Professor Lupin's Apprentice

II: Biomagical Taxonomy

The next week, as appointed, I arrived at the library at my customary time, amid disdainful glances from the staff. Heretofore I had been a model patron, but now—when in the company of Mr Lupin—I was rapidly on the path to anathema, I was sure. Upon not seeing Mr Lupin, I walked to and sank down at my usual table alone, the librarians watching me suspiciously all the while. I rummaged in my pack for my pen and the pad on which I'd scribbled all manner of questions.

For a full ten minutes, I sat reviewing my three pages of queries before I glanced at my watch and started again. After twenty minutes, I began to nervously tap my pen against the pad, as I kept an eye on the entrance. When I realised I was nervous awaiting Mr Lupin's arrival, I couldn't believe it. Excited, I thought, would only be natural, but I was actually nervous. I shrugged. Well, why shouldn't I be nervous? I thought. After all, he was a fairly attractive man. I then reminded myself I wasn't going to have dinner with him.

As a passing librarian tutted my thumping, I dropped my pen and set to the task of reviewing my questions for the third time. The staff breathed a sigh of relief, but their respite was short-lived. Five minutes later, Mr Lupin entered through the main doors. This was, I realised, the first entrance I'd seen him make, although I had seen two exits, but he seemed a completely different person. He strode across the room, quite businesslike, and nodded toward me as he approached my table. When he laid his battered briefcase down, opening the clasps, I was never more convinced he was a teacher—and probably a good one—despite his shabby clothes.

"Good afternoon, Miss Rhoades," he said, sitting. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Good afternoon, Professor Lupin. And, as we had no prearranged meeting time, there is no need to apologise." I looked up from the papers I shuffled just in time to notice his brow was again furrowed into his adorably perplexed expression. "What is it?"

"Did you just call me 'Professor Lupin'?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I suppose I did, but I meant no offence."

"No offence taken, I assure you," he said, dismissing the notion with a wave. "You simply surprised me, is all. I haven't been called 'professor' in a while, but I certainly don't mind the address."

"Well, it does seem to suit you," I said.

He smiled. "Thank you. Now, why don't we start on your questions?" He craned his neck slightly toward the papers in front of me. "You appear to have quite a few."

I nodded but didn't look at my notes, studying my teacher instead.

"Have you memorised them?" he asked with just a hint of a smile, although his eyes twinkled impishly.

"Only the first few," I said, folding my hands over my notes. "For starters, why are you doing this?"

His eyebrows rose. "I thought we covered that last week ... Because I noticed in you a special quality of concentration lacking in most others."

"Just seeing if you would stick to that story," I said, nodding again. "Do you often muck about in libraries, staring over people's shoulders?"

Professor Lupin's mock affront from our previous meeting was replaced by genuine offence this time. "Indeed not!" He took a deep breath. "I spotted you, or rather a familiar symbol on the cover of one of your loan books, whilst you were outside. I followed in the hopes of having a look at the book, or asking you about it at least. When I arrived at this table, you were engrossed in reading. I hovered politely for ten minutes before tapping your shoulder, to which I received no response. I began to think you were ill." His eyes went up and to his left; he was obviously trying to remember something. "What is that disorder called?" he asked, distractedly.

"Catalepsy?" I offered.

"Yes, I think that's the one," he answered, frowning slightly in thought. "Anyhow, I was about to ask someone to fetch you a doctor when you turned a page in the book. Needless to say, I was astonished. I tapped your shoulder again, and again there was no response. I came around in front of you, snapping my fingers near your eyes and ears. You never so much as flinched. Finally, I just stood there, resigned to see if you came out of the trance before I had to leave ... for my appointment."

"Didn't the librarians think it odd that you were hovering around me?"

He shook his head slowly. "They didn't seem to."

I had the distinct impression there was something he wasn't telling me, but I decided to let it lie. "What symbol did you see that made you follow me indoors?"

"The crest from Gryffindor House at my school: a red field with a gold rearing lion."

"Oh yes," I said, nodding quickly. "I know which book you mean. I'll see if I can find it later to show you ... And where did you go to school?" I added casually.

He tugged nervously at his collar. "This is starting to sound like an interview for a new position."

"Isn't it?" I asked, shrugging. "You are apparently offering yourself as my magic tutor and, as such, I should know your qualifications before I decide to hire you."

He swallowed, seemingly uncertain. "I'm not sure I should tell you where I went to school. Not just yet. Perhaps we can have a few complimentary sessions before you decide to keep me on? Then you can determine later if my qualifications are necessary."

"Fair enough," I said smiling, after a moment's contemplation, although I had already made up my mind. The books he'd lent me were fascinating—what little I could understand of them, anyhow. He would have to be the worst teacher on earth to bore me with the subject matter. If he were a decent teacher—as I suspected—I would have loads of fun and learn a great deal.

"Any more questions off the cuff?" Professor Lupin asked, steepling his fingers. "Or shall we proceed to those you've written down?"

"Let's move on," I said, looking at the first question. "As I understood it, there was only one type of banshee: the type who wails outside someone's window. But, according to Death Heralds of Europe, there is also a banshee who washes bloody bedclothes in rivers or lakes. Are they both banshees and just different types? Like different species or something?"

"Yes and no," he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You'll find the latter variety is the same as the first. Banshees wash bedclothes only when they have laryngitis. They aren't allowed sick leave, you see, so they must keep heralding death, whether or not they feel up to wailing. Banshees usually have fairly strong constitutions, however, and even stronger vocal cords, so the washing-type banshee is rarely seen."

I thought for a moment he was having me on. When he didn't break into a smile or chuckle, I asked, "Are you serious?"

He nodded. "Yes. That's the absolute truth." He then cleared his throat and tugged at his collar again. "As far as the folklore has shown, at any rate."

"Well ... if they can get laryngitis," I continued hesitantly, "then they aren't ghosts?"

"No, no, banshees aren't ghosts," he replied, leaning forward in his chair with a dismissive wave. "They may occasionally look transparent because they can phase in and out, but they are as tangible as you or I. Banshees are part of a class of corporeal magical creatures known as demi-humans, not to be confused with semi-humans, which are your fauns, satyrs, centaurs, minotaurs, and the like. Incubi and succubi—although they have goat feet—are usually lumped in with demi-humans because of their evil nature.

"You'll find most demi-humans are evil, or at least foreboding, although I've always thought incubi and succubi should be considered semi-humans, despite that. They are clearly human-like and goat-like. And satyrs and minotaurs are not exactly nice, friendly creatures, either. Centaurs are also included in the semi-equine category, and minotaurs are also included in the semi-bovine category, so I think incubi and succubi should be in the semi-human and semi-caprine categories, just like fauns and satyrs. Does that make any sense?"

I nodded numbly, my jaw hanging open. Professor Lupin rattled all this off matter-of-factly, as if he were a biology professor illustrating taxonomy. Of course, this was a form of taxonomy, I suppose—biomagical taxonomy.

"So, all of these semi-humans," I said at last, "belong in another semi- category as well?"

"Well, they'd have to, wouldn't they?" he asked with a shrug. "I mean, 'semi-' means half, so they would have to be half one thing and half another. Like a cockatrice would be semi-dragon and semi-rooster, a griffin would be semi-eagle and semi-lion, and a hippogriff would be semi-eagle and semi-horse, although some people say a hippogriff is semi-griffin and a semi-horse. The half taken from the griffin is all eagle, though, so I cut out the middleman, if you will.

"Unicorns are the only creatures I know of which defy classification," he added, tapping his upper lip thoughtfully with his forefinger. "A unicorn would traditionally be considered semi-horse, semi-stag, and semi-lion—yes, I know that's three halves," he said, holding up his hand when I opened my mouth to interrupt. "But there isn't a nice prefix for thirds. It's that silly horn which makes unicorns impossible to classify, since no one knows what other creature it comes from. But ... Oh, never mind."

"But what?"

"Well..." He frowned. "Those who claim to have seen a unicorn say, except for the horn, a unicorn is all horse."

"Do you know any of these people personally?"

He flushed and laughed nervously. "No, of course not!"

"So, are vampires and zombies demi-humans, as well?"

"No, they are post-humans. Corporeal post-humans to be exact. Ghosts are incorporeal post-humans. Other corporeal demi-humans include nymphs, leprechauns, goblins, pixies, fairies, and brownies."

"I thought you said demi-humans were evil or foreboding?"

"I said most are. Goblins aren't evil or foreboding, just shrewd, parsimonious, and meticulous. They'd make good bankers and accountants. Most nymphs are innocuous, but water nymphs have a predilection towards drowning people, like Sirens. They don't do so out of maliciousness, you understand; they just think it's fun. Kind of like a very large dog that will accidentally kill something by playing too roughly. Brownies are normally helpful, but there is an occasional bad apple. Despite the popular misconception, leprechauns can be devious and mean-spirited. Fairies and pixies are normally all right, but they have nasty tempers. You don't want to get on a fairy or pixie's bad side."

"Aren't they too small for that to make any difference?" I asked, frowning.

He shook his head. "Not if they decide to cast a spell on you. They pack quite a magical wallop for something so small."

"Are there any incorporeal demi-humans?"

"Oh, yes: wraiths, doppelgängers—or fetches—and poltergeists."

"I thought wraiths and doppelgängers were like banshees, and poltergeists were just ghosts. I mean, doesn't that word come from the German for 'noisy ghost'?"

"It's 'knocking spirit,' I do believe. Wraiths and doppelgängers are like banshees in that they herald death, but unlike banshees, they make themselves up to look like the person whose death they herald. I think you'll find doppelgänger even means 'double' in German."

"Yes, I know," I said, nodding.

His eyebrows rose and he smiled. "Fetches are a special type of doppelgänger who hide in windows and mirrors. They seem to be very shy and don't really care for their job, so they make their marked objects come to them."

"How do they do that?"

One of his eyebrows rose. "Well, do you know of many people who don't look into a mirror at least once a day?"

I nodded. "Good point."

"Wraiths, unlike banshees and doppelgängers—who only show that a death is imminent—are actually evil spirits who attempt to make that death happen. Banshees and doppelgängers take their orders directly from the Angel of Death. Wraiths act independently and randomly, which makes them doubly dangerous.

"I find poltergeists more fascinating, although they usually are not as deadly. The term 'poltergeist' is a misnomer, although it seemed accurate enough, I'm sure, to those who coined the word. A true poltergeist is rare. It's a sort of parasitic evil spirit that feeds off of ghosts. They are often mistaken for ghosts because the kind of energy needed to fuel a poltergeist is leeched from ghosts who met with a particularly violent end. Or—strangely enough—a group of teenagers living under one roof."

"I've read something about that before," I said, too loudly in my excitement of being able to participate in the conversation. "Why do you suppose that is?"

"Well, no one knows for certain, mind you, but I do have a theory."

"What?"

"Anger, basically. If there is one thing a murder victim and a teenager have in common, it's anger. Of course, with a murder, that's obvious, but not so much with teens. Anyhow, when their hormones begin to act up, all of a sudden they think they know everything, and they are constantly fighting with their parents and other authority figures. When teenagers are present in large numbers, I think the poltergeists sense that energy and gravitate toward those households. Naturally, I've wanted to do a study of abused teens, to see if there is a higher incidence of poltergeists among them, but there is difficulty in finding subjects—" He broke off suddenly, finally noticing the growing alarm on my face. "Oh, I'm sorry ... I know sometimes I sound rather coldly scientific."

"Hmmm," I said, cocking an eyebrow.

"That is not to say I don't have the deepest sympathy for children in such situations..."

I nodded, accepting that he had spoken without thinking. "So, poltergeists can move around, can they?"

"Oh, yes. Since they aren't true ghosts, they aren't tied to the scene of their death—because they never died. They just ... are. They are free to go wherever the energy is strongest. I've only heard of one poltergeist who stayed put for any length of time."

"Where?"

"At my old school, as a matter of fact. Not only did he have other ghosts to feed off, but he also had a swarm of teenagers every year. I daresay Peeves was in poltergeist heaven. He's been there for centuries, supposedly."

"Did you ever see or hear him?"

He searched my face for a moment before cautiously saying, "I thought I saw him once."

"What about werebeasts?" I asked.

Professor Lupin's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "What about them?" he asked sharply.

"Are they considered semi-humans?"

His expression softened a bit, and then became sad. "No, they are humans, plain and simple."

"But how? I mean, if they change into wolves or foxes or tigers, I would think they would be semi-humans."

"No, semi-creatures display characteristics of both creatures at once, all the time." He paused and took a deep breath, as if searching for the right words. "Werebeasts ... well, you can think of werebeasts as humans with a dread disease. Like ... Oh, what is that really bad disease no one has found a cure for?"

"AIDS?"

"No, the other one."

"Cancer?"

"Yes, cancer, that's it! There's no cure for lycanthropy, either, although there are some treatments ... or so I've read. Think of a werebeast as someone who is infected with cancer, but who has predictable periods of remission and relapse."

"But what about those people—supposedly witches and warlocks—"

His brow furrowed attractively again, and I tried to keep from smiling, fearing he'd think I found his lack of comprehension amusing.

"A warlock?" he asked.

Now my eyes grew wide. I was certain he would know that. "I thought a warlock was a male witch."

"No, that's a wizard. 'Warlock' is..." He frowned. "Well, quite an old-fashioned term..."

"What about the witches and wizards, then, who claimed to change into werewolves on purpose, then?" I continued, undeterred.

Professor Lupin shook his head sadly. "They were insane or under the influence of hallucinogenic salves—made with ergot, if memory serves. No one would ... want ... to do that to himself or herself, any more than someone would want to get cancer or AIDS." He stared at the table for a moment, looking very forlorn.

"Well, that about covers my first question," I said cheerfully, scratching out number one on my list and hoping the happiness might become contagious. He looked up with a faint smile as I said, "On to question two."

After two more hours of engaging conversation, covering only half of the first page of inquiries, the head librarian informed us we would have to leave. So engrossed were we that we hadn't noticed they were packing things away all around us. Luckily, almost everyone else had gone, and they were no longer shushing us, since there were precious few left in the building whom we could disturb. As we made our way toward the exit, however, Professor Lupin said we should probably consider another meeting place, as he regarded glances of scorn coming from all around us.

"We could also continue this conversation elsewhere, if you aren't too tired." He raised a quelling hand when I started to object. "I'm not saying, 'Your place or mine?' A public place."

"But where can go where no one will listen too intently?"

He shrugged. "I think a pub would fit the bill nicely."

"A pub?" I protested. "In a town like this? Everyone will listen intently!"

"Perhaps so, but at this time of night, they'll most likely be too intoxicated to understand or remember whatever they hear. Besides, I'm famished."

"I'm not having dinner with you," I said flatly.

"Fine. You drink. I'll eat." He offered his arm, which I accepted, leading him down the road to the nearest pub.