Chapter 33: A Scary Halloween Chapter

Dumbledore returned to his office, humming Benny Goodman's Sing, Sing, Sing. He looked around and smiled at all the decorations on his walls. It was very advanced magic (highly impressive for first-years), and it would have fooled anyone else. But not Dumbledore—and he was going to let the prank play out. He was incredibly interested in the whole thing.

He removed the portrait-coverings from the walls. The portraits found it terribly annoying to be covered up like that, and Dumbledore did like having their input... most of the time. However, many of them held very hostile beliefs towards werewolves, and Dumbledore didn't want Remus to hear any of it. Remus had, of course, probably heard it all already. But the boy was eleven years old, and Dumbledore wanted to let him be a child as long as he could.

Even if it meant having his office expertly decorated for Halloween.

Especially if it meant having his office expertly decorated for Halloween.

"They've decorated your office," Eupraxia Mole said sternly from her portrait-frame. "A couple of boys. I think there were three. One of them was the werewolf." Dumbledore noticed the contempt with which she said the word and raised an eyebrow.

"I am aware, Eupraxia. And I do not see it fit to discriminate against Remus when you are quite literally a portrait. You're not even a living being, and I do not need to argue with you."

"The audacity!"

"I'd say you weren't fit to run this school if you weren't the best Headmaster we've ever had," said Everard, twirling his moustache. "I trust your judgement, even though I do not trust the boy."

"Thank you, Everard."

"I was a Healer before I was Headmistress, you know," said Dilys. "I've healed a few, and they are not completely ill-mannered, to my knowledge. Most of them seem to be normal at first. It is society, I believe, that drives them to be the monsters that we believe them to be. Watch him carefully, Albus. It is still possible that he will go down that path."

"Very insightful, Dilys."

"Half-breed, that's all he is," said Dexter Fortescue. "They all end up the same! Why you would put the school in danger by allowing him in, I have no idea! You ought to just put a stop to this nonsense and put him out!"

"You've heard our conversations, Dexter. He is no more dangerous than you or I."

"Whiny, snivelling little brat if you ask me," said Phineas Nigellus Black. "Doesn't seem to pose much of a threat. It's Sirius Black I'm worried about. I would recognize his voice anywhere, and this hijink will be reported directly to his mother. If he were anyone else then it would be acceptable. But he has a responsibility, as heir, to act his age. I've heard Walburga rant about him—he's a Gryffindor."

"No harm done, Phineas. I find him to be a bright and entertaining boy, myself."

"Of course you would," said Phineas snidely. "You let a literal monster into Hogwarts. That never would have been done in my day. It wouldn't have been done in anyone's day. There's a reason it's never been done before."

"Remus is an eleven-year-old boy. There is no reason to be afraid of an eleven-year-old boy."

"How do you know he's not a senseless monster? You have no proof," Euphraxia argued.

"Monsters are not pleasant, clever, kind, and mild-mannered," said Dumbledore evenly. He was getting a bit frustrated now. It should be such a small thing, letting a werewolf into Hogwarts. The portraits only disliked the idea of it because it had never been done before. It was difficult to talk with paintings that were stuck in the past, could not grow, and could not mature. Dumbledore again wondered why he was doing it.

"He's faking it." Euphraxia blew out a puff of air and let her portrait-y lips flap a little. "I can't believe you can't tell. He's not a normal eleven-year-old; he is a monster assuming the shape of an eleven-year-old, pretending to act as any other child would. It's obvious, Albus, that he's lying. You saw. He nearly lost control that one time. Had to stop, breathe, and take up his façade again. Remember?"

"He was stressed. I would have stopped to take a breather, myself. And, forgive me for saying so, but I excel at reading people. He is not pretending to be a person." Really. The notion was ridiculous. Remus was good at a great many things, but pretending to be a person for six and a half years was not something that he could do. It wasn't something that anyone could do.

"Don't get defensive, Albus," said Dilys. "We are only trying to protect the school. That is our duty, after all. I am inclined to agree with you, but I would be cautious if I were you."

"Thank you, Dilys. I accidentally allowed myself to forget that you are only portraits, and that I cannot easily change the mind of a painted inanimate object."

"I had no idea that you were so irresponsible," said Phineas, "letting my descendant go bad like that."

"What was I meant to do?"

"Re-sort him. Put him in Slytherin. That House will lead him right."

"The Sorting Hat does not agree."

"You mean the inanimate talking hat?"

"I see you've heard of it."

"This school is going to go up in flames!" Dexter continued. "A werewolf running rampant in a school full of children! I may be a portrait, but I've heard of the deeds of Fenrir Greyback! Mark my words, that boy will go bad!"

Armando Dippet cut in for the first time. "I remember Fenrir. I taught him, though he didn't go by the surname 'Greyback' at the time. You taught him, too, Albus. Quiet. Soft-spoken. Like the Lupin boy."

"Not all quiet teenagers are the same person, Armando."

"I know, I know. But I see my colleagues' point. I never would have imagined Fenrir to grow up the way he did. Something snapped, Albus. Something changed. He wasn't the same after being bitten."

"He became bitter because of a tragic event. I can't see Remus taking that route."

"And I couldn't see Fenrir doing it, either. I advocate for equality, of course. But I don't think you should have let Lupin into the school."

"And you," said Dumbledore, picking up his quill, "are only a portrait. I do not wish to discuss this any further. I make the decisions. You have all made your opinions clear, but my say is final. Sirius Black is a Gryffindor, and Remus Lupin is a Hogwarts student. And remember: you all are sworn to secrecy about his condition."

"Condition!" scoffed Dexter. "What a euphemism! It's not a condition, nor is it a sickness... it's a way of life! It's a species!"

Dumbledore closed Dexter's portrait with a snap. "I would like some peace and quiet. Do not make me permanently remove your portraits from my office."

The portraits were quiet (most of them even left their frames, perhaps to sulk somewhere else), and Dumbledore finished composing a letter to the Minister. But something niggled in the back of his head. He remembered Fenrir, of course. He had gone to Hogwarts. He had been human at the time. But what had he been like? He had seemed like a normal student. Dumbledore had never paid much attention to him.

Dumbledore rifled through his bottles of memories and found what he was looking for. He poured it into the Pensieve and entered the memory of one of his classes. Fenrir Greyback was sitting at a desk, his head bowed over a book and his fingers tapping on the desk impatiently. Dumbledore bent next to him and tried to remember.

It was almost unnatural to watch this boy—whose face was now constantly in the Daily Prophet—who was now one of the most feared people on earth. He looked so young and innocent: he was hardly the same person. It was no wonder that no one ever recognized him after he went bad. Dumbledore himself hadn't believed it; when the name Fenrir Greyback had become popular amongst fearful wizardkind, Dumbledore had thought that it was simply someone with the same first name. After all, he'd taught multiple Fenrirs. He'd even entertained the notion that the name was completely fake, or that he hadn't taught Greyback at all... he'd never once made the connection until he had seen that 1965 photograph of the man, and it was hard to believe even then.

Dumbledore studied the young Greyback's face, but could find no trace of Remus Lupin in his eyes. He simply looked bored, and Dumbledore could hardly fault anyone for being so in the middle of Transfiguration class.

Fenrir was quiet. Hardly ever spoke at all, in fact. He didn't spend any time around peers in his own House—he spent more time with the Gryffindors, in fact, than anyone else. Fenrir's chosen company reminded Dumbledore of James and Sirius, in fact. But he was always an add-on; someone who never had nor was ever considered a "best friend". He was just... there. Quiet. He reminded Dumbledore more of Peter Pettigrew than Remus Lupin, if Dumbledore was being honest with himself.

Dumbledore could hardly see the current Fenrir Greyback in the boy's appearance: the man who had grown out his nails and hair, who had embraced his condition and used it to become more wolf-like and intimidating. This eleven-year-old boy looked... sweet. Happy. Had he changed? The boy stood up and walked over to young-Dumbledore after class ended. Dumbledore only had to search the depths of his brilliant memory for a moment before he remembered this conversation.

"Professor Dumbledore," said the young Fenrir Greyback, his eyes bright. "I forgot to do my homework again."

"And what were you doing instead, Fenrir?" It was always so unnatural, hearing his own voice in a memory.

"I was... er."

"Yes?"

"I dunno, sir. Sleeping. Reading. Outside. I just didn't feel like doing it."

"First year is an excellent time to start applying yourself, Fenrir. Habits are formed when you are still young. Do you realize that you have not turned in a single homework assignment since school began?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why are you here?"

"Sorry, sir?"

"Why are you at Hogwarts, if you are intent on shirking your responsibilities?"

"It's not like I'm not learning the spells. I can perform them. I just don't want to do the written homework." Now, that sentiment reminded Dumbledore of those of James Potter and Sirius Black. But still not Remus.

"Which will help the spells to stay in your long-term memory," Memory-Dumbledore said. We teachers rather know what we are doing."

The memory faded and reformed, and Fenrir was now in third year. Dumbledore looked on as Fenrir spoke to Armando Dippet, who looked thoroughly frustrated with the child.

"Fenrir," said Dippet, not unkindly, "You are still refusing to apply yourself. What do you plan on doing after Hogwarts?"

"Don't know, sir," Fenrir said dismissively, "and I don't care. I'm meant to be doing something more than sitting still and doing homework."

Dumbledore was almost amused despite himself. Well, that ended up happening, didn't it?

The memory shifted again, and Fenrir was laughing with his friends... running and chasing them around the Hogwarts grounds... playing catch and Exploding Snap.

All monsters had started out as boys and girls, hadn't they?

Dumbledore remembered a little more of Fenrir now. He hadn't been able to sit still for the life of him. He used to tap the desk with his fingers so loudly that the children sitting next to him would be driven to madness. He held grudges. He had gotten good enough grades, but only ever ended up doing enough homework to squeak by when exams rolled around. He had been innately interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts and was a decent duellist.

Dumbledore could see some traits in Fenrir that might have contributed to his current state. He was resourceful and cunning, yet didn't often think before he acted and was wont to give into current desires rather than make future investments. He seemed to value a "pack" setting—he was fiercely loyal to those he cared about and didn't seem to care whether anybody else lived or died. He didn't seem to show much empathy, save to a few of his closest friends, but he didn't exhibit a lack of empathy either. He was just... there. A student.

Could Dumbledore imagine him going bad? Sure. But people went bad all the time. Anyone had the potential to go bad; it was only a matter of choice.

This boy had been bitten by a monster shortly after leaving Hogwarts (according to Dumbledore's recent calculations), was shunned by the wizarding community, went through unimaginable pain every month, and had eventually decided to look after his own desires rather than the needs of others. Dumbledore could see him doing that. He could see many people going down that route.

But while Fenrir had been self-centered because of his condition, Remus remained others-centered.

No, that wasn't quite right in all respects. It was right in hardly any respects, actually. Fenrir had focused on others as the object of his hate. Remus had focused on himself. Remus never got angry with others for his suffering—not for long. He seemed to quite loathe himself on occasion, but almost never others. Remus was always focusing on himself, it seemed: he pitied himself, blamed himself, and overall thought about his own troubles quite a lot. It wasn't always a strength, but it was undeniably Remus.

Fenrir, alternatively, considered himself better than others—with or without the lycanthropy. Remus considered others to be better then himself because of the lycanthropy. Funny how that worked out.

They were different people, Dumbledore deduced. Greyback was a monster. Remus was not.

He had already known that, of course. And he was thankful for it.

But looking into Fenrir's young eyes, so full of life and energy, he couldn't help thinking of Remus'—the dead opposite. Remus always had a tired look to him, looked so much older than he really was, was much too mature, and had grown up before his time. Why did Greyback get a childhood and Remus did not?

So was the mystery of the universe.

Dumbledore resolved, then and there, that he would never let Remus Lupin go bad. He had allowed Grindelwald to do so in his childhood. He had already made the mistake of letting someone's faults take over until that person was no longer who they once were. He would not let the same thing come to Remus. He was going to invade the inner workings of the universe and fix things—that was his responsibility as someone who was both powerful and intelligent. Dumbledore knew how to fix things, and he was going to do it. He simply couldn't sit idly by and watch Remus' world burn.

But Remus didn't really need his help, did he?

He returned to his office, where all the portraits were sleeping—with the exception of Armando.

"Greyback, hm?" Armando asked. "Have you considered?"

"I have. My mind has not changed."

Armando chuckled. "Albus Dumbledore, changing his mind. That will happen the day that a Welsh Green becomes Minister for Magic."

"On this matter?" Dumbledore said. "Not even then."

There was one more memory that Dumbledore wanted to view, but he waited until all of the portraits were sleeping. He fished the vial out of the cabinet and poured it into the Pensieve, slightly dreading it. But it was perfect for Halloween, wasn't it?

And then there he was. That night that he had been out on the streets, walking on the cobblestones and singing to himself, enjoying the cool air and the streetlamps. His hair had been a little darker then, and his eyes a little brighter. It was only about five years ago, but it felt like an eternity.

Fenrir had been a werewolf now for... let's see, if he was eleven in 1948, and bitten at age eighteen, and now it was 1966, and he was about twenty-nine now... eleven years. Less than twice the amount of time that Remus had been a werewolf: present-day Remus had been a werewolf for six and a half. But Dumbledore didn't want to compare the two more than what was necessary, though he knew that it was inevitable.

Dumbledore saw his memory-self pause and look around. When Dumbledore heard a strange sound and he couldn't tell where it was coming from, he had a ritual of sorts. First, he would look up, because that's what the average person would least expect. Then he would look down. Then he would look to his left, because he was right-handed. Then he would look to his right. He watched his memory-self do all of this, and when he was doing the final step—spinning in a circle—he noticed the source of the sound.

It was Fenrir, of course, shrouded in a black cloak that was so ripped it barely covered him. Memory-Dumbledore did not recognize him at first. "Hello?" he said, drawing nearer. It wasn't until the thing looked up and met Memory-Dumbledore's eyes that he realized. Memory-Dumbledore recognized Fenrir's image from the papers, so he drew his wand and trained it on the creature, ready to attack if need be. "Fenrir. Fancy meeting you here."

Fenrir smiled, and both Dumbledores noticed his teeth—sharp, pointed, and stained with red... Very Halloween-y, thought Dumbledore, and also mildly disturbing.

"What are you doing out here, Fenrir? Do you need assistance in getting somewhere? Azkaban, perhaps?" Memory-Dumbledore pretended that he was not repulsed. Memory-Dumbledore imagined that it was only tomato juice or something on his teeth. Even Memory-Dumbledore, though, knew that this wasn't the case.

"Dumbledore. Long time no see." Fenrir wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were not those of the eleven-year-old boy at all. They were more dangerous. They were bloodshot. They were narrowed. Wolf-like was the first word that came to mind. Dumbledore's eyes drew to Fenrir's hand, which sported long, curled nails. He realized with a jolt that Fenrir had bitten Remus Lupin only about a year prior.

"You look a little worse-for-wear, Fenrir," said Memory-Dumbledore. "I deeply sympathize." Memory-Dumbledore did not yet know the extent of Fenrir's exploits. He remembered still the young Fenrir, full of life and a deep desire to do the right thing... Memory-Dumbledore had stupidly believed that he could somehow turn Fenrir to his own side, even though he'd been Voldemort's weapon for years now.

"You can't sympathize," said Fenrir. His voice was deep, gravelly, and scratchy, almost like a sinister record-player. He pronounced his R's in the back of his throat and ended his sentences a bit abruptly. How had his voice changed so much in a few short years? Remus' voice sounded nothing like that, so it had nothing to do with the lycanthropy. But Clark Darnall pronounced his R's that way—had Clark picked it up from Greyback or had they both gotten it from another place? "You can't sympathize," said Fenrir again. "You have no idea what I've been through."

Memory-Dumbledore, indeed, did not know. But current Dumbledore had an idea.

"I'm sorry, Fenrir. Is there anything I can do?"

"'Course not. It's not a problem anymore. I made the best of it. Made do with what I had. You know how it is."

"Hm. Have you been hurting anyone?" Memory-Dumbledore's hand twitched on his wand, knowing the answer—but he wanted to hear Greyback say it; perhaps, he thought, it would drive the man to conviction...

Fenrir was quick to confirm, and there was no guilt in his voice. "No more than they've hurt me. You've heard the stories, haven't you? You know what I've done."

Memory-Dumbledore looked at him intensely. "Fenrir," he said, "I am a very powerful wizard, you know, and I will not stand for that." Fenrir eyed Dumbledore's wand warily, but Dumbledore was not budging. "There is a way out, you know... we can keep you safe on the full moons. You are infamous for attacking children, my friend—but it's not too late to step away from all that... you'll have to pay for your crimes, of course, but we can keep you hidden from the higher-ups at the Ministry, who no doubt want to execute you. You're not trapped in this lifestyle."

Memory-Dumbledore had suspected that some of the rumors about Fenrir were unfounded, but he'd been wrong. He'd felt sympathy for the boy who had attended Hogwarts not too long ago, but he'd been wrong. Clark Darnall was in Dumbledore's ranks, and he'd warned Dumbledore of the horrific acts that Fenrir had committed... he'd already spoken to Dumbledore about Remus at this point. But Dumbledore had still thought, somewhere, deep down, that Fenrir could not have changed so much from when he was a boy—that he was only evil because he had not been given a proper choice—and Dumbledore had known that, if he could convince Fenrir, then he'd automatically have all of the werewolves in Britain on his side... countless lives could be saved.

Dumbledore was a brilliant man, yes, but he was sometimes incorrect. This was one of those times.

"Dumbledore. You know me; you taught me. Do you really think that it's so easy to convince me? You underestimate me—I wouldn't leave behind all that I've built, not for the misguided lie that there's a place for me amo-" Crack. Fenrir had, intelligently enough, Apparated away in the middle of his sentence. Nay, the middle of a word. Memory-Dumbledore had not seen it coming, and that was a rare occurrence.

Memory-Dumbledore marveled at the boy's—no, the man's—no, the monster's cleverness, and resolved to keep an eye out and figure out what he was up to before he could hurt more people. It wouldn't be that difficult. Memory-Dumbledore was already, so to speak, following the scent, and he was sure that he would have plenty more chances to apprehend the werewolf. Memory-Dumbledore walked away, less of a spring in his step, but confident and relaxed.

Current Dumbledore made his way over to the place in which his memory-self had once stood and peered down the alleyway where Greyback had been standing. A dead rabbit, still warm-looking and covered in blood, lay on the ground.

Dumbledore's stomach roiled a bit, but at least it wasn't a toddler.

With that comforting thought in mind, Dumbledore removed himself from the memory, sat down on an armchair, and opened a book.

He did not read it, though. His eyes skimmed over the words and his hand idly flipped pages, but his mind was back in the alley, watching the boy-become-monster.

The pieces clicked together in a way that they were wont to do in Dumbledore's keen mind. They were pieces that had come together in the past, yes, but now they did so even more securely.

Ten years after Fenrir was bitten, at age twenty-eight, he had attacked Remus. And he'd been savage for a long time before that. Remus had been a werewolf now for six and a half years: when Fenrir had been a werewolf for six and a half years, he had probably already begun attacking people.

The portraits had been wrong, obviously, and this proved it. But now Dumbledore thought about why.

It wasn't because Remus was a better person than Fenrir (though that was undoubtedly the case). It wasn't because he had somehow escaped whatever disease had made Fenrir go bad. It wasn't because the lycanthropy somehow affected him differently. So why had they turned out differently?

A mixture of personal choice and better circumstances, Dumbledore decided.

Remus was doing so well because he had such good parents—who had taught him right from wrong, who had spent time with him, who had loved him unconditionally. He would be further shaped by his professors and friends. He would learn, he would grow, and he would continue to live in human society—as he had done for his whole life. He'd made a choice early on to be this way, and now his choices were manifesting themselves in his personality. That was what made a person human (in the abstract sense of the word), not a species.

Fenrir probably had not had systems of support like Remus did. That didn't force him to become what he was, of course, but it made it much more difficult. And then Fenrir had made a choice to do this—to give in to things that he knew were wrong—to let the worst parts of him invade his life and personality—thus Fenrir Greyback was born. Would things have gone differently if his parents had loved him unconditionally? Had they? What if Fenrir had still been in school (though Dumbledore knew that Dippet would not have allowed that).

But one thing was for certain: it had nothing to do with lycanthropy. It was not biological. It, like many other things, was a matter of choice. It was one's choices, after all, that showed one who they truly were—far more than their abilities.

And that was why Sirius Black, who had grown up a descendant of Phineas Nigellus, was a Gryffindor. That was why James Potter, who loved everything Gryffindor, was a Gryffindor. That was why Peter Pettigrew had chosen friends that did not match him in either ability or personality. It was all personal choice applied to surroundings: it wasn't even werewolf-specific. No one was biologically a monster.

Dumbledore had already known all that, but it was nice to put it into words.

Everyone starts out as children, he mused as he fiddled with a Disillusioned bat decoration hanging off the wall.

And as the memories replayed themselves in Dumbledore's mind well into the night, he meditated once again on the fact that having such a brilliant mind and a tendency to stick his nose in other people's business was both a blessing and a curse.

AN: Little bit of a different chapter again. Dumbledore's one of my favorite characters to write (in case you couldn't tell!).