Chapter 195 — Remus Lupin
"The three werewolves we caught a few days ago finally talked."
The tall Auror's voice cut clearly through the musty air of the shop.
"They mentioned a wizard in a grey cloak—shows up before every full moon, buying scraps of silver."
Hidden in the shadows, Sirius's canine ears snapped upright. Silver shavings—one of the key ingredients for brewing Wolfsbane.
"I know the one," the other Auror chuckled. "He's a werewolf too."
"Take a look at this," he added, pulling something out. "This is what he left behind—a silver badge. No idea why a werewolf would bother keeping something like that."
"Who cares," the tall one replied dismissively. "They're just beasts. What do you expect to understand about them?"
"Fair enough." The man laughed dryly and slipped the badge into his pocket.
Once the two Aurors Apparated away, Sirius returned to human form and stepped into the space they had occupied.
There was still a faint trace in the air—a scent he knew all too well.
Remus Lupin.
So the "grey-cloaked buyer" had to be him.
Before Sirius could move, the door banged open.
Two drunken wizards stumbled in, already fumbling with their belts. The sharp, sour stench hit his nose immediately. Sirius shrank deeper into the shadows.
"I'm telling you," one of them slurred, his nose red and his bottle swaying, "those werewolves are worth more. Anyone who can afford Wolfsbane isn't some nobody—not even in Diagon Alley."
"Last week," he continued, "I saw him smuggling dragon eggs. Whole body wrapped in a moldy grey cloak…"
Sirius's pulse quickened.
Just moments ago, he had thought the night would yield nothing. Now, the trail had suddenly opened again.
He acted instantly.
A flick of his wand dropped the second drunk unconscious. Another disarming charm sent the red-nosed wizard's wand skittering across the floor.
"Please—don't kill me!" the man sobered up fast, collapsing to his knees with his hands raised.
"The grey-cloaked wizard," Sirius demanded, forcing his voice steady. "Where did you see him?"
"At the end of Knockturn Alley—there's a small door," the man stammered. "Go through it, there's a swamp… he lives there."
"Good."
Sirius knocked him out without hesitation. For safety, he wiped both men's memories clean before leaving.
Following the directions, he pushed into the swamp. The ground sucked at his boots, and the air grew thick and rotten. In the distance, a faint light flickered.
As he drew closer, the shape emerged—a treehouse, half-hidden beneath layers of green vines. Without careful inspection, it would have been impossible to spot.
A dim green glow seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls, accompanied by the steady bubbling of a cauldron.
Swamp mist clung to his robes as Sirius stepped onto a creaking wooden bridge. The light from his wand illuminated the crooked structure ahead. Three ravens burst from the eaves, scattering scales stained with dark blood.
When his fingers brushed the damp wall, he froze.
Fresh claw marks.
Three deep, two shallow—the unmistakable spacing of a werewolf's grip in loss of control.
He raised his wand, about to knock.
Behind him, the swamp erupted.
Hundreds—thousands—of bubbles surged to the surface. Rotting alder branches writhed like living serpents, coiling around his ankles. A ward—set by the treehouse's owner—had been triggered.
Sirius reacted instantly, slicing through the branches.
"Remus! I know you're—"
A flash of crimson spellfire tore through the rotting door.
Sirius threw himself off the bridge just as the spot he'd stood on exploded into splinters.
"Stupefy!"
The hastily fired spell slammed into a suddenly rising transparent barrier. Dust billowed, and from within it came a hoarse, cold voice:
"Impersonating Sirius? Clever plan. Too bad the real one is still rotting in Azkaban, serving the punishment he deserves."
It was clear—Remus Lupin had been cut off from the outside world for far too long. Either that, or he simply didn't care enough to keep up. He had no idea Sirius had already escaped.
A wolf-shaped shadow burst from the treehouse. The tattered hem of Lupin's grey robes flared like bat wings as he slashed his wand through the air, sending a binding curse streaking toward Sirius.
Sirius barely raised a Shield Charm in time. The impact rattled his arm, and before he could recover, Lupin flicked his wand again—transfiguration rippled through the swamp, turning sludge into seven rotting wolves that lunged forward.
"Wait! Don't you remember the Marauder's Map we made at Hogwarts?!"
Sirius roared, hurling a Blasting Curse. The mud-wolves exploded on impact, splattering acidic muck that hissed against his boots.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!"
For a fraction of a second, Lupin hesitated.
Then suspicion hardened again, and he swept his wand, conjuring a gale. The spell hurled gravel like buckshot. Sirius yanked a chunk of driftwood into the air with a levitation charm, using it as a shield. Through the flying splinters, he caught sight of Lupin's wrist—thin, scarred… and freshly wounded.
So he hadn't escaped unscathed after all.
"Expelliarmus!"
Lupin's disarming spell grazed past Sirius's ear, smashing a glass bottle behind him into shards.
Seizing the moment, Sirius snapped his wand forward.
"Reveal yourself!"
The swamp mist condensed into a shimmering water mirror, reflecting Sirius's face—unbroken, as it had been before Azkaban hollowed him out.
Lupin's wand dipped.
But only for a heartbeat.
"Not enough," he said, voice tight with doubt. "If you're really Sirius, tell me the seventh password we set on the passage to the Shrieking Shack!"
"You always used Muggle authors' birthdays—"
Sirius ducked two stunning spells in quick succession, his back slamming against a rotting oak trunk.
"March 2nd, 1978—Dr. Seuss!"
Silence.
The magic in the air faltered.
Lupin's wand lowered, trembling.
Still, it didn't fall.
The faint glow at its tip illuminated Sirius's gaunt face. Between them, swamp mist hung like a web—until Sirius tore back his sleeve.
On his withered skin, a faded constellation pattern emerged.
A mark from their youth—burned in with Permanent Revealing Potion when the Marauders were sixteen.
"Even Dementors can't take this away."
Sirius's voice scraped like rusted metal.
"Peter was the Secret Keeper… He cut off his own finger and lived as a rat—in the Weasley house—for eleven years."
Lupin staggered back, hitting a decayed support beam. Mold dust rained down. He doubled over, coughing violently—blood seeped between his fingers, glinting silver in the moonlight.
And just like that—
He believed him.
"You're hurt?" Sirius frowned. "Don't tell me those useless Aurors from the Ministry managed to injure you."
Lupin gave a weak, bitter laugh, still catching his breath.
"I got careless. Last week they raided a werewolf camp… planted fake evidence in my pocket. Wanted to frame me—make it look like a victory."
He wiped the blood from his lips, expression tinged with quiet resignation.
"That's how it is for werewolves. On paper, we have the same rights as everyone else…"
His voice trailed off.
"But reality rarely agrees."