Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

Warnings: cursing, kissing, two transformation scenes, a man getting shot (rather graphic; end of the first part).

December 3rd – MI0 LE Headquarters, Scotland Yard

"Bullard."

"Present.

"Duncan."

"Present.

"Dursley."

"Present."

"Easton."

"Present…"

Near the back of the room, a blond officer fidgeted with his jacket cuffs and glanced to the clock on the wall. 3:30 PM. His forehead furrowed for a moment as he worked out the math; that was… damn, less than an hour.

"Elmer…"

Speed it up, chief; we've got sundown at four-thirty! Dudley glanced to the clock and gritted his teeth. Trust him to get stuck with the full-moon shift. Again.

He really bloody hated being the new guy.

"Dud. Eh, Dud." He glanced over; Gill's eyes were wide, his twitchy pale fingers pulling at a spare thread of his jacket. "How long til, uh…"

"An hour. Less." Dudley knew his tone was shorter than it should have been, but he didn't have much patience tonight. He was every bit as terrified as his partner, but he wasn't shaking in his blues, now was he?

If mum and dad knew where I was tonight…

"Alright, listen up!" Dudley started to attention as the chief snapped his roster closed. "You all know what night it is. Sun goes down at 4:23 exactly, so I want you all to have done a full check of your sector and be in position by 4:15! Lycanthrope activity is priority tonight. You see a convenience store get robbed? You leave it for the boys upstairs. Use your invisibility boosters if you have to." Every MI0 LE car was equipped with standard invisibility boosters to help the officers go undercover, especially when not wanting to be harassed by muggles mistaking them for ordinary police. It was an easy mistake; MI0 LE officers in London wore the same uniform as the standard Metropolitan Police, and in fact Headquarters was located just below Scotland Yard.

"In addition, we've gotten a tip-off from Chief Lupin!" Everyone perked up at that; Chief Auror Superintendent Lupin was a legend among the ranks of the MI0. War hero, metamorphagus, youngest Chief Auror in a century and– most pertinently tonight– married to a very powerful werewolf. If she was giving them news, it probably came from him. "We've got a BOLO for members of the Shadowsmoke Pack: only urban pack in London, identifiable by their blue eyes and black fur. Perkins?"

"Sir," the officer said, lowering her hand, "I thought the Shadowsmoke Pack had agreed to a truce?"

"Well it seems they've gone rogue," the chief growled. "Lupin says her husband's predicting an attack sometime tonight. Now all of you, listen up and listen good: Shadowsmoke's just about what you'd call an institution in the London underground, but this isn't your Victorian horror novel! These blokes are dangerous; somehow they're getting their hands on Wolfsbane, and that means you're outmatched on their turf. So don't take any unnecessary chances and for the love of Merlin, don't try to be a hero! All werewolves in city limits are required to be inside on the night of the full moon, so if you see anyone out and about, even if they're not Shadowsmoke, call for backup. Everyone clear?"

Heads bobbed. Dudley swallowed.

Sectors were assigned in a monotone; the young officer wasn't surprised when he found out he and Gill had been assigned to St. James Park, but he couldn't help but be bitter about it. When he was finished, the chief looked over them all and said gravely:

"Alright, get out of here. And good luck."

The whole small crowd of officers shuffled out in silence. Dudley retrieved his standard-issue and checked the chamber. Six silver bullets. There was an old saying in the force from the Victorian times: "Nobody's ever used all six– for one reason or another."

The walk to the patrol car was short and anything but sweet; Gill was Dudley's best mate, sure, but that didn't stop the squib from getting on the muggle's nerves. "You, um, you're driving, right, Dud?" Gill, like most squibs, hadn't learned how to operate a muggle vehicle until after being taken on by MI0, and still didn't enjoy it.

"Bloody hell, Gill, some days I don't know how you ever got on the force." The thin young man gave him a pleading look, and Dudley sighed. "Yeah, alright. Check the back for Billywig stingers."

Gill acquiesced, relieved. As he inspected the back of the car for contraband substances, Dudley checked over the mechanics and, finding everything in proper order, clicked the little purple button on the top of his radio. "Patrol car 2168 is in service, sir." The chief himself ensured every car checked in and out again on fulls.

"Acknowledged." He was about to put the radio when he heard the chief add: "Dursley?"

"Yessir?"

A long silence, and then crackling across the magical waves: "…Don't get yourself killed."

"I'll give it my best shot, Sir."

The drive to St. James park was snowy and quite lovely, all things considered; the shops along the way were brightly colored with Christmas decorations in the windows, and the warm glow as the street lamps came to life under the cloudy gloom made the whole world feel a little like a children's pageant. Dudley smiled despite himself as he saw a woman leaving a store with a child's football under her arm, no doubt a Christmas present.

"So, tell me…" Gill frowned, leaning forward in his seat. "Why do muggles play that sport?"

"What? Football?"

"Yeah; what's the point of kicking it? Why can't you use your hands?"

Dudley shrugged. "What's the point of batting cannonballs into each others' stomachs?"

"Fair point."

The world grew gloomier and gloomier as behind the thick clouds, the sun drew nearer to the horizon. By quarter past four, they had stopped just outside the edge of St. James Park. Gill and Dudley glanced around, and then nodded to each other.

Dudley punched the invisibility booster as Gill flipped on the compaction switch. Immediately the world around the front wind-shield magnified slightly, reassuring the car's occupants that the vehicle had now shrunk down to the size of a small golf-cart externally. Likewise, the reflection in the rear-view mirrors ceased to display the now-invisible car. One last switch, the security field, was thrown, and the rubbish bin just in front of the car leapt out of their way of its own accord.

Now newly invisible, shrunken and guarded, the patrol car turned down one of the walkways which ran through the center of the park. Dudley looked around, scanning for innocent passerbys; the park had been closed off, purportedly due to "emergency renovations," for the full moon, but there were always stupid teenagers who liked to loaf around where they were told to stay away. Dudley knew. He'd once been one of those stupid teenagers.

Gill's planetary watch chimed, and the squib glanced down. "4:23," he said nervously. "Sun's down."

Dudley grunted and turned on the headlights.

They drove around for about an hour and a half without incident, aside from stopping twice to tell some yobs to clear out (who were, thankfully, too drunk to notice the police car appearing out of nowhere), before they got a call in over the radio. A couple of teenagers had spotted what looked like a very big dog in the distance; thankfully, it hadn't noticed them, but they'd called in, concerned. The muggle confirmed he was en route and turned down the nearest side-walkway.

The park outside the car was hushed with quiet, but far from dark; the silver-dollar moon in the sky gleamed so brightly off the white snow that it seemed almost as bright as daylight. Gill watched the shadows and light pass by and swallowed hard. "What if it's a werewolf?"

There was a long pause, and Gill looked over. Dudley's eyes were fixed on the road. "Then we take care of business," his partner replied flatly.

"Dud–"

"Look, Gill, it's not like we took this job 'cos we thought it'd be easy, did we?" He turned down another walkway, perfectly collected despite the tenseness of the situation. Gill could never quite figure out how he managed it. Growing up the only squib in a household of four wizarding brothers had made him rather skittish any time the business end of a wand was pointed in his direction, but Dudley Dursley never batted an eye. Gill had asked him about it once, and the man had replied that after getting attacked by dementors, everything else seemed like a piece of cake.

They came to a halt in an open space near the call-in, which looked like a field of pure white frosting in the moonlight, contoured only by shadows of gray and pale blue. Dudley pulled the car to a halt and got out, right hand on his holster. Gill followed. "Um… so you go left and I go right?" the squib suggested nervously, cringing at the loudness of his voice in the silence.

"Don't be daft; we're not splitting up. Haven't you ever seen a horror movie?" Gill blinked at him, and Dudley sighed. "Course you haven't. Look, just be ready, got it?"

They shuffled through the ankle-deep snow, looking around them all the while. A slight wind rattled the tree branches above and around them, causing them both to stop in surprise, and then continue on. Dudley scanned the tree-line in front of him on the opposite side of the clearing. The trees cast deep, dark shadows over the drifted snow; nothing beyond a few feet could be seen.

"Dud? Eh, Dud." Gill's voice, thin and frightened, drifted over. Dudley glanced to his right and felt a chill run up his back. Gill had knelt down beside a trail of massive paw-prints, padding off in the direction of the wood.

Dudley swore under his breath and reached for his radio. "Officer Dursley to headquarters; we've got a confirmed sighting in St. James Park, we–"

"Dud," Gill hissed.

"Shut it, Gill, I'm tryin' to call for b–"

"Dudley!"

"What?!" He looked over– and stopped dead.

Out of the tree line gleamed a pair of icy blue eyes.

The officers stared. The eyes stared back.

"Gill," Dudley breathed, "10-22."

Gill glanced over at him, startled. "What?"

"10-22." He shot a look at Gill out of the corner of his eye and saw the small, nervous nod. "On my count."

They looked at the wolf. The wolf looked at them.

"Now!"

He broke left; Gill broke right. The eyes seemed to blink, startled, and then the great shadow leapt out of the gloom and across the white clearing.

"SHIT!"

"DUD!"

It was the only natural response; somewhere deep in his heart of hearts, Dudley had been selfishly hoping the werewolf would go after Gill. No such luck. He threw a glance over his shoulder and saw the massive black wolf gaining on him, kicking up snow as it dashed across the field.

BANG! BANG!

"Dammit, Gill!" The oath came in a gasp; the two shots had missed. A third rang out overhead, but the wolf continued on, undaunted, not even caring for its own life.

This thing wants dinner and I'm his damn happy meal!

The trees loomed out of nowhere; Dudley threw himself into the undergrowth and took a sharp turn. He heard the wolf scramble and skid behind him, buying precious seconds; he needed space, time, a gun was no good if the thing landed on top of him with those fucking teeth! He bolted round another tree, trying to work his way back towards the open field where Gill could get a clear shot at the thing, but then the howl sounded to his left, and he was forced deeper into the trees.

Shit, shit, SHIT!

A root. He jumped and sprinted faster, chest heaving.

Don't trip, you idiot! DO NOT FUCKING TRIP!

Deeper and deeper into the trees he ran, so fast that he barely felt it as a stray thin twig snapped across his face, cutting his cheek open. The howl sounded again, and Dudley knew the wolf had scented blood. Shadows and light blended together and every tree looked the same and he didn't know where he was, let alone where Gill was, shit, this was it, this was the end, fuck, fuck–

And that was when he realized… there were no sounds of pursuit. He dared to slow, and then to stop. He looked around. Nothing. Trees and snow and moonlight, but no icy blue eyes or inky fur.

Did I lose it?

He listened a moment longer, and scanned the trees, but no shadows moved in the undergrowth and gloom. Breathing hard, he leaned back against a tree, coughing as the icy air set his heaving lungs on fire. I lost it. He drew a deep breath, and then another. A guilty thought came to him: I hope it didn't go back for Gill.

Slowly, he straightened up, intending to go back to find his partner, still looing around him warily, yet not daring to move any faster or louder for fear of alerting the beast, wherever it might be. The woods were silent. He was safe for the moment, and yet… and yet, something was nagging at him in the back of his mind… there was something he'd forgotten…

Didn't Chief say that they'd gotten their hands on some Wolfsbane?

Dudley stopped short in horror, and then whirled around and leveled the gun.

The stalking wolf sprang. He fired.

Gill Hebert's hesitant walk through the woods came to an abrupt halt when he heard the shot go off; he paused a moment, and then sprinted ahead until he came to a small space in the trees, where he saw the first spattered prints of ruby blood on the white snow. He looked up, shocked, to see Dudley Dursley staring down at the naked body of a hulking man with black hair and blue eyes. The werewolf's chest was blown open in grisly detail.

"Fuck," Gill whispered. "I didn't realize they…" He looked up, shaken. "Y'alright, Dud?"

The other officer looked up at him, met his eyes for a moment… and then turned and vomited into the bloodstained snow.

Four Days Earlier

"That was a nice try, Harry, but you're still getting distracted. You're giving him too many footholds."

"Yeah, Potter," Draco drawled, twirling his wand in his pale fingers with a sickeningly smug smile. Harry resisted the urge to punch the Slytherin in his finely pointed nose. "Try concentrating."

"Draco, be polite."

"I still don't see why we're doing this today," Harry growled, glaring at the blond. It was Sunday afternoon, a lovely sunny day that he'd rather be spending with Ginny down in Hogsmead, instead of with Malfoy of all people. "I thought I had at least another two days before I had to put up with you digging around in my head again."

"Believe it or not, Potter, the world does not revolve around your massively inflated ego, despite its no doubt considerable gravitational pull."

"Draco."

"'Gravitational pull?' Since when do snotty pure-bloods like you believe in science?" Harry shot back.

"Boys!" The Gryffindor and the Slytherin both stopped and looked over; Remus ran a tired hand over his face. "Civility," he repeated, for what must have been the fourth time that day. "Please."

The two glared at each other, and then Draco sighed and grudgingly admitted: "I'm working on my own project tomorrow during lunch; that's why I'm here now."

"Tomorrow? Why?"

"It's the only time my partner and I can both meet; she's… she's a Gryffindor."

"Why not on Thursday? Both our houses have study hour that morning," Harry argued.

Clearly he hadn't guessed that Draco's partner was to be the lovely but undeniably lycanthropic Lavender Brown, who would most likely be incapacitated the morning of the full moon, and the Malfoy heir intended to keep it that way. "I don't believe that's any of your business," he replied coolly. "Shall we continue, professor?"

"Yes, quite," Lupin agreed wearily. "Harry, are you ready?" Malfoy cocked his head with the beginnings of a smirk, no doubt barely restraining himself from repeating the question in a much more condescending tone.

Th Gryffindor met the infuriatingly smug smile of his opponent and narrowed his green eyes. "Try me," he growled.

"With pleasure." The hawthorn stave twitched, the silver eyes flashed, and suddenly Harry found himself in the Room of Requirement. He was under the mistletoe… and there was Cho Chang, approaching closer, her eyes glimmering wetly as she leaned in and–

You bastard! His romantic interest in Cho may have long since faded, but this was a private memory and Malfoy knew better. Fuck you, Malfoy!

He heard the mental snickering echo in his memory, and that was when Harry decided he was exactly 110% done with this. He could have broken off and told Lupin, but he knew that would only make him look weak in the Slytherin's eyes. So Harry decided to take another approach. Namely, the offensive one.

What exactly the "offensive approach" consisted of, he didn't know; all he could do was follow pure instinct and throw all of his mental energies into the idea of hitting back. He felt Malfoy's conscious recoil and, with a sense of satisfaction, hit again and again, driving the unwelcome presence back to the edges of his consciousness until– until–

The world went dark very suddenly, whirling blackly, and Harry had the very odd sensation of feeling formless, disembodied. He tried to turn around and found there was nothing to turn with, or to. What in the world–?

"Father, talk to me!"

Reality appeared abruptly with the sound of a frantic voice, followed shortly thereafter by the blurry gleam of marble walls. Harry looked around, dazed; this room– he recognized it– but how?

"Father, please!"

He stopped, startled, as the scene sharpened and came into focus. He was in the main hall of Malfoy Manor, he recognized it now. Ahead of him stood a very small child, no taller than his ribcage, with white-blond hair. And beyond the child was…

"Draco, please, not now…"

Harry stared. Lucius Malfoy looked haggard and exhausted; his black death eater robes were rumpled and dirtied, and his platinum hair was in disarray. He was leaning heavily on the table.

"You look like you haven't slept all night, mother can't stop crying, and Harry bloody Potter just came out of a maze holding a kid's body in his arms! Don't lie to me!" Malfoy's face was white with fear; Harry saw it as he approached hesitantly, and was floored to realize just how young the boy in front of him really was, all of fourteen. "Father, what in Merlin's name is going on?!"

Lucius turned. Harry realized that he was just as pale.

"…Is he back?" Draco managed at last.

There was a long pause. Then, Lucius nodded, looking very gaunt and tired. A shaking breath escaped his son's mouth. "Oh, Merlin…"

"Draco, I need you to listen to me," Lucius said forcefully, setting a hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Your mother and I- we are going to keep you safe-"

"Father-"

"The Dark Lord is not one to be trifled with. You have heard the stories. You know what he will do to those who displease him." He gripped his son's shoulder tightly. "He is a very unstable man, Draco. I've seen him kill his own for laughing out of turn. But if you do exactly as your mother and I say-"

"Dumbledore thinks-"

"Dumbledore thinks! Draco, don't be a fool! That man would entrust the safety of our entire world to an unqualified, underage wizard just because he happens to have a silly scar on his forehead!" Harry started as he realized they were speaking about him. "Blood, Draco! Family. That's whom you rely on, whom you trust- not some desperate, attention-seeking little celebrity and a daft old fool. Your mother and I, we will protect you– but I need you to trust me."

Draco stared back, wide-eyed. His hands were shaking.

"Draco, do you trust me?" Lucius demanded, desperation in his voice.

The younger Malfoy hesitated, and then nodded. Lucius clapped his arms around him and hugged him fiercely. "Family, Draco. Family keeps you safe," he said, and it seemed as if both Harry and Draco knew full well it wasn't his son he was trying to convince. "We will keep you safe."

"Get. OUT."

Harry turned, startled. A full-grown, eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy had materialized beside him, seething with rage. Harry took a step back. "I– I didn't–"

"I SAID GET OUT!"

The other boy tackled him, and the world whirled on its axis.

"We need to go."

Harry spun on his heels; he was standing again, how, he didn't know. Malfoy was beside him, as well, but it was not quite the same; he was pale, too pale, and shaking violently, and in the wrong clothes.

"I can't," he choked, clawing at his face. "I can't, I can't, I can't–"

"Pull yourself together, boy!" Two hands seized the front of the blond's shirt and shook him forcefully; both Harry and Draco looked up into the fiery face of Severus Snape. Harry noticed, dimly, that Malfoy was crying. "You cannot go walking into his presence like this!"

"I want out, I don't want to do this, please, just kill me, I can't do this again, I want out–!"

"Don't you understand? If the Dark Lord knows you hesitated, he will destroy your family!" That seemed to get the boy's attention; he stopped his deranged mumblings and just gasped for air. "And then he will destroy you," Snape concluded quietly.

Draco's face looked as bloodless as a corpse's. "But- I succeeded-" he croaked, "Dumbledore is dead-"

"You foolish boy, do you think that matters now?" He grabbed the boy's arm and wrenched up his sleeve. The Dark Mark stood stark against his skin. "When you took the Mark you joined his ranks for life. He must not think for even a second that you wavered."

"But- how could I-"

"You are an occlumens; you must resist him!"

"Resist the Dark Lord? Impossible-"

A sudden flash of vision blinded him: Harry saw a moment's fantastic image of Dumbledore and Draco circling round the Astronomy Tower, bolts of light flashing, Dumbledore curtly speaking threats that the real Dumbledore would never have used, causing the blond-haired boy to shake with fear. When the vision faded, Draco stumbled back, shocked. "What did you-"

"That is the memory you will show the Dark Lord when he interrogates you," Snape said forcefully. "That is what really happened, Draco! Everything else is a lie! Say it: those other memories are a lie!"

"The- the other memories- are a lie-"

"And this moment, this conversation, it never happened!"

"It never happened," Draco repeated, very pale. "None of it ever happened…"

The memory shifted of its own this time. All Harry had was a very blurred image of golden-yellow hair and tearful blue eyes, before something rushed past him and obscured the face from view.

"Mother!"

Narcissa gathered him into her arms and hugged him fiercely, tears in her eyes. "It's alright, mother," he whispered in her ear, just loud enough for Harry to hear. "It's alright, we'll all be safe now, everything is going to be alright-"

"As much as I hate to disrupt this little family reunion, I would like to hear a report," a cold voice broke in, and Draco turned. Two eyes, slitted and cold like those of a snake, stared back, and Harry felt a spike of fear lance through his chest.

"Draco Malfoy managed to repair the broken Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of All Hidden Things," another voice replied, and Harry glanced over to see Snape standing on the other side of Bellatrix Lestrange. "His… backup… came in through there and fought off Dumbledore's ridiculous Phoenix pawns with ease. I joined them, and we broke into the Astronomy Tower where Draco had the Headmaster cornered.

"I see. But why the need for support if, as you say, he already had the old fool cornered?"

"I didn't know if I would need help, my lord," Draco said nervously. "In the end, that did indeed prove the most prudent course of action."

"Oh?" The snake eyes gleamed. "Then you did not, as it were, kill the Headmaster yourself?"

Harry felt it just as Draco did: the sudden and relentless invasion of the mind, the force of a superior intellect prying into one's deepest thoughts. Draco, to his credit, managed to throw forward the false memory that Snape had provided, and after a moment the attack ceased. Voldemort turned to his most loyal servant and said coolly, "So. You disobeyed my orders, Severus?"

"Forgive me, my lord," Snape replied, lowering his head. "I allowed my desire for revenge to get the better of me. Moreover, the boy appeared quite terrified- I believe the old man must have frightened him."

"So I saw. He threatened your mother, did he, boy?" A scarlet flicker of a glance back, enough to make Draco's hand tremble around his wand.

The blond swallowed. "Yes, my lord." He glanced to Narcissa for a moment, and then added for good measure, "Apparently his so-called 'compassion' only extends to his favorites."

Voldemort laughed, high and cold. "Naturally. Well done, Draco, very well done. Perhaps you have the makings of a real wizard in you, after all."

"Thank you, my lord. That's very generous of you, my lord."

Voldemort raised his wand and flicked it at the door, which swung open. "Go now. I need a word with Severus." Harry noticed that Snape went even paler than usual at that statement, but his face was set with determined resignation. Narcissa and Lucius swept Draco out of the room and down several hallways, before pulling him aside into a room and locking the door tightly. Narcissa cast several silencing charms on the walls and half a dozen other spells he didn't recognize, before the small family turned to each other, relief filling each of their faces.

"My brave boy," Narcissa breathed, moving to embrace him again. "Oh, Draco…"

"Is it true? You fixed a vanishing cabinet?" Lucius questioned, a flicker of pride in his hoarse voice. Draco nodded wordlessly, and the man shook his head in disbelief. "Incredible. How did you…?"

"It's like you said, Father," Draco nearly whispered. "Family keeps you safe."

Lucius nodded, swallowed, and pulled his wife and son into his arms. Harry watched the scene in stunned silence– up until a wrathful voice shook the world to its foundations:

"OUT, POTTER!"

The pushback was so violent that Harry literally tumbled backwards as his consciousness returned to the physical world, collapsing into a desk. Lupin was looking wildly between them. "What? What happened?" The two boys were staring at each other, Harry with shock, Draco with unbridled fury. "Draco–"

"No!" His face was flushed with rage; silver eyes flashed to Lupin, burning with anger and something else– fear. "He had no right to any of that! If you think I'm going to stand here and let him waltz through whatever memory he likes-"

"Draco-"

But the blond had already turned and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Lupin turned, anger and shock in his eyes. "Harry, what did you do?!"

"I don't know! I- I was just so angry I pushed back and…" He faded off as it dawned on him. "Professor, I… I think somehow, I pushed my way into his memories. But I didn't mean to, I swear!"

"You saw his memories?" Harry nodded, confused and guilty, and Lupin stared at him, now more stunned than angry. "Incredible… Harry, I've never… but then, you've always been precocious…"

"Professor?"

"You're a natural legilimens," Lupin explained, slightly awed. "The first I've met in a long while."

"What? But I can't be; I've never studied it!"

"Some wizards have a sort of- of inborn talent, for particular types of magic. It comes naturally to them, the same way music or mathematics come naturally to others…"

Lupin was studying the boy with a scientific, and somewhat unsettling, interest gleaming luminously in his yellow eyes; for the first time outside of seeing the man truly angry, Harry felt a little intimidated by the intensity the werewolf could possess when something caught his focus. "You seem to have a gift for legilimency, Harry; it's a rare blessing, but not unheard of. I knew an old woman in New York who said she was born with the gift; I think you'll find it'll prove incredibly beneficial, if used rightly."

The boy stared at him for a long moment, digesting this, and then sat down heavily in the nearest chair. "Brilliant," he muttered angrily.

"Harry?"

"Effing brilliant. One more way I'm 'special.' Great."

Lupin frowned, not a little surprised. The young man was glaring down at the desk like it had personally affronted him. "I… must admit, I'm a bit confused, Harry. I'd have thought you'd be pleased. Most people have to train for years to develop the skill to such a degree."

"You don't get it." Harry looked up with frustration in his green eyes. "Remus– look, I'm already the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Hero, the one everyone has been 'expecting great things from' from the moment I got here and– and I'm just sick of it, alright! I'm sick of being special, I'm sick of- of–"

"Alright, I think I get the picture." Remus looked down at the fuming boy and asked gently, "Harry, have you ever talked about this to anyone before?"

The black-haired man shrugged irritably. "Ron, some. And Hermione and Ginny a bit. But… Remus, sometimes I just want to be… normal."

The werewolf smiled ruefully. "Well hell if I don't understand that." Harry snorted at the profanity. "Listen, Harry, if that's how you feel, this'll be our secret."

"Until Malfoy decides to spout off, you mean."

"Something tells me he won't be too eager to tell anyone what just happened. Although," Lupin sighed, "getting him to come back to help will be a bit tricky. Especially considering I need him for class tomorrow."

"Oh. Sorry 'bout that…"

"It's alright, I'll sort it out." The teacher eyed the student, and then said abruptly: "Harry, why don't you come upstairs and have some tea?"

Harry glanced up, surprised, and found that the intimidating curiosity in the professor's eyes had died down again, so he nodded hesitantly and stood. "Yeah, alright."

Lupin led him up the stairs to his office, where he made them both a cup of mint tea and passed Harry a biscuit from a tin. The student took it with a small smile. "You're turning into McGonagall."

"Yes, she advised I always keep sugar biscuits on hand. Apparently they're a necessary commodity for a Head of House." Harry chuckled and took a bite. Remus watched him a moment, and then said, "Harry… are you doing alright?"

The young man swallowed the cookie with a gulp of tea before he answered with an honest shrug. "I'm better than I was. But it's still hard." He paused, and then added, "Y'know sometimes, I'll pass by a certain hallway or suit of armor and I'll just… get this flash of memory, of a body lying there or spells flying…"

"Mm."

"It's like when Sirius died, almost, only… only it doesn't hurt as much, y'know?" He broke off suddenly and looked up. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring him up…"

"It's alright," Lupin reassured him, "in fact it's good, Harry; trying to forget the people we've lost is– well, it's dangerous, emotionally speaking. It makes you afraid of the very memory of a person you love."

"Yeah?"

The werewolf nodded. "I spent a long time trying never to think about your parents, after they died, and that was a sorry mistake. I even moved across an ocean to try to get away from their memory, and I can tell you now, it didn't work." He smiled slightly, sadly. "How very like them; chasing me halfway 'cross the world to stop me from running away."

Harry grinned despite himself, and then his face grew pensive. "Remus?"

"Mm?"

"Can you tell me about him? Only I know a lot about Mum, but… honestly, Remus, I know you told me there was more to him, but he just… seemed kind of like an arse to me."

Lupin was silent for a long moment, before he sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Harry… I don't know if James would have wanted me to tell you this, but I can't let you go on with that kind of an image about your father, so I'm going to." Harry frowned and leaned forward; Remus opened his eyes. "Your father had a secret. A very… a very unhappy secret."

"What?" Harry's voice sounded hushed.

Lupin grimaced, and then drew a deep breath. "Harry, you know that your grandparents were quite a bit older when they had your father, don't you?" Harry nodded. "Well, it wasn't for lack of trying. James was your grandparents' seventh child."

"What?" Harry was thrown. "That can't be true; if dad had siblings I'd know them."

"I doubt that," Remus said gently, "because James didn't know them, either. They all died in miscarriage; he was the only one to make it to term."

Harry's mouth fell open. "What?"

"It's a common problem among purebloods, or at least those who married family members, and the Blacks were guiltier of it than most. Andrew, Peter, John, Mary, Elizabeth and Anne. James was the last. And he… Harry, I want you to try to imagine what it must have been like for him. Growing up in this huge, empty house, sleeping in a bedroom that was supposed to belong to a brother, playing on a swing-set that was built for a sister… James was born with survivor's guilt. He never admitted it aloud, but I think he always felt like he had to live up to their possibilities– that he had to prove he deserved to be the one who made it. And he never told anyone, not for a very, very long time."

Harry sat silently, dazed. He'd always regretted being an orphan, always wished for siblings like Ron- Ron, who'd grown up in the shadow of all his older brothers. But this? He couldn't imagine having to live up to the potential greatness of six dead brothers and sisters.

"So if he came off a little arrogant," Remus concluded gently, "if sometimes– alright, often– he went too far in trying to prove to himself and everyone else that he was great, that he was worthy, and maybe more than anything trying to prove that he was happy… I hope you can forgive him. He wasn't a mean-spirited person. He was just scared young boy trying to live in a very adult world."

Harry thought back to the vision of another scared young boy he'd seen just half an hour previous, and felt a strange rush of sympathy for the Slytherin who'd tormented him for the last eight years. "…Thank you, Remus. For telling me that. I-I think I understand dad a little better now." He thought a moment, and then said, "Could you… tell me more about him, sometime? And mum? I-I don't remember anything about her except her screaming, and I don't remember dad at all… I'd, uh, like to get to know them, if that makes sense."

Remus smiled. "I think that's an excellent idea."

They both paused as the clock chimed three, and Remus cleared his throat. "Well, it's a lovely day, and I'm sure you have better things to be doing than talking to your old professor."

"You're not old," Harry admonished as he stood and shouldered his bookbag. Remus snorted, and the young man smiled. "Thanks again, Remus."

"Anytime."

The professor watched as the boy left through the door, musing on old memories. It was a tragedy, a true tragedy, that James would not be the one telling him these stories. It was unfair, that Remus should have so many wonderful memories with the man he had grown to love like a brother, while James's blood son had none. But then, there was no way to fix that now…

Remus sighed, standing up– and then stopped short. Because that wasn't entirely true. There was a way to fix that. And, with a sudden shock of guilt, he remembered the vial gathering dust in his room, the one he had intended to give the boy back on Harry's seventeenth birthday and in the chaos of the war had quite forgotten.

But there would be more. A plan began to take form in Remus's mind. Oh, yes, there would be so many more, and by all that was good in this world, Harry Potter would know his father, so long as Remus Lupin had something to say about it.

Advent-tide had begun, and with it preparations for Christmas. The whole of Hogsmead was decorated in evergreen wreathes and crimson-red ribbons; garlands were being strung with shining yuletide ornaments, and a great tree had been set up with blazing golden candles between the kirk and the chapel, a sign of mutual good tidings with great joy for all peoples.

Lavender Brown, now accompanied by two stoutly defensive Indian witches (the Patils, dressed in lovely cerulean and violet cloaks and muffs, were shooting dagger-glares at anyone who happened to give her a foul look) had dared to descend to the village again, clad in her fluffy rose cloak and steadfastly ignoring any opposition in her direction. She would not lose her head this time around, and besides, Lavender Brown was on a mission. A sacred mission, a mission that could not, under any circumstances, be forsaken.

Lavender Brown was shopping for a dress.

But not just any dress. A dress for the Yule Ball, which meant it had to be perfect. She didn't know what she wanted yet, but she knew it was as necessary as air.

The bell above the door chimed as they entered Trim and Tassles, the nicest tailor's in the village; the three girls, being women of means, had elected that there was no reason not to start with the best. The shop was lovely warm and lit up with gleaming yellow tapers in the crystal chandelier, all paneled cherry-wood walls and fine cloth in colors as rich and delicious as candied sweets.

It is, perhaps, a bit difficult to explain to a man what a woman feels when she finds the perfect dress. It may be likened to what he experiences upon seeing the perfect racing-broom (or motorcycle, as the muggles might prefer) in a shop window, or when he comes across a truly marvelous painting languishing in the back of a second-hand shop. A sudden delight flares up at such an example of true craftsmanship and talent, especially after having searched for many hours or even days through many sub-par or second-rate examples, lifeless and without inspiration. One knows immediately that this is a work of art to be admired and, if possible, possessed.

Thankfully for Lavender Brown, she did not have to search for hours or days, for there, displayed as if newly-finished upon a sewer's mannequin near the front of the shop, was The Dress. It was perfectly lovely: deep cranberry red, with a sweetheart top, capped sleeves and a skirt that fell to the knees in elegant, gentle pleats. It was classy, the sort of thing women wore forty years before her time, yet hugged the curves in such a way as to encourage just a hint of imagination. Lavender adored it immediately.

The Patils had noticed her fascination and, quickly spotting the dress in question, gasped with simultaneous delight. "Ooh, Lav, it's perfect!" Padma squealed.

"Try it on!" Parvati urged, pushing her forward.

"It's on a mannequin; do you think we should–?" The shop owner seemed out for the moment, or was perhaps working on a new creation in the back room and hadn't noticed the bell ring.

"It's there for trying, isn't it? Come on!"

With little urging they'd managed to push the blonde into the changing nook, shoved the dress into her hands, and yanked the curtain closed with a rattle. Lavender smiled to herself at their excited giggles from beyond the barrier of paisley cloth and shrugged off her heavy winter cloak.

It really was the perfect dress, she decided as she shimmied into it, awing at how, despite the cut of the cloth, her movement (or lung capacity!) was not the least bit restricted. She shook out her golden curls and turned to the gold-edged oval floor mirror. Then her good cheer was dashed immediately, and she wondered how she could have forgotten.

The white ropey scars seemed to glare back at her, all the more dramatically as the blood rose to her face and chest. Lavender blinked hard and swallowed, her eyes tracing the knotted lines down her neck, over her collarbone and across the top of her chest. Deep furrows ran from the hollow in her neck down below the sweetheart neckline where Greyback's nails had torn her open. The reconstruction surgery had repaired her organs, blessedly giving her back the ability to nurse a child (the stabbing pain of uncertainty pierced her heart at the thought, lifted only by the hope that was Teddy Lupin) and thus her figure with it, but the skin could not be repaired without making the damage even more painfully obvious with the splotches of skin-graft. Worst of all was the last two puncture holes that poked out from the edge of the neckline at her shoulder. Lavender looked at the bite, the first bite, and shuddered.

"Lav, c'mon, let us see!"

Parvati's voice startled her, and Lavender jumped, before turning back to the mirror. Her face twisted in disgust, and tears filled her eyes.

On the other side of the curtain, the Indian witches waited eagerly, only to receive a dull reply: "I'm not wearing it."

"What?" The twins glanced at each other, surprised. Padma took her turn and called: "At least let us see it first!"

"No."

"Lav!" Parvati, ever the more impatient, grabbed the curtain and yanked it open, ignoring her sister's hissed chastisement. Lavender whirled around and then glared at the other Gryffindor.

"Vati!"

"Ohh…" Now understanding, Parvati bit her lip and shrank back, uncertain what to say. Lavender let out a little sob.

Thankfully, where courage fails wisdom can sometimes supply; Padma, the more sensible, glanced up and down said frankly, "Lavender, don't be ridiculous."

"W-what?"

"You look lovely in it; honestly, if you're going to buy it, I will. And that would be a shame since you know I'm at least two sizes too small."

"B-But–"

"No buts." At her friend's teary look, the Ravenclaw sighed. "Honestly, Lav, it's not like the scars are news. You've been walking around with them all year; nobody's going to notice."

"Padma, just stop," Lavender sniffled angrily. "I know I look hideous, you don't have to make me feel b–"

"You do not look hideous, you look perfectly charming. Here." Padma drew her wand and flicked it dramatically; Lavender squeaked as her golden curls, which had gotten mussed in the winter wind, suddenly rearranged themselves so that they splayed out, nice and neat, over her shoulders and down her back. "And like this." Lavender was too startled to fight back as Padma grabbed her friend's hands and planted them squarely on Lavender's hips, before tilting the girl's shoulders so that she was slightly off-center in the mirror. "Look. Really look."

Lavender looked at herself, startled, and then slowly started to smile. She settled into the stance Padma had been encouraging, with her head tilted coquettishly and her hands framing the waistline. Her own golden eyes glinted back at her almost saucily, and her smile grew. The scars didn't fade– they never would– but in that strange instant, they became incorporated into the image of herself she carried in her mind. They were a part of her, and Lavender saw, for the first time, that she was still really quite pretty. Stunning, in fact. How odd, that she'd overlooked it for so long. And in this dress, well, nobody else was going to be able to overlook it, either.

The twins glanced at each other again and smiled as they saw the old Lavender– or perhaps, the New and Improved Lavender– break through and stand up straight, smiling at herself in the mirror.

"I need shoes," she declared, and the Patils squealed.

Unfortunately for them, that squeal was enough to alert the store owner, who at last came round the corner from the back room. She took one look at Lavender and went tight-mouthed. "Miss Brown."

It was a very strange moment for Lavender. She'd known Madame Lucretia for eight years, and the witch, a wealthy and middle-aged seamstress of great talent, had always adored her; or at least, that was what Lavender had thought. It occurred to her now that perhaps the seamstress only appreciated her business. From the steely look in the woman's eyes, her new opinion could not have been clearer. Nevertheless Lavender straightened up and gave the woman a very polite smile. "Madame Lucretia. As always I am impressed with your work; how much is the dress? I'm afraid I didn't check the tag."

"It's not for sale."

Lavender's heart plummeted, but she maintained her innocently curious façade. "Oh? Do you need it for more copies? I can come back for it later. Would you like me to pay now or then?"

It would be a lie to say she didn't derive some pleasure from seeing the emotions racing back and forth across the matron's face; she seemed in a perpetual debate between her high standards and her desire not to be rude. Unfortunately, the former appeared to win out. "As I said, it's not for sale. I'm afraid you'll have to leave the shop now."

"Oh? Are you closing early?" Lavender met her eyes with a pure and unwavering expectation of respect. If this woman was going to force her out, Lavender was going to make her admit the motive to her face.

"I have the right to refuse service–"

"But why would you refuse service to me?"

At last the matron's patience wore out. "I don't do business with your sort, girl."

"My 'sort?'"

"Werewolves," Madame Lucretia said with gritted teeth. Her face was turning very red.

"Oh? How very odd." Lavender looked down at the dress with an eyebrow raised. "After all, I'm not using this dress for anything werewolf-related. I promise, I'll be in no state to wear it this Thursday. Oh, that's the full moon– you know, when I transform?"

Padma and Parvati were looking between their friend and the shopkeeper with apprehension and awe. They had never heard their friend speak so openly in public about her curse. "So you see," Lavender concluded modestly, "I won't be needing it by then. I can stop by later and pick it up."

The mention of the full moon had turned Madame Lucretia pale. "I already told you, it's not for sale!" she snapped. "Now get out of my shop! Go on!"

"Hmm. Pity." Lavender snapped her fingers; a rosy-pink spark flared, and immediately she was clad in her own clothes, and the dress had reappeared back on the mannequin. Madame Lucretia looked somewhere between having a conniption with fury, and fainting in terror over the powerful show of magic. "C'mon, Padma, 'Vati. I don't really think this shop is up to our standards." And without further ado, she waltzed out of the store, the two girls hurry after her in breathless amazement.

"Lav, that was incredible!" Padma gushed as they swept down the street. "How did you do that? With the clothes?"

Lavender actually laughed, exhilerated. "I don't know! I knew my magic gets stronger before the full moon, but I never realized just how strong!" She giggled, and then sighed. "Pity about the dress, though."

"Oh, don't you worry about that." The two glanced over at Parvati, who was grinning wickedly and practically skipping down the snowy cobblestone road. "It wasn't too complicated of a cut; mum could copy that easily."

"But we don't have any pictures," Lavender pointed out.

"No need." Parvati's grin grew. "Dean's just been accepted for a penseive-sketching internship with the DMLE. A little thing like this shouldn't be a problem."

Padma and Lavender glanced at each other, awed. "Parvati, you're a genius," Padma breathed.

Parvati only giggled, before she said: "Well, that's enough of that! Lavender, didn't you say you needed shoes?"

Despite Lupin's assurances, Harry was still slightly surprised to see Malfoy standing at the front of the classroom when he arrived Monday morning for DADA. The Slytherin looked distinctly uncomfortable, shuffling his feet awkwardly and casting one very huffy look at Harry before turning his face away. Harry raised an eyebrow, snorted at the dramatics, and sat down.

The rest of the class filed in slowly, a few casting odd looks at Malfoy but not saying anything. Lupin wasn't in yet. If Harry had bothered to pay attention, he would have noticed something very strange; when Blaise Zabini, Gregory Goyle and the two underclassmen entered the room, Malfoy immediately dropped his eyes. It was a small matter, but a potent one: every pureblood of standing knew such to be a position of servitude, an obvious recognition of who had the upper hand.

Lupin arrived just as the school clock was chiming eight and quieted the class with a knowing look; the sleepy morning discussion hushed and died.

"Good morning," he began pleasantly. "As you might have noted from the syllabus I passed out at the beginning of the semester, today we are beginning our study of–" He waved his wand lazily at the board, "Occlumency."

That was all it took for a very wary mood to settled over the classroom indeed. Draco looked out at the sea of hostile faces and swallowed.

Lupin gave the same lecture he'd recited to Potter during their first lesson, by the end of which the rest of the students were looking sincerely less than amused. "You're going to let him," Adrian Harold deadpanned, "poke around in our brains?"

"I'm not going to 'allow' anything," Lupin replied mildly. "There will be no practical on this unit. Your work will be in theory. However, Mr. Malfoy has very kindly agreed to help train anyone who feels up to it. The rest of you can begin on your reading."

The class glanced around at each other uncertainly; then, one by one– not many, but more than a few– nervously got to their feet. Draco couldn't stop his mouth from falling open when he saw that Potter was the first to stand and make his way to the front of the room; a queue began to form behind him.

"Alright," Lupin said genially. "Let's begin, then. Harry–" He gave the young man a slightly warning look, "Have you got a memory in mind?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Excellent; what is it?"

The black-haired wizard's mouth twitched ruefully. "I think he'll know it when he finds it, Sir."

Lupin blinked. "You're going to fight him off from the inside-out?" Harry nodded; the professor looked uncertain, but apparently decided this was something for the boys to work out themselves. "Alright, go ahead."

The two squared up; the rest of the class looked on nervously– some with anxiety, others with eagerness. An eight-year feud was clearly about to come to a head.

Silver looked into green. Green looked back. Draco narrowed his eyes, and then threw his magic forward.

Much to his surprise, Potter didn't bother to put up any resistance. A series of flickering memories rushed by, all of them having something to do with the Ravenclaw chaser—Chang, he thought her name was—before one suddenly came to life right in front of his eyes:

They were on the train, Draco realized in surprise; even odder was that, although there was a Harry Potter in front of him, there was another right beside him, watching the memory unfold in so calm a way that Draco immediately realized that Potter was choosing not to fight back, at least for the moment. He also noted that the dark-haired wizard was turning a rather remarkable shade of red.

"Mimbulus mibletonia!" Draco looked over to see none other than Neville Longbottom proudly presenting a succulent plant of the sort to Potter and the rest of the car's occupants: namely, Lovegood and the Weasley girl. Potter (the younger) was staring at the plant with a rather baffled look.

"It's really, really rare! I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout!" Apparently Longbottom had found his green thumb early; he couldn't be any older than fifteen here. "My great-uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can breed from it!"

The young Potter's baffled expression had not vanished. "Does it, er, do anything?"

"Loads of stuff! It's got a defensive mechanism– hold Trevor for me–" Longbottom shoved the aforementioned frog into Potter's startled hands, retrieved a quill, and poked the plant hard.

Draco let out a startled laugh as offensive green goop spurted everywhere, covering no one quite so much as Potter. He heard a low noise of embarrassment and looked over to where the older Harry was rubbing the back of his neck, grimacing. Draco snorted.

"Sorry!" Longbottom was in a state, frantically trying to dry off his friend as Harry the Younger choked and spat a mouthful of the goop onto the floor. "I haven't tried that before– didn't realize it would be so– Don't worry, though, Stinksap's not poisonous..."

"This is glorious," Draco chortled. "Really, Potter, thank you. You've made my day."

"Yeah, wait for it," Harry the Elder said ruefully. The Slytherin barely had time to wonder what that could mean, when the door opened behind him. He turned to see none other than the pretty Ravenclaw chaser.

Draco broke down laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach, collapsing to the sap-covered floor. Harry the Elder was chuckling even as his younger counterpart had a very embarrassed conversation with a blushing Cho Chang. By the time the girl left, the Slytherin had managed to collect himself, grinning up at the other man in barely-contained mirth. Harry grinned back, and the Slytherin knew why he'd been allowed to see this. "Alright," he said with a snort, standing up. "We're even."

"Good. Now–" Potter adjusted his glasses with a smirk, green eyes glinting. "Get out of my head, you prat."

From that moment on, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were no longer enemies. There are some things you can't share without ending up not hating someone, and seeing the other guy get covered with stinksap in front of a pretty girl is one of them.

Draco was already waiting by the time Lavender arrived in the little nook at the back of the library, breathless, red-cheeked and carrying a silver coffee-pitcher and two mugs in her hands. "Sorry I'm late!" she apologized, setting down the pitcher on the table. "I brought us cocoa!"

"It's alright." Draco was staggered by just how lovely Brown looked and found the blood rising to his pale face at the realization. A Christmas-red bow had tied back her curls, which were gleaming in the light and her glittering golden eyes were alive with good cheer. The scene was made even more charming by snowy blue-white background of the window as thick, fluffy flakes drifted down behind her. He realized he was staring and cleared his throat. "Shall we begin?"

"O-oh. Yes." She sat down hastily and poured them both a mug of steaming hot chocolate as Draco opened the textbook. "So, um, I-I don't think brewing the potion itself should be too much of a challenge– that is, it's tricky, but we have the instructions already…"

"Yes, I was thinking the same. The real challenge will be changing it. You said the main objective was to bring down the cost, yes?"

"Mm-hm. It's the silver and the moonstone, really; the rest is easily found…"

"'Tooth of a werewolf,'" Draco read aloud as scanned the list of ingredients. "No offense, Brown, but that might be a touch harder to get; I don't fancy pulling out any of your teeth."

Lavender giggled, which made him smile; then she ducked her head and looked away. Draco cleared his throat and looked away as well; he knew she was certainly feeling as awkward as he was about how their last interaction had ended.

Casting around for something to restart the conversation, he spotted a few sheaves of paper poking out from her bookbag– an illustration of a dress, he thought. Curious, he asked, "What's that?"

"W-what? Oh!" Lavender noted his nod and pulled the pages out of her bag. He'd been correct; it was a picture of a red dress, from two or three different angles, and very well-drawn. "It's a picture for Padma and 'Vati's mum; she's making me the dress for the Yule Ball."

The Yule Ball. Draco had almost forgotten it was happening. He looked down at the red dress; an image, clear as crystal, flashed into his mind: Brown, with her shining golden curls and arresting golden eyes, curves flattered sweetly by the elegant dress, smiling at him—for him. The man felt his stomach make a funny flip-flop motion inside him, and he cleared his throat. "Well I–I look forward to seeing you in it."

Lavender's whole face lit up with a pink flush, and Draco could have kicked himself. He'd intended to say, I look forward to seeing you there, but it seemed his mouth had gotten ahead of his thoughts. "Um- that is- uh–"

"I-It's okay. I know what you meant," Brown said quickly, looking down at the table and still very, very red. Draco almost laughed at that; he didn't even know what he'd meant.

A long moment of awkwardness passed. Neither knew quite what to say. Or rather, neither wanted to bring up what they knew they ought to say.

In the end, it was the House of the Bold that braved the silence. "Malfoy," Lavender said suddenly, causing the other to jump and glance over; she fumbled with her words a moment before she said, "Look, um– about– about last time–"

"Brown, you don't–"

"I'm sorry."

Draco blinked; he hadn't been expecting that. "What?"

Lavender moaned and buried her face in her hands. "I'm so, so sorry! It was impulsive and silly and I know you must have been disgusted and–"

"Disgusted? Brown, I-I wasn't disgusted." She looked up, startled, and the blushed. "You're… that is…"

"You… aren't angry?" she half-whispered. Her glittering golden eyes were very wide.

Draco managed to shake his head. "No," he said hoarsely.

The snow drifted lightly down outside. Steam rose from their mugs of hot cocoa.

"Draco, if your parents ever found out," Lavender began, voice very hushed.

"My parents? What about yours! Lavender, I…" He looked down at his wrist, shrouded as ever with his robe-sleeve, and trailed off. "How… how can you not… mind?" he whispered, almost to himself.

He glanced up as a gentle porcelain hand reached over and covered his wrist. Brown—Lavender— was staring at him with those glittering, arresting, stunning eyes, and somehow, without having to be told, he knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward, waiting to see if she would pull away. When she didn't, he leaned a little closer, and closer still, until they were barely two inches apart.

Her porcelain-doll nose brushed against his; her eyelashes fluttered shut, and that was all he saw before his own eyes were closed and her lips were brushing like the fairy-wings over his own. He took a leap of faith and leaned just an inch closer, making the kiss real; Lavender responded in kind. For the first time in his life, he thought with the part of his brain that could still think, he knew why people called this magic.

From behind the bookshelf, Blaise Zabini pulled away, a look of disgust on his face.

Thursday was another cold, snowy day, blanketing the ground with mounds of fluffy flakes. Remus Lupin had made the wise decisions to stay in bed the whole of Moon Day; what with the snow, the holiday decorations and the gentle playing of Christmas carols from the radio, it was almost a pleasant experience, so long as he didn't try to move around too much– rather like staying in from class when he was a boy.

About an hour and a half before sunset, Dora poked her head into their bedroom. "Hey there," she called softly, her hair a mercifully ordinary brown; she seemed to be doing everything in her power not to upset his headache. "How're you boys feeling?"

"Not too bad." Teddy was napping on his tad's chest, and Remus looked down at the boy with a gentle smile. "Tired and achy, but I was able to choke down a little lunch. And I've read some of a delightful muggle novel."

"Oh? Which one?"

"Mmm. You wouldn't have heard of it. It's about a vacancy on a parish council; it's really quite good. You know, I think we ought to look into this Internet thing, it seems to be getting pretty big."

Dora laughed quietly and walked over, mussing his hair. Remus smiled tiredly up at her. "Have I got a fever?"

"Mm. Not as bad as you did last time." She sat down on the edge of the bed. "So tell me more about this book."

They passed the next half-hour in relative peace, before Remus's watch chimed and he sighed. "Alright, time to break out the horror novels."

Dora took the baby sympathetically as her husband teetered a little, steadied himself, and shrugged on his dressing gown. She helped him with his slippers, and then they snuck out of the apartment. Down the long hidden staircase they went; through the drifts and chill towards the Whomping Willow (thankfully a path had been cleared, but Remus was still shivering bitterly in the wind), through the long passageway in the tunnel, and finally through the trapdoor into the Shrieking Shack, where Remus threw himself exhaustedly onto the sagging sofa, shivering. His hair stuck up in odd spikes where his sweat had frozen in the winter chill.

Dora lit the fire (she could see her own breath fogging in the room), and then sat down at his feet and rubbed his shin sympathetically. Remus gave her a wry smile. "You're an angel for putting up with all this."

"I don't mind it, Remus, honestly."

"Mm. Sure you don't." He closed his eyes with a wince. "Nn."

"Muscle cramp?" He nodded, eyes still closed, and then drew a sharp hiss through his teeth, fists clenching white-knuckled as she saw a spasm run up his core.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Remus's hands had begun to shake; his face had gone from pale to a sickly gray, and cerulean sparks were rising lazily from his palms. His magic was literally poisoning him, and Dora felt helpless to stop it. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked gently.

Remus opened his mouth, shut it again with a queasy expression, and shook his head. He blinked hard, and a tear rolled down sideways off his face and into his hair. "M'sorry," he mumbled.

"For what?"

"For being such a coward." His hazel eyes glanced down at her. "I just feel really awful," he confessed, embarrassed.

"I don't blame you. This sucks arse."

He let out a weak laugh at that and nodded.

Sooner than either of them liked, his watch was chiming. "Five minutes," he sighed, sitting up and looking as if the effort cost him more energy than he wanted to lose. "Help me?"

"Of course." She helped him to his unsteady feet and then, step by step, up the rickety stairs. When at last they reached the bedroom she helped him strip down, and then wrapped him in the fluffy blue blanket and lit a fire in the hearth to warm the room. She kissed his sweat-drenched forehead; Remus closed his eyes. "I'll see you soon," his wife promised, and then left, locking the door behind her.

Remus shivered and then lay down sideways, watching out the slats of the window. The sun was sinking on the other side of the house; a faint white light was rising in the east over the pine-bristled mountains. Remus watched it with a bone-weary, exhausted fear. He'd done this thousands of times and he'd do it thousands more, whether he liked it or not. For a moment he fought futilely against accepting it, and then remembered the little family waiting down below and drew a deep if shaky breath, composing himself.

The edge of the moon peeked over the mountain ridge; the white light beamed into his eyes; and Remus screamed as the magic seized in his blood.

Ten minutes earlier, one Lavender Brown was crawling out of her bed with the help of the Patil twins, her curly hair a matted mess and her usually perfect cream skin stained with dark purplish rings under her eyes.

A simple form of transportation had been arranged: she would floo down to the nearest office hearth on the floor, which in this case was the arrithmancy room, and then stagger half-heartedly into the Room of Requirement. There she would stay until morning.

She had just reached the hearth in the common room when suddenly the portrait-door opened, and none other than Headmistress McGonagall swept inside. "Miss Brown, thank goodness I caught you," she exclaimed, looking unusually frantic and out of breath. "I'm afraid I can't be with you tonight– the door will stay sealed, don't you worry–"

"Professor?"

"My brother, he fell off the roof of the kirk– oh, he's such a fool!– broke his spine clean in two, and punctured a lung at that, nearly bled out internally! If Mary hadn't found him-!" She noticed the baffled and slightly intimidated expression in the girl's face, and clarified: "My brother is a minister; he was trying to do maintenance work on the church and did himself a serious injury. He's allergic to replenishing potions; they need a transfusion right away and there isn't enough Type O to go around. I need to go to St. Mungo's."

Lavender's exhausted face lit up in understanding. "Go on, Professor, I'll be alright," she urged. "It's not as if I haven't done this before."

"You darling girl. Thank you, Miss Brown; I'll return by dawn!" And with that the frantic woman swept out of the tower and shut the door behind her.

"Poor Professor McGonagall," Padma sympathized as they helped their friend to the hearth. "Will you be alright on your own, Lav?"

She gave them a thin smile. "I won't be any worse off than usual, if that's what you mean."

Which only goes to show that none of us can ever really be certain about the future.

For half an hour earlier, one Draco Malfoy, having hurriedly finished his dinner before he could be cornered by Blaise or the rest of his sycophants, had snuck through the halls and snuck back into his lovely private room, courtesy of Helga Hufflepuff's magical room of providence. The Room had adjusted itself slightly; it now included a desk and a small bookshelf full of various odd books, which Draco had perused and found just to his taste.

He was just setting about the beginnings of his homework, when the room suddenly changed form.

The chair he was sitting on vanished and he fell in a rather undignified heap to the floor; the bed and fireplace disappeared as well, and his bookbag (which had been sitting at the edge of the former) tumbled to the floor, spilling books and inkwells everywhere. Startled, Draco stood, and found himself in a very bare, very small cell-like sort of room; there was a deadbolted metal door on one end and a little cot with a warm blanket in the back right corner. In the back left was a toilet and sink. It was a far cry from the cozy room he'd been sleeping in the last several nights.

Baffled, he naturally went to the door, and arrived to find it locked. It occurred to him that perhaps it was locked for a reason, and had the good sense to look out the window.

What he saw startled him so much that he took several steps back.

It was Brown. She was quite alone, and appeared to be undressing. Gentleman that he was, Draco quickly looked away, mind spinning. What was she doing here? Wasn't tonight the night of the–

Oh.

OH.

"Oh shite," he breathed, turning very pale.

He focused all his will on shifting the form of the room, hoping it would let him back out into the hallway– but such was not to be. His will no longer directed the room; it was obeying someone other than him. At last he understood the purpose; this cell was a failsafe, miraculously dreamed up by the creator of Lavender's room and meant to protect any unfortunate soul who entered the werewolf's prison during the time of transformation. Which in this case, was him.

And that was when Draco realized that he'd made a horrible, horrible mistake.

He liked Brown. Liked her a lot, actually. He probably would have gone on snogging her senseless in the library if they hadn't been broken up by a very disapproving, but thankfully discreet, Madame Pince. But as much as he liked her, he knew he didn't know her all that well, and certainly not well enough for this. Even a prejudiced pureblood like him knew that this was something intensely personal, intensely painful.

And here he'd blundered right into it.

A faint rattling drew his attention, he looked behind him and felt fear thrill through him. Lavender was looking through the window at him in shock and horror. Draco turned, gaping back. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice sounding too loud in the silence. "I didn't– it was an accident–"

He saw her mouth "No," looking ready to faint. Brown stumbled backwards; he saw that she was wrapped in a thick blanket, and was pulling it tighter and tighter around herself, stepping back, back, back–

She stumbled over the blanket and collapsed to the floor; Draco found his hands on the door in helpless shock, watching as Lavender burst into tears, curling up into a ball.

"Oh Merlin. Brown, I'm sorry!" He rattled the door, hoping she would understand. "I'm sorry! I didn't–"

If she heard, or understood, it didn't help; her sobbing only grew more violent, enough that Draco could hear it now. Apparently this room was not soundproof.

Which was why he heard it, in agonizing, heart-stopping detail, when a scream of torture tore from her throat.

He jumped, heart jackhammering against his ribs; beneath the blanket Lavender's back arched, and he heard something pop. Her hand was clawing at the stone floor; her screams were shrieking like she was being torn apart, and he saw the bones in her hand lengthening, her eyes glowing, and on and on that screaming–

"Oh Merlin!" He was crying now, and he was too horrified to be embarrassed. He slid to the floor with his back to the door, unable to keep watching; he could hear Lavender sobbing and begging for someone to kill her in between the screams. He bit hard into his knuckles and tried not to throw up.

At last, after what seemed like hours, the screams-turned-howls died away. Draco sat there for a long moment, shaking with misery and fear, before at last he managed to gather his courage and stood, looking half-unwillingly out of the glass.

Across the room, a beautiful creature looked back: a wolf, a lithe, graceful wolf, with honey-golden fur and blazingly bright eyes. Draco momentarily forgot his terror as he stared, stunned. It– she– was like a being out of fairyland.

And then that moment was over.

The presence of another human in the room drove Lavender nearly mad, and that "nearly" was the worst part of it. She threw herself against the wall– the opposite wall. She bayed. She never, not once, came even close to the door, forcing herself away, always away.

And when her bloodlust became insatiable, she tore into herself.

Draco was by now biting his knuckles so hard that he was drawing blood; slowly, weakly, he sank to the floor of his little cell. He listened in silent horror as the werewolf savaged herself, and trembled because he knew it was his fault.

On the other side of the door, the wolf howled.

A/N: PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!

Yes, I know, this is half a year in the making, and I'm truly very sorry! I lost interest in this fic for a while and on top of my insane number of other responsibilities I just didn't have the time. This chapter is a belated birthday present to Belle.

I don't know if this will ever be finished, or when, but I will try to occasionally update. Thank you to all of you who stayed with me this long.

On a happier note, did you catch the two references? Leave a message if you did! Also, 10-22 is the American police code for "disregard last order," so Dudley was telling Gill to disregard his order not to split up. I don't know what police in the UK would say.

Please review! Pax et bonum!

–FFcrazy15