Flashback Friday: Here I Am Anew
Mar. 13th, 2020 11:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
paulamcgAgain, snagging from delphi! And taking another chance to post here (about) an old fic.
Title: Here I Am Anew
Author:paulamcg
Rating: PG
Characters: Remus, an original witch character, in a minor role an original Muggle male character
Pairing: Gen, with only implied Remus/Sirius
Summary: When, six years after losing his friends, Remus Lupin is recovering from another solitary transformation, he is found by someone who's looking for a teacher. Can the two of them possibly trust each other?
Disclaimer: Remus will never help me make any money.
Notes: This story was written as a gift to Magic at Mungo’s in the Wolfstar Lost Years One-Shot Exchange at Fiction Alley in August 2005.
Word count: 6400
Now availabe on AO3
and here
“Excuse me, but are you a professor?”
Somebody has poked me on the side, but I pretend to be still asleep. In order to have a proper rest after the transformation, I’ve paid pesetas for a bed, and I’m determined to make use of it all through the afternoon, evening, night and morning.
I was lucky when hitchhiking across Costa Brava. The young truck driver happened to know where to seek suitable accommodation for this vagabond he found almost unconscious on the side of the road, near the sea.
On the edge of a deserted sandy beach, even though chained like a dog to a tree, I had managed not to maul myself too badly. I charmed the bleeding to stop in my arms and hands soon after transforming back, although I’ll still need to gather more strength before closing the wounds properly.
The chilling wind from the sea actually helped, pushing me back towards the main road. I still wonder how anyone managed to discern me among the dust – and cared to pick in his truck a young man with filthy shoulder-length hair, in a shabby jumper and jeans. Perhaps the briefcase made an impression of some kind, or at least awakened some curiosity in this driver.
Instead of staring at me immediately, however, he concentrated on lighting a cigarette, while mumbling something about Barcelona. Having barely succeeded in climbing to the seat beside him, I gingerly pulled the sleeves over my hands and closed my eyes, ready to fall asleep immediately.
But the engine stopped, and I was forced back to reality and to the fear that I’d be left by the roadside, after all. Still, I just squeezed my eyes shut tighter when I felt a sleeve being cautiously pulled up.
The driver launched into questioning, which sounded even less intelligible than anything he had said before. Perhaps he was now trying a mixture of Spanish and Catalan. Finally I agreed to open my eyes and nodded vaguely, when the driver kept repeating something, although I didn’t know what I was admitting or consenting to. He couldn’t suspect anything worse than a fight – and a more careful examination of the wounds probably led to a conclusion that I had tried to defend myself against a dog, perhaps when trespassing through private property.
I hardly care what people think of me. For a long time I tried to prevent them from thinking anything. Now I’ve already experienced that sometimes attention leads to something positive.
This morning was such an experience. The driver dug out a first-aid kit and cleaned and bandaged the wounds. I still refrained from resorting to English. Even when the driver finally asked me in simple English where I was going to sleep in Barcelona – as sleeping was obviously the only thing I was interested in – I only showed him how little money I had. He parked the truck in order to walk me to the door of the seedy hostel.
There are about ten bunk beds in this room. Only a mattress and a blanket on the bottom bed assigned to me. No privacy. But this is a warm and soft place to lay down my body, and I wasted no time before curling up to sleep with the briefcase as a pillow.
Perhaps I’ve fallen asleep again, and the question is now repeated.
“Excuse me, but are you a professor?”
Somebody is obviously making fun of me. There is noise in the room: people arguing and laughing. But this voice close to my ear is perhaps not related to the laughter. It’s a warm female voice and it sounds sincere, as if someone were seriously looking for a professor.
A light touch on my temple. I must be dreaming. When the hand moves to fall on my arm in a gesture which is probably intended to be gentle but is rather firm, I’m jerked to the reality of pain so unexpectedly that I can’t hold back a moan. Instinctively I open my eyes so as to manage to recoil effectively.
If I’d had time to expect anything, it would probably have been a young girl. Not a plump mature face, older than my mother’s.
I blink. How did such a way of putting it occur to me? The straight blond hair hanging over her breasts and the colourful long dress make her look like an overage hippie.
“Are you?” she repeats.
I sit up stiffly despite the protest in my muscles. Without hesitation the woman flops down onto the bed between me and the briefcase. Even when she’s sitting I can see that she’s remarkably tall. Indeed, she’s a fabulously big woman. Her soft thigh presses against mine, and she has to push the briefcase a bit to have enough space. I can’t resist bending more than a bit forward to peek around her handsome bosom and to check that she doesn’t try to open the case. But she merely lets her fingers brush the slightly peeling letters.
“Professor R. J. Lupin,” she says slowly. “Is that you?”
“I am Remus Lupin, yes – but I’m not… I was never a professor. It’s… it was just a joke that my…”
Why am I giving her such answers and explanations? There’s something strangely reassuring about her. I shift cautiously to lean against the wall, pulling my knees close to my chest and wrapping the blanket back around myself. A large window on the opposite wall has been opened to the cool night breeze. Yes, it’s already dark outside. I have a feeling that when this woman first spoke to me it was still early afternoon. She must have been waiting for me to start waking up.
In front of the window several young men and women have gathered to share drinks. Some of them are sitting on the beds, others on the floor. A bottle is going around, and I can’t help wondering if there could be some food, too.
“You must be hungry.” The woman has turned to look at me. “We can talk later. We’ve all taken out what we have, and I’m sure there’s enough for you to have a share, too. Most of those boys and girls seem to prefer drinking. Come… or I could fetch something for you, if you’re still too tired.”
I nod. Now I catch myself simply submitting to her care. Wishing she’d really… I know she’s doing this because she wants something from me, and that must be something ridiculous. Or it’s ridiculous to expect me to have anything to offer. But I don’t want to think now. I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes. Her weight is lifted – and I feel it return almost immediately. I must have slumbered for a moment.
Now she moves the briefcase between the two of us in order to use it as a table. She’s laid out on it some white bread, cheese and fruits. Grabbing one plum, she gestures to me to help myself.
It’s a bit difficult for me to do it with my mauled hands. Clumsily I get a hold of the chunks of cheese and bread. Everything’s almost fresh, as far as I can taste anything, when wolfing it all down, keeping my eyes on her so as to see if she’s staring at me. She’s not; she’s munching the plum with her eyes half closed. Or perhaps she’s still looking down at the briefcase – or at my hands. I glance at the palms myself and see that some blood is seeping through the bandages.
“I have some ointment to at least ease the aching,” she says, handing the last plum to me and bending down to retrieve a big brown glass bottle from the floor. Having wiped the mouth of the bottle in her skirt, she takes a swig – and wipes it again before offering it to me. “You can have the rest of it.”
There isn’t much left. The beer tastes flat and nothing like Butterbeer, though it’s warm, but it does give me a warm feeling. It’s been a long time since I paid for a beer myself. That’s why this drink is associated with rare occasions of sharing. And in any case I’m thirsty, and I empty the bottle willingly. “Thank you.”
“Will you come with me now?” she asks briskly as soon as I’ve finished everything.
I don’t care to ask where and why. I’d like to say nothing more. She must be able to see that I’m dying to lie down again… except that I need to relieve myself first.
“Only to the loo – first,” she says. Yes, she seems to be able to see what I want at each moment.
“With you?” I have to ask, amazed.
“I’ll help you with the ointment in there. Oh, I’m sorry I forgot to introduce myself. Brünnhilde Pilz.” She reaches out her right hand and touches gently only the fingertips of mine.
This is funny. I’ve seen that name in… “In my studies I once used a book written by a Brünnhilde Pilz.”
“You did.” It’s not a question. She smiles. “You are the Remus Lupin I thought I’d found.”
“And you are really…?”
“From Durmstrang. Now you know I can heal your wounds – only in privacy.”
When I’m exiting the cubicle, she slips into the men’s room. And she turns to press her palms against the door for a moment. Without looking at me yet she asks, “Did you maul yourself badly – all over your body where you could reach?”
I’m feeling sick now. I have to lean against the cubicle door. She knows. How can I escape? I have my wand in the briefcase under the basin. But I doubt I’d be able to undo her wandless sealing charm on the door. Why is a famous Potions expert using the magic of poor witches anyway? But that’s not the point now… What does she want me for? Are werewolves in Spain not allowed to use only chains? But perhaps she’s got in her mind something worse than reporting me to the local wizarding authorities.
“I asked you if you wounded yourself badly.” She’s now standing in front of me, clearly taller than me. Is she trying to peek inside of my ragged shirt?
“No.”
“Please tell me honestly. You can wash the wounds and apply the ointment yourself, too, if you feel I’m intruding on your privacy.” She lifts her hand and strokes the hair on my temple.
I had forgotten the dream… that it was not a dream. I want her fingers to caress my skin like my mother’s used to – my father’s, Madam Pomfrey’s (rarely), Amelia’s and… Why not let her help me get stronger? After that I can think about escaping.
“No. Honestly,” I agree to say. “I… stopped it from doing anything but gnaw the front paws.”
Is there amazement, even admiration in her intense gaze? Why do I feel tempted to confide in her, to explain how animal companions have helped me stop the wolf’s aggression almost completely? How it’s hard, beyond the inescapable transformation pain, of course – and the disabling weariness, particularly when I’m already starved and ill – mainly when I have no shelter where I could keep a bird, a rat or a cat with me during the night. Fortunately I’m too exhausted to talk. I can hardly remain standing any longer.
But she doesn’t ask me anything. Instead, she wraps her plump arms around my waist, lifts me up easily and carries me to sit up on the wide windowsill next to the basin.
I can only stare at her. She fumbles in the bag she’s got hanging across her shoulders. It’s decorated with fringes and beads in convincing hippie style. Somehow I’m relieved when she takes out a wand.
“Feeling at home in each other’s company now?” she says, chuckling. “I’ve lived among Muggles or the poorest of wizards and witches for quite a while, too.”
I stretch my arms towards her, and I’m almost disappointed when she manages to pull up the sleeves without touching my skin. Suddenly I’m also more ashamed of my filthy rags than usual, remembering that she seems to know I used to go to Hogwarts and even studied advanced Potions and Healing after that.
“Only on your hands and forearms?”
I nod, while she waves her wand in soft circles without uttering any incantation. The bloody bandages start to unwind gently.
“You must have learnt this if you studied my book,” she says, surprising me by grabbing my waist again. “Instead of using Scourgifying charms, it’s better to first clean the wounds properly with water.”
She supports me to stand bent over the basin and turns on the tap. Why did I not notice how dirty my hands were when I was eating?
“I don’t always have the chance…” I say. “But this morning the driver who gave me a lift cleaned the wounds with some kind of alcohol.”
After washing her own hands first she starts to pour water cautiously over my left arm, then over the left palm and the back of the hand. It hurts. I register the level of the pain, diminished so much from the torment of the transformation that I feel merely relieved.
I can’t resist staring at the wounds. I’m startled to find them fascinating again. Like when I was a child and I examined the ragged edges, wondering what could have caused such damage to my skin and flesh during my sleep. Once again I feel sad my left hand has been mauled – as if I could now comfort and entertain myself by drawing sketches of battle scenes, dragons and knights in any case.
“I can see that…” she answers, when I have almost forgotten what I said – about the chance to wash myself and particularly my wounds. “I have to wonder if you haven’t always done your best to take care of your basic needs.”
Having proceeded to the other hand and arm, she stares at the wide wound inside my right wrist. This bite could have been fatal. “You seem to know how to stem the flow of blood.”
“I’d have got rid of it all… a long time ago, if I didn’t know how to do that.” I bite my lip as the water streams across the deepest wound, and I cast a glance into her eyes only after I’ve managed to finish the sentence.
She holds the eye-contact for a moment, without smiling any longer, but continues matter-of-factly, “And these old scars show that after gathering some strength you are able to charm the wounds to close, too – not perfectly, but well enough. I assume it hurts.”
“So what? Something new about that?”
Instead of replying she lifts me once again to the windowsill. Another silent charm of wand magic dries the skin on my arms and hands. Now she fumbles in her bag again and pulls out a jar made of purple translucent glass, the lid of which is decorated with an amethyst. She’s put her wand aside, and she unscrews the lid by hand. Pressing to stand between my legs she lifts the jar for me to smell. “Did you learn to brew this ointment?”
“In theory,” I reply. “I couldn’t afford the ingredients. Anise I could grow, but the scales of Irish Ironshield…”
Why do I feel tempted to babble about everything, starting with the dragon scales and the dragons, those painted at the ceiling of my mother’s theatre? Perhaps my mother had got the recipe from Brünnhilde Pilz’s book, too. She left her first career before her marriage, but she looked in books for the best ointments to ease this type of pain at least, when there was no hope for cure. She used to point out that, among those moving fresco dragons with warming breath, particularly the Irish Ironshield was devoted to protecting me. Now I’ll feel the soothing touch of the ointment for the first time after her death.
And gentle fingers caressing the edges of the wounds, spreading the ointment. It freezes the skin. My hands and forearms are soon almost numb. I keep shivering uncontrollably. I’ve closed my eyes and now I’m going to open them again, sad that I won’t feel her touch any longer.
At least I want to see how she does the wand movement to close the wounds. I know it won’t hurt – I won’t even feel the burning, as the wounds are not inflamed yet – and it will work perfectly, at least in case she feels genuine sympathy for me. I can’t help my curiosity, and I’d like to learn from her, so as to refine my own style in healing. Closing wounds is a difficult task when the charm is not used in helping another person.
She hardly stirs her wand, directing it serenely to each wound in turn. I can see the barely perceptible, weakly shining scars form. Once again she refrains from uttering the incantation. Until she finally concentrates on the widest wound, the one on my right wrist. “Regenerasco,” she whispers, and her voice caresses my ears with every syllable.
Does she find the spoken word necessary because of the severity of this injury? Or does she do this only to complete her work with an emphasised expression of caring? Her whisper warms me and tempts me to close my eyes again. By doing this I, in turn, invite her to continue to touch me.
She accepts my invitation. Her firm hand trails my upper arm now. Travels to my shoulders, down my back, up to my chest again. She’s drawing the outline of my body. How does she know this is what I need, so as to define my dimensions again?
Finally, here I am anew. In my bitter survival, in my desperate, faltering humanity. Resigned to continue the struggle, to focus on the moderate blessings still available. Grateful to all these people who have surprised me. Determinate to try my best to offer anything they can possibly wish from me.
Professor Brünnhilde Pilz is sitting beside me on the windowsill, with her arm around me, and I’m leaning my head against her shoulder. I look up at her, unwilling to accept the returning doubts. What could she want from a werewolf?
If she wanted to give me up to the local wizards, she wouldn’t have hidden the proof so completely under these beautiful scars. Perhaps she wishes to use me for her own purposes. She seems to know too much about how to tend to a werewolf. Paradoxically, it is not necessarily a good sign that she is so good at taking care of a dark creature. Good people are supposed to concentrate on defending themselves and the society against creatures like me. How can she possibly be one of the exceptions, when she doesn’t know me as a person but is, instead, completely aware of what I am?
“Thank you,” I say, undecided whether I dare express my spontaneous wish to declare myself available. Perhaps I’d better question my suitability in her service. “Did you say you were looking for a professor?”
“We can talk outside of the hostel. We’d better vacate the loo before those boys get too frustrated,” she says. ”Yes, let’s simply go out together, hand in hand. Or do you have a reputation to guard?” She grins mischievously, and I catch myself sharing a chuckle with her.
There are, indeed, a few young men waiting outside the door. My charming companion spares them a smile and turns back to me, beaming. She leads me down the gloomy, stinking staircase and out to the courtyard.
It’s an imposing square with some palm trees and galleries on every side – beautiful architecture, but some of the buildings are rather ramshackle. There’s laughter, loud talk and music out here under the black sky, too. Both the locals and the young travelers seem to live at night.
We find a bench in a shadowy corner, and I flop down onto it gratefully. I wonder if she knows that I’m still too weak to walk much farther, and that I can’t possibly Apparate before the morning, this time probably not even then, as I haven’t been in a good shape since the previous full moon, not really since I left Thessaloniki in the spring.
She doesn’t wait for me to repeat my question. “Yes, I’ve been looking for someone to join my mission as a teacher. But I was also looking for you. All right, let’s admit it. As you must know, Albus is the one who knows almost everything.”
Dumbledore. I’m not particularly happy if he or anyone has followed my every step. This threatens to intensify my usual post-full-moon urge to disappear completely. I’m still tempted to play with the idea that some day I won’t be able to resist it any longer. But particularly after the rare human touch has invigorated me as a person, too, I can already feel the first traces of the regular counterforce to depression.
The waning gibbous moon has risen. Despite the lingering ache and weariness in muscle and bone, this moon makes my human body rejoice in the anticipation of another month. I feel young again in my newly acquired body, my renewing treasure – and as usual at this time of the cycle, bouts of recklessness and defiance interfere in the depression.
“Almost, perhaps,” I say. “But I doubt he knows everything about someone like you – or someone like me.”
“You’re right.” She doesn’t sound absentminded, although she concentrates on taking something out of her bag again.
Only when she spreads a cloak around my shoulders, do I realise that I ‘ve folded my arms and started shaking my body for warmth. “Thanks… again. In any case I’m surprised you cared to… know anything about this kind of a creature.”
“I didn’t. I confess I haven’t found many candidates to choose from. Albus owled me back recommending only one talented, hardworking and potentially altruistic student of his who could possibly consider my offer. He said I’d find this young man in Catalonia, and today when I had arrived and another owl of his brought the information on your exact whereabouts I couldn’t help wondering why…”
“You don’t wonder any longer, do you?” I feel relieved, knowing that she has not wanted to find a werewolf.
“I do. I’m surprised in a new way.”
“But you can still consider me as a candidate?”
“I hope so. Can you consider working any longer after…? Was your career disrupted when you were bitten?”
“I was bitten when I was five.”
“So you lived for a long time as if nothing had happened.”
“Well, you can put it like that, if you want to. I have no memory of being anything else. But my parents managed to keep it a secret – and to raise me to be somehow human enough, I hope. Later with the help of Headmaster Dumbledore, too.”
“And you were one of the best students at his school and after that, too… So I’m still surprised you are here without better opportunities, so that I can hope you’ll find my offer attractive enough.”
“Outside Hogwarts there were not many opportunities for someone like me, and no place for me after… the war. My parents were murdered two years before my… before the war ended.”
“Albus told me you used to fight in the Order of the Phoenix.”
“He did? It’s been six years… almost exactly six years since… In any case after the war a lot of things were obviously different. And in my case not better, not as I had hoped. I did try to study further, finally abroad, too, in Paris… but I’m afraid I didn’t find it worthwhile much longer. Or even possible. Now I could hardly convince any employer that I’m ambitious. But I certainly didn’t expect any longer to be ever interviewed by a scholar who wants to employ a werewolf as a teacher.”
I’m still startled by the way I talk… what I choose to say without censorship, while clearly still maintaining some control. This is obviously due to the combination of the confidence she inspired in me immediately and of my post-transformation recklessness, unfounded self-assurance of someone with nothing bigger left to lose than what is lost and regained regularly. Without revealing everything, and without demanding information, I’m encouraging her to talk, too. I still don’t know how I could possibly trust her.
With my wounds healed, and when wrapped in her thick cloak, huddled against her warm body, I feel guilty still doubting her motives only because of my general suspicious attitude and because of the reputation of Durmstrang. And the mention of Dumbledore is not a recommendation to me. He used me, and I didn’t want his charity, and I still can’t stop wondering why six years ago he didn’t insist on becoming the Secret Keeper himself, so he could have saved my friends, at least one of them… In any case Pilz could be lying about her contacts with him.
“You haven’t been in touch with Dumbledore for years, have you?” she asks in a gentle voice.
I don’t reply. Does she realise I don’t let her check how much she can lie? Or is she simply impressed by the image of my solitary destitution. She puts her hand around my shoulders and rubs my upper arm.
Her face looks younger in the lighting from the lanterns and windows, less plump, too – but certainly not less awe-inspiring – when I see the profile. No, she is not looking at me, as if she were showing that the confidence between the two of us is so firmly secured that an eye-contact is not necessary.
Her voice is quiet and relaxed. “I’ve been somehow drifting for six years, too. After the war I’ve never accepted a permanent position at Durmstrang. After those who had supported the pureblood ideology stayed and continued to develop the teaching of Dark Arts, not only Defence. I was involved enough to see some werewolves used as teaching material… research material, with a goal of learning how to use them more effectively as a weapon, rather than an ally. I have to admit I never thought I’d have one as a colleague.
“I was supposed to heal them after the transformations. And I discovered that two werewolves applying the ointment on each other recovered better. But the headmaster and Dark Arts teacher found it unnecessary to waste any soothing ointment on them. If one werewolf was kept alone in a cage to transform, it often ripped itself to pieces too badly to survive at all. I didn’t want to continue to take part in those experiments.”
I’m feeling sick again. As if I could still taste my own blood and flesh in my mouth. I bend forward and stare at my filthy worn-out shoes, remembering how I vomited in the morning, before managing to unlock the chains, and again after I’d dragged myself the few yards to where I had left my briefcase and clothes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
I lean back again, closing my eyes. “No, it’s all right. If you’re just being honest, telling me about… your prior experience… But I wonder how you can suddenly treat me as a human – better than a lot of other humans would. Especially if you didn’t start suspecting anything until you saw me sleeping, or after.”
She frowns and sounds thoughtful for the first time. “It is strange… After Albus’s letter I had a positive preconception of you. But I admit that realising you could be a werewolf did not make me predominantly sympathetic… rather just curious in a professional sense – and partly disappointed as I thought you’d be in too bad a shape to work for me.”
I can’t help admiring her more and more. She’s so strong and so sure of her ideals and actions that she can afford to be completely honest – to others and to herself. That emphasises my own weakness. I’ve felt tempted to talk to her like to my mother since I first saw her. But I’m determined never to explain the main reason why I still barely manage to accept the gifts of life.
Can I accept this opportunity to stay for a while again with someone who at least acts as if she really cared about me? Can I even pursue it, not allowing her to leave me? I don’t want to think too much. I’d rather not think that Dumbledore arranged this. I wish I could simply do my best to stay close to her, as long as she can keep me warm, perhaps get something more for me to eat tomorrow. And I can do her a little service in return.
Looking finally up at her again, I blurt out, “Do you want to tell me about your mission – and the teaching job?”
“Oh, I wonder if you can possibly be interested. There’s no salary.”
“In fact, I’m experienced in having no salary.”
My grin makes her chuckle. She winks, and continues by faking a completely serious tone. “Excellent. I do appreciate this type of experience. Instead, it’s not absolutely necessary that you have a lot of teaching experience, as long as you feel that…
“That teaching is some kind of a vocation to me. Perhaps you’ve already heard that… after leaving Hogwarts and while offering some unpaid services to Dumbledore… I pursued studies in various fields. Dark Creatures. Magic of Images. Potions and Healing, like my mother, even though Potions was never a strong subject of mine at Hogwarts. Journalism and literature. History of Magic, specializing in goblin rebellions and other threats from non-humans. Latin and French. Finally Magic of Images again, and history of both Muggle and Magical art – in Paris. But my working experience… I’m afraid I have no references. Perhaps you know that in Britain employers are not punished for hiring someone like me, but I’d have got at least a fine, if accused for having misled an employer. You can say that I was not cunning enough, not ambitious enough – not in a practical way. For several years I believed that acquiring better qualifications than any full human had in a particular field would finally make someone give me a chance despite… and particularly after the war, as I trusted everything would be better, all creatures more equal… Anyway, I often had a small scholarship, for one year in Paris, too. And at times I did some menial work without contracts.”
I draw a long breath, amazed at my speech. I can’t remember the previous time I talked so much, and this was all about myself, too.
“So do you have any grounds for believing that teaching suits you?”
“Among the art students at Sorbonne Academy for Enchanted Arts we had a language club. I taught them some Latin and English. I really enjoyed it – seeing how they became aware of their own learning. But I have to confess I don’t know how I’d manage with a group of children. I once gave some private lessons to one little girl, to my… She was a relative of a friend of mine. It was too much like charity from her parents, but I was fond of her and I couldn’t resist. We were both so happy about those lessons that my friends…”
“That’s when they started calling you a professor. And gave you the case.”
“Yes. So what kind of school is this – the one that doesn’t pay salaries?”
“This is… perhaps my desperate attempt to do something good. Since in all my career after the 1960’s I’ve got entangled with some questionable aspirations. Greed for power, ultimately wealth. At the expense of some vulnerable groups. Perhaps I just wanted to escape it all. I started to take good potions and healing services to some small and isolated magical communities in Africa. I’ve made four trips. The first two to Ouagadougou. Then I proceeded farther south. In Angola there’s a refugee settlement. That’s where I’d like to take you.”
“To Angola?”
“Yes. These witches and wizards hope to be able to return soon to their own lands in Namibia, as the Muggles are finally getting successful in their struggle for independence. When the South Africans leave Namibia, the local magical community, too, will lose most of its educated population. That’s why I’ve realised it’s not enough to give direct assistance to the refugees in Angola. I want to do like the Muggles who co-operate for development. Teaching is the key. The Namibian witches and wizards must learn to teach each other and to build up their own education and health systems when they go back home.”
“Do you think I have enough to offer?” I say, giving up the last traces of the role of a self-assured candidate. The thought of such a responsibility is overwhelming after all this drifting, after indulging in my own misery. And I’m thrilled by the possibility that I would be needed by someone – that there would be a purpose for me to serve, for the first time after the war.
“I trust Albus. And the impression I’ve got now – when you are most probably not at your best – doesn’t contradict my preconception.
“How about my… little furry problem?”
She laughs so heartily that I can’t help joining her. “It seems to me you’ve learnt to cope with it, and all by yourself, too, haven’t you?That’s why I believe you can face the challenge I’m offering.”
“Not all by myself. Although it’s true that I spent last night alone and without a shelter, too, chained outside.”
“As your employer I can offer you shelter at least.”
“And a day off?”
“Certainly. As many days as you need. Also healing, and some kind of meals. Throughout the month, of course. Should we make a written contract?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary. Can you imagine me suing you, if my trust turns out unfounded?”
“Good. We’ll both do our best, won’t we?” She squeezes my hand, and I realise she’s been holding it all the time. “I’m sleeping at this hostel tonight, too. And in the morning we’ll be heading south.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t think I can Apparate.” Now I really hope this won’t make her change her mind.
“It’s such a long way that nobody can. In Morocco – if not as soon as in Andalusia – we’ll get a carpet in any case. Perhaps the first stretch of the journey… But I’d rather give you some more time to heal. Besides, I have a load of books and equipment, and I don’t want to risk them landing in a Muggle area. I’ve also learnt to enjoy the Muggle way of travelling – taking in the landscape, you know.”
“That’s something we have in common, too.” I say, smiling. “The favourite modes of travelling. Perhaps the love for landscapes…”
“Can you drive?”
“You have a car?”
“Oh, yes. One of those cuter ones with round shapes, you know?” She draws the figure in the air with her hands. “I don’t think you could possibly have a license, but can you drive, so we could take turns?”
“Yes, actually, although I haven’t driven long distances. The Greeks are not terribly serious about drunk driving, but sometimes – in Crete – the driver has asked me to take the steering wheel, as I’m always the one to drink the least. I quite like it – driving, I mean… particularly if there’s a cassette player in the car.” I can’t help chuckling.
“Don’t worry. My car has a cassette player.”
“I have one cassette tape,“ I say with enthusiasm. I feel so inhumanly tired, and so free, relaxed in her company that I enjoy encouraging an absurd turn in the conversation. We’re both playing like children: pretending to have serious negotiations on the most important part of our travel plans.
“Can you show it to me,” she asks, while I’m already reaching for my briefcase, which has been standing next to the bench, “so I can check that everything is in order for the trip.”
I can feel my hands are completely healed, when I fumble with the knots of the string which keeps the briefcase closed. Holding the open case on my knees, I soon find the cassette under the chains, and I hand it to her.
“It says something in Arabic on this,” she says. “Have you already been to Morocco before?”
“No, not to Morocco or anywhere in Arabia or Africa. I got it in Thessaloniki from a Palestinian friend.”
I don’t hurry to close the case, although she doesn’t even try to hide her interest in my possessions. There’s a change of underwear and socks, no more clothes, and only a few books. Some books I had in England and didn’t manage to sell, like the battered copy of the Lord of the Rings, which I used to read aloud to… The other part of my latest birthday present – quite too expensive: the collected poems of Seferis. The present of my previous birthday is gone; I gave it away perhaps too soon after leaving Paris, and I can hardly believe I found someone who needed it more than I did: the warm quilt I had to shrink to fit in the briefcase. My wand, of course, and a razor. A mug and a kettle. And finally, at the bottom, the photo album.
I move the things a bit, so she can see everything I have, although I’m not going to open the album yet. It looks childish. With a picture of two puppies in the cover. She must think I’ve had it since I was eleven or something, but no – I was sixteen when I bought it, and one of my best friends had just managed to change into a big black dog.
Some day I’ll let her see that she inevitably reminds me of my mother. Some day, perhaps, I’ll show her all my treasures. Everything I’ll never lose as long as I have my human mind to remember them all and how they used to love me.
delphi! And taking another chance to post here (about) an old fic.Title: Here I Am Anew
Author:
paulamcgRating: PG
Characters: Remus, an original witch character, in a minor role an original Muggle male character
Pairing: Gen, with only implied Remus/Sirius
Summary: When, six years after losing his friends, Remus Lupin is recovering from another solitary transformation, he is found by someone who's looking for a teacher. Can the two of them possibly trust each other?
Disclaimer: Remus will never help me make any money.
Notes: This story was written as a gift to Magic at Mungo’s in the Wolfstar Lost Years One-Shot Exchange at Fiction Alley in August 2005.
Word count: 6400
Now availabe on AO3
and here
“Excuse me, but are you a professor?”
Somebody has poked me on the side, but I pretend to be still asleep. In order to have a proper rest after the transformation, I’ve paid pesetas for a bed, and I’m determined to make use of it all through the afternoon, evening, night and morning.
I was lucky when hitchhiking across Costa Brava. The young truck driver happened to know where to seek suitable accommodation for this vagabond he found almost unconscious on the side of the road, near the sea.
On the edge of a deserted sandy beach, even though chained like a dog to a tree, I had managed not to maul myself too badly. I charmed the bleeding to stop in my arms and hands soon after transforming back, although I’ll still need to gather more strength before closing the wounds properly.
The chilling wind from the sea actually helped, pushing me back towards the main road. I still wonder how anyone managed to discern me among the dust – and cared to pick in his truck a young man with filthy shoulder-length hair, in a shabby jumper and jeans. Perhaps the briefcase made an impression of some kind, or at least awakened some curiosity in this driver.
Instead of staring at me immediately, however, he concentrated on lighting a cigarette, while mumbling something about Barcelona. Having barely succeeded in climbing to the seat beside him, I gingerly pulled the sleeves over my hands and closed my eyes, ready to fall asleep immediately.
But the engine stopped, and I was forced back to reality and to the fear that I’d be left by the roadside, after all. Still, I just squeezed my eyes shut tighter when I felt a sleeve being cautiously pulled up.
The driver launched into questioning, which sounded even less intelligible than anything he had said before. Perhaps he was now trying a mixture of Spanish and Catalan. Finally I agreed to open my eyes and nodded vaguely, when the driver kept repeating something, although I didn’t know what I was admitting or consenting to. He couldn’t suspect anything worse than a fight – and a more careful examination of the wounds probably led to a conclusion that I had tried to defend myself against a dog, perhaps when trespassing through private property.
I hardly care what people think of me. For a long time I tried to prevent them from thinking anything. Now I’ve already experienced that sometimes attention leads to something positive.
This morning was such an experience. The driver dug out a first-aid kit and cleaned and bandaged the wounds. I still refrained from resorting to English. Even when the driver finally asked me in simple English where I was going to sleep in Barcelona – as sleeping was obviously the only thing I was interested in – I only showed him how little money I had. He parked the truck in order to walk me to the door of the seedy hostel.
There are about ten bunk beds in this room. Only a mattress and a blanket on the bottom bed assigned to me. No privacy. But this is a warm and soft place to lay down my body, and I wasted no time before curling up to sleep with the briefcase as a pillow.
Perhaps I’ve fallen asleep again, and the question is now repeated.
“Excuse me, but are you a professor?”
Somebody is obviously making fun of me. There is noise in the room: people arguing and laughing. But this voice close to my ear is perhaps not related to the laughter. It’s a warm female voice and it sounds sincere, as if someone were seriously looking for a professor.
A light touch on my temple. I must be dreaming. When the hand moves to fall on my arm in a gesture which is probably intended to be gentle but is rather firm, I’m jerked to the reality of pain so unexpectedly that I can’t hold back a moan. Instinctively I open my eyes so as to manage to recoil effectively.
If I’d had time to expect anything, it would probably have been a young girl. Not a plump mature face, older than my mother’s.
I blink. How did such a way of putting it occur to me? The straight blond hair hanging over her breasts and the colourful long dress make her look like an overage hippie.
“Are you?” she repeats.
I sit up stiffly despite the protest in my muscles. Without hesitation the woman flops down onto the bed between me and the briefcase. Even when she’s sitting I can see that she’s remarkably tall. Indeed, she’s a fabulously big woman. Her soft thigh presses against mine, and she has to push the briefcase a bit to have enough space. I can’t resist bending more than a bit forward to peek around her handsome bosom and to check that she doesn’t try to open the case. But she merely lets her fingers brush the slightly peeling letters.
“Professor R. J. Lupin,” she says slowly. “Is that you?”
“I am Remus Lupin, yes – but I’m not… I was never a professor. It’s… it was just a joke that my…”
Why am I giving her such answers and explanations? There’s something strangely reassuring about her. I shift cautiously to lean against the wall, pulling my knees close to my chest and wrapping the blanket back around myself. A large window on the opposite wall has been opened to the cool night breeze. Yes, it’s already dark outside. I have a feeling that when this woman first spoke to me it was still early afternoon. She must have been waiting for me to start waking up.
In front of the window several young men and women have gathered to share drinks. Some of them are sitting on the beds, others on the floor. A bottle is going around, and I can’t help wondering if there could be some food, too.
“You must be hungry.” The woman has turned to look at me. “We can talk later. We’ve all taken out what we have, and I’m sure there’s enough for you to have a share, too. Most of those boys and girls seem to prefer drinking. Come… or I could fetch something for you, if you’re still too tired.”
I nod. Now I catch myself simply submitting to her care. Wishing she’d really… I know she’s doing this because she wants something from me, and that must be something ridiculous. Or it’s ridiculous to expect me to have anything to offer. But I don’t want to think now. I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes. Her weight is lifted – and I feel it return almost immediately. I must have slumbered for a moment.
Now she moves the briefcase between the two of us in order to use it as a table. She’s laid out on it some white bread, cheese and fruits. Grabbing one plum, she gestures to me to help myself.
It’s a bit difficult for me to do it with my mauled hands. Clumsily I get a hold of the chunks of cheese and bread. Everything’s almost fresh, as far as I can taste anything, when wolfing it all down, keeping my eyes on her so as to see if she’s staring at me. She’s not; she’s munching the plum with her eyes half closed. Or perhaps she’s still looking down at the briefcase – or at my hands. I glance at the palms myself and see that some blood is seeping through the bandages.
“I have some ointment to at least ease the aching,” she says, handing the last plum to me and bending down to retrieve a big brown glass bottle from the floor. Having wiped the mouth of the bottle in her skirt, she takes a swig – and wipes it again before offering it to me. “You can have the rest of it.”
There isn’t much left. The beer tastes flat and nothing like Butterbeer, though it’s warm, but it does give me a warm feeling. It’s been a long time since I paid for a beer myself. That’s why this drink is associated with rare occasions of sharing. And in any case I’m thirsty, and I empty the bottle willingly. “Thank you.”
“Will you come with me now?” she asks briskly as soon as I’ve finished everything.
I don’t care to ask where and why. I’d like to say nothing more. She must be able to see that I’m dying to lie down again… except that I need to relieve myself first.
“Only to the loo – first,” she says. Yes, she seems to be able to see what I want at each moment.
“With you?” I have to ask, amazed.
“I’ll help you with the ointment in there. Oh, I’m sorry I forgot to introduce myself. Brünnhilde Pilz.” She reaches out her right hand and touches gently only the fingertips of mine.
This is funny. I’ve seen that name in… “In my studies I once used a book written by a Brünnhilde Pilz.”
“You did.” It’s not a question. She smiles. “You are the Remus Lupin I thought I’d found.”
“And you are really…?”
“From Durmstrang. Now you know I can heal your wounds – only in privacy.”
When I’m exiting the cubicle, she slips into the men’s room. And she turns to press her palms against the door for a moment. Without looking at me yet she asks, “Did you maul yourself badly – all over your body where you could reach?”
I’m feeling sick now. I have to lean against the cubicle door. She knows. How can I escape? I have my wand in the briefcase under the basin. But I doubt I’d be able to undo her wandless sealing charm on the door. Why is a famous Potions expert using the magic of poor witches anyway? But that’s not the point now… What does she want me for? Are werewolves in Spain not allowed to use only chains? But perhaps she’s got in her mind something worse than reporting me to the local wizarding authorities.
“I asked you if you wounded yourself badly.” She’s now standing in front of me, clearly taller than me. Is she trying to peek inside of my ragged shirt?
“No.”
“Please tell me honestly. You can wash the wounds and apply the ointment yourself, too, if you feel I’m intruding on your privacy.” She lifts her hand and strokes the hair on my temple.
I had forgotten the dream… that it was not a dream. I want her fingers to caress my skin like my mother’s used to – my father’s, Madam Pomfrey’s (rarely), Amelia’s and… Why not let her help me get stronger? After that I can think about escaping.
“No. Honestly,” I agree to say. “I… stopped it from doing anything but gnaw the front paws.”
Is there amazement, even admiration in her intense gaze? Why do I feel tempted to confide in her, to explain how animal companions have helped me stop the wolf’s aggression almost completely? How it’s hard, beyond the inescapable transformation pain, of course – and the disabling weariness, particularly when I’m already starved and ill – mainly when I have no shelter where I could keep a bird, a rat or a cat with me during the night. Fortunately I’m too exhausted to talk. I can hardly remain standing any longer.
But she doesn’t ask me anything. Instead, she wraps her plump arms around my waist, lifts me up easily and carries me to sit up on the wide windowsill next to the basin.
I can only stare at her. She fumbles in the bag she’s got hanging across her shoulders. It’s decorated with fringes and beads in convincing hippie style. Somehow I’m relieved when she takes out a wand.
“Feeling at home in each other’s company now?” she says, chuckling. “I’ve lived among Muggles or the poorest of wizards and witches for quite a while, too.”
I stretch my arms towards her, and I’m almost disappointed when she manages to pull up the sleeves without touching my skin. Suddenly I’m also more ashamed of my filthy rags than usual, remembering that she seems to know I used to go to Hogwarts and even studied advanced Potions and Healing after that.
“Only on your hands and forearms?”
I nod, while she waves her wand in soft circles without uttering any incantation. The bloody bandages start to unwind gently.
“You must have learnt this if you studied my book,” she says, surprising me by grabbing my waist again. “Instead of using Scourgifying charms, it’s better to first clean the wounds properly with water.”
She supports me to stand bent over the basin and turns on the tap. Why did I not notice how dirty my hands were when I was eating?
“I don’t always have the chance…” I say. “But this morning the driver who gave me a lift cleaned the wounds with some kind of alcohol.”
After washing her own hands first she starts to pour water cautiously over my left arm, then over the left palm and the back of the hand. It hurts. I register the level of the pain, diminished so much from the torment of the transformation that I feel merely relieved.
I can’t resist staring at the wounds. I’m startled to find them fascinating again. Like when I was a child and I examined the ragged edges, wondering what could have caused such damage to my skin and flesh during my sleep. Once again I feel sad my left hand has been mauled – as if I could now comfort and entertain myself by drawing sketches of battle scenes, dragons and knights in any case.
“I can see that…” she answers, when I have almost forgotten what I said – about the chance to wash myself and particularly my wounds. “I have to wonder if you haven’t always done your best to take care of your basic needs.”
Having proceeded to the other hand and arm, she stares at the wide wound inside my right wrist. This bite could have been fatal. “You seem to know how to stem the flow of blood.”
“I’d have got rid of it all… a long time ago, if I didn’t know how to do that.” I bite my lip as the water streams across the deepest wound, and I cast a glance into her eyes only after I’ve managed to finish the sentence.
She holds the eye-contact for a moment, without smiling any longer, but continues matter-of-factly, “And these old scars show that after gathering some strength you are able to charm the wounds to close, too – not perfectly, but well enough. I assume it hurts.”
“So what? Something new about that?”
Instead of replying she lifts me once again to the windowsill. Another silent charm of wand magic dries the skin on my arms and hands. Now she fumbles in her bag again and pulls out a jar made of purple translucent glass, the lid of which is decorated with an amethyst. She’s put her wand aside, and she unscrews the lid by hand. Pressing to stand between my legs she lifts the jar for me to smell. “Did you learn to brew this ointment?”
“In theory,” I reply. “I couldn’t afford the ingredients. Anise I could grow, but the scales of Irish Ironshield…”
Why do I feel tempted to babble about everything, starting with the dragon scales and the dragons, those painted at the ceiling of my mother’s theatre? Perhaps my mother had got the recipe from Brünnhilde Pilz’s book, too. She left her first career before her marriage, but she looked in books for the best ointments to ease this type of pain at least, when there was no hope for cure. She used to point out that, among those moving fresco dragons with warming breath, particularly the Irish Ironshield was devoted to protecting me. Now I’ll feel the soothing touch of the ointment for the first time after her death.
And gentle fingers caressing the edges of the wounds, spreading the ointment. It freezes the skin. My hands and forearms are soon almost numb. I keep shivering uncontrollably. I’ve closed my eyes and now I’m going to open them again, sad that I won’t feel her touch any longer.
At least I want to see how she does the wand movement to close the wounds. I know it won’t hurt – I won’t even feel the burning, as the wounds are not inflamed yet – and it will work perfectly, at least in case she feels genuine sympathy for me. I can’t help my curiosity, and I’d like to learn from her, so as to refine my own style in healing. Closing wounds is a difficult task when the charm is not used in helping another person.
She hardly stirs her wand, directing it serenely to each wound in turn. I can see the barely perceptible, weakly shining scars form. Once again she refrains from uttering the incantation. Until she finally concentrates on the widest wound, the one on my right wrist. “Regenerasco,” she whispers, and her voice caresses my ears with every syllable.
Does she find the spoken word necessary because of the severity of this injury? Or does she do this only to complete her work with an emphasised expression of caring? Her whisper warms me and tempts me to close my eyes again. By doing this I, in turn, invite her to continue to touch me.
She accepts my invitation. Her firm hand trails my upper arm now. Travels to my shoulders, down my back, up to my chest again. She’s drawing the outline of my body. How does she know this is what I need, so as to define my dimensions again?
Finally, here I am anew. In my bitter survival, in my desperate, faltering humanity. Resigned to continue the struggle, to focus on the moderate blessings still available. Grateful to all these people who have surprised me. Determinate to try my best to offer anything they can possibly wish from me.
Professor Brünnhilde Pilz is sitting beside me on the windowsill, with her arm around me, and I’m leaning my head against her shoulder. I look up at her, unwilling to accept the returning doubts. What could she want from a werewolf?
If she wanted to give me up to the local wizards, she wouldn’t have hidden the proof so completely under these beautiful scars. Perhaps she wishes to use me for her own purposes. She seems to know too much about how to tend to a werewolf. Paradoxically, it is not necessarily a good sign that she is so good at taking care of a dark creature. Good people are supposed to concentrate on defending themselves and the society against creatures like me. How can she possibly be one of the exceptions, when she doesn’t know me as a person but is, instead, completely aware of what I am?
“Thank you,” I say, undecided whether I dare express my spontaneous wish to declare myself available. Perhaps I’d better question my suitability in her service. “Did you say you were looking for a professor?”
“We can talk outside of the hostel. We’d better vacate the loo before those boys get too frustrated,” she says. ”Yes, let’s simply go out together, hand in hand. Or do you have a reputation to guard?” She grins mischievously, and I catch myself sharing a chuckle with her.
There are, indeed, a few young men waiting outside the door. My charming companion spares them a smile and turns back to me, beaming. She leads me down the gloomy, stinking staircase and out to the courtyard.
It’s an imposing square with some palm trees and galleries on every side – beautiful architecture, but some of the buildings are rather ramshackle. There’s laughter, loud talk and music out here under the black sky, too. Both the locals and the young travelers seem to live at night.
We find a bench in a shadowy corner, and I flop down onto it gratefully. I wonder if she knows that I’m still too weak to walk much farther, and that I can’t possibly Apparate before the morning, this time probably not even then, as I haven’t been in a good shape since the previous full moon, not really since I left Thessaloniki in the spring.
She doesn’t wait for me to repeat my question. “Yes, I’ve been looking for someone to join my mission as a teacher. But I was also looking for you. All right, let’s admit it. As you must know, Albus is the one who knows almost everything.”
Dumbledore. I’m not particularly happy if he or anyone has followed my every step. This threatens to intensify my usual post-full-moon urge to disappear completely. I’m still tempted to play with the idea that some day I won’t be able to resist it any longer. But particularly after the rare human touch has invigorated me as a person, too, I can already feel the first traces of the regular counterforce to depression.
The waning gibbous moon has risen. Despite the lingering ache and weariness in muscle and bone, this moon makes my human body rejoice in the anticipation of another month. I feel young again in my newly acquired body, my renewing treasure – and as usual at this time of the cycle, bouts of recklessness and defiance interfere in the depression.
“Almost, perhaps,” I say. “But I doubt he knows everything about someone like you – or someone like me.”
“You’re right.” She doesn’t sound absentminded, although she concentrates on taking something out of her bag again.
Only when she spreads a cloak around my shoulders, do I realise that I ‘ve folded my arms and started shaking my body for warmth. “Thanks… again. In any case I’m surprised you cared to… know anything about this kind of a creature.”
“I didn’t. I confess I haven’t found many candidates to choose from. Albus owled me back recommending only one talented, hardworking and potentially altruistic student of his who could possibly consider my offer. He said I’d find this young man in Catalonia, and today when I had arrived and another owl of his brought the information on your exact whereabouts I couldn’t help wondering why…”
“You don’t wonder any longer, do you?” I feel relieved, knowing that she has not wanted to find a werewolf.
“I do. I’m surprised in a new way.”
“But you can still consider me as a candidate?”
“I hope so. Can you consider working any longer after…? Was your career disrupted when you were bitten?”
“I was bitten when I was five.”
“So you lived for a long time as if nothing had happened.”
“Well, you can put it like that, if you want to. I have no memory of being anything else. But my parents managed to keep it a secret – and to raise me to be somehow human enough, I hope. Later with the help of Headmaster Dumbledore, too.”
“And you were one of the best students at his school and after that, too… So I’m still surprised you are here without better opportunities, so that I can hope you’ll find my offer attractive enough.”
“Outside Hogwarts there were not many opportunities for someone like me, and no place for me after… the war. My parents were murdered two years before my… before the war ended.”
“Albus told me you used to fight in the Order of the Phoenix.”
“He did? It’s been six years… almost exactly six years since… In any case after the war a lot of things were obviously different. And in my case not better, not as I had hoped. I did try to study further, finally abroad, too, in Paris… but I’m afraid I didn’t find it worthwhile much longer. Or even possible. Now I could hardly convince any employer that I’m ambitious. But I certainly didn’t expect any longer to be ever interviewed by a scholar who wants to employ a werewolf as a teacher.”
I’m still startled by the way I talk… what I choose to say without censorship, while clearly still maintaining some control. This is obviously due to the combination of the confidence she inspired in me immediately and of my post-transformation recklessness, unfounded self-assurance of someone with nothing bigger left to lose than what is lost and regained regularly. Without revealing everything, and without demanding information, I’m encouraging her to talk, too. I still don’t know how I could possibly trust her.
With my wounds healed, and when wrapped in her thick cloak, huddled against her warm body, I feel guilty still doubting her motives only because of my general suspicious attitude and because of the reputation of Durmstrang. And the mention of Dumbledore is not a recommendation to me. He used me, and I didn’t want his charity, and I still can’t stop wondering why six years ago he didn’t insist on becoming the Secret Keeper himself, so he could have saved my friends, at least one of them… In any case Pilz could be lying about her contacts with him.
“You haven’t been in touch with Dumbledore for years, have you?” she asks in a gentle voice.
I don’t reply. Does she realise I don’t let her check how much she can lie? Or is she simply impressed by the image of my solitary destitution. She puts her hand around my shoulders and rubs my upper arm.
Her face looks younger in the lighting from the lanterns and windows, less plump, too – but certainly not less awe-inspiring – when I see the profile. No, she is not looking at me, as if she were showing that the confidence between the two of us is so firmly secured that an eye-contact is not necessary.
Her voice is quiet and relaxed. “I’ve been somehow drifting for six years, too. After the war I’ve never accepted a permanent position at Durmstrang. After those who had supported the pureblood ideology stayed and continued to develop the teaching of Dark Arts, not only Defence. I was involved enough to see some werewolves used as teaching material… research material, with a goal of learning how to use them more effectively as a weapon, rather than an ally. I have to admit I never thought I’d have one as a colleague.
“I was supposed to heal them after the transformations. And I discovered that two werewolves applying the ointment on each other recovered better. But the headmaster and Dark Arts teacher found it unnecessary to waste any soothing ointment on them. If one werewolf was kept alone in a cage to transform, it often ripped itself to pieces too badly to survive at all. I didn’t want to continue to take part in those experiments.”
I’m feeling sick again. As if I could still taste my own blood and flesh in my mouth. I bend forward and stare at my filthy worn-out shoes, remembering how I vomited in the morning, before managing to unlock the chains, and again after I’d dragged myself the few yards to where I had left my briefcase and clothes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
I lean back again, closing my eyes. “No, it’s all right. If you’re just being honest, telling me about… your prior experience… But I wonder how you can suddenly treat me as a human – better than a lot of other humans would. Especially if you didn’t start suspecting anything until you saw me sleeping, or after.”
She frowns and sounds thoughtful for the first time. “It is strange… After Albus’s letter I had a positive preconception of you. But I admit that realising you could be a werewolf did not make me predominantly sympathetic… rather just curious in a professional sense – and partly disappointed as I thought you’d be in too bad a shape to work for me.”
I can’t help admiring her more and more. She’s so strong and so sure of her ideals and actions that she can afford to be completely honest – to others and to herself. That emphasises my own weakness. I’ve felt tempted to talk to her like to my mother since I first saw her. But I’m determined never to explain the main reason why I still barely manage to accept the gifts of life.
Can I accept this opportunity to stay for a while again with someone who at least acts as if she really cared about me? Can I even pursue it, not allowing her to leave me? I don’t want to think too much. I’d rather not think that Dumbledore arranged this. I wish I could simply do my best to stay close to her, as long as she can keep me warm, perhaps get something more for me to eat tomorrow. And I can do her a little service in return.
Looking finally up at her again, I blurt out, “Do you want to tell me about your mission – and the teaching job?”
“Oh, I wonder if you can possibly be interested. There’s no salary.”
“In fact, I’m experienced in having no salary.”
My grin makes her chuckle. She winks, and continues by faking a completely serious tone. “Excellent. I do appreciate this type of experience. Instead, it’s not absolutely necessary that you have a lot of teaching experience, as long as you feel that…
“That teaching is some kind of a vocation to me. Perhaps you’ve already heard that… after leaving Hogwarts and while offering some unpaid services to Dumbledore… I pursued studies in various fields. Dark Creatures. Magic of Images. Potions and Healing, like my mother, even though Potions was never a strong subject of mine at Hogwarts. Journalism and literature. History of Magic, specializing in goblin rebellions and other threats from non-humans. Latin and French. Finally Magic of Images again, and history of both Muggle and Magical art – in Paris. But my working experience… I’m afraid I have no references. Perhaps you know that in Britain employers are not punished for hiring someone like me, but I’d have got at least a fine, if accused for having misled an employer. You can say that I was not cunning enough, not ambitious enough – not in a practical way. For several years I believed that acquiring better qualifications than any full human had in a particular field would finally make someone give me a chance despite… and particularly after the war, as I trusted everything would be better, all creatures more equal… Anyway, I often had a small scholarship, for one year in Paris, too. And at times I did some menial work without contracts.”
I draw a long breath, amazed at my speech. I can’t remember the previous time I talked so much, and this was all about myself, too.
“So do you have any grounds for believing that teaching suits you?”
“Among the art students at Sorbonne Academy for Enchanted Arts we had a language club. I taught them some Latin and English. I really enjoyed it – seeing how they became aware of their own learning. But I have to confess I don’t know how I’d manage with a group of children. I once gave some private lessons to one little girl, to my… She was a relative of a friend of mine. It was too much like charity from her parents, but I was fond of her and I couldn’t resist. We were both so happy about those lessons that my friends…”
“That’s when they started calling you a professor. And gave you the case.”
“Yes. So what kind of school is this – the one that doesn’t pay salaries?”
“This is… perhaps my desperate attempt to do something good. Since in all my career after the 1960’s I’ve got entangled with some questionable aspirations. Greed for power, ultimately wealth. At the expense of some vulnerable groups. Perhaps I just wanted to escape it all. I started to take good potions and healing services to some small and isolated magical communities in Africa. I’ve made four trips. The first two to Ouagadougou. Then I proceeded farther south. In Angola there’s a refugee settlement. That’s where I’d like to take you.”
“To Angola?”
“Yes. These witches and wizards hope to be able to return soon to their own lands in Namibia, as the Muggles are finally getting successful in their struggle for independence. When the South Africans leave Namibia, the local magical community, too, will lose most of its educated population. That’s why I’ve realised it’s not enough to give direct assistance to the refugees in Angola. I want to do like the Muggles who co-operate for development. Teaching is the key. The Namibian witches and wizards must learn to teach each other and to build up their own education and health systems when they go back home.”
“Do you think I have enough to offer?” I say, giving up the last traces of the role of a self-assured candidate. The thought of such a responsibility is overwhelming after all this drifting, after indulging in my own misery. And I’m thrilled by the possibility that I would be needed by someone – that there would be a purpose for me to serve, for the first time after the war.
“I trust Albus. And the impression I’ve got now – when you are most probably not at your best – doesn’t contradict my preconception.
“How about my… little furry problem?”
She laughs so heartily that I can’t help joining her. “It seems to me you’ve learnt to cope with it, and all by yourself, too, haven’t you?That’s why I believe you can face the challenge I’m offering.”
“Not all by myself. Although it’s true that I spent last night alone and without a shelter, too, chained outside.”
“As your employer I can offer you shelter at least.”
“And a day off?”
“Certainly. As many days as you need. Also healing, and some kind of meals. Throughout the month, of course. Should we make a written contract?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary. Can you imagine me suing you, if my trust turns out unfounded?”
“Good. We’ll both do our best, won’t we?” She squeezes my hand, and I realise she’s been holding it all the time. “I’m sleeping at this hostel tonight, too. And in the morning we’ll be heading south.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t think I can Apparate.” Now I really hope this won’t make her change her mind.
“It’s such a long way that nobody can. In Morocco – if not as soon as in Andalusia – we’ll get a carpet in any case. Perhaps the first stretch of the journey… But I’d rather give you some more time to heal. Besides, I have a load of books and equipment, and I don’t want to risk them landing in a Muggle area. I’ve also learnt to enjoy the Muggle way of travelling – taking in the landscape, you know.”
“That’s something we have in common, too.” I say, smiling. “The favourite modes of travelling. Perhaps the love for landscapes…”
“Can you drive?”
“You have a car?”
“Oh, yes. One of those cuter ones with round shapes, you know?” She draws the figure in the air with her hands. “I don’t think you could possibly have a license, but can you drive, so we could take turns?”
“Yes, actually, although I haven’t driven long distances. The Greeks are not terribly serious about drunk driving, but sometimes – in Crete – the driver has asked me to take the steering wheel, as I’m always the one to drink the least. I quite like it – driving, I mean… particularly if there’s a cassette player in the car.” I can’t help chuckling.
“Don’t worry. My car has a cassette player.”
“I have one cassette tape,“ I say with enthusiasm. I feel so inhumanly tired, and so free, relaxed in her company that I enjoy encouraging an absurd turn in the conversation. We’re both playing like children: pretending to have serious negotiations on the most important part of our travel plans.
“Can you show it to me,” she asks, while I’m already reaching for my briefcase, which has been standing next to the bench, “so I can check that everything is in order for the trip.”
I can feel my hands are completely healed, when I fumble with the knots of the string which keeps the briefcase closed. Holding the open case on my knees, I soon find the cassette under the chains, and I hand it to her.
“It says something in Arabic on this,” she says. “Have you already been to Morocco before?”
“No, not to Morocco or anywhere in Arabia or Africa. I got it in Thessaloniki from a Palestinian friend.”
I don’t hurry to close the case, although she doesn’t even try to hide her interest in my possessions. There’s a change of underwear and socks, no more clothes, and only a few books. Some books I had in England and didn’t manage to sell, like the battered copy of the Lord of the Rings, which I used to read aloud to… The other part of my latest birthday present – quite too expensive: the collected poems of Seferis. The present of my previous birthday is gone; I gave it away perhaps too soon after leaving Paris, and I can hardly believe I found someone who needed it more than I did: the warm quilt I had to shrink to fit in the briefcase. My wand, of course, and a razor. A mug and a kettle. And finally, at the bottom, the photo album.
I move the things a bit, so she can see everything I have, although I’m not going to open the album yet. It looks childish. With a picture of two puppies in the cover. She must think I’ve had it since I was eleven or something, but no – I was sixteen when I bought it, and one of my best friends had just managed to change into a big black dog.
Some day I’ll let her see that she inevitably reminds me of my mother. Some day, perhaps, I’ll show her all my treasures. Everything I’ll never lose as long as I have my human mind to remember them all and how they used to love me.
no subject
Date: 2020-03-13 11:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-03-14 08:14 am (UTC)Since I’ve got all my old fic on Livejournal, my goal now is to get them all up on AO3. Until mid-February I gradually posted last year’s 25 fics, and now I’m posting the pre-hiatus fic in the order the events take place in Remus’s life.
I’m thrilled you’re interested in this story (after reading the previous fic, too, and commenting so kindly). Most of my very first short stories were set in this period. I suppose (besides, back then, preferring Remus/Sirius without sex scenes) I was interested in the freedom to build my own settings and characters and to go further from canon, closer to so-called original fiction – but also in finding out how the experiences after Halloween 1981 could allow Remus to become the Professor Lupin Harry sees and the Remus he’s in my post-OotP novel. The Lost Years was a popular concept in Wolfstar fandom after PoA and OotP, but there were (or at least I saw) few stories exploring the period, mainly just references to Lupin having been isolated in a cottage or teaching.
Because I hadn’t thought of posting on Friday before I saw your post, I didn’t have enough time to revise this fic carefully, and I think I’ll end up making minor corrections when rereading. I’ll be grateful for a comment if you’ve noticed any SPAG problems – and otherwise, too, of course! Thank you for the kudos!