Full and New

by FFcrazy15

Fall 1998: Between his curse, a new family, and a castle full of war-scarred students in need of guidance, newly-reinstated Professor Lupin has enough on his plate– and that's before an old foe rears his ugly maw. Myth and Magic mix in this tale of wizards and wolves, making one lesson very apparent: whatever you do, keep clear of the moonlight. Post-war AU; RLNT, HPGW, RWHG, DMLB.

15. Chapter 15: Our Deepest Fears

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

Warnings: depression and suicidal thoughts, self-harm, cursing, violence, mentions of torture (non-graphic), dead infants (non-graphic), wolf attacks (non-graphic), mentions of bodies being burnt and/or eaten by snakes (non-graphic). Oh, and one annoying American. (Sorry! I am an American; don't mean to offend any of my fellow patriots!) Do NOT read the last scene with Draco if you're prone to suicidal thoughts.

A/N: Super long, super later chapter, and probably not one of my best. I'm sorry. I have no excuse other than just plain old writer's block. BTW, what'd you think about the new summary?

---

The trees whispered overhead, moonlight gleaming down through the rustling leaves and castling silver-white shadows over the moss and fallen logs. The wind rippled through his fur, the scent of spruce on the air. Somewhere far off, someone howled. He lifted his snout to the white moon and howled in return, reveling in the feeling of pack, of kin and kind. As a third bay joined their chorus, and a fourth, he turned, lifting his nose to the wind. Breaking into a loping stride, he followed where his instincts led him, weaving in and out of the trees, at one with the forest, at one with himself.

A sudden scent caught him unawares; he changed his direction without thought, turning east towards the white moon. The scent grew stronger, intoxicating, driving him on, pulling him forward. The trees thinned; the sound of rushing water filled his ears, stars blazing bright through the branches overhead.

He burst through the tree line and out into the open, finding himself on a stony ledge of a cliff, jutting out over a roaring river, rapids flashing silver and foamy white below him. Just ahead, framed by the pearly moon, stood the silhouette of a woman. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, a perfect flush of rose against the white, her head inclined towards the child sleeping on her chest. The man marveled at her, for she was beautiful, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Another zephyr of wind brushed through her hair, wafting her scent towards him… her intoxicating scent…

His heart seized, eyes widening in panic. He let out a bark of warning; the woman turned. "Remus?" she said, startled, but he only barked again, scrambling back. It was strong, too strong, why, why was it this strong? The wolf was fighting him, demanding satisfaction, demanding her blood on its lips–

He growled, dropping to his haunches. The baby cried out; the woman held out a hand. "Remus– Remus, it's me–"

Run, he begged her in his mind, oh, Dora, run! He was at war with himself, love fighting lust, devotion fighting depravity, man fighting beast. He loved her, he craved her, he needed to feed, give in, give in, GIVE IN–

He snarled and crept forward; the infant wailed; the woman backed away. "Remus– Remus, please stop–!"

The wolf won. He lunged.

---

Remus shot up in bed, gasping for air. Dora started and grabbed for wand beside him, whirling around. For a long moment they stared at each other, Remus looking down the end of the wand into his wife's frightened eyes.

Then, she let out a sigh, lowering the stave with a deep breath. "Merlin, love, you scared me," she said, smiling wryly. "You alright?"

"I…" He was still shaking, beads of cold sweat rolling down his bare shoulders. He realized, with the heavy weight of disgust, that he was hungry. He was hungry, and had dreamed about attacking his own wife.

Monster.

"Remus?"

He realized he had never answered the question and drew a shaking breath, running a hand through his hair. "Bad dream," he managed. "Going to make myself a cuppa."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine. Go back to sleep, Dora."

Nymphadora eyed him with concern, but nodded and lay back down. Remus got out of bed and headed for the sitting room. As he passed by the dresser, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. A thrill of fear ran through him at the image looking back: pale and shaken, hair unruly, eyes gleaming a luminescent yellow in the darkness. On his right arm lay the brand, still red after more than a year, of a fang crossing a crescent moon, marking him forever as a member of Fenrir Greyback's pack. No wonder Dora had nearly hexed him; he looked for all the world like a Feral werewolf just come off the hunt. A chill prickled under his skin as he realized, had the nightmare been a reality, he would now be just that.

Deeply unnerved, he hurried from the bedroom, not daring to take a backwards glance at his wife and desperately hoping she had indeed gone to sleep. After taking care to quietly shut the door behind him, he sat down on the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to get ahold of himself. People do things all the time in dreams they would never do in real life, he reminded himself, now feeling far less certain of the sentiment, alone in the darkness, than he had several days prior upon speaking to Harry. I would never do that to Dora, never… I'm sure of it…

He made his way over to the kitchen and knelt down in front of the cooling cupboard. A refreshing wave of cold air hit his face as he opened the door, and with it a smell nearly as intoxicating as the one he had encountered in his dream. Remus groaned quietly to himself. He'd mentioned to Dora once or twice before that he'd appreciate her putting the raw meat in the icebox, but he wasn't surprised she'd forgotten.

"Lumos," he muttered, snapping his fingers; a tiny orb of light appeared over his hand, and he shined the light into the cupboard, squinting. Yes, there it was; a side of mutton had been wrapped in wax-paper and set aside, probably in preparation for the evening's dinner. He eyed it hungrily, curling his free hand into a tight fist. Control yourself, Remus. Merlin, did that smell good. You are in charge of your instincts; they are not in charge of you. He could see the juices gathering in the folded corners, red and thick. You are a man, not an animal. It wasn't fresh, the blood had been drained, but it was close enough, maybe just a taste–

He slammed the door shut, cutting off the odor. "Agh." He turned his back to the cabinet and sitting down on the kitchen floor. His heart was racing, hands shaking like an addict's. Internally the battle still waged between thoughts of Dora would never know and How would you like your wife to catch you out here, slavering like an animal over a piece of meat?, but now the rational side seemed to be winning. He knew what eating raw meat would do to him, come full moon, and he much preferred spending those particular evenings in front of a warm hearth with Dora petting his ears, instead of pacing back and forth alone, trying to get his darker temptations under control.

Disgusted, Remus pushed himself off the floor and eyed the cabinet with ferocity. He could do this; he just needed a little self-mastery. Taking another deep breath, he opened the cabinet.

The scent of the raw meat drifted out again, but this time he determinedly kept his mind on other things. Lettuce. Carrots. Those tiny tomatoes Dora liked. Ugh. He spotted the leftovers of Dora's herbed chicken and let out a sigh of relief, retrieving them along with some bread and cheese. After making himself a halfway decent sandwich, he walked over to the large windows in the sitting room, peering up at the sky.

Stars twinkled down at him, seemingly brighter than usual, and it only took him a moment to realize that there was no moon that night. Look at you, the ugly voice in his head hissed. Even tonight, when you're at your most human, you still can't fight off the beast. Pathetic.

Remus took a particularly vicious bite of his sandwich, trying to send the voice packing. He'd lived with a deep-seated depression for thirty years, and knew the symptoms like the tactics of an old enemy. Not tonight, he growled internally, you don't get me tonight.

What will she do when she realizes? When she sees how inhuman you really are?

She knows what I am. She doesn't care.

Ah, so that's why you're hiding out here, panicking about getting caught nicking from the icebox?

He paused. The voice had a point.

Monster.

Shut up.

Beast.

I said, shut it!

You're an animal, Remus Lupin. And you know it.

A cold weight settled over his shoulders. Suddenly he wasn't very hungry. It was far more tempting to wallow… to brood over his misery, internalize it, analyze it… give in…

"Remus?"

He realized he was staring at his sandwich instead of eating it and looked up, surprised. Dora looked back, wrapped in her bubblegum dressing robe, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorpost. She nodded to the sandwich and said lightly, "That's not tea."

"Oh." He shrugged, hoping it came off nonchalant. "I was hungry, so…"

"Mm." She walked over and sat down beside him. "That looks good. Mind?"

He shook his head and tore off a piece, which she accepted happily. They ate in silence for a moment, and then she glanced over. Remus didn't meet her eyes.

"You don't have to tell me," she said quietly, "but whatever it was, I still love you. And I forgive you for whatever it is you think you've done."

He looked up, startled. Dora popped the last piece of chicken in her mouth, and then started when her husband began to laugh. "What?"

"You, Dora. You're… incredible," he said gratefully, shaking his head with a smile. "Absolutely incredible."

Nymphadora Tonks was well used to her husband's mental and emotional complications. Heck, she had a few herself and wasn't afraid to admit it: just a touch of the Black Madness from her mother, a morbid taste for the thrill, for testing the brinks of her own mortality, the obsessive tendencies that refused to let go of something she'd started. He reigned her in, held her close, reminded her that she was only a witch and not the immortal fey for whom she was named. He dealt with her problems, and for more than a year now she'd dealt with his: his insecurities, his nightmares, his compulsive checking and rechecking of the locks and charms on every window and door. Difficult as it was, in some sense she considered it her privilege; Remus had weathered the flow and ebb of personal misery for so long, alone, that she felt honored he had dared to trust her, to let her into the parts of him that were ugly and broken. So when he looked at her with that heartbreaking admiration, so absolutely in love and so absolutely certain that he didn't deserve it, she merely flashed her trademark grin and poked him in the shoulder. "And don't you forget it."

Remus chuckled and went back to munching on his sandwich, now far more cheerful. Dora counted it a victory and went to find herself some tomatoes.

---

The sound of a door slamming against its frame startled the sleeping wizard awake, and Draco scrambled for his wand, grabbing it from under his pillow and pointing it straight forward at the emerald curtains, heartbeat thundering in his ears. He didn't cast a curse– in Death Eater society, cursing an unexpected guest could be as dangerous as encountering an attacker– but rather listened very carefully, breaths shallow, ears perked for the slightest brush of a foot against carpet…

Nothing. The room was entirely silent, without even the sound of breathing from the other beds. After a moment he realized that the noise had probably been the door of one of the younger year's dorms. Even as he made this connection, however, another problem occurred to him: since when was his dormitory ever entirely silent? Where was everyone else?

Baffled, he pushed his curtains aside. The dorm was indeed quiet and empty; apparently the other four had gotten up early. Confused, Draco reached for his watch on the bedside table and, upon checking it, promptly swore and leapt out of bed. It was half-seven; classes began in thirty minutes.

He threw on a pair of robes and, of course, carefully combed his hair, before grabbing his books and hurrying out of the dormitory, face burning red with anger. It was obvious what had happened; clearly someone– and he would have bet the whole family vault on a certain half-Italian– had removed the alarm charms on his watch. "Stupid, foul little git," he muttered to himself as he hurried up the stairs, causing a pair of first-year Slytherin girls to give him an odd look. "When I get my hands on you…"

Breakfast was nearly over by the time he arrived in the Great Hall, leaving nothing more than a few plates of cold kippers, some ends of toast and half-jugs of warm marmalade. He checked his watch and found that he had only fifteen minutes until class; grabbing a muffin off a near-empty platter, the young Malfoy heir was just about to leave when a gleaming white owl swooped down in front of him, flying in circles around his head. "Wha- oy!- Persius!"

The owl hooted and dropped a letter on the table; Draco picked it up and recognized the green-stamped seal of the Malfoy family crest. His father's owl hooted again and took off, clearly annoyed at having been made to wait. Surprised, the young Slytherin opened the envelope and scanned the letter, expecting well-wishes and pleasant inquiries from his parents. What he found, however, was quite the opposite:

Draco,

Although I wish this correspondence were written under better circumstances, I'm afraid to say that it is not. To be succinct, yesterday morning I received a very troubling letter from the young Mr. Zabini regarding an altercation between the two of you last week. Needless to say I was shocked; we have always been on friendly terms with the Zabinis and, to my knowledge, no ill will has ever existed between you and their son.

I was even more astounded to read of his alleged reason behind the trouble; I find it difficult to believe that you caused such a scene over nothing more than a mild prank he played upon the half-breed girl in your class, but as I have no further explanation I am left quite bemused. Draco, now above all else we must keep our heads down; what in the world were you thinking?

It only got worse from there. Phrases like "expected better" and "too old for this sort of behavior" swirled through his mind, filling him with an uncomfortable sense of guilt for himself and bubbling wrath towards Blaise; he'd never considered that his father would ever get word of the incident. The letter concluded on a somewhat better note with the message,

I await your explanation, and can only caution you once again to do everything in your power not to draw undue attention. As an aside, we have not heard anything from you regarding your careers counseling; I think it best we discuss your options soon, as I have no doubt that hack of a head-of-house has made a mess of the thing and convinced you that there is no proper occupation available to you. Never mind him, we'll work something out.

Please write soon; you know how your mother worries.

All our love,

–Father

Simmering with rage, Draco folded the letter and stuffed it in his bag. As he hurried through the halls in the direction of the Defense classroom, already drafting his reply to his father in his mind, he made himself a fierce and vengeful vow: Blaise Zabini would live to regret the day he messed with a Malfoy.

---

The class was humming with excitement as they took their seats, clearly intrigued with the subject of that day's lesson. Many a student was looking with excitement to the traveling trunk in the middle of the room and then to the blackboard, upon which was written the word in loopy cursive, Boggarts.

"–but that's third-year stuff, that is!"

"–must be a review–"

"–stop complaining; I've been dying to do something practical all month!"

Lupin allowed himself a small smile, and then raised a hand to quiet the class as the clock chimed eight. "If I could have your attention, please," he began politely, as the students fell silent. "Now as you can probably tell, today we will be doing a brief review of–"

He was cut off when the door slammed open and hit the stone wall behind it, prompting the professor and several students to turn and draw their wands, startled. Draco Malfoy swept into class, glowering, and shot Mr. Zabini a very nasty look as he took his seat. Lupin blinked. "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Malfoy."

"Sorry, Professor," the teenager muttered, pulling out his notes with the sort of ferocity one would expect to use on a dark creature rather than a book-bag.

"Yes, well… five points from Slytherin for tardiness," Lupin replied, curious but deciding it was probably none of his business. "As I was saying, today we will be doing a brief review of boggarts and how to fight them. Now, based on what we have learned, can anyone tell me whether a boggart is a creature or a being, and of what sort? Hermione."

"By ministry classification boggarts are non-beings," she began promptly, and then concluded, "but technically speaking, it's a non-human spirituous apparition."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it's not a creature or being at all, but a magical substance masquerading as a creature– usually spawned in an area permeated by negative feelings of some sort."

"Excellent, Hermione; five points to Gryffindor." He addressed the class, continuing, "Non-human spirituous apparitions also include dementors and poltergeists; if you were to test the 'flesh,' if you will, of a dementor, you would find that they are made strictly of pure matter, not organized into a cellular structure such as you would find with beasts and creatures."

"So they're… goop," said Dean Thomas doubtfully.

Lupin himself chuckled and nodded. "Putting it lightly, yes. They're little more than magical goop."

"Even Peeves?"

"Especially Peeves," the professor replied seriously, eliciting snorts of laughter.

"Now recently, another two boggarts were found in the dungeons; they likely spawned sometime in the last year. I had my third years finish off the first, but I thought you all could do with a good refresher."

"Why us, Professor?" Ron questioned, frowning slightly.

Lupin couldn't help but smile. "Because last time I deprived Mr. Potter and Miss Granger of the chance to defend themselves, assuming that the rest of you would not take well to Tom Riddle appearing in the middle of the classroom. Moreover, this boggart is of a particularly strong constitution. Weak boggarts, like the ones I gave many of you in third year, are the most common, but stronger ones are far more dangerous; they will attempt to literally frighten you to death.

"Our deepest fears manifest themselves in different ways," the professor continued, beginning to pace. "Unless a particular phobia or situation is at the forefront of your mind, most boggarts will find the deeper roots of our distress and, depending on their strength, demonstrate it in a more or less sophisticated manner. The stronger the boggart, the more terrifying its manifestations. On that note," he added sympathetically, "I'm well aware that the worst fears of war veterans tend to differ from those of thirteen-year-old children, so participation won't be mandatory today. Is there anyone in the room who would prefer not to complete the exercise?"

There was a pause, and then a few students raised their hands: Lavender Brown, a Hufflepuff girl from Ginny's year, Draco Malfoy, and, surprisingly enough, Harry himself, looking rather red in the face. Lupin raised an eyebrow, but the young man gave a small, imploring shake of his head, and the professor nodded lightly. "Very well; please step to the side. The rest of you, form a line behind Mr. Longbottom- one at a time, please!"

The class quickly lined up behind Neville, whose wand was at the ready. When everyone had lined up, the young wizard pointed his wand at the wardrobe and murmured, "Alohomora."

The wardrobe opened; there was no sound, but a moment later, two figures stepped out of the blackness within. Several students caught their breath, but Neville stood tall.

"Pathetic," boggart-Frank said coldly. "How glad I am we lost our senses long before we could see this day: our son, a hopeless half-squib, a certain failure if not for the charity of his fellow students."

Lupin felt as if his heart had stopped; he knew Frank and Alice, had gone to school with them, had fought beside them in the First War, had visited them periodically for the past eighteen years in St. Mungo's. Was this what Neville feared so deeply? And certainly, it was never a good sign when a boggart started talking; he wondered if he should step in, but although Neville had gone pale, he had not backed down.

"A disappointment," boggart-Alice echoed, face twisted into a very un-Alice sneer. "Lestrange did us a favor, sparing us the knowledge of your incompetence. Thank Merlin our world was not left in your hands, that Riddle marked the Other as his equal-"

"Riddikulus," said Neville firmly, and with a loud crack, his parents had vanished, replaced by two loud, squawking flamingos.

The class applauded. "Well done, Neville!" Lupin crowed. "Ron, forward!" Ron obliged; the boggart whirled about shapelessly for several seconds, before turning into a gold-and-emerald locket, lying flat on a gray slab of stone. The ginger's friends stifled a gasp; the rest of the class blinked, startled. A strange hissing, ticking noise seemed to emanate from it. The locket began to open-

"Riddikulus!" Ron commanded, and the locket became a silver cigarette lighter. He grinned, and Lupin cried:

"Hermione!"

The witch took her friend's place; a moment later, the boggart presented itself as a large stone memorial, engraved with names and dates of death. Lupin felt his stomach churn uncomfortably as he saw Harry and Ron's names at the very top, followed by those of whom he assumed were Hermione's parents. A wreath of white roses had been laid before the stone

"Riddikulus!"

With a loud crack, the inscription on the memorial vanished, replaced by a litany of appropriate names for Pigmy Puffs. Hermione snorted; the stone split down the middle.

"Pansy!"

Much to the surprise of her classmates, Pansy Parkinson's boggart was an ugly, sneering old woman, dressed in ridiculously affluent clothing but with prominent bald spots showing through her thin hair. She bore some relation to Pansy, leading many of the students to wonder if the woman was perhaps a particularly frightening relative; Lupin knew better, but said nothing. With a wave of her wand, Pansy's boggart swelled and became a fleshy-colored hot air balloon.

"Seamus!"

Several students screamed as the room went pitch black and filled with the stench of sulfur. They weren't the only ones; the hair-raising sounds of someone being tortured– a sound with which many of them were far too familiar– seemed to erupt from every side. A very shaken cry of "Riddikulus!" broke through the screeching, and the room was suddenly visible again and filled with clouds of noxious pink perfume that left the others coughing.

"Ginevra!"

This boggart was a little more obvious: a small, leather-bound journal lay on the floor; without warning, it opened, words spilling across the page:

I have control, Miss Weasely; you cannot escape from my-

"Riddikulus!"

Crack! The journal had turned bright pink, with a ringed spine and the words My Diary inscribed in gold, curling cursive on the cover- stabbed through with a basilisk fang.

"Gregory!"

Goyle gulped as the boggart became a blaze of fire; though he had to stammer the charm twice, the flames did eventually turn into a bed of ridiculously tall daisies. "Parvati!"

Nagini, slithering through the classroom towards the students. Crack! The snake was a coil of rope.

A flesh-eating slug. Crack! The slug was squished by a boot.

A family member, glassy-eyed, dead on the ground. Crack! The boggart had become a faceless store mannequin.

And so on. Lupin marveled at how his students' deepest fears had changed; once spiders and ghosts, now fears of failure, of loss, of suffering. And they conquered them all.

"Riddikulus!"

Crack! Dean Thomas's version of Tom Riddle himself grew a large, warty nose.

"Mine!" Lupin cried, stepping forward. The boggart spotted him and whirled in a blur of colors and forms-

Amber. That was what he saw first. Bright, living amber-hazel eyes, looking directly into his own. He blinked, startled.

The other Remus Lupin looked back. And smirked.

Hair, coarse and gray, burst suddenly from his face; the clothes split at the seams as man became beast, claws growing, the gleaming fangs sharpening as he raised his snarling maw to the sky-

"A-ROOO!"

And now the whole class was screaming, scrambling backwards along the wall as the werewolf snapped and snarled. Lupin's mouth was moving, but he couldn't seem to form a full word. "R-Riddik- rid-"

"Remus- Remus, it's me-"

Everyone turned to the new sound, as did the wolf; Lupin gasped and dropped his wand as Nymphadora Lupin backed away, holding a wailing Teddy in her arms. "Remus- Remus, please, stop-!"

The wolf lunged. Dora screamed; the students shrieked in fear; Lupin let out a hoarse, guttural noise- "NO!"

"Oy!"

The class- who had turned away from what was sure to become a bloody massacre- looked over, startled. Draco Malfoy didn't take his eyes from the wolf, having jumped directly in his path. He stood before it now unflinchingly, wand at the ready. "Go on, then!" he spat. "Do your worst!"

The wolf seemed to eye him intelligently, and then shifted. A snake- a clown- a banshee, a basilisk, a dementor-

A towering, cloaked figure stood before the class, his face half-hidden by a mask in the shape of a skull. Several people shrieked at the sight of the Death Eater, who raised his hand to his hood, sleeve falling back to reveal that hated Mark, stark black against the white-knotted skin-

"Riddikulus!" the young man spat. The black robe turned into a pink, hooded bathrobe; Malfoy smirked, let out a low "heh," and the boggart burst into a cloud of smoke.

Slowly, the class turned from him back to their professor. Lupin was leaning against his desk for support, trembling violently and staring, wide-eyed, at the place where the boggart had stood.

"Well? What are you all waiting for?" They looked again to Malfoy, who nodded sharply to the door. "Class is over- isn't it, Professor?"

Lupin glanced to him, managed one short nod. The students didn't wait for another invitation; everyone gathered their books and hurried for the door. Within moments, the room was empty, save Draco, Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Hermione.

"Professor?" Hermione said carefully, approaching him. "Professor, are you alright?"

Lupin opened his mouth, but couldn't manage an answer, and instead shook his head. Harry set his mouth grimly. "Chocolate," he muttered to Malfoy. "Check his desk."

If it seemed like a strange request, Draco didn't protest; he quickly rounded the desk and searched for a few seconds, before pulling a half-eaten candy bar out of the top drawer. He returned and handed it to the teacher without a word.

Lupin accepted it, broke off a small piece and ate it, hands still shaking. After another, he managed to calm himself enough to mumble, "-Ah- th-thank you, Mr. Malfoy, I-" He pushed himself upright, taking several deep breaths. "I just-"

"Don't mention it," the Slytherin said warily. Lupin nodded one too many times and didn't speak again.

Hermione reached out and touched his arm gently. "Next lesson doesn't begin until quarter-ten, doesn't it?" she inquired kindly. "Why don't you go see Tonks?"

"Yes, I- I think I shall. Thank you, Hermione…" He walked unsteadily to the door of his classroom and slipped outside as if in a daze, entirely forgetting his briefcase.

"Blimey," Ron breathed, "I don't think he was expecting that."

"I don't think any of us were," Malfoy said lowly. The four turned to look at him, startled. "You think he'll be alright?"

"Yeah- Tonks'll sort him out, she always does," Harry said awkwardly.

"Good." He shouldered his book bag, face still grimly, and headed for the door without another word.

"Oi- Malfoy!" Harry called on impulse. The Slytherin glanced back, surprised, and the Gryffindor hesitated, sticking his hands in his pockets. "That- er- that was good of you," he said uncomfortably, "To do what you did, I mean."

Malfoy stared, clearly not having expected such praise from his arch-nemesis. With a short, jerking nod of his head, he swept out of the room without another word.

---

"Here comes the broomstick! Wsssh! Wsssh!"

Teddy "ahhed!" and opened his mouth to receive the bite of oats, causing Dora to giggle. "That's my big boy! Alright, here comes another! Wsssh! Wsssh–"

She started and dropped the spoon as the door opened violently; Teddy hiccuped in surprise. "Remus!" she exclaimed as her husband swept into the room, "I was just-"

Dora was cut short as he pulled her up into a tight, trembling embrace, his hands shaking violently as they grasped at her shoulders. "Remus, what happened?" she demanded, alarmed. "Are you alright?"

He didn't speak, but instead kissed her shoulder and tried hard not to cry. Dora seemed to understand, and fell silent, holding him gently as if to reassure him that she was real, that she was there.

After a long time, she drew away and turned, picking up Teddy out of his chair. They sat down on the couch, side by side, and Lupin swallowed hard. "My boggart's changed," he whispered hoarsely.

"Pardon?"

"It's not the moon anymore." He shook his head. "It's you."

She started. "Me?"

"Not just you. Teddy, too. And- and- me, but- but I-" He shuddered as if struck by a sudden chill, and the tears slipped down his face against his will. Dora didn't need to inquire any further.

"Shh," she murmured, squeezing his arm. "It's alright. Teddy and I are fine…"

"Not Teddy," he choked out.

"Teddy is fine," she repeated firmly. "He's fine, Remus, he's going to be alright." As if to confirm her statement, the infant cooed, reaching for his father, but Remus merely shrank away. Dora sighed and ran her fingers soothingly through his brown hair. "It was just a boggart," she murmured, "and even if it weren't, I would still love you."

"I-I don't know what I was going to do to you, i-if I was going to b-bite you or- or-"

"Shh," Dora repeated, and then kissed him gently. Remus returned it, still crying, and then wrapped his arms around his small family, as if terrified they would somehow be torn away from him.

After a long while, he drew away, reaching for his son. Dora obliged without a word, handing him the cooing infant. Remus kissed Teddy's turquoise down of baby hair and let out a low groan of dismay. "I am never going to be able to show my face in that class again."

"Nonsense. Your students love you; they'll understand."

"I couldn't even take down a bloody boggart. And I'm the son of a boggart hunter." He shook his head with a snort. "My father must be turning over in his grave…"

"Oh really?" She crossed her arms. "And what do you think Lyall Lupin would say is the primary key to boggart fighting?"

He frowned. "To do it as a group, of course."

"Mm-hm. And that's because…?"

Her husband opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped as it dawned on him. "Because it's unwise to face your deepest fears alone," he murmured.

"Hm." Dora smiled and played with his hair. "And that's the lesson you taught your students today. That sometimes, we all fail… but that's why we need each other." She poked him in the chest. "So, Remus Lupin, come Wednesday morning, you're going to get out of bed, put on your big-boy robes and march down to that classroom, head held high. You understand me?"

Remus groaned again, but Dora could see that he was smiling despite himself. She smirked and then her smirk faded as she touched his shoulder. "This wouldn't have had anything to do with your nightmare this morning, would it?" His silence was all the confirmation she required. "Remus, you know you would never do that to me, not in your right mind. You don't even get close to me on full moons if you feel there's a risk; you have more self-control than anyone I know."

"I know," he sighed. "And I told H– one of my students as much, just a few days ago… but it seems, once again, that I'm particularly bad at taking my own advice."

"Hm. If you weren't, you wouldn't be my Remus." She gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Now if you're done brooding, don't suppose you'd like to help me feed Teddy?"

He managed another smile. "As it happens, Dora, I would love that."

"Good; I'll get an early start on lunch." As she headed over to the kitchen, Remus stood and carried Teddy back over to his chair, picking up the bowl of grain mush. Nymphadora grinned at the sight of him making broomstick noises as he fed Teddy the cereal, and then began to take out her pots and pans for lunch, humming a Weird Sisters tune slightly off-key.

As she opened the cooling cupboard, both father and son caught the scent of fresh meat and looked over, heads turning in unison. Remus noticed Teddy's reaction and felt a deeply uncomfortable squirm in the pit of his stomach. Whatever Dora's reassurances, he still couldn't shake the feeling that he had done something unforgiveable. His boggart, he knew, was in itself absurd, for if he were in his lupine form, surely Teddy would be the same. His son, like himself, was already cursed, infected with the virus he'd fought his entire life… inhuman desires and all.

He looked down to the baby, whose wide eyes were searching sightlessly in the direction of the kitchen. Then, much to his shock, the boy looked up at him and "ahhed," waving his tiny fists into the air, and grabbed hold tightly of his father's finger, hair flushing brown and eyes flickering to gold.

Remus stared, shocked. Teddy had pawed at his face and reached for his mother's hair, but never before had he taken his father's hand. The man felt a swell of love for the innocent child, his child. He had helped make this perfect, incredible little being… and against all odds, Teddy loved him back. His son loved him.

Though he didn't quite know why, that one fact suddenly made all the day's fears seem laughably foolish in comparison. "Dora!" he called, reaching for the spoon of mush with his free hand, "Any chance you could move that mutton to the icebox?"

Dora looked over, surprised, and then smiled.

---

There was an aura of menace that exuded from the young wizard as he swept through the halls, robes flaring dramatically and icy eyes flashing with all the dangerous power of a Malfoy in a particularly foul mood. Draco for his part was oblivious to the younger students who scurried out of his way, or even the older students who stepped aside, whispering amongst themselves. He could not have known how much he resembled his father in that moment, but to anyone else it would have seemed strangely fitting to see him with a silver-topped walking stick.

The rage was not entirely unwarranted; Draco had spent the larger part of his study period, which he was certain he could have devoted to more productive matters (such as choosing a thesis), writing a letter to his father attempting to explain himself in the best possible light; phrases such as better to appear sympathetic and didn't want to be implicated swirled through his brain. In the niggling part of his mind which insisted on being honest with itself (a part which, until just recently, he had managed to ignore rather well), he recognized that some portion of the anger was really just misdirected fear and an aversion to facing the new and disconcerting changes of view Blaise's prank had forced him to confront. But the rest of Draco Malfoy was well-practiced in taking all his pent-up frustration, fear and anger, and channeling it towards the objective of his choice– which, in today's case, was Quidditch.

The doors to the Slytherin changing room slammed open with bang, causing the other occupants to look up in surprise. Draco crossed the room, crowded with nervous second-years, boistrous fourth-years and a few calmly confident sixth-years to the locker which had been his for the last eight seasons and tapped the combination with his wand, pulling it open with trepidation.

To his relief, everything was just as he'd left it: a bit dustier, still smelling of stale sweat from his last game (they would definitely need a wash before the next match), but otherwise undamaged. As he strapped on his armguards, he heard a voice sneer, "Surprised you dared to show up today, Malfoy."

He turned, a tick in his jaw. Blaise raised an eyebrow back. "Oh, Malfoy, is it?" he replied acidly. "Nice to know where we stand after eight years, Zabini."

"I didn't start this, Draco. You did. Betraying us, going behind your friends' backs–"

"Going behind your back? You wrote my father!" Draco snarled, pointing a finger in Blaise's chest. "That's bang out of order, Blaise!"

The other boy's face went stiff. "You've been flirting with the line, Draco, and you know it. Someone had to put a stop to it."

Draco was about to retort when he finally realized that the entire locker room was staring at them. "You know what? I don't have time for this right now." He turned and headed for the door. "We'll settle this later."

Blaise's voice rose behind him: "I wouldn't walk away from me if I were you!" Draco didn't bother to reply, merely summoned his broom wandlessly into his hand and marched out onto the field.

The rest of the applicants joined him a few minutes later, gathering in the middle of the field, shivering in the autumn chill. Draco looked around to see no one stepping forward. "This is bloody ridiculous," he grumbled to no one in particular, "where's the captain?"

"Alright, everyone, listen up!" a voice called, and the crowd parted in two to make way for none other than Blaise himself. "Chaser One position is already filled; we are looking for two more, three backups, players and backups for Beaters One and Two, same for keeper and for seeker. Everyone give me five laps around the pitch!"

As everyone hastened to mount their brooms, Draco could only stare. Blaise raised an eyebrow, and smirked.

Shit.

---

"How's my hair?"

"Fine."

"You didn't even look!"

Harry sighed and glanced up from amidst the pages of his transfiguration book, glancing over his friend, who was fiddling nervously with the cuffs of his black button-down. "Your hair looks fine," he stated firmly and returned to his homework.

"And the shirt? I've got a blue one upstairs; maybe I should go change–"

"Ron, your shirt is great. Bloody fantastic, even. Now if you don't mind, I'd actually like to pass this class."

"You don't get it," his friend said crossly, walking over to the armchair from where he'd been keeping perpetual vigil at the bottom of the girl's staircase. "This is our first, y'know, actual date. If I blow this–"

"You're not going to blow it."

"But what if I do?"

"You won't."

"But what if–"

"Ron." Harry put the book down again and stood up, taking his friend firmly by the shoulders. "You have pissed off Hermione Granger more often and more thoroughly than anyone else in this school. Even if you do mess up, what's the worst that can happen? She gives you the cold shoulder for a few weeks?"

"Or never gives me another chance."

To his surprise, Harry only snorted. "Mate, she's been in love with you for four years. You'd have to screw up pretty bad to blow your chances with her completely."

Ron let out a low sigh. "Yeah. That's true." He frowned. "That shouldn't be so reassuring."

Their conversation was cut off as the door to the girl's dormitory opened, and both men looked up. And then Ron promptly forgot how to breathe.

Hermione started down the stairs uncertainly, not daring to meet the redhead's eyes. Ron was quickly turning a rather radish-y hue of red; Ginny, who had come out of the dorm behind Hermione, had crossed her arms and was watching her best friend descend with a very self-satisfied smile on her face. Even Harry couldn't help but stare; the witch had donned a pair of muggle jeans and a very flattering gray sweater, and her hair was as glossy and curly as it had been for the Yule ball four years previous. And her eyes… there was something about them, he couldn't quite put a finger on it, but they seemed darker, warmer…

Hermione took a glance up at him, and Harry could read almost read the nervous questions in her eyes. He grinned and gave her a thumbs up, and she smiled, before looking to Ron, who had managed to recover his powers of respiration, if perhaps not of speech. "Um, hey," she said softly, brushing a curl of brown hair behind her ear.

"Hey," Ron replied breathlessly, apparently unaware of the blush slowly creeping down his neck. The pair stood in silence for a long moment, just watching each other.

Ginny coughed, breaking the spell; both started, and Hermione's cheeks turned a rather pretty shade of pink. "Er, shall we?" Ron managed, gesturing towards the door.

"Yes, please," Hermione agreed. He clumsily offered her his arm, which she took with a very un-Hermione giggle, and together they departed the common room, utterly lost in each other.

Ginny grinned as she descended the stairs, watching the door close. Harry wrapped an arm around her waist. "They grow up so fast," she mock-sighed.

"Really? From my end it seemed to take forever."

"Mm. Hey, have you finished your transfiguration reading yet?"

"Not quite; why?"

"Well…" She turned, lacing her hands around his neck, "What do you say we go down to the library and turn this boring old schoolwork into a proper study-date?" Her brown eyes twinkled. "We could even sneak in some jam tarts from the kitchen."

Harry grinned and gave her a peck on the lips. "You, Ginny Weasley, are a rebel."

---

"A spiced wine for the lady, and a Prongs Special for the gent. Have a good evening, dearies." Rosmerta gave them a wink and walked away; Ron caught himself staring a moment to long and cleared his throat, prompting his date to laugh.

"You do realize she's at least fifty?" Hermione snorted.

Ron flushed, rubbing his neck. "Sorry."

She brushed this off with a wave. "It's fine. I know you don't do it on purpose." Taking a drink of her wine, she added, "Besides, I hope I look that good when I'm fifty."

"You will," Ron said immediately, and then stammered, "I-I mean, I'm sure you will, y'know, because you're so healthy– not that I watch what you eat! I just mean, you're always telling me to eat healthy, and your parents are teeth-healers so you don't eat sugar, and I just assumed–" He broke off as he realized Hermione had started to laugh. "What?"

"Ron, it's okay; I'm not offended."

"Oh." He visibly relaxed, and then admitted, "I'm sorry, 'Mione, I'm just– I'm really nervous. I don't want to blow this, y'know?"

"You're nervous!" she exclaimed. "I spent forty-five minutes on my hair! And that's ridiculous because you've seen it so many times in a complete rat's nest, but I wanted to impress you and I even had Ginny do my makeup–"

"Oh, is that what you did?" Ron interrupted, surprised. "I was wondering; your eyes look, I dunno, different. Bigger, or something."

"Oh." She blushed. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah. I mean, not that you don't look good without it, but, you know, it looks… nice."

"Oh," Hermione repeated. "Um, thanks."

"Yeah."

They both fell off into an awkward silence, taking a simultaneous sip from their drinks in an effort to cover it. Ron glanced around the pub, feeling a bit uncomfortable, and noticed something rather unsettling. "'Mione," he muttered, setting down his glass. "They're all looking at us."

"Hm?" She looked about, and her eyes widened to see that several of the other patrons, especially other seventh-years, were watching them out of the corners of their eyes in a rather poor attempt to be inconspicuous. "Oh. That's… rather disconcerting."

"Disconcerting? It's giving me the willies."

"Well, we're famous now," she offered with a shrug. "I suppose we'll have to get used to it." She considered it, and then added thoughtfully, "Now we know what Harry went through all those years."

"Ugh. Remind me why I was ever jealous of that." He took a sip from his glass and questioned lowly, "What do we do?"

"Victor said once that he just tries to ignore them. People get bored of staring eventually and go back to their own conversations."

"Huh." Ron looked down at his drink and asked idly, "So, um, you still write him, do you?" When Hermione didn't answer, he glanced up to see her giving him an exasperated look. "What?"

"You're honestly not still hung up on that, are you?"

"It was an innocent question!" he defended.

"I'll never understand why you're so jealous of him," said Hermione, shaking her head in bemusement.

"He's a world-famous Quidditch player," Ron deadpanned.

"And now you're a world-famous, bank-robbing, death-eater-fighting hero who destroyed a horcrux and defied Lord Voldemort to his face," she reminded him. "I think that sort of puts you on the same level, doesn't it?"

"Oh." Ron blinked. "…Guess I never really thought about it that way."

"You should. Besides, you have nothing to worry about from Victor; he's seeing someone now."

"Really? Who?"

"A very nice Bulgarian veela– one of Fleur's cousins, as it happens, not that it's any of your business. Besides," she added primly, "he wasn't with me in the Chamber of Secrets that night. You were."

More touched than he wanted to let on, Ron coughed and hid his smile. "Can I ask you something?" he questioned. Hermione nodded. "What did you see in him, exactly?"

"Oh. Well, he's not exactly my type," she admitted, "but then, neither are you. Honestly, Ron, it was just the appeal of being wanted, you know? The idea of being fancied, more than really Victor himself, if that makes sense."

"I guess, yeah." He paused, and then started to grin. "So… what exactly is your 'type,' then?"

"Really, Ron, it doesn't matter."

"Oh, c'mon." When she still looked doubtful, he said, "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?" He quirked a grin, and she sighed. "Fine… tall, handsome, preferably dark-haired… rugged and strong, but also very sensitive and intellectual. Oh, and a family man, of course."

Ron snickered. "You know who you just described?"

"Who?"

"Lupin. Y'know, I totally thought you had thing for him back in our third year..." He chuckled again, and then noticed that his girlfriend had turned pink at the cheeks. "No," he said, voice hushed.

"What?"

Ron gawped, looking as if Christmas had come early. "You fancied him!" he accused gleefully.

"Only a little!" Hermione protested, blushing deeper.

But now the young wizard was practically in stitches. "Bloody basilisks, 'Mione, he's twenty years older than you!"

"It was a minor crush!"

"Oh sure, like your minor crush on Lockhart!"

"Yes! It– wait, no! Ron!"

Ron was laughing too hard now to control himself. Hermione glared. "It's not funny," she huffed, clearly embarrassed.

"I-I'm sorry, 'Mione," he snickered, trying to get ahold of himself. "Really." She smacked him lightly on the arm, turning away. "Oh, c'mon; don't be like that."

"You're making fun of me."

"I'm sorry," he said again, grinning but managing to restrain his laughter. "So."

"So?"

"So why Lupin! I mean, with Lockhart it was obviously looks-"

"It was not!" she huffed, indignant. Ron gave her a look, and she admitted, "Okay, the looks helped. But honestly, they were just both so smart, or at least, we all thoughtLockhart was smart…"

"I didn't."

"Well, he sounded smart in his books. I suppose he had others write them." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm attracted to intelligence, Ron; it's part of why I like you."

He stared at her. Hermione frowned, crossing her arms. "What?"

"…You think I'm intelligent?"

"Of course." At his continued surprise, she clarified, "Well, you're awfully thick about some things, of course, and you're not bookish, not like I am. But you're really clever, Ron, cleverer than me in some ways. And, well…" She went red and ducked her head, finishing with a bashful, "And I happen to find that very attractive."

A slow smile was spreading across his face. "You mean it," said Ron, awed. "You really think I'm smart enough for you."

She frowned. "Ron, I wouldn't be interested in you if I didn't think you were smart enough for me. For goodness' sakes, I've never once beaten you at chess."

"Yeah, but that's chess; anyone can be good at chess."

"Thanks; that makes me feel so much better." At his smug grin, she crossed her arms and said, "Alright, your turn."

"My what?"

"Your turn! What's your type?"

"Oh." He considered it, and then said carefully, "Okay, 'Mione, now you can't get offended if it doesn't quite match–"

"I won't; go on!"

"Well… a good cook, for one." She gave him a look, and he hurried on, "And good with kids, y'know, so she'd make a good mum. And smart–" He gave her a nod, "and outspoken. Oh, and a redhead."

"A redhead?" Hermione said, looking amused.

"Family tradition." He frowned. "You're not mad, are you?"

To his surprise, she laughed. "Of course I'm not mad, Ron. After all–" she smirked and took a smug drink from her wine, "–you just described your mother."

---

"–Gladwyn and Duggard, first and second beaters; Sargent and Saunders, backups. Alright, seekers! To the front!"

Draco shouldered his broom and strode forward, looking around for his competition. He snorted as a rather frightened-looking fourth year slunk forward, appearing positively white with fear. "Alright, standard tryout procedure," Zabini explained lazily. "We're going to release one snitch; both of you try to catch it before the other." He gave a nod to the assistant, who unsnapped the locks on the snitch; with a split second, the tiny gold ball was out of sight. "Seekers, on my mark!"

The two contenders mounted their brooms. "…Hey," the fourth-year said hesitantly, glancing over and extending a hand. "Um, I'm Perry Tucker. I just wanna say, you know, good luck."

Draco looked over, surprised, and then decided to cut the kid a break. "Draco Malfoy. You too."

"And… GO!"

Both kicked off at the same moment; Tucker shot high into the air and fumbled for a moment before bringing his broom to a stop. Draco climbed several feet higher, already scanning the field for that flick of gold. The autumn clouds had blanketed the sky, making it difficult to spot any flick of–

There! He sped forward, but just as quickly the fourth-year was on his tail; the snitch seemed to anticipate their mad dash and zipped away towards the opposite end of the field, causing the pair to speed off in pursuit. They followed the gleaming ball in a sharp dive to the ground, and then just as swiftly straight back up near the top of the stands. Draco had to admire the kid's skill; he would make a good replacement for the team in the next year.

The snitch circled them just as they got close and then whizzed off between two of the goals, hanging just behind the lower part of the hoop. The two analyzed the situation in a split second: there wouldn't be enough time to go through the ring and turn around before the snitch flew off again. Both dove forward; Draco straight for the goal, Tucker slightly to the left, clearly intending to sweep past along the back.

That was the edge Draco needed. Half a second away from the ring, he rolled his broom over and ducked his head to avoid the bottom of the goal. Quick as blinking he shot his hand out and snatched the snitch out of the air, the tail of his broom missing the Tucker's head by mere inches. Righting his broom, he pulled to a halt and held his hand up in the air.

At the whistle's blow, he and Tucker both swooped down and landed, the latter looking disappointed but resigned. "Hey," Draco said, and the boy glanced over. "You fly well. Keep practicing; the team's going to need a good seeker next year."

Tucker grinned despite himself and nodded. "Thanks."

Their conversation was cut short as Blaise walked forward, a rather sour look on his face. "Snitch," he said flatly, holding out his hand.

Draco handed it over, not bothering to hide his smirk. "Alright, so our team is set," Blaise called, turning to the others. "Zabini, Thorne and Wyght, chasers; Yates, Owen and Rye as reserves. Jamison and Hogarth, keeper and backup. Gladwyn, Duggard, Sargent and Saunders our beaters, and–" He turned to the pair, "Perry Tucker as our seeker. Malfoy, you'll be playing backup."

Draco's mouth fell open. "What?"

"But sir, I didn't catch the snitch," Tucker protested, stepping forward. "You must not have seen–"

"I saw everything I needed to. You're the one I'm playing" Tucker made to protest, and Zabini cut him off, "Look, kid, do you want to be on this team or not?"

"You bastard," Draco growled before the boy could reply, throwing down his broom and stalking forward. "This hasn't got anything to do with Quidditch and you know it."

"I'm the Captain, aren't I?" Zabini snapped. "And I can play whoever I want."

"You've got a problem with me, Blaise? Fine!" He drew his wand, grabbing hold of the other boy's robes. "Let's settle it right now!"

The whole pitch seemed to crackle with tension; no one else dared speak. "Careful there, Draco," Blaise breathed. Draco sneered. "There's no rule that says I need to assign reserves. Now if you even want to see the inside of that changing room this year, I would suggest you let go of me right this instant. Understood?"

Draco gritted his teeth. He was itching to hex Blaise within an inch of his sorry life, but he knew that the threat wasn't empty. "…Fine," he muttered, letting go of Zabini's robes and stowing his wind. "Fine. You win, Blaise. But you and I, we're done." He picked up his broom and stalked off towards the castle.

"Fine by me, you mud-licking blood traitor!" Blaise called.

Draco froze. Zabini crossed his arms with a smirk, an eyebrow raised expectantly. The blond's hand tightened into a fist around the handle of his broom, jaw tightened. For one tense moment everyone was sure he would turn around and curse the captain, but instead, the young man merely straightened his back and walked off, sparks of wrathful emerald energy fizzling in his wake.

---

Knock-knock-knock.

Lavender jumped as she heard a loud bang! erupt from the other side of the door. "Professor?" she called, worried, only to find the door open to reveal a soot-faced Professor Slughorn. "Oh my goodness! Professor, are you alright?"

"Oh, fine, fine!" the old man said dismissively, wiping his face with a handkerchief. "Just added a pinch to much powdered horn of bicorn; a few leaves of chamomile should sort it out. Come in, come in! Make yourself at home!"

Lavender followed him inside the laboratory, looking around with unmasked interest. Potions and brews were bubbling in cauldrons on all sides, letting off clouds of emerald and violet steam, and on a lab table to her right an electric-blue serum seemed to be working its way through the coils of a still. "Are you working on some sort of delayed explosive?" she inquired as she inspected the nearest cauldron, in which bubbled a fiery red mixture.

"Just so, Miss Brown; I'm impressed you recognized it!" Slughorn called over his shoulder, fetching a bottle of dried chamomile leaves. "Turn that burner down to medium heat, would you?"

She complied, watching with intrigue as he dropped in several crushed leaves into the pot. The potion hissed ferociously and then thickened to a dark russet mud. "Now, my dear," the professor said, turning to her, "How may I help you?"

"I'm here about the assignment you gave us," Lavender explained, both simultaneously wrinkling their noses and stepping away as the concoction began to smell violently of sulfur. "You wanted us to propose a hypothesis regarding the effect of the noon sun on potions containing shredded vegetation, but I can't seem to work out quite why the sunlight has such an effect."

"Ah, well, for that you would need to go a bit further into the biology of living matter," said Slughorn, tapping his nose, "but suffice it to say that the cellular structure of plants allows for the conversion of solar energy into the chemical energy contained in sugar–"

"–Which of course would work as food for the potion's reaction," she realized aloud. "Of course! Thank you, Professor."

"Oh, naturally. Now is there anything else I could help you with?"

"Actually, as it happens, there is," she began hesitantly, clasping her hands. "I was wondering if I might have your permission to specialize in potions for my senior thesis?"

Slughorn's face lit up. "My permission? Why, Miss Brown, I would be delighted! What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I– I was wondering if there were any way I could work on brewing and modifying the Wolfsbane Potion." When she saw his face fall, she added quickly, "I know it's a terribly tricky potion, but I really think I'm up to it, Sir. And perhaps if I could find a way to make it cheaper–"

"My dear– please, don't misunderstand me," the professor interrupted uncomfortably, "but it requires a certain proficiency in alchemy to modify a potion. And more to the point, I regret to say that the dexterity that brewing Wolfsbane requires would make it unfortunately impossible for someone of your condition to manage it. Too many of the ingredients would prove far too volatile for you to handle."

Lavender's eyes dropped to the floor. "Oh. I see," she said softly.

"I'm afraid I simply can't in good conscience allow you to risk your personal safety under my watch. I'm sorry." He patted her shoulder. "But I'm sure you'll find something else, hm? Perhaps felix felcis, or veritaserum? Both are highly useful and, I wouldn't doubt, prove themselves to be well worth the effort."

"I sort of had my heart set on Wolfsbane. But I'll think about it," she conceded with a sigh. "Thank you anyway, Professor."

"Of course. I'm truly very sorry, my dear."

"So am I… have a good evening, Professor."

"And you, Miss Brown."

The young witch left the lab and climbed up the stairs to the upper halls in a state of dismay, so lost in her own thoughts she didn't bother to look where she was going. She had never considered that her newfound allergies would inhibit her ability to brew potions, one of the few subjects in which she was genuinely skilled. She had only wanted to make Wolfsbane because she knew she wouldn't be getting it for free forever, and now she couldn't even find a way to make it herself. It's not fair, she thought bitterly. Why had Greyback gone after her, of all people? Why had fate decided to drop such rotten luck on her? She was a relatively good person, wasn't she? Surely she didn't deserve this!

She paused as she passed by a window on her way up a spiral staircase, looking out into the growing gloom. Far across the western horizon, nearly invisible to the naked eye but which her golden, canine irises could not help but see, was the first sliver of the waxing moon. Lavender glared at it ferociously, tears burning in her eyes. It didn't matter how hard she cried or how loudly she howled, the moon was coming for her. And in two weeks it would find her, whether she was ready for it or not.

After all, if there was one thing the last year had taught her, it was that life wasn't fair.

---

"–and then my dad said, 'I've missed England, but let's be honest, darling, Devon is far too cold for surfing.'"

Ron snorted, taking another sip from his glass. "I can't imagine your dad doing something like that."

"Nor can I! He and mum want to take a trip next summer, says he'll teach me. I haven't the heart to tell him I'm terrified!"

"Can't be any worse than riding a thestral, can it?"

"No– but you know me, I'm no good with that sort of thing." She fell quiet for a moment.

"Hey." Ron reached across the table and took her hand in his, causing her to look up in surprise. "You did what you had to do," he said seriously. "You probably saved their lives, 'Mione."

"I know," she sighed. "I just feel like there ought to have been another way."

"Maybe. But your parents love you, they know you were just trying to do what was best for them." He squeezed her hand. "That's what family is all about, y'know?"

She nodded. "Family… family is important." She bit her lip.

"'Mione?" Ron was concerned. ""What's wrong?"

She looked to him with nervous brown eyes, and then took a deep breath. "Ron. Have you heard back from George yet?"

It was as if a cold wind had blown through the room. Ron's face froze; without meaning to, his hand dropped Hermione's, and he pulled away, clasping at his drink. "Er, not yet, no," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

"Ron, you have to tell someone," she nearly whispered, glancing around the pub; no one was paying them any attention, so she continued, "He needs help."

"What he needs is time," Ron said sharply, dropping his tone as well. "Look, Fred's death has hit him harder than any of us; he just needs a while to– to figure things out, alright?"

"But he's not figuring it out! This, Ron, this is keeping him from figuring it out, from moving on with his life! And he's doing the same to you!"

Ron stiffened. "It's not like that. He didn't ask me to help him–"

"–But you do anyway, because you're his brother and you love him," she finished. "I know, Ron. But this, it's not healthy! He needs to– to talk to someone, your parents at least need to know–"

"Mum and Dad don't need to know anything!" Ron snapped. "It's his problem, he can take care of it himself!"

"Oh really?" Hermione demanded, crossing her arms. "Because it looks to me like the only one trying to take care of it is you." He looked away, jaw clenched. "Look, I loved Fred just as much as the rest of you–"

"No," Ron cut her off sharply, startling her. "No, you didn't. He was your friend, Hermione, but Fred, he was our brother. And you've got no idea, no idea what that's like. So if this how George wants to cope, then frankly I don't think it's any of your bloody business."

She gaped at him, shocked. "You made it my business when you told me! And I'm sorry, Ron, but drinking himself into a stupor every day isn't coping!"

"Say it a little louder, would you?!" he hissed, glancing around.

Hermione pretended not to hear him. "This isn't what Fred would have wanted and you know that! You need to get him help, or honestly, Ron, you're going to lose another brother!"

"So what, I just betray him? I swore, Hermione! I promised him on Fred's grave that I wouldn't tell!"

"A promise that Fred would want you to break!"

"I don't know what Fred would've wanted!" Ron bellowed, standing up so violently that he knocked over his chair. Everyone in the tavern looked over, surprised. "I don't know and I will never know, because he's dead!"

"Well I do!" Hermione stood up too, face flushed with wine and anger. People were starting to whisper. "And I'm not just going to sit here and watch two people I love destroy themselves!"

"No one's keeping you here, are they?! Go if you want to; we'd be better off without you anyway!"

Hermione let out a gasp, and Ron immediately felt guilty as he saw tears fill her eyes. "Fine!" she cried and spun on her heels, grabbing her cloak and stalking towards the entrance.

"Fine!" Ron added petulantly, wanting to have the last word. Hermione responded by slamming the pub door behind her.

The redhead heaved an angry breath and turned to find the whole of the Three Broomsticks staring at him. Scowling deeply, he dug a few sickles out of his pocket and threw them on the table. "Keep the change," he muttered to the scandalized Rosmerta, before following his (ex?)girlfriend's dramatic exit out into the falling night. He seethed and fumed all the way up to the Gryffindor common room, snarling the password ("Fortitudo!") at the Fat Lady so viciously that she jumped and swung aside.

Harry was waiting for him inside. "What happened?!" he demanded, shocked. "Hermione just came in her crying– Ginny's up with her– did you two have a row?" Ron brushed past him without a word, heading for the stairs. "Ron!"

He fell silent as his best friend whirled around, blue eyes blazing with anger and self-deprecation. "I blew it," he said shortly, and then stalked upstairs and into the dormitory, slamming the door behind him.

---

Bzzzz-t!

The owls ruffled their feathers, letting out hoots of annoyance at the boy below them. They weren't used to lengthy visits in the owlry, much less during their hunting hours, or from annoying humans who insisted on playing with flying shiny objects that they knew they weren't allowed to chase.

Bzzzz-t!

Bzzzz-t!

Draco let out a low sigh as he released the snitch again, only to catch it a split-second before it was out of reach. He was doing it mostly on reflex at this point; his mind was lost in thought, drifting over the day's events, from the boggart fiasco that morning in Defense to the confrontation on the Quidditch pitch.

"Mud-licking blood traitor!"

He scowled and clamped his hand down rather too hard on the snitch; the silvery wings gave a violent flutter in protest. Blood traitor, he sneered to himself, as if! You'd think I was going around offering to carry Granger's books and making plans to visit Weaselby's hut over Christmas! He snorted at the thought; his father would probably have a conniption. No, he wasn't a blood traitor; he was just… just trying to be cooperative with the new order, to survive and thrive; that was what the Malfoys had always done, after all, no shame in that…

Except that isn't quite true, is it? that irritating little voice whispered. You believe Lupin, don't you? You know now that you can't steal magic…

Draco scoffed and caught the snitch again. Alright, so maybe mudbloods weren't actually magic-thieves; that certainly didn't mean he had to respect them.

Doesn't it, though?

"Shut up," he muttered aloud.

You.

"Oh, very mature." Even his conscience was petulant.

Don't say that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness?

He was about to reply, but then decided not to dignify that claim with a response. With a sigh, he refocused his efforts on his game of catch-and-release, which was growing more difficult as his fingers stiffened in the cold evening air.

His boggart, to say the least, had been surprising. Draco had frankly been expecting some grotesque scene from his terrifying months under the dark lord's rule: the horrid disposal of Professor Burbage, for instance, or one of his aunt's more gruesome victims. He could pick out several off the top of his head: the terrified muggle who had been captured just for sport. The elderly wizard she'd starved for several days before finishing him off. The half-formed infant struggling for breath as he cradled it in his arms, too small to survive, cut from the belly of a mudblood woman whose corpse was even then going up in smoke from the pits behind the manor…

He shut his eyes tight at the memories, the snitch slipping past his fingers and buzzing out into the night. An owl swooped down to claim it as a treasure, but he paid it no mind; his blood was pulsing in his ears, the image of his boggart seared into his mind. Why, why had it been that? Why had the sight of it reaching for its hood terrified him to his core? What was he so afraid of?

Heart in his throat, he reached with a shaking hand and pulled down his sleeve. The Dark Mark leered back, reminding him what he had given up, what he had lost.

---

…"So you wish to take your father's place, do you?"

He fought to keep his voice steady, head bowed, knees aching with the contact to the cold stone floor. "Yes, my lord."

"Hm." He heard the dark lord stand; a spasm of fear ran through him, twitching his hands against his will. "And what makes you think you possess what it requires to join these honored ranks, Draco?"

"I–" Why couldn't he think of anything to say? "I'm– I would–"

"He's a good boy, my lord," his mother broke in, voice trembling. "Strong– obedient– loyal to the ancient ways–"

"Loyal?" the soft voice broke in, cutting Narcissa off. "Tell me, Draco, does the Malfoy family know the meaning of that word?"

"I…" Speak, speak you fool, before he decides he's through with you! But Draco couldn't bring himself to say a word.

There was the swish of robes to his right as the dark lord began to pace in a circle around him. "Look at this… magnificent… hall," he said, no doubt indicating the grandeur of Malfoy Manor. "Polished marble floors… antique chandeliers… tell me, Narcissa, are these candlesticks pure silver?" His mother, wisely, recognized this as a rhetorical question and remained silent. "I imagine the Ministry would have been delighted to get their grubbing hands on it. No doubt you had to lighten many a judge's pocket to evade Azkaban."

"No doubt," Bellatrix repeated scornfully.

"Loyalty… hm." He turned, robes slithering along the floor; Draco didn't dare turn his head as the dark lord crossed behind him, turning to his most trusted lieutenant. "But, thankfully, you have an advocate," he continued. "Bellatrix, tell me: what is your opinion of the boy?"

This was it. Draco held his breath.

"He is strong, my lord," his aunt crooned, slinking closer to her master. "He bears the blood of the Noble Blacks in his veins, and is not the coward his father is. He can be trusted."

"You vouch for him, then?"

"I do, my lord."

A long silence. The hall floors felt like ice.

"Very well." Draco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You are in luck, Narcissa; boy, your arm."

Draco scrambled to pull up the sleeve of his robes, his hands numb from shock and cold, and stuck out his arm, forcing him not to shudder as the dark lord curled his fingers around it. He let out a sharp cry as the man pulled him forward, falling onto his right hand so that he crouched nearly on all fours.

"Morsmordre," the dark lord whispered, pressing his thumb to the boy's forearm, and Draco screamed aloud as pain seared through his veins, vision flashing black and white and red, blood pounding in his ears and oh, make it end, please, just make it end and he would do anything, anything-!

And then it was over. The dark lord released him and he fell to the ground, curling up around the arm and gasping for air, tears rolling down his cheeks. The sound of laughter met his ears, and he realized the death eaters– his new comrades– were amused by his pain. A sickened sensation filled his stomach. For all his faults, Draco had never found the sight of torture entertaining. Am I going to be like that, he wondered to himself? Is that what the Mark does to you?

"Get up, boy," a disdainful voice commanded. He stumbled to his feet, still clutching at his arm. "Welcome," the dark lord continued, "welcome to the ranks of greatest purpose in the history of wizarding kind. You bear now the weight of our cause: to defend our people from the magicless underlings who once sought to destroy us; to drive from the earth any of those thieving menaces who have deprived our brethren of their rightful glory; and to cull from our world any impurity which would endanger our cause. Welcome, Draco Lucius Malfoy, to the company of those whom even Death would do well to fear."

"Welcome," the others repeated in unison. The boy jumped.

"And now, having given over your life to our cause, we bestow upon you your first mission:–"

Draco didn't care. He didn't care if his mission were to clean the very grime from the boots of his new superiors, he was just grateful that his daring to ask for his father's position hadn't been a death sentence.

"You, Draco Lucius Malfoy, are charged with the task of bringing about the death of Albus Dumbledore."

Draco's breath froze. The whole hall fell silent. Kill– kill THE Albus Dumbledore? Impossible. No one, no one had ever managed to do such a thing, no one had ever even come close…

"My lord," his mother whispered, "My lord, he is just a boy–"

"Silence." Narcissa closed her mouth. Draco glanced up, and found the scarlet eyes boring into his. "Well, boy?" the dark lord inquired softly, but there was a sneer upon his face. "Will you accept?"

Could he do it? Could he really kill a man, let alone the greatest wizard since Merlin to ever walk the earth? But how could he refuse?

Behind him, he heard his mother let out a low gasp of pain.

There was nothing for it.

"I will accept."

---

Broken from the memory, Draco swore loudly and slammed his fist against the owlry wall. "You fool!" he cursed, "You bloody, effing fool! You– you–"

It was as if a will not his own had come to life inside of him; he clawed at his arm like a madman until the blood ran red, cursing the whole while, cursing himself and the dark lord and every victim he had ever watched suffer while he stood idly by, too terrified to do anything, too terrified even to run. Again and again he scourged his skin, disfiguring the gruesome skull, making it weep ruby tears until the fire dissolved into a shaking, gasping grief. The boy stared down at his savaged limb, a bloody mess of flesh and tissue, crimson leeching from it in little rivers that fell to the owlry floor and stained the stone. For a long moment he watched it, tempted to take his wand and cut deeper still, let it run out until he could neither feel the crushing weight of his guilt nor anything at all.

Then, the violent urges faded, his common sense returned. He'd watched enough unfortunate souls bleed out on his own parlor floor to know that the brutal ugliness of death was nothing to be romanticized, suicide even less so. Draco drew his wand with a feeling of exhaustion and waved it over the wounds, muttering "Vulnera sanetur" over the ripped flesh. The wounds laced back together, new flesh covering the old, and he gazed at his forearm in defeat.

Burnt black, stark against the pale, knotted flesh, the Dark Mark leered back.

---

Maggie MacIver was a grateful sort of person.

She hadn't always been that way. Once, her life had seemed to be full of magic, of glitz and glamor and the sort of high living one finds in marrying into the upper crust of any government branch, and yet it had never been quite enough for her. She had been so terribly unhappy in her manufactured happiness; in spite of her perfect marriage, her perfect life, she had always wanted more.

But that had been before tragedy. That had been before war and poverty and suffering, before agony the likes of which few would ever know and the desperate clinging to the simplest, most primitive of joys: of a full belly, of a prayer in the darkness, of the warmth of your husband's arms despite the cold pressing in on every side. Yes, twenty years of such bleak misery and hard-fought happiness had made Maggie MacIver into a very grateful woman, and so it was that she was thankful even for the littlest things: a one-room flat, hot food on the table, and a job that kept her beside a warm stove from January to July.

The kitchen door opened, startling her from her reverie. "Meat pasty, Maggie dear, and on the double; this one's an American."

The cook looked up from where she had been bent over a stew-pot, clouds of steam filling the kitchen air. "Oh dear. I thought tourist season was over?"

The waitress snorted. "So did I. He's the angry businessman sort of type, gives his whole continent a bad name, you know the sort. Anyhow, he claims he's in a 'big hurry.'"

Maggie sighed and nodded. "Be right on it, Agatha." Although just forty and as of yet only sporting a few crows-feet crinkles around her cheerful hazel eyes, her short-cut hair had already turned gray, giving her the startling appearance of a woman with a soul too old for her face. "That refrigerator is acting up again; any chance you could send John in and manage the bar for a bit?"

"Will do. You know, I'll never know how he manages to fix things around here so quickly, but I suppose a handyman learned a few tricks after all those years, eh?"

Maggie smiled. "I suppose so." She watched Agatha leave, and then turned back to the oven, raising the temperature a bit and humming to herself.

The kitchen door opened and a moment later, a nose and pair of lips pressed themselves to the nape of her neck. Maggie laughed. "John, I'm a bit busy here."

"Can't help it, love," the lips murmured. "I swear you get more beautiful every day."

"Hm. Couldn't be the fact that we're actually eating half-decently now, could it?" He snuffled her hair, and she laughed, turning and smacking him on the shoulder. "Stop being cheeky and fix the refrigerator; it's on the fritz again."

"Will do, love." He walked over to the corner and pulled his wand out of his hidden shirt-pocket, murmuring a few spells as he tapped the sides and top.

"Really, John, you ought to at least pick up a wrench or some such," Maggie called, opening the oven to check on the pasties. "What on earth would you say if someone walked in here?"

"Maggie, you know I haven't the foggiest on how to use those things. Besides," he added, walking back over and watching her work with a look of absolute adoration, "Now I have time for more important things."

"Mm. Like slacking off, you mean?"

"Call it whatever you like, darling," he murmured, twirling her around and giving her a quick kiss on the lips. She patted his cheek and then let out a little "oh!" of surprise when there came a knock on the door.

Agatha poked her head in. "Maggie, dear, there's a gentleman asking for you out front."

"Be right out." She gave John another peck on the cheek and then followed Agatha out of the kitchen.

"You two are so affectionate," Agatha sighed, shaking her head as the kitchen door closed behind them. "Shame you never had children; I do think you would have made an excellent mother."

Maggie smiled sadly. "Yes, well… there's some things you just can't help, I suppose. Now where–"

She broke off suddenly, hazel eyes flying wide. Agatha nodded sympathetically. "I know; odd-looking fellow, isn't he? Frightened me half to death when I first saw him, but very charming once you get to talking. Friend of yours?"

"…No," Maggie whispered. "No, not a friend."

Agatha looked at her, surprised. "Maggie?"

"Agatha– get John, quickly."

"Maggie, are you alright?"

"I–" She broke off, very pale. "Fine. Just… get John."

Agatha watched her with worry, but nodded and ducked back into the kitchen. As if in a dream, Maggie stepped out from behind the bar and crossed the pub to the hulking man by the door. Her hands were shaking.

Fenrir Greyback smiled, revealing pointed teeth. "Quickpaw," he greeted. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Maggie's throat convulsed.

"Nice place you got here. Warm, cozy…" He leaned forward and said in a low, sickening tone, "And I bet the food is just delicious."

At last, the woman found her courage. "W-what do you want with us?" she whispered, trying hard not to cry.

Greyback didn't answer, instead raising his head and sniffing the air. "What do you say we have a little chat outside?" he suggested calmly. When Maggie didn't reply, he growled so that only she could hear, "Or I can see to it that your little friend's blood gets all over this filthy human hovel. Hm?" Maggie bowed her head with a whimper, and he grinned again. "Good girl."

Back inside the kitchen, John frowned at the waitress, his honey eyes worried. "What do you mean, she's not well?"

"I don't know, honestly. She took one look at the bloke and went pale."

A strange look passed over his scarred face. "What did this bloke look like, Agatha?"

"Quite odd, to be honest. Terribly tall, arms like a silverback gorilla, enough scars to make even you look fresh-faced–"

John brushed past her without a word, startling the waitress. "John? John MacIver, what on earth is going on?"

She followed him out the kitchen door and would have chased after him all the way out of the pub, but a hand caught at her arm. "Look, lady, I said I was in a hurry! Now what exactly is taking that cook of yours so long?!"

John silently thanked the Lord above for rude Americans as he burst out the doors into the night. He looked left and right but, upon seeing no one, lifted his nose to the wind. A second later he caught the scent and hurried around back behind the pub into the alley. "Maggie? Maggie, where are–"

"Shut your mouth, you cur," a voice growled out of the darkness, and four sets of glowing yellow eyes appeared. "Or your bitch here loses her throat."

His heart leapt in his throat, though he managed to keep his voice steady. "Come out and face me like a man, then."

A chuckle echoed off the bricks. "You've got a lot of nerve there, Fang. And you used to be such a good little wolf." The figures moved into the light; John saw that Fenrir Greyback himself was at the forefront, with none other than Cyclops and Brute at his sides. The latter was holding Maggie, one clawed hand digging into her pale neck. John growled, eyes blazing gold.

"Let me make this simple for you, Fang," Greyback said idly, picking at his teeth and leering at the bartender. "You have certain abilities I require. Follow my orders, and I'll repay you by letting you live."

"Never," John snarled.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so hasty. After all, treason against your alpha is punishable by death in my pack. And make no mistake, Fang: no one gets out of my pack."

"You are not our alpha!" Maggie cried in a show of courage. "And you wouldn't be even if you still had the Ring! We- agh!" Brute had dug his claws into her skin, drawing streams of blood.

John stepped forward. "Let her go!" Brute only laughed and dug in hard, causing Maggie to let out another pained cry.

"Your word, Fang," Greyback growled, drawing his attention once more.

He stammered, scrambling for a way to buy time. "W-why do you even want me? I worked for the bloody Department of Transportation; what could I possibly have that you would want?!"

"All in good time." The yellow eyes gleamed. "Our service for your bitch. Do we have a deal?"

John wavered, looking to Maggie. She shook her head, eyes gleaming with tears. "Don't," she whispered. "John, don't."

He let out a trembling breath. "I'm sorry, Maggie." Her eyes lit up with hope for a moment, before her husband turned to Greyback and squared his shoulders.

"Tell me what you need me to do."

---

A/N: Sorry the chapter is so late! You guys have no idea how much of a struggle it was to get it out; the last few parts, especially the last scene with Draco, just would not flow, I had to rewrite it at least four times. Please leave a review to tell me what you thought! Pax et bonum!