"No problem. I always try to share, y'know? Put that energy out into the universe, incase one day I need someone to return the favour."
This kind of attitude, Remus has learned, is actually quite common amongst werewolves. He supposes it comes from living such unpredictable lives—being fired or evicted whenever their truth is discovered. Relying heavily on the charity of strangers and friends. There's no such thing as stability when you're a werewolf. Well, unless you have the good fortune of sitting in a train compartment with James Potter and Sirius Black one day.
"We're about to pass the last Petrol station for a while you lot," Arnold calls back to them. "If anyone needs a wee speak now."
There's some laughter, but no requests are made.
"Going once, going twice—" they speed past the station in a blur of colour. "Gone."
"I thought it was supposed to be "sold" not gone?" someone from the back heckles.
"Do I look like a fucking auctioneer McDavid?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
There's more quiet laughter, all of them turning back to their books or naps, or thoughts.
When Remus finally saw the farm house for the first time it was from a distance, down that dirt road, trees still blocking parts of it from view. It had been a sunny afternoon, not a cloud in sight, and while Remus had been nervous his guard had, admittedly, been down somewhat. And that's when he'd heard it.
Growling.
The hair on the back of his neck had stood up even while his brain screamed "no, no it's not possible". And yet, despite everything reason told him, when he turned his head the impossible had been right there.
Two glowing yellow eyes, staring out at him from between the trees.
The shock had paralyzed him, unable to move, to think, to grab his wand, as he stared into the face of a werewolf. A fully transformed werewolf. In the middle of the day. Weeks away from the full moon. Remus simply couldn't process a single part of that. And then, a second later, he felt claws and teeth sinking into his skin.
The wolf threw them into the trees on the other side of the road, branches and bushes whipping against Remus's back with such force they shredded his shirt. He had wondered, in a very detached way, if there was some sort of poetic irony in him dying at the hands of a werewolf.
He isn't sure how long it went on for, the wolf tearing him apart, Remus trying and failing to fight back. But eventually he heard a voice. Shouting somewhere in the distance. And then a howl. The wolf stopped, leaving Remus just floating there in the darkness, barely conscious. Eventually the weight on top of him disappeared, and the last thing he remembers before he slipped away completely, is the feel of a wet nose pressing against his cheek.
He was unconscious for three days after that.
"Here we are," Arnold says as he turns down that same dirt road, past the sign and through the trees.
Remus generally rather likes this drive. It's scenic. Calming. This bit though, right at the end, still makes his stomach drop. Phantom claws prickling his skin.
The main building at Lupercal is a large, ancient looking farm house. Wide, two stories tall, made of grey stone with rows of windows and a thatched roof. The lawn in front is luscious and green, some of the kids running around.
"Alright, get gone you lot, I have a busy schedule," Arnold says as he parks the camper at the end of the drive.
"Thanks Arnold," Remus says as he slides out of the car.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Start from the beginning
