(no subject)
August 4th, 1982
The morning of the full moon, Remus Lupin receives a letter from Albus Dumbledore. The owl that delivers it is large and tawny; it swoops through the window and drops the letter on Remus’ copy of Hamlet, which he is reading at the kitchen table. Remus does not very often receive mail any more, and it startles him. He has become unaccustomed to the constant coming and going of owls, which he took so calmly during his school days, and afterwards, when letters to and from his friends travelled back and forth daily. The owl lands on his shoulder and pulls his hair gently in her beak, and then leaves again, back out the kitchen window and into the pale blue sky.
Slowly, Remus opens the letter, recognizing with surprise the clear, slanting writing so particular to the Headmaster.
Dear Remus,
This letter does not, perhaps, reach you on the best of days, but I do hope you are well in spite of it. The timing is not to be helped.
Yesterday I went on business to Azkaban. I was just leaving, finished with my business, when I passed the cell of Sirius Black. He looked-not well, certainly, but alive. Coherent. Human, as many other prisoners do not. I spoke to him, and he answered quite intelligently, though without any of the humour he once possessed. He told me a story. A story I believe to have the appearance of truth. He told me he is innocent.
The full tale I would like to relate to you in person. If you would like to visit me at Hogwarts this Friday, it would be much appreciated.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
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Remus is used to desperation. By now he has absorbed it into his skin, to the point where without it he would feel truly naked. But he is only now realizing that the thing he is desperate for is hope.
That evening, Remus goes down to the basement cellar of his parents’ house. He bolts and bars the door, and locks it by magic. He puts his wand carefully into the solid wooden chest at one corner of the room, so that he does not step on it or chew it and break it when he is the wolf. He strips off his clothes and folds them carefully, setting them atop the chest. He wraps himself in a blanket, and waits.
The night is not any easier than it has been in the year since he last had the company of his now-broken pack, but it has lost some of the desperation that usually comes with the violence. The wolf, like the man, allows itself to hope.