A Wolf at the Door

The order came on a Tuesday, tasting of damp earth and decay. It slithered through the camp, a whispered command passed from one gaunt figure to the next until it found Remus Lupin where he sat huddled by a sputtering, smokey fire. They were to attack a village. A Muggle village, small and insignificant, nestled in a fold of the Cumbrian hills.

The word "attack" was a euphemism. Fenrir Greyback did not attack; he devoured. He did not conquer; he contaminated.

Remus felt the familiar, cold dread clench in his gut. He had been with the pack—Greyback’s collection of broken, feral werewolves and hangers-on—for six months. Six months of hiding in plain sight, of trading scraps of Order intelligence so vague they were useless for the privilege of not being torn apart. It was a miserable, soul-crushing existence, but it was a necessary one. Dumbledore had called it "deep cover." Remus called it hell.

But there were lines. Lines he had drawn in his own blood and sanity, and the slaughter of innocents was a line he would not cross. Not for Dumbledore, not for the Order, not even for his own survival.

He looked up as a hulking shape blotted out the meager firelight. Yaxley, one of Greyback’s lieutenants, a man whose grin was a crescent of yellowed teeth. “Lupin. Greyback wants a word.”

The summons was inevitable. Remus rose, his joints aching with a damp chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He followed Yaxley to the centre of the camp, a stinking mire of mud and trampled ferns, where Greyback sat upon a fallen log like a grotesque king on a throne. His long, matted grey hair was tangled with leaves, and his eyes, small and disturbingly pale, glinted with a predatory light.

“Lupin,” Greyback growled, his voice a gravelly rasp. “You heard the command.”

“I did,” Remus said, his own voice quiet but steady.

“You will lead the northern charge. Your senses are sharpest. You'll flush them from their homes for the others.”

Remus’s magic coiled, a cold, defensive knot in his chest. He kept his face impassive. “No.”

The single word fell into the sudden silence of the camp. Even the crickets seemed to hold their breath. Greyback’s smile was slow, terrible. “What did you say?”

“I said no,” Remus repeated, his gaze unwavering. “I will not hunt Muggles for sport.”

The blow came faster than he could react. Not a fist, but a curse—a vicious, purple lash of light that struck him across the chest. It felt like being flayed with a heated whip. He staggered back, gasping, the smell of burnt fabric and his own seared flesh filling his nostrils.

“Discipline,” Greyback snarled, rising from his log. “Something you seem to have forgotten, living among weak-willed wizards.” He drew his wand, its tip glowing malevolently. “I will remind you of your place.”

The next hour was a blur of pain. Curses struck him, one after another—some that sliced, some that burned, some that felt like his bones were being ground to powder. He refused to scream, biting his lip until it bled, focusing on the damp smell of the earth, the rustle of leaves, anything to anchor him. He was a survivor. He had survived the bite, had survived Hogwarts, had survived a war. He would survive this.

But as Greyback loomed over him, his breath a foul miasma of raw meat and rot, Remus knew survival wasn’t enough. The Alpha wolf raised his wand for a final, killing blow.

It was now or never.

With the last of his strength, Remus slammed his hand onto the swampy ground, his mind focusing not on a spell, but on a property of science he’d learned in a Muggle Studies class years ago. Marsh gas. Methane. Highly flammable. He didn't need a powerful Incendio. He just needed a spark.

“Scintilla!” he rasped, a weak, non-verbal sparkler charm.

The result was instantaneous. A low whoomph erupted from the ground between him and Greyback. A wave of blue flame rolled outwards, setting fire to dry leaves and Greyback’s own filthy robes. The werewolf howled in surprise and pain, batting at the flames.

It was the only chance he would get.

Remus scrambled to his feet, ignoring the screaming agony in his limbs. He plunged into the darkest part of the surrounding woods, crashing through bracken and thorns. Behind him, he heard Greyback’s enraged roar.

“GET HIM! BRING ME HIS HIDE!”

He didn’t look back. Fuelled by pure adrenaline, he ran, every footfall an explosion of pain, the promise of a far worse fate propelling him forward into the cold, unforgiving night.