Note: A new term, a new story! This doesn't mean I've forgotten the other ones, mind you! If anybody is curious as to what on earth is going on with my stories just now, you will find a note on my profile.

This is Fidem Lupus. Yes, I'm naming things in Latin now...! I hope you all enjoy reading it. It was one of those ideas that appeared and refused to go away until I wrote it down.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

1: Prologue - 1967

"I can tell you, Dumbledore," Minister for Magic Nobby Leach insisted, his bristly chin jutting out in a distinctly arrogant fashion, "the Ministry are entirely aware of the situation!"

Albus Dumbledore peered over the rims of his golden half-moon spectacles at the squat, pink-faced man sat across the desk from him.

"Is that so, Mr. Leach?" the Headmaster of Hogwarts wondered, leaning back in his chair and shifting a little to get comfortable, and the Minister promptly snapped:

"Yes, it certainly is!"

Dumbledore offered him a smile.

"I must say I'm relieved to hear it!" he said, gaze drifting sideways to eye the little jar upon the desk at Leach's elbow. "I had thought the Ministry so preoccupied by the recent troubles surrounding the Squib Rights Marches that other, equally important matters may have gone unnoticed. After all, Mr Leach, you know as well as I do that dark times are coming! I'm glad to know the Ministry has such a firm hand on those who would so easily thrive at such an hour. Your trust in the nature of your Dementors is simply admirable! Assuming of course that they remain...yours..." Reaching to pluck the jar up from the desk the Headmaster reached to unscrew the lid and, holding the jar out to the now scowling man opposite, cheerfully offered: "Sherbet lemon?"

"No thank you." Leach managed to grind out through gritted teeth, and Dumbledore reached to poke two long, slender fingers into the jar to extract one of the confectionaries in question.

"I must say, they truly are a weakness of mine!" he confessed, quirking an eyebrow upwards before popping the sweet into his mouth with an approving: "Mm!"

"Your letter to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has caused an awful stir!" Leach complained, gripping the sides of his chair tightly until his knuckles began to grow white.
"Did it really?" Dumbledore said, sounding somewhat delighted by the news as he folded his hands carefully in his lap, only for Leach to exclaim:

"Yes! It's been leaked to the press! Merlin knows how they got hold of it!"
"Goodness, that is unfortunate..."

"It's simple scare mongering, Dumbledore! It's entirely unnecessary given the...the current climate!"

"There are only rumours now, Mr. Leach..."

"Exactly! They are only rumours!"

"...but they won't remain so for long, I'm sure. Tom Riddle...Lord Voldemort is not going to remain a rumour for long, believe me. The climate shall grow ever more fearful. And how shall you keep the Dementors in check then? When he comes for them? They'd join him in a heartbeat..."

"All this talk of...of followers, Dumbledore! It's ridiculous..."

"Have the riots these past few weeks shown us nothing? There are plenty of pure blooded witches and wizards to flock to Voldemort's call. It will be difficult to stop him, the ranks of his Death Eaters shall swell. But you have an opportunity with the Dementors. You have some control over them right now! Keep ahead of the game, do something with them before he does..."

"The Dementors have been guarding Azkaban for years! They are an effective deterrent to possible offenders and they keep perfect order..."

"Move them somewhere secret, keep them there, don't let him get them..."

"And what shall become of Azkaban then?!" Leach snapped, at last losing his patience entirely as he reached to slam his hands down upon the desk, rising abruptly to his feet as he exclaimed: "You are meddling, Dumbledore! You are meddling in Ministry affairs that you have no business with! Causing trouble with the public! What's needed is a strong, stable Ministry! And you are seeking to...TO UNDERMINE US!" And with that he slammed his hands down upon the desk again, demanding to know: "AND FOR MERLIN'S SAKE WHAT IS THAT INCECENT SCRATCHING SOUND?!"

"Scratching, Mr. Leach?" Dumbledore inquired mildly as the Minister spun around, gaze darting around the Headmaster's office searchingly.

"Yes!" Leach told him, stepping away from the desk, his hands balling into tight fists. "Can you not hear it?! It's been niggling away at me for the past half an hour!"

As the Minister stomped over to scowl accusingly down at the various spindly silver instruments that the Headmaster had set out upon a sideboard, Dumbledore reached to scratch his head, admitting:

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Leach. Perhaps my phoenix Fawkes is the culprit? I must say that after enjoying his company for so many years now, I no doubt tune out any of his more irritating habits..."

"No, no!" Leach insisted as over in the corner the bird in question ruffled his fiery feathers and sat straighter upon his perch, as if he had recognised his name and was preparing to be admired. "It's not the bird, it's a...a scratchy sound like...like..." As he trailed off in search of the correct simile, Dumbledore leant forward a little in his chair, straining his ears to hear...

There is was! A frantic, frenetic scratching like...

"Like a quill on parchment, perhaps?" the Headmaster suggested helpfully, and the Minister turned back to face him, drawing breath to speak, only to freeze...

The two wizards looked at one another for a long, considering moment, before both turning to look over at the series of bookcases against the far wall. Set between a gap in the towering wooden structures, below a softly snoring portrait of one of Hogwarts' earlier Headmasters who seemed entirely unaware of the noise, was set an elaborate lectern made of carved oak, the crest of Hogwarts School etched into wood. Upon the lectern was set a hefty leather bound tome, and scribbling away frantically at an open page of creamy coloured parchment was a large feather quill pen, its movements fast and flailing.

Dumbledore and Leach both moved to stand before the lectern, observing the magical quill's odd movements curiously.

"Is it...supposed to behave like that?" Leach wondered after a long moment, and as he took another step forward to get a closer look, Dumbledore admitted:

"I daresay that it is not, Mr. Leach."

The book and quill, responsible for detecting and recording the birth of each witch and wizard in Great Britain in order that an invitation to attend Hogwarts School could be sent to them upon their eleventh birthday, marked the current year with an elaborate scarlet silken bookmark which, the Headmaster saw, appeared to be several pages on from that which currently lay open.

Dumbledore leant closer, peering down his long, crooked nose at the top of the page, which he saw had been labelled: 1960.

His gaze drifted down to where the quill was busy scratching out one of the neatly written entries that had been made during March of that year. Every time a thick black line of ink had been swiped across the name in question the quill seemed to think better of it, the line would disappear, distort, smudge...

...only for the quill to scribble the name out yet again.

"It seems...confused." the Minister observed from the Headmaster's side.

"An apt description, Minister." Dumbledore agreed, leaning even closer until his half-moon spectacles slid a good half inch down his nose.

"Perhaps the child is...dying?" Leach suggested grimly, and Dumbledore straightened up, reaching to adjust his glasses.

"Oh no, Mr. Leach. Death is not in the least bit confusing. On the contrary, death is nothing but precise."

"What do you think it is, then?" Leach wondered, sounding rather impatient now that his theory had been dismissed.

Dumbledore leant down again, reaching to grasp hold of the quill to force it to halt it's confused deliberation. Lifting it away from the page the Headmaster was able at last to read the name upon the page:

Remus John Lupin.

"Fascinating." Dumbledore concluded.