It was the evening of February twenty-ninth. Questus grabbed a battered copy of Selected Essays by Emerson and put on a cloak. It was a beautiful night to go outside and think.
It was chilly—just like it had been. There were stars out—just like there had been. A clear night, but still very dark—just like it had been. Everything was exactly as it had been forty years ago.
February 29, 1932. Questus remembered the day very well.
It was all kinds of coincidental that it was a full moon today, and even more coincidental that Remus Lupin was just as Clementine Questus had been. Same exact sense of humor, similar boring interests (poetry and philosophy were basically the same, anyhow), and similar habits (the eyebrows!). It was almost scary. But, Questus reflected, Clementine would have made a terrible werewolf. She had been far too prone to being reckless, and Lupin's secret required the utmost caution.
John! C'mere! I found a snake!
What kind of snake?
I dunno, but it's brown all over. Aw, look at his little eyes! Isn't he amazing?
I s'pose. It doesn't look that interesting to me. It's only a snake.
"The question is not what you look at, but what you see." Thoreau said that.
So what do you see, then?
A snake. Duh. I'm joking, I'm only joking. I'm gonna touch it.
I don't think that's a good idea.
"Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life so. Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something." Thoreau said that, too.
Just a Thoreau kind of day, then?
It's always a Thoreau kind of day. I'm gonna touch it now. Watch.
Clementine!
Ow! It bit me. It's fine, it's not venomous or anything.
You should go let Mother heal it...
Nah. I'm fine, see? Only a scratch. I'll heal up. Let's go play on the swing-set.
Your hand's bleeding!
And you're intolerably stupid, but I'm not holding it against you. Kidding, kidding! Come on, let's go!
Questus shook his head at the memory. Perhaps she would have made a good werewolf, if not an extremely stubborn one—she certainly had the bravery. Although being bitten by a harmless snake was not at all similar to being torn apart by a werewolf every month for hours at a time.
I left my book in the Herbology classroom...
Questus walked to the Hospital Wing. His head felt a little light, but he needed to do something (besides mope around, which was generally a fun activity but not very productive). The wonderful weather outside could wait. February twenty-ninth was an unlucky day—Questus did not believe in superstition, and even he knew that—and Questus needed to check on something. He rapped lightly on the door.
Which one? The stupid Confucius book?
No, the Emerson one.
Madam Pomfrey opened the door. "Oh. It's you."
"Yep. Just wanted to alert you of some details concerning Lupin."
"Remus Lupin?"
"No, a different Lupin. Of course Remus Lupin. May I come in?"
Madam Pomfrey opened the door with only a small scowl.
It's fine; we'll just get it in the morning.
You're no fun, John.
Questus leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "Stress makes things worse on the full moon, doesn't it?"
"Yes, usually. Why do you ask? Has he been stressed?"
"Besides the sixteenth of February? Yes, he has. His friends came very close to figuring everything out a couple times, and Black made some unsavory comments about werewolves. Lupin was pretty upset."
"How do you know all this?"
How do you know it's in the greenhouse?
I can feel it, silly. It's my book. I've read it a thousand times.
"He came to me. Wanted to talk."
"Why you? I'm his matron!"
I don't see why you need it right now, Clementine. It's after curfew.
"I don't know. I suspect it's because I, unlike some people, don't pity him whatsoever."
"Just because you're some sort of sociopath...!"
C'mon, John, try to sympathize a little. It's my book!
"His life has been wrought with emotion and pain, Pomfrey. I'm probably just what he needs—a break from it all. I'm not all bad, you know. I'm a very good listener, at least. Well, that's a lie; I can't listen to anyone without interrupting and offering my own insensitive opinions. But he likes it, at least. I think." Questus was getting off-topic. He started over. "I just wanted to alert you—it might be worse this month. You know, he was outside, too; was playing in the snow for a few hours. It might affect his health."
"You sound like you're worried about him."
"Me? Worried? Not worried. Rightfully concerned."
We could get hurt.
"I know what I'm doing, John."
We won't get hurt, John.
"All right, then."
All right, then.
"See you tomorrow."
Coincidence could be cruel, and so could Questus' good memory for prior conversations.
Questus left the Hospital Wing and entered the courtyard. It was such a clear night. The moon was full and bright. It was only about seven pm; Remus was still waiting in human form.
It's only ten pm. Don't be such a scaredy-cat.
Questus shook his head and walked. Clementine had liked to walk, too; she always said that it cleared her head. Lupin had said the same thing, back in September.
Questus arrived at Greenhouse Six. They'd fixed the sign.
Is this Greenhouse Three?
I think. Dunno where the sign went, but it feels familiar. Here, I found the door.
He peered through the glass from a distance and frowned. The room was empty. He wanted to go in, but he wasn't sure that entering in the dark was a good idea. Maybe he'd do it later, after it got colder and he could no longer enjoy the weather. It was chilly, and Questus liked the cold. But it wasn't overly chilly quite yet—just the perfect amount of chilly. Yes, he'd go walking in Hogsmeade for a bit... perhaps take a pit stop in the Three Broomsticks. He'd come back to the greenhouse later.
Hold open the door for me, will you? I'll go in first.
So he walked even further—away from the greenhouse—away from the castle—the wind nipping at his skin and ruffling his hair. Questus was wearing a scarf, at least. He'd nicked it from his roommate a couple years back, and he'd never bothered to return it. It was quite a nice scarf: colorless, ragged, and scratchy, just like Questus liked them.
Lookit! I got a hundred and ten on my Charms exam! I only missed one bonus question. I'm totally going to be an Auror! Right, John? Won't I be an Auror?
Yeah, of course.
What do you wanna be?
Hm... not sure. Maybe I'll own a shop or something.
You should open an ice-cream shop. I can come over with all my Auror mates after we defeat Dark wizards! And you can give me free ice-cream, obviously.
That'll probably create a huge dent in profits, but I'll consider it. What should I call it?
Erm... oh! I got it! Questus Creamery. I was trying for alliteration, but...
That's kind of stupid, Clementine.
Coming from the one who wants to open up an ice-cream shop!
You were the one who suggested it!
Yeah? If I suggested you jump off a bridge, would you do it?
Questus didn't know when he'd arrived at Hogsmeade, but here he was, staring at Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlor. It had opened up not long after he'd left Hogwarts. Questus hated ice-cream, actually. He'd used to like it as a kid, but as an adult he didn't really get the appeal.
What do you mean, you don't like ice-cream? You can't not like ice-cream. Everyone likes ice-cream.
It's cold, it hurts my teeth, and it's too sweet.
But once your mouth gets numb enough, it doesn't matter how it tastes.
I like tasting my food, thank you very much.
You're an idiot, Clementine.
Takes one to know one.
"Professor John Questus, isn't it? What can I get for you?" asked Rosmerta. She was far too peppy for such a somber day.
"Water, please."
"Bit of an odd thing to ask for at a bar. Especially for you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Hogwarts teachers typically order something a little stronger after dealing with a school-ful of magical children all day."
Questus shook his head. "I don't drink," he said. "Water's fine."
It's the Clementine and John Mud Pie Restaurant! What can we get for you?
Water.
Mother! No one just orders water at a fancy restaurant!
It's the only thing that you two can't mess up.
Bold of you to assume we can't mess up water...
One water, coming right up!
Clementine, that's the cup that you put the worm in...
Shush. They deserve it.
Questus glanced at his watch. Eight o'clock. He pulled out Emerson and began to read.
The imagination which dilates the closet he writes in to the world's dimension, crowds it with agents of rank and order, as quickly reduces the big reality to be the glimpses of the moon. The moon? That was coincidental. He tried to read the next line, but a large smudge of something green was covering it.
Ugh, John, you can't paint everything green. Green's such an ugly color.
Yeah? What color do you prefer?
Something less bold. More subdued. Maybe a nice beige.
And you call me boring.
He ran his fingers over the annotations in ink. He knew that handwriting. He missed it. He still missed it, even forty years later—especially the G's. Her G's had always been very curly. Even after reviewing hundreds of student essays, Questus hadn't ever seen anyone make a G quite like Clementine's.
You shouldn't write in books.
Shut up, John. I'll do whatever I please.
At least do it in pencil.
Permanency is precious.
Who said that?
Me, silly. Did you lose your ears or something?
You're becoming one of them!
Becoming one of what?
A philosopher! It's the Philosopher Apocalypse!
Don't be stupid!
But you're laughing!
No, I'm not!
An earsplitting, pained scream echoed from the distance. Questus didn't even bat an eye. He idly flipped a page, pulling apart two that were stuck together. He had a directness of action never before combined with so much comprehension. He is a realist, terrific to all talkers and confused truth-obscuring persons. He sees where the matter hinges, throws himself on the precise point of resistance, and slights all other considerations. He is strong in the right manner, mainly by insight. He never blundered into victory, but won battles in his head before he won them on the field. His principal means are in himself. He asks counsel of no other.
The scream became more animalistic. How long had it been? Thirty seconds? Forty?
Rosmerta shuddered. "Ghosts are bad tonight."
Questus nodded. Indeed, they were.
A howl sounded through the air.
Clementine?
Yeah?
Are you going to kill people when you become an Auror?
No.
I'm pretty sure you'll have to.
No, I won't. If someone deserves to die, then they can't really be considered a person.
That makes no sense.
Yes, it does. I won't kill people, but I'll kill monsters. Dark wizards. Werewolves and banshees and stuff. They don't count as people.
I think they do. All humans are people. Just bad people.
People are always good. If they're not good, then they're not people. If they are good, then they are. Simple as that.
Whatever you say, Clementine.
Fine. I'll rephrase. I won't kill anyone who fits my own, personal definition of a "person".
That won't hold up in court.
Shut up.
Lupin was not quiet as a wolf, though no one should have expected him to be. Howls and cries and whimpers of pain and fury rang throughout the town. Though distant and quiet, they cut through the cool air like a knife.
Questus heard a scream from his own past. Forty years ago today.
Clementine! Where are you? What is that?
Light! They're afraid of light! Don't you remember?
No! What's the incantation?
Lumos! This was just about the first thing we learned, you idiot!
I can't!
Yeah, you can! It's not that hard! Focus!
Er... Lumos. No. Lumos, Lumos, Lumos...!
Clementine? Clementine!
Questus stood up, sighed, and drained his water. Then he walked back to the castle, took a deep breath, and entered Greenhouse Six. The Devil's Snare was no longer there. Questus wondered if it was in a different greenhouse—or perhaps Hogwarts had gotten rid of all its Devil's Snare entirely. That would be unfortunate. It was important that children knew how to defend themselves against the plant.
Tomorrow he would put the memories away again. But today, he would think about it. He would talk about it... even if it was only to the moon and the night air. Talking helped.
And tomorrow he'd visit Lupin, because a second tragic occurrence on February twenty-ninth would be pretty terrible. He hoped the kid was doing all right.
Questus didn't have a lot of experience with tragic, bookish preteens with odd interests and a sense of humor. But, in his experience (which consisted of exactly one person), they had a 100% death rate.
Those weren't great odds.
AN: To make up for the very short, very confusing chapter, I'll put it out a little early. All will be explained... after a very, very long time. In fact, this is probably the last you'll hear of the subject for a while. Hang in there!