Moonbeamed Nuptials

CHAPTER TWELVE

Moonbeamed Nuptials

Friday 11 July – Wednesday 20 August 1986

Old Basford, Nottingham; Vale of Evesham, Worcestershire; Worcester and the River Severn.

Rated PG for drugs and pick-up lines.

"We need to try a higher dose this month," said Remus.

Ariadne looked as if she would like to argue, but she dutifully measured out three jackpots of Wolfsbane potion – one and a half times last month's dose. Remus tried to drink it with a straight face: he didn't want her to know how bitterly the brew punished his tongue, or how his gorge rose at each nauseous swallow. His heart hammered his chest for about ten seconds, while his bones shook and he was almost laughing, but everything had slowed to normal by the time he had relieved his taste buds with the peppermint mouth-wash.

"You're having convulsions!" Ariadne's voice sounded a long way away; then suddenly her tone was imminent again. "I've given you too much."

"It's stopped now," he said. "It wasn't as serious as it looked." He saw no need to mention that his chest and fingertips had become slightly numb.

"Your eyes are huge," she said. "I'm thinking we've discovered the maximum safe dosage."

Three days later, while Ariadne mixed potions for Professor Jigger, he found his mind racing. He was crouched between gooseberry and blackcurrant bushes, filling baskets with ripe berries in order to bring home five Galleons a day, and the work was absurdly slow and boring. He tried not to think about the simple Decerpo charm that would strip every berry from the bush in a second. He thought instead about wolfsbane. And the Runic dictionary that he had given to Veleta Vablatsky. And the Five Golden Rules of Classroom Management. And that if they had a wireless they could listen to Glenda Chittock reading the news. And that a blue-eyed witch had brewed a tincture of exactly the right strength to terrify the wolf, and now the wolf was cowering at bay. The wolf would never invade his mind again, while the woman with blue eyes was waiting for him at home...

Insanely, he found himself looking forward to the full moon.

It was on Saturday, after the ninth dose, that he noticed a burning pain in his abdomen. It lasted for perhaps five minutes before fading away. He decided not to tell Ariadne.

But on Sunday, as soon as he had taken his final dose, the burning sensation returned. Ariadne gazed at him for a moment, then said, "You're in pain."

"It's nothing."

"You're over-dosed," she said. "Why did you not tell me?"

"I don't feel overdosed. The potion makes me feel alert."

"I'm glad it's the last day," she said. "I'm thinking there's been too much build-up of lycoctonine in your bloodstream."

This time it was close to twenty minutes before the sharp tingling subsided. But it was worth it, he thought with reckless optimism, because he was thinking so clearly.

At sunset he went out to the garage and cast the Transparency charm on the door. "Let's not bother with the Silencer," he said. "I won't be howling tonight."

Ariadne tried to look disapproving, as if she wanted to tell him that he was over-confident, but Ariadne was adorably incapable of looking very disapproving about anything. He gave her his wand, saying, "You can lock the door if you want to," and walked through it

It was a shock when the first wrench of pain threw him forwards; he had almost forgotten that the Wolfsbane Potion did nothing to relieve the pain of Transformation. Still optimistic, he decided that Ariadne might be able to brew something to fix that next month. Meanwhile, he turned his head away from the door so that she wouldn't see his grimacing. His bones twisted, his muscles tore, and by the time he was lying comfortably on the ground, he was aware that he had a tail.

And he was human inside! He still remembered the multiplication table – indeed, the numbers slid through his mind faster than any human voice could have spoken them out loud. He still remembered the goblin rebellions. He still remembered the formula for Animagus Transformation. He even remembered the recipe for the Draught of Living Death, which he had certainly not remembered in his sixth-year Potions exam.

His mind raced. The words barakol, atropine, digitalin, strychnine and wolfsbane flooded into his mind – he remembered exactly what Ariadne had put into the potion. It had tasted vile, but... by the time that thought was completed in his head, he also knew that the worst thing one could do to a wolfsbane tincture was to mix it with sugar. He didn't need a text book – it was so obvious that sucrose would decompose the lycoctonine, leaving nothing of substance to drive off the wolf. He would tell Ariadne; while it had probably already occurred to her, she would be proud of him for working it out for himself. He actually turned his head to look at her through the transparent door, but in the process caught sight of his paws, and remembered that he couldn't actually speak.

The sight of her, kneeling beside the door, reminded him of her words: "The victim remains clear-thinking and fully conscious to the last second..." And then it hit him that the speed and clarity of his thinking was not at all natural. It was the influence of the wolfsbane. Ten days of taking a larger dose had augmented his intelligence. It was a pity that this was happening during the college vacation – it would have been an enormous advantage to think so clearly when he had an essay due. He would certainly ask Ariadne to give him wolfsbane next time he had an exam.

In fact, he would tell her that her experiment was an unqualified success, that werewolves were no longer dangerous, and that there was no longer any point in locking him away each full moon. She could convert the garage into a laboratory, and his childhood bedroom (which was really too small for all the brewing she wanted to do) could become a nursery, because they were going to have twelve children and live happily ever after... He lifted a paw and tapped softly on the transparent door. He even wondered if he should sit up and beg like a pet dog, but decided that this would be undignified. Sitting quietly should be enough to convince her that he was safe.

Sure enough, Ariadne seemed quite unafraid. She opened the door and let him into the house.

He nuzzled his head against her robes, careful to keep his mouth completely closed, then padded into the living room and settled himself on the hearth rug. Ariadne came to sit next to him, ruffling his pelt as if he were indeed her dog. Rather her dog than her devourer, he thought. Nothing could disrupt his good humour tonight.

"So it's working, is it?" she asked.

The sound of her voice was soothing. He nodded his head a couple of times, refusing to be frustrated by his inability to reply verbally.

"What – you're understanding English?"

He nodded again.

"Are you in pain?"

He shook his head.

"Perhaps the dose should be a little weaker next month."

This time his head-shaking was vigorous. He would tell her in the morning how amazing it had felt to be a genius, with all his neurons firing as fast as James Potter's ever had, and the sheer ecstasy of feeling human despite his hairy snout. Not only human, but practically an Animagus! James and Peter and Lily would have been so happy for him.

Her hand was stroking his head. "We should maybe sleep," she said.

He wanted to stay up all night, listening to her voice while his own mind raced companiably in parallel. But Professor Jigger didn't know that Ariadne had just changed the course of history; he would expect her at work at eight o' clock tomorrow morning as usual. So he lowered his head submissively, to indicate that she should retire to bed if she wished.

Ariadne laid her head against his flank. "Would you be able to walk safely thought Old Market Square tonight?" she asked.

He nodded, but he didn't think she saw. Her eyes were already closing. Telling her that she had successfully saved the world would have to wait until morning.

* * * * * * *

When Remus awoke he was stiff and aching, he was human again, someone had covered him with a blanket, and he was alone. He rolled over onto his back, and the first words to enter his exhausted mind were, "Oh, no."

Burning with shame, he remembered all his grandiose thoughts of the night before. He had felt so clever – so reckless. Werewolves are no longer dangerous... I'm a genius... look out for the dangers of sugar... you've saved the world... he had even considered taking the potion as a wit-sharpener so that he could cheat on his next exam!

The wolfsbane had certainly sharpened his alertness from the day he began taking it. Under the influence of the full moon his thinking had exploded into that swift, brilliant clarity, with a thousand thoughts tumbling one over the other. He had remembered all kinds of facts accurately, analysed them logically and synthesised them usefully... but the price of all this intellectual brilliance had been that his judgment of the real world had been completely awry. He had been full of how clever he was, how he would miraculously support a dozen children in this tiny house on a teacher's salary, how the salvation of werewolves had somehow redeemed the whole world from every evil... He had been wildly, ridiculously unbalanced and self-centred.

He was very, very glad that Ariadne had not heard his thoughts.

The Wolfsbane potion did nothing to relieve the morning-after exhaustion of lycanthropy. He huddled under his blanket, drifting between sleeping and wakefulness, aching muscles and stabbing head, wondering how he would break it to her that her potion held all the dangers of a hallucinogenic drug.

* * * * * * *

Ariadne was not discouraged. "Perhaps I should take a blood sample," she suggested. "Just to check that you're clear."

The blood-test indicated no trace of residual lycoctonine. "Lycoctonine is supposed to break down inside the body quickly," she said. "And it has. You could not have acted on your strange ideas in wolf form, and they are likely to be gone by moonset. But I'm yet thinking that thirty jackpots was more than necessary. Next month I'm wanting to reduce to twenty-four."

He conceded that she might have a point.

The next day he was well enough to return to work. Currants had given way to raspberries, but any other novelty value in the toil of picking berries the Muggle way had long since worn off. The weather was cool, and Remus thought longingly of centrally-heated libraries, shelf upon shelf of hard-backed volumes, quills Transfigured into biros, research essays and deadlines, fellow-students who needed help to decipher their notes... He reminded himself sternly that he wouldn't be able to afford to return to college unless he found a way to earn his book-money.

* * * * * * *

August brought cooler and wetter weather: the Muggles complained that "we haven't had a decent summer's day for over a year," while Ariadne observed, "I'm thinking Hestia has miscalculated."

Hestia Dearborn had just finished her apprenticeship at Chippendale and Hepplewhite's and had accepted a permanent-contract journeyship to begin in autumn. That left her with the whole of August as a holiday month, and Ivor had finally conceded that they probably had enough savings to justify getting married. Hestia thought it would be romantic to be married by moonlight on a cruising barge on the River Severn. It was obvious to Remus that any boat open to the moonlight would also be open to shrill winds and chilling showers.

At sunset on the wedding day he and Ariadne took the Floo to Worcester, where the public Floo was tucked away in a corner of the cathedral. The weather was already unpromising: Remus Conjured a couple of lanterns filled with blue fire, hoping they looked like something a Muggle was likely to carry. But they had hardly emerged onto the short path to the river bank when a Muggle on a bicycle accosted Ariadne.

"Hey, miss! Where did you buy them lanterns?" he asked enviously. "Why don't the flame blow out in the wind?"

"Cleverly designed, are they not?" she said, sliding her hand through Remus's arm to urge him away from the embarrassing conversation.

Ivor welcomed them aboard the barge (black, painted with vermilion flowers), and they climbed the few steps to the upper deck, where nearly a hundred guests were already watching swans sail into the sunset. There were red roses wound around the railings, and a string quartet of goblins was delivering Handel's Water Music. But Remus doubted whether there would be any moonlight, for the sky was cloudy and already spitting out rain, and an unpleasant breeze was stripping petals into the river. Ariadne hugged her lantern almost before she realised what she was doing – Remus abruptly Vanished it. It would have been bad manners, in public, to tell her that she had been right, Hestia had miscalculated.

The boat began to move into midstream, and at the same moment the skies opened the downpour. What was needed, Remus reflected, was a simple Declino. Would it seem unduly critical of their hosts if he cast it himself? Most of the guests were huddled together in dejected clusters, too polite – or too preoccupied with being wet – to ask Hestia's parents whether they could help. Silently casting the spell, Remus caught Kingsley Shacklebolt's eye across the crowd.

Kingsley winked at him just as the rain began to bounce away from the boat, around the invisible arch that Remus had Conjured above them. Kingsley flicked his wand slightly; he must have cast a Zephyro, for a second later a warm breeze was caressing the length of the barge. At that moment the goblins changed their tempo to the Largo, and Hestia walked up to the deck. She had emerged just a few seconds too early: her damp wedding veil was plastered to her shoulders.

Not to be outdone, Remus Conjured a brand flaring with orange fire, handed it to Ariadne, then Conjured a second for the stranger on his left.

Instantly, Kingsley Conjured his own brand, this one with fire that at a flicker changed colour through every hue of the rainbow, and handed it to the witch beside him. By its light, Remus noted that Kingsley's breeze was drying Hestia's veil before his eyes.

"You two are playing a game," said Ariadne. "But you're both a step ahead – as usual. I'm not recognising your spells."

Ivor, with the last of the rain streaming off his face, held out his hand to Hestia, and the goblins put down their violins. An Anglican vicar called the assembly to order. While he spoke, the rain beat down on the arch above the boat, then slid down around it to pour off into the river below. As the sky darkened, more of the guests began to Conjure flaming brands for themselves, although no-one else managed to reproduce the rainbow-brilliance of Kingsley's torches. It was only as the vicar was finishing his opening address that two clouds parted, and a sliver of crescent moon appeared in the sky.

Ivor and Hestia were able to exchange their vows by moonlight after all.

After the formalities the party continued in the hold below the deck. It was rather squashed: Dempster Wiggleswade took the cosy conditions as an excuse to pull Mercy Macmillan onto his lap, and it almost looked accidental when Ragnok the Pigeon-Toed shoved an elderly Dearborn aunt out of the last remaining seat. It was also very noisy: Remus found himself forcing his voice out so that Kingsley could hear him, while Ariadne did not attempt to speak at all.

"They look happy," said Kingsley, with a sad glance over at Mercy and Dempster.

Before Remus could think of a reply, the voice of Ivor's sister drowned out all competing sounds. "Witches are better at administration – it's well known that it would be a complete waste of effort to promote any wizard above middle-management level."

"A young lady who thinks for herself," said Remus.

"And who has no interest in a career in management," offered Kingsley. "The Holyhead Harpies have already accepted her as a reserve, and she hasn't a thought beyond professional Quidditch." He was speaking of Miss Jones, but his eyes lingered on Mercy Macmillan, who suddenly caught his gaze and flushed in an agony of embarrassment.

"... not in good taste," she mouthed to Dempster Wiggleswade – or something like that – as she slid off his lap.

Through the buzz of the crowd, the word "Quidditch" had carried, and Richard joined the conversation. "Are you talking about the World Cup? They'll be hard-put to beat the fight that the Prousticks gave the Magpies last week."

"That was sensational," agreed Kingsley. "I couldn't be near a radio until the last hour, but when Maddock came hurling down the pitch – "

"Old hat!" Ivor's sister interrupted them. "If Uganda would just allow a few more witches to play on its teams, the Prousticks would have beaten the Magpies easily. Maddock's an unstable player; his hard hitting won't compensate for his experimental ideas. Now, Richard, have you decided yet when you're taking me out to dinner?"

Richard batted his eyelids effeminately. "Gwenog, you look like an angel – welcome to Earth. If beauty were sunlight, you'd shine from a million light-years away. If you were a tear in my eye I would not cry for fear of losing you. You're like a magnet because I'm helplessly attracted to you. You're like a dictionary because you add meaning to my life. My tooth hurts because you are so sweet. Your legs must be tired because you've been running through my mind all evening. I'm a thief, and I'm here to steal your heart. So stand still so that I can pick you up."

Miss Jones seemed amused by the tirade, but Remus heard Ariadne saying, "Gwenog's maybe not read Sacharissa Tugwood's book of Flattery Fantasies." She was speaking to Sarah, almost kissing her ear in order to be heard.

Sarah was hanging off Joe's arm. She was resplendent in spangled ruby-red satin, while Joe hardly seemed aware that he was at a party – he was wearing black work-robes decorated with the amber logo "It's the real zing... BUTTERBEER."

"You don't know," said Sarah, "how many men have tried those lines on me seriously. They really believe that no woman has ever heard any of it before."

Remus couldn't help asking, "Isn't Richard serious, then? I mean, I know he's joking, but is there any kind of serious intention behind the madness?"

Ariadne and Sarah exchanged glances and both laughed. "Gwenog isn't Richard's type at all," said Sarah. "He wouldn't even go out with her..." she glanced at Joe, "as friends. The jokes are his way of refusing the invitation."

"Have you had any luck with flatmates yet?"

"Wonderful luck," said Sarah. "Kingsley wants to stay at Auror dormitories, so the boys don't really need their pig-sty any more. Richard and Joe will be moving in with me tomorrow."

"One more frivolous remark from you, Richard," cut in Miss Jones's stentorian tones, "and you'll find yourself a woodlouse!"

But even her voice was suddenly absorbed by a whistling gale, which pushed the barge down the river at an alarming rock. Remus put out a hand to steady Ariadne, only to find that she didn't need it. He looked at Hestia, so radiant that she seemed unaware how woefully she had misjudged the weather. He looked at Sarah, so unembarrassed about dressing to outshine the bride. He looked at Mercy, a kind and sensible girl who had nevertheless needed to be reminded that her indiscreet behaviour had such power to wound Kingsley. He looked Gwenog Jones, so utterly frank and uninhibited.

He looked at Ariadne, smiling quietly at her friends without making any attempt to force her gentle voice over the din. Surely other men were noticing that she was the most appealing and desirable woman in the crowded hold? The thought did not bother him. Ariadne had so magnificently kept the promises she had made on their wedding day, and now she was smiling directly at him, so miraculously happy about the dubious bargain she had received in return.

* * * * * * *

Three days later, Remus started drinking Wolfsbane Potion again. Ariadne still measured out three jackpots, but she didn't let him begin taking the potion until a week before the full moon. That meant Remus had only been dosed eight times instead of ten when the full moon rose.

"You've taken more than you did two months ago," she said. "I'm thinking there's no need for you to go out to the garage."

He lay down on the hearth rug, quite confident that Ariadne would be safe tonight. It was the first time since he was four years old that the rising of the full moon had not banished him from all human contact. This time he hardly noticed the pain of Transformation. It was almost a happy moment when he saw hairy paws stretched in front of him, and was able to think, "I must definitely learn some kind of sign language. Ariadne deserves to be told immediately when her experiments are working."

She knelt down beside him and ran a hand over his coat. "I'm hoping you can remember all the details tomorrow morning," she said. "I'll be needing to write up my results. I can tell it's working by looking at you. You've no idea how odd it feels to keep our conversation so one-sided."

He nodded his head. Of course it was odd not to be able to reply. But it was ecstasy that she spoke to him at all.

This time there were no extraordinary ideas. He had no thought of conquering the world, or having children, or cheating on exams. His brain was working at its normal speed. There was nothing but the sight of his paws and the swish of his tail to give any clue that the wolf existed. Tonight he was the same person inside the wolf's skin as he had been today inside his human flesh.

"Monologue is unnatural," said Ariadne after a while, "but reading is a performance." She opened the local library's edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets and began to read out loud.

"When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee...and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings..."

* * * * * * *

"I took notes," said Remus twenty-four hours later. "As soon as I was awake enough to hold a quill, I wrote down everything about last night, and everything about the last two full moons too. But you must be prepared for the possibility that my word isn't acceptable evidence of anything. People are quick to accuse werewolves of lying."

Ariadne scanned the page. "One case proves nothing anyway," she reminded him. "We're needing to replicate before we can publish."

"How many times? I'll happily drink your potion every month for the rest of my life."

"It's rather a question of whether we can persuade any other werewolves to try the experiment. Dearest, do you know any others? I could just request a copy of the Werewolf Registry and make formal contact with all of them, but I'd need to involve Professor Jigger to do it that way."

"We'll have to involve Jigger eventually," Remus pointed out. "But in the meantime... no, none of my personal friends has ever admitted to lycanthropy. The only person I ever heard confide such a deathly secret was that poor Muggle in Perthshire. Con...?"

"Connell Dewar. I've always wondered what became of him. We should maybe find out and ask if he'd like to help us."

They were interrupted by a swishing in the chimney as a sparrow owl swooped into the living room and held out one claw to Ariadne. It swept out again as soon as she had untied the letter, without offering her any option on sending a reply.

"We... it looks as if we have to return to Perthshire," she said. "We cannot ignore this."

She held out a scroll, and Remus read a completely strange handwriting.

Dear Mrs Lupin,

First let me congratulate your friends Mr Jones and Miss Dearborn on their marriage. I was with you all in spirit and only wish I could have been there in person.

You cannot owl me because they have made me Unsearchable. Usually I cannot owl you because all the owls in the castle are loyal only to the Macnair family. Today I intercepted a Post Office owl when they were not looking. So now I can finally write to you.

I do not know why you bother with me, and I only hope it is true that we were friends once. I think of you as a friend, and I do not have another friend. I watch you every day. At eight o' clock every evening, when my children are in bed, I watch you in your living room (I do not follow you to any other room). If you have nothing much to say I watch your friends Mr and Mrs Jones and Miss Webster and Mr Shacklebolt and Mr Campion. I do not mean to spy on you, but I listen to hear if any of you speaks of me.

Thank you for entertaining the lady called Madam Vablatsky six months since. That was a huge favour. She claims to be my grandmother, and I have to believe it, since her eyes are exactly like mine. So I finally know my real family. It seems you were correct all along: I am indeed a Vablatsky.

Please do not leave us in this castle. I cannot leave without my children, and they are kept prisoner here. I have three of them now. If I have to stay in the castle they will make me give birth to twenty.

If any of you has a message for me, speak it between eight and nine in the evening, and I shall know about it. But do not send me anything in writing. The castle is loyal only to the Macnairs.

I beg you not to forget me. But thank you for enabling me to sign my name confidently,

Veleta Vablatsky.