Thank you to rebelforcauses, Justmeesh33 and The Wandering Mage Rei for their lovely reviews of the last chapter :)

So if there's anything people don't understand about this chapter, I sincerely apologise. There are some fairly abstract concepts being talked about in this one, and it's hard to know how it reads without knowing the things I do as the author. Please let me know if stuff is not making sense, and I'll do my best to provide clarification.

Thursday 2 September, 1993:

"But how? Nothing happened – I didn't do anything. And I didn't feel anything. So why would it grow?"

Lena was leaning against Dumbledore's desk in his office, the top half of her shirt unbuttoned in order to show the headmaster the enlarged mark. After discovering its growth about six hours previously, she had spent the rest of the night unable to sleep, her mind desperately trying to find reasons for why, after half a dozen years of no change, it had happened. Sure, her veins had started to turn black when she'd had her meltdown in the Chamber several months ago, but everything had immediately reverted back to normal afterwards. And that was her own magic that had gone completely haywire. The Orb's magic had just been taken along for the ride.

But this time, there hadn't been any... incident. She hadn't used, intentionally or unintentionally, the small amount of the Orb's power that still resided in her – she hadn't even been sure she still could since she'd encompassed it with her own magic. There was no other reason she could think of for the mark to expand. So as soon as the morning reached what she considered to be an appropriate hour, she had gone to see the only person at Hogwarts who might possibly help her find some answers.

Dumbledore, who had been inspecting the black blotch – which was almost twice the size it had been for the last six years – took a step back from Lena and walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down, his expression serious.

"When the Dementors searched the train last night, did you interact with any of them?" he asked.

Lena frowned, buttoning her shirt up. "I don't know about interact," she said, "but one did come very close to me." She took a seat, looking at Dumbledore curiously. "You think a Dementor caused," she gestured to her chest, "this?"

Dumbledore interlocked his fingers, and rested his chin on his clasped hands. "What happened when you were in close proximity with the Dementor?"

"Nothing," replied Lena, shrugging. "Nothing happened."

Her response made the old wizard raise a white eyebrow. "Nothing? Do you mean nothing out of the ordinary, or that the Dementor's presence had no effect on you whatsoever?"

Lena bit her lip. "I mean I didn't feel anything," she said. "I thought it was weird at the time, but thinking about it later, I supposed it was because, you know," she looked down at her lap, fiddling with the hem of her skirt, "I'm just used to feeling... down," she finished lamely. She looked back up at Dumbledore. "But I take it you disagree with that."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "I have a theory. Not one that I would usually consider to have enough definitive evidence behind it, but a possible explanation, nonetheless."

"I'm all ears."

"Very well." He leant forward. "First, I must ask you: what do you know of the history of Dementors?"

"That they originate from Azkaban," answered Lena. "That their creation was most likely due to the wizard Ekrizdis, and his experimentation in the Dark Arts."

Any witch or wizard with at least a passing interesting in the Dark Arts knew of Ekrizdis, the first resident – perhaps even creator – of Azkaban. Knew 'of', because there wasn't much more than a name to learn – just that the wizard had resided in Azkaban during the fifteenth century, where he had built a fortress, lured Muggle sailors to the island, and used his victims in his experiments in Dark magic. Azkaban itself had only been discovered by the rest of Wizarding society after Ekrizdis' death, when the concealment charms he'd put around it had been broken. It was on this first venture to Azkaban by the British Ministry of Magic that the existence of Dementors was discovered.

The majority of Ekrizdis' records of his research into the Dark Arts had either been destroyed by the time Ministry officials came across them, or they were simply illegible, written in some unknown but vaguely Coptic-looking script. Five centuries later, still very little of it had been successfully translated. However, it only took the Ministry about two hundred years to find a use for the Dementors: guards for what would be an unescapable prison.

Well, unescapable until a month ago.

"And there is very little more that anyone can be certain about," said Dumbledore. "Dementors, after all, are not exactly the sort of beings that making willing research subjects. Thus, one can only make an educated guess as to how precisely they came to exist."

He paused for a few seconds, seemingly gathering his thoughts. Lena leant back in her chair, and patiently waited for the Headmaster to continue.

At last, he said, "After our conversation before the holidays concerning your history with Hecate's Orb, I decided that it would be wise to research a little further into the object, as a precautionary measure." He looked intently into Lena's eyes. "From what you had told me–"

"You were worried that there was a possibility that I could lose control again," interrupted Lena, "and that I might do the same thing I did to Travers to someone else. I understand."

"That was certainly a factor," replied Dumbledore after a momentary hesitation. "But also because I was concerned about your prolonged exposure to the Orb's magic, and what risk to your health it might be causing."

Lena blinked. "Oh."

"I, of course, had come across the Orb in my readings as a much younger wizard," continued Dumbledore. "And I confess it was an item of great intrigue to me. But experience taught me that it would be... unwise, to allow myself to nurture and indulge my fascination with such a thing. There were many other subjects to which to devote myself, in research and experimentation. And so by the time you told me your story, it had been many years since I had even thought about it."

Outwardly, Lena maintained a look of polite interest, but inside her had sprung up an intense curiosity. 'Experience' had taught him – just in what particular branches of the magical arts had the young Dumbledore dabbled? She knew now wasn't the time to inquire further, but it was taking some restraint not to interrupt him and ask.

"Thus, I have spent these past three months reading through what available material there is regarding the Orb," Dumbledore was saying. "Particularly, I wanted to know if there were any recorded cases similar to your own – someone who had been accepted by the Orb, only to have it removed from their possession, but be left with some remnant of its power in their body."

"And I assume," said Lena, "that you would have found the same answer I did when I looked for one six years ago: that every single person who's attempted to Master the Orb possessed it until they overreached themselves, and consequentially were destroyed by it." She smiled wryly. "Anybody interested in it knows the warning – the moment you touch the Orb, you begin the countdown to your own demise." Subconsciously, she touched her chest. "Some just take a little longer than others."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Yet when you opened the case and first saw the Orb, you still picked it up."

Lena laughed softly. "It takes a special kind of – well, I would have called it self-belief when I was eleven, but maybe it's more like delusion." She ran a hand through her hair. "The only sort of people who seek out Hecate's Orb are the people who don't think there's anyone else like them."

It took a few seconds for Lena to realise she was staring blankly at the wall behind Dumbledore, who was watching her with an odd expression. She shook her head slightly, focusing back on the reason she was there. "So, was there anything else you found in your research?"

Dumbledore resumed his more business-like tone. "Although there was little to be gained from my initial line of inquiry," he said, "the dates outlining when each previous wizard or witch had possessed the Orb caught my attention. Naturally, some – especially the earlier ones – are more of a rough approximation, but for at least the last two thousand years, there is an adequate timeline with which to track the history of the Orb. There is, however, a long period where there is no information available concerning its whereabouts: from the early thirteenth century to the late fifteenth. In fact, the first time it appears in any records again is one year after Ministry officials first set foot on Azkaban."

His implication made Lena sit up straight. "You think it was with Ekrizdis during that time?"

"I believe that it would be a logical explanation for both why no one else knew where the Orb was, and why Dark magic was so deeply entrenched into Azkaban even after Ekrizdis' death," answered Dumbledore. "Albeit an explanation not backed by definitive proof."

"So you think the reason that I remained unaffected by the Dementor was because the same residue, or whatever you want to call it, from the Orb that's inside me is also in the Dementors," mused Lena, twisting a loose lock of hair around her fingers. "Because they originate from a place steeped in that same magic."

"Almost, but not quite," said Dumbledore. "Yes, I suspect that the shared characteristic of the Orb's magic is why you did not feel the usual effects of a Dementor. However, I would suggest the Dementors' relationship with the Orb is not simply a consequence of their environment, but rather more... direct."

It took Lena a few moments to properly comprehend what Dumbledore was saying. "Dementors are a creation of the Orb," she murmured, more to herself than the Headmaster.

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Whether they were intentionally created by Ekrizdis or not, who can know? But yes, that is my suspicion." He pointed at her chest with a long, gnarled finger. "Which is how I came to my theory about this sudden growth of your mark."

"Which is?"

"When the Dementor you encountered yesterday attempted to feed off your soul, it triggered that – what did you call it before... yes, residue. This residue spread through your soul–"

"Hang on," Lena cut in, holding up her hand. "My soul? That doesn't make any sense, the Orb's residue is physical, not..." she searched for the right word, "spiritual. It's in my blood, my body."

"It is in both your blood and your soul," responded Dumbledore firmly. "A wizard or witch's magic is connected to both."

"I don't–"

Dumbledore raised a hand, stopping Lena. "To properly and thoroughly explain the exact connection between a body and a soul would take a far greater length of time than that which is available to us this morning," he said with a rueful smile. "Even, if you will permit me a moment of immodesty, for two people as clever as us. It is, perhaps, a stimulating conversation for another time. But for the present, will you accept my word as something of an expert in matters of a magical nature that pertain to the soul?"

Lena pursed her lips, but bowed her head. "Of course," she said politely. "Please continue."

"Your bond with the Orb left ingrained into your soul Dark magic, that makes it... inedible for Dementors," explained Dumbledore. "So when approached by the Dementor, that Dark magic spread through both your soul and your body. The mark's growth was the visible physical manifestation of that."

Lena furrowed her brow. "So the Dementor made it grow just by getting close to me?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "The Dementor didn't force the growth. It was your own magic's reaction to the threat," he clarified. "You see, when you combined the Orb's magic with your own six years ago, you managed to do so because yours was the dominant power, not the Orb's. And it remained dormant in the following years because there was no reason for your own magic to allow the Orb's to override it. But yesterday, when in close proximity with the Dementor, your magic allowed the Orb's to take precedence in order to protect you. "

That made more sense. "And because it was an internal use of it rather than external like previous occasions, I didn't notice it happening," said Lena thoughtfully, tapping the arms of the chair.

"Exactly," confirmed Dumbledore. But he was frowning.

Lena crossed her arms. "What?"

Dumbledore continued to gaze at her for a little while, his expression guarded but clearly concerned. Finally, he leant forward on his elbows, and spoke to her seriously. "It protected you from the effects of Dementors, yes. But at what cost to the rest of your health?"

The movement was barely discernible, but Lena gripped her upper-arms tightly. "Your concerns about my prolonged exposure to the Orb's magic," she remembered aloud.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "The fact that the mark's size didn't decrease after you were no longer in close proximity to the Dementor..."

Lena finished the headmaster's train of thought. "It's not a good sign." A thought occurred to her. "Do you think it will stay the same size now I've encountered one Dementor, or is it going to grow every time one gets close to me?"

Removing the half-moon spectacles from his face, Dumbledore rubbed his eyes and sighed. To Lena, it was decidedly not a reassuring sight.

The old wizard put back on his spectacles. "Lena," he said, leaning forward on his elbows, his expression grave, "most of what we have discussed this morning is very much in the realm of the theoretical. Everything about your connection to Hecate's Orb is unchartered territory. But what I do know for certain," he looked into Lena's eyes earnestly, "is that you cannot live with that sort of Dark magic inside you without expecting serious repercussions."

There was silence in the headmaster's office. After about ten seconds, it was broken by Lena.

"It's going to kill me, isn't it?"

Dumbledore maintained his eye contact with Lena, but did not reply immediately. At last, he spoke.

"That," he said, "is entirely possible."

When Remus woke up, it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. The bed was unusually comfortable, the room unfamiliarly spacious. Sunlight streamed in through the window, the curtains open.

'Hogwarts,' he finally remembered. 'I'm back at Hogwarts.' He closed his eyes again, a peaceful smile breaking across his face. He was back where he had spent the happiest years of his life. Only this time, he was a teacher, not a student.

His eyes flew open and he shot up. 'A teacher with his first day of classes ahead of him.' Frantically, he searched for some form of timepiece. There was no clock hanging on the wall, like in his office. He scrambled over to his bedside table, and found the wristwatch his father had gifted him for his seventeenth birthday.

9:32am. "Shit," swore Remus under his breath, hastily searching for a shirt. There was less than half-an-hour until his first class was due to begin. He'd slept much longer than he was supposed to. Quickly, he dressed, keeping a close eye on the time. Pulling on his robe, he made some mental calculations. He was too late for breakfast in the Hall, but if he ran to the kitchens...

It was a good thing there were no students milling about in the corridor outside the Defence Against the Darks Art classroom at that time, for they undoubtedly would have been quite shocked to see their new professor barrelling out of the room, his shirt half untucked, his hair sticking up at odd angles, and a slightly manic expression on his face.

But although there may not have been any students, there was another teacher.

"Remus!"

The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher skidded to a halt, and spun around to see the deputy headmistress striding towards him, a disapproving look on her face.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" she asked, her nostrils flared – a warning sign to anyone who knew her.

Under Minerva's stern gaze, Remus became much more aware of his present dishevelled state, and awkwardly tried tucking in his shirt. "I overslept–"

"Evidently," said Minerva. "But where are you going?"

"Erm, to the kitchens," answered Remus nervously. "To get some breakfast."

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "I see," she said. "Follow me, please."

The way she spoke and looked at him made Remus feel like he was twenty years younger, getting in trouble after being caught up in whatever mischief James and Sirius had caused.

Minerva opened the door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, and gestured for Remus to go inside. He did so sheepishly. Then he followed her back into his office. He stood by his desk as Minerva shut the door, and waited to be scolded.

Folding her arms, Minerva fixed her severe gaze upon Remus. But to his confusion, the only thing she said was, "Tizzy."

For a second nothing happened. Then there was a loud crack and a house-elf appeared in between the two teachers.

Remus took a step back, staring at the creature, bewildered.

"Professor McGonagall called for Tizzy?" it said – or rather, she, as its voice was distinctly feminine.

"I did," said Minerva. She pointed at Remus. "Tizzy, this is Professor Lupin, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

The house-elf turned to Remus, looking up at him with her huge blue eyes, and politely smiled. "Tizzy is pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," she said.

Remus nodded, still not entirely sure of what was happening. "Likewise."

"Professor Lupin would like you to prepare him some breakfast," Minerva said to the house-elf. "He will have it in here."

Tizzy nodded vigorously. "Of course, Professor." She practically bounced over to Remus. "What would Professor Lupin like Tizzy to make?" she asked him.

"Uh, just some toast, thank you."

"And does sir want anything on the toast?"

"Well, some jam would be lovely."

"Any particular sort – strawberry, raspberry, blackberry–"

"Perhaps," interrupted Minerva, "you could simply provide him with a selection of options once you've made it. As exciting as a deliberation over which particular sort of jam to have on one's toast can be, Professor Lupin does have to teach his first class in," she glanced at the clock, "twenty minutes."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall." And with another crack, the house-elf disappeared, leaving Remus alone with the deputy headmistress once again.

"You are a member of staff, Remus, not a student," said Minerva sternly. "When you are unable to make it to the Great Hall for your meals, you do not sneak off to the kitchens. And you certainly don't go running through the corridors – you're a man of thirty-three, not a boy of thirteen."

Remus rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Yes, sorry about that."

"When you require food," continued Minerva, "you call for Tizzy, and she'll bring something to you. But try not to make a habit of missing meals in the Great Hall."

"I won't," promised Remus. "I was just up late, making sure I was ready for classes. I won't oversleep again, I swear." He felt awful. There was something about Minerva, just like Dumbledore, that made disappointing her unbearable.

Minerva nodded. "Good." Her eyes flicked back to the clock. "Speaking of classes, I need to get back to my office to ensure my next one is ready." She went to the door, but paused as she put her hand on the handle, looking back over her shoulder. "Remus?"

"Yes?"

"Good luck for your first class." A rare smile graced her face. "I think you're going to make a fine teacher."

A small lump formed in Remus' throat. "Thank you," he managed to say, his voice suddenly hoarse. "That... that means a lot. From you."

And it truly did. Minerva's encouragement was enough to make the whole prospect of teaching a little less terrifying.

But only a little.

As it turned out, Remus needed not have worried. His first class, the Ravenclaw First Years, were eager for their Defence Against the Dark Arts education to begin, and proved to be extremely manageable for a first-time teacher.

The class that followed, the Hufflepuff Fourth Years, were slightly rowdier, but Remus, to his relief, found that it wasn't too difficult to refocus the students and engage them in a discussion about Grindylows (which reminded Remus that he needed to acquire a number of Dark creatures in order to give the students some proper practical lessons). The class, having been starved of actually useful Defence lessons the previous year – and to a degree, as Remus gathered from the academic records, the year prior to that – seemed to be pleasantly surprised by the novelty of an informing and interesting lesson, and at the end of the hour, Remus received a sincere "Thank you, Professor Lupin" from more than half the students.

So by lunchtime, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was in an unusually good mood. He sat at his desk in his office, eating a particularly nice chicken and salad sandwich prepared for him by Tizzy the house-elf, making some final adjustments to the tests he was giving his next class, the Ravenclaw and Slytherin Seventh Years.

Then came a knock at the door.

Remus swallowed his last mouthful of sandwich. "Come in," he called.

The door opened to reveal Severus Snape, holding a goblet in his hand.

It was a good thing that Remus had just finished eating, or he might have choked on something in his surprise. Since arriving at the castle last night, the two former classmates had not yet actually spoken a word to each other.

"Lupin," said the Potions Master coldly, his black eyes glaring at his new colleague.

Remus stood up. "Sna– Severus," he said, just managing to keep his voice level, masking how nervous he truly felt at addressing Snape for the first time in... 'Merlin, it must be fifteen years,' thought Remus. "What can I do for you?" he said aloud.

A muscle twitched in Snape's face, and for a moment Remus thought an outburst of vitriol was imminent. But instead, Snape simply crossed the threshold, holding out the goblet. "Your first dose of Wolfsbane," he said tersely.

"Oh." Remus' eyes widened. He had been so focused on the task of teaching that he'd forgotten that today marked the first day of the week leading up to the full moon. "Thank you," he said, reaching out and taking the goblet from Snape. He stared at the liquid inside, transfixed. The ability to retain his own mind as his body became the wolf's – it was actually a possibility...

"I would suggest you drink it now." Snape's frosty voice snapped Remus out of his trance.

"Of course," he replied.

Snape turned to leave.

"Wait," Remus blurted out, and Snape slowly turned back. "Severus, couldn't we just..." he trailed off, searching for the right words. "... Just let the past be the past?"

Snape's lips curled. "Move on, you mean?" he said quietly, but contemptuous. He took a step towards Remus. "Forgive and forget?"

"That's not exactly what I–"

"Forget that you and your friends were arrogant pricks who humiliated anyone who dared not worship the ground they stood on?" snarled Snape, taking another step forward. "Or forget that every time there's a full moon, you turn into a filthy, bloodthirsty mongrel?"

Remus clenched the fist that wasn't holding the goblet. "I'm not asking you to forget anything," he said, trying to maintain his calm. "I would simply like–"

But the Head of Slytherin didn't want to listen. "It's the selfishness that truly disgusts me," whispered Snape, his eyes glinting with malice. "That you would put all these innocent children at risk, just for the sake of a wage."

Remus firmly placed the goblet on his desk, then closed the remaining distance between himself and Snape, and stared down at the other man unflinchingly. "I know exactly what I am," he said icily. "But I will not be lectured on morality by a man who once called himself a Death Eater."

For a few seconds, both men's hands hovered over the pockets that contained their wands. Then Snape spun around and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Remus let out a long breath. 'Well,' he reasoned to himself, 'that could have gone worse.'

"Do you reckon he's going to be more practical or more theory based?" asked Maggie as she and Lena walked down a corridor on the third-floor to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Lena responded with a non-committal shrug. Her mind was too focused on other things. She barely even noticed the worried look Maggie was giving her.

Before she had left Dumbledore's office that morning, he had drawn some blood from Lena to run some tests. He had been vague about what exactly these tests might reveal, but Lena had a fairly decent idea: the rate of deterioration of her body, as caused by the magic of Hecate's Orb that still resided in her blood and soul.

Or in other words: how long she had to live.

In some respects, it didn't really surprise Lena to find out that she was probably dying. It had always been some small source of amazement to her that she had survived her separation from the Orb – it kind of made sense that she may have been living on borrowed time in the years since then.

Nevertheless, it was a little hard to focus during her classes – not to mention her conversations with Maggie and Rolf – when she was a bit preoccupied by the possibility of her own impending death.

She was brought back to her present reality by their arrival at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, she and Maggie the first ones there. The door to the room was closed. Lena checked her watch. It was still another four minutes until class began, so they leant against the wall, waiting.

The Ravenclaw members of the class arrived twenty seconds later, all together in one large group. They politely nodded at Lena and Maggie, but made no approach to speak with them. The rest of the Slytherins soon followed and, before Lena realised what they were doing, formed a tight semi-circle around her.

"So, you going to give this guy the proper Lestrange welcome?" asked Thaddeus Accrington, his voice low enough that the Ravenclaws wouldn't hear him. The rest of the Slytherins were all looking at Lena eagerly.

She blinked. "The what?"

"You know," said Flint, grinning, "show him who's boss!"

Bemused, Lena glanced at Maggie, who shrugged helplessly.

"You do kind of have a tendency to, um, show-up teachers on their first day," her friend said.

Accrington nodded. "Yeah, like, establish dominance, or whatever."

Lena had to bite her tongue to stop herself from laughing at Accrington's choice of words. Establish dominance. If they all only knew what their teacher was...

It was at that moment the classroom door was pushed open by said teacher.

Lupin smiled pleasantly at his waiting class. "Hello. Please come in and take a seat."

As they walked in, some muttering began. The classroom was set up in exam format, the desks separated from each other. Lena and Maggie exchanged a look, then both shrugged and took the two seats closest to the back right corner.

Once everyone was seated, Lupin cleared his throat and the room quietened down.

"Well, welcome to your final year of Defence Against the Dark Arts," he began. "In case you don't remember from last night, my name is Professor Lupin. Now, I understand that this subject hasn't exactly progressed as smoothly as would be ideal – through no fault of your own. So, to get a better idea of where you all are at – individually and as a class – today you're going to sit a written test for me."

Lena expected her fellow Slytherins to voice dissent – any lesson that wasn't practical in nature was usually met with some resistance from them.

But instead of protesting, all the Slytherins turned in their seats to look at her enquiringly. It was as if they were waiting for her to say something to Lupin. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes – they just wanted her to start an argument, it didn't matter what it was about.

Unluckily for her housemates, Lena thought their new teacher's plan for their first class was quite reasonable. So in response, she pointedly looked at Lupin, hoping the rest of the Slytherins would get the message and turn their attentions back to him. They all did, although in some cases – namely Flint, Accrington and Burke –it was done a little begrudgingly.

The whole episode may have escaped the Ravenclaws' notice, but Lena could tell that Lupin had observed all of it. His eyes flicked over to Lena warily, but Lena met his gaze calmly. Lupin broke their eye contact as he picked up a pile of papers from his desk and began to distribute them across the classroom.

He reached Maggie and Lena last, pausing before he gave them their test papers, the blank page of the back facing upwards. Then he went back to the front of the room.

"You all have your quills and ink out?" he asked.

A chorus of "Yes, sir," answered him.

He nodded and glanced down at his wristwatch. "All right," he said, looking back up. "You have fifty minutes to complete the test. You may turn over your papers and begin," he checked the watch again, "now."

Lena turned over the paper, intrigued to see what sort of questions he had provided. The first question, however, made her frown.

1. In 150 words, identity the effects of a Blood Malediction that differentiate whether it is Type 1 or 2.

As far as Lena was aware, Blood Malediction – lifelong, debilitating, and sometimes fatal curses – were not something they were ever supposed to have covered at Hogwarts, or were likely to in their Seventh Year. The study of it was generally reserved for Healer training, and even then it was more for specialists. The only other people who tended to know much about it were those who'd read a lot of books about the Dark Arts – like Lena. So although she was fairly confident she could answer the question, everyone else was likely to be at a loss.

But when she glanced around at her classmates, instead of seeing confusion and panic, all she saw were expressions of concentration and scribbling quills.

Lena blinked, incredulous. Had she gone mad? Was there some DADA lesson she had missed where a teacher had competently and thoroughly explained Blood Malediction? She quickly scanned through the rest of the test paper, all five pages of it. The rest of the questions were on topics of a similar level of obscurity. That wasn't a problem for Lena – the more concerning aspect of the test was that the expected word length for each answer altogether added up to almost 2000 words. Which, considering the test was only supposed to be fifty minutes long, seemed unusually demanding.

So why wasn't anyone else freaking out? Lena couldn't understand it. What Lupin was expecting of them was ridiculous–

Sensing she was being watched, Lena's eyes snapped to the front of the room. It was Lupin. And he wasn't just watching her, she realised. He was studying her.

Once again, their eyes met. He didn't seem surprised that she was puzzled. In fact, he appeared to be expecting it. Then it hit Lena.

'Ooh, you bastard,' she immediately thought.

He had given her a completely different test to everyone else.

Lena decided to spend not another second on dwelling why, and refocused her attention on the first question. Lupin had set her up to fail, and she wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.

'The most significant point of difference,' she began to write, 'between Type 1 and 2 is that the latter affects the reproductive system of the inflicted, an indicator of its hereditary nature...'

For the next forty-seven minutes, Lena wrote continuously, only ever pausing to reapply ink to the quill's tip. As a result of the hurried writing, little specks of ink dotted the paper, and her handwriting, while still legible, was distinctly messier than usual.

Two seconds after applying the final punctuation mark, Lupin called out, "That's time! Quills down, everybody."

Lena dropped the quill, and instantly began rubbing her wrist. She hadn't noticed while she was writing, but now the motion had ceased, it hurt.

Lupin waved his wand, and everybody's test papers zoomed off their desk, and formed a neat pile on Lupin's.

"Thank you, everyone," said the Professor. "I know you all would have probably preferred a practical lesson, and I promise the next one will be. And no homework tonight either. I think that's only fair after springing a test on you today."

Lena barely registered the looks of relief that graced her housemates' faces. She was entirely focused on Lupin.

He glanced at his watch. "All right, you're free to go. I'll see you all back here–" he thought for a moment, "–tomorrow morning, I believe?" There were nods and muttered agreements. "Excellent. See you all tomorrow, then."

There was a flurry of movement as people put their quills back in their bags and stood up. But Lena didn't move.

To her right, she heard Maggie asking, "Lena? You coming?"

She shook her head. "I'll see you later," she told Maggie, not taking her eyes off Lupin, who had sat down at his desk, looking over the papers he had just collected. She needed to have a word with him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Remus could see that despite his dismissal, Lena Lestrange had not yet moved from her seat. She was staring at Remus thoughtfully, tapping her fingers on the desk.

Once the classroom was empty of everyone but them, she slowly pushed her chair back and stood up. Then she made her way to the front of the classroom where Remus was sitting at his desk, pretending to read the test paper on top of the pile he had collected. Once she reached the desk, he properly looked up at her. Her arms were crossed, and she was looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

"Is there something I can help you with, Miss Lestrange?" he inquired politely.

At first, she didn't reply. Then, after a lengthy pause, she flatly said, "You gave me a different test to everyone else."

Remus leant back in his chair. "Yes," he said simply, "I did."

"Why?"

"Because I read through your academic records last night, and I didn't see the point of asking you questions to which I already knew you knew the answers."

She raised an eyebrow. "So you were trying to challenge me?"

"Did I?" asked Remus, cocking his head, genuinely curious.

Again, there was a pause before the girl responded, "Those were completely unreasonable word limits to expect me to reach in that timeframe."

"So you didn't finish?"

"I didn't say that."

"But it was a challenge?"

"Only for my hand to write that quickly." Her tone was frank, rather than insolent or defiant.

Remus held her unwavering gaze for a few seconds, then sighed and picked up the pile of test papers, flicking through them. Finding hers, he pulled it out and quickly scanned through it. She was right – from what he could see, her answers were flawless, and detailed beyond his expectations, considering the time he'd given her.

He looked back up at Lestrange, who was watching him closely.

"Why are you still here?" he asked her.

An offended look crept into her otherwise emotionless face. "Because you gave no indication that I should leave," she said curtly. "But I guess I'll take that as my cue."

"No," said Remus quickly, inwardly cursing his poor choice of words, "I didn't mean..." he gestured around the classroom, "here. I meant, why are you still at Hogwarts?"

Lestrange's whole body stiffened. "Is there some reason you think I shouldn't be?" she asked suspiciously, her eyes narrowing.

"Are you at an equally advanced level in all your other subjects?"

Obviously, Lestrange had been expecting him to say something else. "What?" she said, sounding confused. "Erm, probably not to the same degree, but I'd say I'm proficient. Why?"

"I'm just wondering why you didn't apply to sit your NEWTs earlier," said Remus, shrugging. "What exactly are you still hoping to learn?"

"I didn't know taking the exams earlier was an option," said Lestrange, frowning.

Remus scratched his chin. "I mean, I've never heard of anyone doing it before, but I'm sure you could have asked. Did you never think of it? No other teacher has ever approached the topic with you before?"

Lestrange shook her head. "No. I suppose I've always just thought there's always, well, room for improvement. More to learn."

"In Defence Against the Dark Arts too?" When Lestrange nodded, Remus asked, "Anything in particular you've got in mind?"

"Well..." Lestrange bit her lip and looked at the floor contemplatively, "I'm sure I can think of a few things."

Remus glanced at his watch. "Have you got another class to go to now?"

"Arithmancy."

"Then you should probably head off. Tell you what," said Remus, an idea striking him, "you come to me with a list of things you either want to improve on or learn, and if it's within my capabilities, we'll work on it so you're not wasting your time in my classes. Deal?"

Lestrange stared at him for a few seconds, as if unsure what to make of him. Finally, she answered, "Deal." She turned around and walked back to her desk, and quickly packed up her things.

As she did, Remus looked back down at her test paper. The handwriting was definitely messier than in the examples of work in her file, but she'd been correct – the quality of the content was no less.

Remus became aware he was being watched again, and looked up. Lestrange was standing at the door, bag slung over her shoulder, and regarding him with a strange expression.

He cleared his throat. "Was there anything else, or..."

After moment, she shook her head. "No." She turned backed to the door and twisted the handle, only to look back over her shoulder. "Thank you," she said, and then she was gone.

As the door swung shut behind her, Remus continued to stare at the place where she had been standing.

When Sirius had first told them that Bellatrix Lestrange had had her child, a daughter, nearly eighteen years ago, Remus had assumed that the child would either grow up to be like her mother – haughty, cruel, a leader in the new generation of Purebloods who believed in their supremacy – or like Sirius – rebellious and wild, but charismatic enough to inspire the devotion of many.

But in the two encounters with Lena Lestrange he had experienced so far, he was yet to see any more than a physical resemblance to the other descendants of the House of Black – except, perhaps, for that enviable self-confidence. She wasn't even particularly like Regulus, from what Remus could recall of his limited interaction with Sirius' younger brother.

No, Lena Lestrange was of a completely different colour altogether. She was authoritative without being forceful; reserved, but certainly not shy. He recalled how on the Hogwarts Express Harry had barely given the piece of chocolate Remus had given him a second look, but the moment Lestrange had told him to eat it, he had automatically done so. And at the beginning of today's lesson, when he had told the class they would be sitting a test, all her Slytherin housemates had looked around to Lestrange, as if to ask how they should respond. Even during their conversation just before, Remus had felt as though he had to explain himself to her, despite the fact that being her teacher, he didn't.

But there was also something... not quite right about her. Something unnerving, unsettling. Yes, there was her ill appearance – her corpse-like paleness, her skeletal figure, and the dark shadows under her eyes. However, Remus was well aware that he himself usually looked unwell, so he was less concerned about that. No, it was those icy blue-grey eyes. They were calculating – and the only giveaway that there was so much more going on inside that head than she allowed anyone else to see; so much she wasn't saying. Remus tended to think of himself as a fairly introverted person, but he'd always felt that the person the rest of the world saw – if they disregarded the whole werewolf thing – was similar to the person he was inside. He wouldn't be surprised if it was a very different case for Lena Lestrange.

Remus sighed, looking back down at all the test papers. He didn't have time to be preoccupied with thoughts of Lestrange, he had papers to mark. He glanced at his watch. It was a little under an hour until his next and final class of the day. About to pick up a quill, he paused. He had missed both breakfast and lunch in the Great Hall. Perhaps it would be a good idea to go to the staffroom for just a bit.

'Might make you feel a little more like a teacher if you actually spent some time with other ones,' he reasoned to himself.

So, after depositing the test papers in his office, Remus made his way to the staffroom. Hopefully, there would be at least another couple of teachers with spare periods who had decided to do the same thing.

Just not Snape, he hoped. Remus felt that one interaction with the Potions Master was probably enough for his first day.

Opening the staffroom door, Remus was greeted by the sight of Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies Professor, standing with Aurora Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, a few metres away from the wardrobe. They were both looking at it concernedly.

"Hello," called out Remus, and they both turned to look at him.

"Oh, hello there, Remus," said Aurora, smiling. A thought appeared to occur to her. "You know, it's actually quite fortuitous that you should turn up now."

Remus raised his eyebrows. "How so?"

"We believe," said Charity, "that there's a boggart in the wardrobe."

Remus looked at the wardrobe interestedly. "Really?"

"Yes," replied Aurora. "Perhaps, as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, you would do us the honour of getting rid of it?"

Remus was about to acquiesce, but stopped himself. A small smile appeared on his face. "You know what? I've got a better idea..."