Remus Lupin and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Chapter 5: What It Will Be

He returned out of memory with his head in his hands, staring at the rough brown blanket of his bed. The sun shone hot on his back and the pipes gave a mighty shuddering thump. His toilet cistern gurgled softly and then went quiet and he could still smell the egg sandwich he had managed to force down earlier. His eyes were still hot. And they were gone.

It was rare that he let his thoughts stray back that far, or even farther past a few days from his current situation at all. It was better that way; safer. But he supposed it was some sort of volatile combination of his impending return to school and the fact that the moon was so close. Things were shaken up and rose to the surface and even the touch of the joyful ones hurt. They all hurt, now. So I won't touch them, he decided hollowly. All I need to do is get through 2 more Changes, 2 more months. I can do that. I've done it longer before.

And so, Remus drifted. He warded and soundproofed the basement of an old factory on the edge of town as best he could and Changed. If it was ever discovered before it was torn down, he supposed the Muggles would have to come up with an explanation for the claw marks and utter decimation of anything even remotely breakable. Injuries that month were neither the worst, nor the lightest he had ever inflicted upon himself, so he had managed to rinse up, dress himself painfully and limp home on the public bus. He made himself his "wolf time tea" full of willow bark, chamomile, and spearmint and started doggedly writing a schedule. He received letters back and responded in kind, placing orders for books and thanking them for guidance. Eating was no longer such a hazard as it was leading up to the full moon, but his savings were dwindling, so he survived on the day old bread bakeries sold and peanut butter.

When he was publicly presentable and able to leave bed for more than a few hours, he searched for a job during the day and returned to fall asleep writing his curriculum at night. Bad idea, and he had known it, too. So soon after the Change, little sleep and a bad diet; he got sick. It is how it is, his father would say, placatingly. It will be how it will be. He pushed through--got a job as a waiter. It was frustrating because it wasn't debilitating, he was just sore, exhausted and congested, but they sent him home his second day; can't be sick around food. It lasted about a week before they let him go. Rather gently, compared to some. It will be....He had taken to sitting on his bed when his eyes were too tired to write and too tired to read, running his thumb over the golden lettering on his suitcase. Professor. Professor. A promise of what's to come.

He couldn't make rent. It is what it is. As far as landlords went, this one was middling, being neither overly aggressive nor overly compassionate. Dispassionate, perhaps. She knocked on his door to give him the news and he opened the door, suitcase and key in hand, electric kettle under his arm. She took the key. Bade him good luck. Remus thanked her and went to sit at the library to continue writing. The kettle received some odd looks, but he was left alone. That night, he slept in the park with his wand under his hand, suitcase tucked under his knees, and a secluded tree to his back. The nights around this time were balmy anyhow.

He drifted. The job search continued. He was revising his curriculum by night at bus stops. A great deal of introspection did not seem appealing at this time, and so he tried to retain a vague acceptance of outward stimuli. Sleeping was difficult, and he had once been roused by a kindly police officer who helped him gather his things from under the park bench and go to the train station. She hefted his kettle under her arm and seemed to be under the impression that he was a college professor that had fallen asleep revising papers in the park. She was nice and chatty enough, wished him good luck as she left him on a platform he had randomly indicated. The fluorescent-green lighting of the station hurt his eyes. He longed for lantern light and then tried not to long for much of anything at all. Just 1 more Change, he reasoned. Just one more month. It will be what it will be. His gold lettering was looking a bit worn.

The next Change was harsher. He was less well rested, less well fed and it showed in the wolf's crazed zeal, as if it fed on his weakness. He had managed to use the factory again, but when he had awoken, he recalled the memory of the wolf howling, tearing at the metal-and-magic reinforced door, rattling it on it's hinges. Because it had smelled someone nearby. The blanch of nausea that accompanied this recollection brought up nothing, which enormously soothed him. But it was too close. It was lucky he would have the Shack again, at Hogwarts

The corner of his suitcase's P was peeling.

Somehow, he managed to recuperate enough in his circumstances to secure a job as a gas station clerk. The days walls were gray, the manager was grayer, and it fair reeked of cigarette smoke, but he had enough to eat again. He muddled through. It is....

A letter found him outside the library one day, where he was reading in the sunshine, about 2 weeks out from school starting. He had been wishing he could dredge up the energy for excitement, but seeing the tawny owl dive low to perch beside him on the bench seemed like the electric jolt he needed. It suddenly seemed real again, a drop of ink in a colorless world. Blooming. He tore open the letter eagerly, feeding the owl little shreds of his fried chicken. Inside was a letter written in Dumbledore's own flourishing hand, reading;

Dear Hogwarts Professors and Staff,

Greetings! I'm hoping your summers have been fruitful in spiritual and intellectual endeavours! Unfortunately, the complications of this year will bring my heartfelt salutations to a close early in this years letter.

As you all well know, the fugitive Sirius Black has still not been apprehended--

Remus' insides gave a lurch. He hadn't known--his focused daze had not even thought to entertain such thoughts.

And so the Minister has decided that drastic measures are warranted. There has been developing reports and we are now certain that Black is targeting a student at our school; Harry Potter. This not only endangers him personally, but each individual and especially student at our school if he makes an attempt to infiltrate our halls. I believe that Hogwarts is one of the most fortified places in the Wizarding World, but I would not want to let my arrogance blind me to the fact that we as a society previously thought this about Azkaban. The Minister, thankfully, agrees with me. Unfortunately, this has led to him deciding that our grounds require an extra amount of security, and he intends to use Azkaban's Dementors.

I am sure you well know my feelings on the subject of Dementors. I have made these clear to the Minister, but he believes the benefits outweigh the risks. I will defer to his authority on the matter.

'As I must,' was almost written in invisible ink in the margins, his cold voice came through so clearly.

I urge you to tailor your arrival needs accordingly. Until we meet again;

Most sincerely,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Remus reread the letter, twice, before folding it carefully and pocketing it. He looked to the owl, who gave a soft hoot. "Well," he said, mildly. "Looks like I need to wake up."