CHAPTER TEN: In which Professor Fairforest learns about werewolves

[y'all this chapter was stupidly difficult to write]

I woke up early the next morning. Despite the magical properties of the sleeping bag, which was considerably fluffier and warmer than its muggle counterparts, I was cold and stiff. I crawled out of it with the gross and wrinkly feeling of having slept in my party clothes. I checked in with McGonagall, who was wearily sending students back to their dormitories. After we got everyone sorted, she shooed me upstairs. I made my way groggily back upstairs to my room to shower. When I came back into my room, there was coffee and scones waiting on my little table beside the window. I blessed the magical kitchen staff and sank down in my chair to devour the scones.

I desperately needed to talk to Remus. Was the kiss just a one-time, impulsive thing? Or was it the start of something more? It seemed like more than just a kiss. I already felt strangely connected to him. But I needed to be careful. Working and living in the same place, things could get messy really fast.

I wondered if he had gone back to his room upstairs. I wanted to catch him early but not too early. He had to be exhausted. At least it was the weekend and we didn't have classes to deal with. I thought about sending a note, then remembered that Jareth the owl was off picking up some books in Diagon Alley and wouldn't be back until the next day.

I finished getting ready—wrapped my anti-dementor flowers into my hair and put on my makeup. I decided I would try his rooms upstairs. It felt a bit bold under the circumstances, but there would be less chance of someone seeing us again.

I walked down the hall, taking deep breaths and trying to rehearse what I was going to say in my head—when I saw him coming down the stairs.

He went bright red. "Oh!" he said. "It's you. I was on my way to see you."

"So was I," I said. We stopped, momentarily baffled. He was in complete disarray—his hair was sticking out in all directions, and he seemed to have thrown his dressing gown on over his clothes.

"Um, maybe we should talk in my room," I said. "There's coffee."

"Yes," he said. "I—yes."

I awkwardly led the way into my room. He closed the door after me. I probably should have like, invited him to sit down and offered him coffee. But instead, I clasped my hands together and blurted out, "Okay. I'm just going to lay it out there. I like you. A lot. I think you're really wonderful and amazing and I would like to date you."

This was not at all what I had planned to say. It sounded so sterile and bold and obvious and unpoetic and (worst of all) American. I rubbed the back of my neck. "And…I want to know if you…feel the same way." Somehow, I was able to look him in the eyes when I said it.

"I do," he said quickly. He looked as if it wasn't what he had planned to say, either.

My heart soared. He took a step towards me, and then stopped.

"I do," he said again. "But…" he looked away "there's something I need to tell you. Something I probably should have told you a long time ago. But I…"

All the color had drained from his face. He suddenly looked years older. "It's not the sort of thing I can tell people." He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. His eyes held a hunted, desperate look.

"You…better sit down," I said, pulling out a chair for him. "You look terrible."

He ran his hands through his hair, looking utterly at a loss. My heart ached to see him so helpless.

"Okay…" I said, pouring him a cup of coffee, as much to steady my own nerves as to steady his. "Are you married? Or engaged to somebody?"

"No," he said, with a slight shake of his head. I pushed the cup of coffee across the table to him. He took it, but didn't drink it.

"Okay, good. Are you dying? I mean—sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that— do you have some…terrible illness?"

"It's…a bit like that," he said, and then quickly added, "I mean—I'm not dying. But it is…an illness." He ran his hands through his hair again and cursed softly. He gripped the coffee cup so hard that his knuckles turned white. "I'm…a werewolf."

"Beg pardon?"

He winced. "I'm a werewolf."

It was so bizarre and unexpected that I let out a choked little laugh. "I'm sorry," I said. "You're a werewolf?"

All I could do was stare at him in utter bewilderment. Despite having worked for two years in the wizarding world and seeing six impossible things before breakfast, including my coworker who can change into a cat at will, this felt like a bridge too far. It seemed so completely unbelievable.

Instead of something sensible, what came out of my mouth next was, "You mean like… in Twilight?"

In spite of his obvious distress, this made him laugh. "I'm afraid it's not quite that pleasant."

With some effort, I resisted the temptation to ask him if he was secretly shredded. Somehow, I doubted it.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "So what—what does that mean, exactly?"

The laughter had relieved some of the tension. He seemed more able to talk now. "Well, some of it is what you would think. Every full moon, I transform into a werewolf. It's painful. And when I'm a werewolf, I'm not…I lose…myself. And I try to hurt people. And after I turn back I'm ill for the next day or so. Longer if I've hurt myself in wolf form."

"Then how…?"

"At Hogwarts, I've been able to take something called the Wolfsbane potion. It allows me to…keep my mind when I transform. I just curl up in my office and go to sleep. So I'm not a danger to anyone here. As long as I take the proper precautions."

"Oh lord," was all I could say.

"There's more," he said. "You see…in the wizarding world, people are afraid of werewolves. If they find out what you are, they…don't treat you particularly well. That's why I've kept it quiet."

I pinched the bridge of my nose again. "So, when you say keeping it quiet—who all, exactly, knows about this?"

"Dumbledore—he reached out to me about the job. And Snape. And Madam Pomfrey. And I think McGonagall knows. Possibly also Sprout. Hagrid definitely knows."

"So, everyone, basically." I said, exasperated. "Was anyone planning on telling me this?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's my fault. I think because we had…gotten close, they assumed you knew. And I…I didn't want to tell you, because…it had been so long since I'd been around someone who treated me like I was…normal. And I wanted so much for you to…think well of me."

"You did?" I said. That, of all things, was what I latched onto. He wanted me to like him.

"Yes," he said.

"Okay," I said. "I'm not going to stop caring about you just because you're a werewolf. But there's a lot that I don't know."

"It's dangerous," he said. "I'm not sure it's right of me to ask you to even consider it."

"Well, technically, I'm asking you," I said.

"You could get hurt. You could die," he said. "Or you could end up like me."

"Well, how dangerous are you?" I said. "In terms of actual facts? Like have you ever killed anybody?"

"Not as a wolf," he said. "As a human. During the war. I killed several people."

This felt more unsettling than the whole werewolf business, because it seemed more real.

"Have you ever hurt anybody as a werewolf?"

"I nearly ate Snape once, when we were at school together."

"Well that's understandable," I said.

He smiled faintly.

"What about becoming a werewolf? How does it happen? Like, if you were to bite me, right now, would that do it?"

I'm sure in actuality it's very unsexy and painful, but as I said it all I could think about was the way his mouth felt last night and how it would feel to have his teeth pressing into my neck.

He must have been thinking something similar. His lips parted and his tongue moved slightly, a dazed look passing over his face. "No," he said, recalling himself with an effort. "When you're in human form it's like a spell. [canon be damned] You have to will it. When you're in wolf form it's less predictable. It requires a full bite of a certain duration, but there's a lot of variables—the strength of the wolf, the strength of the person being bitten. There are a few magical precautions you can take—shielding spells, potions. None of them are foolproof, though."

"I see," I said.

"And it isn't just the danger," he said. "The wizarding community is not kind to werewolves. They fear and hate us."

I shrugged. "I'm a muggle, remember? They don't exactly like me either."

"That could make it worse for you," he said. "There's another thing, too." He colored slightly. "If—things worked out and—someday—we had children, they might inherit the condition. We don't really know, because werewolves don't generally have children."

"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it," I said. "It seems like we have more than enough children to manage as it is. I should probably tell you that I love working with children, but I'm not sure I'd want to come home to one."

He raised his eyebrows a little, but didn't seem upset. "I can understand that."

"Good," I said. "Is there anything else I should know?"

He paused, closed his eyes, and then opened them and said, "What I most fear is being a burden. Being ill constantly. Not that I expect you to care for me—I've taken care of myself for a long time. But it was a terrible strain on my parents. And, as I said, I've no hope of keeping a job for long. It's only a matter of time until someone finds out I'm a werewolf. The parents will never let me stay."

"Honestly, having a professor who's a werewolf wouldn't even make the top ten of the most dangerous things about Hogwarts," I said. "I mean, one of the professors was Voldemort and the school's still open. There was a murder snake in the basement for centuries and no one batted an eyelid. To say nothing of the actual serial killer currently on the loose. I can't believe anyone sends their children here."

This made him smile. "I do wonder about that sometimes myself." He put down his mug. "But in all seriousness, Ophelia, I want to stress that regardless of what happened last night, how you feel, how I feel—you're not under any obligation to…to me."

"I understand," I said. "Believe me, I've never loved anyone out of obligation."

"I believe you," he said wryly.

It was hard to think, sitting across from him, looking at him. The more he said, the more I felt that I'd risk anything if it meant being with him, having him look at me like that, having him kiss me like he did last night.

I got up from the table. "It's so much to take in." I walked over to the window and looked out.

I folded my arms, not seeing what was outside at all. I sat down, then got up again and came towards him. "Here's the thing," I said. "I'm no saint. I might fold under pressure. We might get into it and find it doesn't work. I can't promise it won't go horribly wrong. You might hurt me. I might hurt you, too. I mean, I've dated people, but nothing long term. There's a lot I don't know. And, well, my life has been really normal. Until lately. You've suffered so much and I don't know if I can even begin to understand it. But… I want to try. Because I've never met anyone like you." Realizing how that sounded, I added, "I don't mean the werewolf thing. I mean—when I see you reaching out to the kids, and they're so scared and unsure of themselves, and you give them kindness and respect when there's so much meanness all around them. I mean when you listen to me. Really listen." I stopped halfway across the floor. "And the more I'm with you, the more I feel—" I broke off, unable to find the words. I looked at him helplessly, hoping that somehow he would understand, my hands open as if reaching for the words that would not come.

He got up and came towards me. He didn't say anything, but he took my hands in his. I stared up into his eyes, and saw to my surprise there were tears in them.

All I could do was hug him. He pulled me close to him, and I could feel the relief in him, the way the tension left his body. "I was so afraid," he said.

"Me too," I said, my voice muffled. "Me too."