Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

A/N: Long chapter for a long wait!

Warnings: PTSD references, cursing, Greyback being Greyback.

"Harry, what in Merlin's name is going on?!"

"Ron, I told you, I'll meet you back at base."

"S-sir, please, don't let him, sir, I'll go quietly, please-!"

"Oh, Merlin– Harry, don't do this!"

"NO, RON! THEY DESERVE IT! FOR WHAT THEY DID, THEY DESERVE IT!"

"Harry, don't-!"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

He jerked awake violently, and his eyes snapped open, lungs gasping for air. After a few terrifying, disorienting seconds, Harry realized he was in bed. As he stared up at the canopy of his four-poster, his mouth began to shake, eyes burning viciously. He wiped at them with a trembling hand and sat up, forcing himself to breathe deep, shuddering breaths, despite the tightness in his throat.

There was no possibility of going back to sleep now; the pleading screams of the nightmare still rang fresh in his ears, and he couldn't stand to be alone with them. He pushed back the covers and swept aside the curtains; there was a slight pop as the mufflatio charms broke. He swung his legs out over the edge, shivering slightly as his feet hit the cold stone floor.

Outside the window, the waning gibbous moon beamed silver into the dorm. He glanced over to the other beds; Dean, Seamus and Neville were all fast asleep. Ron was turned away from him, leaving only his mop of red curls visible, but his breathing was even and slow. Harry watched him for a second and felt the sick feeling in his stomach intensify.

He turned abruptly and headed down the stairs into the common room, not bothering to put on his glasses. The fire was burnt down to coals, barely giving enough light to illuminate the figure sitting, quiet and still, on the sofa before it, red hair flashing ruby and gold in the glow.

Ginny didn't move, but her eyes flicked over as Harry sat down beside her, and she let out a low sigh through her nose. For a while they sat together, unspeaking. At last, she shifted and turned to look at him. "The dream again?" she said softly.

He nodded, swallowed.

"Tell me what it is," she pleaded. "It could help you."

"Ginny, please…"

"If not me, then Ron or Hermione. Someone, Harry."

"Ginny, I don't want to argue about this right now, alright?"

She bit her lip, and then nodded, leaning back against the couch cushions. The man beside her wore a face so tired and drawn she had trouble believing that he was only eighteen.

"You too, then?" Harry said with a sigh, glancing to her.

"Yeah." She hesitated, and then said, "But it wasn't the Carrows this time. It was the old one."

"The diary."

She nodded, and he looked away. After a long silence, he said quietly, "Do you ever get scared, Ginny? I mean, he was inside us, inside our heads…"

He swallowed, and she saw that his hands were shaking. She took the nearest one into her own, and he let out a shuddering breath. "I just– I know he's dead, I know he's… but he was in our minds, Ginny, and I'm scared, I'm scared that he broke something while he was there, something I can't fix…"

"Shh," she murmured, and pulled him close to her. He buried her face in the crook of his neck, and she could feel hot tears on her shoulder. "You're not bad, Harry," she whispered, rubbing her thumb on the nape of his neck, the edges of his dark hair. "You're not."

"I just want to be over," he hissed, teeth gritted tight, "Gin, why isn't it over?"

"It's over. You got him, Harry, it's all over now…"

He nodded against her shoulder, and they stayed there together for a long while. Eventually, he pulled away, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's been hard on everyone, I know, especially you lot…"

"Don't," she said firmly. "Don't apologize for being upset; Fred wouldn't have minded at all."

He nodded and glanced to the stairs. "I don't want to go up," he said honestly. "I don't want to fall asleep if…"

"We can stay down here. Just talk, or watch the fire."

And that was what they did. For a while they talked, about every light and easy thing they could imagine– from upcoming Quidditch tryouts to Professor Kemp's transfiguration homework to Ron and Hermione's unfailing awkwardness. When the words ran dry, they added another log to the fire and simply sat there, comfortable in each other's company.

After an indeterminable length of time, Harry realized Ginny had fallen asleep; proper gentleman that he was, he found her a pillow and coaxed her awake enough to let her lie down, and then retreated to an armchair and watched the fire burn. Eventually the flames faded to a faded wash of gold, and he drifted off into that half-conscious daze where nightmares dare not venture, lulled to comfort by the warm crackling of burning pine and the soft darkness of the night.

It was a bright, fair day in the Scottish highlands, and Professor Minerva McGonagall, newly-instituted Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was in half a mind to take her work down by the lake and finish in the sunshine. The mere thought of seeing the first-years gaping in what they probably thought was an inconspicuous manner to see the strict professor leaning against a tree with a typewriter in her lap was enough to make her smirk and send a wistful glance out the window, to where happy children were shrieking and playing on the lawn below. Unfortunately, she was drafting a rather important grant application at the moment, and reasoned it would probably be inappropriate to risk covering it in dirt, grass stains, and whatever may come leaping out of the Black Lake. Now the budget ledgers, on the other hand…

"Madame McGonagall."

The headmistress started and glanced up at the musical voice; the golden griffin knocker on the inside of her door had opened its engraved eyes. "There's a Mr. Horace Slughorn to see you, Madame."

"Oh? Show him in, please."

The knocker closed its eyes, and there was the distinct grating sound of stone on stone as several floors below, its larger counterpart turned to allow the visitor inside. Minerva returned to eyeing teacher's agendas and financial reports; precisely thirty-seven seconds later, the door opened to reveal a puffing Professor Slughorn.

"Horace," she said, straightening the typed papers with a smart rap on the desk. "May I help you?"

"Oh, I daresay not; it's rather I who can help you," the potions instructor said cheerfully, though he looked a bit pale.

"Don't you have a class at the moment?"

"Oh, I did, up until about half an hour ago. The long and short of it was that we found a pair of boggarts in the ingredient cupboards in Dungeon Four. I thought you might give them to Lupin for his third-year classes?"

"Yes, he does like to start with boggarts early," she recalled. "Thank you, Horace; that'll be most helpful."

"Do tell him to mind the second one," the professor warned. "It was quite strong; I think it must have spawned halfway through the events of last year, by the size of it. Took half my class just to get it back in the cupboard."

"You couldn't handle it yourself?"

He turned a bit red and ducked his head in embarrassment. "To tell you the truth, Headmistress, I was a bit in shock. You see, I was the one who found the second boggart."

Her expression softened. "Anyone could've been caught off-guard," she offered generously. "Thank you for telling me, Horace; I'll make sure to let Remus know."

"Naturally, naturally. Have a good day."

"You as well, Horace."

The potions master headed for the door; at the last second, he turned back. "Oh, I nearly forgot: I found this memo hovering outside your door; goodness knows how long it's been there. I haven't read it." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded airplane-shaped purple memo, embossed with gold print. "It's from the Ministry," he added.

"Yes, I can see that. Thank you, Horace."

He bobbed his head and left, shutting the door behind him. Baffled, Minerva opened the memo, and promptly groaned. It couldn't be; she was sure she'd set the appointment at least a week later…

Unwilling to believe her poor luck, she glanced down to the purple leaflet again and grimaced.

To: Professor Minerva McGonagall,

We would like to cordially remind you

of your impending interview with:

MS. RITA SKEETER

regarding:

NEW HOGWARTS SCHOOL SECURITY

at:

6:00 PM, 11 SEPTEMBER, 1998.

Best regards,

The Daily Prophet

Minerva sighed. The Board of Governors had practically insisted that she hold a personal interview with the Prophet to assuage prospective parents about the safety of the school after the Battle last May. Clearly, someone at the newspaper still held an intense dislike for Albus Dumbledore and the school's anti-supremacy policy; otherwise they wouldn't have dared to send the one journalist whom Minerva personally could not stand. She had taught Skeeter herself, some thirty-odd years ago, and never a nosier girl had she met in her life, always trying to find out the personal secrets of everyone else. Minerva still suspected that Skeeter had at one point stolen a folder of her upper-level class notes, though for what purposes she didn't like to imagine.

Well, there was nothing for it, now; by Monday morning a suitably scandalous article would be splashed across the Prophet's front page; hopefully, Rita would focus her criticisms on Minerva's "suspiciously" short marriage or "near-nationalistic" Scottish pride, rather than indicting the school itself. With a long-suffering sigh, the headmistress stood and went for her liquor cabinet, intent on pouring herself a courage-bolstering dram. Then, she paused, a wry smirk crossing her face.

With a flick of her wand, her emerald robes striped themselves in red-and-green tartan.

Remus charmed the chalkboard clean with a wave of his wand and gingerly touched his hair, which was a shocking shade of fire-engine red. The first-years had been working on sparkler-charms and one of them had accidentally bungled the Latin. He was just about to set it right when the door opened.

"Ah, Ronald! Come in, come in; I wasn't expecting you quite so early."

"Sorry, Sir. Wanted to get this over with." The youngest Weasley boy walked in and followed the professor up the stairs to his office, setting his book bag down at the foot of the chair while Remus rummaged through the stack of files on his desk. "Nice hair," he said with a grin.

Lupin chuckled. "Yes, I imagine I'd fit right in at the Burrow." Ron laughed. "Weasley, Weasley… that's Ginny's, let's see, here we are!" He removed the file from the stack and opened it. "I see you told Professor McGonagall you were interested in auror work?"

"Er, yeah…"

"Well, I'm sure Dora will be more than willing to accept you– oh, but you'll need top marks, you know. Your charms work as of late seems more than adequate, but I'd suggest putting a little more work into Potions and Transfiguration."

"Right," Ron said nervously.

"It's a bit too late to take up runes, but if you want to add in Care of Magical Creatures it could be very helpful; then again, a tight focus on your core subjects wouldn't be amiss, the choice is really up to you. Either way, if you can get through the internship you're shoe-in. Now let me just get the form–"

"Sir," Ron burst out, startling the professor. When he bit his lip and didn't continue, Remus frowned.

"Ron? Something you wanted to discuss?"

"I…" He hesitated, and then, inexplicably, his eyes dropped. Anyone else would have missed the way his hand tightened, the resolute set to his jaw, but Remus had seen that look before: the day James Potter had passed up his own acceptance into the auror corps to fight with the Order. "Sir, I need to change my careers goal."

Need to. There was something off in his phrasing; Remus frowned but instead said lightly, "Oh? Professor McGonagall's notes say you seemed quite keen on the idea, although of course things can change in the span of a few years." When Ron didn't reply, he added idly, "It's a shame, really; McGonagall noted she would personally write you a recommendation letter herself."

"She did?" Ron demanded, looking up, and his face betrayed everything.

Remus smiled knowingly. "Yes. She seemed to think that with a little hard work, you could make an excellent auror." Ron's hands twitched, and Remus leaned forward, "Ronald. Why are you giving this up?"

The redhead gaped at him for a moment, and then swallowed. "Professor, I know I could be a good auror. But my family needs me right now."

"Your family?"

"George. He's… he needs help with the shop."

"And he told you this, did he?"

"No. But I can tell."

"I see." He leaned back. "Have you told George of your plans?"

"'Course not, he'd try to put me off it." Lupin raised an eyebrow, and Ron argued, "Look, you don't know my brother like I do. He needs my help, Professor!"

"Ron, if George is going to dissuade you from working at the shop in any case, I suggest you follow your original ambitions." When Ron opened his mouth, Lupin held up a hand. "And speaking as one who's lost family myself," he said gently, "Forced charity, even if needed, usually only serves to make things worse. Until he's willing to accept your help, I suggest you give him his space and learn a valuable skillset in the meantime." When Ron still looked unconvinced, Remus added, "You're not abandoning your brother, Ronald."

"…You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

At last, a real grin broke across the young man's face. "Alright then… looks like I'm going to be an Auror."

Remus chuckled. "I like your confidence. It's nasty business, mind you– but I think you can handle it. Now let me see, here's the form. Full name?"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley…"

By quarter past six, Lupin's list had dwindled down to one name. He noted with a frown that the name, Potter, Harry, had appeared nowhere on the parchment all day. While it was possible that the boy had simply forgotten, Remus had the uncanny feeling that the absence was more than mere coincidence.

He had precious little time to worry about Harry Potter, however; his most difficult student was last on today's list, and Remus was dreading playing the interviewer as much as he had once dreaded being the interviewee. He closed his eyes, casting his mind back twenty years in hopes of gleaning some wisdom from his predecessor.

…"Please, Mr. Lupin, take a seat."

The young wizard swallowed and closed the door behind him as Professor McGonagall retrieved a file from her perfectly organized rows. Remus slid into the chair as she sat down across from him, removing a blank form. "Full name?"

"Remus John Lupin. Professor-"

"Age?"

"Professor, I don't-"

"Age, Mr. Lupin?"

He swallowed. "Fifteen."

"Thank you." She marked the answer down in the designated box and continued, "Now as you're well aware, this meeting is to discuss any ideas you may have for the future and determine which subjects you ought to take continuing into fifth and sixth year." She glanced up. "Have you any such ideas?"

Remus glanced sideways out the window, the dull weight of depression settling over his shoulders.

"Mr. Lupin," McGonagall said gently.

"What's the point, professor?" he muttered. "The ministry won't hire me, I'm not allowed to own my own shop and Gringotts has already filled their positions, I've checked.

"There are institutions willing to hire werewolves, Mr. Lupin."

"Like where, St. Mungo's? We both know I'm dead useless at potions."

"What about Hogwarts?" she inquired quietly. "You've got quite the skill for teaching, my boy; goodness knows that Mr. Pettigrew wouldn't be passing my class without you."

"You've only got one position open. To be honest, I'm really not interested in a one-year stint ending in sure disaster. Besides-" He smirked wryly. "A dark creature teaching defense against the dark arts? I don't think the parents would go for it."

"Are you determined to be cynical?"

"I'm determined to be realistic." He glanced to the windows again; clouds were gathering over the Scottish mountains, heralding a brewing storm. "It's getting worse out there, Professor," he said lowly. "And you saw the paper this morning."

"Fenrir Greyback is not the determiner of your personal value," she countered sharply.

"Nevertheless, the fact is remains that the more paranoid people are, the worse they treat my kind."

She sighed and inclined her head. "Yes, I'm afraid that's quite true. Regardless, Mr. Lupin, I'm afraid we've little choice but to make the best of it."

He nodded, eyes dropping.

"Remus," she said gently, and he looked up, surprised. "Many a good man has lived an honest life fixing carriages or tending bars," she reminded him. "Hard work and honesty are qualities to be proud of, no matter the profession."

Remus felt his throat tighten. "…Thank you, Professor," he whispered.

He was pulled out of his musings as his classroom door opened. "Miss Brown," he said carefully, as the young witch walked purposefully into the room. "Good evening."

"Evening, Professor," she said politely, taking her seat. "How are you?"

"Quite well, thank you." He hesitated. "Miss Brown… I'm afraid I must be frank with you; your… your opportunities may have changed in light of your current condition."

"Well, I originally wanted to work for my mother at the magazine," she admitted, "so there's no real harm there."

"Originally? You have since changed your mind?"

"Well you see, Professor, I've become quite taken with the idea of Healing."

Immediately a warning sounded in his mind, a reminder of old aspirations, childish dreams set aside by the weight of understanding and acceptance. "My dear," he said, as gently as he could manage, "My dear, as admirable as I'm sure your aims are, I'm afraid that far brighter minds than you and I have for many centuries tried and failed to find a cure…"

"Oh, I'm not looking for a cure, Professor," she cut in. "That's not why I want to do this."

"Oh?"

She bit her lip, as if trying to corral her thoughts into one coherent process. "…When I first found out I'd been turned," she said at last, "I was devastated. I couldn't… couldn't imagine why I should keep living."

Remus felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "Miss Brown…"

"I had no hope," she continued softly, "no courage. I wanted to just waste away… but the healers wouldn't let me give up. Day by day, they helped me find myself again." She looked up at him, a determination in her eyes. "I want to be that person for someone else, Professor. I want to be there to show them their worth when they can't see it themselves. I really feel it's what I'm supposed to do."

A proud feel burned like fire in the teacher's heart. "Then it would be my honor to help you, my dear. Have you spoken with Mother Maria Faustina?"

Lavender nodded. "While I was in the hospital. She said she'd be pleased to receive my application." Remus felt a rush of relief. The Sisters of St. Mungo, long trained to see through malady and affliction to the person within, had long been one of the few major institutions willing to accept lycanthropes onto their staff; despite protests from the population at large, the hospital was basically indispensible to Wizarding Britain, whatever their hiring practices. Remus had considered applying there himself as a teenager, but his abysmal potions skills sounded the death knoll for any aspirations in the medical field, and, being a non-profit, the hospital had little money to pay unnecessary maintenance works. Still, he was relieved to see that the Order still held to its standards of compassion and understanding, especially if it could help someone like him find sure footing in such an unsure world.

"In that case, let's get down to the nuts and bolts." He scanned her file briefly, and felt his heart crumble. Speak of the devil… "I see you haven't taken potions since fifth year?"

"I know," she said seriously, undeterred, "but I can do it, Professor, really. I'll work very hard, and I'm good at potions."

"Yes, er– forgive me, Miss Brown, but your last two final marks would indicate the contrary…"

She blushed and ducked her head. "…I did that intentionally," she admitted sheepishly. "I like potions, really, but I thought boys might lose interest in me if they knew I was smart in something, so…"

"So you sold yourself short," he finished.

"Only in potions!" she protested hastily. "I'm no good at much else, really. But I'm a fair hand at brewing, professor, I promise. Just give me a chance."

He watched her for a moment, trying to discern if she were telling the truth. Lavender's gold eyes were dead serious, and he nodded. "Alright. But I'm not the one you need to convince; you'll need Professor Slughorn's signature to get into the class, and I'd highly recommend you start take his remedial potions lessons these next few Saturdays to help you catch up."

"I will," she agreed fervently. "Oh, thank you, Professor! Thank you so much!"

"Well, don't thank me yet; I don't mind warning you that Healing is going to take quite a bit of work," he warned her, scanning the file. "You'll have to improve your Transfiguration and Charms grades, but your Care of Magical Creatures marks seem more than adequate…" He looked up and smiled as well. "That all being said, it is my personal opinion, Miss Brown, that you would make an excellent Healer."

Her scarred face split into a grin.

The office door opened, and Draco shifted his feet uncertainly. Blaise Zabini paused glanced at him as he passed by, a smug smirk falling from his face before he looked away and continued down the hall without a word.

Draco slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Slughorn was sitting at his desk on the opposite side of the large room.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Slughorn said nervously, glancing up from the files spread over his desk. "Please, do sit down."

The teenager walked forward, his footsteps echoing loudly in the large room. The chair scraped as he pulled it back and took a seat stiffly, pale hands folded on his lap.

"Now, let's see," Slughorn began, reaching for one of the files. Draco noted that it bore his name along the side, Draco Lucius Malfoy, in neat, slanted handwriting, entirely too familiar for comfort. He felt a lump rise in his throat. His godfather had been a reserved man, rare with shows of affection, but he had looked after the young Malfoy like his own blood. "Professor Snape noted that your preferred career field was, er-"

"Ministry service," Draco finished curtly, the growing anxiety in his stomach making him impatient.

"Yes, well…" Slughorn mumbled, reaching for his pocket hanky to dab away the sweat along his brow. "Well, my boy, I- ahem- I think we can assume that- well, in any case, it may be better to examine other options…"

"Such as?" They had come to the crux of the meeting, the real issue at hand. Draco could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage; the room suddenly felt very warm. Slughorn mopped at his brow again, red in the face.

"Well, your- your grades are for the most part quite adequate. Above adequate, actually, save for your sixth year, and- of course, you didn't attend classes last year," he said with a nervous little half-chuckle that sounded suspiciously unintentional. His eyes flashed to Draco's left wrist, and the boy felt his cheeks burn red. "Of course, one bad year is- is hardly an impediment to, um…"

"Professor, if you have something to say, please say it," the young man said flatly, and Slughorn flushed redder still.

"I- very well- no point in beating 'round the bush-" He muttered, and straightened up. "Well, the long and short of it, my boy, is that current sentiments against, er, certain members of the population- that is-"

"Death Eaters."

He flinched. "Yes. Well. In any case, I'm afraid that, all considered, your career options are… considerably lessened, since your fifth year. I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco nodded, terse and sharp. He'd expected this. "What are my current options?"

Slughorn relaxed visibly. "Yes, yes, of course. Well, in preparation for this meeting I did a bit of asking around, and I found a few establishments that are willing to consider you for a position!" He pulled several sheets out of the file and handed them across the desk.

Draco picked them up and scanned the titles one at a time. With each one, his flush grew darker, his eyes narrowed:

The Leaky Cauldron

Application: FULL-TIME DISHWASHER

Vile Vials: London's Finest Wizarding Inn and Pub!

Job Application:

Housekeeping

Cauldrons and Co.

(Cauldron Manufacturing for Greater Wizarding Britain)

APPLICATION FOR EMPLOYMENT: MAGICAL MAINTENANCE

Draco felt his hand tightening around the applications, wrinkling the paper. He glanced up to see Slughorn watching him anxiously. "Is this a joke?" the young Malfoy said quietly, rage building in his chest. "Are you trying to be funny?"

Slughorn bristled. "Now see here, young man!" he said sharply. "I went to a good amount of effort to finding these applications, and I'll thank you to be a little more appreciative!"

"Appreciative!" He was on his feet now, waving the application in the professor's face. "Appreciative! This is an insult!"

"It wasn't too good for Mr. Goyle!"

"Of course not! Dishwashingwould require every iota of intelligence he possesses! I am not going to waste my life sweeping floors and tending bars!"

"My dear boy, do try to see sense! Public opinion is not exactly in your favor!"

"So therefore my best option is to be a bloody janitor?!"

"No," Slughorn said heatedly. "It's your only option."

Draco stared at him, hands trembling, seething with fury. He threw the applications down on the desk and turned around, stalking towards the door.

"Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy, get back here!" He wrenched the door open; the desk-chair behind him scooted back. "Draco!"

BANG! The door slammed behind him, and then he was off, down the corridor, steps quickening into a run. He ran down the hall, then another, a flight of steps and through an abandoned corridor and another flight and another, chest heaving, eyes burning, furious with the professor and the Dark Lord and, something bubbling up uncomfortably like shame in the pit of his stomach, himself. He ran and ran until he didn't know where he was anymore, stopping in some empty corridor lined with suits of armor and a tapestry of Marcus the Mad leading an army of nifflers into battle, gasping for air. He wiped at his eyes angrily, and then, with another explosive burst of rage, threw a vicious kick at the nearest suit of armor. "FUCKING BASTARD!" he roared, kicking it again. "You think you're so fucking noble, you stupid, useless little prick-!"

"Ahem."

He whirled around. Acid-green eyes and a red-lined smirk looked back. "Mr. Malfoy, isn't it?" Rita Skeeter asserted, walking forward with a sharp click-click-click of her heels and extending a hand. Draco didn't take it, and she smoothed her blonde hair instead. "Quite a violent outburst there, young man. Care to explain its origins?"

"It's none of your business," he said shortly, determined not to show his mortification at having been caught. "If you'll excuse me-"

"Yes, I'm sure you must be busy; perhaps off to a careers interview?" Her eyes gleamed. "Or perhaps… returning from one?"

Draco stared, uncertain what to say. Skeeter was eyeing him with a particularly hungry expression, like a bloodhound who'd caught a scent and wouldn't easily give up the chase. He had no doubt that a refusal to comment would be presented nearly as poorly as an explanation.

Thankfully, there came the unexpected sound of someone clearing their throat for the second time, and Rita's eyes shot over his shoulder. Draco turned.

Professor Lupin looked back, eyebrows raised. "Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. Ms. Skeeter, didn't I see you leaving the Headmistress's office half an hour ago?"

"Professor Lupin," she said smoothly, drawing a quill from her handbag. "Always a pleasure."

He offered a very fake smile. "I'm sure."

"Werewolf, educator, war hero," the journalist listed idly. "The public considers you quite a mysterious figure, Mr. Lupin. Yet after all your work in the war, you're still largely an outsider to wizarding society. Tell me, how does that feel? Upsetting? Unfair?"

"Oh, I can't say I was expecting any dramatic change in public opinion," he replied calmly. "After all, my 'outing,' as you would say, came as rather a shock."

Her eyes narrowed; Draco recalled that it had been one of her articles that had made the scandal of a werewolf professor go public. "Rumor has it you were seen running with Fenrir Greyback's pack."

"Really?" Professor Lupin replied mildly, as if he were discussing lesson plans. "How interesting."

"Was it an act of desperation? Or perhaps a mission on Dumbledore's orders? It's just the sort of thing he'd do, sending a prophet of civility and culture to a community of feral brutes."

If this offended the professor, he didn't show it. "As I have told you time and again, Ms. Skeeter, the details of my work with the Order are and will remain confidential. All the official reports have been filed confidentially with the ministry."

"So you're still determined to keep your role in the war in the dark?"

He smiled. "Quite."

Skeeter scowled, and then glanced to the boy. "What about you, Draco?" she probed, swiftly changing tactics. "Just how fair is the public image of your family? Want to give the world an inner look at the life of a Death Eater? Tell your side of the story?"

"My side doesn't need telling," said Draco stiffly. "Take a look at the battle memorial and you'll know all you need to about the Death Eaters."

"Draco," Lupin said reprovingly.

"It's true, isn't it?" His silver-gray eyes were sharp. "You stupid little twit. All you want is a story, you don't care who gets in your way. The war wasn't a headline; people died here, and I helped it happen."

"Draco!" The young man glanced up at his professor and went quiet. Lupin gave him a warning look, and then turned to the reporter. "I will not have you tormenting my students, Skeeter. You've had your chat with Professor McGonagall, and I don't think she'd approve of you overstaying your welcome."

Her perfectly lined mouth was set in a thin, almost crocodile-like smile. "The truth deserves to be reported, Professor."

"And you deserve to be sacked," said Lupin lightly. "Now get out of this school before I call the headmistress."

Rita gave him a dark glare, but turned and huffed away. When she'd vanished down the hall, Lupin turned to the young man. "Don't suppose you'd like a cup of tea?" he inquired.

The young man eyed him warily. "Why?"

"I hate to waste a warm kettle on one person. What do you say?" When Draco didn't answer, he shrugged his shoulders and started down the hallway. After a moment's hesitation, the student followed, running to catch up.

"…Thank you," Draco said grudgingly, as they headed towards a staircase.

Lupin dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "It was nothing. No one deserves the plight of Rita Skeeter."

"Not even a Death Eater?" Draco said ironically.

Lupin glanced to him curiously. The young man didn't meet his eyes.

"Not even a former Death Eater, no," he said mildly, and Draco looked over, startled. The professor had turned his gaze forward again and didn't speak further, leaving the teenager to follow after awkwardly, quite baffled.

Back in the professor's office, Malfoy waited uncomfortably in the student chair as the man set about making tea, seeming to prefer doing the task the muggle way instead of with a charm. As he waited, he scanned the various knick-knacks on the professor's desk and shelves. A picture of four jocular young boys, one of whom bore such a striking resemblance to Potter that he could only assume this was his father, lay on the desk beside another frame holding the image of the professor's wife and son, laughing and waving at the viewer. On the bookshelves sat several teacher's copies of textbooks, a few specimens of dangerous or fascinating creatures, and on the walls were three framed, official-looking forms. The first was obviously a Hogwarts graduation diploma; the second, a License of Wizarding Education; and the third, on bleached white paper, some sort of diploma which apparently made him a "Bachelor of Science – Biology" from the "University of Boston," whatever that meant. Eyes flicking back to the pile of forms, he noticed that his own was on top, the very same he'd seen in Slughorn's office not twenty minutes previous. A sharp pang of betrayal ran through him; had the professor tricked him up here to try to convince him to accept his grim fate?

"Here we are," the professor said kindly, setting down the cup of tea in front of him. "Mint and chamomile. Do you take milk? Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

The professor nodded and stirred in two spoonfuls himself, sitting down opposite the teenager with a small toast. "To the future."

Draco matched it and raised the cup to his lips, but didn't take a sip. Part of him knew he was being paranoid, but another part warned him to be cautious. However trustworthy the professor had been in the past, he knew too well how quickly loyalties could change. As he set the cup down, Lupin raised an eyebrow, amused. "I haven't poisoned it, you know," he chuckled. When the boy's eyes shot wide, he added, "I didn't hear you swallow."

"You can't be too careful."

He smiled sadly. "No, I suppose you can't." He picked up Draco's file from the stack and said, "I imagine you've already noticed I have this. I wasn't trying to hide it."

"Where did you get it?"

"From Professor Slughorn. He said you ran out of his office in quite a state."

"…It wasn't his fault," Draco muttered, feeling the anger leech out of him and give way to the rush of guilt. "He did the best he could." His gaze dropped to the crisp white cuffs of his shirt, beneath which the dark mark lay like a shadow against the snow.

The professor sighed and nodded. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "The world is a terribly unfair place."

Draco snorted. "It's hardly unfair. You can't much blame people for not wanting to hire a dark wizard."

Lupin cocked his head. "Is that what you think of yourself?"

"What does it matter what I think?" Draco sneered, but there was no real force to his tone. "It's the truth." He couldn't meet the professor's eyes, but rather stared down at his wrist, fiddling with his sleeve cuff.

"Why? Because you made a few poor decisions?"

"Poor decisions? I put every student in this school in danger. A man is dead because of me."

"You were only a child."

"I was old enough to decide for myself!" Draco said harshly, looking up with hard silver eyes. Remus realized he'd hit a nerve. "Nobody forced me into this, Professor. I was a willing participant." He spat the words like an oath.

Lupin fixed him with a steady hazel gaze. "Both of us know that's not true."

Draco faltered and looked away. "…The Dark Lord gave me a mission," he said at last. "I accepted."

"Because you knew what would happen if you refused."

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters! Draco, you never wanted anyone to die."

He closed his eyes at that, grimacing. That was not true. No, he had not wanted to kill anyone. But he had wanted, needed, Dumbledore to die. It had been the only way. "You're wrong."

"What do you mean?"

The blond opened his eyes, but was unable to meet the werewolf's gaze. Shame weighed deep on his shoulders, bowing his head.

"…My task wasn't to repair the cabinet… It was to kill professor Dumbledore." Lupin schooled his face to remain emotionless; he knew all this, but to hear it from the boy was still a shock. "As you can imagine, I wasn't supposed to succeed. It was… it was a way of punishing my father, who'd failed to retrieve Potter's prophecy from the Department of Mysteries… I knew I wasn't capable of doing the job on my own, so I intended to repair the Vanishing Cabinet to allow other death eaters into the castle. It didn't occur to me until a month in that the task might be impossible. By Christmastime, I was desperate; that was why I resorted to the mead and the necklace."

Why he had to make the werewolf understand, Draco didn't know. A sudden urge to speak had welled up inside him, to confess at least this sin. He was so tired of bearing this burden alone. "I had to do it, Professor. I had to kill him, or…"

"Or Riddle would have kill them, and you," Remus finished quietly. The boy swallowed. "I know, Draco."

"He could have done it," Malfoy said, voice hardly more than a whisper. "He was already working on bringing the Azkaban dementors under his control at that point, and my mother…" He swallowed. "I knew what would happen to them if I failed him. So I did as much research as I could on vanishing cabinets. When I realized only a trained Alchemist could fix them, I taught myself the subject."

Lupin stared. "You taught yourself Alchemy?"

"Bloody well had to, didn't I?" he said bitterly. "Couldn't fix the cabinet without it."

"But-" The professor's head was spinning. "Draco, Alchemy is a very difficult subject- we don't even offer it until seventh year-" Something dawned on him. "Wait. You fixed the cabinet yourself?"

"Who did you think it was, the Fat Friar?" Draco retorted caustically.

"No, no, I- why, we all assumed you'd taken orders from outside, that someone else was sending you instructions-"

"We?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "The Order. But you mean to say- you actually repaired it- by yourself?"

"I didn't say it was easy," Draco snapped, and then relented, "…But yes, I did."

"Draco- you must understand, that is incredibly, incredibly advanced magic; the Ministry itself hires experts to repair their cabinets…"

"Effing fantastic; looks like I've still got one career left to me, don't I?" He muttered. "Except I highly doubt the Ministry will be looking to hiring Death Eaters any day soon."

"But I still don't understand," Lupin insisted. "You're a bright young man, Draco, but I doubt even Professor McGonagall herself could learn alchemy in the space of nine months, let alone well enough to repair a Vanishing Cabinet. So how did you manage it?"

"I- I don't know- I just knew that I had to," the boy said, a little flustered. "And I did."

Lupin's was floored, almost as much as he'd been when he'd first seen three teenage boys calmly turn into woodland creatures on his behalf. A wizard of sixteen years old, never having had so much as a class in the subject, training himself to such an extent? The professor was in awe. This indeed was Slytherin ambition put to a desperate end, yielding literally incredible results.

Draco stood up abruptly, his mouth tight. "Are we done here, professor?" he said curtly, gathering his things. The shame seemed to have disappeared again behind a wall of anger, but Lupin knew he was close to getting through to the boy. He couldn't give up now.

"Hardly," he replied, standing as well. "We haven't concluded your meeting."

"I- pardon?"

"Professor Slughorn, it seems, was of little help; likely he has never faced such a situation as yours before. I think it may be better for me to handle your career advising, if you'd agree to it."

"But- what can you do? It's not like you can change what I am…"

"No," Remus said calmly, opening Malfoy's folder. "That I cannot. But I may be able to help you find a career that doesn't require a- how shall we say it? A perfect track record?"

"I don't understand…"

"Your class marks are really very good, aside from your sixth year," he continued, as if he hadn't heard, "And you seem to have been especially proficient in Potions, Charms, and Herbology. Your Transfiguration marks aren't bad, either- and, as you've mentioned, you've become quite skilled in Alchemy."

"So?" Draco said rudely, but there seemed to be just the faintest trace of curiosity in his voice.

"So, there is one profession I know that requires those NEWTs, that would put alchemy knowledge to good use, and where they may be willing to accept even a man of an imperfect history."

"Really? Where?" A hint of his former passion had returned to his voice; Draco looked desperate for any scrap of belief that the future may hold something other than poverty or loneliness.

"Healing," Lupin said frankly. "St. Mungo's has experienced an incredible boom of business, unfortunate as that may be, in the after-effects of the war. Moreover, they lost a number of employees under Riddle for actively helping muggles and muggleborns; with your skills and interests, it may not be impossible for you to get work as a Healer."

"Professor, I appreciate the effort, but no hospital is about to hire Death Eaters, no matter how desperate they are," Draco said flatly, his face falling. "Besides, it's not exactly a very glamorous career plan, don't you think?"

"Why should that matter? It's steady work, good pay- and you'd be helping a great many people." He raised an eyebrow. "Or is there something else you were planning on doing?"

"…My father wanted me to be involved with the Ministry…"

"But do you want to be involved with the Ministry?"

The blond studied him, clearly a bit confused. Lupin had phrased the question as if it were still an option- as if he were taking Draco's personal interests into account, not just the limitations imposed by the tattoo on his arm.

"Not really, no," he admitted coolly. "Not that there's much point in it now, is there? And to be frank, I- I rather detest the idea of so much paperwork and sitting in a desk all day."

Remus chuckled. "Well, I'm sure Healing has its own levels of tedious paperwork, but it's a far more hands-on job than Ministry work, unless you're considering becoming an auror."

"Dark wizards catching dark wizards," Draco said ironically. "I don't think the Ministry would go for it."

"Probably not," he agreed sympathetically. "Draco, in all honesty: would you like to be a Healer?"

The young man paused, thinking. After a moment, he said, "I'd never really considered it before… but yes. I think I might."

"Splendid," said the professor, satisfied. "Now, let's take a look at your class schedule, shall we?" Draco handed him the piece of parchment. "As I said, aside from your sixth year, your core technical subjects look very promising. A years' worth of poor grades isn't necessarily an impossible roadblock; you'd have to do very well in your NEWTs, however, and- ah…"

"What?"

"You haven't taken Care of Magical Creatures for a few years now. An O is necessary in the subject, due to the number of creature-inflicted maladies…" He gave the blond a wry grin, and then added, "But full participation in the class isn't necessary, just the NEWT. Professor Hagrid should be able to catch you up if you start immediately; you'd need to get him to sign off on joining the class."

Much to his surprise, the young man groaned and muttered, "That's it then."

"Pardon?"

"He would never let me into his class. He hates me."

"Does he?" Lupin said, startled. "I rather think Rubeus Hagrid is incapable of hating anyone."

"No, he does," Malfoy said darkly, "And for good reason. I've been a bloody prat to him, and this is fate's way of repaying me."

"Ahh…" Now he remembered. "You were the one Buckbeak attacked, weren't you?"

"Because I provoked it, yes. And more past that; I'd rather not tell you what."

"Ah. Well, in that case I'll leave you with this advice." Lupin leaned forward in his desk, "Many people tend to be more forgiving than we give them credit for," he said sincerely. "And you have nothing to lose by trying, do you?"

Other than my pride? But Draco knew he couldn't say this, so he replied only with a, "No, sir." Then, still wary of believing too easily in his sudden change of fate, he added, "Professor, how- how do you know that St. Mungo's would be willing to accept me?"

"I have had the good fortune of knowing the Sisters of St. Mungo for more than thirty years. If I vouch for your character, at the very least they will give you a fair consideration. You can take my word for it."

"You would do that for me?" said the young Malfoy, stunned. "Why?"

Remus looked across the desk to see the bewildered student staring back at him, and he thought back to another anxious young man, desperate for any small whisper of hope, for someone to assure him that the world still held some promise for the future. Oh, the situations were vastly different, in a great many important ways, but that mattered little to Remus now. He looked into the silver-grey eyes of a child who'd grown up far too quickly, a young man whose good heart was beginning to change his rotten ideals, and found his own hope there, too.

"Because I believe in you, Draco," he said, and he knew the boy realized he meant it when the young Malfoy managed just the first hint of a smile.

It was nearing eleven when Remus at last left his office. He'd spent the last several hours writing, re-drafting and polishing two letters of recommendation to Mother Maria Faustina of the Order of St. Mungo and had full intention of sending them off the following morning. After that, it would be in the hands of God and His strict yet sympathetic servant; Remus could only hope that the promise he'd made to Draco Malfoy would prove true.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice where he was until he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor some ways ahead of him. When he looked up, he found that he was just in front of the library door, but the corridor itself was quite empty.

Remus paused, confused. The sound of footsteps had vanished. He glanced to the library to find the great oak doors were open just a crack, but the inside was empty and dark. That struck him as odd, for Madame Pince never failed to lock up her precious books. He sniffed the air; the ordinary human wouldn't have noticed anything, but his keen werewolf senses detected just the faintest traces of smoke, still fresh. Someone had recently blown out a candle not far from that very spot. Ergo, someone had been in the library, secretly, after the librarian had already left, and had been unable to lock the door behind them.

More importantly, that someone was still very close by. "Studying late, Harry?" he called.

There was the sound of a sharp gasp and a heavy thump; a book-bag tumbled out of thin air halfway down the corridor and spilled textbooks and spare inkwells everywhere. There was a shiver in the air and the silvery invisibility cloak appeared as Harry shrugged it off. Remus raised an eyebrow and walked towards him.

"P-professor," Harry stammered as he approached. "Er, yeah, lots of homework. Had to, er, stay after hours to get it all done."

"Really? How unusual; most teachers tend to give relatively light workloads the first week of classes."

The teenager gave a rather unconvincing laugh. "Yeah, I- I thought it was a bit odd, too."

"Mm." He nodded to the library. "You know, I practically lived in that library for almost a week out of my fifth year."

"Oh, er, really?" the young man mumbled.

"Oh, yes," he said with a thoughtful nod, "even got James to lend me that cloak for going and leaving. You see, I was avoiding my careers interview with Professor McGonagall."

Harry stared.

"Course, I should've known it was inevitable," the professor said with a wry chuckle. "Our responsibilities catch up to us one way or another, don't you think?" He smiled at the speechless boy and said, "Well. Have a good night, Harry."

"Good night, Professor," Harry replied, rather shamefaced. Remus nodded his head knowingly and strode off, certain that the problem would be solved by tomorrow afternoon.

Dora was already in bed by the time he got back, the apartment dark and quiet. After checking and double-checking the locks and charms on the door and windows, he crept quietly into the bedroom and changed into his nightclothes. His wife stirred as he slipped in under the covers beside her. "You're in late," she mumbled, dark eyes fluttering open.

"Mm. Long day," he whispered back. "Lots of angsty teenagers."

She giggled and brushed his brown bangs out of his eyes. "Teddy missed you today."

"Oh? How do you know?"

"He cried after you left, even morphed to look like you. Took me ages to settle him down."

Remus swallowed the lump in his throat. "Did he?" he said hoarsely.

"Mm. He loves you so much, Remus, and he can't even talk yet."

Unable to speak, he merely nodded in return. Dora reached out from under the covers and brushed the tears from his eyes. "Hey, don't cry," she teased. "That's Teddy's job."

He laughed a bit at that and leaned forward, kissing her on the lips. "No crying. I promise," he murmured, drawing back with that smile she loved, the one that made his eyes crinkle. She snuggled closer to him and buried her face in his shoulder; Remus wrapped an arm around her and let the other rest above her head, playing with her hair. "Goodnight, love," she murmured, closing her eyes.

"Goodnight, Dora." She smiled back sleepily, and then her face faded into a gentle inexpression. Remus lay there for while, stroking her hair, watching her peaceful features with a feeling of remarkable contentment. At last, his eyelids grew heavy, and he, too, drifted off into a deep and refreshing sleep…

The light from the half-moon beamed down upon the forest, illuminating it in a soft, silvery glow. For ordinary men it was nowhere near enough light for clear vision, but the gold eyes shining out of the darkness caught every fluttering leaf, every flickering blade of grass, to him cast in sharp contrast against the black of the night with their edges cut as cruelly as knives of silver. The eyes flicked again upward and found their target: the great gray silhouette of the fortress against the black night, broken here and there by a great blaze of light from an open window. There was no sound in the forest, save the gentle caress of the wind through the trees, as if the local fauna could tell he was present. The village to his left was dead and silent, as well, but he knew the humans were there. He could smell them…

Not tonight, Fenrir reminded himself idly. You just had that man a month ago; striking too soon would ruin the novelty. The humans were, strangely, always more afraid when the attacks happened few and far between– not so far as to forget their fear, but far enough that they'd almost settled back into their daily monotony. Then you broke into their easy, disgustingly blissful little lives and the horror started fresh. He smirked to himself in a sudden flash of humor, his fangs making the expression far more frightening than pleasant. Besides, humans are an easy catch. Get fat and lazy now, and where will you be?

A sharp crack drew his attention, and he turned. Two figures hurried through the undergrowth towards him and dropped to a knee, head bowed and shoulders hunched in submission.

"Get up," Fenrir ordered, and the two stood. "News?"

"Found Fang and Quickpaw in Dorchester, Alpha. Working at some lousy human pub." The first beta, Cyclops (so named for his missing eye), spat on the ground in disgust.

"And you, Brute?"

Brute grinned. "Got a lead on th' Lowells."

The alpha's eyes widened. Despite his bestial looks and personality, Fenrir Greyback was a smart man; what he lacked in formal education he made up for in his keen read of people and situations, even having managed to fake his way out of a ministry trial several decades prior. This instinctive ability was enhanced by his advanced powers of sight and smell, not to mention the fact that most people took one look at his face and assumed him to be nothing more than a stupid animal.

It was a mistake they usually didn't make twice.

Brute, on the other hand, was about as smart as a troll's pet rock collection. That was in part what made him such a good beta; he liked killing and he'd do it whenever allowed, so Fenrir often did the allowing. But the man took orders like a proper underling and had never bothered to challenge ranks. After all, what he had in muscle, the Alpha had in both brawn and brain. In spades.

Which was why it was so surprising that Brute had managed to track down the two slipperiest former members of his pack, and possibly, at the moment, the most valuable. "Yeah? How'd you find 'em?"

Brute shuffled his feet. "Well, uh, actually Ah jus' set Brushtail and Howler on askin' questions. Folk don' loich it much, livin' next t' our sort; figured sooner or later somethin'd turn up."

"So you got lucky," Fenrir deadpanned.

"Uh… yeah."

He sighed. "Well, I guess your luck paid off, Brute. Where are they?"

"Word is they have themselves a little shack south o' Llanbedrog, on th' coast o'–"

A growl erupted in the alpha's throat, startling the two betas. "I know where it is."

They fell into silence, the betas stealing uncertain glances at each other. Fenrir narrowed his eyes in an effort to look intimidating. He succeeded.

"…Sh-shall we pay them a visit, then?" Cyclops stammered at last, looking as if he very much hoped he wouldn't be attacked for the suggestion.

Fenrir Greyback feared neither man nor beast nor battle nor cold. Fear made a wolf weak. Fear drove wolves to submission to the humans, to degradation and starvation. No, Fenrir feared nothing, and he certainly did not fear the little village on the edge of the Welsh coast.

Still, it was late, and he was hungry. There were plenty of good, juicy rabbits in these woods, and he doubted there would be many on the seaside cliffs of Llanbedrog. No point in going tonight. He would go tomorrow, or the day after. No reason to concern himself with it now.

"No," he said at last, shaking his head, gold eyes scanning the trees. "It's late. Besides," he said, with a feral grin, "We shouldn't be rude, Cyclops. The pups will already be asleep!"

The other two chuckled at that, and Fenrir jerked his head towards the trees on his right. "I saw a warren not far that way. Let's eat."

As the betas turned off and began to walk through the trees, Greyback glanced back to the castle. On impulse, he swung his fist through the air.

It slammed hard into an invisible barrier of magic and threw him back, as if he'd been struck with lightning. Growling, he got to his feet again, crouching low.

"Enjoy your peace while it lasts, Mutt," he growled up at the castle in the distance. "But mark my words, the pack is coming for you. The pack is coming."

And with that, he turned and ran off into the trees, breaking into a loping run on all fours in search of the warren, his prey sleeping warm and sweet in its den, unaware that soon its peaceful home would be broken open in violence and terror and blood.

The hunt was on.

A/N: Ah, and you thought this would be a nice, rolling plot of post-war reconstruction and overcoming prejudices, didn't you? So what did you think! Did I write Fenrir Greyback alright? Tell me what you thought in the comments!