In League with the Devil

Rain clouds hung heavily over Diagon Alley; the last lights had gone out at Flourish & Blotts, and a few late pedestrians were hurrying back into the warmth of the Leaky Cauldron. A huge, golden sign on the wall of a narrow house down the road said “DAILY PROPHET”, but most of the windows of the editorial office were dark; the Evening Prophet had just gone to press (without any spectacular headlines), and the droning sound of the printing machines in the basement (handled by a dozen house elves) was ignored by the few employees still sitting behind their desks.

The large, windowed office of chief editor Barnabas Cuffe – relentlessly tidy as ever - was empty, as was the corner room the notorious Rita Skeeter had claimed for her own. The walls of that small chamber were decorated with countless articles and photographs, showing her gaudy lipstick grin and glittering glasses. On a scrupulously dusted shelf her books were displayed, The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter – The Story of the Boy Who Lived, together with recent translations into German and French. On her desk a small, sealed metal chest was waiting, filled with the notes for the book she was currently writing; a note was pinned on the leather writing pad, the title of her newest oeuvre scribbled on it in a steep, narcissistic hand: Severus Snape – Scoundrel or Saint?*

Just outside the door to Miss Skeeter’s office stood another desk, the tabletop brightened by a pool of light from a brass candleholder. A woman sat in front of it, studying an article in the yellowing newspaper spread in front of her.

The article was nearly forty years old, with two photos, one showing a young Fenrir Greyback and the other one a man in his late thirties, straight as a broom and as grim as a gravestone. LUPIN ACCUSES GREYBACK OF SLAUGHTER, the headline screamed. The article had been written by Barnabas Cuffe, reporting the trial against Greyback after the tragic death of two Muggle twins in Nottingham 1968. He had been found not guilty, to the great dismay of many wizards in the area, and to the stunned rage of the man who was Remus Lupin’s father.

The woman stared down at the yellowed paper. Reginald Lupin, father of Remus and uncle of Ruta Lupin. The gentle, oval face with the pale grey eyes suddenly hardened, the charming rose petal lips forming a narrow, cantankerous line.

Ruta Lupin.

Vicky Stone remembered her very well from Hogwarts, even though Ruta’s face had constantly been hidden behind a book, and though Remus Lupin's cousin had never participated in the usual Ravenclaw house conspiracies. She recalled with astonishing clarity how Ruta had refused to loan her “Herbology” homework while she – Vindictia Stone, twelve years old and desperately determined to prove herself – still struggled with the use and effect of valerian and goldenrod on magically induced fever. Other children would probably have long forgotten that miniscule defeat, but Vicky had the accurate memory of an elephant, keeping every small insult and rejection like a secretly rotting treasure in her heart.

Ruta continued disappearing behind her books while Vicky finally became a constant in the hierarchy of Ravenclaw. She scrupulously pondered every step, every spoken word and every gesture, to stabilize and to defend her hard-won position. She managed to appear eager and studious in most subjects, and she cultivated the ability to persuade naïve fellow-students into sharing their work with her whenever she found the themes for upcoming essays too difficult or simply too boring. Ruta, however, stubbornly refused to do so; instead she offered private lessons (which would have meant extra work, of course, a prospect that wasn’t tempting, to say the least).

Then, during the Christmas Holidays of her third year, Vindictia Stone took a trip to Diagon Alley and spent a very interesting hour in Araminta Addams’ Antique Shoppe. She ignored the dusty chaos of dented cauldrons, broken Sneakoscopes and cheap magical pottery and headed straight for a high shelf with used books.

Between half a dozen paperbacks about the amorous adventures of Lavinia Shrewsbury: The Sensual Sorceress and a sadly unread copy of Celestina Warbeck’s unauthorized autobiography CELESTINA: The Bewitching Voice she found a very old pamphlet. Leafing through the yellowed pages, she discovered more than twenty recipes for love potions and other fascinating draughts. The name of the author – a certain Catherine Monvoisin* – was unknown to her, but she was clever enough to sense the sudden chance for easy fame. She bought the book for a few sickles and took it back to Hogwarts. During the following weeks, Vicky cautiously tried one or two of the recipes… to the delight of Horace Slughorn, who ascribed to her an “astonishing resourcefulness” and rewarded Ravenclaw with fifty points.

Vicky was delighted, too… and decided immediately to use the book as a source for even more influence. During the next two years she ran a roaring trade of secretly filled bottles and phials, and her success was as astonishing as it was magnificent. She had a hand in every second emotional drama in Ravenclaw and enjoyed her newfound power enormously, and of course she expected to gain an “Outstanding” in her Potions N.E.W.T.’s.

But somewhere in her fifth year Ruta stepped out of the shadows, as she began some thorough studies about the use of mandragora vernalis against dangerous curses. Vicky followed her classmate’s progress with increasing curiosity. She found out very quickly that Ruta’s assumptions contradicted the theses of Phyllida Spore, author of the standard work One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi; but Miss Lupin was right nonetheless, and both her style and argumentation were – according to a very enthusiastic Professor Sprout – absolutely flawless.

And then one evening Ruta had approached her in the common room of Ravenclaw house; most of the students had already gone to bed, and when Vicky looked up from her parchment roll, the insignificant Miss Lupin was sitting in the chair beside her.

“That was an interesting love potion you created today,” she remarked, “though the use of mandragora vernalis is a bit… venturous.”

“Why?” Vicky asked, stifling a yawn.

Ruta gave a soft laugh. “Because it is so terribly poisonous,” she said, “which is one of the many reasons why it shouldn’t be used against the Pestis Curse. In my honest opinion, you can’t replace one evil with another. And to use it in love potions is even more dangerous, and not very helpful, I think… it has a numbing effect on body and spirit.”

Vicky eyed her, increasingly irritated.

“You are a real know-it-all, aren’t you?” she said.

“No,” Ruta replied, still friendly and tantalizingly calm. “But the use of mandragora vernalis in any draught is my hobbyhorse right now. And if you want to find out more about interesting love potions with that special ingredient, you should try to ask Madam Pince for a copy of Philtres d’Amour by Catherine Monvoisin.**”

“Catherine… who?” Vicky’s heartbeat stumbled and then turned to a frenzied gallop.

“Monvoisin.” Ruta turned her eyes to the dying embers in the fireplace. “She lived in the 17th century and was a famous alumna of Beauxbatons. Sadly enough, she developed a strong taste for the Dark Arts; she lived in Paris and discovered that the Muggle nobility were a profitable market for her skills. She sold potions to the Mistress of the French King, and to a multitude of courtiers… and doubtlessly a few brews that were everything else but harmless. She also got involved in horrendously dark rituals, and in 1679 the matter became a great scandal. The Royal Police arrested almost the entire circle around Madame Monvoisin; it never became fully clear if she actually went through the questionings and the torture that followed the arrests herself. She was a brilliant Potions Mistress and exceptionally skilled with Transfigurations… I think she simply took one of her Muggle minions, turned her to a spitting image of her own person and Imperiused her, up to the point that her substitute died on a pyre in February 1680.”

“What…” Vicky cleared her throat; her mouth was suddenly very dry. “What became of the real Monvoisin?”

Ruta shrugged. “Uncle Corminius always said that she collected the fortune she had gained with her dubious services and bought a country estate somewhere in Eastern Europe, wisely withdrawing from the Muggle world. She hoped to be invited to teach at her former school, but the Headmaster didn’t feel comfortable with her obvious involvement in the Dark Arts. Durmstrang had no such qualms, and so she ended her career as a well-respected Potions Mistress in Russia.” She got up from the chair. “Uncle Corminius is very interested in historical potions and magical herb lore. He owns a copy of her book… the English version, but I think recall the original title correctly. I am fairly certain that Madam Pince keeps it in the restricted section.”

She walked over to the stairs leading to the dormitory.

“I’ll go to bed now… and you should, too. You look a bit green around the gills. Good night!”

Then she was gone, and Vicky stared after her, trembling with shock. There could be no doubt that Ruta Lupin had discovered her secret… that all her recent success and knowledge was merely borrowed from a book. She would go to Flitwick and grass her, and Vicky saw all her lofty dreams being scattered on the stone floor.

The effect on her self-confidence was disastrous, and the festering animosity towards Ruta that had been sleeping in her heart awoke to full life again. How could that pale spectre of a girl dare to get into her way, after all Vicky’s years of spinning her complicated web of enormously important relations, gossip and semi-wisdom? How could Ruta Lupin dare to rob her of the glory she so obviously deserved… ?

Her disappointment and rage grew until it filled her mind completely; the N.E.W.T’s were rapidly approaching now. After a few weeks, the fear of being reported constantly hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles, she was angry and upset enough to throw all reason into the winds. Six days before the exams she broke into Ruta’s big trunk, stole the finished text of her classmate’s essay and all the notes she could find and burned every single shred of paper in a merry little pyre in the fireplace of the Ravenclaw common room.

Her triumph was shamefully short-lived, however. She’d had no idea that Pomona Sprout kept a copy of the essay in question; she didn’t know that it had already been sent to the editor of Magical Herbs Today, to be published as an article, and was printed just as she thought that the annoying thorn in her flesh had finally been removed. There was never an official enquiry, but she was forced to spend a rather unpleasant hour in the company of Albus Dumbledore and Filius Flitwick; a housemate had watched her theft in the dormitory, safely hidden behind royal blue bed curtains. To make things worse, the girl in question had been one of the more unfortunate victims of Vicky’s love potions. Therefore she didn't hesitate to report what she had witnessed, and only the fact that the school year was about to end very soon anyway had saved Miss Stone from being expelled. The worst thing was that Catherine Monvoisin’s book and Vicky’s trickery were not mentioned at all; she never found out if Ruta Lupin had really told anybody about it. But by taking revenge for Ruta's remark that evening in the common room, Vicky had dug her own grave.

To her dismay, Vicky only managed an „Exceeds Expectations“ in herbology; her other school achievements were merely „acceptable“. Ruta, however, gained an „Outstanding“ for her invention of a draught against mildew; and on top of it she was awarded for exactly the essay Vicky had so desperately tried to destroy. After the N.E.W.Ts, they immediately lost contact (which was certainly better for both of them).

The intercession of her uncle gained Vicky a position as junior reporter at the Daily Prophet. It took her only twenty-four hours to realize, however, that this meant everything from brewing coffee to picking up repaired wizard robes from Madame Malkin.

During the following years she had worked stubbornly and patiently, but had achieved no more than a moderate success, writing articles for page three and reading manuscripts of new authors seeking publication when she wasn't delving the archives for the more famous reporters. The return of the Dark Lord had given her a small fame (for it was she who wrote a good part of the Ministry-friendly articles, after Rita Skeeter – to the great dismay of her superiors – had published that disastrous tale about Harry Potter in the Quibbler). When the war was over, Miss Skeeter regained a good part of her reputation by writing two very successful books; when she suddenly offered Vicky the part time position as a personal assistant, Vicky willingly accepted, nurturing the hope for a late, personal glory she had been dreaming of for years.

Since then she had done most of the research that had led to the (nearly finished) manuscript in the metal chest on Rita Skeeter’s desk – not the kind of research any honest author would have wished for, of course. Vicky had watched as Rita latched onto every unconfirmed anecdote, outrageous lie and sprinkled the lot with a smattering of the truths which Vicky had unearthed -- but only so long as they served Rita's purpose.

Now Vicky sat in the empty editorial office, eyes fixed on the printed, angry face of Reginald Lupin without really seeing it. Memory took her back to what she had thought would be her best chance for a great career.

Nearly two months ago, Rita Skeeter had gone on a reading tour through Cornwall and Wales. The weekend after she left, Vicky caught an owl with a rather mysterious message. It was directed at the Daily Prophet, but clearly meant to be read by Rita Skeeter whose name stood on the envelope. It took Vicky only seconds to convince herself that she – as Miss Skeeter’s trustworthy assistant – had every legitimate right and certainly the duty to open it. The letter told Rita to meet someone unnamed at The Wanton Witch, "for the sake of a thrilling and exclusive story“. It was the sort of anonymous message that Vicky would immediately have tossed aside were it not for the scribbled apodosis beyond the illegible signature.

Fenrir Greyback is still alive. If you want to be the one to tell his story, then come alone, this Wednesday at half past nine in the evening.

Fenrir Greyback! His crimes were legendary, his cruel fame nourished the spooky kind of bedtime stories only very few children really wanted to hear. And people were still afraid of saying his name aloud. Vicky on her part was clever enough to know better; though finding out that the message in the letter was true, and Greyback was alive indeed…

This time it took her a little longer to decide. The Wanton Witch was one of the most disreputable inns in Knockturn Alley, and under normal circumstances Vicky would've never dared to approach it without a bodyguard -- she couldn't change shape like Rita. Vicky knew her boss good enough to be sure that she would be furious if she ever found out about this. Rita Skeeter was absolutely unwilling to tolerate any rival, and on the very rare occasions when Vicky dared to go beyond her competencies, she’d had to deal with a truly frightening and ice cold rage. But Rita would be away from the office for another two weeks, and the sudden chance to escape her stifling control was simply too good not to use it.

Thus on a broodingly hot evening at the end of August Vicky knotted a dark headscarf over her neat, strawberry blonde hairdo and vanished between the shadows of Knockturn Alley. Her cloak was shabby, her shoes old and worn down, and she was too careful to sport any jewelry. She made her way around a sharp bend and nearly ran into two women in scarlet, slitted gowns, showing pale, naked thighs.

“Hey, pretty,“ one of them – tall and thin as a broomstick, the crow’s feet around her hard, dark eyes smeared with thick make-up - hissed into Vicky’ s ear, “Care for some coaching how to turn from a grey mouse into a Phoenix?“

“Not if you’re the teacher, you starved, old hen,“ Vicky hissed back and easily dodged the halfhearted blow aimed at her. She had finally reached her destination; dim lights were flickering behind yellowish windows and a low shingle roof obscured the entrance like some gloomily knit eyebrow. Above her, the inn sign hung unmoving, showing a woman with ridiculously long, curly hair and exposed breasts, her wand spraying blood red sparks. The door of The Wanton Witch opened, and suddenly a burning aroma of fire whiskey and cheap beer overwhelmed her senses. She held her breath and slipped past two men leaving the inn, and then she stood in the taproom. The air was blue with smoke. She was still trying to locate the possible writer of that mysterious letter when suddenly a hand closed around her upper arm.

The grip was hard as iron, and she found herself dragged along between tables and benches. Only seconds later she stumbled through a hidden side exit and out into a narrow back yard. Huge garbage bins stood along the wall, overflowing with rotten leftovers and broken bottles, but Vicky had barely time to take in more of her unpleasant surrounding; she was pushed against a low timber fence and gaped at the tall figure towering in front of her.

“You,“ a deep voice snarled from the shadow of a big hood, “are not Rita Skeeter. Did she send you here?“

Vicky straightened her back, trying desperately to control the miserable chattering of her teeth.

“I’m her personal assistant,“ she croaked. “Unfortunately Miss Skeeter is unavailable – for several important reasons. But I’m authorized to speak on her behalf… and to make certain offers, if that is what you came for.“

The dark figure gave a hoarse chuckle, and Vicky could feel the fine hair on the back of her neck rise in icy panic. She had no doubt who he was… but amidst her fear her brain was still working, and she asked herself what could be important enough to make him literally rise from his grave.

“I am not interested in money,“ the man said. “I’m after a certain piece of information - and if you’re able to deliver it, I’ll give you a complete account of my whereabouts during the last eight years. I even have a juicy little extra about an order of Werewolves that has been a worry to the Ministry of Magic of Romania for more than three decades. They have overcome the curse of the moon, you know.“ Again that low chuckle, and Vicky’s mouth grew dry. “They are able to change whenever they want… and I had the chance to test their method.“

Vicky’s knees were trembling; she was thankful for the support of the fence behind her. She licked her lips. “If… if you decide to demonstrate the effect, I might be unable to provide you with the information you’re seeking for,“ she managed.

“Smart brat.“ Greyback laughed. “Smart enough, I guess, to know that I won’t tolerate the idea of telling anybody in the Werewolf Capture Unit about our little meeting, yes?“ Suddenly his hand came up, gripping her chin. “For if you give me away, my inquisitive little treasure, I will know it… and I will find you. Understood?“

“Understood.“ She swallowed nervously, but at the same time a thin streak of triumph was woven through her fear. If she actually made it through this dangerous deal and lived to tell the story, the rewards would be enormous.

“What is it that you want?“ she asked.

“I want to know everything you’re able to find out about the Lupin family,“ he said. His voice was completely colorless. “I know that Remus Lupin died in the Second Battle, and that his parents passed away nearly twenty years ago. But his father’s cousin should still be alive… and he has a daughter. I met her as a child… delightful little thing.“

Ruta. No doubt, he was talking about Ruta Lupin!

“You want to know where they live… all of them?“

“Oh yes.“ The strong fingers loosened their grip around her chin and wandered upward, grazing her cheek. It took her all power of will not to jerk back. “And of course there’s Theodore… Remus’ son. He’s eight years old now, I believe, and I’m particularly interested in his… well-being.“

The blood in her veins turned to ice. She knew the story of the Lupin family from Rita Skeeter’s book about The Boy Who Lived; Rita had expatiated every tragic detail with malicious pleasure, and only Harry Potter’s cooperation had prevented the worst excrescences. There was no mistaking Greyback’s aim; using her skills in research and giving him what he wanted would probably mean sealing the fate of that child.

Thoughts were fluttering in her head, like birds, trying to escape the cage of the fowler… wasn’t Harry Potter the boy’s godfather?? And he would certainly protect him well, wouldn’t he? With a little luck Greyback might never be able to lay his hands on the boy.

Vicky Stone took a deep breath and steeled herself against the nagging of her own conscience.

Telling that beast in front of her how to find the Lupins meant nothing… only a piece of public knowledge Greyback could use… or not. The consequences of this bargain were not her business anyway. She barely knew these people… except for Ruta, and their former encounters at Hogwarts had earned her only failure and humiliation. Perhaps, Vicky thought with a small thrill of guilty satisfaction, Ruta deserved to finally pay for her arrogance; a certain amount of fright and danger was only justified.

It was Vindictia Stone’s turn to be successful at last.

“You will have to wait a few days,“ she heard herself coolly say. “Gathering every single piece of information takes a bit of work. Next week – same time, same place?“

“Same time, same place.“ His voice was heavy with a dark, malicious amusement. “I take it that I can count on you, then?“

“Of course.“ Vicky gave a short, determined nod. “As long as you fulfill your part of the agreement, I will fulfill mine.“ ---

One week later they met again, and she told him where he could find Rudolphus, Ruta and Theodore Lupin. This time her calloused conscience raised no more objections, and she eagerly made notes while Greyback told her about the Werewolf order in Romania. He refused to give her any details about his personal life, though. He said that she would get his story as soon as he had confirmed the truth of hers… and Vicky left Knockturn Alley, filled with a mixture of fear that she had been fooled, and the stubborn conviction that her time of glory was finally drawing close.

That had been at the end of August. Since then no owl, no message, not a single word. Fenrir Greyback had vanished into thin air, and her dreams of a dashing career with his assistance threatened to do the same.

Vicky stared down at the article, her gaze fixed on the grim face of Remus Lupin’s father. She couldn’t wait any longer… she had to find out what happened before Rita Skeeter found out about Vicky’s secret plans. There had been no alarming news about Rudolphus Lupin; the old wizard was obviously still healthy and whole, living unharmed in his house near London. And considering Greyback’s infamous liking for very young flesh, he had most certainly tried his luck with Remus Lupin’s offspring first.

Vicky didn’t have to consult her notes. Theodore Lupin lived with his grandmother, in a small, remote Muggle village in the North… same as her former classmate. She would use the fact that Rita was totally absorbed with reading the page proofs for the Snape-biography right now and wouldn’t notice her absence anyway. She had to find Greyback’s trace again.

St. Mary Green, Vicky Stone thought, a gentle, confident smile on her Madonna-like face. The name was like a hopeful incantation in her mind. St. Mary Green, Eskdale, Lake District.

*****

Ruta Lupin swam back to consciousness from the depths of a dreamless slumber. Red-golden light shimmered behind her closed lids; she turned her head on the pillow, stretching limb after limb and realizing with bottomless relief that her body had returned to human form.

Her senses were still heightened and sharp after the change, however; the fresh scent of the lemon geranium on the pilaster beside the bookshelf mingled with the lavender aroma of the soap she used to wash the curtains. There was still a whiff of cinder and wood smoke in the air, telling her that someone must have lit a fire in the bedroom the evening before. The smooth fabric of the linen coverlet case felt like a sensual caress on her bare skin.

Her bare skin.

Ruta opened her eyes. She sat up, feeling a little dizzy and lightheaded, and it took her a while to take in the familiar surroundings. Her gaze found the old pendulum clock on the mantelpiece; it told her that noon had just passed. The curtains were closed, but a slim ray of sunlight painted a bright line on the carpet. A heap of grey ashes lay on the grate in the fireplace, and then she spotted something small and rectangular on the mantelpiece, right beside the clock. She pushed back the coverlet and got up, fighting an intense sensation of unreality; after living in the body of a wolf for more than three days, it seemed disturbingly strange to move on two human legs.

She stood in front of the fireplace and held the book in her hands. The Tales of Beedle the Bard; she had accidentally taken it home with her after the last bedtime story for Teddy in Dromeda’s house.

“Once upon a time there was a wondrous garden at the far end of the Kingdom, enclosed by a high wall and protected by powerful spells no wizard or wand was able to break.” Stephen, sitting in the chair and reading the fairytale to her that she loved most, while she was encased in the form the curse forced upon her… The horror of being ripped out of her human identity, dimmed by the draught he had given her, and the deep, familiar voice, soothing her helplessness.

Her thumb grazed the silver skulls on the binding as the rest of that night finally unfolded in her mind, a picture of strange beauty and peace.

Her eyes, opening to the dawn, his face above her and his hand on her cheek… “Are you... sure?” And then his touch slowly setting her aflame, his arm, holding her, the last remnants of her anxiety melting away under his hands on her body. What could have become a matter of embarrassment and shame had been turned to a feast, and his inability to hold back had only intensified her pleasure.

Ruta walked to the door, took the dressing gown from the hook and managed to wrap it around her naked body; she registered absently that she was able to bend her arm much further than before… Winky’s adamant resolve to supervise her exercises paid off really well.

His kiss pure redemption, his body a solid wall against the chaos of her shattered life… Her lips, hungrily claiming his as she felt her peak draw close, every fiber of her unaccustomed body taut as a bowstring, his breathless voice ringing in her ears as they both reached completion, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

She caught a glimpse of her flushed face in the round, small mirror on the wall and stood still, unconsciously raising her hand and following the trace of his last kiss with a fingertip. She realized what she was doing and blushed even deeper. For the first time she noticed the silence in the house. Where was he? Had he left? Would he leave… after a night like this?

She turned away from the mirror and walked down the stairs. There was no sound from the kitchen, no whiff of Winky’s freshly brewed coffee. The house elf must have left when her master arrived last night. But she knew that Stephen was still there even before she entered the parlor.

He sat at the table, gazing out at the street. Vest and frock hung over the back of his chair, and his hair looked slightly damp. Ruta took a deep breath.

“Good morning, Stephen,” she said. “You’ve obviously found my rosemary soap – well chosen, for I don’t think you would like the one with rose oil and lavender.”

He turned around quickly, and their eyes met. She saw surprise and a hint of amusement in his face.

“Good morning, Ruta.” He rose from the chair. “There’s some breakfast for you, though you’ll have to be content with my poor skills. I sent Winky back to my house last night. Come and sit down while I fetch it.”

Ruta smiled, strangely reassured by the casual tone of his voice. “Let me guess… porridge? And you brewed yourself some Assam tea.”

“Very remarkable.” He watched her as she settled down on the opposite side of the table. “An after-effect of the change, I presume?”

“I think so – and certainly not the worst one.” Her smile deepened. “I’m incredibly hungry, you know.”

“Of course you are.” Stephen took his empty mug and plate. “You didn’t eat anything for nearly three days.” He left the room and came back with a small, steaming bowl and another mug. “Cocoa,” he explained, “And I cooked the porridge with a mixture of milk and water… we’d better not overstrain your empty stomach.”

“Thank you, Stephen.” She took the first spoonful of the porridge. It was smooth and sweet; he had been generous with the sugar and while she dutifully continued eating, she felt her energy rise to a more normal level again. “Very good, really.”

“But not your favorite breakfast dish, isn’t it?”

She shot him a surprised gaze. “That’s true. How do you…?”

“Winky.” Laughter danced briefly in the black eyes; she saw it with delight. “I am thoroughly informed about your preferences. Croissants, butter, marmalade and honey… and of course you’re hopelessly addicted to her coffee.”

“Of course.” Sudden warmth rose into her face. “You seem to know me pretty well.”

Stephen didn’t answer; he sat down on the chair again, looking down on his fingers. The silence grew until it became deafening, and it felt for her as if suddenly a deep gap yawned between them. It was downright ridiculous. During that unbelievable last night she had explored nearly every inch of his skin – and now she didn’t even dare to reach out and touch his hand.

“On the contrary, Ruta,” he finally said. “You are an ongoing mystery to me. I never expected to encounter something… someone like you.”

“I am nothing special,” she replied softly. “And you should know – better than anyone else – how fallible I am.”

“Stop that.” His voice was surprisingly rough. “Must I really remind you of the unfortunate deeds of my youth? You may have tried to bribe a grieving man into a love he didn’t actually feel, but I gave away the content of Trelawney's dratted prophecy to the Dark Lord and caused his grief – and that of many others.”

Including your own, Ruta thought, but she didn’t say it aloud.

“And what comes next?” Stephen continued. Now it was he who reached out and touched her; strong fingers closed around her chin and tipped her head up until their eyes met. “Will you try to apologize for luring me into this friendship and finally into your bed?”

She stared at him, unable to speak.

“With the same justification I could claim that I stole into your house twelve hours ago, that I waited for you to change back, and that I completed my nefarious misdeed by taking advantage of your exhaustion and vulnerability.”

“You didn’t!” Ruta gasped, torn between horror and amusement.

“You are right, I didn’t.” He released her chin, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever idiocies we both committed in our younger years – and what I did even as I got older and should perhaps have been wiser – had nothing to do with what happened last night.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’m glad that you see it that way.”

“I wouldn’t want to see it differently.” He looked out of the window again. “It was a… an unexpected gift, and I’d never dare to diminish it with memories and misgivings.”

“Yes. But Stephen…” Now Ruta turned her eyes away and looked down at her hands. “I still want you to know that I don’t expect… that you don’t have to… that I would never…” She realized that she was stammering and fell silent, biting her lip.

“Ruta.” With disbelief she heard the smile in his voice. The chair scratched over the floor, and all of a sudden she felt his hands. He was standing behind her, and warm fingers pressed against the rigid muscles of her hale shoulder and upper back. “Your honorable attempt to reassure me that I have to fear no consequences is truly heartening.”

The smile was still there, but she was unable to study his face, to affirm that he was actually teasing her. He had parted the long, tousled strands in the back of her neck, and his fingertips wove a pattern of blissful pressure along her spine, gently holding her head down.

“Are you making fun of me?” She spoke through the curtain of her hair.

“No, of course not.” His voice was serious and a little tired now, and his hands slid back to her shoulders, progressing further and gently stroking her neck and arms. Ruta leaned into his touch, a shiver of pleasure raising goose bumps on her skin. The warmth of his body behind her was like a firm bulwark against the chaos of her fears; she desperately wanted to put the old distrust against the destructive ways of her own heart aside and believe in whatever there might lay ahead for both of them. How silly I’ve been, she thought, twenty-five years ago, when I mistook friendship and old affection for passionate love. Now she knew the difference, but a deep fear of desiring, of demanding too much from this complicated man with his marred soul made her helpless and sealed her mouth.

“I have to leave for a while,” he said, his palms resting lightly on her upper arms. “I’m waiting for a report Minerva promised to send me today. Just after Greyback’s attack I asked her to do some detailed research in Durmstrang. They have books about the treatment of Werewolves I was never able to lay my hands on; some of them were written by Grigorij Grigoriev. That man is a legend; he taught there for nearly seventy years, and he has forgotten more about the curse of the moon than I ever knew.”

Ruta felt the tension return into her body. “Why do you want to read those books?”

Stephen stepped back and turned to the window; thick clouds obscured the pale disk of the sun and made the day outside gray and dark. “I’m hoping for inspiration: Marcus Belby’s Wolfsbane Potion may keep you from losing yourself completely to the change, but you are forced to spend your time during the full moon in the body of a wolf nonetheless. Perhaps further information might help me develop a draught that prevents you from having to change at all.”

“That would be… marvelous,” Ruta whispered; tears stung behind her eyes, and she closed her lips tightly against the words threatening to spill over. I broke through all your defenses, I dragged you into the vendetta of a lunatic monster, made you come out of hiding, burdened you with the care for my well-being… and still you continue giving more than I could ever ask for.

“Ruta.”

Now he stood beside her, and when she looked up, she met his piercing gaze. “I told you to stop that, remember? And no, I didn’t use Legilimency on you… it’s easy enough to read your face.”

Unexpectedly, the pressure on her heart eased, and her face relaxed in a smile. “Believe it or not, I don’t feel uncomfortable at the thought of being an open book for you.”

“Very good. That should make things a lot easier… for both of us.” Suddenly he reached out and took her hands, lifting them to his mouth. It was a strange kiss, tender and nearly reverent. “Stop worrying, Ruta… whatever lies ahead, we should try to be optimistic.” He paused. “If I have learned anything since I met you, it is that some confidence in the future certainly doesn’t go amiss.”

Her smile deepened. “Then I’ll try to find that confidence in my heart, too.”

“I should send you Winky, to prepare a bath for you and help you with your gown,” he said, letting go of her hands and slowly walking towards the door. “She will want to assist you anyway… since you gave her those earrings, she has made your well-being her personal concern.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll need her. I think I can turn the handle of the bathtub faucet, and I can use my arm much more easily than I could even a week ago. It’s time for me to be more independent. But…” She brushed a stray curl behind her ear. “… I might need your help with my hair.”

He stood on the threshold, looking back with a sparkling light in his eyes. “I would be more than happy to do you the favor, Ruta. But if you want to do me a favor… just keep it as it is.” His lips twitched. “It is beautiful.”

He vanished into the hallway, and a moment later the front door closed behind him. Ruta stood in the parlor unmoving, her face soft with wonder.

*****

“Oh, of course I know Ruta Lupin!” Eleanor Carpenter said, raising her voice to drown the noise of the hair blower. “Nice, friendly girl… though she keeps a bit too much to herself lately. But I guess that’s more or less understandable, after such a horrible accident.”

“An accident?” The woman beside her – her head spiked with pin curlers – looked appropriately shocked. “What happened to her?”

Mrs. Carpenter surveyed the main room of Annie Archer’s Beauty Salon. It was the only hairdresser in St. Mary Green, and – as usual on a Saturday morning – each and every single of the red chairs was occupied. Satisfied with the quantity of her audience, she continued:

“Andromeda Tonks told me that Ruta went to London, to visit her father. When she crossed a street in Bayswater, some drunk driver simply ignored her, and she got tossed onto the sidewalk. Her right arm has been paralyzed ever since… which makes things rather difficult for her, poor thing.”

”Why is that?” The eyes of the woman in the next chair were filled with genuine concern.

“She had been working as a gardener in the big market garden over in Berwick. But with that arm… it’s a shame, really, she has a fantastic hand with flowers, and it will be difficult to find someone else with her knack for roses. Since I’ve been buying her seedlings, I’ve had no more problems with mildew – not for nearly eight years!”

“When did she get hurt?”

Mrs. Carpenter’s daughter, in for her weekly wash and perm, caught the cue.

“Two months ago. It was the night we had all that drama.”

“Drama? In a place like this?”

“Oh, yes. Bernie Smithers made a hero out of himself by hunting down a monster.” The mockery in her voice made it clear that she didn’t have a very high opinion of the young constable.

“A monster?” The visitor seemed happy to be an audience for anyone who would talk.

Eleanor Carpenter caught back the reins of the conversation, shooting Annie Archer a gaze of disfavor through the stifling clouds of hairspray. “It wasn’t a monster. It was a wolf. It came here at the end of August, wreaked havoc among my son-in-law’s sheep and then killed an old man. People were really afraid… and then Bernie Smithers found that monster in the middle of the night and shot it, right beside the old oak in the middle of Mill Walk. And then a bolt of lightning went into the tree and burnt it to ashes, together with the wolf.”

“Ruta must’ve made the trip to London exactly the same day, though,” her daughter said, warming for the topic and impatiently waving Annie Archer’s hand with the brush aside. “Minnie Smith told me that she visited her around noon, to fetch the aster plants she had ordered… amazing breed, they bloom until Christmas.” She caught the gaze of the woman sitting beside her mother. “It was the 28th of August, and with all the excitement I don't think anyone even would have noticed that Ruta was gone from the village if Mrs. Tonks hadn't told us. How did you say you know her, Miss...?"

“Stone. Vicky Stone. I had no idea,” the woman said, visibly shaken. Her pretty, oval face was pale. “Ruta and I, we were classmates, and really good friends. But after our graduation I lost track of her.” She shook her head. “I even was in London at the end of August; I could at least have visited her in the hospital! Do you think she is well enough for a visit now?”

“I hope so,” Mrs. Carpenter said, frowning. “During the last three days, I haven’t seen her at all, now that I come to think of it. But can I tell you where she lives, if you like… it’s barely a five-minute walk from here.”

The woman smiled at her. “That would be absolutely lovely,” she said.

*****

Half an hour later Vicky Stone walked down the street, still congratulating herself for the idea to visit the local hairdresser: plenty of women with plenty of time for plenty of gossip. The information she had been able to gather even compensated her for the unacceptable, tacky hairdo and the unpleasant feeling of Muggle hairspray on her skin.

A wolf, killed at the end of August. Ruta Lupin, ostensibly hit by a car in London at nearly the same time, and miraculously disappearing behind the walls of some unnamed hospital for more than a month. Ruta Lupin again, returning to this stupid little hick town and hiding in her house during the last three days. She would have to check the moon calendar, as quickly as possible… but she could already feel the foreshadowing of a really great exposé, strong enough to make her fingertips prickle.

She saw the street sign saying Tulip Close and turned right, making her way down past two winter-bare gardens behind grey walls. It was easy to find Ruta Lupin’s house; she saw neatly clipped rose bushes and a leafless weeping willow, but asters in warm colors were still lusciously blooming in a rectangular flowerbed. They framed a flagstone path leading to the entrance… and when Vicky was barely fifteen feet away from the garden gate, the door of the house suddenly opened.

Vicky hastily stepped back behind the cover of an unkempt rhododendron bush and waited, holding her breath. During the last days she had constantly been wondering how Ruta – the unimposing, unbearable Ruta Lupin – might look after all those years…

But the person stepping out on the path was a man – a tall figure, a folded cloak over his arm, his head bare. Black, short hair and a pale face, shockingly familiar… Vicky drew back deeper into the shadow of the bush, watching the stranger as he passed her by with long, fast steps… and then completely forgetting any care or caution as she hurried out on the sidewalk, staring after him.

“Great Merlin…” she whispered. “Great Merlin!”

She had spent nearly all her time during the past eight months doing the research for Rita Skeeter’s newest book, and after viewing hundreds and hundreds of photographs, the features of the man that dubious biography would be about had deeply engraved in her memory.

Vicky Stone stood in the middle of Tulip Close, overwhelmed by a glorious feeling of triumph that made her heart race. With one stroke of her quill she could now tip the scales for two lives at the same time, and that sudden, unexpected power felt breathtakingly sweet.

Ruta Lupin. And Severus Snape.
______________________________________________________________

Author's Notes:

The title Severus Snape - Scoundrel or Saint? was not one of my weird ideas. J.K. Rowling mentioned it (plus Rita Skeeter as the author of that doubtlessly horrible piece of writing) in a chat on July 30, 2007.

Catherine Monvoisin (also called La Voisin or Malvoisin) is historical. She was born 1640 and died on February 22, 1680. Aside from the fact that she was no “real” witch in the Rowling-sense of the meaning, she was attracted to the Dark Arts, sold toxic love potions and performed Black Masses, during which she used the blood of newborn children (I’m really sorry, but I didn’t make that up either).