I own nothing but the plot.
On Thursday, September 30th, the Gryffindor students entered their DADA class to find Professor Snape sitting at Professor Lupin's desk, reviewing the grades Lupin had already assigned.
"Where's Professor Lupin?" Harry asked.
"He has taken ill," Professor Snape answered. "As he is evidently unable to perform his duties, I will be covering his class today. Take your seats and turn your books to page 394."
Harry sat down with the rest of his class.
"We will be discussing werewolves," Professor Snape began. "Professor Lupin has not indicated how much you have covered on this topic."
"He told us the basics in our first class," Hermione said, raising her hand.
"I do not recall asking you, Miss Granger," Professor Snape said, cutting her off. "I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin's lack of documentation. Open your books to page 394."
"But sir," Hermione protested, "we aren't due to start werewolves until..."
"Miss Granger," Professor Snape interrupted, "I believe I am teaching this class, not you." Hermione abruptly closed her mouth, and her face went red. Professor Snape sneered at her as he again said, "Turn to page 394." No one was foolish enough to talk back.
"Mr Potter," Snape said, "read aloud the introduction to this chapter on the origin of the werewolf."
"Yes, Professor," Harry said. "The Werewolf, or lycanthrope, is a human cursed to turn into a wolf-like creature during the full moon. The Werewolf exists in muggle mythology and legend but is now widely dismissed as mere fantasy. However, we in the magical world know those legends to be true.
The first recorded report of a man turning into a wolf was depicted in the Epic of Gilgamesh over four thousand years ago. Several other sources mention the concept of human-to-wolf transformations and transfigurations, but the descriptions and causes vary widely. These early examples do not depict true werewolves. Instead, these isolated incidents portray individual, non-propagating transformations like Animagus or polyjuice mishaps. Wizard historians cite the birth of the modern Werewolf as occurring in the first century AD in the highlands of southern Greece.
The first Werewolf afflicted by the curse was a king named Lycaon. Lycaon was the despotic ruler of the land called Arcadia. Historians report his appetites for food, drink, and women were voracious. Through various women, he produced six sons who were very like him in nature. No act was beneath them, and they ruled Arcadia with absolute authority.
Long before the International Statute of Secrecy, no wizarding government had yet arisen to govern magic users. Wizards and witches lived amongst their neighbours. Some stayed quiet for fear of persecution, but others were open about magic. One of those who openly practised magic was a powerful witch named Jupitea. Jupitea had one daughter named Andromeda, whom she took as her apprentice. Jupitea and Andromeda were loved and feared by the Muggle villagers they lived near, and their reputation for performing healing miracles and fertility rites was widespread.
Jealous of their power, Lycaon and his sons abducted Andromeda and imprisoned her in their castle's tower. All seven men constantly abused her for many months. Jupitea, having learned of Andromeda's whereabouts, sent a letter to Lycaon begging for her release. Lycaon offered to release Andromeda if Jupitea would grant him a magical boon. He demanded the power of the wolf, as the Arcadians worshipped and revered the predator.
Jupitea agreed to grant Lycaon a powerful gift if he would return her daughter. She would give him and his sons the ability to turn into wolves. Lycaon agreed and invited Jupitea to the Pandia festival his court would be celebrating at the next full moon. He promised to return her daughter at the feast.
Jupitea gave Lycaon and all six of his son's belts made from wolves' fur the night of the banquet. She instructed them to wear them under the light of a full moon, and they would transform into wolves.
Having given what she had promised, Jupitea asked for her daughter. Lycaon laughed and revealed that he and his sons had killed her and cooked her remains into the feast Jupitea had eaten.
'From your body, she came, and to your body she now returns,' Lycaon is reported to have proclaimed. Upon realizing she was consuming her daughter, Jupitea went mad. Lycaon ordered her banished from the kingdom.
What occurred next is not well recorded. Some scholars believe she cursed the wolf skin belts after this final insult, whilst others claim she cursed them when she created them. What is known is that Lycaon and his sons put the belts on under the full moon that night. They were cursed and turned into werewolves. They continued to transform every full moon from that night for the rest of their lives, even after burning the belts.
It is unknown if Jupitea knew the curse would be transmittable to the unlucky survivors of a werewolf attack. In her despair, she killed herself by setting her home on fire. Any records she may have left concerning the creation of the curse burned with her. All werewolves can trace their lineage to Lycaon or one of his sons today."
Professor Snape flicked his wand, causing the window shades to lower. He then tapped a large projector which began to spin slowly. A white ball of light burst into a life where a light bulb would have gone. Images began to rotate on a screen at the front of the classroom. The first image was of a man wearing trousers but no shirt.
He had deep scars on his chest and face, and his trousers had holes in the knees.
"This man is a werewolf," Professor Snape said. "Note the scars on his body. Excessive scarring is one of the ways you may identify potential werewolves. While transformed, a werewolf will heal nearly instantly from any injury, but the scars of wounds sustained as a wolf will remain even in human form.
The notable exception to a werewolf's resistance to injury is silver. Silver causes an allergic reaction that is deadly to werewolves. It is, therefore, always wise to keep a silver knife on hand during the full moon."
The slide moved on, showing the following image. The man was now in obvious pain. His head was tilted back, and his nose and jaw were elongating. His teeth were noticeably longer than they should have been.
"The transformation begins," Professor Snape said. "Humans and canines have a relatively similar skeletal structure, even if the bone lengths, shapes, and locations differ. Note the femur is becoming bowed.
The shoulder blades are moving from his back towards his sides. His arms are lengthening to become front legs. His fingernails are growing out and curving into claws. All reports point to this being an excruciating metamorphosis."
Professor Snape sounded strangely happy to announce this. The slide moved on to the next image. The Werewolf was still standing on its back legs but was now entirely transformed. It was staring at the camera with a hungry expression.
"The transformation is complete," Professor Snape said. "The curse has merely altered his body, but it has completely displaced his mind. The mildest mannered wizard will become a raging beast."
The image changed again. The Werewolf was now on all fours and was lunging forward, its jaws open.
"The wizard who took these photographs was mauled by the werewolf shown," Professor Snape said. "He had foolishly theorized that the wolf would not attack him since the afflicted man was his brother. He did not survive to regret his poor choice. The Ministry executed the Werewolf for the attack."
Professor Snape waved his wand, and the projector shut off. The window shades rolled themselves back up, allowing the sun to shine in again.
"For the remainder of this period, you will read Chapter 13 and learn how to identify and kill werewolves. For homework, you will write at least two feet of parchment to be turned in to me detailing the signs of lycanthropy in wizards and what patterns of behaviour will betray a Werewolf in your midst. Begin."
"Normal, everyday fertilizer pales compared to dragon dung," Professor Sprout told her Herbology class. "It is critical to know the type of dragon that produced your particular batch. Just as different breeds of dragons are known for different behaviours and abilities, their dung is also unique. In this case, we will be growing pumpkins for Halloween. For example, pumpkins grown using Chinese Fireball dung tend to be incredibly spicy. If you use Ukrainian Ironbelly dung instead, you'd have a tough time carving them as their skin would be as hard as metal."
She began handing out planting pots, each with a small green shoot poking out of the soil.
For the next few weeks," Professor Sprout instructed, "you will measure and document the growth of your pumpkin. You will each have your own pumpkin and choose one of four types of dragon dung to fertilize the soil. Expect them to grow very fast once you add the manure. Get started, please."
As they worked, Harry, Hermione and Neville quietly talked.
"I think we should wait till summer," Hermione said. "Can you imagine how disruptive it would be to hold a leaf in our mouths for a full month here at school?"
"I don't know where I'll be this summer," Harry said. "If it's disruptive here, it would be doubly so for me at the Jedi Temple."
"You also won't have Professor McGonagall to help you over the summer," Neville whispered. "She said not to do this on our own."
"We'll talk about this later," Harry said. "We're drawing attention."
It was a clear night in the village of Plockton. The only clouds were streams of mist that rose from the surface of the Loch. A small group of boys stood in front of a large castle.
"I don't think I want to anymore," Bobby Sheldon said. He had turned twelve only a month before and idolized his brother Ian. Ian was two years older and was in the small gang of young boys of Plockton.
Plockton was a tiny village, and the dozen or so boys were very bored. They tore around the streets on bicycles and had built a fort on the shores of the Loch. Some of the older boys had repaired a few broken creels and would catch and cook prawns from the Loch. There wasn't much real mischief they could manage in such a small village. Everyone knew everyone else, and the community quickly handled any significant problems.
The gang did, however, have one thing they'd managed to keep secret from the adults. They liked to initiate new members by having them break into the old, abandoned castle at midnight and stay until dawn. There wasn't much risk of them being found out, as Duncraig Castle stood abandoned for several years now.
It stood near the village on the south shore of Loch Carron. It was used as a hospital in the second world war but was bequeathed to the local council by the widow of the last family member who died. The council converted into a girls-only college until it closed in 1989. It now stood derelict and deserted.
"Don't be a chicken," Ian said. "I told them you'd do it."
Bobby peered into the glass window and saw stacks of chairs. An ironing board was leaning against the wall, and several old irons collected dust on a shelf. The room was one of the old classrooms from the home economics college.
"All right," Bobby said. He took the rock his brother handed him, stepped back, and threw it as hard as he could at the window. One of the older boys used a baseball bat to clear away the shards of glass that remained on the bottom of the windowsill and then helped Bobby scramble in.
"Now remember," the older boy called in, "you're not allowed to set foot out of that castle till dawn. Manage it, and you're in."
Bobby tiptoed his way out of the classroom and into the dark hallway. The other boys had left, not wanting to be missed. They said they'd know if he tried to sneak out before dawn. He didn't want to spend the night in the classroom, though. The window smashing had been loud, and he feared the deputies would catch him if he stayed there.
The old castle was filled with old furniture. The furniture had been covered with white sheets when the castle was abandoned. The light from the full moon, even dampened by four years worth of grime, was powerful enough to make the sheets glow like ghosts. Bobby pulled a sheet off an old sofa and coughed as the cloud of accumulated dust floated into the air. He pulled a few more sheets off tables and chairs and started making a bed on the sofa. He was tired but still too curious to try to sleep yet.
He opened a closet to see if he could find something to make a better pillow than a folded-up sheet and gave out a scream as a mannequin fell out on top of him. Abandoning the room, he dashed into the hallway and ran to find shelter elsewhere. As he ran past, a dark shape followed him.
Bobby had made his bed again in a room down the hall. He had laid down but was too scared to fall asleep. He had propped chairs under the closet doors and even pushed a table against the entrance to the room. The only way in was through the window, which the gang hadn't yet vandalized.
Suddenly, a bang came from the door. Bobby leapt up and brandished a table leg he had salvaged as a weapon. Another boom came, and then another. The table he had scooted against the door was shoved back as the door was broken and forced open.
Bobby screamed as a giant, furry monster shoved into the room. Drool dripped from its fangs as it snarled at him. Another Werewolf entered and hopped onto a table. A third entered and growled as it stared at Bobby.
A man wearing a leather jacket entered and looked at him without emotion.
"That's unfortunate," the man sighed. He turned to the largest of the Werewolves. "Get rid of him." The three Werewolves hissed in fury and pushed past the man to rush at Bobby. The boy squealed in fear as they leapt at him, and everything went black.
"I meant scare him away," Klang Kaabacus said, looking down at the bloody body of the young boy. Bobby was still alive but was horribly injured. The sun was streaming through the windows, and the blood-scattered white sheets stood out starkly as a testament to the ferocity of the previous night's incident. "Why did you attack him?"
"This is what we do," Fenrir Greyback growled. "We increase the pack."
"He will be like you?" Klaang asked.
"If he survives," Fenrir answered. "If he is strong enough."
"This complicates matters," Klaang said, looking out the window. "It won't be long before they search here for him. We need to leave."
"He comes with us," Fenrir said. "He is pack."
"How will you keep him in line?" Klaang asked. "He is a security risk."
"The same way we train all new wolves," Fenrir said. "Young ones are more trainable. Good behaviour is rewarded with food and affection. Bad behaviour with severe punishment. They learn quickly."
"Barbarians," Klaang muttered under his breath. Fenrir heard him anyway.
"Careful," he growled. "My pack doesn't attack you on my orders, but that can easily be changed. I am curious if your alien blood would accept the curse."
"You should be careful yourself," Klaang responded. "I can arrange for your entire planet to be eradicated."
Fenrir Greyback snarled in response.
Bobby sat in the small room he had been left in and tried to keep his crying silent. It had been two weeks since Werewolves had attacked him in Duncraig Castle, and he missed his mother and brother. He knew he could never go back to them.
The rules had been explained to him by the other Werewolves. There were only two rules. Don't try to run away. Do anything that Papa said. Not running away was hard. They said they could find him if he did, and they would punish him. He had only tried it twice. His injuries from his punishments healed as fast as the ones he received in the attack did.
Papa was the biggest Werewolf. Some of the older men in the pack called him Fenrir, and others called him Greyback, but he insisted the young ones call him Papa. Papa could be nice, or he could be horribly bad. When the younger boys cooperated, Papa gave out sweets. He loved to laugh and play games. But when they were stubborn, Papa changed. He bit and scratched. He hit and tore. The wounds all healed very rapidly, but they still hurt.
Bobby quickly learned what was acceptable behaviour and what was not. After the first week, he started to believe the stories the others told him about what would happen if he did get home. Bobby was a monster now. If he got home, he'd kill his own family. He hadn't turned yet, but that was only two weeks away. He whimpered again as the fear of that first night as a proper Werewolf loomed in his mind.
At Hogwarts, Professor Lupin rapidly became a favourite teacher. He had excused the essay Professor Snape had assigned and told them he would be going over Werewolves later in the year.
"Let's talk about ghosts and poltergeists," he said to the class. "Mr Crabbe, can you tell me what a ghost is?"
"A dead person?" Crabbe asked.
"In a way, yes," Professor Lupin said, "but that's not quite the answer I was looking for. Mr Malfoy, how about you?"
"A ghost," Draco answered, "is the magical imprint of a deceased wizard or witch's soul on the physical plane of existence."
"Yes," Lupin acknowledged. "Take five points for Slytherin. Mr Finnigan, can you tell me what a poltergeist is?"
"Ummm..." Seamus said, thinking. "It's a ghost that likes to cause mischief?"
"Not quite," Lupin said. "Miss Granger?"
"A poltergeist," Hermione answered, "is a non-human spiritous apparition manifesting as a sentient pool of chaotic magic."
"Very good," Lupin said, "take five points as well. Now..."
"Hang on," Seamus interrupted. "What does that mean?"
"A non-human spiritous apparition is a classification of non-being," Lupin explained. "They are created when an enormous outpouring of human emotion exists in one place and time. Entities in this group include poltergeists, boggarts, and dementors."
"Oh," Seamus said, writing that down in his notes.
"Now," Lupin continued, "can someone tell me why ghosts cannot usually interact with their environment, but poltergeists can?
Albus Dumbledore bent over a large parchment covered in strange runes and designs. Professor Flitwick had joined him in his office to try an experiment.
"If I am reading these runes correctly," he said, "placing the diary on this section here will give us some information about whatever other Horcruxes Tom may have made."
"Yes," Flitwick confirmed. "The diary is no longer a Horcrux, of course, but there is still a sympathetic connection to the whole that will always exist."
"Remarkable," Albus said. "While the runes are the standard Futhark, I do not recognize this other writing. It is not Goblin."
"No," Flitwick said, concentrating on one corner to ensure he had inscribed the runes correctly. "This is Haitian, actually."
"Haitian?" Albus asked, surprised.
"Yes," Flitwick confirmed. "I learned it from an Oungan I met on sabbatical a number of years ago."
"This is Voodoo?" Albus asked.
"Oh no," Flitwick said dismissively. "This is just some sympathetic magic. Also, please understand that this will not tell us what any other Horcruxes are, nor where they are. It will only tell us how many. If this were still a Horcrux, then a Voodoo ritual might help us deal with them, but I would not know how to perform it. We would need to talk to an Oungan directly for that."
"I'll keep that in mind if we locate another one," Albus said.
"Ok," Flitwick said. "We're ready. Place the diary on the square, please."
Albus placed the old book in the centre of a black rectangle that was just big enough to fit the diary. There was an empty three-inch circle below the rectangle. Both shapes were connected to each other by chains of tightly woven runes. As soon as the diary was in place, the runes lit up.
For a few seconds, it didn't look like anything else would happen. Then, a line drew itself from the circle's centre to an edge. Then another line appeared. Then another. Then two more. Then five more. With every second that passed, more and more lines began to appear. Albus gave a confused look to Flitwick, who was staring at the parchment with dismay. The lines kept coming. When they finally stopped, the circle almost looked filled. Flitwick cast a spell that would count the lines.
"One hundred and eighty-nine!" he exclaimed. "Merciful Merlin!"
"All of these lines represent a soul fragment of Tom Riddle?" Albus asked.
"Yes!" Flitwick nearly yelled. "How can he have made so many?"
"This is far beyond anything I expected," Albus said, frowning at the parchment. "Even at my most pessimistic, I never dreamed he'd make more than two."
"If I ever meet the Author," Flitwick said, "he and I are going to have a very serious conversation."
"The Author?" Albus asked.
"It's nothing," Flitwick said, shaking his head. "Just some fairly obscure Goblin beliefs that no one really believes in."
"Please, my friend," Albus said. "I would welcome a topic other than what we just witnessed."
"A small group of Goblins believe in a religion called Arrrgrish," Flitwick explained. He rolled the 'r's in the word heavily, and the 'g' sounded like a growl. "If I had to translate that to English, I'd say Auctorism. They believe that the world and everything in it is fictional. All of us are characters in a story with an Author writing our lives."
"They believe no one is real?" Albus asked.
"Well, that's what this small but very loud group believes, at any rate," Flitwick said. "It's generally composed of young Goblins rebelling against their parents. They mostly use it as a convenient excuse to do whatever they want."
"What do you mean?" Albus asked.
"If the entire world is merely fiction," Flitwick said, "then everything you do is pre-ordained. Nothing you do has actual consequences. Even if it did, it wouldn't be your fault because it wasn't your free will. It was the Author. The Author wouldn't have written it if he didn't want it to exist. Thus, you can do anything you want."
"That's very circular reasoning," Albus said.
"Yes, well," Flitwick said, "remember that I don't believe in it, regardless of my remark earlier. It's become something of a saying when dealing with the absurd. How are we going to deal with this?" Flitwick steered the conversation back to the matter at hand.
"I do not know," Albus answered. "I do not yet know."
"They could be anything," Flitwick mused. "Or anywhere. Do we have any clear idea of his movements after he left Hogwarts?"
"I have some knowledge of his movements immediately after his graduation," Dumbledore answered, "but there is a solid decade where he travelled abroad and beyond any notice of anyone I've ever known about."
"Then they truly could be anything or anywhere," Flitwick moaned.
"I'm afraid so," Dumbledore agreed.