Chapter 51: Forearmed is Forewarned. Right?

Professor Lupin's return to teaching was marked by a certain welcoming air, especially among the younger students who seemed to feel that having a werewolf teaching them wasn't even really remarkable when compared to their week of Professor Potter. It was a strange and somewhat pleasant experience to be welcomed without reservation by so many people for the first time since he was about eight. It didn't help him deal with the casualties among his lesson-plan, but it was still refreshing.

He had been planning to put it off, but instead decided to just go ahead and do the lessons on werewolves already, since he wasn't going to have any kind of demonstration for it. Despite his reservations (he half expected that the Seventh Years were going to try to kill him because of the subject of the lesson), things went remarkably well. He had felt incredibly uncomfortable explaining the various weaknesses of werewolves to the older years (who had been wearing expressions of murderous polite interest), but other than that, it had gone excellently. He had taken a certain pleasure in their expressions when they learned that silver was just a mild annoyance to werewolves, although their proposals of iron spikes through the brain and grapeshot had been utterly terrifying—and admittedly likely to work.

It was taking more effort to get used to Snape's amusement at him at every meal. And the fact that he was having difficulty with knowing that Black was snickering all the time. Also, he had begun to get daily letters with tips on how to deal with matters that he had always considered to be of a nature unrelated to him. He suspected Snape knew what was in them, too, since every time he opened one and flushed bright red, the man gave him that puppy-killing smile that was probably as close as he got to happy expressions.

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Lupin wasn't sure why there was mounting tension as October progressed. It seemed like everyone was waiting for something to go wrong (or, more terrifyingly in the case of his older students, right). Everyone he asked gave him answers that only made him more and more worried. For one thing, as best as he could understand, two years before, Halloween night had been marked by the invasion of the castle by an army of Trolls.

Apparently the army had marauded through the castle for months before finally coming out into the open October 31st. At that time, they had stormed the Great Hall, chanting about the glorious deaths of James and Lily Potter and singing songs to the gods while carrying biers overflowing with the corpses of their victims (older Slytherin students) and preparing for ascension bodily to Valhalla. Each person he asked somehow managed to add some new insanity to the tale. By the time he was done, he had been given to understand that the Trolls had been fought off singlehandedly by Hari Potter—Professor Potter—while he chanted an Eda and cleaved the leading Troll's head off after dueling it in single combat with a butter knife.

Reading between the lines, an ever-important skill in day-to-day life at Hogwarts, Remus had worked out the most likely course of events as they had actually occurred. It was in no way any more reassuring than the tales he had been told.

If he was understanding correctly, Hari Potter, at age eleven, had slaughtered a healthy portion of the Slytherin house without almost anyone except a few Professors knowing, and even fewer caring. And also without getting in even the slightest bit of trouble for the deaths. At the same time, the traditional power structure of the house had been almost entirely broken that year as a result of the many untimely deaths. On the upside, there had only been one Troll and it had indeed been killed by Hari Potter, although it had been in a girl's bathroom (and wouldn't James be proud his son was in a girl's bathroom at eleven?) and there had only been one girl in danger at the time. Lupin was beginning to wonder if he had been hit on the head more than he remembered during his time at Hogwarts.

On the other hand, that had been nothing compared to the confusion surrounded last year. Something had petrified Mrs. Norris IV during the feast and no one seemed to be sure what it had been. The fact that the famously inventive Hogwarts rumor mill hadn't come up with an explanation was actually a bit more disturbing than the crazy bits that people had been managing to add to the whole Troll incident. To tell the truth, no one seemed to have any guesses about why there had been a string of petrifications over the course of the year to the point that the Headmaster had begun to just have students stacked in broom cupboards! Everyone basically held that it was probably Professor Lockhart's fault and that Professor Potter was somehow responsible for the attacks stopping, although no one had any idea how. And the lack of embellished description of a battle was quite worrying. Although he was beginning to have his suspicions about Ginny Weasley, who was rumored to have left school early around the time the attacks ended . . . the girl had an uncanny grasp of magic and didn't use a wand. Plus her glowing red eyes just made Remus nervous.

Regardless, he didn't have time to worry about it, since the week before Halloween happened to contain the full moon.

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"Hello, Lupin," Snape managed to give the civil greeting a suggestion that he had offered the man a dip in boiling feces.

"Hello, Snape."

"You seem remarkably cheerful for this time of the month."

"Uh . . . I guess my transformation wasn't so bad?"

Snape paused and then covered his mouth as he began to laugh. "Their gifts worked, didn't they!" The werewolf's blush was all the admission he needed. "They did!"

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"Hari?" Tracy said as she passed him a copy of the Times. "Care to explain?"

"It looks like you have a copy of the paper?"

"I was talking about the disappearance of a top aeronautics engineer from his home in the middle of London at noon."

"What about it?"

"Did you do that?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Why did you do it?" She paused. "You know, you might be right that you didn't . . . he turned up two days later, spouting some story about a blond man and a crew of gun toting heroes."

"I think the full story is in the Quibbler."

"Uh . . ."

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"Hari." Pansy's voice was flat.

"Mmm?"

"Tomorrow is Halloween."

"And?"

"Well, for one thing, we thought it would be good if someone reminded you."

Hari didn't look up from the runic array he was doodling. He paused and made a 'go on' motion that Pansy was tempted to take offense at even now, but decided not to pick losing battles.

"But we were also a bit concerned."

"Oh?"

"You see, for the last two years, something bad has happened on Halloween."

"Really?"

"Yes." Pansy gritted her teeth. "There was a Troll two years ago. And last year something began attacking students."

Hari cocked his head. "I thought you said something bad happened?"

Pansy covered her face with her hands and sighed. "Those were bad."

"Why?"

"Never mind that. I wanted to know if you had seen signs of anything that might be 'interesting' to you recently."

"Again: why?"

"Because I would like to be forewarned."

Hari pulled a Colt M1911 from a seal on the inside of his robe and offered it to her with a wandless levitation as he scribbled. "Here."

"What is this?"

"You're now forearmed, that's like being forewarned."

Pansy reluctantly took the firearm and held it carefully. The wrong way. "Uh . . ."

Hari sighed and set aside his work. "Come on," he motioned for her to follow him out of the Common Room.

"Where are we going?" she asked, not bothering to point out that curfew had long started and that he had two students who were apparently expecting instruction.

"The Forest. We need to teach you how to use that thing."

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"You look like hell," said Daphne as Pansy groped around the table blindly.

"I've been up all night."

"You smell like smoke."

"Like I said."

"Hari?"

"Hari."

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The Feast was well underway when Dumbledore cleared his throat. He had come to the occasion dressed as a Catholic nun, complete with wimple. To the amusement of the Muggle Studies Professor and few others, he kept floating by his headdress. He had added his own touches, of course, including sixteen pounds of gold jewelry with depictions of Baphomet and saints being abused in various ways, two rulers at his belt that were not only bloodstained, but still dripping, and a steering wheel.

"Once again, we gather to celebrate the deaths of my dear friends at the hands of a monster. Their loss is felt keenly by all of you, which is why you are so joyous. Thankfully, Mister Potter grew up with a . . . a loving . . . family and so does not feel this loss, so it is less disgusting than it might be that you are all cheerful at their demise.

"With two interesting events in as many years, I was strongly expecting that Sirius Black would be striking this evening." He broke off as Professor Lupin began to cough horribly. "I'm sorry, are you alright?" Dumbledore motioned to Hagrid and the half-giant gave Lupin a smack on the back that sent his face into the mashed potatoes. "Given that, I have locked down the castle to be sure that he can't get in—are you okay, lad?" Dumbledore's face showed concern as Lupin began to struggle to breathe. When Lupin nodded, Dumbledore continued, "as I was saying: we are perfectly safe from Siri—Poppy, would you please see to him?

"In addition, I made sure that the dementors are not anywhere near the castle. I cannot be certain, of course, but I do think that I have managed to deal with most of the more serious—why is that dog barking?—threats."

It was about that time that Professor Lupin, recovered from his loss of air, got annoyed at Professor Snape pointing and laughing, and, in a fit of childish pique, flung a leg of roast chicken at the man, who (having been in a school with Hari for two years) ducked promptly, allowing it to fly overhead and strike Professor McGonagall. As Lupin stared in open-mouth horror, Dumbledore smiled warmly and drew his wand. "Let us thank Professor Lupin for initiating the food fight." He jabbed his wand at the table and a trio of chickens donned little improvised suits of armor and began to form a phalanx with their cadre of breadstick-and-roll soldiers, some of whom began to hurl food randomly at the students below. He then sat back down and began to eat his meal as chaos erupted.

Draco Malfoy had been learning in the last two years. He had not gained much knowledge of magic, but he was learning to avoid Hermione Granger and any possibility she might throw things. It was because of that that when he saw that food was beginning to fly, he made a dash for the exit and hid in the Entrance Hall until the noise died down. It was quite interesting to listen to.

The Hufflepuffs quickly formed ranks, the youngest ducking under the table in fright as their peers began to grab dishes to hide behind and the upper years began to conjure shovels to hurl larger amounts of food with. The Seventh Years were working to defend their space with judicious use of banishing charms as taught by Professor Potter, sending airborne foodstuffs back at the originator with excessive force.

The Slytherins being Slytherins, the only people they trusted less than their own was everyone else, so they used the advantage of having a wall at their backs to focus their efforts (as best as a disorganized mob could manage). The ones who were able to think strategically (and most the remaining upper students were among them—stupidity having not been a survival trait in recent years) began to use shield charms and banishers to keep the largest of the attacks away. There were too many projectiles to stop them all, but at least the turkey that the Weasley Twins had lobbed was blocked.

Ravenclaw was trapped between rivals and the students were clearly wishing that they could go back to studying. Once they had stowed their books safely under the tables, they began to return attacks with the viciousness instilled by Professor Potter and fueled by annoyance at interruption of their peaceful reading. Their table was quickly cleared of food as they began a wholesale assault on the entire room, finding their arsenal quickly replenished and set about trying to get as much of the pumpkin pie aimed at Professor Lupin as they could manage.

Gryffindor was not left out, of course, but they were ably lead by the terrible trio: Fred, Gred, and Girl-Tobi. The former two had more breadth of skill and were transfiguring things to be thrown (although why they wanted to hurt dildo-shaped drumsticks was unclear) as well as screaming at the top of their lungs for the sons of bitches under their command to get back in their ranks and to hold fast. Percy of all people had conjured a peaked cap and was screaming in an Eastern European language while flinging spoonsful of peas at anyone of their house who appeared to be faltering.

At the head table, Professor Lupin was taking advantage of the opportunity to attack Black and, to the horror of the staff (aside from the Headmaster, who was calmly having pudding behind his defensive line), was flinging everything in arm's reach at the dog already covered in gravy and slices of ham. To the further horror of the staff, the dog had made a crude sort of catapult using plates and some long French loaves to hurl things back. And possibly worst of all, it was hard to tell who was winning (although the dog had help from Ravenclaw).

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Dumbledore looked up as a quartet of breadsticks flew at him. One of his chickens dove in front of the flying food and took them to the breasts, falling to the table and twitching as the other chickens rushed over. One began to use its stubby wings to pump madly at the fallen one's breastbone while the other placed the empty space where its head had been near where the downed victim's head should be. The hall stopped and watched as, after a moment, the two stopped their actions and looked down, taking their helmets off and then waving at the breadstick soldiers, who formed up and began to lift the fallen chicken onto their shoulders and carry it off towards the staff exit.

"Well," said Dumbledore. "I do believe it's time for the cleanup. Mops will be provided." He considered things for a moment. "And I think it would be most helpful if Professor Potter rounded up our missing food before they go rot somewhere. Thank you."

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==Outtake==

"You're a hero!" insisted Dumbledore. "You're not supposed to charge money."

Hari had conjured a comfortable chair and was now sitting in it; it was not lost on either man that he had not drawn a wand to do so. "You mispronounced that, other Professor Headmaster. It's 'mercenary'."

"The spell was supposed to conjure a hero!"

Snape raised a finger. "Professor He—Professor?"

"What?" Dumbledore snapped.

"I think we specified that we wanted someone able to hold off the Dark Lord."

"Right; a hero."

"That's where I was going with this," Snape said slowly. "I don't know if the ritual actually called for a hero."

"What?" Dumbledore looked slightly ill.

"If it helps," said Hari, who had been watching with vague interest, "I'm fairly certain I can defeat whomever you need dealt with."

"It doesn't," Dumbledore said bitterly.

"So . . . about my fee?"

Dumbledore frowned for a moment. "Will you accept gold?"

"I'll have it tested chemically, but yes."

Dumbledore's face brightened considerably. "I think we can arrange payment then. You start immediately."

"I've got nothing to do for a while, sure. Remind me, how long do you expect this to take?"

"Three years at least, possibly four."

"I thank you for your business. I'll expect a one-month retainer up front."

"You what?"

"I fully understand if you don't have the cash on hand. I'll be in London, feel free to contact me when you've gathered the funds. Just send a letter to my offices." He placed a card on Dumbledore's desk and dove out the window, vanishing instead of falling to his death.


(A/N John)

Well, this chapter has been a long time in coming. Sort of. Actually, a good bit of it was not part of my original plan at all and just sort of happened because of one damn line that I wrote in jest and then found had spiraled out of all control.

(A/N 2 John)

The line in question referring to forearmed.

(A/N 3 John)

On the upside, the bumper crop of evenings I had recently means that I now have a surplus of chapters readied. So there is good news in there.

(A/N 4 John)

Also, things start getting a bit . . . weird shortly. And they'll nicely jump some more rails.

(A/N 5 John)

I can honestly say I'm not sure how long Third Year will be. I know I need to deal with Christmas and maybe a few other things, but without much of an active threat, it's likely that things will be pretty peaceful.

(A/N 6 John)

Oh well, given what happened the last time I thought that . . .