"I'd like to speak to you for a moment, Miss Granger. Alone - if you would, Harry," he whispered, void of feeling. His position remained fixed. His head unmoving as the light glared through the window. The brightening light obscured his features, only the shadow of a man to be seen. The shadow cast over Hermione was impressively large compared to the man before her, an imitation of the entities warring within.

Harry was the one hesitating now. His small hand landing on her shoulder, as his seeking emerald eyes beseeched her. Harry had no idea what happened, but he knew that something was amiss. He may have formed a small friendship with the new teacher on a bygone connection, but he was loyal to a fault. He'd set himself alight before he'd let harm come to his friend. She'd do the same, too. She'd do it now, too.

She disarmed with a smile, nodding in acquiescence and forcing him to leave. He wouldn't go far, he'd be stuck to the wall outside until she emerged. If she returned hurt, emotionally or otherwise, he'd barge in with wand and fighting words. His hand slipped slowly down her arm, with uncertainty in his gaze as his hand lingered. He nodded weakly in acceptance, with a lasting glance to the professor before leaving.

Hermione was a champion of the second class. She'd knitted hats and scarves for the elves, and staunchly defended centaurs as Draco decreed them, half-breeds.

Logically, she should be as supportive of werewolves. When she'd researched her essay, she'd found a book that had not been recommended by her potion's professor. A slim tome, titled 'Hairy snout. Human heart'. It was written by an unidentified author, describing his battle for acceptance, throughout the 1970s. By the end, her heart had been cleaved in half and honey-eyes wettened.

Yes, she championed the misunderstood. Though, it was one thing to abide by self-implemented morals resolutely. Another thing to remain so, when faced with the fright of most young children. The lone book was the only literature to offer a contrasting opinion, or real-life account of a day as a werewolf. The other books described vicious canines, blood-curdling howls and seeping cuts. It was hard to remove that image from her mind, while remaining entirely unaffected.

Neither moved since Harry left. A minute or two passing, yet, neither determined to break the timid silence. He knows she figured something out. His congealed wounds, lacking appearance, and reaction to Snape's unauthorised lesson had laced the story together. Snape must have been trying to warn them. She'd analyse her memories of his class at some point, now she'd other things to think about. The current question working her mind was worrying her. Should she feign ignorance? Would her body betray her, if she tried? A deceiving bead of sweat? A beat too quick?

"What do your parents do Miss Granger?" he asked, never inching from the window. She flinched at his abrupt speaking, her hazel eyes drawing in confusion. Something she'd rather not discuss, either.

"My parents were dentists. Muggle teeth healers, sir," a carefully thought response. Her newly shined faux leather shoes scuffing the floor, absentmindedly.

"Were?" he asked. Not careful enough it seemed. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly. She increased her height, standing ramrod straight, glaring at the head of the intrusive man. Werewolf or not, her canines were not soft either.

"They died when I was young in a car accident. My Grandmother raised me – sir," his proper address, tacked quickly at the end. Where a saddened sound should have been, was a robotic response to an oft-asked question. He turned slowly, his movement blocking the harsh glare of the sun. He smiled a smile of home and comfort, laced with hope and chivalry. It was one she'd blush for, any other day. Currently, her jaw locked as she veered her eyes away from the signs of pity. She'd rather be bitten by those teeth, than be pitied by him.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Granger," he said, soft as woven silk.

"I'm sure," and she was sure. Adults often were sorry to hear it. Their children, however, were cruel and unfiltered. As if she'd needed another thing to separate her from her schoolmates.

When her fifty-one-year-old grandmother collected her at school, she'd gotten her fair share of knowing glances. Assumptions of abandonment were widely spread. Her even-tempered grandmother would ignore the hushed whispers. Choosing to rise above, explaining the circumstances of her enduring stay to no one, other than the child affected. Her parents were in an accident when they were returning from work, and they were gone. That was everything. No woeful tale or sorrowed goodbyes. It was all explained in that one sentence, her grandmother told her all those years ago.

Even then, she'd never share much about her parents. Hermione was always eager to hear about her parents. Asking every question she could, and getting her answers, too. Did her mother like apples, like she did? Was her father fond of a gripping story, or a thrilling football match? Both, perhaps?

It was not until she was six years old, that she truly understood what death meant. In her mind, 'they were gone', as her grandmother had put it, meant they were gone for now. It wasn't until she'd read a book, of all things, about a fatherless boy. An image of a clothed angel seared in her mind forever. Lifted from the pages of the book, and into her brain forever. It had been her longest lesson in life to fully engage with. Gone meant gone. It never meant gone for now.

It always meant gone for good.

Then everything had fallen together. The pieces broken but in position, all the same. Why her bubble of energy, Grandmother Ruth, would wither before as Hermione asked her silly questions. The shaky voice and curt answers clicked. Never denying her daughter's only child what she wanted to know, even if it cut at her heart a fraction more. Hermione had stopped asking questions. Hermione stopped returning the pitying smiles, too.

Hence, her short and possibly disrespectful reply. Lupin seemed to understand her newfound strength, backing away from her as her attitude demanded closure.

"My father worked at the ministry, in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. A low-level employee but he was very proud of his work. 'We're all weaving the tapestry, even if we do not sell the thing!'" Hermione could see his cheeks lifting with life, as he imitated his father's wagging his pointer finger. Lightly chuckling while relieving his fond memories. "My mother was a muggle seamstress. I think that's why I still wear clothes until they're near unwearable, really. The point is, they were good people, Miss Granger." He shifted his weight from left to right, deciding what action to take and unsure whether to do so.

"Good people. The best – to me, anyway. They were good people and they never deserved the grief I gave them," her breath hitched, as she followed the thread of conversation. He caught her rhythmic change, eyes pained with her clear unease. "They were good – normal – people with an abnormal son. You know that though, do you not?" he asked, his fingers knotting together in front of him.

"I don't know anything, sir," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. A bold lie. A bold lie that he did not believe. He snorted in derision.

"Best not lie, Miss Granger. Your heart betrays you," he said, as she grimaced at the thought. "I was bitten when I was four, probably the youngest bitten child in Britain, at the time. I'd gotten a broom, you see. Father got it as a gift from his work for me – he hated flying, himself. He'd come home, given it to me and promised to show me how to fly in the morning. I didn't listen – ever the courageous Gryffindor," he pauses to chuckle, but its poison in her ears. "I went outside, in the evening and I was bitten."

Hermione hated pitying glances. Doubted he liked them much, either. She'd fought the welling tears gathering in the corners. A hopeless fight, he'd know with his enhanced senses. Maybe even smell the pity. She imagined pity smelled like freshly poured salt. Still, she couldn't help the overwhelming sadness inside. He was so young. He was too young. He'd never lived a life he could remember, untainted. His first memory was likely, the searing bite, entombing his cursed fate.

"They did all they could for me. They kept the secret knowing there was nothing that could be done for me. Except give me some privacy. Also, against the law, but they risked Azkaban in doing so. All so, I could have some semblance of a childhood. It was a great one, too. Besides the time tied in the basement, but that was necessary. I'd attack someone, if not. I haven't ever done that, believe me," he said, eyes imploring her to believe him. Her mind was overloaded with the surge of information.

"Dumbledore let me come to Hogwarts – my father begged him. Of course, there were conditions to keep other students safe. Now, there's the wolfsbane potion, absolutely brill–"

"Sir, why are you telling me all of this?" She interrupted, stepping back as he began a caged pacing. Her arms wanted to reach out, though her mind knew better. He's her professor, and it was not appropriate to do so. He laughed a mirthless laugh, a sonic boom ringing in her ears.

"I'm not – I've no idea, really! Nobody ever figured it out! Actually, a friend or two had. This isn't the same, is it? No, it wouldn't be...I feel I need to explain myself…" he ceased his pacing, shoving his hands in his baggy trousers. "…You're just so afraidof me, Hermione."

"I don't want to be. Afraid, that is. I don't really think I am either. More shocked, I think - or afraid of the truth…have you ever read, 'Hairy snout. Human Heart?'" she asked, offering a glimmer of hope to the fraying man. Her smile widened as he vanquished the glamour of an unclaimed book on his desk. The wonder she felt for the sheer power of his wandless magic, combined with the unnoticeable glamour was unquantifiable.

"Of course, you've read it! Well - logically, I understand it's not your fault, at all. It's the monster who bit you – if anyone's at fault. It just took a moment for my heart to catch up with my brain, is all. What's the wolfsbane potion do, sir? I've never heard of it."

She took the armchairs for guests with ease, as he moved the covered hinkypunk from atop the table. The creature within shrieked, a hiccupping noise in agitation. Her professor followed her lead, taking the high-winged chair on his side. He sat in the chair, the tension winding his shoulders high on his neck. His fingers picked at the loosening threads of the maroon upholstered chair. She'd expected to appease him somewhat when she'd admitting to not fearing him. Rather unsuccessfully.

She was dwindling in her shame. She knew him, she'd seen his kindness with Harry. His almost brotherly affection was well received by her. Harry had flourished under his attention. Shining mirth present in his eyes as recounted a story of his parents to her, given freely by the man before her. A child-like wonder was not associated with Harry, outside the bounds of a quidditch field. It was refreshing. She was skeptical of the man at first, fearing anyone who planted themselves in her friend's road. Skepticism was healthy, she told herself.

"It's a potion. When I transform, I'm no longer myself, you see. I'm moony then. That's the name Padf- Sirius gave him. I can't control what I do – he's got full control on those nights. When I first came to Hogwarts, Dumbledore created this silver cage, below the whomping willow for me. Moony would learn, after a few burns most nights, that there was no escape. It's an awful way to wake up. With those burns, and the aches of transforming back with shattered bones. The worst, really," he shivered, as his palm soothed the long scratches along his arm. She gestures with her hand to continue, her eagerness to learn of the potion eliciting a small smile from him.

"The potion, though. It helps me keep my mind as I transform. It's not a cure, but it's a miracle for me. I can stop Moony from hurting me. I can't get it outside of Hogwarts, though. It takes a master potioneer, of which I am not. The bottled stuff is too expensive for me at the Apothecary, too. Snape makes it now for me. I stay in the cage for precaution as well, mind. You're all safe."

His scarred hand seeking hers as it lay across the table. He pulled away quickly, thinking better of his actions to the young student, or just fearing rejection. Hermione barely considered it, as she reached out to squeeze his hand lightly. A gentling touch, mindful of his achy bones. His lips upturned, recognising the action for the kindness it was. She knew she shouldn't, but her teeth were grinding as she tried silencing herself.

"Forgive me, but if you can control yourself, how did you manage the cuts on your arm?" She couldn't believe he'd consciously done it to himself. Well, unless he wanted to. That was not an appropriate topic to discuss with her Professor. Although lines had been crossed today, some boundaries still remained. Her professor began to redden, his calloused hand fidgeting beneath her soft touch.

"I'm forgetful by nature - from my mother, I reckon. The wolfsbane must be taken at the midpoint of each day. It's why I stay in the cage during the full moon. In case I've forgotten to take the potion or was late to take it. It appears, I'd forgotten this month," he reassured her, assuming her quickly withdrawn hand was one of disapproval.

"Are you a wizard or not?" She said, a haughty smile playing a tune of her lips. Her professor's mouth opened and closed, the question confounding him. "Hmm?"

"…Yes?"

"Then you should be more than aware of the Monitum Excandescunt, enchantment. Taught to all second-year charm students. Mostly older women use it to remind them for – ahem – certain potions -" her ears, tinging pink, unable to say contraception potion to the older man. "You simply wave your wand at your neck, saying the enchantment, like so," she demonstrated the triangle-esque wand movement for him.

"The spell will burn hotter until unbearable, approximately ten minutes before you must take the potion. Allowing you some time to retrieve it, too, if you've forgotten it, as you are wont to do. It will stop once you've taken said potion…simple…really," she finished, lamely. Blinking furiously as she remembered it was not Ron, she was currently lecturing on spell use.

He eyed her as if she'd suddenly transformed into a dancing hippogriff, before a burst of bright and airy laughter filled his chest. The youthful spark returning to him for the first time she'd known him. Age fading as he cleared his watering eyes, enjoying the role reversal they'd played. Her cheeks burned, though amusement sparkled in her eyes. She was relieved she'd received no point loss for her, well, everything.

"Never too old to learn," he muffled as he reigned in his laughter, unable to look at the honey-eyed creature before him without deep-belly laughing. She'd be embarrassed if his shoulders hadn't lost their thickened set. The laughing snapped the cord within, and she was grateful for her obstinate tongue, for once. "I'd wish I'd known before. It would have made it easier. Avoiding this whole mess, all together. It's a shame, really," he sighed, leaning back in his chair while crossing his ankles. She did not understand, and that never sat well with her.

"Why is that a shame?" She asked, a note of exasperation colouring her tone. Riddles beneath words were an irritation. She spoke plainly, why could others not manage to do so? Tiresome.

"I just don't need it now, Hermione. I no longer have need of the potion," he said, slowly the eleven lines between his eyes deepening as her frown elongated. He had no idea why she was confused.

"Why not?" she asked, a rising worry blossoming within her chest cavity. Exasperation abandoning her as quick as it came.

"I won't be at Hogwarts anymore," he said, succinctly. As the last word burst from his mouth, she sprung from her chair, the legs of the armchair wobbling as it righted itself. The worry compounding into a tight ball, bouncing like a canon around her ribcage painfully.

"Why are you leaving? Why would you not be at Hogwarts? Will you still teach us?" The questions fumbling from her, collapsing on one another as they fell from her lips.

"Hermione, you know why. I can't stay here, anymore," he admitted quietly. Hermione allowed many things around her to happen, without interference. Fine. Some things to happen around her without interference. The best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher to grace these halls, leaving because of her was not one of them.

"I'm not going to tell anyone!" she exclaimed, her breaths heaving quickly at the rising panic. Why did she look at his arm? Damned eyes.

Damned Snape, too. Rotted snake.

"Hermione, I can't expect you to keep this from your friends. From Harry," he shook his head, a hint of disapproval in his voice. She understood. She'd be disappointed, too. After all, he was losing everything because of her. His job, his wolfsbane potion and the last tribute of his best friend, James. All because she couldn't leave well enough alone.

"Yes, I will – even if you leave, I would! It's not mine, to tell! Harry needs you, you'll hurt him if you leave! I swear it, sir," her mouth outpaced her mind. Barely forming coherent arguments before they left.

"Hermione -"

"You can't leave, you're the best Defence teacher we've had. They'll stick us with another blithering idiot like Lockhart or worse – Quirrell," she seethed. He was Voldemort, who would come next?

"Hermione -" he stood, rounding the table trying to soothe the witch as her volume increased, proportionally with her upset.

"You can't leave, you just can't. I won't let you, it's all my fault, yo- "

"Hermione!" he roared, the yellowing gold of his eyes gleaming as Moony introduced himself. She shut her mouth abruptly, though not without one last try.

"Please. Please, sir," she begged. Her eyes watering, ever so. He'd lose everything because of her. What was in the world for a werewolf? Besides misunderstanding, bigotry and slander. What had she done?

"Alright, Hemione. I'll stay, for now" his hand patted her shoulder, as her rough breaths struggled free from her lips.

Staying for now. Not staying for good. She supposes it would do - for now. She'd find her for good, soon.

"You should head to lunch. By my wolfie ears, Harry is trying hard to not break my door through– " he smiled, as she began to fluster, worrying if he'd heard. "–Don't worry, yourself. I silenced the door once he'd left. The secret remains," he waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a watery laugh from the worn witch. "Here, take some chocolate. Honeyduke's best, I assure you. Take it with you to lunch," he said, handing her a small bar, as he ushered her towards the door. His guiding hand, reinforcing her as her misty eyes began to clear. "I'll see you tomorrow, Hermione."

Tomorrow. He'd still be here. She smiled over her shoulder to her professor, as her hand gripped the intricately engraved door handle. She took a breath, calming herself once more before Harry began his smothering.

.

His eyes lingered on the door, catching the last sight of her swinging rucksack as she left. It was eerily uncanny. He could feel the rising goosebumps, climbing his arms as he recalled events, from mere moments ago. A strange witch. As courageous as she was strange. Few would stay in a room, alone, with a known werewolf. Not that he'd blame them. The little witch did, with a determined eye.

With a fond smile, he began to rehearse the triangle-esque wand movement from earlier.