Ooh, hey. An update. Cool.

Enjoy, everyone! (sorry, no reviewer responses right now; Baked is exhausted)

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7
Beasts, All Over the Shop

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It took Lenore wracking her brain for a few moments to recall, from the considerable reeducation she got from the Unspeakables after waking up, who Dumbledore was talking about; once she remembered, she shrugged and replied, "Slytherin, Class of 1945, Head Boy under your predecessor. Currently holds the records for highest-scoring British NEWTs in Arithmancy, Potions, Spellcrafting, and Herbology, and the highest score in Arithmancy on the ICW accreditation exam. He would've had DADA and Transfiguration, but I literally got a perfect score on that exam, and I highly doubt anyone will ever supplant you in your field."

"James Potter came quite close," Albus nodded soberly, before asking, "But, forgive me, how do you know so much about him?"

Lenore gave him a flat look, "Albus, I've been asleep for 300 years and could ask the DoM for most anything and get it. First thing I did after reporting my mission's success was spend two relative months with a Time Turner and access to the Ministry Archives."

"Ah," he nodded in understanding, "Then you no doubt know that he vanished not long after graduating."

"Supposedly, he went on a tour of the world, like many young Magicals are wont to do once their primary education is complete; as I understand it, he started travelling after a short stint as a shopkeeper's assistant. Two years later, he booked a Mundane hotel in Sydney, Australia; the trail goes cold there," Lenore frowned at the Headmaster, "though, given you're asking me about him, I take it he's still among the living?"

Albus winced, "After a fashion. Humor me," taking out his wand, he waved it through the air, leaving behind flaming letters as he spelled out the name.

TOM
MARVOLLO
RIDDLE

Examining these words, Lenore couldn't figure out what Albus was trying to show her. Then again, Martine was the one who was better at puzzles. Lenore's general approach to such things was to brute force the solution… mostly by either blowing it up or slicing it to ribbons.

With a grim frown, Albus waved his wand, and the letters rearranged themselves…

With a hiss, Lenore finally understood why Dumbledore was bringing this subject up.

I
AM
LORD
VOLDEMORT

"And thus does the plot thicken," Lenore growled.

"Indeed; though a rather gaudy way of choosing one's name, if I do say so myself. It's actually bad schoolboy French: vol de la mort, which roughly translates into either 'Flight of Death', or 'Fly From Death'," Albus explained, waving his wand to dispel the words with a pinched expression. "Tom would deny it at the accusation, if he were to hear it, but I tend to lean more to the latter translation than the former, when musing on the subject."

Interesting. And, to Lenore, more than a little unsurprising; having been exposed to Albus for even a little time showed his ineptitude when handling Harry was more the exception, than the rule, when it came to the soundness of his decisions.

There were still more than a few spots where he'd stumbled – insisting his little Order of the Phoenix use nonlethal spells against known murderers, for example – but overall, she had to admit that, when given time to think, the old Sorcerer was the furthest thing from dim.

But back to the matter at hand, "A fear of death… you think this has to do with his becoming a… wraith? Shade?"

Albus blinked in surprise, "You haven't asked Harry about his encounter last term?"

"Of course I have," Lenore frowned, reclining in her chair and rubbing the side of her mouth in thought, "The issue is, from Harry's description, Voldemort has become something difficult to define by classical means.

"If he were a shade, for instance, he would be easy enough to track while moving, mainly by the reaction of the local wildlife to such a presence. Shades are inherently Dark, and generally look to possess whatever host they can find. The problem with this theory – that the corpse-fucker has become a shade – is that a shade is basically mindless while outside a living host; it cannot think, plan, or really act much until it finds a body and soul to sink its hooks into. That Quirrel just happened to ignore every possible sign that a shade was near, in Romania of all places… you must admit, the possibility of it all happening by accident, it strains credulity something fierce."

Albus nodded, listening attentively while stroking his beard in equal intense thought, "While I agree it couldn't have been an accident, I must also argue in Quirinus' favor; before being possessed by Tom, he was quite agreeable and even-minded, if quiet and reserved."

"You didn't find his sudden change of subject to be odd?" Lenore asked, a suspicion worming its way into her head.

"I did," Albus admitted, meeting her eyes evenly, "in fact, I highly suspected poor Quirinus was either a victim of the Imperius Curse – which was ruled out early on – or was communicating directly with Tom somehow, who was feeding him instructions on how to acquire the Stone."

"Which wasn't the real Stone, nor were the defenses particularly difficult to bypass; at least, for anyone with two brain cells to rub together."

"Yes, Lenore," Albus sighed wearily, "you've made your opinion on the intelligence of today's Magicals quite clear; let us try to stay on topic."

Lenore blinked, and decided to clarify, "Oh, I wasn't on about that again. Actually, I was going to segue into how the little necromancer is more likely a wraith, though there's problems with that too."

Blinking in pleased surprise, Albus leaned forward attentively, "Please, go on."

Nodding, Lenore squinted at a point over Albus' left shoulder, "As for the question of whether or not he's a wraith, that's a bit easier to examine. While inhabiting Quirrell's body, Vol… ah, Tom, rather… he was steadily causing it to break down."

"A body can scarcely hold two souls at once," Albus pointed out gravely.

But Lenore lifted a finger, "Not necessarily. There have been cases of twinned souls existing in the same body before, and I can think of three separate cases where an individual used their own body to house another's soul, in tandem with their own, for more than a year. The difference between this and a wraith is simple: a wraith possession always causes the breakdown of the host's own body, mind, and soul; it literally leeches their life-force to sustain its own. Indeed, it does this to give itself mental agency; in a way, it's more parasitic of a creature than the shade, and more akin to what Harry encountered. It also neatly explains the," Lenore shivered involuntarily in disgust, which said a lot about, "drinking of unicorn blood. Blegh.

"But, again, there's a problem: wraiths aren't the product of a dead person, or the remnants of an individual's life essence, like ghosts are. They're actually lesser demons that spontaneously manifest in areas of negative magic; for instance, a dementor is actually a type of wraith."

"Fascinating…" Albus breathed, before shaking himself when Lenore glared at him, "The subject matter, of course; I admit, much of what you've just told me is new information to my ears. Which, yes, that does say a lot about how Defense is taught these days, doesn't it?"

"Hm, yes, but we're getting off topic again," Lenore slumped slightly, legs crossed, finger tracing her jaw as she thought of what Harry told her furiously. "...the physical manifestation; that is what has me vexed. A powerful poltergeist could theoretically pull something like that off, but that assumes one is inclined to put the effort into pulling off such a stunt."

"And most wouldn't be; our castle's, Peeves, rarely puts any real effort into pulling his pranks, of which I am grateful," Albus observed earnestly, hands folded over his chest as he frowned at the ceiling, also thinking deeply.

"You can't go wrong with slapstick," Lenore shrugged, right as something Harry told her tickled at her brain, "...Harry told me, the necromancer talked about his condition, after the Killing Curse rebounded."

"I as well," Albus agreed, his gaze sharpening, "I believe it was, less than even a ghost, forced to live between this world and the next. Or something like that."

"That sounds like what Harry told me," Lenore nodded, shifting in her seat as she mentally dissected the words. "If he was telling the truth, however, that means the little shit was neither wraith or shade or any known variety of spiritual successor to a living person."

Albus blinked, leaning forward with a finger raised, "Ah! But he did attempt to possess Harry after Quirinus was destroyed by the protection laid on the boy."

Lenore waved him off, standing and beginning to pace while thinking aloud, "Yes, yes, that's very shade-like behavior, but the fact of the matter is that he stopped. An actual shade, even recently freed, would waste itself against barriers that could destroy it. Instead, Dark Lord Tom ran away after knocking Harry unconscious; if he can still feel sensation, I theorize what he felt – and is likely still feeling – is akin to a full-body rash."

"Truly?"

"Yes, I've seen it in person."

"I meant the rash part."

"That too; protego horribilis works on ghosts, you know," Albus blinked, but then flinched as Lenore pounded her fist into a palm, remembering something she read about centuries ago in the Black Library, "But he's given his secret away, the blithering dumbass!"

Leaning forward, with Fawkes mirroring him, the Headmaster asked eagerly, "You know how he's avoided death?"

Grinning, Lenore folded her arms, "Maybe!"

Albus stared at her blankly.

"I'll be honest, the boy was intelligent enough to create his own rituals, but I seriously doubt he'd come up with something to tether himself to reality, and then get it right on the first try without killing himself."

"But there is a method."

"Two, both horrific, but one is Darker than the other, and Tom would only have access to one."

"Why?"

"Do you know what a phylactery is?"

Albus frowned, blinked, and suddenly stood up with fear in his gaze, "A soul jar?!"

Lenore wobbled a hand with a grimace, "That's sort-of what it is; the term soul jar is actually a catch-all term for what we in the Orders call soul anchors. Back to what I was saying, yes, a phylactery acts as an anchor for a person's soul, keeping them from the Sunless Lands, and as such can act as a resurrection tool, but its primary ingredient is the caster's own blood, and that of a mutually trusted companion, a true friend, a brother in all but blood. In other words, little Tommy boy would have to see someone else as an equal, and all the DoM knows about the shithead's mannerisms says, to me at least, that he was an arrogant prick."

"While I admit he was indeed arrogant, at least some of that arrogance was well-earned," Albus pointed out fairly, "The boy was very talented."

"You'll find no argument from me, but that still leaves the second, and more likely, option, given his utter lack of empathy and value of other people's lives: soul cleaving."

Albus' face blanched, while Fawkes squawked and stumbled on his perch, "...come again?"

Lenore's face curled into a snarl, "It's one of the oldest and Darkest arts. Herpro the Foul used it, to avoid death at Thermopolye at the hands of Xerxes and Leonidas; it was only through one of that Dark Lord's slaves betraying the route one of Herpo's servants was taking, attempting to carry the piece of his master's soul to the Scythiian steppes, and then Martyr Logarius sacrificing himself to destroy the object containing part of Herpo's soul, that the First Hunter was able to strike the madman himself down on the plains of Marathon while Ludwig and Lady Maria held his damned army at bay with the Persians and allied Greeks.

"But from that slave, the Hunter Orders learned how this object, a Horcrux, was created: through the desecration and murder of a virgin innocent, a person's soul becomes weakened. Then, in an act so heinous, the ICW has a standing order to exterminate anyone creating such an object, the caster uses magic and pure willpower to sever a piece of their own soul, which they then tie to a physical object. And because the only way to truly destroy a soul is to feed it to a dementor or throw it through the Veil, the object is indestructible to all but the most powerful Goblin weapons, the deadliest of poisons, and the most dreadful of magics.

"The Emerald Heart of Koschei the Deathless was one such object, until the legendary hag Baba Yaga ate it. Emeric the Evil created another, from the skull of his mother; in that case, Lady Maria coated one of her blades in basilisk venom and stabbed it. I believe it's still on display at the Astral Clocktower, actually…

"Regardless, Albus," Lenore concluded bitterly, because of course the stupid little corpse-humper couldn't have stopped at inferi, "unless he's dancing to the tune of one of the Archdemons, like Lilith or Azazel, there is no other way I can think of that could have Riddle avoid death for this long." Sighing, she looked his way to see how he was taking the news- and stilled.

His face was red, his hands were fists, and he was glaring at his desktop with such a vicious expression, Lenore was surprised it didn't burst into flame.

"That…" he began, roughly, as though he was forcing the words through his teeth, "...that two-faced, fork-tongued, ungrateful little SHIT!"

What followed was the first and only desk-flip Lenore had ever seen since becoming an adult Witch, and a tirade of such vehement hatred, the result of half a century of built-up anger and regret, it beggared belief.

In it, Albus basically admitted to trying to guide the young Riddle, after he found him in a Mundane orphanage, but between Grindlewald, the worsening state of Europe during the rise of the three despots – Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin – on top of his regular professor duties at Hogwarts, it was abundantly clear Dumbledore didn't have the time to give Riddle much attention, or the guidance he needed. Regardless, Albus had tried, even offering the boy a place to vacation over summer hols – which Riddle refused, likely due to Dumbledore not being susceptible to the blunt-force Legilimency the boy, apparently, honed over the years – but that was more than anyone else could say; Dippet was, by all accounts, a moron who was more concerned with budgets than the wellbeing of an orphan in a hostile environment, denying the boy room and board even during the fecking Blitz. As for Slughorn… well, Lenore hadn't met the Potions Master, but while rumor had it he was highly skilled, both as a teacher and practitioner, his socialite ways, while Slytherin, rarely benefited anyone but himself, and Riddle was, by all evident accounts, no exception.

By the time the rant concluded, Lenore had repaired and righted the heavy desk, retrieved a bottle of 20-year-old scotch, poured Albus a tot, another to keep him company, and took a third for herself so she could muse over the implications of the meeting while Albus fumed silently over his drink, Fawkes crooning a soothing song on the furious Wizard's shoulder.

After tossing a few ideas around in her head and coming up with little, Lenore asked, "The Unspeakables… most of them said Voldemort… degenerated, over time, that he was barely human by the time the events of Godric's Hollow came to a conclusion."

Some of the brilliant light came back in Albus' eyes, "Yes… his nose was all-but gone, his hair had fallen out… honestly," he looked up at Lenore wearily, from his seat on the floor near Fawkes' perch, "he looked more like a snake than a man, by that point. Even when he came here for an interview, I could see that he'd dabbled in some kind of Dark magic that was, for lack of a better term, changing him."

"Yes, I believe Minerva mentioned that; she brought him up, when he visited," Lenore mused, sipping her scotch before shaking her head, "There's something about that, the mutation, that I feel is important to this talk of Horcruxes, but I can't put my finger on it."

"Did Herpo, hmph," Albus grunted as he stood, giving Fawkes a thankful pat before trying again, "Did he mutate, after returning?"

Lenore shook her head, brow furrowed, "No, there was no visible difference."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Albus appeared to think furiously- before, suddenly, his eyes opened, "Seven."

Lenore made a face at him, "What?"

"Tom. He was obsessed with the number seven. He even wrote a paper on how it was the most magically stable number-"

"By the warty rump of Queen Mary, that fecking arsehole split himself SEVEN BLOODY TIMES?!"

"I think it's more likely six times," Albus ventured with a placating gesture while Lenore visibly shivered with rage. "That way, he would have a seven-fold soul, rendering any potential instability-"

"-worse, Albus, it would make it worse," Lenore hissed, running a hand through her hair in frustration, "Feck, it's no wonder he was barely human, by the end; nevermind what doing something like that more than once would do to your sanity!"

With both Wizard and Witch now quite angered and vexed, they decided to pick up the conversation at a later date. Lenore needed to prepare for her next class – where she'd introduce the new First-through-Third Year Defense Professor, Remus Lupin – and Albus needed to wring his brain out into his Pensieve, see if there were any clues or hints as to where Riddle had hidden his Horcruxes.

As Lenore was about to go to sleep, however, she had a thought: while Riddle trusted few of his followers, Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy were the most influental of them.

It would seem like another visit to Malfoy Manor was in order…

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During the next Defense class – a combined Fourth and Second Year lesson, where they presented their homework on Cornish Pixies – Hermione noticed someone enter the class and discreetly seat himself near Professor Black.

Brown hair, a kind face, and not badly dressed, but there were some scars on his neck and cheeks; thin, faded, but there.

Regardless, Professor Black smiled warmly at the man before going back to listening to the Weasley Twins give their report, complete with one live – and Confunded – Pixie, which they took great pleasure in dressing up in a jester's outfit.

Hermione didn't think it was in very good taste, but it made Tracey giggle, so it was good enough for her.

Their own group's historic presentation had received an approving nod from the Professor, so Hermione was sure they'd all get top marks! And so what if Ron grumbled a little about her 'messing around with slimy snakes'? Millicent, Daphne and Tracey were perfectly nice people, even if the former two were a little stiff at times, especially when it came to Muggle subjects like dentistry.

Harry certainly didn't seem to have a problem with her having friends. Even more, he and Malfoy hadn't sniped at each other once since the Pixie Incident. Maybe they could find it in them to bury their little rivalry; though, Hermione had to admit, that stood about as much of a chance as pigs growing wings and flying without magic.

With the conclusion of the Twins' presentation, the last of the day, Professor Black stood and applauded, "Well done, everyone," the class joined in, briefly, tapering off when the Professor came to a stop in front of her desk, her guest walking over to stand next to her, "Individual scores will be given out at the next class, but for now, I'll award ten points to each House for everyone completing the homework to a satisfactory degree.

"But now, I'm sure you're curious who this individual is," Professor Black gestured at the man next to her, who smiled and gave a small wave, "This is Professor Remus Lupin, recently having attained an ICW Mastery in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and alumnus of this very school."

"Gryffindor, to be precise," Professor Lupin clarified, his voice easygoing and kind, reminding Hermione of some of her better History teachers from Primary School, "Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Black here contacted me after your previous teacher, ah, proved to be less than capable; I'll be taking over the First through Third Year classes, starting next week."

That was odd, Hermione felt; why wouldn't he start teaching right away?

Nodding, Professor Black clarified, "For this first week, he'll be shadowing me and providing context for various dangerous magical creatures we'll be covering, especially in the upper years. This is partly due to his expertise with creatures the ICW has classed as either Dangerous or Dark, but also because this is his first teaching job; however, have no fear," she added when a few of Hermione's classmates shifted uncomfortably, "unlike that moron Lockhart, having interviewed Professor Lupin I'm certain you youngsters will be enjoying your hands-on lessons, as they'll be completely safe; no chance of fighting for your lives."

Well, that was good! Hermione was still having shivers every time she heard a buzzing sound; it was especially bad in the greenhouses, where bees sometimes wandered. And she wasn't alone; not only was Harry twitchier than ever, Tracy – according to Millicent – was still having nightmares about her neck getting-

Hermione banished the thoughts; she was in the middle of a class.

Presently, Professor Black fixed everyone with a stern glare, "Now, it falls to myself, and Professor Lupin, to inform you about a condition of his. For those of you who have heard the propoganda on the subject, be at ease: not only will I spend the rest of this class informing you on the particulars of the subject, I will also remind you of a simple fact, and that is this:

"I am the most dangerous thing in this room."

A chill seemed to pass through the gathered students at that statement, even Fred and George shifting uncomfortably at the words. But what did Professor Black mean, by Professor Lupin's condition? Was he sick?

"Shall we cut to the chase?" the man himself asked; at Professor Black's curt nod, he sighed, "I won't mince words at all: I am a werewolf."

There was a visible flinch in most of the students, ones, Hermione realized, were either Purebloods or Half-Bloods raised in the Magical World.

"Is the Headmaster mental?!" one of the Slytherins blurted – Selwyn, if Hermione remembered correctly, "Letting one of these beasts in h-"

"Miss Selwyn," with two words, Professor Black was able to incite more terror in Hermione than the troll that nearly killed her last Halloween, and she wasn't even the target! Selwyn, herself, choked off her building rant with the sound of a stepped-on mouse, "As it is quite clear there is an abundance of ignorance where things like lycanthropy is concerned, I feel I should forgive that outburst; however, I will not have you, or any student of this institution, insult or harass one of its Professors for something they did not choose and cannot control. Five points from Slytherin, and if there is another outburst, you will have detention with myself and Mr. Potter," she smiled nastily, "who is just about ready to tackle his first red caps, aren't you, Harry?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry said woodenly, drawing a pang of pity from Hermione, which she quickly crushed; while it was a shame they couldn't spend more free time relaxing, that car didn't drive itself into the Whomping Willow.

And teaching Harry new spells was always so rewarding, to Hermione.

Regardless, Professor Black went on, "Now, the lesson for today is about lycanthropy, as well as its source. Can anyone tell me how many different types of werewolves there are?" no one raised their hand for a moment- but then Daphne did, "Ms. Greengrass?"

"There are normal, law-abiding werewolves, who take precautions before every full moon so they don't spread the infection; ones with steady money can even acquire the Wolfsbane Potion, which eases the transformation and allows the, um, person to keep their human mind, even as a beast," her tone turned to disgust, "Then there are feral werewolves, like Fenrir Greyback; they revel in their cursed existence, spreading the infection freely and feeding on human flesh."

"And as soon as I am able to have some free time, his time on this Earth will be measured in hours, but that is two," Professor Black gave a wan smile, nevermind how she just all-but stated she was going to kill someone! But, well… that's what Hunters did, wasn't it? "Five points to Slytherin, and another five if you can give me the third category."

Daphne frowned and shook her head, "There… is there a third?"

"Most don't know about there being a third category of werewolf," Professor Lupin told her with a bitter smirk. "To further clarify, the three types denote how the human mind deals with the curse on them, the beast living within them. There are those who resist and refuse to entertain the base instincts the curse tries to bring out – and this is not easy; despite representing the majority of the werewolf population, those like myself are constantly being whispered to by the beast within. It is weakest during the new moon, but it is still there. It takes quite a lot of willpower to resist the pull of the feral mind that is the beast for more than ten years; myself, I am twenty-eight, and have been a werewolf since the age of six, when Greyback killed my parents and infected me."

"That's horrible!" Parvati exclaimed, to quite a few agreements from, well, pretty much everyone; even Malfoy was nodding with an angry frown! Who did that to a child!?

"Indeed; and it is only one of the many reasons I've accepted the ICW's request to put the mad dog down, though in my own time," Lenore Black was less a Professor in that moment, and more the Hunter Hermione had briefly witnessed a week ago: eyes dark, a small smile on her face, and a hint of purple briefly enveloping her form.

And then it was gone, the woman taking a breath and smiling, though it seemed strained a bit, "But, yes, Greyback, and those like him, are the second category of werewolf: those who retain their humanity, but revel in the power and strength their curse gives them. Not enough to truly embrace the beast, but enough for it to change them."

As Professor Black turned to one of her shelves and touched it- which rippled and became a rack of weapons- Professor Lupin picked up where she left off, "As you can see by looking at me, while I have a few scars, I don't look very much like a wolf. Feral werewolves, even during a new moon, do retain some of the canine features that are hallmarks of lycanthropy. Long, blackened nails, thick facial hair, the scent of dog, sharper teeth and blackened gums, and a bright yellowing of the eyes; these are all ways to identify a feral werewolf.

"Though," Professor Lupin chuckled a little, giving the class a warm smile, "none of you have to worry about seeing any of those; since the Norman Invasion, a set of rune stones has been in place on the shores of England, warning of any feral werewolves that come to the country. Additionally, Greyback and his clan are isolated in the mountains of Sweden; they are both the largest group and the only group of feral werewolves in Europe. All others tend to be single hermits that live in the wilds of Canada, or wander the dense forests of Siberia."

While Hermione noted all of this down in one of her blank notebooks, Susan Bones raised a hand, "But, Professor, what about the Forbidden Forest? Some of the books about it say there's werewolves in there."

Hermione looked up when Professor Lupin didn't answer immediately- his face was… pitying.

"They are the third, and most dangerous category of werewolves," Professor Black intoned gravely, turning from her weapon rack with an odd-looking cane in one hand and a long flintlock pistol in the other hand. "Who can tell me where lycanthropy comes from?"

Silence fell over the class for a long, long moment… before Neville raised his hand shakily.

"Mr. Longbottom?" Lenore Black indicated him with a nod, expression grave as her tone.

"H-Herpo the Foul made it," Neville stuttered, sounding really afraid, "It's o-one of the Thirteen Scourges."

"Indeed. Five points to Gryffindor." Those cold eyes swept across the room as Professor Black continued, "The Scourges are why the Department of Mysteries and the Hunter Orders exist: to, respectively, study and destroy the results of the Thirteen Scourges. Of their number, twelve have been utterly eradicated; the only one that remains is lycanthropy, the Curse of the Beast, which is impossible to erase for one simple, if cruel, reason.

"Twice, in the past, every werewolf in the world has been exterminated; and each time, there was a sudden and inexplicable uptick of a certain sickness amongst mundane animals, which dropped off after at least 50 witches and wizards were infected with it, becoming werewolves once more. I see by the faces of those raised in the Magical World that you haven't heard of this, but for those raised in the Mundane World, most of you have heard of this disease at least once, a sickness that drives animals mad and makes them more likely to bite and infect human beings; in Witches or Wizards, it becomes lycanthropy, while Mundane folk simply get the same disease, one that will also drive them mad and make them into spreaders of this most awful plague, one that once threatened to swallow the world during the Black Decade, thousands of years ago.

"Rabies."

It felt like someone had struck Hermione with a saucepan; rabies was part of a magical curse?!

"It is why NEWT-level Defense Against the Dark Arts includes ways to destroy even mundane animals," Professor Lupin reported quietly, "But, much more important to the current class, that a sickness infamous for driving man and beast mad is the source of lycanthropy should come as no surprise, given what I've told you about every werewolf's daily struggle. We've covered peaceful werewolves, like myself, and those that turn feral, like Greyback.

"And then there are those who surrender to the madness."

At this point Hermione was fully attentive of what was being said; even in stories from the Muggle world, there was nothing about what the class was currently being taught. But, still, what happened when a werewolf gave in, and became rabid?

"Fourth Years, stand," Professor Black commanded; not asked, commanded, back straight and head inclined back, looking down her nose as Hogwarts' Fourth Years all came to their feet. Once done, she nodded and said a single word, "Recite."

In one voice, all the Fourth Years said the same incantations, "Flippendo, expelliarmus, stupefy!"

Professor Black gave another curt nod and spoke again, "For the next part, class, there will be a live demonstration of an aforementioned rabid werewolf, what is known in the Hunter communities as a Scourge Beast. As a Class-XXXX Dangerous Dark Creature, your attendance of this hands-on lesson is not mandatory; in fact, Professor Lupin has some absolutely fascinating things to say about a Fire Crab in the other viewing theater," she indicated Professor Lupin with a nod, pointing at a set of curtains on the right side of the classroom. Then she indicated the left side again, "For those who wish to witness this creature, which I captured personally from the Forbidden Forest, the following rules apply: the Fourth Years will stand in front of any Second Years who wish to see this; no one but myself may cross the white line around the theater; and, finally, only I will engage the Beast at all."

She then stepped over to the side of the curtain and gave everyone an expectant look, while Professor Lupin said something about Fire Crabs having jeweled shells while walking to his curtain; some of the Second Years stood up to follow him, including Ron.

Hermione followed Harry toward the left curtain, Tracy rushing up to walk alongside her; Malfoy, with Crabbe and Goyle, as well as Susan and Neville, all joined them.

Professor Black led the way into the next room, a high-ceilinged circular room lit with torches, the walls lined with weapon racks and exercise mats, with a 2-meter-deep pit in the middle.

In the pit was a monster.

"Morganna," Selwyn breathed in front of them, aiming her wand at the thing eating a deer in the pit; near her, Adrian Pucey gagged and covered his mouth with a hanky.

Hermione didn't blame him, as, upon seeing it, she grabbed Tracy – who'd squeaked in fright – by the hand and stepped half in front of her, joining the rest of the gathered witches and wizards in pointing her wand at… at…

"Do not cross the white line," Professor Black repeated quietly, stopping at the ring of white light that seemed painted onto the ground, encircling the pit, "Otherwise, it will see you and attempt to escape; and while the barrier around the pit is quite strong, Scourge Beasts are resilient enought to break through even a Protego Horribilis."

It was coal black, interspersed with sores and long, dirty fur; craggy black skin was exposed over most of its body, with teeth like daggers set in a mouth so awful, Hermione knew both her parents would faint straight away at the sight. The way it stood was unlike any other animal she'd ever seen or heard of, its hind legs branching from its hips at right angles, while the forelimbs were stretched out in front of it, ending in clawed paws that looked more like human hands. The eyes were milky white, shot thorugh with blackened rot, and the tongue, melting the flesh of the deer as it went for another bite-

Hermione heard Draco make a disgusted sound, and even Crabbe – who was known for having a lead belly – audibly gagged; fair enough, she felt like her lunch would be quite light, after seeing this, and Tracy's, too, from the revolted shudder that ran through the other girl.

Harry's voice was the first to speak up, voice quivering slightly, "You got… him… from the Forbidden Forest?"

"That I did, Mr. Potter, though I admittedly had the help of the centaurs in capturing it; my training is more inclined to putting such beings out of their misery, than taking them alive," Lenore Black admitted in a conversational tone, adding, "As for the poor individual in front of us, you are looking at all that remains of Herbert Vaughn, most recently of the Magical Community of North York. He lasted 4 years as a werewolf, another victim of Greyback's raids, before going into the Forest to submit to the beast within him.

"You must understand, all of you, that this is the most common way for those cursed by the Beast Blood Scourge to end their lives," Lenore Black explained, her tone now heavy with sorrow. "Many go their whole lives and never surrender, while some, like Mr. Vaughn, cannot handle the anguish of the transformations and maddening whispers of the curse. For this reason, King Artur, and the Norman King William after him, established a law, written into the very stone of the Round Table by the hands of the Four Founders: a place will always be provided for those who succumb to the Scourge; and there, they will be hunted by the Centaurs, until a silver arrow finds them and releases them from their cursed life.

"As for those who do not surrender to the Scourge in their lifetime, on their deathbed they are still sent on their way with a silver knife, so as to save their soul." A pause, their Professor turning to look at the class over her shoulder, "What does this tell us of the Scourge's nature?"

Hermione's wand shot up to point at the ceiling, as her free hand was still holding Tracy's; also raising their hands were Susan, an older Hufflepuff boy, the two Ravenclaws in the Fourth Year class, and… Draco Malfoy?

"Mr. Diggory?" Professor Black nodded at the Hufflepuff boy.

"It's magical in nature, though that's obvious," he had a nice voice, Hermione thought; it made her feel calmer, "Unlike other magical diseases, it comes back, spontaneously if it needs to; no other sickness, uh, that I know of, acts like that. That means it… likely has some property that isn't… didn't, come purely from human imagination."

"Nicely reasoned, take three points," Professor Black said with another nod, turning back to stare at the Scourge Beast, "In fact, the one in front of us is a more common variety of Scourge Beast; there are others, whose strength depends on myriad factors, but the Hunter Orders have found only one common factor:

"The Beast becomes stronger the more it kills; specifically, the more blood it consumes, which is where stories of werewolves eating the hearts of their victims comes from. From this, and its spontaneous recurrence whenever lycanthropy proper is wiped out, we deduce that the Beast Blood Scourge, and lycanthropy by extension, is not of Herpo the Foul's invention, but a Daemonic Curse he placed on the Earth itself."

'Demons?! No, wait, Professor Black said it strangely…' Hermione thought while some of her peers seemed to reel at the news. She decided to raise her hand, as the terminology wasn't quite clear.

"Professor, is a daemon different from a demon?" for some reason, Malfoy scoffed at this question.

"Leave it alone, Mr. Malfoy; not everyone is as advantaged as the old families, in terms of common knowledge," Professor Black said patiently, before answering, "But, no, Ms. Granger, apart from the words sounding different, there's no difference. Now, back on topic…

"Actually," Professor Black turned around with a smile and nodded to the class, "that's all we'll cover, regarding lycanthropy and the Scourge, at least. Finer details on these subjects will have to wait until you attend NEWT classes with me."

"Oh, so Percy will have to see this terrible beastie?" one of the Twins – maybe Fred – asked with a grin.

"Dear me," added the other Twin – possibly George – a hand over his heart, "I shudder to think of how brown his trousers will become."

"Enough, you two," chuckled Professor Black, before the older Witch gestured at a nearby wall that had targets painted on it. "Now, form lines in front of this wall, and I'll teach you all a useful spell for dealing with werewolves: Agenallas, the Silver Spike Charm. And," that aura of danger flooded out of their professor as she fixed the class with a stern glare, "I had best not ever hear of you children using this spell on a classmate, for if you do, you will wish you'd only been expelled."

That message was clearly received, as even the Twins carefully casted the spell in practice, with Professor Black saying that it was possible to add barbs or filigree to the spikes as they were fired, though that was more advanced spellwork, as it combined Charms with Transfiguration.

Of concern was how Neville couldn't cast the spell, resulting in Professor Black asking to examine his wand…

Her eyes flew open wide in worry as she turned the length of battered wood this way and that, "You've only used this wand since beginning Hogwarts, Mr. Longbottom?"

"Yes, Professor," Neville answered quietly, "...it was my da's wand."

Professor Black handed it back to him, "Cast a Light Charm, if you please."

Nodding, Neville screwed his face up in concentration and said, "Lumos."

A flickering, dim light appeared at the tip, drawing pitying looks – and a few quiet sneers from the Slytherins…

But Hermione was watching Professor Black, whose eyes had gone very wide, the woman whispering, "That's… remarkable."

Neville looked dejected, and it looked like Harry was about to speak up – no doubt to say that Neville was trying his hardest-

Professor Black spoke up, her voice wavering, "Mr. Longbottom, for the sake of my heart and your own safety, please don't try to use that wand to cast again; also, do not put yourself down, for the issue isn't you, but the wand you're using."

"There's something wrong with it, Professor?" Susan Bones asked, the rest of the class now interested and visibly confused, though none more than Neville, who was frowning at his wand.

Professor Black gave a sharp nod, "Absolutely. Whatever your father did when he last used that wand, Mr. Longbottom, one thing is clear: the core – a dragon's heartstring, unless I'm extremely mistaken – was obliterated. In other words," she concluded while the entire class stared between her and Neville in shock, "you somehow have been able to pass all your classes, if scraping by, with a wand that by all rights shouldn't work."

With that, class was basically dismissed, though Professor Black promised to speak with Professor McGonagall about taking Neville to Olivander's; after gathering themselves, and one last look at the Scourge Beast in the pit, they left the arena-like area… which made Hermione wonder: just why did Professor Black capture one of those terrible beasts and put it in her classroom?

It was safe, of course; she was clearly no Lockhart. But… what was she going to do with it?

So, after class was dismissed, she went up to the Professors – who were comparing pieces of Fire Crab shell, as the creature was apparently molting – and asked, "Professor Black?"

Looking up from a glittering chunk, the Professor in question gave her a friendly smile, "Yes, Ms. Granger?"

"I was curious, what are you going to do with the Scourge Beast?"

Professor Black blinked, and replied, "Well, after teaching the Sixth and Seventh Year combined class several silver spells, I will demonstrate how Hunters dispatch their prey. In other words, Hermione, I'm going to kill it."

Shock, and more than a few protestations, rose up in Hermione… but, after thinking quickly on what she'd just learned, she bit her lip and asked, "It… is there no way to help him?"

It was Professor Lupin who shook his head, sadly, "I'm sorry, Hermione, but when a werewolf gives into the curse and becomes a Beast…" he looked at Professor Black, whose gaze had become haunted. "In Lockhart's books, he mentions the Homorphous Charm; did you read of it?"

Hermione nodded quickly, "Yes, it can turn a werewolf back into a human, if temporarily." She frowned, "I found it odd how he called it a cure, so I looked it up… after he was sacked, of course."

Professor Lupin nodded patiently with a smile, "Well, this is known to registered werewolves and Hunters, but long ago, not long after that spell was made, the Orders tried it on a Scourge Beast."

Hermione gaped, "And… what happened?"

"Ms. Granger," Professor Black said coolly, "while I admire your curiosity, I implore you to put this from your mind, lest the details give your nightmares. Know only that the result affirmed what the Orders already assumed: that, to those who become Scourge Beasts, death is the kindest of mercies."

Hermione gulped, and nodded shakily; she had enough nightmares about the Troll, thank you very much!

"Though, I did notice your project included mention of the Order of the Astral Clocktower," Lenore Black smiled again, making Hermione hope for more knowledge about the Hunters, "If you like, I could tell you of them, outside class, of course."

Agreeing readily, Hermione then hurried off to lunch, already eager for her next lesson from Professor Black, who Ron said that new caretaker, Palmira Lutka, called "The Good Hunter".