Sweet Home 5 of 7

[sam_storyteller]

It was probably a good thing Greyson had reminded Remus of the Masques; as Hallowe'en drew near, it was all anyone talked about. People began to stop by the Lupin household, to speak with his father over tea about plans for the Masque and, as they always did, speculate on who would be taking part, asking if he'd brought down the masks yet. Somehow, before Remus was even born, the Lupins had inherited the job of keeping the moldering Masque props, in their equally decrepit trunk, from year to year; perhaps his grandmother's knack for craftsmanship had attracted the attention of whoever had kept them before.

"I wanted to be Queen at the Masques, when I was a girl," Alice said to him, the Sunday just before Hallowe'en, as they sat on the back porch after an early dinner and watched his father teach Hadrian how to clean and load the elderly rifle they kept to hunt foxes with. "Never really had the chance, after school."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," Remus said, leaning back a bit in the chair. He reached for the flask his father'd left on the table and poured a nip into his tea, offering her some, but she waved it away. "Were you at Hogwarts?"

"Yes -- I'd wanted to talk to you about that, too. I recalled you, vaguely, you know. You were in first year when I left, so I doubted you remembered me at all -- I think I only remember you because your Gryffindor friends were already making trouble. I didn't think you'd recall a sixth-year Ravenclaw named Alice."

Remus shook his head. "I don't."

"It's the reason I never did get to be Queen," Alice said, a trifle regretfully. "I was the sort of girl who's the reason boys aren't allowed in their part of the dormitories -- headstrong, a bit less concerned with studies than with other things. Augusta's the same way, that's why she's at Beauxbatons -- they keep them a bit more strictly in line there."

"You don't seem the troublemaking type."

"I'm not, now," she laughed. "One can't be, with two children. I was, then. I left school early, got myself into a little trouble -- it all ended right, though, or as right as anything ever is."

"Why would that keep you from being Queen?"

"Oh, well." She looked down at her hands. "You remember the rules. The Queen has to be unmarried. And can't have already had children."

Remus mulled this over, still confused, until pieces began to click into place, and a dim memory surfaced. "You're that Ravenclaw," he said mildly. She gave a rueful laugh. "The girl who left early, and nobody told us why."

"That was me. Augusta was due in November of my seventh year, and my parents felt it would be better if I simply didn't go back -- I'd had my OWLs, after all," she sighed. "I told you I was a troublemaker."

Remus was silent for a while, unable to think of a suitable reply. He knew from Hogwarts boys; he'd been one, after all. James and Lily'd always been careful, but just before Christmas hols, final year, Sirius'd had a bad scare over one of his many girls.

"Do you think less of me for it?" Alice asked, finally. Remus shook his head. "I wouldn't blame you."

"We all have mistakes in our past," he said reservedly, thinking of Michael Owens at the other end of the rifle, Severus Snape's revolted withdrawal from his touch, and the look on Hobson's face after he'd shot Lacon Chaney.

And then he didn't want to think about it anymore.

"Word in town is that Cole Grayson's picked you for the King of the Green," she continued, clearly as eager to change the subject as he was. "Do you know who'll be Queen this year?"

"Not yet. A Muggle town-girl, I imagine. Doubt it'll be the mystery it's supposed to; she's got to come by the farm to get the mask fitted to her sooner or later."

"Your father's brought them down, then?"

"Aye, and unpacked them. I'm to help him prepare them."

"Isn't that bad luck of some kind?"

"Can't think why. Means I can fit my own mask comfortably," Remus said, as Rufus helped Hadrian lift the rifle to his shoulder, sights set on a distant fencepost. "Are you sure it's entirely wise to trust the boy with a shotgun, when we still have to take away his slingshot?" he asked idly.

"I wouldn't worry. As long as Rufus is about, the chickens appear to be safe," she replied, just as lazily. They watched as Hadrian, Rufus' browned, thick-muscled arms around his, fired a shot, and a splinter of fencepost flew off. They fired the other barrel together, and then Rufus restrained Hadrian from going for the shells until he had shown him properly how to clean the rifle after firing it.

"I know you don't like me, Remus," Alice said quietly. Remus turned to look at her, stunned. "I know you don't like Augusta or Hadrian, either."

"Alice, you know that's not true -- " he began, but she shook her head.

"You have every reason in the world to dislike us personally," she said. "Hadrian and Augusta have stolen your father away; I'm sure you must look at me sometimes and compare me to your mother."

"You oughtn't say such things," he answered, because her frankness made it difficult to speak the socially acceptable lies on the tip of his tongue.

"And you have a few good reasons to dislike us on a general level, I suppose," she said, ignoring him. "Lord, Remus, I know Hadrian's not as mannered as he ought to be. It's been hard to raise him without his father -- hard for him to be raised without one. Rufus is a good man, but he can only do so much."

Remus watched his father support Hadrian's balance, the boy's hip tucked snugly against his shoulder as he crouched.

"Your husband," he said. "Hadrian's the reason he left, isn't he."

"Yes, and Hadrian knows it, poor boy. Muggle doctors said he hadn't even a chance of walking. The Healers were doubtful too, though they've done wonders. Magic still can't solve everything."

Remus gave a sharp bark of laughter. "That's true."

"He was afraid of having a crippled son. On top of Augusta being, well, a three-year-old, and us being married too young..." She shrugged. "There were days I wanted to run away too. I don't -- well, I do blame him, but I don't condemn him."

"You're in a confessional mood tonight," Remus observed.

"I think you ought to know these things," she replied. "I'm slowly realising, Remus, that you're here for a while, if not for good. You're not like the crops and the farmhands, you won't go away in the winter. Cole Greyson wants you to be King of the Green at the Masques because he wants you to be a part of the town again. Your father talks about tearing down the barn in the spring and rebuilding it, now that he's got your help. He's asked me about jobs for you in town."

"He has?" Remus asked, more startled by that than by the rest of her admission. She nodded.

"He thinks you're hiding out here," she said. "And he worries after you. Hallo my beautiful boys!" she added, turning away from him slightly to greet Hadrian and Rufus as they climbed the steps, Hadrian more slowly, favouring his leg as usual. He hugged his mother around the neck while Rufus dropped into a third chair, and Remus passed him the flask.

"Boy's a natural," Rufus said approvingly.

"You're a good teacher," Alice answered. "I'll bet you said the same thing when you taught Remus to shoot."

Rufus glanced at his son. "He was," he said gruffly.

"Were you?" Alice asked.

There was an explosion so loud Remus thought his eardrums had burst, and a puff of white smoke. Blood spattered across Hobson's red shirt.

Remus stared. It really doesn't show the stains, said a small rational voice in his head.

He dropped his hand and saw Lacon lying in the grass, a bloody, black-edged hole between his shoulderblades.

"Not a bad shot," Remus said, looking away.

***

Hallowe'en dawned crisp and cold that year, as it usually did, and Remus was awake to see it.

There had been a full moon on the twenty-fifth, but it was an unusually mild transformation, and he was up and about by the end of the week. A part of him longed just once for a Hallowe'en full moon, so that he could pass the wretched day distracted, and the awful night without conscious thought. It gave him a twinge; he should never long to be a beast at all. That way lay dragons he was not yet prepared to face.

He was on the road that led into town, intending to make the day as normal as possible, considering what it was; tomorrow they'd be celebrating, toasting the Boy Who Lived, or so his father told him -- the British, who had borne the brunt of Voldemort's tyrannous violence, took more notice of it than the Australians or Americans ever had, but Remus had never been in-country since it happened. Tomorrow he'd spend the day in his room, or perhaps walk out again in the opposite direction, through the fields and away from people; today he wanted to pretend it was just Hallowe'en, and not the day three of his closest friends in the world had died, betrayed by a fourth.

He could have taken the truck, he supposed, but the walk would do him good, and he felt the need for fresh air untainted by exhaust fumes. It wasn't too far; an uncomfortable distance if one was carrying anything, but all he had was his wallet in his pocket and an overcoat borrowed from his father to keep out the wind.

Perhaps, if he was going to stay here much longer, he ought to consider gainful employment. His meagre savings were being spent on books and food or a drink at the pub occasionally, which didn't amount to much. There were, however, various bills around the farm; if he ate his father's food and slept under his father's roof he felt he ought to pay him something, but since Rufus wouldn't accept payment from his son and they were both too proud for their own good, Remus simply intercepted the occasional bill, paid it with his own money, and sent it off without remarking on it. His father pretended he hadn't noticed, and both of them were satisfied.

After the Masques, he decided, he'd find some sort of job. Alice would know someone in town who needed a stocker, or a farmhand, or a clerk. Just enough wages to continue to pay his share, and set some aside.

Aside for what, he wondered, but only vaguely. You always set some aside. That was just what one did.

He reached the High Street just as shops were opening, and bought breakfast from the cafe across from Alice's bookshop. He supposed he ought to stop in and be pleasant for a few minutes, but he had nothing really terribly interesting to say. Besides, if she had books set aside for him or his father, as she nearly always did, he'd rather not carry them around until he was ready to walk home. He half-hoped to see Cole Greyson again; the man's cheerful politicking was numbingly comforting.

The woman at the cafe gave him an especially warm smile as he bought a cocoa to take with him as he walked, and he returned it (2.2 -- Genuine Pleasure, Formal) before stepping back out into the pale morning light. People nodded at him as he passed, or waved from across the street; most of the old families knew each other, and it hadn't taken long for them to begin recognising Young Lupin again, though they weren't on particularly close terms.

He stopped to look in windows, or duck inside to examine something more closely, but mostly he simply wandered -- down side alleys, across other streets, looping back around when his idle curiousity was satisfied. By the time he'd worked his way to the bottom of the street, he was ready to rest -- perhaps he wasn't all that recovered from the full moon -- and he settled himself and the dregs of his cocoa on a bench to watch the mid-morning crowd pass.

It was mostly pensioners and women with young children, interspersed with businessmen either late for something or very early. He recognised one or two witches who were friends of Alice; the magical community wasn't large, but one could always tell a witch or wizard. There was a certain air they had, a sense one got that there was a gap where a pointy hat and robes ought to be, instead of a sensible bun or an ill-fitting business suit. Some of them looked at him strangely -- perhaps they thought Old Lupin's son ought to be doing something more productive. After the third peculiar stare, he gathered himself up and threw out his cocoa cup, proceeding a little more efficiently up the street than he had on his way down.

Alice looked up from ringing up a customer when he walked in, and gave him a little wave; the woman buying books turned and nodded a greeting before paying for her purchase and accepting the plastic sack of what appeared to be travel books. A well-dressed young man at the front of the store was examining cookbooks one aisle to his left, and a woman nearby was reading the backs of crime novels; otherwise the shop was empty. Remus stood aside to let Alice's latest customer pass him in the main aisle, and Alice leaned on the counter as he dawdled his way over, pausing to inspect the books on the Newly Acquired shelf.

"Good morning, Remus," she said, but there was a strange tone to her voice he didn't recognise.

"Morning, Alice," he answered, ignoring it for now. "Business going well, I see."

"Yes, as well as it ever does."

"I was in town, I thought I'd see if you had any books for dad."

She bit her lip for a second, then reached under the counter and took out a few small volumes -- one on agriculture, two magazines, and a novel, tied up with twine. He picked it up by the knot and swung it in his fingers, fumbling for something else polite -- sociable -- to say.

"Chilly day out," he said finally. She nodded. "You be up to dinner on Sunday?"

"I think so," she said, still sounding strained. "I thought you and Rufus might stay in town Saturday night, after the Masque. Remus...have you seen the paper today?"

Remus cocked his head. "Why, has something -- " he began, and then stopped. "They ran the photograph again, didn't they."

She pushed a copy of the Daily Prophet across the counter at him, and he turned it around, sighing. He was never going to escape it; he'd be stuck there forever, in the photograph, looking out on the wreckage of his li --

-- of the Potter household.

"They hadn't, the past few years," he observed. "I wonder why they decided to this year."

"Sirius Black," said the woman in the Crime section, and Remus looked up sharply. She'd moved closer, and was now standing near the aisle entrance, watching them.

"I'm sorry?" Alice asked, curious.

"Black's escape last year. Stirred up interest," the woman said. "A lot of armchair detectives had a lot of interesting theories when they read that nobody knew where Remus Lupin was. I'm Athena," she added, holding out his hand. Remus regarded it warily. "Athena Smith. You're Remus Lupin."

Remus glanced at Alice, and then back to Athena Smith, who still had her hand extended.

"I'm not a journalist," Smith added. "I'm an anthropologist. Well, technically, a witanthropologist. I study -- "

"I know what a witanthropologist is," Remus said.

"You're one of the few, then," Smith said, dropping her hand. "Sorry to butt in, but I couldn't help overhearing. It must be very strange for you," she added, her glance sliding to the newspaper for a moment. "Seeing yourself on the front page like that. Look, they ran the same bit about you as before. 'The whereabouts of Remus Lupin are at present unknown'. You can't be all that hard to find."

"I doubt any of them are actually looking," Alice said disdainfully, snatching the paper back and tossing it into the trash. "I don't know why I even read that old rag, I'm sure."

"After all, I found you," Smith continued, and if Remus hadn't been tense before, he was now.

"Found me?" he asked, in a low voice.

"Yes," Smith continued blithely. "Well, I wasn't looking for you, per se -- my specialty's in Wizard-Muggle interactions, and right now I'm working on a book about Muggle traditions carried on from Wizarding ones. Your town's got quite the best harvest festival anywhere in the area," she added. "But I was naturally curious when I saw the man I was supposed to talk to about the arrangements was named Lupin -- your brother, perhaps?" she asked.

Remus stared at her.

"Well, at any rate, I thought Rufus Lupin was a bit too close to be coincidence, and look how right I was, here you are. It's the beauty of academia, one occasionally turns up absolute gems of opportunity. Can I buy you lunch?"

Smith waited expectantly for an answer, while Remus searched for his wits. "My father," he said finally.

"Beg pardon?"

"The man you want to speak to his my father."

"Fair enough, I'll buy him lunch too, if he's about, though frankly I'd rather pick your brain while I can, before I have to go back to my actual research topic. You don't mind, do you? Purely for academic purposes. I've long meant to make a study of the whole phenomenon -- "

"My life is not a phenomenon," Remus said quietly.

"Of course it isn't, I didn't mean you. Well. In part," she said, with a smile that was clearly meant to be reassuring but ended up slightly sharklike. "I meant the fall of You-Know-Who, and all the theories and debates and such surrounding it."

"I think perhaps you'd better stick to the Masques," Remus continued, in the same level tone that he was pleased he could maintain. "There are some thing people would rather not be stirred up."

"I'll take that as a polite 'no', then, and continue on," she said, not intimidated in the least. "The Masques it is then. Did you say your father was around?"

"He's at home," Remus replied. "We're a few miles out of town. We've no telephone or floo."

"It must be very pleasant. Would you show me the way? I've my own car..."

"I don't, I'm afraid I walked."

"Well, I'll give you a ride then, so long as you're not worried about me stirring up trouble," she said pleasantly. "Do you have more business in town?"

Remus glanced at Alice. "No, I don't think I do. Sunday, Alice?"

She touched his elbow, comfortingly. "Ask your father if the two of you can come have dinner with us in town tomorrow."

"I'll do that," he replied, and turned back to Smith, who was waiting expectantly. "I'd appreciate that ride," he said a trifle reluctantly, and followed her out of the bookshop.

***

There was a small workshop off of the farmhands' quarters in the old converted barn, and Remus and Smith found his father there; Rufus glanced up out the window -- once the top half of a dutch-door to a horse stall -- and waved a hand wrapped in bits of tape and padding at his son.

"Glad you're here, help me with this," he commanded, and Remus let himself inside, accepting the wire under-frame of the Queen's mask.

"You've done the nosepiece wrong," Remus said, examining it.

"Aye, trying to fix it, but the thing won't go. Hurts my fingers," his father said, holding up his hands.

"I've told you, it's arthritis, you need to see a Healer, dad," Remus said, forgetting for a moment the woman lingering in the doorway as his mind focused on the problem at hand. "Let me see the pliers. You've got to leave the loops for the silk to pass through."

"I know that," his father said, mock-sullenly.

"I think if you twist it up a bit -- have you fitted her for the mask?"

"Tiny little thing. Very narrow face. S'why I had to take all the silk out and do the wire properly. Fabric itself's still good, just got to re-thread it through the loops. Who's this?" Rufus added, and Remus, twiddling the sharp end of a bit of wire, turned to the doorway.

"Oh, sorry -- dad, this is Athena Smith, she's in to see the Masques. Ms. Smith, this is my father, Rufus Lupin."

"A pleasure to meet you, sir," Smith said respectfully. "Athena's fine."

"Athena," Rufus said gravely, shaking her hand before beginning to strip the joint-protecting padding off his fingers. "What brings you out here?" he added, and Remus saw the look in his eye. It was the same look he'd had every time any female friend of Remus' had visited the farm, over the years, even Lily -- the patented you're not good enough to be my son's young woman, but I'll be polite anyway look. He forestalled it quickly.

"Ms. Smith is a witanthropologist. She's in town to study the Masques," he said. "I came across her in town and she gave me a ride back."

His father nodded sagely, and perched himself on a stool in front of the workbench on which were spread the Court Masks. "Had a Muggle come through a few years back asking questions. Imagine you're no different. Pull up a chair if you'd like."

Remus gathered up the shoebox his father had put the Queen's Mask silk in and pocketed a pair of pliers. "I'll be in the house," he said. "Call me when you're ready to fit me."

"Could fit you now," his father offered, but Remus glanced at Smith and shook his head.

"I'll leave you two to talk," he said, and passed out the way he'd come in, while Smith looked around for something other than a dirt-encrusted milking stool to sit on.

He sat at the kitchen table, in the farmhouse that he'd grown up in, and worked the Queen's Mask as he'd seen his grandfather and father do it in past years. The frame was made out of vertical wires spaced every inch or so and adjusted to fit the Queen's face, held together with cross-wires. The verticals looped around them, and occasionally rose in little twists through which silk strips were bunched up and threaded, so that when it was fully fitted out it was a mass of horizontal strips of silk, the ends pulled back over or braided into the hair to hold the mask in place. The silk was white, but some strips were slightly yellowed with age, and would need to be replaced next year.

It was soothing, threading the silk through the tiny eyeholes, smoothing it so that it looked properly textured, evening the ends. He concentrated on that, and not the fact that in a few hours James and Lily would have been dead seven years, or the fact that he was here because he had nowhere else to go, or the fact that a woman was sitting in their barn asking his father questions she had no right to ask about the Masques. Surely his father would be proud that his son was King of the Green, and then she'd want to ask him a million questions, and he'd have to answer.

What if he didn't want to be King of the Green as Cole Greyson wanted him to be, and become a part of the town again? What if he wanted to hide out here on the Lupin farm forever? It was his birthright, this land, after all. What if he didn't want to answer anyone's questions?

He found he didn't want anything, really. He simply didn't care.

He laid the Queen's Mask on the kitchen counter where his father would see it when he came in. Gathering a small bowl of leftover roast chicken and cold new potatoes, he retreated to his room and locked the door. He ate lethargically as he read a book he later couldn't recall, and when the food was done, he set the bowlful of chicken bones aside and curled up on his bed, facing the wall, feeling all of eight years old again.

Harry was eight years old.

He was probably happy where he was. Professor McGonagall had been dubious, but Dumbledore was confident he'd be safe with Lily's sister. He was probably popular -- James always had been. That must have been difficult for the Dursleys, explaining to Harry who he was and where he came from, especially since they were Muggles. But at least Harry had a place in the world, a history, a future -- he had Hogwarts to look forward to, and Remus remembered all too well the despair he'd felt after the bite, when his parents had told him he shouldn't hope too hard. And the jubilation when his father had said he was still going to be a Hogwarts boy.

He fell asleep sometime in the early afternoon. It was full dark when he woke; he crept down, replaced his empty bowl with a full one of the soup his father had left on the stove for him, and returned to his room. The soup, heavy and warm in his stomach, made him sleepy again, and when he woke a second time it was November first, the morning Sirius had killed Peter. Remus was up at first light again, and lost himself for the whole day in the wild fields beyond the farm.

His father was waiting for him when he returned.

"Tis a hard day, lad," he said from the porch, as Remus slouched through the chicken yard, the fowl fluttering away from him as if he were a predator.

"Yes dad," Remus answered.

"Done with your wandering?"

"Dunno," Remus said, climbing the steps and leaning on the rail, hands in his pockets. "Done for today."

"That woman'd like to have a word with you, sometime," Rufus added.

"Don't doubt it."

"You still looking to be King of the Green?"

Remus shrugged. His father looked at him pensively, and Remus bridled, without reason. "Alice says you worry about me," he accused.

"I'm your father."

"She says you think I'm hiding here."

"Aren't you?" Rufus asked.

"What else is there for me out there in the world? I've been there. Dead ends and scars."

Rufus tilted his head slightly. "I didn't raise you to be afraid of a few hard knocks."

Remus pushed away from the railing and went to the back door, lingering there.

"You didn't have to. The world did that for me," he said, and vanished inside.

***

The next few days after Halloween passed more actively, and Remus hardly had time to brood on anything, which made for at least the appearance of a cheerful disposition on his part. A nearly steady stream of people -- the Masques planners and people organising the food -- came to speak to his father, who as keeper of the masks was more or less the decision-maker and ultimate mediator when it came to disputes.

The other Masquers came to see them too, to be fitted a final time; the litter carriers, four overly-muscled young men from other outlying farms, as well as the Maze Bull, the Wicker Man, and the Ladies, a small flock of young women who were herded into the workshop by one of the organisers, while they made eyes at Remus and talked amongst themselves.

He impassively fitted everyone his father sent to him; the faces of both men and women were nothing more than abstract forms, strange contours that had to be accounted for. He wanted to imagine it was simply that he was being a competent artist -- that in the eye of a craftsman, bone structure and flesh, shadow and highlight, were all merely shapes to be dealt with.

He convinced himself that was the case, which was why he felt nothing when he touched the faces of young women who clearly wouldn't mind him taking liberties, and equally nothing with the young men, who probably would have knocked him flat if he'd tried anything anyway. They were just forms for the masks.

"How does that feel?" he asked the Wicker Man, an older gentleman who was having issues with the chafing of the mask's bronze framework across his cheekbones. The Wicker Man's mask was the oldest, and in addition the most difficult to alter; most of the others had wire or cloth bases, but this one was simply a mass of chaotically interwoven bronze, too thick to be easily bent, and with too many gaps to pad the underside without it becoming visible. Remus had finally, surreptitiously, cast a padding charm on the mask. He'd catch hell if his dad found out, but it seemed the only way.

"That's much better," the man sighed, relieved. "I know it's been a lot of trouble, Remus, but I'm sure you don't want the Wicker Man running about sounding pained and forgetting his lines because the damn traditionalists won't let us make a new one out of sensible aluminum and spray-paint it."

"I suppose there's something to be said for tradition," Remus murmured, as the man undid the series of brown silk cords that tied the mask on. Remus lifted it carefully off his face and set it down on the workbench next to his own mask.

"I remember when I was King of the Green," the man said nostalgically, glancing down at it. "Bit of a cycle, that, too. When you're young every man wants to be King of the Green. You get to be an old bugger like myself and if you have to take part, you'd rather have somewhere comfortable to sit and watch."

Remus gave him a placid smile. "I expect things've changed since you were King."

"Not all that much, really," the other man said thoughtfully. "You'd remember, you were a page once."

"Sometimes I wonder if I do. It's blurry around the edges," Remus admitted, toying with the edge of his mask.

"It's not complicated, really. You go where they tell you, and the only really tricky bit is when you're up against the Maze Bull."

Remus lifted an eyebrow. "Don't they train to lose?"

"Yes and no -- he's a big strapping bloke, and it's well and good to say oi yes, I'll lose to this one, but once you get the crowd going and everyone's shouting and all, sometimes he gets a bit proud and thinks there's changes as could be made." The Wicker Man winked at him. "It's a lot of trust to ask of a young lad. You'll do fine, just mind what I said."

Remus gave him another friendly, noncommittal smile, thinking of the strength in his body that sometimes surprised even him, and ushered him politely out the door with all the usual pleasantries. The Masque would begin at sundown tomorrow, and there was a lot to be done; the word frantic might be applied to the activity in the house, but out in the barn it was peaceful, and he could go about his duties quietly and efficiently.

He liked being alone in the workroom with the warm silence surrounding him. Even if the quiet seemed to weigh like a small ball of lead in his stomach, and made the scar in his neck ache.

He laid out the masks on the table, one by one, accounting for all of them; Wicker Man, Maze Bull, King of the Green, Queen; Litter-bearers and Ladies. Neatly in order. The Litter-bearers and Ladies had already held rehearsals, and the Wicker Man had learned his lines. He was sure the Queen had been rehearsing the dance, too; in his childhood he remembered the women chosen as Queen would spend weeks practicing, as though it were the most important thing in their life, and not merely a silly town masque whose roots were a confused mixture of Norse and Brittanic tradition, with some Greek thrown in for good measure.

"They're not really pretty, are they?" a voice asked, and he looked up. Athena Smith, who had more or less dogged their footsteps all week, waved a hand at the masks. "I mean, you think about them and you automatically think oh, what lovely masks, but when you get a good look at them they're rather crude, aren't they? They don't match in the least, and even on individual merit, at best they're...well, they're good examples of folk art," she concluded.

Remus looked down at them. He'd never considered their aesthetic appeal. They were the masks, that was all. A strange hint of magic that the Muggles groped after for the fertility of their fields and their safety during the winter months. They weren't supposed to be beautiful or ugly. They told you what their wearers represented -- or, if you were a Masquer, they told you who you were and what you were supposed to do about it.

"I'd like to ask you some questions," Smith said, while Remus contemplated the masks, still not seeing them as objects of beauty or ugliness. "Perhaps tomorrow, while you're getting ready?"

Remus smoothed one of the silk strands on the Queen's mask, unnecessarily.

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, you're sort of the star," she said, with a small smile. "It'd be an awfully incomplete study otherwise."

"No, I mean, why are you here at all? What's so interesting about it?"

She shrugged. "Some Muggles spend a good deal of their lives chasing after things we take for granted. The Masques represent thousands of years of Muggles trying to achieve through sympathetic action what your or I could do with a flick of the wand. I find it tragic, and also quite wonderful. I don't understand it, really. And I want to."

Remus wanted to tell her that there was nothing to understand, that it was what it was, but arguing with her over it would be futile, so he merely picked up the King's mask and held it up to his face.

"What do I look like?" he asked.

"Like a man with a crude green mask on," she replied. He shrugged, and set the mask down again.

"Come a little before sundown," he said finally. "We'll talk then."

She nodded. "Thank you. I'll leave you to your masks, in the meantime."

***

Hadrian didn't get a mask -- the Pages never did -- but he did get a uniform, which included a long strip of cloth that covered his shoulders and fell to his knees. Remus was helping him struggle into it, the day of the Masques, when Alice appeared.

"Hadrian, stop troubling Remus, it's time for him to -- no you don't, young man," she scolded, as Hadrian tried to subtly transfer his slingshot from the pocket of his discarded trousers to the belt of his uniform. "Run along, and don't get your uniform dirty," she called after him, as Hadrian made his escape. "Remus, I've brought your costume," she continued. "You should be getting dressed, sundown's nearly finished."

"Mm," Remus answered, accepting the clothing and reaching for the mask, sitting on the table. "I'll wait on the mask until we reach the field."

"The Queen's already there," Alice answered, with a smile. "Almost everyone is. That Smith woman, the one you agreed to talk to, she's waiting outside."

"Could you tell her to come in?" Remus asked, stepping behind one of the shabby old screens, little more than muslin hung on poles, that acted as modesty-preservers. He began to unbuckle his belt, and heard a rap on the door of the workroom.

"Come in," he called.

"Already have," came Athena's voice, and he craned his head over the screen.

"Just be a minute," he said, shucking his trousers and pulling on the worn, tanned leather knee-britches of the King's costume. He'd seen versions of them in history books; bracae, they were called, and they'd no doubt come to the ritual when the Romans occupied Britain. Probably, he thought sardonically, not this pair. Though they were awfully ancient...

"I can ask questions while you're behind a screen," Athena replied, and he heard amusement in her voice. "Can you tell me what the King of the Green's job is?"

"Metaphorical or literal?"

"Metaphorical."

"Well, he's the god of the fair months, isn't he. I mean, he's the one who brings the spring and the growing seasons. You've got to please the spirit of the summer or the summer won't come, and the crops'll be ruined."

"That's a concern in this part of the country."

"We're farming folk."

"Then why isn't the Queen also the Queen of the Green?"

"Well, the earth doesn't die, just freezes over a bit. I think it's to do with the Persephone myth," Remus said, dropping easily into scholar mode as he laced up the trousers -- a bit loose, but leather was hard to alter -- and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"But that's a Greek myth," Athena observed. He thought he heard the skritch of quill on parchment.

"Yeah, but it's all a bit mixed up. This part of the country, you've got the Vikings coming down from the north and the Romans coming up from the south, and before that even you've got all the British tribes, fighting each other and intermarrying and carrying each others' brides off and all."

"Is the tradition that old?"

"Guess so. Dad's shown you the mask-keepers' logs, the earliest entry's sometime in the fourteenth century. Must've been a wizard too, it's magically preserved. We lose bits, when Muggles were taking care of them, but -- " he shrugged as he emerged from behind the screen and picked up the mask. He saw her gaping at his scars, but he ignored it; by the time he was done most of them would be covered anyway. "Some of these masks are pretty old. You can see where fixes have been made, but the Wicker Man's mask hasn't been replaced in at least four hundred years."

"H...how do you feel about that?" she asked, with admirable composure considering the shock he'd just given her.

"About what?" he inquired, reaching for a length of ivy, the thick-stemmed, durable stuff that they'd harvested from just outside of town that morning.

"Being a part of something so old," she said, watching as he tied a tight loop in the end and hooked it over his fingers, so that the loop lay across his palm.

Remus shrugged and wound the ivy up his arm, tying it off at the top by instinct -- as if he did this sort of thing every day. "I don't, really. Feel anything, that is."

"Do you suppose the Muggles do?"

He tied another loop and began winding the ivy around his other arm, a little less skillfully. "I imagine so. It's really their tradition. There's a few wizarding families, but we've never been in charge of the Masques except by Muggles choosing us."

She watched him as he picked up a green silk ribbon with a buckle on the end, and secured it around his neck. "Why do you suppose they do it?" she asked.

He glaced at her and picked up the mask. "Because it's tradition. Because it's a pretty good time, when all's said and done. Maybe they still believe in it a bit."

"And why do you do it?"

Remus paused.

"I was asked," he said finally, picking up a jar of deep rust-red greasepaint, working the nearly-solid stuff in his palms a bit before beginning to mask the scars on his ribcage with it. He picked up his wand and charmed a bit of wood nearby, stretching his arms as he felt the paint being applied to his back as well.

"That's all?"

"That's all," he confirmed, wiping his hands on a rag and picking up the mask. "And I'm afraid that's all I can answer," he added, as he tied the lacings behind his head. His and the Maze Bull's masks were fitted with biteguards as well as laces, in order to secure them more firmly in place; he felt the old molded leather, wrapped in cotton strips, slide between his teeth.

When he looked up, she was staring again.

"You look completely barbarian," she said, almost disdainfully, and he grinned behind the mask.

***

The fields where the Masques were held weren't far away, barely half an hour's walk from the farm, but he dawdled on his way; they couldn't begin -- they never did -- before full night fell, and the torches staked around the bounds of the field were the only light. By the time he arrived, there was a crowd gathered around the large, circular maze laid out with sand in the flat-pounded dirt of an unused field; from where he stood, hidden by a small copse of trees, he could see the dais on which the Wicker Man sat, and the bonfire-fuel opposite the dais, on the other side of the maze.

A hand touched his shoulder lightly, and he turned to see his father standing near him -- of course, Rufus would have kept a lookout.

"Nip to keep off the cold," he said, holding a flask to the mouth of the mask, and tipping it so that the liquid flowed fairly cleanly into Remus' mouth. The firewhiskey was like a jolt to his empty stomach, and he nodded his thanks as it warmed him to his fingertips. "Nearly time to start."

"Aye," Remus managed around the biteguard, as the crowd fell silent.

The old, creaking litter, with its crudely carved, leering figures, appeared through the crowd, borne by the men in the mud-coloured masks who were also stripped to the waist; on it sat the Wicker Man, his bronze mask looking almost alive in the flickering torchlight. Next to him sat the Queen, looking rather frightened if her white-knuckled grip on the litter edge was anything to judge by.

The litter-carriers had practiced, however, and they carried them smoothly around the circle before setting them in front of the dais, trailed by the Queen's court, the Ladies, who arranged themselves at their feet while the litter-carriers stood behind the Wicker Man.

Remus caught his breath, suddenly lost in the excited anticipation and hardly remembering that this year he wasn't going to be allowed to watch the King of the Green, because he was the king --

With a roar, the Maze Bull burst from a rather crudely-constructed hiding place under some timber in the bonfire fuel; he bellowed at the crowd and shook his head, cruel pointed mask-horns outlined against the sky. The Wicker King had been right; the Maze Bull was an enormous man this year, and he made several children scream as he circled the maze, snorting and stomping. There were lines spoken, but Remus hardly heard them; they were just traditional call-and-answer, a formality overridden by the action they were paired with.

The Maze Bull carried off the Queen, just as he was supposed to, lifting the small woman bodily and skipping over the lines of the maze to the centre, where he held her fast while the Queen's Ladies shrieked with appropriate dramatics. Remus came back to himself when his father shoved his shoulder, and he nearly stumbled into the clearing, past the bonfire timber and up to the edge of the maze. The Maze Bull bellowed.

He met the eyes of the Wicker King and saw a strange, almost sympathetic look there; the Wicker King had once been King of the Green, he remembered, and suddenly he was barely Remus Lupin at all. Something replaced him, and he remembered this feeling from when he'd been a Page --

And there was Hadrian, solemn-faced for once, coming forward to stand in front of him. Remus crouched, and the boy carefully blindfolded him, fingers knotting the cloth against his hair as the world was plunged into darkness.

"King, can you hear me?" the Queen asked, and he nodded, then again when she asked, "King, can you follow me?"

He took a step forward, then another, confident that Hadrian had moved.

His father had once said to him the maze-walk was about much more than following where you were led; it was a man's bond with the earth, trusting it to provide and in turn protecting it.

"Turn to your left."

He pivoted on his heels and toes, not stepping forward until she added "Three paces in a curve to your right, then turn to your right."

The Queen could see, even if she was kept by the Maze Bull; she would tell him how to pace the maze to reach her.

Some years it was more entertaining than others; some years the King of the Green had to try several times before he could even get onto the right path.

"One pace forward, then to your right again, and four paces in a curve to your left."

This year, however --

He stumbled, and brought himself up short; the Queen gasped, and waited until he'd recovered before continuing.

"Turn right, one pace, and then again four paces in a curve to the left."

But it wasn't about finding the Queen or an even trade, guidance for protection -- as he nearly tripped again, he realised there were spots dancing in the darkness, he was clenching his eyes shut so hard. He was tense, uncoordinated in the vast darkness of the maze, and lost.

It's a lot of trust to ask of a young man, the Wicker Man had said. The King of the Green was trusted by the people of the town; normally he hadn't been gone for almost a decade beforehand. And the King of the Green would know the Queen, would recognise her voice; Remus had met her twice, and she'd been barely a teenager when he'd left for America.

He stopped momentarily and let his shoulders fall, opening his eyes to the still-complete darkness inside the mask.

He'd trusted James and Lily and Peter, and they'd died; he'd trusted Sirius, and been betrayed. He'd trusted Dumbledore and he was the sole survivor of his House year; he'd trusted Alastor Moody and been abandoned.

"Turn to the left."

He'd trusted Hobson, and after the bite she'd shunned him. He'd tried to trust Severus Snape and been thrust away.

"Five paces straight forward -- stop!"

Paces too wide, he thought, as he teetered on the fourth pace. He shortened his stride as she instructed him left, one pace, right, two paces, turn about and four in a curve to the left -- stop!

He was going to mis-step and fail the maze-walk if this kept up. He drew another deep breath.

Gabriel.

Gabriel hadn't betrayed him.

Granted, he hadn't had the chance, but Gabriel had known everything about him -- who he'd been, who his friends had been, what he was.

And after all what was this, compared to that?

Gabriel, and after him Rufus, his father, men he loved and trusted; and after that, strangely enough, Alice Derwent.

He began to move more cautiously, allowing her voice to guide him, growing surer as the sound of it grew closer. He could hear the Maze Bull's heavy breathing, the rustle of clothing as she moved to keep watching him while he slowly circled the centre. His footfalls fell faster now, and her words came quicker as well; his heart began to race with anticipation of the fight ahead.

"Stop," she commanded, and he halted perfectly. "Turn to your left. Take one pace and come into the circle."

He stepped into the central circle of the maze and ripped off his blindfold as the crowd cheered. When he glanced around, he saw Rufus and Alice near one of the torches, but he was more concerned with the Queen, who ran past him into the maze, standing at the entrance as the Maze Bull faced him fully.

There wasn't any need for words, now; everyone understood what would happen. He dropped automatically into a wrestling crouch, and the Maze Bull did the same. Rationally he should have been thinking of tactics taught in Auror training, but all he could think of was the impending fight, throwing the Maze Bull to the ground, and a voice with a thick gallic accent saying quatre, advance, parry cinq, riposte quatre -- T'aurais gagné!

Their bodies came together with a dull thud as shoulder met chest, slightly off-centre. They grappled briefly, and Remus thrust the Maze Bull back; a charge nearly knocked him off his feet, but he danced out of the way and only caught a glancing blow in his side from the edge of one of the mask's horns. The ivy on his right arm ripped and came loose; he tugged the edge off and tangled it in the horns on the second charge, so that leaves hung in his eyes. Someone whistled in appreciation over the jeers and shouts of the crowd.

They threw themselves bodily at each other once more, and this time Remus got a grip around the Maze Bull's shoulders, though the horn nearest his face was pressing dangerously close to breaking the skin behind his ear. He surged forward and felt the first full resistance; the Wicker Man was right, and the Maze Bull was going to try to win. He pushed once more, and heard the Maze Bull's feet scrabble in the dirt. They both had the same idea, and their legs locked at the knee as they tried to kick each others' legs out; if one of them went down now, both would, and that would destroy the tradition.

He bent his leg, hooking it around the Maze Bull's knee, and gave way suddenly; the Bull stumbled forward, and Remus danced away again. The Bull was between himself and the Queen, now, and limping a little; Remus' breath came hard, but the only injuries he had were some shredded ivy leaves and the lingering ache of a fast-healing cracked rib.

"Give way," he urged softly, around the biteguards, and was rewarded with a bellow and another charge. This time he met the lowered head square in the chest, and heard gasps as the horns locked around his neck. A twist and he'd be thrown --

He tilted his shoulders and leaned back, then pushed up with his right leg and pivoted on his left; the Bull, caught off balance, hit the ground with a heavy thud, and Remus stumbled over him, righting himself fast enough to drop to his knees and wrap his left hand around the Bull's throat, the traditional victory sign. He saw the Bull's eyes darting beneath the mask, looking for a way out, but even the proudest of men would acknowledge the King of the Green's win, once the hand was around his throat. After a second, during which their eyes met, the Bull arched off the ground and let out a huge breath, doing a very convincing imitation of death as he slumped over.

The cheering crowd fell silent. As one, the litter-bearers and Ladies covered the torches, dousing them and plunging the clearing into darkness, illuminated only by the light of a sliver of a crescent moon.

Remus could hear the Bull rise and scramble out of the way, into the dark forest. He found his way to what he hoped was close to the centre of the circle, and met the Queen there, her white gown more visible than his own brown-painted body.

There was a flicker of light as the Wicker Man struck a match and lit a candle; the rest of the court, mostly using lighters (rather sheepishly, it appeared) re-lit the torches as Hadrian limped forward again, carrying an ancient music-box that normally resided on Cole Greyson's mantlepiece. He lifted the lid, and a simple melody emerged.

Remus held out his hand, and the Queen accepted it, drawing perhaps a little closer than necessary as their feet fell easily into the steps of the waltz played on the music-box. He led, slowly swinging them wider and wider, until they were crossing the lines of the maze, slowly scuffing them into oblivion. They were joined, as soon as they'd passed into the maze, by the Court, the Litter-bearers and Ladies helping to destroy the carefully-laid maze.

Then Cole Greyson led his partner into the dance as well, and Remus saw Rufus and Alice join in; soon anyone who had brought a partner was dancing, spreading the sand more or less evenly under their feet, while the Wicker Man watched impassively from his dais. When the music-box wound down, a fiddler struck up a more lively song, joined shortly by the odd little assemblage of musicians the town boasted -- a cellist, a flautist, and a penny-whistle player, plus a drummer with a tall drum between his knees. The dance picked up considerably, and Remus maneuvered the Queen carefully to the edges before stepping back entirely.

"Are you tired?" the Queen asked softly.

He nodded, and held up two fingers. "We'll dance in a minute," she translated, and he gave her another nod, stripping off the crushed leaves and the loose-hanging vine until all that remained was a rather sad, mostly leafless stem twisting around his left arm. He dusted off his legs and britches, accepted a little water from a bottle Hadrian brought to wash his hands with, and took a deep breath.

"I hate this part," the Queen said to him, laying a hand on his forearm. "Do we have to?"

He nodded again, and managed "S'traditional", though he garbled it somewhat.

"It seems cruel," she murmured. He shrugged and held out his hand, leading her back into the mass of dancing bodies. The townsfolk made way for them, and they eventually ended the dance in front of the Wicker Man's dais.

Remus helped the Queen back into her throne next to the bronze-masked man, and bowed to them both. He had never liked this part much either, but he recognised it as necessary, and as a child had possessed a slightly bloodthirsty attraction to it.

The rest of the dancers bowed or curtsied to the dais, and Remus dropped once more to his knees. One of the litter-bearers came forward, pushing between his shoulder blades until he was bent, mask-to-wood, over the edge of the dais, neck bared to the Wicker Man.

He could feel the heavy footfalls of the Maze Bull, though he couldn't see anything but the grain of the wood beneath him, and precious little of that.

Sacrifice, he could almost hear in the air. Once upon a time, this had been a real thing; once upon a time the King of the Green had bent his head to the Wicker Man in the sure knowledge that in a moment an axe would strike the head from his shoulders.

His breath was shallow and fast, and he tensed his shoulders; the litter-bearer released his neck and he stayed where he was, awaiting the blow.

The striking-stick was nothing more than painted balsa, and meant to snap; the Maze Bull, for all his pride, had been trained for this too, and brought it angling across the top of Remus' shoulders rather than his neck, though the audience wouldn't be able to tell the difference. There was a whoosh of something thin through the air and a sudden explosion in his ears, eerily reminiscent of a gunshot; he jerked out of instinct, but tradition took over, and as the Maze Bull had done, he slumped limply over as the wood split across the nape of his neck.

His head was lifted by the hair, and the knotted cord around the back of his head undone; the crowd roared approval as the Maze Bull lifted his mask away and held it up as if it were his severed head. He could hear the Court unmasking, and then the Maze Bull, and finally the Wicker Man; the Queen had braided the silk into her hair, and couldn't remove hers, but he could imagine her rising and bowing to the crowd as they applauded.

The link was broken, and he felt fully Remus again, for the first time since putting on the mask.

Finally there was a touch between his shoulders and a muscular arm helping him up. The Maze Bull shook his hand when he stood, and muttered "No hard feelings, mate," in his ear as he turned and bowed also, finally able to fully remove the ivy and duck his head under Hadrian's water-bottle, slicking sweaty hair back against his scalp.

The musicians struck up again as the bonfire was lit and the celebration took over where the tradition had ended. Remus threw himself down on the edge of the dais, leaning back against the steps to watch. Food was being passed around, and children running wild through the dancers; there were also small flasks and larger jugs being subtly handed from person to person, and when one of them reached him he took a healthy gulp, wincing as the alcohol stung the chafe-marks where the bite-guards had cut his cheeks. He handed it up to the Wicker Man, who patted him on the shoulder and passed it on as well. Athena Smith was lurking around the edges, taking notes again; he leaned over to where the Maze Bull was lounging and pointed to her, and the Bull laughed.

"Sure enough, Lupin," the man said, rising and crossing to pull her into the circle, leaving her notebook on the dais for the Wicker Man's safekeeping. As Remus watched them go, Alice and Rufus emerged from the crowd.

"Well done, Remus!" Alice cried, and Rufus gave him an approving grin. "That was brilliant. By the end of the maze you were almost running!"

"I had a good Queen guiding me," he said, glancing up at where the Queen was sitting. She smiled down at him shyly.

"Ask her to dance again, then," Alice urged. "A proper dance this time, not the traditional one. Go on, Helen, you know you want to," she added, to the Queen.

"Have a dance?" Remus inquired, and she joined him in the clearing. Someone pressed a flask on him again, and he drained the last bit that remained before they swung into a fast-dance with some of the younger townspeople.

After that there were the Ladies of the court to dance with, and as King of the Green it was more or less his duty to have at least one song with anyone who wanted to dance. He didn't lack for partners, though he would have been grateful for shoes, since dancing barefoot had its own perils. He should have brought boots with him, and perhaps a shirt as well, though he was warm enough if he stayed near the bonfire. Most of the children had gathered there, cheerfully setting marshmallows ablaze and tossing nuts into the fire to tell their future with -- led by Hadrian, who had stripped out of his costume and was enjoying the explosions. In the darkness, with the paint still staining his skin, his scars were barely visible. If anyone noticed them, no-one commented on them; they were all used, by now, to the gouge in his neck, and the stripes across his face.

Athena Smith had apparently been pulled into the celebration entirely; not very scholarly of her, but then she'd done most of her research beforehand, he imagined. He gave her current partner a mischievous look as he cut in for the next dance, and offered her a cup of wine from the cask nearby.

"Discover anything new?" he asked, as she sipped it.

"Many things," she answered, setting the cup down on the table as they passed, pausing in the dance for a moment.

"Such as?"

"You're awfully good at pretending to die."

"I've seen it enough," he said, before thinking.

"Have you now?"

"Once or twice."

"Adds a dimension of realism, I suppose," she observed. "Did you enjoy it?"

"It's not really something one enjoys. One appreciates the experience, or doesn't."

"And do you?"

"I do."

"The Maze Bull didn't want to lose, did he."

"No, he didn't."

"Are you hurt at all?"

"Not really, no. I'll be sore a little while, I suppose."

"Is it magic?"

"Of a sort."

"Not our sort?"

"No, not our sort."

"Do you ever think about Harry Potter?"

"Not as often as I should," he said, before he'd thought about it. Her questions had been so rapid-fire that he'd been answering automatically, and the words had escaped while his mind was elsewhere. He stopped moving, in the middle of the dance floor, and stepped away from her.

"I was curious and didn't know how else to ask," she explained.

"You'd have done better to stifle your curiousity, I think," he answered coldly, backing away -- into a dancing couple, who laughed and shoved him a bit. "I don't think you should stay too much longer," he hissed. She looked stunned, but he didn't care; he fled the dancing-circle, reaching the far side of the bonfire before stopping. He was shivering, and the flames didn't warm him any longer. It was his duty to stay until the celebration was done, but he wanted to keep as far away from Athena Smith as possible.

"Remus?"

He turned, nerves strung so tightly that he almost fell into defensive posture from his Auror training; it was only Alice, carrying a thick brown jumper and trailed by Hadrian, who had a rag and a bowlful of water.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "I scrounged a jumper for you, but you have to wash first..."

"Oh -- er, thank you," he said, accepting the bowl and rag, cleaning the paint off sloppily, spilling water on the ground. Hadrian and Alice waited until he was done, and then Alice took the rag, gently brushing away a few streaks he'd missed. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him when they hadn't actively been trying to kill him, and it was a strange sensation.

"Thanks," he repeated stupidly, as he struggled into the jumper. It was slightly too big, but all the more welcome for that.

"Hadrian, take those back to the table, there's a boy, and then you can run on and join your friends," Alice ordered, and Hadrian vanished with a shy grin at Remus. "He was very impressed with you tonight."

"He didn't do badly himself," Remus answered, adjusting the fall of the jumper across his shoulders.

"It was a good year, wasn't it? Everything went very well."

He shrugged. She smiled at him.

"Now, Remus, are you going to give me a dance?" she asked. "You've danced with everyone else, and your father's busy minding the children..."

"If you like," he said. She offered him her hand, and he followed her back into the crowd, which was thinning a little as people drifted over to the food.

She was a competent dancer, if not a great one, and he let her lead, since she seemed to want to. He felt warm and clean, and somewhat satisfied; the wash and warm clothing had been exactly what he needed after the shock of Alice's question and his own answer.

Not as often as I should, he'd said. It was true he'd forgotten Harry's birthday, but it wasn't as though he had any claim on the boy. Or responsibility to him, for that matter. Not even as much a one as he had to Hadrian, who was as good as his brother. Harry and Hadrian would be about the same age...

"You look exhausted," Alice observed. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes -- fine. Bit sore, that's all," he lied. "Cup or two of wine will set me right."

Chapter 6