Friday 23 July, 1993:

Dear Miss Lestrange,

I am writing to inform and congratulate you on your selection for the position of Head Girl of Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft for the school year 1993 - 1994.

You will find attached a list of your new position's responsibilities and duties. If you have any questions regarding them, please do not hesitate to write to your Head of House for clarification, or to address your concerns in person at the beginning of the new school year.

On 1 September, please report to the first carriage of the Hogwarts Express in order to brief our Prefects on their roles and responsibilities for this coming year.

I look forward to working alongside you and your fellow Head Boy this school year.

Sincerely,

Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft

For a few seconds, Lena just stared at the letter in disbelief. Then she looked between it, and the Head Girl badge she held in her other hand.

Then back at the letter. Then the badge.

Then she threw back her head and laughed. And laughed and laughed.

Oh, she couldn't wait to see Maggie and Rolf's faces when she told them the news.

Three Days Earlier:

"No."

"Severus–"

"Absolutely not."

"I have made my decision," said Dumbledore calmly, but his tone also carried a weight of finality. He was sitting at his desk, watching the Potions Master pace – or rather, prowl – around his office in a state of agitation. "I called you here today to inform you of it, Severus, not to ask for your advice upon the matter."

But Severus remained incensed. "You told me yourself that she admitted to attacking Travers!" he snapped. "So now you are... what, rewarding her for her honesty?"

"I would think," said Dumbledore quietly, "that you, of all people, could recognise that a person can have the potential to change. For the better."

Subconsciously, Severus gripped his left forearm, and glared at the Headmaster. After a pause, he said, "I also know that it takes an event of... serious consequence to make someone change that drastically. Do you really think that's happened to Lestrange? She was the Dark Lord's protégée–"

"And when she had the option to help Lord Voldemort," interrupted Dumbledore, "she instead chose to save the life of Ginny Weasley."

The memory of Lestrange dragging him to safety after being attacked by Hagrid's blasted three-headed dog flashed in Severus' mind.

"Let me be clear," continued Dumbledore. "Lena Lestrange has given me reason to trust her." Severus opened his mouth to interject, but Dumbledore held his hand up to stop him. "I will not share those reasons with you, for they are entirely between Lena and myself. In any case, I have decided that she is the best candidate to fulfil the role of Head Girl this school year. And as her Head of House, and a senior member of staff, I expect you to maintain the utmost professionalism, regardless of your personal histories, and assist her when the need arises." His gaze was piercing. "Just as you have done for the previous Head Girls and Boys."

Severus wanted to continue arguing against the selection of Lestrange, but he had known Dumbledore long enough to realise the Headmaster's mind was made up, and any further effort of dissuasion would be futile.

He crossed his arms unhappily. "Will that be all," he asked through gritted teeth, "or was there something else you wished to inform me?"

"Yes, there is something else. It's regarding the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

A low rumble of thunder made Remus Lupin look up from his bowl of lukewarm, tinned tomato soup. As the rain began to fall outside, he felt some small sense of relief that he had taken the time the previous week to magically repair the leaky roof of his derelict cottage.

Reasonably confident that he was going to remain dry, Remus took another mouthful of tomato soup, and grimaced. It tasted horrible, but he forced it down. After all, he wasn't exactly spoiled for choice.

Before the next spoonful could enter his mouth, however, there was a knock at the door. Dropping his spoon, Remus frowned. Nobody else lived nearby, and visitors were extremely uncommon. Subconsciously, his hand reached for his wand.

There was another knock, and Remus hurriedly got to his feet. A flash of lightning briefly lit up the dim room, illuminating the weary wizard's scarred face – some marks old, some the remaining evidence of the last full moon.

Well, only evidence if one knew that Remus was a werewolf. Otherwise, one might assume that he'd simply come off worse in an unlucky encounter with a particularly aggressive Kneazle.

Clutching his wand tightly, Remus warily walked to the cottage's door, took a deep breath, then pulled it open so there was just enough of a crack out of which to peer. His jaw dropped slightly upon seeing who it was knocking, and he yanked the door open the full way.

Albus Dumbledore stood on his doorstep. His wand was raised in order to maintain a magical umbrella over him, and his expression was pleasant despite the not ideal weather.

Remus, dumbfounded, just stared at the man.

His visitor, after a greeting from the would-be host appeared to be unforthcoming, spoke. "I believe," he said politely, "that it is customary, especially in conditions such as these, to invite an old acquaintance inside, if they should be at your door."

Remus hastily stood back to let Dumbledore in. "Of course, please come in, Professor Dumbledore."

As Dumbledore passed him, the older wizard said, "Thank you, Remus. And it would not be inappropriate for you to call me Albus, if you wish. After all, it has been quite some time since you were a student."

Shutting the door, Remus watched as Dumbledore stood in the centre of the one room that primarily made up the cottage, looking around with mild curiosity. Remus' face flushed in embarrassment. The one upside of being alone in the world these past years had been that there was no one to see him living in such squalor. And he thought that Dumbledore, grand wizard he was, looked very out of place in the rundown cottage.

It had been three years since he'd last seen the Headmaster of Hogwarts. He remembered the occasion very clearly, as it had been Remus' father's funeral.

"I should apologise," said Dumbledore suddenly, "for this sudden and unannounced visit." He glanced over at the table, where the bowl of Remus' half-eaten soup sat. "It was very inconsiderate of me."

"Not at all," said Remus quickly, although he couldn't help thinking that some warning would have been nice.

"I'm afraid I'm on something of a deadline," explained Dumbledore, "and my coming here was not something I had decided on before today. But please, don't let me keep you from your meal."

Remus waved the invitation away. He was going to heat the soup up again anyway. He did, however, sit back down at the table, and gestured for Dumbledore to join him, which he did.

"Well then," said Dumbledore, "without further delay, I will answer the question that I know you wish to ask me. I am here, Remus, because I wish to offer you the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts."

For a few seconds, Remus just stared at Dumbledore in disbelief. At last, he said flatly, "I'm a werewolf."

"Yes," replied Dumbledore simply, "I am well aware of the fact. Do you accept my offer?"

Remus continued to look at Dumbledore in confusion. Had the old wizard finally cracked? "You're asking a werewolf to be a teacher?" he said incredulously. "At a school? For children?"

"Well, I am asking you," said Dumbledore unconcernedly, "and you are a werewolf. So yes, that is correct."

Folding his arms, Remus leant back in his chair. "You really think there isn't a choice better than me?"

"If there is, they didn't apply for the job."

"Did anyone?"

There was a slight pause before Dumbledore answered, "No."

Letting out a noise of frustration, Remus stressfully ran a hand through his light brown hair. "Prof– Albus, me teaching is a terrible idea–"

"Are you currently otherwise employed?"

Remus blinked. "What? No, I'm not."

"Did you not receive an Outstanding on your Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWT?"

"Well, yes I did–"

"Then I think you make an excellent candidate for the position," said Dumbledore, smiling genially.

But this only made Remus angry. "You would be endangering the students!"

"Not if you were to take Wolfsbane Potion."

The anger, quickly as it had come, left Remus. "Wolfsbane?" he repeated quietly.

Dumbledore nodded. "A constant supply. I've heard the change it affects in the user is remarkable."

"I wouldn't know," muttered Remus. "I've never taken it. Never had the mon– opportunity."

"But you would like to?"

It took Remus some restraint not to snap, 'Obviously'. Ever since he had heard of the potion's invention five years ago, the idea of not completely losing himself every full moon had been a tantalising dream. "I would be very... appreciative of it," he finally said. A thought occurred to him. "But even if you were to supply me with the ingredients, I wouldn't have the skill necessary to make it."

"That is of no concern," said Dumbledore with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "It would be the Potions Master's responsibility to brew the potion."

Remus raised his eyebrows. "The Hogwarts Potion Master being Severus Snape?" he said sardonically. He scoffed. "Like he'd be willing to do that for me."

A slight frown appeared on Dumbledore's face. "I understand that there has been much ill-will between the two of you in the past, but I assure you, Remus, that Severus will make the Wolfsbane Potion for you correctly, every month, if you accept this position I am offering you."

Remus didn't say anything for almost a whole minute as he considered the offer. A good, steady wage, improved living quarters, a chance to work alongside some of the witches and wizards he respected most... On the other hand, the potential risk of turning into his fully monstrous, werewolf self at Hogwarts and attacking innocent children.

With all of that in mind, Remus made his decision.

Sunday 15 August, 1993:

"Head Girl? Seriously?" Harry couldn't contain his laughter. "Oh man, Percy's in for the fright of his life!"

Lena smirked. "So he is Head Boy then? I thought he would be."

Harry nodded, still chuckling. "Yeah, Ron told me in a letter a couple of weeks ago."

They were sitting outside Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour, enjoying their sundaes in the warm early afternoon sun. It had been just over a week since Harry had accidently blown up his Aunt Marge and had taken up residency in the Leaky Cauldron for the remainder of the summer. It was, however, the first occasion since the end of the previous school year he'd met up with Lena. And thankfully, after the lengthy conversation that had taken place between the two back then, their friendship was stronger than ever.

Two days after the defeat of Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets found Harry sitting with Lena in their usual place, the secret room at the top of the tower. They were sitting in the armchairs opposite each other, dimly lit by the late afternoon sun shining through the circular window.

"But that was him, standing next to you, wasn't it?" Harry was saying, his hands gripping the chair's arms in aggravation. "I saw it."

Lena sighed, fiddling with her plaited, long black hair. "It was Voldemort, yes," she admitted finally. "At least, how I remember him from when I was younger. But that image you saw, it wasn't real."

She bit her lip, and Harry suspected she was internally debating whether to tell him the whole truth. He guessed she had come to a decision when she dropped her hair, and clasped her hands in her lap, taking a deep breath. "What you saw was a reflection created by the Mirror of Erised."

Harry straightened in his chair. "The Mirror?" he asked. "You looked into it?"

Lena nodded. "Before Dumbledore put the Stone in it and moved it into the dungeons, it was being kept in an empty classroom, on the–"

"–First-floor corridor," interrupted Harry. "I know, that's where I first came across it." His stomach churned. "And that's what you saw when you looked into it? You and Voldemort?" He couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice.

Lena closed her eyes for a moment, then abruptly stood up and walked over to the window. She rested one hand against the glass, and held the other over her stomach. From the way her shoulders hunched over, it looked like she wanted to throw up.

Eventually, she said, or rather croaked, "Yeah. That's what I saw."

Now Harry thought he would vomit too. "Your deepest desire," he said, his voice quiet but filled with anger, "the thing you want more than anything else, is to be with Voldemort?"

"No," whispered Lena, her face still turned away from Harry as she stared out the window. "It was for him to be proud of me."

Harry shook his head slowly. "That's..."

"Sick?" suggested Lena, turning around to face him. She was smiling bitterly. "Demented? Oh, believe me, I know." She folded her arms tightly, as if hugging herself. "As soon I realised what I was seeing, I had to run to the nearest bathroom and throw up. Several times. Then I didn't sleep for about a week because I felt so awful."

Harry furrowed his brow, puzzled. "I don't understand. If it's your – your deepest desire, why did it make you feel sick?"

Lena leant back against the window, shutting her eyes. "It's... complicated."

For a moment, Harry didn't say anything. He simply stared at the older girl who – considering everything he knew, everything she had just said – he should hate.

"Do you know what I saw the first time I looked in the Mirror?" he said.

Lena opened her eyes, and looked at him warily.

"My parents," continued Harry, not shifting his gaze from Lena's face. "The thing I wanted above all else was to see my parents. Meet them. Know them. And I can't ever have that, because Voldemort murdered them." He struggled to keep his voice calm, as at that moment he really wanted to shout at Lena. "So if you have some twisted reason for why he matters so much to you..." he swallowed, trying to stop a lump from forming in his throat. "Well, I think I deserve something better than 'it's complicated'."

While he spoke, the expression on Lena's face gradually became more pained. Slowly, she slid to the floor and hugged her knees to her chest.

She looked down as she softly said, "He matters because I mattered to him, and no one else."

Harry crossed his arms, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Lena shrugged, still not looking up. "I mean he was the first person whoever cared about me."

Unable to help himself, Harry scoffed in disbelief. "Really? Voldemort doesn't care about anyone–"

Her head snapped up. "He cared about me," she hissed, and Harry was taken aback by the sudden venom in her voice and eyes. Then quickly as it had come, it disappeared, and Lena let out a long, shaky breath. "He was kind to me," she said simply, shifting her position so she was sitting cross-legged.

Not entirely sure why, Harry got up and went over to her. He sat on the floor, mirroring Lena's position. His anger beginning to subside into an intense curiosity, he asked, "How was he kind?"

"He complimented me," said Lena, sounding almost... wistful. "Encouraged me." A resentment briefly took hold of her expression. "Stopped my mother from hurting me, when he could."

Harry looked at Lena in surprise. She had never hid her distaste for her mother from him, but she'd never openly admitted that the woman had hurt her. Unsure of whether to press that issue with Lena, he was saved from having to make a decision when Lena continued.

"He gave me lessons," she said. "For two hours, one day a week." She half-smiled. "Every week. He never missed a lesson, not one."

"Lessons on what?"

"Basic magical theory. Wandless magic. Legilimency and Occlumency."

Harry was unfamiliar with the last two. "What are they?"

"The former is the ability to look into someone's mind, to see their memories and what they're thinking at that moment. The latter is the skill to prevent someone from doing it to you."

Harry gaped at Lena. "Are you saying you can read minds?"

Lena snorted, and for a short while, what Harry thought of as the 'old Lena' – the girl who could answer any question he had for her – returned. "That's oversimplifying it. Minds aren't books: memories don't follow each other in a neat, linear fashion, and what someone is thinking doesn't just appear like words on a page. Everything's much messier, more confusing." She began to roll her plait between thumb and index finger. "It's like a house. A giant house, with lots of storeys and rooms, and inside those rooms are hundreds of objects which can tell you a story, but only if you put it together just the right way. And the rooms don't always stay in the same place – sometimes they might move down or up a floor. Sometimes they become smaller. And they keep getting smaller until they're more of a cupboard than a room. Then maybe one day there's nothing there at all, except a single object from that room, lying on the floor of a corridor, gathering dust. A Legilimens is someone who can enter another person's house and navigate their way around it."

That did sound sufficiently more complex than just opening a book and reading it. "And you can do that?" inquired Harry.

Lena let go of her hair and waved her hand dismissively. "To a degree. I'm more proficient at Occlumency. Actually, that's how you came to see that reflection from the Mirror of Erised. You see," she said, seeing Harry's questioning gaze, "if the mind is a house, Occlumency is the wall you build to surround it, to stop intruders."

She paused, tapping her fingers on her knees thoughtfully. Harry refrained from asking her any of the million questions he had, and waited for her to keep going.

Finally, she spoke again. "In the Chamber, when you said you thought I was Voldemort's daughter... after everything, I was already in a somewhat... fragile state. Basically, it sent my brain into overload. That is to say – to stick to the whole house analogy – that there suddenly were too many things in the house, so the house had to become bigger to accommodate them all. But the wall around the house didn't grow with it. And so as the house expanded, it smashed down the wall. And the force of that meant that some of the objects, well, fell out of the house."

"And one of those was your memory of looking in the Mirror," finished Harry, finally understanding.

Lena half-smiled. "And like a ball, it rolled. Straight into your house. Your mind."

Harry didn't return the smile. "And Voldemort taught you about all of this stuff."

"I guess I had a natural aptitude for the subject," replied Lena with a small shrug.

But Harry's expression remained cold. He still felt so angry at her.

Lena appeared to sense this, and as she let out a sigh, the old Lena vanished once again, and before Harry sat the uncertain and dejected girl.

"Harry," she said quietly, "I was four years old when I first properly met him, when I started his lessons. And those lessons were about magic. He didn't really talk to me about his views on Muggle-borns, on blood purity."

Harry crossed his arms. "Did you know he murdered people?"

Lena hesitated, and bit her lip. "Yes," she finally answered.

"Then how could you–"

"Because I didn't know it was wrong."

He stared at her in disbelief. "How could you not know that murder was wrong?" he said, his voice cracking on 'murder'.

The sadness on Lena's face suddenly disappeared, replaced by irritation. "Because the only people I knew were Death Eaters!" she snapped. "Because I spent the first six years of my life locked up in a house, with no example of normal, human decency to influence me! Because I was told the murder of Muggles and those born of them was righteous, and to create a better world for people like me!"

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in and out.

Following a brief silence, Harry hesitantly asked, "Then why... why don't you believe that now?"

Lena stared at Harry for a few seconds, visibly pained. "I wish," she said at last, her voice slightly shaking, "that I could say it was because somewhere deep down in my heart that I knew it was wrong. That there was a morality inside of me that didn't need to be taught." She swallowed. "A goodness. But the truth is that I just hated my mother so much that I wanted everything she said to be wrong. I didn't really care about Muggles or Muggle-borns back then. So when Voldemort was nice to me, kind to me – the first time anyone had been – what he did to other people... I guess it just didn't matter to me. At least, not enough to reject him." She hung her head, seemingly ashamed.

Harry wanted to stay angry at Lena, but looking as pathetic as she did now, it was difficult. He remembered how reluctant she had been to give him an answer a few months ago when he'd asked her if she believed that people weren't either 'good' or 'bad'. Now, he was beginning to understand why: the issue was far more complicated for Lena than he could have imagined.

"But it matters to you now," he said. "Otherwise you would have let Ginny die."

Lena looked back up at him, and nodded slowly. "It was only once I'd left England and started travelling with my great aunt," she explained. "Suddenly, my world was no longer enclosed by four walls. It was bigger and stranger than I could have ever imagined. I saw societies, both Muggle and magical, that lived in peace, and others torn apart by conflict. I saw prosperity, and I saw suffering. Everything became infinitely more complex, except one thing."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "And what's that?"

"That to hate someone because of what they are is wrong."

Of everything Lena could have said, Harry had not expected that. He tilted his head curiously. "Are you saying that you don't hate anyone?" he asked, sceptical.

A small noise of amusement escaped Lena. "Merlin, no," she said, half-smiling. "There's plenty of people I hate. But that's because of who they are, not what they are." She scratched the back of her head. "Does that make sense?"

Harry nodded. He didn't quite know why, but when she put it like that, he just understood the differentiation.

"And please know," continued Lena, "that I didn't meet with you here today to defend myself. Because I assure you, Harry, that I don't go to bed at night with a clear conscience. Not ever." She clasped her hands in her lap and looked directly into his eyes, earnest. "I'm telling you all this because I want you to understand that I've done bad things, thought bad things. And there are some connections to... to who I was that are hard to break. Some things are just part of me, and I don't think I can ever be rid of them." She took a deep breath. "But I'm trying to be better now. I promise."

Harry held her gaze for a long moment. The girl who had wished that his parents' murderer was her own father, who had loved him like one.

And who had ultimately rejected the chance of being with him again, in order to save the life of a child she barely knew.

Harry stood up. "You're the daughter of Death Eaters," he said, looking down at Lena, whose expression became apprehensive. "And I can't ignore that fact. But," he went on, "that's what you are. Who you are," he extended his hand down, "is my friend."

Lena stared at the offered hand for about five seconds. Then her face broke into a smile – not a sad one, or a smirk, but a genuine smile – and she took Harry's hand.

Harry took another mouthful of his caramel-choc sundae. He hadn't exactly had a lot of ice-cream in his life, but he felt fairly certain that it couldn't get much better than Florean Fortescue's.

He swallowed, and said to Lena, "So, other than finding out you're the new Head Girl, what else have you been up to?"

Lena, licking her spoon, shrugged. "Well, I don't think anything else has been that surprising. Visited some of my aunt's old friends that I hadn't seen in a while, read some books, stuff with Maggie and Rolf, my school shopping, got my driver's licence–"

Harry almost spat out his ice-cream. "You what?!"

Lena smirked. "I take it that was more surprising than the Head Girl thing."

"But why – I mean, how–"

"Valeriya's always been of the belief that it's important to learn as many different skills as possible," said Lena, "and particularly ones that are non-magical in nature. As for how..." She chuckled. "Well, it's possible that all the associated paperwork may not have been filled out in a strictly legal way – at least, in the Muggle sense – but I did definitely learn to drive a car."

Harry put down his empty cup and folded his arms, looking at Lena suspiciously. "And was the car you learned to drive in obtained in a strictly legal way?" he asked slyly.

Lena snorted. "Nah," she deadpanned, "I nicked some random Muggle's car. 'Cause it's not like I just have huge piles of money lying in a vault which I can use to spend on an extravagant Muggle-made machine. Because I wouldn't get any satisfaction out of using the inheritance of my blood-purist, Muggle-hating family on something like that."

There was a short pause.

"So you bought a car?"

"I bought a really nice car. And I'm keeping it at the Lestrange Estate."

They watched as a group of forty-something year old witches strolled past, chatting loudly. Diagon Alley was relatively quiet that day – in fact, Harry thought it was probably the emptiest he had seen the popular street.

"Lena," said Harry suddenly, "you're sort of an expert on wandless magic, aren't you?"

"Erm... I think expert's a bit of a stretch." Lena hesitated. "I guess I know I bit more than most European wizards and witches," she finally conceded. "Why, what do you want to know?"

"Well," began Harry, "when I, um, inflated my aunt, that was accidental magic, like I used to do before I found out I was a wizard. It's the only time ever since I got my wand that–"

"That you've used magic without it," finished Lena. "So you're wondering how does one go from accidental magic to intentional wandless magic."

"Yeah."

Lena leant back and stretched her arms out, making Harry wince when they made a loud crack. "Simply put, in order to perform wandless magic accurately, you have to perfectly balance two things: emotion, and focus. Accidental magic happens when a witch or wizard is purely driven by emotion–"

Realisation struck Harry. "Which is why it's more common in young children."

"Exactly. It's a physical manifestation of an emotional outburst, and there's no way to predict what it will do. Now, the reason we give children wands when they start their magical training is that they are the easiest and most effective tools to focus and concentrate their powers. It is worth noting, however, that this method isn't universal. For instance, in most African Wizarding cultures, they use specific hand gestures to cast spells."

"And that's what you use, right?"

Lena inclined her head. "As a general rule, yes. So these hand movements work much in the same way as wands, except that they don't also provide for the emotional side of the equation. That's why they're more difficult to learn."

"But isn't it also about being more powerful?" questioned Harry. "That's what people say when someone can do wandless magic – that they must be extraordinarily powerful."

"Then people are saying a load of bullshit," replied Lena with a derisive sniff. "The whole idea of someone having more power than another – that's not how magic works. It has nothing to do with quantity, it's about quality. No wizard or witch has more magic than any other. You either have it, or you don't. It's all about how you use it, how you control it, and what you're willing to try." She leaned forward, a wry smile on her face. "I didn't learn how to do wandless magic when I was little because I was a child with extraordinary power – it was because I was a child with extraordinary focus."

"So... what you're kind of saying is that it's..." Harry racked his brains for the right words. "That when it comes to magic, it's basically 'mind over matter'?"

Lena grinned. "Now you're getting it." She noticed that Harry was attempting to conceal a smile. "What?"

"Just..." Harry ran a hand through his hair, and shook his head slightly. "Never mind."

Lena continued to look at him curiously, but didn't pursue it any further. Instead, after a quick glance at her wristwatch, she told Harry, "I'm sorry, but I've got be off now. I'm supposed to be meeting Valeriya in a few minutes."

But as Harry walked back to the Leaky Cauldron after they'd said their goodbyes, he couldn't stop thinking it: if Lena had been their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Harry's class would have learned a lot more in the last two years.

Fun fact: My original name for this chapter was 'New Appointments'.

Thank you for reading :) What did you think of the opening of the PoA section, and Remus' introduction?