Weft of Power, Warp of Blood: A Tapestry of Desire

Book Three

Chapter Thirty-Three
The Phoenix in Flames

She wasn’t sure how she got home, into her nightgown and tucked into bed, but she woke up in the proper place in the proper attire. For a moment she lay in bed, enjoying the dance of the dust motes in a shaft of sunlight. Berri lay curled up in the crook of her knee, snoring and twitching in a cat-dream. A gentle breeze floated in, bringing the scent of freshly cut grass and animals that could use a bath but weren’t yet offensive. The dust motes whirled and the curtains fluttered. The curtains. The veil. Sirius.

Good, he was dead and wouldn’t be bothering her anymore.

He wouldn’t lie to her or write ridiculously sappy love notes or pornographic poetry or …or thrilling stories that made her heart pound with desire. He would never try to contact her again and she’d never lose a perfectly good skillet and dinner with it and now she didn’t have to figure out a way to talk to him without seeming as though she was desperate. She didn’t even like him, after all.

She would never see him again. He’d never flop down next to her and snore while she stroked his fur. He wouldn’t wander through the meadow with her while she recast the wards. He would never press her against a wall and kiss her into silence but touch her skin like it was the finest porcelain. He was…gone.

Gone. Numb but for the single reality of Sirius, Jasmine didn’t realize she was crying. Curling into a ball, she didn’t notice the disgruntled Berri jump down from the bed when she moved. She tried to think of joyful times with Sirius, but only flashes came to mind. She struggled for more but only saw moments, as though they were captured in a photograph. Curled up with him, reading on the couch – his head in her lap as she rubbed his ears. Looking down at him as they walked Arielle to school. The wuffle he made when he seemed to be laughing. The first day, on the mountain, with his teeth bared. The moment when he transformed into a man and stood looking at her, just before he strode toward her.

She would never get to slap him.

Or kiss him.

Wracked with sobs, she barely felt the tiny hand rubbing her shoulder and back. She didn’t hear her daughter’s sweet, high voice whispering words of comfort. Knowing that Ari was there, though, Jasmine turned over and dragged Ari into her arms, hanging on. Jasmine clung tighter when Ari asked why she was crying, and only loosened her grip when Ari squeaked that she was being smooshed. Calming as they cuddled, comforted by the tiny hands rubbing her shoulder, Jasmine realized that Anne-Mette had also joined them and was sitting at the foot of the bed.

The blonde reached out to rest her hand on Jasmine’s foot under the sheet. She rubbed slowly, massaging. “Honey, I fed the animals.”

“Thanks,” she sniffled.

“What happened last night?”

“Er….”

“You got home at four-thirty this morning, looking like a zombie and now you can’t even see through crying. What happened?”

Blinking away tears and reaching for a tissue, Jasmine took a minute to find her voice and realized that she was brewing the beginnings of a brutal headache.

“Mama, why are you so sad?”

After blowing her nose, and snuggling Arielle back into her arms, Jasmine said, “Because my … because our friend died, baby.”

“Who died?” asked Arielle, her voice grave.

Jasmine felt Anne-Mette’s hand tighten on her foot.

“Sirius, baby. He died last night.” Saying it aloud had been the worst part. It made it real, rather than a dream and the tears fell once again. Swiping her nose, Jasmine closed her eyes for a moment, giving over to a headache.

Anne-Mette let out a heavy breath and climbed to the head of the bed. Hauling Jasmine and Arielle close, she held them as Jasmine tears started again. Anne-Mette whispered the same nonsense words of comfort and stroked Jasmine hair, giving comfort in the only way possible – her presence. Jasmine curled into her and held Arielle as the little girl thought about what her mother had just said.

“Sirius, our dog, died?” Arielle asked finally, looking into her mom’s eyes for reassurance. Finding none, her face started to crumple. When Jasmine nodded and sniffed again, Arielle’s eyes filled. She gave a soft moan of sadness and melted into sobs. Between moans of sadness, she chocked out, “But… but… Professor Grandpa was taking care of him.”

Anne-Mette let them cry, but when Jasmine’s tears slowed once again and Arielle had quieted to a few hiccups and sniffles, she asked gently, “Honey, what happened?”

Conscious of Arielle, Jasmine said obliquely, “An attack at the Ministry…”

“They found him?”

“No. They went to save Potter…”

“He-Who…” Anne-Mette cut herself off with a sharp glance at Arielle.

Jasmine sniffled and nodded convulsively.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” Anne-Mette murmured.

A tapping at the window roused them much later. Anne-Mette untangled herself from the others who were alternately playing with their fingers or staring off into space, sniffling. A grey owl flew in, settled on the footboard, and dropped a note in her grandmother’s trademark purple stationary. Anne-Mette excused herself to once again check on her own two daughters who were playing in Arielle’s room while their mum was busy. Jasmine slid out from underneath Arielle and read the letter.

Jasmine,
Before dinner, send out the invoices for the robes you still have left to be fitted for the ball and dunning notes to those that haven’t paid and have the robes already. I don’t want you to have a problem collecting from people in Azakaban. Make sure that everything gets out today – Amelia Bones told me that the ball might be cancelled this year and I don’t want to have anyone renege because of it. I hate Belgium and the flax crop is looking too leggy. Also, your mother has allergies and is miserable.
Grandee

Sighing, Jasmine kissed Arielle and murmured that she was going downstairs to do some work. “You can stay in here as long as you want to or you can go play with Moira and Siobahn.”

“It’ll be all right, Mama. We’ll always have Sirius in our hearts,” Ari said, repeating the mantra of the last couple of hours as she clambered to the side of the bed

Jasmine had no comment, but silently, she wondered how her small child had become so wise. She also hoped that Sirius wouldn’t be in her heart for much longer.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ignoring the fact that she still had a year’s worth of accumulated trash and trivia left in her classrooms and office, Kiaya Roundtree stalked out of the Hogwarts’ dungeons. “Had it… this is the last time….”

“No one treats me that way… I didn’t deserve that rot… not my fault if the stupid little ‘puff couldn’t keep control of his potions kit and some of it was stolen…” she snarled as she tromped down the hill to the gates. “The shop is doing well enough and it’ll be better just as soon as I start back full time… spit on me having a tantrum, will he? Oh no! Grown man ought to act better than that… raised by wolves…”

As she tromped, she noticed the Potter boy sitting by the lake, by himself. From what the gossip and the Daily Prophet said, Potter was having a bad week. Still, though, he was alive and that counted for a great deal. “Wonder if I’ll see him again?…Shan’t be here, though!” He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back – just a bit more icing on her biscuit. She muttered, “Probably Snape’s fault, too!”

Still muttering, Kiaya apparated through Ben Lawers, Glasgow, and into an abandoned Muggle warehouse in Penrith that had been appropriated by the Ministry as an apparation point. She glared at the Ministry nobody that had been appointed to monitor the wards on the point as she muttered, “I’ve had it, d’you hear? Exams are done, classes are over and that bastard has seen the last of me!” With that, she disapparated with a loud Bang.

Different Ministry nobodies in Lancaster and Sheffield heard, “Fuckwit Slytherin dumps stolen PMP into photographic solution as a joke, what does he think is going to happen?” She had to stand in line in Spalding –Muggles were noticing a great amount of noise coming from the back of the fish and chip shop/apparation point and they wanted to space the bangs out more. Kiaya didn’t notice the strange looks she got. \"Finished the year...don\'t owe him anything...should have yelled at his precious Slytherins instead of me this time…maybe Dumbledore could...no, not fair to him…. Just go home and make potions like I was supposed to do.”

In Norwich, the apparation point was the roof of an office building. Normally, Kiaya walked the rest of the way home as a constitutional, however, this time she waved politely to the pimply faced boy who was frequently stationed there and disapparated into her own house. She lit the pewter lantern in the window that let Mrs. Lewbody know that she was home and safe, dumped her purse and workrobes on the table by the door and trudged upstairs to take a well-deserved nap.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Finally free of Sirius Black, idiot children, the attractive but ditzy Roundtree and the Dementors that left Azkaban to join the Dark Lord, Severus Snape turned the corner from Knockturn Alley into Diagon Alley wearing a half-smile. He’d just cancelled his latest order of scurvy-grass with his favorite apothecary. Since it was summer, most of the domestic stuff didn’t have leaves, but the magical greenhouses in Spain still had it. Now that the scurvy-grass wasn’t needed, Severus didn’t feel the need to pay for the added expense of having it shipped in, even though Dumbledore had authorized it in the first place. In return for the apothecary’s trouble for canceling the order, Snape had paid full price for the lovage, though he didn’t need that, either. He always found such a petty little joy in handing the receipts for the potion to Dumbledore. The old man always rubbed his forefinger down his long nose and asked if V- Severus could never bring himself to even think the name – was still demanding that the modified Befuddlement Draught be administered and if Severus had come up with an alternative. Snape had always smirked a little when he answered that the Dark Lord still demanded it and no, he didn’t think anything else would do. Being Potions Master for both sides did have its advantages. He did wonder, however, how long the house elf would have his head attached to his body after it was all discovered.

Once outside the Three Flowers, on his way to picking up Arielle for a short weekend at the seaside, Snape caught his reflection of the mirror hanging on the awning of Myrtle’s Maquillage. The silvered glass was rippled, as thought it was either quite old or under a heavy enchantment. Either one was possible. The latter was probable. Mirrors were so easy to enchant, if one wasn’t ham-handed with the wand. Severus hated talking mirrors but there was something to say for a foe-glass or even a peeping gla… a peeping Tom. Severus tightened his jaw as two links in his chain of thought clicked together suddenly. The mirror was how the Dark Lord watched Jasmine. He’d seen the mirror in the Dark Lord’s chambers every time he was there – he’d even seen the images of Diagon Alley reflected in it and paid it no attention; now he was cursing himself. He wondered if the Dark Lord could communicate or send some kind of spell through the mirror, or if it was just to spy on the women in the dress shop. Controlling the urge to apparate immediately to Dumbledore, Severus schooled his face into the usual scowl and entered the dress shop. First things first, then a visit to Dumbledore.

Immediately, Iris bustled over, her face wreathed in smiles. The gems on her glasses twinkled as she greeted him, “Severus, I’m glad you’re finally here. Arielle has been bouncing off the walls.”

They exchanged pleasantries as they made their way to the back of the shop, then Iris said, “The girls are upstairs with Rosie. Just go on up.”

“Thank you, Iris,” he replied smoothly and disappeared up the stairs.

As soon as he was at the top a small, black haired missile launched herself at him. Just as he braced himself on the banister, she crashed - knocking him backwards. Thankful that he’d had the chance to brace, Snape untangled his daughter, set her on the floor and reprimanded her as gently as he could. “Arielle, never jump on someone on the stairs. I could have fallen and been badly injured – and you with me.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said artlessly and stepped away from him.

“I know you are, little bit. I know you don’t want to hurt someone, right?”

She vigorously shook her head.

“Good, then. Are you ready?”

“Yup, just as soon as Mama smokes you.”

His eyes narrowed. “And what, pray tell, does that mean, young lady?”

“She’s being cute,” Jasmine said while riffling through her mother Rose’s yarn supply.

“Indeed. Jasmine, when you’re ready?”

“I am now – let’s go into the floo room.” She didn’t want to light up a brazier in the main shop – the smoke (as lovely as it smelled) would do the clothing no good.

“Ah, youth – the ability to sit on the floor and play with colors…” said Rose wistfully, though there might have been a note of sarcasm in her words. She hadn’t done any Dynomagy since Jasmine had been a teenager.

“You’re welcome to do it – I’d rather niffle yarn,” Jasmine quipped though there wasn’t the usual spark of mischief alight in her eyes. She looked pale and drawn, similar to how she’d looked when Black had run out on her the first time.

“Oh, no. I can’t see color nearly as well anymore, you know,” said Rose. They all knew that she could see perfectly but chose not to scrabble around on the floor, yanking at auras. The very idea ruined the sophisticated image she’d spun for herself.

Jasmine rolled her eyes and closed the door of the yarn cabinet.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Severus turned his attention back to Arielle. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah! I have my suitcase and my teddy and my books like you said.”

“She was just showing them all to us,” said Rose, from behind a sewing machine. Several dolls and stuffed animals littered her worktable, though the lady looked amused.

He nodded in greeting and stayed several judicious feet away from Arielle.

Looking less amused than her mother and more drawn than she had in a long time, Jasmine packed Arielle’s things away. “I’ll be done in a minute – why don’t you go downstairs; I’ll be there soon.”

“Tsk, let the girl put her own things away. You get Severus ready. Arielle, come here and get your bag repacked,” Rose said, sounding more like Iris than she would have wished.

Obediently, Ari started packing and Jasmine and Severus went downstairs.

Jasmine had prepared everything before he’d arrived. As she lit the flame in the brazier and waited for the smoke to rise, they discussed school and possible vacations and projects, and neither one mentioned anything about Sirius Black or Voldemort, though both knew the other was also thinking the same. They had yet to discuss it. Severus dearly hoped they wouldn’t have to at all.

As she pulled thick strands of black out of dark reds and blues and browns, their discussion slowed until there was only the background of shop sounds coming through the door. Severus knew that Jasmine knew better than to give the ‘you need to stop living like this, there’s too much dark in here, it isn’t good for you’ lecture. She hadn’t bothered giving the lecture for several months. Instead, she worked quickly and quietly, leaving him to his own thoughts. For once, he allowed himself to think of nothing – not the Dark Lord, not students, not that idiot Roundtree, not even Quidditch. Just nothing – and nothing felt good. Severus decided that it was a man-thing.

Jasmine interrupted his nothing with, “If you’d like another hand with Arielle, I wouldn’t mind a trip to shore myself.”

Severus was silent for a moment, thinking quickly. The Dark Lord was watching her. The Dark Lord had probably even watched him come into the shop. For a moment, he panicked. Should he leave? Should he stage some kind of argument before he left with Arielle? His mind whirled. Arielle expected a holiday with just her father, not mum, too. Jasmine was probably in some kind of female mourning for Black and wanted to do something like cling to the nearest male to make herself feel better. In any case, it seemed like a bad idea to deviate from the plan and he said so without explaining why.

Her lips pursed and Severus could see that she wanted to argue. He schooled his face into an expression of cross obstinacy. She seethed, but acquiesced. Again, they descended into silence and Snape paid slightly more attention to what she was doing. He could barely see the colors in the smoke, much less tell them apart. He figured that, too, was a man-thing.

The smoke was dissipating finally, and she sighed. Severus took it as a sign that he could stretch. He knew well enough that she wasn’t really done and wouldn’t be for hours, but would decree that it was enough anyway.

Sitting back on her heels, and smothering the brazier with the flick of a hand, Jasmine looked up at him. Her face was inscrutable, which was unusual. It was always a bad sign when he couldn’t read her heart on her sleeve. It would come out eventually so he just waited.

“Were you there?”

He paused before answering, “Where?”

“At the Ministry?”

Finally she had worked up the courage and the curiosity together. He was almost impressed but really had rathered that she hadn’t. “No.”

“Did you know anything about it?” She asked putting the brazier away.

“Not until Potter yelled at me just beforehand. I didn’t find out any more than that until I spoke with Dumbledore after the fact.” He couldn’t resist adding that it was he that alerted the Order with a message arrow as soon as Potter had shouted that Black had been captured.

“I see.” Her expression said that she was disappointed in him.

As there was nothing to be done about it, Severus said only, “I want you to be careful. There is something going on but I’m not sure what it is. You’d best be on your guard.”

“I will,” she replied automatically. It was something he said a lot.

“It might not be a bad idea if you let Dumbledore assign an Order member to you full time.”

“No. Look what happened last time I got a guard. I won’t tolerate living in a cage and I don’t want strangers in my house,” she snapped.

“As you wish- but be careful,” he warned- and resolved to ask Dumbledore to have someone assigned to her anyway- whether she wanted it or not.

Just then, a little tap sounded on the door. Arielle called, “Daddy, are you done yet? Can we go?”

“I’m coming, little bit.” He opened the door and swept the little girl into a tight hug. “You’ve grown. I’ll be making a Shrinking Solution for you soon.” When she giggled, Severus gave a rare smile and asked, “Shall we?”

Arielle grinned and said, “Please!”

He snagged her bag and said, as though a thought had just occurred to him, “Oh, I’ve forgotten something at Hogwarts. We’ll need to stop back in for a moment.”

“Can we see Professor Grandpa before we go?” asked Arielle ingenuously.

With a smile of paternal indulgence, Severus assured her that they would.

Severus considered how to phrase the news about the mirror to Dumbledore as Arielle chattered about sea anemones, starfish, crabs and adventures at the seashore. They each bussed Jasmine and tolerated her warnings to be careful and not get a sting or get lost and to always hold hands. She was still issuing warnings as they tossed floo powder into the grate and stepped through to Dumbledore’s office.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two weeks and several dunning notes later, Jasmine had time on her hands. She’d sent out every gown and robe she had in her workroom and had actually been paid by every single client – even those in Azkaban. A lovely letter had even accompanied Narcissa Malfoy’s payment note, complimenting the clothing. Jasmine’s smile at the letter was bland. She gave the bank promissory note to Florentine to carry to her grandmother, put the letter in the “Compliments” file and went back to threading her small loom.

It wasn’t often that she had the time to work on her own projects – even this one would be a pick-up-put-down whenever she had the time and will to work on it. She let herself fall into the slow, repetitive motion of readying the loom, enjoying the mindlessness. She didn’t know what the pattern was going to be; instead, she let her fingers choose the yarns.

It took her a moment to find the proper shuttle; it was tucked in the back of a drawer. Carefully, she lifted the small needle tucked into the side of the shuttle and then pricked her finger with it. She squeezed the small wound until a large drop of blood welled. After taking a moment to admire the color that no dye could duplicate, she smeared the blood on the shuttle. Rubbing it into the grain of the wood, Jasmine murmured the spell that had been passed through generations of weavers in countless lands. The shuttle didn’t glow or tremble. It didn’t give any outward indication that she’d done anything to it when she tucked the needle away again. But when she held it in her hand and closed her eyes, Jasmine could feel the magic in the old bit of wood. Just as a wand channeled magic, the shuttle would help her weave whatever was in her mind.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

For the first time in his adult life, Remus Lupin flopped on an old, dusty sofa without first checking for something that might bite him. Perhaps this one room in the Grimmauld house wasn’t the best place to be careless, but at this point, he wanted to be alone more than he cared about doxies. What was a little doxy bite when he’d been battling Death Eaters, the Ministry of Magic and the beast for years? He hadn’t come into the closed salon to investigate or ‘play with’ any of the dark and fascinating objects that had been locked in the room for safety and study. He wasn’t seeking anything but peace in a household run by Molly Weasley and the whims of a distraught hippogriff. Remus was too tired to do anything, even brood effectively – he’d had quite a bit of practice in brooding recently, but Sirius had mastered the art; Remus could never hope to compete on the brooding front. All he could do was nothing.

He was looking in the direction of a great many dull silver and gold glints but only vaguely noted that it was the mirrors in their ancient gilt frames that he was seeing. He’d wanted to take a closer look at the pieces, but for now the world was so much… more pleasant with his eyes unfocussed. He could see the curtains wave and rustle with doxies. He knew the room had the musty smell of a space too long abandoned. He could taste the layer of dust on the furniture when he inhaled. He didn’t mind the dust, though. He’d spent time in far worse places than this, with far worse people and would again. He didn’t bother with any of it now, though.

Home was where the heart is, wasn’t that the saying? He hadn’t ever felt so much at home as he had since he and Sirius had found each other again and forgiven the past. It wasn’t home anymore, though- not without Sirius and the kids bounding around. With Sirius gone, now he had no one. With the exception of Hermione, the kids thought he was more of a teacher than any kind of friend, his parents were dead, the rest of the family had disowned the little werewolf kid years ago. James and Lily were so long gone he’s forgotten the details of their faces in his dreams and Pete… Peter should have been rent limb from limb by rabid jackals. Actually, Remus wouldn’t mind killing the bastard himself. Hopefully, he’d get the chance. He wondered if the monster Greyback, would let him kill Pettigrew. Letting himself fall into daydreams of vengeance as he stared at nothing, until a flicker of movement caught his eye, yanking the beast away.

Jerking at the movement, Remus looked up. Just off to the side, the Mirror of Erised tugged at his consciousness but he avoided looking directly into it. It was easier to avoid the Requiem Mirror behind the other. In the Mirror of Erised, he saw only the reflection on the room above the chair Sirius had dragged in front of it, to feed his obsession in. Dumbledore had warned them all to stay away from the mirror – indeed, to stay out of the room itself, but Sirius – being Sirius – hadn’t followed the instructions. Remus – being Remus – hadn’t said anything to dispute Sirius’s actions, even while knowing that he ought to.

Curious now, because some movement had definitely caught the corner of his eye, Remus rose to look around the room. The dust lay in an even blanket on the tables. Nothing was out of place in the cabinets. He nudged the lid of the chinoise vitrine, it was securely locked.

Once again, his eye was drawn to the Mirror of Erised – there was a dark flash in the corner of it that seemed to be more than just his trouser leg. Remus gave in to his curiosity and stood in front of it for the first time. He knew what to expect, but the reality was both exhilarating and deeply depressing. Looking into his own face, Remus sank into the chair Sirius had dragged in front of the mirror months ago. He struggled to be objective about what he was seeing – of course his greatest desire was to stand in the full moonlight, in clothing without patches with family and friends surrounding him. It was perfectly natural. He wanted it. He was desperate for it. He could kill for it. But he wouldn’t; he’d long since given up on those petty dreams. At least his head had given up on them, apparently his heart hadn’t.

Sighing, he sat back and studied the image of his innermost desire. The moonlight shining on his human skin wasn’t a shock, neither was wearing apparently good clothing – he hadn’t had new robes in years (and even then, they’d been used). Looking at his face, Remus could still see the scars – at least his heart knew that it was a cure he wanted, not to erase the last thirty-odd years. The man in the mirror and the man in the chair both quirked matching smiles of remembrance; long ago, Lily had said that the scars made him look mysterious and rather rakish – and any smart woman would find him incredibly attractive. Another movement in the mirror caught his eye. From her place sitting on a wall, holding Harry’s hand, Lily waved. Momentarily stunned at how lovely she’d been, Remus waved back to her. That set off a chain of waving friends: Harry stood next to his mum, toying with the Sword of Gryffindor on his belt and looking more relaxed than Remus had ever seen; the entire Weasley clan, some of the original Order members – even Severus Snape, lounging in a comfortable chair without a sneer. Remus chuckled – as if that would ever happen. Pretty Dorcas Meadows crossed her legs in a short skirt in the way that she always had before Voldemort killed her; Remus would have been a happy man if he could spend the rest of his days watching Delightful Dorcas’s legs.

As he was looking at the lovely lady in the mirror, Hermione walked into the mirror frame. She looked older, in her twenties, he guessed. He chuckled, her hair in his fantasy was still as thick and wild as ever. The image of that hair spread across his pillow flashed across his mind; the Hermione in the mirror smiled knowingly. He sat back in the chair and crossed his arms protectively. Hermione wasn’t someone he should ‘desire.’ She was a child. The gorgeous legs under the short skirt the image in the mirror had didn’t belong to a child – but Remus knew that she’d never…. The Hermione of his heart leaned over and kissed him – right in front of the other people. It wasn’t the kiss of a friend, but of a lover. Remus leaned forward and fought down a rush of desire and longing and continued watching though the feeling of being a dirty old man – or worse, a vile pedophile crept into his mind. He felt at least a bit like a voyeur, though they were his own fantasies. She handed him a textbook (how utterly typical of her, he thought) and pointed to the background of the image. Hogwarts faded into view; Dumbledore stood in the huge doorway, under the portcullis and beckoned him in. Remus looked at the image of Snape; Severus rolled his eyes and jerked his chin to the castle. Remus smiled wryly; Severus Snape would never, ever tell him that it was acceptable for Remus Lupin- Marauder or Remus Lupin- werewolf to teach at Hogwarts again. It was a lovely thought though.

The only one missing in the picture was Sirius, who at the very thought bounded into the gilt frame of the mirror, distracting Remus from the beautiful dream… image… incarnation of his deepest desires. Typical. Sometimes Sirius could be such a woman, demanding attention to the exclusion of anyone else’s (especially Remus’s) thoughts on the matter. The other images faded away – the beautiful Hermione was the last to fade.

Damn him. Damn Sirius. First he ran out of the house at the slightest rumor of Harry being in another bloody scrape, then he managed to get his ass killed by his own bitch of a cousin. He never would listen to a single word of warning. Now, here he was, in the fucking mirror, interrupting Remus’s single fucking pleasant thought of the fucking month. Damn him – again.

Remus sat back in the chair again, glaring at his late, great, best friend and clenched his jaw. He closed his eyes against the vision of apparently, what he desired most in the world- Sirius waving frantically to get his attention. Now he wanted attention – not when Remus’s common sense would have been useful – but several weeks later he wanted attention. Again.

At that moment, he wished for a beer or a scotch to away the memories and the irritation. It was a surprising wish. Just after Lily, James and Pete were killed and Sirius had been sent to jail, he’d gone on a month-long bender. The only thing he vividly remembered about that time was that Dumbledore had shaken him awake in the Shrieking Shack and ended the bender with nothing more than a quiet lecture. Remus had been naked and starving and chained to the wall, but he’d had no idea how he’d got into that state when Dumbledore had said that, ‘that was quite enough, Remus, you have terrified the village quite enough, thank you very much.’ After several good meals, a bath and the exact information concerning how a drunken werewolf looks and sounds, Remus swore off alcohol and vowed that losing control of his mind and body for three nights per months was quite enough. None-the-less, a part of him felt that he really deserved at least three fingers of a semi-decent brandy.

Resolving to pour himself only one such brandy from the bottle Sirius had stashed in his bedroom, Remus stood and looked into the Mirror of Erised once more. He saw himself holding a drink and looking bemused (as he usually did) while standing next to Sirius. Still, Sirius was gesturing madly in the mirror, wearing a manic expression of desperation and excitement. He pointed to the Requiem Mirror above the mantle.

Objectively, Remus knew and accepted his deepest desires. All of the images in the mirror- except for Hermione – were natural (he figured Hermione’s actions in the mirror were simply an aberration – a product of the letters they exchanged). Even the desire to see Sirius behaving as he normally did – without much prudence, was normal. Objectively, he also knew it was his subconscious; he wanted to bring Sirius back. He wanted to see Sirius alive again, even just one more time. It had only been three weeks – nothing compared to the twelve years they’d missed as friends, hating the very thought of the other. Remus missed Sirius in the same way he missed being the innocent child playing in the woods before he’s been bitten by Fenrir Greyback. Sirius was memories of youth and camaraderie, rather than the poverty and solitude he lived with. Sirius was bold, brash, sometimes spiteful, often careless, frequently thoughtless – but always intelligent, generous, fun-loving, and usually rather amusing about it all.

Looking into the Mirror of Erised once more, he shrugged and walked to the mantle. Looking back into the mirror, Remus saw Sirius give an exasperated ‘it’s about time’ look and hand gesture. Rolling his eyes, Remus waved his hand at the Requiem Mirror. Unsure if it was the proper incantation, but determined to set the mirror’s images moving, Remus said, “Requius.”

One by one, faces faded in and out of view. All of the people the mirror showed were now dead.. So many people appeared in the mirror, one right after the other, as though they were standing in queue on the other side of a window, ready to peer through at whoever had given the command. Some smiled or waved, others like his crusty old grandfather just scowled. The lovely, leggy Dorcas Meadows passed with a flirtatious wink. James and Lily smiled at him until they faded into Sirius. With a wave of his hand, Remus stopped the image from fading away and contemplated yet another image of a waving Sirius.

He chuckled at the waving and turned to the Mirror of Erised to consult his still clearly visible subconscious desire on what he ought to be doing now. In the Mirror of Erised, he saw Sirius grab his shoulders, turning him around. Sirius directed him to wave his wand over the old, scorched carpet then to light the candle in the ugly holder below the Requiem Mirror.

Remus froze, knowing the purpose of the candle and carpet. When its owner used a complex incantation and a strong intention to see the person again, an enchanted Ghiordes Arch carpet would summon a shade from wherever it went after death – with a Requiem Mirror focusing the intention and desire, the job was just that much easier - though the shade fought and screamed in pain. The Hades candle bound the shade to the flame as it fought being jerked from… wherever. The stronger the will and the more powerful the spell-caster was the brighter and more corporeal the shade would be – and the more agony the soul of the person summoned would bear.

Remus lived with pain – aches in his joints every month, his insides twisted ‘round to conform to another creature’s body, his skin stretched or ripped if the potion wasn’t quite strong enough and the agony of feeling like a puppet in some macabre show staged for the amusement of fickle gods. No, Remus would never subject Sirius to the physical and mental agony of the carpet and candle, just to fulfill the petty, selfish desire of seeing him again. Resisting the urge to look back into the Mirror of Erised and resolved to spend a bit more time with old Buckbeak for company, Remus left the room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Snape,

New Order - make a batch of Polyjuice Potion and deliver it when it’s ready.

Malfoy

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


“Bill… bill… bill- hey, I paid that- you rotten crook… advertisement for shampoo I can make myself…”

Malfoy Out Of Azkaban!
Malfoy in Ministry Lock-up for Trial

Lucius Malfoy has been brought from Azkaban
to stand trial before the Wizengamot on Thursday.
He will be staying in the deepest dungeon at the Ministry.
According to Auror Sloane Dawlish, there is a labyrinth similar
To the Gringott’s vaults underneath the Ministry building,
previously used as the main prison before Azkaban was
opened. Dawlish stated, “Malfoy has no chance
of escape.”

Last week, Malfoy claimed that his sister-in-law,
Bellatrix (nee Black) Lestrange, had put both
him and his wife, Narcissa (nee Black)
Malfoy, under the Imperious Curse
and forced them to give her
money, temporary lodging,
then forced Malfoy
to participate in vile
acts of Muggle torture and
the break in and subsequent battle
at the Ministry. As readers will recall,
Malfoy used the same claim thirteen years ago
to escape the Death Eater trials and did prove that
he had been under the Unforgivable. Bellatrix Lestrange
was charged and convicted of casting that curse then, though the charge was overshadowed by her conviction of the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom using the Cruciatis Curse.

The whereabouts of Bellatrix Lestrange and “Lord Thingy” as the befuddled Minister called You-Know-Who, are still unknown. The search continues in Wales, France and an unnamed source claims – Zimbabwe...

Kiaya put the newspaper on the table and shook her head, almost dislodging her scarf. Unbelievable- he seemed like such a nice man, it’s always the charming ones, she thought to herself, as though she’d had any experience with men, charming or not.

Clucking to herself, she finished reading her mail, wrote bank promissory notes to the various apothecaries and the dressmaker who’d made the dress for the ball (the blue and silver gown was hanging in her old closet in the attic – out of the way). She also wrote a polite letter to the cauldron company that dared to double bill her for a silver alloy pot- informing them that they must be wrong, she had the ledger from Gringott’s saying that they’d been paid.

Automatically, she looked at the calendar, though she knew it wouldn’t be another week until there was a full moon – and her period was due either today or tomorrow, damn it. Blood samples should start coming in from the four werewolves – men, she corrected herself in Mr. Basilton’s voice.

“Kiaya Roundtree, those men are just that – men. They aren’t animals; they have a disease,” he’d lectured until the day he died.

“But isn’t the Ministry in charge of finding a cure?” she’d whined in her most subservient-student whine during her first year as an apprentice.

“Newton Scamander is just like the critter he’s named after. He’s slick and slimy and more interested in controlling and exterminating the werewolf population for the Ministry. He’d rather throw some mythological Homorphus Charm at the child than find a cure,” Mr. Basilton had said with a sneer. The subject had been dropped.

Several years later, Kiaya dared to ask why he cared about werewolves so much when the rest of the world thought they were terrifying beasts that ought be put out of everyone’s – including Kiaya’s - misery. Mr. Basilton got so quiet Kiaya was afraid that he’d been gearing up to yell. Surprisingly, he didn’t.

“My grandson was bitten just after the turn of the century – a month before he was to marry a little witch from France,” he said quietly. “The French contingent withdrew the offer and dowry. The family was disgraced.”

“But what about …”

“I had only one son and he had only one son. Jocelyn never married, never completed his apprenticeship, and eventually ran off to Albania. He was reported dead less than a year later. I’m told a group of Muggle villagers hunted and killed him.”

Kiaya didn’t remember how she’d responded, only that she’d felt helpless at the old man’s lingering grief. He was normally so brusque that the change was disconcerting. She’d hugged him, Kiaya remembered that; Mr. Basilton had even tolerated the hug for a bit before ordering her back to work on his pet project.

Shaking herself out of history, Kiaya automatically snagged the latest notebook on the Lycanthropy potion and double checked last month’s notes. She’d promised to keep working on Mr. Basilton’s cure. While it may not be her main goal in life – not that she had one now that teaching was out – she’d fulfill her promise with the dedication that Mr. Basilton had expected of his apprentice. It really was interesting work, and she did enjoy it. Still, working with werewolves wasn’t pleasant, but as long as she didn’t actually have to be near any werewolves, she was satisfied puttering with the potion. She poked at the cauldrons simmering on the back table, noting thickness and color in the Cat Gloves + St. John’s Wort columns in the notebook, wrote the date and closed it up for another twelve hours.

Since leaving Hogwarts in a huff several weeks earlier, Kiaya had caught up on all of her projects and even started brewing for her regular clients ahead of time. Other than finishing the two projects on the table, Kiaya had nothing to do. Sniffing at the next cauldron, Kiaya poured three rounded tablespoons of coffee into the headache draught for Abercrombie’s Apothecary, brought it to a boil then let it cool. Tossing a small handful of floo powder into the grate, Kiaya called on the apothecary to let old Abercrombie, the son of older Abercrombie, know that the headache potion would be finished by the end of the hour. She handed him an invoice for twenty unlabeled bottles and elicited a promise that he’d send his grandson, young Abe Abercrombie to get the box. The apothecary was marketing the headache tonic and several other medicinal potions under the Abercrombie brand name – even though not a single Abercrombie in generations had made a potion. Since they paid Kiaya well for her product and silence, she didn’t care whose name they put on it.

While waiting for the boy, Kiaya poured exactly a cup of bundinium mucus into the fungus cure for the very creepy Mr. Borgin. She didn’t really want to know what Borgin had that was fungal, but he’d come with a recommendation from Lucius Malfoy, so she took the job of brewing gallons of the stuff, supposedly to clean his shop. After bottling the lot and taking a moment to rub at her cramps, she sent a note to Mr. Borgin saying that he could pick up his cleaner and owed her four galleons per bottle for the three gallon-sized bottles she’d made.

Thinking once again about her old mentor, Kiaya fetched three notebooks and settled into her desk chair, skimming over her notes on the tissue regenerative she’d used on Mr. Basilton. She’d done her damnedest to repair his lungs, but he’d been so old and the illness had swept through his body so quickly… Kiaya sighed. She’d had this conversation with herself so many times after his death and she’d convinced herself that she had no guilt over it, but when it came down to it, she did feel guilty. She’d tried and it hadn’t worked. The potion hadn’t worked – so it should be either binned or improved so that it did work, even in the worst cases. Mr. Basilton had only been one hundred eighty two. He’d been old, but he should have had another ten or twenty years, if the stuff had worked. Her great-great grandmother had made it to a ripe old two hundred and nine. She grumbled and groused then admonished herself – again in Mr. Basilton’s voice, that she was being selfish. The man had had a long, reasonably happy life. Why was she begrudging him having the peace and quiet of death, without any annoying dunderhead children botching up the simplest potions, ruining ingredients and disturbing his concentration with their mindless chatter other than for selfish reasons?

After much deciphering her own scrawl, discussions with herself and her inner Mr. Basilton (while ignoring her taunting inner Professor Snape) about a potion master’s guilt, work ethic and the go-back-and-do-it-again theory, Kiaya decided that if her own mentor could have a bete noir in the werewolf potion, she could have one with the regenerative. It would just be a thing to do when the rest of the work was done, but working on it would give her a healthy goal. Well… healthy despite that she’d be torturing frogs and rats on a daily basis. Alas, frogs and rats being maimed and healed under sterile and painless conditions would be better than someone’s child or mother being lost to the wasting disease.

An owl that she didn’t recognize glided in through the open window, dropped a small package on the desk in front of Kiaya and fluffed its feathers. The return address read only Mac Teery, Galway.

Dear Potions Mistress Roundtree,

Hello, I got your name from Remus Lupin, on the advice of Albus Dumbledore. He suggested that I write to you seeking assistance and offering myself as one of your test subjects for your research.

I met Remus Lupin, at St. Mungo’s hospital, where I was being treated for a werewolf bite. I was attacked in December of last year and have been in St. Mungo’s until just recently. Upon my release, Remus convinced me that I should do what I could to try to affect a cure for lycanthropy, instead of merely waiting for the Ministry to do something about it. I am told that the Ministry is not, nor will it ever, actively seeking a cure though several potions masters do make the Lycanthropy Potion for those afflicted at a steep price.

Remus told me that Dumbledore suggested that you might be able to provide the monthly potion at a reduced price, if I would, in turn send blood samples and make careful notes on my condition for your research. I would be happy to make this bargain with you, if you will accept it.

Please let me know, by return owl, if arrangements may be made, as the full moon is fast approaching. I have enclosed, on Remus’s advice, a sample of my blood, taken on the 12th of this month and another taken on the 16th. My mother will assist me in writing notes on my condition while I am incapacitated and they will be sent forthwith. I have also included pages from her journal recounting the attack, treatments and the monthly episodes that she has witnessed.

Thank you for your kindness and your consideration,
Macdonald Teery.

Snarling, swearing, and then sighing, Kiaya unpacked the small bottles of blood from the stuffing in the box. Noting that the stoppers were sealed with neither wax nor a spell, Kiaya poured the unusable blood into the sink, rinsed the bottles and packed them back into the box to return to her new charity case/test subject.

Cursing the ever benevolent Dumbledore, she wished for a small moment that he was still in hiding and not able to give ‘helpful’ advice to werewolves or anyone else – especially without consulting her about whether or not she wanted to be associating with any more bloody werewolves. Mr. Basilton would have loved it, saying that the more subjects they had, the more real work could be accomplished. Kiaya, however, was under the firm impression that three werewolves was three more than enough. It took several moments breathing deeply to control her temper and remember her promise to keep working on Mr. Basilton’s cure for Lycanthropy for as many werewolves that needed it, not just the ones she’d inherited from Mr. Basilton or her time at Hogwarts.

Kiaya set aside plans to work on her regenerative potion to pen a note accepting the young man’s offer and, on paper, being thankful for it. She packed several empty glass tubes, gave him specific instructions on blood collection and the transport thereof and included several spells and a small block of wax to seal the tubes. Thinking for a moment, she finished her letter in the most pleasant, professional way possible:

Please have your mother note how long the change takes and your behavior during the three days and nights of the full moon. It is imperative that she stay safe, but also that I know how your body reacts, in and out of the moonlight. If possible, secure yourself in a barn, empty room or other lockable space so that you do not harm anyone during you incapacitation.

I have enclosed doses for the five days prior to and the three days of the full moon, as well as three days after the full moon. Do not miss a dose, the consequences could be disastrous. When you send your notes, please include all journal entries for the previous month, with special notes taken during the new moon. Every two months, I will require blood samples taken during the new moon, please be prepared to do that, as well. In your notes, please note how the potion that I provide differs from month to month, your thoughts on taste, effects and on recovery. Also, please compare it to the potion provided by St. Mungo’s, as long as you can remember it.

I look forward to working with you.

Sincerely,
K. Roundtree

Kiaya vaguely thought that she might have been a bit condescending in the letter but couldn’t be bothered to rewrite it. Glad she’d stored another full dose set away last month, Kiaya packed it into the box, dropped the note on top and sealed the box closed with string and spells. She tied the box to the owl’s legs once it had hopped over and grasped the strings, just in case the bird hit nasty weather on the way back to Ireland.

Slowly organizing her notes to include a fourth werewolf, Kiaya contemplated a holiday someplace exotic and warm. Perhaps her mum could leave the bakery in Dad’s capable hands and spend a few days with her on a beach in Majorca or even Malta. She’d have to ask.