Dumbledore sat serenely in a room full of werewolf hunters, D.R.C.M.C. workers, and the looming presence of the Minister herself. Drama was about to go down, and Wilma had the sudden urge to cook popcorn.

"So, Dumbledore," said Minister Eugenia Jenkins, "explain your reasoning to us. I'm afraid we don't quite understand; besides, there are rumors flying around, and we'd like to hear the truth from your own mouth."

"Of course, Minister," said Dumbledore with a small smile. He was sitting in the chair normally reserved for Azkaban convicts, but he didn't seem too bothered about it. He was taller than he'd seemed in the papers—about six feet tall, Wilma wagered—and his posture was great. Honestly, he looked commandeering and dignified no matter where he sat. It almost felt as if the Minister for Magic herself was being interrogated, rather than the ever calm and steady Albus Dumbledore.

"I don't see why I'm under investigation for such a small thing," said Dumbledore, "but I do regret to admit that I accidentally carried a magazine out of a shop one evening while I was distracted. I assure you, however—I returned it right away, and I paid the full price even though I did not intend to keep it. If accidentally shoplifting a magazine requires Azkaban time, however, I shall be happy to fulfill the requirement..."

"That's not why you're here and you know it," said Minister Jenkins. Wilma looked at George, amused, and wasn't surprised to see that George's nostrils were flaring again.

"Ah, of course," said Dumbledore. "How could I be so silly? Of course you are talking about last Tuesday."

"What happened last Tuesday?" asked Minister Jenkins, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

"I was alone in my office, pacing, and I accidentally stubbed my toe on my desk. I admit I was not nearly strong-willed enough to stop the mild swear word from escaping my lips. If a foul mouth requires time in Azkaban, I shall surely serve whatever I need to."

"No," said Minister Jenkins. "That's not it, either."

"Ah," interrupted Dumbledore before she could speak another word. "Yes. I see now. This is about the time I found a homeless child on the street and gave him a loaf of bread. I reassured him, found him brand-new clothes, and took him to the local orphanage. Helping less fortunate, innocent children is illegal. I see that now, and I am prepared to atone for my mistakes."

Wilma saw what Dumbledore was doing—it was glaringly obvious. She could almost feel the ball about to drop. Even though Dumbledore spoke in a whimsical manner, there was sarcasm behind his words. The word "sarcasm" came from the Latin "to tear flesh", and Dumbledore was certainly about to tear the flesh of the Ministry and leave the entire wizarding government broken and confused. Wilma could see the blow coming, and she feared it.

Minister Jenkins, however, did not see the inevitable tearing of flesh. She took the bait.

"Of course helping children isn't illegal," she said with a frown. "None of those things are—except for shoplifting, but you returned the item. What are you getting at, Mr. Dumbledore?"

Wilma watched as Dumbledore smiled. The trap had been set. "Oh?" he said. "I was under the impression that helping innocent children was illegal—or at least discouraged. If it were not, then why am I being hauled before the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for doing it?"

"For doing... what?"

"And if momentary shoplifting and swearing are not deserving of such treatment, then why is letting an eleven-year-old child attend Hogwarts—something that I have done for others for years—any more deserving of such?"

"But..."

"I only seek to understand, Minister. Does showing kindness to a child merit a trip to Azkaban? Does it merit a hearing? Resentment? And what, exactly, do you have against eleven-year-old children?" Then Dumbledore frowned. "Had I known you hated children, Minister, I might not have voted for you."

"What?" spluttered Minister Jenkins. "No! I don't hate children! And no one is planning on sending you to Azkaban! We just wanted to talk!"

"Talk," repeated Dumbledore with a half-smile that implied he most certainly did not want to do that. "Well, I admit I understand wanting to talk. I'm told I do it far too much. Tell me exactly what you'd like to talk about, and I shall do my best to humor you."

Wilma wondered (for probably the twelfth time in the last five minutes or so) why the Ministry put up with such an insolent man. How did Dumbledore get away with saying such things to the Minister's face?

Well... he was brilliant, that was why. He'd gotten rid of Grindelwald, and everybody knew that a second war was on the rise (what with the Death Eaters and this Voldemort fellow). Dumbledore was, again, the hope of the wizarding world. Dumbledore could get away with whatever gosh-darn thing he wanted to get away with, and he definitely knew it.

"I want to talk about the werewolf," said Minister Jenkins. "You invited a werewolf to Hogwarts. I want to know why. Isn't that what everybody else wants to know?"

There were mumblings of agreement from both the D.R.C.M.C. and W.C.U., but Wilma did not dare say a word. She was, frankly, afraid of Dumbledore.

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "The werewolf, in question, is currently eleven years old. He turned eleven in March. Isn't that a good month for a birthday?"

"What day in March?" Wilma found herself asking. She didn't know why she'd asked. It wasn't relevant to the situation at all. It was just something about Dumbledore—something that made her take leave of her senses and act just as whimsical as he looked on the surface level.

"The tenth," said Dumbledore with a smile. "A good birthday. Not too early in March, yet not too late. Far enough away from both Easter and Christmas. Not too close to exams. Yes, it is a good birthday indeed."

"Hm," said Wilma, ignoring the fact that Burke was currently jamming Wilma's side with her elbow for asking such a stupid question in front of Dumbledore, the Minister, and everybody.

"He is a voracious reader," continued Dumbledore. "There isn't much else to do at home, poor boy. His parents are rather protective, and he seems to have been quarantined for most of his life. The parents are protective within reason, of course. He's been hurt by a great many people."

"Like whom?" asked a man from the W.C.U.

"Well, I'll start by mentioning the fact that a werewolf had to bite him at some point. I did not ask who or how—" (Wilma got the feeling that he knew, but of course he wouldn't say anything)— "but I do know that it was a very violent attack and he was a very small boy. And then there's all this nonsensical prejudice against werewolves going around." Dumbledore frowned. His voice was pleasant, but hidden daggers dripped from it. "Nonsensical, I tell you, but often quite hurtful. I am afraid I fully understand why the boy's parents are protective."

"What else can you tell us about him?" asked Burke. "Anything about... his tendencies?"

Wilma knew what Burke meant. She was wondering about the boy's murderous, wolfish tendencies. But she could also see how open-ended the question was, and she knew exactly how Dumbledore would play it off. Such was the consequence of using euphemisms in front of Albus Dumbledore, Wilma supposed.

"Hm," said Dumbledore, pretending to think (because of course he was only pretending. He could outsmart them all in two seconds). "As I mentioned before, he has a tendency to read. There were about six books strewn on the floor, and he'd been reading when I entered his home. He also has a tendency to make jokes. He's very funny. Good sense of humor, and I think it helps him deal with the darker things in his life."

"But..." said Burke, but Dumbledore wouldn't let her continue.

"Now, he also has a bit of a tendency to tap his fingers when he's nervous, which I admit was nearly the whole time that I talked to him. But still: he seems very brave. His father and I wrote letters back and forth for a while, and I'm told he also has a humorous tendency to memorize old poetry and study Latin—for fun. An odd child, but thoroughly pleasant."

"That's not what I meant," said Burke. "His... wolfish tendencies. He's a werewolf, is he not?"

"Oh, yes, he is. But I think the lycanthropy comes secondary to his personality. The two exist independently, after all." Dumbledore stroked his beard, considering. "But yes. He is a werewolf, and I won't deny he needs to be locked up once a month. Fortunately, Hogwarts has plenty of resources to provide a safe place for him to transform every month without fail. He will be safe... as will be every other student in the school."

"You're a fool, Dumbledore," came a voice. Wilma recognized the voice, of course. It was Salvis Manard, a man from the W.C.U. He'd seen a lot of werewolves—he'd fought a lot of werewolves—and he certainly wasn't going down without a fight. The man did not like werewolves, and Wilma certainly could not blame him.

"Am I?" asked Dumbledore, a spark in his eye that Wilma couldn't quite place. "Do elaborate, Salvis."

See, that was the thing about Dumbledore that Wilma couldn't stand. He'd been around for ages, and he had the memory of Einstein (if Einstein had been an elephant). He'd taught nearly everyone, and he wasn't afraid to let them know that he remembered them as children. Salvis Manard was a feared werewolf hunter, yes, but he had once been a child—and Dumbledore's tone of voice, paired with the way that he used Manard's first name without asking for permission, reminded everyone of the fact. It did not sound like Dumbledore was speaking to a feared werewolf hunter; it sounded as if he was merely humoring a particularly petulant and stupid child.

"Forgive me, but it sounds to me like you're making a snap judgement of the child based on first impressions," said Manard, "which is exactly what you'd warn us not to do, except in an opposite manner. We look at the child's status as a werewolf and deem him evil. You look at his status as a Latin-loving, poetry-obsessed jokester, and then you deem him good. It's all first impressions. The difference is that you have no proof, whilst we have experience with thousands of werewolves spanning hundreds of years. They have done more harm than good. You say he is only a child based on snap judgement; we use past experience to tell you that werewolves are rarely innocent children."

"Ah, but I have not made a snap judgement," said Dumbledore. "I have been researching him for months. Tell me: which of you have met and directly worked with the child in question?"

There was some chatter, and then three hands slowly rose.

"Good. If the three of you would step forward?"

Oh, yes, thought Wilma. He's taken over. He's definitely the interviewer now, and the Ministry of Magic itself is the interviewee.

"Right, then," said Dumbledore as soon as they had stepped forward. "Have all of you been stationed at the Werewolf Registry every year for at least a decade?"

Nods.

"I'm assuming you met Remus through the Registry?"

Nods.

Ah, so the child's name was Remus. Odd name. Dumbledore wasn't disclosing his last name, and Wilma wondered why—it wasn't as if there were many Remuses in the world. Besides, they were all sworn to secrecy. Perhaps the Remus kid had a relative that the people at the D.R.C.M.C. were likely to know of. Wilma filed this information away in the back of her mind.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore continued the interview (because what else could it be called, really?). "Has he ever shown any sort of violent or otherwise adverse behavior?"

No nods. Hesitation. Shaken heads.

"And let me ask you this," said Dumbledore with an air of someone who has already won an argument, "how many werewolves at the Registry have you encountered that exhibited violent or otherwise adverse behavior?"

One of them said two. The next said one. The next said zero.

"And, if I may request an answer from anybody who has ever worked at the Werewolf Registry," said Dumbledore. "Raise your hand, please, if you have encountered violent or otherwise adverse behavior from more than three werewolves at the Registry."

Wilma looked around. Not a single hand was raised.

"I rest my case," said Dumbledore with a smile. "Not every werewolf Registers, but certainly all of you have worked with more than three. The vast majority of Registered werewolves are peaceful. You have not encountered many upstanding werewolves, Salvis, because they tend to fly under the radar. That does not mean that they don't exist. You are a werewolf hunter; you have only ever dealt with rogue werewolves."

"I don't see how that's relevant," said Manard, because that was always the first thing someone said at the Ministry when they were losing an argument.

"Let me explain, then," said Dumbledore with a patience akin to that of a mother of six toddlers. "There is a Muggle proverb about six blind men and an elephant. The first man runs his hands over the elephant's trunk and says, 'It's a snake.' The second touches the elephant's tail and says, 'It's a rope.' The third feels the elephant's tusks and says, 'It's a horn.' The fourth feels the elephant's skin and says, 'It's parchment.' The fifth feels the elephant's ears and thinks it's a fan, and the sixth touches the elephant's leg and thinks it's a tree."

There was a long silence, and then a lady from the D.R.C.M.C. said, "What?"

"Elaborate," suggested George, and Dumbledore was only too happy to comply.

"You, Salvis Manard, are only seeing one part of the whole. As a werewolf hunter, you deal with the violent werewolves and the violent werewolves only. It is illogical and incorrect of you to think that the whole werewolf population is like that. You are, after all, only one blind man, and you have dealt with only one part of the elephant."

Wilma looked at Minister Jenkins. A shadow had fallen across the woman's face, and Wilma knew that they'd pretty much lost. Dumbledore was simply too slippery; he was a greased pig that no one could hold for more than a few seconds at a time. He slipped out of their grasp with nonsensical claims, silly metaphors, a pleasant disposition, and... just his voice. Merlin's pants. His voice, though quiet, demanded attention and respect from every living being in the room. Had there been spiders in the building, Wilma was certain that even they would stop scuttling and listen, bemused and amazed all at the same time.

"Remus is ill," said Dumbledore. "That's all there is to it, Minister. He needs medical attention. I am sure you cannot imagine the immense toll that a brutal transformation like that—every month without fail—can take on a young body. Being under the professional care of Hogwarts will help with that."

"Hogwarts is not a hospital," blurted a man to Wilma's right.

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Ah, but what is the word, really? Is Hogwarts not a hospital—fixing and developing minds just as a hospital fixes and develops bodies? But no, I agree. Hogwarts will help Remus in a great many ways, just as Hogwarts has helped all of you." Dumbledore smiled, and in the smile was an accusation that nearly made Wilma keep over from the sheer force of it. "I don't see why you'd like to keep the experience limited to a particular type of person," he said. "That's the equivalent of making it a Pureblood-only school, and I know the Muggle-borns and Half-bloods in the room would take offense to that."

Wilma had been raised by her single Muggle father. Her mother had been a witch, but she'd never met her mam—the woman had skedaddled shortly after giving birth to Wilma and then died shortly later. And yes, Wilma would take offense to making Hogwarts run solely on status. But that wasn't the issue that Wilma had with Remus, and she was certain that the rest of the room would agree with her.

Now Wilma raised her hand, knowing that the only way to defeat Dumbledore was to match him in manner. She could not fight his pleasant attitude with childish emotions. Dumbledore would stand her down like a father, smiling amusedly at a belligerent toddler, and then Wilma would look ridiculous. She did not want to look ridiculous. She wanted to win, and she was about to.

"Yes, Wilma?" said Dumbledore, calm as a cucumber and still wearing that stupid smile. He was talking down to her.

But Wilma could do that. She could talk down to him, too. "Albus," she said sweetly, daring to use his first name (which was utterly weird, seeing as he'd been her headmaster). "I think you may be misunderstanding the issue."

Dumbledore's smile did not fade—in fact, it only grew brighter. "Oh?"

"Yes. It seems to me like you think we're opposing—" shoot. What had been the boy's name again? Wilma tended to forget things when she was under pressure. Oh, now she remembered— "Remus' entry into Hogwarts on the sole basis of status." Yes, that was it. Make Dumbledore seem stupid and silly so that he can't turn it on you. Make it perfectly explicit that it was a mistake on HIS part.

"Since I have already explained that Remus does not pose a danger, then why else are you opposing it if not for status?"

Shootshootshoot. He'd anticipated her argument and shot it down before Wilma could say a thing. "But that's the thing," Wilma continued, refusing to be defeated, "you haven't explained that he doesn't pose a danger. You've said it, but you haven't proved it. You merely skated over the topic and then tried to argue with us, citing an argument and subject that we hadn't even raised in the first place. I think that's why we're all confused here, Albus."

Dumbledore's face went a bit dark. Wilma had caught him. Score. "How would you like me to prove it?" he asked, now at Wilma's mercy (or so she thought, but she had to stay on her toes).

"Why don't you start with a simple description of Hogwarts' proposed security measures?" Yes, that was it. Make it seem like Dumbledore's neglected doing the oh-so-obvious thing. Make him seem inexperienced. Remind him that the security measures are "proposed", but nothing more. It was amazing how much punch could fit in a such a simple question.

But Dumbledore, to Wilma's dismay, did not stutter or back down in the slightest. "They are extensive," he said. "Trust me, I have done my research. I've built a small building on the outskirts of Hogsmeade—far enough away that the villagers will hardly be bothered at all." He smiled. "Having Remus transform on Hogwarts grounds is, as you know, unacceptable. The building is far enough away from the castle that he couldn't reach the students inside even if he were to escape—which he will not."

"Then how will he get into the building, Albus?" enquired Wilma. "Will a staff member take leave of his or her duties to walk him all the way past Hogsmeade every single month? What if someone notices?"

Dumbledore smiled again, self-righteous and self-assured. "I have planted a tree."

There was silence.

"A tree," repeated Wilma flatly.

"Indeed. A Whomping Willow, to be precise. It will be planted over a secret entrance to the building—a shortcut, if you will. The shortcut is magicked so that it, though short, will allow the user to travel a long distance away. It will only feel like the tunnel reaches a few feet, but it will transport the user all the way to the building."

"No, no," said Wilma. "No. Go back to the tree. What is the purpose of the tree?"

"To hide the tunnel."

"But... why a tree?"

"It is a Whomping Willow. No one will dare go near it."

"Then..." Wilma blinked. "How will the werewolf get to it?"

"There is a knot at the base of the tree. When poked, the tree will freeze in place for about a minute."

"And what if he escapes the building? He's right next to a village full of people."

"He is not 'right next' to them. He's separated by a lake. But I have put plenty of charms on the building myself—trust me when I say that not even the strongest dragon in the world would be able to escape from this building. It may look shabby, but it is stronger than steel itself." When no one responded for a while, Dumbledore added, "I don't mean to seem arrogant, of course, but I am rather good at magic."

"I think we'd like to inspect this building," said another D.R.C.M.C. worker.

Dumbledore nodded. "By all means, Edward."

A man to Wilma's left raised his hand tentatively. Wilma wasn't sure what was up with the whole raising-hands thing—she'd done it as well. There was just something about Dumbledore that made them feel as if they were all back in school and needed to raise their hands, waiting for the man to call on them.

"Yes, Lyall?" said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling again.

Wilma looked at the man and saw that he was pale and quivering all over. He didn't seem quite right in the head, somehow. He was probably frightened of werewolves. Wilma couldn't blame him. "What exactly," said the man called Lyall, and then he cleared his throat and started over. "Never mind," he said. "Sorry."

"Not at all," said Dumbledore, and then he started rambling about the security measures in that pseudo-soothing voice of his.

Wilma looked over at Lyall, whose hands were shaking. Now that she thought about it, she recognized him. Wilma had never worked directly with him, but he'd been a long-time employee of the D.R.C.M.C. She'd only been working there for three years or so, but he'd been working with creatures for ages. World-renowned for his Boggart research, he was. "All right, man?" she asked.

"Er, yeah," he said. "I just... I mean, I don't..."

"You don't like the idea of a werewolf at Hogwarts," filled in Wilma. "Do you have children?"

The man paused. Licked his lips. Looked at the sky. And then... "Yes, I do. One. He's eleven."

"So he'll be in the werewolf's year," said Wilma in an awed tone. "No wonder you're worried. Don't worry, mate, I'll convince Dumbledore to rescind that fool idea of his. Least I can do. I'll get this werewolf out of Hogwarts."

Lyall did not look assured, so Wilma shot him an encouraging smile and then raised her hand at the speed of light. Dumbledore cut off mid-sentence. "Wilma?" he said.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I don't believe you have the power to do this without briefing the parents of the children. It should be in their control as well, seeing as their children are directly affected. I know Lyall here—" Wilma gestured toward the man— "he's my new best friend, and he's not comfortable with the idea of his son attending Hogwarts with a werewolf."

Dumbledore looked almost as if he wanted to laugh. "Oh, are you, Lyall?" he asked. "I had no idea. You should have said something."

Lyall looked ill.

"Wilma, I have made it very clear to the parents that all eligible children, regardless of background, can be admitted to Hogwarts. Children of all kinds have been admitted for centuries—of all races, genders, and births. Parents who don't approve of such measures are free to pull their children out of Hogwarts whenever they'd like, providing they are educating their children in some other way. I don't feel the need to disclose every child's personal information to all the parents in Hogwarts—not when the child's personal information will not affect parents or their children in any way."

"But the werewolf could be dangerous," argued Wilma. "Werewolves are XXXXX beasts, Albus. That is the definition of dangerous. Children need parents' permission to work with beasts of that nature in Care of Magical Creatures, so why wouldn't they need to grant permission for their child to attend school with one?"

"Werewolves are not XXXXX beasts save for the full moon, Wilma," said Dumbledore. "You really should have paid more attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts. If I remember correctly, you ended up failing your werewolf exam back in your third year."

Wilma flushed red. Low blow. Dumbledore should not have been allowed to bring up such information from Wilma's childhood years. She'd been thirteen—that was before she'd wanted to work in the D.R.C.M.C. She hadn't cared about magical creatures back then, no, but that girl was dead and gone. Wilma knew all about werewolves nowadays, she'd just (naïvely) hoped that Dumbledore didn't.

But, since this was a mere "discussion" and not a trial, the man was allowed to do whatever he wanted... and he knew it, of course.

"I am no longer thirteen," Wilma said acidly.

Dumbledore nodded. "So you understand that, when the boy does classify as a Dark creature of an XXXXX nature, he will not be on Hogwarts grounds."

Wilma was not going to lose this argument. She couldn't. It was supposed to be an easy argument, because everybody knew that werewolves were dangerous—even Muggles, and they didn't believe in werewolves. Why was it so hard to win? "Werewolves have been proven to be dangerous in human form as well," she argued.

"Really?"

"Really. I'm sure Sal Manard could tell you many stories."

"I have met this child, Wilma. He is harmless. As I have said before, he is not the type of werewolf with whom Salvis deals on a daily basis..."

"All werewolves are alike, Dumbledore." Wilma was frustrated enough that she dropped the sweet-and-loveable act. So what if Dumbledore looked at her like a petulant child? Her argument would speak for itself. "Werewolves are known for pretending to be human—luring you in—and then attacking when the time is right. The werewolf may seem harmless to you, but he is putting up an act. He is lying."

"Hm," said Dumbledore. "I do believe that's a myth."

"A myth?" Wilma could feel the tips of her ears turn red. How dare he accuse her of failing to do her research? "Again, Sal could tell you many stories."

"He could. None of which pertain to Remus. But he could."

"Of course they pertain to Remus! Based on prior experience, there is every possibility that the child will lure others into his trap—murder them—create an alibi to get out of punishment. Werewolves are dangerous precisely because they masquerade as humans. They have both physical strength and near-human cognitive functions, which is a dangerous combination. This is third-year knowledge, Dumbledore. You are falling into the same trap as—" A bolt of inspiration struck Wilma, as sure and true as Dumbledore's twinkling eyes themselves. "—as my mother did, and I won't stand for it."

"Do elaborate," urged Dumbledore.

Wilma gladly did so. "My mother was killed by a werewolf," said Wilma in a hushed tone that carried through the room admirably. "But let me start from the beginning. She never liked my dad much, Mam. Skedaddled right after I was born and found a new lover. Didn't much care about Dad, but she loved me. Kept saying she'd get me away from him to come live with her and her boyfriend. But her boyfriend... was a werewolf.

"I wasn't so sure about it at first. I was young—hardly more than a toddler—but I still recognized the man as dangerous. Mam didn't, though. She said that I was being biased and unfair. She said it was simply ingrained prejudice talking. She told me that, if I were a good and loving individual, I'd give him a chance. So I did. What can I say? I idolized my mam.

"But she was wrong. I was visiting her once, and I had to watch as her boyfriend told her that she could come down to watch him transform—just once. He said he wouldn't be dangerous for the first five minutes. He said the mind chance kicked in far after he transformed. He kissed her, talked her into it, assured her that he loved her, and Mam believed him. Of course she did. I idolized her, but she idolized him."

Now Wilma crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, shooting a glance toward the terrified Lyall. "I don't have to tell you what happened next," she said. "Her screams still haunt my nightmares."

There was a pregnant pause as the people present digested this. Dumbledore still hadn't stopped smiling.

And then, before Wilma's very eyes, he leaned forward and said, "A good story."

"Thanks...?" said Wilma. "It wasn't good, though. Traumatizing, more like."

"A good story," Dumbledore repeated. His eyes twinkled more violently, and the twinkles were sharp as daggers. "If only it were true."

Silence. Wilma could have heard a Pygmy Puff's sneeze.

"Wilma, I know all about your family situation. I talked to your father when you were in school—right after you got detention for the seventeenth time in first year."

Wilma could feel her ears turn even redder.

"You never met your mother. She left shortly after you were born. She was found dead seven months later—after she'd tried to rob a well-known convenience store, she'd been hit by a train whilst being pursued by Muggle law enforcement."

Wilma slumped slightly. Busted. Yeah, that was true. And Wilma had told enough people about it (it was quite the exciting story) that there was no way she could lie now. "I didn't know you spoke to my father," she muttered.

"Well, it is became necessary after you cut Lucia Smyth's hair without her consent."

"Lying under oath is a very serious offense, Wilma," started Minister Jenkins, but Wilma cut her off (just like she'd cut Lucia Smyth's hair that one time).

"I wasn't under oath, Minister Jenkins. I never took an oath. This is a discussion—not a trial—so anything goes."

Dumbledore smiled at Wilma. "You were always very clever, Wilma."

Yes, Wilma was clever. She was very clever. She was clever enough, surely, to outsmart Dumbledore—if not for herself, then for Lyall's sake. Even though the lie had damaged her chances considerably, she'd keep going. "You may have proved that story about my mother untrue," she tried, "but you can't prove it untrue in the case of all werewolves. It could be true. It could very well be true. Although the specifics were fabricated, instances just like that one really do happen. The fact that it didn't happen to me personally means nothing. You can't prove that Remus has human emotions."

"I don't think an eleven-year-old child could be such a good actor, especially not one with—as you say—near-human cognitive functions," chuckled Dumbledore. Ah, the chuckle. The chuckle intended to cut Wilma down; to paint her as a little kid who had no idea what she was talking about. Wilma was in her early twenties. She may have been young, but she wasn't a child—and neither was the werewolf.

"Not a child; a werewolf," insisted Wilma. "He's being enabled by Dark magic, and you can't prove that he's not."

"And you cannot prove that he is."

"The burden of proof is on you!"

"No, it is not. My claim is perfectly reasonable. Remus acts like a child and looks like a child; therefore he is a child. You are the one who is claiming that he is something outlandish—something impossible. You say that he is an expert liar, capable of fooling even an outstandingly experienced wizard—and yes, I am referring to myself (forgive my arrogance). The burden of proof, my dear Wilma, is on you."

"What if I'm right, though?" hissed Wilma. "What if I'm right, and students die due to your mistake?"

"Then I shall take full responsibility and step down from my role as headmaster. I'll even go to Azkaban, if the law requires it."

"It shouldn't have to happen in the first place. Even one child dead is too many." Wilma regretted the comment as soon as it left her lips. It left Dumbledore an opening, and he seized it without hesitation.

"I agree, Wilma. No child left behind, is that right? Not even Remus." He smiled—Merlin's pants, that smile was beginning to get really annoying. "If I am wrong—and Remus really is dangerous in human form—then I assure you that I am still capable of protecting Hogwarts from a small eleven-year-old child. I have protected far more from far greater, and Remus will be locked up when he is most dangerous. I would also like to remind you that Remus has lived with his family for years, and all of them are still right as rain. The only offense I am committing is doing something rather unconventional—yet still safe.

"But if you have your way, and I turn out to be correct, then you are taking a child's right to education away from him. That is a far greater offense, and it is one I will not abide by."

"But—" interrupted Wilma, but Dumbledore's voice was compelling enough that no one even seemed to hear her.

"As headmaster, I do believe that it is within my power to decide who works at, attends, and visits the castle grounds. And today, I am pleased to inform you that I have decided. It is written in the school's code that every eligible witch and wizard will attend Hogwarts, and Remus is certainly eligible. A werewolf, yes, but also undeniably a wizard."

Minister Jenkins shook her head. "Mr. Dumbledore—"

"And I really must add that I cannot support a Ministry of Magic that does not respect my choices, does not respect the rights of an eleven-year-old, and does not respect the institution itself. It is within your power to override my decision, of course. But if you do so, then you will lose my support."

Dumbledore smiled again. He'd won, and everyone knew it. They could not lose the support of Albus Dumbledore: not with another potential war on the very brink. Wilma had tried, but she was no match for Albus Dumbledore.

Minister Jenkins saw that, too. "Fine," she said. "Discussion over. Thank you for clearing up the confusion, Mr. Dumbledore."

"My pleasure as always," said Dumbledore, still wearing that ridiculous smile, and then he swept out of the room in all his self-righteous, genius, werewolf-apologist glory.

Wilma needed a drink.