Wolf By Ears

Wolf by Ears

Part Eleven: The People vs. Remus Lupin

By D.M.P.

***

He that goes into law holds a wolf by the ears.

- Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy.

***

Chapter 37

The house in Nice was unusually silent. Bernard preferred things to be still and calm; only then could he work on his research. But since his sister had come to live with him, he had grown accustomed to hearing her move around the house, to her faint voice yelling through the thin walls during international phone conversations, to her slamming doors, clanking on her keyboard in her room, or cursing softly to herself as she moved gingerly through the antique-filled corridors.

Claire had been oddly placid the past few days since Bernard had returned home. She returned from her trip before him and remained in her room. Not a word from her about how the family was doing: whether Caleb and his triplet sons dealt with the colic, whether Mother, blind and bedridden, still screeched at her from the canopy bed, whether the climate in the mountains was still pleasantly brisk this time of year. He reminded her about her earlier promise to consider entering Dr. D'Aubigne's study at the Centre for Lycanthropic Research, but she had replied with nothing but a brief comment about being dehumanized enough for some time. Afterwards, whenever their paths would cross during the evening, he had politely asked how her days went and she would bluntly answer back, "Comme merde." Her disposition, despite her earlier promise of being more cheerful upon her return, had only curled in on itself like a withered leaf. Women's troubles, Bernard had thought. He would never understand them.

Bernard preferred things to be simple and straightforward: identify the problem, find a solution, gather the needed material, and fix it. The logical flow of science pleased him; if only everything in life could be the same.

Her situation was like an incomplete equation, or an experiment ruined through a miscalculation. He could see them at an impasse, stuck from gaining the correct conclusions because of some gross human error. Claire would not admit it. There was something wrong, some horrible mistake, but she wouldn't go back and correct it. Examine the evidence again. Re-calculate. Discuss. Make new conclusions. Her silence was illogical. That wasn't justice (for after all, justice is but a balancing equation - all atoms, ions, and charges must be equal on both sides).

Something happened to her the night of the December full moon, and the logical solution to do would file a complaint against the English government. But she hadn't, and Bernard felt ashamed at his inability to push her further. Her silence, no matter how personal it was, wounded his sense of justice. To have her be this way tormented him more than any of the foolish antics that she had been involved in the past. Claire had been wronged, and he had been irresponsible, and her useless legs were reminders that mocked them both.

Whenever an experiment went awry, Bernard tended to go over each movement, each measurement in the back of his mind over and over again. The only thing that would soothe him was reaching the solution or breaking something.

That particular evening Bernard sat at his computer, his bottle-thick glasses sliding down his great nose, typing away diligently with his index fingers about an article on the possibilities of finding magical properties in the Alu repeat sequence of DNA. He had assumed that Claire had been doing work as well - or whatever occupied her time - but when he sent Fifi Dubois to check up on her, the housekeeper returned with a shrug and a shake of her head.

"Non," she told him. "Madame n'est pas trave."

"What is she doing then?"

"Sleeping."

Again. She had been sleeping too much the past fortnight. Something was the matter, but it would have been too awkward for her brother to simply ask why. Besides, she would never tell him. And he had promised that he wouldn't ask their little brother whatever happened during her visit to the castle. Bernard wasn't going to compromise his personal integrity to investigate his sister's moodiness. He respected her. If she wanted him to know, she would.

The security control board on his desk beeped, signalling that someone was ringing at the front gate. Bernard flicked a switch and the small monitor screen lit up. A fuzzy white and blue shot of the front gate was shown, with a slight young man standing before it.

"Um, hullo? Bonjour? Saloot?" came an English voice from the box speaker. On the screen, the man tapped the box hesitantly. "Ess-quer vous Bernard de Chien-Loup?"

The werewolf narrowed his eyes. Fifi, who watched over his shoulder, started off downstairs. Her employer raised a hand to stop her. "I'll get the front door. Entrez," he said into the voice box. Pressing a button, he unlocked the gate. Outside, the man jumped back as the iron gates swung open.

Bernard headed to the first floor, straightening the collar to his dress shirt and rolling down the sleeves. He opened the door to see the stranger with his nose buried in a book.

"Um, um..." The young man fumbled with a small volume entitled The Travelling Wizard's Essential Foreign Phrasebook. He spoke slowly, his voice yelling out important words as if Bernard had been deaf, not French. "Je... je maple SAMUEL HARPER," he recited. "Je swiss AVOCAT... der REMUS LUPIN. Poo-je entre? Je voudray PARLAY avec CLAIRE DE CHIEN-LOUP, see-vous play?"

Instinctively, Bernard's nostrils flared. He bit his lip to restrain himself from barking out a rapid reply. He tried keeping his face straight, but the young man seemed to skirt back anyways, painfully aware of his faux-pas.

"Welcome to my 'ome, Monsieur 'Arper. Why don't you come in?" Bernard replied discreetly in heavy accented English. He pushed up the ridge of his glasses and crossed his arms. Harper froze and stuffed his phrasebook back into his pocket, the colour slowly rising to his cheeks.

"Please," he insisted in a nearly growling tone. "I will go get Claire."

"Um, thank you," Harper squeaked. "Mercy."

Bernard grumbled to himself as he let the barrister in and shut the door.

Harper stood in the centre of the front hall, clutching his briefcase. Fifi Dubois waited at the head of the staircase. Bernard gave a curt nod. "Tell Claire that Monsieur Harper the Englishman would like to speak with her," he ordered her in French, then turned to his guest. When Bernard turned to look at him, the barrister flinched and gave a nervous chuckle.

"I apologise. I-I wasn't aware that you spoke English," he stammered.

"And I was not aware zat you were speaking French," Bernard replied dryly. He gestured with a heavy hand towards the parlour. "Please sit, Monsieur 'Arper."

Harper scurried into the room and took the seat closest to the entranceway. Settling himself down opposite to Harper in the leather chair, Bernard folded his hands and said, "So, you are ze lawyer from ze papers, no?"

"Yes... I-I suppose there is a bit of a buzz about the trial." Harper ran and hand through his hair as another tight chuckle came from his lips. What a poor fool, Bernard thought. He looks more like a schoolboy in a business suit than a proper lawyer.

"What would my sister 'ave to do wiz zis matter?"

"I would like to speak with her. My client, Mr. Lupin, had spent some time at her Safehouse in London last year and I would like to have her testify in court."

"About what?"

"About his character."

"My sister 'as much trouble wiz legal matters. She will not work for wizards now. Zey have done nosing good for 'er." He looked at Harper straight in the eye. "I do not want to see 'er used again. Do you understand ze words I say, Monsieur 'Arper?"

"Yes, sir, um, monsieur." Surprisingly, the young barrister met his eyes and held the stare. "I understand that Madame has been through a lot lately. She doesn't have to testify if she doesn't want to. I'm only trying to do my best to help my client."

"And you zink Claire will 'elp Monsieur Lupin? She barely knows 'im."

"It wouldn't hurt to ask."

Fifi returned before Harper could say anything more and nodded to Bernard. "Claire will see you now," he said. "My 'ousekeeper will show you up to 'er room."

"Thank you, thank you so much," Harper jumped from his seat and stuck out his hand. Bernard took it with a vice-like grip. "Nice to meet you, Monsieur de Chien-Loup."

"My pleasure." Bernard watched the barrister follow Fifi up the stairs. The boy had a weak handshake but a strong step.

***

Lottie toddled down the hall to the holding pens, whistling to herself. She had just dropped off a letter to that Lupin lad, and now was on her way to having her midnight tea and propping up her feet for awhile. Things have been a bit lonely before, when she had to work by herself, but now, the nights weren't so bad.

Not that she was going to judge that laddie, Remus Lupin. Sure, she had been almost scared out of her soul when she saw him the first night, giving everything that happened. But Lottie was a simple person and thus, very forgiving when actions don't have horrible consequences. There was a small bit in Lupin which she trusted, some small bit that had felt the same when he pretended to be Dougie Ridley. Besides, he had promised not to bite, and the more time Lottie spent with him, the more she realised how silly it was of her to assume that a sweet soul like Lupin would ever think of biting her. They were friends now, after all.

Instead of going straight up the elevator chute, she stopped at the Stakeout to see if young Sam Harper was in his cubicle. They hadn't been complete strangers before running into each other in the dungeons. Lottie to recall all the times in the past she'd seen him working the late hours away in Department of Magical Law Enforcement, staying around the Ministry for hours longer than her. That master barrister must have the devil in him to work a poor boy like Harper as if he were nothing more than a cart horse.

Well, they had never really spoken to each other before now, though. Even after seeing him around for seven years at the Ministry, Lottie knew better than to speak to a Big Ane. People have their place in the world, and Lottie certainly knew hers. No Big Ane ever bothered to talk to one of the Small Fowk.

But she supposed Sam was a bit different from all the other Big Anes. Ever since they first spoke with each other, he actually made an effort to initiate more conversations with Lottie; in fact, he did so whenever they saw each other. At first, Lottie didn't know what to make of it: he must be a very bored; he probably wanted to amuse himself by watching her stutter; he would have never wanted to chat with a janitor unless he wanted something. And Lottie couldn't think of a thing that a fully-educated and handsome wizard would want from her that he couldn't get from any other lassie prettier - or at least taller - than she.

If she would admit to anything, however, it would be that she thought Harper's attention was quite flattering. That was why they had been sharing midnight tea for the past week or so since their first meeting. He would talk a lot - mostly rambling about legal technicalities involving his client. But Lottie didn't mind. She liked hearing those big words come out of his mouth; it made her feel as if she involved in very sophisticated discussions.

"Hallo, Lottie. How are ye keepin'?" He asked, adopting some of her speech.

"Doin bitter nae." Lottie sat down beside his desk and looked at the papers spread out before him. "Wha's tha'?"

"A deposition I took on a trip to France today," Harper replied. "I was interviewing a Madame Claire de Chien-Loup." Lottie couldn't help but be distracted by the way he looked at her. What he said floated over her head, except for the cheerful quality of his voice. "She was the London Safehouse owner just before it was shut down by the Registry, you know. It's really fascinating, all that she said here about Mr. Lupin...She just went on and on and on about him...." He scanned the parchment in front of him before rolling it up. "I asked if she would like to appear in court to testify."

Only half-listening, Lottie suddenly shook her head and asked, "Oh? An' wha' did she say?"

"It was very odd how she reacted, actually. She got terribly angry at me as soon as I suggested it. 'Why would I ever want to come to the defence of manipulative scum like him!' I think were her exact words, but I could be paraphrasing. But then as soon as she said that, Madame de Chien-Loup got all quiet and asked when she could come. I hesitated, but she began apologizing profusely and demanding a date for the deposition. We scheduled it for next week." Harper gave a dismissive shrug. "She's the moodiest woman I've ever met."

"Sounds like she an' Mr. Lupin could have had a past," Lottie commented.

"What past?"

She clicked her tongue. "Not my place tae gossip aboot people I dunno."

"I'm not sure if she'll be able to come over here anyways, considering her unfavourable status in the eyes of the Registry. Maybe I could file a subpoena or something."

"Weel, ye think ye can come doun to the cafeteria wi' me?" Lottie asked. "Or, rather, if yer busy, I understand..." She looked away, embarrassed over her effrontery.

Harper laughed, but not unkindly. "Oh, I just need to go through today's Owl Post." He stuffed the parchment in his file cabinet. "It's real nice to eat with someone like this," he admitted with his back turned. "I've never had anyone I could talk to here who didn't think of me as the department gopher."

A crimson flush instantly rushed to Lottie's face, and, unable to think of anything to cover for it, she got up. "I'll jus' wait for ye thair," she said hurriedly.

"Okay," Harper replied, oblivious to her reaction. Taking up a pile of letters from his inbox, he began to shuffle through them. The Squib janitor hadn't left yet, though she said that she would; instead, she kept shuffling along the hallway, hoping that Harper wouldn't take too long.

Unexpectedly, he screamed.

Lottie jumped and rushed back. Before she could saw a word, she paused in shock. A letter, bubbling with dark brown ooze, dropped to the floor. Harper keeled over in pain, swearing rapidly under his breath.

"Fuckshitdamnhellpisser!" he spat.

Fearfully, Lottie drew several handkerchiefs from her robes (a necessity for all janitors), and handed them to him. Harper raised his head and said in a tight voice, "I think you'll have to wipe it off for me. But be careful," he added, as Lottie reached for him. "Don't touch the potion." Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes.

"Why-" she started, but shut her mouth when Harper slowly straightened up and presented his hands. They were covered with the frothing potion, and already, its effects were taking place. His fingers had curled into each other and sealed together, claws began to sprout from the folded joints. Straw-coloured fur sprouted up between his knuckles.

"Paws!" she gasped. Harper grimaced. Lottie hastily put on her rubber gloves and gingerly wiped the goo off. "It turned yer hands into paws!" she repeated, unbelieving.

"By fucking hell it did!" he snapped, and she flinched. "So... so sorry," he said weakly. "It only hurts." Lottie quickly wiped off the last bit of potion and dropped the soiled cloths into the wastebasket.

"Who... who sent tha' tae ye?" She stooped down and picked up the letter by a clean corner. A piece of paper, half-smeared with the goo, still stuck to the envelope. She pulled it out and cocked her head to the side to see the single inscription:

"If you love helping wolves so much..."

"...then why don't you become one?" finished Harper, looking over her shoulder.

"They should have dun tha'!" Lottie threw the paper into the trash. "Horrible brutes! Are - are ye all richt?"

"Yeah..." Harper gritted his teeth and got up from his chair. "I'm sorry about... delaying tea like this..."

"Who cares." Lottie dismissed with a wave of her hand. "We need tae get yer tae St. Mungo's." Protectively, she slipped her gloved hand around the crook of his arm. "C'man."

***

So far, Lupin's time in prison had been quite mundane. Besides being kept in a damp jail cell by the docks leading to the Nemesis Courthouse, where pleads and insane cries of passing prisoners kept him awake at all hours. Or the secret letters from Sirius that Lottie slipped to him nightly. Or the flashbacks of his second self somewhere at a training camp in Spain. No, really, when Lupin could recall exactly where he lived and what time of day it was, he was perfectly fine.

Heat. A distinct feeling of heat pervaded Lupin's mind, like he was plunged into a sauna. Sweat formed on his brow and he squinted as the dry, straw-coloured light cut through closed blinds and hit his face. The conference room was stuffy, mostly because it was built with a lot of concrete and little breathing room. Usually the unheated room was freezing, but not today. Harper had his sleeves rolled down to his elbows and his tie loosened around his neck. There were black smudges on his arms where he had rested them on the inked parchment. Lupin turned away, wiped his forehead with a blue linen handkerchief and watched Harper scribble.

Déjà vu overwhelmed him. Lupin knew that the doubling effect was happening again. He could feel the sweltering summer air around him, and hear Toby's voice echo in his head. Shutting his eyes, Lupin tried to focus on this reality, one where he would be put on trial as a beast, and if convicted would be sentenced to death.

Opening them again, he saw on the bandages wrapped around the young man's hands.

"One of the janitors - Lottie - told me of an incident with a cursed envelope," he started.

Harper looked up suddenly. "What letter? The complaint mail? Hey, no problem - I get complaints fired at me all the time, sometimes not even in mail form." He laughed dismissively with a shaking of his shoulders.

"Was it more than a complaint, Mr. Harper?"

"Nothing," Harper said. "Look, I got most of it reversed." Peeling back one of the bandages, Lupin saw a mangy tuft of yellow fur growing on the back of his hand. "It's mostly harmless, and the doctor said it'll shed eventually. But, damn, it itches."

"Whoever sent that -" began Lupin.

"Shouldn't be your concern, Mr. Lupin." He scratched the back of his hand viciously while adding, "Next time, I'll wear gloves when checking my mail."

Lupin leaned forward. "As my barrister, your concerns are my own."

He saw something sad in the man's eyes, and for an instant, Harper appeared old for his age instead of young. "There's nothing you can do about it," he answered softly. "But thanks for your concern."

He continued working steady on his defence, scratching his quill languidly on the parchment. Lupin saw that his handwriting came out loopy and unsteady.

"At least let me be your scribe," he offered.

Unsurely, Harper raised his head.

"It's better than straining your hands more," he reasoned.

"Well..."

Lupin reached over and took the quill. Harper scratched his hands again quickly. "Well, I guess you better start by recopying that last page of questions," he said slowly. "Because I think that one's pretty much scrapped."

Chapter 38

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April 2^nd The Daily Prophet 46

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Werewolf Attack Case Heads to Court

EDINBURGH - (Wizard Associated Press) Yesterday, Magistrate Minos set the date for the trial of Remus Lupin. Charged with malicious aggravated assault with intent to kill, the werewolf will go to court on April 28^th. His case is to be presented by barrister Samuel Harper before the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. Head of the Committee Earl Colbert will be presiding. Barrister Hogarth Borden is slated to be on the prosecution.

Normally, crimes against Muggles committed by magical creatures are not under jurisdiction of wizarding law. Yet according to the Werewolf Code of Conduct, werewolves must be held accountable for their attacks, whether they are against Muggles or against wizards. In keeping with the Code of Conduct, if Lupin is found guilty, he would be executed by beheading at dawn.

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April 3rd Witch Weekly 56

Ideas & Opinions

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Taming the Big Bad Wolf

By Mala Ouseley

From childhood tales, creatures of darkness have risen out of the shadows to terrify us into obeying early bedtimes. Sure, there were the vampires who drain your arteries, the hags who steal your livers, and the giants who bake your bones into bread. But while vampires and hags have been almost exterminated from the country and the giants have been reduced to a few shrinking mountain tribes, one threat is still constant in wizard society: the werewolf. Unlike other Dark Creatures, werewolves have been able to thrive and multiply, despite harsh procreation laws and diligent efforts by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (DRCMC). In the last year alone, statistics show that 200 new werewolves have been registered worldwide, and an additional estimated 500 have been created and remain unregistered. With this growing threat, the lives of human beings everywhere are being endangered.

The worst of all is that werewolves prey on any human within reach. As a result, ignorant Muggles have often been victims to werewolf attacks. Most often, they are killed outright and the DRCMC only has to cover up the evidence of the Muggles' deaths, with the help from special Unspeakable group that work in cooperation with the department. There comes the occasional attack, however, when the Muggle survives. That is the case of Mary Grisham, the seven-year old Muggle now dumped in the lap of the DRCMC.

But while one girl can easy be taken care of, her maker is the more complicated problem. Remus Lupin isn't the average werewolf, like the rogue beasts who run wild in the forest. He was bitten at the young age of six, before his official magical education began. All common sense would deny him the chance to give this beast wizard magic. However, Albus Dumbledore, as headmaster for the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has been known for bouts of irrational, liberal thinking. He was the one who persuaded the school allowed Lupin to attend the school. But now that one of his "affirmative action" projects has been accused of a serious crime, more and more people have begun to question the werewolf's place in society. Have we wizards gone too far? With the outcries for equal rights, have we forgotten the sanctity of human safety?

Werewolves throughout the age have been a thorn in the sides of humans. Records of werewolves first appeared in the travel logs of Sigmund Snorrason, who travelled up to the far Lappland of northern Europe. He described them as "vicious wolf-creatures of great height and strength, with long, dripping fangs, and a thick, swarthy hair that covered their bodies from head to foot." Snorrason also mentioned how these "wolf-men" would attack and pillage whole villages and special "hunters, with swords and shields of pure silver" were sent to hunt them down.

Throughout the Medieval Ages, werewolf clans swept across the continent, terrorising entire kingdoms, Muggle and wizard. Thousands of victims were killed, mostly Muggles, and many more had been infected and became monsters themselves. As a result, means of control were established. Werewolf hunters made bounties worth hundreds of Galleon for every werewolf head they turned in. Herbal repellents like Wolfsbane were cultivated and its poison was used on arrowheads and sword blades. Silver became a commodity in highly infested places like France, Russia, and Transylvania.

Finally, the first meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards addressed the problem of whether non-wizard magical creatures should be allowed to obey wizard law. The consensus made was that if a creature was sentient enough to understand the law, then it should have to obey it. Werewolves had been stuck in the middle of such classification, though, because when they are in their wolf forms - and at their most dangerous - they lose their human reasoning.

The final solution to this problem does not lie in compromise and diplomacy. Werewolves have been created by nature as a beast that can kill. Death and malice are werewolves' only company. Unlike goblins with their financial duties, werewolves cannot be made useful to wizards. The only solution then, is to contain these monsters of the night.

Many countries have already adopted anti-lycanthrope laws that restrict and reduced werewolf numbers. International breeding laws ban bitten werewolves (or "loners") from procreation and restrict natural-born werewolves to breeding only with other registered clans. Here in England, the Umbridge Decree on Part-Human Employment prohibits werewolves from holding jobs in highly populated areas. In France, werewolves pay an extra "Magical Creature Tax" in order to live among humans. Many Eastern European countries forbid werewolves to come in contact with humans at all and live in special Unplottable areas in the high mountains.

America, however, has the most admirable laws against werewolves. Ever since European wizards discovered America in 1490, only a couple years before the Muggle Christopher Columbus, they immediately introduced methods to subdue hostile creatures. America had possessed a werewolf population almost five times larger than that in Europe, but because of advanced magical methods, over half the population was exterminated in less than 100 years. As werewolf clans escaped further west, joining their native Muggle heathen, wizards cleverly tricked them into giving up more and more of their land. Several treaties were made to hostile werewolf tribes, were simple common trinkets were exchanged for whole tracks of land. Any antagonistic werewolves who attacked wizard explorers were shot with silver and burned, using superior weapons that rendered the simple savages helpless.

Later on, the established wizard government bargained with the werewolf clans of North America. They drew up a special reservation land for those beasts in Alaska. There, the American wizards promised that those wolves self-government and equal rights withy wizards. What those werewolves didn't realise was that area was blocked off specifically for them, far in the cold tundra where no one would bother to live except the ancient native werewolves of the Arctic Circle. Many of the North American clans protested and fought back, but their rallies were easily squashed by wizard authorities. The final round-up of all werewolves took place during the 1950s, with all newly bitten wolves and the last of the natural-borns gathered up by wizard officials and taken to the Alaskan Concentration Zone. In the north, the wolves can be content in living their own way of life, far away from wizards.

Several security measures have been taken with the American wolves of course. Every occupant at the camp is labelled with a magical brand that tracks them in case of escape. A fifty-foot high fence had been set up around the perimeter of their territory. Every month, MGA agents come to inspect the Zone and monitor the werewolf villages.

So in less than 500 years, the American wizards have solved a problem that still plagues the wizards of Europe. The American plan is worth emulating. Already, Transylvania had developed their own smaller version of the Alaskan Concentration Zone for their werewolves in the mid-1980s, and several other states in the Baltic region are considering branding all of their werewolves living in Unplottable locations. Activist groups like People's Association for Werewolf Security (P.A.W.S.), a reformed version of a past controversial anti-lycanthrope group, call for all registered werewolves to be magically "tagged" as well.

With werewolf crimes on the rise, shouldn't the wizards in MoM work more for the people to ensure peace of mind from werewolf attacks? It is high time we tamed the Big Bad Wolf.

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April 7^th The Quibbler Issue 25

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Remus Lupin: Savage Beast, or Something Else?

Werewolves have always been a hot-button issue in society, but because of the recent flurry of activity surrounding wizard werewolf Remus Lupin, much of the public is in debate over what threat werewolves pose to the public. Sympathizers say that werewolves can pass for normal human beings for most of the month, and so much prejudice is unfair and should be condemned. Anti-lycanthrope advocates, like the political organization People's Association for Werewolf Security (P.A.W.S.) say that werewolves are half-breeds that should be forced out of wizarding world. Most medical authorities also agree that lycanthropy is a magical disease that must be eradicated.

OR IS IT?

Although the origins of werewolves are unknown, legends from old clans state that they had been granted the powers of the wolf as a gift from the gods. Wolves with extremely good pedigrees are also said to have the ability of berserkerganga, otherwise known as berserk rage. Many historical accounts dating back hundreds of years show evidence of werewolves going through berserkerganga and then pillaging villages and killing armies in bloodlust. Some Magizoologists claim that the frenzy a werewolf goes through during its full moon hunt for humans could have been mistaken for berserk rage by ancient wizards. Other sources say, however, that berserkerganga is a power different from normal werewolf abilities, and it allows a werewolf to channel its superhuman strength (and superhuman anger) while still in human form. This author believes that Berserkers still exist today and are living in secret from the wizard population.

Could Remus Lupin be one of these infamous Berserkers? The Werewolf Registry refuses to comment upon these speculations.

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April 10^th Witch Weekly 10

Letters to the Editor

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Good for you for that article on April 3^rd! Half-breeds should be monitored under close supervision, if they should be allowed into our society at all. I believe that for the safety of children, whether they are Muggle or wizard, creatures like them should be kept on a leash. If these monsters can't take responsibility for their own actions, then the wizarding authorities have every right to punish them. It's the only way to keep our way of life safe from vicious attacks. Thank you to writing such a valid and thought-provoking work.

- Ursula McCormick,

Surrey

Mala, I couldn't agree with you more. Don't forget to mention that giants, trolls, vampires, and hags should be added to the list as well. The best way to live with a danger is to control it.

- Brian Castonguay

Edinburgh

Wizards should always be aware of the threat that werewolves pose to wizard interests. Though I am currently on leave for medical problems, I am a detective for the Werewolf Registry. During my career I have seen werewolves do many horrible atrocities towards humankind. Thus, I have a strong position that these beasts should be heavily monitored as long as they reside within UK borders. The suggestions Mala Ouseley had made in her editorial I had been advocating for years. Perhaps this Lupin case will prove to the wizard public once and for all the precautions we must take in handling these creatures.

- Agent Roger Parsons, Detective

Werewolf Registry

London

I never thought much about werewolves until my daughter was bitten in Transylvania three years ago. The traumatic experience has been hard for our family to cope with in general, but the lasting repercussions have been much worse. My daughter has suffered prejudice at every turn. She is now permanently unemployed, and the Healers had told her that she could never have children of her own. As a result, my daughter had come to the decision that she can't live in the UK anymore, and she is planning to move to France, where werewolf rights are marginally better. My husband and I love our daughter very much, despise the wizard laws which had made her life so difficult. Your editorial only enforces the exact same attitude that will exile my child from her homeland. If this is the stance Witch Weekly takes in regard to people infected with a degenerative lifelong illness, then I'm afraid that your magazine will never grace my doorstep ever again.

- Anne Keller

Northampton

Mala Ouseley's editorial published on April 3^rd is one of the reasons why I applaud your noteworthy staff writers. I live in the Islington area, and have had to deal with that horrible Safehouse in my neighbourhood for the past ten years. A kidnapper and a murderer had sprung out of that cesspool; it was only a matter of time for that dangerous place to release monsters that would pose a threat to society! I thanked the gods the day that place was shut down by MoM; now I feel much safer in this city. Thank you for putting my view into words!

- Susan Jacobson

London

Twenty years ago, I was bitten on a hiking trip in Romania, and my life has been living hell since. I wake up each morning, praying for the strength to get through the rest of the day. I work as a waiter in a pub, and I sink into a cold sweat every time the Remus Lupin case is mentioned. Do these high and mighty wizards realise that werewolves are people too, trying to cope as best as they can? Now a small voice in the back of my head is counting down the days until my employer discovers my identity, and I'll have to find another job again. My advice to Mala Ouseley is this: before you go spouting anti-lycanthrope crap, try walking in a werewolf's shoes for two moons.

- Anon.

Before Mrs. Ouseley starts writing another article about werewolves, she should note that lycanthropy is a clinical DISEASE and the people who suffer from it should be known as VICTIMS, not "monsters."

- Healer Hippocrates Smethwyck

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

London

Dear Staff at Witch Weekly: I am SO glad that you came out with your true colours. I should have sniffed out this bigotry long ago; you're no different than any other wizard paper. Wait a second, why am I even bothering to continue writing? You'd be amazed that we CREATURES know how to write! Wow! What civilised BEASTS we are! Let me tell you this: you arrogant wizards think you know everything. You think that my way of life is a sickness, that my birth was a monstrosity, and that my family is a pack of savage brutes that should be exterminated. Well, I say you can take your [censored] article and stuff it where the sun doesn't shine because I am proud to be a werewolf. I don't want your laws or your pity. My people have lived on for thousands of years and we'll keep on living, no matter what your kind will do to stop us.

- Anon.

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April 14^th The Daily Prophet 37

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Rallies planned in front of courthouse

EDINBURGH - (Wizard Associated Press) The international organization for increased protection measures against werewolves and lycanthrope prevention, known as the People's Association for Werewolf Security (P.A.W.S.) had declared yesterday plans to hold a support rally in front of Nemesis Courthouse on April 28^th at noon. This date coincides with the opening statements for the trial of Remus Lupin, a wizard werewolf charged with an assault that occurred last year in October.

Greta Haywood, Edinburgh local and head of the Northern UK chapter, is organizing the event, which will include speeches by prominent Magizoologist Richard Marlowe and Assistant to the Minister for Magic Dolores Umbridge. Wizard police estimate the crowd to be at least 500 and have ordered for local MLES to patrol the area during that time. Although some previous rallies have turned violent, this one isn't expected to turn riotous.

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April 16^th The Daily Prophet 28

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Committee for Werewolf Case Orders Closed Courtroom Because of Controversy

EDINBURGH - (Wizard Associated Press) The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures have made a decision today to keep the proceedings of the upcoming Lupin case a closed trial. By definition, a closed trial is only permitted when the court sees that further public exposure of the case would threaten to endanger the lives of the participants involved.

"The wizard community is reaching dangerous levels of conflict that could lead to violence," says Head of the Committee Earl Colbert. "I want to keep an orderly courtroom, and if that means banning a public audience, then so be it."

Although public spectators will not be allowed to view the trial proceedings, members of the press will still be present and to give an accurate notation of the case, which has grown into a spectacle in the past few weeks.

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April 17^th Witch Weekly 34

Features

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Bringing Down the Beast:

Crusading Mother Fights in Memory of Lost Son

By Patrick Thorton

Greta Haywood could easily be mistaken for the average suburban housewife. Dressed in her floral apron and long skirts with her hair done up in a matronly bun, you would expect her to be carrying a sheet of cookies. Instead, she holds a picket sign and in her eyes you see a stone-hard determination that no simple housewife could ever possess.

She is the leader for the Northern UK chapter for People's Association for Werewolf Security (P.A.W.S.) P.A.W.S. has been criticised as being the modern incarnate of another non-existent organization that shares the same acronym, the People Against Werewolf Societies, a hate group which had committed mass genocides in the UK and other European countries in the past 100 years. That organisation, which had been broken up in the UK with the establishment of the Werewolf Registry, faced a shady past record, being linked to lynches, murders and disappearances of known werewolves. However, Haywood stated that her chapter is a peaceful group for today's world aimed at "fighting for the protection of beings everywhere."

"My goal is safety," she said to me. "Safety for the werewolf and the wizard equally."

The woman who sat in front of me had dark eyes and mouse brown hair. She sipped her tea with his pinkie finger raised, and during the course of the interview, discreetly wiped the biscuit crumbs from her lap. Smoothly and politely, she recounted the events which led her to become the head of an organization known for their strong sentiment against these human half-breeds.

From her little velvet handbag, she produced a crinkled photograph of her son Michael. I saw a picture of a little child playing at the shore, smiling as he built a sandcastle. "He would have been 19 years old if he were still alive," she said solemnly, tears filling her eyes.

It was ten years ago when the Haywoods took a summer holiday in the mountains of Scotland. They were warned by locals that a new threat had come to the village where they resided: a werewolf had emerged from the forests and had been sighted three months ago by hikers. "We were told that he might have travelled up further north," she explained. "There was a slim chance of any danger during our stay, but it was always better to take precautions."

Yet danger had come, in the least expected way. On an overnight camping expedition in the lush mountain landscape, the family stopped to rest at the mouth of a shallow cave. Inside lurked a sleeping werewolf.

"Taylor and I had just come to bed that night," she recalled bitterly. "And next thing I knew, I woke to my son, screaming. There was this wolf - a giant one, all white and terrible - and he burst right out and... and it just happened so fast... If Taylor didn't Disapparate us right then, well..." Mrs. Haywood paused, the tears chocking her. It took a full fifteen minutes before she could be roused to speak again.

"They said it was a werewolf," she said hoarsely. "The villagers called him Lycaos."

That trauma had haunted the couple ever since. Through the tragic demise of their son, however, they gave the strength to persevere - and to prevent anything like that from happening again. The Haywoods were first introduced to P.A.W.S. as a suggestion from a friend. But it was Greta who took the motivation to become the leading activist in the area against these terrible monsters.

"It felt like the right thing to do," she said.

Among the many accomplishments that Mrs. Haywood had done in her activist career was the strong support for the Umbridge Decree on Part-Human Employment, which has passed only a couple years ago. Not only that, but she had travelled extensively around the world, fighting for harsher regulations against werewolves and werewolf communities.

Mrs. Haywood affirmed that she does not encourage violent crimes against these creatures, but instead endorses a "rightful place" for them. "And that rightful place," she said, "is not mingling with other, normal wizards."

Her ideal place for the werewolf is in special containment camps, like in America and Transylvania. She also supports stronger tracking methods for werewolves and faster registration for the newly bitten.

And what would happen should Remus Lupin be acquitted of all charges?

Mrs. Haywood only gave a twisted smile. "If this is wizard justice, they wouldn't do that," she answered gravely. "Not if they want to prevent what happened to my son from happening again to some other child. I would bet my life on that."

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April 20^th The Quibbler Issue 31

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EXCLUSIVE!

My Uncle is a Werewolf!

Names have been changed for the safety of parties mentioned. The following was told to Editor-in-Chief Fredrick Lovegood by an anonymous contributor.

With all the hubbub going on about the Remus Lupin case, many opinions have been flying through the air about werewolves and what they are like. However, I have personal experience in the matter, considering that my uncle and close friend of mine, has been dealing with lycanthropy for over thirty years.

Uncle Joe is a nice man, somewhat stout and always smiling. He used to visit my house all the time to take part in my father's Friday night poker games. Uncle Joe always had Chocolate Frogs in his pockets, and loved to sing songs out loud at random. Whenever he came to the house, it was like having Father Christmas for the night. Well, a cigar-smoking, whisky-kicking, swearing Father Christmas, but a Father Christmas nonetheless.

He was bitten when I was only a young child, so I couldn't understand what happened to him at first. My parents told me one day that Uncle Joe couldn't come over to the house anymore; they said he got hurt while travelling through the mountains the week before, and I wouldn't be able to see him for a long, long time. I took that to mean that Uncle Joe must have broken his leg or something, not that he had been bitten by a werewolf.

When I did see Uncle Joe again months later, he was a changed man. He had grown thinner than I remembered, and his face was ashen grey. He limped in his right leg all the time, and just before it would rain, he would clasp his knee and wince for some reason. Uncle Joe still smiled, but it was a weak version of the great big, jolly grins he used before. He seemed quieter, more contemplative. Uncle Joe also drank much more.

He talked about his illness the first time we saw each other again. "Danny boy," he said to me, taking a swallow from a flask that appeared the same time as his limp, "I'm not as healthy as I used to be. I got a bad bite in the mountains, kid. That's got side effects. It makes me more tired all the time, and it hurts a lot during certain parts of the month."

"Why?" I had asked.

"Because then I turn into a wolf. That's the side effect, y'see?"

I then asked whether I could see him turn into a wolf and play with him, and then he laughed and said, "That wouldn't be too fun to watch, kid. Wolves aren't the same as dogs. When I turn into a wolf, playing fetch would be the last thing on my mind."

Years passed, and Uncle Joe came to the house less and less. I'm not sure whether my parents welcomed him as much as they used to, but whenever I asked them about Uncle Joe, my father would only give a tight-lipped smile and say, "Uncle Joe's sick now. It's not safe for him to be around the house as much. It's not good for him."

Uncle Joe comes to see me at my flat about once or twice a year now. No longer is he the Father Christmas I once knew. His clothes are often mended and too large for his thin frame. His face is pale and unshaven, and he is always begging money from my wife and me when he comes.

"I'll change my ways, I swear, Danny boy," he tells me. "I'll get a job down in London, where the good jobs are. Then I'll get the nice house that I used to have, and your father will want me back on Friday nights. I'm going be respectable, kid, you just wait and see."

I never told him that my father died five years ago, because my mother never invited him to the funeral.

Then I would hand Uncle Joe some more money, although my wife warns me not to, and he gets up from the kitchen table, takes his flask, and leaves. Always, there is a Chocolate Frog left on the table to give to my son.

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April 28^th The Daily Prophet 8

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Opening Statements for Werewolf Case Scheduled for Today

EDINBURGH - (Wizard Associated Press) The trial which has been gathering controversy like a maelstrom is set to begin today at Nemesis Courthouse with opening statements from both sides.

The local P.A.W.S. chapter led by Greta Haywood is reported to continue with its rally on anti-lycanthrope sentiment on the steps of the Courthouse. Magical Law Enforcement officials will be on duty in front of the Courthouse to ensure that the rally will remain peaceful. Officers will also accompany the defendant Remus Lupin and his barrister Samuel Harper to court to ensure their safe passage. A representative from the Ministry of Magic states that although the tension will be high, it will be sure to "enforce order today and throughout the remainder of the trial."

The trial will be held in a closed courtroom, with limited media coverage and no public audience.

Chapter 39

The rain poured down heavily on the streets of Nice. Three cloaked forms huddled by the front gates of the large townhouse. Little sparks flew, dying as they hit the falling raindrops. Whispers came from them, so low that no one, unless he was sitting right above them, could hear a word.

Another figure, hunched over on the wall in a giant oilcloth cloak, could hear those insolent French comments perfectly.

"Hurry up, before we catch the Beast's attention."

"I'm trying to," said the one etching into the plaque with the tip of his wand. "This takes careful work, you know."

"I'm getting cold," the third one complained, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Stop whining; this was your idea," said the first.

"I didn't know it would storm tonight like this."

"Quiet!" snapped the vandal. "The intercom's right there!"

"As if the Beast is actually awake. Want me to smash in the gate controls too? That would be funny; he and his cripple would really be trapped in this cage!"

The figure in the oil cloak jumped down from the brick wall and splashed into a puddle behind them, but the trio was too preoccupied to notice. The oil cloak opened, and a nearby streetlamp shined upon cool, silvery metal. Heavy footsteps walked toward them.

"Shut up you! I can't concentrate."

"What are you doing to my property?"

In an instant, a dark hulk rushed into them, scattering the three into the flooded gutters. Before any of the hooligans could react, the vandal was caught in the cloaked figure's grip and pinned to the brick wall by his coat lapels.

"Jacques!" one of the other exclaimed.

"SILENCE!"

A sword, ancient in fashion but sharp and clean, pressed against young Jacques' throat.

"What are you doing on my property?" The speaker's voice sounded almost inhuman, like a raw growl moulded to form words.

"I'm-I'm sorry," squeaked Jacques. The blade was pressed closer. Blood smeared the silver metal. Jacques make a strange, choking noise and began to cry.

The two other youths took a step forward, but next threat put a halt to them. "If you try anything, I will kill you too."

"Don't do anything!" Jacques gasped. He tried to see his captor's face, but the night and the darkness within the speaker's hood prevented this.

"Good boy." A chuckle. "What is a poor little runt doing fouling up my front gate?"

"I-"

"Speak LOUDER!"

"I...I don't know..." His tears mixed in with the rain. "It was Fredrick's idea!"

"Ah..." Then, in almost a playful tone, the speaker called over his shoulder, "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Fredrick, how can you be such a bad influence on your friends? If Jacques should come back to Beauxbatons with his head in a bag, what will the Assistant Headmaster say? What will Madam Maxime say, when she gets an Owl Post tomorrow that one of her precious, pathetic boys was decapitated?"

Fredrick and the third wizard didn't say a word. The figure turned his head to see the two boys backing away.

"Don't run away!" the figure laughed. The blade pressed in; Jacques made a strange, garbled noise.

"Please, monsieur, don't hurt him," the first wizard begged.

"Is Fredrick not begging in his friend's defence?"

"Fredrick?"

"I know, Philippe!" Fredrick's voice trembled. "Please, please don't do anything. We meant no harm."

"Do you agree with this, Jacques?"

"Yes," he squeaked. Suddenly, the boy was dropped to the ground. He fell unceremoniously on his rear end, clutching his throat.

"I will count to ten," the figure said. "And if your ugly little faces are not gone from my sight, I will slay you. One."

Jacques scrambled to his feet, gasping.

"Run!"

"Two." The figure turned. Fredrick, in a brave move, flourished his wand.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell whished by harmlessly, and the figure, without making a noise, bounded forward and grabbed Fredrick by the shoulders. Philippe and Jacques were already running down the street, not looking back.

"Trying to have the last word, little wizard?" Fredrick was picked up off his feet. The figure wrenched the boy's wand from his flailing hands, and in one swift move, the figure rapped it on the boy's head. The wand cracked in half, and Fredrick dropped to the ground. At that moment, the hood fell. Glowing blood red eyes stared back at him. Fredrick, forgetting his broken wand, scrambled back on all fours, blubbering.

"LEAVE!"

The boy finally got to his feet and ran, screaming, "Jacques! Philippe! Don't Disapparate without me!"

Bernard stood motionless for several minutes after Fredrick had disappeared around the corner. Raindrops plastered down his white hair and ran in rivulets down his oilcloth cloak. His eyes stared ahead, nearly blind without glasses. The old Bisclaveret sword, taken from its display in the upstairs hallway, hung down against his side if it was an extension of his hand. The beaten gold and silver design seemed to glow in the darkness.

Now sure that the hooligans were gone, Bernard sheathed his sword and turned around. He removed his glasses from his inside pocket, wiped them clean of lint, and put them on. Giving a sigh, Bernard went over to inspect the gate. Those wizards had only started vandalising it, and only a few random marks of the P.A.W.S. symbol - part of a dagger-like handprint - were finished.

He grumbled to himself, before going to the intercom and punching in the password to open the gate. Then, after closing the gate behind him, Bernard grabbed the ladder by the wall and collapsed it in a few short moves. He carried the ladder under his right arm, to avoid knocking it into his sheathed sword, and propped it by the garden shed near the wall. The mundane task finished, Bernard then lumbered down the rain-soaked pathway to the house and opened the front door.

Claire sat in her chair in the hallway, holding a towel.

"Welcome home," she said flatly.

Bernard, startled, asked, "How long have you been standing here?"

"Since I saw you out my window, threatening little boys in front of the house." She threw the towel at him; Bernard made no move to catch it, and the towel slapped against his wet shoulder.

"What do you think you were doing?" Claire asked. "Making a spectacle of yourself?"

"If we don't teach them while they're young, then-"

"Oh, stop trying to pretend to be the hero. It makes me ashamed."

"What did you expect me to do? Call the police on them?"

"At least I thought you had the maturity not to go around wielding about a hunk of metal to scare off children!"

"They are more than children!" Bernard unbuckled his sword and slammed it on the side table. "Innocence be damned, Claire; they think we are monsters, every one of them!"

"And do you think strutting about in the rain like that will help salvage our monstrous reputation?" Claire gazed at him with narrowed eyes. "I thought you understood better than that."

"I thought you understood. We cannot sit on our hands and watch others terrorize us. Wizards do not listen to our words; they do not believe that we even have coherent thoughts. They think of us nothing more than mere brutes, and if our intelligence does not help us, maybe it's time that we give them a message they are sure to understand."

"Bernard..." Claire shook her head. "Why are you saying this? This... It's not like you."

"But you agree with me, don't you?" He took the family sword in his hands. "You know...I always thought you would like this. That was why you lowered yourself by running around with those street wolves. Freedom Hounds, right? That pack of mutts--"

"It wasn't like that!" Claire backed her chair away towards the doorway. "Our ways may be a bit subversive, but they never escalated into open threats of violence--" She caught herself at those words, but Bernard cut her off, not noticing her hesitation.

He took a step forward with the sword. "Don't lie," he said softly. "I knew. I knew all along."

"Knew what?" Her hands gripped the wheels.

"You were right, Claire. That the only way to get through this was through action."

"Oh." Claire's eyes darted between Bernard and the nearest exits, through the kitchen or into the parlour. She had never seen her brother behave like this before; it frightened her. "Bernard," she said sharply. "Stop being an idiot and put down that sword."

"What?" Bernard looked down at his hands, which had been wrapped around the gold hilt. He gave a sheepish chuckle and slumped against the wall, bumping into the coat rack. "Oh, um, I'm sorry... Didn't mean to scare you too..."

Putting the sword back on the table, Bernard then took off the dripping oil cloak. He still wore his day clothes: black shoes, grey trousers and white button-up shirt with a charcoal silk vest. Seeing him sitting in the middle of an ordinary foyer with a medieval sword turned the entire scene into one giant anachronism.

"This is about more than just a bunch of hooligans, isn't it?" Claire asked.

"I suppose so." Bernard ran a hand through his wet hair. "The past few weeks with all the commotion about Remus Lupin's trial... This trial has made me think a lot about us and the law..."

"Don't you start-"

"I feel helpless. Wizards say that they believe in justice and fairness. But there is not such thing as justice for a wolf. Even when you are hurt by one of those bastard Ministry men -"

"Stop connecting everything with me."

"I can't help it!" Bernard snapped. "I'm sick of the silence, Claire. I'm sick of blundering about with wizard bureaucracy. I'm sick of all this waiting, knowing that someone out there has gotten away with a crime against my own family! It's-it's-" He scrambled for a word, and then blurted out, "-illogical!"

"What you were doing was illogical. We have to....to move on. We cannot let the past destroy us. Now stop this nonsense immediately."

"I won't stop until you stop deluding yourself. Now say it."

"Say what?" she snapped. "Are you too thick not to realise what happened to me by now?"

"Don't try to get out of this by insulting me!" Bernard half-rose to his feet, but restrained himself. "I'm tired of avoiding this issue."

"You can't force me to say anything!" Claire retorted. Several seconds of silence passed. She could see him visibly trembling, waving between instance shame and fury.

Finally, she said in a quiet tone, "Do you want to hear it?"

A small sound, unusual from such a large man. "Yes."

"During.... During my interrogation at the Ministry last December, I was assaulted by an officer." Her tone weakened. "Then, on the night of full moon..." Tears filled her eyes but did not spill over. "He came to my cell with the Wolfsbane Potion. I would not drink it. We got into a fight. He silenced me with a charm. I couldn't yell at all. I couldn't fight back. Not even when... when it happened." Bernard stared back at her, his face a mask. "Because I didn't not drink the potion, I turned mad with the transformation. I could not control my wolf. And I got hurt." A large lump, which had begun forming in her throat after the first few words, had grown so large she could barely speak. Her lips kept moving, but no sound could come out. She hunched forward, hugging herself.

Very slowly, Bernard rose from his seat and went over by his sister's side. He put his arms around her and rested his head against her shoulder. For several minutes, neither one of them said a word. Claire felt like she had broken away from the earth for a few moments, and the next time she became fully aware again, she noticed how her brother's shoulders were shaking, and now damp her sleeve had become.

She put a hand against the back of his head. "Is this what you wanted to hear? How weak and pathetic I am for not doing anything? I couldn't even get up the strength to press charges. You were right. I should have fought back. But I am a coward."

"I am the coward, for not doing anything about this sooner. I did not want to do anything, I was a fool..." Bernard squeezed her tightly and then loosened his hold. Claire could see that his eyes were rimmed red from crying, but his voice remained quiet and firm. "Who did this?"

"He was a detective for the Werewolf Registry." The words hurt as she squeezed them out past her dry lips. "His name was Roger Parsons."

"Roger Parsons." Bernard's teeth ripped into the name as he spoke. "Roger Parsons." He broke away from her grip. "He did this..." Claire grabbed his arms and pulled him down to her level again before he could get away. Her fingers dug into him. She could see the rage thunder in his eyes.

Teeth clenched, she said, "You can't do anything to him."

"Why?" he bellowed. "The wizard should die!"

"Because he's on the prosecution in the upcoming trial," Claire said. "He's testifying against Remus."

***

Screams. The noontime crowds were screaming before the Nemesis Courthouse.

Most of them held signs, ranging from little placards to huge magicked signs on boards, with the slogans blinking across the surface.

One demonstrator held up a stuffed doll with a wolf's head and hung it from the end of his broomstick. He waved it wildly, making the straw limbs flail. Immediately, the officers took the effigy away, in fear of voodoo magic. The wizards, enraged, shook his fists and yelled, "That's what he deserves! That's what all of them deserve!"

A middle-aged woman with a matronly bun pushed herself in front of him. "I'll have none of that at my rally," she whispered fiercely. Pushing him with forcefulness unexpected from a homemaker like her, she added, "Get out before I take you out."

The man glared back at Greta Haywood with obvious scorn, but quickly waved his wand hand and Disapparated. Greta was all for free speech, but if some fool's antics was going to give her chapter of the People's Association for Werewolf Security a bad name, then she'd rather see him thrown in jail than that wolf Lupin.

Over the years, Greta learned that the public always holds assumptions about people, and what she tried hard with P.A.W.S. was to dispel the organization's negative past. No, she was not out to hang wolves from trees, to burn their homes, to push them into a life of exile. Greta considered herself to be a freedom fighter by fighting for the freedom for the half-breeds and for normal wizards.

She scanned the crowd to see if the rabble-rouser had brought any friends. No one else seemed suspicious. Most of the rally attendants she had met at one time or another during her past ten years as an advocacy worker. Many were wearing the P.A.W.S. insignia armbands. In the past, when the organization had a more sinister agenda, their symbol had been a blood-red human hand print in a crimson circle. That was the first thing to go when she became chapter leader. Now, the simple bright blue circle around a white star became the organization logo. Blue for peace, white star for hope and change.

Making her way to the raised platform near the front of the courthouse, she stopped by a small tent where her two headlining speakers rested away from the rest of the rally. Lifting the tent flap, Greta saw Dolores Umbridge and Dr. Richard Marlowe both sitting at a table, taking part in the refreshments laid out upon it.

"Hello there, Mrs. Haywood," Dr. Marlowe greeted, taking a bite from a chocolate chip cookie. He was a man who spent his days surrounded by a lot of scrolls and books and very little fresh air; the Magizoologist had the gut and the pale skin to show for it. "How's the rally looking?"

"Packed," Greta answered. "Nearly 600 people, according to the MLES officers' head counts. More than I expected."

"Wonderful." Crumbs slipped upon Dr. Marlowe's shirt and he brushed them off with a napkin. "These cookies are delicious, by the way."

"Thank you," Greta smiled. "It's an old family recipe."

Umbridge, who only kept a small cup of lemonade in her hand, said curtly, "I expect that you have my introduction ready?"

Greta pulled out a neatly folded piece of parchment with a tight smile. Umbridge had a good reputation for being a hard-liner when it came to Dark Creature affairs, but that was the only reason she was invited to speak today. It wasn't even Greta's own idea, but a suggestion from one of her chapter's board members. After all, Dolores Umbridge had contributed greatly to this chapter for the past several years...

Taking the parchment away swiftly, Umbridge unfolded it and scanned it thoroughly.

"I graduated with honours," she criticised tersely, whopping out a quill. "And don't forget to mention how I sponsored that Giant Relocation Proclamation a few years back as well."

"Of course."

"Well," Umbridge commented dryly, noticing the tone of Greta's voice, "You must remember to get all the facts straight before introducing your star speaker."

"Certainly. I wouldn't dare retract from the privilege of having you here."

This is only the Galleons talking, she thought. If not, I would smack you in your toady gullet.

Greta glanced at her watch, and thankfully, the time was only a few minutes before the scheduled speech.

"I hate to rush, but I have to get the crowd geared up," she said in a more chipper mood than she felt as she snatched the parchment away from Umbridge. "I'll see you both in a jiffy."

Dr. Marlowe waved before she left, while the Assistant to the Minister only sniffed at her lemonade. Greta left before she would do something to make Umbridge do more than sniff.

Now out of the tent, Greta climbed onto the raise platform where the speeches were to take place. Surveying the many faces around her, Greta took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She always became nervous at public speaking, but the queasiness in her stomach passed when she remembered her purpose. Waving a Sonorus spell over her throat, she then gave an open smile.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome!"

The mass of rally attendees looked up at the volume of her voice and instantly started to cheer. Greta raised her hands up for silence, and after a few moments of applause, she began again.

"Thank you, thank you everyone out here on such a bright and warm day! It makes me and the Northern UK chapter for P.A.W.S. feel so grateful to see all this support for our cause."

With all the butterflies gone now, the housewife advocate plunged into her speech. "Our current crusade began months ago, when news first broke of the horrible attack upon this innocent little girl, Mary Grisham. She's only a Muggle, true, but when I first read that article in the Daily Prophet about her, my heart reached out towards her like any mother's heart would. When she went missing, I kept seeing my own son's face instead of hers. And I thought of the hundreds of victims families out there, who have suffered all the same plight of the werewolf. Muggle or wizard, we are all victims together. I followed little Mary's story very closely the following months, until she was found - miraculously - in Brighton last December."

Taking out an enlarged photograph of a young, scared-looking girl, she continued, "I visited her at St. Anne's Home a few weeks after she was found. She was alone, scared and very confused. What happened to her in the hands of... of Mr. Lupin we do not fully understand even today, but on that cold January afternoon I saw that she deserved something better than this pain."

Greta closed her eyes for a moment. She could never make it through her usual stump speech without feeling this ache build up in her chest. In two weeks it would have been Michael's birthday. The little girl, Mary, had bright blue eyes, just like her son had...

Swallowing hard, she opened her eyes and said in a stronger tone, "For her and for us, all the victims of these horrible attacks. And that is why we are standing together today, to send a message to the Ministry of Magic. We, the wizards of Edinburgh and throughout the entire country, stand united to prevent such atrocities from happening ever again to our dear children. We will not rest until our courtrooms decide the proper fate for Remus Lupin, and receive the justice little Mary Grisham deserves!"

***

Lupin stood in the pen, waiting for Harper to arrive. He swore that he could hear the faint cheers outside, even from this deep within the building. In his mind, he tried to block out the thought of hundreds of wizards standing outside, rooting for his death. For that was the only option for him: as a beast, if Lupin was declared guilty, nothing would remain for him but the chopping block and Macnair's grinning face.

He expected to have a rush of emotions storm through him, but either they were moving too fast for him to detect, or he really wasn't feeling anything at all. Instead, all of his senses became heightened as if by magic and not apprehension: the lights glared sharper, the air tasted dry and stale on his tongue, little sounds of footsteps from above echoed through his ears. After all this time and all this waiting, his trial was about to begin.

A few minutes before twelve-thirty, Lupin saw Harper approach the pen. Recalling Harper's nervous rush the first time they went into the courtroom, seeing him march along with calm determination was surprising. Then again, Harper had been overdosing on nicotine the last time he had walked down this corridor to see him, so acting a bit mellow may be a good sign. Unless he had a few shots of whiskey to make him mellow.

The young barrister ran a hand through his straw hair; his palms were still bandaged from the attack in the mail. The guards opened the door and escorted Lupin out, before checking to see that his manacles were on tightly. Harper was a palm-sweater, surely; his bandages were already damp when he gripped Lupin's hand. His other hand clutched at his briefcase so tightly that the knuckles were white.

"How are you keeping?" Lupin asked.

"I should be asking you that," Harper said in a low, but shaking voice. "Me? Scared shitless, as always." He gave a tight smile.

"Better now than later. You had a smoke?"

"Hell yes. I'm going to go up like a chimney for the next few days." Harper opened his suit jacket to show full pack tucked into the inside of his jacket. He gave a dry laugh as he patted his jacket.

Both looked down the corridor out to the main hallway. The pair of guards flanked Lupin on either side while Harper moved in front of him. Silently, they walked down the hallway, with the sound of their heavy footsteps filling their ears.

Lupin half-expected the flock of the media to come swooping down the hallways, but, oddly enough for a busy courthouse, the whole place was empty except for a couple of rushing wizards in dress robes. Of course there should be flashing bulbs from cameras or the outcries of an infuriated public - but Lupin had a closed trial at the request of the Committee, which feared complete disorder should the public be let in.

Still, each of them could hear the dull roar from the crowd outside, rumbling like a fire.

They walked into the courtroom for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Lupin once again saw the splendid display of power and glory in the highly detailed columns and the fine-wooden bench. Instead of having the single seat for the Magistrate as it was for Lupin's hearing, there was now a wide mahogany table with a glass top stretched before the front of the courtroom. Because this was a closed court, the room seemed wider and emptier for the want of spectators. Only a short man with thinning hair sat off to the side, with notebook and quill in hand: the single press representative from The Daily Prophet. A courtroom artist sat beside him; her tongue suck out at the corner of her mouth as she quickly sketched out the scene.

There was one other marked difference in the room: a large and rough-hewn cage stood in the middle. Rust and dirt still clung to its bars, making it appear unworthy to stand in the centre of the splendid courtroom. The bailiff opened up the cage door. Harper patted Lupin's shoulder, as if he was the one needing reassurance, and Lupin walked into the cage without hesitation. The gate slammed shut, sending flakes of rust and specks of dust to the floor. Inside, there was a single stool for him to sit on, but Lupin remained standing.

Harper propped his briefcase on a table to the left of him; prosecutor Hogarth Borden had already set up on the other side.

The bailiff moved forward to give an introduction all of them had heard before. "All rise and remain standing!"

The screech of chair legs being pushed back along the marble floor. The side door opened, and seven wizards and witches solemnly came out. Most of them were quite old; the men donned long spindly beards and a couple of the women were assisted with canes or walkers. The youngest in the group was the middle-aged executioner, a relative newcomer to the Committee. Walden Macnair flashed a yellow-toothed grin at Lupin, as if envisioning his head falling into the basket already. Lupin felt his insides churn with that look, but stopped himself from shuddering.

"Hear ye, hear ye! This session for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures shall now proceed, Head of Committee Magistrate Earl Colbert presiding. All creatures having business therein can now be heard. You may be seated."

The Committee Head Colbert sat in the centre, and Macnair sat on his right-hand side. This was not a very comforting thought to Lupin as she sat back down on his stool. Lupin recognized Earl Colbert from several months ago: he was the wizened wizard who went with Macnair for Buckbeak's execution. The passing months added to the Head of the Committee's weariness and as he sat down, a couple of uncomfortable creaks were heard. Colbert fished into his robes, took out a gavel and a small bottle of pills and set them both before him.

Other than Colbert and Macnair, Lupin didn't recognize any of the Committee members. There were three men and two women, all now settled in their seats, straightening their robes, wiping their thick glasses, and pouring themselves glasses of water from the pitchers on the table. Colbert gestured his frail hand toward the bailiff, allowing him to proceed.

"Now opening case number 765-876-934: The UK Ministry of Magic vs. Remus Lupin. May the defense and prosecution please rise and approach the judge. Please state your appearances for the record."

Déjà vu to the last hearing. Lupin shook his head a bit as Harper rose calmly to his feet. No hyper hi-jinks here. "Samuel Harper, representing the defendant." He turned to look at Borden with a steady eye.

Borden returned that glance with a slightly more aloof expression. "Hogarth Borden, for the Ministry. May I proceed, your Lord?"

"You may, Mr, Borden."

Raising himself to his full flabby stature, Borden gave a knowing smile to the men and women sitting before him.

He began grandly, "Your Lord Magistrate Earl Colbert, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee, my dear colleague Mr. Harper," with a pseudo-friendly gesture of the hand which Harper promptly ignored, "we are gathered here to contemplate a terrible crime that occurred on the night of October 18^th in the small village of Havenshire.

"The victim: seven year-old Mary Grisham, a Muggle minister's daughter. Imagine this little child, hair up in pigtails, wearing a little jumper. Imagine her walking home from church, where she would play with her doll Lydia in the evenings. She was not afraid at all, for her house was located right next door. Her father, who had sent her out, never feared that something in the darkness would be waiting for her.

"Ms. Grisham walked barely a dozen metres from her home when she saw Mr, Lupin, watching her as a werewolf. Did she fear him? Did she expect anything more from this apparent stray? No, Ms. Grisham was not. She was innocent, as innocent as a lamb."

Borden took a gentle turn with his voice at this point. Lupin wanted to shut his ears.

The darkness. It was night and the white moonlight stretched out the shadows. Little girl, with curious eyes. Hand extended. "Doggie, are you okay?"

"She approached Mr. Lupin when he collapsed under a nearby streetlamp. She was worried about him. Worried. And so she extended her tiny hand..."

Young flesh. Sweet flesh. Fresh. Meat.

Lupin shut his eyes. Borden's narrative washed over him like a guilty conscience. "And he attacked her. His jaws clamped down around her arm, right above the shoulder. His wolf jaws were large enough to tear off her entire limb. Imagine his hot, rancid breath on her neck. Now, imagine her screams."

Stop. Stop, don't listen, don't even try to listen anymore. Stop, stop, stop, STOP.

"Her body, weighing a mere 22 kilograms, was dragged a distance of one hundred metres across the street and into the forest. Blood trailed behind her. She was fighting, kicking, screaming. But did he let her go? No. Imagine her crying for her mother. For her father. Imagine the pure terror that she must have felt. Imagine in her bewilderment, her fear."

Borden barely spoke above a whisper now. Lupin knew this was a trick, a horrible barrister trick, to pull people in.

"Now," the prosecutor said slowly. "Just imagine that this was your child."

He let those final words sink in for a few moments. Then on cue, he straightened up and raised his voice to its normal, booming level. "The prosecution seeks to prove that Mr. Remus Lupin, the beast who before you, is a highly dangerous threat to society. Today, we will present two witnesses who will testify to his wild and reckless behaviour. It shall be up to the Committee to decide whether Mr. Lupin is a dangerous creature and if so, he must face the consequences of his actions. The prosecution hopes to bring Mary Grisham justice on this day. Thank you."

If that speech had been a stage monologue, a theatre audience would be giving a standing ovation. Instead, Colbert only nodded his head curtly and unscrewed his bottle of pills. Popping a couple of them into his mouth, he crunched loudly, then said in a mild voice, "Does the defense chose to present their opening statement?"

"Yes, your Lord." Harper got up and walked in front of the defendant table, so he could stand alongside Lupin in his cage.

Harper looked down and took a few deeps breaths. His hands clutched at the cards he held, and for a moment, Lupin feared another fainting spell. But then, Harper looked up at the Committee and began. "Your Lord Magistrate Colbert, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee, the honoured Prosecution Mr. Borden, I would like to present to you a story."

His voice cracked a bit mid-sentence, and Macnair gave a snort. Harper started for a moment, looked to Lupin quickly as if for help, but then faced forward again and rolled ahead with his speech.

"This is a story of a man named Remus Lupin, who had faced several hardships throughout his life. A man who has dealt with years of closed doors, biting words, scornful glances, and wilful ignorance. A man who overcame many obstacles in order to find warm shelter, food on the table, clothes on his back." Harper's voice lost its shakiness by now, and he seemed to look toward a spot right above the Committee's heads as if addressing a higher being. But Lupin knew that if Harper did this only because of he looked at the Committee straight in the face, he would probably have a panic attack.

"The defense does not deny the charges my client faces, but I would like to file a claim for his innocence nature. There is a difference between being condemned by the law and being condemned by one's self. Human law only casts a shadow of justice if the creature facing that law does not see the hideousness of his own crime. My case here is to help show a story of how this one man chose to face the law in order to help live with himself."

Harper took a step towards the Committee and levelled his eyes. He strode slowly down the length of the table, taking in each of their unmoving stares. Lupin could tell that faintly, Harper's knees were trembling, but now his voice did not portray this fear. In fact, the barrister began to speaker louder and stronger than he did before. He was shaking off his nervousness like an old coat.

"Today, I wish to present this story to you. Our journey to examine my client's character. Testimonies to his character will be given by three witnesses, each from distinctly different walks of life. Through their eyes will you see the measure of Lupin's character. But, ultimately, it is up to you, my honourable Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee, whether you shall see what my witnesses see."

Harper licked his dry lips and ended with, "Thus, it shall be left to you to be the judge of Mr. Lupin's integrity, his personality, his morals. Judgment is what this court has been delivering for centuries, and I hope that my case will enable you to decide that Mr. Lupin is only a man, not a dangerous monster. And by proclaiming his humanity, I hope you shall be in favour of his release. Thank you." He gave a brief bob of his head, then sat back down.

The man can be eloquent! There may be barrister material in him after all. Lupin flashed a grin at him and Harper gave him a thumbs-up from under the table.

Borden, who maintained a look of mild boredom throughout Harper's entire opening argument, stood up once more in a slow, luxurious manner. "If the Committee would permit it, I would like to present my first witness."

Colbert nodded. "The Committee does."

The wide wooden doors swung open.

"Then I would like to call Detective Roger Parsons to the stand."

The name ran like lightning through Lupin's head. That bastard! Of course, he was investigating Lupin's case but--

Wearing his full dress uniform from the Werewolf Registry - the tall, shined black boots, the long dark blue coat with silver buttons, the stiff white gloves carrying his officer's hat - Parsons strode in with feline grace. His heavy boots barely made a sound on the smooth marble floor. He passed by both the prosecution and the defense without a single glance at either table, walking straight up to the Head of the Committee.

Lupin tried not to stare, but he could feel his heart begin to race. So this was his face... After so many weeks of wondering, how could this man have such a calm and plain-looking face?

"Raise your right hand," Colbert boomed.

The Ministry agent did so.

"Do you solemnly swear that all evidence you will give before this court is the truth and nothing but the truth? Under the pain and penalties of perjury?"

"I swear."

"Please be seated."

As he watched Parsons as he sat down in the witness stand, Lupin wished he could rip that man's throat out.

"Please state your name and occupation for the Committee."

"My name is Roger Parsons, senior detective for the Werewolf Registry."

"How long have you held this position?"

"It will be my tenth year this August."

"How many cases have you dealt with during those years?"

"Over a hundred and fifty, I'd wager."

"And how many of these cases have to do with werewolf attacks on children?"

"About seventy-five."

"Approximately what is the median age of these child victims?"

Parsons paused. "Most were young, about five or six. Oldest tend to be nine or ten."

"Could you wager how many cases were these fatal attacks?"

"Over 65% of the time, these attacks have been proven fatal."

"Given the high percentage of cases dealing with child deaths, what would you say about their werewolf attackers?"

"Werewolves tend to crave soft, young meat. In my casework I've interrogated werewolves who consider child's flesh a delicacy."
"How many arrested werewolves who attacked children admit this opinion?"

"All of them."

"Thank you, Detective." Borden grinned at the Committee as the point hit home. He was in his element how and was relishing in it. "You say that you have interrogated many werewolves in these cases?"

"Yes, I have."

"And each one of them admitted to favour a child's flesh?"

"Most certainly."

Borden grinned again. "In your experience, what drives werewolves to crave children?"

Parsons played right into it. "It's instinctive," he said affirmatively. "The nature of the beast. No matter how much a werewolf tries to resist, seeing the delicate skin of an arm or a leg of a child is too much for him."

"Objection!" Harper burst out from his chair. "Relevance, your Lord! What do these testimonies about various other werewolves have to do specifically with my client's character?"

Borden gave an open-armed shrug. "I was merely trying to properly extrapolate what the defendant's mindset might be during his attack."

"But these statements are irrelevant to my client's individual actions. You cannot judge his mindset based against a crude generalization."

"Were you making a generalization, Detective?" Colbert asked, pushing up his glasses.

"I was only accounting observations learned from experience, your Lord." Parsons replied boldly. "This is my expert opinion only."

The Committee accepted this. "Objection overruled. You may proceed, Mr. Borden."

"Thank you." The prosecutor fired up his next line of questioning. "Detective Parsons, tell me about your last case you investigated before you left on medical leave."

Medical leave? That's what they call covering up a rapist's tracks nowadays?

"That was the case of Mary Grisham, seven-year old Muggle female from Havenshire."

"Please briefly explain the details of this case."

"I was called to the case shortly after the incident occurred on October 18^th of last year. A young girl had been attacked while walking home from the town church at approximately 7 PM. There were signs of a struggle at the point of attack, with massive blood loss from the girl as she was dragged from the street and into the woods. No body had been found in the area of the crime scene, and so we marked the girl as dead."

"What did you discover later, Detective?"

"We had received reports that Ms. Grisham may not be dead, but in fact, alive and with Mr. Lupin on the lam."

"If the girl was not immediately killed, why would Lupin chose to keep her?"

Lupin got an ugly feeling with this question, as did his barrister. "Objection - speculation!"

"Sustained."

"Why do you suppose Lupin would keep this child?"

"Objection! The detective has no personal knowledge of Lupin's character, but is strictly stating his own personal opinion."

"Oh, your Lord!" Borden exclaimed, more jokingly than frustrated. "Can you see that Mr. Harper is hindering my cross-examination by using petty blocking techniques?"

"Objection! Questioning my petty blocking techniques has no relevance."

"Mr. Harper," Colbert started crossly, but his expression did not soften toward Borden either. "To the point, Mr. Borden, and quickly."

Borden paused - Lupin swore it was for dramatic effect - then asked slowly, "In your past experience, Detective, what has happened to the bitten children who are kidnapped by their werewolf makers?"

Parsons stared directly toward the cage as he gave his next answer. "What has happened to those victims would be unspeakable to say aloud, even in this court of law. Many have been abused by their captors: physically, mentally, emotionally... and in other ways as well."

Lupin stopped breathing at that point. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Harper was slowly clenching his fists together.

"Please clarify that last part, Detective. In what other ways have these children been abused?"

"There have been cases of sexual abuse among surviving werewolf children by their makers."

Red flashed in front of Lupin's eyes. He leaped from his stool and grabbed the bars, twisting his hands against them until the rust cut into his flesh. How dare he! Damn him! Damn that rotten hypocrite, that foul-mouth manipulative bastard! Out of all people to imply that Lupin was a-

Harper had a panicky yet insulted look in his eyes. One jump from the seat: "OBJECT-!"

SLAM!

Suddenly the wooden doors in the back room banged open. The guards by the door jumped to their feet and immediately blocked the entranceway, their wand arms out. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a heavy trench coat and a somewhat confused expression on his face stood before them, arms still in the air from pushing open the doors. Amazingly, what Lupin first noticed other than his size was how young and pale his face looked, despite the head of snow-white hair.

"Um, excusez-moi s'il vous plaît?" he inquired, straightening up. "I am... I apologize for zis intrusion. I was only looking for ze courtroom for ze... ze international procedures?" His French accent was heavy, and for a moment, Lupin thought the man's face looked vaguely familiar....

At least it did to Harper, who stood up. "Down the hallway and to the right," he instructed hastily. For some reason, the albino gentleman and Harper exchanged a quick glance before the Frenchman's eye fell upon Parsons, who met his stare with mild befuddlement.

"This is a closed courtroom, sir," Colbert said sternly, putting a hand to his temple. "I must ask you to leave immediately."

"So sorry. I 'ave many apologizes," the man said, giving a short bow. Yet the hardness of his voice cut through the sincerity of the words. "You can close ze door now," he added bluntly, walking away. "Good day."

The guards pulled the doors shut, and Colbert shook some more pills out of a small vile and popped them in his mouth. "One of these days..." he muttered under his breath, then in a louder tone, he said, "I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Harper. Were you about to-?"

"Yes, your Lord. Object." Harper said, drawing his attention away from the door. "What Detective Parsons is implying is far too speculative to be admissible in this courtroom."

Colbert looked toward his fellow Committee members. For a few moments, Lupin wondered: Did those wizards think he would hurt Mary like that? Who did they think he was? The wizards and witches talked briefly amongst themselves and scribbled notes of scraps of paper to be passed to the Head of the Committee. Macnair whispered into his ear, but the Head shook his grey beard.

A few moments later, after conferring with his colleagues' notes, Colbert straightened up and announced, "My fellow Committee members have agreed that the previous line of question was one based on assumption and not fact, and therefore shall be stricken from the record. Mr. Borden, if you are not more mindful of your questioning, I shall have to hold you in contempt."

If Borden was taken back by these harsh words, he did a superb job not showing it. As if turning a switch, he immediately moved into another set of questions. Turning to the desk, he took out a slip of parchment from one of his folders.

"Can you identify this document?"

"Yes. That's Mr. Lupin's employment record, which was created under the Umbridge Decree on Part-Human Employment."

"Have you seen this document before?"

"I had requested it myself during his background check."

"I would like to present this document as evidence under Exhibit A." Borden handed a copy of the form to the Committee and continued. "You had talked about the werewolf mindset earlier. Please briefly explain your observations about the defendant you made from investigating his case."

"Mr. Lupin is clearly fallen into a pattern of a vagabond in society. His employment record issued by the Umbridge Decree states that Mr. Lupin has a record of taking over 25 jobs in the last decade. Most of these jobs only lasted a few months before he was fired."

"Please list some of these jobs the defendant had possessed."

"Most of them were Muggle: cab driver, bus boy, dishwasher, inventory clerk. The two significant jobs in the wizarding world had been a brief tutoring job for a year with the Pendragon family. His last job had been at Hogwarts as their Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor."

"And Mr. Lupin had left all of these jobs, magical and Muggle?"

"Yes."

"Were there any reasons listed as to why Mr. Lupin had left these jobs?"

"The Muggle ones do not have the reasoning listed. However, Mr. Lupin had been fired from his tutoring position with the Pendragons and resigned from his position at Hogwarts."

"Do you know any details involving his tutoring position with the Pendragon family?"

"Very little, other than the fact that the Pendragons had two young sons, ages seven and eight."

"Thank you." Mr. Borden pasted on that satisfied smile once more.

That pig was trying to grind in the same point again! Lupin wished to explain the truth of the matter. Yes, he had been fired from the Pendragon tutoring position, but that was only because the family had been fearful idiots, like every other wizarding employer he had encountered. The Pendragon boys were Dumbledore's nephews, and they adored him. In fact, it was their glowing experience with Lupin that put Dumbledore in mind of hiring Lupin for Hogwarts. Lupin turned toward Harper, wondering if he knew any of this, but saw only his barrister hastily scribbling down something on a long length of parchment.

"What other observations have you made about Lupin's employment record?"

"There have been long gaps between jobs. It would appear that Mr. Lupin did not seek employment for long stretches of time."

But he had sought employment - it was another story to be given it.

"If he did not seek employment, what other options did the defendant have to survive?"

"Objection," Harper cut in. "Speculation."

"Overruled." Colbert frowned. He was slowly twisted his beard around on one long, skeletal finger, thinking deeply. "Continue."

Parsons replied, "He could have taken other, possibly criminal tasks in order to survive. It is very common among arrested wolves."

Borden took this as a positive sign. "Do you believe, in your expert opinion, that Mr. Lupin has been involved in any criminal acts in the past?"

"From my experience, most wolves have confessed to petty crimes, usually theft, fraud, and assaults."

"Thank you. Detective, in light of all the testimony you have given today, what kind of person do you believe Mr. Lupin to be?"

"From my observations, I believe that Mr. Lupin is not capable of holding a job, for deep-seated reasons that got him rejected from both the wizarding and the Muggle worlds."

"What reasons can there be?"

"There is his condition, certainly, but I have seen werewolves become integrated in Muggle society with little difficulty."

Lupin thought of the poor wolves of the London Safehouse, driven into homelessness and rejection. There was no place for the werewolf in any society.

Borden continued his examination with the precision of a sniper. Question after question after damning question. Parsons and the prosecutor tag-teamed to gather more information condemning Lupin than he could ever have imagined. Little details about his past were suddenly magnified into suspicion. Did he have a permanent residence? Why had he left that flat or cottage or town? Was there any record of his whereabouts for the previous five years? What about the previous ten? What were his funds at Gringotts bank? How could have they not changed for a string of eight years? How did he attain funds for survival? What did Mr. Remus Lupin do during those unrecorded, forgotten years?

The web that Borden tried to weave was obvious: without stale employment or residence, Mr. Lupin must have been doing something questionable, possibly even illegal, while he lurked under the Ministry radar for years. Mr. Lupin was a master at disappearing. Mr. Lupin can go in and out without a trace. Mr. Lupin, despite having such a clean-cut record, might not be the cleanest person after all.

And Mr. Lupin did have an unusual interest in working with children, didn't he?

At the end, Borden took a deep breath, as if enjoying a refreshing spring morning, and put his hands behind his back. "Thank you. The prosecution is finished with our questioning." Borden sat down and took a long drink of cold water from the pitcher on the desk.

The Committee did not show any reactions throughout the entire ordeal. It was as if they had seen the same case played out every week, and the looks of disinterest gave Lupin an uncomfortable feeling that Borden didn't convince them. Perhaps, he thought with a queasy feeling, they didn't need to be convinced at all.

Colbert waved a dismissive hand. "Mr. Harper, you may proceed with the cross-examination."

Harper nodded and got up, with the parchment in hand. All his initial anxiety had melted away by now; there was an odd glint in his dark eyes that Lupin had never noticed before. It was the look of solid determination.

"Detective Parsons, have you ever interrogated Mr. Lupin?"

"No, I had not."

"Did you ever speak with Mr. Lupin?"

"No, I-"

"Thank you. Detective, have you even seen Mr. Lupin in person before this trial?"

Parsons paused. "No," he admitted.

"So all of your observations concerning Mr. Lupin are only based on evidence you had collected?"

Borden waved a casual hand. "Objection. Badgering the witness."

"Overruled." Colbert took a sip. It was as if he were watching a cricket match on a summer afternoon. "Please go on, Mr. Harper."

"Thank you, your Lord." Harper turned to officer. "You stated that you had interrogated many werewolves for your cases. Were all of these suspect interrogations?"

Again, Parsons hesitated. "There had been some witness ones as well."

There was a strange expression on Harper's face, one mixed with righteousness and hesitance. At that moment, Lupin knew that he had been talking with Claire before the trial, and she had told him something very important. "When was the last time you held a witness interrogation?"

"I don't remember."

"For an experienced detective who had garnered so many observations from other past interrogations, why can't you recall your last one?"

"I have dealt with dozens of cases simultaneously at times," the detective spat. "I can't possibly recollect all of them."

"But you could recollect enough to form expert opinions, could you?"

"Objection!" Now Borden was standing. "Relevance, your Lord!"

"Overruled."

"Please tell the court when your last witness interrogation was."

"Your Lord-!" Borden started, but Colbert cut him off with a smooth, "Overruled. Please, Detective Parsons, answer Mr. Harper's question."

"It was... in November, I believe. The 21^st."

"And who were you interrogating?"

"Mr. Harper, it was months ago-"

"But you came up with the date. You must remember more."

"Her name was Madame Claire de Chien-Loup." Parsons gave a shrug. "No one significant."

"But why were you interrogating her?"

"My memory's hazy-"

"Remember the oath you had taken, Detective Parsons. Are you sure your memory is hazy?"

Parsons folded his hands together and placed them on the railing before him. "She was the owner of the London Safehouse, where Mr. Lupin and Ms. Grisham had stayed for a couple of months."

"So, wasn't Madame de Chien-Loup very significant to your case?"

"I don't know."

"You, senior detective, would not think a very important witness in a case as significant?"

"I don't know." Parsons said quickly. He blocked the only way one could on the stand: by faking ignorance.

"But did you interrogate Madame de Chien-Loup on the 21^st?"

"Yes, I did."

"So you remember having contact with her?"

"My memory may be a bit fuzzy, but yes."

"And you spoke with her about the Lupin case? Yes or no please."

"Yes, but-"

"Thank you." Harper drew a set of photographs. "Detective, does the RMC provide medical care for people retained there for questioning?"

Parsons stumbled. "Yes... The Registry does."

"And whenever someone has an injury, is there a Healer on-duty to examine any health complaints a person in custody might have?"

"Yes..."

Harper pulled out two photographs from his briefcase. They did not appear to move, but only because they had been close-up shots of a person's arms. Large dark bruises were found along the wrists and shoulders. They were slim, as if someone had held them too tightly.

"These are photographs taken by the Healer on duty on November 22^nd, when Madame de Chien-Loup complained of headaches causes by her cell conditions. These bruises were found on her forearms and shoulders."

"Those could have happened during her transformation," Parsons spat. "I hold no responsibility for these injuries."

"It had been almost a full week since the full moon had already passed by November 21^st. Would you say that these bruises are, then, fresh?"

Parsons' mouth twitched, but his eyes burned.

"Answer the question, Detective."

After a few moments, Head of the Committee Colbert pressed, "Answer him, Detective."

"They would appear to be," Parsons answered through gritted teeth.

"Thank you." Harper turned away to put the photographs back on the table; Lupin saw that he was smirking. "That would be all, Your Lord."

Colbert nodded. "You may take leave-" he started, but Parsons already left his place on the stand and stormed down the aisle. With the flick of his wand, the doors swung open and within the minute, he was gone.

The Committee murmured amongst themselves before Colbert gave them a cutting glance for silence. "Mr. Borden," Colbert said sternly. "Please remind Detective Parsons about testimony procedures in the courtroom."

Borden, who suddenly turned quite red in the face, spluttered, "Yes, Your Lord," from his seat. He took out a handkerchief, mopped his brow, which had grown quite sweaty during the cross-examination, and took a terse sip from his cup. Suddenly, the darkness from his face vanished. He grandly rose to his feet.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee, I would like to call my next witness," Borden turned his head toward to doorway and extended his hand. The prosecutor looked at Lupin for a moment and flashed a smile before turning away. Lupin felt his heart jump for a moment out of fear of certainty. She was here at Nemesis Courthouse. He faced the other side of the cage and calmly tucked his hands in his pockets, trying to retain his composure.

The double-doors opened, and a small figure dressed in pale green robes stepped into the threshold. A taller woman, presumably a social worker, stood by her side.

Exactly like I remember, Lupin thought. He resisted the urge to cling to the bars but peered through them to see her face more clearly.

Borden asked, "Would Ms. Mary Grisham please come to the stand?"

Wolf by Ears will continue...