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starfishstarFANTASTIC BEASTS AND HOW TO WIN THEIR HEARTS: A RETELLING OF BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
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stereolightning and starfishstar
SUMMARY:
A man with nowhere else to turn agrees to live forever in a remote mansion that exists in perpetual autumn, his host a reclusive character known only as the Beast. By turns attentive and taciturn, the monstrous lord of the house keeps his dark secrets close to his chest, yet both host and guest find themselves increasingly captivated by one another. But how can a Beast give his heart while he remains a prisoner of his own curse?
A fusion of Harry Potter with Beauty and the Beast, told in seven chapters.
Characters: Remus, Sirius, others to be revealed
Words: ca. 19,900
Notes: For the inspiration that gave rise to this story, we would like to thankpenknife, for both the delightful Remus/Sirius gothic romance “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” and the equally delightful “author’s commentary” on that story. In the commentary, there’s a spot where penknife notes how Remus falls in love with Sirius’ home library in the story, and how it has shades of “Beauty and the Beast,” casting Remus as Beauty. …starfishstar mentioned this idea to stereolightning (filed under “AUs we will probably never write, but isn’t this idea cool, and also which of them would you make Beauty and which the Beast??”); stereolightning said, Yeah, you should write it! starfishstar said, Why don’t we write it? …And half a year of co-writing later, here it is.
We would also like to thankhuldrejenta for beta-reading! Your comments were exactly the push we needed to smooth out the last rough edges of this and get to a place that feels complete. Thank you!
Story posting simultaneously at AO3; it's completely written, and will post a chapter a day.
CHAPTER ONE
The storm took Remus by surprise.
It announced itself with rushing dark clouds and a ghostly howl. A heavy grey light strangled the memory of spring buds that had only just begun to open. The squirrels and badgers and other small creatures of the forest hid in their nests and burrows.
Remus shivered and pulled his threadbare cloak more tightly around his shoulders. With no home of his own, he was forced to seek out whatever secluded places he could find to transform at the full moon, away from human habitation and away from the danger of inadvertently hurting someone. This month, he’d travelled deep into the woods and spent a painful but otherwise uneventful night alone among trees whose tentative green buds offered first signs of spring.
Now, the full moon was two days gone, a late winter squall was blowing in, and Remus was still too weak to Apparate. His teeth chattered harder by the minute. Snow was sifting through the branches, flecking his much-patched black travelling cloak with white. His feet ached and his weary bones heralded a night of biting cold. He would freeze to death if he didn’t find shelter.
The wind, gusting now, tore Remus’ scarf from his throat and it whipped away on the gale, a red blur. Without it, the cold wind forced itself under the collar of Remus’ cloak. He struggled on, his exhausted mind increasingly fixated on searching for the scarf, concerned not only for the loss of its life-giving warmth, but because it was one of the few possessions he had inherited from his parents, who were now long dead. Perhaps it was a first sign of hypothermia, Remus thought dazedly, but the loss of that one small, sentimental article occupied his thoughts more than the snow falling ever more thickly around him.
The world was monochrome now: slate sky, ink-dark trees, white snow. A blur of red flickered ahead—was that his scarf, caught on a branch? Remus forced himself onwards.
No, it wasn’t the scarf. It was a small tree with red leaves, a vivid hue that surely spoke of magic. Did wizards live nearby?
As Remus approached, he felt the cold lessen. He saw another tree beyond this one, golden as an apple, and another aflame with orange. He kept walking, bemused and exhausted, until at last he came upon a walled garden, rich with autumn leaves. Hesitant, unwilling to trespass but with nowhere else to go, Remus stepped through a wide gate that stood halfway open in the wall.
He stopped and gazed around, amazed. The ivy to either side of him was a brighter shade of red than the brick it clung to. A cluster of apple trees stood in the centre of the enormous garden, their boughs thick with glossy fruit in shades of pale green and blushing rose. Rare magical plants, as well as ordinary plants but ones that did not normally grow in Britain, were laid out in what must once have been tidy geometric patterns, but now had become overgrown and wild.
The garden abutted a grand but crumbling house in an eighteenth century style, with two tall storeys indicated by rows of windows, and a pitched roof. There were signs of habitation—a black Velocette motorbike, parked in the drive; a bird feeder hanging from a tree with fresh seed in it. A pair of blue tufted jobberknolls pecked at the spread.
Remus’ scarf was caught like a kite in one of the apple trees. Relieved, he went and plucked it from the branch, and replaced it around his neck.
He knew he should leave, quickly, and look for an inn or even an abandoned barn or shed, somewhere where he could be certain his presence wouldn’t bother anyone. But he was also well and truly lost, and didn’t know how long it would take to find another place where he could take shelter. Stay, or go?
Over the garden wall, beyond the red and golden and flame-coloured trees, the blizzard raged on, a fugue of grey.
Remus considered camping out in the garden, but he was sure someone lived in the house, and he had had more than enough experiences of waking up to an angry and unwilling host. Best to make his presence known.
So, mustering his strength, he approached the door of the house. He knocked, and the door swung open.
No one was there.
But he heard footsteps.
“Hello?” Remus called. His voice echoed hollowly in the large entrance hall, and he looked up to see a high, coffered ceiling that soared away above his head, ornamented with plasterwork rosettes and frescoes of angels. This was a grand house indeed.
No one answered, but Remus thought he caught the sound of muffled footsteps receding further into the house, down the long hallway that stretched before him. Cautiously, Remus followed the sound.
At the end of the hall, a pair of high, wooden doors swung inwards, and Remus’ breath caught in his throat as he found himself gazing upon a grand banquet hall. A long, ornately carved wooden table, seemingly hewn from a single, massive tree trunk, stretched the length of the high-ceilinged hall, which was lit by the gentle, dancing flames of wall sconces. A merry fire crackled in a wide fireplace at the far end of the hall, and the long table was laid with a feast such as Remus had never seen before. Half a dozen steaming tureens of soup, two roast chickens smothered in herbs, platters of sprouts and carrots and potatoes, a shoulder of pork cooked with apples. Remus was suddenly and forcefully reminded that he had not eaten in two long days of trudging through the winter woods, and his stomach growled painfully.
“Hello?” he called again, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Is there someone home?” The sight of the feast before him was making his mouth water, but he wasn’t going to avail himself of someone else’s meal with no invitation.
No one answered. No one came.
Tentatively, Remus advanced into the room, towards the warm fire at its far end, trying to ignore the delicacies arrayed on the table as he passed. He would not eat his unseen host’s food, but he could at least warm himself by the fire until the lord or lady of the house deigned to appear. He sank gratefully into a feather-soft armchair and stretched his aching feet towards the fire.
An hour passed. Remus’ stomach rumbled ceaselessly and he was growing light-headed with hunger. No one had come, though Remus called out questioningly again and again. Finally, hating himself for the poverty and desperation that led him to abandon the good manners his parents had instilled in him, Remus rose, gripping the back of the armchair for support.
He would eat just a little, enough to save himself from starvation, no more.
Remus seated himself gingerly at the foot of the table, casting one last despairing look around, hoping his host might have arrived at last, unseen. But no one was there.
“I apologise for my incivility,” he called out. “And I thank you for this meal, whoever you are.”
No answer came. Remus sighed, and served himself small portions only: a bit of bread, a ladleful of fragrant stew, a small plate of vegetables. He poured himself a cup of cold, clear water from a jug that clearly had been subjected to an expertly cast cooling charm, for beads of condensation still sweated down its sides.
Remus ate quietly, chewing methodically, finishing everything on his plate. Then he rose. Wandering unasked through someone else’s home was unforgivably rude, but the alternative was stumbling back out into the storm where he would surely die of cold before the night was through. And if he ventured further into the house, perhaps he would find some sign of his host.
Aware that this was flimsy logic but in possession of nothing better, Remus traversed the room again, leaving the way he had come. Again, the double doors to the hallway opened without the slightest touch. And again, no one was there.
From the main hall further hallways branched left and right. Remus went left, and at the end of this corridor found a wide, sweeping spiral stair. He climbed it and when he reached the top, another door to the right side of a wide landing swung open as if it had been waiting for him to arrive. Unable to resist his curiosity, Remus leaned his head just a little way inside, and found a cosy bedroom, the bed neatly made, one corner of its thick quilt turned down invitingly. A tall candle burned on a little table beside the bed, freshly lit, not even a drop of wax yet pooled at its base. A powerful wave of tiredness overtook Remus then, and he was unable to force back a yawn so wide it left his jaw aching in its wake.
Perhaps I can lie down just for a few minutes, he thought. Surely my host won’t mind, not when I’ve already eaten the food as well.
Stumbling, his weary fingers barely managing to tug off his snow-sodden boots, Remus half-fell into the soft expanse of the bed, still insistently reminding himself, Just for a few minutes…
He slept.
#
Honey-coloured light streamed in through an uncovered window. Outside, the leaves were still red and gold, but beyond them, past the garden, snow continued to fall.
Remus had never seen weather magic on this scale before, and would not have believed it possible. He wondered what manner of witch or wizard lived here and had made it so.
With curiosity spurring him forwards, he washed and dressed and set off in search of his host or hostess, with an eye to inquiring further about the weather magic, and expressing his thanks for the night’s hospitality.
He met a boggart in the next room he entered, rattling inside a grandfather clock. Down a corridor, he saw a pixie out of the corner of his eye, a flash of malevolent blue. But a lone pixie or boggart was not so terribly worrisome.
The house was old, certainly, but reasonably well cared for. The gilded ornaments on the walls were still bright, and the great Turkish carpets, though they showed signs of wear, weren’t threadbare. The place was full of grand and whimsical features. Inside one salon, a massive candle chandelier hung from the ceiling like a sun in a filigreed sky.
But it was the library that captured Remus’ attention. The large room was stacked floor to ceiling, fourteen feet high, with books, and floating planks of mahogany provided access to the upper shelves. The books on the north wall had been arranged so that the colours of their spines, seen from far away, resembled a map of the world.
A curtain fluttered.
“Hello?” Remus called.
No answer.
Remus approached the row of tall windows. Dust motes drifted in the morning sun.
“Are you the master of this place?” he asked.
But no one was there.
A desk near the window was stacked with pale brown books. The embossed letters flashed in the light—The Enchanter’s Encyclopædia of Esoterica, Time and Again: Advanced Temporal Magicks, Beasts and Beings of the Ottoman Empire.
Remus had been educated at home, and afterwards had travelled, scraping together a living as a tutor and sometimes a day labourer, and he had visited many of the world’s great libraries. He knew the wizards’ entrance into the Bodleian, the secret library in the catacombs under Paris, the magical underbelly of the Staats-Bibliotheek der Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek. He had seen grander collections than this, but never before a private collection so large and diverse. He was tempted more now by the books than by the feast last night. He could devour them all.
Could. But mustn’t.
Footsteps sounded in the marble hall. There must be someone there, perhaps someone adept at concealment charms.
“Hello?” Remus called again, moving towards the arched doorway that opened onto the hall. “Are you the mistress of this place?”
The tread was heavy; perhaps not a woman’s.
“Please,” Remus said. “I want to thank my host. You’ve saved me from freezing in the woods last night. I might have died, but for you. Allow me to thank you.”
From somewhere beyond the doorway a voice, hoarse as if unused to speech, replied, “No thanks are required.”
“I insist,” Remus said, taking another step forwards, “on thanking you in person. I wish to see my host.”
“Halt there! I do not wish to be seen.” Though rough, the voice enunciated well. Surely this was a person of letters.
Remus paused just inside the door. “Please,” he said. “I couldn’t leave without thanking you in person. Not in good conscience.”
“Were I to show myself to you, you could not leave at all. Go.”
Remus stood, irresolute, wanting to continue forwards but telling himself not to disobey his host’s wishes.
“None who see me may leave, and I would not trap you here. Go, and keep your liberty.”
“Do you mean to say that, if you allowed me to thank you personally, I could never leave?”
“Yes,” the voice growled, sounding annoyed at Remus’ obtuseness. “This place is under a curse, in case you’d failed to notice. I can’t leave the grounds, and I have reason to believe the same will happen to anyone who sets eyes on me. You would be welcome in the house as long as you like, but there is too much danger that you will accidentally see me if you stay. So for the love of Merlin, go.”
For the love of Merlin, he’d said—definitely a wizard, then. And yet, from the sound of it this man had not cast the weather magic on the place himself. Remus was intrigued. And then, too, there was the voice of his mother in his ear, whispering that no son of hers would enjoy a host’s food and hospitality and then walk out the door without a backwards glance.
“Go,” the voice beyond the door growled again, and Remus shivered at the vehemence in the tone. “Have you got no sense of self-preservation? Leave me, while you still can.” A different note had slipped into the gruff tone, and Remus knew that sound, knew it intimately, for it was—
Loneliness.
Remus moved closer without a conscious thought.
“Stop!” the voice cried, anguished.
In one mad, condensed moment, Remus’s mind reviewed the course of his life up to this point. Itinerant, poor, hungry, lonely, living desperately hand to mouth, from month to month. He had nearly died in the woods last night, and that hadn’t been his first close call. His life would be a short one, if he continued on as he had done so far.
If he stayed here, he would be a prisoner. A warm, well-fed and comfortable prisoner, yes, with this glorious library at his fingertips every day, never having to worry about the source of his next meal or how to keep the chilblains from his toes, but a captive nonetheless.
And yet, wasn’t he a captive already, shackled to the disease that kept him in perpetual poverty and fear? There were worse prisons than one built of books and crackling fires and the company of a fellow sufferer in loneliness.
“I accept the terms,” Remus said. “Now please let me see you and thank you.” If he stayed, he would have to find somewhere here where he could transform at the full moon without endangering his host, that was his only concern. But there was time enough before the next full moon to learn his way around the walled-in grounds and find a place where he could slip safely away.
“You’re a fool to choose this!” his unseen host snapped.
“But it’s my choice to make!” Remus snapped right back, sudden anger spiking in his chest. This man didn’t know him, didn’t know his life. If Remus chose captivity over death, that was his own business. “My name is Remus Lupin, and I agree never to leave this place. Now, please, let me thank you for your kind hospitality. What’s your name?”
A silhouette appeared in the entranceway, taller than Remus had been expecting. Then Remus’ host stepped into the light.
Stooping, round-shouldered, the form that emerged was covered in matted black fur. He stood seven feet tall, upright on legs that bent the wrong way, like a lion’s hind legs. His teeth stuck out of his lower jaw at an odd angle, and his ears were so large they folded, like those of a dog. His eyes were a pale, lunar grey, and disarmingly human, fringed with the dense black lashes of a cow. On first glance, he looked terrifying and fierce. His posture, though—Remus recognised it instantly as the posture of someone who believed himself beyond the compassion of normal mortals, an emotion that was the twin of his own, and he was not afraid.
The Beast drew himself up to his full height. In a smaller house, his ears would have touched the ceiling. “You may call me Beast, for that is what I am.”
(continue to CHAPTER TWO)
by
stereolightning and starfishstarSUMMARY:
A man with nowhere else to turn agrees to live forever in a remote mansion that exists in perpetual autumn, his host a reclusive character known only as the Beast. By turns attentive and taciturn, the monstrous lord of the house keeps his dark secrets close to his chest, yet both host and guest find themselves increasingly captivated by one another. But how can a Beast give his heart while he remains a prisoner of his own curse?
A fusion of Harry Potter with Beauty and the Beast, told in seven chapters.
Characters: Remus, Sirius, others to be revealed
Words: ca. 19,900
Notes: For the inspiration that gave rise to this story, we would like to thank
penknife, for both the delightful Remus/Sirius gothic romance “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time” and the equally delightful “author’s commentary” on that story. In the commentary, there’s a spot where penknife notes how Remus falls in love with Sirius’ home library in the story, and how it has shades of “Beauty and the Beast,” casting Remus as Beauty. …starfishstar mentioned this idea to stereolightning (filed under “AUs we will probably never write, but isn’t this idea cool, and also which of them would you make Beauty and which the Beast??”); stereolightning said, Yeah, you should write it! starfishstar said, Why don’t we write it? …And half a year of co-writing later, here it is.We would also like to thank
huldrejenta for beta-reading! Your comments were exactly the push we needed to smooth out the last rough edges of this and get to a place that feels complete. Thank you!Story posting simultaneously at AO3; it's completely written, and will post a chapter a day.
CHAPTER ONE
The storm took Remus by surprise.
It announced itself with rushing dark clouds and a ghostly howl. A heavy grey light strangled the memory of spring buds that had only just begun to open. The squirrels and badgers and other small creatures of the forest hid in their nests and burrows.
Remus shivered and pulled his threadbare cloak more tightly around his shoulders. With no home of his own, he was forced to seek out whatever secluded places he could find to transform at the full moon, away from human habitation and away from the danger of inadvertently hurting someone. This month, he’d travelled deep into the woods and spent a painful but otherwise uneventful night alone among trees whose tentative green buds offered first signs of spring.
Now, the full moon was two days gone, a late winter squall was blowing in, and Remus was still too weak to Apparate. His teeth chattered harder by the minute. Snow was sifting through the branches, flecking his much-patched black travelling cloak with white. His feet ached and his weary bones heralded a night of biting cold. He would freeze to death if he didn’t find shelter.
The wind, gusting now, tore Remus’ scarf from his throat and it whipped away on the gale, a red blur. Without it, the cold wind forced itself under the collar of Remus’ cloak. He struggled on, his exhausted mind increasingly fixated on searching for the scarf, concerned not only for the loss of its life-giving warmth, but because it was one of the few possessions he had inherited from his parents, who were now long dead. Perhaps it was a first sign of hypothermia, Remus thought dazedly, but the loss of that one small, sentimental article occupied his thoughts more than the snow falling ever more thickly around him.
The world was monochrome now: slate sky, ink-dark trees, white snow. A blur of red flickered ahead—was that his scarf, caught on a branch? Remus forced himself onwards.
No, it wasn’t the scarf. It was a small tree with red leaves, a vivid hue that surely spoke of magic. Did wizards live nearby?
As Remus approached, he felt the cold lessen. He saw another tree beyond this one, golden as an apple, and another aflame with orange. He kept walking, bemused and exhausted, until at last he came upon a walled garden, rich with autumn leaves. Hesitant, unwilling to trespass but with nowhere else to go, Remus stepped through a wide gate that stood halfway open in the wall.
He stopped and gazed around, amazed. The ivy to either side of him was a brighter shade of red than the brick it clung to. A cluster of apple trees stood in the centre of the enormous garden, their boughs thick with glossy fruit in shades of pale green and blushing rose. Rare magical plants, as well as ordinary plants but ones that did not normally grow in Britain, were laid out in what must once have been tidy geometric patterns, but now had become overgrown and wild.
The garden abutted a grand but crumbling house in an eighteenth century style, with two tall storeys indicated by rows of windows, and a pitched roof. There were signs of habitation—a black Velocette motorbike, parked in the drive; a bird feeder hanging from a tree with fresh seed in it. A pair of blue tufted jobberknolls pecked at the spread.
Remus’ scarf was caught like a kite in one of the apple trees. Relieved, he went and plucked it from the branch, and replaced it around his neck.
He knew he should leave, quickly, and look for an inn or even an abandoned barn or shed, somewhere where he could be certain his presence wouldn’t bother anyone. But he was also well and truly lost, and didn’t know how long it would take to find another place where he could take shelter. Stay, or go?
Over the garden wall, beyond the red and golden and flame-coloured trees, the blizzard raged on, a fugue of grey.
Remus considered camping out in the garden, but he was sure someone lived in the house, and he had had more than enough experiences of waking up to an angry and unwilling host. Best to make his presence known.
So, mustering his strength, he approached the door of the house. He knocked, and the door swung open.
No one was there.
But he heard footsteps.
“Hello?” Remus called. His voice echoed hollowly in the large entrance hall, and he looked up to see a high, coffered ceiling that soared away above his head, ornamented with plasterwork rosettes and frescoes of angels. This was a grand house indeed.
No one answered, but Remus thought he caught the sound of muffled footsteps receding further into the house, down the long hallway that stretched before him. Cautiously, Remus followed the sound.
At the end of the hall, a pair of high, wooden doors swung inwards, and Remus’ breath caught in his throat as he found himself gazing upon a grand banquet hall. A long, ornately carved wooden table, seemingly hewn from a single, massive tree trunk, stretched the length of the high-ceilinged hall, which was lit by the gentle, dancing flames of wall sconces. A merry fire crackled in a wide fireplace at the far end of the hall, and the long table was laid with a feast such as Remus had never seen before. Half a dozen steaming tureens of soup, two roast chickens smothered in herbs, platters of sprouts and carrots and potatoes, a shoulder of pork cooked with apples. Remus was suddenly and forcefully reminded that he had not eaten in two long days of trudging through the winter woods, and his stomach growled painfully.
“Hello?” he called again, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Is there someone home?” The sight of the feast before him was making his mouth water, but he wasn’t going to avail himself of someone else’s meal with no invitation.
No one answered. No one came.
Tentatively, Remus advanced into the room, towards the warm fire at its far end, trying to ignore the delicacies arrayed on the table as he passed. He would not eat his unseen host’s food, but he could at least warm himself by the fire until the lord or lady of the house deigned to appear. He sank gratefully into a feather-soft armchair and stretched his aching feet towards the fire.
An hour passed. Remus’ stomach rumbled ceaselessly and he was growing light-headed with hunger. No one had come, though Remus called out questioningly again and again. Finally, hating himself for the poverty and desperation that led him to abandon the good manners his parents had instilled in him, Remus rose, gripping the back of the armchair for support.
He would eat just a little, enough to save himself from starvation, no more.
Remus seated himself gingerly at the foot of the table, casting one last despairing look around, hoping his host might have arrived at last, unseen. But no one was there.
“I apologise for my incivility,” he called out. “And I thank you for this meal, whoever you are.”
No answer came. Remus sighed, and served himself small portions only: a bit of bread, a ladleful of fragrant stew, a small plate of vegetables. He poured himself a cup of cold, clear water from a jug that clearly had been subjected to an expertly cast cooling charm, for beads of condensation still sweated down its sides.
Remus ate quietly, chewing methodically, finishing everything on his plate. Then he rose. Wandering unasked through someone else’s home was unforgivably rude, but the alternative was stumbling back out into the storm where he would surely die of cold before the night was through. And if he ventured further into the house, perhaps he would find some sign of his host.
Aware that this was flimsy logic but in possession of nothing better, Remus traversed the room again, leaving the way he had come. Again, the double doors to the hallway opened without the slightest touch. And again, no one was there.
From the main hall further hallways branched left and right. Remus went left, and at the end of this corridor found a wide, sweeping spiral stair. He climbed it and when he reached the top, another door to the right side of a wide landing swung open as if it had been waiting for him to arrive. Unable to resist his curiosity, Remus leaned his head just a little way inside, and found a cosy bedroom, the bed neatly made, one corner of its thick quilt turned down invitingly. A tall candle burned on a little table beside the bed, freshly lit, not even a drop of wax yet pooled at its base. A powerful wave of tiredness overtook Remus then, and he was unable to force back a yawn so wide it left his jaw aching in its wake.
Perhaps I can lie down just for a few minutes, he thought. Surely my host won’t mind, not when I’ve already eaten the food as well.
Stumbling, his weary fingers barely managing to tug off his snow-sodden boots, Remus half-fell into the soft expanse of the bed, still insistently reminding himself, Just for a few minutes…
He slept.
#
Honey-coloured light streamed in through an uncovered window. Outside, the leaves were still red and gold, but beyond them, past the garden, snow continued to fall.
Remus had never seen weather magic on this scale before, and would not have believed it possible. He wondered what manner of witch or wizard lived here and had made it so.
With curiosity spurring him forwards, he washed and dressed and set off in search of his host or hostess, with an eye to inquiring further about the weather magic, and expressing his thanks for the night’s hospitality.
He met a boggart in the next room he entered, rattling inside a grandfather clock. Down a corridor, he saw a pixie out of the corner of his eye, a flash of malevolent blue. But a lone pixie or boggart was not so terribly worrisome.
The house was old, certainly, but reasonably well cared for. The gilded ornaments on the walls were still bright, and the great Turkish carpets, though they showed signs of wear, weren’t threadbare. The place was full of grand and whimsical features. Inside one salon, a massive candle chandelier hung from the ceiling like a sun in a filigreed sky.
But it was the library that captured Remus’ attention. The large room was stacked floor to ceiling, fourteen feet high, with books, and floating planks of mahogany provided access to the upper shelves. The books on the north wall had been arranged so that the colours of their spines, seen from far away, resembled a map of the world.
A curtain fluttered.
“Hello?” Remus called.
No answer.
Remus approached the row of tall windows. Dust motes drifted in the morning sun.
“Are you the master of this place?” he asked.
But no one was there.
A desk near the window was stacked with pale brown books. The embossed letters flashed in the light—The Enchanter’s Encyclopædia of Esoterica, Time and Again: Advanced Temporal Magicks, Beasts and Beings of the Ottoman Empire.
Remus had been educated at home, and afterwards had travelled, scraping together a living as a tutor and sometimes a day labourer, and he had visited many of the world’s great libraries. He knew the wizards’ entrance into the Bodleian, the secret library in the catacombs under Paris, the magical underbelly of the Staats-Bibliotheek der Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek. He had seen grander collections than this, but never before a private collection so large and diverse. He was tempted more now by the books than by the feast last night. He could devour them all.
Could. But mustn’t.
Footsteps sounded in the marble hall. There must be someone there, perhaps someone adept at concealment charms.
“Hello?” Remus called again, moving towards the arched doorway that opened onto the hall. “Are you the mistress of this place?”
The tread was heavy; perhaps not a woman’s.
“Please,” Remus said. “I want to thank my host. You’ve saved me from freezing in the woods last night. I might have died, but for you. Allow me to thank you.”
From somewhere beyond the doorway a voice, hoarse as if unused to speech, replied, “No thanks are required.”
“I insist,” Remus said, taking another step forwards, “on thanking you in person. I wish to see my host.”
“Halt there! I do not wish to be seen.” Though rough, the voice enunciated well. Surely this was a person of letters.
Remus paused just inside the door. “Please,” he said. “I couldn’t leave without thanking you in person. Not in good conscience.”
“Were I to show myself to you, you could not leave at all. Go.”
Remus stood, irresolute, wanting to continue forwards but telling himself not to disobey his host’s wishes.
“None who see me may leave, and I would not trap you here. Go, and keep your liberty.”
“Do you mean to say that, if you allowed me to thank you personally, I could never leave?”
“Yes,” the voice growled, sounding annoyed at Remus’ obtuseness. “This place is under a curse, in case you’d failed to notice. I can’t leave the grounds, and I have reason to believe the same will happen to anyone who sets eyes on me. You would be welcome in the house as long as you like, but there is too much danger that you will accidentally see me if you stay. So for the love of Merlin, go.”
For the love of Merlin, he’d said—definitely a wizard, then. And yet, from the sound of it this man had not cast the weather magic on the place himself. Remus was intrigued. And then, too, there was the voice of his mother in his ear, whispering that no son of hers would enjoy a host’s food and hospitality and then walk out the door without a backwards glance.
“Go,” the voice beyond the door growled again, and Remus shivered at the vehemence in the tone. “Have you got no sense of self-preservation? Leave me, while you still can.” A different note had slipped into the gruff tone, and Remus knew that sound, knew it intimately, for it was—
Loneliness.
Remus moved closer without a conscious thought.
“Stop!” the voice cried, anguished.
In one mad, condensed moment, Remus’s mind reviewed the course of his life up to this point. Itinerant, poor, hungry, lonely, living desperately hand to mouth, from month to month. He had nearly died in the woods last night, and that hadn’t been his first close call. His life would be a short one, if he continued on as he had done so far.
If he stayed here, he would be a prisoner. A warm, well-fed and comfortable prisoner, yes, with this glorious library at his fingertips every day, never having to worry about the source of his next meal or how to keep the chilblains from his toes, but a captive nonetheless.
And yet, wasn’t he a captive already, shackled to the disease that kept him in perpetual poverty and fear? There were worse prisons than one built of books and crackling fires and the company of a fellow sufferer in loneliness.
“I accept the terms,” Remus said. “Now please let me see you and thank you.” If he stayed, he would have to find somewhere here where he could transform at the full moon without endangering his host, that was his only concern. But there was time enough before the next full moon to learn his way around the walled-in grounds and find a place where he could slip safely away.
“You’re a fool to choose this!” his unseen host snapped.
“But it’s my choice to make!” Remus snapped right back, sudden anger spiking in his chest. This man didn’t know him, didn’t know his life. If Remus chose captivity over death, that was his own business. “My name is Remus Lupin, and I agree never to leave this place. Now, please, let me thank you for your kind hospitality. What’s your name?”
A silhouette appeared in the entranceway, taller than Remus had been expecting. Then Remus’ host stepped into the light.
Stooping, round-shouldered, the form that emerged was covered in matted black fur. He stood seven feet tall, upright on legs that bent the wrong way, like a lion’s hind legs. His teeth stuck out of his lower jaw at an odd angle, and his ears were so large they folded, like those of a dog. His eyes were a pale, lunar grey, and disarmingly human, fringed with the dense black lashes of a cow. On first glance, he looked terrifying and fierce. His posture, though—Remus recognised it instantly as the posture of someone who believed himself beyond the compassion of normal mortals, an emotion that was the twin of his own, and he was not afraid.
The Beast drew himself up to his full height. In a smaller house, his ears would have touched the ceiling. “You may call me Beast, for that is what I am.”
(continue to CHAPTER TWO)
