Who was his mysterious protector? In the beginning, Harry did not ask. In the morning, he went to class as usual. But when evening came and the other Gryffindors fell into a sleep so deep it must have been enchanted, the stranger was there, as promised. During the first few nights, Harry did not ask any questions. He felt weary, his heart was heavy when he thought of Dumbledore's deceit, and he sought solace in the stranger's wordless presence.

How wonderful and strange, to feel another's warmth against his body! He realized that he had always longed for this sensation of skin against his skin. He had sometimes wondered, when he had seen Mr. and Mrs. Weasley linger over a goodnight kiss behind their children's backs, or students secretly embracing in obscure sections of the library, or even parents on the street in Little Whinging, carrying small children tenderly in their arms, what it would be like to be touched. He had kissed Cho briefly, it was true, and received some hugs from Mrs. Weasley, nothing more. And his parents must have held him, long ago, but he had no memory of their touch anymore. Aunt Petunia's hands had stroked Dudley's hair so often, so tenderly, and even now when he was older, she kissed him on the cheek. But when Harry had grown too old for the sharp slaps Aunt Petunia used to give him when annoyed, he also outgrew any human touch at the Dursleys.

He didn't ask, in the beginning, who the stranger was; he merely rested in the unknown arms with a sense of deep and primordial satisfaction. He felt warm and loved as he drifted into sleep, and his dreams were no longer filled with dark, nightmarish shapes and nameless terrors; his sleep was calm, and his dreams were light and luminous.

But as his heartache began to heal, he grew curious. Who was his nightly guest? It was always too dark to see even the contours of a face, but Harry's fingers began to explore in secret what his eyes couldn't see. Male. The stranger was male. His face was smooth, his features regular. His hair felt soft and wavy against Harry's fingers. He guessed by the softness of the stranger's skin and the firmness of his body that he was quite young, perhaps not much older than Harry himself.

But he could fly, break the spells that surrounded Gryffindor Tower, and cast enchanted sleeps, so clearly he was no ordinary schoolboy.

"Who are you?" Harry whispered on the fourth night he felt the stranger by his side.

First, there was silence. Then a voice said softly: "My name is of no consequence. I am here to protect you."

"But I want to know who you are..." Harry traced the stranger's face with his finger, trying to imagine what his face would look like in the daylight. "I don't know anything about you. Except that you are beautiful..."

"A necessary illusion." There was a slight tremor in the stranger's voice. "I don't want you to be frightened."

"Frightened? Are you some kind of monster, then?" Harry thought for a moment. Then he whispered: "You are kinder to me than anyone has even been. I don't think I would care that much if you were a monster. But I want to know who you are. Are you a werewolf?"

"Do you dream of werewolves, too, like your friend?" There was a hint of laughter in the monster's voice.

"Like my friend?"

"The red-haired one. He talks in his sleep sometimes."

"Oh." Harry was silent for a minute, thinking of Ron and his werewolf dreams. Then he said, quietly: "I am a monster, too, you know."

And he told the stranger about Voldemort, about the horcruxes, and about Snape's terrible revelation. The stranger listened without a word; then Harry felt a hand stroking his hair, gently.

"So you decided to die? Because you thought you were a monster?" The stranger asked the question lightly, but Harry could sense an edge of anxiousness in his voice.

"Yes."

"I see." The stranger was silent for a moment. "A horcrux is not easily destroyed, you know. It would take extraordinarily powerful magic to harm it. But your desperate willingness to destroy yourself may have been magic enough. There is a curious power in willing self-sacrifice." Harry felt the stranger shudder a little by his side.

"Do you still... want to die?" The stranger's voice was hoarse in the darkness.

Harry considered for a moment. Then he whispered: "Perhaps not. I think about it in the day, when I go about my ordinary life, when I see Dumbledore and Snape. I feel like a stranger here now, a dark shadow that doesn't belong. But everything is different in the dark. I feel so terribly alone when it is light, but then I remember that you are here, waiting in the dark... It feels like I belong with you."

"It feels like you belong with me?" How lovely the stranger's voice was, like a haunting, long-forgotten song. Perhaps his voice was familiar after all, an echo of some distant memory. "I like that, Harry. I like that you belong with me. " A gentle kiss brushed his forehead, soft, like a breath of wind.

...

The next morning, Harry found Ron in the owlery. He had woken up early, suddenly aware that he was alone again as the first hesitant rays of morning sun fell through the stained glass windows of the dormitory. The stranger had vanished with the light, as always.

He saw that Ron's bed was empty and decided to go and look for him. He pulled the Marauder's Map out of the trunk under his bed, and after searching in vain for a name that could reveal the identity of his nightly visitor, he found Ron's dot instead, heading up to the owlery. What was he doing up there at this hour?

Shivering a little in the chilly morning air, Harry threw some clothes on and went in pursuit of his friend.

Ron was standing by the balustrade, watching an owl fly away, a tiny dark dot against the blushing morning sky.

"Who are you writing to, Ron?"

Ron whirled around at the sound of his voice, a deep blush on his freckled face. "Nobody," he whispered.

"It's okay, Ron. I won't tell a soul."

Harry remembered what the stranger had said, about Ron talking in his sleep, and some sort of strange realization was beginning to form in his mind. "You are writing to Remus, aren't you?"

Ron just stared at him, frozen in incomprehension for a moment. Then he said hoarsely: "How... How do you know that?"

"You talk in your sleep sometimes. It's okay, I won't tell."

"I talk in my sleep?" Ron looked panicked at the thought. "What do I say?"

"Don't know... Just something about werewolves..."

"Nothing... really bad?"

Harr put his arm on Ron's shoulder. "No. Nothing bad. And even if you did, it would be fine with me, Ron. I am your friend. I wouldn't care if you became a werewolf..."

"You wouldn't?" Something in Ron's voice made Harry wonder.

"Ron? Is that what you were writing to Remus about? Surely, you wouldn't want him to...?"

"Do you think he would do it? If I asked him?" There was a curious longing in Ron's voice.

"I don't know. Remus... No, I don't think he would want to hurt you, Ron."

"Pehaps not." Ron's shoulders slumped, and he looked steadily at the ground as they headed down the stairs together.

But that evening, as they were sitting next to each other in a window seat in the Gryffindor common room, pretending to study, Ron whispered:

"Harry?"

"Hm?" Harry put down the book he was holding.

There was a faraway look in Ron's eyes. "Have you ever noticed how people look at him? Remus, I mean? It's easy to see that Tonks is wild about him. He looks tired and shabby sometimes, but there is something about him that's dangerous and attractive at the same time. Even Bill looks at him sometimes as if he can feel it too..."

"Bill?" Harry was puzzled. "But - but he's a man..."

A sudden thought struck him. "Oh. Do you know if Remus... I mean, do you know if he would fancy Tonks or Bill-?" Harry knew he had put his question awkwardly, but Ron understood him.

Ron swallowed, audibly. Then he said, slowly: "A werewolf's identity is always changing, shifting between one form and another. There is an ambiguity in their very nature. I read about it once... That's why they are drawn both to humanity and to their animal form. And when they love... They are drawn to men and women alike."

"Oh." Harry looked at his friend with curiosity. He wondered, for a moment, precisely what Ron had written in his note to Remus, but decided not to ask. Perhaps there were some secrets that were not meant to be shared, even among friends.