Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. The Lai of Melion is a genuine French werewolf legend by Marie de France; I owe my knowledge of it to a translation of her works done by Dr. Helen Nicholson (Les Lais anonymes des XIIe et XIIIe siècles, ed Prudence M. O'Hara Tobin (Geneva, 1976). Translation copyright 1988, 1999, by Helen Nicholson.)

QuoteMyFoot: Don't apologize! Your criticism had some very nice points; honestly "Silver and Gold" was a tough chapter to work out and by the end I was rushing it a bit. You're right, those both would have been very good ideas. It's a bit late to change that now, unfortunately, but you ought to give yourself a pat on the back for your insight. Thanks for the review!

Warnings: a slightly disturbing nightmare (first section, right below this); references to depression.

Note: I'm not a grief counselor, and I have never directly experienced the death of someone I love, let alone my own child, so I have no idea how a mother would react to losing her son. I know that I've probably understated Molly's grief here and I'm sorry for that, but I'm not sure how to do that sort of tragedy justice without upending the whole plot of the story. Please accept my apologies.

–Shafts of bright moonlight split the room, pooling pale and silver on the floor and the quilt over his legs–

Eyelids fluttering. Fingers twitching.

–A putrid smell of blood and rotting meat pervaded the room, and with it a low, bone-chilling growl–

Chest heaving. Beads of sweat rolling down pale shoulders, over scars old and new. The head jerked to the side, flinching away.

–The gold eyes gleamed out of the darkness, and he screamed as a monstrous wolf lunged from the shadows:–

"NO!"

Remus shot up in bed, looking around wildly. Dora jerked awake beside him and grabbed her wand, but there was no one. Slowly she turned to her husband.

Remus was sitting upright in the bed, gasping for air. Tremors raced through the muscles under his skin, and is eyes had gone a poisonous luminescent yellow in the darkness, staring at something she couldn't see. "Remus?" she whispered, afraid to speak any louder lest he lash out in unwitting panic. He flinched, ever muscle taut, and then seemed to relax as he realized where he was.

"Dora," he sighed, turning to look at her. "So… it was just a dream."

She nodded uncertainly, unsure what to do or say. She never was in these situations.

Remus let out a low sigh and rolled his shoulders, checking his watch. Just hardly six in the morning. Outside the window to the east he could see the sky growing to a turquoise blue at the horizon. He ran a hand through his hair, still damp with the cold sweat, and swung his legs out over the bed. "Where are you going?" Dora asked tiredly.

"No point in going back to sleep now. Don't think I could manage it if I tried, anyhow." He stood up and took his folded clothes off the chair from where he had laid them out the night before. "I'm going to have some breakfast."

"I'll join you," Dora said with a yawn, moving to get out of the bed.

"Really, Dora, it's fine; you need your rest for work."

"Are you sure? I don't mind…"

Remus smiled at her, but it was a thin smile. "I'm sure. Go back to sleep, Dora."

She eyed him doubtfully, but apparently the sire call of sweet sleep was too great a lure to resist, so she gave him a quick peck on the lips and then lay back down and drifted off. Remus watched her a moment longer, and then slipped out the door into the sitting room of the apartment. He dressed in the lavatory, lit the fire, and made himself a cup of tea and toast with jam. And then he sat.

A strange shiver rushed through him as he stared at the small blaze flickering in the hearth. For a moment a vision of golden eyes in the blackness flashed through his mind and then faded. He shuddered again and took a drink of his tea. He wouldn't think about it. It was over now, it had been over thirty-four years ago. He was a man, a father to a child of his own. And if Greyback ever came for his boy, well, Remus Lupin XIII would not hesitate to do his bit for the old family business, lycanthrope himself or no.

But these were poisonous thoughts, ugly thoughts. Remus shook his head and finished off the last few bites of his toast, trying to dismiss the thoughts by force of will. It didn't work; the visions swirled around his head like a swarm of angry bees, begging for his acknowledgement and then stinging him with regret the moment he did. Downing the rest of his tea Remus stood and, without even really thinking about it, threw his cloak over his shoulders.

Dora would be fine, he told himself as he locked the door to the apartment behind him. The babysitter would be there before she left for work and he'd left a note explaining where he'd gone so hopefully she wouldn't be too worried. He just needed to be alone for a while, Remus decided. He didn't want to talk, he just wanted to be, to do, to move around. And Dora, for all her wonderful gifts, was not very good at being quiet.

His plans to be alone didn't work for more than two minutes. At the foot of the steps he was greeted, much to his surprise, by a weary-looking Professor Minerva McGonagall. "Remus! I was just coming up to see you," she said, blinking several times too many, as if she hadn't slept well the night before. Remus studied her with slight concern; her graying hair hung down her back in a long braid, which he knew from having received a fair few detentions as a boy in the wee hours of the morning was how she wore it to bed, and she looked as if she'd dressed in a hurry. "Your sixth-year class has been canceled for the morning."

"Canceled? Whatever for?"

She sighed and adjusted her glasses. "Last night during his astronomy class Firenze noticed that one of the students was acting more irritable than usual. Not knowing much about wizarding diseases, he didn't think much of it until one of the other students realized that the boy's eyes had turned green."

Remus's eyebrows rose. "There's a greeneye infection going around?"

"Apparently so. Unfortunately, that particular lesson had used a high-grade telescope– they were examining the rings of Saturn, I believe– and by the time Firenze realized what had happened, they had all already used the telescope. To make matters short, Madame Pomfrey and I have quarantined the sixth-year class to the hospital wing; from what we can see we've made the right choice, though I must say I don't envy Poppy for it."

"Mm. Spending the day in room of forty hormonal teenagers growing continuously more jealous and spiteful can't be a picnic, no."

McGonagall gave him a bare smile and checked her watch. "I promised Molly I'd have tea out at the Burrow today, and I've a board meeting after that, so I think it's best if I try to catch at least an hour or two of sleep. Do have a good day, Remus."

"And you, Professor."

They parted ways at the stairwell, McGonagall heading up to her apartment, Remus down a hallway towards one of the many school exits. The icy rush of air on his cheeks as he pushed open the door out onto the green was deliciously refreshing, and he stepped outside, throwing the hood of the cloak over his head. His breath froze into a white mist as he crossed the frosty green to the Forbidden Forest.

The wood was quiet and still, aside from the occasional hoot of an owl and the soft crunch of frosted grass underfoot. Remus had long learned to walk quietly among the snow-drifted trees, and it was for this reason, among others, that he could safely pass through this forest where others dared not trod. As he walked his thoughts drifted back over many winters walking through these ancient trees; brief glimpses of gleaming drifts, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight, and glassy brooks glittering white on the surface against the black depths passed through his mind like memories of a dream; he saw once more in perfect clarity the lean, white body of the Stag, felt the snuffling wet nose of the Dog, heard the whispered scurrying of the Rat. The memories of those magical, almost fairytale-like nights had been some of the happiest of his youth, a childhood that had spanned the strange gap between ordinary adolescent matters (mooning after girls, complaining about homework, sneaking around under an old Cloak with James Potter's knobby elbow shoved uncomfortably between his ribs) and bloody scenes more suitable to a horror story.

An image flashed through his mind: a very young boy in a photograph, giggling up at the photographer, green eyes glinting in the sunlight and sandy brown hair tousled by the wind coming in off the sea. A bitter ache panged his heart as it always did when the memory of the photograph came to mind. He had first found it when he was eight years old, tucked away in an album in his parents' hope chest beneath a box of old Christmas cards. He'd stared at it for hours, mesmerized. This is what happiness looks like, he'd told himself. This was when I was whole.

Remus shook his head, trying to clear out the bitter memories. Sulking and despair was of no use, he knew, but it was strangely alluring. Reflections swirled through his mind, and with them the deep, suffocating feeling of depression in his throat. He closed his eyes and breathed in, trying to calm the burning memories with better ones. New images came then: his mother's pale, slender hands, handing him a ceramic mug of thick hot chocolate. His father's eyes, deep blue, the ever-present regret falling away for a moment in a rush of pride as his son held out a prefect's badge. Four boys stifling their laughter as they escaped through the halls under a silvery cloak. A woman with hair the color of dawn, kissing the brow of a cream-cheeked infant.

Remus opened his eyes to find himself smiling. Yes, these were the good memories. These were the core elements of who he was, not the voices who whispered their lies, accusing him of depravity and corruption. Greyback had wounded the flesh and so doing had wounded the heart, but he had not destroyed his victim's true nature: son, father, husband, friend. Man, not beast.

He was startled from his thoughts by the suddenly crack of a twig breaking somewhere in the trees, and instinctively he stopped, withdrawing into the shadows of an ancient gnarled oak. He drew his wand silently and scanned the woods around him for any sign of motion. Nothing… nothing…

There! A shift in shadows and a gleam of gold caught his eyes; he stared hard at where the glimmer had originated and slowly, as if recognizing the trick in an optical illusion, the full figure came into view.

Remus laughed and stepped out from behind the trees, stowing his wand. "Are you going to shoot me, Firenze?" he called, chuckling. "I warn you, I won't taste very good!"

The shift in shadows came again, more dramatically than before, as Firenze lowered his bow and stepped out from between the trees, smiling slightly in the centaur fashion. He bent his torso low in a traditional bow, and the man inclined his head. "Greetings, lord of the wood," the centaur said formally, rising from his bow.

"Greetings, master of the arrow and the stars," Remus replied. He had been only twelve when the herd of the Forbidden Forest had first addressed him as "young lord," and had always felt embarrassed by the title, though he accepted it without reproach, for he knew it was a centaur's way of showing respect. "And a good morning. I imagine you've been visiting the herd? How is everyone?"

Firenze seemed to appreciate the question. "Quite well, thank you. It has been a warm winter thus far and the hunting is good." He gestured through the sparkling drifts. "I know that you step lightly in these woods and will not scare the game. Perhaps we might walk together?"

"The company would be very welcome, thank you."

The pair took to walking through the snowy woods, neither speaking. After some time Firenze said, "You have been walking much in these woods of late, my lord. Bane is not pleased."

Remus chuckled dryly. "Does anything please Bane?"

Firenze's mouth twitched just slightly into a stoic smile. "Not much, no."

"Why is he upset? I haven't gone near your home." Firenze hesitated, and Remus sighed. "So even Bane believes that I am threat to the herd?"

"Though you have not intruded into our glens, too many of your kind have done so as of late. And it is not unheard of for a wolf-shifter to attack a centaur." When Remus did not reply, Firenze added, "Apologies for any offense, my lord."

"None taken. I can understand his reserve… what does Lady Maura think?"

"Hnn… Lady Maura has always been fond of you, as you know, and as such the herd trusts you. Bane will abide by her decisions, but there is no doubt that some among our number have become restless." The centaur shook his head. "The mares more than anyone are raising cries. They fear for their foals."

"I understand." Firenze looked over and saw that the man's hazel eyes had grown dark. "I, too, am worried for my family."

They both stopped suddenly at the sound of rustling in the branches; Remus drew his wand again and Firenze nocked his bow, both aiming at a screen of snow-blanketed branches not far off. For a tense moment there was silence, and then, softly at first and then louder, laughter began to ring out– sweet, musical laughter, like the sound of water trickling over rocks. Firenze immediately relaxed, and Remus, following his lead, lowered his wand.

"I'm afraid I am no hind for your bow, Firenze," the lovely voice called. Out from behind the trees there stepped what Remus first assumed to be a beautiful young lady carrying a basket on her arm, but he soon noted that her torso was joined to the body of a white Eriskay pony. He glanced over and noted with surprise that Firenze had gone pink at the cheeks, though he stepped forward and bowed to the filly. "M-my apologies, Miss Shona," the other centaur said. "I was not aware that you had left the glen."

"I came to gather wintergreen berries." She suddenly noticed Remus and did a graceful sort of half-bow which he knew to be a centaur's version of a curtsy. "The lord of the wood."

"Miss Shona," Remus greeted politely.

The filly smiled, and then turned to the colt. Firenze's cheeks were still stained pink. "Well, I– I suppose I'd best be along."

"Yes," Firenze agreed hastily, "Yes, I as well. Ah– good day, Miss Shona."

"And you Firenze." She cantered away, vanishing into the trees. When Remus looked up, he found Firenze still staring at the spot where she had disappeared, blue eyes wide and dazed. Remus grinned.

"What a charming young lady," he said, examining his gloved hands idly and glancing up at the centaur with twinkling eyes.

"Yes," Firenze murmured distantly. "Yes, quite charming." He didn't manage to tear his eyes away from the spot until after Remus had strode ahead, letting out peals of booming laughter.

"Oh, Minerva, you look a fright! Come in, come in; we've got hot water boiling for tea and oatmeal…"

Minerva McGonagall had to refrain from releasing a deep sigh of relief upon stepping into the Burrow. From the day sweet little Molly and Arthur Weasley, newlyweds with a baby on the well on the way, had first invited her 'round for tea, the Burrow had always felt like home to the old professor. Of course, then she had still been young herself, just thirty-five, yet even then having long despaired of ever marrying and having children of her own. Nearly forty years later, the headmistress could still recall watching the glowing and round-bellied Molly Weasley, all vibrant redheaded youth and new motherhood, and feeling bitterly envious.

Now, of course, all such jealousy had long passed. They were old, Minerva thought ruefully, both of them, and had seen too much to envy anyone. The headmistress's eyes fell to the clock where Fred Weasley's spoon still pointed resolutely to home and felt sympathy tighten in her heart.

"Let me take your cloak, dear, you just sit down…" The ever-maternal Molly swept Minerva's green cloak into her arms without waiting for an answer and went to go hang it on the hook beside the door. Minerva gratefully accepted the offer, sinking into a cushy armchair with a sigh that spoke of old joints and angsty teenagers. Molly, herself a veteran in such matters, regarded the older woman with sympathy.

"Long night?"

"A greeyeye infection," Minerva groaned, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the chair.

"Ooh. Nasty, that. Class?"

"Sixth-years. I haven't slept all night."

Molly winced sympathetically. Green-eye was bad enough when it was small children (the memory of Ron and Ginny screaming at each other, red-faced, over a single painted building block still made her ears ring) but an epidemic among teenagers was bound to be brutal. "Sounds like you need a cuppa."

"Nnnng."

Molly had to stifle a chuckle to herself at the sight of her old professor nearly passed-out on the chair, too exhausted even to reply, and took the kettle off the stove. By the time she'd poured out two cups of earl grey and brought them over to the chair, McGonagall had managed to rouse herself a bit and was sitting up straighter to receive the cup. "Thank you, Molly."

"It's nothing, really."

Minerva glanced up at her with a grateful smile. Many people, following the end of the war, had expected Molly Weasley to crumble and waste away with grief: how, they had wondered amongst themselves in worried whispers, could a woman whose very nature was rooted in motherhood possibly withstand the death of her son, the child of her womb? And indeed, Molly had grieved, and grieved deeply; Minerva even now could see the heavy weight of sorrow on her shoulders, and she suspected that the deepest dregs of the woman's loss had been shared only with the one soul who could truly understand: her husband.

But Molly had not crumbled, just as Minerva had known she wouldn't. Those others had not known the young wife and mother who had been stricken by the anguishes of the first war: the rejection by her parents, the loss of her friends, even the death of her two beloved brothers, such men whose likeness Minerva had not seen until George and Fred Weasley had crossed the Hogwarts threshold. She had born up them and she would bear up now. No, Molly, who was mother and wife through and through, had accepted the agony of loss without fighting it, and had somehow risen and gone on, carrying her lost son in her heart as dearly as ever.

Still, Minerva felt that as her friend she had a duty, and so she asked gently, "Molly. How have you been doing? Are you– well, 'alright' isn't the right word, but…"

Molly understood and returned the question with a sad smile. "We're managing," she replied honestly. "Some days better than others. It's… hard." She looked down to her teacup and ran her thumb along the porcelain handle. "But we're getting through."

Minerva nodded. "Where's Arthur?"

"Out in the shop. He spends a lot of time out there– thinking, I suppose– but he always comes back to me. I don't know what I'd do without him." She suddenly realized what she'd said and looked up, embarrassed. "Oh, Minerva… I'm so sorry, I didn't mean–"

The headmistress raised a hand. "It's alright, Molly." She mirrored the other woman with a pained half-smile of her own. "We've all got our burdens."

Molly nodded knowingly. She took a sip of her own tea and studied the way that the professor frowned down at the steaming cup, blinking a bit too rapidly. "Minerva," she questioned, concerned, "are you sure you oughtn't go get some rest? I won't be offended."

"There'd be no point in it," Minerva sighed, rubbing her temples with her free hand. "I have a board meeting in an hour."

"Oh, you poor dear."

"I'll be alright– so long as I can manage to keep from shouting down Governor Hargrave, anyhow." She brightened slightly, and Molly saw a mischievous glint come into her green eyes. "Besides, I think I'll quite enjoy seeing his reaction when I introduce our new financial advisor."

"Oh? Why so?" The headmistress took a prim sip of her tea, and Molly eyed her suspiciously. "Minerva McGonagall, what did you do?"

"Nothing outside of my position," she replied with a slight shrug, setting down her cup. "I simply hired a very qualified young man for the job, a Mr. Theron Lowell."

Molly's eyes went wide at the name. "Theron Lowell?" she repeated. "The one who used to own–"

"Mm-hm."

"And the one who Remus–"

"Precisely."

Molly gawked at her, and then slowly began to grin. "You rascal!" she exclaimed, chortling. "You absolute shrew, Minerva!"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," McGonagall said stoically, though her mouth was twitching against her will.

Molly cackled, standing up and bustling over to the cauldron in which the oatmeal had begun to bubble. "Ooh, I wish I could be there! It's high time someone put that prejudiced, chauvinistic oaf in his place; I remember when we were in school together he used to tell me if I were sensible I'd find a 'man with means' instead of seeing a Weasley. Hmmf! I wouldn't have gone with him if he'd owned half the gold in Gringotts. You give him hell for me, Minerva!"

"Oh, I'll certainly do my best."

"Hullo, what's all this?" A pair of bespectacled eyes topped with silver-streaked red hair peeked in through the window. "Professor! What a nice surprise!"

"It's not a surprise, you numpty!" Molly scowled and smacked the top of her husband's head lightly with a dishtowel. "I told you she was coming over three days ago! That was why you took the morning off, or don't you remember?"

"Oh. Er, no, dear," Arthur said sheepishly. "Be right round." Molly gave a long-suffering sigh that didn't quite match her fond smile as she watched her husband tramp in through the door, blushing with embarrassment; Minerva watched warily as he set down a pair of large-looking boxes.

"Oh, Arthur, not those again…"

"I can't leave them out in the shop, Molly; the electronics will rust…"

"Are those speakers?" Minerva inquired, frowning at the boxes.

"Don't get him started," Molly warned, but Arthur looked delighted.

"They are indeed! However did you guess?"

"I had an old muggle radio as a girl," the witch said with a frown, inspecting them. "But there are no dials… How do they work without a signal?"

Arthur beamed. "Well that's what I'm trying to figure out! Now apparently the trick is to plug them in somewhere on a muggle radio, and these make the sound much louder! The trouble, of course, is trying to figure out how to get them to connect to a magical radio…" He waved his wand at them half-heartedly.

That was a mistake; without warning, a loud, poppy drumbeat and distinctly American voice blasted out of the speakers at full volume. Minerva and Molly clapped their hands over their ears. "Arthur!" Molly bellowed.

"Sorry! Sorry!" He waved his wand again; bright blue sparks flashed out of the speakers and then the song went dead.

Arthur turned to them, wincing sheepishly. Molly was glaring at him. "That one's been playing a lot lately," he offered, as if in way of apology. "Seems to be something about a 'smooth criminal.' I don't really see the appeal, but the muggles must like it."

"Do they now?" Molly said, voice dangerously calm. Minerva had to stifle a laugh.

"Er… well, yes…"

"Arthur?"

"…Yes, dear?"

"Put them. Away."

Minerva hid a chortle behind a sip of tea as Arthur blushed red and bustled out the door with stereo in arm, mumbling apologies all the while. Molly turned back to her guest with a sigh. "I'm terribly sorry, Minerva."

"Oh, no, it's fine." She smiled slightly. "Same old Arthur. Some things never change."

"Yes…" Molly smiled sadly, looking around the decidedly empty house. Mementos of her children hung upon every wall, were scratched into every doorpost and even the top of the very table at which they sat. There was the bench where Bill had taught Ginevra to tie her shoe laces; there, the chair where Percy had sat doing his summer homework hour after hour in the lazy afternoon sun; and there, the burn on the wall from one of the twins' very first fireworks, which had covered Freddy's gleeful little face in soot…

"Yes," she repeated softly, "And some things do."

And Minerva understood.

"…And now to matters of the budget." Governor Hargrave turned to look at her with a very self-satisfied expression. "As Minerva has not managed to locate a financial advisor for this board, I once again move to raise student tuition by fifteen percent."

The other governors glanced about and began to mutter among themselves, many clearly uncomfortable with the position. Struggling to keep the smug smile from her lips, McGonagall cleared her throat and rose to her feet. "Actually, Governor Hargrave," she said calmly, quieting the room, "I have managed to find a financial advisor."

Hargrave stared, incredulous. "I beg your pardon?"

"I took your advice and hired an advisor for the school. His position will become permanent, pending the board's approval; I think you'll all be quite pleased with my selection." She turned to Hargrave and smiled coolly.

"And where, exactly, is this advisor?" the governor said testily.

"I asked him to wait at home. I thought, perhaps, that having such a renowned figure at our proceedings might be cause for distraction; he's a rather well-known man, you see."

"Oh?" Hargrave's face was very swiftly turning a shade of red more appropriate to a beetroot than a governor.

"Indeed. Would you like me to invite him in?"

"By all means," the chairman replied, sounding as if he meant quite the contrary.

Minerva paced over to the fire and threw in a handful of green powder, murmuring the address quietly; it would not bode well for the Lowells, she knew, if word of their location somehow got back to Greyback. A moment later Theron's head appeared in the flames.

"Hullo, Professor. Is it time?"

"It is. You should be able to step right through; it's open on our side."

Theron's face disappeared, and a moment later his form spun into view as the green flames died away. He straightened his suit as he stepped out of the hearth, brushing ash off his shoulders. "Chairman, governors of the board," McGonagall said cordially, turning back to face the stunned table, "I would like to introduce you to Mr. Theron Lowell, former CEO of Cauldrons and Company. He has offered to work for us for a very modest salary, as a gift to the school."

"A pleasure to meet you all," Lowell said politely.

The council continued to stare. Several of them, Minerva noted with apprehension, seemed even to be frightened.

Theron sensed the same and glanced over at her a moment, before clearing his throat. "As it happens, I have been blessed today to come as the bearer of good news." He set his briefcase on the table and removed a manila folder, opening it up to reveal several important-looking bank statements, all bearing the Gringotts stamp. "As many of you know, Gringotts has been working very hard over the last several months to verify and reopen several accounts which were frozen during the war."

"We were aware. What of it?" said Governor James O'Breen, apparently the first to regain his composure in the face of the werewolf's presence.

"As you could probably have guessed, among those accounts were included those of the Potter Estate. I received an account statement this morning informing me that the last of their accounts have been unfrozen."

"But why would Hogwarts receive notices regarding a private account?" said Governor Cross, surprised.

"Because," Theron replied, removing a document from the folder and sliding it into the middle of the table, "it seems that Lily and James Potter named the school as a benefactor in their will."

"What?" The whole council stood, crowding around the statement. Minerva's mouth dropped open as she skimmed the document. Most of the legal jargon was beyond her field of expertise, but one thing that spoke loud and clear was the sizeable galleon total at the bottom.

"What does this mean?" one of the governors wondered aloud.

"The will apparently listed that upon the completion of their son's final year of education, which of course the Potters believed would be in the spring of 1998, the school would receive a substantial grant from the Potter Estate in gratitude for all you have done for their family." Theron removed another piece of paper from the folder, this one clearly a spreadsheet. "I've run the numbers: there's enough money to cover the repairs without having to raise tuition or lower salaries; in fact, there will even be a small amount left over."

"How small?" Governor Walsh inquired.

"Not much– a few hundred galleons at most. You would probably be able to reinstate the end-of-term feast if you wished."

Minerva's head was spinning; tears had filled her eyes, and she sank into the nearest chair, covering her mouth with her hand. "That wonderful boy," she said softly, shaking her head. "Oh, James…"

"This is incredible. The students–"

"All the repairs covered! And leftover funds besides!"

"And we won't have to raise tuition!"

"Enough!"

The excited conversation stopped, and Minerva looked over. Somehow she was not surprised to see Governor Hargrave glaring at her from across the table. "Enough," he snapped. "Minerva, what is the meaning of this?"

"Beg pardon?" she replied, genuinely baffled.

"This!" Hargrave gestured angrily to Theron, and Minerva's blood began to boil. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"Excuse me?" said Theron, affronted. Hargrave ignored him.

"First the girl, then that infernal teacher, and now this! Trusting one of their kind with our blasted bank statements!" Hargrave was very nearly spitting with fury. "I know you have some sort of– of incomprehensible pity for these creatures, Minerva, but this, this goes too far!"

That was it. Like a teakettle past the boiling point, Minerva McGonagall felt her Scottish wrath bubble over, and in one swift motion she stood and drew her wand– a move which almost certainly would have had disastrous consequences for her career, if it hadn't been overshadowed by an even more explosive reaction:

"Eustace Hargrave!"

Theresa Cross's shriek rang through the room, drawing every eye; the black-haired witch looking like nothing so much as an eagle bearing down upon a quivering mouse. "I know you are a bigot and a fool, but have you lost your ever-loving mind?! Until twenty seconds ago the school was in the red!" She slammed her hand down on the tabletop, making the chairman jump. "We do not have the luxury of enduring your pathetic prejudices, so I suggest that unless you, by some miraculous bestowing of hitherto unseen brainpower from Heaven above, have managed to come up with a better solution, you had best sit down and hold your bloody tongue!"

A proud and pompous man he may have been, but even Governor Eustace Henry Hargrave could not help but quail under such a biting barrage. Mumbling something about apologies, he took his seat, not daring to meet anyone's eyes. Governor Cross did the same, breathing heavily through her nose. Minerva raised an eyebrow, a twitch tugging at her mouth. "Well," she said coolly, as if a duel hadn't very nearly erupted over the conference table in front of her, "I believe that about settles it. Shall we vote?"

And so it was that with remarkably little fuss the very first werewolf in Hogwarts history joined the board of governors.

When all was said and done, Minerva McGonagall would look back upon that day as one of the most interesting and productive board meetings of her career. By the time Hargrave (looking very much as if he would have rather fought a dragon than stay another minute) moved to adjourn the meeting, a new budget plan had been drawn, several letters had been drafted to Gringotts, and even the matter of the centaur colony's claim to the Black Forest had received approval for consideration. As the councilmembers tidied up their places and began to the leave through the floo, Minerva caught Theresa by the arm. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "If you hadn't stepped in, I think I may have hexed him myself."

"Yes, I thought you might." Theresa smiled and looked past her to where Theron was packing up his briefcase. "Theron Lowell, advising us! I can't imagine how you managed that one, Minerva."

McGonagall said nothing, only gave a vague sort of "hmm," though inside she was quite pleased.

"By the way," Theresa said, as she was about to step through the fire, "I do rather like your suggestion of hosting a Yule Ball– goodness knows those children could do with a little cheer in their lives, all things considered– but how are you going to manage it? Even without decorations, two hundred galleons simply isn't enough to cover both food and music."

"Oh, don't you worry about that, Theresa," Minerva said with a mysterious glint in her eyes. "I know a fellow who might have just the solution we need."

" –Blasted, bloody, worthless piece of vegetation–"

"Don't blame the cactus; Neville told you not to touch it."

"I didn't think it was going to squirt its goop all over me! And now all the roast chicken is going to be gone."

Harry rolled his eyes at his friend's mournful tone. Having successfully put an end to their Herbology lesson an thirty minutes previous by poking the knot on a fully-grown mimblus mimbletonia (the resulting explosion of stinksap consequently forcing the whole class to tramp back to their dorms to shower and change), Ron was not succeeding in inciting much sympathy from his friend.

"Hermione's right, you think too much about your stomach." He frowned suddenly, stopping as noticed a group crowding around the message board. "What d'you suppose all that's about?"

"Dunno."

They walked closer, peering above the heads of a gaggle of Ravenclaw fifth-years. "They're hosting another Yule Ball?" Harry said, surprised. "I didn't think the school had the money. Ron?"

But Ron was no longer paying attention; Harry glanced over to see that his best mate's face had gone strangely blank. He frowned. "Ron, are you okay?"

Without warning, the redhead whirled around, dropped his bookbag, and sprinted towards the great hall doors.

"What the– oy! Ron, wait up!" Harry grabbed his friend's forgotten bag and hurried afterwards, watching as Ron stopped short, looking this way and that. Harry watched as his eyes locked on Hermione at the end of the Gryffindor table, and then the man was off again, dashing through the hall–

WHAM!

Harry winced as the surrounding students broke into laughter; unfortunately in his haste, Ron had failed to notice a bookbag sticking out from beneath the bench, a fact which had resulted on his current face-first position on the great hall floor. Hermione had leapt to her feet and hurried over, kneeling own beside him. "Oh my goodness! Ron, are you alright? Ron?"

"Godu'db'llwime."

She frowned, confused. "What?"

Ron winced and pushed himself up off his face, trying to stem the steady stream of blood which was gushing from his broken nose. "Go du de ball wid me?" he repeated sheepishly, now looking a little less certain of his prospects.

Hermione stared at him in shock. "Ron, you're bleeding–!"

"Say yes. You godda say yes, please, 'Ermione!"

"Wha– I– Ron, yes, of course I'll go with you, but I really don't think this is the time!" He let out a relieved sigh and grinned, which looked rather macabre considering the circumstances, and Hermione sighed as well, drawing her wand. "Just hold still, you idiot. Episkey!"

Ron grimaced as his nose popped itself back into place; with another wave Hermione had scourgified his face of blood. The crowd around them was still snickering, and she shook her head, fondly exasperated. "Next time, take an extra two seconds to look where you're going, alright?"

"I couldn't," he said earnestly, blue eyes shining. "I couldn't waste time, Hermione; I had to ask you before someone else did."

Harry watched as Hermione's face turned from confusion to realization to teary-eyed affection, and couldn't help but feel proud of how far his best friend had come. And if he happened to be among those who wolf-whistled when Hermione Granger kissed Ronald Weasley full on the mouth in the middle of the crowded hall, well, Ron was probably too preoccupied to notice anyway.

The windows gleamed in the bright sunlight as the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom filled up that Wednesday morning. Everyone was in high spirits thanks to the upcoming ball; girls were huddled together, whispering and giggling, and shooting dagger-eyed looks at any boy who happened to trod too close. Even the young men couldn't help but get into the spirit, trying as they might to play it off nonchalantly. "Are you going to take anyone, Seamus?" Dean Thomas asked, munching on an apple he'd swiped from breakfast.

"Probably not; not much point in it. Besides, I'm not the one you should be worried about," the young Irishman said smugly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying, if you don't ask Parvati, somebody else will…"

Ron and Harry snickered as Dean choked on his bite of apple. "Shut up," he hissed, glancing to where the Patil twins were speaking in low tones with Lavender Brown, occasionally shooting glances their way. Still, he couldn't help but give a nervous smile when the Indian witch caught his eye, causing the other boys to hide their guffaws in their textbooks.

"Alright, everyone, settle down!" Professor Lupin called, walking into the room, though he, too, was smiling broadly. "I know you're all excited by the good news, but I'm afraid I must insist you learn something today. Everyone out of your desks now, wands out, books away…"

It was difficult to focus on target practice with such excitement in the air; even Ron, with his date assured and by far the best aim in the room, paused after a few lazy shots to turn to his friend. "So have you asked Ginny yet?"

"Not yet; I've got something special planned," Harry replied with a grin, eyeing up the target.

"Oh, do you?" a teasing voice replied; he jumped in surprise, the arrow shattering the window as it misfired. Ginny was grinning cheekily at him.

"That's right. And you are not gonna know a thing about it," Harry replied, tapping her on the nose.

"Mmm. Sounds romantic."

A loud coughing drew their attention; Ron seemed to have doubled over in an asthmatic fit. Ginny eyed him, unimpressed. "Alright there, Ron?"

Ron responded with violent hacking that sounded suspiciously like "get a room!"

Despite the distraction, a week's worth of practice had not failed them; by the time an hour had passed Lupin seemed content with their skill, and called the lesson to a close. "Well done, everyone, very well done," he praised as they settled back into their seats. "I'm very impressed with your progress; make sure to keep practicing over the weekend for the test on Monday.

"As this is the last day we'll be spending on the lycanthropy unit, I've decided to offer you an opportunity." The class perked up at this, interested, and Lupin stowed his wand, sitting down on the top of a desk facing them with his feet on the chair. "I know better than most just how much information there is out there," he admitted, "so, rather than try to anticipate what it is you all already think or believe, I've elected to let you direct this last part of the lesson. I want to know what your questions are."

The students glanced around at each other uncertainly. "And we can ask you anything?" one of the younger Hufflepuff boys asked.

"Anything," Lupin affirmed. "Of course, that doesn't mean I'll directly answer every question, but I won't lie to you. I promise you complete honesty."

More glances; the excited atmosphere had been swept away by an awkward silence. Remus stared out at the sea of faces and tried not to betray his own growing nervousness. Maybe this had been a mistake…

Then, from near the back of the class, a hand went up. Remus nodded. "Yes, Mr. Corner."

"I've heard that it hurts a lot," the boy said hesitantly, lowering his hand. "The transformation, I mean. Is it true?"

Straight to the gruesome questions, then. Remus nodded. "Yes, the transformation can be quite painful."

"But why? I mean, it's not like that for animagi– is it?"

"Not usually, no. Part of the practice of animagancy includes learning to instinctively devote a certain amount of magic into, essentially, acting as a painkiller. Because the change is forced on me instead of caused by my own will, I don't have that luxury– although I admit that the more magical energy I have at the time of the full moon, the less pain the transformation seems to cause." He surveyed the class; several more hands had shot up. "Mr. Hendricks?"

The Slytherin boy put his hand down. "Our, er, our textbooks says that werewolves- well, they can't have children," he said quickly, coloring. "But– you have a kid, don't you? So how…?"

"Ah." He paused a moment, and then shrugged and replied, "I honestly can't explain it. Happy miracle, I suppose? As far as I know, Teddy- my son- is the only exception so far to the rule." Merlin's beard, he hadn't expected the questions to get so intrusive so quickly. "Mr. Longbottom."

Neville bit his lip, and then began, as if he'd read his mind, "If it's too personal, you don't have to answer–"

"More personal than the matter of my son's conception?" The class laughed at that, and Remus waved his hand. "Go on."

"Do you- do you know who it was, who…?"

Ahh… He glanced over to Lavender, who was decidedly staring down at her notes. A wave of paternal protectiveness swept through him. The poor girl needed someone to show her some solidarity, and why not here? Why not now?

"I do," he said calmly. "You see, all lycanthropes are required to present themselves for registration at the Ministry of Magic. The Registry works a bit like a family genealogy book; on the left of each name is the werewolf who infected him, and to the right, a column of any attacks that he may have carried out, intentional or unintentional. It is closed to public viewing, naturally," he continued, "but any lycanthrope is allowed to look up his own 'lineage,' so to speak, when he comes of age. I myself was turned by Fenrir Greyback."

More gasping; he saw several students' heads jerk to look at Lavender, and Remus quickly redirected their attention away from the girl back to himself. "Unlike many turnings, it was intentional- a rather nasty habit of Greyback's, which he had long before Voldemort put it to his use. My father made the mistake of getting on his bad side, and biting me was his form of revenge."

"That's awful," Parvati Patil whispered. "Why hasn't the Ministry caught him yet?"

Remus shrugged. "The trouble, of course, is that he's rather hard to catch. When I was undercover with the pack we rarely stayed anywhere for more than a few weeks, and then only if we were absolutely sure that the area was abandoned. He has also gone by a number of aliases, of which Fenrir Greyback is one and Justin MacIntyre another– that was the name he gave to the courts at his first hearing, likely because he knew if he gave his birth name they would recognize him as a wizard."
"What's his real name, then?" Ron questioned curiously.

"Well, I'm not sure any of you would know the name nowadays, but back then it was quite infamous: Fenrir Greyback was born Justus Lloyd in Llanbedrog, Wales."

Hermione let out a choked-sounding gasp; Lupin raised his eyebrows. "Ah, yes," he said sympathetically, "I forgot. You did quite a bit of research on this, didn't you?"

"He's Justus Lloyd?" Hermione whispered. "Th-that poor boy?" Lupin inclined his head. "But- but Justus died! He died seventy years ago-!"

"So his parents said," Remus agreed quietly. "In truth, he was so disfigured by the attack that no one save his closest friends and family would have been able to recognize him. Nobody else believed he was still alive, a tragedy which, as you can see, he ended up using to his advantage."

"So how do you know about it?" Harry said, frowning. "He didn't tell you, did he?"

"Ah. Well," Lupin sighed, "my family has always had a certain… preoccupation… with lycanthropy. My grandfather was the last werewolf hunter in Great Britain. Horrid, I know," he said, as several students wrinkled their noses. "More to the point, Llanbedrog has been my family's home for centuries; my grandfather and Justus were schoolmates and neighbors. After the attack, he swore up and down that Justus must have been turned and was still alive, since, well…" He coughed, reddening. "Since wolves commonly finish their prey at the spot of the kill, and Justus's body was never found. Nobody believed him, of course, save for my father; it was in part why he was able to recognize Greyback as a werewolf at his trial."

"Is that why he attacked you, then?" one of the Ravenclaws asked carelessly. Remus winced. "Because your father identified him?"

"In part," the professor replied guardedly. "There were… external factors, as well."

"Like what?"

"Bit personal, don't you think, Caldwell?" Ginny snapped, turning around in her seat. The boy went red.

"It's alright, Ginevra, I'm not offended," Lupin mollified. "But I'm afraid it's a bit of a long story, and not a very pleasant one. In fact, it's not even really mine." The class unconsciously leaned forward in their seats, and he sighed again, checking his watch. "Very well then. As you're all so interested, I suppose I can sacrifice the last half-hour to story time."

He paused, gathering his thoughts and reaching back through the long years to the stories of his earliest childhood, national legends that ran through his blood like disease and birthright. Then, drawing a breath, he told his tale:

"Every culture has its myths and legends," Lupin began, in just the sort of tone required for storytelling, "and werewolf pack culture is no different. Among the most important myths of pack society is the Lai of Melion; does anyone here know of it?"

Predictably, Hermione raised her hand. Remus nodded. "It's an Arthurian legend, many centuries old. The muggles have their version of it, which is more or less inaccurate. The wizarding version is considered correct by most magical historians; you'll probably find a short version of it somewhere in your schoolbooks." He gave them a knowing look, suggesting he was well aware that many of them had never bothered to crack the cover of A History of Magic.

"But it's a myth," Hermione interjected. "I mean, it's just a story, isn't it?"

"It is a myth, and it is true," Lupin replied gravely. "Never make the mistake of thinking that because something is a myth it is necessarily untrue, Miss Granger; mythology is a means of communication, of passing on a society's values. The Lai of Melion is one such story.

"Now in the fifth century, when Rome fell, many of the military officers occupying this part of the world remained behind in Great Britain. One of the most famous of these, as you well know, was Uther Pendragon, whose son was a half-blooded wizard by the name of Arthur, the once and future king whose line continues to this day."

He gave a brief nod to Ron, causing Harry to whirl around and look at his friend in utter shock. ("You're what?" "I thought you knew!")

"With Uther there was a young slave by the name of Æmilianus– Melion, in the French," Remus continued, ignoring the outburst. "Melion was given to Arthur as a squire when he was still a boy, and in time he was granted his freedom so that he might serve as a knight under the new king. But Melion, like Arthur, was more than a knight– he was also a very powerful warlock, and…"

He gestured to Hermione, who finished in a whisper, "A werewolf."

Lupin nodded. "The first in Britain, so the legend claims. Lycanthropy was at this time in an interesting position; werewolves were very rare, and regarded with both fear and respect. Because of this affliction, he was often called Æmilianus Lupinus, Melion the Wolfish."

There was a stir through the class at the name; several hands shot up, Hermione's included. Lupin held up his own pacifyingly. "I promise, everything will be clear by the end of the story." The hands lowered, but now everyone was at rapt attention. "Melion was given a small castle in the north of Wales for his service, where he went to live with several of his men. He was as of yet unwed, as neither witch nor muggle woman wished to marry someone of his condition. One day, however, while he was out hunting with his squire, he came across a maiden of noble dress and bearing. As it happened, this maiden was the daughter of the High King of Ireland, a powerful witch in her own right. She said had heard of Melion's prowess as both a knight and a wizard and wished to marry him and love him until her dying day."

Harry glanced around to see that most of the girls were smiling; only Hermione remained unaffected– quite the opposite, her face had gone stony with anger. Intrigued, he turned back to Lupin.

"Melion and the princess were wed with all due pomp and circumstance," the teacher continued, "and the knight found himself, for the first time in his life, truly happy. Within the year, the princess bore two sons, twin boys, who it seemed had not inherited Melion's unfortunate fate. The boys were named Romulus and Remus, after the founders of Rome."

"But I thought lycanthropy was genetic?" Dean Thomas demanded, not bothering to raise his hand. "Why weren't they werewolves, too?"

"An excellent question," said Lupin lightly. "Miss Granger, you know the tale; could you perhaps enlighten us?"

"The squire," she answered bitterly. A murmur ran through the class, and Remus inclined his head.

"Just so. The children, unknown to Melion, were not his own… his wife had fallen in love with the squire and broken her marriage vows. More than that, the two wanted to run way together.

"And now we come to the whole crux of the story: the Ring of Melion." His golden eyes gleamed at this, as if he were about to reveal a great and terrible secret. "I have told you that Melion was a powerful warlock; his greatest accomplishment was creating a ring whose enchantments allowed him to retain his mind during his transformations."

"Like Wolfsbane!" someone called from the back.

"Precisely. Now, well aware that she would hardly be welcome anywhere as the squire's mistress, the princess devised a plan to make it appear to the world as if Melion had died, so she could marry her lover without disgrace. On the day before the full moon, the princess, knowing Melion would never dare remove the ring in his transformed state, secretly enchanted it to keep him trapped as a wolf even after the moon had set. Then she told him she had seen a great white stag in the forest and desired that he should catch it for her."

"Well, the long and short of the matter was that Melion did transform that night, and he did chase and catch the white stag. Now I've told you that magic set to an astronomical clock oughtn't be tampered with; as such, the witch's curse did not go entirely to plan. When the moon set, Melion began to change back, but was trapped halfway through the transformation. His appearance was so distorted that no man could have recognized him; moreover, although he kept his human mind, he was incapable of speech– and, worse still, he had acquired a penchant for human flesh."

There was a ripple of gasps and whispers through the class; Lavender looked horrified; both of the Patil twins had covered their mouths in revulsion. Lupin nodded grimly. "This, as you might have inferred, was the first instance of 'turning feral.' Terrified, Melion rushed home to find his castle abandoned and his wife and squire vanished with the twin boys. In short order he realized that he had somehow been tricked… and then, to his horror, it dawned on him that perhaps his sons were not his after all." Here the professor's face grew hard. "Melion then proceeded to do a terrible thing, the repercussions of which still echo down to this very day: he vowed to revenge himself on the princess and the squire.

"Melion boarded a ship bound for Ireland, where he turned ten men and formed a pack. Together they laid waste to the countryside, until the princess's father, the Irish king, sent his guards to destroy the pack. The soldiers succeeded in killing the ten, but failed to catch the leader.

"Melion was disconsolate over the loss of his pack until he learned that King Arthur, his old friend, would soon be arriving by ship to end an old feud between England and Ireland. When Arthur arrived, the mute Melion mimed out a plea for work, and the king took him into his service, never once dreaming that the disfigured beggar had once been his loyal friend. Melion ingratiated himself so greatly to Arthur that he was allowed to attend the kings' meeting.

"While he was sitting in the great hall at the negotiations, he saw the squire standing in the crowd, dressed as in the garb of an Irish prince. Enraged, Melion attacked the man, and would have killed him had Arthur not called him off. The king then ordered the squire to explain himself, and the terrified man told the king the whole truth. They then called the princess to the great hall and, having heard her confession as well, had her try lift the enchantment. Unfortunately…" Lupin grimaced. "Unfortunately, although his appearance was somewhat restored and he regained the power of speech, his voluntary turning of other victims had rendered his bestial condition permanent. Enraged, Melion wanted to destroy the princess, but Arthur pleaded with him to spare her on behalf of the twin children, and Melion appeared to give his consent."

"Appeared?" Seamus questioned.

Remus sighed, running a hand through his brown hair. "As the legend holds, somehow Melion's bite had managed remain potent long after moonset. Melion, they say, had already learned this through the creation of his pack; he knew full well what he had done when he'd bitten the squire. The next full moon, the unsuspecting man transformed in his own bed and attacked his mistress and children. The princess and her younger son escaped safely, but the elder, Romulus, was turned. When the squire realized what he had become, he hung himself, and Melion stole the child away, vowing that the two brothers would be always at war against each other until the younger's blood bore the elder's pain. The princess followed them back to Wales in an attempt to find her lost son, but all her efforts went in vain."

"But the younger son," Hermione whispered. "Remus Lupinus…"

"Melion and Romulus spread the disease across Wales and into England, teaching the new werewolves to hate and fear mankind as their unworthy oppressors. In response, Remus and his descendants devoted themselves to destroying what they considered to be the most dangerous scourge of their day. In time, the line diversified to defeating and defending against all manners of dangerous creatures and dark arts. I suppose you could say," Professor Lupin concluded modestly, ducking his head, "that it became the family business."

The class was in awe. "So are you really….?" Parvati Patil whispered.

"Remus Lupin the Thirteenth, at your service," the professor admitted sheepishly. "Only that sounds horrendously pretentious and as you now know, it's quite a long explanation. I usually just stick with Remus."

"So that's why Greyback attacked you?" Seamus questioned. "Because of the story?"

"The family heritage was a contributing factor, yes, both directly and indirectly."

"And the Ring?" Hermione inquired.

"Scholars have concluded that, even if the ring still exists, it has been lost to history. But the matter of succession still carries a good deal of weight; Greyback has convinced many among the wild werewolves that he is an heir of Melion and he uses the clout of it very effectively. Oh, yes," he said with a nod at their surprised faces, "He is far more intelligent than most people give him credit for. Fenrir Greyback reads a room like you and I read newspaper articles; he understands how to twist hope and anger and fear in just the right way to get his underlings to do what he wants. The Lai of Melion is a basic campfire staple for the pack; it gives the subordinates a medium for their anger and teaches the pups to hate mankind."

No one had missed how his features grew progressively darker and his voice graver as he spoke, as if the shadows cast by the furrows of his scars were spreading across the rest of his face. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but his irises seemed to have brightened to an unsettling yellow-gold as he lost himself in thought for a moment or two, gaze falling pensively to the ground. Then he shook himself slightly and looked up, his eyes once again a warm hazel.

"Well," he said evenly, "I think that's about all the time we have for today. Mind you study up for the test on Monday."

The students stood and filed for the door, speaking in quiet murmurs. Remus watched them go. As he did so, he caught sight of Harry, and remembered that he ought to talk to the boy; Dora, unfortunately, had informed him that the Ministry simply couldn't spare any of their remaining legilimens at the moment. It seemed that the young man would be forced to choose another thesis…

But even as he thought these words, Remus's eyes fell upon the student standing just behind Harry Potter's shoulder, and a sudden light seemed to spark in his brain. As the student headed for the door, he rose to his feet and called out:

"Mr. Malfoy? Might I have a word with you?"

"–So you're telling me that in eight years of friendship, you never once thought to mention that you're descended from King Arthur?"

"Honestly, mate, it's not a big deal," Ron puffed, climbing the last few steps of the stairs. Classes had finished for the day, and the trio were hoping to study a bit before supper.

"Not a big– Ron, you're an heir to the throne of England!"

"So? It's not like anyone's inviting me round to Buckingham Palace, are they?" They turned the corner towards the portrait door, Hermione following with an amused grin a few paces behind. "Besides, Dad worked it out once; I think somewhere around a couple thousand people would have to get offed before anyone started asking me to be king…"

"Harry! Ron!"

The trio turned in unison, surprised. Neville hurried up to them, slightly out of breath. "Something wrong, Neville?" Harry inquired, surprised.

"No, no, but Professor Lupin wants to see you; he told me to send you by as soon as you had time."

The two glanced at each other, surprised. "We're free right now," Ron pointed out. "D'you think we should go?"

"Probably. Thanks, Neville."

"No problem."

Hermione watched the pair leave, and then turned to Neville, frowning. "Did Professor Lupin say why he wanted to see them?"

Neville shook his head. "He just told me it was important."

"Hmm… well, thank you anyway, Neville."

They parted inside at the staircase, where Hermione went up to the girl's dorm alone, still musing to herself what could have been so important. The dormitory was empty, so she retrieved the book on Elphinstone Urquart she'd been using for her research and went downstairs to the common room, curling up in one of the sun-warmed armchairs and opening to a bookmarked page. She was pleasantly surprised to find that the next section was entitled Personal Life; though it felt a bit like spying on her old professor, she couldn't help but be intrigued. Settling into a cozier position, she began to read:

Personal Life

Elphinstone Urquart was born on the family estate in the Scottish Highlands on 3 August, 1927, to a pureblooded family of noble lineage; as such, he acquired the title of lord after the death of his father in 1948, though he rarely used it. He attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and was sorted into Gryffindor House, where he eventually became Quidditch captain and the four-year champion of the inter-house dueling competitions (discontinued in 1983 after an unfortunate mishap involving two broken wands and the unintentional conjuring of a rhinoceros). He graduated in June of 1945 and began working for the Auror Office in July of the same year.

Urquart quickly proved his talent as an Auror and was soon being regularly entrusted with lead investigative roles in many important cases. In 1952, his superior and good friend Charlus Potter was asked by the Minister to head up the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Potter accepted and recommended Urquart as his replacement. Thus, at the age of twenty-five, Elphinstone Urquart became the youngest Chief Superintendent of the Auror Office in history (a record still maintained to this date), an office which he would hold until himself being promoted after Charlus Potter's death in 1979.

In was while in this position that he would meet the love of his life and future wife: Minerva Isobel McGonagall. McGonagall had come to work at the Auror Office as the department clerk to the courts, and found a kindred spirit in Urquart. Both Scotts, devout Presbyterians and former Gryffindors (not to mention avid fans of the Scottish National Quidditch Team), the two quickly became fast friends, and maintained correspondence even after McGonagall left the Ministry to accept a teaching position at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall herself has confirmed to this writer that Elphinstone asked for her hand in marriage repeatedly during their decades-long friendship, and although she politely rebuffed his affections, they remained dear friends. In the summer of 1982 she at last accepted his proposal, and the two were wed in the fall of that same year. They moved into a cottage in Hogsmead and lived there happily until the end of Urquart's life.

Along with his beloved Minerva, Urquart was an active member of the First Order of the Phoenix and apparently was responsible for saving many lives over the course of the First Wizarding War, both in his position in the Ministry and in covert fieldwork with the Order (the details of which, alas, were never officially documented by the Order, which naturally had other pressing concerns at the time). Nevertheless, thanks to his widow a number of his more daring missions have been recorded here for posterity's sake (see chapter seven).

Tragically, Elphinstone's life was cut short in 1985 by an accidental encounter with a Venemous Tentecula of unusually large size, chanced upon during one of his routine walks through the Forbidden Forest. Both the poison and the extent of his wounds proved too severe for McGonagall and the school infirmarian to heal without help, and Urquart expired in the forest before the St. Mungo's healers could arrive.

Despite the tragedy, Elphinstone Urquart's memory lives on; a still-life portrait of him hangs in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (at his request, no moving portrait was ever painted of him), and his courage and genius no doubt saved the lives of countless innocent wizards and muggles alike, many of whom will probably never know of the debt which they owe him.

Urquart is survived by his widow, Minerva McGonagall, and the remaining members of the First Order of the Phoenix: Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Dodge, Mundungus Fletcher, Rubeus Hagrid, Frank and Alice Longbottom, Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, Sturgis Podmore, Severus Snape, and Emmeline Vance.

Hermione's heart gave a particularly painful twist, to see Professor Dumbledore, Alastor Moody, and even Professor Snape listed among the yet living; she checked the date of the book and found that it had been published just eight years earlier. With a lump in her throat she flipped back to the chapter and turned the page. Much to her surprise, she found that it did not begin with a new chapter, but rather contained a photograph: Professor McGonagall and Elphinstone Urquart, both looking far younger than she'd seen in other photographs, were sitting together at a table in the Three Broomsticks; as she watched a broadly smiling Minerva McGonagall raised her glass of scotch and toasted the photographer. Elphinstone Urquart was watching her with an air that seemed both tired but delighted. At the bottom was the date: 1st January, 1975. It had been taken on New Years' Day.

Hermione stared; she had never seen the professor like this, except perhaps in perhaps that tiny picture contained in the locket– the locket, she now realized, that was hung in plain view around the professor's neck. The student frowned, peering closer. There was something odd about the photograph… she just couldn't put her finger on it…

The sudden chiming of a clock brought her back to her senses; she checked the time and realized with shock that a whole hour had passed since she'd sat down to read. Quickly gathering her things, she threw the book into her bag and headed for the door. Supper would be starting any minute; odd photographs and old biographies would have to wait. Still, even as she descended the stairs towards the great hall, the image of the golden locket never quite left her mind.

Remus Lupin had always had a relatively realistic view of his talents. Unlike James and Sirius, who had always believed themselves capable of everything (and had usually proved themselves right), their tawny-haired friend had been a bit more conservative in his estimation of himself. Defense he was good at; potions he was not. Paperwork he handled with ease; piano-playing, on the other hand, usually resulted in oddly disjointed tunes and chords that didn't match up. For all his lycanthropic strength, he was an absolute dunce regarding any sort of sport or athletics; duels and pub brawls, on the other hand, lent him a sort of grace that he'd never achieved on a broomstick or football field.

Among this specified list was one particular talent which had always served him well: although hardly charismatic, Remus was nonetheless a remarkably persuasive person. If one had asked him the origins of this gift, he would have replied modestly that he supposed he happened to be a logical, well-spoken, and decently likeable fellow. If one had asked those who trusted him, they would have replied that they couldn't help but respect the man for his thoughtfulness and the quiet strength which somehow spoke louder than the world's brashness and bluster.

Whatever the reason, Remus was grateful for his little gift, and didn't take it for granted. Which was why he already knew exactly what Harry Potter would say before he'd said it.

It was the second such conversation of the day, and, Remus knew, it was going to be the more difficult of the two– and that was saying something, considering how the first of these little talks had gone. After the rest of the students had left that morning's Defense class, Draco Malfoy had shut the door and walked over to where the professor was straightening his lecture papers.

"You wanted to speak with me, Professor?"

"Mm." Remus paper-clipped the pieces of parchment together. "As it happens, Draco, I'm afraid I must make a rather odd request of you."

"Oh?" It was a mark of just how much he trusted the man that the young Malfoy's voice contained only the slightest note of suspicion.

"I'm afraid I've run into a bit of a road-block with my last unit for the term," Remus said lightly. "You see, Professor Dumbledore usually ran the lessons on Occlumency."

Draco immediately stiffened. "Oh," he said guardedly.

"He was, of course, an excellent occlumens and a legilimens himself, much like Severus Snape." The "and your aunt" did not need to be added. "Unfortunately, while I am an occlumens, I am not a legilimens, and the auror office simply can't spare anyone at the moment."

"What exactly are you asking me, Professor?" Draco said flatly, in a tone he rarely took with Lupin.

Remus decided it was time to drop the pretenses. "Draco. It is absolutely impossible to teach occlumency without practice against a real force; if I want to train your classmates I will need help to do so. Moreover, there's a student who wants to learn occlumency for their thesis; if I can't find a legilimens for him to practice against he'll have to drop the study." Lupin regarded Draco with open frankness. "If you can help me, I would be much in your debt."

There was a long pause. The young man's mouth was very tight; Remus waited without a word.

"…I'm not very good," he said finally. "My aunt was more focused on teaching me defense, not offense. But yes... I am a, well, a passable legilimens, to use her words."

"Did you use this at all during your sixth year?"

"No. I learned most of it while I was- during the last year." Lupin didn't ask him to elaborate. "And I haven't used it since… I don't like it. It feels…" He trailed off.

"Like an invasion of privacy," the professor inferred.

"Exactly. Besides, I really don't think the other students are going to be too keen to having me poking around in their minds, are they?" His voice dripped with cynicism.

"No. But I think they'll allow it once I explain that you're likely not the most frightening legilimens they could encounter." His expression was sympathetic. "Draco, I absolutely understand if you are not comfortable with this, and I would not be angry if you turned me down. But I need to train my students. If you were to receive express permission from your classmates to allow you to do this, would that make you more willing to help me in this matter?"

The young man eyed him for a long moment. Lupin held his breath.

"…Fine," Draco said at last, though he didn't sound happy about it. "But only because I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Draco. Any decent person would have–"

"But any decent person didn't. You did." Now that he seemed to have his mind made up, the boy's face was set. "You saved my life even when you had no reason to help me, Professor. That's not something I take lightly." Remus inclined his head, and the student cleared his throat. "So. Who is it that wants to learn occlumency?"

Lupin hesitated. "…A classmate of yours. I'm afraid to say you're not on particularly good terms."

Draco's face fell. "You can't be serious."

"You can't be serious."

Remus sighed. "Harry–"

"No way, Remus. I'll choose another thesis, I don't care, but I'm drawing the line."

The young man's expression was so stubborn that Remus just about gave up the will right then and there, wondering if he'd been mad to even consider it in the first place. It just didn't seem possible for the two young men to work together.

They did, however, appear to agree on one thing: both thought that this was a terrible idea. "Honestly, this feud of yours has become a bit ridiculous, don't you think?" Remus pointed out. "You're both bright, talented young men; honestly I think the two of you could be friends, or at least stop being enemies."

"Friends," Harry snorted. "Right. I'd rather drink broom polish."

"I wouldn't judge him too quickly, Harry. Yes, some of what he's done was indubitably wrong, but I've learned it's best not to judge another man's soul until you've been in his shoes."

"Look, Remus," Harry argued, "I know he's not the– the evil, homicidal dark wizard a lot of people assume he is, but that doesn't stop Malfoy from being a world-class prick. I just don't particularly fancy the idea of him rummaging through my memories."

Lupin sighed. "I can understand that. At your age, if someone had suggested I let Severus Snape start playing around in my head, I'd have laughed in their face. But the fact of the matter is, Harry, there isn't anyone else. If you want to learn occlumency, this is the best way." At the young wizard's dubious expression, he added, "If it helps any, Mr. Malfoy doesn't seem any more excited about the idea than you are."

After a long silence, Harry let out a grumbling sigh of his own. "…If he sticks his nose in where it doesn't belong even once–"

"I will be right there to put an end to it."

Harry still looked less than pleased with the idea, but in the end he swallowed his distaste and replied with a grudging, "When do we start?"

Lupin grinned wryly. "Is next week soon enough for you?"

"Ugh."

The professor chuckled despite himself. "You know Harry, sometimes our former enemies end up becoming our greatest allies. More than once, I had to rely on Severus's quick thinking and duelsmanship during a firefight. Who knows? Someday you and Draco might even be fighting together side-by-side." Harry gave him a dubious look, and Lupin laughed. "Well, I don't expect you to believe me. Just show up during your lunch hour next Monday and we'll go from there."

"Will do."

"Excellent. Now, could you run and fetch Ronald? I have something I think will be of interest to the two of you."

Curious, Harry hurried over to the door and peeked his head out. Ron was sitting with his back to the wall, charming a paper airplane to do loop-de-loops through the air. "Hey," he said in surprise as the door opened (the airplane tragically nosedived into the ground). "You alright, mate? You look like you just swallowed a lemon."

"Tell you later. Come on in; he says he has something for you."

Ron followed him back inside the classroom, where Remus had set what looked like a remarkably ordinary cardboard box on the table. The boys eyed it with interest as they approached the desk. "Professor McGonagall informed me, Ronald, that you are pursuing the craft of animagancy for your thesis project, yes?" the professor questioned.

"Yeah. She said you might know something about the bi-lodgy of it?"

Remus's mouth twitched at the mispronunciation, but didn't comment on it. "I do, but as it happens I have something even better." He opened the box; the boys peered inside to see that it contained several reams of old parchment paper covered in notes, official-looking scientific studies in typewrite, and even what appeared to be one or two stolen library books.

"I assume you know by now, Harry, that all of the Potter accounts were sealed during the war?"

"Yeah. It's bloody annoying; I had to borrow money from Hermione just to buy schoolbooks."

Remus chuckled. "Well, you'll be pleased to hear that Gringotts has finally managed to unseal them. I imagine you'll be getting a bank statement in a few days. However, upon reopening the accounts, they also did a full inventory of your parents' will."

"Their will?"

"Mmm. All the recipients of unclaimed bequests were contacted, including me. When I moved to the States back in '83 I left these behind in their vault." Remus reached inside the box and pulled out a typewritten letter, stamped with the Gringotts seal, and cleared his throat. "'To Remus John Lupin XIII, we leave, first and foremost, all of the notes we took over those three years, to remind him that we did, in fact, occasionally do our own homework.'" He smiled at Harry and handed him the letter. "These were all the notes and studies we compiled for their studies in animagancy."

"These were my dad's?" said Harry, taking them in hand. The handwriting on the top page was neat and slightly slanted, almost feminine; clearly his father had been made to take penmanship lessons at some point in his early life. He flipped through several pages and found another style of handwriting, equally graceful but darker and in rich, flowing cursive; somehow he knew instinctively that it was Sirius's. A third set of notes, shorter and not nearly as detailed, was written in tiny, nearly unintelligible scribbles: these, Harry knew, must have belonged to Peter Pettigrew. At the very bottom of the small stack was a muggle notebook full of the loopy cursive, identical to that which now covered the chalkboard beside them.

He looked up at Lupin, stunned. The werewolf smiled back, hazel eyes twinkling. "I daresay you have more use for them now than I do."

Harry wasn't able to speak; thankfully, Ron (who'd been eagerly flipping through one of the books) filled the silence. "Wow! Look at all this stuff; I can't believe you guys figured this out at fifteen!"

"Well, it was a group effort; oh, all the nights we stayed up late studying…" Remus chuckled to himself, lost in memory. "We went through a lot of ink– and a lot of hot chocolate, come to think of it…"

Harry had a brief impression of his father stretched out lazily on the carpet in front of the Gryffindor common room fire, drinking hot chocolate as he poured over stolen library books and laughing at some antic of Sirius's, Remus looking on with a smile of fond exasperation– yes, even Peter Pettigrew made his way into the image, cheerful and innocent as he never had been in Harry's memory. When the vision faded, he looked up at the professor, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he croaked.

It was all he could manage, but Remus understood.

History, it seems, is sometimes destined to repeat itself, for that very night three young Gryffindors found themselves occupying the same armchairs, pouring over the same yellowed pages of the same old books– yes, even drinking the same brand of Honeydukes hot chocolate– as their predecessors had, some twenty-odd years earlier. "You guys don't have to help me, you know," Ron pointed out, glancing between Lupin's old notes and his own parchment, freshly covered in inky scribbles.

"Nonsense," Hermione brushed it off, "we want to. Besides, it's nice not to be doing schoolwork for a change…"

"So your version of fun is somebody else's homework?"

"You weren't complaining when I was helping you study for your O.W.L.s…"

Harry was, per usual, tuning out his friends' bickering, instead savoring every word of his father's notes. They were brilliant, he realized; Lupin was right, his father really had been good at transfiguration. He'd been very funny, too; the margins were littered with little comments like, "What if form is goldfish? Must remember fishbowl," and, "Need new study spot. McKinnon started coming here and Sirius can't focus." (Beneath this, the aristocratic handwriting had added, "Like you're to talk, loverboy!") Occasionally he even found references to his mother, usually in the form of charmed-on notes of Sirius's telling James to pay attention.

"They really found everything, didn't they?" Hermione mused, paging through one of the studies. "Look at this: A Comprehensive Study of the Transformed Lycanthrope's Interactions with Animagi."

Harry glanced over, interested. "There's no author," he noted.

"No… I suppose if you're one of the only animagi in Britain you don't want the whole world guessing which of your friends is a werewolf…" Intrigued, she plopped down in the nearest armchair and began to read. Harry continued to pour over his father's notes. By far the most prominent characteristic that came through was his father's intense loyalty and care for his friends. It was easy to read between the lines, filled as they were with concern for Remus, Sirius, and Peter in turn. There was an abundance of detail in how one could expect a transformed werewolf to react to an unusual animal, a familiar animagus, a human… more notes (which made Harry's stomach turn) on the exact effects the monthly transformations had on the fourteen-year-old Remus Lupin, and what (following James's first successful transformation) a great white stag could do to prevent it. When Harry glanced up to look into the fire, he was surprised to find that it was Hermione and Ron who sat in those old armchairs, not Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. For the first time in his life, his father felt real. It hurt, he decided, but in a good way.

"Maybe I should try Wormtail's notes," Ron joked, squinting at the professor's loopy handwriting and not even realizing that he'd called his former "pet" by the dead man's old epithet. "Seems like he was a bit slower than Lupin– blimey, not hard to be, is it? These notes are bloody complicated– maybe that's more my speed–"

Thunk!

Both Harry and Ron jumped and looked over. Hermione had dropped her mug of hot chocolate on the carpet. Cocoa was spilling everywhere, soaking the Persian rug, but she didn't notice, staring in shock at the study in her hands. "'Mione?" Ron said, worried. "You alright?"

The question seemed to snap her out of her daze, and she tossed out a distracted, "Yes– fine–," all the while throwing her books haphazardly into her bag and redoing her tie, a peculiar look in her eyes that set Harry and Ron on edge. "Hold on!" Harry said quickly, standing up as well. "Where're you going?"

"I just realized- but I won't know for sure unless I ask- Merlin, I can't believe no one saw it before-"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute!" countered Ron, jumping in her path. "Before you go barreling off to the library or wherever, could you maybe tell us what mind-blowing revelation you just had?"

"What?"

"Every time you get that look, something bad happens!" Harry exclaimed. "Usually to me!"

Hermione huffed. "Oh, honestly, that's so not-"

"Oh, yes it is!" Ron snapped irritably. "So this time, maybe you could tell us whether there's a secret chamber of death hidden in the kitchens, or that Professor Sprout is a vampire, or, I dunno, Harry's the long-lost heir of Helga Hufflepuff, instead of waiting for us to figure it out for ourselves?"

"Well, you'll both be pleased to know that this particular 'mind-blowing revelation' is none of your business!" Hermione hissed, shoving the study in her bag. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do!" And without another moment's ado, she whirled around and stalked away, leaving half the contents of her bag scattered on the common room floor.

The two young men glanced at each other. "We're dead, aren't we?" Ron moaned.

"Nice knowing you, mate," Harry agreed, handing him Hermione's compact mirror.

"Password?"

Hermione huffed in frustration as the griffin statue eyed her expectantly. "I don't know the–"

"No password, no entrance." The griffin closed its eyes and appeared to go back to sleep.

Hermione glared. "Couldn't you just tell her I'm here? I need to speak with her."

The griffin opened its eyes again and, unless she was imagining it, looked a bit annoyed. "Name?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Purpose?"

The girl hesitated. Statues didn't tend to be gossips, being generally inanimate, but she didn't feel that this was information to be shared lightly with anyone, even the keeper of the headmistress's office. "Just tell her it's important," she said eventually.

The griffin closed its eyes again. A moment later the passage opened, and Hermione hurried up the stairs.

Professor McGonagall was frowning through her spectacles at a long and official-looking letter when the student arrived; she looked up as Hermione closed the door and adjusted her glasses, surprised. "Miss Granger. You look quite distressed; is something the matter?"

"We need to talk," Hermione said shortly, though her voice spoke more of nervousness than of anger. This wasn't the sort of allegation to make lightly, she knew, and if she was wrong…

"Oh? About what?"

The student drew a deep breath and pulled the study out of her bag, setting it down on the desk facing the professor. She watched as McGonagall scanned the first several sentences. When the look of realization dawned upon the old widow's face, Hermione knew she'd been right.

"We need to talk," she repeated, drawing the headmistress's eyes, "about Elphinstone Urquart."

McGonagall stared her down for several seconds, expression inscrutable. Then, with a sigh, she stood and went to the fireplace and took the kettle off the spit, pouring the steaming water into the waiting tea set. Hermione watched in silence as she prepared two cups of tea, and then returned, gesturing to the chair opposite hers.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger. I have the feeling this is going to take a while."

A/N: I'm so sorry! I know that it's two months late, but in my defense, classes have resumed and real life with it. Schoolwork has gotten a lot tougher, and I've also started writing my undergraduate thesis, so any free time I have by the end of the day I usually spend just staring at the wall, appreciating the wonderful dullness of the color beige. (Tips: if you ever, at any point, will be enrolled in a class where you'll be required to discuss concrete and abstract nature theories as regards the Incarnation, make sure to have taken classes in Thomistics and Metaphysics first.)

I can't say when I'll have the next chapter up, so I do sincerely apologize to all my wonderful readers. If you've stuck with this story despite my absence, know that you have my fullest gratitude. I repent in sackcloth and ashes… In other news, happy Lent everyone!

But sincerely, thank you all so much. God bless you all! Pax et bonum!

-FFcrazy15