolves around the moon rising in a few hoursâ time.
Just after lunchtime, Jamesâs head appears in the fire and starts trying to distract me again with stories of his and Siriusâs various antics ever since Sirius moved in, but it doesnât last long.
âAre you sure you donât want us to come over?â James asks, before he goes.
Closer to the time, my high horse bucks a bit, but I stand firm. âIâll be fine. Letâs not go there again, all right? Iâll be fine. Fine.â I realise that the word âfineâ was used too many times in that statement and I can tell James realises it too. But he must know by now that thereâs nothing I will allow him to do.
He gives a weak smile. âFair enough. Good luck, mate, yeah?â
I nod. âThanks.â
And go back to my pacing. With only half an hour to go, I just want to get it over with. My skin is crawling. I feel the change coming up on me very soon and just want it finished. I try not to look in a mirror, knowing perfectly well that I look a mess without its help. Mum fusses that I should eat something, but I shrug her off. With fifteen minutes to go, we are all sitting around the kitchen table, staring at the clock. Dad stands up. âCome on, son. Letâs go.â
I nod grimly and follow him out of the backdoor and down the garden path, as Mum hurries after us. We reach the annexe at the bottom of the garden, a converted outhouse with the windows boarded up firmly and â“ my blood runs cold â“ the steel door Iâve come to fear the very sight of. Dad takes the keys from his belt (the only set we have) and puts them in the door. It opens silently and I step inside. I turn to face them.
âSee you in the morning. Have a nice night,â I croak out, trying to sound peaceful.
âWill do. Goodnight, Remus. Donât stay up too late,â Dad tells me, faking a smile. This pretence of normality is a ritual we go through every full moon. Mum can never take part in the sham. She can barely speak the full day before full moon, let alone ten minutes before.
ââNight, Mum,â I say, nodding at her. She nods back, not even attempting a smile â“ all her efforts are put to not crying in front of me.
Dad shuts the door and suddenly Iâm alone. I flick a switch and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling flickers into life. I settle in the corner furthest from the door and curl my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Normally, before I transform, I think of the good things in my life. Itâs something Madam Pomfrey advised me to do. I remember each of my friendsâ faces, their voices, the funny things they have said recently. But this time, someone else appears in my mind. Marty Price, a quill tucked behind her ear and a clipboard in her hands, bubbling over with excitement about some hair-brained scheme no one else could care less about. And then it changes. Then I remember the look on her face the day before we left, in the Entrance Hall. The utter helplessness and desperation and â“ worst of all â“ hurt. I vow to make it up to her sometime next year. She doesnât deserve all that; after all, thereâs nothing wrong with her. No one deserves something like that.
As I make this vow, I suddenly shudder violently. I recognise the symptom only too well. Any minute now and Iâll lose myself completely.
[Marty]
I do not know where I am. I vaguely recognise the view outside my window, but I cannot actually connect it with a specific location. Itâs not the Hogwarts Grounds and itâs not Diagon Alley, so I am neither at school nor home.
Something must have happened. I try and cast my mind back. What is the last thing I remember? Itâs all a bit hazy ... remembering things never used to be this difficult ...
The door opens behind me.
âOh, Marty, youâre up!â I turn around and am suddenly swamped by Aunt Tabby in a hug.
âUh ... hey. Whatâs going on?â
âSit down, honey. We have a long talk ahead.â
I gulp. I donât really do emotion, not meaningful emotions and this âtalkâ sounds like thereâll be a lot of emotion in it. Donât get me wrong, I feel stuff. Anger, like when someoneâs being bullied; hurt, like the time at the end of last year when the Marauders made me feel tiny; loneliness, when I suddenly long for a real friend. But these negative emotions are spontaneous, quick and you can soon bounce back to your old, happy-go-lucky, Marauder-watching, Cause-driven self. But with âtalksâ, the hurt goes much deeper. And that I canât do. I mean â“ some people seem to enjoy that kind of melancholy state. But I just ... I just canât do it.
I take a deep breath and sit on the edge of the bed. âGo on, then.â
âWe gave you a heavy Sleeping Draught, you see, so that you wouldnât lie awake thinking about everything. Garfield did say you might not remember everything when you woke up ...â
âOh, thatâs where we are!â Garfield Moore has always been Aunt Tabbyâs closest friend outside of the family. They met at a protest march in London outside the Ministry when they had both left school and have stayed in touch ever since. Iâve not been here often, which explains why I recognised â“ but couldnât place â“ the street outside. And he would know about things like Sleeping Draughts â“ heâs a Healer at St Mungoâs.
âYes. We came to stay at his place ... indefinitely, I suppose.â
I am growing more suspicious with every word. âWhy? Whereâs Mum?â But on the word âMumâ, it hits me and suddenly, I remember. The last time I saw Mum ... she had just been murdered. âOh,â is all I can think of to say. I feel numb. I can see everything that happened last night, now. The argument; coming downstairs; the door opening; the terrified faces of the two people closest two me in all the world; one of those people falling to the floor. And then after that: being grabbed by Aunt Tabby; side-along apparating here; a light coming on; Garfield running outside in his dressing gown and hurrying us inside, nervously; drinking some tea and feeling immediately drowsy (that would be the Draught, then ... crafty of them). And then waking up here.
âIâm sorry,â she says softly.
âWhy?â my voice is croakier than I recall. âDid you do it?â
âYou shouldnât have seen it. You shouldnât have been there. We shouldnât have been so public about our views ... we shouldnât ... we shouldnât ... oh, Marty, there are so many things we shouldnât have done.â
I can think of no response, so I donât give one. My mother â“ gone. Itâs not possible. Everyone knows Saffron Price. Everyone who comes to Diagon Alley, which is a LOT of the British wizarding population ... even if they donât know her name, they know who she is. She writes essays and essays to the Daily Prophet and sometimes her letters are published (or, segments are, anyway). She was like a force, doing good, keeping spirits up, keeping things optimistic. Even when other shops started to tremble, Taffyâs remained as welcoming as ever. Maybe it was a mistake. After all, itâs like Aunt Tabby said ... if they hadnât been so public ...
But I knew this! They always told me working for The Cause came with a certain amount of risk ... they bought me books full of stories about people imprisoned for their views. The men who stood up for Centaur, Goblin and Merpeople rights. The women who stood up against the Witch Hunting of innocent Muggles, in the seventeenth century. People have sacrificed their lives for whatâs right before now ... and they will again. But I always thought â“ I always thought we were different. Protected. Why would anyone want to hurt us? This isnât the seventeenth century, people know better than that. People arenât stupid. We understand things more now. People donât get killed because of what they believe in. Not now. This is the 1970s, after all!
âWould you like me to stay with you for a while?â Aunt Tabby asks, gently. âOr would you rather be on your own?â
I swallow. âYou should go. But first ... what happens to us now?â
âWell ... we can stay with Garfield as long as we need. He lives on his own, so heâll probably enjoy the company ... heâd prefer different circumstances, of course, but thereâs no problem about a home. As for the cafĂ© ... Look, you donât have to go back to work, but after a week or two, Iâll be opening up again. Itâs what Saffy would want. I donât mind what you do, but ... well, Iâm your guardian now. And so ... so, please donât coop yourself up. Itâll do no good. If you donât keep going, this could destroy you for the rest of your life.â She stands up and kisses the top of my head. Then, without a word, she leaves, closing the door behind her.
Itâs too late for that, I think. My lifeâs already destroyed.
[Remus]
Itâs easy enough once I wake up in the morning. My arm is very painful and I wince to see the damage wolf-me did to myself. Even though I insisted to Sirius that there was no way I would forget what it was like before they helped me, Iâm almost ashamed to admit that he was right. Iâd forgotten how it feels to wake up, knowing that you almost chewed your own arm off the during the night. Iâd forgotten the pain, but itâs familiar and I know the wound wonât be as bad as it looks. It never is quite as bad as it looks. Under one of the floorboards is a medical kit and I take out a bandage and wrap it clumsily around my arm. Mum will fix it properly later on.
I collect my clothes from the corner, get dressed, carefully, before sitting on the shredded old armchair. There are other injuries besides the arm and I generally ache all over, but itâs all familiar. Iâve been in worse states than this and right now, I cannot wait until I can climb into bed. Luckily, it is not too long before I hear a knock on the door.
âItâs okay,â I call. âIâm done.â
There is a thunk as the big door unlocks and then it creaks open. Dad may always be last to shut the door, but my Mum will always open it. She rushes towards me and takes me into a tentative embrace, careful not to put too much pressure on anything.
ââMorning,â I say in reply, a little more cheerful than I feel, for her sake. Itâs a tiring experience, but thank Merlin itâs over for another month. Now I can get my life back where it belongs.
âCome on, Iâve made you breakfast. Your Dadâs reading the paper, of course, thereâs been another murder ...â she shakes her head. âIt makes your skin crawl, it really does.â
âWho was it?â I ask.
âOh, Remus, do you really need to ask that by now?â
âNot who did it â“ the person who was killed? Not anyone we know?â
âWell ... not closely. One of the sisters who owns the teashop on Diagon Alley. Itâs a damn shame, it really is, theyâre both so lovely, so welcoming ... and they do so much charity work, itâs inspiring.â
âWait â“ do you mean Taffyâs?â I ask, suddenly afraid.
âYes, thatâs what it was called ... why? Oh! Remus â“ one has a daughter, doesnât she? Around your age?â
I nod, grimly. âMarty,â I say sadly. âHer nameâs Marty.â
AN: Oh, I hate writing such sad stuff ... but I promise itâs necessary to the story and things start looking up soon! Also, Iâm sorry it was so short ... but donât be too disheartened, though â“ at least one extra Marauder is in the next one!