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

Warnings: Torture; PTSD; lots of psuedo-science. Oh, and for those of you who mind, a few religious references.

A/N: I'm not a scientist or even a biology major, so despite doing a lot of research, there are certain aspects of the science lesson bit that are probably wrong (such as the part about inoculations; I doubt that one vaccine could work for two diseases). Please excuse any mistakes as me trying to make magic work with science.

Here's the chapter; hope you enjoy!

"Crucio!"

The figure on the ground before him screamed, back arching in agony. He watched for a moment, satisfaction burning like ice in his chest, before he flicked his wand upwards. The man lay gasping in the dirt, twitching.

"Had enough?" he asked coldly, adjusting his glasses, gripping his wand tightly in his fingers.

"P-please- I'm begging you–"

"Oh, so you're begging, are you?" He took a step closer; the man flinched. "Tell me, did they beg, too?"

"Please–"

"When you tortured them, all those innocent people, did they beg you to stop?" His wand twitched in his fingers; the man was trembling. "What about when you killed them, hm? Did they beg you then?"

"I d-don't- I-"

"Answer me! DID- THEY- BEG?!"

The man sobbed. The auror had had enough of this. "Fine," he said coolly, "Don't tell me. You know, they say when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes, so who knows?" He leveled his wand forward, and the man froze. "Maybe it will jog your memory."

"No- please, no-!"

"Avada-!"

"Harry?"

He glanced over. Ron looked back, eyes wide. "Harry, what in Merlin's name is going on?!"

"Ron, I told you, I'll meet you back at base." His voice was terse, glare fixed once more on the cringing Death Eater on the ground, who was crawling towards Ron.

"S-sir, please, don't let him, sir, I'll go quietly, please-!" He flicked his wand; the man cried out, faltering in his pathetic pursuit.

The redhead was frantic. "Oh, Merlin– Harry, don't do this!" He stepped forward, but his friend bellowed:

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

"Harry, don't-!"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

With a flash of green, he awoke.

For several seconds Harry sat there, gasping, disoriented. Slowly, his mind began to sift through the facts: he was in bed. Specifically, he was in his four-poster bed at school. He'd been asleep… dreaming.

As the rush of adrenaline leeched out of him, shame filled its place, churning his stomach. Could he do that? Could he really take such pleasure in torturing someone? In killing them? It seemed unimaginable, and yet, here he was, picturing it all in awful, lurid detail. When had he gotten here, Harry had to wonder? Had the war snapped something inside him, broken that little piece of goodness he'd once had? Or had it been him– the unseen presence, whispering into his thoughts, feeding off his own life force for sixteen years?

The unanswerable questions whirled around in his head like a brewing storm, spinning faster and faster until the restless energy forced him to move. Harry swept the curtains of his four-poster aside (there was a slight pop as the muffling charms broke) and kicked away his sheets, letting the shock of the cold stone floor bring him even more fully to wakefulness. One thought was clear: he couldn't stay here, trapped in the tiny dormitory with only his all-too-disturbing thoughts for company. He had to get out, to move, to walk around. Opening his trunk and shoving aside unused socks and a bag of Honeydukes candy, he found what he was looking for: his Cloak.

Throwing it over his head and grabbing his wand and glasses off the side-table, he fled the dormitory. The common room below him was empty and dimly lit by the dying coals in the fire. Breathing a sigh of relief, the teenager reached behind him and shut the door as quietly as he could.

But, apparently, not quietly enough, for in the armchair by the fire an overlooked figure started and turned around, face invisible in the shadows but red hair clearly indicated by the light of the dying fire. Harry bit back a groan; he couldn't believe he hadn't realized Ron wasn't in bed. "Harry?" the redhead whispered in startling likeness to his dream-self, frowning sightlessly at the stairwell. "Harry, is that you?"

The bespectacled young wizard was left in quite a conundrum. He didn't want to reveal himself, but neither could he leave or go back into the dorm without confirming his presence. He settled for holding his breath and waiting for Ron to think he'd misheard and, with all luck, fall back asleep, but his hopes were in vain: his friend only waved for him to come down, yawning. "It's just me, mate; you can take off the Cloak. I can see your feet poking out of the bottom."

Harry looked down; it was true, he hadn't pulled the cloak down far enough in the front. Inwardly cursing his stupidity, he pulled off the cloak and reluctantly made his way down the stairs. As he did so, Ron tucked several sheaves of parchment under one of his textbooks. His friend glanced to it and asked, in desperation to avoid the elephant in the room, "Homework?"

"Yeah. Got a little behind; don't tell 'Mione." Harry managed a nervous chuckle, and Ron eyed him coolly. "Fancied a midnight walk, did you?"

"Er– yeah."

Ron nodded as if he really believed it, and Harry had half a hope that maybe he would get away from this without any awkward questions, before his best friend said lightly, "Don't suppose this has anything to do with the silencing charms around your bed?"

The other wizard's eyes went wide. "You know about that?"

"Course I do, mate. You've snored for seven years; you think I'm going to believe you just randomly lost your most irritable habit overnight?"

"Oh." He swallowed. "Uh… yeah, I guess…"

"Yeah." Ron rolled his shoulders, straightening up. "S-s-so," he yawned, covering his mouth. "Wanna talk about it?"

Harry looked away. "Not particularly."

"You know we're worried about you, right? Me and Hermione?" He made the mistake of glancing over; Ron's blue eyes were serious, glinting in the light from the dying coals. "You've been out of sorts, mate."

"What're you talking about? I'm fine."

"Hippogriff shit," his friend said bluntly. "You forgot about Quidditch tryouts on Monday, Harry. Quidditch tryouts. You haven't been yourself and you know it." Harry didn't respond, and Ron leaned forward. "C'mon, mate, what's going on? What's with the nightmares? Your scar hurting you at all?" His friend shook his head. "So it's just you then, huh?"

"Yeah. This time, it's just me." Harry sighed heavily, realizing he wasn't going to get out of this. "Ron… what if I'm not a good person?"

Ron stared. "That's what you're so worked up about?"

"I'm serious!" he said defensively.

"Harry. You're more than a good person, you're a bloody hero."

"That doesn't mean anything, though!"

"Sure it does-"

"No, it doesn't." He groaned, closing his eyes. How could he possibly explain this to Ron? Ron, who was so ordinary and loyal and not mental? "Ron… some days, I think I'm losing it, really losing it. It's- it's fine, when I'm awake, but when I go to sleep…" He shook his head. "I see things. Things I don't like."

"Like… me? Or Hermione, or Gin? Y'know– dead, or something."

He shook his head, feeling sick. He couldn't speak anymore; the lump in his throat had grown too big.

"You, then?"

A nod.

"What're you doing? In the dreams, I mean."

At this, he let out a choked laugh. "…I'm an auror," he said thickly, a bitter grin filling his face. "Getting a bit too… um… serious, about my work."

Ron didn't reply, his face hidden in the shadows. Harry swallowed and looked away. "Told you I was mental," he muttered miserably.

"I don't think so."

He glanced back, startled. "You don't?"

Ron shook his head. "I think it's normal to be angry. I mean, I'm still angry at Rookwood, and he's dead."

"You don't have nightmares about killing people, though, do you?" he pointed out.

"No. Doesn't mean I'm not plenty furious, though. Some days, I wish Rookwood were still alive just so I could do him in myself."

"That's different," Harry argued. "He killed your brother."

"And how many people did you lose?" Ron started to count off on his fingers. "Your folks. Sirius. Dumbledore. Cedric. My brother. Collin. Mad-Eye-"

"I don't need a litany, I get it!" Ron stopped. Harry felt awful; he hadn't meant to snap. He took a deep breath and tried to get his tone back to normal. "Ron, it wasn't just me who lost them; they were important to all of us."

"That's exactly my point," Ron agreed seriously. "We've all gone through a lot, every one of us. And we're all suffering the effects of it. Why should you be any different?"

"I just…"

"Wanted to be noble and good and all that, I get it. You're not the only one." Ron leaned forward so his face was split in half by the red light; it was dead serious. "Harry, you can't blame yourself for being angry; Merlin, I'd think you'd gone mental if you weren't angry! And war makes everyone come out a little barmy, doesn't it? You can't live through something like that and not be changed, turn out a little messed up inside. It's how it is." He reached across the distance separating them and set a warm, solid hand on his friend's shoulder. "You've been through more than anyone should ever have to. But we're going to make it, mate. We are; I promise."

Harry let out a low breath at that. "You promise?"

"'Course I do."

"And… you're not… y'know, disturbed by all this? What I told you, I mean."

"Oh, I'm plenty disturbed. I'm disturbed by the whole last few years," said the redhead with a wry grin. "But mate, you're not the only one who feels like he's about to take a short walk off a tall cliff; some days, I think I'm going loony, trying to do a charms essay when six months ago I was camping in a tent in the middle of some wood, hunting down bits of Voldemort's soul with the Chosen One and all that. But no, I'm not scared of you. I'd be a lot more scared if you weren't worried about this; the fact that you are just proves you really are a good person, you know?"

That makes sense, Harry thought with surprise. Maybe I'm not going mental, after all. Or at least, not too mental.

But still, there was one last thing on his chest. "Ron?" Harry said hesitantly, as his friend drew away.

"Yeah?"

"I… I'm scared. Really scared." He took a deep breath. "It's just… he was in my head, you know? What if… what if it's too late, for me to be normal? What if something's gone wrong with me?"

There was a long silence, painfully so. He wondered if Ron would ever answer.

"…You still seem pretty normal to me," his friend said at last, and he realized that Ron had only been thinking it over so as to be truthful. "I'll be honest, I don't know much about that sort of stuff. But–" he looked over, his expression firm, "–no matter what, you'll always be my best mate. We'll cross that bridge if we come to it."

We. Something about the pronoun seemed to lift a great burden off his shoulders; Ron had said we, as if whatever fresh horror the morning might bring, he, Harry, would never have to face it alone. No matter what, he'd always have his best friend.

And if all else failed, he could live with that.

"C'mon," Ron said, standing up and shoving his books and papers together. "I reckon I've done enough of this for the night. You still wanna walk around?"

"No, I–" He realized, surprised, that he was in fact growing sleepy again. "I'm sort of tired, actually."

"You think you're tired; it's two in the bloody morning. We've got class in six hours," his friend grumbled, hefting up his textbooks.

"It's your own fault for putting it off so late."

"You sound like Hermione."

"You know what she'd say: do it today or later you'll– ow!"

Ron snickered all the way up the stairs as Harry rubbed the back of his head, grinning despite himself. He felt so much lighter, impossibly so, as if just the mere confession had made facing his fears that much more manageable. As Ron shoved his books into his bag and Harry clambered into bed, the former looked over. "Oy, Harry?"

"Mm?"

"I think you should talk to someone about this, y'know? Maybe McGonagall, or Professor Lupin."

Harry looked over, startled. "Why him?"

"Well he's your career counselor, isn't he? Besides-" Ron yawned, climbing into bed, "-besides, I think he might be able to help you more than I can."

"I dunno," the other wizard said with a small smile, taking off his glasses. "You've helped quite a lot."

Ron gave a tired grin and lay down. "Don't worry about it. G'night, Harry."

"Night, Ron."

They didn't speak again after that, but then, they didn't need to. As he drifted off, Harry thought again, with the full ease of relief, that it was indeed very good to have friends.

It was raining again.

Remus loved the rain. Really, he did. He loved the way it looked. He loved the way it sounded. He even loved the way it smelled and tasted, full of earth and sky and the promise that no one was going to try to convince him it was a beautiful day and, therefore, he should outside be doing something athletic, instead of curling up in front of a roaring fire with a pot of chamomile-mint and his new favorite book.

But today, not even the rain could help his mood. Remus felt sick, positively sick, right down to his stomach, which was currently twisting itself into a ship-worthy knot. His fingers drummed in pattern on the stone sill as he watched raindrops race each other down the glass. He shifted his briefcase in his other hand, the one that said Professor R. J. Lupin in peeling letters, and wondered if he would have any need of it once his morning's obligation was done.

The professor jumped slightly as the door to his right opened, and out came a green-eyed, bespectacled old witch, dressed in deep plum robes and straightening her hat. She was just turning to lock her door when she caught sight of the man and stopped, surprised. "Remus! Goodness, but it's rather early; is anything the matter?"

"I– yes. Professor, I need to talk to you."

Much to his surprise, McGonagall only sighed. "I was hoping we could put this off until lunch at least. Very well, come in; I'll put the kettle on."

"Really, you needn't–"

"Nonsense; if you think this is going to be a short discussion, Remus Lupin, you've got another think coming." She opened the door again and disappeared inside, leaving the younger professor to follow after.

Remus had only seen Minerva McGonagall's personal chambers a few times over the years, and they hadn't much changed since his last visit in the spring of '93. The apartment was smaller than his but of roughly the same layout; the kitchen and sitting room were in the same positions, with doors opposite the entrance leading to what he presumed was a bedroom and lavatory. It was the personal touches that so distinctly spoke of the professor he'd long admired: a tartan quilt lay neatly folded over the back of the armchair which replaced the sofa; the room had acquired several more bookshelves, all of them bursting with important tomes and what appeared to be notes of her own studies; and an old, beautifully carved writing desk had been pushed up against the wall beneath the arched window, the candles lighting automatically as the pair entered.

Most poignantly of the effects were the photographs placed with care above the mantle. On one side were two pictures, identical to his own copies of the First and Second Order, old and new friends waving out at him. On the other lay one of a tall, dark-haired witch, head held high, beside a broad-shouldered, grinning man in preacher's robes. Three children stood before them, two curly-haired boys (Remus was painfully reminded of the Weasely twins) and an older, black-haired girl with clever eyes. To the right of this was an oval-framed muggle photograph of the same preacher, now sitting very straight and serious in British military uniform. But in the very center frame was Remus's favorite picture of all: that of a younger Minvera McGonagall in a white dress and veil, laughing and lightly smacking the grinning wizard at her side as he pulled her close and kissed her on the cheek.

"Take a seat," McGonagall called from the kitchen. Remus obliged, sitting down at the small dining table. Outside the window, the world was beginning to turn from deep blue to a pale gray, that dreary, drumming, sheet-like rain that only Scotland could produce on such a regular basis streaming down the windows and turning the whole world into a grainy black-and-white film.

"Here." He looked up as a cup and saucer in floral print were set down in front of him. Without a word, Minerva took the opposite seat and imbibed a prim sip. Remus did the same, and nearly choked; he'd forgotten how strong she brewed her tea.

"Allow me to make a guess," the witch began, lowering the cup to the saucer. "You're here to give me your arguments on why you should resign."

"Er–"

"I thought as much. Well, Remus, I have fully considered the matter, and my answer is no."

He blinked. "You… can't stop me from leaving…"

"You're worried about the students," she asserted calmly. "You think that by leaving the school, Fenrir Greyback will follow you and the risk to them will be averted."

Remus stared, startled by her honesty. "Well, yes. Professor, if it's a decision between the safety of my students and fulfilling some selfish wish to continue teaching, the choice is clear."

"Hogwarts is one of the best-defended magical fortresses in Great Britain; there is no way for Greyback or any other unwelcome visitor to enter this castle.

"He's done it before."

"We were ill-prepared before. We had no containment plan if a threat actually entered the castle; that is no longer the case." The headmistress's green eyes were serious. "Remus, no one knows Greyback like you do. We cannot predict what he intends for this school, for our students. Twice in as many years he managed to find a way inside; last May he turned an innocent girl. I need you to help me ensure that no more of our students fall victim to his curse."

"My staying here wouldn't help that. You, of all people, should understand that I cannot put these students at further risk because of me!"

Her face softened. "Believe me, Remus," she said gently, "I do understand."

Remus studied her, and then relented with a sigh. "I know you do," he murmured. "I'm just tired of seeing others become casualties for our battles."

McGonagall smiled sadly, and then her expression grew troubled again. "If Greyback's personal grudge against you were the only factor involved, I would be helping you pack this moment. But you and I both know that it is not. If he is after the Ring, then he will target your family and anyone else he knows you hold dear, including these children. Your departure, far from helping, would only be further proof to him that they are effective blackmail and remove our best defense against him from the scene."

He paused, surprised. It hadn't occurred to him that Greyback might still target the students even if he left the school. "Remus, I need you to listen to me," said McGonagall grimly. "If Greyback is indeed scouting out the castle, your leaving won't protect our students; what you can do is remain here and protect them, and yourself."

The rain was pounding its tattoo against the windows, the thunder was rolling across the earth, and somewhere in the recesses of the apartment a clock was chiming out half-six, but there in that room, the air felt dead and cold and silent. In that stillness, both felt the weight of her words as they fell: "And you know as well as I what will happen if the Ring falls back into his hands."

Remus swallowed. Yes, he did know. For thirty-seven years, Fenrir Greyback had dominated the packs of Great Britain, spreading agony and terror in his wake. No werewolf had been able to resist him, each falling to the overwhelming nature of the submission instinct and cowering in his shadow, many too weak to refuse his call, many more too afraid to stand in his way. Remus had managed to bring that reign to an end, but he knew how quickly the Ring could change hands, and allegiances. No, he couldn't afford to take that risk, and staying at Hogwarts was the best way to ensure it didn't happen.

He sighed through his nose and leaned back. "…You're sure the students will be safe if I stay?"

"Absolutely. We've increased the security measures quite a bit; even if he did get inside, the new charms on the stonework would stop him from wreaking any further damage." She reached across the table and took his weathered hand in her knotted own. "Fenrir Greyback is not getting into this castle on my watch," she said firmly, and Remus relaxed as he realized he believed her.

"Alright," he said with a sigh, "Alright, Professor. But when the parents get word of this, they won't be happy."

"I'm well aware."

"And it's not as if we can warn them about the Ring, unless you'd like to draw every power-hungry werewolf in the country right to your front doors."

"Yes, I would quite like to avoid that."

"Then how do you intend to explain keeping me on?"

McGonagall shrugged. "With the truth. I will tell them that although we have no evidence that he's returned since, we felt it prudent to have you assist us in 'werewolf-proofing' the castle, so to speak."

He snorted. "Just plant aconite at every entrance. You'll wake up one morning to find him passed out at your doorstep." The pair shared a brief moment of grim humor, and then he grew serious again. "If there is any further evidence," Remus vowed, "a scratch on a tree, a footprint in the mud, I'm leaving."

"I would expect nothing less of you. But if by God's grace it doesn't come to that, will you help me protect my students?"

"With everything I have," he vowed, and the headmistress rewarded him with a rare smile.

The great hall was full when Draco Malfoy arrived the next morning, scanning the tables nervously. After the little incident Monday evening, he'd been unofficially excommunicated from his own house, unwelcome in the company of any of his old friends. His gray eyes fell on Blaise, Greg, Gladwyn and Duggard, who were laughing at some joke Blaise had told. After a moment or two they caught sight of him; immediately, their faces went stony, each turning back to the group. Draco sighed to himself and made his way to the end of the table, sitting down alone.

As the hall filled with students and the happy chatter of morning breakfast, a screeching cry rang throughout the hall, heralding the pack of owls before they swooped in through the open window. The seventh-years all looked up in hopeful expectation as letters and rolled scrolls rained down on the table; acceptance letters were due to arrive throughout the week. At Gryffindor table, Seamus Finnigan, whose owl was the first in, opened a letter sealed with a red wax shield, and, after reading the first few sentences, let out a whooping cheer. "It's from the bishop!" he crowed, waving the letter in Dean Thomas's face. "He's sending me to school; I'm going to be a priest!"

"Bloody good for you; now get that out of my face before I give you a reason for the last rites," Dean grumped, trying to read his own letter around Seamus's. His face brightened as he said, "Hey, it's from the Auror Office! They've taken me on!"

"I didn't know you were going into the corps, Seamus," said Ginny with surprise, reaching up to catch a falling letter out of midair.

"No, for doing forensic art! They liked my work; they're calling me in for pensieve-sketch auditions–"

But Ginny was no longer paying attention; instead she was reading eagerly her own letter from the Daily Prophet, her smile widening with every word. "You're in?" Harry guessed, grinning with pride at his fiancé.

"'Course she is," said Ron, ruffling her hair. "My baby sister's a genius– although why you'd want to write for that rag, I'll never know–"

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him and then turned to Hermione, was staring at her unopened letter, apparently petrified. "Hermione?" she said with concern. The brunette witch didn't answer. "Hermione, aren't you going to open it?"

"Get the mandrakes," Harry muttered to Ron, who snorted and shook his girlfriend's shoulder. "Oy, 'Mione, that letter's not going to open itself."

"I can't," she said suddenly, setting it down on the table. "I can't, Ron, you do it."

"Alright, if you want me to–"

"No! Wait, never mind, I want to–" She quickly picked the letter back up, and then froze again.

"Hermione," said Ron with exasperation, "staring at it's not going to make it go away. Just open it and get it over with!"

"Right. Right…" She took a deep breath and broke the purple seal over the front, slipping out the typewritten letter. "Dear Ms. Granger, we at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures are pleased to say– oh! Oh, Ron, they accepted me! I can't believe it, they accepted me!"

"And here you were all worried that– mmf!"

No one knew quite what he'd intended to say next, for Hermione had spontaneously thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him in delight. Several people wolf-whistled as the pair broke apart, both very red in the face. "Er- pass the marmalade, Harry?" Hermione managed, as Ron stared wide-eyed at nothing in particular.

It seemed that all of their friends had been accepted into their preferred places of employment; the Patil twins had both been taken on by Madame Malkin's as apprentice tailors, Luna Lovegood would be pursuing further education in magizoology, and Neville had received a handwritten card from Professor Sprout herself welcoming him to the staff as her new teaching assistant the following year. Ron and Harry were the only two at the table not to receive a letter, and Hermione was just inquiring why as one Nymphadora Lupin sidled up behind them, hair colored a bright red and bouncing a baby Teddy on her hip.

"Hey," she chirped, causing the two boys to turn. "Having a good morning?"

"Not bad," replied Ron, "Yourself?"

"Mm, well, I'm always happy when I've got good news to deliver."

Ron blinked, surprised, and then his face lit up. "You mean–"

"Welcome aboard," said Tonks with a grin, extending her free hand. Ron laughed and shook it. "And you!" She pointed at Harry with faux ferocity, "Get your application in already! I don't like hexing teenagers but I'll do it if I have to!"

"Er–"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! But seriously, though, I need something in paper by the end of the week. First lesson in auror training: be punctual!" She winked and tickled her baby, who chortled, and then said, "Best get some food in this one. See you lot later."

"Have a good day, Tonks," said Hermione kindly. The chief auror grinned and waved, before heading back towards her husband at the staff table.

It didn't take two seconds for Hermione to round on her friend. "You haven't gone in for your careers meeting?!" she demanded.

"I–"

"Lay off him, Hermione," Ron interjected calmly, reaching for a piece of bacon, "he's going in later today. Right?" He glanced towards the other wizard, and Harry caught his meaning.

"Right," he said, and meant it. "Can I have some of that bacon?"

As their conversation drifted to lighter matters, two final owls drifted into the hall, feathers ruffled with rain. The pair swooped over the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, dropped their letters and soared away out the window again. Draco Malfoy picked up the heavy cream envelope from the table, drawing a deep breath. The front was sealed with green wax, stamped with an emblem of an overlapped wand and bone in the shape of a Latin cross. This is it. His future lay in his hands.

With trembling fingers, he broke the seal and retrieved the letter within. The sounds of the hall around him faded away as he read:

Mr. Draco Malfoy,

We, the Sisters of St. Mungo and layperson affiliates, are pleased to accept your application for a paid internship at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Internships begin on January the 11th, 1999, at 6:00 p.m. Starting pay is three galleons per hour. Please come in trainee healer orderly robes (white or pale green) and closed-toe shoes imbued with non-slip charms. Orderly sporrans will be provided.

Yours in Christ,

Mother Maria Faustina O'Keefe

-Superior General of the Sisters of St. Mungo;

-President of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

He stared at the letter, and then read it again. As he read it for the third time, a smile began to spread across his face. His life wasn't over. He could still make something of himself, be more than the embittered war criminal, the traitor, the murderer. Someone, somewhere, still believed in him.

The Slytherin looked to the staff table, seeking out the eyes of his mentor. After a moment Lupin caught his gaze; he raised his eyebrows, and Draco gave a nod. The professor's face split into a grin.

Yes, Draco thought to himself, returning the smile with a proud one of his own, someone did believe in him. And if it was the last thing he ever did, he would make sure he deserved it.

Draco Malfoy was going to be a healer.

Lupin was already in the classroom by the time the students began to pour in, still talking with great fervor as they took their seats in the long benches facing the blackboard. Most of them were enthusiastically discussing where they were accepted and what they hoped their internships would be like; a few, including Millicent Bulstrode and a sniffling Hufflepuff girl, were being comforted by their friends, but the overall atmosphere in the room was an excited one. Remus smiled as he watched them; it was good, he thought to himself, for the young people to have something to be excited over. Goodness knows they've had enough misery to last a lifetime.

"Alright, everyone, settle down!" he called, and the chatter died to a few muffled whispers. "Thank you. Today is going to be our last lecture-based lesson for a while; next week we'll start on the more practical matters." The class fell silent as the teacher waved his wand at the windows; the shutters closed with a series of clicks, and, with another wave, the candles in the chandelier dimmed.

"Now," said Professor Lupin, pacing around the room, "as the events of the last year have made it clear that even senior Ministry officials lack a basic scientific understanding that muggle primary students would consider appalling, I decided it may do you all good to undergo a quick crash-course in genetics."

The class began to murmur at this; the muggle-born and half-blooded students all looked somewhat interested; the purebloods, in general, confused. Ron raised his hand, and Professor Lupin nodded. "Ronald?"

"Er- what exactly does that mean, Sir?"

There were a few giggles, and Lupin grinned as Ron flushed red. "No need to be embarrassed, Mr. Weasely; I'm sure more than a few of your classmates are equally confused. I presume you're all aware of what science is?"

A Slytherin boy raised his hand. "Er- that stuff the muggles do to get by without magic?"

"Yes, and no. That is the general wizarding understanding of science; in truth, the natural sciences are a means of studying the physical world around us. For instance, muggles, having studied electricity, found a way to harness it using magnets and thereby achieved many of the wonders wizarding kind takes for granted. Science has allowed them to develop medicines, means of communication, and even send men to the moon – all without the use of magic.

"The practice of studying the natural world, at least in the west," Lupin continued, "began in large part with the Ancient Greek and Egyptian mathematicians and philosophers. This knowledge was then transferred into the Roman adaption of culture, and, following the fall of Rome, was preserved throughout the middle ages in monasteries and churches here in Europe, while other studies developed in the near and far east. Science has largely aided our kind as well; it was through working hand-in-hand with muggle doctors that our own healers developed the art of potion-brewing during the twelfth century. In recent times, muggles have even managed to map out the design of cellular structures, not to mention- and here is where our lesson begins- human genetics."

He waved his wand; tiny sparks appeared in the air and combined to form pictures. Hermione let out a little gasp as she saw the familiar butterfly-like figures of the human chromosome; other students were staring at it with obvious confusion.

"All sentient creatures, from humans to house-elves, developed from a common ancestor," Lupin continued; with another wave of his wand, a sort of family tree appeared in glowing white. "Who exactly this common ancestor was is lost to antiquity; however, thanks to this technique of genetic mapping, we can identify how closely different sentient races are linked. For example, modern humans and Veela are very closely related, whereas centaurs and house-elves are quite a ways apart. Another thing of note," he added, "Is that, as you will see, wizards and muggles alike both fall under the category of human beings." It was true; beneath the category Modern Humans were the words, Wizards; Muggles.

"So what's the difference between them, then?" a voice called from the back. "Why can we do magic and they can't?"

Lupin nodded. "Very good question, Mr. Shafiq; take a look here." He tapped his wand to one of the pairs of chromosomes; it expanded as the others disappeared. "Within every human cell- that is, the small, living parts that make us up- there are twenty-three pairs of chromosomes. Those are the little things that look like long butterflies, you see? Now, on every chromosome there is a certain code, so to speak, that tells the creature what it ought to be. Each cell has two copies of the same chromosome– one from its mother, and one from its father."

The butterfly-shaped objects expanded again, until they were looking at something vaguely similar to a double-curved staircase, with steps labeled by different letters. "This code in particular is what determines whether someone will be a wizard or a muggle," Lupin said, pointing to the letters. "Now you see how here–" He waved his wand so a nearly identical "staircase" appeared, "–This code differs from the other?"

It was true; one strand had a step labeled A-T, while the other was labeled C-G. All the other steps were identical. "That one small change in the code- two little letters- can determine whether someone can perform magic. That's it. That's all."

The class seemed genuinely stunned- all save Hermione, who was scribbling down notes as quickly as possible. "Now," said Lupin, waving his wand; the double-staircase was replaced by the butterfly-like objects again. "In the process of reproduction, when one half of the code from each parent is copied and passed on to the offspring-" The sparks followed his command, illustrating as he spoke, "-sometimes the code-copiers will make mistakes- putting in the wrong letters, so to speak. These 'mutations,' as they are called, can cause the right sequence for magical capacity to appear or disappear, without cause."

"Then that's why there are muggle-borns!" someone cried out, and everyone turned to look. It was a Slytherin girl from Ginny's class, Hestia Carrow. "Why, they didn't steal magic at all!"

"Of course we didn't!" Hermione said hotly, turning in her chair. "Steal magic- what a ridiculous idea! As if the ability to control matter and energy could be stolen!"

"Miss Granger, if you please," said Lupin calmly. Hermione flushed and quieted. "That is quite correct, Miss Carrow; the magical talent- as Miss Granger so enlightened us, the power to manipulate matter and energy at will- is an inborn trait. In the same way that a mutation can cause magical power to arise, another mutation can cause it to disappear. That is how two magical parents can have an entirely un-magical child."

"What about half-bloods, then?" Dean asked curiously.

"A helpful form of evolutionary magic causes that the chromosome copied from a wizarding parent will always be the one containing the code for magic," Lupin explained. "Otherwise, there would be a great many more non-magical children born to half-blood marriages. The code for magic is dominant over the code for non-magic, so children of half-bloods, or quarter-bloods and so on, will always have their wizarding parents' talent. Is this making sense to everyone?"

It seemed as if about half the class was following; the other half was somewhat confused. Lupin sighed slightly and re-explained the lesson again; when he was finished, they appeared a little more comprehensive of the material. From the back, he saw a hand go up in the darkness. "Yes?"

"I don't see werewolves or vampires anywhere on your chart, Professor," a voice said; after a moment, he realized it was Draco Malfoy. "Where do they- er, you- fit in? And how are there half-giants or half-Veela, and so on?"

He seemed genuinely curious, and the professor smiled. "Excellent questions, Mr. Malfoy. Allow me to address your second concern first."

He waved his wand; the sparks disappeared. "Referring back to our chart, the closer two species are, the more easily they will be able to mate and produce offspring. This applies to all living things, by the way, not just sentient creatures. For instances, humans and Veela-" He gestured to the chart; the line marked Veela branched off relatively close to that marked Human, with only the lines for Elf and Huldra separating them, "are so similar that they can have children- and, moreover, grandchildren. Strictly speaking, by scientific classification they are not actually separate species, but subspecies. On the other hand, humans and giants are far enough apart that half-giants will unfortunately not be able to produce children of their own. Any further past that, and cross-species progeny are utterly impossible."

"Poor Hagrid," Ron whispered under his breath. "That's a bit of a blow, isn't it? Especially with him looking to marry Madame Maxime…"

"As to your first question," Lupin continued, "werewolves and vampires are actually not a separate species at all. This is where the lesson gets a bit more complicated." He waved his wand; a new spark-image appeared, that of a roundish blob with smaller objects inside. Harry, Hermione and other children who'd attended muggle school let out another "Ah!" of recognition; the all-wizarding children looked stumped.

"This," Professor Lupin instructed, "Is a healthy human cell. Inside that small circle in the center-" He pointed to a smaller, purple-colored sphere inside the larger one, "Is where the chromosomes are held.

"Now, strictly speaking, lycanthropy and vampirism are not really viruses, but retroviruses. I'm not going to go into the details of the two-" Everyone save Hermione looked relieved at this; she let out a little sigh of disappointment, "-but the essential idea is that a retrovirus is a very small object which invades a cell and forces a new copy of information into the inner circle. The cell is forced to replicate the new information into the code and create more virus agents." A new series of sparks formed the image of a small, geometrically-shaped object, which invaded the sphere as he spoke.

"Do you actually need to be in the moonlight to change, then?" Parvati inquired curiously.

Lupin shook his head. "The transformation is triggered by the timing and the presence of the full moon's light in the area around me, not necessarily actually being physically touched by the rays. Hiding in a basement doesn't change anything- believe me, I'd be in far worse straights if it did," he added, with dry humor in his tone. "Lycanthropy as a disease causes the victim to retain more magic than is healthy- in fact, the amount contained in the victim's body will reach toxic amounts if not expelled. Oh, yes, an overdose of magic can kill you," he said, as they exchanged nervous looks. "Magic is a sort of energy; too much of it can be fatal, just as fatal as being struck by lightening. Hence, every thirty days when the moon is full, a werewolf forcibly undergoes a form of human transfiguration to expel the excess magic."

Two or three hands shot up, and he added, "And before anyone asks, no, I can't just apparate to the other side of the planet and wait it out. A number of my kind have tried avoiding the moon's cycle in the past by popping around to different regions; it was all well and good until the full moon was over and the surplus magical energy hadn't been burnt up."

"What happened to them?" asked one of the Ravenclaws curiously.

"I'd rather not describe it," Lupin replied grimly. "Suffice it to say that magic set to an astronomical alarm-clock shouldn't be tampered with. Yes, Mr. Finnigan?"

Seamus put his hand down. "Sir, why can the disease only be transferred on the full moon?"

"Ah, well, strictly speaking that's not true; while the disease can be spread at any point, it is usually dormant except on the full moon. In its dormant stage, the virus is very weak, and the human immune system- that part of you that fights off colds and fevers and the like- has no trouble stamping it out before it can infect a new host cell. Once activated, however, the virus becomes vicious; it can invade and spread at an incredible rate." He shrugged. "I suppose theoretically, if I kissed my wife just minutes before the full moon struck, she could be turned; otherwise, the disease poses no harm during the other twenty-nine days of the month."

There was a pause, and then, in the back of the class, Lupin saw Lavender Brown's hand rise, trembling, into the air. "Yes, Miss Brown?" he said gently.

"If- if the disease is dormant except on the full moon," Lavender said, voice quavering a little, "Then how…?"

Lupin bit his lip, and then said, very softly, "It is important that you all note I said usually. Certain… recent cases… have led healers to believe that some feral werewolves can pass the activated disease on even in their normal form… the body will attempt to neutralize the virus as quickly as possible, but if enough cells are successfully invaded and retain the bad copy of information, it will spread like wildfire to the rest of the body, and the victim will transform upon the next full moon." Lavender's eyes had dropped as everyone glanced at her, and Lupin hurried to move on to the next question. "Yes, Ronald?"

Ron's brow was furrowed. "But that doesn't make any sense; my brother was attacked, too. Shouldn't he be infected, then?"

Lupin considered this, and then shrugged. "Theoretically, yes- except, if I recall correctly, Billius is a curse-breaker for Gringotts?" Ron nodded. "It's very possible that he was immunized against a similar enough magical disease due to the requirements of his work; if that were the case, he might have fought off the virus before it could do him any real harm." He looked around to the class and said, "You should note that this is still all very much in the realm of guesswork, as not many werewolves eagerly present themselves to St. Mungo's for medical research. We hate being poked and prodded just as much as the next wizard," he said, with a wry half-chuckle. "Hermione?"

"Professor, if the disease is due to little more than a change in the genetic code," said Hermione, lowering her hand with a confused frown, "couldn't Healers just… vanish it away? Eliminate the unwanted nucleotides?"

"Unwanted what?" Ron whispered loudly, and was promptly shushed.

"It's been tried," Lupin replied fairly. "The only trouble is, it would require going through every single cell in the human body, of which there are trillions- not a very time-effective cure. One Healer experimented with vanishing every code at once; accidentally vanished the poor bloke he was working on. Believe me, if it were feasible, wizards would be swooping in on every muggle hospital in Great Britain to cure similar muggle diseases and the like; unfortunately, it's simply not possible."

"So you- you are human, then?" a tentative Ravenclaw girl questioned.

He inclined his head. "In the strictest sense of the word, yes, Miss Everill, I am entirely human. Well, perhaps human and a little something extra." He looked around and found to his surprise that once again, Draco Malfoy had raised his hand. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Sir, where did you– that is, how do you know this is all true?" the young man asked, frowning deeply. "I mean, people just randomly being born with magic, it sounds a bit fantastical, doesn't it? How can you be sure it's not just a mudbl- muggle-born lie?"

Ronald Weasely stood up violently before Remus could respond, drawing his wand. "You're asking for it, Malfoy!"

"Getting brave now, aren't we, Weasley?"

"Death Eater!"

"Blood traitor!"

BANG!

Both boys jumped and turned; Professor Lupin had fired off a loud shot. "That is quite enough!" he said disapprovingly. "Sit down, both of you; ten points from Gryffindor and Slytherin."

In unison the pair flushed red and took their seats, looking equally disgruntled. Remus looked around the room to find that the rest of the students– muggle-borns, "blood traitors" and the children of supremacists alike– looked supremely uncomfortable. The werewolf took a deep breath to compose himself, wondering how to cut the tension in the room.

And that was when inspiration struck.

"Well, I certainly don't expect any of you to take my word for it," he said calmly, "So why don't I show you? Mr. Malfoy and… let me see, Miss Granger, if I could request your assistance in a little demonstration?"

The class perked up with interest. Surprised, both students came to the front of the room. Lupin retrieved a clean sheet of paper from his desk and then turned to the front row. "Harry, if I might borrow your glasses?"

"Er- sure, I guess." He removed his spectacles and handed them to the professor, who conjured a quick lumos spell behind the parchment, causing the room to be colored a pale yellow. He then retrieved a few matchsticks for lighting the candles from his desk, which he transfigured into three needles.

"Now if you will, each of you prick your finger, just enough to draw blood." The head girl did so without hesitation, and the Slytherin, not wanting to be one-upped, did the same. "Press it to the parchment." They obliged, and Lupin followed suit. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, if you will do the honors?"

He handed Draco the spectacles, who eyed them with confusion. "Now what?"

"Tap them and say, magnificare milia."

The student did so, and then let out a shout of surprise when the image in the glass grew to view microscopic levels. "Now look at the blood," Lupin encouraged. "Can you tell whose is whose?"

There was a pause as the class held its breath. At last, the young man said, in a very strange tone, "…I can't. They all look the same… just as you said."

"If we were able to see closer, you would find distinctions in the genes," the professor allowed, "hair color, eye color, gender… on mine you would find an extra strand that, on certain evenings, allows me to grow fur and quite a magnificent a tail." Several students giggled. "Some people can do magic, some cannot– just like some have a special talent for music or mathematics. But we are far more alike than we first realize. Whatever our capabilities, whatever our appearances, whatever our advantages or disadvantages… each of us, in short, is human."

Lupin fell silent a moment, allowing the words to sink in, and then noticed that several of the students in the back rows were craning for a look at the glasses. He chuckled. "Alright, everyone come forward– one at a time, one at a time…"

But one student was no longer listening. Draco Malfoy was staring, frozen, at none other than Hermione Granger, the blood pounding in his ears.

…His father's discomfort continued to grow with every minute they spent in St. Mungo's, and the feeling was beginning to wear off on his son. He watched his mother gently brush against Lucius's hand with her fingers; it was an unspoken fact in the Malfoy household that hospital visits were to be avoided whenever possible, but his father's cousin, Mr. Sailor, had recently recovered from dragon pox and the entire family was expected to make a show.

As made to leave the reception desk, the small family was nearly run over by another trio: two brunette parents with their sobbing son, whose hands seemed to have turned into paws. "We just don't know what to do!" the mother exclaimed tearfully. "W-we're not wizards, we don't know how to make him put himself right again!"

"Don't you worry about it, ma'am; it's just accidental self-transfiguration, happens all the time with youngsters," the welcome witch said soothingly. "Spell damage, fourth floor."

As the distraught parents rushed past them with their son in the direction of the stairs, Draco heard his father snort and mutter under his breath, "Fitting recompense, turning their son into a mudblood."

"A m- mud…blood?" Draco said with a frown, sounding out the word. "What's a mudblood, father?"

Lucius and Narcissa glanced around, waiting for the other visitors to pass, and then drew him to the side, lowering their voices. "A mudblood, Draco, is a muggle who has stolen a wizard's magic," his father explained, a grim look crossing his features. "They are weak but dangerous, muggle thieves who are trying to invade our world and take our power for themselves."

"B-but that boy– he was so little!"

"It's not always they who do it, Draco, darling," his mother explained with a sigh. "Their parents take the magic from a wizard child and give it to their own."

His grey eyes flew wide. "C-can they steal my magic?!"

His parents were quick to reassure him otherwise. "No, Draco, no!" Narcissa crooned, dropping to her knees to pull him into a hug. "Only weak wizards can lose their magic, ones who have thinned it with muggle blood. But your magic is strong, very strong! No one is going to steal it, we promise."

"But that is why you must be very careful, son," Lucius said firmly. "You mustn't let yourself be contaminated by them, or by anyone who has bred outside our kind. Your mother and I were careful; that was how we had you."

"Lucius, he's just a boy…" Narcissa murmured, but her husband shook his head.

"It's better he learn now, rather than later." He knelt down in front of his son and settled a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eyes. "You are very young, Draco, but someday you will have to carry on the Malfoy family name. When that day comes, you will have to ensure that the bloodline remains pure and strong. Do you understand me?"

Although he didn't really, Draco nodded dutifully. "Yes, father."

"Good. Good." He stood with a sigh, glancing about; the hallway was still empty, and Draco had the feeling that he had just been told a very important secret. "Well," said Lucius, trying to lighten the mood, "Let's go see Mr. Sailor, shall we?"

As they made their way down the hall, the boy silently vowed that, like his father before him, he would keep his family strong– and no mudblood was ever going to take that away…

His heartbeat thudded in his throat, ignorant to the other students pushing past him, ignorant to anything except the vice-grip squeezing tighter and tighter around his chest. It couldn't be true. Everything he'd ever learned, the warnings he'd received, the dangers he'd been taught to guard against– was his whole life a lie? No, it couldn't be true! He– he couldn't have fought that hard for a mere falsehood, he couldn't have become a Death Eater for the sake of a lie! He had fought for the pureblood cause, tortured and been tortured for it, nearly died for it!

His father had murdered for it.

The vice suddenly seized hard around his heart; he felt as if he couldn't breathe. He saw the faces of Professor Burbage and the Headmaster swim before his eyes, heard Granger screaming and the terrified muggles begging for mercy.

He couldn't stay here. He had to get out.

Dazedly, almost dizzily, he slipped away from the classroom. The world seemed to be spinning; his blood was singing in his ears. He stumbled and broke into a run, dashing down the hall, faster and faster until he burst into the boy's lavatory and, collapsing into the first stall, was violently sick into the basin.

A/N: So originally this whole "day" was going to be one chapter, but I finished writing it last night and it was thirty-two pages long! So I decided to cut it in half; the second part will be up in a couple of days. Please leave a review, and I'll see you all soon! Pax et bonum!