On a Windswept Cliff (1/9)
ON A WINDSWEPT CLIFF
Summary:
On the cliff top where the fearsome Lord Black once stalked, an outcast man meets a big black dog, and things are not as they seem.
Or: The Remus/Sirius gothic romance AU.
Characters: Remus, Sirius, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, all the Weasley kids, Albus Dumbledore / Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Words: ~21,000 / Chapters: 9
Rating: PG-13
Notes:
For this story, I owe many debts of gratitude:
…to cat63, who mentioned Whitby Abbey as having been an inspiration for Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” (“where the Count comes ashore in the form of a huge black dog…”) and first got me thinking about a gothic AU featuring Sirius;
…to penknife , whose wonderful story “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” is the very reason I believe Remus/Sirius and gothic AUs belong together (and if you haven’t read it yet, run quickly in that direction and do!);
…to Bram Stoker, though I’ve only borrowed a few Dracula nods here and there;
…to stereolightning, for beta-reading this story;
…and to J. K. Rowling, who made all this magic happen.
Grimmauld Abbey in this story is loosely based on real-life Whitby Abbey, which is gorgeous and gothic!
The story is completely written; I’ll post a chapter every couple days. (Or follow along on AO3, if you prefer.) And now, without further ado...
CHAPTER ONE
Remus J. Lupin, new caretaker of Grimmauld Abbey as of just today, stood atop the cliff and surveyed his modest domain.
There was no question that the abbey ruin, its jagged black silhouette looming against the burnt orange of a sunset sky, was a striking sight. Not far away, cliffs dropped to a narrow sand beach, and Remus imagined he could almost hear the waves that slapped against it, despite the wind whistling past his ears as it swept across the bluff.
From where Remus stood, the nearby village was hidden below the curve of a hill that fell away towards the river mouth, and there on the bluff Remus might have been the only man in the world.
That was good. That was why he’d come here.
As the sun sank the rest of the way into a bank of steely grey clouds at the horizon, its colours muting suddenly from fiery to diffuse, Remus thought he heard a dog howling. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in sympathy, so lonesome was the sound. It nearly made him want to transform into his Animagus form and-
No. Of course he didn’t want to do that. Remus never transformed without a very good reason, and he was certainly not going to do it now for a lark. That would be irresponsible in the extreme.
Shaking his head at himself, Remus wrapped his arms more tightly around his body as a sudden, sharp gust of wind from the sea buffeted at him. He turned to make his way towards the back of the abbey, to the small cottage that would be his home.
Home. A strange word to be able to say in connection with himself. Even a small and simple cottage seemed more than he deserved.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Remus woke the next morning well before he was scheduled to meet the woman who ran the small museum attached to the abbey. His former headmaster, who had pointed him towards this job and written his letter of reference as well, had described her as “eminently sensible” and heavily hinted that Remus should make contact with her straight away.
But it was far too early to expect her to be in the museum. Professor Dumbledore had said she had a large family, as well.
Instead, Remus made his way along the bluff to where a steep flight of steps hewn into the rock sketched a rickety zigzag down to the narrow strip of sand at the foot of the cliff. Summer was beginning, but this early in the morning the air held a chill that was invigorating. The rising sun was still low over the sea, mostly hidden behind scuttling clouds, but the few rays that did slip out tinted the east-facing beach in slanting light.
Remus breathed deeply, tasting the salt on the air, and tried not to think too many clichéd things about new beginnings and fresh starts.
He’d thought the beach empty, but a moment later a big black dog came bounding up to him, tail wagging in delighted greeting. There must be another way down to the beach at the other end as well, since the dog surely hadn’t descended those steep steps.
“Hello, there,” Remus said, rubbing the shaggy head that pressed eagerly against his thigh. “Where’s your owner, then?” But there was no one to be seen in either direction on the beach.
Yes, Remus acknowledged to himself, he was now living in the kind of tiny, far-flung place where people let their dogs roam about off the lead.
Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at least he was living somewhere. These last few years of itinerant grief hadn’t done anyone any good. It was time to re-join the living, as much as he was capable of doing, as much as he dared to do.
Remus spent a meditative half hour tossing a bit of driftwood for the big black dog, which seemed ecstatic to have company and thrilled to chase the stick as many times as Remus wanted to throw it.
Remus couldn’t help but appreciate the dog’s uncomplicated joy in their interaction. He’d always felt something of an affinity for dogs. How could he not, really, given his Animagus form?
As the sun inched upwards in the sky, approaching an angle more reasonable for the start of the workday, Remus gave the driftwood one last extra vigorous toss, then shook his head at the dog when it bounded up eagerly again, the stick in its mouth.
“Sorry, boy. Much as I’d be glad to stay here and play all day, I’ve got some responsibilities to take care of.”
The dog whined and gave Remus a piteous look.
“I know, but life’s not all fun and games, is it?” Then, feeling frankly ridiculous for talking this way to a dog, he added, “I’ll see you around, then.”
He could have sworn the dog gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement before it turned and loped away down the beach.
Putting that fanciful thought out of his head, Remus made his way back up the stone steps, across the wind-swept grassy bluff and around to the lee side of the abbey, where the squat little modern shape of the museum nestled incongruously against the weathered columns of the abbey ruin.
Before ducking inside the half-open door, Remus gave himself a quick check, making sure there was nothing visibly magical about his appearance. There was surprisingly little wizarding population in this area, given the Dark magical history of the abbey itself. That was much of the point of having a caretaker, in fact. His job was less about the physical upkeep of the building and more about making sure no pockets of residual Dark magic seeped out of the old stones or bubbled up out of the ground and caused harm to the unknowing Muggle population of the nearby village.
Satisfied that he had not left his wand poking out of his jacket pocket or any other such foolish thing, Remus stepped inside.
Behind a desk in the far corner of the open-plan room was a plump, pleasant-faced, red-haired woman in perhaps her mid-thirties, who rose and came towards him as he stepped inside the door. The room, though dotted with books and posters and display cases of objects relating to the abbey, was nothing like what Remus had been expecting. It looked more like someone’s cosy living room than a museum - let alone a museum attached to what had once been the power base of the Darkest wizard of the modern age. Then again, Muggles didn’t know that those legends were real.
“Remus Lupin!” the woman exclaimed as she came to meet him. “You must be Remus Lupin, aren’t you? The new caretaker?”
“Yes,” Remus said, disarmed by her warmth. “Yes, pleased to meet you. You must be Mrs Weasley?”
“Oh, call me Molly, please,” she said. “It’s all family here, really. My boys are underfoot a good deal of the time anyway, now the school year’s finished. You’ll see. Oh, I’m so pleased you’re here. Let me show you what we’ve got in here, and then we’ll do a tour round the abbey itself after. Would you like some tea?”
She waved a hand vaguely around them, at the cases and informational displays and stacks and stacks of documents on every available surface, then ducked behind a partition at the back of the room that turned out to conceal a small kitchen - everything Muggle-style, of course, with an electric kettle and a hotplate and a small basin for washing up.
As she set the kettle boiling and Remus looked at some of the displays, Molly chattered away, largely about the legends that surrounded the abbey.
“Most people who come here have read the book, of course. Lord Black,” she intoned, putting winkingly dramatic emphasis on the name that was both a novel and its titular character. “Ooh, folks do like a good vampire story, don’t they? Some come here wanting to know where he’s buried, or if the coffin’s still down in the crypt. I tell them it’s just a story of course.”
Of course. To most of the world, Lord Black was just a legend out of an old book, something spooky that induced a pleasant shudder of horror, as things that are confirmedly not real can do.
But for Remus and the wizarding population to which he belonged, Lord Black was more than a legend, definitively not a vampire, and the latest bout of horror and destruction that the Dark lord had wreaked was considerably more recent than the novel that fictionalised his first rise, a century before.
For some people, in fact, the destruction was personal in the extreme.
Casting about for something to distract himself from these painful thoughts, Remus said, “I was down on the beach this morning and saw a big black dog. I’d forgotten until you mentioned the book, but that was part of the legend, wasn’t it? That Black could turn into a dog at will?”
“Oh, yes, it certainly was,” Molly said. “And I know exactly the dog you mean. A sweetheart, isn’t he? I’ve always suspected some of the locals let him roam round like that deliberately, to drum up business among the tourists, you know, stoke the fires of the mythology a little. But no one will ever admit to owning him. Anyhow, he’s no harm. You needn’t worry.”
A friendly stray was really the least of the things Remus was worried about.
“How long have you worked here?” he asked, rather than dwelling any further on the “mythology” of Lord Black.
“Coming on three years now,” Molly said, and for just a second her otherwise expressive face went still and thoughtful.
Nearly three years, the same time that had passed since Lord Black’s final - and this time complete - downfall.
But surely it was a coincidence. What connection could a Muggle museum curator have to the true and permanent defeat of the real-life Lord Black? It certainly hadn’t been safe to allow Muggles into the abbey ruin until after Black’s second, more recent, reign of terror was over. Perhaps the place had been Disillusioned until then, and the tourist business had only started up again afterwards. A very obvious question Remus should have thought to ask Professor Dumbledore, and hadn’t.
They sat outside in front of the museum to drink their tea, the sun peeking out thinly now and then from behind scudding clouds, Remus endeavouring to follow the conversation and not allow his brooding thoughts to carry him away.
Had it been a mistake to come here, of all places, to the former home of the wizard who had murdered Remus’ dearest friends? But anywhere else he went was sure to remind him of his loss in some other way. There was nothing to do but grit his teeth and bear it.
Molly was chatting about her children now - “Seven of them, I know, I know, it’s a madhouse much of the time, but they’re dears, if I do say so myself. The two oldest - that’s Bill and Charlie - are already at Hogwarts, Charlie’s just finished his first year-”
Remus blinked. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“They’re at Hogwarts, dear, where else? Best school of magic in the world.”
Remus very rapidly and very thoroughly revised everything he had thought he understood about Molly Weasley.
She looked at him, then burst out laughing, “Oh, you didn’t think-? Goodness, thank you, I take that as a compliment, that I really can fly under the ‘radar,’ as they say. I do try, given that all the tourists who come here are Muggles. Bless them. Wouldn’t do to be heating the water for tea at wandpoint right under their noses, would it?”
Remus found himself speechless.
Molly’s brow furrowed in sudden concern. “Oh dear, I didn’t say something thoughtless, did I? I get so caught up in the fun of the legend as the Muggles know it, sometimes I forget how raw the real history still is. You didn’t lose someone in the war, did you?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Remus said, both pleased and dismayed to find he had lost none of his facility at telling protective lies.
“Oh, good,” Molly sighed, sinking back into her chair. “I get so used to talking to Muggles, you know, that I forget how things were for our kind. We moved here directly after the war, because Dumbledore thought there ought to be a witch or wizard working here, and Arthur - that’s my husband - had just got a post in town too, as the local Ministry liaison, so it all just seemed to fit. So we didn’t really live out the worst of the aftermath of the war, you know, we were rather removed from it. It was all just things we read in the papers. That poor boy,” she tsked, and Remus’ heart dropped into his stomach, because there was only one boy she could mean, and Remus didn’t think he could bear to exchange even a word about him.
“How about that tour of the grounds?” he asked, standing abruptly.
Molly looked at him curiously, but all she said was, “Of course. Let me just take these things back inside, then I’ll show you around.”
As Molly took the teacups inside, Remus stood and gazed unseeingly across the green fields beyond the abbey, breathing hard and trying to get himself under control. He could do this. He could live among wizards again; he could grow used to casual mentions of Harry Potter. Molly had taken him by surprise, that was all.
“Off we go!” Molly said, re-emerging and locking the door behind her with an impressive ring of brass keys she pulled from her pocket. “These will be yours, by the way,” she said, jangling the keys at him. “I’ve been filling in, while Dumbledore looked for someone to take over as caretaker, but really my role is the greet-the-public part. For the caretaker, we need someone who specialises in Defensive magic, as I hear you do.”
She peered up at him, seeming to expect an answer, so Remus said, “Oh, er, yes, I suppose I did specialise in that in school, a bit. It’s been a few years, though.”
“Good enough for me,” Molly said. “Defence was never my strong suit; I’m much better with Charms. And Arthur is just fantastic at Transfiguration,” she added fondly. “You’ll like Arthur. We’ll have to have you over for dinner soon.”
It was all Remus could do to bite back the urge to cry, No!
This was not right. This was precisely what he had been trying to avoid, getting into a situation where he would end up growing too dangerously close to anyone. And Dumbledore had sent him here knowing that Molly and Arthur Weasley were a witch and wizard, surely knowing, too, that Molly was the type who would want to adopt all strays into the fold of her family.
Apparently Dumbledore was still trying to get Remus to make friends, as if what had happened last time he dared to do so weren’t proof enough that that would always be a bad idea.
Molly led Remus around the abbey ruin, explaining where she took visitors on the tours she led and which spots were known for having a particularly Dark history.
“I don’t taken them right up to the altar itself, too many sacrifices and blood magic there back in the day. I think even Muggles would feel a chill at that spot, honestly,” she said, and Remus nodded, thrown once again by her matter-of-factness in the face of such a terrible place.
At the east end of what had once been the apse, Molly noted, “The entryway to the crypt was just here. It’s all filled in now, but Dumbledore says that’s the spot where they’ve had the most trouble with spells going haywire and such. You’ll want to keep an eye on that, I suspect.”
She sighed and looked out through one of the open archways that had once been a window.
“It’s terrible to think of the things that have been done here over the years,” she said. “Back during Lord Black’s first reign, all those years ago… It must have been terrible, if even Muggles got wind of some of it, enough to write their own stories about it. Vampire, indeed - bless them, it’s the only way they could make sense of someone so evil and so undead. And during this last war as well, after he came back from the not-quite-dead… I don’t know anyone who was affected personally, but it was a terrifying time for all of us. And yet… I think you’ll find it can be quite nice here, very peaceful, if you can set aside thinking about the history. The kids love playing among the stones, and I do think that says something. Maybe in another generation, it really will just be the pretty old ruin the Muggles think it is. I hope so, anyway.”
She shook her head, then turned to smile at Remus. “Well, I’ve certainly talked at you enough for one day. Have you got any questions?”
What Remus found himself saying was, “How do you know Albus Dumbledore?”
He himself owed the man a debt of gratitude, not only for finding him this job, but for dragging him back into society after nearly three years spent lost and wandering, grieving the loss of his friends and his share of the guilt in their deaths.
But those were memories he needed to put out of his mind, as impossible as that seemed.
“Well, who doesn’t know Dumbledore, really?” was Molly’s response.
She had a point. Nearly every adult member of Britain’s magical population had attended Hogwarts at some point, and Dumbledore had been at Hogwarts for what seemed like approximately all of history. Who didn’t know Dumbledore, indeed?
“He was looking for someone to work here, after the war,” Molly continued, “and when he heard Arthur was to be posted to the area, he asked me if I would consider taking this job. I was terribly flattered. Ginny - that’s our youngest - was only a few months old, and I wasn’t planning to start working again so soon. But Dumbledore seemed to think I could do the job, and he convinced me.” She smiled. “That’s Professor Dumbledore all over, isn’t it? He decides you’d be good at something, and before you know what’s happened, you’re already doing it.”
All together too true.
Remus gave Molly what he hoped was a neutral, pleasant smile.
“Anyway,” she said, “I should get back and open up the museum for the day. Here are the keys. They’re all yours, now!”
The key ring she handed him had a pleasant heft in his hand.
“If you’re not sure what something is, just give a shout,” Molly said. “I’m in and out of the museum all day. But I’ll let you go off on your own now and get to know the place.” She smiled up fondly at the grey stone arch that rose jaggedly above their heads.
Then, taking Remus by surprise, she reached out and rested one hand on his sleeve. “I’m glad you’ve come. It will be good to have a second pair of hands around here, and the eye of someone who really knows protective magic.”
Then she bustled off back towards the museum building before Remus could protest that that was the very last description that should ever be applied to him.
Remus spent an unexpectedly pleasant morning getting acquainted with the abbey, walking the building and grounds, casting revealing spells here and there to get a sense of what sort of residual magic was in the place. For the most part, the stones seemed peaceful.
The atmosphere as a whole was a melancholy one, up there on the windy bluff, but nothing felt immediately Dark or dangerous to him. Perhaps Molly was right; perhaps this could even be a place where he might find a modicum of peace.
In the afternoon, he took a long walk to get acquainted with the countryside: the river that cut along one side of the bluff to meet the sea beneath the abbey, the village nestled against the slope that rose from its other bank, the fields and hills that rolled away inland from the coast.
All in all, it was not so very different to the Welsh coast of his childhood. Surely he could learn to live in this place.
By the time Remus made his way back to the abbey that evening, the sun had set and the sky was a dramatic vermillion reflected and magnified by stratus clouds. He’d been out walking longer than he realised.
Remus was approaching the small cottage at the back of the abbey, patting his trouser pockets to find the house key, when a voice said, “You’re the new caretaker, I see.”
Peering through the twilight, Remus could just make out the form of a man, slouched against the side of the building, a curtain of hair obscuring his face. His voice, rich and dark and with a hint of amusement, curled out like smoke from beneath the eaves. “Liking it so far? It’s a charming place, I suppose, if you go in for that sort of thing.”
Remus stopped a couple feet away from the man. He still couldn’t make out more than shoulder-length dark hair and a pair of eyes, perhaps grey. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
The man chuckled, as if this were a particularly amusing thing for a man to ask a stranger he found lurking outside his house. “Sirius,” he said.
Remus waited. “Sirius…?”
No surname seemed to be forthcoming.
“Yes,” was all the man said. He pushed himself off from the side of the cottage, but crossed his arms, rather than offering a hand to shake.
“I’m Remus,” Remus said. He’d be damned if he was going to offer any more than he got.
“Remus,” the man repeated, as if testing it out. Then he smirked. “Pleased to meet you, Remus. I’d ask what brings you to our humble corner of the country, but I suppose I already know. You’re here to keep an eye on this old place, keep it from blowing anybody up.”
“Sorry,” Remus said, not feeling sorry at all, “but do you have a reason to be here? Because, actually, this is my house and I’d like to go inside.”
The man - Sirius - laughed, a bright, sharp sound utterly unfitting to his appearance, somewhere between a dog’s bark of greeting and a wolf’s yipping at the moon.
“Oh, by all means,” he said. “Be my guest.” He uncurled himself from his spot under the eaves and stepped past Remus, one hand just brushing Remus’ elbow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” he murmured. Then he melted into the shadows and was gone.
Remus blinked. By rote, he found the key, unlocked the cottage door, went inside, and bolted it again behind him.
Standing still on the other side of the door, he found his heart was pounding. Not from fear, though.
The man had been odd and peremptory in his manner - not to mention that he’d been lurking around in the dark like some nutcase, for Merlin’s sake - yet Remus hadn’t found him threatening.
If anything, there was something… intriguing about him. Something exciting.
Exciting? Had he truly just thought that? Excitement was the last thing Remus should be looking for here.
Very firmly, Remus shook his head at himself, set his keys down on the little table beside the door, and went to make himself something to eat.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
( continue to Chapter Two)
Summary:
On the cliff top where the fearsome Lord Black once stalked, an outcast man meets a big black dog, and things are not as they seem.
Or: The Remus/Sirius gothic romance AU.
Characters: Remus, Sirius, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, all the Weasley kids, Albus Dumbledore / Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Words: ~21,000 / Chapters: 9
Rating: PG-13
Notes:
For this story, I owe many debts of gratitude:
…to cat63, who mentioned Whitby Abbey as having been an inspiration for Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” (“where the Count comes ashore in the form of a huge black dog…”) and first got me thinking about a gothic AU featuring Sirius;
…to penknife , whose wonderful story “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” is the very reason I believe Remus/Sirius and gothic AUs belong together (and if you haven’t read it yet, run quickly in that direction and do!);
…to Bram Stoker, though I’ve only borrowed a few Dracula nods here and there;
…to stereolightning, for beta-reading this story;
…and to J. K. Rowling, who made all this magic happen.
Grimmauld Abbey in this story is loosely based on real-life Whitby Abbey, which is gorgeous and gothic!
The story is completely written; I’ll post a chapter every couple days. (Or follow along on AO3, if you prefer.) And now, without further ado...
CHAPTER ONE
Remus J. Lupin, new caretaker of Grimmauld Abbey as of just today, stood atop the cliff and surveyed his modest domain.
There was no question that the abbey ruin, its jagged black silhouette looming against the burnt orange of a sunset sky, was a striking sight. Not far away, cliffs dropped to a narrow sand beach, and Remus imagined he could almost hear the waves that slapped against it, despite the wind whistling past his ears as it swept across the bluff.
From where Remus stood, the nearby village was hidden below the curve of a hill that fell away towards the river mouth, and there on the bluff Remus might have been the only man in the world.
That was good. That was why he’d come here.
As the sun sank the rest of the way into a bank of steely grey clouds at the horizon, its colours muting suddenly from fiery to diffuse, Remus thought he heard a dog howling. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in sympathy, so lonesome was the sound. It nearly made him want to transform into his Animagus form and-
No. Of course he didn’t want to do that. Remus never transformed without a very good reason, and he was certainly not going to do it now for a lark. That would be irresponsible in the extreme.
Shaking his head at himself, Remus wrapped his arms more tightly around his body as a sudden, sharp gust of wind from the sea buffeted at him. He turned to make his way towards the back of the abbey, to the small cottage that would be his home.
Home. A strange word to be able to say in connection with himself. Even a small and simple cottage seemed more than he deserved.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Remus woke the next morning well before he was scheduled to meet the woman who ran the small museum attached to the abbey. His former headmaster, who had pointed him towards this job and written his letter of reference as well, had described her as “eminently sensible” and heavily hinted that Remus should make contact with her straight away.
But it was far too early to expect her to be in the museum. Professor Dumbledore had said she had a large family, as well.
Instead, Remus made his way along the bluff to where a steep flight of steps hewn into the rock sketched a rickety zigzag down to the narrow strip of sand at the foot of the cliff. Summer was beginning, but this early in the morning the air held a chill that was invigorating. The rising sun was still low over the sea, mostly hidden behind scuttling clouds, but the few rays that did slip out tinted the east-facing beach in slanting light.
Remus breathed deeply, tasting the salt on the air, and tried not to think too many clichéd things about new beginnings and fresh starts.
He’d thought the beach empty, but a moment later a big black dog came bounding up to him, tail wagging in delighted greeting. There must be another way down to the beach at the other end as well, since the dog surely hadn’t descended those steep steps.
“Hello, there,” Remus said, rubbing the shaggy head that pressed eagerly against his thigh. “Where’s your owner, then?” But there was no one to be seen in either direction on the beach.
Yes, Remus acknowledged to himself, he was now living in the kind of tiny, far-flung place where people let their dogs roam about off the lead.
Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at least he was living somewhere. These last few years of itinerant grief hadn’t done anyone any good. It was time to re-join the living, as much as he was capable of doing, as much as he dared to do.
Remus spent a meditative half hour tossing a bit of driftwood for the big black dog, which seemed ecstatic to have company and thrilled to chase the stick as many times as Remus wanted to throw it.
Remus couldn’t help but appreciate the dog’s uncomplicated joy in their interaction. He’d always felt something of an affinity for dogs. How could he not, really, given his Animagus form?
As the sun inched upwards in the sky, approaching an angle more reasonable for the start of the workday, Remus gave the driftwood one last extra vigorous toss, then shook his head at the dog when it bounded up eagerly again, the stick in its mouth.
“Sorry, boy. Much as I’d be glad to stay here and play all day, I’ve got some responsibilities to take care of.”
The dog whined and gave Remus a piteous look.
“I know, but life’s not all fun and games, is it?” Then, feeling frankly ridiculous for talking this way to a dog, he added, “I’ll see you around, then.”
He could have sworn the dog gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement before it turned and loped away down the beach.
Putting that fanciful thought out of his head, Remus made his way back up the stone steps, across the wind-swept grassy bluff and around to the lee side of the abbey, where the squat little modern shape of the museum nestled incongruously against the weathered columns of the abbey ruin.
Before ducking inside the half-open door, Remus gave himself a quick check, making sure there was nothing visibly magical about his appearance. There was surprisingly little wizarding population in this area, given the Dark magical history of the abbey itself. That was much of the point of having a caretaker, in fact. His job was less about the physical upkeep of the building and more about making sure no pockets of residual Dark magic seeped out of the old stones or bubbled up out of the ground and caused harm to the unknowing Muggle population of the nearby village.
Satisfied that he had not left his wand poking out of his jacket pocket or any other such foolish thing, Remus stepped inside.
Behind a desk in the far corner of the open-plan room was a plump, pleasant-faced, red-haired woman in perhaps her mid-thirties, who rose and came towards him as he stepped inside the door. The room, though dotted with books and posters and display cases of objects relating to the abbey, was nothing like what Remus had been expecting. It looked more like someone’s cosy living room than a museum - let alone a museum attached to what had once been the power base of the Darkest wizard of the modern age. Then again, Muggles didn’t know that those legends were real.
“Remus Lupin!” the woman exclaimed as she came to meet him. “You must be Remus Lupin, aren’t you? The new caretaker?”
“Yes,” Remus said, disarmed by her warmth. “Yes, pleased to meet you. You must be Mrs Weasley?”
“Oh, call me Molly, please,” she said. “It’s all family here, really. My boys are underfoot a good deal of the time anyway, now the school year’s finished. You’ll see. Oh, I’m so pleased you’re here. Let me show you what we’ve got in here, and then we’ll do a tour round the abbey itself after. Would you like some tea?”
She waved a hand vaguely around them, at the cases and informational displays and stacks and stacks of documents on every available surface, then ducked behind a partition at the back of the room that turned out to conceal a small kitchen - everything Muggle-style, of course, with an electric kettle and a hotplate and a small basin for washing up.
As she set the kettle boiling and Remus looked at some of the displays, Molly chattered away, largely about the legends that surrounded the abbey.
“Most people who come here have read the book, of course. Lord Black,” she intoned, putting winkingly dramatic emphasis on the name that was both a novel and its titular character. “Ooh, folks do like a good vampire story, don’t they? Some come here wanting to know where he’s buried, or if the coffin’s still down in the crypt. I tell them it’s just a story of course.”
Of course. To most of the world, Lord Black was just a legend out of an old book, something spooky that induced a pleasant shudder of horror, as things that are confirmedly not real can do.
But for Remus and the wizarding population to which he belonged, Lord Black was more than a legend, definitively not a vampire, and the latest bout of horror and destruction that the Dark lord had wreaked was considerably more recent than the novel that fictionalised his first rise, a century before.
For some people, in fact, the destruction was personal in the extreme.
Casting about for something to distract himself from these painful thoughts, Remus said, “I was down on the beach this morning and saw a big black dog. I’d forgotten until you mentioned the book, but that was part of the legend, wasn’t it? That Black could turn into a dog at will?”
“Oh, yes, it certainly was,” Molly said. “And I know exactly the dog you mean. A sweetheart, isn’t he? I’ve always suspected some of the locals let him roam round like that deliberately, to drum up business among the tourists, you know, stoke the fires of the mythology a little. But no one will ever admit to owning him. Anyhow, he’s no harm. You needn’t worry.”
A friendly stray was really the least of the things Remus was worried about.
“How long have you worked here?” he asked, rather than dwelling any further on the “mythology” of Lord Black.
“Coming on three years now,” Molly said, and for just a second her otherwise expressive face went still and thoughtful.
Nearly three years, the same time that had passed since Lord Black’s final - and this time complete - downfall.
But surely it was a coincidence. What connection could a Muggle museum curator have to the true and permanent defeat of the real-life Lord Black? It certainly hadn’t been safe to allow Muggles into the abbey ruin until after Black’s second, more recent, reign of terror was over. Perhaps the place had been Disillusioned until then, and the tourist business had only started up again afterwards. A very obvious question Remus should have thought to ask Professor Dumbledore, and hadn’t.
They sat outside in front of the museum to drink their tea, the sun peeking out thinly now and then from behind scudding clouds, Remus endeavouring to follow the conversation and not allow his brooding thoughts to carry him away.
Had it been a mistake to come here, of all places, to the former home of the wizard who had murdered Remus’ dearest friends? But anywhere else he went was sure to remind him of his loss in some other way. There was nothing to do but grit his teeth and bear it.
Molly was chatting about her children now - “Seven of them, I know, I know, it’s a madhouse much of the time, but they’re dears, if I do say so myself. The two oldest - that’s Bill and Charlie - are already at Hogwarts, Charlie’s just finished his first year-”
Remus blinked. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“They’re at Hogwarts, dear, where else? Best school of magic in the world.”
Remus very rapidly and very thoroughly revised everything he had thought he understood about Molly Weasley.
She looked at him, then burst out laughing, “Oh, you didn’t think-? Goodness, thank you, I take that as a compliment, that I really can fly under the ‘radar,’ as they say. I do try, given that all the tourists who come here are Muggles. Bless them. Wouldn’t do to be heating the water for tea at wandpoint right under their noses, would it?”
Remus found himself speechless.
Molly’s brow furrowed in sudden concern. “Oh dear, I didn’t say something thoughtless, did I? I get so caught up in the fun of the legend as the Muggles know it, sometimes I forget how raw the real history still is. You didn’t lose someone in the war, did you?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Remus said, both pleased and dismayed to find he had lost none of his facility at telling protective lies.
“Oh, good,” Molly sighed, sinking back into her chair. “I get so used to talking to Muggles, you know, that I forget how things were for our kind. We moved here directly after the war, because Dumbledore thought there ought to be a witch or wizard working here, and Arthur - that’s my husband - had just got a post in town too, as the local Ministry liaison, so it all just seemed to fit. So we didn’t really live out the worst of the aftermath of the war, you know, we were rather removed from it. It was all just things we read in the papers. That poor boy,” she tsked, and Remus’ heart dropped into his stomach, because there was only one boy she could mean, and Remus didn’t think he could bear to exchange even a word about him.
“How about that tour of the grounds?” he asked, standing abruptly.
Molly looked at him curiously, but all she said was, “Of course. Let me just take these things back inside, then I’ll show you around.”
As Molly took the teacups inside, Remus stood and gazed unseeingly across the green fields beyond the abbey, breathing hard and trying to get himself under control. He could do this. He could live among wizards again; he could grow used to casual mentions of Harry Potter. Molly had taken him by surprise, that was all.
“Off we go!” Molly said, re-emerging and locking the door behind her with an impressive ring of brass keys she pulled from her pocket. “These will be yours, by the way,” she said, jangling the keys at him. “I’ve been filling in, while Dumbledore looked for someone to take over as caretaker, but really my role is the greet-the-public part. For the caretaker, we need someone who specialises in Defensive magic, as I hear you do.”
She peered up at him, seeming to expect an answer, so Remus said, “Oh, er, yes, I suppose I did specialise in that in school, a bit. It’s been a few years, though.”
“Good enough for me,” Molly said. “Defence was never my strong suit; I’m much better with Charms. And Arthur is just fantastic at Transfiguration,” she added fondly. “You’ll like Arthur. We’ll have to have you over for dinner soon.”
It was all Remus could do to bite back the urge to cry, No!
This was not right. This was precisely what he had been trying to avoid, getting into a situation where he would end up growing too dangerously close to anyone. And Dumbledore had sent him here knowing that Molly and Arthur Weasley were a witch and wizard, surely knowing, too, that Molly was the type who would want to adopt all strays into the fold of her family.
Apparently Dumbledore was still trying to get Remus to make friends, as if what had happened last time he dared to do so weren’t proof enough that that would always be a bad idea.
Molly led Remus around the abbey ruin, explaining where she took visitors on the tours she led and which spots were known for having a particularly Dark history.
“I don’t taken them right up to the altar itself, too many sacrifices and blood magic there back in the day. I think even Muggles would feel a chill at that spot, honestly,” she said, and Remus nodded, thrown once again by her matter-of-factness in the face of such a terrible place.
At the east end of what had once been the apse, Molly noted, “The entryway to the crypt was just here. It’s all filled in now, but Dumbledore says that’s the spot where they’ve had the most trouble with spells going haywire and such. You’ll want to keep an eye on that, I suspect.”
She sighed and looked out through one of the open archways that had once been a window.
“It’s terrible to think of the things that have been done here over the years,” she said. “Back during Lord Black’s first reign, all those years ago… It must have been terrible, if even Muggles got wind of some of it, enough to write their own stories about it. Vampire, indeed - bless them, it’s the only way they could make sense of someone so evil and so undead. And during this last war as well, after he came back from the not-quite-dead… I don’t know anyone who was affected personally, but it was a terrifying time for all of us. And yet… I think you’ll find it can be quite nice here, very peaceful, if you can set aside thinking about the history. The kids love playing among the stones, and I do think that says something. Maybe in another generation, it really will just be the pretty old ruin the Muggles think it is. I hope so, anyway.”
She shook her head, then turned to smile at Remus. “Well, I’ve certainly talked at you enough for one day. Have you got any questions?”
What Remus found himself saying was, “How do you know Albus Dumbledore?”
He himself owed the man a debt of gratitude, not only for finding him this job, but for dragging him back into society after nearly three years spent lost and wandering, grieving the loss of his friends and his share of the guilt in their deaths.
But those were memories he needed to put out of his mind, as impossible as that seemed.
“Well, who doesn’t know Dumbledore, really?” was Molly’s response.
She had a point. Nearly every adult member of Britain’s magical population had attended Hogwarts at some point, and Dumbledore had been at Hogwarts for what seemed like approximately all of history. Who didn’t know Dumbledore, indeed?
“He was looking for someone to work here, after the war,” Molly continued, “and when he heard Arthur was to be posted to the area, he asked me if I would consider taking this job. I was terribly flattered. Ginny - that’s our youngest - was only a few months old, and I wasn’t planning to start working again so soon. But Dumbledore seemed to think I could do the job, and he convinced me.” She smiled. “That’s Professor Dumbledore all over, isn’t it? He decides you’d be good at something, and before you know what’s happened, you’re already doing it.”
All together too true.
Remus gave Molly what he hoped was a neutral, pleasant smile.
“Anyway,” she said, “I should get back and open up the museum for the day. Here are the keys. They’re all yours, now!”
The key ring she handed him had a pleasant heft in his hand.
“If you’re not sure what something is, just give a shout,” Molly said. “I’m in and out of the museum all day. But I’ll let you go off on your own now and get to know the place.” She smiled up fondly at the grey stone arch that rose jaggedly above their heads.
Then, taking Remus by surprise, she reached out and rested one hand on his sleeve. “I’m glad you’ve come. It will be good to have a second pair of hands around here, and the eye of someone who really knows protective magic.”
Then she bustled off back towards the museum building before Remus could protest that that was the very last description that should ever be applied to him.
Remus spent an unexpectedly pleasant morning getting acquainted with the abbey, walking the building and grounds, casting revealing spells here and there to get a sense of what sort of residual magic was in the place. For the most part, the stones seemed peaceful.
The atmosphere as a whole was a melancholy one, up there on the windy bluff, but nothing felt immediately Dark or dangerous to him. Perhaps Molly was right; perhaps this could even be a place where he might find a modicum of peace.
In the afternoon, he took a long walk to get acquainted with the countryside: the river that cut along one side of the bluff to meet the sea beneath the abbey, the village nestled against the slope that rose from its other bank, the fields and hills that rolled away inland from the coast.
All in all, it was not so very different to the Welsh coast of his childhood. Surely he could learn to live in this place.
By the time Remus made his way back to the abbey that evening, the sun had set and the sky was a dramatic vermillion reflected and magnified by stratus clouds. He’d been out walking longer than he realised.
Remus was approaching the small cottage at the back of the abbey, patting his trouser pockets to find the house key, when a voice said, “You’re the new caretaker, I see.”
Peering through the twilight, Remus could just make out the form of a man, slouched against the side of the building, a curtain of hair obscuring his face. His voice, rich and dark and with a hint of amusement, curled out like smoke from beneath the eaves. “Liking it so far? It’s a charming place, I suppose, if you go in for that sort of thing.”
Remus stopped a couple feet away from the man. He still couldn’t make out more than shoulder-length dark hair and a pair of eyes, perhaps grey. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
The man chuckled, as if this were a particularly amusing thing for a man to ask a stranger he found lurking outside his house. “Sirius,” he said.
Remus waited. “Sirius…?”
No surname seemed to be forthcoming.
“Yes,” was all the man said. He pushed himself off from the side of the cottage, but crossed his arms, rather than offering a hand to shake.
“I’m Remus,” Remus said. He’d be damned if he was going to offer any more than he got.
“Remus,” the man repeated, as if testing it out. Then he smirked. “Pleased to meet you, Remus. I’d ask what brings you to our humble corner of the country, but I suppose I already know. You’re here to keep an eye on this old place, keep it from blowing anybody up.”
“Sorry,” Remus said, not feeling sorry at all, “but do you have a reason to be here? Because, actually, this is my house and I’d like to go inside.”
The man - Sirius - laughed, a bright, sharp sound utterly unfitting to his appearance, somewhere between a dog’s bark of greeting and a wolf’s yipping at the moon.
“Oh, by all means,” he said. “Be my guest.” He uncurled himself from his spot under the eaves and stepped past Remus, one hand just brushing Remus’ elbow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” he murmured. Then he melted into the shadows and was gone.
Remus blinked. By rote, he found the key, unlocked the cottage door, went inside, and bolted it again behind him.
Standing still on the other side of the door, he found his heart was pounding. Not from fear, though.
The man had been odd and peremptory in his manner - not to mention that he’d been lurking around in the dark like some nutcase, for Merlin’s sake - yet Remus hadn’t found him threatening.
If anything, there was something… intriguing about him. Something exciting.
Exciting? Had he truly just thought that? Excitement was the last thing Remus should be looking for here.
Very firmly, Remus shook his head at himself, set his keys down on the little table beside the door, and went to make himself something to eat.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
( continue to Chapter Two)