Albus Dumbledore strolled down the street to Hogsmeade, humming quietly to himself. It was a clear night, and the fall leaves crunched beneath his feet. Some, he noticed, had fallen off the Whomping Willow. A quick look at the tree told him that the branches were growing bald; one in particular (the tree's favorite hitting branch) had lost most of its leaves by now. The remaining leaves were gorgeous shades of orange, yellow, and red—Dumbledore couldn't see them that well in the dark, but he liked to gaze at them through his office window.

The seasons were changing, and Dumbledore hummed happily. He loved change.

Down the street he strolled, enjoying the fresh crunch of leaves. The cobblestones of Hogsmeade were smooth and grey as ever, and they seemed to be brighter in the fresh night air, illuminated under the magical streetlamps, the stars, and the slowly waxing moon.

Dumbledore entered the Three Broomsticks, and the bell on the door tinkled merrily. "Good evening," he said to the table in the back right corner.

Minerva raised her eyebrows. "You're late to your own staff meeting," she said.

"I admit I got a bit sidetracked. The weather is beautiful. Have you seen the Whomping Willow's leaves recently? Gorgeous."

"Ah, yes, the Whomping Willow." Sal Manard leaned forward in his seat slightly. "That's what contains Remus, isn't it? I might like to hear more about that."

Dumbledore sighed. Admittedly, he did not trust Sal one bit. The man was pleasant enough, but Dumbledore knew firsthand that a pleasant exterior could contain something else underneath—he often used that trick, himself. When he let his bumbling side shine through, no one expected him to be sharp as a whip.

"Remus Lupin is perfectly safe," he said.

Sal waved his hands. "Oh, I know! Don't get me wrong! I trust your containment spells implicitly. I'm only curious—you know, professional curiosity."

"You came to see the Shrieking Shack yourself, if my memory serves correctly," said Dumbledore. "You came with some DRCMC workers in the summer before Remus' first year to execute an official inspection."

"Well, yes." Sal laughed and took another swig of his drink. "Yes, I remember. But that was before he started using it. I just want to hear about how it's been going. Everything holding up? Does he like it?"

Dumbledore sighed. He would not rise to the bait. He would be as calm and polite as ever, even when confronted with this Ministry worker intent on getting him removed from his position and Remus Lupin expelled from Hogwarts. Remus had said that Sal Manard was treating him well, but Dumbledore knew that there was something beneath the surface—perhaps hidden very deep beneath the surface, admittedly. Dumbledore hoped with all his heart that Sal's animosity toward werewolves was deep and invisible, because Remus did not need to deal with yet another source of prejudice and hatred.

"It is as comfortable as possible, I fix it back up after every full moon, and it is sturdy as can be," said Dumbledore quietly. "I believe Remus enjoys the Shrieking Shack just as much as a child can enjoy a place of torture and suffering."

There was silence. Dumbledore stared at the ceiling for a moment and then took a seat at the head of the table. "I am very happy that all of you could come," he said. "There are a few things I would like to discuss. First, I'd like to welcome Sal Manard to the Hogwarts staff, who has very kindly agreed to step up on such short notice."

Sal saluted.

"Yes, yes. Very good. Second, I would like to remind each of you that security at Hogwarts is of the utmost importance. Dark activity is rising steadily, and I want each of you to remember that the students are our first priority. Anything suspicious or dangerous must be reported."

"Anything suspicious or dangerous?" said Sal.

Dumbledore stared at him. He knew what Sal was saying. He knew exactly why Sal thought that the school was in danger, and he knew exactly what Sal would have done to get rid of it. He also knew that Sal wasn't going to say anything explicitly prejudiced—no, Sal would just imply it, imply it until Dumbledore felt himself losing his grasp—but no, Dumbledore would stay calm.

"Yes, Sal," said Dumbledore slowly. "Anything suspicious or dangerous."

Sal nodded and started taking notes on a small pad of paper. "Right. Just want to make sure I do everything right. Never been a teacher before, you know."

"Remember to take and give House points fairly," said Dumbledore, "and treat all students, regardless of skill level, equally. I'm looking at you, Horace."

Slughorn smiled sheepishly. "I know, I know! Only that the Slug Club looks so very promising this year!"

"Above all," said Dumbledore, looking directly at Sal—yes, he could play this game of implications as well—"please ensure that you keep Hogwarts as it is intended to be: a haven of learning that is separate yet connected to the outside world, a safe place to explore and grow, and a place of comfortable ears for those students who are unused to being away from their parents and need to talk about increasingly terrifying recent events. Reliable, approachable adults are hard to come by at a boarding school. In these confusing times, the students will feel isolated."

Sal smiled and took another sip, tapping his cane against the floor idly. "Wouldn't want that," he murmured.

Dumbledore stared at him, and Sal stared back. "On with the festivities, then," said Dumbledore mildly, and then the staff immediately began gossiping about Amanda Fritz, the Marauders, and that Benjamin Glockis from Hufflepuff.

As for Dumbledore, he patiently waited until about eleven o'clock. By then, most of the staff had gone back to their rooms… except, that was, for Sal, who was reading a book.

"If you would accompany me to my office, Sal," said Dumbledore.

Sal grinned. "Of course, Albus," he said.

The two of them stood up and began heading back. It was so dark out now that the Whomping Willow was barely visible, but the telltale crunch of leaves under Dumbledore's feet was still audible. Now, though, it seemed more menacing than delightful.

"I need a moment," said Sal suddenly. "Leg's acting up. I don't do well with long walks."

Dumbledore stopped walking and put an arm on Sal's shoulder, leading him to a nearby bench. Sal collapsed into it, the sweat on his face shining in the magical streetlamps by the path. "Ouch," he said, teeth gritted. "I'm sorry. I must have stepped on it at an awkward angle."

Sal was vulnerable, and Dumbledore very nearly wanted to use Legilimency… but no. He couldn't. First of all, Sal would know—the feeling of one's mind being invaded was very distinctive for people who knew what it was, and it was the reason that Dumbledore could not use Legilimency on Remus Lupin. Second of all, Sal was a highly accomplished Occlumens. Dumbledore was being silly and invasive just thinking about it, of course, but he was merely curious about Remus and Sal's interactions.

Something was off.

Dumbledore was a very perceptive man, and he had known Remus for years now. The boy was unlucky, prone to bouts of emotion, and the first werewolf in history to attend Hogwarts; therefore, Dumbledore tended to see more of Remus Lupin than any other student at Hogwarts. There were annual meetings at the beginning of the year, additional meetings to work out legal and medical details, and meetings on top of that after Remus had experienced his first run-in with grief. Dumbledore was fond of the boy, perhaps more so than other students—for not only was Remus an intelligent, empathetic and exceedingly brave child, but he was also a child with a story of which Dumbledore desperately wanted to see the end.

Yes, Dumbledore had spent several hours in his office with Remus Lupin: listening to his fears, helping with his extremely ambitious Arithmancy project, and handling the worst of it when monumental and terrible things happened. Dumbledore knew Remus, just as he tried to get to know all of his students and then some.

Now, Dumbledore knew that something was wrong.

He couldn't be certain, of course. Remus was acting differently, yes, but it could have been a great number of things. Stress, perhaps. Maybe a touch of depression. Returning grief following the death of John Questus. Fear of the future as Dark activity rose.

It could have also been something positive. Remus seemed reluctant and hesitant to talk to Dumbledore, almost as if it was rehearsed, almost as if he was choosing his words carefully. That wasn't how Remus usually spoke to Dumbledore, no… but it was how most students spoke to Dumbledore. It was possible that, as Remus became closer to his friends, he found less of a need (and less of a desire) to talk to his professors. It was possible that Remus just didn't want to talk. That was a good thing.

Or he could have been lying, an activity which Dumbledore knew Remus Lupin to be quite good at. That was (generally) a bad thing.

Well, for better or for worse, Dumbledore was going to take his own advice and trust Remus Lupin. He would have been quite the hypocrite otherwise. It was Dumbledore's job to look at his students without bias, not to assume that they were lying simply because they were werewolves and their teacher was a werewolf hunter… Remus was an exceptional child in more ways than one, and Dumbledore would not have been surprised at all if he really did recognize his wariness of Sal as personal prejudice. Perhaps this was personal prejudice on Dumbledore's own part—it was, after all, entirely possible.

"All right," said Sal, effectively snapping Dumbledore out of his thoughts. "I feel a bit better now. Do you mind helping me up?"

Dumbledore silently pulled Sal to his feet and let the man lean on him as they walked back to the castle. "It still pains you?" Dumbledore asked, observing Sal's jerky limp.

"Frequently," Sal panted. "Werewolf clawed straight into the bone and muscle, and it never healed right. The Dittany seals the wound, but it won't grow back flesh, muscle, and bone. If I don't walk exactly right, then it—" Sal flinched, and his fingernails dug into Dumbledore's shoulder— "hurts. I take frequent Pain-Relieving Potions for it, but I forgot before the staff meeting." He smiled sheepishly. "It's why I stayed after. Didn't quite feel up to walking."

Dumbledore stopped and turned to face Sal. "I know all about werewolf injuries, yes," he said quietly. "Remus ends up with quite the assortment after every single full moon. Perhaps Poppy should see you."

"The best Healers on the continent have seen me."

"Poppy is among the best Healers on the continent."

"Treating a werewolf's wounds are different from treating werewolf-inflicted wounds," said Sal, teeth still gritted.

Dumbledore sighed. "It is hardly different. All werewolves are victims as well as predators—you and Remus have something in common, Sal. Perhaps you should remember that."

"But he didn't lose a wife, did he?" said Sal explosively, and then his face went slack as if he highly regretted the comment. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't dislike him. I wasn't lying earlier—he's a good student and a good person. I don't mind him. I don't. I just need to…" Sal sighed. "Work on it."

"I think you'll find that he is very patient," Dumbledore said. There was a crack as Dumbledore Apparated; a moment later, the two of them were sitting in Dumbledore's office, and Dumbledore had Conjured a kettle of steaming tea. "I am sorry about your wife, Sal."

"Me, too. A werewolf ripped her to shreds, and I watched. You can't just… can't just bounce back from that. And it was my fault." Sal took a shaky sip of tea. "I'm sorry. You likely don't want to hear this."

"On the contrary."

"All right, then." A watery chuckle. "It was a revenge plot—Fenrir Greyback, of course. I'd battled him once, and he'd gotten away. A month later, he came to my house and bit her, attacked me, and… well, he left not too long after, but she was injured enough that she wouldn't survive without immediate medical attention."

"Did she receive that medical attention?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"I wanted to give it to her, but she begged me not to. She begged me to let her die, because she couldn't bear the thought of living on as a werewolf. I… well, you see why I have such a difficult time accepting that werewolves can be just like anyone else. It's just a reminder that, if I'd gone against her wishes and saved her life, then she could have been herself. Alive. Good and kind, just as I'd always known her. It was a decision I made in the heat of the moment, in a very stressful situation, under false information and extreme bias, and I've regretted it ever since."

There was a long moment of silence, and Dumbledore let it marinate.

"But you do believe that werewolves can be good?" he finally asked, sipping his tea.

Sal's shoulders deflated. "I think I have to believe it," he said in a disturbingly flat voice. "I don't see an alternative. I try to be happy for Remus, you know—happy that he has a life anyway, even as a werewolf—but I can't help but think of the life my wife could have had if I'd done what Remus' parents had done."

"I understand," said Dumbledore, "and I am very sorry."

"Thank you."

"I acknowledge your reservations, but I must ask that you put them aside when interacting with Remus, who certainly does not need more hostility in such a formative stage of his life…."

"That's exactly what I'm doing. I'm trying, at least. Has he told you something different?"

Dumbledore searched Sal's eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to indulge in a touch of Legilimency. He knew the details of Sal's wife's death already, of course—he'd done his research, and every single detail of Sal's story was correct. He had also read Sal's medical reports, and he knew that the constant physical pain was most certainly real.

Indeed, the logic was there. The details matched up. Everything made perfect sense… but it still felt like something was missing.

Call it instinct.

Then again, as Remus had reminded Dumbledore, not all instincts were good. Some of them were wrong and awful, and perhaps this feeling that Dumbledore had, this feeling that something was not quite right… perhaps it ought to have been quelled long ago. Dumbledore's feelings had gotten the better of him in the past. Love was an instinct, yet love was powerful, potent, and not always beneficial. Perhaps his love for his students was forcing him to see something that wasn't there.

"Has he told you something different?" Sal repeated.

Dumbledore met his eyes. "No, he hasn't," he finally said. "I think the two of you could get along quite well; it will just take some practice."

"I think so, too." Sal smiled and finished his tea. "I think I'm well enough to stand up. I believe I will go see Poppy… surely she can do something for me, if only a Pain-Relieving Potion and a Dreamless Sleep Potion, eh?"

"Surely," said Dumbledore. "And Sal?"

"Yes, Albus?"

"I know you're watching me. You must know that I am painfully aware of that fact, yes?"

Sal smiled again. "Yes," he said. "It's just a precaution. I like you, though… and I do believe I am starting to change my mind about some things. It'll just take time."

"Time. That does seem to be the solution for everything, doesn't it?"

"Indeed." With one final wink and click of his cane, Sal was gone, and Dumbledore was left to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing.

"Time," muttered Sal to himself, gritting his teeth and flexing his fingers around his cane as he painfully hobbled down the corridor. "That's what they told me when Helen was killed, but time didn't bloody help. That's what they told me about my leg, but time didn't solve the problem. I'm tired of hearing that word."

He wasn't really going to go to the Hospital Wing—no, he would save that for another time. He had some potions back in his classroom that he'd so stupidly forgotten to take, and he would drink those to numb the pain enough to sleep. Stupid werewolves. Stupid Dumbledore. Stupid time.

The journey back to his classroom was long and excruciating; more than once, Sal had to lean against the wall and wait for the waves of fire to stop passing through his leg. "Werewolves," he muttered. "Just have to take away everything you love and then add injury to insult."

Finally, he arrived back in the classroom, made his way into his office, and collapsed into a large armchair. He took the Pain-Relieving Potion first, groaning contentedly as the cool relief rushed over his nerves. Next was a balm, which he applied to his leg to reduce the swelling, and then he turned on his reading lamp and poured himself a glass of Firewhisky.

"Well, then," he murmured, passively observing the liquid in his glass. "Seems Remus Lupin has managed to fool Albus after all."

Sal had doubted Lupin's abilities, if he was being completely honest. He seemed so quiet, so meek, so easily upset, so likely to let something slip. But he had fooled Dumbledore for years on end about his humanity, and this was no different… clearly, he'd worked his magic as soon as Sal had stepped away.

Sal reached over, ignoring the pain in his leg, and grabbed a picture frame. It was his wife, slightly pregnant and smiling at the camera, leaning against Sal with her fingers lovingly entwined in his own. Sal whispered something into her ear, and she laughed, her light brown hair waving in the breeze like that of an angel.

"Werewolves can't be decent," Sal whispered, tracing Helen's outline. "I did not kill my wife and unborn child for nothing. Remus Lupin is a monster, just like the one that killed her. I've seen too much of them to think otherwise."

An idea began to form. Sal put the picture frame back on his desk, took a sip of his Firewhisky, and started writing a letter.

He was going to kill Dumbledore's werewolf rights campaign if it was the last thing he did, and he wouldn't complain one bit if Remus Lupin died with it.