Chapter Twelve: In which we meet Wolfy McWerewolf

I was clearing up from the drama club meeting the next day when Lupin came into the muggle library. Two students—Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy were still very intently running their lines for Shrek the musical. Ron was Shrek and Draco was Prince Charming. We'd all been kind of surprised when Draco showed up to drama club. But he had been surprisingly well-behaved, restricting himself to only a few comments about the abysmal condition of Hogwarts. He was definitely overacting, but I'm not sure you can overact Prince Charming, really. And Ron was really starting to come alive as Shrek. It was the first time I had ever seen them not fighting. They seemed to have negotiated a truce, at least for drama club.

Remus came halfway in, then stopped when he saw the boys.

"C'mon in," I said. "Can I make you a cup of tea?" In light of recent events, we had both committed really hard to being awkwardly formal when students were present.

"Eh—yes, thanks."

I turned on the kettle. I saw him cast a bemused glance at Draco and Ron.

"Drama club," I said. "Cornelia started it a few weeks ago."

"Oh," he said. "I'm surprised they let her, after what happened to the last drama club."

"Oh yeah. I got the whole story from McGonagall about the Fountain of Fair Fortune. With the engorgement charm on the ashwinder and the breakup with Shakespearean damage radius. It's become extra credit for Muggle studies—no magic involved. There's always going to be relationship drama—it is theater, after all—but I told them that when it happens they need to settle their differences beforehand and make sure they have understudies."

He grinned. "Time will tell, I suppose."

Ron and Draco began gathering up their stuff. Once they had left, I said "I think it'll good for students to have someplace to channel their dramatic tendencies."

"You may be right," he said, leaning on the edge of the desk.

"What is an ashwinder, anyway?"

"Fire serpent. They're not very big. It's the eggs that are dangerous, really. Can burn a place down in minutes. People freeze them and use them in love potions."

"Lord."

I had learned a great deal about love potions via the Hogsmeade Romance Novel Book Club. In this month's book, Ghosting a Goblin, the hapless protagonist, Susan, had been given one on the very day that Sexy McBeefcake was about to propose (and yes that was his actual name), making her temporarily obsessed with Slimy Loserfart.

"Sorry, wandered off," I said. "How did everyone do with kinkypunks?"

He spit out his tea. "Hinkypunks," he managed finally, between gasps of laughter.

"You say that like it's better," I said, grinning back at him. "What are they, like, the spirits of certain kinds of dungeons?"

"More like bogs and fens," he said.

"Ah, getting real hinky in the bog," I said, making him laugh again.

After our laughter had subsided, he said "So what is this play about, anyway?"

"Oh gosh," I said. "I guess you've never seen Shrek, have you?"

"No—I've not seen many muggle movies. James did take us to see one, once. I'll never forget it. It was his birthday. His parents borrowed a car from somewhere and drove us all to the cinema in the next town. Star Wars. It was wonderful." His face lit up with the memory of it.

"Which one was it?"

"There's more than one?"

I had to take a deep breath to restrain the impulse to be like "omg you have to see these 10,000 things" all at once. "Oh yes!"

"Well…" he wrinkled his forehead. "I used it for a patronus charm, for a while. Let's see, there were lots of those wizards with the laser swords. And a big arena. And a place where it rained a lot—I remember that especially because it reminded me of home."

"That would be Attack of the Clones," I said.

"Ah," he said.

"You know, I think I just ordered those for the library. Angus Cranachan kept asking for them. You should talk to him about it—it's his favorite."

"We can watch them here?" he said, looking almost as excited as I felt.

"Yeah. We can watch all of them. You know. If you want." I said, with a valiant effort to contain myself.

"I'd like that," he said, smiling.

"Oh my gosh," I said, now bouncing up and down with excitement. "This is gonna be so fun. I mean. Also really emotional. But like, wow. Are you busy on Friday night?"

His face fell. "It's the full moon."

"Oh," I said. And then "Oh."

"That's what I came to talk to you about, actually," he said, looking down at his teacup. "I'd like you to…come and see it. To see, you know…what it's like." He swallowed, and then went on. "It should be safe. I'll have the potion and McGonagall will be there, just in case. There's usually another professor nearby to keep an eye on things—that is, to keep an eye on me."

I reached for his hand. "Of course I'll come."

"Okay." All the color had drained out of his face. He squeezed my hand tightly.

"Thank you for trusting me," I said.

The dread leading up to it was worse than anything that happened after. Finally, I went to his office, way too early. He wasn't actually there yet, so I went in. I'd been in his office a few times, but this was the first time I'd really had the chance to look around. It was definitely a very wizardly space—dark glass cabinets filled with books, mysterious bones and skulls, potions stuck in odd places, and a gramophone. It felt, well, eerie, and melancholy. But as I looked closer, I saw a handful of records from the muggle library lying by the gramophone, and a few brightly-colored children's books tucked away between the Updated Counter-Curse Handbook and Defensive Magical Theory. And there, on the table, lying open beside a half-empty teacup and an armillary sphere, was Enchanted Encounters by Fifi LaFolle. Looking closer, I saw that a spring of lavender was resting on top of the pages. It was one of my flowers. He must have taken it out of my hair the night before.

My breath caught. And it suddenly hit me— he loves me.

I had to sit down. Everything had been happening so fast that I hadn't quite had time to take it in or think about it, really, except in the feverish, giddy rush of release from longing. I knew, or was starting to realize, that he wanted me, he was fond of me (for lack of a better way to put it), but this was something different. I had lived with my own love of him, pent up, for so long (at least, it felt long), afraid to say it, in case what I thought was love turned out to be wrong, or in case it scared him off. Maybe it wasn't time yet to say it, for either of us. But there it was.

I sat there for a long time, trying to take it all in.

As such, I was lost in thought when I heard the door open. I looked up into his startled face.

"You came," he said, as if he didn't quite believe it.

"Of course I came."

He stood there for a moment, gazing at me. I don't think either of us could speak. Then his eyes went to the book on the desk in front of me, and his face grew flushed.

He took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack, then looked around the room. "Things are a bit of a mess in here, I'm afraid. Had to rake up my lesson plans for Snape. Not that he ever follows them. Apparently last time he had them skip to the part about werewolves and assigned an essay on it."

"He did not!" I said, appalled.

"Oh yes. He's been trying to expose me for months."

"That slimy bastard," I said. "Do you think any of them know?"

"Hermione knows. Not much gets past her. But she hasn't said anything."

I sighed. "Better her than some of the other kids, I guess."

He opened the bookcase, took out his wand, and tapped one of the skulls. There was a grinding noise, and a door opened up in the wall next to the bookcase. Up till that point, there had been no space for a door there. The wall seemed to just expand to make room for it. To my surprise, it seemed to be made of glass.

"Dumbledore had it put in for me," he said. He waved his wand at the door, and the glass turned opaque. He touched it again, and the glass became transparent once again. "It's made of enchanted crystal. Completely unbreakable."

He opened it, so that I could see inside. "This is where I go to transform."

I stepped inside. "Well, he didn't do much else to it, did he?" The space was about the size of a walk-in closet for an upper-middle-class American family. I had slept in one during a sleepover, once. My friend Artemis and I had camped out in it, turning it into the bougiest of blanket forts. There was an elaborate nightlight that projected stars onto the ceiling, and we had piled her large collection of stuffed animals around us for protection. It was cozy and safe and full of laughter.

This room was not like that.

It was dark and windowless and it stank. Like a dog shelter, that same smell of animal grief. There was nothing in it except for a water bowl. The stone walls were covered in scratch marks.

Big for a closet. Small for a wolf.

I looked at Remus, horrified. "This is where they put you?"

And instead of being afraid, I was angry. "My god, I wouldn't treat a dog like this. Let alone a person!"

"It was kind of Dumbledore to allow me to stay at all."

"Fuck that," I said, almost shaking with anger. "I have a good mind to lock him in here for a night and see how he likes it. I never liked that bastard but I thought he at least had basic human decency."

"It's the only way to keep everyone safe. It's much more secure than where I stayed as a child."

"Oh Remus." I looked at him, helpless with rage and horror and grief. "Where did they put you?"

"In the shrieking shack. Down by the village. There's a tunnel that leads to it from the grounds. They planted the Whomping Willow over it to keep people out. But it wasn't safe enough. That's why we arranged for this room when I came back."

"You can't stay here," I said, taking hold of him frantically. "You just can't."

He put his hands on my shoulders. "I have to. It's the only way to keep everyone safe."

I looked up at him, tears stinging at the corner of my eyes.

"Do you think I could live with myself if I hurt someone?" he said.

"Oh, Remus," I said. I hugged him, holding onto him fiercely, hiding my face in his chest. I could feel his heart racing.

He held me just as tightly. "It's all right," he said soothingly. "I'm used to it."

Which just about broke my heart.

We stood there holding each other for a long while.

Then we heard another voice: "It's time, Remus."

I looked up and saw McGonagall standing in the doorway to the room, holding a steaming goblet with both hands, looking like she belonged in Macbeth.

"How dare you," I said, stepping away from him and moving towards her. "How can you just stand by and let this happen?"

She stiffened. "Some things just can't be helped."

A sharp reply was on my tongue, when I saw the grief etched across her face. This wasn't the time. I took a deep breath. I would have to find a time and place to put this anger to better uses.

We followed her back into the office. Remus took the steaming goblet from her. He looked like he was trying to down the whole thing in one go, but he stopped in the middle, gasping, his face contorted. Then he downed the rest of it.

"I had some food brought up from the kitchens," said McGonagall, with a firm look at Remus. "It's going to be a long night for all of us."

Remus and McGonagall made rather stiff small talk about teaching and admin stuff as we ate Cornish pasties and salad and cheese and treacle tart. I didn't have the heart to join in.

"Right then," he said, after dinner was over. "I'd best retire to my quarters." He smiled, but there was no light in his eyes.

I took both of his hands in mine. They were trembling. I kissed them both, (which took some nerve in front of McGonagall), and looked into his eyes.

"I'll be all right," he said. He kissed me on the forehead, and then he turned and went into the room.

There were multiple clicks as the door sealed shut behind him. I held myself tightly. "How long until the full moon?"

McGonagall glanced down at the armillary sphere on the table. "About an hour. He always gives himself plenty of time."

It was hellish, waiting. We tried not to look at him, tried not to see if there was any sign of change. He paced around his cell. I would get up, sit back down, move around, take down one of the books on the shelves. It would inevitably open to the section on werewolves.

This was obviously not McGonagall's first rodeo. She had brought along a stack of essays to grade. But I noticed that she was staring off into space or glancing anxiously about as often as she was grading.

Years went by. Or they didn't. I should have brought crochet, or something, to keep my hands busy. Except that seemed kind of heartless.

And then we heard a groan. In an instant, both of us rushed to the glass. Remus had fallen to his knees, crying out in agony. His body shook and twisted.

I didn't want to watch it, but I knew I had to. I pressed my hand into the cold stone of the doorframe for stability. I felt McGonagall's hand against my shoulder.

He was changing, changing, his hands and feet balling up into paws, thick hair sprouting on his skin. But the face was worst of all, the way it shrunk and contorted and grew, until it was no longer the face of the man I loved, and a wolf stared at me from the other side of the glass. Its eyes were huge and strangely haunted, but they were not human eyes. They were yellow and seemed to glow in the dark.

The werewolf body was not, as you might expect, some horrible man-wolf abomination. It was simply a very, very large wolf. It—he?—had thick, shaggy dark black fur, and a powerful body. The wolf that was Remus sat and gave a deep, wailing howl that rattled the glass in the cabinets and the skulls on the shelves. He ran a few circles around the room, whimpering and sniffing the floor. Then he stopped abruptly, sniffing intently at some object he'd found.

I pressed my face against the glass for a closer look into the dark little room, and realized it was one of my flowers. A change seemed to come over him, then. His tail gave a cautious wag. Then he saw us. Those eyes in the dark.

His tail stood up in warning, watching us.

There was, I realized, a little trail of jasmine flowers leading back to the door.

He sniffed each one, with the questioning, busy wag you see dogs do, all the way up to us.

"Remus?" I said.

He wagged his tail, and pressed his nose up against the glass. I reached out and put my hand against it. He whimpered, still wagging his tail. Then he turned around in a circle three times, curled up, and went to sleep.

I sank down by the door, with the wolf lying beside me on the other side of the glass. And I wept.