Chapter 3:

Leader of the Pack

"Lupul îsi schimbã pãrul, dar nãravul ba."
(The wolf may lose his teeth, but never his nature.)
~ Romanian Proverb

Romania, Year One

As soon as Alexandru shut the castle gates behind him, Remus removed his cloak and threw it over a nearby boulder, standing naked in the cold winter air as the sun set in the west and the moon rose exactly opposite.  Any clothes he wore during the transformation would be torn to pieces, but he brought the cloak because he had taught the wolf to recognize it as something he should pick up and carry with him -- at least most of the time.  He really hoped he remembered tonight, because it had never been as cold as this in Scotland, and he had no idea where he'd be when morning came.  A large bar of chocolate and the compass stone were carefully hidden in a pocket, but he didn't dare bring his wand and risk losing it or chewing it up.  Portugal, he thought, shivering.  Or maybe California.

Five minutes later, he had completely forgotten why he didn't like it here.  Picking up the cloak, though not sure why he was supposed to, Moony stood on the boulder and surveyed his surroundings.

Had he been a real wolf, Moony would have been a credit to his kind. He was strong and sleek, his gray fur impervious to any weather, a fifteen-mile-per-hour run seeming to him like a Sunday stroll. His most remarkable characteristic, though, was the same in both his incarnations. The intelligence that made him a studious and thoughtful scholar brought to his canine self a double dose of the mischievous cunning for which the species was famous. Knowing that the castle contained people, he sniffed and pawed at the gates for a way to get in, but quickly abandoned this idea. There was no getting through that gate: but he had all of Romania as his playground.

Loping easily through the snow to the highest point of the mountain, the wolf again surveyed everything he could see. The valley was obscured by fog and blowing snow, but the sky was clear over the distant hills, the last rays of sunlight tinging them pink and orange. Moony loved snow in all forms: during the rare storms at Hogwarts he had spent his full moon nights scampering around digging holes, chasing snowflakes, and barking. Padfoot always delighted at these rare displays of playfulness by his proud canine cousin, and had joined the games as best he could -- but the dog's fur wasn't as thick and he was soon soaked to the skin, squatting down every few minutes to chew chunks of ice from between his toes.

Moony didn't remember this explicitly now, nor did he feel the pangs of guilt and remorse that his human self couldn't escape with memories of Sirius. All he knew was that his fondest moments had been spent in snow, and he ran through the deep drifts with a wild joy, his huge paws floating easily through the powder. There was no scent of humanity in these hills, and for the moment the werewolf's hunting instinct was quelled by his delight at being swift and free. He stopped at the top of a cornice to point his nose at the sky and gave a loud, chilling howl.

The howl was returned.

Moony slunk into a crouch, looking quickly around. His vantage point allowed him to see anyone sneaking up on any side, and he waited for one minute, then two.

When there was nothing he gave a series of short, inquiring barks, a "Who's there?" of the dog world.

Similar barks from behind made him leap up and turn around. A furry head had emerged over the snowdrifts, one much like his own, though no more than half the size. Then a second head, this one more reddish-brown than gray, and the animal slightly smaller still. Then a third, and a fourth.

Wolves. Real ones.

Moony had never seen a real wolf. The farm dogs he'd encountered around Hogsmeade always ran whimpering from his approach, and the only practice he'd ever had at canine etiquette was with Padfoot. Enough remained in his mind of the human, and of the tame werewolf who'd explored Hogwarts with his Animagus friends, so that he circled the wolves not because he was genuinely wary of them but because he knew that was what was expected. He lowered his head to make himself seem smaller and less threatening, and gave his tail a courteous wave.

They didn't seem frightened. The pack circled closer and closer, until finally they all met in a circle and Moony bumped noses with the alpha pair: the red female, then the gray male. The two others in the pack appeared to be their young, though not from the same litter; one was full-grown and the other just a pup. They backed off again, then re-approached, and then all five squatted back on their haunches and howled together.

Then the wolves trotted away, and Moony watched after them with a magical tingling stronger than any Cheering Charm. It was a long moment before he stood up, chewed some ice from his paw, and scampered off over the hills once more.

He chased a rabbit, forded a stream, encountered a fox. Most of all he ran, over and under and through the snow, stopping only for howls of pure happiness. It had been so long since he had run free that dawn was breaking before he realized he should have returned. Howling once more at the setting moon, as if he could stop it in its orbit, the wolf spun around to trace his steps back to the castle -- but had gone no more than a few paces before he had to lie down. Five minutes later, he was a soaking wet, thoroughly exhausted and, worst of all, barefoot human.  He'd lost the cloak somewhere, too, but after a couple of tries was able to summon it magically, feeling the pull of the compass stone.

If the castle hadn't been so well defended, he might have been able to call up a pair of shoes, as well, but that was out of the question. Burying his face in the cloak's collar against the icy wind, he silently cursed his stupidity, but the night had been so exhilarating that his current misery didn't bother him too much. He'd just have to walk, and at least between the paw prints and the compass stone he wouldn't get lost.

"Hey, you there!" called a male voice from somewhere nearby.

Remus flinched. He couldn't imagine a lie that would sound convincing -- especially if the voice belonged to a wizard. Trying desperately to think, he raised his eyes towards the voice and saw a man standing two hundred yards away.

A boy, rather, since he was certainly less than twenty, maybe even less than eighteen. He was dark-haired and pale as a ghost, with the same shadows under his eyes that Remus knew he had himself.

He was also stark naked.

This neither shocked Remus nor surprised him too terribly much; it had happened to him enough times. Maybe Romania would be all its reputation deserved. The troubling thing was the boy's terrible thinness; his ribs and collarbones stood out as if they were trying to cut through his white skin. "Yes, what is it?" he called, hoping his five-hundred-word vocabulary would get him through this. He never should have been running around less than two weeks after coming to this country.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"No," Remus called. "I'm staying at the castle."

"What castle?"

"The castle on the hill -- Castle Arghezi."

The boy looked wary, then amused, pointing along the trail of paw prints. "That's about twenty miles that way," he said.

"Twenty miles?" Remus was dismayed. If only he could learn to carry his wand so he could Apparate after doing silly things like this. He could wear it in a barrel around his neck, like one of those trained St. Bernards…

"I live just over the hill," said the boy. "If you want to go inside and, you know, get better, you can come with me." He didn't move, waiting for Remus to respond. It was just like with the wolves last night -- these words were a tail wag, inviting Remus to make the next move.

He didn't have much choice, since his feet were starting to go numb; and could he possibly have anything to fear? "Thank you," he said politely, gathering his damp cloak around him and running towards where the boy was standing. More of a stumble than a run, actually -- the snow was very deep, and even when his transformations brought more pleasure than pain, they still took a lot out of him.

"Who's your pack?" asked the boy, when Remus drew near. Behind him was a trail of his own paw prints, coming from the east and disappearing into the mist. Just on the edge of sight Remus could make out where several sets of prints had emerged in opposite directions from a large patch of trampled and bloody snow. At least three werewolves, possibly more; he must have passed right by them last night.

"My what?" he wondered, staring at the marks with fascination.

"You really aren't from around here," the boy muttered, running his hand through his wet hair. "What are you, German?"

Remus could see the cottage already, just a few yards ahead, nestled into a cleft cut out of the rocks. It looked warm and cozy, and he wondered if the boy had made it himself. "No, I'm -- Scottish," he said in answer to the question; he was really English, but his years at Hogwarts had given him enough of a Scottish accent that Latins often took him for German, and this was a subtlety he thought unnecessary to explore with a teenage Romanian werewolf.

The boy pushed open the door to the cottage and Remus entered gratefully. It wasn't as cozy inside as he'd expected, in fact it was downright chilly, and the floor was bare.

"Didn't know they had us in Scotland," said the boy. "Give me a minute, and I'll get some firewood."

Remus' limited Romanian certainly didn't extend to Muggle terms. "What was that?"

"Firewood," the boy repeated. "You know. Wood, that you burn, so that it's warm in here." His lips and toes were blue, and he was shivering.

"Oh, excuse me!" Remus exclaimed. "I guess I thought… I mean, I assumed you were a wizard." A Muggle werewolf? Could that even happen?

"Sure, I'm a wizard, but you're not telling me you can make a fire out of nothing."

Confused, Remus went to the stone hearth and did precisely that. There was no easier spell; even as a first-year he could do this without a wand.

When the boy saw and felt the flames he drew closer, grabbing what looked like an ancient woolen blanket from the floor and wrapping it around himself. His eyes were wide with surprise and admiration.

Neither spoke for a long time, concentrating on getting warm. Mastering human grammar the morning after a transformation always gave Remus a headache, too, and it was especially bad in a foreign language. He stopped shivering as his cloak dried, wondering who this boy was, whether he was alone, and what he meant by a pack.

"Eat anything last night?" the boy asked at last.

"No. You?"

"Couple of rats." He sighed.

With a start, Remus realized that the boy was thin not because he was ill, but because he was hungry. Wordlessly, he pulled the chocolate out of his pocket and handed it to him, pleased to note that it was a large bar with almonds in it. He wouldn't take any himself, though the boy offered. "What's your name?" he asked, probably just because it was the first Romanian phrase he had learned.

"Grigore," the boy replied, his mouth full.

"Grigore what?"

He looked puzzled, then with a shrug, "Grigore Beta."

This didn't sound like a real name, but Remus' brain was too hazy to try to draw any conclusions. "It's nice to meet you, Grigore," he said, offering the boy his hand. "I'm Remus Lupin."

The boy stared at his hand for a long time before he shook it. He looked at Remus as if he'd never quite seen the likes of him before.

"It's a good thing we met," Remus said with a smile. "I would've got dreadfully cold trying to walk twenty miles home. You can't Apparate into the castle, you know, and anyway I haven't figured out how to carry my wand with me when I transform."

He was sure he'd got all the case endings and verb conjugations right, and was really quite pleased with himself, but his little speech didn't seem to put Grigore at ease -- quite the contrary. "Ah, fewmets, you dog," he muttered.

Remus didn't know the word, but the meaning was clear. "What do you mean?"

"A wand, Apparate, yeah, my tail," muttered Grigore.

His speech was a bit too slangy for someone with two weeks' worth of Romanian, Polyglot Potion or no. Remus realized this was the first teenager he'd met. "Oh, I'm sorry, I should have known; your wizard school has been closed for many years. Perhaps you can tell me about how wizards are trained in this country -- "

Grigore edged away, a look on his face of mistrust, even of hatred. "For the love of Selene, you talk like a professor," he snarled. "What's your deal?"

Selene? Remus wondered. Good Lord, was this some kind of werewolf argot? He didn't know if he was fascinated or horrified. "Well, I was a professor, sort of, I guess," he said modestly, wondering if perhaps Grigore were much younger than he appeared. "I taught Charms at a small school in England, and I left, well," no point mincing words here, "because they hate us."

"You said it there," Grigore muttered, moving back to his old spot because he didn't want to be away from the fire, though he still eyed Remus skeptically. "Never met one of our kind with a wand and all that." Something seemed to occur to him. "You just get bitten, you dog, or what?"

Suddenly, Remus felt overprivileged and spoiled. He'd been the first of his kind to go to the greatest wizarding school in the world, and he was completely ignorant of how the others fared. "No," he said quietly. "It was when I was four, nineteen years ago."

The other absorbed this emotionlessly.  "You're older than me, then," was all he said.  "I just turned twenty-one."

Remus looked in astonishment at this skinny, anemic boy who didn't even need to shave (though he did have very bushy eyebrows; was it characteristic of their kind?).  He must be starving, he must have been starving for years.  Did he rely on that single night once a month for most of his food?  He stared for a long time, until the boy grew self-conscious and ran his hand through his now-dry hair.

"Um, I'm from Bucharest originally, but I was bitten when I was thirteen. Muggle school didn't want me, neither did my parents, so… I'm here. Pack Six, Vlad's our Alpha. That's about all."

This strange talk was making Remus more depressed than he had ever been. It was hard to imagine enduring all that he remembered as a teenager -- the battle between human and canine urges, the desire to run free mingled with the horror of hurting and killing someone -- without the support of your parents, your friends, even Dumbledore.  "Do you need anything?" he stammered. "I mean -- you saved my life, really, I probably would have frozen to death…"

Grigore was trying to be stoic, but there was a gleam in his eyes. "Anything good to eat up there at the castle?"

"Of course there is," Remus exclaimed. "I'll send you some bread… a chicken… a sheep, even." Oh, great, he thought grimly, now I'm going to make all of Pack Six descend on Alexandru.

A thin stream of drool appeared at one corner of Grigore's mouth, which he didn't bother to wipe away.

"Just have to figure out how to get my tail back there," said Remus, picking up the slang without meaning to.

Grigore grinned. "Can't ride a broom, whelp? Thought you were a wizard."

"Oh, you have one?" Remus gave an enormous sigh of relief. "I'll send it right back to you, I swear. With the food."

"Send it? Oh, yeah," a sarcastic smile appeared on his lips. "With your wand." Shaking his head, he went to the corner of his cottage to fetch an old broomstick, which he handed over without reluctance. "I know you're one of us," he said, as if trying to explain his generosity, "but if I hadn't seen you with my own eyes…" He shook his head again.

"Thanks very much," said Remus. He knew he sounded like a snob at a finishing school for young dukes, but there was nothing he could do.

Grigore watched Remus mount the broom, unable to take his eyes off him. "You know, I can ask Vlad if he'll let you run with us, if you want."

"Thank you," Remus replied earnestly, though the last thing on earth he wanted was to lay eyes on Vlad Alpha. "Stay away from the front of the house until you get the stuff," he warned, "it's a long distance and my aim's not all that accurate." The broom was off-balance and hard to steer, but it would at least keep his bare feet out of the snow. The thought of the luxury he was returning to made him feel tremendously guilty. He waved from the air, with a vain hope that he'd wake up in a snowbank somewhere and find it was a hypothermic dream.

"And stay away from the Sevens, dog!" Grigore called after him. "They're bad news!"

________________________

Romania, Year Twelve

The version of this story that Remus gave to Dumbledore was edited slightly.  Apart from the obvious censoring of any references to Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, he also toned down the slang quite a bit and didn't mention the shock and dismay he'd felt upon meeting Grigore.  He translated "pack" as "gang," and he certainly didn't mention that the local werewolves had no last names apart from "Alpha" and "Beta."  It seemed wrong somehow to reveal to an outsider -- a human -- how so many of his kind lived essentially like animals.  Then again, Dumbledore must know this, right?  Hadn't he let Remus into Hogwarts to protect him from a similar fate?

If he only knew, Remus thought grimly, that I spent six years as the most feared Alpha in these mountains.

"Why did you let me in to Hogwarts, Headmaster?" he asked, trying to sound casual, hoping it would just sound like a change of subject and not give too many clues to his train of thought.

"Every child whose name is in the book gets an admission letter to Hogwarts," said Dumbledore simply.

Remus frowned, turning back to his gardening so the professor couldn't see his face.  That was clearly not the whole story.  "But you put me in the dorm with all the other boys," he said, almost as an accusation.  "And let me lie to them.  None of the teachers even knew, besides you and Minerva McGonagall."  He didn't count Madam Pomfrey, for some reason -- maybe it was because nothing fazed her.  Every time he woke up in the infirmary, the neighboring bed contained something much worse; he still sometimes wondered what became of the purple, tentacled kid.

"You gave me no reason to complain about your behavior," Dumbledore rejoined.

The headmaster was sitting in an old wooden chair in the garden, a blanket over his legs despite the warmth of the summer morning, drinking a large mug of another of Laszlo's teas.  The traveling had tired him much more than he revealed last night, and Remus insisted that Dumbledore rest as he tried to salvage what he could of this summer's vegetables.  Before the greenhouse in the castle was destroyed, growing vegetables had been a great deal easier. Now he had only the small garden plot outside the main gate to take advantage of the southern exposure. Not much grew at high altitude in this rocky soil, and they were constantly plagued by gnomes as well as birds both magical and ordinary, but there were still a few tomatoes and quite a lot of garlic. Remus started digging up bulbs now, giving up on trying to pull the truth from the always-evasive Albus Dumbledore.  He would probably never know why he'd been admitted.

"Well," he said, sitting back and looking at the few small squash, the pale tomatoes, and the monstrously healthy garlic, "we may go hungry, but at least we'll be safe from vampires."

Dumbledore stirred slightly, took a sip of his tea.  "That poor boy," he said thoughtfully, still pondering Grigore.  "I suppose he reminded you of Peter Pettigrew.  I remember how you always used to stick up for him..."

Remus' face darkened.  He wasn't sure what hurt most: the thought of Peter, poor Peter murdered at the hands of a traitor, or of what eventually became of the young Romanian werewolf.

"It's an apt comparison.  It could be why I trusted Grigore so much, but I was wrong in thinking that he would show the same loyalty and courage as Peter."  He shook his head.  "Have you seen the Pettigrews lately?  Has Mrs. Pettigrew ever gotten over it?"  He didn't know Peter's mother's first name.  They'd met only twice: the first was during their second year at Hogwarts, when they'd all come for a night before the Quidditch World Cup.  The Pettigrews were a proud wizarding family with three sons, the second eight years older than Peter.  The children were supposed to call their elders "ma'am" and "sir" and dress up for dinner, where they sat quietly  and listened to Peter's brothers relate tales of their Ministry jobs, awed by the elegance and formality of the place settings and the five course meal that magically served itself.

The second time had been at Peter's funeral.  Remus had watched Mrs. Pettigrew's inconsolable weeping from a safe distance -- in those days he had the foolish naivete to doubt Sirius' guilt.

"A mother never really gets over something like that," said Dumbledore solemnly.  "But they are very proud of him, of course."

"I was a bad influence," Remus said darkly.  "If I hadn't got Sirius into so much trouble, he never would have -- "

"His act of treachery was no one's fault but his own," Dumbledore interrupted.  He sighed.  "Remus, I would be lying if I told you I had come here only to find a teacher for the students.  There is another reason Hogwarts isn't safe without a Dark Arts master..."  There was something very ominous in the tone of his voice.  "Why don't you get yourself a chair, as you probably want to be sitting down when you hear this."

Remus had left his wand indoors; he thought gardening by magic wasn't as much fun, except when it came to repelling bugs.  So he went through the gate, grabbed another of the heavy wooden chairs, and dragged it across the paved stone path so it was opposite Dumbledore.  He sat down quickly, leaning forward to gaze at his former professor, willing him to speak quickly.

Dumbledore drained his mug and placed it in the weeds beside his chair.  "Sirius..." he began, then cleared his throat. "Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban."

Remus sat back.  All sorts of contradictory emotions and facts were whirling in his head, though he let nothing show on his face.  He gave voice to the uppermost thought: "No one -- "  Then he stopped.

No person had ever escaped from Azkaban.

But Sirius wasn't exactly a person, was he?  Less so, in a sense, than Remus himself, since he could transform at will and for an indefinite period of time.  Had he spent twelve years as Padfoot?  Remus knew -- because he had looked it up once when he was in school, not knowing why -- that there had never been an Animagus in Azkaban.  What would happen?

They were powered by very different magic, but Moony and Padfoot were more alike than they were different.  They had spent tireless hours comparing their experiences -- laughing at their calm intellectualization of how, just the previous night, they'd had their fangs in each other's throats.  Had Sirius been so interested in the details of his transformation because he thought it would make him more useful to Voldemort?  Was he as immune to Dementors as a werewolf -- or more so?

Like almost every Dark creature imaginable, Dementors ran wild in Romania.  They spawned wherever there was genocide, oppression, and war, and a wild Dementor was to an Azkaban guard what a rabid wolf was to a trained police dog.  The Petrosna caves were thick with them, and the strongest Patronus Remus could conjure only allowed him to make brief forays into the shallower recesses of the caves.  He had no hope of ever banishing or repelling the creatures -- except on that one magical night when the moon was full.  Transformed, he could and did walk into the caves without a qualm.  Some of his most important work would have been impossible without this ability.

The thought of tail-wagging, slobbering, friendly Padfoot now seemed ominous.

He looked straight into Dumbledore's eyes and prepared to tell him.

But he couldn't do it.

Not just because it was a monstrous betrayal -- he, who dared to accuse others of treachery! -- but because he feared he would be disbelieved.  How could three 15-year-old wizards, one practically a Squib and the other probably already thinking of joining Voldemort, carry out one of magic's most difficult spells?  And then keep this hidden from the greatest wizard in the world, from whom nothing at Hogwarts remained secret for long?  He imagined Dumbledore dismissing the story as the delusions of an animal, half-crazed with loneliness after four years alone in the ruined castle, who had never loved anyone but a creature even worse than himself.

"He must have found some way to fight the Dementors, Headmaster," he said quietly.  "Without a wand, too.  How do you suppose he did it?"

"I was hoping you might have some ideas," said Dumbledore, as innocent as you please.

Yes, Remus had ideas.  He had more than ideas: he knew.  Now if only he could tell...

Dumbledore trusted him to tell the truth, as indeed he always had. But revealing Padfoot's secret would open the door to all of his own lies while at school. Of course, he should tell everything to the old wizard. What did it matter now? He would soon send Dumbledore on his way; he didn't seriously think he was fit to teach at Hogwarts.

What did it matter? Somehow, knowing that there was at least one person living in the world who trusted him so completely did matter.

What was he, if not a product of that trust?

The realization came on him swiftly, like a wall of water barreling down a dry streambed at the peak of a rainstorm. All those years in the mountains, this simple knowledge had sustained him. The strength he found to crawl home when wounded, to lead and discipline his pack, to confront creatures of Darkness rested on the knowledge of that trust, rested on the hope that eventually he might do something to truly deserve the trust of the world's greatest wizard.

Sirius had escaped. Was it important how he'd done it? He would not stay free for long. They'd send the Dementors after him, probably. And after they caught him... Remus, made uncomfortable by these reflections, left his chair and knelt to put the vegetables into a cloth sack, looking down at the ground rather than up at the old wizard who patiently waited for an answer.

"I knew Sirius Black a long time ago," he began stiffly, "and obviously not as well as I thought I did." Sirius had lied to him, betrayed Lily and James... but his memories of Padfoot were without blemish. Could those have been lies, too?  He'd seen enough in the past few years to doubt even the celebrated loyalty of the dog family.

Standing up, Remus slung the sack of vegetables over his shoulder, saying with deliberate lightness, "I'm going to make some garlic soup, my specialty."
 

Since the night was fine, dry and not too cold, they sat in the great hall under the stars, perched on fallen roof beams, and ate bowls of steaming soup with thick slices of bread. Dumbledore related tales of Quidditch, some of which seemed too fantastic to be true. McGonagall letting Harry play for Gryffindor his first year? She must be getting soft. Perhaps he would have done the same, though, if it meant defeating Slytherin which -- incredibly -- had Severus Snape for a Head. There could be no doubt of the skill of Lily and James' son on a broomstick. Even Voldemort, acting through the Dark Arts teacher Quirrell, had been unable to unseat Harry. Of course, he had a bit of help from his friends...and Snape. Well, people changed in twelve years. Possibly even Severus had a decent side.

Sitting in the ruined hall, bathed in firelight, Remus felt confusion at the rush of memories summoned by the old wizard and his stories. Faces, words, events long forgotten swirled in his mind, as insubstantial as the steam rising over his bowl but as powerful as the pungent aroma of the soup. He couldn't put those memories back, no matter how hard he tried. But he wasn't the same person, either. How to make sense of it all? Could he trust his instincts or his memories any more about Severus, about Sirius?

"Delicious soup," Dumbledore said brightly as he handed his empty bowl to Remus. "Your own recipe?"

The words and the proffered bowl snatched him away from the maelstrom of memory. "Er -- yes. I've learned to cook a lot with garlic."

"The kitchens at Hogwarts don't seem to be able to do much with garlic," sighed Dumbledore. "Certainly nothing like this."

"The secret is roasting the garlic first over a low flame until it's almost like caramel. Then it needs to simmer in a good broth for a couple of hours. I used dried goat meat for the broth, but I suspect beef would be better."  Listen to me, Remus thought, this is possibly the longest adult conversation I've had in four years and I'm giving out recipes. But Dumbledore merely nodded pleasantly.

"And the pickle, as well," he commented. "I've never had such a crunchy or sweet garlic pickle."

"Thanks," replied Remus hastily, standing and turning away. The pickle had been Alexandru's recipe, a favorite of his. He remembered them both peeling garlic together, ten or twenty pounds at a time, the fragile papery skins drifting around their feet like autumn leaves. The memory of that loss hurt, too, and no less than the others. Only four years old, the wound was considerably fresher.

Remus wiped out the empty bowls with a cloth and set them next to his meager assortment of dishes and utensils, no longer able face the old wizard, who remained seated. The fire died down somewhat, making the stars seem brighter overhead. He heard a small gasp from Dumbledore and turned to see him staring up at the ragged ceiling, where fingers of the remaining beams poked up at the stars.

"A boglight?" inquired Dumbledore with wonder and delight, as a small blue light danced in the air, first along one of the beams and then dropping down to settle near his peaked hat.

"Bojoci," Remus replied quietly, "that's what they're called around here, but they seem much like the boglights we had back home."

"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore holding out his hand to see if the dancing blue sphere, about the size of a small apple, would come closer. "But I thought they were largely found in swamps, not on the tops of mountains."

As he spoke, a half dozen more of the bobbing lights appeared, in pinks, yellows, and blues, and drifted lazily down to join their blue sister. They swirled around Dumbledore's head as the wizard smiled at them, cooing softly.

"Yes. They are found in low spots in the valleys. I -- uhm - collect them. They seem to like living in the castle," Remus replied, feeling oddly uncomfortable. It was embarrassing to admit that his only pets were insubstantial blobs of light, that he went to a lot of trouble (they were fragile and hard to transport) to bring them all the way up the mountain. Now more than twenty of the bojoci whirled above their heads, darting around the fragments of beams and glowing like stars come for a visit.

"Reminds me of the Christmas decorations at school," Dumbledore murmured approvingly. "Flitwick - he's still the Charms master, you know -- does a marvelous job with lights in the Great Hall."

They were beautiful. Remus sometimes made his bed in the great hall of the castle, lying on the stone floor and watching the dancing lights for hours before falling asleep. They sang to him of a beauty beyond his small existence which was somehow comforting.

Both wizards were silent for many minutes while the bojoci filled the great hall with light and movement. Remus, his eyes directed upward, heard the old wizard get up and approach him.

"You have not said anything directly, but I assume that you must have come here because of Alec." Dumbledore said quietly.

Remus did not reply. There was no simple answer that would explain why he came or why he stayed. Alexandru had been his teacher, his friend, almost like a father to him sometimes. He had expected much from him, yet let him find his own path. They had sometimes disagreed -- about the wisdom of Remus leading a pack of werewolves, for example -- but in the end had forgiven one another, an act which made the final parting less bitter than it could have been.

"He taught me and I...tried to help him," mumbled Remus, fighting back unaccustomed tears.

"A great loss to the Ministry, and to all of us, when he decided to return here," sighed Dumbledore wistfully. "But, I understand that these mountains are largely free from vampires, werewolves, and other Dark creatures now. That must be due largely to Alec's efforts -- and to yours."

"Remus Lupin, Vampire Killer," the younger wizard said softly to himself, remembering a time when he thought this was a joke. In fact, his lessons in vampire hunting had started soon after he arrived at the castle, twelve years ago. He hadn't intended to stay, but between what he learned from Alexandru and the exhilaration of running free when the moon was full, he soon no longer considered going elsewhere.

____________________________

Romania, Year One

Spring came late to the mountains of Transylvania, particularly the high, rocky promontory on which Castle Arghezi sat. Snow still lay thick on the courtyard of the castle, with rough channels dug for getting to the stables or the storeroom. The glass greenhouse, however, held the promise of summer.

Remus sat drinking in the afternoon sunlight of early spring, its warmth collected and magnified by the panes of glass curving overhead to meet the gray stone blocks of the castle wall. Last night the moon had been full -- his fourth since coming to these mountains -- and that meant that he was still weak, not to mention bruised from a particularly hard fall down the side of the mountain. The little greenhouse, which was stuck on the back of the castle next to the library, had become his refuge when the moon began to wane, warming him and revitalizing his weakened body.

The sun was out this afternoon, dancing above the clouds which clung to the lower reaches of the mountains. He sat in a chair, a blanket on his lap, with his eyes closed and smelled the richness of dirt mingled with the scent of early spring narcissus. He had brought a book from the library, Romanian Revenants, but cared more about the feeling of sun on his skin than about the local Undead.

The door of the library opened with a sharp click, followed by a creaking groan. Remus opened his eyes enough to see Alexandru step into the greenhouse. The old wizard stood for a moment taking in the smells and humidity, then wound his way through the tables and hanging plants to the corner where the Remus basked in the sun.

"How are you feeling, my boy?" he asked. Wood scraped on stone as he drew up a chair and sat down. Alexandru seemed fascinated by the details of Remus' transformation. After hunting werewolves for so long, having one as a house guest was a good opportunity to learn more. (Mihail, on the other hand, had hardly spoken three words to Remus and avoided him whenever possible).

"The sun feels good," Remus replied, opening his eyes and smiling at his host. "We don't seem to get this much sun in England."

"Sometimes it is an advantage to be on the top of a mountain. The clouds go elsewhere. That is why our little greenhouse prospers so." Alexandru waved a hand at the explosion of plants spilling over wooden trays on the tables and hanging down from above. "In only a year, we have brought this back to life, although not like when I was a boy. Then we had old trees and vines hanging down...."

He stopped and shook his head. Remembering always seemed bittersweet to Alexandru; everything associated with his early life at the castle seemed to be tinged with both happiness and horror. Remus had to be content with scraps, snatches of stories from which he tried to understand the puzzle of the old wizard and of the castle.

"I see you have begun your reading on our local vampires," he rumbled, gesturing to the book in Remus' lap. "That is well, for soon we shall give you some practical experience."

He had agreed to accompany the old wizard on a hunt through the local caves mostly out of curiosity. The comment about practical experience made him shiver with a feeling of anticipation which surprised him.

"In these mountains, vampires are inactive in the winter. When spring comes, they begin to wake."

"Because they haven't had a... meal all winter?"

"Correct. As you know, vampires do not cease to exist if they cannot get blood. They enter a state of hibernation, sometimes for years, waiting for the opportunity to feed. Around here, the vampires begin to stir in May, feeding upon whatever they find -- often sheep or shepherds. They are not too choosy when they first wake. April is a time when we can catch them before they are fully awake."

"Sheep or shepherds, eh?"

"Vampires have their preferences about blood. In a pinch, any mammal will do, but human blood -- with the exception of your own, my dear boy -- is preferred. Human blood produces in vampires a state of ecstasy, I suppose one would call it, not attainable any other way, at least so I am told." This was one of those points on which Alexandru seemed to have personal knowledge, although he shied away from saying how he'd gotten it.

"And so," Alexandru continued, "we shall hunt them. Tell me how we kill them."

"A wooden stake through the heart, of course," began Remus, feeling a bit like he was back in Dark Arts class -- only there would be a field trip associated with this lesson. "Hawthorn or maple. A single, clean stroke."

"And then?"

"The head must be cut off and the body burned." This was all common knowledge. Remus didn't quite understand why Alexandru felt compelled to quiz him like a first-year.

"How long?"

"The stake, you mean?" Remus asked, feeling fuzzy-headed. He'd never done well in classes at school the day after the full moon, either. To add to his confusion, Alexandru pulled a wooden stake from his pocket and handed it to Remus. He ran his finger along the smooth, pale wood from the flat end to the tip. It was about eight inches long and very sharp.

"These are made for me in the States, " the old vampire hunter said casually, "by an Indian shaman in New York. Maple works the best, I have found."

He remembered how they sniggered and giggled at Hogwarts when the teacher passed one around for the class to examine. The insufferable and bombastic Dark Arts teacher who proudly showed off a stake to his students had probably been bluffing about killing a vampire. The wizard now facing him in the greenhouse almost certainly had killed at least one.

"How long," asked Alexandru again patiently, "before the body must be burned?"

"Before the next sunset. Otherwise the vampire will ... come back to life."

"Excellent," said the old wizard, leaning back in his chair with a pleased expression on his face. "Many wizards have made the mistake of thinking that a simple stake through the heart will suffice ... with disastrous consequences."

As Alexandru continued with his questions, assuring himself that the younger wizard understood the finer points of vampire lore, Remus turned the stake over in his hands. Vampires weren't alive anymore. Didn't they deserve to be stopped from draining the living?  Wouldn't they welcome death, Nature's final rest for every creature?