Title: Harry Potter and the Werewolf of Azkaban
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, settings or anything else from Harry Potter.
Warnings: AU
Chapter Four
Professor Fell was a plain woman, of average height and average build, with a pleasant but not remarkable voice and a cheerful manner.
"Good morning, class," Professor Fell smiled at them, as the Gryffindors filed in. Harry took his usual seat between Ron and Hermione - it was becoming more and more necessary to seperate them now, as they bickered and sniped at each other almost constantly - and took out his DADA textbook.
"Right," Professor Fell said, business-like and brisk, "Your education in Defence has been, shall we say, patchy at best. So this year, we were supposed to start on the easier stuff - Hinkypunks, Kappas, Boggarts - but given the, er, circumstances, Dumbledore believes that you should be given a thorough grounding in -" She turned and pointed her wand at a large projector screen, on which appeared several huge, slavering images of "- werewolves."
Several people in the class gasped, and Harry heard Lavender Brown give a little stifled scream. Next to him, Hermione dug her elbow into his ribs and leaned forward slightly: pay attention.
"Turn to page three-hundred and ninety-four then, class," Professor Fell said, apparantly unconcerned at the stir she had caused."Now, who can tell me some of the signs that identify a werewolf?"
Hermione's hand shot up, waving frantically in the air. A few others tentatively put up their hands, and Professor Fell very fairly made sure that everyone had their say.
"The tufted tail, professor."
"The shape of the snout."
"The pupils of the eyes."
"Excellent," Professor Fell smiled, "But can anybody tell me how you recognise a werewolf in its human form?" The class was silent. Professor Fell waved her wand again at the projector-screen, and the picture changed. Harry's stomach gave a little twist at the appearance of the scar-faced figure: Lupin. A wave of muttering rippled through the class.
Werewolves were horror stories, demons with which to frighten a naughty child: don't stray away or a werewolf'll get you, if you don't behave I'll feed you to a werewolf. Wizarding children were raised on fear and hatred of the Dark, and werewolves were Dark Creatures to the bone. Fear of the monster bred fear of those who housed it, and even the mere sight of Lupin, the most notorious werewolf ever, was enough to inspire a chill of terror in those brought up to fear and hate him.
Strangely, Harry, who had most to fear from the man, felt no rush of fear or hatred or revulsion. In fact, he felt almost sorry for the gaunt, ill-looking figure on the screen.
Somebody in the back of the class hissed with loathing and the sound was taken up and swelled alarmingly, soon the class rang with 'boo's and shouts. The picture of Lupin, a Muggle one rather than a moving wizarding picture, smiled benignly out at them, unhearing. Harry's stomach twisted.
"Now, class, shush. Class!" Professor Fell shouted. "Class! Detention, all of you!" The roar petered out and finally died, leaving a tense silence in its wake. "I am shocked," the professor went on, "absolutely shocked. I expected to be teaching sensible third-years, not a troupe of wild animals. You will all serve detention with me next Monday, and I mean everybody," this last addressed to Hermione, who had been about to protest that she hadn't made a single sound.
Harry felt a little sick. The magnitude of the hatred, the rawness of it, shocked him. He had heard less anger used when speaking about the atrocities committed by Lord Voldemort himself. Did all werewolves have this brutal prejudice to fight against?
Professor Fell, sensing the dangerous mood of the class, took the picture down and spent the rest of the lesson calmly reading through the chapter on werewolves, setting them an essay of three feet on the ways in which you recognised and killed werewolves. Harry was glad when the bell finally rang and he could escape the oppressive atmosphere. The people around him were talking in low, angry whispers, "What's she thinking, putting that up in class?", "Bet you a sack of Galleons she's one of them." Harry sped up to get away from them.
"Harry, wait." Ron and Hermione were catching up with him. "Are you alright?"
"Me? Yeah, why?"
"Thought that picture might have, dunno, caught you a bit off-guard," Ron said, looking embarrassed.
"I told you, I'm not afraid of Lupin. I don't know why everyone got so worked up about him."
Hermione scowled. "Ooh, that woman, giving the whole class detention because of some idiots," she fumed. Ron looked sheepish, and Harry remembered that he had hissed along with the rest of the class.
"Right, yeah, awful," Ron muttered. "What's next, Potions? We'd better get a move on, then, hadn't we. Let's go."
"Late, late and," Snape smiled unpleasantly as his dark eyes lingered on Harry, "late. Dear me, Potter, this is not our week, is it? Another hour of detention tonight. Now sit."
Harry, blazing with anger and indignation, glared at Snape as he took his seat. Malfoy had arrived at precisely the same time as Harry, Ron and Hermione and he had not been picked out. Draco said something to Pansy Parkinson, who giggled shrilly, further infuriating Harry.
"Shrinking Solution," Snape announced. "You will find the ingredients in their usual places, and I expect you to work in perfect silence. Begin," he said loftily, and sat down at his desk, completely ignoring the class as he bent his hooked nose over a stack of essays.
Harry set to work on his potion immediately, not wanting to give Snape another excuse to give him any further detention. The potion was fiddly and intricate, demanding full attention, but Harry's mind was not completely on the task at hand.
The image of Lupin seemed to be burned into his mind, along with the hateful roar of the class. He had to keep reminding himself that Lupin was a convicted mass-murderer, a Death Eater, a madman who was coming after him to try and kill him, because he was finding himself almost pitying the werewolf. He wished that he knew the whole story. Perhaps Hermione would help him to research it?
"Hey Potter!" Malfoy's drawl interrupted his train of thought.
"What?" he snapped.
"No talking, Potter," Snape hissed from his desk. Harry managed not to snarl that it had been Malfoy who started it, because it would be childish and futile - Snape would never punish a student of his own house.
Harry bent back over his potion, which was not the bright green of Hermione's, but at least it was not the startling orange colour of Neville's. He added a dash of leech juice and it fizzled nastily before turning a mouldy-bread shade; not perfect, but good enough. He began clearing away his station, and then something hit him in the back of the neck. He turned to see Malfoy studiously ignoring him.
"Pay attention, Potter," Snape warned, and Harry turned back to his cauldron.
It was a few minutes before the next little ball of parchment landed on his desk, right in the middle of a puddle of leech juice which had dribbled out of its jar. Harry picked up the tiny ball, nose wrinkled in distaste, and opened it. A crude stick drawing of a wolf, fangs bared, took up most of the scrap of parchement. As Harry watched, another little stick figure wandered into the picture, sporting a lightning-bolt scar. The stick-wolf snapped at the stick-Harry, biting him in two and then devouring him eagerly. Harry rolled his eyes and made a show of ripping the scrap into tiny pieces, then scattering them onto the cauldron flame. Wolf-jaws snapped at him from the fire, and then burned away into nothing.
Harry had never wished so fervently that the school day was not over. Thinking enviously of Ron and Hermione in the Gryffindor common room, perhaps playing Wizard Chess or Exploding Snap, he reluctantly made his way down to the dungeons, where Snape was waiting for him.
"Ah, Potter," he drawled in his oily, superior voice. "I see you have managed to arrive on time, for once."
Harry fought to control his deep dislike of Snape. "What do I have to do?"
"You will assist me in the brewing of a very difficult, very complex potion. I would have preferred an assistant who is a little more capable, but you will suffice. Do you see the ingredients listed on the blackboard?"
"Yes sir."
"Collect them, and set them out, in the correct quantities, in the order that they must be used, on the work-station at the front of the class. Do you understand me?"
"Yes sir."
"If I find that any ingredients are missing from my private stores, I will have you excluded from the school. Is that clear?"
"Yes sir."
"Then hurry up."
Although Harry had not actually been in Snape's own ingredient cupboard before, he had helped Hermione to steal the ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion in their second year. He had the unpleasant feeling that Snape knew, but Harry couldn't let his guilt show, and so he went about setting out the ingredients carefully and accurately. The ingredients were many and potent: dragon's blood, unicorn hair, basilisk scales, silver filings, and a large quantity of aconite to name but a few. Snape double-checked Harry's work and said nothing, which Harry took as a small victory - if Snape said nothing, it was because he had nothing to criticise.
Then came the brewing of the potion. The cauldron was large and heavy, made of thick silver and the fire beneath it so hot that the metal glowed first red, then white; Harry had to keep feeding it with foul-smelling, quick-burning logs of a wood he didn't recognise to keep it going. Snape worked feverishly, adding ingredient after ingredient, the sweat dripping down his long, hooked nose and the greasy hair swinging about his face like black rats' tails. The potion itself hissed and spat and fumed, turning first a deep, bloody red; then black; then rich purple; then thick, mud-brown; then, as the aconite went in, it flared silver for a moment before becoming clear.
Snape drew back, panting. The thick silver steam wreathed about him, blurring his outline, so that Harry could hardly see him.
"Your two hours are completed," Snape said, when he had caught his breath. "You may go."
Harry lingered, watching the potion, which was simmering now, though still giving off copious amounts of vapour. "What potion is it, sir?"
Snape's hooded black eyes regarded him, gleaming in the flickering light of the cauldron-fire. "Wolfsbane," he said at last, and then, "Your detention is over. Get out."
This time Harry obeyed, and hurried back up to Gryffindor Tower.
"Wolfsbane potion," he said to Hermione, sinking into a chair next to her. Ron was nowhere to be seen.
She looked up at him over her pile of homework and textbooks and blinked owlishly. "What?"
"Wolfsbane potion. What does it do?"
" I don't know. Why?"
"Snape made me help him brew it. Where's Ron?" He looked around for Ron, who was not in the common room.
"Oh, sulking in the library. Crookshanks had another go at Scabbers. Snape made you help him brew a potion?"
"Yeah, Wolfsbane. Do you know anything about it?"
"No. What was in it?"
"Loads of stuff. Dragon's blood, unicorn hair, er...silver shavings, I thought that was a bit odd. And aconite, too, loads of that."
"Aconite and silver." Hermione tapped her quill distractedly. "Sounds like a potion for werewolves. Maybe something to keep them away? I don't know, Harry, look I'm really, really busy. See how much homework I've got and it's only the first week!" Her voice was high and slightly panicked as she gestured at the piles of books and mounds of parchment littering the table.
"Alright, alright," Harry said, backing slowly away. "Calm down."
He left her to her books and went down to the library, where Ron was hunched over a stack of books on Dark Creatures, researching his werewolf essay. He looked up as Harry approached.
"Alright?" he said. "How was detention? What did Snape have you doing?"
"Brewing a potion. Wolfsbane, but he didn't say what it was for. Hermione thinks it's something to do with werewolves."
Ron snorted derisively at the mention of Hermione. "Did she tell you that mad animal of hers tried to eat Scabbers again?"
"Yeah. How's he doing?"
Ron glanced left and right, making sure that the librarian wasn't watching them, then discreetly pulled Scabbers out of his pocket. The rat was in a dreadful state; great clumps of his fur had come out and the skin underneath was pink and raw. He trembled constantly and bit anything that came near him, including Ron.
"Not looking too good, is he?" Ron admitted, pocketing Scabbers.
The Hogsmeade visit drew closer. Set for the first weekend in October, it was all most of the third-years could talk about. Everybody planned what they were going to do: visit the Shrieking Shack, spend a full month's allowance on Zonko jokes and Honeydukes sweets. Everybody, that is, except Harry. He had not heard from Sirius since arriving at Hogwarts, and was sure that there was no way he was going to allow Harry to go to Hogsmeade, not with Lupin sighted so close.
It was the week before the visit, a quiet Wednesday night in the library where Harry sat alone. Hermione and Ron were in the Common Room, finishing off some homework, but Harry wanted to research the Wolfsbane potion. He was not making progress. The heavy old tomes told him nothing, and gave off a musty, ancient smell that made his head ache and his eyes sting. Tired and annoyed, Harry snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the table, earning him a sharp look and a vicious shush from Madam Pince
"Sorry," Harry whispered, and decided that he had better make himself scarce before he got another detention. He returned his stack of books to their proper shelves, aware of the librarian's eagle-eyed gaze, and made his way slowly back up to Gryffindor Tower.
" Oi, Harry!"
"Wait a minute!"
Harry paused and waited for the Weasley twins to catch up with him.
"Come in here," said George, pointing at an empty classroom and casting alert glances around to make sure that there were no teachers around. Harry followed George, suspicious and wondering what kind of trouble Fred and George were planning.
"Got you an early Christmas present Harry," Fred grinned, when they were settled in the empty classroom. He pulled an old bit of parchment out of his bag and handed it to Harry, who examined it critically.
"An old bit of parchment?" he asked. Fred and George rolled their eyes.
"An old bit of parchment? This little beauty is the secret to our success!" Fred announced.
"Tap it with your wand" George instructed, "and say 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!'"
Harry did as George said, wondering whether it was some kind of practical joke.
"What's supposed to happ-" he began, and then broke off in surprise as inky lines began to spread out from his wand-tip. The lines flowed and twisted, forming words in ornate, flowing script - 'Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs proudly present The Marauders Map' - then continued to spread over the whole parchment, twisting into shapes - rooms, Harry saw; it was a map! A perfect map of Hogwarts, down to the last passage, down to the very last person! Harry watched, fascinated, the little name-tag that read 'Harry Potter', right next to two other name-tags that read 'Fred Weasley' and 'George Weasley'.
"Good, isn't it?" George grinned.
"It's...amazing!" Harry agreed.
"See, there are four passages out of Hogwarts and into Hogsmeade," Fred explained, pointing each one out. "This one's collapsed; this one's blocked; this one's right underneath the Whomping Willow, so it's a no-go; but this one, behind the hump-backed witch, will lead you right into the storeroom underneath Honeydukes."
"Take care of it, Harry," George said, with a small sigh.
"Won't you need it?"
"Nah, we've memorised all the passageways. It's time for it to be passed along to a new generation of troublemakers," Fred said.
"Well, thanks," Harry said, still watching the map. He could see Dumbledore in his office, Snape down in the dungeons, even Hermione and Ron up in Gryffindor Tower, sitting with someone Harry didn't recognise - a 'Peter Pettigrew' who Harry dismissed as being one of the new first-years
"When you want to clear it, just tap it and say 'Mischief managed!'" George instructed, tapping it lightly. The inky lines began to morph and wiggle towards the wand-tip, and then the parchment was just that: a plain, slightly ragged-looking scrap.
"And be careful," Fred warned, "Filch knows about this; we stole it from his office. We don't think that he knows what it does, but he might recognise it and think you stole it."
"Right," Harry said, "Thanks!"
Fred and George grinned, and cast a last fond glance at the Marauder's Map before creeping out of the classroom.
Harry stayed a little longer. With this map he could get to Hogsmeade and past the Dementors. But it would also mean disobeying Sirius. Harry looked at the parchment in his hand. Was Hogsmeade really worth it?
Harry sighed and stuffed the map into his pocket. He would decide later.
The morning of the Hogsmeade trip dawned bright and sunny, with the sharp-edged bite of approaching winter evident now. The Great Hall hummed and buzzed with the excited chatter of the Third Years. Harry, glum and moody, didn't even look up as the owl post swooped through.
"Harry, look!" Ron said. "That's Sirius' owl, isn't it?" Harry looked up to see that yes, it was indeed Rover, Sirius' owl, flapping towards them with an envelope clamped in his beak. The big owl landed awkwardly on a pitcher of pumpkin juice and blinked at Harry.
"Hullo, Rover," Harry said, stroking the owl's feathers and taking the letter. Rover made a little noise of approval and began finishing Harry's toast for him.
Harry, curiosity and slight worry rising in him, opened the letter and read.
Harry,
I assume you've seen the Prophet recently? Lupin was definitely there in Hogsmeade on the full moon. I want you to be safe, Harry.
So it might come as a bit of a shock that with this letter I've also enclosed your Hogsmeade permission slip, signed by me, and I've checked with Dumbledore and it is valid. I'd much rather that you had the protection of the Dementors with you than to try and sneak out alone, which I am almost sure that you were planning to do, although I don't know how you were going to manage it with Dementors around the castle. You're exactly like your father was at your age, Harry!
There's no way that Lupin can get to you in Hogsmeade or Hogwarts. You will be safe.
Have fun, and send me some Honeydukes chocolate!
Sirius.
An uncontrollable grin began to spread itself across Harry's face.
"What?" Ron said, an expression of slight bewilderment on his face as he watched Harry beam like an idiot at the letter. "What did Sirius say?"
"He said I can go to Hogsmeade! He's signed my permission slip!" said Harry exultantly, waving the permission slip signed with Sirius' untidy scrawling signature.
"Really?" Hermione asked, slight disapproval lurking in her voice. "He thinks it's safe enough for you?"
"Well, the Dementors will be there won't they? And how can Lupin expect to get around a wizarding town unseen? Everybody will recognise him. He wouldn't get within ten metres of me before somebody cursed him."
"Well..." Hermione said, seeming to relent. "I suppose Sirius knows what he's talking about."
Harry smiled happily, and began eagerly plotting what he was going to spend his money on.
A/N: Gah, sorry for the delay. School is a black hole by which we innocent students are devoured, never to be seen again. Anyway, here it is and, as always, reviews and constructive criticism are not so much welcomed as craved. There should be another chapter along before too long, so hang in there!