A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for Hogwarts. :) Also, for anyone following Carry Me Home— send me a PM if I haven't updated it in a week. Also, I know that Pottermore doesn't have Mundungus listed as an original Order member, but he is— look at the "lie low at Lupin's" scene if you don't believe me.

Influential Queer Women Task 3: Write about someone changing another person's view or opinion.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling.

Word Count: 2683

Enjoy!

Mundungus Fletcher took a long sip from the flask at his hip. Old Dumbledore had said that he had recruited some kids to be in the Order, and there were quite a few mutterings about it. Caradoc Dearborn, always very opinionated, declared quite loudly that four seventeen year olds could hardly make a contribution to the war effort— in fact, they would most likely just be a liability. Dumbledore had just smiled in that secret way of his, his merry blue eyes twinkling. He'd told Caradoc that he was quite sure these four were an exception, but very few of the Order truly believed him. If one were to ask Mundungus, however, he'd say to give the lads a chance. After all, Dumbledore may be a crazy old loon, but he was nearly always right. Those were odds Mundungus trusted.

Then, the headmaster revealed that one of the new members was a victim of lycanthropy.

"He's a werewolf, you mean," Mundungus interrupted.

The old man nodded slowly. "That is the more popular term, yes, Mr. Fletcher."

Benjy Fenwick let out a laugh of disbelief. "And we believe he's going to work on our side?"

Dumbledore's face, normally so calm and patient, turned stony as he turned to gaze sternly at the younger man. "Remus," he began quietly, "is a brilliant, kind, and incredibly courageous young man. He was at the top of his year in school, and it's rare that I find a student that is so eager to learn and such a delight to teach. He has had to deal with enough trouble regarding his condition; I will not tolerate any discrimination towards him in this environment."

Silence followed his words, and the tension in the room hung over its occupants like a storm cloud. Not a single person was smiling, and Mundungus felt doubt surge through him. He respected the headmaster, but he'd met werewolves in his line of work before. They were extremely unkempt, usually violent, and always desperate— which made them dangerous. He'd been attacked for just a couple knuts before. This Remus fellow might have been a good student, but Mundungus knew from experience that it wasn't very hard to hide your true nature from a teacher, especially one who didn't see you everyday.

He'd keep his guard up around this kid.

It was easy to tell who the werewolf was.

The four boys had come just minutes ago, two grinning excitedly, the other two looking a bit nervous but eager. Two boys with black hair, one with brown, and one with blond. One of the dark haired boys, the one with glasses and a sharp grin, introduced himself as James Potter, and eagerly shook everyone's hands. Mundungus scoffed quietly to himself. Granted, his wasn't much older than these boys, but he knew that, after the first battle, James' confidence would be badly shaken.

Then Sirius Black introduced himself— long black hair that reached his shoulders, dark grey eyes, and an arrogant smirk. He did remind Mundungus of his estranged family, but he lacked the malice they all had in their eyes. He reminded the thief of the calm before the storm— a quiet power radiated off of him, and Mundungus knew that there was quite the temper underneath that boy's skin.

As a dealer in all things illegal— a businessman, he always insisted— he prided himself on his ability to read people. This didn't mean, of course, that he was always accurate; he'd had to escape from some pretty tight situations on occasions where he had been wrong. Still, when the short, slightly pudgy blond boy revealed himself to be Peter Pettigrew, Mundungus was fairly confident that not much would surprise him when it came to this boy. He didn't strike him as a very confident man, nor as a particularly skilled wizard. Mundungus knew that there had to be more to the nervous boy in front of him if he was invited to join the Order, but the older man had a strong feeling that young Peter would not be here without his friends.

And then there was Remus Lupin, so easily identifiable.

Mundungus wasn't ashamed to admit that if he hadn't known one of the boys was a werewolf, then he would not have picked up on Remus' curse. However, since he knew what to look for, all the signs of lycanthropy were there: a thin frame, a face marred with three thick scars along his jaw, and the haunted look in his eyes that one got when they had seen too much, too young. Mundungus watched him closely. He didn't trust werewolves on principle— he'd never been given much of a reason to. The lycanthrope was standing slightly behind his friends, his slim hands clasped tightly together, white at the knuckles. He was nervous, then. A small smile fell upon his lips; the predator had become the hunted. The boy knew he was outnumbered.

It never occurred to him that the young lad could have feared their reactions to him.

Then something incredible happened.

Potter, Black, and Pettigrew all stepped up and shook hands with Caradoc, but when Lupin stepped forward, Dearborn dropped his hand. Lupin's face reddened as he lowered his gaze and wrenched his hand back, as though burned. His three companions noticed this and pulled their own hands away from the people who'd been welcoming them. The message was clear in their eyes. If you don't welcome him, then we don't want to be welcomed by you.

It was Arabella Figg, a Squib who worked as intelligence, who stepped forwards without hesitation. "Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Remus," she said warmly, shaking his hand. "I'm Arabella Figg. A Squib, I'm afraid, so I can't do much to help out with healing, but I know of a wonderful tea brew that should help with any joint pain."

Lupin blinked, taken aback. "You— you mean after my—"

He seemed reluctant to say the word, so Arabella did for him. "Your transformations, yes," she confirmed. "Albus informed us of your condition— you should know it doesn't make a bit of a difference to me. I've heard wonderful things about you four."

Black's face split into a grin, and he stepped forward to greet Arabella warmly. "Ah, I like you. Sirius Black."

The four boys settled down for the Order meeting, the werewolf surrounded by friends on either side. None of the other Order members were as welcoming towards him as Arabella had been, but not all were openly hostile like Caradoc. Mundungus settled into his seat, carefully surveying the boy. He didn't contribute much in way of conversation, but there was an intelligence burning in his bright eyes that the thief would be a fool to miss. Throughout the whole meeting, Lupin didn't show any sign of aggression, and Mundungus found himself wondering what the werewolf was here for. Short of spying for the Dark Lord, he couldn't think of an incentive that would be worth risking his life for.

Weeks went by, and still Lupin didn't give any indication of disloyalty. They were all quick to learn that he was quick in battle with a calculating mind, and his actions had saved many a person from death.

Mundungus' suspicion of him was wavering. Lupin's— Remus'— devotion to his friends and the cause was very clear, which didn't add up with the self-serving vagabonds the man had interacted with before. He'd heard that the wolf's consciousness poisoned the mind, but he often caught himself wondering if he'd finally found someone who could withstand that storm.

Tonight would test his limits, though; he and Lupin had been assigned to a scouting mission together.

Mundungus Apparated to the abandoned field they'd been instructed to watch. They'd heard a rumor that there'd been Death Eater activity a little ways away, and their job was to see who would show up. He heard the violent crack of Remus' Apparation, and the soft footfalls as the boy approached.

"Hullo, Dung," came his soft, hoarse voice.

Mundungus didn't bother correcting him; his full name was a mouthful, even if it was only his friends who could call him Dung. "Lupin. Ready for this?"

Remus shrugged, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. "I suppose. Are you? You seem a bit…" His trailed off, and Mundungus tensed.

"What?" he asked a bit harshly.

Remus dropped his gaze. "Distracted."

His dark eyes softened. "Nah, mate. I just don' like how tonight feels."

Remus glanced back up, curious. "Why? What does it feel like?"

Mundungus took a long drag from his cigarette. "Mmm. Like change is coming."

Remus was silent for a long time. All Mundungus could hear was the soft whispering of the wind as it gently pushed its way through the tall grass at their feet. The moon was just past full, and in the delicate glow of its cratered face he could see the dark shadows left under Remus' amber eyes. For the first time that night, Mundungus realized that the full moon had been a mere three days ago. This surprised him; normally a werewolf would still be recovering, and if they were up and about, they were surlier than usual. Remus hadn't seemed much different— just tired.

"Isn't… can't change be good?"

Mundungus nearly jumped at Remus' abrupt question. He opened his mouth to respond, but paused to analyze the boy's tone. He sounded almost desperate to hear the answer; his voice was filled with a longing that caught the crook by surprise. He considered a moment the changes that had occurred in Remus' life— an irreversible curse, an excruciating transformation every month, and his new admittance to a secret group dedicated to taking down a powerful wizard who was mercilessly cutting down thousands. Mundungus' stomach twisted. The war scared him; he wasn't a fighter, but he was very adept at gathering valuable information. But he was twenty-five to Remus' seventeen, and the werewolf had never seemed so young. He was too young to be here, to be experiencing what he was. Yet there he stood, shoulders squared, his silhouette tall against the light of the very thing that caused him so much agony.

Mundungus suddenly felt very small.

The crook exhaled, the curling smoke only just visible against the dark night. "Change is what you make o' it, I suppose. That's what I learned."

Remus nodded, and the rest of the night passed in a silence that was only slightly uncomfortable. Mundungus ran a hand through his long ginger hair. One day, the war would be over, and he wouldn't have to worry about the loyalties of werewolves or being discovered by either the government or the followers of some wannabe dictator. Things would be simple, and the constant fear that hung over them all will have been chased away.

He looked over at Remus.

"You're not wha' I was expecting," he said bluntly.

Remus' brow lifted in surprise. "What did you expect me to be like?"

Mundungus shrugged, grinning around his cigarette. "Dunno. Ferocious. Aggressive. At least a bit more selfish than you are."

Remus stared at the ground. "That's a bit narrow-minded of you," he shot back quietly. "I don't look at you and assume I know you. And besides, haven't you ever stopped to consider that they are that way because people forced them into that mold? Had I not been given the opportunities I was, I might have ended up like them."

Mundungus shook his head. "You're an odd one, Lupin. They aren't all innocent."

"No," Remus agreed, meeting his gaze at last. "No one is completely innocent. We just tend to remember the bad things about people more than the good."

Mundungus found he didn't have an answer to that.

A month later, and Mundungus Fletcher was cursing himself for ever getting involved with the Order of the Phoenix. Curses were flying all around him in a multitude of colors, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and blood. Mundungus pushed his way through the fighters, trying to get away from the battle; he was not a fighter. He worked as intelligence mostly, with Arabella— he knew how to get out of a scrap, but when they were so clearly outnumbered like this…

His brown eyes wild, Mundungus shot a few hexes, trying to make a path for himself. Unfortunately, more Death Eaters were arriving; it was an ambush. Screams filled the air, and the last of Mundungus' courage fled. He spun around, searching desperately for an exit, but there were fighters blocking his way on every side. A wayward curse grazed his arm, cutting through his robes but missing his arm. He gripped his wand more tightly, trying to keep his hands from shaking. The adrenaline rushing through his veins kept him warm, despite the frigid night air, but his body still shuddered. He heard a sound behind him, and just as he was turning to look, a heavy weight slammed into his side and knocked him to the ground. He twisted his head to see Remus on top of him, the younger boy breathing heavily. He saw the jet of green light soar above them, disappearing into the night.

He'd nearly died.

"You— you saved me," he gasped. "Tha' Death Eater— 'e would've killed me!"

Remus nodded, and only then did Mundungus see the blood trickling down the werewolf's temple. "That's… that's what we do here, yeah? Protect each other."

Shame and guilt overcame him. He'd spent so long being suspicious of Remus, judging him based on the actions of other desperate souls, that it had taken this act of bravery— this act of selflessness— for him to see the boy's true colors.

"You— you really are something… Remus."

The wide grin that split the boy's face held no resentment for Mundungus' terrible misjudgement, just pure joy that he'd been seen for himself at last. This worsened the guilt Mundungus was feeling, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. Outnumbered nearly ten to one, the Order was retreating. The two men Disapparated away, leaving the Death Eaters on the scarred earth of the battlefield.

They received bad news that night. Dorcas Meadowes was dead.

Dumbledore told them that Voldemort himself had been there, and that she had bravely stood up to him. And yet, Mundungus thought bitterly, she was cut down like a stalk of wheat.

They didn't know when the deaths would end, nor when the sacrifices made would seem worth the cost. His eyes trailed over to the four newest members, who seemed to be taking this harder than the rest of them. Seventeen, he remembered. They were only seventeen.

Like he always did after receiving bad news, Mundungus took out a bottle of whiskey. He didn't normally bother with a glass, but tonight something within him urged him to pour a measure for the young lycanthrope. Remus looked up in surprise when the glass was pushed his way. Mundungus just shrugged in response.

"Looks like ya need it," he murmured, his accent a bit thicker with emotion.

It was true; Remus appeared as though Dorcas' death was his own fault. Survivor's guilt, Mundungus knew. He'd have to get used to it, in this line of work. They all would.

He watched as Remus took a large swallow, then came over to clap the boy on the back, snatching his precious bottle away from Black's eager fingers. Low enough that the others couldn't hear, he whispered, "Some things we can't change, mate. Doesn't mean we don' fight."

Remus offered him a small, strained smile. "Yeah."

Mundungus looked at him carefully. He'd only been a member of the Order for a few months, but he'd already changed the way Mundungus thought viewed werewolves. He resolved to remember the good things first from then on.

Things would change, he could finally see. They would, because there were people who cared enough to change it— despite their fear, despite the stigma placed upon them, despite the risk or possible consequences.

Mundungus drained his glass.