Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. Credit to Field and Stream's Bill Heavey and his online article How to Put an Arrow in Your Target Every Time for information on how to effectively shoot a bow, and Dan Koboldt's online article A Quick and Dirty Guide to Feudal Nobility for information on proper use of titles in old British feudalism.

Nymph: It should be relatively easy for one to set up a fanfiction account on this site, presuming he is at least thirteen years or older. Simply click "sign up" in the upper right-hand corner of the window and follow the instructions provided.

Warnings: cursing, reference to the Dunblane school massacre of 1996.

The snow crunched quietly underfoot as the man made his way through the silent woods, a gray-brown ghost among the sleeping white giants of the snow-heaped pines.

Remus had always felt more at home in the Forbidden Forrest than nearly anywhere else, except, perhaps, the crumbling ruins of Lupin Castle. There was a certain peace there, a sensation that he was at one with the world and himself. He had never experienced any fear among the shadows of the forest's trees, and very rarely any trouble from her inhabitants– aside from one little mishap in fourth year with the acromantulas, but, after having witnessed a rather stunning show of wandless magic, the giant spiders had never dared to mess with him or his friends again (Remus still felt a sort of primal pride in that; a werewolf ought to be king of any wood he stepped into, and he had made these trees his domain long ago.) The centaurs had been mistrustful of him at first, but when he had promised them on his honor that he would be respectful of their ancestral home and never encroach on their personal territories, they had warmed to him almost immediately.

A soft padding in the trees around him drew his attention, and the gray ghost froze, ears perked. A breath of frozen air, half-scented with the fire-smoke of Hogsmead hearths not far off, confirmed his suspicions, and he smiled and let out a soft barking noise, holding out his hand as if in a gesture of peace and friendship.

After a moment, a gray wolf stepped meekly out of the shadows, followed by two or three more of its kind. Remus smiled and crouched down in the snow, rubbing his calloused hands over the wolves' heads and ears. The canines lifted their snouts against his hands in approval, and one even licked him under the chin. Remus chuckled. The wolves of the Forbidden Forest had been introduced by Dumbledore in Remus's second year as a diversion for those who'd happened to hear howling on the full moon and suspected that a werewolf might have taken up residence in the wood. Such rumors had combined with sightings of the natural wolf pack's members, leading to some rather nasty and dehumanizing speculations about them being the offspring of two werewolves mating on the full moon, but despite such prejudiced notions, Remus had always been fond of the pack. Now having seen several generations of it come and go, he had been unofficially accepted among them, and they always seemed to sense when he was afoot in the forest.

He stood and clucked his tongue, jerking his head in the direction he was headed, and the wolves followed docilely, like lambs in the white drifts. As they walked, Remus's mind wandered away back into thought, and to the message in his pocket, which he had penned only just that morning…

"What are you writing?" Dora asked from across the table, trying to spoon-feed Teddy his breakfast of apricot mush.

Remus didn't glance up, but merely dipped his quill again, frowning intently down at the paper. "Sorry, love, what was that?"

"What are you writing? It looks important."

"Hmm… yes, it is." He glanced up. "I'm writing to the alpha of the Shadowsmoke Pack."

"The Shadowsmoke Pack? The one in London?"

"Mm."

"What for?"

Remus glanced up hesitantly, and she got the sense that this was one of those times where he almost wished he didn't have an auror for a wife. "There may have been an… incident… in Hyde Park, full moon before last."

"Oh." Dora's face turned grave and she set the spoon and mush down on the table. "You mean…"

"I mean a muggle university student was bitten, and I'm worried that the Shadowsmoke pack had something to do with it."

"Remus… if there's any evidence, you know what I'm required to do–"

"That's the thing, there's no evidence– none at all, aside from that the man was bitten in London. That could be Greyback, or it could be some poor bastard who wasn't well enough contained… but it still makes me nervous." His shook his head. "The Shadowsmoke pack pledged me their authority, but I've never been sure about it. They weren't too happy with my mandate."

"Oh? Why not?"

He sighed and set down the quill. "Shadowsmoke is the only urban pack in existence, and they have one of the highest muggle populations among all the great packs– nearly half their numbers."

"I thought muggles don't often survive the bite."

"They don't." Remus's face was grim. "They go through a lot of candidates– muggles who've accepted their offer."

"You mean people willingly take the bite?"

"Unfortunately, yes. They approach muggles and wizards whom they believe will be open to joining the pack– the former usually lured in by the promise of superhuman power and excitement, the latter… well, honestly, I don't know why any wizard would join them, but some do. And of course, the law–"

"The law only governs unconsented bites," Dora said with a nod. "I know. So you–"

"My order as the Zenith Alpha went further than the letter of the law. The alpha of the pack was… less than enthusiastic about it, and although he paid all the proper lip service to honor and obedience… I don't know. I still don't trust it, so I think I'll arrange a meeting and scout out the situation myself."

Remus paused as the memory concluded, breathing in the clean winter air. Then he turned, nodding his head in the direction he was going. The wolves obliged and followed. Deep into the forest they walked, the soft padding of paws and shoes alike muffled by the fresh snow, sunlight glinting off the white drifts like a thousand diamonds. Eventually they came to a clearing, the white-and-brown branches of the trees stretching up to the cerulean morning sky and the brilliant sunlight as if in prayer, and at last Remus saw what had been eluding him for nearly ten minutes: an eagle's nest, high in the trees, and, perched on the limb, an amber-eyed golden eagle, Aquila chrysaetos.

Remus cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a faint cry; the eagle turned its head in interest. He'd always had a talent for imitating animal sounds– part of the werewolf sensibilities, he suspected, as it seemed a common ability among his kind– and with another call the eagle swooped down and snatched the rolled-up scroll of parchment he held out to it. "Shadowsmoke den, in London!" he called out to the avian as it glided back into the sky. "Get it to the alpha, if you can!"

There came a screeching cry, and then the silence of the wood as he watched the majestic bird soar out over the trees and vanish beyond his vision. He turned back to the wolves, who were watching him with their unreasoning and yet somehow still intelligent animal curiosity.

"It's hard work, being a leader," he informed them, and then glanced to the alpha of the pack, who was nearest him. "You understand, don't you?"

The wolf only studied him with its luminous golden eyes. Remus sighed and, ruffling the fur behind the wolf's ears, began the long snowy trek back towards the castle.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley. Please, do come in."

Ron shut the door behind him and walked into the empty classroom, setting his bag down on the desk. McGonagall appeared to have been waiting for him; the top of her wand was tucked into a pocket in the folds of her emerald robes, and her weathered hand rested on top of an intimidatingly tall stack of books on the nearest desk. "Er, morning, Professor," the student said nervously. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you. Please, take a seat."

And just like that, the little bubble of hope he'd been holding onto that animagancy lessons would be an enjoyable way to spend his Saturday mornings burst into soapsuds.

McGonagall noted the poorly veiled look of disdain on his face and snorted. "You're going to have to get used to it, Mr. Weasley; animagancy is a very challenging magical art. One tiny mistake in the process could result in some very nasty outcomes."

"I know. Sorry, Professor." He sat down in the nearest desk and pulled out a ream of parchment paper.

McGonagall's face softened slightly at that, appreciating that he had had the foresight to come prepared, and she added, "I would not have taken you on as a student if I didn't believe you capable, Mr. Weasley. I've seen you work very hard for what you want in the past and I have no doubt that my faith in you shall not disappoint." He grinned a little at that, and her mouth twitched just a bit, before she grew serious again.

"That stated, I must impress upon you once again just how serious the magic is that you will be learning here. I don't think I need to tell you that if this information falls into the wrong hands, it could be deadly."

Ron recalled the three years he had spent diligently feeding and caring for Scabbers (it still creeped him out too much to think of the rat as Pettigrew) and repressed the urge to shudder. "Believe me, professor, I get it. Are you going to make me swear an Unbreakable Vow?"

McGonagall shook her head. "I don't like Unbreakable Vows. They tend to be too broad for important purposes… no, Mr. Weasley, what I am asking you is to make me a promise." Her green eyes seemed to pierce straight into his. "Swear to me, on your honor, that barring extreme circumstances you will never reveal what I teach to you here to anyone."

Ron fell silent for a moment, surprised by the intensity in her voice. It had suddenly become clear to him that what he was undertaking was a very grave matter indeed. "…I promise, Professor," he said at last. "I won't ever tell a soul what I learn here, I swear it."

McGonagall let out a relieved sigh and nodded, sitting back in her chair. "Very good. Now…" She pushed a quill and a very official-looking document towards him. "Although I believe you, Ronald, I'm afraid the Ministry requires more official means. They want you to sign this contract."

"Is it magical?" Ron inquired, eyeing the paper warily.

"Yes, although the consequences of violating it are merely that the ministry will be alerted; you won't be cursed or any some such. That would be akin to forcing you to make an Unbreakable Vow, which of course is illegal." Ron nodded and, with a feeling of odd solemnity, picked up the quill and signed the document. The paper glowed blue for a second, and then faded back to its original state. McGonagall picked it up and, with a wave of her wand, the contract vanished.

"Very well. Please open the first book, Introduction to Animagancy, to page three. We will begin with chapter one…"

Learning animagancy, as it turned out, was long and tedious work. Even the first chapter of book (Ron was loathe to see what an intermediate text would look like if this was only introductory) was full of complicated-looking diagrams and charts, and McGonagall had to pause every few minutes to explain a term. When he had to stop her to explain what she meant by "deoxyribonucleic acid," the headmistress sighed and reached across the table, shutting the book.

Ron looked crestfallen. "Am I that hopeless?"

"Not at all, Mr. Weasley. You're simply untrained. I'd hoped that my fifth year course had made these concepts clear, but it appears we're going to have to take a step back." She pulled the third book out of the stack, and Ron inspected it with interest. It was obviously a muggle book because it had a cover made of a thick sort of paper, rather than leather-bound or hardback.

"What is it?"

"A basic introduction to muggle biology. I can't claim to be an expert– my work is more involved in physics and chemistry– but I do have some background in the subject. Remus has his degree in the field as well, so if ever I'm not available I'm sure he'd be glad to help."

"Professor Lupin?" Ron said, surprised. "How would I do that?"

"Yes, I suppose you haven't heard. Remus has agreed to resume his position here, considering the events of the full moon."

"Really? That's great!" McGonagall inclined her head, and Ron looked back down to the book thoughtfully. "So this is science, right? Like how muggles got to the moon? Or make ekeltricity?" He studied the cover with a frown; there was nothing about rockets or ekeltronics there.

The expression on McGonagall's face when he looked back up informed him that they had a long way to go.

The Gryffindor common room was quiet and nearly empty when Ron got back; pink dawn was just rising over the frozen mountains outside the windows, filling the room with pale light. There was no sound except for the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the quiet bickering of his best mate and girlfriend over their game of chess. Hermione glanced up and smiled as he approached, but Harry, who was focusing very hard on trying to figure out his next move ("Move me to D6! I can take it, Sir; no army is without sacrifice!"), didn't notice until Ron said bluntly, "Bloody basilisks, mate, you really are awful."

"Huh? Oh." Harry looked up and grinned, adjusting his glasses. "We've been waiting for you! How were animagancy lessons?"

"Awful," the redhead said ruefully, sitting down in the nearest armchair. "I think I'd rather ride another dragon."

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Hermione reproved.

"Easy for you to say! You're muggle-born; I've got to learn bi–lodgy, or whatever it is. McGonagall thinks I'll bugger the whole process if I don't know what I'm doing… and she's probably right," he admitted. Hermione laughed. "Don't suppose you'd be able to help me?"

"Oh, well, I haven't taken biology for years, but I'll help where I can."

"Ah, you're a lifesaver, 'Mione," Ron said, flopping back in the armchair. "Anyway, she said if you don't know I could always ask Lupin; apparently he knows stuff about it…"

"Lupin?" Harry and Hermione said at the same time, surprised.

"Yeah– oh, right, you guys don't know! Lupin came back!"

"Really? Oh, that's wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed. "Do you suppose he's already moved back in?"

"Dunno. Probably; the full moon was three days ago now…"

"Hmm… Harry, didn't you want to talk to him?"

Harry, who until this point had been doing his best to sink into the carpet, looked up guiltily. "Uh…"

"Don't tell me you're scared!" At his sheepish look, she shook her head. "You know Remus thinks the world of you; he won't hold a grudge. You should go apologize."

"Right…" Harry stood uncertainly, and then stopped. It seemed as if his legs had suddenly turned into lead.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Are you a Gryffindor or aren't you? Go on!"

Chastised, the bespectacled wizard ducked his head and left. Ron snorted and sat down on the carpet, studying the board. He shook his head. "He really can't play chess, can he?"

"Not really. You want to start a new game?"

"Nah; I'll just beat you from here. It'll be faster that way."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Cocky, aren't we?" Ron grinned and moved the brave little rook to D6. Hermione, as he'd predicted, swept in with her queen, who cracked the rook over the head. As they continued to play, Hermione added, "I'm a bit surprised Lupin came back, honestly."

Ron shrugged. "He must have figured that whatever Greyback is blackmailing him for is too important to give up."

Hermione blinked as she moved her bishop. "Blackmail?"

"Yeah. I mean, that's got to be it, hasn't it? Greyback can't get to Lupin's family because Teddy's probably always at home, and honestly you'd have to be mental to mess with Tonks, so he goes for the closest thing: the students and the village. He was probably banking on Lupin being a good enough guy to fork over whatever it is he wants. But obviously it's important, or Lupin would have just given in, instead of coming back here to defend the school."

Hermione stared at him, and Ron flushed. "What?"

"You are… incredibly perceptive sometimes, Ron," she said, shaking her head in admiration. "You're going to make a great auror."

The Head Boy shrugged modestly, but his girlfriend could tell he was pleased. "Yeah, maybe. Oh, and by the way, 'Mione–" He moved his knight forward and took out her queen with a wink, setting the piece solidly before the king.

"Checkmate."

Knock-knock-knock.

Harry paused and waited, shifting from foot to foot in front of the oak door. He felt as if he were thirteen again, about to be scolded for failing to turn in a peculiar map. Halfway between knocking again and walking away he heard footsteps behind the door, and a moment later it swung open.

Both Harry and Remus blinked in surprise. The professor was holding a box full of books, dressed in blue-jeans and a gray button-down shirt, quite a casual look for the man whom Harry had never seen out of his khaki slacks and knitted jumpers. It was clear he hadn't expected to encounter any students. "Harry," the man said, startled. "Er, can I, ah– is there anything I can do for you?"

"Ron said you were back," Harry said, a bit stupidly.

"Yes– yes, McGonagall convinced me to reclaim the position, recent events considered…"

He trailed off. The pair fell into an awkward silence.

"Professor–" Harry began, at the same time that Remus said, "Would you like to come in? I've got a kettle on the fire."

"Er– yeah, alright."

He followed Lupin inside and through the half-reassembled classroom to the stairs. The office looked nearly the same as the last time Harry had been inside, aside from a bit of rearranging, and a kettle of water was boiling over a fire crackling merrily in the small hearth. Lupin waved his wand at it absently, and the kettle lifted off its hook and floated over to a waiting tea set, pouring steaming water into cups and spooning in mint leaves. "Sugar?" The professor called over his shoulder as he shelved several of the books from the box.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks." He watched as the tea set spooned several lumps into each cup, half out of interest, half out of an intense desire not to meet the teacher's eyes.

That, unfortunately, could only last so long. Remus handed Harry a steaming cup of tea and sat down across from him. Both glanced at each other and then hastily looked away, taking simultaneous long gulps of their tea.

"Um, Ron's doing well," Harry began awkwardly, setting down his cup. "He, uh, didn't turn, I mean. No one did; Rosmerta's even back at the bar."

"Yes, I heard." Lupin's eyes didn't meet his, instead staring out the window. "They were very fortunate."

"Yeah, Madame Pomfrey did blood tests on the wound and everything; she said there's no sign of infection, so…"

"Mmm."

Silence resumed. Harry stared at the grain of the oak desk, guilt bubbling up inside his stomach. Neither spoke; it seemed each was waiting for the other to start. When at last he couldn't bear the silence, he opened his mouth and–

"Harry, I am so sorry."

He looked up, startled. "Professor?"

The word seemed to pain Lupin, for the man let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes. "Harry, I- I don't know how to express how deeply sorry I am. I don't expect you to forgive me, I wouldn't even be surprised if you hated me–"

"Hated you!" Harry exclaimed, cutting him off. "Why would I hate you? I'm the one who should be apologizing!"

"What?" Lupin demanded, finally looking over at him in shock.

"Saying what I did– I shouldn't have gone there. You've done so much for me, and I turned around and acted like an ungrateful little kid–"

"Harry–"

"You had to leave, you were doing the right thing. I was being a selfish prat, and– and I'm sorry," he finished, shame-faced. "Is there any chance you could forgive me?"

Remus stared at him, his expression inscrutable in the pale morning light from the window. Harry swallowed and dropped his gaze again. Maybe the professor wouldn't forgive him after all.

"Harry, you– you incredible young man," Remus said softly, and Harry looked up, surprised. "Of course I forgive you, but could you ever forgive me?"

"I just told you," the student said, surprised, "you did the right thing–"

"Not for leaving– or at least, not just for that. Could you ever forgive me for… for everything, Harry? For abandoning you? For being such a bloody coward, all those years ago?"

"Professor?" Harry said again, baffled.

The man didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood and paced away, over to the window, looking out as the golden light spread over the frozen mountains. "…I told you that I didn't take you in because I didn't think I could take care of you," Lupin said lowly, "But that was only half the truth. The full truth, Harry, is that… is that I was afraid."

Harry remained silent, watching him without a word. Remus let out a low groan and turned around, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes. I was afraid. I was afraid of myself, afraid of you… Harry, I was a depressed, twenty-something alcoholic werewolf who couldn't keep a job to save his life, angry at the world and at myself. I told myself you would be better off without me, but I knew, deep down, that for as much as I loved you I was also terrified of you. You were James's boy, my best friend's son. I was terrified that you would hate me for not being him, or that I would be a poor guardian… At the bottom of it all I was afraid that it would be too painful, to be reminded so constantly at what I had lost, or worse, to risk such loss again." He shook his head, gaze still fixed on the ground. "I didn't think I could bear that. I told myself it was better to be numb, to feel nothing than to risk that pain… I was afraid to love someone so much. I was afraid of being a father."

He looked up at last, and Harry could saw that his hazel eyes were glimmering with tears in the golden light. "Not a day goes by that I don't regret not having taken you in, Harry," Remus said hoarsely. "Don't think for a minute that I don't realize what I've lost. Teddy should have been my second son."

Harry didn't know exactly what prompted him to do what he did next; all he knew was that it was the right thing to do. He stood and crossed the room in three short paces, and gripped the other man in a hug. Remus stiffened, startled, and then hugged him back.

After a few moments, Harry drew back, and Remus was startled to see that his green eyes were wet, as well, though his face was defiant. "You're right," Harry said stoutly. "You're right, Remus. I don't know what it's like, having a father, and I wish I did. But that year you taught here, it was like I finally had someone looking out for me. Sirius was great, he was a fantastic godfather, and I'll never forget him- but he wasn't the one who reminded me to use my head. He didn't teach me how to conjure a patronus. He didn't tell me off when I needed it, or teach me to face my fears…"

"Harry…"

"You're going to be a great father, Professor. Trust me." He gave the man a watery smile, and nothing more needed to be said. Remus understood.

"Thank you, Harry," he said hoarsely. "That… that means a great deal to me." He drew a breath, and it shuddered, just a little. "I know it's too late, to be any sort of a father figure for you… but is there any chance, that I could still be your– your Uncle Moony?"

It was as if a warm fire had burst to life inside the young man's heart. For the first time in his life, Harry realized that he had someone he could call family– well, family that he didn't hate, anyhow. "Yeah," he agreed with a nod. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."

The two grinned at each other, a bit sadly. Then, somewhere in the silence, there came the sound of a clock striking the hour. Remus started and checked his watch.

"Goodness, it's nearly nine. Breakfast will be starting any minute."

"Oh. Right." Harry flushed red, suddenly embarrassed by the mushiness of the conversation. "Um–"

Remus waved his hand. "Go. Enjoy your weekend, I, er, still have some tidying up to do here anyway."

"Right, yeah. Thanks." Harry shouldered his bag and headed for the door. Just as he opened it, he glanced back. "Er, by the way: I'm really glad you're back… Uncle."

The warm smile that filled Remus's scarred face seemed to light up the whole room.

Draco shifted from foot to foot nervously, running a hand through his still slightly damp hair. He'd just gotten out of Quidditch practice an hour previously; only the promise of spending the last few sunlit hours of the day with Brown in Hogsmead had given him the self-control to ignore Blaise's snide sneers and remarks as the captain made him run drill after drill in the bitter cold– all for naught, for, despite the fact that the well-intentioned but untrained Tucker would definitely not be ready for the match against Ravenclaw, it was clear that Blaise still intended to play the underclassman come December. The moment practice had gotten out Draco had quickly showered, dressed in nice grey sweater that mother had always told him complemented his eyes, and hurried off in the direction of the Gryffindor tower.

Now here he was, waiting against the wall a corridor down; Draco checked his watch and found it was nearly noon. A pair of Gryffindor first-years came around the corner and cast him curious looks; Draco raised an eyebrow and they quickly scurried away. The Slytherin rolled his eyes, and then checked his watch again. Five to twelve.

"Hi."

Draco started and turned. Lavender Brown flushed red; she looked very wintry and charming, with white gloves and earmuffs and her golden curls falling prettily on her raspberry cloak. "Hello," he replied. "Are you ready?"

"Oh. Oh, er, yes."

They started off together through the corridors, neither talking; Draco wondered if she was as nervous as he was, but didn't dare look over to check. Several students passed by them, goggling, and he felt his hands clench into awkward fists; surely it would dawn on her at any moment that this had been an awful idea, she would realize she didn't want to be seen with him, what had he been thinking…?

But Brown didn't say a word. Together they walked through the halls in an uncomfortable silence more appropriate to two poor souls on the road to their own executions.

Things were no better in Hogsmead. Shoppers caught one look at the odd pair and narrowed their eyes, scurrying past as quickly as they dared. Mothers pulled whispering and pointing children close to their skirts; shopkeepers stopped at their doors and cast them hard glares which were a strict if unspoken order to move along. Draco could feel the heat rising to his pale face, he fought the urge to glare back or, worse, clutch anxiously at his wrist. They rounded a corner onto the high street, both subconsciously hoping to be lost in the crowds, but no matter where they went Draco still caught the mistrustful glances, the fingering of wands, the darkening faces–

Without warning, a strange and sudden feeling came over him, like a chill sweeping over a mountain. The young man drew his wand on instinct and stopped, looking around.

Endless dread-filled days of watching his back, of sleeping with one eye open and one hand on the grip of his wand, had done their work: without their noticing it, a ring of angry villagers had surrounded them and was now blocking their way, most of them men, the women and children looking on fearfully in the background. Draco immediately sized them up; there were at least ten or twelve wizards around them, seven with wands drawn, and it was doubtful any passers-by would give the pair the benefit of the doubt if a duel erupted.

Lavender, for her part, had not yet noticed the disturbance; she took several more steps, seemingly lost in thought, and then she, too, drew to a startled halt. Immediately her golden eyes widened in fear and face went stark pale, knotted scars standing out like wax against the cream skin. Her hands clutched at the raspberry coin-purse, white-knuckled.

For several tense moments no one spoke; then one of the wizards stepped forward, wand leveled directly at Lavender's eyes.

Immediately Malfoy stepped forward, setting a protective hand on her shoulder; the other still gripped his wand. "Can we help you, gentlemen?" he asked coldly, but Lavender could feel his fingers gripped tightly around her cloak.

"You can help us by leaving," the man who'd stepped forward spat.

"As it happens, we were rather hoping to enjoy a day in the village," Malfoy replied coolly. "We're not looking for any trouble."

"Well you've found trouble. We don't take kindly to criminals and monsters walking in our streets."

Draco's eyes flashed. "A criminal I will grant," he said icily, "and I will leave if you ask. But there is no 'monster' here."

"Well if that's not further proof!" another man sneered from the side. "A dark wizard defending a dark creature!"

"She's probably in league with them!"

"She's dangerous! They both are!"

"Walking around with ordinary people– it shouldn't be allowed!"

The crowd began to converge, churning angrily; more onlookers were joining, some fingering their wands. Lavender tried, tried to force herself to draw her wand, but her shaking hands refused to unclench from around the purse and the air suddenly seemed very thin, oh please, don't let her faint now–!

Suddenly the hand on her shoulder clamped down hard as iron; Lavender let out a sharp cry, but it was swept away as she was yanked into a suffocating gray nothingness, tighter and tighter until–

The pair landed hard on the snow ground, and Lavender collapsed into the snow as the breath she had been holding finally gave way to light-headed vertigo. The world swam before her eyes; the sound of wintry birdcalls echoed too loudly in her ears, the cawing of the crows like mocking laughter. The panic and fear that had been welling up inside her finally ruptured, and, much to her embarrassment, Lavender burst into tears. It just wasn't fair, she thought viciously, resentment and sorrow filling her at the injustice of it all, she had never done anything to them, and how dare they suggest that she would be in league with that brute, after the awful– the horrible–

"Brown. Brown, get ahold of yourself. For goodness' sake– Lavender!"

She became aware that someone had been saying her name, and she looked up in surprise to find two silvery eyes looking back at her. That was right, Lavender realized in mortification. She wasn't alone.

"I– I'm sorry," she hiccupped, trying to stop the tears. "I-I just– just–" She wiped her eyes and realized that her makeup was probably running down her cheeks in ugly black rivers, oh, what a mess she must be…

Malfoy's face seemed to soften a little, even growing a bit embarrassed, and he knelt down beside her in the snow. "Here," he muttered, obviously uncomfortable, and pulled a clean white kerchief out of his pocket. "Use this– has a cleaning charm."

"Th-thank you," Lavender mumbled, dabbing at her eyes. She rubbed at her face until she was sure that all the smudged makeup was removed and then made to stand up. The young wizard beat her to it and politely offered her his hand, which she accepted, standing up a bit shakily. "I-I'm so sorry," she said again, humiliated. "I've ruined everything."

"Don't say that," Malfoy retorted sharply; and she looked up in shock to find that his gray eyes were blazing silver. "You didn't do anything. It was those– those awful, spiteful little–" He struggled for a moment or two before seeming to give up on finding a malediction of both sufficient strength for his anger and propriety for saying in front of a lady. "They had no right," he concluded savagely. "No right."

Lavender shrugged. "I'm a werewolf," she said hopelessly. "To them, that's enough right on its own."

"Even so!" He paced a few steps away, still fuming. It was at this point that Lavender at last looked around and realized where she was. Malfoy had apparated them onto the path not far from the school gates. The wood was empty around them, and quietly hushed with snow; the peace seemed strange, after the violent near-confrontation in the village.

"Even so," he sighed, turning and breaking her from her thoughts. "And yet six months ago I would have been right behind them." He paced a few steps away and sat down on a snow-drifted log, seemingly impervious to the cold. "…I owe you an apology, Brown," Malfoy said heavily. "You've been… uncommonly kind to me, for no merit of my own, and I repay you by casting suspicion on you by my mere presence."

Lavender walked over hesitantly; Draco didn't look up, but instead stared down at his gloved hands. "I-I don't know how much this helps," she began, "but I'm pretty sure that, after last full moon, they would have been suspicious of me whether you were there or not."

The young man looked up, surprised, and then offered a wry smile. "That's good of you to say."

"It's the truth." She dusted off a spot on the log and sat down beside him. "Malfoy, what in the world are we going to do?"

He shrugged, staring off into the snowy trees. "I suppose try to avoid everyone for the rest of our lives."

"That's not funny," she said grumpily.

"I wasn't joking."

Lavender snuck a glance over at him and was surprised by how very old and sad the young man looked– nothing like the cocky, arrogant boy she had known in years past. There was a deep shadow behind those silver eyes, not of evil but of weight, like storm clouds waiting to release a deluge. His fingers twitched towards his left wrist and then stilled.

A sudden resolve swept through her. "Well," she said stoutly, rising to her feet, "let's not let them spoil our afternoon."

Malfoy looked up at her, startled. "Beg pardon?"

"So what if we can't go into the village? All the better then! It's dreadful cold, anyhow."

She crossed her arms, and to the stunned young man she seemed as warm and radiant as a hot stove, the bright sunlight glinting off her gold eyes and hair, rosy-cheeked and dazzling in the vivid pink of her cloak against the sparkling snow. "Well, I-I suppose you have a plan, do you?" he managed.

Lavender smiled.

"–So there we were, expected to make dinner for twenty of the most demanding and, honestly, more than a few among the most distasteful people in all of Europe, without so much as a scullery maid to help," Malfoy explained, pushing the portrait open as they stepped into the kitchen. "Poor mother was in a state; she can't cook a thing, you know, seeing as we always had a house-elf or a maid to do it for us; I doubt she could boil water if she had to. Father was even worse; honestly I'm not sure he'd be even able to identify a potato peeler, much less use one." Lavender giggled. "Worse still, we'd already made the mistake of opening the cellar for them and mother was terrified that they were drunk enough to kill us if we upset them and apologize later."

"Wouldn't he– You-Know-Who, I mean– wouldn't he have stopped it?"

Malfoy shrugged elegantly. "Honestly, I couldn't say. My family had fallen from his good graces; it was clear he meant to humiliate us by the whole spectacle, and he wasn't above killing his own, even for sport… anyhow, mother was nearly in hysterics, father was at a total loss, so I had to take charge. You should have seen the looks on their faces when told them to start chopping onions." He shook his head with a proud smile. "An hour later we were serving French onion soup with croutons to the whole table. Of course, it was only a peasant dish, but honestly I think it was the best meal I've ever had– though whether that was due to my talent or my relief, I don't know."

Lavender smiled and replied graciously, "I'm sure both, Lord Malfoy." She was pleased to see him laugh at the overly-formal title.

"You flatter me, Lady Brunhill.* Ah, here we are."

The Hogwarts kitchens were arranged in such a way that, while the larger part of the room was taken up by the long house tables, the back of the chamber was well-prepared for cooking everything that the school could possibly need, from stews and soups to roasts and cakes. A large fireplace blazed cheerfully, warming several bubbling pots, and carved wooden cabinets opened to reveal ice-frosted interiors for holding chilled foods. Along the left wall stood numerous old stoves, lion-footed and gleaming brassy in the bright sunlight that filtered through the windows near the roof. House-elves hurried about their work, calling out orders to one another in their high voices. Several of them hurried over. "Miss Brown!" the foremost squeaked, dropping into a polite curtsy, and then she caught sight of the young man and her tiny elfin face grew cautious, eyes lowered. "Mister Malfoy," she said politely, though her voice was guarded.

"Good morning, Piper," Lavender greeted, kneeling down with a smile. "We were wondering if we mightn't borrow one of the stoves? Mr. Malfoy is going to teach me to cook, you see."

"Oh, yes, yes! Piper would be most happy to help Miss Brown learn cooking! Three stoves are open, there–" The elf pointed to three empty stoves at the end of the line, "–but the second is not working well, Miss Brown. It burned all of Piper's tarts yesterday!"

"Oh dear. Well, thank you for telling us."

"Of course, Miss Brown."

The house elf hurried off to help another roll out tart dough, and Draco and Lavender made their way over to the stove. "You're awfully polite to them," Draco noted, examining the stove; it was a bit smaller than his at home.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

He frowned, testing one of the dials; tiny blue flames sprang to life under the burner. "They're only house elves."

"They feel and think the same way we do," Brown replied stoutly. "There's no reason to treat them unkindly."

Draco looked up in surprise and then felt his face flush in guilt. "I… suppose I never thought of it like that," he admitted, dropping his gaze.

"Hmm." He glanced over to see Brown smiling warmly at him, instead of the cool, judgmental glare he had come to expect. "Well. There's a first time for everything, no?"

Draco smiled back. "Yes… I suppose so."

They looked at each other for a moment, each still smiling, before Draco suddenly realized what he was doing and cleared his throat, straightening up. "Including," he continued, "making your own lunch."

They gathered what they needed with the help of the elves, and with a wave of his wand Draco set the knives to chopping up carrots, onions, beef and potatoes. "Now the two most important skills to learn in cooking," he began, pouring about a tablespoon's worth of melted butter into the stockpot, "are how to brown meat and sauté onions. If you can do those two things, you can make just about any recipe in the book."

He showed her how to sauté the onions, and then added another tablespoon of oil. The knife ceased its chopping and scraped the cubes of beef into the pot. Lavender peered over the sizzling mixture with interest. "How do I know when it's finished?"

"Here." He handed her a wooden spoon and added, "Stir until the meat is brown on both sides." Tentatively Lavender began to stir the pot, holding the spoon like a tent stake. Malfoy laughed, though not unkindly. "It's not a murder weapon; here." He took her hand in his and adjusted her grip. "A bit like a quill, see?"

"Yes, I–" She stopped short as she looked up. Malfoy looked back, the tip of his slightly upturned nose just a few inches from her own. She watched as a faint pink blush crept into his pale cheeks. Neither moved.

"Miss Brown? Mr. Malfoy?"

Both jumped and turned, immediately distancing themselves; the elf Piper held out a glass jug full of chilled chicken broth. "For your soup, sir, miss," she squeaked pleasantly.

"Ah– yes– thank you," Malfoy mumbled, still red. He took the jug and set it on the counter, expertly avoiding Lavender's eyes.

They stood there in silence for several minutes while Lavender continued to brown the beef. When she couldn't put it off any longer she spoke up hesitantly: "I, um, I think it's done."

"Oh." He peered over the edge of the pot and nodded. "Yes, er– well done. Would you, er, pour in the broth?"

"Alright." She uncorked the jug and poured it out into the pot while Malfoy hurried to add the carrots and potatoes. "And now?"

"Now we wait. Shouldn't take more than, oh–" He checked his watch. "An hour or so."

"Oh." They stood there uncomfortably for a moment before Malfoy cleared his throat and gestured towards the empty tables. Together they sat down and waited. "So, um," Lavender began, "about the potions project…"

"Oh!" He looked relieved at the prospect of a neutral topic of conversation and quickly latched onto it. "You are still thinking about Wolfsbane, aren't you?"

"Yes, exactly. We ought to tell Slughorn we'll be working together–"

"Right, of course." He bit his lip. "You, er, you said you had a few ideas for improving it?"

"Oh, I-I don't know," she stammered, laughing a bit. "It's a terribly tricky potion, after all, and I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to try to work with it–"

"Well, that's why you have me," he said with a smile. "Go on."

"Well… my first thought was on how to make it less expensive," she admitted. "Originally I thought that there might be a way to use cheaper ingredients, but I've checked the properties of silver and moonstone and there's just no way the potion will work without them."

"Hmm. No, I don't think so."

"Well– well then I thought, maybe it's not the ingredients that can be changed, but the dosage. Half the reason it's so expensive is that you have to take seven draughts of it, every month."

"Yes, I've wondered about that," the young man agreed, frowning. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to take a stronger dosage on the last day?"

Lavender shook her head. "The silver's the problem again; the further the potion boils down the less potent it becomes, and–"

"–And if you took the strongest dosage without having prepared yourself with weaker ones, the silver would poison you," Malfoy reasoned. "Of course. Still, it seems the more likely possibility…"

"Yes. But we'd have to be very careful." She shivered slightly. "Bad things can happen to werewolves mess with Wolfsbane, Malfoy. Very bad things."

"Well then." He smiled at her, with a fierce sort of pride that, deprived of its former arrogance, was actually somehow inspiring. "We're lucky we have two such brilliant people as ourselves to make sure they don't." Lavender smiled back, and they slipped into such easy conversation that they didn't notice the stew was done until it had begun to boil over an hour later.

"Here you are," Draco said, ladling her out a bowl. "Handmade lunch. Be careful; it's still hot." Lavender spooned out a bit from her bowl, blew on it, and then stuck it in her mouth. A moment later, her eyes went wide. Draco grinned. "Good?"

"This is incredible!" she exclaimed, swallowing the spoonful. "We made this?"

"Mmm-hm." He raised his bowl in toast. "To good talent."

"Hmm." She clinked hers against his, golden eyes sparkling. "And good luck."

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time Draco had walked her back to the Gryffindor common room, both laughing over a story of how Lavender had once sneaked in healing potions for Madame Pomfrey under the Carrows' scrutiny by pretending they were makeup products. "–She took one look at it, sniffed, and said it didn't match my complexion!" Lavender giggled. "I thought I was in for it for sure!"

"Alecto Carrow," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "As if she had an right to talk about beauty products." They stopped, having reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Well… here we are."

"Here we are," Lavender agreed. Both fell silent, equally unwilling, it seemed, to part.

"Well, er–" Draco coughed. "I still have some homework for alchemy, so…"

"Oh. Oh, right." She bit her lip. "Draco, I've had a– a really nice day. Best I've had in a while, actually, so…" She stood up on tip-toe and, much to his shock, pecked him on the cheek. "Thank you," she mumbled, embarrassed, and then spoke the password and slipped inside.

Draco stood there, gaping at the door. Did she just– No. Impossible. There was no way that someone as kind and brave and good as Lavender Brown could possibly have taken an interest in him, let alone kissed him…

And yet she had. The burning sensation from where her lips had brushed his cheek was proof enough of that. He raised a hand to it, still staring at the portrait door in wonder.

The sound of a clearing throat drew his attention, and he looked up to see the Fat Lady staring down at him coolly. "I'm not going to stand here all day," she said with annoyance. "Are you going to go in or aren't you?"

"Oh– er, no– thank you–" He turned, still in a daze, and hurried off.

It was only after he'd crossed several hallways and descended a staircase that reality came back to him. A grin slowly spread across his face, and, throwing all caution and Malfoy stoicism to the winds, Draco let out a loud whoop of success.

Monday morning rose cold and gray; a thick layer of overcast had swept in over the weekend's clear blue weather, and a faint dreary snowfall was drifting down outside the windows. Students congregated in their first hour classrooms with yawns and tired chatter. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was the sole exception; somehow (none of the trio knew how, for they hadn't breathed a word) it had gotten around that Lupin was back in the castle, with speculations ranging from the professor's return to his position to wild theories of him assembling an army of werewolf soldiers to defend the castle. "It wouldn't surprise me," Luna Lovegood said in her dreamy voice, twirling her hair around her finger. "I've heard that even Tame werewolves are incredibly strong."

"Come off it!" Ernie MacMillan said with a laugh. "Half the month Professor Lupin looks like he's just gotten over the flu!"

"Actually, Mr. MacMillan, Miss Lovegood is quite correct," a clear voice announced from the back of the classroom. Everyone turned to see none other than Professor Remus J. Lupin himself standing in the doorway, briefcase in hand. "Not about assembling an army, I'm afraid," he continued calmly, "but I daresay I'm not quite as debilitated as I often appear."

Ernie flushed red and mumbled some sort of apology, and Lupin managed a thin smile before closing the door and striding forward. "Books and wands out, if you please!" he called back sharply, setting his briefcase down on his desk and picking up a piece of chalk. "Due to recent events, I have elected to jump ahead several units; today, we will be discussing–"

He wrote the word in broad white strokes before whirling around, setting the chalk down on the podium with a sharp clack! "Werewolves," Lupin said bluntly, and now he was no longer smiling.

"Miss Lovegood, as it happens, was right on another matter," the professor continued, now a bit more quietly, but his voice all the more serious for it. "No doubt you are all aware of why I left the school; I have returned for the same reason: to offer what defense I can against Fenrir Greyback and his cohorts. But there is only so much I or any man can do. It is time for you to learn to defend yourselves."

Lupin turned and began to pace as he lectured, rolling his wand in his fingers. "As you might imagine, this is an area in which I have… shall we say, considerable expertise. More, I daresay, than your textbook, which contains a good deal of outdated if not entirely fictitious information in this matter. So! At the end of today's lesson, I will have all of you charm a copy of your notes to tuck into the book for next year's class. I advise you to write as neatly as possible. Would everyone please open your texts to page 254?" They did so, frowning in confusion, and he did the same. "Thank you. Now, I want everyone to follow my example." Lupin carefully took the corner of the first page of the chapter… and promptly tore it out of the book.

The students stared in shock. He raised an eyebrow. "Well, go on."

Hesitantly (and then, with great enthusiasm), each student ripped the page from the textbook. "Very good," the teacher said lightly. "Now, everyone take out your quills and cross out the second and third line on paragraph two of 255… and the first line in the third… and the second half of the first paragraph on 256, starting with 'wooden stake.' Very nice, thank you."

He closed the book and set it calmly on his podium. "We are going to be covering four different topics during today's lesson on werewolves:" He waved his wand at the board, and lines of neat cursive text appeared. "First, a brief review on lycanthropy and how to distinguish between a werewolf and an ordinary wolf in his transformed state. Second, proper precautions to be taken by werewolves and those in close proximity at the time of the full moon. Third, how to defend against a werewolf attack. And fourth- and this is a lesson I think your textbook was grossly in error to lack- what to do if you or someone you know is bitten."

The class glanced around at each other uncomfortably; clearly, this was a situation upon which they would rather not dwell for too long. Lavender Brown was staring down at the grain of the desk as if it held the secrets of the universe. Lupin noted this and added, "In my opinion, it is absolutely essential that you are all informed and aware of what measures to take should you ever be turned. Take it from me: it can happen to anyone. That being said, I assure you, it is perfectly possible to live a fulfilling life despite being infected, and I would like to extend the invitation to anyone who may have questions or uncertainties about this issue to come speak with me. It will, of course, be entirely confidential." He gave them a small smile, which at least a few students hesitantly returned, Lavender included, and then dove into the lesson.

The short dissertation on lycanthropy and how to identify a werewolf were practically straight out of the text (although the students had laughed at his method of "identification": "One: he's standing at my desk. Two, he's wearing my clothes. Three, his name is Professor Lupin…"), as well as basic precautions to be taken. He'd added a bit of his own information in there, largely trial-and-error tips on how to ensure the werewolf did not end up doing as much damage to himself as he would have done to others while transformed.

Then came the part on defense against a werewolf attack. Remus took a deep breath and reminded himself that simply because he was teaching them basic defense did not mean he was a traitor to his kind. "Alright," he said evenly. "Now, you'll have noticed I told you to cross out the bit about 'driving a wooden stake through the heart and burning the corpse.' Frankly, I think that's terrible advice; if you're close enough to him to consider staking him as a viable course of action, you're not in a good position." The class laughed nervously at that. "Of course your best option is to apparate away and return with auror reinforcements, but in some cases apparition may be either impossible or impractical. That is when you will need to know how to defend yourself."

Remus reached inside his robes. He felt his hand curl around the weapon's grip and took a deep breath. "This," he said, drawing the handgun out of his pocket, "is your surest defense against an attacking werewolf in his transformed state."

He set the gun down on the table. Most of the muggle-born students were wide-eyed; the wizarding children eyed it curiously. "What is it?" someone called out.

"It's a muggle firearm," Lupin explained. "An incredible invention, really, but highly dangerous in the wrong hands; it fires projectiles at incredibly fast speeds to injure or kill a target. It's quicker than a killing curse, though it requires some ability to aim. Most importantly, werewolves are highly allergic to silver; it can cause chemical burns, or even death in high quantities. A silver bullet- that's the name of the projectile- through the heart of a transformed werewolf will stop him almost immediately."

"Can't the killing curse do the same thing?" Ronald Weasley questioned.

Remus shook his head. "The killing curse doesn't affect us when transformed; it bounces off like a weak stunner. Ironically, this muggle invention is the most effective way of stopping the attack."

"So whose is that?" a girl inquired, nodding to the handgun.

"My wife's," he said simply.

The class went very silent.

"Thank goodness, she's never had to use it," he said, taking the firearm in hand, "but she knows how. As some of you may be aware, however, private citizens were banned from owning such weapons after a tragic attack in a muggle school two years ago."*

"What are we supposed to do, then?" one of the students called rather rudely from the back of the classroom.

Here Lupin paused and turned to the class, eyeing them all very gravely. The student who'd spoken out of turn fell silent.

"First of all," the werewolf said, "I want to make it very clear that what I am teaching you is to be used for defensive purposes only. If used improperly these spells could gravely harm others, and not just werewolves. And while the Ministry may be a bit uncertain as to my status as a human being, they are not at all uncertain in their response to the crimes of murder or assault. Do I make myself clear?"

The students' heads bobbed like those of puppets on strings, though how sincere they were, Remus couldn't be certain. He glanced towards Lavender Brown in an attempt at a wordless apology, but, much to his surprise, the girl looked back at him with blazing gold eyes. She gave him a small nod.

Emboldened by her courage, Remus cleared his throat and continued. "In the case of an attack you have three possibilities: flee, detain or fight. The first is usually accomplished by apparating; the second by casting a charm called the argenti rete, the silver net." Lupin did a complicated sort of motion with his wand, as if he were drawing several crisscrossing squiggles, and then flourished the tip. Several students let out sharp noises and ducked out of the way as a glittering cloud shot past them. When it landed and wrapped itself around a spare chair, knocking it over with a loud clatter, the class saw that it was a thin yet strong silver net.

"A very useful spell," Lupin continued, "and often used by aurors in unfortunate cases of escaped Tames on full moons. But, as you can tell, it's a very tricky charm and takes some skill to use. The precise idea must be in place at the moment of casting; the threads are of steel coated in silver. Forget the steel and the net will break; forget the silver and the werewolf just keep fighting against it until he throws it off. Difficult to use, and not very time-effective. As such, in this class we will be focusing on the easier, if less ideal, method of defense: the arcum argentum."

Even as he said the words, he drew his wand back sharply to above his ear; there was a distinct twang, like a bow being shot, and a blur of silver flashed through the air. An instant later, there was a hard thump! from the back of the classroom, and the students turned to see a silver arrow lodged solidly in the door.

"The Silver Bow," their professor said, lowering his wand. "Developed in the early middle ages for a town that was suffering from monthly attacks. I want each of you to practice it until you are proficient at a moment's notice."

"Professor?" said Parvati Patil uncomfortably. "Are you sure you want us to…?"

He turned to her with somber gold eyes, and she faded off. "I want each of you to listen to me very carefully," Lupin said quietly, surveying the class. "You are adults. Many of you have fought in war. You know that life is not always clean and easy." He paused, and then continued, "When I was still too young to defend myself, Fenrir Greyback broke into my house, invaded my home, with the sole purpose of ending my life. He did not mean to turn me. He meant to destroy me." The werewolf nodded to the arrow lodged in the door. "It was too late to stop the curse, but if it had not been for my father and that charm, I would not be here today. So yes, Miss Patil, I want you to learn this spell– to protect both yourself and perhaps, someday, your family."

Nobody spoke; Harry glanced around and saw that several of the other students had gone very pale. Several more looked as if they might be sick.

"Stand up, all of you," Lupin said suddenly. Everyone scrambled to obey. "Line up on the left side of the room and draw your wands."

They did so; the professor instructed them all not to cross to the other side without his express permission and to be mindful not to fire without checking first for their fellow students, and then conjured up several wooden targets against the opposite wall. Soon the grim atmosphere faded away as the teenagers began to have fun with the assignment; silver arrows littered the floor where they'd bounced off the stone walls, and the professor even had to enchant the windows after Neville Longbottom sent an arrow shattering through the glass. "Nicely done, mate!" Ron said, clapping Harry on the back as the seeker's arrow stuck itself solidly in the center of the target.

"Honestly, I think I might be better off learning the net charm," Hermione said ruefully, after missing the target entirely for the tenth time. "I just can't get the hang of this!"

"Aw, your form is just off, that's all!" Ron dismissed. "Here, let me help you." Harry watched with no little amusement as the redhead stood behind his girlfriend, taking her hands into his. "Now what you wanna do is get a good stance," he began, guiding her as he described it, "feet shoulder-width apart and perpendicular to the target."

"Okay…" As she did so, a faint layer of russet sparks began to appear in the shape of a traditional bow, the arrow glowing brighter than the rest. "Like this?"

"Right. Now point the tip of the arrow on the thing you want to hit– don't move your left arm!" He quickly corrected her stance, much to Hermione's annoyance. "There, okay. Now remember, it's magic–"

"No, really?"

"–so you don't have to be perfect, you just have to really think about the arrow, all the way until it hits the target. On three, alright? One– two–"

The arrow materialized in midair and, a moment after Ron said three, punched so hard into the target that the wood shattered. Hermione let out a delighted gasp and turned to face him. "I did it!"

"Did it? You just about pulverized the target, 'Mione!" Ron exclaimed with a grin.

Harry was struggling to hold back his snorts of laughter when a voice behind him said lightly, "How are we doing over here?" He turned to see his uncle eyeing the trio with interest.

"I think they're doing alright," Harry replied with a smirk. Lupin chuckled and gave him a knowing smile before repairing the target with a wave of his wand.

After about an hour of practice, by which point most of the students were managing to at least consistently hit the target, Lupin called them to a halt. "Alright, everyone, we'll practice more on Wednesday," he said, vanishing the arrows and targets. "Everyone, get some water if you need it and then take a seat. We're not quite done yet."

The students obliged, still chattering cheerfully as they conjured up aguamenti water into the glasses Lupin had provided. When everyone had settled back into their chairs and most of the students fallen quiet again, the professor resumed his lecture.

"My primary goal for this class is to train you to defend yourselves," he began, "But there may come a time when you will have to know how to… well, frankly, how to protect others from yourself." His eyes fell on Lavender once again; this time she didn't meet his eyes, but instead persisted in examining her cherry-wood wand. He drew a deep breath. "To this end, I would like to discuss the last part of today's lesson: the proper courses of action if you or someone you know is ever turned."

He set his wand down on the podium and began to pace. "When one is bitten, the most important thing to realize is that it is absolutely vital to get away from the wolf and any other potential victims; while it is more common to simply be infected, it is not unheard of for a transformed werewolf to go too far and actually kill his victims. Moreover, the transformation itself is not instantaneous; you have about sixty seconds between being bitten and for the disease to spread through the bloodstream to the rest of the body. During that time, it is your moral obligation to apparate, if you are able, to somewhere far from both the wolf and any human targets."

"What is it like?"

He looked over, startled. Ron Weasely flushed red and ducked his head. "Sorry," he murmured. "I-I shouldn't have…"

Remus bit his lip, and then answered honestly, "It's painful. And… unsettling, the feeling of losing your mind, your own self-consciousness, all against your will." He raised a hand to his shoulder unconsciously. "I distinctly remember feeling a sensation like fire, spreading from the bite through the rest of my body. Then, the transformation, and then… nothing. Flashes of memory, of vision, but nothing concrete." He looked to the rest of the class. "Without the Wolfsbane potion, a transformed werewolf has no control over his abilities. He- we- will attack anyone in our way: friend, family, or foe. In that state, distinction is utterly impossible."

"So- professor- if- if we were to ever encounter y- a transformed werewolf…" Neville took a deep breath. "If we couldn't get away, or they were going to attack someone else-"

"You take him down," Lupin said bluntly.

The class was dead silent.

"So you see, it's not something to joke about," he said, tone softening a little as he walked forward. "To talk about 'hunting' or 'exterminating' werewolves is very misleading; to 'slay' a werewolf is to kill a human person, perhaps someone with a spouse or children. In extreme circumstances, it is absolutely permissible- and in fact, obligational- that you stop him from harming yourself or another victim, but it's not a matter to be taken lightly."

The classroom was painfully quiet. No one, not even Harry, seemed able to meet his gaze. Remus swallowed and looked to Lavender. His stomach twisted when he realized that her eyes were shut tight.

"Well," I think he said softly, "I think that about covers it for today. No homework for Wednesday; class is dismissed."

He had never seen a class leave so quickly or so quietly. As the students poured out the door, he followed and said, just loudly enough for another lycanthrope to hear, "Miss Brown? If I might have a word."

Lavender Brown remained behind as the classroom emptied out, staring down at the floor; Parvati and Padma each gave her a quick squeeze of the hand and then left, shutting the door behind them.

Once the door had clicked shut, Remus cleared his throat. "…Miss Brown, I'm sorry if anything I said today caused you discomfort," he said awkwardly. "I didn't mean–"

"No," she interrupted, surprising him, and her expression when she glanced up was firm. "It's fine. They… they need to know." She shivered, crossing her arms, and added: "I would never wish this on anyone. Not ever."

Remus nodded. "You are… an incredible young lady, Miss Brown. I commend you for it." He offered her a small smile and added, "You are far more of a Gryffindor than I ever was at your age. You can take pride in that."

Lavender smiled at that, a real smile. "Thank you, Professor."

"No thanks necessary. Well," he checked his watch, "I believe you have a transfiguration class to be getting to, no?"

"Yes. Have a good day, Professor."

"And you, Miss Brown."

The rest of the day passed in relative peace; when Remus returned home he was in high spirits, whistling Otto the Hero as he opened the door. "Dora, I'm–"

He stopped short at the sight before him, and then added wryly, "–guessing you need some help."

One Nymphadora Lupin scowled up at him, the mushed peas on her face clashing horridly with her red hair. Teddy was squalling angrily, waving his fists, both his face and his hair the same shade of ripe tomato as his mother's. "Oho! You think this is funny, do you?"

"Well–"

"Here." She stalked over and shoved the spoon into his hands. "You can feed your son, Mr. Joker; I've been putting up with this ever since you left and I am done!" She stalked off towards the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" Remus called.

She whirled around, eyes flashing scarlet; Remus jumped. "To get the mushed peas out of my hair, you oblivious cretin!" She stormed into the bathroom, made to slam the door, and then thought better of it and closed it quietly behind her. Remus heard the tap water start to run and sighed, sitting down in the seat across from the high chair.

"So you've been a troublesome boy today, have you, Teddy?" he murmured, scooping the admittedly unappealing green mush into the spoon. "You do realize that has an effect on your old tad too, don't you?" He lifted the spoon to Teddy's mouth, but the baby only fussed. Remus grimaced. "Please, Teddy? Here comes the broomstick! Whoosh! Whoo–"

Teddy screamed loud enough to make Remus clap his hands over his sensitive ears and knocked the bowl of peas off the little table. His father huffed, beginning to grow irritated himself– and then something white and gleaming caught his eye. He stood up as Teddy continued to wail, peering closely at his son's open mouth. There, sticking sharp out of the pink gums, were the tips of two sharp fangs.

"Oh, Teddy," Remus sighed, picking his son up out of the highchair; Teddy snuffled and continued to cry, his hair shifting from red to a miserable dusty brown, quite unlike his normal chocolate curls. "Here…" He summoned a cloth from the kitchen with his hand and murmured, "Aguamenti frigus."

Immediately the rag became sopping wet with ice water; he squeezed it out and then tucked the end into his son's cherubic mouth. Teddy resisted for a few moments, and then appeared to realize how good the cold rag felt on his gums and began to suck on it, his hair fading from brown to a cheerful blue.

"How'd you do that?" He turned to find Dora studying him, scrubbing her ear out with a washcloth. Remus raised a questioning eyebrow and she added grumpily, "Don't ask. How did you get him to stop crying?"

"He's teething. My mam told me once that she used to do this for me when I was a baby."

"Teething?" Dora walked over with an expression of surprise. "I didn't even notice…"

"Hm. I'm not surprised; it's only his fangs thus far…" He flushed as he realized what he'd said and cleared his throat. "Incisors, I mean. It's his incisors."

Dora frowned, touching his shoulder. "You know you don't have to do that around me, Remus. I'm not worried."

"I know. I just…" He looked down to the happily sucking baby in his arms and swallowed. "I don't want him to hear it."

His wife nodded. "Um… I'm sorry I called you an oblivious cretin," she mumbled, ducking her head.

Remus chuckled. "Apology accepted, Dora. Had a long day, then?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Together they sat down at the table, Remus setting Teddy back in the highchair and murmuring grace before cutting into his beef-and-potatoes pie. As he stuck a piece in his mouth, his wife added, "Oh, by the way: a letter arrived from you today. Muggle paper, though– and delivered by an eagle."

Remus sat up straighter. "An eagle?"

"Yep. Know anything about that?"

"Yes; it's the reply from the Shadowsmoke alpha. May I see it?"

Dora summoned a letter from the counter and handed it to him. As claimed, the envelope was definitely the white flimsy sort of paper muggles used. Remus tore it open to find that the letter within had been written on a scrap of dirty blue-lined paper.

Dora watched her husband read silently for several moments, before her curiosity got the better of her: "What does it say?"

"Hmm… Pitchpelt– that's the alpha– he says he's heard nothing of the sort and issued no such orders. That worries me."

"Why?"

Remus looked up with a troubled gaze. "Because I never insinuated that he did. I didn't want to cause offense." He returned to reading the letter with a frown. "But he's said that he'll be making inquiries into the matter…" Brow still furrowed, he folded the letter again. "Dora, could you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Put the office on the alert. If anyone reports an attack next full moon, especially by a black-furred werewolf… well, let's just say both of us will have a problem on our hands."

His wife nodded grimly. "Will do, love."

Teddy's cooing drew their attention; Remus looked over to see the boy reaching for his father's pie with his chubby baby hands. "Ahh, the boy knows what's good!"

"Remus, he can't eat solid food yet!" Dora scolded as he spooned several lumps of his pie onto the side of his plate.

"I know, I know. Conmisceo!" The beef and potatoes immediately pureed themselves. Teddy squealed and clapped his hands as his father lifted the spoon to his mouth. Remus laughed and made broomstick sounds, his hazel eyes sparkling with joy. And Dora merely sat back and watched, smiling softly to herself. Despite everything, all the worries and fears– yes, despite everything, this moment, right here and now, was perfect.

The icy wind bit at the man's ears as he hurried the cold London streets, shivering. The guard coming on-duty gave him a curt nod. "Evening, Duskhide. Anything of interest?"

"Nothing. All's clear." There was very rarely anything of note, but the alpha insisted on having a guard stationed at all times. Whenever the pack moved, there was always the risk that the local muggle gang would see it as an encroachment on their territory and try to start something. There was never any real worry– muggles had guns, but werewolves were stronger and tough as nails– but a slaughter would draw attention from the muggle police and the pack would have to move again. Seeing as it was winter and they'd just settled down into this den– the hollowed-out husk of an old, charred factory that nearly burn down in the forties– alpha didn't want to move again so soon, and Pitch-pelt agreed.

"Good to know. By the way, Alpha wants to speak with you."

Pitchpelt wanted to speak to him? Duskhide was immediately set on his guard; the alpha rarely spoke to his subordinates unless giving commands. "Alrigh', I'll be up in a minute. Thanks for the notice, Iceclaw."

The other guard nodded again and began his rounds, and Duskhide slipped inside.

The majority of the pack was huddled around a few fires that had been started in the corner of the old factory floor, the smoke hanging thick in the air and drifting out slowly through a broken window near the ceiling. Most were asleep; three were warming themselves next to the biggest blaze and combining their earnings from their begging shifts. Soon the "lifters" – the petty thieves who stole their daily bread– and the hunters, who caught squirrels and alley cats where they could, would be in with whatever they'd managed to scrounge for the evening meal. Duskhide passed by them and headed up the metal staircase to what remained of the old foreman's office. As he walked along, whistling, he kept his hands stuffed inside his pockets, one resting on a thin wooden stave. Only about half of the pack were wizards, and he was one of them.

Alpha Pitchpelt was waiting for him in the observation loft, a windowed room overlooking the gutted floor and the only part of the factory left undamaged by the fire or centuries of neglect. Duskhide dropped to a knee in submission and then rose. "Alpha. Iceclaw said you wanted to speak with me?"

Alpha Pitchpelt was a young man in his early thirties, pale and scarred, with lank black hair that fell over his yellow eyes. By his sallow appearance and small stature Duskhide thought that he had once been a relatively thin man, but since having turned feral he had grown bulkier, broad-shouldered and strong-jawed. The edges of sharp white fangs hung down over his thin lips. He leaned back in an old chair against the wall, eating the meat off a roasted chicken. "Duskhide," he mused, kicking his feet up onto the rotting desk. "How long has it been since you were turned?"

"Three years, Alpha."

"Three years." He pulled a strip of meat off of a bone and then crushed it between his teeth, sucking out the marrow. "Why did you join us again?"

"I was an orphan. A penniless drunk, living on the streets with nowhere to go. The Dark Lord promised me power, promised me a pack."

Pitchpelt nodded. "And have we given you power, Duskhide?"

"Yes, Alpha," he vowed, "More than was ever given to those worthless humans he called his followers. More still, since you let me turn Feral off that muggle boy."

"Good." The alpha leaned forward; the legs of his chair hit the rotting wooden floor with a loud thud. "You have been loyal, Duskhide. Very loyal. Tell me, what do you know of Calon-Arian? You were a student of his, weren't you?"

Duskhide's eyes widened slightly in surprise; to dare call the Zenith Alpha by his pack name…! Still, he said nothing of his alpha's insolence and replied carefully, "Yes, Alpha, I was. He taught during my seventh year."

"And what do you remember of him?"

"He was… very intelligent. Very powerful, even among the wizards, though he didn't look it. And… he taught the class how to defend against wolves." Alpha Pitchpaw released a low growl, and Duskhide dared to question: "If you will pardon my rudeness, Alpha, why do you ask?"

"That is none of your concern," Pitchpelt snarled. His subordinate lowered his head, and he nodded to the door "You have been very helpful, Duskhide. Extra rations for you tonight. You may go."

The subordinate dropped to a knee again and then left. As the door closed behind him, Pitchpelt leaned his chair back against the wall, musing to himself. Yes, he had heard that Calon-Arian, the wolf with the Silver Heart, was a man of great intelligence and insight… and already, he seemed suspicious. Blast that muggle student; if only he had died when he was supposed to…

Well, Pitchpelt thought to himself, no use crying over rotten meat. If he was going to withstand the authority of the Zenith Alpha he would need support. But how to get it? With the other packs still loyal to Silverheart, he would be severely punished if he were to outwardly contradict orders…

Like a vision it came to him. With a savage smirk, he pushed his chair down again onto four legs and opened the top drawer of the old desk. Within lay several sheets of lined paper and a handful of cheap muggle pens. But none of those would do; no, if he was going to make amends with the rightful Zenith Alpha, whom he had betrayed on behalf of a mere trinket, he would need to do so groveling on his paws and knees. Within a small, soft box at the back of the drawer he found what he was looking for: a blue fountain pen. He removed his last sheet of wizarding parchment and, after a pause, began to address the letter:

Greetings to my most fearsome lord, the Alpha Anterth Fenrir Cefn-Llwyd,

I am writing regarding the matter of that imposter and dog, the plaything of the humans: that Mutt who bears the detestable name of Lupin…

A/N: I'm sorry! I know it's late, and not my best. But there was finals and then Christmas Break… anyhow, I do hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review! Merry Christmas, and pax et bonum! –FFcrazy15

*Brunhill = Brown's Hill. Lords and ladies in antiquity were not the lord of their own name but of their estate; Malfoy Manor just happens to be the same as the surname of its owners.

*This is in reference to the tragic Dunblane school shooting of 1996, where an armed gunman killed 16 children and a teacher in a Scottish primary school. This was followed by the 1997 Firearms (Amendment) Acts which banned most handguns in England, Scotland and Wales. I sincerely apologize to any British readers if the reference came off as heavy-handed, but I thought I ought to include it considering how close in time the setting of the piece is to when the shooting occurred.