AN: Yes I'm back, yes I've got a few new stories, and yes I will be updating The New Leader soon! It might be taking a turn from the direction I initially intended to steer it in, but it will continue to be as ridiculous as ever! The updates will be irregular as I'm working/finishing off an original novel, so please be patient with me. Any queries/complaints on the matter, please feel free to PM.

So, onto the new tale: this is a story I've been planning for almost two years and finally have gotten around to writing a few chapters. Semi-canon, semi-AU, this will focus on how events could have transpired in the Potterverse if Lupin hadn't been bitten by a werewolf as a young child, but instead was bitten slightly later in his life. (And of course I'll be taking a few liberties because I'm me :P ) Multiple POVs, with a timeline you'll really have to pay attention to.

Disclaimer: As always, Harry Potter and all canon characters belong to JKR. Anything non-Potterverse belongs to moi.

Prologue

June 23rd, 1991

The portrait of Alexandra Alvey was watching her; she was sure of it.

Tonks glared at the likeness of the former Head Auror, whose eyes were closed, a small smirk evident on her peaceful face. Every time the young witch looked away, she could see movement in her peripheral vision, as though the portrait was waving madly at her. But when she looked back, the grey-haired witch appeared the very essence of tranquility. Tonks puffed out a large breath and fought the urge to roll up the sleeves of her new navy blue robes. The cuffs were embroidered in black thread and scratchy as a troll's whiskers.

Across from her, Theodore Prewett's face was a striking shade of Flobberworm-vomit green. He'd already been sick twice; the first time he'd made it to the bathroom, but on the second he'd had to make do with the plant pot beside him. Since then the poor shrub hadn't been the same, shuddering every few minutes and leaning so far away from him that the Ravenclaw witch on the other side had a twig rammed up her nose.

Tonks scratched at her wrist for the umpteenth time before wedging her hands under her thighs. The bench was about as comfortable as a stone wall and inexplicably ice-cold despite the heat of the day outside. She'd only been sitting there for an hour and her entire bottom was numb; so numb, in fact, that she wasn't sure it was even still attached to her body. To her right, one of the girls from Beauxbatons Academy had finished filing her nails with her wand and was now sighing impatiently every thirty seconds. Her name was Irene Brisbois, and that was the extent of Tonks's knowledge about her, despite having met her the previous week on Testing Day. She'd been just as affable at that encounter.

Six minutes later (going by Irene's exhalations) the doe-eyed reception witch finally reappeared, sleek black heels clicking sharply against the dark marble floor.

"Prewett, Theodore?" she read off her clipboard. Because memorising the next name before coming over would've been too much trouble, apparently.

Theodore's head snapped up, and he stared at her as though he'd forgotten why he was there. Tonks gave him a nod of encouragement – along with a little kick to the shin – and he rose quietly to his feet, quivering like a trapped mouse. As she watched him disappear around the corner, Tonks really hoped he'd manage to keep his insides inside this time.

"And here was me thinking the competition would be tough."

Tonks groaned internally and shut her eyes, squeezing tightly. Maybe if she wished hard enough, Grayson Thistle would disappear. She popped one eye open; nope, he was still seated next to her, and he was smirking.

"No way Prewett's making it in," the dark-haired wizard scoffed, flicking a strand of lint off his robes, "he'll probably pass out the second he sees old Moody's mangled face."

"Moody won't be doing the interviews," the Ravenclaw girl – Miriam something-or-other – said, "the head Auror very rarely does. It's normally a panel of senior Aurors, who then report back to him or her."

"Shame," Grayson said, looking almost pained, "passing out in front of Scrimgeour will be a lot less dignified; he's still got most of his face."

"Stuff it, Thistle," Tonks said, praying to Merlin that his name was called next and she could finally be rid of him.

"Why?" He leaned forward, eyebrows high with mock concern. "Not feeling queasy too, are you Tonksey?"

Tonks bit her tongue so hard, her mouth filled with the metallic flavour of blood. Of all the professions in the wizarding world, Grayson Thistle had to go and choose her one. She was convinced he had applied just to spite her – from their very first week at Hogwarts, they'd been what one might call arch-nemeses. If one leaned towards the dramatic side, of course. He'd called her a shapeshifting freak, she'd retaliated by squirting him in the face with undiluted Bubotuber pus, and they'd spent the next seven years openly hating one another.

Which is why his presence here made her seriously suspicious. For years he'd harped on about how he was going to take over his father's business one day – Zoom Brooms, a racing broom manufacturing company – and suddenly there he was on Testing Day, smirking at her from across the room. Being an Auror was a complicated and messy career, and his family were more than a little wealthy; they had their own box at the Quidditch World Cup for Merlin's sake! But when she asked why he was there (demanded, really), he'd just laughed and swaggered past her towards the security desk to have his wand weighed.

It's not like it could have been a spur of the moment decision for him; applying to the Auror force was a lengthy process. Professor Sprout had had to fill out at least a dozen forms – wincing a little at the question regarding the applicant's ability to blend in, but really, Tonks didn't think that was a necessary quality at all. Almost every Auror she'd ever seen made Professor Dumbledore look positively Muggle.

"Yep, reckon I don't have anything to worry about," Thistle said, stretching and linking his fingers behind his head, "Might just take a nap while I wait."

Miriam what's-her-face – who currently had a bloody handkerchief rammed up her nose – gaped at him in horror.

"You mean you're not going to review your answers? They ask really hard questions, and often they differ slightly in wording from the samples we received. You should really prepare yourself."

Thistle gave an obnoxiously loud yawn as his eyelids fluttered shut. "Nah, reckon I'll wing it. I already know I'm going to get in."

Tonks had to physically restrain her wand hand with the other to stop herself transfiguring his tongue into a turnip. If she had to spend the next three years training with him – Merlin forbid the rest of her career as well! – she might actually sacrifice herself to the giant squid. Actually, a more palatable idea would be to sacrifice Grayson to the giant squid. She shuffled in her seat, willing some feeling to return to her arse, and tried to block out the mutterings of the Ravenclaw as she repeated her answers over and over and over…

Every twenty-five minutes, the reception witch reappeared, read a new name off her shiny black clipboard, and escorted the latest applicant off around the corner. None of them returned.

"What do you reckon they're doing to them in there?" Walden Spiffingbum whispered to her, his dark face pallid and sweaty as they watched Miriam-whatsit vanish around the corner, still muttering to herself about arrest-versus-conviction success rates. Tonks could only shrug and tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat felt so parched that she spluttered and coughed instead. Ten applicants had made it through to the interview stage, mainly from Hogwarts – four from Gryffindor, two from Ravenclaw, one from Hufflepuff (Tonks) – but strangely enough, there were also three from the Beauxbatons Academy in France. Why weren't they interviewing for their own Ministry? Were the rumours about their head Auror being a bottom-pincher true? Moody definitely did not look like a bottom-pincher, but you never knew…

Walden disappeared exactly twenty-five minutes later, leaving her all alone.

"Last one standing," Tonks said out loud. Her knee kept bouncing of its own accord, causing pins and needles to shoot through her backside.

"Last one sitting, I would imagine," Alvey's portrait said brightly, before remembering she was supposed to be feigning sleep. Tonks rolled her eyes and clambered to her feet, pacing up and down the too-wide corridor. No-one outside of Ministry employees were allowed into the Auror office, so interviews were conducted at the top level of the building, a place normally reserved for meetings of Ministry officials. Unusual that the Auror office was considered more in need of discretion than the Minister's own department. She made a mental note to find out why when, or if -

A sickening thought hit her, with such force that she doubled over, hands braced on her shaking knees. What if she didn't make it through? She'd spent so long studying and practicing and preparing, that she hadn't even considered what would happen if she didn't. What if, after all this, she wound up pushing quills at Magical Law Enforcement instead? If sitting through N.E.W.T. level potions with Snape had been for nothing –

No! She shook her head for extra effect, as if to clear all the negativity, and straightened up, sucking in a deep breath and held it for ten seconds before exhaling. She would make it; there was no way that she wouldn't. She was prepped and ready: she had mastered every defensive spell on the DADA syllabus, she had received 'Outstanding's in every N.E.W.T bar Charms – her cacti had danced the tango together instead of the cha-cha – and even then she'd scored an 'Exceeds Expectations'. She had successfully irritated Professor Snape with her flawless concoctions to the point that he had forgotten to set her class homework. Twice. She could do this. She was ready.

"Tonks, Nymphadora?"

The reception witch was two feet away, gazing at her with those huge eyes. She hadn't even heard her coming – not a good start for a would-be Auror. She shook feeling back into her hands, ignoring the snickers of "Nympha-WHAT?" from Alvey's portrait and followed the clickety-clack of the witch's heels, willing herself to remain calm. If nothing else, she was finally going to discover what was around that bloody corner…

Another corridor.

The reception witch trotted forward a few steps, halting in front of the third door on the right and laid a hand on the knob, turning to give her an encouraging smile. Tonks took another deep breath and nodded, morphing some colour into her cheeks as the door swung open.