Chapter Text
The platform boiled with a restless human sea. People hurried to and fro, searching for relatives and friends, losing and reclaiming luggage, parting, greeting, quarrelling, rejoicing. One moment’s inattention and the crowd swept you up and carried you off, giving no chance to stop, let alone turn back.
Remus leaned against the barrier between the platforms and clung to his father’s battered old suitcase as though it were a life-belt. He gazed at the crowd with awed dread: never in his life had he seen so many people in one place. The school corridors at break-time seemed, by comparison, as empty as a desert. The crowd filled every inch of space; there was no going round it, and forcing his way through was impossible. Remus swallowed nervously. Brilliant. Just brilliant. He couldn’t even reach his train. And this was only the beginning!
Somewhere above his head the tannoy crackled, and a weary female voice droned:
“Attention, please. The express train to London will depart from Platform Six in ten minutes. I repeat, the express…”
The rest of the announcement was lost in the roar of the crowd, but Remus wasn’t listening. Taking a deep breath, he hoisted the suitcase to his chest and held it before him like a shield. Then he plunged into the throng. The world blurred; the babble of voices pounded in his ears. Every step was a struggle, the crowd seemed determined to trip him, elbows jabbed his ribs, mutters of annoyance rose all around. But stopping meant disaster—so Remus pressed on, hacking his way with the suitcase, eyes fixed on the big tin sign with the painted number six. He leapt into the carriage at the very last moment; the conductress slammed the door behind him with a snap. Mumbling apologies, Remus showed her his ticket, scrambled into the first compartment he found, and collapsed onto a seat. A moment later the shrill whistle blew, and the platform outside slid slowly past.
The compartment was empty, and Remus let out a long sigh of relief—never had he felt such an urgent need to be alone. He had about fifteen minutes before the stop at Newport: just enough time to gather his thoughts in silence and prepare—at least a little—for what was to come. What had happened at the station was only a foretaste. Ahead lay the change in London, and if he didn’t get a grip on himself, he’d never make it. Deep down he was almost glad his parents hadn’t come to see him off.
“…Just be careful and keep an eye on the time. You’ll have to catch the hourly train, don’t be la—”
His mother broke off in a fit of harsh coughing, clutching the blanket. Remus hurriedly held out a steaming cup, and she smiled at him gratefully.
“Sorry I can’t come with you. Beastly cold, it is…”
“It’ll be all right, Mam,” he said brightly, placing his hand over hers. “I’ll manage.”
“Just let us know when you arrive, won’t you, love? Ring us—your father’s worries himself sick.”
“Of course.”
“Good lad.” Her fingers gave his hand a feeble squeeze. “I’m proud of you, Rem. So proud…”
Oh, Mam, if only you could see how well your son is managing… No, better he was on his own—it was time to learn to be grown-up. With a sigh, Remus rubbed his knees. He had expected fear to come crashing down now, to crush his chest in an icy grip. But instead, something else stirred inside him: a strange exhilaration that grew stronger and stronger. Everything was new, unfamiliar, impossibly exciting. He had never been farther than a few neighbourhoods from home. Once, long ago, his parents had taken him to the seaside, but that felt more like a dream than a memory. And now he was travelling to the far end of the country, into the unknown. Since childhood, devouring thick books, Remus had dreamed of adventure—and at last adventure had come knocking at his door. He edged to the window and peered out. The docks and rusting cranes were already behind; the train was rushing into green hills where white clouds of sheep grazed on the slopes. Things weren’t going so badly after all. Remus leaned back in his seat, rubbing his nose, and started counting: the train would reach London around eleven; he’d have two hours to get from Paddington to King’s Cross and buy a ticket for Edinburgh via York… He had never been to London, and the very thought of having to find, in that terrifying anthill, the right station and the right train, frankly, scared him stiff. He could, of course, have asked for help from his grandfather, who worked in London—but the way his parents looked at one another made it plain enough: asking Randolph would cost him dear.
The train sped through green hills, dotted here and there with tiny farms that looked like toys from a distance. A couple of them flashed by right next to the line: white fences, neat little gardens—the very picture of British order. Remus wondered if Mr Riddle’s house looked anything like that.
In his mind’s eye rose a stately old manor with a roof darkened by age, all dignity and propriety, just like its master. No ivy would ever be allowed to sprawl across its walls, no crack mar its front door, no smear stain its spotless windows. No one would ever dash along its endless corridors, no pitched battles fought in the spacious drawing room among the jagged peaks of Sofa Ridge or the volcanoes of the Hearth Archipelago. Hard to imagine such a place full of noisy, curious children. Yet Mr Riddle had spoken of a boarding school, which meant there would be children—and plenty of them. New faces, new classmates… Remus thought of his old school and immediately wished he hadn’t. The memories were all of the sort best left behind: whispers at his back, feet stuck out to trip him, chewed paper spat into his hair, endless jeers. And once they found out he was Welsh—that would be the end of it. Sooner or later they always did; no matter how hard he tried, his accent gave him away. By sheer force of will, Remus pulled himself back from the whirlpool of gloomy thoughts. Not the time for misery. He was going to start a new life, and he wouldn’t let his nerves ruin it. All he needed was practice—and he’d manage.
At Newport the compartment filled to bursting, and Remus squeezed himself into a corner by the window. The early start and the restless packing of the night before had drained him, and the steady rocking of the train was lulling. He had just seen the train plunge into a long tunnel, then burst out onto the flat plains—when his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep, arms wrapped tight around his suitcase. It was his fellow passengers who woke him at the terminus; mumbling thanks, Remus stumbled out onto the platform—and froze.
Paddington looked like an enormous hive, everything buzzing, rushing, shifting three times faster than at Cardiff Central. Before he could so much as move, a man with a leather briefcase buried in a newspaper nearly bowled him over, three steps later a double-bass case clipped him in the back, then he blundered straight into a pack of schoolboys and almost lost his scarf, until at last the crowd chewed him up and spat him out in front of a red-and-blue Underground sign. A worn staircase led down, the air rising from below thick with the muffled smell of oil and iron. Remus shivered, shoved his cap back on his head (someone behind him sniggered), and, gripping his suitcase with both hands, began the descent.
Don’t panic. All you have to do is get to King’s Cross. Just buy a ticket, get on, ride, get off. A first-year could manage it…
A blast of hot air struck his face, the reek of metal grew stronger. The ticket hall looked like some dwarfish underworld—low arches, swarming people, and everywhere the dull gleam of metal. The queue for tickets stretched long and seemed not to move at all. Remus bit his lip: at this rate he’d never make his train. Luckily, a couple of people gave up waiting, crossed the hall, and stopped at a small metal machine. They fiddled with it, and minutes later vanished through the barrier. So you didn’t have to queue, then. Heartened, Remus followed their lead, approaching one of the machines. It had a narrow slot for coins and another to spit out tickets. Above them hung maps and fare tables—fifteen pence, forty pence… Remus tried to find his station on the map, but the noise and his nerves made it impossible to focus, and behind him someone was grumbling louder and louder: “Bloody foreigners, the lot of them…” Frowning at the map every other second and glancing sideways at the others, he counted out twenty pence. The machine swallowed them happily and spat a little cardboard ticket into his hand. Then came the struggle with the turnstiles—Remus walked off without his ticket and had to come back, blushing scarlet (“You’ll need it at the other end,” a lad behind him explained).
Beyond them were escalators—clattering, squealing things, and at once one tried to chew up the loose end of Remus’s scarf, which he yanked back just in time. The lower they went, the hotter it grew, and the smell of smoke clung thicker. Remus fought to keep calm, but there was too much to catch his eye; half the way down he found himself staring at posters in colours so bright they might have been drawn for comics. At the bottom it was worse: close air, and a stink of smoke and tobacco. There were maps here too, but he had no time to study them. From the tunnel a train came screeching to a halt, a wave of hot air rolling across the platform, and the crowd surged forward, sweeping Remus along and cramming him into the carriage. Someone grumbled at his suitcase, sweat and other people’s breath pressed against him; he burrowed into his scarf. They were jammed tight as sardines, worse than any bus. The doors groaned shut, the loudspeaker crackled overhead, and the train jerked forward. Darkness rushed past the windows, the thunder of wheels drummed through his whole body—not like an ordinary train, but louder, harsher, thump-thump-thump… Then, just as sharply, a stop. The crowd spilled out, nearly dragging him with it, another crowd forcing its way in. Remus was shoved against the wall and pressed himself flat against the line diagram, fending off bodies with his suitcase. His mouth was dry, the smell made him nauseous, but he clung on, counting how many stops remained. If he remembered right—four? Turning with difficulty, earning more mutters, he stared at the map and traced with his finger: Paddington, then Edgware Road, as on the map, yes, that one had passed, Marylebone, Oxford Circus…
Wait, Oxford?! But there is no King’s Cross here! Where on earth am I?!
He felt his heart drop like a stone into his stomach. He’d taken the wrong line. The wrong stations. And now he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was—in the middle of London, underground, crushed in a stifling carriage. Brilliant, Lupin, well done. Barely half an hour in the city and you’ve already landed yourself in trouble up to your neck. Next thing, you’ll be late for your train. Sweat broke out on his forehead; Remus swallowed hard. He had to get out—fast. He tried to push his way to the doors as the train slowed, but the crush was too thick, and in panic he watched the platform slide past. Only at the next stop did he finally tumble out—damp, trembling with strain, scarf and cap nearly lost—and almost collapsed onto the platform with his suitcase. People streamed past without a glance; someone gave a derisive snort—provincial. Biting his lip, Remus began hunting for the blasted map. It was worse than any chemistry homework. He was close to despair when a voice hailed him:
“Oi, Doctor—need a hand with Earth technology?”
Beside him stood a stocky black lad with a gleaming gold earring. Any other time, Remus would have pretended he was deaf—but fear had left him no strength, and he let out a weary sigh.
“Yes, please… Think I’ve lost the keys to the TARDIS,” he muttered. If the boy was joking, he was probably safe.
“Where you headed?”
“King’s Cross.”
“Ah, you’ll need to switch onto the blue line,” the lad said, jerking his thumb. “That way—three stops and you’re there.”
“Thanks ever so much.” Remus gripped his hand with heartfelt relief, and the lad chuckled.
“No bother, Doc. Nice scarf, by the way.”
He winked and vanished into the crowd, and Remus, clutching his suitcase tight, hurried off towards the battered sign marked Victoria line. This time he didn’t step aboard until he was absolutely sure he was on the right train—and once inside, he clung to every word croaked from the tired loudspeakers.
Above ground the rain had begun, and as if that weren’t enough, a cutting wind swept the streets. Nature, having worn itself out with a blazing summer, seemed bent on making up for it now with grim determination. Umbrellas bobbed above the crowd like autumn leaves in a storm, catching on each other, sparking curses and squabbles—yet still better than none at all. Remus, of course, had brought an umbrella: plain black, so large it could have sheltered three people with room to spare. At present, it was squeaking comfortably at the bottom of his suitcase and keeping off the rain as well as wet feet keep off a cold. By the time he staggered into the station he was soaked through—his long coat dragged heavy at his legs, his scarf could have been wrung out, even his jumper seemed sodden. Shivering and sneezing, he set about looking for the booking hall. Somewhere, a clock struck noon. Just in time, perhaps…
This time he wasn’t so lucky with compartments: the carriages were packed. He was close to giving up, yet still he kept sliding doors open one after another. His surprise and relief were immense when, at the very end of the train, he found a tiny compartment—completely empty.
But luck has a nasty habit of running short. Remus had barely shrugged off his heavy coat when there came a sharp rapping at the door. Whoever was outside was not blessed with patience; a moment later the door burst open. On the threshold stood a flushed girl in a lilac raincoat. Her copper-red hair was tangled by the wind, a round beret clinging to it by some miracle.
“Excuse me, is this seat free? May I sit?” she asked, her voice carrying the lightest trace of a Scottish accent. Her smile was so warm and open that the whole compartment seemed brighter for it. Remus couldn’t help but smile back.
“Of course. Sit down.”
With a happy grin the girl heaved a massive dark-blue suitcase through the doorway. Puffing with the effort, she tried to lift it, but it might as well have been nailed to the floor.
“Let’s do it together,” Remus offered cautiously, reaching for the handle. The suitcase felt as though it were stuffed with bricks. Between the two of them they managed, with difficulty, to wrestle it onto the rack. The girl gave Remus a grateful handshake.
“Thanks awfully! I’d never have managed without you. I’m Lily, by the way.” She flashed another smile, teeth gleaming. “And you are—”
Footsteps passed in the corridor, and a querulous voice rasped:
“Lily! Lily, where are you?”
“I’m here!” Lily called back cheerfully. For an instant, anxiety flickered across her pretty face. She turned to Remus: “Oh—I’m sorry, you won’t mind another passenger, will you? I’m travelling with a friend.”
“Not at all,” Remus shrugged. Some part of him tensed at once, but he forced himself to appear calm, as though another companion were nothing. Lily’s whole face lit up; green sparks danced in her eyes.
A tousled head poked through the doorway; a hook-nosed boy peered suspiciously at Remus from under lank curtains of greasy hair. He exchanged a look with Lily, then climbed inside. Dressed in a long black coat that hung off him like a scarecrow’s, he moved and glowered so much like a bat that Remus thought the likeness uncanny.
“This is Severus,” Lily said brightly. “Sev, this is… oh, I never asked your name, did I?”
“Remus.” He supposed he ought to pull his hand out of his pocket and shake hands, as good manners required, but the look on Severus’s face told him not to try. To avoid seeming utterly rude, he added quietly: “Pleased to meet you…”
Severus muttered something inaudible under his breath and turned away. Dropping a bulging satchel onto the seat, he asked Lily in a surly growl:
“How many times have I told you not to run off? What if I’d lost you, what if you’d missed the train?”
“Oh, don’t fuss.” She tugged off her beret and tossed her hair back. “When have I ever got lost?”
“And the suitcase? Carrying it yourself again? It’s not good for you and you know it!”
“It’s all right—Remus helped me.”
“Did he?” Severus fixed Remus with a look of suspicion, perhaps even annoyance. “Well then—” the words seemed to cost him an effort—“thank you.”
Apparently out of complaints, he settled into a corner, pulled a thick notebook from his bag, and began leafing grimly through the pages, tugging at a crumpled shirt that seemed a size too small. Lily clicked her tongue softly—she clearly didn’t approve.
“Sorry about us,” she whispered to Remus with an apologetic smile. “We’re not the quietest of companions.”
“That’s all right.”
The persistence with which Lily tried to draw him into conversation amazed him. Remus felt wretchedly awkward—he seldom spoke to girls at all, least of all to pretty ones—and wondered at his own boldness in offering her help. But Lily was one of those people who could charm even a stone.
“He’s kinder than he looks,” she went on, glancing sideways at Severus. “I know it’s hard to believe, but we live next door, we’ve been friends for years—I ken him well.”
“No reason not to believe you,” Remus said, shrugging. “So—you live in London?”
“No, no, in Cokeworth—it’s a wee place just outside town. And where are you from?”
“I… I’m from Cardiff.”
The rustle of paper stopped. Severus suddenly looked up from his notebook.
“Welsh, are you?”
Startled, Remus managed only a nod, feeling the blood rise hot to his cheeks. He wished the floor would swallow him. He’d hardly said a word, and still he’d given himself away. What a day—everything going wrong.
“Knew it,” Severus muttered with satisfaction, and buried himself in his pages again. Lily, however, flared up at once:
“Sev, that’s rude! And honestly, what does it matter? I’m Scottish—does my being Scottish bother you? Of course not! So why should it matter if he’s Welsh? Sev, are you listening?”
She tried to close the notebook shielding his face and catch his eyes. For a few seconds they glared at each other. Severus gave in first; looking away, he mumbled:
“All right, I won’t say it again. Sorry.” And once more he ducked behind the notebook. Lily sighed heavily.
“It’s always like this… Sorry.”
“No, really, it’s fine—I don’t mind.” Something in her tone told Remus the moment was dangerous, and he hurried to steer the talk away. Conversation had never been his strength, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “So—you’ve known each other since childhood?”
“You could say so, though not exactly. I’ll explain.”
And Lily began explaining. She spoke quickly, a little haphazardly, but with great assurance—and always with that smile. Her supply of cheer seemed inexhaustible. From her lively account Remus learned that Lily was, as he’d guessed, Scottish “to the bone”—not so much by blood as in spirit; that her real home was a town somewhere on Scotland’s north-east coast; and that she and her family had only moved to Cokeworth six years ago. Here she hesitated, casting a wary glance at Severus. He was silent, as though he hadn’t heard—or perhaps he really hadn’t. So she leaned forward and whispered, almost conspiratorially:
“Sev doesn’t like to talk about it, but I don’t think it’ll do any harm. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Of course not.”
“All right then. It’s just… I’ve got the Crying Curse. From M-Thirteen, you know?”
Remus couldn’t believe his ears. He shut his eyes for a second, then looked at Lily again. She was watching him with an uncertain smile. She looked perfectly healthy—bright eyes, freckled cheeks glowing with colour. It seemed impossible that fate could be so cruel to such a creature. And the Crying Curse… that meant Gauristit. Of all the forms of M-Thirteen, it was the most unpredictable, the most deadly. The trigger emotion might lie dormant for months without a hint, only to kill in minutes over some trifle. Remus must have flinched at the thought, for Lily’s own smile faltered and she dropped her gaze.
“Maybe Sev was right, maybe I shouldn’t have blurted it out. If it bothers you—”
“No, no, not at all! Don’t think that.” He leaned across the compartment and, horrified at his own daring, laid a hand on her knee. “It’s dreadful, and I… I’m so sorry.”
She flushed and clasped her thin fingers together. Oh, how well Remus knew what she was feeling at that moment! He wanted to comfort her, to say it would all be all right—but even the thought of such a blatant lie turned his stomach. The words stuck on the tip of his tongue.
Well, at least that explained why she could talk so openly about it all to a boy she’d known barely half an hour.
“It’s not really as bad as all that,” Lily said, with a vague shrug and a smile—forced, unnatural—slipping back onto her face. “The doctors said the outlook wasn’t so grim, and besides…”
“What are you two whispering about?” came a surly voice from the corner. Seeing Lily scarlet with embarrassment and Remus’s hand still resting on her knee, Severus all but choked. Something guttered in his throat, and his black eyes narrowed to furious slits. They sprang apart at once; Lily bit her lip, Remus fixed his gaze on the floor and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
“It’s not what you think,” he tried to explain, “I was only—”
“He was only trying to comfort me, Sev,” Lily cut in, giving her friend a reproachful look. But he didn’t so much as blink.
“You told him about M-Thirteen, didn’t you? Lily, I asked you not to!” He rolled his eyes. “Your carelessness will be the end of you—how many times must I—”
"The world’s no’ as bleak as ye make it out, Sev.”
“Shall I remind you what happened last time?”
“If that lad tried tae hit ye when he found out the truth, it doesnae mean folk are all the same! And anyway, Mr Riddle says ye shouldnae be ashamed o’ illness—that’s the first step tae gettin’ better!”
“Riddle knows precious little about medicine,” Severus sneered. “He can talk clever words till the cows come home, but I’d wager he couldn’t cure a common cold!”
“Wait,” Remus burst out, torn by uneasy doubts but forcing his voice through the quarrel. “Wait! You know Riddle?”
“Of course we do,” Severus snapped, waving a hand impatiently. “Who could forget that fop—” He broke off, then let out a slow breath. “Bloody hell. And what about you?”
“What?”
“Your diagnosis. Olnirabism? Emmitteritis?”
That was not at all how he’d imagined it. His heart shrank, a tremor ran down his arms. Without lifting his head, Remus whispered:
“Vestaphilia.”
“You’re joking,” Severus sucked in his breath, incredulous. “You—a werewolf?”
“Oh, that’s enough!” Lily flared. “That’s too much! There are limits, Sev—you dinnae ken when tae stop, do ye?”
Amazingly, Severus neither argued nor even muttered. He withdrew into his corner, drumming his fingers on the cover of his notebook, casting Lily desperate, sidelong looks. Lily glared furiously out the window, pretending not to notice his torment. He looked genuinely vexed—confused, even, as though he truly had no idea what he’d said wrong. For an instant his eyebrows twisted into such a curious shape that Remus found himself rummaging for a pencil. At once his conscience reproached him—how shameful, to sit sketching when a friend was in distress!
Of course he did sympathise. He pitied Lily, plainly struggling to keep up her defiance. He pitied Severus too, honestly baffled by his friend’s anger. Watching them was almost physically painful. Yet his hand strayed again to his inside pocket. He drew out a battered notebook and a stub of pencil. Finding a blank page, he bit the wood, scraping his tongue against its dry grain, and looked once more at Severus. It was dreadfully improper, perhaps even cruel—but his fingers itched unbearably. The first slanting line fell across the paper. The scratch of graphite seemed to drown out the pounding of the train. At any moment Severus might glance up, see the sketchbook, and unleash another tirade. A second passed, then another. Nothing happened. Tentatively, Remus laid down a second line. A third, a fourth. The world fell away. There was only the chewed pencil stub and the page, where stroke by stroke appeared the thin, angry face framed by a tangle of black hair. Not a portrait—just a quick sketch, an attempt to snare a fleeting expression. Remus lifted his eyes to his “model”, then back to the page. Guided by some instinct, some sixth sense, he added another furrow, another crease of displeasure, and nodded inwardly. Then his gaze slid to Lily. She was leaning on her hand, turned entirely away from Severus, her whole face steeped in weary sorrow. The pencil tugged towards the paper again.
Remus had never studied drawing. He hadn’t pored for hours over art books, hadn’t sketched noses and ears a hundred times. Once he had found a book on anatomy for artists in the city library and tried to read it, but the prose was so dry and tedious that his patience lasted only three pages. He simply watched and drew—classmates in dull lessons, heroes from books, strangers with striking faces glimpsed in passing. Sometimes, when he was forced to sleep in the cellar, he brought his pad and drew strange, impossible creatures with a trembling hand. It never cured the loneliness, but it made him forget it for a while. Like books. Like the old piano in his parents’ room, where his mother long ago had sat him, feet dangling far from the pedals, teaching him simple scales. Among his books, drawings, songs, among pirate ships and castles, he had built his own world, safe and sure. In that world good always triumphed, justice prevailed, villains and wrongdoers got their due. It was there that little Remus hid whenever things grew unbearable. In time, the golden castles of his imagination were replaced by something far more real: silver. Silver was cruel, prickling, burning, leaving behind red, ugly scars—but it worked better than anything. And yet, now and then, Remus still picked up a book or a pencil and slipped back into his small kingdom, where all stories ended well, and where he could be what he had always longed to be: strong, brave—and normal.
“What are you drawing?” A bright voice pulled Remus back to reality. Lily craned her neck with open curiosity, eyes fixed on his sketchbook.
“Oh—nothing much.” Feeling the heat rush to his cheeks, Remus hurriedly turned the page and pretended to be shading the checked coat of Sherlock Holmes.
“Can I have a look?”
His hand froze in mid-air. Very slowly, he lowered it, and with some dread passed the book across. He had never shown his drawings to anyone—he’d had enough judgment without that. But Lily’s kind smile made it impossible to refuse. Her reaction was far stronger than he’d expected. She gasped in delight.
“That’s amazing! Have ye been drawing long?”
“A few years,” he replied evasively. He wasn’t about to confess that he’d drawn all his life simply because it was the easiest way not to go mad.
“That’s Sherlock Holmes, aye? Do ye like detective stories?”
“Somewhat. And… and you?”
“I don’t read them.” Lily shook her head sadly. “My parents say detective stories aren’t for girls—can ye believe it?”
“Hang on, that’s—” Remus stopped, searching for a polite word but finding none—“that’s absolute nonsense!”
“For us, aye. For them, no…” Suddenly her eyes sparkled again. “Tell me, are they really that good?”
“If the writer’s good, they’re brilliant. I think it’s one of the finest things that ever happened to literature. If you’d like,” he added, embarrassed by his own eagerness, “I… I could lend you a couple. I’ve got plenty.”
“That’d be grand, but I wouldn’t even ken where to start.”
“You can start anywhere,” Remus reassured her. “With Doyle, for instance. Though I began with Christie…”
The talk veered into well-trodden ground and rolled on as smoothly as a train on its rails. If there was one subject Remus could speak of for hours, it was books. He waxed lyrical on the virtues of the detective genre, while Lily, not to be outdone, praised the charms of Austen and the Brontës. The awkwardness of before melted away in the warmth of the discussion, and the two hours to their first stop at York passed like a moment.
At the station, where the train stood for half an hour, Lily announced she would step out to telephone home. Severus tagged along in spite of her protests. When they returned, Remus saw through the window Lily’s flushed face and windblown hair, Severus waving his arms and his angry voice drifting in through the crack:
“You trust the first stranger who comes along! You’ve no instinct for self-preservation! How do you know he isn’t a criminal—have you seen his face?”
“He’s done nothing to us—he was only polite and kind!” Lily snapped back without looking at him.
“He’s a werewolf, Lils! Werewolves can’t be trusted—and least of all with your secrets! I don’t want you—” He blushed himself, strode ahead of her and barred the way to the train. “Don’t you see? I only want to protect you. You know my research. Every scientific journal says Vests are unstable, prone to aggression.”
“I’ve heard you, Sev.” Lily’s voice was cold. “And I don’t want to speak of it again.”
She pushed past him, re-entered the compartment, and sat down in silence. He followed, slamming himself opposite. Neither spoke until the train moved off. Then Severus rummaged in his bag, produced a dented thermos and two tin mugs. He poured out some steaming, translucent brew—half tea, half herbal infusion—and set one on the folding table by the window.
Lily stared at the mug for a long moment. Then she sighed, smiled faintly, and took it in both hands. The corners of Severus’s pale mouth crept upward. Peace restored.
By then it was nearer to brunch than breakfast. Digging in his suitcase, Remus unearthed a rubber-banded parcel. He divided his turkey sandwiches honestly into three. Lily declared with merry exaggeration that she had never eaten anything so delicious in her life—leaving Remus scarlet and flustered. Severus kept his silence, merely fishing out a third mug from his bag.
After that, the journey was peaceful. None of them returned to the uneasy subject. They listened as Lily chattered about her elder sister Petunia, who worked as a typesetter at a small evening paper, swapped talk of books and the latest Rolling Stones album, and watched the plains outside give way to hills turning purple with heather. They had left the rain behind at York; now the sky was roofed with high white clouds. At times a gentle yellowish sunlight broke through, flooding the compartment, and Lily’s hair would flare like a flame. She seemed a wee spark of fire herself, enough to warm anyone chilled.
Listening to her bright chatter, Remus touched his medallion once or twice. Nothing happened, and he breathed easier. His trigger emotion was despair, which at first glance might not seem the worst. After all, who fell into genuine, deep despair on a regular basis? But its rarity was more than outweighed by his heightened sensitivity to the faintest shadow of it. If anxiety stirred in him, he could feel the Wolf shift behind his ribs, lifting its head. He had to choke it down before it acted—so Remus lived as if on a volcano, checking the medallion with feverish panic. Just now, thank God, all was quiet: the fear had ebbed, and the Wolf was fast asleep somewhere deep inside.
The train was drawing near the city once more. This time they stopped at the open platform of Edinburgh station; stepping out, the children saw nothing above them but a clear, cloudless sky. There were surprisingly few people about, and they found the suburban train to Little Hangleton in under five minutes. Lily’s suitcase was so heavy the boys carried it between them. She walked beside them, flushed but plainly flattered.
The narrow-gauge line jolted far more than the express. The rocking of the carriage made him drowsy, and Remus scarcely realised he had fallen asleep with his head on his chest. When Lily woke him, it was already dusk outside. In the half-light, wooded hills blurred against the horizon, hiding the ruddy glow of the sunset. Then a flash split the dark, the brakes screeched, and the train stopped at a tiny station lit by a single yellow lamp.
At the mention of Riddle Hall, the elderly stationmaster twitched his moustache disapprovingly.
“What d’ye want there, then?” He raised an eyebrow at Lily, then rattled off: "Ye’re press, are ye? If it’s Riddle ye mean—nae chance, nae chance!"
“Sorry?” Remus stared uncertainly at his companions; the man’s words had slipped entirely past his understanding. Lily stifled a laugh in her hand, Severus looked equally bewildered. The old man sighed and spoke more clearly:
“If ye’re journalists, well, he cannae thole the press—won’t let one o’ ye near his doorstep!”
“Do we look like reporters to you?” Severus snapped, ready for an argument. But Lily stepped in.
“Mr Riddle invited us himself,” she explained with a charming smile. “We’re his patients.”
Severus rolled his eyes. This time he had cause: the old man instantly drew back a step and eyed them with nervous suspicion. His every movement grew uneasy, as if he longed to leave but was held by duty.
“Aye, aye, I’ve heard it—whole town says Riddle’s turnt healer, so they do… Anyway, when ye come out o’ here, straight along Fleet Street to the first cross. Then right, ye’ll come to the square, past the shops, on tae Victoria Street. Ye’ll see a phone box on the corner. Then right again, Flathill Road, an’ straight through the woods—two mile or so, only the one path. Ye cannae get lost.”
“Right, straight along Fleet Street,” Lily murmured, brow furrowed. “Then right onto Fleetwick Road—or was it the square? Oh, I’ve muddled it already!” She laughed aloud.
“I’ve got it,” Severus said firmly, hoisting her suitcase onto his shoulder and striding off—brushing close to the old man, who flinched aside. “Come on, Lily. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Lily gave the stationmaster an apologetic smile and ran to catch up. Tugging his cap lower, Remus followed. They had gone some distance when the man called after them, uncertainly:
“Best be careful in the woods—it’s dark already!”
“What’s he on about? I thought he’d be glad if the wolves ate us,” Severus sneered.
“Sev, honestly! The man was nervous, and you’d hang him for it? Sometimes you should just loosen up. Look about you—the evening’s beautiful, birds are singing!” Lily spread her arms wide.
And indeed the evening was lovely, birdsong drifting from afar. They walked down a trim little street lined with old stone houses. In front of each, flowerbeds still flamed with marigolds, dahlias and clusters of small purple blooms Remus couldn’t name. Children darted along the swept pavements, women gossiped at open windows, and beneath one lamp a couple whispered together. A light breeze carried music from somewhere nearby—the sort that makes one long to dance, even if one never has.
The first right turn led them into a round square planted with tall maples. On the ground floors cosy shops displayed bells and bright painted signs. Some were already shuttered, others just being locked. Their owners hurried to the centre of the square, where the music came from. Under a great tree, two shadowy figures whirled: a tall violinist in a wide-brimmed hat and a tiny flautist spinning about him. A small crowd swayed to their lively tune, while children shrieked and danced at their feet. Lily instantly dug out some coins and made for the players. Severus, hissing like a boiling kettle, went after her, no doubt intending to dissuade her from such foolishness. Left on his own, Remus glanced about for the telephone box. He found it on the far side of the square beside a teacup-shaped sign—and just then the clock tolled eight. So late already? His mother would be worried—of course she would, he hadn’t rung since morning! Patting his pockets, Remus hurried across the cobbles.
A deep growl erupted behind him, followed by a deafening blast of a horn and a blinding light. The world went black for a heartbeat. The horn shrieked again, right on top of him. At last he turned—and froze. A great black Bentley was bearing down on him. The brakes screamed, but at that speed it could not stop in time. He felt the heat from the bonnet—then something yanked him backwards. He stumbled, dropped his case, and fell hard on the kerb.
The Bentley shot past the very spot he had stood and screeched to a halt. A door slammed. Out leapt the driver, red-faced and furious.
“Are you bloody daft?” he roared, spittle flying. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed, you little fool? Dash under my wheels and it’s me gets blamed! I’ll teach you to look sharp—”
He seized Remus by the lapels and shook him till his teeth rattled. Remus, too stunned even to be afraid, stared blankly at the buttons dancing on the man’s tweed jacket. The look enraged the driver further. He swore and raised his hand. He would likely have struck without hesitation, but at that instant a languid, weary voice drifted from behind him.
“What’s the matter, Kreacher? Why are we stopped?”
The rear window slid down. A face pale as marble appeared. The young man tossed back his dark hair and looked through half-lowered lids at the driver, who instantly straightened.
“Forgive me, Master. This boy ran under the wheels.”
The youth turned his head towards Remus, gave him a slow, disdainful once-over, and said with a curl of his lip:
“Leave him.”
“But, Master—”
“I said leave him,” the young man repeated, voice like a lash. “Drive on.”
The driver touched his cap at once and hurried back into the car, brushing off his hands as he went. The engine roared, and the Bentley shot away.
Remus sat rubbing his bruised elbow. The storm of feelings came late—shock, fear, pain, anger. He cursed himself. What a fool! Nearly flattened by a car, and now his trousers were filthy, his suitcase—damn it, where was his suitcase? And his cap? Could the day get any worse?
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. A tall lad with slightly sticking-out ears grinned good-naturedly and pushed a suitcase towards him.
“Looks like this is yours.”
“And this too,” came a voice from the side. Turning, Remus saw a wheelchair tipped on its side a few yards off, and a girl with a boyish haircut sitting beside it, a walking stick across her knees. She was brushing the dust from his much-abused cap.
“What d’you think you were doing, running under a car?” she asked cheerfully.
“I… didn’t see.” The girl gave a low whistle of disbelief. Remus glanced at her awkwardly bent legs, at the stick lying across them. “You— it was you who pulled me back! You saved me!”
“You’re welcome.” She twirled the stick deftly between her fingers. “Frank and I never mind rescuing folk. That’s Frank—” the big-eared boy winked—“—and I’m Alice.”
“Remus.”
“Tell me, Remus—you’re not local, are you?”
“Yes, but how do you—”
Alice smirked, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s.
“You were lookin’ for a phone box. Headin’ for Riddle Hall? Well, we’re goin’ the same way!” She and Remus exchanged a slightly clumsy handshake; her hand was firm, callused, the touch oddly rough beneath his fingers.
“Reckon we’d better get a move on if we want to be there on time, love.” Frank said, rolling up his sleeves. He scooped Alice up as if she weighed nothing. She gave a mock cry of outrage.
“I can do it myself! I’ve got plenty of strength, I’ll have you know!”
“Yeah, but nothing on earth’s going to stop me carrying you.” he teased, winking. “Besides, if your folks catch us…”
“They won’t— not if we don’t tell them, right?”
“What’s this you won’t tell? Alice, darling, you’ve fallen again?” A trumpet-like female voice cut across the square.
Alice sighed heavily. Her cheer vanished, even her face seemed to pale. Bearing down on them came a tall, gaunt woman in unrelieved black. Her sharp gaze took in the overturned chair at once, and she was beside Alice in moments.
“Are you hurt? Did you knock yourself? Child, I told you—don’t stray too far! I should never have let you move about alone—now I’ll take charge of the chair.”
“Oh, Mum…” Alice wailed, but her mother was unmoved.
“No, no, no—enough trouble. Your doctor told you to look after your legs!”
“What’s the point of babying my legs if I can’t even use ’em?”
Her mother went white and clutched at her chest.
“How can you say such a thing, darling? Do you want to give me a heart attack?”
“No, Mum.” Alice dropped her eyes, contrite. “Sorry, Mum”
“That’s better.” Her mother’s frailty seemed to vanish at once. She righted the chair briskly and wheeled it up. Frank lowered Alice gently into the seat and tucked a rug over her knees. The chair rolled away with quiet dignity, and Frank turned back to Remus, still sitting on the kerb.
“Coming along with us?”
“Thanks, but I’ve a couple of mates I got separated from,” Remus said awkwardly, forcing a smile. “I need to find them.”
“Fair enough.” Frank shrugged.
He waved and trotted off to catch the others. Remus watched him go, then brushed down his dusty trousers, tugged his cap on, and got to his feet. At that moment Lily reappeared, Severus grumbling at her side—seemingly without pausing for breath since they’d parted. They’d heard the horns and shouting, but hadn’t seen anything. Remus chose to say nothing; he had no wish to upset Lily, who took everything to heart, and he couldn’t guess how Severus would react.
Together they left the square for the broad, pedestrian Victoria Street, turned right, and came out onto Flathill Road, where the treetops already loomed black behind the roofs. The street narrowed into a country lane; the houses grew smaller, the lamps sparser, until they ceased altogether at the last house. Lily hesitated at the edge of darkness. Remus too felt a twist of unease—the road ran through fields, then vanished into the woods pressing against the night sky. Only Severus looked untroubled, tapping his foot and whistling between his teeth.
They glanced at one another, then stepped together over the border of light. Remus kept close to Lily—not that he was afraid, but it felt… steadier that way. Luckily Severus noticed nothing in the dark, or he’d have rolled his eyes again. (How they didn’t roll right out of his head was a mystery.)
As Remus’s eyes adjusted, hedgerows and scattered bushes took shape. The air smelled sweet and sharp with cut hay. Soon the scent of pine joined it: they were entering the forest. The path climbed steeply, old pines arching overhead, and they quickened their pace without meaning to. Something pale flickered between the trunks and was gone. Remus thought it a trick of nerves after all that had happened—but then, rounding a bend, they came upon a high stone wall. Massive wrought-iron gates yawned wide, and beyond them a gravel drive stretched towards a vast house of reddish stone.
Riddle Hall, of course—what else could it be? In the dark, its wings and turrets were only half-glimpsed. All the windows shone with yellow light, and a lantern cast wavering shadows across the steps.
Compared with the glowing hall, the woods behind seemed darker still, and Remus felt real relief as they set foot on the drive. A few minutes later they stood on the porch before the great oak doors. From round the corner something metallic gleamed—like the wing of a car—but Remus had no chance to look closer. He had just raised his finger to the bell when the door swung open of its own accord.