This Marauder's Era AU is what I lovingly refer to as the "Fuck Canon AU". Shameless and unapologeticly AU. For the purposes of this fic, canon is more of a suggestion that I will probably ignore in favor of a good story. JKR has been tweeting some real weird shit lately.
This AU is an attempt to teach the Marauder era some new tricks. The obvious cliches and the egregious offenders will be avoided to the best of my ability. Marlene McKinnon, Emmeline Vance, and the Longbottoms will not be a part of the Marauder's cohort because I don't have to put them there. There is race-bending. There is a small army of OCs. Some people will have siblings they didn't previously have. Some people will have children they didn't previously have. Some of the OCs will be friends with the Marauders. Some of the OCs will have ongoing storylines of their own. There will be OCs and some of them will be major players.
The timeline also got mucked with. I expanded it by two years so the Marauder cohort was born en masse in 1958; thus they start Hogwarts in 1969. (hold onto ur butts this is a slow burn)
Please leave canon at the door and enjoy your stay.
Chapter One: A Wolf in the Fold
The rural countryside of Great Britian was lined with what the proper-minded residents insisted were roads, but in reality couldn't have been more the opposite. A road was expected to be paved, for one. Concrete was preferable, but tarmac would do in a pinch. Maybe it didn't need to have fancy white and yellow lines, and separate lanes designated for the buses, the bicycles, and the lorries, but there were things expected out of a proper road and these back-country lanes didn't have any of that.
One of these so-called "roads" wound a narrow path through the Peaks District. For as much as the local residents insisted upon the nomenclature, it only had aspirations to be a road. It was a lane, covered in gravel; the kind that could send a car flying into the fields if it took a corner too fast.
The lane was wide enough for a car in the sense that the car could fit both wheels. But if the car went just three inches too far to the left or right, then it was in the ditch. It twisted around the trees and dipped between the hills, too often slick with precipitation and wreathed in enough fog to make passage treacherous. There wasn't much room for one car to pull over to the side and let a second car pass. If two cars met in the middle, someone would have to backtrack a fair ways until there wasn't a ditch to get stuck in.
However, the lane rarely saw traffic more complicated than a flock of sheep.
A quarter of a mile from the only village along the route was a small cairn of stones. It was about two feet high and constructed entirely from white stones, stacked so neatly and precisely it didn't seem possible that hands had done it. The stones fit together so tightly that it was impossible to slip a blade of grass between them and they were the same uniform size, like they had been machine-shaped.
The villagers rarely thought anything of the little cairn. It was precisely a quarter of a mile from the census-designated boundary of the village, so they had long ago assumed that it was just a mile marker. Or perhaps it was there to remind drivers where the edge of the road was. Truly, if they had ever had the presence of mind to pay the stones a little more attention, they might have noticed one curious thing.
The cairn never changed color.
No matter the weather, no matter how much dust the passing lorries kicked up, no matter how dark-stained the gravel road became, the stones were always white. A gleaming, shining white like freshly fallen snow.
But the villagers never noticed because it was such a little thing. A quibbly bit of nothing that didn't stand out enough to merit a second glance and barely merited a first glance.
At exactly one-fourteen in the afternoon on a somewhat dreary day towards the end of July, the stone cairn did something that would have been considered quite unusual if anyone had been around to see it happen.
It started to glow.
Specifically, it started to glow a funny kind of purple color that had strange green undertones, yet didn't seem to be a color at all. Or every color at once. Any normal person who witnessed this phenomenon would have perceived this particular shade of everything-or-nothing purple only from the corner of their eye. If they had tried to stop and take a second look, they would have been overcome by the inexplicable urge to hurry on their way.
It took just a few seconds for the cairn to assume a steady glow. Then with a puff and a swirl of white smoke, a man arrived beside the cairn. He was a very odd looking man and presumably a very old one at that. His hair and his beard were almost entirely silver and long enough that he could have tucked them into his belt if he felt so inclined. He wore a demurely-cut suit of machine-rendered cotton and a silk tie. The suit was a night-sky blue and peppered with small white spots that gave the impression of stars, and the bowler hat perched at a jaunty angle on his hair matched. His tie wasn't nearly as subtle. It was black and lay crisp against his white dress shirt, covered in a repeating pattern of cartoony stars and moons, as though it had been picked out by a well-intentioned but very young child.
A long golden chain stretched across the front of his waistcoat from one pocket to the other, the buttons of which gleamed bronze in the overcast light. Held loosely in one hand was a polished walking cane, but he was not so infirm that he needed it. His nose was very long and crooked, like it had been broken at least twice before. On that crooked nose were a pair of half-moon spectacles. His eyes twinkled a light blue and somewhere on his person, tucked deep into the folds and pockets of his clothes, was a wand.
This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
He tapped the glowing cairn with the tip of his walking cane and the strange almost-not-purple color started to fade into nothing. He re-buttoned the front of his suit jacket and smoothed it down absently. He smiled slightly as he beheld the small village ahead, briefly grinding the balls of his feet into the gravel under his buckled and heeled boots.
Magna Tor.
It was the name of both the little village ahead and the prodigious hill whose slopes it was perched upon. The long-time residents of Magna Tor whispered that there was some ancient, deep magic slumbering below the earth. Something strong and quiet. Perhaps one of the ancient giants that had created the hills. It kept them safe from danger, they said. No storm had ever toppled a tree, nor had any wind ripped the roof off any of the cottages. Foxes didn't lay siege to the chicken coops and hawks didn't swoop to snatch the rabbits out of their pens.
Magna Tor was not big enough to host the usual collection of societal insects. At best, they had the town drunk who was neither benevolent or lovable, but caused no trouble beyond public intoxication and slurred imprecations about the townsfolk with the occasional invitation to start a fight. Not because the other, more sober pub-goers would mop the floor with him, but for reasons that none of the good townsfolk could rightfully name.
Dumbledore scraped his boots through the gravel road again, getting a feel for the ground beneath him. There was the faintest ripple of energy that had nothing to do with the ambient magic of the earth, thrumming through the dirt and stone with all the indolence of a lazy river. It was slow and heavy and somnolent, but as hot as a pool of magma.
Certainly something ancient and powerful slept in the earthen cocoon of Magna Tor, but it probably wasn't what the villagers thought it was.
Something best left to sleep, he imagined.
Dumbledore started up the lane towards the village as a leisurely pace. It was cooler up here in the Peaks District than down in London, where he had come from. It had rained here recently, the ground still damp and the loam soft. Droplets of water gleamed on the blades of long grass. A thin gray mist drifted through the low valleys between the hills, twining up the gentle slopes and wreathing the rammed earth embankments of the river that flowed idly by down the valley to the right of the road. The dark clouds hung rather low overhead, fat and heavy with another round of rain.
It was a lovely walk all the same. The moorland was broad, rising and falling through the hills. Some were gentle and sloping, and others reared up sharply as though they had been pushed. From the land jutted outcroppings of stone. Some natural and some man-made piles whose original purpose was lost to time. Some had toppled over and others had held strong through the centuries. Trees had been planted around the village. Apple trees, Dumbledore saw as he got closer. Small green apples were forming on every branch; they wouldn't drop for another two months.
The hill called Magna Tor was magnificent no matter how far or close you were from it. The windward side went upwards in a swooping line that was gentle enough for the villagers to plant their houses, but just steep enough that running full throttle downwards was ill-advised. The leeward side, however, featured a rather sudden drop-off; a sheer face of limestone carved with whorls and long streaking lines that gave the impression of a frozen waterfall. Six hundred feet from the base to the very apex of its crest. It was quite a long drop.
The village of Magna Tor was a tad less impressive, overall. The home of about two hundred indviduals, it looked like every other rural village that Dumbledore had visited in his lifetime thus far. The buildings were stone and wood with metal only as reinforcement at the corners and joints. They bore no particular architectural style except maybe "sturdy". There was a sense that they were rooted into the earth, so much time they had had to settle. The cottages were barely more than two floors and had sharply slanted roofs that sent rain and snow streaking right off. They were crowded together so closely that neighbors might mistake their neighbors' front stoop for their own in the dark. Ivy had climbed up the front face of nearly every cottage, shrouding the village in a coat of green. The street (for there was only one) was cobbled and narrow, twisting this way and that around the houses that had been there first.
Dumbledore trailed his hand over the remnant of the fort wall that stood to one side of the main entry and rubbed the dust between his fingers. Those stones had been laid around the early fifteen hundreds, he would wager, and the village had come along not long after that. If he went far enough up the slope, he would most likely find the foundation of the fort itself.
The village wasn't very bustling; it was no central hive of activity where people came and went at all hours of the day. The residents traveled out during the day to make their living; either out into the fields with their flocks or they drove even further to reach the larger towns. Though the children were out of school for another month, they had also been corralled into their morning chores. The villagers who sat out on their stoops were the elderly men who glanced up sharply at Dumbledore's passage and gave him a discerning questionable look, like they didn't know at all what to make of this strange man walking down their cobbled street.
Dumbledore reached the town square before he realized that the streets bore no signage and that he had no idea where he needed to go. The village wasn't nearly big enough to get lost in, but there wasn't even a hint of an address anywhere. No numbers on the front of the cottages. Mail was not delivered to each house individually; everything found its way to a post office instead.
The pleasant scent of baking bread wafted across his path.
I suppose, when in doubt, I follow my nose.
In a village this small, it was a given that everyone knew everyone else. The people who lived here had done so all their lives and would be laid to rest in the chapel cemetery and mourned by all. When in doubt, speak to a villager who likely saw everyone a few times a week.
The village square was where the first residents of the fifteen hundreds had dug the well. The road also widened just a bit around it and featured shop fronts such as the town hall and pub, the aforementioned post office, a cottage that was half-buried in lilacs with a sign declaring it a bed-and-breakfast, and finally the bakery he had smelled a moment ago. The door stood open to let out the warmer air from the cooking fires, so Dumbledore let himself in.
It was a small narrow shop that modern-day safety measures would have declared a fire hazard and would have had shut down. But those busybody government departments didn't exist this far out into the rural wilds. Dumbledore still winced a little at the semi-exposed flames of the ovens and his eyes tracked the paths of fluttering moths through the air. The bread loaves were wrapped in plastic and the pastries were boxed, but they were organized haphazardly. Rye bread jumbled in with the wheat. Several varieties of berry muffins shared space on the shelves with heavily frosted pastries. The aisles between the racks was like the cobbled road outside; so narrow that Dumbledore felt like he had to tuck his elbows against his sides just to make sure he didn't knock anything off.
Currently, the bakery was staffed by only a plump woman with a matronly bearing whose exact age was difficult to gauge. Muggles aged so much faster than wizards and often did so prematurely. She could have been as young as forty.
Were she a witch, Dumbledore would have placed her somewhere in her late eighties. Old enough that she was leaving middle-aged, but not old enough to become elderly. The woman's hair was starting to show strands of silver at her temples and the wrinkles were set deep enough in her skin that they weren't coming out. She had a tired, somewhat harried look about her, like she was always working too hard and had convinced herself that this was all right. Like she was stuck in a rut and had no idea there was a rut at all. She called it 'life' and moved forward, but beat the bread dough with an odd kind of vengeance.
"'Mornin'." she said to Dumbledore absently, as he came up to the counter.
Dumbledore smiled cheerfully. "Good morning, Ms..." He trailed off, prompting her to fill in the blank.
"Adams. Mae Adams." the woman said, reaching out to shake his proffered hand. Her grip was strong and firm, her palms dusted in flour. "Haven't seen you around these parts before."
"I believe this is my first visit to your charming little village." Dumbledore said.
Ms. Adams looked the old wizard from head to toe as if she was appraising every detail about him from the long plume of purple feathers clipped to his bowler hat, all the way down to the shiny buckles of his boots. An uncertain expression flickered across her face, mirroring the curmudgeonly old men out on their doorsteps. Confused by his presence in her humble bakery.
"Hope you didn't walk all the way in from Hayfield." Ms. Adams commented gruffly, her eyes sweeping again down to his boots and then to the floor behind him exactly like she was looking for mud-tracks.
"No, a gentleman in Little Hayfield was kind enough to ferry me most of the way, until the road became too narrow for his vehicle. It was a very pleasant walk." Dumbledore replied.
Ms. Adams snorted. "Just like them city boys, with them big fancy cars. Can't go the distance." she grumbled. She showed her teeth in what the headmaster imagined was meant to be a smile. "What brings you around here, stranger?"
"I've come up from London on business. I have a meeting with some folks, but I'm afraid I don't quite know where to find them." Dumbledore explained. "Perhaps you can tell where the Lupins live."
Ms. Adams hadn't exactly been sporting a terribly pleasant demeanor in the first place -- a little unwelcoming, a little put out by the interruption to her morning routine. Perhaps a little perturbed by his flashy dress. But the moment Dumbledore mentioned the family name, a sort of vicious angry triumph flashed in her eyes. Her toothy grin turned a bit savage.
"What for?" she asked.
"With regards to their youngest son. The rest is, of course, none of your business." Dumbledore replied.
"Come to take the little beast, eh?" Ms. Adams prompted, punching her fist hard into the bread dough. "'Bout time someone took care of him, know what I mean? Six years we been hearin' the little monster howl, once a month on the dot. Unnatural like, 'tis. Told the mum and dad to put him down, seeing it t'would have been kinder in the long run, yeah?"
"No, I don't believe so." Dumbledore commented, smiling blandly. "I do not find it in good taste to wish for the death of a child."
"Child?" Ms. Adams repeated sharply, spitting the word like it was a bad taste on her tongue. "Beggin' yer pardon sir, but what the Lupins pen up every month t'weren't no child I ever laid eyes on! No child makes noise like that, like his guts are being ripped out while he's alive to watch. No child does what that little monster does. It gets loose from time to time, you know. Upsets the cows. Makes them put out bad milk. I seen that 'child' you're talking about, running around here on four legs lookin' for some poor soul to tear apart in the moon's light and sir, that ain't no child!"
She finished speaking in a passionate huff, her face gleaming with recognizable triumph.
Dumbledore realized a moment after that Ms. Mae Adams was something of a village elder. Perhaps not as respected or looked to as an authority figure as the wizened old men who interpreted the laws, but otherwise seen as the wise old auntie whose wive's tales should be treated with their due respect. Ms. Adam was used to telling people her opinions and having that person respect them, if not obey. She was old, she had seen things, and her words carried more weight than the city folk would think they oughta.
"Be that as it may, where may I find the Lupins?" Dumbledore inquired. He reached over to the rack of shelves on the left. "And this box of apple strudel. It smells divine."
He couldn't smell much from the strudel box -- it had been sitting on the shelf long enough to lose any fresh-baked smells -- but if the baker was going to give him useful information, the least he could do was repay her by purchasing some of her hard work.
"Two bob pence for the strudel." Ms. Adams demanded. She waited until Dumbledore had dropped the required amount of Muggle money into her waiting hand before she made eye contact again. "Anything else?"
"Directions of the Lupin household, if by chance you know where to find them." Dumbledore said. He kept the bland smile on his face.
Ms. Adams's eyes narrowed and her lips pursed like she was being insulted. "If you ain't here to do anything about that devil-child, what are you doing here?" she asked more demandingly.
Dumbledore saw that he wasn't getting out of here without giving some sort of answer. "Madam, if it will soothe your curiosity, I am the headmaster of a prestigious, merit-based boarding school." he said. Mostly the truth. "Despite young Mr. Lupin's affliction, he has met every qualification to join our august student body. I am here to extend an invitation. As I have stated, the rest is none of your business."
She wasn't a pleasant woman, on the whole, but he didn't want to modify her memory if he didn't have to.
Ms. Adams's eyes narrowed even further to little slits. "Headmasters go 'round handin' out the invites?"
"Mr. Lupin is a unique case. I thought my point would be better made in person." Dumbledore said. "Now madam, if you please, I am going to show up on the Lupins' doorstep unannounced with news they did not expect to hear and I would like to bring them some apple strudel in a timely manner. Where might I find them?"
Ms. Adams took the hint. "If you're sure about goin' to them with that attitude," she started with a great huffing sigh. "Then follow High Street back out of the village, that way-" She gestured with one hand in the opposite direction than Dumbledore had entered. "And head for the valley."
"The valley?"
"Yup. After you-know-what happened, they moved right on into this old farmhouse down there. Barely seen 'em for church since then. Guess they lost their faith." Ms. Adams said this as though it was a great tragedy. The worst thing that could happen out here.
"Havin' the devil infect their boy with somethin' awful would do it, though." she added, looking at Dumbledore as though they were good friends.
"Do have a pleasant day, Ms. Adams." the headmaster said shortly. He touched the brim of his bowler hat, then tucked the strudel box under his arm and exited the bakery. Ms. Adams grunted and returned to her dough-punching with a sullen air like she had been told off for being nosey.
Dumbledore headed up the lane, towards the peak of the tor. He had known the Lupins would be living outside the village; their owl post address still listed Magna Tor as the closest town. He just hadn't been sure how far outside they had gone. The Ministry had decreed years ago that werewolves could not live in wholly Muggle villages, like Magna Tor, for both explicit safety reasons and for the purpose of not shattering the Statute of Secrecy. Mixed communities were not as harsh with the regulations, but werewolves still stayed outside the municipal limits. The countryside was the best option all around, where the monthly transformation could be muffled and controlled, less likely to attract unnecessary attention.
It didn't take Dumbledore very long at all to walk out the other side of the village. A few steps and it seemed that he was already coming out the other side. He barely had time to take in the charming rustic stone-work before the cottages suddenly gave way back to fields and the lane turned back into damp dirt. He actually looked over his shoulder to make sure that he had walked through the village at all. It fit like a stone in the palm of a giant's hand.
From the higher vantage point, he could see a greater expanse of the moorland below. There was the tilt and sway of the hillocks, the long waving grass that rippled in the constant breezes. He could see where the upland started to dip into the valley he had been instructed to find. There was a little river winding along the valley floor. He adjusted his glasses and spotted the farmhouse where the Lupins had set up residency. It occupied the plot of land alongside a barn and a watermill, the wheel of which turned in the slow current. Both buildings had been maintained, curiously enough, to the point that they were obviously in use.
"Hmm..." he hummed thoughtfully.
He pushed the strudel box into a pouch secured to his belt. The pouch appeared far too small for the box, but it fit anyways. He pushed the tip of his walking stick into the ground and it stood upright on its own. Then he dug his hands into his coat pockets, his fingers creeping past a pair of salt-and-pepper shakers, several light-bulbs, quite a lot of tangled yarn, and then past a pair of woolly socks before they happened upon the pointy edges of a folder. He pulled the folder out, sending several clementines and a beard comb tumbling to the ground.
"Quite rude of you." Dumbledore commented. He waved his hand. The clementines and the comb hastily stuffed themselves back into the pocket. "But I really must remember to clean out my pockets some time."
The folder contained the official administrative file on the Lupins, everything from birth to schooling to current employment records and the members of their family ever since they had registered as Newbloods. It was as thin as anything and light as a feather, but opened up as thick as an encyclopedia and was tabbed with the last six generations of the family. The tabs were shared by the married couples and then subdivided by the children; the living members towards the front and the deceased towards the back.
As far as files went, it was hardly the biggest. Newblood families were the smallest families registered, so their files just didn't compete with the Old Nobles, who had a minimum of fifty generations.
These files were not actually supposed to leave the Ministry grounds, but no one would ever think that Albus Dumbledore had nefarious ideas in mind.
Dumbledore selected the tab for the current family patriarch and his wife, to refresh his memory on what the Lupins did for a living. He didn't think either of their jobs necessarily involved the regular use of a watermill.
Lyall Lupin was the son of Ylva and Ulric Lupin (Dumbledore did a double-take over the names and chuckled) and the current family patriarch. He had a sister, Luperca, married but childless as she and her husband enjoyed traveling too much to settle down and raise children. The Lupins were a Newblood family, meaning they had achieved five generations of unbroken magical inheritance and had produced number six.
Lyall was employed by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He had transferred from the Spirit Division to the Werewolf Support Office shortly after his young son's "accident" and had spent most of his time in independent study on lycanthropy. He had written several papers, plumbing the depths of folk medicine and superstitions in an effort to find something that could either cure lycanthropy or lessen its effects. His efforts were commendable, but they had thus far failed to bear any fruit. Lyall was a wizard of no particular skill. A jack of all trades, ranging from mediocre to average in his pursuits. If his efforts bore fruit, they would come out of gritty determination and not flash-bang genius.
Hope Lupin was a Muggleborn witch whose magic had bloomed rather late. She had been nearly eleven years old before she experienced her first emotional burst of accidental magic and not a strong one at that. Dumbledore recalled the young witch from her Hogwarts days. Then Miss Howell, she had been well-versed in the theory of magic and spells, and quite intelligent to boot, but no amount of tutoring had ever improved her ability to apply practical magic. Some witches and wizards just weren't that strong.
As an adult, Hope had eschewed a career that required strenuous use of magic and had instead opted for something that needed a lighter touch. She worked for the Improper Use of Magic office: the Muggle Excuse Division. Her job was to come up with a plausible explanation for a Muggle who had just watched a magical incident occur. She worked in tandem with a highly trained Obliviator, who performed the task of modifying the Muggle's memory.
The Lupins had three children, all of whom were somewhat unfortunately named. Dumbledore had no idea which grandcestor had started the tradition of giving their children names with wolf themes, but they needed to come back from the grave to tell their descendants to stop.
Romulus was the eldest child; he had graduated Hogwarts this past June. The youngest child and only daughter Accalia was only four, so she wouldn't start at Hogwarts for another seven years. If Dumbledore was correct with the math, then she would start the very same year after her next oldest brother had left.
If, that is, the headmaster could convince Remus Lupin that Hogwarts indeed had a place for him.
Dumbledore snapped the folder shut and tucked it back among the mess in his pocket. Then he plucked his walking stick up out of the ground, brushed away the flowers that had tried to bloom on it, and began his stroll down into the valley.
It was a thirty minute walk down the switchback path that was carved into the side of the tor and into the valley that turned a tad treacherous when it began to rain along the way. It came on sudden and drenching, but like a falling curtain of mist and damp, allowing Dumbledore to turn his wand up in time like an umbrella. The rain turned the dirt lane under his boots into a muddy soup alarmingly quickly and he had to high-step just to not spatter mud right up to his knees.
The farmhouse was two floors of grayed brick constructed in an unappealing block shape, like a long rectangle. Green ivy had curled and climbed up the entire north face of the house, only hacked back so it was clear of the windows there. The front porch had been a much more recent addition to the house, probably added by the Lupins for the wood hadn't faded near enough to suggest it had been there even ten years.
The muddy lane Dumbledore strolled along split three ways across the property, to the house, to the barn, and to the watermill, each cobbled over with cross-hatched stones that caught the soles of his boots before they could dare to slip. A low stone wall surrounded the edge of the property in unconnected halves of boxes, stopping at the river bank.
The watermill was directly ahead on the other bank of the slow river. A stone bridge arched over it and the path led to the mill's front door. Dumbledore noticed a boy's face peering out from between the curtains of a small window under the peak of the pointed roof. The headmaster saw the sharp gleam of amber-gold eyes, then the curtain's twitched and the boy's face vanished.
There was a tilled and weeded garden patch not far from the front porch that featured mostly flowers. They were largely normal flowers; nothing overtly magical. The roses did seem a little redder than roses normally would be and the daisies were quacking softly, shaking the rain from their leaves every now and again. Most of the flower heads drooped under the rain, except for the dragon lilies which hissed and steamed the water away.
Hope Lupin was waiting just inside the door, stepping out onto the porch as he dismissed the umbrella charm. She was a fair-skinned woman with blue-gray eyes and oak-brown hair, the latter pulled back in a simple bun to keep it out of her face. If Dumbledore hadn't already know she was a Muggleborn, he would have guessed it from the moment he'd laid eyes on her attire. She hadn't gone far from her Muggle roots. Hope was dressed in a matching blouse and knee-length skirt, of thin blue stripes making a grid pattern across a white background. Her legs were bare all the way down to her toes. No witch of magical birth would prance around in bare legs when strange company had come a-calling. It was simply not done.
"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore." she said, her mouth jumping on both habit and good manners. She was a grown adult who had been out of school for a while now; she didn't have to call him 'professor' anymore.
"Good morning, my dear. I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Dumbledore said, smiling broadly.
"No, of course not. What brings you out here?" Hope asked curiously, her eyes traveling up and down his form like she could physically see the reason for his unexpected visit.
"A bit of good news, I hope, that is best discussed inside. Strudel?"
Hope looked down at the box of strudel that he had produced and seemed to visibly prevent herself from blanching. Her smiled suddenly became fixed. It was as if glancing down at the apple strudel had helped her to figure out the reason for the headmaster's appearance on her doorstep.
"Oh professor, I'm so sorry, but this just isn't the time. The house is a mess and I have so much to do-- I'll have to ask you come back later." Hope said sweetly, already closing the door.
Dumbledore jammed his foot in before she could get it closed all the way. "Nonesense, Missus Lupin. Quite the contrary, I find this to be the perfect time. As it is the only time I was able to find to get away from my summer duties at the Ministry. I beg just twenty minutes of your morning."
"Oh I just couldn't--" Hope shook her head and probably would have kicked his foot out of the way if she hadn't wanted to risk bruising her toes. "I'd make such ever dreadful company this morning, you see, womanly things--"
She gave the door a shove, hoping to dislodge him. But Dumbledore had not spent over a month making his arguments to the Wizengamot and the Caucus to be turned away at the door. There was a quite a lot riding on the next twenty minutes. He was not dislodged.
"Missus Lupin, I do understand what's going through your mind at this moment, but I have excellent news regarding your son's future in the magical world." Dumbledore said.
"Hah!" Hope barked out a sarcastic laugh and resumed trying to shut the door on his foot. "Remus doesn't have a future in the magical world! We've known that since he was five! He's known that! Werewolves don't go to Hogwarts!"
"Quite the contrary, you'll find--"
"I hope you didn't come all this way just to remind us of that! He was just starting to get used to the idea, so don't you dare end up giving him a little bit of hope when there wasn't-"
"Hope Lupin, this really isn't--"
"Get off my bloody porch!"
Light flashed just above Dumbledore's hat, harmless but alarming and enough to make him jerk his head back reflexively. Hope seized upon the moment of distraction and shoved all of her weight against the door, pinching the old wizard's foot painfully. Dumbledore yanked his boot out and the door slammed shut immediately. He heard a lock click from the inside.
"Missus Lupin, I strongly urge that you reconsider." Dumbledore suggested, tapping lightly on the door. "Really, this is very important. You'll want to hear this, your entire family."
There was no response and no movement that he could hear. Quite the opposite, he got the strong sense that he was being ignored. The headmaster thought for a moment. Forcing his way in wouldn't do; the protective threshold wards would turn him back the instant he attempted it. Trying at all would only make Mrs. Lupin react in an openly hostile manner, which was simply no good.
Dumbledore turned as though looking for a solution... And his gaze alighted on the watermill.
It wasn't necessarily Mr. and Mrs. Lupin he had to speak with. They weren't the ones this matter concerned. All he really had to do was have a quick chat with young Remus Lupin and as it happened, he was not in the house.
The old wizard trotted off the porch under the umbrella charm and walked briskly down the path, over the bridge, and up to the front door of the water mill. He rapped lightly on the door with the hook of his walking stick, listening to the burbling water and the creak of the wheel as it turned. A moment after, the door opened just a crack and the face of an eleven-year old boy appeared, back-lit by a warm yellow glow.
"Good morning, young Mr. Lupin. Could I beg a moment of your time?" Dumbledore inquired with a jovial smile.
"S-Sir..." Remus started uncertainly, eyes darting left and right as though he was expecting further company. "You're Professor Dumbledore? From Hogwarts?"
"Indeed I am."
"What the bloody hell-- I mean-- W-What are you doing here?"
"To be a bearer of good news. I had intended to speak with your parents first, but your mother was keen to not let me past the front door." Dumbledore explained. "However, the matter I wish to discuss largely concerns you and your future in the magical world. I thought perhaps I could speak first with you, before we attempt to bring this to your parents again."
Remus opened the door a little wider so he could get a better look at the visitor. A light just beside the door shone across his face and made his eyes shine eerily. Dumbledore squashed any urge to recoil, holding both his ground and a pleasant smile, even as his stomach squirmed a little.
Young Remus's eyes were amber-gold. The only true outward sign of his lycanthropy. They didn't have the vertical pupils of a wolf and there was a human mind looking out from the inside, but at the edges there lurked something of the wolf.
It was July 24th, 1969.
The full moon had passed just two days ago.
Remus's nostrils flared and he inhaled deeply. "Is that apple strudel from Ms. Adams's bakery?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm more than happy to share." Dumbledore said, proferring the box. Unlike with his mother, the box did not make Remus blanch or recoil. Rather, he pushed the door open wide in invitation.
"I have the kettle on for some tea." he said. "Please come inside, Professor Dumbledore. Mind the step."
Dumbledore smiled and stepped in after the young wizard, finding that the floor was a good six inches lower than the ground outside. He realized two things about the watermill right away. The most innocuous of them was that the mill-house had been something of a get-away of sorts for the Lupins' children. There was a squashy couch that was an unfortunate shade of brown that made Dumbledore want to flush it down the toilet. It was accompanied by an old armchair a similarly uninspired shade of green. Simple white curtains hung over the windows and a handsome, if threadbare, rug across the floor. There was a case of books against one wall and a functional kitchenette against the other. The stove-top had two burners, one with a kettle on top, and the ice chest was tucked away under the sink. The lighting came from the polished yellow-white helite crystals that were ubiquitous in every Wizarding household and building.
The second was the reason for the functional water-wheel. The most robust wards were the ones powered by kinetic energy. The river kept the wheel spinning and so long as the wheel spun, the wards anchored to it would never cease.
"Did you feel them?" Remus asked absently, as he crossed the floor to the stove-top.
"Yes, I did." Dumbledore replied. He peered at the ceiling, silently willing the wards to become visible. But no wizard alive could see ward-lines with the naked eye. But by golly he could taste them in the back of his throat, slightly bitter like old limes.
"Those are barrier wards. They keep me fenced in once a month." Remus informed him. "Mum and Dad used to lock me in here, but when I was seven I-- uh, when I broke down the door. I do better out in the field, having the space."
"Ah, I see we are not standing on pretenses." Dumbledore smiled gently. "But do you know what brings me all the way out here?"
"I imagine you're not here for strudel."
"But what if I am?"
"You're not." Remus said, sure of this. Ms. Adams had been baking for years, but that didn't mean she made a good strudel.
"True." Dumbledore conceded. The kettle started to whistle. "Why don't we have some tea and I'll tell you what business has brought me all the way out to Magna Tor and your front step."
Remus tried not to move too quickly as he retrieved a set of sturdy mugs from the cupboard. He had to fist his hands briefly to try and get them to stop shaking. There were only so many reasons why Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, would come all the way out to Magna Tor in the middle of the summer. It had nothing to do with Romulus. He had already graduated. Accalia would go in seven years (provided that nothing happened in the meantime), but she was still too young to worry about that just yet.
But Remus himself...
If things had been a little different, he would be starting Hogwarts this fall.
He had stopped thinking of Hogwarts as a possibility once it had fully sunk into his mind what it was like for werewolves in the real world. They were on or close to the same level as Squibs in how they were treated. Worse in some ways. They weren't allowed to learn magic through any Ministry-approved channels, or carry wands. The latter could be discreetly remedied through back-alley means, but the cost was exorbitant and the dealers didn't always accept Muggle money. So few wizards were willing to employ a werewolf, afraid of the potential risks and the safety of their customers. Remus had learned young that he could mostly expect to live in the Muggle world. His parents were slowly, systematically removing the traces of magical influence from their home, as though they were trying to ease him into the idea of living like a Muggle.
Remus had been jealous of both of his siblings for the last six years, knowing that what had happened to him was nothing that he could help or change. It was beyond his control and the wizarding world seemed content to damn him anyways.
So he wasn't going to Hogwarts.
But what was the headmaster doing all the way out here?
Remus brought the mugs, the kettle, and the tea tin over to the sitting area. There was a used industrial spool in the middle of the rug, sitting on its side. A tablecloth had been thrown over it and that was enough to turn it into a coffee table.
As Dumbledore poured himself a cup of strong tea and cut the strudel into manageable sections, he studied young Remus from the corner of his eye. He was skinny in the way growing boys often were and sported a slightly hollow-eyed look as though he didn't sleep well. His hair was a sandy tone and hung in a shaggy manner not unlike a wolf's ruff. He was pale skinned and slightly sickly-looking; something that could be attributed to the monthly transformations. They were hard on adults, but Dumbledore imagined that they were brutal for a child.
"Dad's out." Remus announced, for no other reason than to fill in what he thought was an awkward silence. "He's gone to Glasgow for the day, to the Pendragon Memorial Library. He thinks he's on to something."
"Is he?" Dumbledore asked curiously.
"No."
"Are you certain?"
Remus nodded. "When he came home yesterday, he said that he didn't find anything at the library." he explained. "He nearly walked in on himself and that was when he realized he'd gotten home twelve hours before he left this morning. Technically he is home, but no one's allowed to go into the barn until tomorrow morning and we have to act like he's not there."
"I see." Dumbledore smiled. "Your father might be dodging butterflies at the moment, but you'll be quite pleased to know that my labors from the last week have borne quite a rare fruit." He said. He rummaged a hand into the inside pocket under his jacket flap and placed an envelope on the tablecloth between them. Remus withdrew at the sight of it.
"What is that?" he asked suspiciously.
"Why don't you have a look and find out?" Dumbledore suggested cheerfully.
Remus reached out slowly towards the envelope, brushing his fingers against the parchment. It was heavy white parchment, stiff as a piece of cardboard under his fingers. But it was quality parchment, finely milled with few imperfections to speak of. His home address was written on the front in curling letters, shining bright blue in the light.
"Professor Dumbledore, is this what I think it is?" he asked, his voice dry and quiet.
"What precisely do you think it is?" Dumbledore inquired.
Remus picked up the envelope and turned it over. On the wax seal holding it shut was a large letter H. He swallowed hard and a cold shiver rattled down his spine. There was no doubting what it was. It was most certainly a Hogwarts letter, but that was impossible. His chances of attending any wizarding school had plummeted the moment Fenrir Greyback had forced his way through the wards and through the narrow bedroom window of their old house to sink his fangs into then-young Remus's shoulder.
"This is impossible." Remus whispered, his voice trembling.
"Oh, not at all." Dumbledore said pleasantly. "You'll find that it is quite legitimate. I've signed it myself. Please have a piece of strudel and I will explain how I worked this bit of magic."
But Remus was already pulling up the wax seal. He snatched out the two pieces of parchment within and skimmed quickly over the letter. It wasn't the standard letter that he had he read from Romulus's acceptance, but instead addressed directly to him with assurances that he had indeed been accepted and that the proper precautions were underway.
His breathing turned harsh and shallow.
"I'm... I'm in? I'm going to Hogwarts?" he asked, looking up at the professor.
"Oh, indeed. You, my dear boy, now have the opportunity to attend Hogwarts." Dumbledore said, smiling much more broadly. "I'm sure you've been following the recent protests on the matter of Beast versus Being and the Ministry's sudden shuffling of the classification."
Remus nodded silently. Werewolves had been flip-flopping between the two categories for as long there had been categories to flip between. They had been shuffled back into Being as of the last week.
"As you can imagine, I saw an opportunity, though it took five hours of goblin poetry before the Caucus was willing to hear me out." Dumbledore went on. His throat had been a bit sore by the time he'd been finished. "I posed this to the Caucus: If a werewolf is classified as a Being, then it suggests that barring one day out of the month, a werewolf is fully capable of understanding and abiding by the laws of Wizarding Britain. The re-classification likewise implies that a werewolf is fully capable of being a functional member of magical society."
"I'm sure they told you that it's damned impossible." Remus commented, finding his voice again.
"If you could mind your language, Mr. Lupin. Yes, they were quite firm on that point. But they did hum a slightly different melody when I reminded them that such a thing has never been tried." Dumbledore agreed. He sipped his tea and took a moment to savor its lemony flavor. "From that point on, I made a rather stellar argument for the education of young wizards who happen to be werewolves. That young boys like Remus Lupin should be given the same equal opportunity for a full magical education as their peers. That even one day a month should not stand in their way of becoming the wizard they are meant to be.
"Well, Speaker Rowland-Gates seemed to think that I had issued him a direct challenge. If I could... scare up a young werewolf of the appropriate age by the thirty-first of this month, they would indulge my fool-hardy notions."
"You got me into Hogwarts," Remus said slowly, incredulously. "On a dare?"
"Speaker Rowland-Gates sees it as a dare. I see it as a rare opportunity to begin breaking down the walls of prejudice that we wizards have the unfortunate habit of clinging to." Dumbledore said.
"No, wait a second." Remus set his mug down with an unnecessary thump. "There are enormous ramifications to what you're saying, Professor Dumbledore. Not the least of which is what can happen if the other students that there's a bloody fucking werewolf living in the same dorm as them! What's going to happen if they find out? Where am I going to transform every month? Who's going to know? Because I'm a wreck after every full moon, Professor! Someone's going to have to come fetch me and I don't start feeling human again until the evening-- Or at least that's when I can hold a coherent conversation again. Do you know how much I eat? Before and after a full moon? I'm hungry all the time. It's a nightmare."
"All good questions, Mister Lupin. And all very understandable concerns." Dumbledore smiled broadly, holding up a hand to forestall further comments. "The staff will be the only ones informed of your persistent condition. We have several safe-guards already in place and they will stay regardless of whether or not you join us this year. We do not wish to go full-bore with the details, in case you do not wish to join us."
"Wish to?" Remus repeated in disbelief. "Of course I wish to. I went to Bluehallow Primary. Hogwarts was all anyone could talk about the last few months. I want to go!"
"But?" Dumbledore prompted.
"But I'm a werewolf!" Remus hissed, as though the word was a particularly foul curse. "I'm dangerous! If I get loose on the full moon and bite someone, it won't matter how old I am! I'll be lucky just to be thrown in Azkaban!"
"However, you acknowledge that you are not dangerous any other day of the month, yes?" Dumbledore inquired.
"N-No, they've got werewolf lore all wrong." Remus said, shrugging and shaking his head. "I mean, I feel like chasing the sheep sometimes and I growled at Pastor Thomas last week when he got too close to my sister -- Pastor Thomas likes little girls, you see; everyone knows it. And I may have rolled in the-- ahem, dirt with Mr. Colyer's collie a few days ago, but I've never felt that blood-thirst all the books say werewolves experience all the time. It's like how everyone used to say vampires couldn't resist going feral. It's not like that at all."
Dumbledore clapped his hands. "There, you see? If any of that clap-trap about constant bloodthirstiness was at all true, why we'd have werewolf attacks so frequent that even the Muggles would know all about it." He smiled reassuringly at the eleven-year old. "Instead, you experience behaviors that are rather off-putting at times, but will bring no harm whatsoever to your classmates. One night out of the entire month is nothing to fret about."
He reached under his suit coat and pulled out a much larger envelope that conceivably would not have fit into any pockets, and slid it across the coffee table to Remus.
"This contains all the pertinent information regarding our safe and humane method of containment. Certainly read it over yourself and pass it on to your parents for their perusal. If they any questions or suggestions or improvements, they may send us an owl. We want to make this as comfortable and safe as possible for you, young Mr. Lupin. I do hope you will join us at Hogwarts."
Remus bit his lip. "I want to go, but..." His hands wrapped around one another and squeezed. His fingers were tingling. "I don't know."
"I imagine you must have more reservations than I can guess." Dumbledore nodded sympathetically. "Please take some time to think it over, though we will need your return owl by the thirty-first. Bear in mind that if you choose not to make the most of this, there may not be another chance."
And there was the rub. This was a one time only deal. The Speaker of the Caucus had an easily bruised ego that was quick to heal. If Dumbledore couldn't "scare up" a young werewolf of the appropriate age, then Speaker Rowland-Gates would shove this all down into the bin and haughtily pretend such a thing like "werewolves attending Hogwarts" had never come up in the first place. Some new mandate might go out to further restrict a young werewolf's education. Maybe they would be locked out of the primary schools next.
But if Remus took this rare opportunity and went to Hogwarts... If he did it right, then he might just wedge open a door that had been closed to werewolves for the longest time. This wasn't just a chance to get a full education, but to prove to the entire wizarding world that werewolves weren't the mindless beasts that everyone was taught they were.
"I-- I need some time to think." Remus said, his tongue tripping a little over the words.
"Of course, young Mr Lupin. Sleep on it. Speak with your parents. I look forward to your answer and I do very much hope to see you at Hogwarts." Dumbledore said kindly. He drained the last of his tea and set the cup down gently on the saucer. "Thank you for the tea and the chat. Do enjoy the strudel."
He stood up and offered the eleven-year old a small bow and a twinkling smile. Then he took his walking stick firmly under hand again and showed himself out, raising his wand against the mist of rain that rushed up to greet him. Then the door swung shut in his wake, leaving Remus on the couch with a cup of tea, two envelopes, and more reservations - and hope - about his future than he ever thought he could have.
-0-
5-20-19: Minor edits made for spelling/adjusted continuity.