Lycanthropy

It is the first day of June. The sun is high and bright, and the blue sky teases the promise of summer. The wild Scottish wind chills my bare legs and reminds how far north I am. There's one benefit to this latitude as summer approaches. For most it's the long days, for me the short nights are more important. Despite the bright sunshine, the school grounds are quiet. It's lunch time, and the pupils will be in the Great Hall.

As I approach my old school, the stiletto heels of my expensive taupe ankle boots sink into the gravel. My blue suede pencil-line skirt is barely above my knees, forcing me into short and rapid steps. A tight-fitting, buff, round necked sweater, and a tan leather jacket, round off my outfit. The outfit is impractical for my day job—unless I'm working undercover. I smile to myself; perhaps, in a way, I am working undercover.

I've never stood in front of a class before, but I'm not nervous. My boyfriend has twice listened to my lecture. After the both performances, Mark made several suggestions, all of which I've incorporated into the final version. He helped me to pick out my outfit, too, right down to my underwear. Nothing too revealing, and definitely no cleavage. He was very firm about that, which is unusual. Mark is usually as firm as a comfort blanket.

I walk up the steps and into the entrance hall. Although I visit the Hogwarts grounds for the memorial service every year, I rarely enter the school itself. I look up. That's a mistake.

My abdomen is on fire, and my robes are wet. As I fall, see a trail of rubies glistening in the air. My lifeblood beads in the air, following my fall.

I pull my gaze down and concentrate on the doors leading into the Great Hall.

The room of where the dead lie.

I'm standing alone in the place I almost died. Memories of that terrible day overwhelm me. I concentrate on what I hear. In the Great Hall, carefree children chatter. My stilettos tick-tick on the stone-flagged floor as I move toward that comforting sound.

I reach the doors. An audience awaits. It's time to perform. Straightening my skirt and imprisoning my nightmares, I enter. My hips swing and I sashay confidently into the Great Hall. Ravenclaws and Slytherins to my right, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors to my left. The lunchtime hubbub falls into murmurs. Muggle clothes get me noticed. Looking around at the staring faces, I smile, and stroll towards the top table. Despite her promotion, the Headmistress remains as earthy and untidy as ever. How can any woman care so little about her appearance? She hauls herself to her feet.

'Auror Brown. You're early!' Her smile is wide, but her surprise at my arrival—an hour before my lecture is due to start—is unmistakeable.

'Good afternoon, Professor Sprout.' I nod politely at the Headmistress.

Turning left, I make my way along the top table to join the teaching staff. There are many unfamiliar faces, and one who is very familiar. He's near the end of the table, where his seat allows him to look down the line of Gryffindors. He stands and smiles. Shuffling his chair sideways, he conjures a seat for me.

As I approach, he holds out a hand in greeting. I've known him for sixteen years. I fought alongside him, and we still meet regularly at the memorial service, the Dumbledore's Army reunion, and Harry and Ginny's New Year Party. He can't be serious, I've never shaken his hand!

'Hello, handsome,' I say loudly. Stepping past his outstretched hand I grab his lapels, pull myself up, and plant my lips on his. The great hall falls silent. Hogwarts' Herbology Professor blushes crimson, and our audience explodes. Neville is lovely, and very easy to embarrass.

'Professor Longbottom and Auror Brown are old friends,' the Headmistress tries to quiet her pupils. 'And, for those who don't know, Auror Brown is here to lecture our NEWT level students on werewolves.'

'She's the werewolf Auror?' someone calls out in disbelief. The comment comes from the Gryffindor table, and it is easy to spot the culprit. Everyone around her has turned toward the voice. The solidly built teen with thick black hair and bushy eyebrows looks surprised by the attention she's getting.

'I am,' I admit. 'But I'm not a big hairy brute all the time!' The girl turns away and hides her face.

'Damn it, Lavender,' Neville scolds me. 'Avril has a lot of issues, and most of them are about her appearance.'

I've let him down. Never lie to Neville!

'Sorry, Nev,' I explain contritely. 'I had flashbacks when I arrived, and she reminded me of Bullstrode. I'll apologise to her after lunch.'

The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom is packed. The sixteen to eighteen-year-olds in front of me shuffle and chatter excitedly. There are many more than I expected. Avril (who is in her sixth year) has accepted my apology. She sits in the front row, staring at me, and I begin to wonder.

Tonight, the moon is full. The wolf in me is strong, and my wolf's nose inhales a heady mix of sweat, anxiety and hormones Behind lie other scents. I pick up faint whiffs of fear, death, and wolf. Given the number of obfuscatory odours, it won't be easy for me to sniff out the few who are genuinely frightened of me. The other scents are easier. I glance up at the rafters, the sight of a single bat is confirmation, my eyes sweep back down. Glancing at Avril, I nod.

Pulling out my wand, I clear my throat and tap the pile of parchment in front of me. The sheets fly off, distributing themselves among the pupils. The chattering reduces to a few whispers. I wait for a moment, but none of the papers return. I am facing at least seventy-five students.

'Anyone not have one of these?' I ask, holding up my own copy of the Briefing Note. Three hands are raised; there are seventy-eight students in the room. Using the Doubling Charm, I make three more copies and send them across to the upraised hands. That done, I lift my own copy of ABN12, wave it, and begin.

'This is the current version of Auror Briefing Note 12: Werewolves. I'm not going to read it to you, because that would be boring. It's written for Aurors who can't be bothered to read long reports, and it contains everything you need to know on one handy sheet. I'm Lavender Brown, Order of Merlin, Second Class. I'm an Auror, and a werewolf. I co-wrote this briefing note.'

Turning, I flick my wand. The old Ministry illustration "Werewolf in its human form" appears on the wall behind me. The man is hairy, barely human, and hunchbacked. I put my hands on my hips, and dare them to make a comment about me. No one does.

'This was the illustration in the textbooks when I was at school. It's wrong. Werewolves could look like you!' I point at a random boy in the middle of the classroom. Avril is relieved that I didn't pick on her. 'Or me!'

'When's the next full moon?' I ask the boy.

'Tonight,' he tells me.

'Correct,' I say. 'Perhaps you are a werewolf! We can feel it in our bones.'

While his friends tease him. I continue.

'Tonight is a good night. Here at Hogwarts, sunset is at ten, moonrise is quarter to midnight, moonset is at about quarter past four, and sunrise is fifteen minutes later. Can anyone tell me how long I must be a werewolf this month?'

Several hands shoot up, one waving eagerly. Ignoring it, I point at another of the boys. He counts on his fingers. 'Sunset is ten. Eleven, twelve, one, two, three, four, four-thirty—six-and-a-half hours.'

'Wrong.' I shake my head. In the front row, the over-eager hand shoots up, again waving frantically. The girl is blonde and bespectacled. While she bares no physical resemblance to my former dorm-mate, her actions make me smile. I nod at her.

'It's the moon that's important, not darkness.' The girl speaks with Hermione-like precision. 'You must change when there's a full moon in the night sky.' Her short sentence covers everything. 'Four-and-a-half hours,' she concludes. She, too, has fallen into my trap. Hermione wouldn't have, she would have listened to my question. Two seats away from the blonde, Avril squirms. She knows the answer.

'You're right,' I tell the blonde. 'But you haven't answered the question I asked. Can you enlighten her, Avril?'

'Um…'

I give her a smile of encouragement.

'Tanya's forgotten the blue moon,' she says quietly.

The blue moon! Now I'm almost certain.

'Exactly.' I admit my deception to everyone. 'It was a trick question. I asked how long must I be a werewolf this month. Do you want to correct your answer, Tanya?'

'Blue moon! Two full moons this month.' Tanya's tone tells me she hates being wrong.

'I only know that because I'm a werewolf,' I reassure her. 'The lunar calendar rules my life. Moonrise on the thirtieth of this month is at about quarter past eleven. You were out by less than an hour.'

I look around, and find the boy who gave the first answer. 'To be completely fair, you aren't wrong, either,' I tell him, and the class. 'My question was doubly tricky. Tanya spotted the word must. If I'd asked "how long can I be a werewolf, the answer would be different. Like most werewolves, I try to keep the wolf at bay until the last minute, but I can transform at sunset. If you're worried about a rogue werewolf, don't go out after dark.'

'That's the when, now I want to tell you about the dangers werewolves pose.' Slipping off my leather jacket, I hang it on the chair behind me and walk forwards. My sleeveless round-necked sweater covers my torso, but my shoulders and arms are bare. Avril alone see's the faint bite-mark on my shoulder, and my suspicions are confirmed.

'Don't stop there, miss,' one of the boys at the back calls.

'I'm not going to,' I tell him, taking up the stance I've practiced in my bedroom in front of Mark.

Legs apart, thighs tight against my skirt; it's not going anywhere. The skirt has a high waistband. I pull my sweater up from inside it, revealing a sliver of flesh just above my navel. Silence falls. I reach for the zip. Most of my audience gasp.

Unzipping my skirt, I hold the waistband but let it fall open at the front. At Mark's insistence I'm wearing a pair of low-waist boxer shorts, just in case the skirt falls despite everything. Several of the students, particularly those in the front two rows, let out squeals of horror. I point at the raw, red, and ragged scars which run from my waistline down towards my crotch.

'This is what happens when you get attacked by a werewolf. Lycanthropy is a cursed infection. Any injury inflicted by a werewolf is a cursed wound. Healers can mend broken bones and reattach limbs, but no healing magic can remove curse scars. These came from Fenrir Greyback, at the Battle of Hogwarts. Not every werewolf victim can hide their scars. I can, I'm lucky.' I conclude with the lie I tell myself every day.

After pulling down my sweater to cover the scars, I zip up my skirt and face my stunned and silent audience.

'Werewolves can be dangerous, even when they aren't transformed.' I tell them. Walking up to the girls in the front row, I hold out my hands, and show them my lavender-coloured nails. 'Like them?' I ask. 'Be honest.'

'They're false,' Tanya tells me. 'Good quality, but false.'

'You, Mr "Don't-stop-there" in the back row, I have a question for you, too.' His classmates turn and stare at him. 'When did I become a werewolf?' I ask.

'Easy,' he laughs. 'The Battle of Hogwarts was the second of May, ninety-eight.'

'The ninth anniversary was last month.' I agree. 'So, you think I've been a werewolf for nine years. Hands up everyone who thinks he's correct.'

The tone of my voice and the expression on my face makes the students suspicious. About half of the hands began to move up, but some falter and fall back down. About one third of the hands remain raised. As I look around, more drop. Tanya and Avril were never close to lifting their hands.

'You!' I point to a boy at the back who's whispering to "Don't-stop-there". 'Read the first bullet point on the handout I've just given you!'

He leers, and does as I ask.

'Lycanthropy is a cursed contagion. Department of Mysteries research on willing volunteers shows that the contagion is carried in the teeth and claws of a transformed lycanthrope. It appears that the contagion must enter the bloodstream directly. If a bite or scratch doesn't draw blood, you're safe.' His voice betrays his disinterest.

'A transformed werewolf…' I repeat the important words, and wait. "Whisperer" shrugs. The ever-reliable Tanya's hand shoots up. I allow her to answer.

'The Battle of Hogwarts didn't take place on a full moon night,' she says.

'Exactly. Greyback was human when he gave me those scars.' I point to the scar on my shoulder. 'This is where I was bitten. In March 2000 I got between Harry and a werewolf. A story for my memoirs.'

I lift up my hands.

'That's why your fingernails are false.' Tanya enlightens herself, and the entire class.

'Exactly,' I tell them. I don't sat that my false nails ensure the scratches I sometimes make on Mark's back always heal. 'I'm cursed, all werewolves are. That's why people are frightened of us and that's why, until relatively recently, we were discriminated against.'

'Werewolf rights have changed a lot since I was at school. One of my Defence Against the Dark Arts Professors—the best one—was a werewolf. He was forced to hide that fact, and he was fired when people found out. I joined the Auror Office in 2000, and the Sentient Entity Rights Act was passed in 2002, Even so, many werewolves continue to hide their true nature. Not me, I'm out and proud. Yet, despite the fact that there have been no confirmed werewolf attacks since early 2000, many werewolves don't want people to know what they are. I can understand why. What if a moron becomes Minister and tries to change the law back?'

I gesture at the image on the wall behind me.

'We don't look like that, we're cursed, but we're people. Like all werewolves, I use the new wolfsbane potion, and I believe being open will change people's perception of us. While I respect the decision of those who hide their true nature, I disagree with it. Openness and honesty must lead to acceptance. That's not a vain hope, is it? Some people will always hate us simply because we're different. But everyone is different. Muggle-born, werewolf, ginger, they're all just things to point at! Why? It's crazy isn't it? We should celebrate our differences.'

'I turn into a she-wolf once every four weeks but, apart from Greyback, I have never met a werewolf who wants to spread this curse. The new laws are clear. Being a werewolf isn't a crime, deliberately infecting someone with lycanthropy is. I'm happy to uphold the law! Those who use magic to kill or maim are subject to laws, too. It's not about what we are, it's about what we do.'

I flick my wand and the image behind me changes. My audience sees me in all my naked glory. I stare at the image myself. I rarely look at the wolf. She's in my cage, in my bedroom, and she's baring her teeth in a snarl.

I was trying to smile.

'That's me.' I admit. 'Questions?'

'Does the transformation hurt?' Avril asks.

'Every time,' I tell her.

'Can we watch you transform?' a boy enquires.

'Definitely not.'

'Why not?' the girl next to him asks.

Mark said, "If they ask, tell them."

'Some werewolves transform fully clothed. When they turn back, their clothes return too. Padma—my friend—works in the Department of Mysteries. She calls them "reclusive werewolves". I'm the other sort.'

'I'm an "extrovert werewolf". I was surprised, but none of my friends were! If I'm clothed when I transform, the wolf shreds whatever I'm wearing, and when I transform back, I'm naked.'

'So where do you go, what do you do?' Tanya asks.

'That iron cage is in my bedroom,' I say, pointing at the photograph. 'Tonight, I'll go home, get undressed, and sit in the cage. I don't need to imprison myself, because the potion keeps me rational. I only use the cage because, like a lot of werewolves, I want the extra level of security. If the potion failed to work—it never has—if I completely lost myself to the wolf I'm stuck in the cage and I still can't hurt anyone. My boyfriend locks me in, I transform, I growl and prowl, and then I transform back, and he lets me out.'

'If there are no more questions, I'll end with this. Werewolves are ordinary people who have contracted lycanthropy. Yes, we suffer from a potentially dangerous contagion, but it's a contagion that can be managed by the wolfsbane potion. It can only be transmitted by one of us deliberately performing a criminal act. Why would I, why would anyone, want to go out to bite someone on full moon night? Perhaps that's a question for your next lecturer. She's hanging from the rafters at the back of the room, she's much more dangerous than I am, and not one of you has even realised she's here.'

Heads turn in panic.

Author's Note

Another tale for Hogwarts/Gryffindor (prompt: Werewolf) for the Golden Snitch's World Vegan day competition. It was 2999 words when I uploaded it, honest, but that was before these Author's notes.