Despite its slimness, Fantastic Beasts turns out to be a marvelous read. I've always liked animals, but never had any great interest in them, human motivations being so much more interesting to untangle. But Karel's copy of Fantastic Beasts sends me into a week-long library binge, as Violet terms it, which ends with me stretched out on my four-poster gazing at the ceiling in horror. Violet finds me there.

"What's gotten into you?" she chortles, the instant she sees my expression. "Found out about dragons, have we?"

"No…"

"Trolls? Doxies? Grindylows?"

"I branched out a bit," I mumble, conscious of Casseiopeia fumbling through her trunk on the other side of the room. "Can we talk about this later?"

"Sure, but give me a hint." Before I can stop her, Violet plucks the latest book from my listless fingers and flips to the bookmark. "Werewolves, Annie? Is this what you're frightened of? They're all registered these days, you don't have to worry about--"

"Not worried," I say shortly, pulling myself into a sitting position. I'm not certain, actually, what the jumble of emotions in my chest might indicate, but worried does not cover it. "When's our next Defense Against the Dark Arts class?"

"Tomorrow, just before lunch. Are you going to ask Professor Lupin about--"

"Just curious. Don't wait up for me for lunch, Vi -- Uncle John asked me to tea. Usually does after a visit to Mum in London."

"Lucky," says Violet enviously. She loves examining the menagerie in John's office. "The semester started barely a week ago, and he's already been to see your mum?"

"I asked him to," I fabricate. "Wanted to see if she's holding up better this year."

"Well, I guess you can ask him about your newest obsession with werewolves. Want me to come with?"

I'm spared answering when Daphne's voice drifts across the room. While Violet and Adriana are technically on speaking terms, their friendship never fully recovered from last year's argument. Consequently, most messages to Violet come through Daphne.

"Violet, are you coming with us to the dueling club after lunch tomorrow?"

"Right, I forgot." Violet turns back to me. "Sorry, Annie. I promised."

"No worries," I say, hiding my relief. "We'll meet back up in Herbology."

I wait until my classmates are well on their way to the Great Hall before approaching Uncle John. He's standing at his desk at the front of the room, shuffling papers into a stack.

"Nice job on that Petrification essay, Annie," he says, without looking up. "We've been focusing on spellwork, but I liked the asides on basilisks and gargoyles. Been doing some extra research?"

"Always," I say, perching on a student desk. "Been on a bit of a magical creatures binge, lately. Got any specimens to show me?"

"Not a basilisk, I'm afraid. How about a preserved runespoor?"

"Does it still have all three heads?" I inquire with interest.

"Unusually, yes. And how about you, Annie? Anyone bite your head off lately?"

The light tone conceals the concern I know he feels. Adriana's open dislike of me has come to the attention of most of our year, and the emulation of some. I spend more time biting my tongue than making observations, these days. One of our year dropped an open vial of dragon's blood on my bookbag yesterday in a supposed accident, while Slughorn pretended not to notice. Violet has lost another childhood friend in my defense. And all of this despite the fact that the other Slytherins, unlike Professor Lupin, don't even know that I'm Muggleborn.

"No problems," I say, not entirely truthfully. "Violet's as good a shield as I could hope for. I came to you about, ah, something else actually."

"Oh?"

"It didn't seem right to hide this from you," I say quietly, sliding the werewolf book from my bag. "I didn't go looking, truly. I was just researching magical creatures, because of the thestrals, and--"

I hand him the book. By the time I can bear to raise my eyes John seems to have aged ten years. He manages a small smile, however, when he looks down at me.

"I wondered when you'd figure it out."

"Sorry," I say again.

"Sorry?" John laughs, letting the book slide from his fingers onto the desk with a thump. "You find out I'm keeping something like that from you and your mother, and your reaction is 'sorry'?"

I shift nervously. "What should it be?"

This time my uncle's laugh is more of a bark, harsh and full of pain.

"'Please don't eat my loved ones' is the usual response."

"That doesn't make sense. It's not the full moon."

"That doesn't matter to most people, who seem to believe I'm diseased at the best of times. I should have known you wouldn't be among them."

"Most people are idiots," I feel compelled to point out.

For once, he doesn't refute this.

"What's it like?" I half-whisper, to break the silence. "Are you still…well, yourself when the transformation occurs? Is there a sensation of…of letting go? Does the full moon, like the book says, call to you?"

John looks thoughtful.

"Am I myself? That depends upon your point of view. After many years I've come to accept my reality as a dual entity. I am myself, and I am the wolf. Am I both at once, you ask? Only when I take a specific potion that allows me to retain control of myself.

"But before I had the potion -- I can see the question in your eyes -- no, I was not myself. I frightened people. I may have harmed some of them. There is very much a sensation of release, of retreating into oneself and letting the animal take over. It's terrible, and it's freeing. Moral concerns, complex cognition, shrink to almost nothing. Physical sensations become so much more immediate. And chief among them, yes, is the sense of the moon's rays. The clearer the atmosphere, the brighter the night, the closer the moon is to the earth, the more intoxicating it is. I'm sure you've never tasted alcohol, Andrea--"

"I haven't," I say. Mum has never kept any addictive substances in the flat.

"--but the sensation is something like that. I've heard it compared to Muggle drugs, in fact. The high is very real, but then so is the pain."

"Of transformation?" I've heard about that in regard to Polyjuice Potion.

"Yes. The reshaping of one's bones into a wolf's…it's nearly indescribable. And then there's the…"

"What?"

"The bloodlust," he says quietly. "So sharp, so urgent that it's nearly painful. And that's nothing compared to the torment of being crammed into a tiny corner of your head, a powerless spectator, as the wolf does what wolves…well. It's all a bit blurry, afterwards. As I said, I'm glad to have the Wolfsbane potion."

"Sounds amazing," I say. "And horrible."

"It is. Very few people ask me such questions."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I've been trying to put it into words for a long time. I've thought about writing up my own experiences, often, but I'll probably publish it posthumously. Not all of your generation realizes what I am, and I am not eager for them to."

"People know?"

"The rumors leaked out, years ago. So did they finally make it to your ears, Andrea? Or did you figure this out yourself? Lay out the evidence for me," he says, smiling.

I shrug, idly waving my hand over a candle on his desk. Lighting it, then putting it out, again and again.

"You mean apart from your scars, your dietary habits, your pattern of illnesses, and your general concern for outcasts?"

"That last one is not usually cited," John says quietly.

"I think I understand now why you never abandoned Mum and me."

"I suppose that's true. I rarely feel qualified to judge anybody, however difficult their past."

"In that case," I can't help saying bitterly, "I wish we had more werewolves around."

John's eyes narrow, and he gestures to me to move to the seat across from him.

"Tell me," he says.

And, for once, I do.