Dear Remus,

Hi! It's Sarah Forsythe. I don't know if you remember me -

I stopped writing abruptly and wadded up the letter in frustration. With a flick of my wrist, it joined the three previous attempts in the wastebasket. I yanked my reading glasses off, closed my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair in an effort to stave off my rising irritation. Damn! Why is writing a simple letter so difficult?

Perhaps it was that I hadn't spoken to the recipient in twenty-five years. It was hard to imagine what he might be like now, not having heard from him in so long. Maybe his accidently gifting me with lycanthropy played a role in; not easy to forget something like that. It put a whole new spin on the phrase "that time of the month". Or it could also have been that letter Hogwarts sent years ago, informing me in no uncertain terms that our Muggle-wizard friendship was unsuitable. Without a question of a doubt, though, the difficulty in organizing my thoughts on paper had nothing to do with the fact that Remus Lupin was the first boy I had ever kissed.

I slammed the door shut on that particular memory. Getting caught up in that part of the past was not going to help my present situation. I opened my eyes and decided I had to get out of the room. It felt too confining and I always thought better when I was moving; jogging preferably, but I hadn't brought any workout clothes. A walk was definitely in order.

Downstairs I asked the bartender if someone could open the door to Diagon Alley for me. Being a werewolf who was also a Mundane, or Muggle as they liked to call us here, had its distinct disadvantages. Although I was touched by magic, I could perform none myself. It made for awkward situations, like just walking into the Leaky Cauldron. Everyone stared, not knowing quite what to do: ignore the Muggle woman in their midst and hope she'd go away on her own or make up a story to convince me that I what I had really intended was to visit the neighboring bookstore and get me out of the wizarding establishment as soon as humanly possible. By turns I found the reactions amusing or downright annoying. It wasn't as if we were a completely different species; Muggles just lacked the necessary inherited trait to perform magic.

It was that trait that I could thank for being able to contract lycanthropy in the first place. What opened the door to magic also left one exposed to other things: enhanced intuition, unusual luck, receptiveness to glimpsing odd things from the corner of one's eyes, and vulnerability to mysterious illnesses, just to name a few. It could skip a few generations, but when you came right down to it one was either born with the trait or not. That meant somewhere in my family tree was a witch or a wizard. After more than ten years of searching, I've yet to found out who it was; I've been thinking lately it might be hidden in the bit of Cheyenne blood I carried.

Needless to say, Muggle werewolves were rare, exceedingly so. To survive the attack of a werewolf was a daunting enough task. Most don't live due to simple blood loss and severity of injuries. For those unfortunate few like me that both survived and ended up infected, it usually took years of lycanthropy simmering in the blood to fully take hold. There was an upside, as impossibly crazy as it might sound that lycanthropy would have any sort of silver lining. It had cured my fibromyalgia, something I had struggled with since childhood.

Not that anyone here knew I bore the curse. If they did, I probably would be kicked out of the Leaky Cauldron. Werewolves were treated like social pariah in England, unlike back home in America. I was simply a wizard-friend as far as the customers here knew, which was uncommon enough in and of itself.

A Muggle that knew about the magical world and that could be trusted was sometimes given the opportunity to become a wizard-friend. The majority of the time Muggles exposed to the world of magic simply had their memories Oblivated. It was far easier and safer that way. However, there were occasions that a Muggle's memory was not tampered with. Muggle spouses, non-magical siblings and stepsiblings were examples of common situations where memories went unaltered. A stern warning to remain silent typically was good enough.

The other situation occurred when the Muggle in question had neither marital nor blood ties, but embraced the hidden world of magic that existed alongside of them, and had already proved that they could be relied upon to keep its secrets. Close friends or even business associates fell into this category. I knew of one medical researcher at John Hopkins that worked with a witch counterpart in a joint effort on whether magically derived potions could possible be effective in treating cancer.

Those few people that interacted with the wizard community on a frequent basis and to the benefit of both worlds often bore an enchanted trinket that allowed magical folk to know what they were. I wore a charm bracelet given to me by the Lupin family. The heart charm was picked out by Remus himself and bore his initials. The bracelet would tingle when magic was worked near me or when I passed near a location protected by Muggle repelling charms. In order to gain entry to a place protected by such, all I had to do was expose my bracelet. Most of the time, it was enough. That wasn't the case with the brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron though, which meant I had to ask for help.

Once through, I wandered the long cobbled street with its strange shops, peering through display windows. There was a good chance that Remus had walked along the same street, perhaps even as an adult, but most certainly at least while growing up. A co-worker had informed me this was where Hogwarts students often came to purchase school supplies. There were certainly enough school-aged youngsters on the streets to serve as proof of that.

For close to twenty-two years I have been both wizard-friend and Muggle werewolf. Those years had been often wondrous and at times painful. During it all, I had never forgotten Remus or the first time I experienced magic.

This was another first; I had never been to Diagon Alley before. It was a study in contrasts when likened to the underground wizarding shopping district in Salem that lay beneath a local river. The enchanted watery ceiling there lent a magical feel to the place with the ripples of light that danced over building.

I tried to enjoy myself as I ambled along Diagon Alley despite the open stares I received. Of course I stuck out like a sore thumb in Muggle clothing. Blue jeans and a New York Jets baseball cap will do that, even in the Big Apple particularly when the Giants were winning. But I refused to wear robes and pretend I was something that I wasn't.

At one dusty window I stopped short. In it was a solitary wand displayed on a purple cushion faded by constant exposure to sunlight. The sign overhead read "Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."*. Ever since I had learned about the magical world, I had ached to hold a wand, to wield magic for myself. That would never happen though. I had inherited only enough of the wizard trait to have been infected with lycanthropy. Lucky me.

When a short, plump witch with a kind face pulled her teenaged daughter out of my path, I couldn't help but feel insulted despite my obviously out of place clothing. My sleeves were rolled up and my bracelet was clearly visible. Even the girl seemed surprised and shot me an apologetic look from under her vivid red hair. Yet underneath my indignation, I couldn't find fault with her mother's actions. There was an undercurrent of worry in the wizard community on this side of the pond. I could smell the faint rancid scent of fear even here in Diagon Alley. Rumours of the Dark Mark appearing at the 422nd Quidditch World Cup and gossip of strange events at the Tri-Wizard Cup had reached the States.

That was the reason why I was in London in the first place. I worked for the U.S. Bureau of Magic and the Supernatural, or USBMS, in the Mundane Enforcement Office. Being both a Muggle werewolf and a wizard-friend gave me a unique perspective as a Mundane Observer. The position was relatively new. It required an agent to watch for clues and hints that a Muggle might know more than they should. This included following up on stories written in tabloids, chasing down internet rumors and occasionally influencing script writers or movie producers to change elements that were deemed to be too close to the truth. The National Inquisitor regularly gave us fits; a wizarding publication sold under the guise of a Mundane tabloid to wizards and Mundanes alike was just unheard of anywhere outside our borders. They were just one of the reasons why agents often worked undercover in the Muggle world.

Officially my visit to London was strictly business between the Bureau and the Ministry of Magic. We had picked up some chatter about extraordinary events from Muggle internet sources that seemed to corroborate the rumors out of the wizard community over here. When our department contacted the Ministry, it was curtly informed that there was no truth to the rumors concerning He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Any chatter we had picked up was obviously an issue of over-imaginative agents in our department and that perhaps an internal investigation was needed on our part.

Funny how that response hadn't sat well with some at the Bureau. A few high-placed members of the USBMS felt that perhaps politics was getting in the way of the truth. Top members of the Werewolf Council had also expressed some concerns; this was likely influenced by the general dislike they had for the Ministry's stance on werewolves. It had been my friend, Virginia Whitmore, Dean of the American Magical Academy, who suggested that perhaps an off the record approach might yield better results. My unofficial mission was to quietly nose around London for a few days and see if I could track down anything interesting.

I wasn't their first choice, not even their second, but somehow here I was walking down Diagon Alley trying hard to avoid composing a simple letter. Damn it! If Danielle hadn't had that little accident or if Rory hadn't gotten violently ill from eating bad sushi, I'd be at home without a worry about this week's full moon. Who ate sushi from a sketchy food truck anyways?

That was the reason for the letter in the first place. The full moon was going to rise the day after tomorrow and I needed a safe haven outside of the werewolf colonies. The last thing I wanted was to go to one of them. The one time I had occasion to visit a colony, I came away with the feeling it had been a handful of steps away from what a Jewish quarter might have looked like back in World War II. The memory made me shudder.

My need didn't stem from a lack of Wolfsbane potion. I had four doses left: one in my purse for tonight and the rest hidden in my luggage. I just wanted to make sure I transformed in a secured location, preferably somewhere isolated. With the current feelings toward werewolves in England, I felt insecure. I had heard of cases where a werewolf was captured or killed due to "suspicious activities" regardless of Wolfsbane potion. I doubt they'd make an exception for a visiting American werewolf even if I did work for the USBMS.

As a werewolf and subject to the same concerns, Remus would know of a safe place to wait out the moon. I realized that the administration at Hogwarts had stepped between our friendship strictly for his benefit, but surely Remus would remember me with some remnant of affection.

Won't he?

I was back where I started earlier, needing to compose that letter. Okay, Sarah, how about … "Hey Remus, remember me, that Muggle girl you attacked before heading off to Hogwarts? Well I get furry once a month now …"

I silenced the snarky voice in my head. It wasn't Remus' fault, and I of all people knew that. If anyone should shoulder the blame, it really was me. I had been far too inquisitive, seen one too many odd things around him. That I had been all of ten years of age and incredibly naïve played no small part, but that was neither here nor there.

I corralled my wandering thoughts and went back to my internal dictation. It took several strolls down the length of Diagon Alley to compose the right words, all the while drawing furtive looks from those around. When I had gotten it down the best I could, I headed over to Scribbulus, picked out some nice stationary.

Back in my room at the Leaky Cauldron, I impulsively rubbed the inside of my wrist against the parchment in hopes it would retain enough of my scent. Then I picked up my quill once more and wrote what needed to be said.

Dear Remus,

I know that it has been years since we last corresponded, but I hope the name Sarah Forsythe still rings a bell. Yes, I'm the little American Muggle girl who lived down the lane from you when we were children. The one with her dirty-blond hair in pigtails and scabs on her knees who decided it would be best if we were friends. Tell me, do you remember chasing fireflies in those long summer evenings?

If your memory should recall those days with any fondness, I would like to beg a favor. As you well know, the day after tomorrow is the full moon. I don't know quite how to put this, so please excuse me if I am a bit direct. Remus, I'm a werewolf. Everyone was wrong all those years ago. I really was infected. I guess there is some witch blood in my family. It took time for the lycanthropy to take full effect due to my being a Muggle, but there it is.

In any case, I am in London on business this week. The trip was quite unexpected and so I find myself without a secure location to spend tomorrow evening. I realize that a lot of time has passed and that our unusual friendship was brief, but I wondered if you would help me. Could you guide me to a safe haven as a favor to an old friend?

You may post your response to me via owl at the Leaky Cauldron.

Sincerely,

Sarah

… who still occasionally chases fireflies

Author Notes

This story was written long ago under a different penname at a different site. I recently dusted it off and polished it up a bit during NaNo 2015.

The line about Ollivander's shop is from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, by JK Rowling, page 83, U.S. hardback edition.

Chasing Fireflies is part of my Child of the Hunt series.