The Never-Ending Diary of Remus Lupin aged 34 1/2

Chapter 1

Wednesday, July 28^th, 1993

Sirius,

Damn you for buying me an infinite diary for my seventeenth birthday and naming it after yourself. For half of my life, I've had to unlock it by starting each entry with your name since the password of a magical diary can't be changed. I bet you thought it funny, but you always made fun of my little peculiarities, didn't you? Such as my dislike of mint chocolate and my diary-keeping habit. Such as the dangers my lycanthropy brought to the ones I allowed myself to get too close to. Sirius Black always laughed at danger.

Anyway, I will never be able to afford a new Bernoulli diary on my own and I am stuck with having to think of you every time I open it to try and make sense of my thoughts and emotions. Not that I haven't thought of you anyway in these last few days, in an obsessed, brooding manner that has nothing to do with our school days. I have no choice but thinking of you now, after your escape from what should be the safest prison in the world.

People all think you're mad, of course, and I wish I could believe it too, though there are few things I believe in these days. I went to Lourdes several times with my Muggle grandmother when I was a child, saw the multitudes who pleaded to the Virgin Mary for intercession on their behalf, saw the businessmen who got rich on their faith, saw the people who returned again and again with nothing for their prayers. My grandmother said that those people received the gift of spiritual healing instead, which was more valuable than mere healing of the body, but I was old enough to recognise disappointment when I saw it.

Neither gods nor demons are going to relieve me of my curse. Did my soul really commit so many wrongs during its journey towards enlightenment that I have to do penance by turning into a monster each month? I've lost my belief in the fundamental goodness of the humanity that hates and despises me to the point of hunting me into a rundown cottage in a forgotten corner of Somerset, my only regular contact with wizardkind a Squib farmer, who is as much of an outcast as I. It is my only saving grace that Muggles hereabouts don't believe in werewolves -- if they did, there would be torches, pitchforks and guns loaded with silver bullets. Whether they get consolation from the thought that Sirius Black is insane or that Remus Lupin is an evil, soulless monster, regardless of shape, people will believe anything as long as it gives them comfort and security.

Sunday, August 1^st

Sirius,

Albus Dumbledore must have cracked under the pressure. He came to see me today, wanting me of all people to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts next year, with the possibility of a permanent job at that. I made every excuse I could think of--made them for so long he must've been thinking me coy--until he told me about what you are after. Who you are after.

I begin to hope you are mad after all, because a part of me can't accept that you could do anything so evil as to murder a child. How come you changed so much, Sirius? What did your incapacitated master offer you in return? Wasn't getting James and Lily killed enough for you? Must you have Harry as well?

Or didn't you change at all? All these twelve years I have wondered about the real, quintessential Sirius Black, and if there ever was such a thing. Was it the fiercely loyal almost-brother who thought nothing of risking his life for his friends, or was it the arrogant pureblood who thought nothing of using me to get to Snape? You of all people had no right to pick on Severus for his views; you held the same ones yourself until you met real Muggle-borns at Hogwarts. It stood to reason that you made friends with James first; he must have been the only one you thought worth noticing. I didn't realise that I, quiet, bookish half-blood that I was, had registered on your mental map until James made fun of my diary. You immediately punched him and then asked me if you could borrow The Man With The Iron Mask. I suggested The Three Musketeers instead and felt rather sorry for you--imagine not being allowed to read Dumas or Verne just because they were Muggles.

Then you betrayed my secret to Snape, and I thought then that nothing could hurt more. I'm not bitter for not being made Head Boy, James did a much better job than I could ever have done. The hurt came from realising that I'd been foolish to trust you--and in the end I was foolish enough to give you the chance to try again. But that time, twelve years ago it wasn't my trust you betrayed, but the one of your best friend. My uneasy suspicions had proved true.

I can't bring myself to believe that you were cheating us all, or I won't know what to think. If I believe in anything, I have to believe that you were once good, or I shall go mad myself. And I need to be able to function normally, there's work to do. Remus Lupin might shrink from confrontations, but I'm not going to shrink from my duty.

Yes, I accepted. I will teach Defence Against the Dark Arts for as long as Dumbledore wants me. I do think he is barking mad for wanting me--I change each month, my rival for the post hates me, he's going to work with me and would rather see me fail, and I don't even know yet if I'm going to be any good as a teacher--but I see that I may not be the right person to judge the sanity of others. After all, I am the one pouring out my thoughts in a diary named after a lost lover and traitor to the Light, feeling that it gives me some connection to the man you once were, trying to imagine the reactions of friends long lost or dead. You'd roll your eyes and shake your head in exasperation, James would smirk and pat me on the head in a mock avuncular manner, and Peter would grin faintly and say "Remus, that's--er, wonderful".

Compared to the three of you, as good as dead, dead, and dead, I don't know where I get off complaining about fate giving me an unfair hand to play. None of us got the kind of life we talked about in the dormitory after lights went out in the evening, in the days when we were the golden boys of Hogwarts and thought ourselves heroes and soldiers of the Light for ambushing Slytherins in the corridors. We said we'd always present a united front against the rest of the world, one for all, all for one. We swore by the memory of Godric Gryffindor that we'd be brothers and true friends forever. We promised each other that we'd touch the stars. Whether rock singers, Aurors, curse breakers in the jungles of South America or globetrotting hunters of treasure and magical creatures, no future was out of our reach. None of us planned on becoming anything as prosaic as a schoolmaster, but then again no one of us planned on dying young.

Monday, August 2^nd

Sirius,

Full moon tonight. That barmy old codger is a master manipulator, tempting me with free Wolfsbane potion every month for as long as my employment lasts, in the time of the month when the moon affects me the strongest. In exchange, I only need to let Snape record my reactions to it. During almost thirty years, even when we were roaming the Forbidden Forest, I have dreaded the change and the pain and hated what I would become. You, Prongs and Wormtail became used to seeing me transform, but you never felt was the change was like from within. Sometimes I think no one can understand that except for another werewolf, like those I meet in Dartmoor every full moon.

You never saw the werewolf shelter the Werewolf Registry Office keeps there, since it was created by popular demand after a werewolf went on a rampage in Yorkshire some eight years ago. I wish I'd never have to see it either, but it is a legal necessity for unattached werewolves. That doesn't mean we have to like it. Had you been there, you and James would have understood why I gladly accept the thought of becoming Snivellus's guinea pig.

The cells are tiled but still stink of old blood, though not strong enough to register for a human nose. And what a human nose can't smell doesn't exist. There is silver netting around the cages and shock-spelled iron bars--I made the mistake to bite at them once--and enough silver everywhere to pacify you and turn your stomach. And that is for the easy cases. They say that the difficult ones get dosed with aconite and silflake and are shackled to the floor. They lead us naked inside the cages and leave us alone until sunrise. Then a cursory examination by a bored Healer and some quick healing spells, and we're rushed out of the building, without daring to look anyone in the eye.

If the Wolfsbane potion is properly tested, I could help change all that in the only way I can. The research is well beyond the initial stage; they only need to find a way to stabilise the active parts and bring down the price, which is still exorbitant. Fudge might not be interested in making it available to lycanthropes for free--there would be more political money in handing out free Shrinking Solution to weight-obsessed witches--but just to sell it in apothecaries at the price of a sleeping potion would change the lives of werewolves forever. And if the only way I can do it is by kissing the arse of Severus Snape, I will do it without a thought.

Two hours until sunset. Time to grab toothbrush and broomstick, cast a Disillusionment Charm and leave for Dartmoor. I wish I didn't have to. Wish I already were at Hogwarts.

Friday, August 13^th

Sirius,

I have just owled two rolls of parchment, detailing my plans for the next school year, to Minerva McGonagall. Since I was appointed so late, the textbooks are going to be the default ones--Quentin Trimble's books. Could be worse: the ones they had last year were two parts exaggeration, one part outright lies. Homorphous Charm, indeed. I have elaborated the scheme a bit and added a few of my own research subjects, and it will have to do. With some planning, I shall even be able to make up for last year.

Full moon was dreadful. My memories of it are dim, as usual, but there's only one way I can explain the unusual ferocity. In some way, the knowledge that my mate was loose somewhere in the country must have remained with me. Apart from a couple of deep bites I had burns on my face and a loose tooth when I transformed back into human; I'd been snapping at the bars again. Needless to say, the wardens and Healers are becoming suspicious. I must stay in control, or I'll find myself in the queue for the shackles and silflake department. Could Snape let me have Wolfsbane potion the next week if I grovel enough?

Friday, August 20^th

Sirius,

Made my weekly visit to Rowan Brooks, the farmer, to renew the spells that keep his maize and apples pest-free and his hogs and poultry healthy, collecting the usual eggs and apples as a fee. Both of us probably wonder how the other manages to get along with life, the Squib and the werewolf. If I could choose I wouldn't give my magic away, not for anything in the world, not even for being cured, but I am sure Brooks thinks that the stigma of being a werewolf far outweighs the perks of magic. If any other wizard had been interested in giving him a hand from time to time, I doubt he would have chosen me. He has never introduced me to his Muggle wife and his two children, to avoid questions, and I have never asked. That way we maintain the status quo and the fiction that we are friends.

We discussed you a bit as well--I think no one expected that you would be able to stay out of the Ministry's clutches this long. I know how you did it, of course, and I know that you are banking on my being too much of a coward to tell anyone about your Animagus form. It would be easy for me to do the right thing, as easy as an anonymous letter to the Auror Headquarters. But is it really the right thing? You betrayed your friends, and so in turn I take revenge by betraying the person I've loved more than anyone else. An eye for an eye and the world would soon be blind. I should like to think I am better and more loyal than you have shown yourself to be.

I don't suppose the Aurors would believe me anyway. They must be drowning in owls reporting sightings of you by now, and there are more credible tales than mine on the Letters page in The Quibbler. I will be at Hogwarts soon and Harry will be protected by the only living individual who knows your secret. Dumbledore assures me that as long as he stays with his family in Little Whinging, he is going to be safe from Dark wizards.

Speaking of Hogwarts: I could kiss Severus Snape, and Albus Dumbledore to boot. One of the Hogwarts owls was waiting as I came back from the farm, carrying a parcel with a large bottle of Wolfsbane potion. Two thirds of cup a day to be taken without sugar, one week before full moon, stay away from alcohol. The taste is horrible, of course--trust Snape never to brew me anything that tastes good--but I have no doubt that it is going to work as I hinted that I would notify the WRO about the experiment. If we could reduce the price and get Ministry subsidies, maybe they'll be convinced to start supplying it to the other werewolves. As for myself, I have already caught myself speculating about what it will be like to be a normal wolf without the urge to tear through the countryside, searching for human flesh to bite and rend.

Wednesday, September 1^st

Sirius,

Wolfsbane potion was successful. Watched for black dogs on Platform Nine and Three Quarters until eyes watered. Terrible migraine.

Have found empty compartment at end of train. Am going to sleep now.

-- Later --

Excuse the smudges in the margins; I've just fed a slab of chocolate to five teenagers in shock. Excuse my illegible handwriting; I don't know if I am shaking with the movements of the Hogwarts Express, with the aftermath of facing a Dementor, or with anger.

If it hadn't been for you, those Dementors wouldn't have been here. Dumbledore sent me a ticket for the Hogwarts Express, but I thought I was going to watch out for you. As I didn't see any signs of you on the platform, I hoped my watchfulness wouldn't be needed once the train was in motion. The earth might cease to turn, but nothing would stop the Hogwarts Express, right?

Wrong.

I woke up in a pitch-dark compartment with children speaking in half-hushed, frightened whispers and had an experience I never want to repeat--facing a Dementor within thirty seconds after waking up. It was a good thing I conjured up an Ignis Solidus to give some light, instead of using my wand, or I would never have dared look Alastor Moody in the face again. Imagine what he would have said if one of his old crew had tried to drive off a Dementor with a Lumos Charm.

The cold surrounded me almost too fast and the voices began to echo inside my head, memories converging into one single moment of horror:

"Remus, my boy... there's been a most deplorable accident...Moony, I'm sorry... I didn't think he'd be in danger...just wanted to scare him off our backs once and for all..."

"Remus, child, you need to be brave... Sirius was the traitor...Caught in flagrante delicto... Taken to Azkaban for his crimes..."

I'm never going to get used to that feeling, much too close to drowning in icy water. Even when I'm prepared for it, the panic is always lurking under the surface. Then, taking hold of the memory of the day I first held the newborn Harry James, I summoned a Patronus (perhaps it isn't so strange that I've never been able to use memories of our relationship to drive off Dementors). I'm the first to admit that it wasn't much of a Patronus, but it did its job. And when I turned around, I saw the happy memory, thirteen years older and unconscious on the floor.

It was a good thing I'd bought some chocolate on King's Cross, though I still feel a bit light-headed. I've been to dispatch an owl to Hogwarts and asked Madam Lufkin with the lunch trolley to make an emergency tour with free chocolate frogs. Students seem happy enough about the extra treat, but I have a feeling that with Dementors on the doorstep, they will begin to detest chocolate soon enough.

We should be at the Hogsmeade station any minute now. I'd better step into the compartment again and see if the children have changed into school robes.

-- Even later --

Great Scott, I can't remember when I had roast beef last. Whatever the actual teaching will be like, the transformations might be easier on me here. The bloodlust is worse than ever when I haven't been able to afford red meat. The feasts of Hogwarts are welcome changes from my usual tea of tinned beans, I can tell you, though it is humiliating to realise how low I've sunk.

Poppy hasn't changed much, looking me over at the dinner table, promptly adding two slices of fried liver to my plate, stating that I need it for my blood. Severus curled his lips in contempt when I helped myself to my third lamb chop, murmuring that as far as I was concerned, cooking the meat was a waste of time. Not much change there either. You know what he was like in school: poorer than I, prouder even than you. Born in one of those pure-blood families where there's not much to eat except for your pride in what you are. Not like yours or the Malfoys, who supported Voldemort for what he could give you, but doing it because there seemed to be no other choice.

Dumbledore insisted on a chat after the feast, and I steeled myself for the questions I knew he would ask about you. It turned out not to be anything of the sort, just a conversation on the NEWT classes. Defence Against the Dark Arts had been a bit of a joke for the last few years--not that he said it outright--and did I have any ideas for making sure that the seventh-years were up to the tests? I suggested study groups for the NEWT classes after dinner, knowing full well that I signed my evenings away. Dumbledore nodded and twinkled and said, "Excellent idea, my dear boy," adding that it would only be fair to accompany these new duties with monetary compensation. By the way, he had sent Hagrid to the Gringotts office in Hogsmeade and arranged for a part of my salary to be paid out in advance, and did I want a nightcap before turning in?

My rooms are splendid. Lovely soft bed, bathroom a little shrine to luxury--well-lit, decorated in warm colours, a comfortable-looking bathtub sunk into the floor. I was too tired to draw a bath and had to do with a shower (with adequate water pressure in the pipes), but if I survive this first week of teaching and tutoring the NEWT classes I am going to indulge next weekend. I need to go to London anyway since I owe the Ministry five Galleons for use of its facilities last night.

Too tired to write more. Good night.

Friday, September 2^nd

Sirius,

Went down to Hagrid's cottage after dinner to ask if there were any Kelpies on the grounds this year and found him in tears, much the worse for drink. Stayed for as long as I could, but I don't think anything I said made him feel any better. The first day, too. A Hippogriff mauling inattentive students is bad enough, but when the son of an Upstanding Citizen and a Pillar of the Magical Community is involved it turns very ugly. Malfoys could be redefined as Trouble.

I have picked the younger Malfoy off Harry's back once already, not that I think Harry needed the help. He (Malfoy, not Harry) was absent from classes earlier today, and the Slytherin third-years were in uproar. Hagrid is blaming himself, of course, but I have my suspicions. It's terribly unfair of me to judge the boy before I have seen him in class, but the cynical part of my mind tells me that my hopes are in vain.

Felt insensitive to draw attention to myself and go on about Kelpies, when Hagrid was so unhappy. Now, what the hell am I going to use for my first practical lessons? There should be some Red Caps in the dungeons, at any rate, if I get the time to go down and have a shifty and manage not to get lost. The underground corridors are moving around like earthworms.

Wednesday, September 8^th

Sirius,

I'm okay with the practical lessons--Ariadne Sinistra told me over dinner that a Boggart has moved into the robes cupboard in the staff lounge. Need to speak to Dumbledore now before someone decides to do the school a favour and removes it.

Thursday, September 9^th

Sirius,

Almost spit out my coffee in shock when I read The Daily Prophet this morning. Some Muggles have seen you close to the school, and everyone is busy speculating on what you are looking for. There are days when I'm glad that they don't know the entire truth. Emergency meeting with the staff immediately after classes.

Have spent the evening exploring the secret entrances into Hogwarts with Argus Filch and Mrs Norris, adding wards and alarm charms to every one. He knows about four of those we discovered in school, and I did the other three once I was sure that he and his cat had retired for the night. The one behind the large mirror on the third floor has caved in, but I warded it all the same. What I wouldn't give to have our map again and James's Cloak. I wonder who has it now. Dumbledore, most likely. God knows where the map is.

Chapter 2

Saturday, September 11^th

Sirius,

Saturday evening at last. What a week! I've been so busy planning lessons and warding secret tunnels that I haven't had time to write properly. Think I deserve to feel decadent and subversive for one evening, as a reward for surviving. I am out of practice at dissipation, so it's a bit lame--just a hot bath scented with sandalwood and lemon, candles floating in the air, a glass of Chardonnay, and since Rolanda Hooch is away for the weekend, she kindly allowed me to borrow her unofficial secret, the illegally charmed CD player. Come on, what are we to do, the level of background magic at Hogwarts is far too high to make it work the usual way. There is a pile of brand-new, defiantly non-academic books on the floor, waiting for the moment when I have stopped dictating to my quill.

Checked my Gringotts account in the Hogsmeade office yesterday and almost fainted when I saw the balance. Can't remember when I last had two hundred Galleons in my vault. Flooed to London in the morning and spent the day shopping.

I feel a bit guilty now for blowing money on things I don't need for survival--a few of those new compact discs since Rolanda doesn't care for jazz, some historic mystery novels, a bottle of good wine. Why didn't I put it by for leaner times? Then again, I now have a proper job that pays decently, and I could even afford some new robes. But you were right about me and robes; whenever I went to buy clothes, I always ended up in Flourish and Blotts.

What about the job? I've discovered that I enjoy teaching, that Rolanda Hooch has taken me under her wings, and that Neville Longbottom's greatest fear is Snape. You might remember Rolanda; she was in the seventh year when we started Hogwarts. Played Chaser for Hufflepuff and was recruited for the Holyhead Harpies after leaving school. And the Boggart lesson with the Gryffindor third-years--I can't help grinning at the memory even though I know it's wrong. Snape is convinced I did it to humiliate him, but how was I to know that he had managed to make such a lasting impression on the poor boy? I was more concerned with my own Boggart, wasn't I?

I definitely should have practised first. What would the students have thought if Sirius Black had burst out of the cupboard, wand in hand, ready to attack Harry? Or if Sirius Black had been lying dead on the floor? My greatest fears these days are so complicated that I could confuse a Boggart single-handed. I almost felt a sense of relief at seeing it turn into the old familiar moon, though coloured with apprehension. Does this mean I don't take you as a serious threat? I ought to, as a rational human being (even if 'human being' is a courtesy title). If I had been the one to go after you instead of poor Peter, you would have killed me instead, lover or no. Wouldn't you, Black? Or is it a sign of my weakness that I even pose the question?

Tuesday, September 14^th

Sirius,

Note to self: Never assign essays for homework to more than ten classes a week. But if I don't, how will they learn things on their own? If I do, how will I have time to grade them properly, patrol the castle like I promised myself I would do and manage to catch a few Red Caps for my next object lesson? Teaching isn't as easy as I thought the first week.

There are some essays that must be written. I am not going to let Draco Malfoy off easily just because he asked to be excused from the Boggart lesson. Wand arm still not working properly. Says he. I've let him compensate by writing ten inches more than the others, after I made sure that he knows how to do a Dictaphonous Spell on his quill. A pity, really. It would have been interesting to find out about the greatest fear of a Malfoy. I hope ten inches is enough.

Will I ever get time to write myself? I haven't even written down my first impressions of Harry, something I should have done immediately.

If I am to be honest, I am a bit hurt that he doesn't seem to remember me. A little bit disappointed as well. He's different in class from how James and Lily were, it seems he has to make more of an effort to learn. If I must write it plain, he is not quite as bright as his parents. Part of me can't help asking how much of it that stems from the Muggles he is living with, they can't have encouraged him the way I know that James and Lily would have done. Another part feels guilt for even thinking such hostile thoughts. What I would really like is to keep him after classes on Thursdays or invite him into my office, ask him about his life and his friends, offer to help him with his homework, but I know very well that I can't. I'd create unrealistic expectations. I am still werewolf WQ-459 and I won't be allowed to take a more active part in his life, neither by the Ministry nor by Lily's sister and her husband. And I am his teacher; I have to maintain at least a show of neutrality.

Went down to Snape's office to ask him whether he could brew some extra-strength Wolfsbane for the next full moon--the pull of the moon is especially strong during the equinoxes. "I shall take your advice on potion-brewing, Lupin, as soon as I see your credentials from the Royal Society of Alchemy and Magichemistry," was all he deigned to answer. I replied that I at least was an expert on lycanthropic transformation, and things got a little heated. Thank goodness for Poppy Pomfrey, who merely nodded and said she was going to stock up on disinfecting potions, just in case.

A blue moon on the autumnal equinox, I worry about this transformation. Still, it isn't as if I could apply to the universe for a month off. I need to arrange some kind of schedule with Snape that allows us to see as little as possible of one another, as he has made it perfectly clear that he has no wish of socialising with me. And let's face it, why should he?

Friday, October 1^st

Sirius,

I have to re-evaluate Snape and his skills as a potion-maker. Could kiss the man if the shock wouldn't kill him--I don't feel any worse than I usually do. The changes in March and September usually take it out of me.

Someone also told Albus about my post-lunar cravings. When I came back from seeing Poppy early this morning there was a pot of hot chocolate waiting on my desk together with breakfast. You know the kind I like--the rich, creamy, burnt-umber variety made with real vanilla, the one that pours like lava and sensually invites you to forget what your parents taught you about licking your cup, the one that reminds me about the time we spent in a Barcelona after Lily and James returned from their honeymoon. Their treat. Prongs joked that he didn't want you underfoot while getting acquainted with his new wife and Lily threatened to perform Severing Charms on your intimate parts if you didn't leave poor Jim alone, but I knew better.

The Dementors must have pounced on those memories as soon as you entered Azkaban. There was a café in the old town where we used to go for chocolate after picnicking on bread and tomatoes, hard white cheese, olives, ham and a bag of ripe figs, drinking the young purplish wine straight from the bottle--we had to empty it because you wanted to use it for sending a message like you had read about in Muggle books. Your laughter would echo off the stone walls of abandoned churches as we made our way back to the small hotel, high on the alcohol, theobromine and sugar, falling into each other's arms as soon as we had locked the door. We made love during the siesta like the locals did, with the windows open and the green shutters closed, for two weeks pretending that the war in far-away Britain didn't exist, that Voldemort could be defeated just as easily as Franco had been ousted, that we were normal twenty-year-olds insane with love and lust and youth. It was the best gift Lily and James could ever have given us.

Saturday, October 10^th

Sirius,

Very productive week. The lesson with the Red Caps I managed to catch in the dungeons was a success, thanks to Albus's knowledge of Mermish we persuaded the Merpeople to let me borrow one of their Grindylows, and the two Slytherin second-years I had for detention did a rather good job with cleaning and filling the large glass tank (took them five trips down to the lake). Since I'm going to do Kappas next, I finally feel in control of my lessons.

After yesterday's staff meeting, Rolanda suggested that I join some of the teachers for a drink at The Three Broomsticks. Does that mean I have been accepted by the others? Maybe I should have gone, but I had work to do. Kappas are Japanese and I won't be able to find one around here, and that means my students have to learn about them out of books. And that means I need to check what books they can use in the library. I chatted a bit with Harry's friend Hermione Granger, too. She takes her studies seriously, that one... I hope that Harry and his other best friend, Ron, can make her loosen up and have a laugh as well.

Thursday, October 21^st

Sirius,

Rolanda put a note in my pigeonhole in the staff lounge, asking if I wanted to help her supervise the students in Hogsmeade during the Halloween weekend. Being the only teacher below fifty except for Snape must get lonely at times. She even says I am welcome to celebrate Christmas with her and her younger sister in Birmingham. We shall have to see about that. I haven't yet sunk so low that I need the pity of others.

Now that I have access to the Wolfsbane, I might be able to help out with the Hogsmeade weekends. The potion has been a lot of help and I can't see why the Ministry wouldn't want to finance the research. The Central European authorities do, after all. Mentioned it to Snape and he said it is only to be expected--it doesn't pay off to be soft on half-breeds. I find myself agreeing with him. He wouldn't believe it, but I feel tremendous gratitude towards him. Since he isn't a werewolf I find it difficult to express what a difference it makes to be able to curl up and sleep through the night rather than run mindlessly through the woods or try to break out of a silver cage, only feel minor trepidation about the pain and a revulsion, more laughable than anything else, for the thought of eating raw meat.

Tuesday, October 26^th

Sirius,

What would be worse, going or not going to Hogsmeade? I could check if the oak was still there--you know, the one on the east side of Hogsmeade Road, in the field with the hawthorn hedge. It probably is, with other couples sharing their first kisses behind it.

First Hogsmeade weekend of our seventh year. We had managed to repair our friendship again, after my stubborn silence during two terms and almost the whole summer. But almost as soon as we were on speaking terms again, I had realised that something was different. I was oddly thrilled when you wanted us lonely bachelors to go to Hogsmeade together--Prongs had finally persuaded Lily that he was a changed man, and Wormtail was going to Madam Puddifoot's place with a Hufflepuff girl. It wasn't a date, naturally, since we were just two good friends stocking up on quills, chocolate, Hiccough Sweets and new socks, talking of the NEWT subjects we were taking and what Peter might like as a birthday gift. You insisted on buying me a birthday present as well despite my protests that it was too late and too much, laughed when I thumped you after finding out that you had spelled the diary with your name.

It was raining in a most unromantic fashion, too, and it was just as well that neither of us minded getting wet. I had started to think longingly of dry clothes and perhaps a kitchen raid to get some hot tea, when you decided to pull me through a hedge into the field and into the shelter of an oak tree that probably saw Hengist found Hogsmeade.

Everything felt oddly right even if the day had just taken a turn towards the unpredictable. Your hands were cold as usual when they held on to mine--you kept forgetting Mrs Potter's woollen mittens and mufflers in the dormitory. But for the first time, brazen, outspoken Sirius Black was at a loss for words, whilst quiet, thoughtful Remus Lupin had so much to say that I stuttered over the words. The light in your eyes made me want to tell everything at once, about how my throat dried out whenever I heard you laugh and that my stomach had started to flutter whenever we met in the Gryffindor boys' bathroom. I wanted to tell you about the reaction I had when you hesitantly offered to rub my back after the last full moon, but I didn't. An erection isn't after all the same thing as butterflies in the belly. I had even grown used to your obnoxious habit of rocking your chair and I loved that impatient shake of your head when your fringe got into your eyes, and there behind the tree I reached out, without stopping to think about it, and brushed aside the sodden strands. Memory plays strange tricks after more than a decade, but I don't think I've made up the taste of your mouth, a rather unfortunate combination of Peppermint Toads and clove fags. Or the knot of worry in my stomach when I decided to try the tongue thing I had read about in my cousin Mireille's romances, and the relief when I realised that you liked it, that it felt better than anything in the world. Or how we anxiously kept up appearances at dinner, just as if we hadn't snogged ourselves breathless behind a tree.

I waited until James and Peter had fallen asleep that night, then padded across the room to your bed, finding you awake like I knew you would be. More kisses along with the first, hesitant touches. It might have been the days of free love, but we were stuck in a fairly conservative boarding school in the middle of nowhere and neither of us knew exactly what we should be doing. I didn't, at least. But hearing your voice, husky with desire, whispering first a silencing charm and then my name, feeling your hand slip inside my pyjama trousers, caressing and exploring, somehow unlocked the knowledge inside me. Though yours was shaped different than mine--and when hard, curves to the right in a rather ridiculous fashion, if memory serves--that, at least, was something I had done before.

Sunday, October 30^th

Sirius,

I didn't go to Hogsmeade after all. First there was that Grindylow to take care of. I used to keep fish when I was a child--the only pets I was allowed after I was bitten--and this is much the same, though not even the catfish made faces like a Grindylow can do. Second, there is a heap of homework waiting to be graded. Really must learn how much homework I can assign classes. A few of the Ravenclaws, Hermione Granger, and the Head Boy, Percy Weasley, are always writing too much, which means I need to spend extra time correcting them. At least those are the original ones; it borders on mental torture to read the rest of the more or less identical essays with more or less amusing grammatical errors. I have to take regular breaks, walk to the window and stretch my back in order not to fall asleep. It is a beautiful day out there, though rather windy. I need to go out for a walk, but that brings me to the third reason I needed to stay behind. Snape said he would bring the Wolfsbane potion before lunch.

A cup of tea would be nice now, though what I really need is strong, black coffee. Unfortunately there is no way I can get it except for going down to the kitchens. Well, as soon as I have had my daily dose of potion, I am going for a bit of fresh air. It may be sooner than I thought--are those Snape's footsteps in the corridor? Have to go and have a look.

-- Later --

I have had to revise my first impression of Harry. He may not have James's effortless capacity for learning, but he seems much wiser--uncannily so for a thirteen-year-old. For instance, he seems to have a sixth sense for when grown-ups are lying to him. He has had too much of lies and half-truths, I daresay. It isn't altogether good: he won't like it when he finds out that I've been keeping things from him.

Anyway, he was moping around in the corridors alone, with his friends all in Hogsmeade, so I invited him in for a cup of tea and a chat. He confronted me about why I hadn't let him have a go with the Boggart, just like James would have done if anybody had thought him a coward. I don't think he realises how significant it is that his greatest fear is of being afraid. He really is a true Gryffindor, sometimes so alike James--from what I heard from the other teachers, he seems to have just the same knack for getting in trouble--that I sometimes can't bear to look at him. Perhaps it is well that we only meet in classes. It won't do to have a teacher and authority figure suddenly burst into tears on him.

Monday, November 1^st

Sirius,

I have failed. I promised myself that I could keep you out of the castle, away from Harry. Halloween made it quite obvious that I can't.

The castle is buzzing with rumours, and I don't think anyone has slept at all. The students would rather discuss you in class than take notes on the ethical implications of the Imperius Curse or how to defeat Kappas or deflect Furnunculus curses, and I've had to remind them several times that it isn't my job to teach them whatever Dark Magic you had used to get inside the castle. I expected the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws to scowl, but even the Hufflepuffs looked disappointed.

I still have no explanation of why you tried to break into Gryffindor Tower while it was empty, every single person in the castle at the feast. People seem to want to explain it away with your insanity again; clutching at straws, in my opinion. You were sane enough to break out of Azkaban, weren't you?

Fawkes has delivered a summons for tea with the Headmaster, and I have no choice but to go. I've failed in doing what I had promised myself to do, keeping you out of the castle, and he will be in his right to be disappointed in me. By rights I should tell him how I think you manage it, but I can't bear the thought of seeing him so disappointed in me, knowing that I have betrayed his trust.

-- Later --

Sitting in Dumbledore's office has always felt odd--one part safety and calm, one part uneasiness and suspense. You never know what he's about to spring on you until you are seated in the visitor's chair.

"If you would only trust yourself half as much as others do", Dumbledore murmured as he levitated the teapot. It is easy enough for him to say, not being the one with a guilty conscience. I don't know that he needs to be this excessive in his trust in me, either. The Headmaster is desperate, or he has really cracked this time--he actually suggested I patrol the halls in my werewolf shape! Never heard of a more half-baked scheme in my life! The man is a Gryffindor all right, or else he is mad as a hatter.

I pointed out to him that my sense of smell and hearing would grow gradually stronger during the week while my ability to see colours decreased--lost Gryffindor no end of points during Potions lessons, that--and that I had already been around to the entrance of Gryffindor Tower to se if I could find out anything, but that the scent was getting cold and faint. I was completely honest, too, and didn't have to get into explanations of all the reasons why I don't trust myself when it comes to you. Would I give in to the siren call, become the Dark creature everyone already believes I am, join your side if you asked me? I'd like to believe that I wouldn't, but my conscience points out that I have always been good at self-deception. Trustworthy or not, this is personal now. I may have failed Lily and James and Peter, but you won't make me fail Harry. I may do it my own way, but I'm not going to fail him.

Wednesday, November 3^rd

Sirius,

Is it my imagination, or do people grow silent when I enter the staff room? Does every conversation end with a sidelong glance at me? Snape keeps asking acid questions on whether I have any ideas on how you broke in yet, and this time I fully agree with him. What is the use of being a werewolf if you can't use your abilities in a constructive manner?

Had tea and Ginger Newts with Minerva this afternoon before I went on to strengthen the alarms and wards on the secret entrances. Now try to get inside the castle, Black. I'm ready for you. Fortunate indeed that I didn't throw away the diary you gave me--twenty year old remains of your magic are better than nothing. The wards would work even better if I had some of your blood, but that's bordering on Dark magic and I have a feeling that some people here--no names--would love to tell on the untrustworthy werewolf who knows far too much for his own good, never mind that some people know far more about the Dark Arts than I. No, that was inconsiderate of me. I will swallow my pride and see if he has spotted anything I have overlooked. Hope Draco Malfoy hasn't complained to his Head of House--I couldn't help it, I had to congratulate the boy on the miraculous recovery of his wand arm.

Thursday, November 4^th

Sirius,

Found another note in my pigeonhole: Dear Remus, would you have tea with me tomorrow afternoon or at your convenience? Yours affectionately, Poppy Pomfrey. Oh, all right. All seem to be wearing their best pairs of silk gloves these days.

This is the first time I am relieved about turning into a wolf. Though I am still myself, things aren't as complex, emotions are flattened out and at the same time more primal. For one night at least I won't have to analyse my thoughts, emotions and fears. Thank goodness I made Dumbledore see sense about his mad idea--the storm is howling between the turrets, breaking branches in the Forbidden Forest, throwing itself full force against windows that suddenly seem ridiculously fragile. I am going to allow myself to take simple pleasure in knowing that I am myself in a different shape, perfectly suited to curling up on my bed with my nose in my tail.

Friday, November 5^th

Sirius,

Next time you break in before the full moon, could you warn me beforehand so I can protect myself? Had I known, I would have asked Snape to brew the potion stronger last week, this batch wasn't strong enough to allow me to keep my mind. It was all I could do to make a slapdash attempt at charming the doors and windows and putting up some silencing spells in that last moment of lucidity between sensing that something was wrong and being overtaken by the change. I sincerely hope that nobody heard me, or that any noises that penetrated were attributed to the storm. My alter ego could smell that my mate had been in the castle, and as there was no way I could get out and search for the source of the scent trails, I maimed myself again. My rooms were in such a state that Minerva summoned a couple of house-elves for cleaning.

Poppy came to see me in my chambers this morning and promptly forbade me from teaching today. She couldn't forbid me from working, though, and I have lived through worse changes than this. Have been lying in bed, reading up on curses and correcting essays, stopping from time to time to wonder if Snape has murdered any of the students yet.

Monday, November 8^th

Sirius,

Rolanda told me about the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch game when she came to sit at my bedside, about the Dementors showing up and Harry falling from his broomstick. And I had no idea. As soon as I was allowed, I went to the hospital wing to check on him, but he had already been released. Rolanda says Gryffindor has never before lost a match when he has been Seeker. He must feel truly miserable about it, even if he were only half as passionate about Quidditch as James. If I had only known--I could have visited him during the weekend, interfering hypochondriac Healers be damned. I could have brought him anything he wanted from Hogsmeade, as he isn't allowed to go himself; told him that it isn't his fault that the Dementors affect him that way. Surely a teacher is allowed to do that?

I have checked my Gringotts account, wondering if I could get Harry a new broomstick. I could have paid for repairs, but it seems that the Whomping Willow reduced it to smithereens. A new Nimbus is out of my reach, unfortunately. The least I can do for the boy is teaching him the Patronus charm and giving him my last free evening. James's son is worth it.

Friday, November 12^th

Sirius,

Just came back from afternoon tea with Hagrid. People have finally stopped inviting me for tea, thank Merlin--I had to put people on hold, otherwise I would spend all my spare time drinking tea and listening to people telling me that there was nothing I could have done to stop Sirius Black from entering the castle. If they only knew that I am alone in knowing your secret and have kept it to myself against my better knowledge. Even when I'm full of tea and scones I feel like an inadequate protection for Harry, and those feelings won't dispel easily.

Not that tea and sympathy wasn't welcome today. I had been down to the dungeons before, to confess to Severus Snape that something must have been wrong with the Wolfsbane. He took offence at that--I am afraid he took it as an accusation. Telling him I had cancelled the homework he had set was another one of those experiences I would rather have avoided, but I had promised the students. At least he didn't offer me tea.

I understand quite well why he feels spiteful and suspicious, but there are times I want to shake him--people's lives are at stake here! Does he think I am going to let you into the castle just so you could go and kill someone, and James's son at that? What does he think this is? A schoolboy prank? ... No. I am not going to dwell on that again. That is over and done with long ago. Water under the bridge.

Anyhow, I needed the warmth and comfort of Hagrid's cottage, needed to sit down and talk while scratching Fang behind the ears. Hagrid was always good to me, better in fact than many human wizards. I really needed him to clap me on the shoulder and growl, "I won' 'ave 'im killin' yeh as well!" Needed to remember the unconditional support he gave us when the rest of the Order became aware that you and I were a couple. Even if they were quite liberal for those days, it was quite a mouthful for some of the older members to think about gay relationships and werewolves in the same context. Most of them resolved it by politely pretending that we were just flatmates and "very close friends", but Hagrid was always and totally on our side with a heart bigger even than his body.

All those people that have invited me and talked to me, making it clear that I still have their support, are a great comfort to me. I might not deserve it, but there are still good people in the world, people who care. A wonderful cure against premature cynicism, though I feel awfully sentimental. And today I am joining the others at the Three Broomsticks. Work can wait.