"Oi, Georgina," said Wilma.

"Harrington." George's nostrils were flaring again. He probably needed a drink just as much as Wilma did.

"Wanna go down to the pub with me? M'tired of all this fuss and hubbub."

George's features were tight and restrained as he responded, "I suppose."

"Good deal, Cecile. I know a good one right in London."

They walked out of the Ministry headquarters in silence, and then Wilma led him to her favorite pub. Then they sat down and ordered two Firewhiskeys.

"Knackered," said Wilma.

"Yes," responded George.

They sipped their drinks.

"You did well out there," said George stiffly. "Made some good arguments. I didn't approve of the lie, but I can see why you did it. You were illustrating a situation, not intending to fool anyone."

Wilma had intended to fool Dumbledore, actually, but she didn't feel the need to say that. "Didn't do any good, though."

"No one's any match for Dumbledore. We didn't expect him to change his mind, but we had to try."

Wilma sighed. "Those poor kids at Hogwarts. Honestly. We learned all the way back in third year that werewolves are unfeeling monsters; we were told again and again not to be fooled by their human façade... It's incredible, really, that Dumbledore himself was fooled by one. And such a young one, too. Doesn't give me much hope for the future."

"Dumbledore's not usually willing to threaten to break ties with the Ministry like that," said George. "He must care about that kid a lot. He has a lot of power in the Ministry, but he doesn't usually exercise it like that. He usually respects our decisions. Doesn't want to seem like a dictator, I don't think."

"He basically is a dictator, though. Anything he says goes." Wilma scowled. "Honestly. Poor Lyall. He'll probably be worrying about his kid all year. Really wasn't fair of Dumbledore to send Remus to Hogwarts without anyone's consent or knowledge."

"I assume the staff know already. How'd he convince them?"

"Probably the same way he convinced us. Except Dumbledore's got a lot more to hold over their heads. He's their boss."

"Someone's got to fix him up after transformations. Pomfrey, I'm assuming?"

"Maybe. Or Dumbledore himself, if she refuses. She's always seemed like the sensible type, so she might refuse point-blank."

George frowned. "Dumbledore mentioned that the werewolf has a family. Why can't they just homeschool him? It would have been a lot safer—"

But Wilma wasn't paying attention. She was watching a very familiar man enter the pub, his head down and his hands still shaking. She knew who that was, all right. "LYALL!" she shouted, waving her hands above her head with gusto. "Hey there, new best friend! Come sit! We're talking about werewolves!"

Lyall went white. "Er," he stammered, "I... was hoping to forget about all that. I'll find my own seat."

"No, no. We insist! Talking it out will help, I promise. I'll buy you a drink." Wilma sprang out of her chair and ushered Lyall to the seat next to her. "Another Firewhiskey," she demanded to the bartender, throwing a few coins in his direction. "I can't believe you know about this place, too, Lyall! It's really the only place to talk about sensitive subjects. No one's ever around, and the bartender—Ross—he doesn't say a word about nothing."

"Right," mumbled Lyall. "We should probably talk quietly, just in case. Let's sit on the far end instead."

Wilma laughed—he sure was paranoid—but she complied with a smile. "We were just talking about—what was that point you brought up, George?"

George didn't seem to be very comfortable talking with a new person (he'd always been rather shy), but he repeated himself anyway. "Dumbledore mentioned the werewolf had a family," he said.

The shade of Lyall's skin, which was already dead pale, got paler. "Right," he said.

"Why can't they just homeschool him? It would have been a lot safer. Going to Hogwarts, no matter what Dumbledore says, is a risk. That werewolf could hurt someone."

"Let's hear your opinion, Lyall," Wilma pressed.

Lyall rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "I didn't come here to discuss—I mean, I just wanted... some peace and quiet."

"Too bad, best mate o' mine! Talking helps. Feel your feelings!"

Lyall sighed again, this time even more deeply. "I think," he said, and his voice held the air of someone who was choosing his words very carefully, "that any child who has been isolated for a long time... grows lonely. I'm guessing Dumbledore wants... the werewolf... to have human interaction. For his own benefit. Perhaps... perhaps the parents want that for their child, too."

"Hm," said Wilma thoughtfully. "Yes, that sounds right. You know, I have a pet parakeet. I keep him in a nice big cage all day with plenty of toys, but I can't help thinking sometimes: if I were him, and he were me, then I wouldn't like being locked in a cage all day. Even with those toys, I'd get bored out of my mind. For a human, that would be torture. But then I remember that Frankfurter—that's my parakeet—isn't a human. He's a parakeet. So he doesn't mind being locked in a cage with a nice mirror and toys galore."

"You named your parakeet Frankfurter?" asked Lyall, evidently bewildered.

"Neither here nor there. My point is, I suppose I'd teach Frankfurter to read—take him to parakeet playdates—feel bad about leaving him alone all day, if I thought he was human. But he's not. And I don't. But I suppose Dumbledore and the parents do, and I'm sure they want that kid to have human interaction, hm?"

"I suppose," said Lyall stiffly.

"A parakeet playdate," mused Wilma. "Yes. Indeed. Thanks for your input, Lyall. You're clever, you are!"

"Thanks," said Lyall. He took a sip of his Firewhiskey. "Don't you think the kid is a person? Just a bit?"

"Nah. There's no way. If werewolves were people, we'd have good werewolves in the news just as frequently as we have bad werewolves in the news. There would be an even mix of good and bad media surrounding werewolves, if they really were as complex as humans. But there's not. There's only bad media, so werewolves can't possibly have the same emotions and urges as we do."

"But the good werewolves try to stay under the radar because of the prejudice," said Lyall. "They certainly wouldn't be advertising the fact that they're werewolves, even if they did do something good. Dumbledore said that, didn't he?"

Wilma squinted. "You're not starting to buy Dumbledore's Hippogriff dung, are you?"

"No!" said Lyall hastily. "Just a thought experiment."

"Ah," said Wilma. She swigged the rest of her Firewhiskey. "Well, I'm tired of those. I'm gonna go home now; my brain hurts too much. Probably from the Firewhiskey, actually. Hey, Lyall: I really am sorry for losing that argument with Dumbledore. Really wanted to win for you, I did."

"That's all right," said Lyall faintly. "I should probably leave, too. Have to get home to the wife and kid."

"Tell your lad I said hello. We're all rooting for the little fella. Bye, Georgina."

"It's not Georgina."

Wilma winked at both George and Lyall, feeling a little tipsy, and then Apparated home before it got any worse. She wasn't really supposed to be Apparating after so much Firewhiskey, but she could handle it. She could handle most things, after all...

Except, apparently, an argument with Dumbledore.

Wilma groaned and crawled under the covers. A nap would do her good right about now.

Wilma was supposed to be at the beach, and now seemed like a very good time to go.

She'd be late, yes, but better late than never. She was certain her family would be quite angry with her for choosing work over them (Wilma's father had been accusing her of being a workaholic since her sixth year, and this certainly wasn't going to help matters), but Wilma craved the beach enough that she was willing to face the wrath of the Harringtons.

Wilma loved the beach. She'd grown up on a beach, and the sound of the waves, paired with the feel of the sand underneath her toes, was enough to transport her to the happiest times of her childhood immediately. Doggy paddling over waves, laughing with her friends, throwing sand into the eyes of her little sister, pretending to drown in order to get the attention of the cute lifeguard... ah, memories. Wilma was in a weird spot right now—the "discussion" with Dumbledore wouldn't stop playing over and over in her head—and she knew that the beach was a perfect way to get her back to normal.

So here she was, packing up her things for the second time. As she threw a few bananas into a cooler, there was another knock at the door.

"No," groaned Wilma. "Please. Please not George."

She opened the door.

It was George.

"Arghhhh," she yelled, stomping on George's foot. George winced. "No. Go home. I'm not willing to come in today. I'm supposed to be at the beach!"

George glared, and he rubbed his foot for a few more moments before coolly saying, "I'm aware, Harrington. But we need some people to inspect the place Dumbledore's set up for the werewolf. The Minister was impressed by your arguments last night, and she thinks you're our best hope."

Indeed, hope fluttered in Wilma's chest. She had a second chance. She could still outsmart Dumbledore. But then hope of an entirely different breed—hope of a good old-fashioned holiday—pushed out the initial hope in a similar fashion to the way that Wilma was currently pushing George out the door.

"No," she said. "I've done my part. Let me take time off, Georgina. I'm begging you."

"My name isn't Georgina. Please, Harrington. Help us. You know your wizarding law better than anyone else, and Dumbledore seems to like you."

"We've lost," said Wilma mournfully. "There's no use. Dumbledore won't change his mind. A werewolf is coming to Hogwarts, and that's that."

Just as she was about to force George's foot out of the door once and for all, George stopped her. "Think of Lyall and his son," George hissed.

Ah, Lyall. Wilma sighed. "Let him handle his own problems," she said, but she was caving and George knew it. "He... didn't even seem like he wanted to see me the other day. Didn't you see how restrained he was? He doesn't seem to like me much. Seemed uncomfortable, don't you think? Doubt he wants my help."

"Harrington, you pounced on him and called him your 'new best friend'. Of course he's uncomfortable. He still wants your help, I assure you. Anyone would."

She sighed again. "I'm getting paid well for this, aren't I?"

"Enough to pay for plenty of beach trips once this is all over and done."

She sighed once more, and then, against her better judgement, she said, "Fine."

And then she went upstairs to change into her work robes, cooler bananas discarded (but not forgotten).