Healer Razvan took a deep breath as he stepped off the boat and into Azkaban's visitor entrance. He shuffled through security, where he traded his wand for a glass loaner and was warned of the prison's myriad dangers. By the time he finished, the Werewolf Capture Unit Hunter was already waiting. He stood as Razvan entered the visitors' room. "You must be Ilias Razvan. I'm Jasper Marolt."

"Pleased to meet you. So, I was told something odd is happening with Mr. Greyback."

"That's right. I don't know how this is possible, but he's getting better."

"Getting better?"

Marolt nodded. "I know that sounds crazy. People don't get better in Azkaban, especially werewolves. But I swear he is. A few weeks ago… Well, did you hear what he did to Amycus Carrow?"

"The paper said Mr. Greyback killed him."

"It was much worse than that. When the Dementors sent word that a prisoner had died, no one thought anything of it. Malfoy was doing poorly; we reckoned he had just given up. Bringing me was a formality. But when we got here… Merlin's beard, there was blood everywhere. Seems Greyback got his arm through the bars, reached around the wall between them, and caught Carrow by the throat. But that's not the worst part. Anywhere Greyback could reach, he'd ripped out chunks of flesh and…" The Hunter shuddered.

"Eaten them?" Razvan asked.

Marolt nodded. "I've been a Hunter for 14 years, and I've seen werewolves go bad, but I've never seen anything like that. You looked at him, and there was nothing human looking back. He actually snarled at us, bared his teeth and everything. It took three stunners to knock him out so we could take the body. They moved him to solitary after that; there was no other way to handle him. The warden even asked permission for the Dementor's Kiss. I know it's cruel, but we thought his mind was completely gone anyway, and he was so dangerous.

"The Minister of Magic hadn't decided before the full moon. Afterward, we went back to clean up—werewolves make a terrible mess when they transform. We expected him to be as far gone as when we put him back there. Instead, he was sitting on the floor waiting for us, as calm as you please. He asked us for some books to pass the time. He named off seven by title and author that he wanted to keep, and maybe others just to read and give back."

"What kind of books?"

"That's the odd thing. The seven he asked for were Muggle books. We had a terrible time finding them, but they keep him quiet. We give him normal books, too; he goes through one every day or two, then slides them outside his cell when he's done and asks for more. He must spend almost all his time reading. That and writing."

"Writing?"

"No one's seen it, but he goes through parchment and ink by the roc's fistful. We reckon it's a journal or something. He's serving a life sentence, and he can't get it out of the cell without us knowing, so it's not worth the fight to get it from him. We'll find whatever it is when he dies."

Razvan twisted his lips in protest. "Any other odd behaviors?"

"It'd be faster to list the normal ones: there are none. I don't know how to break it down. He's just not right. You'll see." Marolt gestured for Razvan to follow him. "Remember, if an inmate touches that loaner wand, it'll shatter."

"I hardly think I'll forget." Razvan patted the glass wand tucked into his sleeve. He understood why it was necessary—and if he hadn't, the Ministry was happy to remind him again what could happen if an inmate got hold of a real wand—but it made him uncomfortable. If there was an emergency, he wasn't sure he could cast with it.

Razvan unwrapped a chocoball, popped it into his mouth, and followed Marolt into the prison proper. They passed through the minimum-security area—only a few Dementors to the cell block—and Razvan reached for the glass wand instinctively. Desperate, pleading eyes looked out from each cell, and a few prisoners muttered to themselves, but it was the Dementors that made his skin prickle and his hands shake. The way they turned as Razvan and Marolt walked past reminded him of patrons at a restaurant, watching a waiter go by with a meal.

Eventually they reached a heavy steel door engraved with the words "Maximum Security", and Marolt took another deep breath. "Ready?"

Razvan nodded, and Marolt shoved the door open. Razvan chomped down on the remains of his chocoball, the cream filling squirting into his cheek. Cell after barred cell stretched down the meandering hallway, and in front of each stood a Dementor. One after another, the line of grey cloaks stretched along the hallway until it turned out of sight. As though they weren't bad enough, in these cells were the survivors of Voldemort's Inner Coven, the most powerful and most wicked of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters. Likewise, some cells held the most dangerous of his lower ranked followers. Fenrir Greyback was one of those, now described as "the most bloodthirsty werewolf since Elizabeth Báthory." Sobs filled the hallway, pouring out of the darkness. Again, each Dementor's head turned to watch as Razvan and Marolt filed past.

Finally, they reached the end of the twisting, winding hallway. Here was another iron door, and another Dementor in front of it.

"Let us see him," Marolt said. The Dementor made no move until Marolt reached for his wand, and then it glided away, leaving a wake of icy air. Marolt tapped the door with his wand, and it swung open with a heavy, rusty creak. Inside was a hallway only one cell long and with a small barred window at the end. The left-hand cell was empty. A red rectangle surrounded the cell on the right, and in front of it stood yet another Dementor.

"Head off, you," Marolt ordered, pointing his wand at it. It glided away silently.

Fenrir lay on the narrow cot inside the cell, a book laying open and face down across his chest and his head turned to the side as though he had fallen asleep while reading. His eyes opened at the sound of Marolt's voice, but he didn't move otherwise, just lay there studying them as the two men walked into the hallway.

Marolt took Razvan's arm and pointed to the rectangle drawn around the cell. "See that red line on the floor? That's how far he can reach outside the cell. Whatever you do, don't cross it."

"I'd listen to him if I were you," Fenrir said, his voice even more hoarse than Razvan remembered. "It hasn't gone well for those who don't. Has it, Jasper?"

Ignoring him, Marolt said, "I'll be waiting right outside Maximum Security. Just come and join me when you finish. And whatever you do, don't forget that red line."

"Give my best to your two lovely children, Jasper," Fenrir called after him. Marolt made a rude gesture over his shoulder and slammed the iron door, and Fenrir chuckled.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Greyback," Razvan said. "Do you remember me?"

"Of course I remember you, Healer Razvan. I'm not that far gone."

"Do you mind if I call you Fenrir?"

"Go ahead, if you're feeling nostalgic. It's all the same to me."

"You don't seem surprised to see me."

Fenrir shrugged. "I assumed there was a reason I smelled chocolate when they brought dinner. At least it's not some Ministry stooge this time. Not a salaried one, anyway." Fenrir closed his book and laid it aside, then reached one hand up to the desk beside the head of the bed, stretching his fingers towards the tray that lay on top. It was a foot out of his reach and on it was a bowl of salad and a cooled mug of hot chocolate.

"I promise you, I'm not a Ministry stooge." Razvan took out the glass wand and flicked it. The tray slid across the desk to Fenrir's hand.

"Thank you." Fenrir took the mug and drew a long sip out of it. It seemed to wake him up, and he pulled himself to a seat on the bed. "Not that I don't enjoy the change of pace, but I know you didn't come to Azkaban for the cheery atmosphere."

"I came to see you about your… complication."

"How kind, but I've gotten used to the teeth over the years." He glanced at the salad on the tray and groaned. "Except when they bring me something like that. How am I supposed to eat that? It's hardly worth the effort of chewing."

"Is that what they usually serve you?"

"No, that's just for show. Most of the time, I can't tell what they've served. I'm not wholly convinced it's actually food." His lips spread into a fanged smirk, and he chuckled. "And I have a pretty loose definition of 'food' these days."

"I'll issue a medical request that they serve you a high protein diet with an identifiable meat at each meal. You can't maintain a werewolf's metabolism on poor food." Razvan jotted a note in his notebook. "You know I'm not here about your Swahlsted complication."

"No, you're here about the other one." Fenrir shook his head. "Why are you wasting your time? We both know it can't be cured. Not at this stage."

"It can be studied."

"I'm not a guinea pig."

"Even if it gets you out of Azkaban?" Fenrir raised an eyebrow. "I'm working to transfer you to a long-term care facility."

Fenrir laughed, his pointed teeth glistening in the shaky light of the prison. "You must be joking. Do you really think the Ministry will let you put me in the middle of London? Even I think that's a stupid idea."

"Not St. Mungo's. The Hospital de Daciana, in Transylvania. It's immediately adjacent to the Transylvanian Werewolf Preserve, and there's no one around except for werewolves and park rangers for a hundred miles in any direction."

"The Transylvanian Werewolf Preserve." Fenrir's voice dropped to a whisper. "Some of my Treasures are there." He stared out the sliver of window at the end of the hallway, his eyes glazing over. "But they went there to get away from me."

He seemed to be somewhere else entirely for several long moments.

"Fenrir?" Fenrir's eyes sharpened again, and he looked at Razvan out of the corner of his eyes, but said nothing. "Has it gotten terribly bad?"

"I can't imagine it getting any worse, but I've been surprised before."

"Is it better in here?"

He gave a chuckle. "Don't make the mistake they do, of thinking that because I can carry on a conversation again, I'm better. If anything, I'm worse. You don't know what I'm thinking every time you get close to that red line." Taking the none-too-subtle hint, Razvan stepped back. "Thank you."

Razvan looked Fenrir over more carefully. His muscles were tensed, and his eyes watched Razvan with deadly precision, the pupils unusually large. "The presence of healthy humans bothers you, doesn't it?"

Fenrir nodded. "I'll be restless all night after you leave."

"It must have been horrible in the main cellblock, being surrounded by them."

"You have no idea. It was maddening, and I mean that very literally. All that prey so close, just out of my reach. Do you know why I killed Amycus?"

"Because you could reach him," Razvan guessed.

"That's right. They'd put me between the Carrows—which is enough to drive anyone crazy, if I may say so. Alecto had enough intelligence to stay on the far side of her cell, but Amycus… Well, he was never very bright, but I wonder if he wanted to die. Merlin knows I made enough grabs for him before I caught him. Did you know that Dementors swarm when someone here dies?"

"No, I didn't."

Fenrir nodded. "There must have been a hundred of them in that hallway while I was strangling Carrow. I ripped his throat out to get rid of them."

"Didn't they try to stop you?"

"Why should they? They're just here to make us weak, and I think they enjoy it when someone dies. They swarmed again when Malfoy gave up." He shook his head. "Back in school, they told us that Dementors feed on joy and love and all those positive emotions. After being in here, I think they got it backwards. If that were true, the Dementors wouldn't find me very tasty. Most of my life has been trouble of one sort or another. But they come back here all the time, sometimes three or four at once."

"Three or four Dementors at once?" Razvan repeated, his eyes growing. Fenrir nodded. "How often does that happen?"

"A couple of times a day, I suppose. More at night. They were worse around the full moon, but there's enough of them even now."

"I'll order that they not come back here unless they are actually guarding you."

Fenrir snorted. "Good luck. You don't order Dementors around. You make suggestions and hope they follow them, and there better be something in it for them if you're going to get anywhere."

"Does writing help you tolerate them?"

"It does. The Dementors make all sorts of thoughts and memories race through my head; writing them down gets them out for a while."

"May I see some of it?"

Fenrir's eyes narrowed, any semblance of even a sarcastic smile vanishing from his lips. "No you may not. And if you start opening drawers, you and I are going to have a problem."

"I won't. I'm just gathering data. What about the books? Do they help?"

He shrugged. "They're a distraction, harmless enough that the Ministry will let me have them."

"I understand some of them are Muggle books."

"A few."

"Why?"

Fenrir picked up the book he'd been reading, and his eyes glazed over again, looking somewhere beyond Razvan's sight. "These were the ones my Treasures loved."

"Your Treasures? You mean, your children?"

"My precious ones. It's important to read to children. I couldn't get them normal books, so I went to Muggle libraries. Wonderful thing, those public libraries. We wizards should have them ourselves. Even I could get any book my children wanted out of them."

He stood and went to a shelf above the desk. Lying on their sides were a few normal books—Muggles Who Notice, He Flew Like a Madman, and Little People, Big Plans, to be precise—but displayed upright between simple bookends were six hardcovers and space for the seventh that Fenrir held. "This isn't everything we read, but these were the ones my children loved most. I know these almost by heart, we read them so many times."

He placed the one he was carrying on the desk and patted it. "This was the boys' favorite: Treasure Island. They loved the adventure books. Most of my girls preferred Frances Hodgson Burnett and similar stories." He put his fingers on two of the books standing side by side, then pulled out one. "But they all enjoyed this one: A Little Princess. I think they all felt like Sara, denied kindness just because they'd lost their fortunes." A smile passed over Fenrir's lips. "There's a point in here where a neighbor's servant brings gifts to Sara's room while she's sleeping or gone, and when she finds them, she thinks it's magic. My children thought it was too. They were sure that Ram Dass was a wizard like us, and had conjured them, and they were all shocked when they found out he had just carried the things in through the window."

He chuckled and turned to Razvan, but then the smile faded, and he returned to the present. "Well, I suppose you're not familiar with the story," he said, returning the books to their places on the shelf.

"Fenrir, is there anything I can bring you to make you more comfortable?" Razvan asked.

Fenrir looked at the books for a moment, and then lowered his head. "I'd like to see my children. Any that will come. I want to apologize to them. I'd like to tell them that they were right, and I should have listened to them." He looked up at the Healer, all trace of sarcastic or threatening smile gone. "My Treasures knew how sick I was before I did. They tried to help me, but I didn't listen until…" His voice caught. "Until it was too late. I wasn't in a good state the last time I saw any of them. I know I'm no better now, but I won't have many more chances, so I'd like to see them while I can."

"I'll do what I can." Razvan was lying, and he feared Fenrir knew it. One of Fenrir's adult children, one safely in Transylvania and so able to reveal her identity, had been trying to make the arrangements. She wasn't getting very far. The Ministry was dead set against it. Too many werewolves in Azkaban died suspiciously after contact with their own kind, somehow slipped poison so they could escape the Dementors. The Ministry didn't want Fenrir Greyback to get out of Azkaban "the easy way", so they had decided there would be no werewolf visitors, no letters from werewolves, no contact of any sort for Fenrir that didn't come with Ministry approval. So far that was Razvan, and the Werewolf Capture Unit Hunters who were trying to get information from him.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, to make things easier?" Razvan asked.

Fenrir struggled over whether to say anything or not, then sighed. "Is there anything you can do for the pain?"

"What pain?"

"When the Dementors come back here, when they inhale that way they do, it feels like I'm transforming. Feeling that twice a month is one thing. I've gotten used to it over the years. But feeling it two or three times a day is something else entirely. People have gone insane over that kind of thing, you know."

Razvan needed a few seconds to find the words to answer. "I'll do what I can, Fenrir."