Twenty-Five
The Devil’s Coattails
The sharp echo of hobnail boots interrupted their carefree banter as the adjoining door swung open to reveal the anxious features of a swarthy, dark-haired man. The insignia of a monolith astride a waterfall identified him as an Azkaban guard.
“Just receive message from King-man,” he announced in a heavy accent. “Very glad others arrive early. He return on hour to exchange post vith…” He looked around the room uncertainly until he caught sight of Moody. “…von vith swirling eye, da?”
Unperturbed, Moody offered a dry chortle as he introduced himself, “Mad-Eye Moody, Auror extraordinaire. Very pleased to meet you, too, Anton.”
Anton broke into a shining, white smile at the exaggerated motions from Moody’s magical eye. “Da, indeed,” he laughed. “Mother name you vell!”
“Who’s the King-man?” Remus inquired lowly.
Percy waved off his apprehension. “Kingsley Shacklebolt. Anton just has trouble with longer names, so he turned it into something easier to pronounce.”
Merlin be praised! Remus issued a silent sigh of relief. For a split-second he feared he’d been dropped into the middle of a third-rate spy thriller. Aloud, he offered, “Forgive my confusion, but what time is it exactly?”
“Almost three-quarter past,” Anton replied instantly.
“And the hour would be?” Remus inquired.
With a quick look around the room, the guard issued under his breath, “Local time is just shy of the fourth hour.”
“Tea time,” Moody asserted as he bit into some gooseberry blintzes.
“A.M. or P.M.?” Remus insisted. Then at Anton’s confused expression, he clarified, “Is it afternoon or nearing daybreak?”
“Daybreak would be my guess,” Percy supplied nonchalantly. “But in case you haven’t noticed, it’s perpetual afternoon outside.”
Remus felt intense weariness engulf him as he lowered his body slowly into the nearest chair. He’d been awake for nearly twenty-four hours!
“Why’d you do that, Percy?” Ginny moaned as she tried to massage the tension from Remus’ shoulders. “Most of us had the good sense to keep our watches set on Greenwich Mean Time. It’s approaching six P.M. in London. We’re set to broadcast at half-eight.”
“Here, have some of the sparkling lemonade,” Eunice urged as she pressed a tall glass into Remus’ hand. “It’s just tart enough to energize.”
Remus complied willingly as the cool liquid washed the last of the dust from his throat. He hadn’t realized traveling by Portkey was such thirsty work. He was just about to sample the spiced herring Moody had been raving over when Kingsley arrived.
“Fit for a true king,” he laughed merrily in wry acknowledgement of his new nickname. “Try not to finish it all while I give Alastor some last minute instructions.”
“So afraid our illustrious guest will stage a prison break under the awed eyes of junior staff?” Moody scoffed as he followed Kingsley up the concrete stairs leading to the first story.
“Truthfully, it’s that barracuda agent that has my hackles…” Kingsley’s resonant voice faded as he climbed beyond the first landing.
“I suppose that means we should get started on our final instructions,” Ginny proclaimed. With a last sweeping glance at the food offerings, she added, “Anything you want me to put aside for you, Eunice? You barely managed to nibble a corner of that scone.”
Eunice shrugged apologetically. “Never can eat before a broadcast,” she volunteered mostly for Remus’ benefit. “Afterwards, I want to devour everything in sight, mostly out of sheer relief.”
Remus flashed a sympathetic smile. “Butterflies.”
“With bayonets,” Eunice tittered as she got to her feet. “Some of those little meat dumplings with dill would be ideal, Ginny.”
“Right. Piroshki, I believe they’re called. I’ll put some under a preservative spell for both of us. What about the accompanying soup?”
So that’s what was in that smoking silver cauldron near the end, Remus considered. Not one of Xeno’s mind-numbing libations after all.
“No thanks,” Eunice replied. “I’m not much for borscht. Alastor was telling me earlier that it’s one of those foods that tastes just like it sounds.”
“Truth in packaging,” Ginny supplied with a grin. “Mum never had much luck selling it as beet soup, either.”
Kingsley met them before the door marked: Embarkation Room. “Careful not to dislodge any of the instruments placed around the perimeter. This was the only spot where we could get the transmission to work properly. Something about the magical bandwidths and the square of the global latitude…”
“It’s the square-root of the latitude,” Eunice corrected with a sly smirk. “But I don’t know what it means, either. Just repeating what I’ve heard at least a million times.”
But Remus had stopped listening in the face of the awesome spectacle before him. Just beyond the window the ebony towers of Azkaban beckoned, not more than a stone’s throw from the mainland.
“It acts like a giant magnifying glass,” Percy volunteered. “The window pane is actually ten inches thick in places to mute the glare from the sun as well.”
True enough, the indefatigable sun hung like a ripe apple in the distance as twinkling breakers caressed the base of the immutable fortress.
Kingsley laid a hand on Remus’ arm. “It’s meant to soothe those friends and family members who come to see the prisoners off,” he explained reverently.
“It’s breathtakingly beautiful, isn’t it?” Eunice echoed.
It’s breathtakingly cruel and unforgiving, Remus intoned inwardly even as he reminded himself that dementors no longer haunted the damned. Barely managing to tear his eyes away, he joined Eunice and Ginny at the table that had been set up for the pre-mission briefing.
“I don’t know how much Ginny has told you…” Remus began as an unexpected tendril of stage fright locked its hoary nails into his spine. Hell, she’d told him next to nothing. Just a tantalizing whisper of, “Eunice already knows you’re a werewolf; whatever else you choose to tell her is up to you.” As journalists, Remus knew they would never reveal their source, never betray his involvement to a world that was likely to think he colluded with that chained monster than sought to unmask him.
“Nothing really,” Eunice admitted.
“Kingsley outlined that this was a cooperative effort with the Auror Department,” Ginny provided.
“It was one of the conditions for this interview to proceed,” Remus confirmed. “Since any broadcast from Azkaban must be approved by the Minister himself “ and only at the recommendation of the Head Auror… Well, you see why Kingsley felt he had the upper hand.”
“What exactly are you hoping to achieve?” Eunice prompted. “Other than literary enlightenment, that is?”
Feeling his anxiety ease at her wry humor, Remus continued, “We have reason to believe he holds the key to others who have gone unpunished. Dark collaborators from the past war.”
“Hence the Auror presence,” Ginny supplied.
But Eunice startled him with her next question. “What makes you so certain it’s a man?”
With practiced aplomb, Remus returned evenly, “Consider it a generic term. I don’t want to risk a sexism lecture from my wife, thank you very much.”
Eunice laughed easily. “I think Leah follows in her footsteps.”
“Make no mistake about it, this won’t be like interviewing a celebrity, political or otherwise. Think of this as a battle of wits “ and I assure you, this opponent has a multitude of weapons at his disposal.”
“You want me to interrogate him then.”
“Not in so many words. Extract the information in more subtle ways.” In response to her uncertain expression, he soothed, “He himself is not at risk of incurring any harsher sentence.” Tactfully, he omitted that it had been another condition in the agreement written up by that mongoose of an agent.
“What makes you so certain he’s harboring secrets? Didn’t the Aurors question him before they locked him up?”
Remus supplied only that which had been reported in the Daily Prophet. “To some degree. Unfortunately, someone who voluntarily confesses is often taken at face value.”
“He just handed himself over to you?” Eunice was incredulous. “Why?”
“That’s the crux of the issue. Life’s not a sports arena; if you back the wrong side, you pick yourself up and get on with your life. No one’s keeping score.”
“You think he’s protecting someone,” Eunice surmised with a hint of triumph. “Who?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Ginny interjected.
“But don’t expect him to come right out and say. Don’t overplay your hand by thinking he’s that stupid. A few clues is the most we can reasonably expect.”
“But how will I know?” Eunice protested.
“That’s why I’m here,” Remus reassured her. “While Ginny feeds you the questions, I will supply you with the proper tone. You must convince him that you’re in his thrall even as he tries to shock you.”
“Am I supposed to feign shock?” Eunice proposed.
“Too contrived,” Remus asserted. “Just hang on his every word; his ego will do the rest. I will help you to stay one step ahead of him. Think of this as the ultimate fan interview. You are a fan, aren’t you? He’s guaranteed to ask you that.”
“I’ve poured over every word,” Eunice improvised with just a hint of breathless anticipation.
Remus leaned back in his chair and appraised her with narrowed eyes. “I think you’ll do just fine. Just don’t tell me what you’re visualizing right this moment.”
The spell broken, Eunice laughed. “You want me to draw him out the way you did me,” she summarized handily.
“Only don’t let him see it,” Remus emphasized. “The last thing we need is for him to see you as his enemy. We can’t afford any reper --”
A sharp knock at the door stopped him in mid-stream. From the hallway, Kingsley beckoned, “If I might have a word, Remus.”
Excusing himself in short order, Remus joined the other man in the short corridor.
“Moody’s report,” Kingsley whispered as a quick wand movement coaxed the fading whale Patronus.
“Blimey, but it’s freezing in this vertical dungeon!” came Moody’s familiar growl. “Feels like that winter I spent in the maritime provinces. We’ve triple-checked everything four or five times. Nothing short of a massive jinx will derail the sound system. No last minute adjustments to allow our featured guest’s true voice to leak out. Mr. Mortimer has his wand handy just in case; he’s right here to make sure that no one opens the cell door, either. See, I told him just as you requested…” With a swish of its tail, the whale gave them a long-suffering look before fading into the featureless concrete.
“How can he exert such control over a Patronus?” Kingsley considered for the umpteenth time.
“It’s not just a Patronus,” Remus quipped. “Alastor was the whale in a previous life.” In a more serious tone, he added, “I didn’t realize he’d ever been sent on a mission to Canada.”
“He wasn’t. Lucky bastard always had undercover assignments in Spain or Italy. Someplace where the weather was always preferable to London.”
“So those were the code words.” Remus acknowledged that not even Mortimer would suspect Moody’s magical eye. “Care to translate?”
“It’s him.”
Remus didn’t need to hear anything else. With a grim set to his lips, he turned on his heel to rejoin the others, secure in the knowledge that he would be facing his own tormentor within the next few hours. Fenrir Greyback, the very beast who had consigned him to Purgatory at such a young age.
“You know who it is,” Eunice exclaimed almost immediately.
There was no use denying it. “Yes.”
“Don’t ask,” Ginny cautioned.
Trying a different tack, Eunice observed, “If we accept that you can’t tell us, at least tell us why you’re entitled to the information?”
“It helps me to plan our strategy.”
“But it won’t help us?” Eunice persisted.
“Kingsley’s doing his best to respect anonymity.” Cutting off any further protests, Remus amended, “Certain allowances have been made in the name of justice. It’s not cheating, not as you see it.”
It was Eunice’s turn to survey Remus sharply. “You truly are the real thing.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he admitted candidly.
“An undercover operative. When Percy assured me that you were an expert in all manner of questioning, I wasn’t sure what to expect,” confessed Eunice.
“Unfortunately, I’ve had cause to be on both sides of that scenario.” The solemn tone of Remus’ voice was tempered by the playful sparkle in his eyes.
“Perhaps you should share with her the reaction Kingsley got from Mr. Mortimer,” Ginny suggested. “I only heard about it second-hand “ and that was mainly from Tonks’ defamatory comments.”
“My wife takes a very dim view of those who patronize women in the workplace,” Remus provided by way of explanation. “She dealt with enough of that when she worked as an Auror herself. Mortimer showed himself to be rather narrow-minded in his views about radio personalities.”
“He wasn’t too keen on having his client interviewed by a woman, I take it.”
“Kingsley was able to convince him that it was to his advantage to have you in particular, though. Claimed you had already shown yourself to be a hard-hitting advocate of the truth. In other words, your very presence would lend legitimacy to his client.”
“Why do I dread where this is going?” Eunice groaned.
“I intend to use his prejudices against him, Eunice. Let him think you’re a push-over; it will make his client over-confident. But you see why it’s so important to give him what he expects on the surface? He can never see your true motives.”
Eunice nodded with a determined set to her jaw. “I only win if I can make him think he’s won.”
“Exactly! Couldn’t have phrased it more perfectly myself.” Doublethink, Remus added inwardly as he recalled his earlier discussion about Hermione’s undergraduate thesis.
As the broadcast hour drew nigh, Eunice reviewed the short list of reminders before her. Concessions that had been hammered out through a series of serpentine negotiations between Mr. Mortimer on behalf of his client, the Auror Department, and lastly the directors at the WWN.
• Avoid questions that are too personal.
• No direct quotes from his book.
• Make no mention of Azkaban unless he introduces the subject; after that, it’s fair game.
• No questions about past crimes unless he brings them up.
• Refer to him as Mr. W at all times, even if a better epithet comes to mind.
• If sound link is severed, techs will not be allowed into his cell to re-establish. End the broadcast as graciously as possible.
In Remus’ neat hand, he had added the last admonition in red: Don’t forget that this person is DANGEROUS!
Through the shimmering curtain of magic, Eunice could see Remus and Ginny conversing shoulder-to-shoulder at the next table but she could no longer hear them. Although her words would be carried to them, no sound from the other side would penetrate into her space to become an inadvertent backdrop to the broadcast.
As the last sixty seconds ticked down, she imagined herself among the adoring fans at a Weird Sisters concert. The charismatic piper singled her out of the crowd and issued her a back-stage pass. She allowed the ardent expression in her eyes to add just a note of awed reverence to her voice as she began, “Witches and wizards, Eunice Sharpe here. Tonight we are lucky enough to have with us a man who needs no introduction, a man of mystery who had suffused our imaginations since his explosive words hit the shelves nearly six months ago. Finally agreeing to break his silence, we have the enigmatic author of the untitled book that everyone’s been reading. For lack of a better name, we have agreed to call him ‘Mr. W.’ Can you hear me, Mr. W.?”
“Yes. Loud and clear, Eunice,” came the magically altered voice.
“Please tell our listeners how tonight’s broadcast has been facilitated.”
“Of course. I cannot see you, just as you cannot see me. Our interactions are no more than what can be discerned over the airwaves.”
“I admit that all this secrecy makes me wonder about what I cannot see. Tell me, Mr. W., are you the real thing? Or did you simply interview werewolves in preparation for your tale as some have suggested?”
The sound of a throat clearing was followed by, “Yes, I'm a werewolf.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how long ago were you bitten?”
“Long enough that I cannot remember my life being otherwise. You could say that I have accepted my circumstances while others still fight them.”
Something in the disembodied voice warned Eunice not to press further. Instead, she posed, “Then why the elaborate set-up, sir?”
A sharp laugh akin to startled static burst forth. “Isn’t it obvious? I wish to remain anonymous.”
“Yet you pen your most private dreams for the world to see,” Eunice countered with a note of wonder.
“A man who retires from private life and wishes to write his memoirs is nothing new. I just don’t want fame clawing at my shirt every time I make a trip to the corner market. It wouldn’t do to have my voice recognized, either.”
“There’s no doubt that your legion of fans are listening in tonight.”
“Tell me, Eunice,” the voice purred. “Are you a fan? Or did you just read my book in preparation for your assignment?”
“You drew me in just like the rest, Mr. W. I couldn’t close the cover until I’d read every last word.” All true, Eunice defended internally; only the slightly breathless ardor was assumed.
“Then you are in the enviable position of choosing which of my fans’ questions will be addressed. I understand my agent forwarded a number of them to you.”
“Firstly, your fans wish to know if they can continue to send letters in care of your publisher?”
“Absolutely. I read every word, even though I am not always able to owl a response.”
Only the softest intake of breath gave away the presence of the resident spook at Tonks’ elbow.
She conveyed an entire sentence with the reproachful look she trained on her errant son. “Teddy….”
With a tiny gulp, Teddy plowed forth fearlessly, “I thought I heard voices. A man…”
“And you thought it might be your father.”
Teddy nodded emphatically.
From the doorway, Dobby wrung his hands. “So sorry, Mistress,” he offered with downcast eyes. “He slithered past like an oiled veela.”
Without taking her eyes from her son, Tonks replied, “It’s all right, Dobby. Teddy’s just feeling…out of sorts. Aren’t you?”
“When will Dad return?”
“Now, Teddy, we already went over this in detail.” With an indulgent sigh, she capitulated, “Will it help if I retell it as a sort of bedtime story?”
Teddy broke out in a wide grin as he urged, “Please.”
“It’s just like when your dad leaves us alone for a few days over the summer. He doesn’t want us to disturb our holiday.”
“Because Harry’s all alone back here,” Teddy amended knowingly.
Tonks smiled warmly in response even as she worried how much longer before her observant son questioned why the wine cellar under the back stairs was totally devoid of bottles. At least the harshness of the truth would be mollified by Harry’s presence during those full-moon excursions.
“Your father’s gone to help Ginny with a special broadcast. She needed his expert knowledge,” Harry supplied as he joined them. “She’s officially part of our family, too.”
Teddy bobbed his head in agreement before focusing with woeful eyes. “But he didn’t say good-bye…”
“He did, Spook. You were just asleep,” Harry affirmed. “We all were.”
“I’m sure Dobby can bear witness,” Tonks suggested. “Did you think to ask him?”
“Not yet,” Teddy admitted in a small voice. He looked into the next room where Ron and Hermione sat with eyes trained on the wireless. A slight shimmer around the doorway attested to the Muffliato charm that had been invoked from inside the study moments before. At Hermione’s shoulder, a bright peacock feather took copious notes on a floating pad. “What’s she doing?”
Tonks swallowed the urge to grimace in frustration. After all, she could review the transcript later. “Hermione’s taking notes for an assignment. That way she doesn’t have to rely on her memory alone. Like you’ve seen the students doing at Hogwarts.”
Teddy’s eyes lit up. “Will I be allowed to use a magical quill as well? Wicked!”
“No, Spook,” Harry admonished gently. “Magic quills of all sorts are banned at school. How could the teachers tell which ones were spelled with the answers?”
Teddy’s face fell.
“But Hermione isn’t taking the same type of notes, you see,” Tonks slipped in. “Her Quick Quotes Quill is making a transcript “ an exact record of all that is being said. It’s something she’ll use in her job.”
Teddy allowed his mother to guide him by the hand towards his bedroom. With one last glance over his shoulder, he posed, “Why was that man angry?”
Tonks considered replying that he just had one of those voices, like Mad-Eye, but concluded that Teddy would never accept such a brush-off. Even though she knew it would set off a whole new string of questions, she gave a more honest answer, “His voice is disguised so people won’t recognize him.”
Teddy stopped dead in his tracks. “Why?”
“Because he doesn’t want others to know that he’s in prison.”
“But Dad always says you should own up to your mistakes,” Teddy protested.
“That’s true, sweetheart. But this man is ashamed of his past and doesn’t want people to know.”
“Oh.”
“That’s why he’s been sentenced to prison instead of just having to sit in the corner or scrub bedpans like Madam Pomfrey has students do.”
“Will we hear Ginny’s voice later?”
“No, dear. Ginny works behind the scenes. Helps prepare the questions that will be asked; that’s a much more difficult task than just reading the parchment before you.”
“But they’ll announce her name at the end?”
“Yes, she’s likely to get credit as the producer.”
“What about Dad? He’s helping her right now, isn’t he?”
Tonks drew Teddy into her lap as she sat on the cushioned lid of his toy chest. “Journalists like Ginny often consult with others; that’s how they’re sure to get the right information for their stories. They’re not allowed to make up the facts to suit them, you know.” She waited for Teddy to nod that he understood before adding, “It’s part of their rules, their ethics, that they protect the identify of their sources of information.”
Teddy’s eyes were wide with apprehension as he pondered, “But Dad hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”
Catching her son in a tight hug, Tonks soothed, “Of course not. But sometimes people don’t want their privacy stripped away, either. You do know what privacy is?”
Teddy conceded, “Like when I shut the door to my room. Or to the loo,” he added with a mischievous giggle.
“Or when people make a donation to a good cause and wish to remain anonymous,” Tonks added with sudden inspiration.
“When will Dad be back?” Phoebe’s tiny voice rang out as she slipped into her brother’s room.
“Tomorrow, I think. He’s so far away that we can’t really communicate.”
“Not Floo?” Phoebe posed as she climbed up on Tonks’ other side.
“It’s too far, sweetheart. Just to get there, Ginny had to take a whole series of Floos.”
“How many?” Teddy wondered.
“Ask her when she gets back,” Tonks suggested.
“Dad?” Phoebe’s curiosity sparked.
“To save time, your father traveled by Portkey with Uncle Mad-Eye. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about his adventures when he returns. But right now, the both of you need to go back to sleep.”
“Will Dad be here when we wake up?” Teddy asked as he slowly climbed under the covers.
“He has to sleep, too, Teddy. He’ll be back late tomorrow.”
“Before bed?” Phoebe demanded.
“I’m not sure,” Tonks allowed. “But Dobby is planning a special breakfast on Monday morning for the three of you, remember? I have to go in at the regular time, but the Headmistress told Dad he could use his planning period for a mini-reunion of sorts.”
“Full English,” Dobby assured them from the doorway.
“Mushrooms?” Phoebe asked with mounting joy.
“And anything else you come up with tomorrow,” Tonks guaranteed. “Just let Dobby know.”
“Why don’t you allow me take it from here, Mistress?” the elf beseeched with a knowing nod towards the main part of the house. “If they promise to go to sleep afterwards, I’ll even give them some more cocoa.”
“That sounds like a capital idea,” Tonks breathed as she deposited Phoebe next to Teddy.
As Tonks made her way down the short hallway, Teddy’s voice rang out, “Can you tell us a bedtime story, Dobby?”
“Fairies and such,” Phoebe added breathlessly.
“Elves aren’t much for fairy stories,” Dobby succumbed graciously. “But did I tell you about the time Fang got too close to the baby hippogriff? Dobby heard firsthand from Hagrid last week.”
Tonks could just imagine the rapt faces of her children as they greedily sipped their cocoa.
“Well,” the elf’s melodious voice began, “Fang was chasing a squirrel “ not one of those flying ones that just laugh at him, mind you “ but a genuine Muggle squirrel that has to live by its wits alone. The mother hippogriff was not perturbed when the squirrel ran along the top of the pen, but when this slavering beast came in close pursuit that was a different matter.”
“Fang wouldn’t hurt the baby,” Teddy maintained.
“No, but dogs can be rather single-minded when in the throes of a mighty chase,” Dobby persisted. “And she didn’t want her baby trampled or disturbed in any manner.”
“What did she do?” came Phoebe’s excited squeak.
“She reared up to her full height, wings spread wide, and charged that fence. Made Fang stop dead in his tracks.”
“He would’ve run backwards if he could,” Teddy supplied his own take.
“All the while, Hagrid could see that the mother hippogriff was appraising bony, ole Fang with her beady eye. Imagining that she’s roasting him on a spit with the sauce dripping from the tips of his toes.”
“What kind of sauce?” Teddy wanted to know.
After a second’s hesitation, Dobby provided, “Why spicy Worcestershire, of course! You’d need something to tenderize…”
Tonks set an Imperturbable Charm at the end of the hallway, secure that Dobby would not be impeded but the silence would make it easier for her children to stay in bed once and for all.
Returning to the study, she found Harry, Ron and Hermione clustered around the wireless, their faces slack as they concentrated on the broadcast.
“You didn’t miss much,” Harry assured her as he made room on the sofa. “Just the obligatory questions from fans.”
“I’ll review the notes later,” Tonks replied. “Suspects are most likely to give things away when they feel unthreatened.”
“Were you able to coax them back to sleep?” Hermione whispered as she laid a gentle hand on Eleanor’s back and continued to rock her slightly.
“Dobby took over with a bedtime story,” Tonks chuckled. “Adapted from a recipe, no less!”
“Teddy didn’t happen to overhear the part where the man admitted he was a werewolf, did he?” Ron posed with concern.
“I don’t think so,” Tonks answered. “His questions would have dragged on much longer if he had.”
As the others smiled reassuringly, Tonks had to wonder exactly what Teddy had heard. Perhaps she should ready herself for another type of interrogation over breakfast the next morning. After all, Teddy often let ideas simmer in the back of his mind before presenting his hypotheses; he was so much like Remus in that respect.
“How many personal assistants do you employ?” Eunice inquired.
“None,” was the gravelly reply. “My literary agent serves as my liaison with the outside world. Consequently, there’s no one to reply to fan mail.”
“Why cut yourself off from the outside world?”
“I assure you the outside world rejected me long before I turned my back on it. Just ask any other werewolf!”
“But your words are so eloquent. You speak as if you’ve spent years considering your place in the greater scheme of things.”
A derisive laugh warbled through the air. “Enforced solitude, I assure you. But make no mistake, a werewolf has no place. Wizards can tolerate other beings who see themselves as subservient -- such as house elves. Even goblins, who only pretend to be subservient, are tolerated. But a being who demands to be treated as an intellectual equal can only be a poseur.”
“A philosopher to point out the ills of society,” Eunice posed in the guise of an acolyte. “You must expect the world has the potential to improve; otherwise, why point out the errors in our thinking?”
“I have long since learned to distrust those who pretend to offer friendship; most are seeking only to advance their own aims.”
“What about other werewolves? Are they so duplicitous?”
“Not so much. But many lack the courage of their convictions. They still insist on trying to fit in among others who have labeled them categorically as monsters.”
“Is it your goal to bridge this gap?”
With an eerie, hollow cackle, Mr. W. returned, “How would you suggest I do that? My current circumstances are hardly conducive to presenting my views before the Wizengamot.”
Eunice chafed at the restrictions before her. Here was the moment to ask him why he’d turned himself in, but how? In Remus’ rushed scribble, the wording rose before her. “What makes you think you would be unwelcome within the Ministry itself?”
“They couldn’t wait to clamp me in leg-irons the first time! What makes you think they would allow me to shuffle my way before a legislative assembly?”
“We are taught that everyone is welcome to air their views.”
“We are taught a lot of things in theory. Reality is often quite different.”
“What exactly is your reality, Mr. W.?” Eunice beseeched. “We want to know; we want to understand.”
“The world sees my very existence to be criminal. So I turned myself in for all past infractions, real or imaginary.”
“A political prisoner of sorts,” Eunice pronounced in reaction to Remus’ notation: He sees himself as Gandhi.
“That’s very astute of you, my dear. How could I ever have doubted that you were a fan?”
“So other than protesting the overall treatment of werewolves, why subject yourself to the rigors of incarceration?”
“No need to be so genteel. Azkaban is hardly a training ground for endurance; it's stagnation of the spirit. A crucible where only the indomitable will survive.”
“But you see yourself as a survivor, don’t you?”
“That I’m here to address you attests to that.”
“You seem like a man who has seen the worst the world has to offer. How have you been tested in the past?”
“Every day in the life of a werewolf is a struggle against blatant intolerance. The only surcease is when we succumb to the ministering sway of the moon “ but for that we are condemned most of all. For something that we cannot help, cannot control. A creature cannot help being what it is; such are the laws of Nature. But other men see themselves as arbiters over that which they can’t properly categorize.”
“A lot of the world’s woes are caused by labeling others, there’s no doubt about it. How do you cope with that?”
“The same way in which any other prisoner would -- regardless of whether his chains are real or imaginary. I rail at the injustice; and when my anger is spent, I promise myself that I will not let it wear me down.”
“Do you seek a workable compromise?”
“Not anymore, Eunice. I have been hammered relentlessly by both sides and can only conclude that the climate is not yet right.”
“I think the listeners are anxious to learn how your life was affected by the werewolf relocation camps that only recently came to light.”
“That folly? An overgrown bunch of dog catchers rounding up all the jobless mongrels!”
“Did they come knocking on your door, Mr. W.?” Eunice commiserated.
“They tried, but I was able to prove that I was gainfully employed at time.”
“What sort of work did you do?”
“Whatever needed doing; a werewolf can’t be too picky.”
“And the name of your employer?”
A very long pause. “I’d prefer to leave that to our listeners’ imaginations, Eunice. I don’t want to alienate anyone who might assume I shared by employer’s view of the world.”
“Right,” Eunice allowed in response to Remus’ instructions of: Let him prevaricate all he wants; encourage, don’t contradict. “I’m sure the many who routinely butt heads with their bosses will understand only too well.”
“But to return to your earlier query, if I may. I can hardly say the werewolf camps left me unscathed. Their very presence was an affront to those like me.”
“Were many of your friends and acquaintances directly affected?”
“Without a doubt. It became a pilgrimage of sorts to visit the four camps in turn.”
“You were allowed access then? A recent interview with Dolores Umbridge seemed to indicate that no werewolves had presented themselves voluntarily.”
The man’s mirthless laughter was singularly unsettling. “Certainly not as potential residents. Nor did I offer to escort any of the inmates for a visit to the outside world; that was the exact question that was posed to Ms. Umbridge. You should be careful when wording queries to career politicians; they will wiggle between the cracks so they can give you just as little as possible yet further their own cause the most.”
Eunice chuckled as if sharing a private joke. “Point well taken. You were allowed access as a camp visitor then?”
“Yes. I was welcomed as a conquering hero by those who yearned for news from the outside world “ even if it was second-hand.”
“So the other werewolves saw you as a Messiah of sorts?” she dared according to Ginny’s instructions, ever wary of Remus’ warning to: Tread carefully.
The deep chuckle which reverberated hollowly held the unmistakable hint of triumph. “I can’t possibly know. But the Ministry would have been most displeased if that had been the case.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Their plan was to round up werewolves so they couldn’t cause any trouble for the rest of society. Yet the concentration camps themselves gave easy access to anyone intent on creating a spontaneous uprising. How utterly ironic!”
Fully aware of Remus’ advice to not corner her subject, Eunice settled on sympathizing instead, “Luckily, no such thing occurred.”
“Only because the camps were disbanded. How long do you truthfully think such disgruntled individuals could be housed together before revolutionary fervor broke out?”
In bold capitals, the warning came through: CHANGE THE SUBJECT! Let his words be a condemnation unto themselves.
“You wrote of being caught in the middle between two opposing sides. I think our listeners would like to know which you chose and why?” She couldn’t help holding her breath as she awaited the response.
With an overly dramatic sigh, the werewolf admitted, “Life is rarely as black and white as we would have it. No simple answers, no simple issues. Even in a war that pits two factions against one another, unwitting allies stand together by sheer virtue of a common enemy.”
Eunice softened her approach. “Is that a gentle way of saying you find the question too intrusive?”
“No, I’m simply setting the background for my response. To this day, I’m not fully certain who stood behind the various opportunities. Each was veiled in so many layers of secrecy that for all I know they could have come from the same bloody person!” His grim cackle was chilling.
“If you’ll forgive the trite platitude: a sightless dragon incinerates by smell.”
“Suppose different emissaries were sent. Even those presented false names.”
“Is that why you didn’t mention any names in your book?”
“Not entirely. As my agent will no doubt regale you, anyone falsely accused could sue for damages. Not just seek redress from me, but also from my publisher. Even if what I told was the unvarnished truth, they could accuse me of besmirching their reputation. If I was able to substantiate my words, without their written release to include them in my book, they could easily be awarded not only a portion of the earnings, but a disproportionate say in anything and everything to do with my literary work. In effect, I would be allowing them to buy into my life.” After a moment’s silence, he abruptly added, “And if that person were no longer living, I could still be pursued by the executors of his or her estate.”
Following her impromptu script, Eunice urged, “So were you able to at least figure out who stood behind the masks?”
“One can always suspect. It’s human nature to put a face to a voice; I venture that our listeners are doing just that as we speak. But it doesn’t mean they’re correct in their assumptions. What was even more curious was that the more I spoke with each of them, the more their offers seemed to be variations on the same theme. Ultimately, I rejected them both.”
“Please tell us more.”
“Too many gauzy layers of deception made me wonder what was behind it all. A person who feels a need to remain in the shadows can hide a knife behind his back that much more readily. I had no desire to sacrifice myself to further their ideals. What do ideals matter when you’re dead?”
“Many heroes throughout history would disagree.”
“They were free to make decisions that impacted their lives just as I am. Have you stopped to think, Eunice, that society’s veneration of martyrs is a worship of death over life?”
“Forgive me, Mr. W., those thoughts are much too deep for me to address spontaneously. But it’s certainly a thought-provoking angle to consider.”
“Give it some thought when you have a quiet moment. Unfortunately my life seems to be made up of an endless string of them at the moment.”
“I can’t help but feel disappointed you can’t tell us more, though. Such tantalizing descriptions of the woman who offered werewolves a new direction… It was a woman, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but she turned out to be the most hypocritical of all. Tell me this: what would you think of a plan that was presented by someone who secretly found you repellent?”
Unsure what to do with the tables turned, Eunice was only too happy to latch onto the lifeline Remus’ hurried instructions provided. “You spoke of unholy alliances before.”
“Yes, but one always wonders what happens after the common enemy is defeated. How many former allies turn on each other in the wake of a shared victory?”
“History is filled with examples,” she recited on cue.
“I didn’t want werewolves to suffer a similar fate. Our numbers are too small as it is.”
“Do all werewolves think like you?”
“Merlin, no! We’re as fractious and contradictory as any other segment of society. But sometimes, people come together in a common cause. Especially when they can put a face, or a name, to their oppressor.”
“The Werewolf Relocation Project,” Eunice breathed.
“Certainly a prime example. So obvious, in fact, that I came to think werewolves were being manipulated from the start.”
“I’m not certain I follow,” Eunice apologized.
“Consider this: someone wanted the werewolves to be herded together for the very purpose of creating chaos. It would have been inevitable had not disease curtailed their plans.”
“The dark forces that were defeated were fond of creating unrest.”
“A fact known to every schoolchild. But what if that’s just what they wanted us to believe? What if it was just a smoke screen? I don’t have to tell you that no sect has a monopoly on overzealousness. What if instead, the plan was to wait for someone to lead the werewolves in a revolt “ for the sole reason of eradicating our numbers once and for all? Who would fault their government for putting down a cadre of lawless insurgents?”
Let him think he’s shocked you, Remus urged silently. “Are you pointing your finger at the Ministry of Magic?” she gasped.
“Who can say? It’s all smoke and mirrors in the end.”
“How did you recognize your contacts? Did you use code names?”
“Code names, passwords, you name it. But the name that sticks in my mind is the one I overheard one of her associates use when he thought no one else was listening: the Mistress of Pain.”
“Is that a nickname or an epithet?” she shot back as play along rose from the depths of her parchment.
Raucous laughter akin to a demonic crow spewed forth. “A little of both, I suppose. Call it a quasi-affectionate nickname.”
“As in someone who is also a pain in the hindquarters?”
“Your words not mine. She was not renowned for her sense of humor.”
“Do you think she might be listening in tonight?”
Gruff laughter, swallowed quickly. “The entire world is listening in tonight. The WWN would not have gone to the expense of setting up such a double-blind scenario if it didn’t expect meteoric ratings.”
Eunice responded with a conspiratorial whisper of her own, “Stop, you’ll make me lose my professional composure.”
With a throaty chuckle, Mr. W confided, “Should I tell you what a heady feeling it is to know that everyone is hanging on your every word?”
“Some people would feel inordinately flustered or self-conscious. Not you, though.” Another chuckle that she easily imaged accompanied a wide grin full of sharp, feral teeth. “Tell us, what words would you address to the world at large?”
There was a long pause, then Mr. W’s voice assumed a false modesty. “I’m hardly a pioneer. If the world finds my written words to be unsettling, let me suggest that it is because they have never considered the true feelings of those whom they belittle. If my lifestyle seems radical compared to theirs, they should question: what other options I have been given? Everyone who reads my book should take a moment to place himself in my shoes. It is not so much a problem of accepting the harsh reality of our lot in life, but having to deal with the unfair pronouncements of others.” Taking a deep breath, he crooned, “To my brethren who have no choice but to share my lot in life, I urge you to take heart despite the slings and arrows that are flung your way on a daily basis. You are not alone; you are not voiceless. Certainly not powerless. We just need to reach out to one another.”
Eunice allowed a brief pause to underscore the climatic moment. Almost timidly, she proceeded. “One last question from your fan mail, please? What’s your favorite color?”
The airwaves carried a soft rustling as he stopped to think. “I like all colors. Our view of the world would be greatly diminished if there was a sudden gap in the spectrum. Just like people, every shade and nuance makes an important contribution to the whole.”
With an appreciative titter, Eunice elaborated, “A very well-thought out answer, but I don’t think it was intended metaphorically. The writer says she likes to knit.”
Laughter was followed by, “In that case, any color but orange. Orange makes me look like a moldy pumpkin.”
“So I take it you’re not a supporter of the Chudley Cannons?”
“Quidditch has never held much appeal for me, I’m afraid.”
As the clock ticked down, Eunice summarized, “And there you have it, witches, wizards and everything in between. Our heartfelt thanks to the man who’s held our consciousness so vividly since autumn and the new words he’s given us to ponder. This is Eunice Sharpe for the WWN, signing off until next time.”