"Why didn't you tell me we had essays about werewolves for Manard?" Remus demanded upon arriving back to the dormitory. The interaction with Manard had caused some sort of negative emotion to run rampant through his veins—anger, maybe, or frustration, or even sadness—but whatever it was, he felt like he needed to argue with someone. He couldn't argue with Manard, after all. He hated arguing, especially with his friends, but he needed to get it out. It was okay as long as he argued calmly, wasn't it?

Clearly surprised that Remus was in a mood, James looked at Sirius, Sirius looked at James, and Peter looked at the floor. "Er," said James. "We thought it would upset you."

"What do you mean? Of course it wouldn't have upset me! I'm more supportive than anyone of people knowing how to defend themselves against werewolves!" Remus crossed his arms, willing himself to stay calm. "From personal experience, being bitten by a werewolf isn't pleasant."

"Yeah, but…" James sighed. "Manard assigned a really long essay on werewolves. We figured that if we didn't tell you we had it, then you wouldn't be told off for not doing it."

"Have you done the essay?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's a matter of principle! Werewolves are not a thing to be studied; they're people! I don't want to write an essay about how to identify and kill werewolves!"

"Okay," said Remus, holding a hand up, "there are a lot of things wrong with that sentiment. First of all, everything is a thing to be studied, including people. What do you think we do in History of Magic? We study people! What is the point of psychology, biology, and anthropology? Studying people! We study people all the time! It's not a moral concern."

"But…"

"And, as for learning to identify and kill werewolves, that's also an immensely important concept. Werewolves are dangerous. On a full moon, when it's between you and a werewolf, then you should want to survive. Sometimes you have no choice but to kill. That's all there is to it, plain and simple. It's sort of like learning to duel. You don't want to have to duel a Dark wizard, but you should know how, just in case."

"But…"

"And, furthermore, I've already done the essay, and it's truly not that bad." Remus pulled a roll of parchment out of his bag, trying desperately not to smile. The arguing was over, he was sated, and now he wanted to have some fun. "How to Recognize and Kill Werewolves. By Remus Lupin." He tossed it to James, who looked puzzled. Slowly, James unrolled it and began to read… and, as he did, a smile spread across his face.

"Moony, you absolute sneak," said James.

How to Recognize and Kill Werewolves.
By Remus Lupin.

Edmond Calvary was born on January eighteenth, 1930. He attributes his love of music to his mother, who sang to him every night since he was a baby. "She always sang those songs like Twinkle Twinkle," said Calvary in a 1954 interview. "As soon as I was old enough to sing along, Mum said the neighbors could hear me every night. I was louder than a Banshee."

Calvary attended Hogwarts in the 1940s, just before the end of the Global Wizarding War. To keep up the spirits of his classmates (especially directly before exams), he often sang in the corridors. He wrote his own songs, all about student struggles, modern issues, and polar bears. "I love polar bears," said Calvary in a 1955 interview. "They're my favorite animals. I love to watch 'em swim."

When Calvary was in his fourth year, he met one of his best friends: John Winkle. Winkle was on Calvary's Gobstones team, and the two of them became fast friends. Winkle was an infamously awful singer, but he was a talented rock guitarist. Now Calvary had an instrumentalist with whom he could sing in the corridors.

It wasn't long before they met Mia Crawley and David Chutson, fifth-years who were both talented singers and instrumentalists. Crawley played the violin, and Chutson played the tuba. They were a motley crew of musicians, but they found themselves growing closer, developing a new brand of music. The frequency of their Hogwarts performances increased. When they were in their seventh year, they finally decided to branch out and play a concert in Hogsmeade.

The concert was a smash, and to their great luck, a scout was sitting in the audience, drinking a Firewhisky-pumpkin-juice mix. He offered to finance a tour, and Calvary's crew accepted wholeheartedly.

Thus it was that the Werewolves were born: a rock quartet that consisted of a singer, a guitarist, a tuba, and a violin. Audiences were charmed by their music, and the Werewolves flourished under the generous financing and advice of Alfred Asher, the scout who had seen them that first time in Hogsmeade.

The Werewolves performed for many notable people, including the Minister for Magic at the time (Wilhelmina Tuft), Albus Dumbledore, and Elvis Presley. Each time they were met with acclaim. Their audience grew exponentially, and they were on national television six times.

In 1959, their careers came to an end after a serious argument about whether orange juice tasted better hot or cold. The group went their separate ways.

"I miss them sometimes," said David Chutson about the incident, "but we were simply too different. Besides, rock tuba doesn't have a great audience. I think I'll look into heavy metal next. After all, the tuba is heavy metal by its very definition."

All of the Werewolves are still alive today, and there are certain steps that one can take to identify them. Calvary can be identified by his dyed brown hair (originally blond), his blue eyes, and a tattoo of a dragon on his cheek. He is about six feet tall and has shoulder-length hair that is usually pulled into two plaits. John Winkle has grey hair, a handlebar moustache, and usually paints his nails orange. He is frighteningly easy to identify. Mia Crawley has floor-length, black hair. She can be distinguished from a Banshee only by her kind expression and rosy cheeks. David Chutson looks exactly like Rubeus Hagrid, except a little bit shorter and with a bushier beard. He always wears loafers and a polo shirt.

As for killing them: first-degree murder is illegal in nearly every area of the world, so most experts heavily advise against it. However, if one ever needs to kill a Werewolf, one must remember two crucial things: the Werewolves are all deathly allergic to strawberries, and each of them has a particular fondness for muffins.

My favorite strawberry muffin recipe is as follows:

½ cup milk

¼ cup canola oil

1 large egg

1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour

½ cup white sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

1 cup chopped strawberries

After seeing the strawberry muffins, it is guaranteed that the Werewolves will be unable to resist. The most difficult part of the process, therefore, is getting them to see it, because two of the four Werewolves (Mia Crawley and John Winkle) have recently gone into hiding. Experts think they are either forming an underwater colony, building rockets, or eating cheese (three activities that they have formerly expressed interest in doing after retirement).

In conclusion, the Werewolves, though niche, were truly groundbreaking in the world of rock 'n roll. They are easy to identify and kill, but hard to find, and when encountered with a bloodthirsty Werewolf, all people should keep these tips in mind.

Peter stared in awe. "I would expect this from Prongs or Padfoot," he said, "but Moony… are you actually turning this in?"

Remus smiled. "Absolutely," he said. "It's my Something Stupid."

There was a short moment of silence, and then Sirius laughed explosively. "This is brilliant!" he said. "I think Manard will be okay with it, too—he seems like he has a sense of humor!"

Remus was one-hundred-percent certain that Manard would not find it funny at all. In fact, he was one-hundred-percent certain that Manard would be angry, and Remus was one-hundred-percent certain (especially after his last detention session) that he would not enjoy whatever punishment Manard would cook up.

And that was precisely why this assignment was his Something Stupid. Lack of foresight could be considered "stupid", could it not? Here Remus was, doing something utterly stupid for some arbitrary reason (because he was angry and wanted to maintain some control in the face of Manard). Would it benefit Remus? No. If anything, it would benefit Manard, who was always looking for reasons to punish Remus. But even though Remus was carefully considering the consequences, he did not care. He could withstand any consequence.

Wasn't that what being a Gryffindor was?

"I'm going to write one, too," said Sirius. "If we all write about the Werewolves, then we can't possibly get in trouble. We'll all say we misunderstood the assignment."

James grinned. "You know what?" he said. "I think we can get a few other people in on this as well. Let me talk to some of my friends. Be right back."

With that, James rushed out of the room, and Remus wondered if his Something Stupid had been a little too stupid.

"All right," said Manard, standing in front of the room with a slight frown, "I'm not exactly sure what's going on here, but at first glance at these essays, half of them seem to be about the rock 'n roll group known as 'the Werewolves'. Very funny."

There was a slight murmuring of laughter. Manard looked directly at Remus and blinked slowly; all of the sudden, Remus' Gryffindor bravado left him, and he was afraid.

"Since I suppose I wasn't clear enough," said Manard, "I will mark these essays as if you'd followed the directions exactly. But I'm also going to ask you to write another essay—properly, this time. I had wanted you to do the essay so that you could come into class today with insight and questions. Do we think we know enough about werewolves—lowercase-W werewolves—or do we need another day to do the essay properly?"

"Let's do it today," said Evans without even raising her hand. "I want to get this over with, and I don't see why I should be punished because half the people in this class are stupid."

She glared pointedly at James, and Manard laughed. "Now, Lily, let's refrain from insulting your classmates. But I'll be happy to do the lesson today, of course. I assume everyone who knows about an extremely niche wizarding band has been a part of the wizarding world for quite some time and therefore knows at least a little bit about werewolves. As a recap, here are the ways one can recognize a werewolf."

Manard stepped to the board and manually started listing traits on the board with chalk. "First, the tufted tail. Second, the shape of the snout. And third, the size. Do we all know this from the essay—or from reading the textbook, at least?"

There was a murmuring of assent.

"Good," said Manard, "but we also know that this nonsense—" Manard scribbled over the list with his chalk— "isn't very helpful at all. True wolves are generally very gentle creatures, but one should still stay away. It isn't as if you'd see a wolf running toward you and rush to identify the tail, the snout, and the size… no, you'd run! Or, if you're smarter, you'd take out your wand."

"So what's the point in identifying werewolves?" Evans asked.

"None. There is very little point… while they're in wolf form. Now, when they're in human form, it may or may not be helpful to identify them as werewolves, especially if they're threatening you. Even though werewolves are more or less indistinguishable from humans, there are a few key differences that could save your life someday… or at least help you know who—or what—you're dealing with."

"A werewolf is always a 'who'," protested James, and Remus glared at him. He'd given them the briefing that morning of exactly how he expected them to act in the werewolf lesson: don't speak out, don't argue, don't say anything unless it would be suspicious to remain silent… Remus needed to fly under the radar, especially today.

Especially since James was just being stupid. A werewolf was a what on the full moon. A murderous animal was not part of who Remus was—nope, not at all, not one bit. On the full moon, Remus was an it, and he was perfectly fine with that. The impersonal pronoun separated his wolf form from his true self, and for that he was thankful.

Manard, however, did not try to argue with James. "That is one interpretation, yes," he said mildly. "Whatever you believe, however, you must recognize that werewolves have potential to be very dangerous. There are three main ways to recognize a werewolf in human form, and I will describe them here."

Manard leaned against his desk and wrote on the blackboard manually, which almost seemed more threatening than doing it magically. "First," he said, "werewolves have excellent senses."

"I don't get it," said Neil, a Gryffindor boy. "How would that help you identify a werewolf in human form? How could you possibly know whether a person has good senses or not?"

"Good question," said Manard. Remus rather wanted to crawl under a table and die. "Can anyone think of anything?"

"Perhaps if you made a very loud noise," someone said. "A werewolf would flinch more if its hearing was better."

"Or maybe if you made a very quiet noise," said someone else. "Someone who hears it and reacts must be a werewolf."

"Or if you hide something that smells really good, like a pastry. The one who finds it first might have a better sense of smell."

"Or maybe if you hide something that smells really bad and look to see who avoids it!"

"All good ideas," said Manard. Remus stole a glance at his friends, who were scowling; Remus prayed that they wouldn't do anything stupid. "But there are easier ways that don't involve baking, because werewolves tend to have a few tells that give them away. For instance, a werewolf might avoid crowded places, sniff the air more often than a human would, or—like you said—react more readily to noises, whether they be loud or quiet. When you learn to keep an eye on these things, then spotting a potential werewolf is easy. In order to confirm, however, you need to move onto another step, because none of those things are indicative of a werewolf all on their own."

Manard wrote scars and disfigurement on the board, and Remus self-consciously thought of his gloves. He glanced at Evans out of the corner of his eye to see if she was staring at him—she wasn't—and then he moved his hands under the desk. "Werewolves," Manard said, "are incurably bloodthirsty creatures. When they cannot find prey come full moon, then they attack themselves—which anyone who has done the essay properly already knows. And, even when they can find prey, they often do not escape unscathed—sometimes the prey is feisty, and sometimes other werewolves will fight them for it. Werewolves, therefore, tend to have a surprising amount of scars and bodily disfigurement."

"But a lot of other people have scars and bodily disfigurement," interrupted James. "I fell off a broomstick once. I have a scar. Am I a werewolf?"

"Probably not, unless you have something to tell us," said Manard, and the class laughed. "Again, none of these things are indicative of a werewolf all on their own. But if a person has more than one of these characteristics… well, then you should probably be wary. And if a person is threatening you and has these characteristics, then I'd definitely recommend keeping a good distance on the full moon. Speaking of threats… can anyone tell me what the third and final werewolf characteristic is?"

There was silence, and then Manard said, "Don't all jump at once. Come on now… think. We've covered habits. We've covered physical appearance. What's next?"

"Behavior?" said a Ravenclaw timidly.

"Precisely!" Manard limped over to the board once again and started to write. "Behavior. Now, this one can be tricky, because werewolves have a vast range of personalities and mannerisms. I've met my share of evil, psychotic werewolves… but I've also met polite werewolves, kind werewolves, and patient werewolves. There are, however, a couple of things that all werewolves have in common."

Remus looked at his desk. He didn't want to hear any of this, and he was frankly a little bit afraid of James Potter, whose face was slowly turning the color of an angry tomato.

"Werewolves have a propensity for anger," said Manard. "When in human form, this urge is controllable and oft hidden, but it is much more present than human anger is. You must be very careful not to anger a werewolf too much, because it might just be the last thing you do."

Suddenly, James stood up, fuming, knocking his chair over. "That's not true!" he shouted. "You're a bigoted idiot! Werewolves are people just like anyone else!"

There was a long moment of silence. Remus' face was bright red.

And then he laughed.

"Yes, you're doing an excellent job proving your status as a human, James," he said dryly. "Angering that much over such a tiny thing. I reckon you are a werewolf."

To Remus' great relief, there was laughter. Even Manard smiled. James came down from his dangerous cloud of anger and cracked a smile himself. "You got me," he said. "It's why my hair never lies flat. Everyone knows that werewolves are really hairy…"

He ran a hand through his hair, and there was even more laughter. "Yes, yes, very good," said Manard. "Excellent joke. Now let's move on, because this really is important. If any of you encounter Fenrir Greyback in the wild, I want you to be prepared."

The laughter died all too suddenly. "Fenrir Greyback?" asked a girl whom Remus knew to be Muggle-born.

"Yes, Fenrir Greyback: the most feral and feared werewolf on the continent… maybe in the whole world. He's responsible, either directly or indirectly, for about seventy percent of the werewolves in Britain."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, let's see. If you were to pick a living, documented British werewolf at random, there is a seven in ten chance that the chosen werewolf was either bitten by Greyback… or bitten by a different werewolf who was bitten by Greyback… or bitten by a werewolf who was bitten by a werewolf who was bitten by Greyback. It's sort of like how most Purebloods are related nowadays."

Remus gritted his teeth. It wasn't a relation. Not even close. It was an attack. People weren't necessarily related to another person merely from catching an illness from them.

"Now, documented werewolves are few and far between, so that doesn't mean much," said Manard, "but it cannot be denied that Fenrir Greyback has murdered tens upon tens of humans, and he favors children. He is the perfect example of why werewolves can be so dangerous: they have the strength of a wolf once a month, but the intelligence of a human all the time. They always have the enhanced senses of a werewolf, meaning that an angered werewolf can track you just about anywhere. Most of them have the magic of a wizard, and there are rumors that werewolves have superior talents in wandless magic."

Remus suppressed an eyeroll. Alexander Adamson had addressed this rumor a couple of times: a person who practiced wandless magic was likely to be good at it, just like with anything else, and werewolves didn't always have the opportunity to receive a wand. That was all. There were no additional talents.

"Werewolves truly have the best of both worlds, and that is what makes them so dangerous," continued Manard.

Remus disagreed. He had the worst of both worlds, he thought. He was a monster once a month, uncaring about others, evil to the core, bloodthirsty and hungry… but he was also a person the rest of the time, which gave him the ability to know right from wrong and to hate himself for it. He was werewolf enough to be dangerous, but human enough to hate his every feature. He was werewolf enough to hurt others if he really wanted to, but human enough that he did not want to. He was human enough to empathize, care, and love… but werewolf enough that no one else thought he could. For Greyback, perhaps that truly was "the best of both worlds"; for Remus, it was torture.

Remus didn't really listen much for the rest of class. When the other students filed out, Manard stepped in front of Remus' desk and asked him to stay for a moment.

Remus' friends were by his side in an instant. "You're the worst," hissed James to Manard. "You were wrong about so many things. You could have at least done some research, and…"

"Stop," interrupted Remus. "James, you are overreacting and making it worse. He didn't say anything that was incorrect, and it makes sense that he would focus on the negative aspects of werewolves while teaching a class how to defend themselves against them. You're being childish and dramatic."

"No, you're being self-pitying! You just let other people walk all over you!"

"I'm standing up to you right now, aren't I? Stop arguing!"

There was a long moment of silence, and then Peter whispered, "Are you absolutely certain that he didn't say anything horrible, Remus?"

Had Manard been needlessly cruel? Yes. Was Remus at liberty to admit that? Absolutely not. "He taught a good lesson," Remus settled on, looking his friends straight in the eyes. "He taught what needed to be taught—nothing more, nothing less."

"Well, we're not quite done with our werewolf unit yet, so perhaps withhold judgement," Manard chuckled. "But yes, I tried my best. I know it was unpleasant for you, though… I just didn't think it was a good idea to teach these children that werewolves can be good and kind. Not here. Not now."

"Why not?" demanded James.

"Because He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is currently recruiting werewolves," said Manard patiently. "Now is not the time for students to question whether a werewolf is good or bad. Unless the werewolf in question is a loved one whom they trust, it is a better idea to stay away. Do you agree, Remus?"

"Yes," choked Remus. "And… if they come across a werewolf on the full moon, they shouldn't think twice before doing what they have to do to save themselves… whether that's killing the werewolf or merely incapacitating it. They shouldn't have to wonder whether the werewolf is good or not. Not now."

"My thoughts exactly, as bleak as they are," said Manard. "But, Remus, I asked you to stay after so that I could make sure there are no hard feelings. It seems that you understand my reasoning, though."

"Yeah."

"I also wanted to give you this." Manard hobbled over to his desk and pulled a book from a drawer. "There's a werewolf museum here in Scotland. It's underground, beneath a certain phone booth in Aberdeen. Perhaps I'll have to take you there sometime."

That sounded horrible. "That sounds nice," said Remus.

"Anyway, I went to the werewolf museum last weekend to research a bit for this lesson… and I bought this book at the gift shop, knowing that the lesson in question was likely to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm fine."

"Well, I know that now, but I didn't know it at the time. This book is about the Wulver… have you heard of him?"

"Yes."

"Oh. I suppose that's good, though I really wanted to introduce you to the topic myself. Anyway. Here's the book. It's worth a read when you're feeling down about your identity, because the Wulver is one of the only werewolf legends in which the werewolf is good and kind."

"What's the Wulver?" interrupted Sirius.

Manard's eyes lit up. "Well, once upon a time, in the ancient woods of Scotland…"

"I'll tell you later," interrupted Remus. He needed to get away. "Don't we have another class?"

"Oh, yes," said Manard. "Run along to that, then. Thank you for enduring that lesson so gracefully, Remus. I appreciate it."

"Thank you very much for the book," said Remus, and then he left, his friends hurrying at his heels.

He would hang on to his good mood. He would cling to it with both hands. He would glue it to his skin and strap it down with Spellotape. Remus' good mood would not escape him—not when he knew Manard had some ulterior motivation for an ominous act of kindness, not when his head was reeling with a level of self-hatred that he didn't even think to be possible, and not when his friends were probably about to kill a man if Remus didn't further convince them that Manard had taught a good lesson.

Blue skies. Pleasant thoughts. Butterflies. All was well.