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.

16. Chapter 16: The Headmistress's Secret

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

Warnings: mentions of married adult activity, cursing, sexism, mentions of alcoholism, creepy nightmare!Greyback, transformation scene (last two in the final sections).

A/N: Super long chapter for a super long wait. You have been warned.

---

"Do you like it?"

A shaking hand was pressed to her mouth; tears filled her eyes. The cottage was perfect: a fire was crackling cheerfully in the hearth, warming the room despite the early-morning chill, and a kettle was already boiling on the stove. Beyond the glass-paned windows, birds chirped in the hedgerows. "Like it?" she whispered, turning to face him. "Oh, Elphi, it's beautiful."

His face split into a broad grin, and he took two long strides forward to envelope her in his strong arms. "I knew you would," he said with a smile. "I picked it out especially for you." She sniffled into his shoulder, and he laughed. "Minnie, don't tell me you're crying!"

"Oh shut up, you great buffoon," the woman croaked, smacking him lightly before burying her face further into his shirt and drawing a deep breath. Even after all these years, her husband's scent could send shivers running down her spine: fresh ink on parchment, his pine-scented aftershave and that indefinable, masculine essence that could only be described as his. "I love you," she mumbled, knowing he'd heard.

He kissed her forehead. "And I love you." They remained there for a long moment, simply delighting in each other, before he leaned back and tilted her head up towards his. "So," Elphi said, with that telltale twinkle in his hazel eyes, "What do you say we break this place in?"

She frowned, baffled, and then blushed. "Oh!" He laughed, deep and booming, and she snorted, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, Elphi, we're a bit too old to be spontaneously jumping each other's bones, don't you think?"

"Not for newlyweds!" he protested.

Minerva gave him a look that clearly meant "nice try," and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Besides," she reminded him, "I have class in a few hours."

"So?"

"So my students will know!"

"How would they know?"

"They would know," she insisted. "They're teenagers, Elphi; it's like a sixth sense. And I didn't say we wouldn't," she added primly, "I just said, not now."

"Aw, Minnie," he groaned petulantly, but he was grinning, "how am I supposed to go work now?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," she replied tartly, but her lip was twitched into a smile. Her husband's watch chimed, and she raised an eyebrow. "I believe that's my cue?"

"Alright, alright. I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through, anyhow. Can't imagine how Charlus ever managed it all."

"Hm. I'll be here when you get home." She stood on tiptoe to give him a lingering kiss, and then drew back and turned for the door, brushing out with a flutter of her black cloak into the dawn.

"You're a tease, Minerva McGonagall!" Elphi called after her. "A rotten tease!"

Her laughter echoed back down the path as the cottage behind her faded into the morning mist.

---

Minerva smiled as her eyes opened, looking into the pitch-darkness. "Elphi," she whispered, reaching across the bed, "Elphi, you'll never imagine what I just–"

Her hand stilled. The bed was cold, and far too small for two. She sat up in the darkness and the low, dull ache settled in.

With a soft sigh, she arose from the bed, wrapping her old tartan bathrobe around her thin frame. Old feet padded across cold stone to the window, and she pushed aside the drapes, undoing the latches to push the glass outward and lean out into the cool night. On hand bracing her at the edge, the other clasping the gold locket hung around her neck, she closed her eyes and breathed in.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered in her ear, arms intertwining around her from behind, his nose buried into her dark tresses.

The witch shook her head. "I hate it." Turning to face him, she asked, "Don't you?"

Her fingers traced over the ivy designs engraved into the gold. Still, her eyes remained closed.

He shook his head. "Not anymore. Not with you." He played with her loose black curls. "With you, it's… like freedom," he admitted, looking beyond her to the world and to the night. "Like I could run to the end of the world, and nothing could ever stop me."

"Why don't you?" she whispered, half-enchanted, half-frightened.

He answered the question with a smile and pulled her closer.

Decades later, the widow opened her eyes and looked up to the stars and the waxing moon. The pain in her chest grew sharper, until she felt she wouldn't be able to breathe… but then it passed, leaving behind only the weight of sorrow and the comfort of hope. With a sigh, she checked the clock; it was half-five. No point in going back to bed now.

Alone in the dark, the widow dressed, washed her face and braided back her hair, the black now streaked with silver. Turning again to the window, she pulled the panes shut and, tucking the locket into her collar, faced the growing twilight. Day was soon to dawn.

"Gun an ath turas a choinnicheas sinn, my love," she murmured with a sigh, and then swept out of the apartment, closing the door tightly behind her.

---

"So you guys still aren't talking," Harry deadpanned.

Ron swallowed his bite of oatmeal. "Nope."

"And… neither of you are going to apologize."

"I'll apologize. Just as soon as she apologizes to me."

Harry sighed. The Great Hall was, as usual, filled with students cheerfully chattering across the house tables and eating their morning breakfast, yet Hermione and Ron had sat well apart and utterly refused to acknowledge one another's existence. "And you won't even tell me what the row was about?"

"Ask her," said the redhead sourly, stabbing at a blueberry. "She practically shouted it to the whole pub."

"Well whatever she shouted, she's not talking now. Clammed up tighter than you are; said it 'wasn't her place,' or something like that."

His friend looked at him, surprised. "Really?" Harry nodded. Ron frowned and glanced over to where the brunette was in deep conversation with Ginny (and staunchly ignoring him), apparently off-put by the fact that she'd done something nice in this whole fiasco, but then rallied with a stubborn, "Look, it's between us. If she wants to talk about it, she knows where to find me."

"Brilliant," Harry grumbled. "The annual Ron-Hermione standoff; I should've marked my calendar."

They were broken from their conversation by the arrival of the morning mail; owls swooped in overhead, delivering newspapers, packages and letters from home. Harry caught his copy of the Prophet two seconds before the brown Ministry owl dropped it into his marmalade. "Uh-oh," said Ron grimly, flattening the newspaper out on the table. "No way this is good."

The front page bore a three-paneled image of a grim-faced Professor Lupin on one side and a badly scarred Lavender Brown on the other. Between the pair was a shadowy yet discernable picture of Fenrir Greyback leering at the camera, before bounding forward and sending the shot careening to the ground. Above this in large bold letters were the words:

The Wolves of Hogwarts: Are Our Children Safe?

By: Rita Skeeter

Hogwarts parents were understandably alarmed upon receiving a private letter just over a week ago from Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, informing them that extra security measures had been implemented after the gruesome remains of a Feral werewolf's hunt had been found in the neighboring forests. Now, thanks to an anonymous interview with a Hogsmead local, the Daily Prophet is grieved to announce that one of the Ferals found to have been prowling in the forest is none other than the vicious werewolf, Fenrir Greyback.

Greyback, who escaped capture after the Battle of Hogwarts, is personally responsible for over thirty known murders and more than five dozen individual contaminations; until recently he was head of the most feared werewolf pack in Great Britain, Yr Ysgithr Arian, The Silver Fang, before joining the ranks of Voldemort's followers in the fall of 1997. But although the Headmistress continues to maintain that student safety is her primary concern and the school is now better defended than ever, the approaching full moon makes this writer wonder: is the true danger not outside those hallowed halls, but within?

Readers will recall that, against the wizarding community's better judgment, Headmistress McGonagall has reappointed werewolf Remus Lupin as the school's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, no doubt missing the irony in her selection. Lupin spent the last several years unemployed after a disastrous end to his first teaching stint in the school year of '93-'94, and has been suspiciously unwilling to deny allegations that he was seen running in Greyback's pack during the height of the Second Wizarding War. Lupin himself was turned by Greyback at a young age, prompting questions of whether his deepest loyalties may still lie with his maker.

Another one of Greyback's victims, Lavender Brown, has also returned to the school, despite confirmation from an anonymous source at St. Mungo's that Brown is indeed a full-fledged lycanthrope, subject to transformation at every full moon. As the Headmistress has not outlined any additional measures to separate the werewolf from the rest of her peers, one can only assume that Brown continues to attend classes, eat and even sleep among her fellow students. No word is yet forthcoming on whether the Headmistress intends to allow the two to transform within the castle itself next Monday.

The Ministry of Magic classifies werewolves as XXXXX-level Beasts, a category shared by dragons and basilisks, and cautions all readers to remain indoors during the time of the full moon, especially in rural areas near moors or forests. Special care is to be taken regarding any werewolves who have "run wild" in a pack, usually identified by a distinctive brand on the right shoulder, and any sightings of Feral werewolves are to be reported to the Ministry immediately. Regarding the upcoming moon, this writer has only one suggestion: if you hear a howl– run!

Harry looked up, expression one of utter shock. "Loyalties may still lie with his maker," he repeated, aghast, "What a load of–"

The bespectacled wizard was cut off by a small explosion from the front of the hall; Professor McGonagall had leapt to her feet, swearing violently in Gaelic, as a blazing Howler set fire to the tablecloth, seemingly unable to contain itself long enough to finish its message. "–I AM ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED; HOW DARE YOU PUT OUR CHILDREN AT RISK! YOU DARE TO CALL YOURSELF AN EDUCATOR–!"

Another owl swooped in through the window, dropping a second letter overtop the first, which opened of its own accord: "PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL! I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT A WOMAN OF YOUR APPARENT INTELIGENCE WOULD GO SO FAR AS TO–"

"–THAT LITTLE BEAST IS NOT SHARING A DORMITORY WITH MY SONS! I EXPECT YOU TO–"

"–AREN'T LIKE US, WOULDN'T FEEL A SHRED OF GUILT IF–"

By now the students were covering their ears to block out the din, faces screwed up in pain, but it was to no avail: more owls continued to arrive, dropping letter upon letter on the Headmistress's plate and into her goblet. She wasn't the only one; Professor Lupin had to topple out of his seat to avoid two letters that burst into flame mid-air, and even Lavender was being slowly bombarded by the furious post, gaping at it in tearful shock.

"–KNOWN THAT YOU'D HIRED ONE OF GREYBACK'S MUTTS FOR YOUR–"

"–HAD ANY SHAME, YOU LITTLE MONGREL, YOU'D LEAVE AND–"

"–GO BACK TO THE MOORS WHERE YOU BELONG, FOUL CUR!"

And that was when McGonagall pointed her wand to the ceiling with a cry of, "Implue!" A moment later, the student body let out a collective shriek as rain began to pour from the enchanted ceiling, dousing them and effectively putting out the letters, whose protests diminished and died with a final squeak of, "–touch one hair on my Marsha's head, and you'll have to answer to me!"

With a mutter of "prohibere," the rain ceased, and the soaked students were left to stare in shock at the headmistress, who was drenched from head to toe and missing her hat. For a long moment there was silence. Then, through the window there drifted another owl, scarlet letter clutched in its talons.

McGonagall whirled around, dishes exploding on the table and causing the other professors to shriek in surprise. "My office!" she bellowed at the offending owl, pointing her finger in the general direction. "GO!"

The bird apparently understood, for it turned right around and flew back out the window. The headmistress pinched the bridge of her nose and took several deep breaths. "To your classes," she ordered quietly, but her voice carried throughout the silent hall. "All of you. Now."

In unison, every one of the three hundred students got to their feet and filed out of the room without uttering a word. When the oak doors had shut behind the last few baffled first-years, Minerva turned to look at the other professors, who were staring at her in stunned silence.

"You'd best get to your classes as well," she sighed. "I'll make sure this gets cleaned up and…" She wasn't able to meet Remus's eyes; her stomach twisted uncomfortably with shame. "…And bring the parents' concerns to the Board."

One by one the other professors left; Remus cast her a sympathetic look and brushed the soot off his robes as he headed for the door. Sprout was the last to leave, catching her by the arm. "Minerva–"

"Just go, Pomona. I'll be alright."

Her friend pursed her lips and squeezed her arm gently, before heading out for the greenhouses. Once she was gone, the aging professor sank into her chair and covered her face with her hand, letting out a long-suffering sigh. She didn't need this today, not before a meeting with the board of governors, which was sure to be full of posturing and bad news. What she wouldn't give to just sit there and let her problems fall onto the shoulders of somebody– anybody– else.

That fantasy was short-lived. The school bells rang out half-seven; she had half an hour to prepare before meeting with the governors. With a groan, McGonagall stood and replaced her hat, drying her robes with a wave of her wand.

She had the sinking feeling that it was going to be a long day.

---

"…We have also received notice from the Ministry that the centaur colony is once again filing for ownership of the Black Forest. It's unlikely anything will ever come of it, but still, best to be informed, eh? Don't want to risk a stampede."

Chairman Hargrave smiled and chuckled at his own poor joke, and Minerva let out a deep breath through her nose. "With all due respect, Chairman," she said calmly, though inside her ire was building, "I believe I have explained my position on the matter to the Board numerous times. The centaurs pose no threat to the school, and the forest is in all but name their home; I believe it best we relinquish the land to them without a fight."

"I am in agreement with Professor McGonagall," Governor Theresa Cross spoke up, straightening her hat. "In any case, it's not as if we have any money or time to hire a barrister."

"But the Black Forest has been property of the school since the twelfth century!" exclaimed Governor MacLeod.

"Yes, by law," Minerva countered patiently, as if she weren't explaining this for the fourth time in as many months, "But it was never ours by right. After their aid in the Battle, I truly feel they deserve–"

"Yes, well, feelings aside," Chairman Hargrave interrupted, "I'm afraid we have more to focus on than your, ah, sensitivities, Minerva." Governor Cross began to swell up with offense, noting both the barb and the chairman's use of the headmistress's first name, but Minerva gave her a mild shake of her head. "If you want to make a objective of it, it'll have to be addressed at the next meeting."

"Very well; all in favor to address the centaur colony's claim to the Black Forest at the November meeting?" She glanced around; Governors Cross, Burrell and O'Breen, her usual allies, all raised their hands, in addition to four others. "That's a majority, Chairman."

Hargrave gave her a very patronizing smile. "As you wish, Minerva. Alice, be a dear and put it on the agenda, won't you?"

Governor Alice Burrell, the usual secretary, did so, rolling her eyes at the chairman when he looked away. "Alright, so to more pressing matters: as you can all see from your packets, the school budget is in the red from the repairs. Considering our friend and advisor Mr. Strudwick perished in the War, may he rest in peace, we are left without many options. As such, I'd like to propose a motion to raise tuition by fifteen percent per student."

At this, the headmistress simply couldn't contain herself. "Absolutely not," said McGonagall sharply, glasses flashing in the light. "There are families who can barely afford to send their children here as it is; raising tuition is out of the picture."

"Well then, Headmistress, what precisely is your suggestion?" said Hargrave with an air of annoyance.

"We find ways to cut spending," she insisted. "We can start with the feasts; half the food on those plates goes uneaten in any case, and it costs massive amounts of gold to have it purchased and prepared."

Hargrave scoffed. "I highly doubt cutting a few roasts from the menu is going to conserve that much money–"

"Quidditch supplies," she interrupted, scanning her list with her finger. "The school policy is to update the team brooms in the next two years; we can put it off for at least another seven. We can also cut the funding for school clubs, the students won't be happy but they'll understand. Holiday decorations can be simplified; professors can fund their own extra-scholastic research; our own paychecks reduced–"

"Yes, and our health benefits with them, no doubt," added one of the other governors dryly.

"This here," she said, tapping a line on the page, "This is a call for funding for a return to the Yule Ball tradition, written in 1994. That, of course, is out; none of our current students even remember the balls, they'd never miss it –"

"Minerva," Hargrave cut her off with a deep sigh, "what exactly is the point of this little show? We all know that finances is not exactly your forte."

The council was immediately divided by this remark; several of the opposing members (Hargrave's personal arse-kissers, in her private opinion) chuckled and glanced to each other as if congratulating themselves. Her usual supporters, on the other hand, shot fierce glares to the chairman as McGonagall flushed red, though they could hardly refute his statement; for all of her intelligence and leadership, Minerva had never had much of a talent for business. Nevertheless, Governor James O'Breen rose to his feet and said sharply, "You're out o' order there, Hargrave. I suggest you be apologizin' to the Professor."

"And I suppose you'll make me?" Hargrave snorted.

"Maybe I might," said James fiercely, taking a step closer to the table, but Minerva spoke up sharply, "Governor O'Breen. If you could please take your seat."

The Irishman seemed torn between his loyalties to the headmistress and tearing the chairman a new one, but eventually the former won and he sat down, still red in the face. McGonagall drew a breath and said simply, "While I admit I have little luck with financial matters, I am not lacking in other resources, Chairman. I assure you that by November I will have found an advisor to replace Mr. Strudwick and rework the budget– without raising tuition."

"She has a point, Chairman," Governor Walsh said mildly, a generally neutral voice in the heated discussions. "We really oughtn't be making such important decisions without further consideration. Professor," he said, turning to McGonagall, "Is it possible to keep the school functioning at its current level without increasing our deficit?"

"If we implement a few of the proposed cuts I mentioned, yes– particularly cutting the funding for clubs and suspending school backing for scholastic research, at least for the time being."

"Then I propose we carry out the professor's suggestions and reconsider the matter in November. All in favor?"

Several hands went up– at least nine. "Very well," said Hargrave irritably, "Motion carried. Anything else on the agenda?"

"We did have several very, er, vocal concerns from parents regarding the upcoming transformations of Professor Lupin and Miss Brown," McGonagall added. "I've already set up an interview with a few of the parents and a reporter from the Daily Prophet to quell fears."

"Are you sure that was wise, Professor?" Theresa Cross inquired, frowning. "You know what Rita Skeeter would do to a story like that…"

"Believe you me, Governor Cross," replied the headmistress grimly, "Rita Skeeter isn't getting within a hundred miles of this school again."

"Fine, fine. Anything else?" Hargrave looked around; no one spoke up. "Then I move we adjourn this meeting. All in favor?"

A chorus of "ayes" arose, and he nodded. "Motion carried; meeting adjourned."

The other board members rose to their feet one by one, filing out of the room. As they left, Theresa Cross gave Minerva's shoulder a pat. "Blasted old bigot," she muttered. "Don't let him scare you, Minerva."

The headmistress snorted. "I've dueled the dark lord, Theresa, I think I can handle a fat old fool." She smiled wryly at her friend and said, "But thank you, my dear. Your support is appreciated, truly."

"No trouble. Maybe one of these days we'll let James clock him, eh?"

"Mm. A woman can dream."

Theresa laughed and waved goodbye, donning her pointed violet hat and sweeping out of the room to catch up with Alice. Once the door had shut, McGonagall groaned and dropped her head into her hands again, scanning the papers and sheaves of parchment spread out in front of her.

Budget cuts, nasty rumors, impending full moons, angry parents, dangerous madmen on the loose, a justly-deserved lawsuit from the centaurs, and on top of it all she had to somehow find a skilled financial advisor within the space of two months. And that was in addition to her ordinary duties of managing the staff, disciplining unruly students, supervising the house-elves, ordering food and medical supplies, handling complaints, and overseeing the general safety and security of the castle and its inhabitants. How had Albus ever managed all this and still found time to do research and listen to his chamber music? She hardly had the energy to say her evening prayers by the time she collapsed in her bed every night; the headmistress couldn't remember for the life of her the last time she'd read an actual novel cover to cover.

She gathered the papers with a sigh and left the room, beginning off towards her office on the other side of the castle. As she did so, her mind drifted off to happier times, the decades between the wars. The day her Da had come home from Poland, still in his fatigues, picking her up with a booming laugh and spinning her around in the field behind the cottage. The whole team crowding around her bed in the hospital wing after the final match, Albus doing his best to look disapproving at her rather foolish decision to catch the snitch mid-fall instead of casting a cushioning charm. Her first date, coerced and teased out of her despite her annoyance, with the man she would eventually marry…

---

"…Now as the mouse is a vertebrate, it will likely be more complicated to transfigure it into a teacup- Miss Prewett!" The young redheaded woman jumped in her seat and looked over guiltily from where she had been gazing dreamily at a bespectacled Gryffindor boy. "I apologize if my lesson is boring you, but I would be much obliged if you paid attentio- atten-"

The professor's voice faded off in a stutter as she noticed the figure standing in the doorway, just beyond Molly's mop of ginger curls. Elphinstone Urquart grinned back. "Paid attention, Minnie?"

The class turned, startled, and Minerva flushed. "M-Mr. Urquart. What are you doing here?" Although her voice was stern, it jumped a little at the end, as if she were more flustered than angry.

Elphinstone walked inside, looking a tad wounded, though there was a telltale gleam in his hazel eyes. "Is it a crime to want to see my best friend every now and again?"

"We see each other plenty," she hissed, "And I'm in the middle of a lesson!"

"Oh, I'm sure your students don't mind, do you?" This last bit he addressed to the class, who all shook their heads, grinning widely. "See, Minnie? They don't mind."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, like those of a cat about to swipe. "I generally do not allow people to call me by my Christian name when I am teaching, Mr. Urquart."

"Oh, pardon me, Miss McGonagall," he chuckled. Her green eyes blazed like fire at that. "Well, since you are, as you've said, teaching a lesson, I'll make this brief." He waved his fingers; a bouquet of violets appeared out of thin air. "It would be my greatest honor if you would care to join me for dinner tonight in the village."

There were gasps and giggles throughout the room; Minerva had gone a brilliant shade of red, though from embarrassment or anger, no one could say. "You- you interrupted my class- Merlin, Elphi, I ought to-"

"Oh, go on, Professor!" a girl's voice called happily. She glanced over to see Molly Prewett smiling happily at the two adults. "He brought you flowers!"

"Not every fool who comes bearing violets deserves your attentions, Miss Prewett, something every sensible woman ought to know," said the teacher venomously, glaring at Elphinstone, who could not have looked more pleased with himself.

"Oh, Professor, you have to go!" another student called.

"I bet it'd be fun!"

"He did ask you very sweetly," the bespectacled Gryffindor boy pointed out, straightening his glasses.

"I did not ask for your opinion, Mr. Weasely," Minerva replied, with as much dignity as she could muster despite the rosy hue of her face. "Mr. Urquart, I'm afraid I'll be much too busy this evening, perhaps another time–"

A chorus of "but Professors!" and "oh pleases!" rang out from her students. She sighed, frustrated, and Elphinstone grinned. "C'mon, Minnie," he urged. "Don't turn me down in front of the kids."

She glanced between him, to her students, to the violets in his hands. "…Oh, fine," she growled. "Give me those." She snatched the bouquet from his hands irritably and pointed her wand at his nose. "One, dinner, Elphinstone."

"Ah, Minnie, you're the best-"

"Now get out of my class! Out!" She brandished her wand; a few popping fireworks went off at his feet, making him jump back. "Out!"

He laughed and ran for the door. Just before he left, he called in, "Remember, kiddies: the Brits are great, but you can't go wrong with a feisty Scotswoman!"

Minerva waved her wand, and the oak door slammed shut in his face.

---

The headmistress smiled to herself; yes, those had been the good years, when she was as certain as everyone else that the world was at peace and war would not come again.

Her smile faltered with the truth. They should have taken a lesson from the muggles, she thought sadly to herself. So long as there were selfish people, there would always be wars; all one could do was try to prolong the peace as best they could.

"Password?"

She blinked, startled, and realized that she had stopped in front of the griffin-guarded staircase to her office. "Oh, ah, molecular structure re-management," she replied absently, still lost in the past, and the griffin inclined its head, moving aside. Meticulously straightening the stack of papers as she ascended the staircase, mentally lamenting her arthritis and stiffening joints, she began a precursory consideration of who would possibly be willing and capable of rewriting the school budget. It was a seemingly unresolvable conundrum: anyone with the skill to do so would indubitably already be employed in a much more profitable occupation. Look at you, Minerva, she scolded herself fiercely, rounding the tower steps, all of sixty-three years old and you still let your temper get the better of you! Still, there was nothing else for it; fifteen percent! Why, at that rate, we'll lose so many students we'll only increase the deficit; can't imagine what that buffoon was thinking…

Pausing her internal monologue, she shifted the papers to one hand as she opened the door with the other. A moment later, she stopped, unable to do anything but stare.

Every square inch of her office was covered with a fine layer of black soot.

---

"–Now as you can see from the diagram, not only is the stunning charm is a very useful spell–"

Tap-tap-tap.

"–Its physical drain on the caster is almost negligible–"

Tap-tap-tap.

"–Making it particularly valuable in a dueling situation, where of course you'll want to conserve as much energy as you can–"

Tap-tap-tap.

"Oh, for the love of Merlin!" Professor Lupin exclaimed, breaking his lecture to pace over to the window, where a rather insistent owl was continuously pecking at the glass, a smoking howler in its talons. "I told you, just take it to my office! Go on, shoo!"

The owl hooted adamantly in reply, hovering in the same spot. Lupin sighed and turned to the students. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "You might want to cover your ears."

The fifth-years did so, watching as he opened the window with mixed curiosity and apprehension. The owl swooped inside and dropped the howler on the floor, before dashing out the window in as hasty an escape as it could manage. Two seconds later, the letter burst into flame:

"NOW LISTEN TO ME, YOU DEPRAVED, BLOODTHIRSTY FREAK!"

Lupin sighed again and ran a hand through his graying hair.

"I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU MANAGED TO CON THE HEADMISTRESS INTO THINKING YOU'RE HOUSE-TRAINED, BUT YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ME! TARGETING INNOCENT CHILDREN FOR YOUR ALPHA; YOU OUGHT TO BE PUT DOWN!"

The students looked at each other uncomfortably. Professor Lupin watched the howler smoke and rage, waiting with the patience of a saint for it to finish.

"IF THE MINISTRY HAD ANY STOMACH THEY'D TAKE CARE OF YOUR KIND PROPERLY ! YOU'VE GOT NO BUSINESS AMONG ORDINARY FOLK, AND IF YOU'VE GOT AN OUNCE OF DECENCY, YOU'LL RUN BACK TO THE REST OF YOUR FILTHY PACK BEFORE SOMEONE PUTS A SILVER BULLET THROUGH YOU, YOU UGLY CUR!"

The howler burnt out, leaving behind a pile of black cinders. Lupin raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat. "Well. That was rather colorful." Several of the students let out nervous giggles, and he banished the smoking ash with a wave of his wand. "Back to the stunning charm, yes? Now, the correct wand movement is just a simple downwards strike. Let me see, now– yes, Mr. Crispin, just like that; show the rest of the class, if you please…"

By the time class was over, Lupin had dismissed two more owls to his office and listened to a third bellow in muffled tones through the window as the screeching owl dropped it, flaming, to the green below. Beneath his calm exterior, a hot rage was simmering; he gathered his notes and supplies into his briefcase, before leaving the classroom, not bothering to lock the door behind him.

All the ways back to the apartment, the internal debate continued. They're ignorant, the reasonable, peaceable side of him argued. They don't know better.

That's no excuse, his indignant side snapped. What right do they have to treat me like this? To treat anyone like this?

They're afraid of you.

I have done nothing wrong!

But they don't know that. To them, you're an unknown danger, possibly every bit as violent and dangerous as Greyback himself.

They accused me of being his pack! As if I haven't fought for them, risked my life for them, defended their children when he would have slaughtered them without mercy!

And that you know this, that the people you love know this, is that not what truly matters?

So I have no right to be angry? Don't I deserve justice?

Of course you do. But you must be careful that your anger does not become hatred.

I'm not seeing much of a difference, he snarled internally, knowing all the while that it was a lie.

Yes, you do. Breathe, Remus. Cool your blood, control your passions…

He'd reached his apartment door. "Fiddlestick Flounces," Remus growled at the door, trying not to scowl.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the apartment was that the usually clean table and floor were covered with small piles of ash; black Tonks-sized footprints had tracked themselves over the stone and into the kitchen. The vase of flowers had been knocked over, the lilacs a charred mess. Remus stared down at the mess, his internal battle raging between exhausted resignation and full-blown fury.

"Remus!" He looked up to see his wife and son come out of the nursery; Teddy was red-eyed, as if he'd recently been crying, and the witch's hair was a mousy brown. Both of their faces and arms were smudged with soot; the cloth of Dora's shirt was seared through with small holes. For a moment, he was confused. Why had Dora been receiving his letters?

Then it clicked.

He didn't even realize what had happened before the heavy oak table crashed over on its side, the legs snapping like toothpicks. Teddy cried; Dora shrieked: "Remus!"

"IT'S NOT FAIR!" he roared, eyes flashing like gold, blood pounding in his ears. "IT'S NOT– BLOODY– FAIR, DORA!" He grabbed hold of the nearest thing he could find, a small porcelain figurine on the bookshelf, and threw it against the wall. Teddy wailed. "AFTER EVERYTHING WE'VE DONE FOR THEM– EVERYTHING WE RISKED FOR THEM–"

"Remus, stop–"

A chair hit the wall and shattered into splinters. "WELL I'VE HAD ENOUGH! FIGHTING FOR THEM, DYING FOR THEM, AND WHAT DO THEY CARE?! NOTHING! NOTHING BUT AN ANIMAL, A BEAST, THAT'S ALL I'LL EVER BE TO THEM AND I'VE HAD ENOUGH!"

The man stopped, breathing heavily; the baby was hiccupping out sobs; his wife was staring at him with shocked, tear-filled eyes. Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've had enough, Dora," he choked out. "I'm tired of being the bigger man. I've had enough."

"Oh, Remus," the auror whispered, walking forward, "You don't mean that, you– ah…" She stopped suddenly, eyes focusing on something over his shoulder, and he turned.

Lavender Brown stared back, wide-eyed, two corked globe-vials in hand.

"L-Lavender," Remus stammered, "I–" He glanced around the apartment; the place was in a shambles. "I…"

"Reparo," said Dora hastily, waving her wand; the table, chair and figurine immediately leapt back together. Remus was utterly ashamed of himself; rarely did he lose control like that, rarer still in the presence of his family. Never would he have done so in full view of a student, let alone this particular student. He couldn't think of anything to say.

Thankfully, he didn't have to start the conversation. Lavender held out one of the vials and stammered, "P-Professor Slughorn– he told me to give this to you. Um, it's Wolfsbane."

"Oh." He accepted it, still red. "Er, thank you, Lavender."

"It's fine." She didn't meet his eyes. "Er, I suppose I'd better be going–"

"Oh, nonsense," Dora broke in from behind, startling both. "I was just about to make some lunch; would you like to eat with us?"

"Er– a-alright," the girl stuttered, stepping inside. "Um, thank you, Mrs. Lupin."

Dora waved her hand. "It's nothing. Remus, could I have your help in the kitchen?"

He followed her wordlessly into the adjoined room, feeling much like a dog with its tail between its legs. "Dora," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm sorry– I don't know what–"

"You scared the daylights out of Teddy," she snapped under her breath. "You scared the daylights out of me."

Merlin, he felt awful. "Dora- I'd never hurt you or Teddy, you know that–"

"That's not what I meant." She turned to look him in the eyes, a fierce glint in her own. "You've had enough? You're tired of being the bigger man? I don't think I have to tell you who you sound like there, Remus."

The werewolf shook his head, dropping his eyes. "No. You don't."

"And in front of her? Nice job. Who else does she have to look up to, huh? How many other werewolves does she know? I'd be willing to bet about, oh, one. And if you give her an example like that, what's she going to think?"

"I know. I'm sorry–"

"I'm not the one you have to apologize to," Dora whispered sharply. "I'll give you your privacy, but you're going to get back out there and explain what just happened."

Remus swallowed and nodded, shame-faced. His wife's eyes softened, and she patted his cheek. "I forgive you. Now go on."

He bit his lip and walked out of the kitchen. Lavender was still sitting at the table, tracing her finger along the ridges in the oak. "Er… so," he began uncomfortably. The girl looked up and went a bit pink. He gestured to the table. "May I?"

Lavender nodded hesitantly; Remus took his seat and wondered how to begin. Casting around for ideas, he noticed a particular book just inside her schoolbag. "Doing a bit of reading?" he inquired lightly.

"What? Oh." Lavender glanced down, fiddling with her hands uncomfortably. "Er, yes…"

"I see you've been perusing Sister Edevane's book," he said with a nod to the tome, which was deep blue and bore the rather uninspired title of, A Medical Journal of Lycanthropy and Its Effects. It was one of the most honest and unprejudiced texts available, being strictly medical in purpose and written in the early 1900's by Sr. Ciwa Edevane, a Healer for St. Mungo's who had contracted lycanthropy herself while tending to a transformed patient. "A very good choice, I must say."

"It's rather… blunt," Lavender mumbled, her interlaced fingers locking tight.

"She doesn't sugarcoat, no," replied Lupin with a grimace. "May I see it?"

She handed him the book without a word. The professor opened the page instinctively to that which was the most viewed in his own copy, a detailed, moving illustration of the transformation, from start to finish. He flipped through several more pages, catching glimpses of anatomical diagrams, hormone charts, and even chemical equations.

Closing the book, Lupin looked up and said quietly, "It makes it a bit less terrifying, doesn't it? To know what it is that happens to you." Lavender didn't respond, staring down at her feet. "I noticed didn't show up to class this morning," he tried again. She shrugged. "I don't blame you."

Surprised, the girl looked up. "You're not mad at me?"

"Hardly. I was half-inclined to do the same thing." She snorted, and Remus smiled sadly. "Bit of a nasty surprise, wasn't it?"

"A nasty surprise? It was humiliating!" she exclaimed. "Before it was just the people here who knew, now the whole world knows I'm some sort of – of freak!"

"You are not a freak," the professor countered sternly.

"I grow fur!" Lavender cried. "And a tail! I want to eat people, Professor! What, what part of that doesn't make me a freak?" A small sob escaped her mouth, and she turned away, wiping her eyes.

"Lavender–"

"I was afraid of you," she choked out. "After I heard about you, back in third year, I was afraid. I thought, 'He seemed so nice. How could someone so nice be such a monster?'" She gasped another sob and buried her head in her hands. "And now, everyone sees me the same way!"

"Oh, child…"

"I hate them, Professor," she spat through her tears. "I hate them! I wish they'd all just leave me alone!"

The words struck the man like a slap across the face. "You mustn't say that," he breathed.

"Why not? Don't you?" She looked up through her tears, gold eyes pleading, and he knew what he had to say.

"…I'm angry," he admitted. "And… as you just saw, I'm not handling it particularly well." The girl choked out a laugh, and he smiled sadly. "But no, Lavender, I don't hate them… or at least, I'm trying not to."

"Why? You said it yourself; why try to be the bigger person, when people treat us like this for no reason?"

Remus let out a deep sigh, knowing he had no choice but to face up to the truth himself. "…Because it's the right thing to do, Lavender," he replied tiredly. "Because nothing they could do to us ever excuses us from our own moral obligations."

"But the things they called you," she whispered, "those horrible lies–"

"Are lies. Everyone has to face themselves in the mirror, Lavender; at the end of the day, I have to answer to my own conscience, not to the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter will never be able to do as much harm to us as she will in the end be doing to herself."

"But–"

"And as for you," he added, before she could argue, "you, my dear, are a bright, kind, talented young witch with a wonderful future ahead of you. Don't let a few two-bit reporters frighten you into hiding from it."

Lavender fell silent, digesting this advice. Lupin smiled slightly, and then nodded to the potion. "You ought to drink that now. Believe me, it's worse cold."

The younger werewolf looked down to the vial hesitantly. "…Do you ever not want to?" she said, so quietly it was almost inaudible. "Keep your mind, I mean. Do you ever just want to be an animal?"

Lupin's expression softened. "Because if you're an animal you can't feel like a monster?" Lavender nodded miserably, and he admitted, "Yes, sometimes. More so when I was younger. But Lavender, it's not worth it. Free will comes with responsibility, an obligation to choose between right and wrong. It's a gift and a burden, but it's also part of what makes us human. And whatever form you might take, my dear, whatever chemical processes might affect your mind under the full moon, whatever hurtful, awful things people may say… you are, without a doubt, utterly and entirely human."

"You're certain?" the girl whispered.

"Absolutely," he replied, and she managed a watery smile. Remus took his vial in hand and uncorked the top; a swirl of blue smoke wafted out, smelling strongly of aconite. Both of them wrinkled their noses. "Well. Bottoms up?"

Lavender winced, but uncorked her own potion willingly. They clinked the vials together and down the mixture in a few gulps, before shuddering in unison. "Urgh," she mumbled, setting it down. "I never get used to that." She glanced over to the kitchen where Dora seemed to be making sandwiches with one hand, holding Teddy on her hip with the other. "Doesn't your baby need one?"

The professor shook his head. "We decided against it this month. Wolfsbane can't really help an infant, and as it clashes rather poorly with pain potions…"

"Oh, I see."

"Sandwiches!" said Dora cheerfully, entering with the platter balanced on her free hand. Remus stood expectantly and caught her just as she tripped over the rug, setting the plate down smoothly on the table. Lavender giggled. "Thanks, love," his wife said with a grin, kissing him on the cheek.

The three ate lunch together, chatting pleasantly; Lavender even worked up the courage to ask him about a few of the things she'd come across in Edevane's book, which Remus answered as best he could. When the clock struck one, the girl excused herself, thanked the professor and left, in much a more cheerful mood than when she came in.

"See?" Dora said smugly, once they were sure the student was gone. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Remus grimaced. "It wasn't the most pleasant conversation I've ever had, either." He glanced to his wife guiltily. "Dora… I really am sorry–"

"I understand. If it's been a long day for me, I can't imagine what it's been like for you. And I said I forgave you, didn't I?"

"I would never hurt you," he repeated, anxious to make sure she understood; he knew how frightening his abrupt bursts of anger, however infrequent they were, could seem to a non-lycanthrope. "Not ever, Dora. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do." She pecked him again on the cheek. "I'll put Teddy down for his nap; you go on to class."

He smiled at her and gave Teddy a quick kiss on the forehead, before Dora disappeared into the nursery. After taking a few settling breaths, Remus paused, and then made his way over to the nearest bookshelf.

From within the stacks of books he pulled out his own battered blue volume. With a sigh, he opened the medical journal and flipped through aimlessly, before landing on a drawing of a female hand, slim and pale. As he watched, the hand arched, the finger-pads thickened, and the thumb shrank upwards into a bony protrusion near the paw's joint. Remus shivered and rubbed his own hand as phantom pain tingled along his bones. One more week.

Shutting the book, rolled his shoulders and checked his watch. With a yelp he grabbed his briefcase and dashed out of the room, heading for the third floor.

---

The headmistress's office was silent, save for the persistent ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Minerva glanced up at the man across from her as she dipped her quill in the ink. "More tea?"

"No, thank you," Remus replied evenly. He seemed calm, but the woman could see the worry in his eyes. She nodded and returned to the letter she was drafting, inspecting it for errors.

The clock continued to tick for several more seconds, and then let out a lilting tune, followed by six sweet chimes as it tolled the hour. McGonagall drew a breath through her nose. "Should be any minute now."

"Mm." Remus took another sip of his tea. Neither said anything more.

Another two minutes or so passed, before the fireplace flared emerald, causing both to start and look up. Out of the hearth stepped a tall, strawberry-blonde man and a petite black-haired woman, the former still in his navy work-robes. "Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole," said McGonagall courteously, rising to shake their hands, "Thank you so much for coming. Can I offer you some tea?"

"Yes, please. Thank you for having us," the husband replied, as McGonagall set about pouring them cups. "Is the reporter here yet?"

"Not quite; it shouldn't be long." The headmistress nodded to indicate Remus and said, "As I'm sure you've guessed, this is Professor Lupin, our Defense instructor."

Remus extended his hand, and she counted it a good sign that both hesitated only a moment before returning the gesture. "Pleasure to meet you," he greeted them warmly. "You're Maisie's parents, aren't you?"

"Er, yes…"

"She's a delightful student, quite bright; you must be very proud."

"We are," said Mrs. Cattermole with a smile, clearly a bit more comfortable with the werewolf than her husband. "We were ever so surprised with her being sorted Ravenclaw, what with both of us being Hufflepuffs, but she's always been clever, if quiet."

"Yes, I do wish she'd speak up more often; I think the other students could really benefit from her insights. Her last essay on gnomes was very well-researched, particularly for an eleven year old."

Their conversation was cut off as the fireplace blazed green again, heralding the entrance of a man who was undoubtedly the reporter. Minerva raised an eyebrow, eyeing the white fedora adorned with a slip bearing the word PRESS and the violet pinstripe suit, complete with a white kerchief and a black briefcase slung over his shoulder. "Mr. Darby; thank you for coming."

"Oh, no trouble, no trouble!" the man exclaimed with all the eagerness of a puppy who'd been promised a treat, setting his briefcase down on her desk (Minerva had to physically restrain herself from raising the other eyebrow) and retrieving from within a bulky antique camera. "Now, let's get this shown on the road, eh? How's about we start with a nice picture– all of you, crowd around there, that's it– eh, well," he said, frowning down at the photo as it developed. "We'll try again afterwards, shall we?"

After offering the reporter tea and allowing him to set up his materials (he seemed to be taking important notes on one pad, while another hands-free quill was copying down their words verbatim as they spoke), the headmistress decided to begin the questioning. "Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole, as you can no doubt imagine I've received a frankly exorbitant amount of correspondence pertaining to the article in this morning's Daily Prophet, of which yours was one of the most polite. I would first and foremost like to thank you for having approached the situation in a manner befitting adults, rather than subjecting my staff and students to public verbal abuse."

"Naturally," Mrs. Cattermole replied, inclining her head.

"Now, perhaps if you could explain the nature of your concerns?"

"Well– please, don't misunderstand," said Mr. Cattermole uncomfortably, glancing towards Remus, "We're not prejudiced people, and we certainly don't mean to come off that way. We've been the victims of unfair discrimination ourselves…"

"I'm muggle-born," Mrs. Cattermole explained, "And last year we had to flee the country. So you see, it's not that we mean to be unfair to Professor Lupin himself, as it were, only we have some concerns about… containment."

"You mean during the full moon," Remus asserted, and the pair nodded awkwardly. "Headmistress, if I might take this one?"

"By all means."

Remus nodded, turning to face the couple. "First off, I want to assure you that no one takes the reality of these risks more seriously than I do," he began. "I would not wish this curse on anyone, least of all an innocent child. Regarding the issue of containment, you can rest assured that I will be primarily under the effect of the Wolfsbane potion, which allows me to keep my human mind during the full, and that I will be in a safe, enclosed environment."

"Which is?"

"The Shrieking Shack."

Mrs. Cattermole's eyes went wide. "The Shrieking Shack? That place is falling to bits!"

"On the outside it does look that way; it helps ward off unwanted visitors. But inside it is probably one of the most structurally sound buildings in Great Britain, believe me. There are wards set up to prevent anyone from getting too near to it, as well, and my wife, the chief auror, will be keeping guard to ensure no one else comes into contact with me during that time."

"And the girl? Will she be changing there, too?"

"The school did not feel it appropriate to have a student transform in the same location as a teacher, given the nature of the change," McGonagall interjected. "However, we have found a secure location here within the castle–"

"You mean Miss Brown will be transforming inside the school?" the reporter interrupted, eyes wide with interest.

McGonagall nodded. "We have been blessed by the rediscovery of Hufflepuff's Hold, more commonly known as the Room of Requirement. The Hold is enchanted to conform to the needs of the user; in this case, the room itself will be sealed from sunset until daybreak."

"But if the user were a werewolf, wouldn't the room unseal itself so that they could escape and attack?" he pressed.

Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole both gawped at him, shocked at the forwardness of the question; Remus turned red at the cheeks. "Actually, Mr. Darby, like all the castle enchantments, the Room's first and foremost loyalty is to the true headmaster," McGonagall replied coolly. "If I order it to remain shut, nothing save the physical demolishment of the castle could force it to open again. Moreover, I myself will be patrolling the corridor beside the room that night as an added but unnecessary precaution."

"And you're not worried about your own safety?" Mrs. Cattermole inquired.

"Animagi are immune to the bite, and even if by some stretch of the imagination Miss Brown did manage to escape, I'm fairly certain I'd be able to handle a mid-sized werewolf without too much trouble," the witch replied, without batting an eye. The rest of the room glanced around at this statement, not a little intimidated. "So as you can see, we have three layers of defenses to protect the students; I daresay that Professor Lupin and Miss Brown would pose more danger if they were to transform anywhere else."

The husband and wife glanced at each other, and then Mrs. Cattermole nodded, apparently satisfied with this explanation. "The other thing we wanted to ask," she added, and her expression grew nervous, "were about the– well, the frankly quite frightening allegations in the article. Is it true?" she asked Remus directly. "Are you one of Greyback's? Did you run in his pack?"

Remus glanced uncertainly to McGonagall, who gave him a small nod. "Well… I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later," the man sighed. "Yes, it was Fenrir Greyback who turned me, but the accusations that I might have any loyalty to him for it are utterly ridiculous. In answer to your second question, I did infiltrate Greyback's pack under orders from Dumbledore, to spy on their movements and try to convince other werewolves against following him and Voldemort. But I swear to you, I never harmed anyone while I was with the pack, intentionally or otherwise."

"And you would never try to harm the students?" Mrs. Cattermole pressed.

"Never," Remus vowed. "I would defend them with my life."

"And what about Greyback?" the reporter interjected, earning him an annoyed look from everyone, which he ignored. "Aren't you worried that he might be targeting you? Could the school be in danger?"

A nervous prickle ran down Remus's spine at the question, but he answered evenly, "The Black Forest and surrounding area has been carefully monitored by the aurors; believe me, if there were any sign that Greyback has returned since, I would have already left."

"The school has also taken a number of safety precautions; no one under-age is allowed off the premises," McGonagall added. "Parents can rest well assured that, as their students are not getting out, likewise Fenrir Greyback is not getting in."

The reporter looked a bit put-out by this news, no doubt expecting something juicier than reasoned defenses and thorough planning, but restrained himself to merely scribbling down a few more notes on his pad. The headmistress turned back to the parents. "Well, if there are no more questions…?"

"Actually, I- I do have one more," said Mrs. Cattermole hesitantly, looking to Remus. "You… you must have known how dangerous it was, didn't you? Going undercover like that."

Remus blinked. "Yes, of course. I knew the dangers before I accepted my mission; they were never hidden from me."

"Then why did you? Why go to so much trouble to protect people who hate you, without ever knowing you?"

The office was dead silent, save for the mad scribbling of the reporter's quill.

"…I went because I knew I was fortunate," Remus said at last, very softly. "I was raised among ordinary wizards, raised by parents who loved me very dearly, who taught me right from wrong. Those poor souls who ran in his pack, so many of them had been there since their childhood. They knew no better than to do what they did. Others had fled to the wilderness as a last resort, rejected by society, terrified of harming anyone else the way they had been harmed… I wanted to help them, and to prevent the same fate from befalling others, if I could. I went because it was the right thing to do."

Again, silence fell. Even the reporter looked impressed. After a moment or two, McGonagall cleared her throat. "I believe that's all the time we have for today. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole, Mr. Darby."

"Our pleasure, Professor. Good day."

"Yes, thank you."

The couple headed for the hearth; Mr. Darby followed, gathering his quills and camera back into the briefcase. Once they were gone, McGonagall turned to Lupin and said frankly, "Well, that went better than I expected."

"Much better," Remus agreed. "And the reporter wasn't too terrible, either, if a bit insensitive." He stood with his own battered briefcase and glanced to the grandfather clock; it was twenty after six. "I should be going. Dora's making dinner tonight and if I'm not there, she's bound to light something on fire."

McGonagall snorted. "Most likely the food." Remus laughed at that, and she allowed a moment's small smile before she added, "Remus, I do have a favor to ask you."

"Oh?"

"I'm paying a visit to a prospective student tonight, a small family just immigrated from Italy; I was hoping you could accompany me."

"Me?" Remus was surprised. "I thought the deputy head usually handled the student visits?"

"Usually, yes, but this is a… special case. The child in question will need special considerations, and I thought your presence would help reassure them I mean no harm."

"The child is a werewolf?"

"She's a vampire."

Remus dropped his briefcase. "A vampire?" he repeated, wide-eyed.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Come now, Remus; don't tell me that you, of all people, are frightened of a mere sickly child?"

He flushed, embarrassed, and quickly picked up his case. "No. No, of course not."

The headmistress's face softened, and she continued, "The girl's name is Maria Antonelli, parents Giovanni and Lucia Antonelli. Very old Italian vampire family; probably one of the first in their country.

"Why have they come to England?"

"Their village was destroyed six months ago. No doubt you know that the Italians are considered somewhat of a rogue sect among the vampires; they refuse to attack humans or use dark magic." McGonagall sighed. "Apparently a group of visiting Albanian vampires took offense to their way of life and attacked; what villagers survived were scattered throughout the countryside. This particular family had gone to Rome on holiday and was spared, but of course they were traumatized by their loss… in the end, they decided to leave Italy altogether."

"Attacked? How awful," Remus murmured. He recalled the living conditions of life among the pack, squatting in caves and abandoned farmhouses. It could hardly be called a 'village.' Anger boiled in his blood; how low would one have to stoop to attack a happy, peaceful town of innocent people who weren't harming anyone? Who had committed no other crime other than refusing to give into the baser urges of their illness? "I promise you, Professor, I will do whatever you need of me."

"Thank you, Remus. I want to confirm with them that they'll be comfortable with your presence; you know better than I that werewolves and vampires haven't always gotten on…"

"Naturally. Well, I'll keep my evening open."

They bade their goodbyes, and then Remus disappeared out the office door in search of what was, hopefully, an un-burnt dinner. Minerva set once again to writing out letters, pausing a moment to dip her quill in the ink. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli…

---

"Hermione, can't you at least just talk to him?"

"If Ronald wants to talk, he knows where to find me," the witch said coolly, reaching for a book just above her head. "He can apologize any time he likes."

Harry let out a noise of frustration. He'd been trying to run interference all day between his two friends, and had at last cornered the witch in the library, only to find that Hermione was as adamant as ever to hold out for the redhead's repentance. "This is Ron we're talking about, Hermione. Ron, our best friend? The single most stubborn bloke alive? He's not going to apologize."

"Well, then, he can count out my help with his transfiguration essay," she replied without batting an eye. "And frankly, Harry, I'm surprised you're taking his side!"

"I'm not taking anyone's side!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "I'm just tired of my two best friends always being at each other's throats!"

"Shh!" Both looked over to see Madame Pince giving them very nasty looks. Hermione blushed and turned back to Harry, crossing her arms.

"I'm not going to apologize because I haven't done anything wrong," she whispered fiercely. "And Ron knows it, too! Don't give me that look; you don't even know what the fight was about!"

"Right! Because neither of you will tell me!"

"Because it's none of your business!" Harry opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "This is between Ron and me, Harry, so if you don't mind, I'll thank you to kindly butt out."

"Fine, but don't expect me to help. I'm tired of playing messenger; the last seven years were enough."

Hermione sniffed as if to say, you've had just as many rows with him as I have, but merely retrieved another book from the shelf and checked the library clock. "It's nearly seven, I have to go."

"Where to?"

"I need to talk with Professor McGonagall about my thesis. See you at dinner?"

"Yeah, ducking pointed comments," he grumbled. Hermione gave him a look before heading for the checkout desk.

The witch's shoes clicked across the stone floors as she made her way from the library to the headmistress's office, the scowl on her face fading as she slipped into deep thought. The truth was, she had been dying to talk to Ron all week; the pair had grown rather close over the summer, supporting each other through the grief and difficulties of the post-war wizarding world, and their sudden falling out had been more difficult than she'd anticipated. Hermione didn't want to lose Ron, but she couldn't help being angry with him; she simply couldn't understand why he refused to see things her way. It was clear that George needed help, plain as day, and Ron knew it as well as she did; he'd expressed as much to her when she'd first found one of the letters, pleading with his older brother to find some other way of handling his loss. George had never replied, neither to that letter nor any of the others.

Not many people knew Ron as well as she did, except maybe Harry, and Harry had his own problems to worry about at the moment; Hermione knew that of the three, she had lost the least in the war. Her small family was safe, her dearest friends had all survived. And so it was she who saw with clearest eyes as the months of bearing other people's burdens had begun to wear the young wizard down. He had grown even thinner than usual, and was often tired in class, claiming that he'd been up late doing homework when she knew full well he'd been writing and rewriting another letter, trying to find the right words to help a brother who seemed intent on dissociating himself from his family altogether. She knew why he didn't want to tell his parents– no doubt he didn't want to burden them with any more suffering– but Hermione knew that this was exactly the sort of thing Arthur and Molly would have wanted to know.

Hermione huffed, re-shouldering her book-bag; she had just been trying to help! Ron knew she was right, he just didn't want to admit it. Well, she wasn't going to apologize to him for being right, and she certainly wasn't going to apologize after he'd been such an utter prat. If Ron wanted to make up, he could come find her.

"Password?"

She jumped and reached for her wand, before realizing she'd been about to walk headlong into the griffin guardian in front of the staircase to the headmistress's office. "Oh, er– I-I don't know, actually– um, lemon drops?"

The griffin gave her a very unimpressed look.

"Couldn't you please just tell Professor McGonagall I'm here?"

The griffin inclined its head. A moment later, it spoke: "She says you may enter."

"Thank you." She waited until the guardian had shifted aside, and then hurried up the stairs to the tower at the top. She knocked on the door and then waited until she heard a voice call, "Come in!"

The witch pushed the door open. Professor McGonagall was sitting at her desk, frowning intently at a number of official-looking documents. "Miss Granger," she said, sparing a moment to glance up. "What a pleasant surprise; I wasn't expecting to see you."

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything," she apologized.

"You have, and I couldn't thank you more," the headmistress said tartly, but with a twitch to her mouth; Hermione laughed. "Do come in; take a seat. Tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Very well." She straightened her papers and set them aside, leaning forward in the desk and peering at the young woman through her square spectacles. "How may I help you, Miss Granger?"

"It's about my thesis, actually," said Hermione, pulling out one of the books from her satchel. "I was trying to decide who I wanted to write my paper on, seeing as I wanted to research the career of someone who'd sat on the Wizengamot, and then I thought… well, why not write about you?"

McGonagall blinked, surprised. "Oh?"

"I know you must be terribly busy, but I was hoping you might be able to help me," the student continued, flipping open to the page which bore an image of a much younger Minerva McGonagall in plum robes. "It would be so much better than getting my information out of a dusty old book."

Years later, Minerva would never be quite sure why she did it. Perhaps it was simply the accumulation of the day's events; perhaps it was that she trusted the girl and wanted to see if Hermione Granger would piece together the puzzle that some of the most brilliant legal minds of the twentieth century had ingenuously overlooked. Perhaps it was simply a feeling, a sense that told her it was time. Whatever the reason, Minerva McGonagall, quite apart from agreeing to the girl's wish, replied frankly, "As flattered as I am, Miss Granger, I have to say I think it would be more beneficial for you to study the career of a wizard who achieved his seat on the courts through the ministry channels instead of beyond them, considering your aspirations."

"Oh." Her shoulders slumped. "Yes… I thought you might say that. Well, thank you anyway, Professor." She made to put away the book, but before she could the headmistress interjected:

"I did not mean to say, Miss Granger, that I wouldn't help you. In fact, I would like to suggest to you another candidate: are you familiar with the name of Elphinstone Urquart?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "Your husband?"

McGonagall granted her a small smile. "Precisely. He sat the courts far longer than I did, and was present for some of the most significant cases regarding muggleborn and being rights. I think you would find his career particularly fascinating– and of course, it would be my honor to give you any information you might need."

"That would be wonderful!" Hermione breathed. "Oh, thank you, Professor!" She quickly retrieved the book, flipping through the pages until she came one bearing the late man's name. Beneath it was an image of a silver-haired man with a strong jaw and beard. "This is him, isn't it?"

McGonagall glanced down and huffed. "Oh, that's a terrible picture; he looks so old. Here." She reached up to her neck and drew out an old-style locket from beneath the collar of her robes, which she clicked open and handed to Hermione.

Inside was a black-and-white photograph, hardly the size of her thumb. As she watched, a pair of friends laughed out at her from the picture: one a young, bespectacled witch, eyes alight with joy, winter cloak billowing in the snowy wind; the other a slightly older wizard, chuckling as he caught her pointed hat before it could blow away.

"That was taken in London, right after I started working here at the school," McGonagall informed her. "I'd gone for a visit to see a few of my friends from the Ministry, and Elphi suggested we take a walk through the city. Dreadfully cold, but the snow was lovely."

"Were you close even then?"

"We were. He was my dearest friend."

"Is that when you fell in love with him?"

McGonagall glanced at her, surprised. Hermione went red. "Sorry. I suppose that's personal, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." She took the locket back in hand and re-clasped it around her neck. "No, Elphi and I were friends for years before either of us realized we were interested in the other. He became infatuated long before I did, as well, so we married rather late in life."

"It's a beautiful picture," said Hermione gently. "You look very happy together."

McGonagall nodded with a sad smile. "We were." She noticed that the girl glanced down, her expression falling into a frown, and tilted her head. "Miss Granger? Is everything alright?"

"Hm? Oh– fine, everything's fine…"

"Really? Because I've heard from at least two of my professors that you've been on rather chilly relations with a certain Mr. Weasley." Hermione glanced up, startled, and the headmistress tactfully added, "Of course, it's none of my business."

"We had a bit of a row," the girl admitted. "Well– more than a bit, really, we haven't spoken all week."

"Hm. I imagine you were perfectly reasonable?"

"Of course! He knows I'm right; he just doesn't want to admit it!"

"He was stubborn? Wore his heart on his sleeve?"

"Yes! He always goes with whatever he feels is right, he never really thinks about–" She stopped suddenly. "But how did you know?"

McGonagall raised an eyebrow and tilted her head towards the book. Hermione's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Take it from me, Miss Granger," said the headmistress, "Love does not mean peace and serenity at every moment, certainly not between two such passionate people as yourselves. But however angry you might be, never shut each other out." Hermione could see a deep regret in the woman's green eyes. "The day will come when you would do anything to have that time back."

The younger witch stared at the elder for a long moment, gaping, and then suddenly leapt to her feet. "I- I have to go," she stammered, gathering her books. "I'm sorry, professor, I–"

McGonagall waved her hand. "Go. I'm not offended."

"Er- yes- thank you- have a good evening!" She dashed out of the office, leaving the headmistress to chuckle to herself. Oh, the ardor of youth.

Hermione hurried through the halls, her mind in a whirlwind. She no longer cared who was to blame (although she was still just as sure as ever that she was right); perhaps he was frustrating and stubborn and far too emotional at times, but the sudden image of her life without Ron, cold and lonely, was too much to bear. Stupid, stupid! she chastised herself, taking the steps of the grand staircase two at a time; if there was anything the last year ought to have taught her, it was that one should never take her friends for granted. She would take fighting with Ron over losing him any day.

Hermione rounded the corner towards the Great Hall and felt relief rush through her limbs; she ran forward and very nearly crashed into Ron as she threw her arms around him, taking a moment to appreciate how real he felt, warm and strong and smelling of that particular spicy shampoo he used. "H-Hermione?" Ron stammered, startled, and she drew back. Harry was standing at his side, equally shocked.

"Um." She flushed red, realizing she had no idea what she'd actually intended to say following her little display, and managed a very squeaky and embarrassed, "Er, can we- can we talk?"

Ron shared a surprised look with Harry, who gave him a shrug and tactfully disappeared inside the Great Hall. "Er- yeah, alright," said the redhead, gesturing down the hall. She followed, fiddling with her hands. He waited until they'd found a relatively empty alcove before turning to her and saying, "So, uh, what's up?"

Hermione bit her lip, uncertain what to say– and, in her uncertainty, it all seemed to come up in a jumbled rush. "I'm sorry," she began, appropriately enough, and then continued, "Not that we fought, I mean, I think we needed to, but more the way we fought, if that makes any sense. I'm just worried, and I know that you're worried, but I don't want to shut you out, Ron, if I ever lost you I wouldn't be able to take it, and honestly I'm just scared because what if this doesn't work out and then I do lose you, I mean not lose-lose but it would still be awful because you're one of my best friends and–"

"Alright, alright, 'Mione, slow down," the redhead broke in, holding up his hands. "What's all this about losing and shutting and whatnot?"

Hermione sighed and sat down on the marble bench. "Ron… I know we're not going to stop fighting," she said tiredly, shoulders slumped. "I don't think we can; we're going to disagree on things whether we want to or not. But I… what if this doesn't work out? What if we don't work out, and then we can't be friends anymore?"

"Blimey, 'Mione," said Ron, startled. "Is this what all that was about?"

"Yes– well, no, not all of it– look, I know it's stupid."

"No, it's not," he said seriously, sitting down beside her. "Do you think I haven't worried about it, too?" She looked up, surprised. "The very last thing I want to do is risk our friendship. But what else are we supposed to do? I can't just stop fancying you; believe me, I've tried."

She gave him a small smile, and then sighed. "But it doesn't seem like we can stop rowing, either."

He shrugged. "Then I guess we'll have to find a way to row and still fancy each other at the same time."

Hermione managed a watery chuckle. "Do you think we can?"

"Dunno. My parents seem to make it work." He grinned, and then his grin faded. "We can't keep doing this, though. Ignoring each other whenever we're angry, I mean, it's been tearing me up– don't tell Harry, though."

"Oh, never," she agreed. "McGonagall said the same thing."

"McGonagall?"

Hermione winced. "I might have mentioned we weren't on the best of terms." Ron nodded, and she continued, "I still think you're wrong."

"Yeah, well… wanna know a secret?" She frowned, and he admitted, "So do I."

"Then why? Why won't you get him help? You know he needs it, Ron…"

"Where am I supposed to go, 'Mione?" Ron demanded. "There's nothing like that, not for wizards. What do I do, bring him to St. Mungo's? He'd never go for it."

"Tell your parents, then. Or Bill, maybe he could help him see sense."

"I can't do that to them," Ron sighed, head bowed, and she was struck again by how utterly exhausted he looked. "I can't, Hermione. My parents… they've just lost a son. Bill's about to have a kid, Charlie's not home and George has never really looked up to Percy… it's got to be me. There's no one else."

"There has to be someone else," she argued. "And even if there's not, why does it have to be you, Ron? You're still grieving too, you're not even out of school! Why you?"

He glanced up, and there shone in his blue eyes a willed determination, the same she'd seen years ago when he'd stood before the White Queen, the same she'd witnessed when he'd dared oppose Voldemort, in full view his best friend's supposed death, with nothing but his courage to protect him. The determination she'd fallen in love with. "Because he's my brother," said Ron quietly, and even if she couldn't agree, at last she understood.

"…Alright," she said softly. "Alright, Ron… one more month. But if George still won't answer your letters by then, you've got to get help. For him, alright?"

He nodded, looking far older than eighteen, and she took his hand into hers. Ron pulled her into a tight hug. "Merlin, 'Mione, I've missed you," he mumbled.

"I've missed you too," she admitted, drawing back. "So. Dinner?"

"Dinner," Ron agreed, rising to his feet. "You wouldn't believe how hungry I am."

She snorted. "I've known you for eight years, Ronald; I think I could make an educated guess."

"I'll have you know, there is nothing wrong with having a healthy appetite…"

Back inside the Great Hall, Harry watched as his two best friends in the world entered, cheerfully bickering and walking hand-in-hand. His fiancé whistled lowly. "Looks like they worked it out."

Harry let out an internal sigh of relief. "Yeah. Looks like."

---

Dusk had already settled in and the sky was a deep blue by the time Remus met the headmistress near the front gates. "So I assume this means they aren't waiting for me with a silver-loaded revolver?" he inquired, shrugging on his cloak to ward off the autumn chill.

"Apparently not," McGonagall replied, as they passed through the gates; the wards rippled as they crossed over the property line. "I suppose being Italian, they haven't experienced much of the anti-werewolf prejudice from the northern vampire colonies… My hand, Remus."

He took it, and, after a somewhat nauseating few seconds of apparition, the pair landed in front of a small but charming cottage. From the windows poured a cheerful golden light which spread out into the shadowed countryside around them. Remus was surprised, although he knew he oughtn't be; it wasn't at all the sort of place in which one expected vampires to live.

He followed McGonagall up to the front gate and through a small rose-garden up to the front door. An old brass knocker, tarnished with age, hung on the green door, and she gave it three sharp taps before stepping back. A moment later, the werewolf's keen ears heard the sound of footsteps and a lock being thrown, before the door opened.

Remus had met only a few vampires over the course of his lifetime, and all only in passing: one had been waiting just in front of him when he went to file a change of address at the Ministry; a few times he had crossed paths with them at apothecaries or markets. Each time they had shared a glance and then studiously ignored one another, equally eager to avoid any sort of confrontation. They had always been sickly, sunken-eyed and smelling strongly of fresh blood.

This encounter, however, was different; the man who answered the door looked clean and in perfect health, aside from being remarkably pale, and offered the pair a warm smile. "Ah, Professoressa McGonagall," he greeted, shaking her hand. "Enchanted to see you again. And you must be the Professore Lupin. Welcome to our 'ome." Remus shook his hand and was pleasantly surprised to find that the man seemed to hold no ill will against him. "Please, do come in."

"Thank you." They followed the man inside; the interior of the house was warm, and a fire could be heard crackling from the sitting room. "Lucia! Maria!" Mr. Antonelli called up the staircase. "I nostri ospiti sono qui!"

There came the sound of footsteps, and then two figures appeared at the top of the stairs. To the left stood a tall, elegant woman with glossy dark curls tumbling down to her waist; to the right, a petite, black-haired girl of about ten, clad in a tidy flora dress with a pressed white collar. Both were as pale as the man and had the same pewter-gray eyes. "My wife, Lucia," Mr. Antonelli introduced the first as they descended the stairs.

"Incantada," said Mrs. Antonelli with a dazzling smile and shook their hands, though Remus didn't miss that her canines, like his own, were longer than normal.

"And my little daughter, Maria."

"Pleased to meet you," said the girl softly, kicking her feet and not meeting their eyes.

A light chiming sounded, and Mrs. Antonelli exclaimed, "Ah! La torta!" before disappearing gracefully into the kitchen. Remus and McGonagall shared a glance of surprise, but didn't make mention of it.

Her husband led them down the hallway to a small sitting room. "Please, do make yourselves at 'ome. I shall fetch the coffee. Maria, come."

The girl followed her father back into the hallway, leaving the two professors to look around the room with interest. It was clear from the décor that the Antonellis were proud of their native heritage. A picture of the Coliseum hung next to the window, and another of a small Italian village above the fireplace, complete with a toy church and fields of olive trees.

"Venelucia," said a voice fondly, and both glanced back to see Mrs. Antonelli standing in the doorway with a chocolate torte. "Our hometown."

She set the torte down on the small coffee table; a moment later, Maria and Mr. Antonelli entered with a carafe of steaming coffee and a small silver pitcher of milk. Together the five sat down on the couches while the mother served coffee and slices of cake. Remus took a sip of his coffee, found it quite strong but very smooth, and watched inconspicuously as the hostess tried a bit of her own torte.

"You seem surprised, Professore." Remus started, and Mr. Antonelli smiled again. "Have you never tried Italian coffee?"

"I– er, no, as it happens, but–" He blushed and stammered, "I didn't mean to be rude, only I… was not aware that vampires could eat ordinary food."

The man chuckled, and Mrs. Antonelli smiled. "We are not offended, Signore Lupin," he replied. "Perhaps in Britain our kind do things differently, yes?" Remus shrugged, and he continued, "In Venelucia, all of our children are taught to abstain from blood and enjoy proper food. It has been this way for ages, no?" He glanced to his wife, who nodded. "And so, we do not grow ill."

Ah. That explains their good health, then. Remus nodded, embarrassed, and took a bite of his torte; the cocoa flavor was very strong, but also delicious. "My goodness, this is incredible," he said, surprised. "Mrs. Antonelli, you are a wonderful cook."

The woman inclined her head with a smile. "You are too kind, Professore Lupin."

"Well," McGonagall said politely, "Now that we have all been properly introduced, shall we get to the matter at hand?" The small family glanced to each other and nodded. "Very well. First and foremost, Maria, I would like to wish you a very happy birthday."

"Thank you, Miss," said the girl respectfully, taking a bite from her cake.

"In Great Britain, we begin magical training for witches and wizards at the age of eleven," the headmistress continued. "As such, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would like to extend an invitation for you to begin attending classes on the first of September next year. You would be with other students your age, learning how to properly control your magical talents."

"Professoressa," said Mr. Antonelli, embarrassed, "although we greatly appreciate your offer, I… I'm afraid we do not have the money to send Maria away to school. I assure you, my wife and I can educate her properly at home, as our parents did for us."

"A fact of which I have no doubt," McGonagall reassured him, "And I certainly understand if you would prefer to instruct your daughter yourselves. However, if monetary concerns are the main factors in your decision, it need not be so; Hogwarts is aware of your particular difficulties, and is prepared to offer your daughter a substantial scholarship up to her fifth year."

"A scholarship?" Mrs. Antonelli said, surprised. "Why?"

"Because it is our belief that no witch or wizard should be denied an education. Moreover, your daughter's marks from her primary school in Italy are excellent; we believe she would be an excellent addition to our school. That being said," she added, inclining her head, "We understand if you have concerns you would like addressed."

The husband and wife glanced at each other, surprised, and seemed to have a silent conversation for several minutes before turning back to the headmistress. "Will she be able to hear the Mass?" Mrs. Antonelli inquired.

Remus was a tad surprised that this was their first request, but McGonagall seemed unperturbed. "Naturally. There is a Romish church at the edge of the village; I imagine our healer, Sister Irene, would be glad for the company."

"And the other children," said Mr. Anotelli carefully, "I know acceptance is too much to ask, but…"

"I can assure you that we will go to every power to ensure to that Maria is not singled out for her illness. Moreover, I have found that while children can at times be cruel, they can also be very kind." She smiled at Maria and said, most directly to her, "Your daughter is a sweet, polite child; I have no trouble believing she will be able to make friends."

When the pair looked doubtful, Remus decided it was his turn to step in. "Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli," he said respectfully, setting down his coffee, "although I cannot guarantee that your daughter will not experience a certain amount of prejudice at Hogwarts, I can reassure you that the staff and administration will go to great lengths to ensure she is treated with all the same human dignity as any other child." He looked to McGonagall and added softly, "They did for me."

The husband and wife shared another look. "If you will pardon us for a moment," the man requested.

"Oh– of course."

The two stood and retreated to a corner of the room, speaking rapidly in Italian. Remus could catch only fragments:

"–Sembrano brave persone. Penso che possiamo fidarci di loro–"

"–Ma non sono il nostro tipo! Che succede se–"

"–Bisogno di imparare–"

"E che cosa farà a imparare lì? Che sono meglio di lei?"

"Giovanni. Dobbiamo fare ciò che è giusto per nostra figlia." She took his shoulders. "Se Maria vuole andare, abbiamo bisogno di lasciarla andare."

There was a long pause, and then the husband sighed and nodded. They approached the couches and sat down again. "If Maria wishes to go… then she will go," said Mr. Antonelli at last, though he still looked uncertain.

McGonagall nodded; Remus turned to the girl. "Do you want to come to Hogwarts, Maria?" he asked kindly.

The vampire kicked her heels against the carpet, looking very unsure of herself. "The other children, they will be afraid of me?"

"Some will," he replied quietly. "But I'm sure many others won't care. Maria, look at me." She glanced up with those grey-black eyes, biting her lip. "You are not bad, Maria, and you're not a dark creature. You're just a sick little girl, who deserves as much a chance at a good education as anyone else."

Maria bit her lip, and then, slowly, she nodded. McGonagall smiled. "We look forward to having you, Maria." She retrieved a letter from within a hidden pocket in the folds of her robes and handed it to the girl, who accepted it with interest. "School begins on the first of September next year. We can discuss any accommodations she might need in the coming months."

"You have our deepest gratitude, Professoressa," said Lucia Antonelli. "How can we ever thank you?"

"No thanks is necessary; it was my pleasure."

The rest of the hour passed with pleasant conversation and no little amusement from the Antonellis regarding the finer points of British culture. When at last the two professors bid their farewells, everyone was in high spirits. As McGonagall bid farewell to the parents, Remus dropped to a knee to look the girl in the eyes.

"I look forward to having you in class next year, Maria," he said kindly. "You seem like a very smart young lady."

"Thank you," she replied softly, but he could see the nervousness in her eyes, still fixed on the floor.

"Hey." She looked up, and he smiled. "Don't worry. You're going to love it there."

And for the first time all evening, the girl smiled back.

---

"Honestly, Hermione, we've got ages until our theses are due; I don't know why you're so worried."

"I'm not worried," the witch answered primly. "I just happen to find my topic interesting."

It was quarter to nine and the common room was slowly clearing out; the trio had claimed their favorite spots around the fire, Harry and Ron playing a game of chess in the armchairs and Hermione lying on the carpet, nose tucked in a book. The other students cast them looks of relief as they passed by on their way up to the dorms; Gryffindor Tower could become an uncomfortably chilly place whenever Ron and Hermione were fighting, but now it seemed all was right with the world once again.

"'Interesting,'" Ron scoffed, moving his bishop to take out Harry's knight. ("See? I told you not to put me there! I told you!"). "You're writing a paper."

"I'm doing research that is pertinent to my career," she insisted. "It's good to study the people who've achieved what you're trying to do; you know what paths to take, which problems to avoid–"

"Paths, problems, you sound like Percy." He glanced over and cocked his head. "That's not McGonagall."

"Hm?"

"You said you were doing your essay on McGonagall, didn't you?"

"Oh," said Hermione, surprised; she hadn't expected him to remember. "Oh, well, yes, I was, but McGonagall suggested I write about him instead."

Interested, Harry glanced up from where he was still being berated by his captured knight and took a peek at Hermione's book, which featured a picture of a stoic-faced, silver-haired man in his late fifties. He seemed vaguely familiar…

"–Well I still say, doing something practical's bound to be more interesting than more studying."

"Says the man wanting to be an animagus."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean it's bound to involve a lot of studying, so you'd better get used to the–"

"I know him!" said Harry suddenly.

Hermione looked up, surprised. "What?"

"I know him– that man there, I've seen him before."

"Well, that's a bit of a shock, seeing as he's been dead for thirteen years."

"No- I mean-" He quickly dove for his book bag and pulled out a photograph. "There. See?" he said, pointing to a man behind James Potter with graying hair and a beard. "He was in the First Order. Mad-Eye never told me his name, though… Who is he, Hermione?"

"Elphinstone Urquart," she answered promptly. "Head of the Auror Office and then the DMLE, in his day. Really, you two should know this; you're the ones applying for auror training."

"So why'd Professor McGonagall suggest him, then?" Ron questioned, nudging his queen forward.

"Oh, she said she'd be happy to help if someone did a report on her husband," she replied absently, turning the page

This, apparently, was news to both boys, who dropped their pieces and looked back over. "McGonagall was married?" Ron demanded, shocked.

"Mm. Met back when she worked at the Ministry, I expect."

"Blimey," said the redhead, leaning back in his chair. "Can you imagine being married to McGonagall?"

"Be nice, Ronald," Hermione scolded sharply, glancing up. "I'm sure they were a very happy couple."

"Not for long, apparently," said Harry, glancing over the page. "Look: Married, 1982. Died, 1985. Must've gotten together right after the War ended."

"Rotten luck. What did him in?" said Ron, peering over her shoulder.

"Venemous Tentecula bite, and do you two mind?" she demanded irritably, shutting the book closed with a snap. "I'm trying to study, not make speculations on Professor McGonagall's love life!"

"Alright, alright, touchy," Ron muttered. "Checkmate, Harry."

"Aw, again?"

"You know, Ron, if I were you I'd want to get started on my thesis right away," Hermione interjected, sitting up against the back of his chair. "Animagancy is tough work; you'll want to get as much time to practice as you can."

"I'll be fine," he said dismissively, resetting the board.

"Well, so long as McGonagall's okay with it." When her boyfriend didn't answer, Hermione glanced up, frowning. "You have talked to McGonagall, haven't you?"

Ron hesitated. "Er…"

"Ron, we're supposed to have our topics submitted in two days!" Noticing that Harry was remaining guiltily silent, she raised her eyebrows. "Harry, tell me you've talked to Professor Lupin."

"Well…"

She huffed and flopped back against the chair. "I cannot believe you two. You know, I'm not always going to be around to take care of you."

"Look, it'll be fine," Ron hastened to say, clearly wanting to stay on good terms with his girlfriend now that their row was over. "McGonagall loves us; I bet if went up to her right now she'd give me the go-ahead!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Yeah, really!"

"Then let's go." She stood up and put her book back in her bag.

Ron gawped. "What?"

"You sounded pretty certain to me. Let's go ask her."

"Hermione– it's late– she probably wouldn't–"

"It's not even nine yet; besides, how long can it take to get her to sign one quick form?" She crossed her arms. "Unless you're scared?"

---

And that was how Ronald Weasley found himself knocking on the headmistress's door fifteen minutes later.

"Come in," a voice called, and he turned the knob hesitantly, glancing back. Hermione nodded encouragingly; Harry gave him a thumbs-up. Swallowing, Ron pushed the door open and slipped inside.

McGonagall looked up from her desk, adjusting her glasses. "Mr. Weasley," said she, "What a pleasant surprise." She caught sight of the form in his hand and said, "Something you'd like to discuss?"

"Er, yeah. I mean, um, yes." He bit his tongue.

"Well don't just stand there in the doorway; come in, take a seat."

Ron shut the door behind him and walked forward nervously, sitting down in the chair opposite her own. McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Um… well see, the thing is, I've been meaning to ask you for a while– that is, there's a favor I'd like to ask, and I know it's going to sound stupid, but–"

"Mr. Weasley," she cut him off, "I have had an extraordinarily long day, so I would thank you to please cut to your point, yes?"

He swallowed. "Right. Well, um, I need your help with my thesis. Er, if you'd be willing, that is." She frowned, and he clarified, "I want to become an animagus."

"Ah." Ron swallowed; the headmistress was scrutinizing him very carefully. "And to what end would you like to pursue this accomplishment?"

"Well, er– I think it could be really helpful, y'know, as an auror. And, I dunno, it seems pretty cool." He flushed.

"I see." Her green eyes were so intense he began to fidget; it felt like they could see straight through to his soul. "Well, Mr. Weasley, ordinarily, I would refuse to instruct any student who hadn't achieved an O in their Transfiguration O.W.L.," said McGonagall tartly, but then added, "However, considering that Filius says you show remarkable talent in charms, I might consider taking you on."

Ron gulped. "Er- Professor, I dunno what Flitwick's said, but-"

"Don't," she cut him off, holding up a hand. Ron shut up. "I know perfectly well your capabilities in charm-casting, Mr. Weasely; you take after your mother remarkably in that manner. Your difficulty is not a lack of talent, but a continued and, honestly, a tad impressive resistance to applying yourself." She eyed him sharply. "Did you or did you not cast a working slug-consumption charm at the age of twelve?"

His ears went red. "Yeah- but-"

"An incredible feat that would certainly have warranted several extensive detentions had your wand not malfunctioned. Can you or can you not perform an effective confundus charm?"

"Well- okay, but that's not exactly-"

"And I do recall Mr. Potter telling me that you were the first member of the D.A. to produce a corporeal patronus; was this not indeed the case?"

"Look, you're making me sound a lot better than I am!" Ron exclaimed, leaping to his feet. Why he suddenly had to make her see the truth- that he was just ordinary and almost a bit hopeless- he wasn't certain, but he couldn't stand the praise she was giving him. "I'm not Harry or 'Mione, I can't- it's just a few spells, I'm not-"

"Mr. Weasely, please lower your voice; you are disturbing my red-caps."

He blinked, startled, and then glanced over to a small tank in the corner, where two red-caps were scuttling along the glass, not looking upset in the slightest. McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Sit," she commanded.

He did so.

"Now, Mr. Weasely, I must admit I am a little bemused. Were you or were you not just asking me to take you on as a student?"

"Yeah… but…"

"Then why exactly are you so insistently dismissing your own talent? And do not tell me it does not exist; I have been your professor for six years. I know very well of what you are capable."

He was silent for a long moment, and then said quietly, "Professor… look, I know I'm decent at charms. But animagancy… that's tough stuff, isn't it? What if- what if I'm not good enough?"

"In a discipline this intense, I'm generally inclined to award full points simply for a heartfelt attempt."

"That's not what I meant."

She nodded, a hint of kindness softening her gaze. "I thought as much. Mr. Weasely, I was similarly concerned when I was considering learning animagancy, and told my professor as much. Do you know what Albus said?" He shook his head. "He said I would be far more disappointed with myself if I never tried than I would be if I failed."

Ron bit his lip. After a long moment, he exhaled and said, "…You really think I can do this?"

"I would not be wasting my time on a student whom I did not think showed great potential."

His eyes widened. "So- so that's a yes, then? You'll help me become an animagus?"

McGonagall inclined her head, a twinkle in her green eyes. "That is a yes, Mr. Weasely. And for the record–" She tapped the application with her finger, "–I would advise you in the future to refrain from drawing comparisons between yourself and your friends as regards schoolwork."

"But– Professor, I saw their O.W.L.s. I knew Hermione would be first in the class, but even Harry beat me out in Defense-"

"Harry comes from a long line of excellence in the field, Ronald; his grandfather Charlus was one of the best aurors the Ministry ever had the good fortune to employ; his father was a natural in the subject– the only one who ever performed higher in the class was Professor Lupin, which I'm sure you can imagine is quite a statement. Defensive magic practically runs in his blood. As for Miss Granger, she is without a doubt one of the brightest minds to ever pass through these halls; I believe that your attempts to compare the two of you has led you to have a rather dim view of your own talents– not to mention, given you the ability to pass your classes without actually putting in all of the effort."

Although Ron hastened to defend his girlfriend, McGonagall again cut him off. "Please don't insult my intelligence by lying to me; I know full well how often she revises your essays. If you want my advice for the upcoming year, it is this: stop relying so heavily on her help when you're perfectly capable of doing the work yourself, and make the effort to comprehend the material you are given. If you put in the time and the work, I see no reason why you shouldn't come out of your N.E.W.T.s with a few outstandings to show for it. Understood?"

Ron nodded. "Understood, Professor."

"Very good. Now-" She picked up her quill and signed the request. "Make sure to turn that in to Professor Lupin by the end of next week, and report to my office eight-o-clock next Monday evening."

"Eight-o-clock on Monday. Got it." He stood and shouldered his bag. "Have a good evening, Professor."

"You as well, Mr. Weasely."

As he opened the door, he glanced back. "Thanks, by the way," he said awkwardly. "For having a little faith in me. Most people… well, they don't see me as my own person, you know? Usually I'm just Harry and 'Mione's friend, or just another Weasely."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Ronald, I have taught every member of your family, including your brothers and your parents, and both of your friends. I watched you grow from a child who could barely manage to hold his wand the right way forward to a young man who dared contradict Tom Riddle himself, in the face of certain death. And if I do recall correctly–" Here her green eyes seemed to glitter, as if she were holding back a smile, "–it was you who beat a chess set enchanted to play exactly as I myself would, and at the age of eleven. Merlin forefend I should ever mistake you for 'just another Weasely.'"

He grinned at that. "Thank you again, Professor. Have a good night."

"And you, Mr. Weasley."

He left with a feeling of elation, nearly skipping as he walked out of the office. "So?" Harry demanded, as he shut the door. "What did she say?"

Ron grinned again. "She took me on."

Hermione gasped and hugged him happily; Harry clapped him on the back. "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, mate."

"Yeah, well, getting her help was the easy part," Ron said, expression turning a bit grim. "Actually doing it is the problem."

"It's complicated magic," Hermione agreed solemnly. "But I think you'll manage it, Ronald; the process is half charm-work, and you're a fair hand at charms."

Ron went a little pink. "Er- right. That's true."

"Oh, by the way," Hermione added, as they started back down the stairs, "We've got that essay due for Professor Kemp tomorrow; would you like me to look over it?"

The redhead hesitated, and then said nonchalantly, "Nah, I think I've got this one. Thanks for the offer, though."

Hermione looked to him in surprise, and then smiled.

---

"…And now for papa's little princess…"

Lavender smiled broadly as her father handed her a box wrapped in pale pink. "Can I open it, Papa?"

Her father chuckled and nodded. The girl tore off the wrapping and opened the box; inside was a pale purple music box, adorned with a glass unicorn. She gasped. "Oh, Papa! Papa, can I play it?"

"Go on, princess."

Delighted, the girl turned the key at the back of the music box. A hauntingly beautiful tune chimed out in high, sweet notes. She watched, entranced, as the unicorn stood and galloped around the edge of the box, whinnying. Around and around it went… around and around…

A note chimed, strange and discordant; it cut off in the middle of the song, and Lavender frowned. "Papa? It's not working. Papa?" She looked up.

Curses were flying overhead; Lavender stumbled to her feet, grasping her wand. Ahead of her one of her fellow students fell– stunned or dead, she didn't know, didn't have time to look. The Death Eater turned and caught sight of her.

"STUPEFY!" she cried, brandishing her wand before he could raise his own; the jinx struck and sent the man flying back against the wall. A shout sounded behind her, terrified, familiar. She turned. "Parvati!"

"Lavender! Lavender help me!"

"Parvati– hold on, I'm coming!" She dashed down the corridor, trying to reach the end, but it seemed to stretch out endlessly before her. Another scream sounded off the walls. "Vati! Vati, hold on!"

Lavender rounded the corner, and then froze. The forbidden forest stretched out all around her, shadows cutting sharp into the pale moonlight. In the distance, a wolf howled. "Vati?" she whispered.

Silence. The witch swallowed, creeping forward into the trees. "Parvati? Can you hear me?"

"…Hello, little girl…" a voice whispered menacingly. She turned, but saw nothing.

"Parvati? Are you here?"

No one. The forest was empty, but a strange scent seemed to be filling the air– a heady musk, like furs left in an old wardrobe. The wolf howled again, closer this time. Lavender shivered. She didn't know why, but somehow the sound seemed to chill her to the bone. The full moon was glaring down at her, frightening her. Why was she so frightened? What did the full moon mean?

A third howl startled her; she began to run, dashing through the trees. Someone was screaming– someone was being tortured, mauled, bitten, and she was next, he was right behind her now, she could smell him, hear him laughing right behind her–

A hand grabbed her shoulder.

---

Lavender shot straight up in bed, still screaming. Hermione, Parvati and Ginny all jumped back, startled; in the next moment, the werewolf had scrambled off the bed and was running for the door. "Lavender!" Hermione called. "Lavender, wait-!"

It was too late. The blonde flew out of the room like the devil was on her heels and, in the next moment, was tumbling down the dormitory stairs. She landed on the common room floor below and immediately curled up into a ball, still screaming, pleading at the top of her lungs. "PLEASE! PLEASE, LEAVE ME ALONE, DON'T HURT ME, DON'T– DON'T–!"

"Lavender– Lavender, it's just us–" The three girls hurried down the stairs and gathered around the fourth, but the moment they touched her Lavender cried out:

"NO! PLEASE, NO!"

Students were pouring out of the dormitories, rubbing their eyes, peering over the railings with interest. Desperately, Hermione leapt to her feet and ran to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of floo powder from the vase on the mantle. "Professor Lupin!" she called, throwing the powder into the hearth.

A moment later, a bleary-eyed face appeared in the green flams. "Hermione?" Lupin said, startled. "What in the world is–"

"It's Lavender, Sir– something's wrong– she woke up and won't stop screaming!"

"Hold on, I'm coming through." The head disappeared, and a moment later a spinning figure took its place. Professor Lupin leapt out of the flames and hurried over to the girl, who was still sobbing. "Lavender," he said gently, kneeling down in front of her. "Lavender, it wasn't real; I promise you, you're safe."

"Don't hurt me, please, please–!"

"Lavender, you're alright, he can't hurt you-" Lupin reached for her shoulder, but Lavender flinched away and screamed:

"GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU MONSTER!"

He froze. The girl shrank back, trembling, sobbing. Hermione was at a loss. "Lavender- Lavender, he's only trying to help-"

"It's alright, Hermione," Remus said quietly. "She doesn't know who I am." He nodded to a frightened young first-year nearby. "Fetch Professor McGonagall. Hurry."

Lavender was crying quieter now, clutching at her ankle, which was twisted at an odd angle and was swelling up in a nasty purplish color. Within moments another figure pushed her way to the forefront of the gathering crowds and knelt down beside the girl, speaking in soft tones. "Miss Brown," McGonagall said gently, "Miss Brown, it's Professor McGonagall; I need you to look up at me, child."

Lavender's shoulders still shouldered with the force of her weeping, but she managed to meet McGonagall's eyes. "Professor!" she cried, grasping at the woman's arms. "Professor, he's here, he's come for me-!"

"It's alright, girl," the headmistress said soothingly, holding the sobbing young woman as kindly as if Lavender were her own granddaughter. "You needn't fear any longer. You're safe here; he will never hurt you again."

"I c-can s-s-smell him," Lavender wept. "He's here- he's here-"

"You are mistaken, child. He is not here. Would I lie to you?" Lavender hiccupped, and then shook her head. "You have had an unfortunate nightmare, that is all," McGonagall reassured her, drawing back and holding her at an arm's length so she could look her in the eyes. "Look around the room. Do you see anyone here who ought not be?"

The girl glanced about the common room, eyes darting over every face. At last, she said, voice quavering, "P-Professor Lupin… but that's all."

"Remus came solely to provide aid, I assure you. Fenrir Greyback is not in this room, he is not in this castle, and I very much doubt he could get in if he tried. Listen to me now, child: you are safe."

After a long silence, she nodded tearfully and wiped her eyes. McGonagall squeezed her shoulder gently and then drew her wand, mending the twisted ankle with a murmured charm. "Up you get now, girl; I'll have Poppy bring you a dreamless sleep potion in a minute. You won't have any more nightmares tonight."

"I can still smell it," Lavender whispered, standing. "It's in my hair…"

The headmistress turned and gave all the other students a hard look that clearly meant they were to return to bed. The common room slowly emptied, leaving only the three girls and Professor Lupin behind. Lavender was still crying softly, though now it seemed more with embarrassment than terror. "Miss Granger, please make the call to Madame Pomfrey," McGonagall instructed quietly. "Miss Patil, do you happen to know where Miss Brown keeps her perfume?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Fetch me the bottle, please." Parvati hurried and nodded up the stairs as Hermione made another floo-call. Ginny and McGonagall helped Lavender over to one of the armchairs while Professor Lupin carefully kept his distance. Only when Hermione had returned with a calming draught did the girl's tears eventually cease. "There now," McGonagall said comfortingly. "Feeling better?"

Lavender nodded, not meeting their eyes. McGonagall looked up as Parvati approached, carrying a rose-shaped bottle of perfume. She thanked her quietly and opened the cover; immediately a floral scent wafted into the air, calming the frightened werewolf even further. "Miss Brown, I want you to wear a touch of perfume every night when you go to bed," she directed her gently. "That should help, yes?" Lavender nodded, mopping at her eyes. "Very good. Let's get you back up to bed."

Lupin watched as the headmistress led the girl back up to her dormitory, flanked by her friends, before approaching the fire. A sick, nauseated feeling was curdling in his stomach like spoiled milk; he stared into the flames and tried to resist the creeping fingers of hatred clawing at his spine. How many times had he awoken screaming in the darkness? How many times had he relived that horrid night, never able to move past, never able to let go? He would not have wished his curse on anybody, yet Greyback had attacked an innocent girl on mere whim. Did not a man like that deserve to be detested?

He heard the door click shut quietly above him, but didn't look over even as McGonagall approached his side. For a long moment, the two stood in silence, watching the dying fire.

At last, the headmistress sighed. "Moon week is always the worst, isn't it?"

Remus let out a breath of air through his nose and nodded. He looked over, gold eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Do you ever miss it?"

Minerva's green eyes stared into the flames, fixed on an image he could not see but which, to her, was as clear as the night it had happened…

...The man's body shuddered under the blanket, and he gripped her hand tighter, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Minerva watched him anxiously. "How long?"

"Not long," Elphinstone rasped, closing his eyes with a grimace and letting out a low groan. "Minnie," he muttered as he reopened them, hazel burning to amber, "Minnie, you should go–"

"I'm not going anywhere." She closed her other hand over their interlocked fingers as he hissed, beads of sweat rolling down his face.

"I– don't– want– you– to see– this," he ground out, teeth clenched tight.

"I'm not leaving you, Elphi. Not now. Not ever."

He flicked his eyes to the side, his honey orbs filled with uncertainty, with gratitude. "P-promise me you'll change. The moment you see the fangs, promise me you'll–"

"I will, Elphi. I promise."

He nodded, closing his eyes. A second later his breath hitched, and she knew.

The man's screams split the air as his spine arched, forcing him to curl up on his side. The witch let out a pained gasp, stifling her cry with her hands. He screamed again, and before her eyes his hands began to lengthen, fingertips buckling down, claws sprouting from the nailbeds–

The third baying cry drew her attention; she looked to his face and saw that Elphi's had flown wide, pupils dilating, irises a blazing gold. His mouth was open, roaring in pain, and she saw the fangs begin to grow.

Quick as blinking the witch willed the change; for a moment everything seemed to be falling, and then the heightened feline senses settle in, making the vision before her all the more horrific. She watched as the curse took over her best friend's body, his mind, screams morphing into howls, fur sprouting from every pore, the light dimming in his eyes–

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The transformation passed, leaving behind only a large gray wolf, whimpering with pain, and the tabby who crept over to him, curling up against him in comfort…

…Remus watched as the flickering light played over the widow's face, her profile unmoving, her eyes unseeing. There was an utter silence in the room, save for the crackling of the fire, and he didn't know whether she even knew he was still there. Then, as quietly as the wind whispering through the leaves, he heard it:

"I miss him."

And without another word, Minerva McGonagall turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

---

A/N: This chapter was an absolute horror to write; I just couldn't seem to get the words to flow. Still, I hope you enjoyed it! In other news, I'm going back to classes fairly soon, so my updates may not be as long/as often. Also, prayer requests for the victims of the recent terror attacks, especially in the Philippines where some of my friend's family live.

That being said, next chapter: the October full moon! (I've been dying to write this one forever!) And what did you think of McGonagalls' secret? :) Please do tell me what you thought; it motivates me to write more.

God bless you all, and I'll see you soon! Pax et bonum!