No Fame can be Gained

CHAPTER ELEVEN

No Fame can be Gained

Monday 8 April – Friday 12 July 1991

Paris, France; Bisclavret (unplottable, but averred to be in Auvergne).

Though hurricanes rise, though rise ev'ry wind,

And I must deserve it before I can crave.

– Allan Ramsay (1686-1757): "Though Hurricanes Rise"

Rated PG for tragedy.

"...Et une tisane de menthe pour mon amie," Sarah finished her breakfast order. "Ariadne, I have to be at work for ten o' clock, but if we're quick, we can be at the Ministère de la Magie by eight. Our best bet is to request an audience at the Département des Jeux et des Sports Magiques."

Ariadne did not understand this term, but it did not sound like anything that would deal with werewolves. She had already realised how helpless she was in a country where she did not speak the language. Would the French wizards understand her limited Latin?

"Jean-Philippe Beaumont works there," Sarah explained, "and I think he'll agree to see us without appointment. Perhaps you remember him, Ariadne – an old boyfriend of mine?"

Ariadne recognised Jean-Philippe when she met him. Although he now wore a wedding ring, that did not deter Sarah from batting her eyelashes and lowering her voice. Monsieur Beaumont evidently understood that the flirtation was designed to non-amorous ends, since he neither became angry nor flirted back, but the result was that he agreed to help them.

"He says there isn't any Werewolf Registry in France," Sarah translated. "They don't need one, because their security measures are very, very efficient. All the werewolves are enclosed in one place, an Unplottable village in Auvergne. It isn't a place where they usually send tourists, but if we genuinely have business there, Jean-Philippe will organise a permit."

"Why doesn't Jonfileep know how to talk properly?" asked Matthew.

Jean-Philippe Summoned several documents, which Sarah signed, and there was a great deal more incomprehensible talk, as well as a great deal more eyelid-batting, before Sarah had a conclusion she could share with Ariadne.

"Jean-Philippe knows a Master Apothecary who might be willing to help us, a Salvus Remédien, and he's writing now to ask him to accompany you to the werewolves' village one day soon. We'll tell him that Wolfsbane Potion is a new medicine that has already been used effectively in Britain, and omit the part about the patent being refused."

"He'll check that part for himself if he has any professional integrity."

"Then we'll show him the published journal article before he thinks of doing it. You did bring your copy with you, didn't you? Jean-Philippe can arrange for a translation. Listen. Jean-Philippe has written you a Ministry Permit for the visit, but he'll have to withdraw it if the werewolves have any objection. Assuming they don't, it's an open-ended permit that will allow you to return as many times as you like, but you won't be allowed to spend the night there – you'll have to be out well before nightfall. As for today and tomorrow... well, since I have to work every day this week, there are several zoos, the Tuileries Gardens have puppet shows and donkey rides, and if it rains, there's the Cité des Sciences. Oh, and the Magicobus will transport you faster than the Muggle vehicles."

* * * * * * *

On Wednesday Maitre Remédien arrived in the lobby of the Muggle hotel dressed in the rust-red international uniform of an apothecary. Ariadne had not worried that she was wearing robes in Paris because her robes looked positively inconspicuous next to most of the garments worn by Sarah's fashion-industry friends, but she suddenly wondered how conspicuous they would look in the provinces. Maitre Remédien's limited English meant that she could not ask him about such abstractions; she tried: "Are there many people in Auvergne?"

"Not many." That did not answer her real question, but she picked up Elizabeth and followed him into a deserted corridor.

"I carry your boy," he said. "We all two take this key and it let not fall."

"Where's the key?" asked Matthew, not looking at the copper kettle that Maitre Remédien held out to them.

"It's a Portkey. We took a Portkey to come to Paris, remember?"

After a last glance to check that no Muggles had followed them into the corridor, Ariadne held onto the handle of the kettle, and a jerk through her navel told her that the Portkey had been activated.

They landed on a wooded hill, where the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure and the scent of wildflowers in the clean air powerfully evoked her Highland home. She saw mile upon mile of hilly green landscape spreading out at their feet, but Maitre Remédien placed the Portkey in his bag, and pointed in the opposite direction. "The village of werewolfs."

The village was a walled cluster of red, gable-roofed buildings, less than a furlong from where they were standing. Ariadne hoisted Elizabeth higher in her arms and began to walk a narrow path that sloped gently towards the red wall. "Why did the Portkey not take us all the way to the village?" she asked. "Can it not enter?"

"Yes, a Key... Portkey... can enter," said Maitre Remédien, "but the Ministère this permits not. If the Ministre see that our Portkey enter the village, he is very angry to us... uh... we pay to him big money. The Ministère wants we give to a werewolf our permit, and the werewolf... to us... permits to enter."

"What happens if a Muggle finds the village?"

"A Muggle cannot find the village. There is a barrier. Only the Portkey can enter, no other magic. A wizard enters the barrier if the werewolf permits, and not enters if the werewolf says no..."

Maitre Remédien was struggling painfully to express himself in English, so Ariadne asked only one more question. "What is the name of the village?"

"Bisclavret."

The path ended at the foot of the wall, and Ariadne saw that there was no gate. There was only a rope, which, when Maitre Remédien pulled it, caused a bell on the other side of the wall to clang. Above the ringing of the bell, they heard footsteps running, and an incantation, and then the bricks moved aside to form an arch, much as they did in the entry to Diagon Alley. Several people were standing beyond the arch, all staring cautiously at Ariadne and the children, but their faces cleared when they saw Maitre Remédien's uniform robes.

"Ah bonjour, Monsieur l'apothicaire."

Maitre Remédien spoke to them in French. It was startling how fluent and eloquent he sounded in his own language. He brought out a wad of paperwork and showed the Ministère's authorisation. He indicated Ariadne and apparently had great deal to say about her. The villagers looked surprised but not unhappy. Eventually the leader tapped his wand against the side of the arch and said, "Entrez."

Ariadne, Elizabeth and Matthew walked forward and found they could enter the village of Bisclavret. As Maitre Remédien followed them, the brickwork clacked, and the wall sealed itself smoothly against the world.

An elderly man wearing black robes and with long scars on his face tapped his chest to introduce himself.

"Pierre Gandillon."

"Ariadne Lupin," she reciprocated.

After another exchange between Maitre Remédien and Gandillon, Maitre Remédien informed her, "Werewolfs speak not English. All speak French."

"Oh dear, we were needing to bring Sarah. Monsieur Gandillon, I have brought medicine... can you explain that, Maitre Remédien?"

Maitre Remédien struggled, and eventually reported, "Monsieur Gandillon likes medicine. Now he shows to you the village."

It was as good a way as any of making friends, so Ariadne followed Pierre Gandillon as he showed them the watermill, the school tower, the Romanesque kirk, the centuries-old red houses along cobbled streets, and neat gardens of gentians and cornflowers.

* * * * * * *

Monsieur Gandillon invited Ariadne to visit them again, so Jean-Philippe Beaumont set her Portkey to carry her to the walls of Bisclavret at nine o' clock every morning and to return to Paris at six. It was Sunday before Sarah had the day off and could accompany her. By this time, the Bisclavret werewolves had almost as many questions for Ariadne as she had for them. So they sat in Pierre Gandillon's garden, eating blue cheese and brioche, while Sarah played interpreter.

"He says werewolves rampaged through this region of France in the sixteenth century. The Muggles were so terrified that they accused innocent people of lycanthropy and burned them at stake. In the end the Ministère de la Magie rounded up the werewolves and brought them here to Bisclavret. The barrier does not permit the werewolves to leave the village, and it is left to the discretion of the werewolves whom they allow to enter. But all visitors must leave before nightfall, so that there is no risk of their being bitten under the full moon. By the time of the International Statute of Secrecy... I should have listened to Professor Binns, Ariadne; I've forgotten when that was!... Anyway, by that time, there were no werewolves left in France, except here in Bisclavret."

"Ask Monsieur Gandillon if outsiders are friendly towards them."

Gandillon seemed to find this a difficult question. Sarah finally summarised his reply as, "Muggles neither believe in werewolves nor know about this village. The Ministère de la Magie sends food or medicine if the werewolves request it, but few wizards take any real interest, and visitors are rare. Because the werewolves have been isolated for three hundred years, they have no friends in the outside community."

"Ask him if everybody here is a werewolf."

"He says yes, everyone is bitten in the end. They try to protect their children's lives, but he has never heard of a villager who reached the age of seventeen having escaped the bite."

This surprised Ariadne, who had assumed that female werewolves could not have babies. She felt it was too early to ask about it, but Sarah's curiosity was not to be curbed.

"He says that most pregnancies fail, but there are always some children who are robust enough to survive. And... he didn't say this... but I imagine they don't have access to contraception. That would explain how they manage to replace their population."

Wanting to change the subject before Monsieur Gandillon guessed what they were saying, Ariadne suggested, "Ask him whether everybody here is a wizard." She felt she ought to know the answer to this question, but there is nothing like empirical evidence for testing out a theory.

"He says that in the days when the werewolves were first brought to Bisclavret, many of them were Muggles, but after ten generations of having only each other to marry, the magical blood has completely dominated. Every villager is a wizard."

For a moment it seemed that she might be wasting her time here. This was a closed community, posing no threat to outsiders, and so adapted to living with its curse that any insider who happened to remain wolf-free would not enjoy any real advantage. Why would they be interested in the Wolfsbane Potion? But she reminded herself of the plight of the British werewolves and her debt to Healer Smethwyck, and asked Sarah to raise the question.

Sarah, who had a vocabulary of several thousand words in both English and French to describe textiles and tailoring, had some difficulty in finding the technical terminology to describe the effects of Wolfsbane Potion. Monsieur Gandillon leaned forward, politely trying to grasp what she was telling him.

Suddenly understanding struck.

Pierre Gandillon burst into tears.

The horror that he was sobbing out was so unspeakable that Ariadne broke off the enquiry. Something had happened to him that was far worse than anything that had happened to Remus, worse even than the prank that Sirius Black had nearly forced him to play on Severus.

"Why is that man crying, Mummy?"

"He's had a very sad life," she said. "I'm thinking Auntie Sarah should look after him for a while. Let's go out into the field and feed the last baguette to the pigeons."

It was only ten minutes later that Sarah and Monsieur Gandillon followed them outside. Gandillon was composed again.

"Bad things sometimes happen to the people of Bisclavret," Sarah paraphrased, with a sidelong glance at Matthew. "They try to be careful under the full moon, but sometimes they escape and... do things they wouldn't do if they had their own minds. Monsieur Gandillon once woke up and found that... a child was dead. Things like that have happened to nearly all of them."

Ariadne found herself clutching at Elizabeth. She did not need to be told that it had been Monsieur Gandillon's own child.

Pierre Gandillon told Sarah Webster that the werewolves of Bisclavret would like to give a trial to the Wolfsbane Potion.

* * * * * * *

As Sarah went back to work in Paris, Ariadne had to give thought to how she would find enough herbs to brew Wolfsbane Potion for three hundred people.

"Wolfsbane's an Alpine plant, isn't it?" asked Sarah carelessly. "Can't you buy it in the Alps?"

"I can, but it'll be harder to find enough barakol, and it'll be difficult to justify to any normal apothecary why I'm wanting so much strychnine."

"What are friends for? I'm sure Salvus Remédien can authorise your supplies."

"Will he maybe give credit to a penniless foreigner?" The cost of the ingredients was worrying her too.

"No credit. I'm your financial backer, aren't I? It'll all be cash on delivery. That's right, Matthew, tell your Mummy. What are friends for?"

Two days later, Ariadne was piling her supplies and equipment in Pierre Gandillon's house. The wizards of Bisclavret had no skills in brewing. They had passed too many generations without education to know more than basic cheese-making and wart cures. They did not even have Pepper-up. When Ariadne came to set up her brewing station they politely showed her to an empty barn with a cauldron in the centre. Sarah made them understand that she needed a table, and Pierre Gandillon Transfigured a crude one out of firewood.

When the Portkey brought them back to Paris on Saturday, Ariadne found Sarah alone in their hotel room, white-faced with fury.

"Sarah, what's happened?" Sarah should not have been home so early; Ariadne expected a tirade about a supplier or a design or the manager or a new boyfriend. Actually, the last two were the same thing, although Sarah was still a few days short of recognising that her manager was her boyfriend.

Sarah tossed over the Daily Prophet without a word.

Ariadne saw the headline and sank down onto the bed. "This cannot be right..." she began. But she read the report slowly, and it still said the same thing.

Ivor was dead.

"We have to go home," she said.

"What, you'll abandon the werewolves?" asked Sarah.

"This is Hestia!"

"And it's the Macnairs," said Sarah. "Whatever rubbish they're publishing about goblins, we all know who it really was who wanted Ivor out of the way. It's the same people who've always been after you and are likely to come hunting you down next!"

"Even if they do, we still cannot abandon Hestia."

To Ariadne's surprise, Remus said the same thing as Sarah. "Sweetheart, nothing you do now can bring Ivor back. But it's a bad time to abandon the Bisclavret werewolves, and I think you'll put yourself – and the children – at risk from the Macnairs if you try it."

"But this is Ivor. He is certainly having a funeral next week, while we've no certainty that anybody else is at immediate risk. Should I exchange the certain good for the uncertain evil?"

"You should exchange the certain minor good for the possible massive evil, especially as you have work to do in Bisclavret."

"Just for the funeral. If we arrange it smartly we can be there and back in one day. But, Remus – I'm grieving too! I'm wanting to see Hestia and say good bye to Ivor!"

"I certainly think you should Floo Hestia," was the only compromise Remus would offer. For the first time in their marriage, Ariadne felt he was on the verge of giving her an order.

Hestia was pale and taut – was she never able to cry? "I wish you could be here too, Ariadne," she said, "but of course you can't. These are the same people who killed Caradoc. Now they've killed Ivor, because he knew they had given Veleta a fate arguably worse than death. You know at least as much about their guilty secrets as Ivor did – of course it's you next."

"Or you," said Ariadne soberly. "Or Kingsley – really, it could be any of us, or none." She reflected how extraordinary it was that they all knew why Ivor had died, yet the Department of Magical Law Enforcement maintained its position of ignorance, mystery, and refusal to acknowledge a potential risk to anybody else.

* * * * * * *

Pierre Gandillon's sister Antoinette came armed with a butcher's knife to act as Ariadne's assistant. His daughter Pernette was carrying a tray of wooden toys, and she indicated that she would take the children outside to play. Matthew understood her gestures immediately, and soon followed her out, chattering in a language that sounded remarkably like French.

"He speaks good," commented Maitre Remédien. "The childs learn always fast."

Sarah was able to translate Ariadne's first instructions, but she had to go to work at ten. Fortunately, Maitre Remédien did seem to grasp what they had been saying, and when two more villagers came to help Antoinette, he was able to direct them without help from Ariadne. Finally the strychnine was ground, the digitalin was crystallised, the wolfsbane flowers were shredded, and there was nothing for Ariadne to do but begin the distilling. The Bisclavret werewolves watched with interest. She smiled at them, touched that they did not find her linguistic deficiencies unfriendly or stupid, but very aware of the gulf of silence that separated them. Without being able to talk to her clients, she was now alone with her thoughts.

Ivor is dead. That thought had been hammering at her brain all yesterday, and now it had no interruptions. Ivor has been murdered, and Hestia is alone in Wales, while Sarah and I are in France. She had always expected Ivor and Hestia to walk into their sunset years hand in hand. If ever a couple had seemed destined to celebrate their hundredth wedding anniversary surrounded by a tribe of adoring great-grandchildren, it was the Joneses, who had belonged to each other so completely ever since they were eleven. The idea of Hestia moving into the future alone was unthinkable.

And it happened because we failed Veleta. Just one more minute... The thought had haunted her dreams... Just one more minute to make Portkeys, and Veleta's bairns would have been safe. Then Veleta could have told her story to Madam Bones, and the Macnairs would have been arrested before they had time to kill Ivor.

Now she must face the repugnant truth. Veleta's situation was horrific, but it was not life-threatening. They could not risk more lives for Veleta's sake.

This might be the end of all attempts at rescue.

Late that afternoon, the venerable Monsieur Remédien was seated on a wooden crate in a shaded barn. Ariadne lit the candles even though it was still full light outside. The Wolfsbane Potion was steaming and the villagers were queuing for their final dose. There was time to put the children to bed in Antoinette Gandillon's house before the moon rose. Ariadne did not like to leave them without any adult in the house (she had assumed Sarah would bide!), but they were safer alone than in the company of their new friends.

Out in the fields, the villagers were staring patiently at the horizon. Ariadne could see that the Master Apothecary was apprehensive. She wondered why she was not, then realised that she did not really, not truly, believe that all these people were werewolves. There were nearly three hundred of them – that was too many. When, at the identical moment, they all transformed into wolves, she found herself taken aback, and poor Maitre Remédien was trying to hide his shock. But it was almost more dramatic when they all lay down in one movement.

"Alors, ils se couchent tranquillement..." muttered Maitre Remédien to himself.

She was not sure what he had said, but she walked up to the Master and sat down beside him so that he would see that she was not afraid of the wolves.

* * * * * * *

"Maitre Remédien is saying that the case is clear," Sarah translated as she waved the menu. "... Listen, we have to discuss this quickly, because Nick Diamond's joining us at eight. C'est un Moldu," she explained to the Apothecary. "Il ignore toujours la magie. Anyway, Monsieur Remédien says that your potion obviously works, but that it isn't science until the phenomenon is replicated."

This concept was evidently news to Sarah. A waiter approached their table, and Sarah indicated a line of the menu without really reading what she had ordered.

"So next month you'll need to call Maitre Remédien up again. Yes, yes, he has the time, he's semi-retired. What's that? Oh, he was just saying that it's a fascinating potion, and he is honoured to participate in the process. But he needs to watch the werewolves three times... that is, the brewing, the effects under the full moon, and the recovery period for the werewolves."

Ariadne nodded, hoping that Sarah was not finding the educational process too painful.

"After Maitre Remédien has witnessed three trials, he says he'll make a report to the Ministère de la Magie, and they will grant a patent. At least..." The next part was obviously not a translation of any sentiment expressed by Monsieur Remédien, "... let's hope the French are more reasonable than the British in the medicines they're willing to authorise."

"What medicines?" Nick Diamond, Sarah's Muggle manager, had entered the restaurant ten minutes early. "Darling, who is your friend? His outfit would certainly turn heads on the catwalk."

"His name is Salvus Remédien. He's Ariadne's boss."

* * * * * * *

"It's a good thing you didn't come home," said Remus gravely. "The Macnairs haven't had an idle moment since you left. I had a strictly unofficial Floo call from Madam Bones, saying that some unnamed person 'knew for a fact' that you were brewing illegal potions just before the Full Moon."

Ariadne frowned at the fireplace. "But it's not illegal in France."

"So Madam Bones explained, when your anonymous accusers suggested you be extradited. The point is, the Macnairs aren't going to abandon the battlefield just because they lost that particular bout. I don't know if you've been reading the Daily Prophet, but the Aurors have closed Ivor's case. There isn't enough evidence to make an arrest, and it's all been written off as a tragic misfortune."

"We did read about that. Sarah's yet fuming."

"But it becomes worse. I tried to speak to Madam Bones again, and her secretary at the Ministry told me that she's gone on a six months' sabbatical to South America – she'll be Unsearchable for that whole time. So you've lost your surest protector. Ariadne, in all seriousness... don't come home."

"What?"

"You said that your French apothecary wants you to spend another two months in France. Do as he suggests; stay for a while. I'll join you when I can..."

She hung her head; she knew that would not be before his school term ended. It was a long time to wait to be together again, and now was the wrong moment to plead how much she had been missing him.

"... I'll join you," he repeated, "and we'll go somewhere else. Germany or Italy or wherever there are werewolves. Returning to Britain won't be an option before Madam Bones is home, and perhaps not even then. It depends on what else happens here."

"Remus, will you be safe?"

"Yes," he replied thoughtlessly. She knew he had no guarantees, and she saw that he knew she knew. "I don't know," he amended. "I'll try to stay out of trouble, and I'll leave Britain at the first hint of danger – even if it means abandoning my job."

"I'm knowing you'd prefer not to do that. But it would be better than – than having you as the next target."

After the fireplace flickered to empty, Ariadne had to move herself away from the public Floo in the bistro. She was surrounded by a swirling crowd of French wizards, chattering in French as they laughed and drank, and she was entirely alone.

Remus was possibly in danger. Veleta was definitely in danger. Healer Smethwyck was in Azkaban. Ivor was already dead. There were altogether too many people exposed to peril while she walked safe and free.

She did not want to talk to Remus through a public Floo. She was wanting him to be here, with his arms around her.

And she understood exactly why he could not be.

Remus was in England while she brewed the Wolfsbane Potion, under Maitre Remédien's careful observation, for the Flower Moon.

Remus was in England when Sarah, having finished her Paris assignment, announced that she was taking a holiday, and would stay with Ariadne and the children in a hired cottage in Auvergne. Despite the fact that it was officially a holiday, Nick Diamond drove down to see them every evening, and in the end he took a holiday too, in order to save himself the cost of the petrol.

Remus was in England when Pierre Gandillon asked Matthew, who was by now able to translate as competently as Sarah, whether there was anything that the villagers of Bisclavret could do for his mother. Ariadne handed Monsieur Gandillon the yew plank on which Remus had carved the counter-spell against the Macnair family, and explained that this must be preserved for all time in order to ward off an evil curse. The Gandillon family assured her that nobody ever came to Bisclavret, so the plank would be safe in an ancient chest kept in the vestry of their kirk.

Remus was in England while Ariadne brewed the Wolfsbane Potion for the Rose Moon.

Remus was in England while Salvus Remédien wrote up his observations as a proposal to the Bureau des Brevets in the Ministère de la Magie.

Remus was in England when Ariadne went into labour and gave birth to their third child, a son who was named David Ivor Lupin.

Remus was yet in England even when the Bureau des Brevets issued a patent for Wolfsbane Potion, to be brewed only by a competent apothecary as a treatment for lycanthropy.

Remus was not present when the Ministre pour la Règlementation des Créatures magiques shook Ariadne by the hand, and in carefully rehearsed English thanked all British apothecaries for their research into "preventing self-harm in werewolves". He promised her that Salvus Remédien or his delegate would henceforth be paid to visit Bisclavret every month and brew for the werewolves. He recommended that she visit Germany, and promised to write a personal letter of recommendation to his equivalent officer in the Zaubereiministerium.