Hermione looked up at the sign over the Transylvanian Werewolf Preserve's ranger station, then took a deep breath and stepped inside the visitor's area. In the center of the room was a large map of the preserve drawn on glass and standing on edge, and the walls were lined with bookcases, each labeled with a different language. Towards the back were two offices, both with people inside visible through frosted glass in the doors. There was also a reception desk, but it was unmanned when she came in.

Hermione went to the books; the bookcase for Romanian was the largest. Hermione dug through her bag until she found the translating glasses she'd borrowed from the Institute, and put them on to look at the titles. There were all sorts: travel guides, advice books, several annual reviews of medical treatments for lycanthropy and their effectiveness. She noticed Werewolf Anatomy Fourth Edition With a New Preface by Healer Illias Razvan, and beside it a fifth edition of Lycanthropy and Its Complications.

She glanced at the office doors, then went to look at the map of the preserve. A thick line outlined the limits, and within it were blob-shaped sections labeled 'Children', 'Medical 1', 'Medical 2', and 'Vargulf - DO NOT ENTER - VAMPIRES ONLY'. To the side were three images of animals and a stick person, and below that some colored dots labeled 'normal', 'cursed scars', 'first transformation', 'lithobolia', and 'sanguiphilia/catatonia'. Hermione found the visitor's center, and on it were icons of a horse, a falcon, two dots in the 'normal' color, and another stick figure.

As she was studying it, one of the office doors opened. In the oddly accented English produced by her translating earrings, Hermione heard a man's voice say, "If you need any help with that paperwork, come back any time."

"Thank you so much for your help," said the older man as a park ranger in a dark green uniform robe led him out of the room.

"It's what we're here for." As the older man left, the ranger turned to Hermione. "Hi. Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes, I'm here to meet with Phelan Darkmore."

"That's me. Professor Granger, I presume? You speak English, right?" he asked in a perfect British accent.

"Yes, that's right," Hermione said, shaking his hand.

"First time at the Preserve?" She nodded. "Any questions?"

"How do you read this map?"

"The thick lines are where the Moon Walls came up last time. They reconfigure themselves every full moon depending on need. Most werewolves run freely in the general section with us rangers flying overhead to watch for trouble, but we also have a few small subsections for children and people who need medical monitoring during transformation."

"The color coding to the side shows that?"

"Right. Anything we need to know about while we're patrolling. First transformations need monitoring, someone with cursed scars needs special handling because of pain if they need help, lithobolia can vanish your broomstick right out from under you if you fly too close."

"What are the animals to the side?"

"Those are our rangers," Phelan said. He pointed to the visitor's center. "That's me and Sabina here, then the other four who are off duty right now. Most of us are animagi. Werewolves perceive us as animals in that form, so we can use it to get close if we see anything concerning."

"So that's six rangers total?"

"Full time, plus two vampires who work part time during the full moon."

"Is that for the vargulf?"

"It's for anyone who needs help that requires opposable thumbs. Werewolves don't see vampires as prey, so in an emergency, they can give assistance."

"This seems really well thought out," Hermione said.

"We certainly try." He gestured to his office. "Shall we?"

She followed him into the office and took a seat in front of his desk. A free-standing coat closet behind it had fallen ajar, and she glimpsed a uniform like the WCU's inside before he pushed it closed and took his own seat.

"Is that dragon hide in there?" she asked.

"Yes, that's protective gear for the full moon. Sorry about that. I know it can look a little intimidating."

"You don't wear it all the time?"

Phelan wrinkled his forehead. "Why would I wear it any other time?"

"I don't know, but back home, the Werewolf Capture Unit's Hunters always wear their dragon hide gear."

"Werewolf hunting is illegal in Transylvania, as it should be."

"Oh, I think that's just a historical title. They're a form of law enforcement."

"Why do people with lycanthropy need separate law enforcement?"

"I have no idea."

Phelan shook his head. "The more I hear about how Great Britain treats people with lycanthropy, the more horrified I am."

"Werewolves are treated much better in Transylvania, aren't they?"

"See, you just demonstrated my point without realizing it. A werewolf is a creature that exists for one night per moon cycle. I don't understand this thing about calling people with lycanthropy 'werewolves' the rest of the month."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that wasn't the right terminology," Hermione said.

"I guess in Britain it is, but… Well, I don't want to tell anyone how they should have experienced their life, but I can't think that defining a person as a Dark Creature is terribly healthy."

"No, I wouldn't think it would be. Although, I don't think a lot of—" She caught herself. "People with lycanthropy in Britain think of werewolves as Dark Creatures. They take pride in it."

"Is that why my father bit people?" Phelan asked. "Because he was proud of it?"

"I'm still trying to understand that."

"Well, I'll give you whatever help I can, but I have to be honest with you. You probably know more about my father than I do. I was too young when we left to remember much about him, and I only met him once as an adult."

"In Azkaban?"

"That's right," he said. "To be honest, I thought he was dead until Mum wore her wedding ring to my own wedding. It had that old-fashioned enchantment that showed his feelings for her. I was surprised it was still in one piece, must less so shiny."

"Didn't your mother ever talk about him?"

"Oh, certainly. She had pictures of Dad on the walls for years and years; I'm sure she's kept them all. But when I was little, and I would ask when Daddy was going to join us, she would tell me he loved us very much and wanted to be with us, but wouldn't be able to come for a very long time. When I got older, I thought she meant he had died, and she didn't have the heart to tell me. I never brought it up again after that."

"Did she miss him terribly?"

"I think so. Looking back, she acted a lot like a widow. A lot of times, she seemed so lonely, especially after I left for school. Once I was out on my own, she went on dates now and then, but it never went very far. I suppose she kept comparing them to her memories of him." Phelan paused. "Are you planning to speak to my mother as part of your research?"

Hermione nodded. "I have an appointment with her tomorrow."

"I would really appreciate it if you didn't ask her about our visit to Azkaban."

"It must have been very hard for her."

"Terribly. We met with a Healer beforehand who warned us how bad off Dad was, but you can't really be prepared for something like that. And that prison. I can't imagine a worse place than that prison."

A chill filled the air as the boat made its way towards Azkaban. Lucy was spinning her wedding ring on her finger so much that Phelan thought she would rub the skin raw. The Transylvanian consul, sitting across from her, noticed and leaned forward. "Are you all right, Madam Darkmore?"

"Oh, yes. Just nervous." She realized what he was looking at and held up her hand. "I can't wear my ring every day at my job, so it's been a while since I've seen the enchantment. I can't believe what good shape it's in."

"I'm sure his looks just the same. Wherever it is."

"We should dock in a few minutes," their escort said, looking out a porthole.

"I will wait in the visitors' area," the consul said to Lucy. "If they give you any trouble at all during this visit with your husband—try to listen in, try to cut it short, anything—I will be right there to make it right. All right?"

She nodded. "Any update on Fenrir's hospital transfer? Good news I can tell him?"

A shadow flitted across his face. "We're still working on it. But it's getting closer."

It had been 'getting closer' for six months, but Phelan wasn't going to say that in front of his mother.

The boat docked, and Lucy and Phelan were led to the Maximum Security section. Phelan waved his hand in front of his nose and fought the urge to cast a Bubble-Head Charm on himself. The stench was bad enough in the normal section, but here it was almost unbearable. He glanced into the cells they passed. Half were empty; the other half explained the smell. Nearly skeletal prisoners stared out with vacant eyes, muttering to themselves. One woman's hair was matted so tightly that some movement of her head had torn the skin, and blood had dried on the side of her face. She'd made no attempt to clean it; she merely laid on her cot, giving short little giggles that threatened to burst into sobs. Every prisoner they passed was in a similar state, devoid of anyone to care for them and with minds too far gone to care for themselves.

Phelan glanced at his mother. Her face was as resolute as before, but she was spinning her wedding ring again and probably forming another complaint to the Transylvanian consul. Her complaint that the British Ministry was stalling her visit to her husband had finally forced this trip, off the usual visitor's schedule and the afternoon before a full moon. Phelan only hoped her similar complaint about Fenrir's transfer to the Hospital de Daciana had netted his father better treatment than the prisoners they passed.

"Here we are," the escort said, stopping in front of an iron door at the end of the hall. He gestured for the Dementor standing there to leave and looked back at the Darkmores without meeting either of their eyes. "Mr. Greyback's isolated for medical reasons."

The Dementor did not move, even when he waved his wand threateningly at it. The escort attempted to cast a Patronus three times before managing a fine silver mist. That made the Dementor move aside, but it paused beside the nearest cell in the hallway and would go no further.

With a nervous giggle, the escort unlocked the outer door. There were no Dementors here, but the air was cold and clammy with their presence. Unless Phelan missed his guess, someone had chased several off just before they'd arrived.

"Please be careful of this red line," the escort said, staying outside of it. "Mr. Greyback is very sensitive to the presence of normal humans. If you cross it, he might hurt himself trying to get away from you, or hurt you trying to get you away from him."

Lucy's lips puckered as though biting into an Acid Pop. "We'll keep that in mind."

Healer Razvan had already explained Fenrir's condition to them. They both knew the red line was not for his benefit, and he was too weak to act on his instincts in any meaningful way. Indeed, a look into the cell made Phelan wonder if Fenrir was still alive until he detected the slight rise and fall of his chest. He was sleeping—although his cleanly shaven face looked anything but peaceful—with his arms folded across a suspiciously new-looking blanket as though posed.

"I'll be just outside the door," the escort said. "I'll come get you a little before moonrise, or you can call me if you want to leave earlier."

"We'll keep that in mind."

The instant the steel door closed behind the escort, Lucy tapped the cell lock with her borrowed glass wand. In three steps, she had crossed the cell and was at Fenrir's side, calling his name.

He slowly opened his eyes, but even before they were more than slits, he asked, "Lucia?"

She smiled down at him. "You still recognize my voice."

"I've heard it so many times in my dreams. Is this one of them?" He reached up to touch her cheek, and a look of horror crossed his face as his hand instead floated towards her throat. She caught it easily and laid it on top of his other, patting it as naturally as if she merely wanted him to conserve his energy. His hands tried to pull out of her grasp, but they had no strength to do so. He glanced at them in relief, then looked back at her. "Are you really here?"

"Yes, it's really me." She brushed her free hand through his short-cropped hair. The paleness of the skin adjoining it and on his chin suggested it had been cut within the last day or two, and Fenrir couldn't possibly have shaved on his own. All thanks to Lucia's complaints to her embassy, no doubt, but if these details for appearance's sake had eased his last few days, that was something. "I must look so different than you remember."

"Only more beautiful."

Her smile widened. "You're just the same as always." She faltered at the incongruity between her words and his appearance. To cover, she waved Phelan to come to his side. "Guess who's come with me. This is Phelan."

"Phelan," Fenrir repeated, his eyes shifting to look at him.

Phelan grinned sheepishly. "Hi, Dad."

"You were so small when I saw you last. Have I really missed so much?"

Phelan shifted from one foot to the other. "It has been a long time."

"I wanted to be there. I never meant to leave you, not for so long."

"Shh," Lucy soothed, running her hand through his hair again. "We know it wasn't your fault. You had obligations."

"What good have I done? I've failed them all. My precious Treasures, I've made things worse for them."

"That's not true. I've met some of your other children. They love you so much; how can you say you've failed them?"

"You've met…" He blinked slowly, trying to put the words together. "My Treasures in Transylvania, you've met them. Are they happy?"

"Yes, they are," Phelan said. He knelt beside Fenrir's cot and put his hand on his father's arm, trying to ignore its boniness. "I work at the Preserve where they live, and they're some of the nicest people I've ever met."

"Tell me…" He trailed off, then turned to Lucy again. "No, tell me about you. Both of you. Tell me everything I've missed. Please don't let me fall asleep. I want to hear it all, no matter how tired I get."

"All right, I will," Lucy said.

It was really her voice that he wanted to hear. His mind would wander after a few minutes, and sometimes his eyes would close for so long that he must have been asleep, but if she stopped speaking, he would ask her a question. It might be about what she had just said, or it might be about something 10 minutes past, but the message was clear: he wanted her to keep speaking.

As his mother's voice fell into a story-telling rhythm, Phelan looked around the cell and noted the books on the shelf. A fine coating of dust covered their exposed sides. At least these hadn't been placed here for the Darkmores' benefit. Curiously, he pulled one off the shelf and looked through it, and the marginalia caught his eye. As his mother's soothing voice filled the air, he read over the comments, and for a moment, he was jealous. He knew it was wrong and petty of him. He knew in intimate detail the trouble the Lowells had gone through, the danger they had lived under, the friends who had died at the hands of the British Ministry's Hunters. Imagine a country supporting werewolf hunters in this day and age! Nonetheless, he couldn't help wishing that he had heard stories in his father's voice, that he had been there to laugh as a little sister stormed out in frustration at a character, or to see Fenrir's imitations that left everyone rolling on the floor in glee. He couldn't even remember what his father sounded like when he was healthy, and now Fenrir's voice was barely more than a whisper.

The afternoon wore on, and they had lost track of time when the heavy steel door swung open. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but moonrise is—" The escort stopped short, his eyes widening as he realized the cell door was open and the Darkmores were inside.

"We're fine," Phelan said, casting a glance at his parents.

The escort needed three tries to find his tongue again. "Moonrise is in just a few minutes."

"Is it full tonight?" Fenrir asked, still looking at Lucia. Phelan jumped despite himself. How could someone with lycanthropy not know the moon phase? Every client he'd ever talked to could rattle it off without a thought.

"It is," Lucy said, tucking his blanket up around him. "But we're going to come back once it's over. We'll be back in three days. Do you understand? Just three days."

"No promises," Fenrir said. "I'm just so glad to have seen you again. I love you so much."

"Shh," she soothed as his voice tightened. "I know you do, and I love you too, maybe more than you realize. I'm glad we could be together again, even if just for a few hours. And I will see you again in just a few days."

The escort looked at his watch nervously. "Madam Darkmore, we really need to be leaving."

"Go on. I don't want you to see me transform." Fenrir rolled his head around to look at his son. "Phelan, don't let her see."

"I won't." He touched his mother's arm, and they left the cell.

The escort breathed a sigh of relief as he locked the cell again and a similar one upon locking the iron door. As they turned around, they all jumped. Seven Dementors were standing there, just waiting. The escort hustled the Darkmores past them, but Lucy looked back over her shoulder. "I hope they won't bother Fenrir while he's transformed."

"Oh, I can't see them doing that," the guide said, herding them toward the exit. "They're pretty easy on animagi, and a transformed werewolf is even more like an animal than—"

The air was split by the most blood-curdling, heart-rending sound Phelan had ever heard. It grabbed his heart like a fist. Part scream, part howl, part choke: he had no doubt that was a werewolf, but never—not in 15 years as a Preserve ranger—had he heard anything like it. His eyes met his mother's, and for a moment only that sound existed. An instant later, Dementors flooded the hallway, their grey-cloaked forms covering every inch of floor, all of them moving towards Fenrir's cell.

"Oh Merlin!" Lucy turned on her heel and ran back the way they'd come.

Phelan ran after her, the escort following clumsily, and caught her at the outer door. "Mum, don't."

"I can't let him—"

"He didn't want you to see." Phelan grabbed her shoulders. "He said it specifically. He didn't want you to see this."

Lucy looked at the door. "Don't leave him alone, Phelan."

"I won't." He looked at the Dementors swarming around them. "Try to keep these things back."

She shouted "Expecto Patronum" as he opened the outer door and shoved his way into the solitary hall. The light of her Patronus spilled around him, and the nearest Dementors drew away from it, giving him room to cast his own. A few Dementors tried to fight, but most fled. Trusting his Patronus to handle the stragglers, Phelan turned to the cell, and his stomach clenched like a fist.

Fenrir's thrashing had dashed him to the floor, and there he writhed, but he wasn't transformed. The usual time needed had passed twice or three times over, but his body couldn't complete the transformation. It would start, parts of him would shift, but then his body would fall back to its usual form. He was too weak, too starved; he didn't have the strength. His skin tore open at the joints with each failed change, and blood oozed from his mouth. His body was literally pulling itself apart.

Phelan raised his wand. There was nothing that could be done, no way to save him. "A… Ava…" The incantation wouldn't come. He'd never cast it before, but he had to do something. He couldn't let this continue. "Avada…"

His father's eyes caught his, and he froze. Fenrir's screams faded to nothing, and the struggling, the writhing, even the shifting all stopped. His body slid from its half-transformation back to his usual shape, and he laid perfectly, eerily still.

Phelan didn't realize that he was moving backwards until he struck the bars of the cell behind him. He felt his way out of the hall like a blind man and stumbled over his mother. She was kneeling by the door, picking up something from the cold stone floor. She looked up at him, her eyes already glistening. In her hand lay fragments of gold—pieces of her wedding ring.