Chapter 2:
Holiday in Romania
So you been to school for a year or two
And you know you've seen it all
On your best friend's broom thinkin' you'll just zoom
Down here your type don't crawl
Play at teachin' school 'cause you think you're cool
Like a Hogwarts graduate
Braggin' that you know how the vampires feel cold
And werewolves got so much soul
It's time to taste what you most fear
And your friends can't help you here
Brace yourself, my dear
It's a holiday in Romania
It's tough kid, but it's life
It's a holiday in Romania
Don't forget to pack a wife
- - WolfieTwin2 (with apologies to the Dead Kennedys)
Romania, Year Twelve
Dumbledore's sudden appearance in Transylvania brought twenty years of suppressed memories back to Remus. A few were sweet, many were bitter, but most were such an inseparable mixture of the two that in all these years of trying to forget the bad, he had lost most of the good as well. Standing, staring into the clouds that hid the castle on the hill, his home for the past twelve years, he let the old images play in his mind without knowing whether he welcomed them or not.
One thing he did know: he didn't welcome Dumbledore. He responded to the headmaster's greeting in Romanian, unaccustomed to English and finding its syllables harsh. In addition, Madam Viteazul was drawing near them, and he didn't wish to be rude by speaking in front of her in a language she didn't know. "It is good to see you're well, Professor Dumbledore," he said stiffly.
A few children ran up, and Madam Viteazul shooed them back into the church, but she stayed listening intently.
"Odd, though," Remus added with some sarcasm, "that you should be wandering the mountains of Romania so near to the start of term."
"I can't afford to hire a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher sight unseen," replied Dumbledore solemnly. It didn't seem to perturb him in the slightest to be continuing the conversation in Romanian. "Not after what happened last year."
Remus scarcely listened to the stories of Cornish pixies, autograph sessions, and the dueling club. He didn't want to be reminded of Hogwarts; it was no secret to him that his generation had been decimated by Voldemort, and so no surprise that anyone with any Dark Arts knowledge was dead or in Azkaban.
The headmaster seemed to be providing excessive details about this Lockhart fellow, too. Remus didn't understand why, until suddenly something clicked in his mind and he gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. "Say no more," he muttered, "I believe I've met the chap, though he was calling himself Gyro Idle the Great."
"Four or five years ago, was it?" Dumbledore wondered.
Remus felt as if he were being drawn into a trap, but wasn't sure why. "I don't remember," he said noncommittally.
"In a sense, you can thank Gilderoy for how far your reputation has spread," Dumbledore informed him sagely, with the air of one who is laying all his cards on the table, though that was doubtless far from the case. "When we realized -- too late -- that he was in no way responsible for any of his exploits, it became clear that some powerful wizard must be operating in Romania. I suppose it was you who killed that vampire." Ignoring Remus' attempt to protest, he asked, "Do you know he wrote a book about it called Voyages with Vampires?"
"Oh, for the love of Selene," Remus swore. "I can't imagine how he wrote it, since he was unconscious for most of the action. I should've wiped his memory."
"No need for that now." Dumbledore provided the essential details of how Lockhart had accomplished this feat himself, but then his voice grew very serious, almost sad. "It was really a dangerous situation," he said, speaking low so that Remus had no choice but to come slightly closer. Dumbledore waited until their eyes met and, in the tone of one dropping a bombshell, added, "Harry and his friends could have been killed."
Remus caught his breath sharply. "Harry?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice. He was aware of Madam Viteazul's eyes on his face. "I'm not sure I know whom you mean."
"Harry Potter," said the headmaster.
Of course he knew. Twelve years was not enough time to forget the son of Lily and James, although somehow he had preserved a mental image of Harry as a baby, never thinking that one day the baby might grow up. It hurt to probe the corner of his mind where those memories lay, and Dumbledore was deliberately provoking him, but he couldn't help being captivated by the thought of that little baby grown nearly to adolescence. The last time he'd seen him had been before the Fidelius Charm, but he had heard of his scar, of Hagrid's rescue, and -- and of those horrible Muggles he had been sent to live with. Knowing he'd be safer with hostile Muggles than with himself, the Potters' only remaining friend, Remus had sincerely wished for perhaps the first and only time that he were fully human.
"How -- how is he?" he stammered. "I mean, with the Muggles… and…"
"He'll be a great wizard one day," said the headmaster, obviously pleased with himself. "As good as James and Lily combined."
"We always used to joke that if Lily and James had kids, they'd defeat Voldemort single-handed," Remus murmured.
"Well, he's done that three times now."
That was a deliberate play on his curiosity, and it didn't work. Remus had many years of pretending he didn't care. "I'm glad Harry's well and that he finally knows he's a wizard," he said shortly, "but we are both wasting each other's time. If you'll excuse me, I only see the children once a month, and we have a charm to practice."
He returned to the church and descended the stairs to the classroom once more. Madam Viteazul followed, her face as emotionless as his.
The children were all still there, backed up against the wall and squealing with frightened glee. Remus discovered that his cloak had been turned into an alligator -- fortunately not completely; it had no legs and could only snap futilely in the middle of the room.
"Who is responsible for this?" Madam Viteazul demanded angrily. "How many times do I have to tell you -- "
"It's OK, it's OK." Remus was laughing, wondering in spite of himself how many points Professor McGonagall would take from Gryffindor for such a stunt. He waved his wand at the alligator and got his cloak back, though it was still slightly scaly and the row of buttons had been replaced by teeth.
The prank made him turn his full attention to the class again, and they had a very enjoyable lesson. It was getting dark when he bade them goodbye, trying to think of homework to assign when they had so few books; since they seemed keen on Transfiguration, he finally suggested that they should each turn a teacup into a rat next month.
He dashed up the stairs, hoping he could catch Laszlo before the herbologist went to bed.
Instead, as he emerged into the courtyard, he found Dumbledore.
The headmaster was sitting on the church's stone wall, humming.
"You aren't getting any closer to finding your teacher by hanging out in Stilpescu, Headmaster," he said dryly. "There aren't many wizards in Romania these days, and those there are, intend to stay. If you'll excuse me, I need to see an herbologist with a Boggart."
"An herbologist, you say?" Dumbledore stood up. "That's another reason I came to this country; white valerian is much stronger when it's grown at altitude. Do you mind if I accompany you?"
"No," Remus lied, hating himself for not having the courage to tell his former favorite professor to get lost. Lockhart as a Hogwarts teacher! Dumbledore was slipping. He started up the dirt road to Laszlo's cottage in the foothills, making no effort to slow his pace in concession to Dumbledore's age -- but not needing to, either, as the centenarian followed nimbly.
It was a relatively long walk, and Remus found himself unable to hide his fascination at the stories about Harry that Dumbledore provided in a rapid, animated voice. He really had defeated the Dark Lord twice more since he was a baby: once in the form of a parasite in Quirrell's head (disgusting, really; in all these years in Romania, he'd never seen a spell like that), and once as Tom Riddle's diary -- that spell was more straightforward, though no less dangerous.
The cleverness and mischief were the most captivating: that Gryffindor had been in last place because of Harry, no one wanted to speak to him, and then he and his friends had each solved one part of the puzzle that led them to the Philosopher's Stone. Remus couldn't suppress a smile at the thought of the final feast being turned from Slytherin's colors to Gryffindor's, one trick they'd never managed.
The descriptions of Harry's friends entranced him, too. As clearly as if they had been standing in front of him, Remus saw three young faces floating in midair, the way theirs used to do when they peeked out of the Invisibility Cloak: a green-eyed James; a tall, red-headed Weasley (some things never changed); a bushy-haired girl with an intelligent gleam in her eyes. Hermione sounded rather strait-laced, but she'd get over it -- the best student in five years, according to Dumbledore. Perhaps she would complement Harry, he would be drawn to her the way James had been drawn to…
But no. Whatever memories Dumbledore forced him to dredge up, whatever injuries of the past he was willing to face, he was not going to think about Sirius. He had learned, now, how a seemingly innocent person could hold conflicting loyalties, and make all the wrong choices when a crisis forced him to take one side or the other. Only ten months ago he had committed what he considered murder -- though no one else did -- over a breach of trust that could not be forgiven.
Sirius was a traitor, and he was gone -- but Harry was alive, and Hermione certainly wasn't going to betray him to Voldemort.
They reached Laszlo's farm. Through the lit windows they could see the herbologist at his kitchen table, bent over something. Remus knocked and pushed the door open when invited to do so. Laszlo was sitting before an array of vials, painstakingly sorting and counting seeds and writing out the labels by hand. It looked like a lot of work; Remus, surprised he wasn't using magic, hoped their intrusion wouldn't make him lose count. "I've just come for the Boggart," he said quickly, "we won't bother you." He ushered Dumbledore out of the room and towards the granary.
"I suppose you can get your valerian later, or tomorrow," he suggested. A faint smile appeared on his face as he realized he might now get the answer to a question he'd always had: what did Professor Dumbledore see when faced with a Boggart?
As they left the lighted windows of the farmhouse, darkness swallowed them up. With only starlight and the occasional distant flash of lightning from the mountain tops they made their way to the small stone granary. As they approached the door, a yowl could be heard inside. A startled cat ran out, practically at their feet, as an apple whizzed past and thumped on the ground.
"I guess the Boggart's still inside," mused Remus. "Will you join me or wait outside?"
"I shall be delighted to watch you work," Dumbledore said softly. "Please proceed."
Remus nodded, amused to be the master instead of the student, although he knew this was far from the truth. He called forth the faintest of magical lights from the tip of his wand and crept softly through the door. The old wizard followed, but lingered near the doorway. The tiny light barely illuminated the great stone slabs that served as shelves for the sacks of grain. These lay on their sides like the broad backs of a herd of sleeping elephants. Remus first searched the bottom shelves, peering under slabs and behind sacks. His search proved fruitless in the end because Dumbledore was the one to discover the Boggart, holed up in the apple barrel next to the door.
Remus turned to see Dumbledore calling forth a brighter blue light from his wand as a small, hard lump -- a blood-red stone -- thudded onto the wood floor and rolled to his feet. He heard the old wizard mutter something low, the tone and content of which were completely inaudible, and then with a loud pop the stone sprouted pink wings, flew up to the roof of the room, and vanished.
"It's gone, then," Remus said firmly. The old man did not reply for some minutes, his mind clearly not on the Boggart. As it was generally considered impolite to ask another wizard what he saw when confronted by a Boggart, Remus remained silent. He wondered all the same about the significance of a simple stone.
"It is gone, yes," sighed Dumbledore. He looked up at the peak of the roof, at the place where the Boggart-stone had vanished and said, "I believe I mentioned the Philosopher's Stone to you. Odd indeed that it should represent not one, but two fears -- the fear of living forever and the fear of dying with one's work unfinished." He directed his gaze toward Remus, although his eyes remained in shadow. "Now it is gone, and only the one fear remains. Whether that is a blessing, I do not know."
It was embarrassing to hear Dumbledore talk about his fears; Remus had half expected the Boggart not to know what to do, or to become something absurd like a pair of socks with a hole in them. "I imagine Laszlo has an extra room where you could stay the night," he said somewhat coldly as they left the granary, feet crunching on the crushed stone of the farmyard. He was furious at himself for not having been able to drive Dumbledore away like an unwanted spirit.
"And you, Remus, where do you live?" the headmaster asked kindly and also rhetorically, since he'd obviously done his research and couldn't help but know.
"In the castle. On the hill. It's a long walk," Remus added, "so I'd better be going."
"Alone?" Dumbledore wondered.
"Well, yes… Now, anyway." Four years had passed since anyone else, living or Undead, had come to the castle. It seemed the blink of an eye, but Remus never really lost track of time, sensitive as he was to the phases of the moon. It had been fifty full moons since the conflagration: exactly twice as many as he'd spent in the company of Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.
He shook his head to dispel that thought. This was precisely why he didn't wish to see the headmaster. "I'd thank you not to invade my privacy," he continued without emotion, not daring to use any stronger language. "You're here to find a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, not check up on former students who have been adults for many years. Why not try America? Robert Woods-Halley has just written an excellent and almost entirely accurate monograph on the Undead; perhaps he'd be interested in going to Hogwarts." Keeping up with the literature was not too difficult, even in a castle in Romania, though the leaky ceilings and mildew didn't let Remus keep too much parchment around. He got the journal subscriptions that self-destructed in seven days; they were cheaper that way, too.
"We've all wondered what became of you," said Dumbledore thoughtfully. "Just the other day Minerva was remembering how fascinated you were with Animagi." The statement was delivered innocently, and his face betrayed nothing -- but as this was Albus Dumbledore, it didn't mean much. "You made us all very proud, Remus."
"Hmph." That kind of nonsense was the last thing Remus expected, or wanted, to hear. They had reached the farmhouse, and he wanted to change the subject. "Shall I introduce you formally to Laszlo or shall I be off?" Guilt swamped him as all of the old respect for Dumbledore kicked in like an instinct. He'd thought himself immune to base flattery, but was somehow moved by the thought that McGonagall remembered him. He wondered if she still chased mice. "I would invite you up to the castle for the night, but it is quite far. You cannot Apparate nor can you fly in. It is protected by more defenses than Hogwarts, only a minority of which I understand." He hoped this would be sufficient deterrence without revealing his true feelings.
But the headmaster was determined. "I am an old man, but I enjoy the countryside," he said mildly. "Do you know that I walked into Stilpescu from the town of Avrig? I have been walking for three days, now, and apart from sore feet I seem to be holding up well."
Remus sighed deeply, glancing towards Laszlo's windows to see if they were still lit. Now that he'd given in, he couldn't very well drag the old man up a mountain and then not have anything to feed him; fortunately, the herbologist was still awake and the seed-sorting appeared to be complete. They got a bag of provisions and Dumbledore's white valerian and set off up the stone trail. The headmaster's footwear was adequate, but he had no cloak and it had begun to drizzle -- Remus offered him the former alligator, apologizing for the teeth.
It was very dark, not only because of the new moon but because the low, dense clouds blocked even the starlight. Remus conjured a handful of flickering, reddish flames bright enough to light their way, but not so bright as to attract unwelcome creatures. The red light also didn't interfere with their eyes' adaptation to the darkness, so gradually, as they entered the mist, they were able to make out the shapes of the rocks ahead of them.
Concentrating on the narrow trail and on lighting the way for the headmaster, Remus was too distracted to block his ears to Dumbledore's stories. He found himself even disappointed by lulls in the narrative, as the old man pulled himself between slabs of granite blocking the trail, or paused to comment on the local flora and his own long-ago trips to Transylvania. Suddenly, not sure why, he addressed Dumbledore in English. "They get into loads of trouble, don't they, those three?"
"Yes…" the Headmaster agreed. The steep trail was making him breathe slightly hard, but he was as spry as most men of forty. "Sometimes I wonder whether it was a mistake to give them James' old cloak…"
"You gave them -- ?" Remus' guard dropped; he was astounded. This was the first time he had ever spoken to Dumbledore at length as an equal: it was hard to shake the feeling of being twelve again, looking over that big desk, awaiting punishment. Only now did he realize that Dumbledore truly understood, as most adults did not, that danger and mischief were as much a part of education as spell books.
He wondered what had become of the Marauder's Map.
And certainly James' son wasn't working on -- no, of course he wasn't, he had no reason to. But if he did… what sort of animal would he be? And Ron, and Hermione?
"Have you ever admitted any more werewolves?" Remus demanded suddenly. He hadn't expected the question to come out bitter, but for some reason it did.
"Well, no, actually… you're quite rare, you know, at least in Britain. Though I certainly wouldn't hesitate to, if the opportunity arose."
Remus snorted, turning up the flames in his hand to light them through an especially steep passage at the crest. They were finished climbing; it was now just a trudge over a rocky path to the castle. He still couldn't see it, as the fog was very thick, pierced occasionally by flashes of lightning.
"All those days you missed," Dumbledore continued, following, "and you still managed to graduate third in your class… Do you remember your Dark Arts classes?"
"I was fourth," Remus corrected, his throat tightening as he remembered how he and Lily used to compete, trading third and fourth place almost every term. She'd finally beaten him in end of their seventh year by earning the highest ever score on a Charms exam, performing a difficult De Duobus Malis charm that no one else had ever even heard of.
And he did remember the Dark Arts classes, though not with fondness: he and Severus had waged a constant pitched battle without ever raising their voices. The Slytherin was furious at being bested by a self-effacing Gryffindor, and Remus in turn couldn't let his enemy get away with such a stupid and inaccurate approach to Dark magic. Arrogance was fatal when dealing with real danger, he had known even then; the last twelve years served only to reinforce that belief. "Does Harry have an arch-nemesis?" he wondered. "Someone like Severus Snape?"
"Oh, yes… in fact, he has Severus himself to contend with. He's been Potions master at Hogwarts going on six years now."
Why does being good at Potions always make you a creep? Remus wondered idly. "But he doesn't dislike Harry, does he? I mean, he'd have no reason -- "
"He does, I'm afraid. Quite strongly."
"Because of James?" It certainly fit; Severus wasn't one to forget a grudge. But still… "The boy is an orphan, raised by Muggles! It's not as if James is there…"
"…No one, really, to defend him," Dumbledore agreed meaningfully, as Remus tapped the rusted gates of the castle with his wand to release the first of seven protective spells barring their entry.
Dumbledore was strong and energetic, but he was still a very, very old man, and he was ready for bed. Remus had led him in through the half of the castle that was mostly intact, though as they passed through the great hall, a damp breeze made the headmaster clutch the alligator around himself and shiver.
It wouldn't do for the best wizard in the world to come down with pneumonia, uninvited guest or no. Remus led him into a corner room that had once been a prison, and perhaps a torture chamber -- its door was inch-thick iron, and the square stones were fitted together so tightly that not a breeze or sound could enter or exit. It was the only room in the castle where all of the ceiling remained, and so he stored his books and parchment in here. He sometimes slept here in the winter, too, especially on those nights after the full moon when he didn't feel well and missed his fur.
It was bleak in the torture chamber/library, and somewhat mildewy from having been aired little all summer. "This is definitely the warmest room," he said apologetically, "let me see what I can do."
The cloud of dust and mold that flew through the door when he waved his wand made them both sneeze. He conjured up some blankets from his usual bedroom -- the defenses allowed one to move some things from one part of the castle to another, but nothing could be brought in from outside. Not even Dumbledore could bring a real bed in here.
Seeing Remus' actions brought the headmaster to life, however. A Maxwell Demon placed in one corner of the room worked its little windmill-like arms furiously as it threw the warmth into the room and the cold into the outdoors, soon heating the cold stones to a comforting glow. Dumbledore lit the lamps over the door and by the shelves of books, and started a small fire in the rusty iron grill next to the sheepskin blankets.
"It's probably not a good idea to have a fire in here," said Remus hastily. "Ventilation's poor, you know." He didn't want to say what that grill had been used for, and the smell… Perhaps it was comforting that Dumbledore didn't seem to recognize the faint, yet definitely perceptible odor of human flesh. Certainly he knew that vampires had to be carefully cremated after death to prevent their resurrection?
Remus wondered if the headmaster had ever killed a vampire.
Or a werewolf.
Or a person.
"Let me make you a cup of tea," he said, and summoned his kettle and a packet of the wonderful herbal mixture Laszlo prepared from an ancient Tibetan recipe. It was more a warming potion than a tea, probably spiked with some of the same soothing valerian that Dumbledore had just bought, and soon the headmaster was sleeping peacefully.
Remus extinguished all but one of the lamps and walked through the ruined great hall into the west wing where he usually made his bed. We're more protected from magic than from rain, he thought, watching the thunderheads through the holes in the ceiling as he lay down on his pile of blankets.
He woke early, wanting to see the headmaster off as politely as possible and then attend to some chores around the castle. Each day dawned ten minutes later than the last; it would be winter soon, and his sudden visitor had reminded him just how ill-prepared he was. This morning was chilly, and his first task would be to warm up the stone fireplace in the great hall and turn Laszlo's flour and sugar into bread. The magical yeast took only a few minutes to rise, and while waiting, Remus remembered the Maxwell Demon. It would be faster than ordinary warmth charms, and he didn't know how to conjure one, so he crossed the weed-entangled stone floor to Dumbledore's chamber to see if he could borrow it.
To his surprise, the headmaster was already awake -- sitting up in his makeshift bed, reading this month's Nosferatu Newsletter. "Ah, good morning, Remus," he said, peering over his spectacles. The Maxwell Demon still stood in the corner, windmilling furiously in the frigid morning.
"You -- you slept well?" Remus asked hesitantly. In the morning light the chamber seemed even more ramshackle than in torchlight. He had ceased noticing years ago how the dust piled up in the corners and how the little remaining furniture seemed to keep falling apart, even without much use. This was the sort of hospitality he offered to Albus Dumbledore: poor payment indeed for all the old wizard had done for him. He wished more than ever that Dumbledore would leave, and soon.
"The castle is not, um, in the best state of repair," Remus said weakly. "You can see that I have little to offer in the way of amenities. So, I shall make you some breakfast and -- "
"Oh, Remus," Dumbledore interjected, his voice taking on a tone of wonder and perhaps pride, not the pity that Remus expected to hear. "What a difficult journey it must have been for you."
And Remus, against what he felt was his better judgement, wondered if Dumbledore might understand him after all. It really had been quite a journey from Charms teacher at Pufflepod Academy to monster-hunter in Romania, and it had all begun in a tiny English town with an even tinier train station, four months shy of twelve years ago...
__________________________________
Britain, Year One
A wet nose nudged his hand. In his half-awake state he murmured, "Go away, Padfoot."
The name propelled him into waking. That could never be. Not ever again.
He opened his eyes to find himself staring into a shaggy face, nose-to-nose since he lay on his side on a bench. Instead of a large black dog with pale, intelligent eyes (don't think about those eyes), he was facing a sheep dog whose brown eyes were partially hidden by long brown and white fur.
The dog licked his face and then sat on its haunches, regarding Remus quizzically. He reached out and scratched its head.
"You waiting for the train, too?" he asked groggily. In reply, the dog wagged its tail, brushing it furiously back and forth on the ground. (Where was he now? Azkaban?)
Remus sat up stiffly and stretched as the shaggy beast watched patiently. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders to keep the chill of the December morning at bay. (It was always cold there.)
Smoke issued from chimneys in the town and wound around the stone spire of the little church. The streets, which lay largely on the other side of the railroad track, were starting to come to life. The first rays of the sun jostled with clouds on the horizon. (Would he ever see the sun again?)
The first train wasn't due for another quarter of an hour, but he had no place else to go. In fact, after his hasty departure from Pufflepod Academy, he'd spent the rest of the night on this very bench huddled under his cloak. He had been in no shape to fly all night, he quickly realized. A short flight took him to the train station at Little Buttermere where he could catch the morning train to…
… to where? Where would he go now? Saying he was going to Romania had rolled off his tongue drunkenly as that doddering fool of a headmaster gaped at him. However, in the more sober light of morning he had his doubts. Was there any place a werewolf would be welcome? No. Such a place did not exist.
He was free, at least. (He would never be free.)
The town blurred in his vision and he saw instead the gray, unforgiving Scottish coast, waves pounding rocks and mist obscuring the island out past the limit of seeing. (Never to leave the island again.)
The wound was too fresh and as much as he tried, Remus could not stop tears from flowing. Bowing his head, he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. This would do him no good. He'd need to keep his wits about him if he wanted to stay free.
The dog put its head on his knee and whimpered in a friendly way. Blindly, he reached out to pet it, sinking his hand into the long fur and feeling the whole body shake rhythmically, powered by the wagging tail.
Abruptly, the dog pulled away, gave a short bark, and was gone. He looked up in surprise. Standing before him was a little man in a nondescript suit, his long cloak the only indication that he might also be a wizard. Remus sat up sharply, taking a deep breath to banish the tears, which stung his eyes and nose. He eyed the other man suspiciously.
"I had a time finding you, Professor Lupin," the man said in a soft voice, his watery blue eyes darting about.
"My resignation wasn't good enough?" Remus growled sarcastically, "Did they send you to finish me off? A silver dagger through the heart, perhaps?"
A look of confusion and concern crossed the other wizard's face. Remus hadn't meant to be so cruel, but that was one of the five preferred ways to kill a werewolf and any semi-competent Dark Arts teacher should know it. Remus hadn't been fourth in his class at Hogwarts for nothing. He had studied the many ways of finding and killing werewolves just like all his other classmates, although it caused him more pain than anyone knew.
"What? You are joking, of course. Oh, dear me, no," the little man chuckled mildly. "Do you mind if I sit? I've been flying and trudging for what seems like hours."
"Welcome to my new office," answered Remus with a dark grin, gesturing to the bench. "I was just trying to teach some tricks to a dog when you arrived."
Professor Herman, for that was the man's name, taught Defense Against the Dark Arts at Pufflepod Academy and had barely said five words to Remus all term, in spite of the fact that Remus had taught his classes for a week when he was ill. Of course, he had avoided talking to the Dark Arts teacher, perhaps fearing that his secret would be too obvious. The man looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies with thinning white hair and a bald spot, now covered by a shapeless brown hat. He seemed soft all over and Remus often wondered what qualified him to teach his particular subject, although competency was not really a requirement for teaching at Pufflepod.
"As I was saying, it took a bit of work to find you," fussed Herman as he set a broomstick and a small valise next to the bench and then sat down. He took a deep breath and continued, "I was shocked and saddened to hear of your resignation, Professor Lupin. Such a good teacher. That's what the students tell me, anyway."
"I don't suppose they'll think much of me now," said Remus, crossing his arms and looking away.
"You mean because you -- because of your…"
"Curse," he finished coldly. Then, turning to the other man he said accusingly, "That's what you mean, isn't it? Because I'm a werewolf."
"Yes, well, you never can tell with students," Herman replied thoughtfully. "I certainly was as surprised as anyone when the Headmaster told me. He got me out of bed last night after you left. Quite shaken he was."
"And he sent you after me to…"
"Oh, heavens, no!" laughed the little man, "He merely wanted me to assure him that there wasn't some charm or potion needed to purge the school." Remus laughed harshly in reply.
"Bumblesnore is not really - er -- knowledgeable in these matters," stated Herman diplomatically.
"Or much of anything else," finished Remus darkly and was surprised to see Herman nodding and chuckling in agreement with him. "Why did you come after me, if I might ask? Doing field research on werewolves?"
Herman laughed faintly as Remus eyed him with curiosity, seeing the little Dark Arts teacher as if for the first time. He seemed at ease sitting next to a werewolf, which was more than Remus expected from most wizards.
"The Headmaster told me an extraordinary thing, apart from your -- uhm -- secret. He said that you proposed to go to Romania. Is that true?"
Remus laughed bitterly, wishing he could call back those foolish words. In truth, he had no idea where he would go, save as far away from humans as his meager funds would take him.
"I don't know," he replied slowly. "I'm not sure of much right now."
"Oh," Herman said, a bit crestfallen. Then he continued with renewed vigor, "That's why I came after you. Because you said Romania and I know of -- I have a friend who --" he broke off uncomfortably, staring at his lap for a moment, and then looked up hopefully. "This will take some explanation, Professor Lupin, if I may?"
"I don't expect anyone will ever use that title again. Call me Remus, please."
"Remus, then. And you must call me Jonathan," he said fastidiously. Remus nodded for him to continue. For a few moments, the Dark Arts teacher muttered to himself, choosing his words the way a cook might pick over apples for making a pie. Remus watched his breath escape and form puffs of vapor in the winter air.
Fellow travelers started to arrive at the platform in ones and twos, laden with suitcases and parcels. Colorful packages, Christmas presents probably, peeked out of bags, reminding Remus that these people all had homes and families. He had a mother, too, a human mother. He knew how much pain his leaving would cause her, but the burden of lying and hiding the fact that he wasn't fully human had overwhelmed him. He was grateful to be pulled from his painful reverie by Herman's hesitant voice.
"You might wonder what I am doing teaching at a place like Pufflepod," he began uncertainly.
"From what I've heard and from seeing the lesson plans for your classes, I suspected you were overqualified," Remus replied mildly, "But I didn't really question that, given my situation."
"Yes. Perhaps. I worked at the Ministry for most of my career, most lately in the Department of Magical Defense. We were quite busy during the years when You-Know-Who was -- er -- active, but they seemed to want younger blood in the department, you know how it is." He paused and grimaced, letting a bit of the bureaucrat show. "Two years ago I retired. My wife had been dead for ten years and I had no place to go in particular. I always wanted to see the Lake District, so I took the teaching job at Pufflepod. I know I'm not the best teacher, but I comfort myself with the thought that none of our students are likely to meet any of the really powerful creatures of Darkness that exist in the world." He paused again, and looked directly at the younger man, "You, on the other hand, have an extraordinary gift for Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"You must be joking!" Remus snorted and rose, turning his back on the older man and staring at the hills to hide his shocked surprise. Wheeling around, he spat in reply, "You know what I am! It's me that you lecture your students about; it's me that you teach them to recognize and to kill. How can you make such an absurd statement?"
"My dear sir, do sit down," murmured Herman. While they talked, more people had been drifting toward the little covered platform of the station and it was becoming quite crowded. Now all eyes were on Remus, who stood shaking with rage.
"I have observed you," the little man continued looking up at the rigid expression on the other's face, "with the other teachers and I noted how well you taught my classes when I was ill. I certainly would not have believed it true that …one of your kind … could have such talent. I may not look it, but I have seen a great many creatures of Darkness in my career and I have some idea of what it takes to defeat them. Please do me the courtesy of believing what I say."
Remus sat down on the bench slowly, still stunned by Herman's words. He made no further protest as the little man continued.
"While at the Ministry, I worked with an extraordinary man, and he became a good friend, too. He came to England as a young man fifty years ago from Romania. He and his mother fled some terrible conflict that destroyed the rest of the family. My friend -- Alec he called himself, although his full name is Alexandru -- would never tell me the details. Alec was for many years the top man at the Ministry for magical wards and defenses. No one could match his skills there. But as I've said, they don't think the old wizards have what it takes, at least according to the -- er -- pardon me, idiots who run the Ministry."
"And what happened to your friend?" Remus grimaced slightly, recalling his recent run-ins with bureaucrats.
"Last year he decided to return to his native country. I helped him to dispose of his things and saw him off. He was eager to go back. For many generations, his family has lived in the mountains of Transylvania and I gather there is a castle in the mountains there somewhere. I did not hear from him for many months, and then I received only a short message to tell me that he had regained possession of his castle, although he did not give any details."
Herman paused and reached down for his valise, balancing it on his lap while he searched for something. He pulled out a much-folded piece of parchment and handed it to Remus, saying, "Two weeks ago I received this note from Alec. Quite frankly, I have been uncertain what to do about it."
Remus unfolded the parchment, which was tattered and stained, as if the owl that carried it had flown through more than one torrential rain.
My dearest friend Jonathan,
I write in haste, although I do not wish to neglect inquiring after your health and fortunes. I know that you are teaching in a school for wizards. Alas that the best schools in Romania are long closed! I seek a wizard to assist me in the dangerous work of keeping the home of my family secure. I wish to ask you to recommend someone to me, perhaps one of your better students. Payment will not be an issue. I hope to receive your reply promptly, as my need is great.
Yours,
Alexandru Arghezi
The young wizard turned the paper over in his hands several times before shoving it roughly back at Herman, saying, "And you think I would be suitable? I hear the mountains there are thick with werewolves. I don't fancy your friend wants to hire one in hopes of driving the rest of them away."
"On the contrary, you probably know werewolves better than anyone…. Although, I understand that vampires have always plagued the castle of the Arghezi family. Werewolves are more or less immune to vampires, did you know that?"
Remus shook his head, not trying to hide his fascination.
"Indeed," chuckled Herman, amused to know something that Remus did not, "the blood of a werewolf is toxic to vampires, you know. It drives them mad, in fact. This is little known or appreciated in Britain, but it is not uncommon in Romania, as Alec has told me."
"So, Remus Lupin, Vampire Killer. Is that what you're thinking?" he asked sarcastically.
A sharp whistle interrupted the reply. People jostled past the two seated wizards, queuing up for the approaching train. Herman put the parchment back into his valise, snapped it shut, and stood, picking up his broomstick as well.
"Come along, then. I shall explain more of this business on the train," he said brusquely.
Remus did not move, but looked up quizzically. "And so… you're resigning, too?"
"Goodness me, no," replied the old professor with a laugh. "But Christmas holidays begin tomorrow and I think I can find the time for a trip to Romania with you. I would like to see Alec again and give you a proper introduction."
The platform was nearly empty now and the few remaining boarders ran quickly to the open doors as conductors shooed them onto the train. Herman spied Remus' cases and broomstick and briskly picked them up, juggling his own valise and broomstick.
"Do hurry," he coaxed, "I don't believe there's another train until well after noon."
Remus rose, stumbling out of his trance, and took his things from Herman. He might as well get on the train as he had intended. Did he trust Jonathan Herman
enough to go with him to Romania? He didn't really know, but was willing to hear him out on the train ride. So he got on board, not realizing how long the journey
would be nor where it would take him.
Professor Herman took a longer holiday than expected that year, not returning to Pufflepod Academy until mid-February. If asked, he would smile slightly and say that he had been doing field research on werewolves.
It was a cold journey and indeed longer than either had anticipated. As they trudged through knee-deep snow for the third day in a row, Remus wondered if he'd ever be warm again. Fleece-lined cloaks and boots had been purchased in Bucharest together with sweaters, scarves, and gloves, but something about these mountains made it difficult to truly escape the chill.
The winter had been harsh so far, causing them to spend extra days in Bucharest, waiting for the roads into the mountains to be clear enough so that they could get close to the small village of Stilpescu. They spent the time buried in Bogza's Bookshop, an old and thoroughly delightful establishment in the wizard quarter of the city. Emil, the wizened old proprietor, was happy to make tea and talk with them for hours, giving Remus the chance to practice his Romanian. The Polyglot Potion he had taken didn't teach you the language unless you were immersed, after all. Within a week, he could see in his mind the words for most things and the structure of the grammar began to flow smoothly off his tongue, although the potion frequently made him dizzy and gave him headaches. By the second week, after they left the city and penetrated the mountains of Transylvania, his head was clearer and he felt almost fluent.
Snow swirled everywhere, nearly blinding them. Flying was impossible in weather like this, which was why they finished their journey on foot. Remus worried about the older wizard in this weather. Herman did not complain, but seemed to have a more difficult time matching his pace each day. The moon would be full in three days, giving him another reason to hurry; as usual, he felt the moon tugging at his insides, despite the snowy weather, which cloaked the sky. He felt relief, therefore, when a bone-jarring gust of wind momentarily revealed a collection of houses and the glimpse of a red church roof up ahead.
"We're almost there," Remus yelled back to the lagging older wizard.
He stopped and waited for Herman to join him, taking his arm and pointing to the vague outlines of buildings. The little man nodded, his eyes -- the only part of his face visible within the scarves and hat -- were tired but alert. They didn't speak again until they found shelter in the village.
The warmth and the smells inside the baker's shop almost drove Remus mad after eight hours in the cold, sterile snow. Mrs. Blandiana bustled about, taking their cloaks and scarves off to dry near a fire while her husband cut them large slices of steaming brown bread. They sat around a wooden table with mugs of tea, bread, and honey.
"Wizards, eh?" the baker was saying, "and out in weather like this? You're not from these parts, though, are you?"
They did not try to hide the fact that they were foreigners. Their fair skin, now ruddy and chapped from the cold, clashed with the winter-pale faces and jet-black hair of their hosts. Despite their ability to speak Romanian, they had the accents of the city, having acquired the language there, and did not know all the colloquialisms of the mountains. Blandiana seemed to accept them, however. Wizards were scarce enough now that they tended to band together. But he was suspicious of their plan to travel on to the castle.
"I've not seen that old man who lives there," he said, "but he sends his servant down for supplies from time to time. If you ask me, it was a bad idea, him coming back to that castle. Better to leave well enough alone."
Remus looked at him quizzically, but before he could frame a suitable question, Mrs. Blandiana chimed in, "The village has enough troubles with werewolves prowling and the things that live in the Petrosna Caves." She shuddered, not wanting to name her fears. "And Castle Arghezi as well, home to -- "
"Hush, woman!" her husband said sharply, "No need to bring up the past. These men will see for themselves soon enough." He seemed to consider them insane but harmless. If they wanted to go and get themselves killed, that was their own business. He gave them beds for the night, but was only too happy to see them out the door on the following morning.
Weak sunlight cast feeble shadows in the village square as they passed by the little church. The village was soon behind them, hidden in the snowy folds of its alpine valley. They had gotten detailed instructions by owl while in Bucharest about to how to find the road to the castle. Arghezi also sent a compass stone, a small, enchanted gem that glowed when pointed in the right direction. Thus armed, they set off up the mountain.
Even with the map and the stone, keeping to the road proved difficult. Huge snowdrifts often blocked their path. Fortunately, snow could be made to vanish quite easily with the wave of a wand. The jumbled piles of granite blocks lurking underneath the snow caused considerably more trouble and they fell often while scrambling over and around the rocks.
Jonathan grew increasingly tired, finally asking Remus to perform a Fatigue-Banishing Charm on him. As they rested briefly whilst waiting for the charm to take full effect, Remus wondered what he was getting himself into. Up until now, he had focused on the details of the journey -- buying clothing, learning the language, navigating the roads -- and avoided thinking about what would take place when they arrived. Would this Arghezi welcome him at all? Herman had been reluctant to write to his friend that the wizard he brought to Romania was actually a werewolf, although he assured Remus that Alec would understand. But how would Jonathan Herman know? He had never seen the full range of emotions, most of them ugly, which greeted werewolves. Remus had.
He tried to remain hopeful, however, because he was not eager to reverse this journey (and was actually quite worried as to how Jonathan was going to manage). After less than a week in the brutal cold of the mountains, he had to laugh at himself for wanting to run wild in Romania. If this doesn't work out, he vowed, I'll find someplace in Spain or Portugal, someplace where it doesn't snow.
The sun was low on the horizon and lurked far behind thick clouds by the time the reached the end of their journey. Castle Arghezi appeared at first sight to be just another outcropping of the mountains, made of blocks of the same gray stone and piled deep with snow drifts. Yet as it came into view, there was a regularity, a purposefulness, that marked it as a work of humans. A single stone tower rose from the two-story high wall surrounding the castle like an arm raised up to puncture the heavens. More than that, they could not see until they passed through the massive iron gates.
An older man, Jonathan called him Michael but he spoke to them in Romanian, opened the gates for them. He said little and did not reveal how he knew of their arrival as he led them across a snowy yard to the main building. The building also had two stories, although the windows of the upper floor were dark. A vaulted roof in the center of the building, now covered with snow, suggested that there was a large hall somewhere within.
Michael, who must be the servant, led them through a massive oak door, using a wand first to release a spell holding it fast. He ushered them into a cold stone hall lit poorly by a few smoky torches. A broad stone staircase rose in front of them, curving up and into darkness. Michael took their cases, but advised them tersely to leave their cloaks on until they reached the great hall. They followed him thence, accompanied only by the clipped sounds of their boots on the hard stone.
After the dimly lit corridors, the great hall was an explosion of color and warmth. Remus blinked, stopping to let his eyes adjust and to cope with the rush of smells assaulting his half-frozen nose. The hall did indeed have a high vaulted ceiling with massive beams swathed in shadow. Rugs in maroon and white lay scattered on the stone floor. Tapestries, swirls of greens, browns, and reds, covered the walls, giving further relief from the endless gray stone. Little furniture was in evidence: an enormous wooden table, half a dozen chairs of different sizes and shapes, a couple of smaller low tables.
Judging from the smells, this room served as a kitchen for the castle. Remus' eye (and nose) was drawn to a huge stone fireplace at the far end of the hall. A tall man stood before it when they entered, but he swiftly turned and strode the length of room, a smile of greeting on his long, angular face. He wore a cloak of a deep maroon color that swirled about his heels as he walked.
"Jonathan!" he cried out in nearly flawless English, seizing his friend's hands and then embracing him warmly. "The snows have not deterred you. Excellent! You are in good health after your journey?"
Several violent sneezes from Jonathan Herman answered that question. "The snow was…yes, well, here we are," he recovered, seeming as confused as Remus by the sounds and smells after so much time on the silent and frigid mountain paths.
Alexandru Arghezi stood a head taller than Remus, made even taller by his thick black hair, graying at the sides. His long face was hard and angular, although it softened when he smiled as he did now. Dark glittering eyes took in Herman as well as his young companion.
"Alec, you look well. The mountain air agrees with you," Herman was saying as Arghezi helped him with his cloak. Remus shed his cloak, scarves, and hat as well. Michael appeared from somewhere to take the whole lot and disappeared just as swiftly.
"It is good to be home, my friend," Alexandru said briskly, then more softly, "One can't go back entirely… but I have missed this place and it is my home once again."
He fixed his gaze on Remus, staring at him intently for a moment, which prompted Jonathan to say, "Alec, may I present --" he stopped and began again, this time in Romanian, "This is Remus Lupin."
"For thirty years you've been telling me that you would learn my language, Jonathan," Alexandru laughed, "I see that it took extreme measures to make that happen." He shook Remus' hand warmly, probing with his eyes even as he smiled. "You are the scholar that my friend has told me about."
Remus stood awkwardly, embarrassed by the description, since he fervently wanted to leave scholarship, and all it represented, behind. He met the man's probing gaze, however, and answered in Romanian, "School is over for me. I am … looking for another line of work."
Alexandru barked a sharp laugh and dropped Remus' hand. Clapping both men on the back, he said, "Come, enjoy the fire, for I know you must be chilled."
Over dinner the two old friends talked of people and events unfamiliar to Remus. They all three sat at the massive wooden table, bathed in firelight, served by Mihail (as he was called in Romanian). Alexandru explained that he kept sheep, goats, and chickens in the spacious stable of the castle all winter long. Mihail had accompanied him to England and made a decent English mutton stew.
As the two old men chattered, Remus gazed around the enormous room in between second and third helpings of stew (he hadn't been able to afford much meat lately, and he was especially fond of mutton). The castle was almost four hundred years old, occupied by the Arghezi family for over three hundred of those years. The murky recesses of the rafters reminded Remus of Hogwarts Castle for some reason. He wasn't sure why, since the ceiling of the great hall at Hogwarts was nothing like what hung above him. Perhaps it was the feeling of timelessness, that sense that he could have been a wizard in any time or any age sitting here by the fire.
During the meal, Jonathan grew gradually less animated. The days of trudging in the chill winter air had caught up with him; he sneezed and coughed violently all while trying to hold his end of the conversation with this old friend. After dinner, Remus and Jonathan sank into chairs pulled around the fire in a semi-circle. The stone mantelpiece loomed in front of them, taller even than Alexandru, who stood next to it as he poured them both glasses of old and powerful wine.
"The wine cellars here," he was saying as he held the decanter up and firelight streamed through the blood-red wine, "were untouched during my absence. Although many creatures inhabited the castle, none had the slightest taste for wine. I am quite grateful for that. This 1927 Cockburn would be worth at least five hundred pounds in England."
Remus, who drank little and knew nothing of wine, examined the ruby depths of his glass. He had trouble working out the conversion to Muggle money, but he knew that the wine was powerful, fragrant and musty at the same time. To his left, Jonathan had barely touched his glass and had fallen asleep in a lumpy leather armchair, the firelight giving his face a fevered look.
"Jonathan tells me you are a graduate of Hogwarts, Remus," Alexandru said, "and recommended to his school by Albus Dumbledore."
"What?" Remus had drifted off, entranced by the firelight and unaware of the strength of the wine. "Yes, that's right. Do you know Professor Dumbledore?"
"Oh, very well indeed. I consulted often with him when I was at the Ministry. A very powerful wizard and always willing to help." He leaned over and poured more wine in Remus' glass before he could protest, then set the decanter down and took a seat next to the fire in a tall wooden chair with ornately carved back and arms.
"I wonder," Alexandru pondered, "why a graduate of that school, a favorite perhaps of the headmaster, decides to come here to seek, as you say, another line of work…" In the light of the fire his eyes glittered darkly as he regarded his guest.
Here it comes, Remus thought and wondered whether Alexandru had any inkling of what he had taken into the castle that night. The heady wine seemed to have stolen away his normal inhibitions, or perhaps saying it in a foreign language blunted the impact; either way, he said simply, "I wished to leave England because I am a werewolf."
Alexandru Arghezi said nothing, only a faint narrowing of his eyes betrayed any emotion in his otherwise unreadable face. From behind Remus, however, there came a muffled cry and the sound of glass shattering as Mihail, who had been clearing the table, dropped a wineglass on the stone floor. In confusion, Remus turned to see a look of terror and revulsion on the servant's face, a look he knew well and often saw in his troubled dreams.
"That will do, Mihail," Arghezi commanded sharply. With evident concern, he softened his tone and said, "I will clean up the rest. Please take Mr. Herman to his bed."
The servant approached cautiously, eyeing Remus as if he might leap up and bite at any moment. His face was now an emotionless mask, the fear and terror pushed beneath the surface like fish under the ice of a winter pond. Keeping as far from Remus as could, he levitated Herman with his wand, floating him gently out of the hall. Only when the footsteps were completely gone did Alexandru speak again.
"You must forgive Mihail. Werewolves killed both his parents when he was six years old. He has been with our family ever since." His tone was concerned, but otherwise casual, which both surprised and confused Remus. "Returning here was not pleasant for him."
Remus found he was gripping his fragile wineglass tightly and hastily set it down. Still he did not know what to say. He felt at once the bitter anger of Mihail's rejection alongside his own memories of being bitten as a small child; the event stood out clearly in his mind, though he had trouble recalling the terror he must have felt. Since that time he had moments of despair, anxiety, and guilt, but never again of real fear.
"And you, Remus," probed Alexandru calmly, "where and when were you bitten?"
Stammering slightly, Remus told him the name of the village where his parents had lived. "It was almost twenty years ago. I was…only four. I remember very little."
"Near Oxford, yes?" Alexandru asked thoughtfully, fingertips together at his chin. "Werewolves are not common in England, not at all. Twenty years ago…let me think. Crispin Whitehead, almost certainly."
No words could express the confusion Remus felt at that moment. What was Alexandru saying? He knew the werewolf responsible? Blindly he closed his hand around the glass next to his chair and brought it to his lips, choking on the strong, sweet wine.
"How? You knew -- " he croaked finally.
"We kept track at the Ministry of all known werewolves," came the matter-of-fact reply. "There were never that many and they tended to be rather territorial. Crispin was a difficult case. Hmmm. Well-spoken, a good chess player, but quite without remorse. He was warned, but…"
"And what happened to him?" asked Remus timidly, fearing that he already knew the answer. Oddly, though he had changed his life so utterly, Remus remembered the other with something akin to sympathy. During his years at school he would occasionally wonder what had become of that wolf (he knew he was a male, and quite young) -- he had a vague hope that he had managed, somehow and somewhere, to find the acceptance and friendship that Remus had at Hogwarts. These were ill-formed thoughts, almost subconscious, and hearing the harsh reality put into words felt like being splashed with cold water in the middle of pleasant dreams.
Alexandru sighed, releasing his hands in a gesture of futility. "I caught him -- caught him in the act. He killed a family of three. He had been warned, after all."
There was silence, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Remus did not have to ask for further details. He knew the law as well as Arghezi. It was not murder to kill a werewolf at the full moon, no matter what the circumstance.
"Albus Dumbledore admitted you to Hogwarts, then," continued Alexandru. "How extraordinary."
"As far as I know, I am the only -- the only one of us to go there." Remus astonished himself by being able to speak at all.
Alexandru rose and began pacing in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. Remus had quite given up trying to understand his host.
"And Jonathan has written to me that you have certain talents, although he did not tell me about all of your talents, by any means... Interesting. And useful, very useful." He seemed to be speaking to himself more than having a conversation. Abruptly he turned to face Remus, still clenching his wineglass.
"You are not afraid of other werewolves, I take it?"
"I have never met another one," Remus confessed, "but I don't suppose I would be afraid." Dogs were the only canine creatures he had any experience with, and that meant mostly one specific dog.
"And vampires? I doubt you've met any of those," Alexandru stated harshly. When Remus shook his head, he continued, "In Britain, they think of vampires and Transylvania and it's a joke. I heard it so often at the Ministry -- from wizards who should know better, too. But here it is nothing to laugh about. The Undead call to us…and their song is hard to resist."
He sank back into his chair and propped his chin on one hand, staring fixedly at Remus. "Vampires drove my family out of this castle fifty years ago. They occupied it for many years, according to people in the village. When I returned last year, however, they were gone, gone for fifteen or twenty years." He did not sound pleased to have missed them, either. "But I will find them…"
Remus began to rouse himself from the torpor of the wine and asked, "You said that you needed help. Is this what you meant, driving Dark creatures from the castle?"
"The castle is quite secure," rumbled Alexandru proudly. "I have put several levels of enchantment in place. There are wards on the wall and gates, of course. In addition, one cannot Apparate into or out of the castle. A few more -- uhm - traps are set here and there, as well. No. Vampires cannot return to this castle, not while I am master of it. But, outside the castle, things are still very bad. For three hundred years, my family has been responsible for keeping safe this area of the mountains. The people in the village below live in fear and that is not right. I have a responsibility to them as well as to myself." He sighed deeply and continued, "But I am not a young man any more, Remus. I cannot do this alone."
"Are you sure you would trust a werewolf?" Remus asked, voicing something that had nagged him all throughout the long journey.
"Albus Dumbledore trusted you."
The statement made Remus cringe inside. Professor Dumbledore did not know the half of it, though. Would he still trust me if he knew how much I endangered other people every month? he wondered, and not for the first time.
"I have little practical experience," countered Remus, still not sure this was a job he'd like.
"My boy," said Alexandru with a casual wave of his hand, "I have trained hundreds of wizards, many much more foolish than you appear to be."
Remus stared down into his wine again, thinking of another question which had nagged him since he left home. "Is it true that vampires don't -- that the blood of, er, my kind is harmful them?"
The older wizard laughed sharply and replied, "Yes. Blood -- from most any mammal, really -- sustains vampires. But the blood of a werewolf gives them a kind of dementia, a bit like a disease that Muggles can get called rabies. They foam at the mouth and are rendered completely insane, sometimes for years. Around here, I expect that vampires have learned to avoid the local werewolf population."
"And if a werewolf is bitten by a vampire?" asked Remus hesitantly.
Alexandru shrugged. "No vampire will bite you more than once, and it takes three bites before the victim becomes one himself." He grew thoughtful. "I am assuming, of course, that the three-bite rule still applies to werewolves. Some say, you know, that you become vampires more easily than do we ordinary mortals..."
This was finally too much for Remus, who found that the room began to spin slowly, even though he hadn't moved from his chair. He got to his feet unsteadily, saying, "I'm not sure at all that I -- " He stopped and clutched the chair. Alexandru rose swiftly and took one arm, guiding him out of the hall. Once out of the oppressive heat and flickering firelight, he found that his head cleared and the chill of the stone passageways refreshed him.
He had no clear idea of where they were going, but the older wizard guided him through the drafty entrance hall and then into a wide corridor. As they shuffled slowly, Alexandru drew out his wand and conjured a bobbing ball of cool yellow flame that floated several feet in front of them. Remus noticed that they were in a sort of portrait gallery, surrounded on both sides by ornate frames, each with a little gold plaque glinting on the bottom and proclaiming the name of this or that Arghezi ancestor. Most of the portraits seemed sleepy, although a few waved. Some frames were empty altogether. As they traversed the long, dark passageway, Remus noticed that the subjects of the portraits appeared more modern and the dates on the plaques, more recent. Near the end, he caught Alexandru's name along with another. Alexandru and Mircea Arghezi, said the gold rectangle. Remus stopped and looked at the grim and unsmiling younger version of his host, alone.
"We haven't seen the portrait of my brother for years," sighed Alexandru. "I fear he is gone for good."
He tugged at Remus' arm sharply. "Come. You should be in bed."
The final portrait puzzled Remus the most, but Alexandru hurried him off without giving him a chance to ask questions. The carved gold frame held only charred shreds of canvas, with no hint of what the portrait had once been like. Ana Maria Arghezi, said the plaque.
"You are sure that you want to do this?" Alexandru peered into his face anxiously. They stood in the courtyard of the castle, next to the massive iron gate. Light from the setting sun lit the tops of the mountains, but he and Remus were in the deep shadows of the castle.
Remus shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly about him. It was all he wore and he ached for the warmth of fur instead of stupid, human skin. He nodded his head; words were already failing him as the human part prepared to submerge. The moon would rise in a few minutes. It surged within him even now, as it had for days, pushing him toward the gate like a sail in a stiff wind.
The old wizard raised his wand and loosened the enchantment on the gate. It groaned as he swung it open.
"I hope you find what you seek," he called softly to Remus who had turned his back on the castle. Rapidly, he shut the gate and set the enchantment back in place. The tops of the mountains darkened as he walked back through the courtyard.
A sudden howl ripped through the still air, radiating outward into the coming night.