'Fancy a bet on this year's Sorting?'

'Really, Horace,' says Minerva, pursing her lips in disapproval. 'You'd think that by now you'd have given up such childish antics.'

It is the first of September, seven o'clock in the evening. The students should be arriving any time now, and Horace Slughorn has accosted Minerva and me on our way into the Great Hall. Taking bets on the Sorting is a bit of a tradition for Horace—trying to predict which students will be Sorted into which Houses. Obviously it's impossible to tell for Muggle-borns, but where pure-bloods and half-bloods are concerned there's always room for some reasoned guesswork. It's Horace's own way of making some extra gold.

'It's just a bit of fun, Minerva,' says Horace, hastening after the Associate Headmistress as she lengthens her strides, boots clacking loudly on the floor of the freshly polished Entrance Hall. I trail behind slowly.

'You have a twisted idea of fun,' snaps Minerva, not slowing down in the slightest. 'It's appalling.'

'You don't have to be such a spoilsport,' puffs the stout Horace, out of breath from moving so quickly.

It's also a tradition for Minerva to abhor Horace's game. Each year, she adamantly refuses to participate, believing it improper to bet on children. She finally stops in front of the marble staircase, turning around with a whirl of her long emerald robes and facing the eager Potions master with a frankly dangerous expression, her lips thinned to almost nothing.

'I have half a mind to take this up with Dumbledore,' she hisses, glaring down at Horace from her considerably greater height. As I approach I notice with some alarm that she seems to be gripping her wand inside her pocket.

Horace laughs boomingly.

'Last year I won ten Galleons off Dumbledore when he was so sure that the Bletchley boy would end up in Hufflepuff,' he informs Minerva smugly, then withdraws the register from within his robes. 'Let's see… "Aubrey, Bertram"—who's he?'

'His mother was that girl who set the Astronomy Tower on fire in her seventh year,' I recall. 'Those burn wounds were horrific. Good gracious, what was she called again?' I can't seem to put a name to those blackened features.

Horace reads the next name off the list: 'Avery, Roderick.'

'Slytherin,' notes Minerva grudgingly. 'Do you remember his father?' She suppresses a shudder at the recollection.

'His mother was in Ravenclaw,' I remark. 'She was quite a gifted witch. Young Avery might take on after her.'

'You wager Mr. Avery will become a Ravenclaw?' smirks Horace. 'Poppy, I will bet you five Galleons that he's Sorted into my House.'

'Alright,' I agree, avoiding Minerva's eye as I seal the transaction. There's nothing wrong with a bit of gambling, as far as I'm concerned. The Transfiguration teacher harrumphs loudly as Horace happily records the bet on a scrap of parchment.

Horace returns to the register, 'Let's see, who's next…oh hello!'

Filius Flitwick and Pomona Sprout have arrived with Irma Pince trailing along behind them. They join the small group of us clustered around the marble staircase.

'Doing some betting?' inquires Pomona good-naturedly, peering at the register over Horace's shoulder. She has changed from her normally dirt and leaf-covered robes into a freshly laundered pair.

'Who's next on the list?' asks Filius from somewhere near my thigh.

Horace checks. 'Black, Sirius,' he announces. All of our faces fall in almost perfect synchronisation. This is not welcome news for any of us.

'Another Black?' says Irma Pince in dismay. Three generations of Blacks have mishandled books during Irma's time as Hogwarts librarian.

'No one's going to give you any odds on that one, Horace,' Minerva sniffs. 'There's never been a Black Sorted anywhere but Slytherin, as you well know.'

'Oh come on!' says Horace, staring around at us earnestly. 'Young Sirius might be the black sheep of the family! The start of a new generation of Blacks!'

'Or not,' mutters Irma, scuffing the ground with her toe.

'He's part of a generation that's already been established,' I note. 'Andromeda, Bellatrix and Narcissa. All three have been raised in the traditional Black fashion. All three have been Sorted into Slytherin like the rest of their family. Why should Sirius Black be any different?'

'The history of Slytherin is littered with Blacks,' Filius adds. 'Not one other House has ever been befouled by a member of that family.'

'Littered? Befouled?' says Horace, his face contorting with incredulity. 'The Blacks are immensely talented. I'd be glad to have a new one in my House. Not that there's isn't a small chance he'll defy our expectations. Go on: I'll bet any of you five Galleons that Mr. Black becomes a Slytherin.'

Silence.

The Blacks are an ancient and corrupt family, renowned for their twisted beliefs. They are convinced that to be Black is to be practically royal. In addition, they harbour undisguised contempt for Muggle-borns, priding themselves immensely for being pure-blood. They are famous for being arrogant and vindictive; all Black children are raised to carry on this legacy. They are taught from a young age to religiously follow the Black's warped viewpoint. It is natural that the lot of them have always found themselves in Slytherin. Nothing's going to change any time soon.

'One Galleon?' says Horace weakly.

Silence. Then—

'Alright,' Pomona Sprout concedes. 'One Galleon it is.'

'Marvelous,' Horace whips out his scrap of parchment. 'Which House, Pomona?'

'Any House,' Pomona shrugs. 'Any House but Slytherin, I suppose.'

'Specifically?'

'Gryffindor, then,' Pomona grins. 'I'd might as well go all the way.'

'One Galleon down the drain, Pomona,' mutters Irma as we make our way into the Great Hall.

'What were you thinking?' Minerva hisses to the Herbology teacher. 'You know perfectly well that this Black boy will go straight to Slytherin as soon as the Sorting Hat touches his royal head. Or were you just humouring Horace?'

'There's no harm in letting him have a bit of fun,' says Pomona. 'Besides, you never know…'

'In this case, you do,' grunts Minerva.

We reach the staff table and take our places, looking down at the illustrious Great Hall with its elaborately set tables and colourful banners adorning the walls, not to mention the starry indigo sky overhead. A rumble of voices and footstesps in the distance tells us that the students have arrived and are making their noisy way through the Entrance Hall.

As the first students spill into the Great Hall, a queasy feeling disturbs my gut. I reach into my robes and slide my hand around the pamphlet that I have been carrying on my person almost religiously for the past three months. There is one first-year boy who I am especially anxious to see, one Sorting I am especially anxious to witness.

In the end, I don't get to watch any Sorting. Not even a third of the students had taken their seats before Argus Filch dashed up to the top table to inform me that I was needed in the hospital wing; a student had fallen ill on the train. As I hurried out of the Great Hall, I prayed that it would be a flu or a fever or something easily curable like that. It wasn't. It was a hypochondriac.

'There's nothing wrong with your health,' I say flatly.

'I'm dying!' the boy wails.

We are standing face to face in the entrance of the hospital wing, although if it were up it him he would be on his way to St. Mungo's right now for emergency treatment.

The boy is a fourth year Hufflepuff named William Potts. He is tall and thin, with a good deal of curly ginger hair. I see a rather lot of him in the hospital wing. In fact, if a week goes by where he hasn't paid me a visit, I have reason to celebrate. There is not a single known ailment that William Potts has not allegedly come down with over the course of his time at Hogwarts. There have even been some cases where he becomes infected with mysterious, unknown illnesses. Like today.

'So just to clarify: you're telling me that your face has changed shape?'

'It's collapsing,' Potts whispers. 'My face, it's…it's falling apart. Look at my nose, it's gone all droopy—and my cheeks! Something's wrong with me, something's dreadfully wrong. Oh, god, I'm dying. I'm going to die! I'm going to die! HELP ME!'

As I drag the hysterical boy into the ward ('What are you doing? I need specialist attention!') I simultaneously try to speak comforting words to him and hear what is going on in the Great Hall. All I can make out is the distant roar of applause which means that someone has just been Sorted.

'What's going to happen to me?' croaks Potts as I push him into the nearest bed.

'Drink this, dear,' I hand him a goblet of Calming Draught mixed with Sleeping Potion. It should do the trick.

'What is it?' Propped up against the pillows, Potts eyes the murky brown liquid suspiciously. If I tell him what it contains he will refuse to take it.

'It's nothing, dear. Drink it up, now.' I'm trying not to appear as impatient as I am. Another round of applause sounds. If I can just get that concoction down his throat, I may manage to return to the Great Hall in time to watch most of the sorting. Remus Lupin—'L'. That's in the middle of the alphabet. I may just get there.

'Potts?' I say, because the boy is still squinting uncertainly at the contents of his goblet. 'Drink it.'

Be nice, Poppy, I tell myself. It's not his fault that he's a hypochondriac. And it's not his fault that you're desperate to get back to the Great Hall to see a werewolf being Sorted. He's oblivious to your concerns. Be nice.

'You're trying to poison me!' cries Potts, going pale. Have I mentioned that he is also paranoid?

Forget being nice.

'Potts,' I growl, bearing down on him. 'Under no circumstances am I trying to poison you. I am trying to help you. I am Hogwarts matron, and you will do as I say or I will fetch your Head of House and you will face far greater punishment than a mild bout of hypochondria. You will face detention, loss of House points, and possibly suspension. Now you will do as I say, and you will drink that potion. Do I make myself clear?'

Yet another round of applause.

'I'm too young to die,' sobs the repulsive boy who now has fat tears gushing down his freckled face. 'Please don't make me drink this poison.'

I can deal with crying first-year boys. I can deal with crying second-year boys. Sometimes I even find myself capable of dealing with crying third-year boys. One simply hugs the child in question, gives it chocolate, and sends it on its way.

I cannot handle crying fourth-year boys. They are completely and utterly beyond my realm of expertise. Not only is it embarrassing to watch a fourteen-year-old boy bawl, but they are too big to be hugged and too clever to be plied with sweets.

'I haven't even taken my O.W.L.s,' Potts weeps, his lanky frame bent over with his shoulders convulsing, hands still wrapped around the goblet.

I want to turn and run right out of the hospital wing and back into the Great Hall. Or possibly out of the castle and into Hogsmeade.

'Alright!' I say. 'Alright, Potts. Just…just put the goblet down. Here, give it to me. Thank you. Now…you're going to be absolutely fine. It's a minor case of…' Quick, Poppy, make something up, '…of spattergroit.' I pray that he doesn't know what spattergroit is. Even as I Vanish the contents of the goblet, another wave of cheering rings through the castle.

'Spattergroit?' sniffles Potts. 'Wh- what's spattergroit?'

'Temporary appearance-altering disease,' I say briskly, playing along with his apparent symptoms. 'It'll be gone in the morning.'

'Are…are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure,' I snap. 'Now, get yourself tucked in. I will be returning to the Great Hall. Send word by a ghost if you need me.'

I am halfway to the door when I realise the implications of my words. I turn back.

'Potts,' I call.

'Yes?'

'You may experience other symptoms related to spattergroit. No matter how severe they may be, I assure you that they are perfectly normal. Do not summon me unless there is an absolute emergency.' From across the hospital wing I give him a beady eye reminiscent of Minerva, 'And by emergency, I mean emergency. Understood?'

'Yes,' he squeaks.

I fly out the door of the hospital wing and begin racing down the labyrinth of corridors, twisting and turning and dodging suits of armour and statues, ducking through tapestries. Another round of applause sounds, and I speed up. Who knew that the distance to the Great Hall was so long? I am now sprinting down the first floor Charms corridor (the things I will do to witness a werewolf being Sorted…) and I can actually discern the distinct sound of children chattering amongst themselves and benches scraping against the floor and possibly even Horace Slughorn's deep voice calling forward the next student to be Sorted…

I am about three paces from bursting into the Entrance Hall when I hear a loud rushing noise from somewhere overhead. I skid to an abrupt halt, and a split second later I am covered from head to foot in a thick, bubbling green slime.

'AARRGH!' I yell, partially from shock and partially out of disgust.

Dripping in this unidentifiable muck, I look up and see Peeves the poltergeist floating high above me carrying a bucket. The triumphant smirk on his wide face fades slightly when he sees who I am, having probably assumed that I was a student.

'PEEVES!' I shout, brandishing a fist. 'What is this?'

'Unvanishable Gunk, miss,' he says proudly.

'What do you mean, unvanishable?' I shriek. The stuff smells like a mixture of rotting eggs and bubotuber pus. I give another cry of rage and Peeves backs away, looking slightly alarmed. Any other time I would have regarded frightening Peeves as a great accomplishment.

Of all the moments I could have ended up on the receiving end of one of Peeves' pranks, it just had to be tonight, right now. As I stand there dripping in Unvanishable Gunk, I run through all the best swear-words I know in my head. If I didn't have any shame, I would march into the Great Hall like this and not care in the slightest what people thought of me. But sadly, I do not have any interest in becoming the latest topic of Hogwarts gossip.

So I take a deep breath, smile at Peeves, and head off to take a bath, hoping with all my heart that Remus Lupin is not Sorted into Slytherin.

The first day of term turns out to be surprisingly sunny for September, as though summer is making one last attempt to show its face before autumn claims the stage. I pull on my robes, pin up my hair, and scrutinise my face in the mirror to make certain that all traces of green slime are gone.

'Feeling alright, Potts?' I say as I bustle into the ward.

He gives a loud snore and rolls over in bed. As it is only six o'clock in the morning, I let him carry on sleeping. Heading into my office, I begin to tidy things up, reshelving books and filing away rolls of parchment with a few flicks of my wand. A clean workspace is important for a healthy mind, as I like to say. I stow a handful of quills into my desk drawer and pick up a bottle of scarlet ink.

'Good morning, Poppy.'

I nearly jump out of my skin. Whirling around, I am bemused to find Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway of my office, smiling down at me pleasantly.

'Good gracious,' I say, putting down the ink. 'You gave me quite a fright.'

He carries on smiling.

'You're up early,' I note.

'Business to attend to,' Dumbledore gives an absent wave of his hand. 'Anyhow, Poppy, you were missed at the feast last night.'

'Just doing my job.' I do wish that Dumbledore would get to the point. He is quite one for beating around the bush.

'About Remus Lupin.'

I look up, immediately paying full attention.

'The full moon is in three days,' Dumbledore informs me.

'Oh. Yes.'

It is? Three days? Dear Merlin, I cannot believe I signed on for this. Honestly, what if Lupin turns out to be the monster Horace Slughorn believes all werewolves to be?

'Anyhow,' Dumbledore continues, oblivious to my alarm, 'I thought it would be uncomfortable for both you and Mr. Lupin to meet for the first time on that evening, so I have arranged for him to pay you a visit at seven o'clock tonight.'

'Arranged…for him…?'

'Indeed,' Dumbledore nods. 'I will inform the students at breakfast that the hospital wing shall be closed after half-six tonight in order to assure you privacy. Will that be convenient?'

'Yes, I suppose…,'

'Excellent,' Dumbledore turns to leave, then pokes his head back into my office, 'I'd look forward to the meeting if I were you, Poppy,' he says, 'Mr. Lupin is a lovely boy.'

The sound of the hospital wing door slamming shut resounds in my head like the thud of an executioner's axe. I sit down heavily behind my desk and bury my face in my hands. A meeting. With a werewolf. Tonight, seven o'clock. And I even forgot to ask Dumbledore about Lupin's Sorting.

'Cheer up, dear,' says Deborah Higgs kindly from her portrait.

I manage to corner Minerva McGonagall in the staff toilets after lunch.

'What happened at the Sorting?' I say without preamble, closing the door behind me.

She glances up from where she is washing her hands at the sink.

'Oh, hello Poppy,' she says brightly. 'You missed the entire feast last night.'

'I'm aware of that,' I sigh. 'You wouldn't believe…it was simply… anyway, how was it?'

She turns off the tap and dries her hands with a Charm. 'Well, let's just say that Pomona Sprout didn't lose any gold on her bet.' Minerva gives me a significant look as she stows away her wand.

Bets are the last things on my mind at the moment. 'What do you mean?' I inquire, confused. All recollections of last night's gambling have left my mind in the wake of the frustration at having missed the Sorting.

'Sirius Black,' Minerva informs me, stepping closer, 'was Sorted into my House. Gryffindor,' she adds at my dumbstruck expression.

'A Black in Gryffindor?' This is unheard of.

'A Black in Gryffindor,' Minerva confirms with a hint of a smile playing around her lips. 'Horace wasn't too pleased. Merlin knows he wanted the boy in his House, not to mention the loss of one Galleon. Oh, and Horace asked me to tell you that you owe him five.'

'Five?' I say blankly.

'Galleons,' Minerva clarifies. 'Roderick Avery was Sorted into Slytherin. But can you believe that I have a Black in my House?'

'Good gracious,' I mutter.

'We were all in shock,' Minerva recalls. 'He was the talk of the staffroom last night. Him and the new tree that's been planted on the grounds…' She looks at me.

'Where was he Sorted?' I ask quietly, desperate for information but not wanting to sound it.

'Gryffindor.'

A warm feeling of relief seeps through me: this seems like the first major hurdle crossed. I don't know what I would have done if he'd become a Slytherin. I don't even want to think about what Horace's reaction would have been to knowing that a werewolf had been Sorted into his House.

'And what does he look like?' I say, hoping for reassurance.

'I don't know,' Minerva sighs. 'I didn't see him.'

'You didn't…?'

'It was maddening,' Minerva crosses her arms. 'Horace was standing at the exact angle so he was completely blocking my view the entire time.'

'You didn't even catch one glimpse of him?'

'Not one,' she looks almost as frustrated as I feel. 'And I don't teach first-year Gryffindors until Thursday, so you'll have to wait till then to find out, I'm afraid.'

'Actually,' I smile humourlessly. 'Dumbledore has been kind enough to arrange a little introductory meeting between him and myself. Tonight at seven.'

'Oh my,' Minerva breathes, then catches my expression. 'It'll be fine, Poppy,' she says consolingly, placing a hand on my shoulder. 'I'm sure he's…just like any other boy.' But it sounds very much as though she's trying to convince herself as well as me.

'If no one noticed anything different about him…,' I muse.

'…he must look normal,' Minerva finishes.

We smile weakly at each other.

'Dumbledore would loathe this conversation,' I say.

A quarter to seven, my office. I am sitting behind my desk, filled with the kind of dread that I normally associate with death. The air is so concentrated with tension that moving is a near impossibility. I am about to have a meeting with a werewolf, one of those people who transform into mad beasts every full moon. What am I supposed to say to him? 'Please don't eat me?'?

On my desk in front of me is that book I borrowed from the library all those months ago: Why Werewolves Are Monsters. I am debating with myself over whether or not I should read it. On one hand, it can hardly make me feel any better, but on the other, perhaps I should be prepared for the worst. I am sorely tempted to take a look, but instead I stand up and head into the empty ward.

I throw open a window and stick my head out into the fresh air with its cool September breeze. I look across the darkening grounds and spot the Whomping Willow in the distance, its long branches flexing slowly. Feeling sick, I withdraw my head and shut the window. I look at the clock on the wall: seven o'clock.

There is a knock on the door: two soft raps.

'Come in,' I say faintly. Why does it feel as though I am about to face my death?

The door opens slowly and in walks Remus Lupin.

I can tell you exactly what I was expecting. In my mind, I had envisioned some burly giant of a boy with unruly dark hair, fierce eyes and an ugly scowl which showed his jagged teeth. The werewolf would have a real appetite for violence and a rough manner. He would smell like an animal, talk in a throaty growl of a voice, and wear Hogwarts robes that were filthy and three sizes too small.

But Remus Lupin is—there is no other word for it—completely normal looking. In fact, if I were to describe him to someone, that is the exact word that I would use: normal. He is of average height and weight for an eleven-year-old boy, not too big and not too small. His light brown hair is neat and tidy, combed off his forehead, and his pale skin is lightly freckled. His robes are clean and pressed, his Gryffindor tie perfectly straight, and his shoes polished. I cannot make out the colour of his eyes, because he is staring firmly at the ground. In fact, if he didn't appear so nervous and strained, I would have assumed he was any ordinary student. I almost want to laugh, because he looks so harmless. Here's your monster, Horace, I think smugly.

After spending several minutes looking at Remus Lupin, it occurs to me that this is what I am doing: gawking at him. He is standing anxiously just inside the doors of the hospital wing and I am standing in front of him, staring openly. How long have I been doing this? He obviously notices, because he is looking more and more uncomfortable by the second.

Well done, Poppy, I think. Dumbledore would give you great big gold star right now. Say something. Anything.

In the end I introduce myself: 'I am Madam Pomfrey,' I say in my most businesslike tone, pretending that I haven't just spent the last five minutes gaping at him like he's some sort of freak show.

He gives the slightest of nods, still refusing to look at me. He lips are pressed together so tightly that I wonder if he ever talks. I wonder what on earth I am supposed to say or do now.

'Would you like to sit down?' I inquire.

Another small nod.

As I lead him into my office, and can't help but wonder whether I really want to be alone in that small room with a werewolf. The next second I am disgusted with myself for thinking such things about this scared little boy. I mean, how could someone like that actually hurt anyone?

Deborah Higgs eyes him keenly as we enter. I sit down behind my desk and Lupin sits down opposite me. He looks slightly more comfortable now that there's a kind of barrier between us.

'Congratulations on your Sorting,' I say to him, trying to sound calm.

He finally glances up at me, and I see that his eyes are brown, but only for a second because he quickly drops his gaze. Then he says in a very quiet voice, 'Thank you.' Not exactly a throaty growl.

'Your Head of House is Professor McGonagall,' I carry on. 'She's an excellent teacher. Of course, you have many excellent teachers. Many of them have been teaching at Hogwarts for as long as thirty years.' I find that this is much easier if I pretend that I am simply speaking to any ordinary pupil. This is the sort of casual conversation I frequently have with new first-years.

I notice that a pink flush is creeping across Lupin's pale face, and I wonder why. His expression had also changed from nervousness to what I can only identify as mortification as he seems to stare at something on my desk. I look down and…oh, good gracious.

It's Why Werewolves Are Monsters.

Right there.

In plain sight.

Merlin's beard.

I can't move. I can't breathe. Quick, what would Dumbledore do in this situation? Think, Poppy, think.

There have been several instances in my life where I have been so embarrassed that I actually want to die. But none have been nearly as gut-wrenchingly horrible as this. I can see absolutely no decent way to recover the situation. The offending book is lying right there on the centre of my desk, the bold red title being stared at by a certain werewolf who is sitting in my office.

Horace would say that werewolves don't have feelings, but the very real expression of hurt on Lupin's face contradicts that.

What am I supposed to say? A thousand excuses run through my head (Someone else put it there, someone gave it to me, I was collecting things for the annual Prejudicial Book Burning Festival…) Or perhaps I should give him the truth: 'I was just doing a bit of background research on your species.'

Then, in my state of absolute mortification, I do something exceedingly stupid. I reach over and flip the book upside down.

As it turns out, on the back of Why Werewolves Are Monsters is a highly detailed drawing of a werewolf, complete with blood-dripping fangs and sharp claws and…oh dear, it also appears to be standing on top of a mutilated human corpse. Lupin's eyes are now so wide with horror that I'm afraid he's about to burst into tears.

There is nothing for it. I will simply have to be very blunt.

I stand up, grab the book, and shove it onto my shelf. Later, I intend to burn it. Then I sit back down and look at Lupin, who has resumed staring at his feet. 'This is embarrassing,' I say.

He sinks a little lower in his chair.

'I would very much like to die right now,' I carry on, hoping to convey the fact that I am feeling as bad as he is.

Is it just me, or did he give a little smile? Certainly his face seems less tense.

'You see, I've never met someone like you before,' I say quickly, 'and I wasn't quite sure what to expect.' I pause. 'You definitely aren't what I was expecting.'

He looks at me and I am struck by the amount of sadness in those deep brown eyes. He says softly, 'You were expecting something more like what was on the back of that book.'

The truth of his statement rings through my small office and leaves a resounding silence. Looking at this small boy with his solemn eyes and pale face, it suddenly occurs to me the sheer amount of suffering he must have gone through in his past, and will go through in the future. How could anyone feel hatred and revulsion, feel anything but warmth and pity towards someone like him? I feel deeply ashamed of myself for even considering that Remus Lupin would be a vicious monster, for regarding him in such an untrustworthy manner. A part of me want to burst into tears.

'I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lupin,' I say in a slightly thick voice, holding out my hand.

He hesitates for a moment, looking rather shocked as though he can't believe I'm not backing away in fear. Then he accepts my hand and shakes, his fingers cold against my palm. He can't have shaken many people's hands before.

'Pleased to meet you too, Madam Pomfrey,' he says. Then he smiles, and it is as though his entire face has transformed. His eyes brighten and his cheeks colour and the effect is so heartwarming that I can't help but smile back at him.