Fathers and Sons

Fathers and Sons, Chapter 2: Friends and Enemies

What follows is no more than a decade and a half's worth of observations and whatever I could think of to fit in order to explain away the fear, worry, and ignorance that wizards have walled ourselves in with. It is but a window into understanding our outcast brethren, but windows can be opened, and they can be climbed through, and eventually they can be widened and gotten rid of. This is my wish, and my fondest hope. Owen Curenton, Pack: The Sociology of the Werewolf Pack, 1^st edition, 1976.

December 1976

Erin Curenton closed the fifth compartment door she'd opened since beginning the search for her brother Jeremy to the shouts of "Scram!" followed by a name that she would not repeat in front of her parents. So she'd interrupted something personal, so what? Why would anyone want to snog on a train anyway? The compartments weren't that big, the seats were uncomfortable (her backside was not looking forward to the six hour train ride), and besides, snogging was gross.

She heaved her backpack, heavy with Defence books to read over the holidays onto her back, pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes, and began to drag her trunk by the handle again. Jeremy had said he'd sit with her like he had on the way to school in September, and then he'd disappeared. For anyone else it would have been typical boy behaviour, and Jeremy wasn't a boy, not really, because he was her brother and family didn't count.

The next compartment was loud, all older boys who were egging on a boy who was apparently eating as many cauldron cakes in a minute as he could, and so she moved on to the next one (because Jeremy would certainly never so such a thing or egg someone on like that into something so stupid), and spying him through the window, reading a Quidditch magazine. Erin dropped the one end of her trunk, knocked on the window, and then made a face at Jeremy like she'd seen the Water Kappas make at the Magizoo in Exeter.

Jeremy had read this particular article once or twice already, but now he was scouring it for any details he may have missed. His Hogwarts Quidditch pool was populated by all but the majority of Slytherins, and his professional Quidditch pool was starting to rival that of his Slytherin fourth-year counterpart. Professional Quidditch was less predictable than Hogwarts, but Jeremy lived for Quidditch and off of his winnings. Odds depended on a lot of things, and he was looking out for each and every one in hopes of prudently suckering every Hogwarts student willing to trust that a harmless Hufflepuff was incapable of betting correctly.

Of course, by his fifth year he'd developed a reputation as a winner, but he couldn't help that much, now could he? He was no Slytherin.

The knock on the door jarred him and Jeremy looked up, grinning widely at his ickle first year sister as he closed the magazine and scrambled to his feet to open the door. "Ah, there she is! I knew you'd track me down. Get in here, ickle firstie," he added with a smirk, stepping aside with a sweeping gesture to welcome her in.

"You left me," Erin accused, although he hadn't technically done any such thing. She leaned down and took the handle of her trunk again, hopefully for the last time and pulled it in after her. "I was looking for you and I had to see people snogging and it was gross and they called me a munchkin," she pouted a little for affect, leaving her trunk in the middle of the compartment and sliding onto the bench.

"You are a munchkin," he pointed out helpfully, and fell into a comfortable sprawl on his own bench. "And you'd better get used to people snogging, when you get to Hogsmeade weekends that's all they do. Want a Chocolate Frog?"

"I'm the perfect size for eleven years old, dad said so," Erin replied, struggling just a little to get her backpack off. By a little, that was to say her arm was discovering new and interesting ways to bend. "And yes I do," she added, getting one arm free and the second following quickly thereafter.

"Yeah, perfect size for an eleven year old house-elf." Being four years older, Jeremy was rather a bit taller, but certainly had no size advantage to speak of over certain Slytherins who developed easy grudges against people who bet against their ability to play Quidditch. At the very least, he was speedy. "Anyway, if Mum asks I studied for my O.W.L.s all the way home." He punctuated the statement by throwing the Chocolate Frog into her lap, as though it was a bribe.

Erin looked at the Chocolate Frog package in her lap and lifted it, staring at it intently. "Yeah..." she started thoughtfully, "because I'm sure there's going to be a lot about the professional Quidditch league on your exams. You'd probably get all O's if that were the case, though."

"I'm all for studying and everything but some things are more important, and Quidditch is one of them," Jeremy declaimed, and tore open a Chocolate Frog of his own. "And you're right, I would. Wish I could be obsessed with something so useful. Are you still the Defence professor's pet?"

She bristled slightly at the idea of being a professor's pet -- and she wouldn't have put up with it from anyone but Jeremy. She knew that if she were a professor, she certainly wouldn't have favourites, everyone deserved to be treated the same and have the same things expected of them. "I like Defence, and the professor likes me!" she defended, pulling her bag closer to her side.

"That's the definition, isn't it?" he asked, but not nearly as on the offensive as before. Teasing her was all well and good, but Jeremy couldn't bring himself to offend Erin for very long. "Right, like you'd let anyone give you the easy way out. I know, I know."

It was going to be so stereotypical Hufflepuff to say so, but she couldn't help herself. "That's not fair," she said. "Nobody else should have to work harder than I do just because the professor likes me. I'd be mad if it weren't me and it were someone else," she finished, and finally tore her Chocolate Frog package open.

"I wish McGonagall would give me the easy way out," Jeremy muttered, biting into the frog with the full intent of using it as an excuse to not talk for a moment. After swallowing, he remarked, "How noble and Hufflepuff of you, Mum and Dad'll be thrilled to hear how well you're fitting into the Curenton Hufflepuff mold."

"I'm sure they will," she said in a very dignified tone, sitting up a little bit straighter, although it was hard to do anything but sit up straight on these benches. Erin liked Hufflepuff. The Slytherins were scary and mean in large numbers, Ravenclaws were too busy being clever with one another to make really good friends with, and Gryffindors could just be kind of stupid sometimes. And Hufflepuff had her brother, and basically the entire family before her, so it had always seemed like a very good place to be.

He gave her a wary, older-brotherly look and sat with a straight posture. Fun and games were over, now was time to begin the interrogation. "You're enjoying Hogwarts," he checked. "Not anyone bothering you or anything, right, because if there is -- well, I am a prefect."

Oh brother. She sighed theatrically and blew her fringe clean off her forehead. "Nobody's bothering me. I think they all know that they have to deal with you if they even look at me sideways."

"That's good," Jeremy felt the need to point out. "You know the Slytherins can be right arses, and so can the Gryffindors -- James Potter and his mates, for example -- I wouldn't want you to have to put up with that because you'd probably hex people to bits."

Erin wondered briefly if Jeremy was just a little mad, like seemed to run in the family, or if he was just downright insane. "They wouldn't bother me again," she pointed out in return.

"Yes, but then you get detentions, and detentions are bad," he returned with the stern tone of one who had never experienced such a thing but knew it by nature. Besides, it was in the rules, probably. Yeah, he was a dreadful prefect. "The point is, are you sure?"

"I think I'd notice people picking on me, Jeremy," she answered slowly, and rolled her eyes before biting the leg off of her chocolate frog. She took the card out of the package and read the back. "Rowena Ravenclaw, d'you have her?" she asked, hoping to distract him with the prospect of a new Chocolate Frog card.

The distraction was successful. "...I traded her off to Dirk, I think." Jeremy frowned, mentally scanning his collection, though he actually didn't put that much effort into collecting cards unless they had something to do with Quidditch. "I won't take her if you want her, though," he added quickly.

"I have her," she shook her head, holding it out to him. "I had two of her and then I traded the second for Dumbledore." Everyone seemed to get Dumbledore cards but her; it was a running joke in the family, practically.

He raised his head slowly to give her a look of mock surprise. "You actually own a Dumbledore card? When? Why didn't I hear of this? What will be your ambition in life from now on?" He snatched at the card, sending her a cheeky grin.

"Hey!" she protested, and held on tight. "I do, since October, you don't have to know everything, and I still want to be an Auror, and if you're going to tease me then I'm going to find someone else to give the card to!"

Oh, now he couldn't possibly let go of it. Even if it was just a Ravenclaw card (load of overdramatic snobs and he didn't suspect that the Founder was much better), that wasn't entirely the point. "I'm supposed to tease you, I'm your brother, now come on, ickle Auror!"

"Not when I'm being nice! That's not how you get what you want, Jeremy!" She leaned forward, pulling the card towards her.

He'd let her pull, Jeremy told himself, but he wasn't letting go until he wanted to. She was also a first year and cute, and he could not be outdone by her. "Oh all right, how do you get what you want, then?" he asked, grinning despite himself.

Erin opened her mouth to tell her brother exactly what she did to get her way (it usually involved the word "please" and a very adorable smile that she was sure wouldn't work for much longer), but stopped when the door to the compartment opened and a girl with a long, dark plait stepped in and closed the door behind her and crouched on the floor, ideally out of sight from the windows. "Who're you?" Erin asked before either of them had a chance to speak.

Julia Frobisher had thought this compartment would be safe enough -- Jeremy would certainly understand her dilemma and the girl must be his sister. A firstie, from what Julia knew. She thought her name began with an E. "Sorry," she told Jeremy, ignoring Erin for the moment. "Gilly's become a madwoman. I mean, more than usual. So I'm just going to hide here for a bit."

Jeremy's attention wavered from the rivalry at hand, and it took only a moment for him to release the card. "Keep it, I'll beg it off of you later," he told Erin, then was ready to address Julia with a wry grin. "Oh well, can't deny you sanctuary." He straightened a little to see if Gillian Broadmoor, Gryffindor Quidditch fiend, was passing by. "Did you insult the Falcons? She can get really mad about the Falcons." He could remember a certain occasion of that for sure... then he remembered that Erin was actually there. "Oh -- Julia -- this is my sister Erin, Hufflepuff firstie, Erin, this is Julia Frobisher. Slytherin, my year." One of the few people who'll listen to me talk.

Erin held the Ravenclaw card to her chest, quite certain that he would not beg it off her later. She was feeling actually quite hopeful at meeting one of her brother's friends -- older people, you know, quite grown up and all, but when she heard "Slytherin", she was only able to go, "Oh," and lean back, intently examining Rowena, who was rolling her eyes. Tell me about it, Erin thought in response.

"Er, yes, hello to you too," Julia said, and slid up onto the bench next to Jeremy. "As for why I'm hiding from Gilly -- I may have insinuated that the Harpies had a better chance at the League Championship. But they do! You even said so the other day in the library!"

"They do," he affirmed, winding himself up to release the summary of events. "Just by two spots, it's a tossup between the Arrows, the Harpies and the Falcons, from what I can tell at the moment. But Falmouth keeps on the old Broadmoor strategy most of the time which usually works but doesn't always... anyway, it doesn't work if the Seeker you have is speedy enough to keep the Beaters out of their hair, and the Harpies have a new one who looks promising."

"HA. I told her so," Julia said triumphantly. "But does she listen? No. You can tell her yourself if she finds me, preferably before she beats me over the head with something very heavy, please."

"Then she'll beat me over the head with something very heavy," Jeremy protested. "She already thumped me once when I won a Galleon off of her... oh bleeding kneazles, is someone coming?"

"Shh!" Julia laughed, and leaned against the compartment door to listen. "It's her," she whispered again, trying to flatten herself against the bench, as if that would work. Erin merely rolled her eyes again, although she could hear her mother tell her to stop rolling them because they were going to get stuck one day and then what would she do, but this situation definitely called for it. Her brother's friends were weird. And a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, which made it about ten times weirder.

Jeremy stifled a laugh, glancing over at Erin only to find himself perturbed that she was not finding the humour in this at all. Kids. He didn't have the time to speak up nor straighten his face because then the door of the compartment opened smoothly. A girl with her Gryffindor tie slung loosely around her neck looked from first year to Hufflepuff to "AHA!"

Gilly Broadmoor stepped in triumphantly and pulled the door shut. "I have you now, Frobisher," she announced. "What's your slippery Slytherin arse going to do about that, yeah, Harpies my arse."

Julia looked up at Gilly and pointed at Jeremy. "He said so, " she told her friend, shifting the blame. "He told me in the library the other night, I told you." She dropped her arm and crossed them across her chest. "You can apologise to me later when the Harpies do win the League and the Falcons are picking broom twigs out of their arses."

Gilly absorbed that without comment, instead focusing her discerning look on Jeremy as she snatched up his Quidditch magazine. Jeremy wasn't easily cowed, but after a moment of silence had to say, "If you're going to hit me, get it over with, but Falmouth only doesn't - HEY," he protested as she hit him over the head.

Gilly merrily unrolled the magazine and handed it back to him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Hufflepuffs," she directed to the little girl at the other side of the compartment. "We both better leave, really, leave these two to snog."

"If Falmouth would stop relying on its Beaters to do everything for them -- " Jeremy wasn't the kind to merely drop a subject, but the new subject was a little more urgent. He shot the briefest glance at Julia, but only said, "Shut it, Broadmoor."

"I'm not leaving anyway, I was here first," Erin said plainly, daring either of the older girls to say something about it. The second one (Broadmoor, Jeremy called her) might, but she didn't think that Julia would. She didn't seem the type. Besides, she had to save her brother from a snogging.

"Shut up, we're not going to snog." Jeremy rolled his eyes and worked on straightening out his poor Quidditch magazine. Bloody Gryffindors and their disregard for personal property.

Gilly straightened proudly, flaunting her height despite that she stood (literally) above everyone else. She watched with some satisfaction as Curenton began to develop a sort of annoyed flush, and addressed the kid. "Who do you support?" she asked, importantly.

Jeremy had already edged towards Julia, and muttered to her, "Would it be too suspicious if we tried to get out of here?"

"She registers movement. If we just sit still, she might lose interest and leave us alone," Julia joked back.

"Caerphilly," Erin answered Gilly. She mostly loved how ridiculous lime green and crimson stripes looking on everyone no matter what age or gender, but it had become an emotional attachment over time.

"Oh, Caerphilly, they're just a load of girls." Gilly appeared to have no trouble tossing off a comment that she would take someone's head off for saying in any context. She turned to look at Julia and Jeremy, and pulled a face at their proximity. "Practically snogging already, spare the kid, she'll need her eyesight!" She fixed a glare on Jeremy. "And the Harpies can't beat the Falcons!" she proclaimed.

Jeremy tried not to smirk, or look at Julia. "Whatever you say. Does this mean you're leaving?"

"Oh, so you want me to leave?" Gilly gave the pair a disapproving frown.

"Er, we should probably both go," Julia said, hoping her cheeks weren't showing a colour that was darker than what was just considered healthy, even though she could feel her face burning. She jumped up and began to jostle Gilly out of the compartment. "My camera's still on the seat after all, don't want anyone stealing or breaking it..."

"All right," Jeremy said, unwilling to make a fuss about being left alone with his firstie sister with them. They were Quidditch girls, they could hurt him. "Hope it hasn't been stolen or anything, you'll need it for hols, right?"

Gilly caught Julia's eye, gave her a pointed quirk of an eyebrow, then with a derisive laugh pulled open the compartment door and left.

Julia ignored the look. After all, if she didn't acknowledge it, Gilly would stop. Someday. "Yeah, family holiday and all that," she said, although what that would end up bringing was always up in the air. She edged towards the door, and then waved. "Um, well. Have a good holiday, you two," she wished them farewell before disappearing after Gilly.

Erin looked up from Rowena Ravenclaw, who'd begun to make faces at her after intense scrutiny. "You have really weird friends," she informed Jeremy.

Jeremy shrugged. "Dunno if I'd call Broadmoor a friend but she's not bad, I guess. And Julia's practically the only good Slytherin in that dungeon."

"I guess she was nice," Erin said. No use in pretending that the idea of a nice Slytherin wasn't perturbing, but she supposed stranger things had been known to happen.

"She's not one of them," he said offhand, or tried to. He didn't like the turn this conversation was making. "There are... her roommates -- but it doesn't matter. Can't wait to meet your friends, you have some, right?"

There was no doubt that the conversation had been turning just a little weird, but the mention of her friends changed things. "Alicia Edgecombe thinks you're dreamy," she teased.

He reminded himself that she was a first year, but that didn't stop him from flushing again. "Oh, yeah right, I wouldn't put a knut on that. What's 'dreamy' supposed to mean, anyway? You girls are weird."

"It's..." She gesticulated with the card, trying to find the appropriate description for what 'dreamy' meant, and found herself unable to complete that sentence. "I don't know! But I told her you snore and she says she still fancies you."

Not a subject he wanted to continue -- he'd run into those girls before and he had never, ever heard so much giggling in his life. "You don't fancy anyone, do you?" he asked cautiously, trying not to look as worried as he felt. What if Erin was giggling over someone like that? The idea was frightening.

"No!" she said, scandalized at the notion. "And even if I did, I wouldn't be telling you!" she added, equally scandalized.

"That means you could not be telling me now," he said, looking a little distressed. "But -- I'll believe you. Just hope I don't see you going after anyone in my dorm is all."

"You should find something new to worry about," she advised him, putting her feet up on the corner of the trunk (her legs wouldn't quite reach far enough to rest on the opposite bench comfortably) and watching the countryside roll past.

~*~

James Potter strode out of the car that held Lily Evans and Mary MacDonald with an air of utter confidence and his three best mates following closely behind him (all right, maybe Sirius was sort of walking beside him), as though he hadn't just been completely shot down. "She's playing hard to get," he said, glancing aside to Sirius, "it's obvious, she wants me. She'll give in soon, I'm sure."

"Any day now," Sirius agreed dryly, popping a couple more Every Flavour beans in his mouth. "She'll be begging you to escort her to Hogsmeade, classes, and every place in between."

Remus sent another apologetic look to Lily and Mary through the window of the door. Lily responded by pulling down the shade, successfully blocking the four boys out of the compartment completely. "Well. That I don't know about," he said dryly as the two girls' laughter floated out to them.

"I dunno, she has put up with James for this long," Peter spoke up. "She wouldn't if she didn't fancy him back, right?"

James scoffed and exchanged looks with Sirius. "She's not putting up with me, Wormtail," he said, explaining yet clearly condescending. "She's playing hard to get. Huge difference."

"You've seen her put up with people," Sirius said. "She makes that face - the listening face." He imitated, eyes open and mouth set in a line. "And she uses those phrases - you know, the dismissive ones, like 'that's interesting' or 'I see' or 'okay'."

Remus exchanged a look with Peter. "You mean... the look she uses with you?"

"Shut it, Moony, that is not the point here!" he said, hitting Remus on the shoulder.

"She doesn't use them with me. She barely lets me talk." James gained the smug, faraway look he always got when thinking about Lily. "She can't contain herself around me, that's the problem, she'll learn to control her feelings soon enough."

"I think I can still hear them laughing," Peter noted as they left that full compartment as well.

"But are they laughing at us, or with us?" Sirius posed the question philosophically.

"A penetrating question for the ages," Remus muttered in response.

"We're not laughing, so I guess that only leaves one option," Peter figured.

James shrugged it off and opened the door. "Who cares?" He settled back in their original compartment, putting his feet up on his trunk.

With that, the tone changed. Sirius settled across from James, settling on the uncomfortable bench like it was an armchair in the common room. "Well, either way. Evans is all yours, mate."

Remus settled into his own corner, picking his book back up and prepared to be half-reading, half-listening all the way home. These conversations were usually the ones it was best for him to stay out of -- he got to hear Lily complain on rounds.

"She is, she's just waiting for the taking. I'll get to it one of these days," James dismissed it. "Are we going out on Boxing Day?"

"I, uh, yeah, sure," Peter spoke up eagerly, sitting up from his corner near the window.

"Definitely," Sirius said. "Can't keep away all of hols."

Remus felt his friends' eyes glance to him, and he looked up. "Well, I'd have to check," he said.

"Oh, just sneak out if you have to, forget your parents," James said.

"Not everyone's parents let them run off, is all," Peter said, only realising once he'd said it what exactly he'd said. "I mean. Leave the house more than a bit."

Sirius shrugged. "Moony's mum loves us. Call us in, we'll charm her into letting you out!" he grinned, an example of his most charming countenance.

James sniggered at the mere sight of his best mate's innocent, charming facade. "I can't believe anyone falls for that," he laughed.

Remus had to smile as well. "Don't worry. She doesn't. She's humouring you."

"If you say so," James said, grinning. "Just doesn't like you flirting with his mum, Padfoot, she's a special girl you know."

Sirius leered. "She couldn't handle it."

Remus groaned and covered his face with his book. "Okay. I will talk about anything else as long as it doesn't involve my mother."

"I still think she winked at you when we brought Remus back on New Year's Eve last year," James mused to Sirius, with the start of a smirk.

"She may have asked us all if we had a good time, but her eyes said so much... more," Sirius said.

"I'm not listening to you," Remus replied loftily, turning a page in his book.

"I think you're a little young for her, Sirius," Peter said, a little uncomfortable at this turn.

"It's true, she'd want someone mature, intelligent, yet still charming and good-looking. Maybe even a Star Chaser... do we know anyone like that?" James asked, mock-thoughtful.

"Still not listening."

"Hm. You're right, Prongs, finding all those outstanding qualities in one person would be like looking for a needle in a haystack," Sirius answered thoughtfully.

Remus looked up at Peter. "They're not going to stop until we distract them with something else, are they?" he asked.

Peter nodded, then looked up at the window of the compartment door and sat up quickly. "Look," he exclaimed to James. "It's Aubrey."

"I'm not going to fall for that." James waved it off. "Let's get back to Remus's saucy mum."

Remus grimaced, but Sirius had caught a glance as well and sat up a little straighter. "No, he's right, Prongs. Git," he added, ostensibly meaning Aubrey rather than any of his present company.

James actually bothered to glance up, and saw Aubrey lingering outside of a nearby compartment. Aha, something to do. "Come on," he said to Sirius, and opened the door.

When Remus had said something else to distract them, he'd meant an Exploding Snap game, or someone's cat getting into their compartment and go insane trying to get out. "Guys -- " he started weakly. Sirius waved him off, following after James.

"You heard him, come on," Peter said to Remus, hurrying after his mates.

"Oh, Sirius, careful, we're in the presence of a real prefect," James noted with mock worry. "Don't breathe too loud, he might take points or something."

Bertram Aubrey abruptly closed the door of the compartment and turned to face James Potter and his pack of idiots. "Aren't you four supposed to be torturing Snape right now?"

"Well, I'm not saying if he shows up we won't give him a go, but one berk's the same as the next, sometimes," Sirius said, crossing his arms, and made a show of trying to glance over Aubrey's shoulder. "Whatcha doing? Scaring firsties?"

"That's not hard, all he has to do is look in their direction," James interjected the moment Sirius stopped speaking. "No wonder he got prefect, he can keep the Slytherins hiding in the dungeons just by showing his face."

"Whereas you only have Lily Evans running in the opposite direction," Bertram said with a cold smile.

"Hey," Sirius said severely. "It's 'hard to get'."

Very hard to get, Remus thought to himself as he hung back in the compartment door. "Guys," he said again. "There's no reason to - come on, it's hols. Let's just relax."

"Aw, don't start, Remus, we're all having a good time, am I right?" James gave Aubrey a smile that didn't reach all the way to his eyes. "Who's in the compartment, your boyfriend?"

Bertram rolled his eyes at them and pushed open the door to reveal a surprised-looking first year wearing a Ravenclaw tie. "My sister, actually," he said crisply, then entered the compartment and added, "Put an Inflation Charm on her head at your own peril."

"If she takes after you she won't need the help," Peter spoke up from behind Sirius.

Sirius had to laugh at that. "Oh, so you were scaring firsties," he said.

"He's not scary," the girl protested. "And you're prats -- "

"Charlotte," Bertram chided, and went to close the door of the compartment right in the Gryffindors' faces.

James stopped him closing the door. "Yeah, language, Charlotte," he said. "And there's no shame in being afraid of a cockroach like your brother."

"Yeah," Sirius echoed. "I mean, the look of him sends most people in the opposite direction. Gryffindors're about the only ones who can stand to look at him. You sure you're a Ravenclaw?"

"I'm too smart to be a Gryffindor," Charlotte retorted.

Bertram snorted, and James's hand went to his wand. "Or too boring," he said, and Transfigured Bertram into a cockroach. "There, that's more like it."

"Good show, Prongs!" Sirius laughed, and eyed Aubrey the cockroach. It was at least six inches long, busy little legs skittering, and -- was it hopping in anger? "Merlin's sodding trousers, you could have chosen an uglier bug," he added facetiously.

"Dunno, Sirius, that's pretty ugly," Peter said, making a face.

"Change him back," Charlotte shouted, pulling her legs up onto the bench to keep away from the bug.

"You can tell the difference? Good eye," James said with a snort, and Transfigured the cockroach into a monstrous spider like a miniature Acromantula, sniggering as the girl gave a shriek of terror. "Much better!"

Peter goggled in shock and amusement, and exclaimed, "What is that?"

James was laughing too hard to answer, as the Aubrey spider scrabbled at the bench where his sister crouched screaming in terror.

"JAMES POTTER."

Heads turned, and Lily Evans stood in the corridor with her hands on her hips and green eyes narrowed severely. Mary MacDonald stood behind her, somewhat less harsh but still imitating Lily's stance and unamused attitude. "Now we're in trouble," Sirius said with a snigger.

And James had been mad enough to think the situation couldn't get any better. He got control of his laughter and retained a proud grin. "Evans," he said. "I knew you couldn't stay away."

She ignored him. "What are you doing? It's bad enough when it's at the school and -- "

"Lily," Mary interrupted, her eyes wide and she pointed at spider-Bertram and Charlotte, who was now in tears.

Lily could hardly believe it. "Is that a student?"

The boys were quiet for a moment. "Well," Sirius finally said. "There's too many legs for it to be a fish."

She glared and took out her wand, pointing it at the oversized spider. "Finite Incantatum," she said, and with an audible pop, Bertram Aubrey reappeared on the floor of the compartment.

James snorted as the firstie ran over to her brother, sobbing, but had the self-preservation instinct enough to look up at Lily. "Just a bit of a joke," he said casually, very cool. "Suits him, doesn't it?"

"You are an idiot," she seethed. "And it's not enough you have to go looking for people to torment when you're in school, but on the train? Really, James?"

"A spot of fun, Evans, you must know what that's like," Sirius broke in.

"Really," she replied flatly. "Was it fun for him? Was it fun for her?" she demanded, pointing at Bertram and Charlotte, the former now comforting the latter.

James shrugged that off. "They're Aubreys, they don't have a sense of humour. And really, all I need is your firm hand to get back in line, Evans," he added, with a charming smile.

She remained unamused at them all, and for the first time, she looked at Remus. He couldn't help but feel guilty at the look she gave him, disappointed as anything. It said, you know better. She looked away and asked Bertram, "Are you both okay?"

"We're fine," Bertram said flatly, and charmed the door to slam shut.

James scoffed and leaned against the now closed door, eyeing Evans. "See, it's not so bad. You two want to join us at all?"

"We were going to catch up to the sweets cart. Too bad!" Mary piped up, giving her blonde curls an indignant shake.

"Too bad," Sirius echoed. "We could, ah. Use the company."

Mary made a noise and Lily took her arm. "Come on, Mary, let's go. We can probably still catch up if we go fast. Have a good Christmas," she said without much enthusiasm as they walked past.

"You have to admire how she plays it cool," James said to Sirius under his breath.

"I do, Prongs, I do," Sirius said solemnly as he watched Mary MacDonald's skirt ride up slightly as they walked away from them.

James was still staring after the girls until the door shut, when Peter's voice unfortunately stole his attention. "We missed the sweets cart?"

"Probably while we were bothering them in their compartment," Remus pointed out.

"Well, go chase it down if it bothers you so," Sirius replied carelessly, sitting back in his seat again, looking quite casual and cool as he did so.

"Forget it," James dismissed, and sat on his trunk, waiting until Peter came back inside and sat to unfold the copy of The Daily Prophet and rip off a sheet of newsprint without a regard to what it said. "Padfoot, want to play some table Quidditch?"

"You want to lose to the table Quidditch champion of Hogwarts class of 1978? Okay, let's do this," Sirius said, straightening up.

~*~

It was a day nearly two weeks in the making, but that knowledge made it no easier for Fenrir to go about the daily routine of maintaining the pack while his Father lay dying in his upstairs room, the place of honour. Every day since the illness came on so suddenly, Fenrir felt every gasping breath, sharp pain, and fever that his Father suffered as though he lay delirious right beside him. It was maddening, crippling, and tragic, and still the routine had to go on.

He could feel his Father Greyback's wolf at nearly every moment as it struggled, paced, snarled, cowed, whimpered, and his wolf could do nothing for its Father besides comfort and cower, comfort and cower. Appropriate enough. There was nothing Fenrir could do for his own pack but comfort and cower, play king and prince while his Father lay dying.

Anger was his only refuge, as it always had been -- anger and duty forced him awake each morning to do the painful job of prematurely stepping into his role as pack leader, one that, as far as he was concerned, was not yet his to take on.

Today was nearly two weeks in the making, but fourteen days weren't enough to convince Fenrir that this wasn't anything more than a rehearsal for what would happen in the far-off future that could exist without Greyback at the helm of their pack. Greyback was seventy-five, his lungs were rattling and he was gasping for breath, he'd clung to life for nearly a week now, and today was the day, but it didn't feel real. It couldn't be real.

Fenrir, heir to the Greyback pack, was twenty-three, and for thirteen years, he'd sat at the knee of his Father to learn lesson after lesson, take punishment after punishment and reward after reward like the child he was. He'd received some small powers, but Greyback was always in control, and Fenrir...

Trust me, I'm yours to command, Father, my life is yours until I take my last breath. You know that.

You're mine to command, I command you every day. Do you expect something more, or something less? What do you expect from me?

Thirteen years and two purifications of the pack passed, and still Greyback's favourite son was just an heir, a name, a man with a head full of lessons and little to practise them on, not so much favoured as honoured. Named.

Trust me.

Fenrir thought long and said nothing as Laurel stirred beside him in their bed. He brushed her hair away and drew his fingertips along the cursed scars framing her collarbone, where he'd bit her fourteen years ago and made her his. Greyback's wolf lashed out along their tie, powerful enough still to make him flinch, and Laurel's eyes blinked drowsily open at his sudden movement.

"Good morning," she murmured, and kissed his unshaven cheek.

"Not so good," he returned, resting his head on the mattress again.

Her thin face grew drawn as she settled in next to him. "He wasn't doing well last night, I can tell you that, not when I last checked -- "

There was a knock on the door, and Fenrir shoved the sheet out of the way, cold be damned. "What?" he demanded, shoved just as hard out of his reverie by another cry from his Father's equally delirious wolf, and his own wolf's agitation.

"Father. We need you."

Wesley, his second named son, his expected (but not actual) heir, always the bland and cold soldier, even when likely delivering news of the pack leader's impending death. "What is it?" Fenrir asked, and threw Laurel's trousers to her.

There was a pause on the other side of the door. "It's Father Greyback."

"Don't trouble yourself with this, Wesley, tend to the children." Fenrir lashed out at him over the tie, hard enough that he could hear the reaction through the door.

"Yes, Father."

Wesley left, and Fenrir pulled on clothing, the wolf struggling for control as his anger and frustration began to overwhelm him. He fumbled with his buttons until he felt -- not saw -- Laurel take over, and he exhaled slowly, resentfully, his eyes closed, as the wolf fell silent.

Go to him, it said with a nudge. Don't be afraid.

Without a glance at Laurel, he left the room and stalked upstairs, though he soon felt Laurel assert her presence behind him (as always, not failing for one day in fourteen years). By the time he reached Greyback's door, Wesley and Laurel both flanked him, though he forced them back a step with a mere look.

I'm not afraid of anything, he told the wolf as he opened the door.

The reaction from Greyback was instant, almost automatic -- a stinging slap across the tie, enough to smart but not enough to make him cower. "Father," he began, and knelt in deference beside the bed. "I was coming."

Greyback stared at him. His weathered face was now bony and sharp enough to add a further edge to every order and threat, but the fear was muted by the weakened voice and constricted gasps of breathing. Their pack leader was weak. "Tell me what you've learned," he ground out.

Lessons, always lessons, even now as a death rattle started in his lungs. But as a good son, he never refused a command. "We -- werewolves are superior. We're united, strong and cunning where the wizards are scattered, weak and impulsive. The wolf is our strongest ally, unity our strongest goal, pack our only truth -- "

" -- war our perfect state," Greyback completed.

"And when we are united, unified as a race, then the wizards will know, only then -- "

"Even if Curenton tries." Greyback's lips pulled back into a grim smile.

Fenrir was not so amused. "Pack is the only truth. He knows nothing of pack, understands less. He runs a hotel, Father, and -- "

"Not now," his Father said. "Keep going."

Keep going, his wolf echoed, and so Fenrir did. "We are one pack, as a race, pack is the fundamental state of werewolves, and only when we're unified as one pack can we overcome the wizards." He stared at the rapid, jerky rising and falling of his Father's chest. Child's lessons while his Father died. He was the heir --

"You must keep your pack together, Fenrir." Greyback got in a breath. "Not -- let them scatter. Woman -- or bastard -- or long-lost heirs. You mustn't do what I did -- "

Long-lost heirs. Now wasn't the time for that train of thought. "You have a strong pack, Father, one of the strongest, don't think otherwise -- "

"Bastards and father-killers -- they crave pack, Fenrir, but they'll never have it -- you have to control them, stop them before they start. You must, no antics."

This sounded more and more like a last will and testament, and Fenrir bristled, though his wolf could feel its Father fading. "No. You're not finished. Not yet."

"Damn it, listen to me," Greyback hissed, gasping for air from the effort. "I'm -- I'm your Father, yes, but you're the Father to this pack now, just as there were -- " another gasp -- "Fathers before me and there will be Fathers ... after me. Pack is -- pack is pack, the only truth -- the leader doesn't define the pack -- "

"The pack defines the leader," Fenrir finished, dazed and light-headed at the shock. This was really happening. "Father -- "

"There is nothing without pack, my son," Greyback whispered. "Pack... is what we rely on, and what we defend. Without it... we are nothing."

"Father," Fenrir repeated in a whisper of his own, his fingers tighten in the sheets on the deathbed. His tears spilled over, and he lowered his head, his wolf latching onto its Father. A younger part of Fenrir only wished he could latch onto his Father in the same way.

Greyback lifted his hand to touch his son's lowered head, and his weak wolf gave its son comfort, a paternal brush. The pack is yours.

Fenrir lay his cheek on the cold sheets as Greyback's chest gave a last jerk, his breaths slowing and coming to a stop. Fenrir's hands tightened into fists, white-knuckled, but he said and did nothing, though his Father's approving hand grew cold and heavy on his head.

Footsteps threatened to approach some minutes later, but he turned his head to speak. "No, Wesley." He swallowed to control the emotion in his voice and the silence of his wolf, wiped his face, and only then did Wesley approach, guiding a shaky Fenrir to his feet.

Fenrir lifted his head and met the eyes of the two he trusted most. "We tell the pack," he said. "Find them. Now."

Wesley left without delay, but Laurel lingered, approached and moved to wipe what trace of wetness remained on his face away with her sleeve. Fenrir moved his head, his expression still stoic and sharp. "No," he said.

"Fenrir." She took one of his hands in both of hers, her soft, tiny, womanly hands.

"I'm Father to this pack. And I need you," he said, turning to look at her. "I need you to do what I say when I say it. We have a pack to protect."

Laurel nodded, her soft, adoring expression hardening into a serious, dedicated one. "I understand, Father."

"Then go."

She left him alone with his thoughts and the body of his Father. Fenrir found it in himself to approach Greyback's body after a long moment, and drew the sheet over his Father's lifeless eyes.

Like Greyback and the Fathers before him, Fenrir would press on and fight their war to preserve their pack. Pack was truth, and he needed nothing more than that.

~*~

As a house, the Den wasn't a lot to look at. It was big, but slightly dilapidated, all of the furniture was mismatched, and there were plenty of places where the paint was worn off - but it was four walls and a roof with locks on the doors, which was more than a lot of the people who stayed there may have had otherwise. Less than impressive as a house, its owner and operator, Owen Curenton, liked to think it went beyond that as a safehouse for werewolves who just plain needed somewhere to go. So they went to the Den in northern Pembrokeshire. The nearby village was not particularly thrilled with its presence, as evidenced by the rocks the Curentons kept on their mantle that had usually entered the house - theirs, or the Den - through a window. As time had worn on, the rocks had stopped coming, but all it would take was one spark to start the fire.

The Den was a short walk from the Curenton house, only ten minutes at a leisurely pace, but Erin could make it in five if she ran. Which she did at her mother's bidding; her father was late again. She kicked up the snow as she ran and attempted to push the sleeves of the oversized jumper she'd put on in lieu of a cloak up and over her hands. She could see the lighted house ahead of her, and when she reached it she jumped up the porch steps and breezed through the front door as easily as she did at her own house. "DADDY."

There was no mistaking the voice, or the tone which he'd been called. "In here, Erin," he looked up at the door and she strode in, all indignation with a hand on her hip and the other rebelliously flipping her blonde hair. She might have looked imposing... if the jumper weren't ridiculously large on her thin, four and a half feet tall frame. The corner of his mouth slowly slid upwards.

She knew the look well enough. She marched into his office and went right behind the desk. He was almost surprised that she climbed into his lap and tried not to groan as she did so. She wasn't going to be able to do this for a whole lot longer, that was for certain. "Dad. You are late. You told mum that you would be home half an hour ago."

"Did I?" He looked at his watch. He was going to be in trouble again. "I did. Um. Jeez." He looked at the parchments on the desk and back at his daughter, who was returning a Look of her own, one undoubtedly inherited from his wife's side of the family. "Give me a few more minutes?"

"Dad." She crossed her arms and stared at him. "I thought since your book was done you'd be okay again."

"Oh, don't make faces," he tapped her nose playfully. "Here. Take some ink and parchment and just... draw something, occupy yourself. A few minutes, I promise. Five, tops."

"Five tops?" she repeated, raising one eyebrow.

"Five tops," he promised, kissing her on the cheek and with that, she slid off his lap. He took a bit of scrap parchment and ink and handed it to her, she took a quill out of the holder on the desk. She flounced out of the room without another word, headed for the large main room to wait for her father.

Erin rested her chin in her hand and tried not to sigh impatiently, or look at the clock. Her resolve broke, and she glanced at the clock across the room. Five more minutes had turned into twenty. She gave in completely and gave a sigh, and laid her head down on the table. She could go in and tell him they had to leave, but that'd be like bothering him and he was working and when he was working at home mum said not to bother him -- even though she did sometimes.

She glanced at the clock again. One minute later. She turned over the parchment and tried to read what was written there in her father's unintelligible scrawl. That would pass plenty of time.

Fenrir paced the main room of the Den, which at this hour was empty - rare, but one glare from a pack leader infamous for having two or three werewolves capable of killing without a second thought could clear any room. If Laurel were here, he might have been able to calm down. He still didn't see why she'd actually run away from him, her Father, when he tore Owen Curenton's book, a mockery of their entire kind, into unrecognisable shreds of parchment. It made sense to him; one less copy to be read, one less wizard to be misled by it.

He could storm Owen's office, pick him up by the throat, threaten his life -- take his life, for the betrayal he had delivered to the packs he had supposedly been helping. It was tempting - but temptation waned when he saw a girl, Curenton's young daughter, whiling time away outside the office.

The line of her neck, her light hair against it, reminded him of Laurel lying still in agony after he had nearly broken her collarbone in the heat of the wolf's rage. When he had saved her, claimed her as his.

Fenrir stepped out casually as though he had been walking, and stopped at the sight of her. "Hello," he greeted her quietly. If she didn't respond, he would simply walk on. It was her choice.

"'lo," Erin answered automatically and dejectedly, making out "A wolf's pack is his family", and not a whole lot else. No wonder her dad made people mad with his writing, they were probably mad that they couldn't read most of it. It was actually another few seconds before she looked up at Fenrir, and blinked. She didn't recognise him, and she knew a lot of the regular dwellers at the Den at least in passing. "I don't know you," she told him point blank.

He hadn't expected her to know him; he'd made it a point to remain a bystander in regard to the Den as he did the matters of all wizarding politics, waiting for the day that they showed weakness, that he could stand up on behalf of his race. "Fenrir," he introduced himself, voice low so as to not possibly attract her father's attention from inside the room. "I don't come here often myself, but you might know Laurel. She's one of mine. I know you - you're Owen's daughter, of course."

"Oh!" Erin said, recognition lighting in her eyes. "Yeah, I know Laurel." Not very well, admittedly, but she could conjure up a mental image. "And - yeah," she added needlessly, feeling uncharacteristically shy, and focusing intently on the parchment scrap.

Fenrir just smiled, a baring of teeth. An unintentional intimidation technique, but the girl was likely used to it with the amount of time her father spent with the savage werewolves. "You don't come here often, I don't think," he said as amicably as he could manage. "Your brother is here more often. He brings his wireless. Do you follow Quidditch like him?"

"I don't come as much as him, no," she said, leaning back on her hands. "And I don't follow Quidditch as much as him but I like to watch it, but he reads Quidditch magazines and everything and he's just obsessed, but he runs a betting pool so he has to know what's going on -- " Erin's hand flew to cover her mouth and her cheeks pinked slightly. "I don't think I should mention that."

Fenrir positively grinned at that. Gambling and drinking were banned in the Den, and the owner's son not only taking part but running a pool could harm what reputation the Den had. "Boys will be boys," he allowed. "I was never interested in Quidditch myself." Then, he had never attended Hogwarts, and that was likely the seed of most Quidditch obsession in the wizarding world. But, he had to keep her attention - he hadn't seen a child like this in a long time, and his pack made sure to have its share of children. "Your father brags about your defense skill." Actually, her brother did, but his version sounded more flattering.

To say that Erin wasn't flattered by it would be a lie. She was very flattered, and very pleased. Of course, she knew that her parents were proud of her no matter what and all that rot, but if he was bragging, that was specifically proud, and that was very, very good. "It's my favorite class," she said modestly, trying not to sound too pleased but finding it very hard.

"Eh, so is he bragging about your marks or your skill?" Fenrir teased easily. He didn't think he could step away from this conversation if he wanted to. The girl was too much a temptation, and only feet away.

"Her skill," Jeremy said, clearly having caught the tail end of the conversation but easily deriving the discussion's point. He held a savaged piece of leather in his hands, the binding of what used to be a copy of Pack: The Sociology of the Werewolf Pack, and gripped it in order to force a polite, unworried smile at the werewolf. "Oi, Fenrir, how's the pack? I heard about Greyback, my condolences. Erin, you're still here -- is Dad -- oh sod, he's not still in there, is he? What's he doing?"

"I know I'm still here," she said moodily to Jeremy, and rolled her eyes. "And I don't know what he's doing. He said he'd be right out, shoved this at me, and told me to wait out here," she added, waving the scrap parchment, and then frowned at her hand. There was ink all over it and she was going to have to wash her hands again.

Condolences. Of course. Fenrir didn't move, but gave the impression that he was stepping out of this conversation, allowing the children to interact. However, he kept regarding the two, his wolf considering them with a strange, focused sort of curiosity. It was rare that the man and the wolf within Fenrir did not agree, but this time, the wolf was leading the man. The draw began with the wolf, and the line of Erin's collarbone. The boy was too much a wizard, too old, too independent. The girl was still a child.

Jeremy had never been comfortable with Fenrir, and didn't like the way the werewolf's eye kept falling to his sister. Finally he dismissed it as a typical stereotype and presumption that even he could fall into. Werewolves were very different, but they weren't monsters who preyed on children. "Well, Mum's going to come down here herself and dump a plate over his head if he doesn't come down there while she's casting Warming Charms all over the potroast. I can't blame her. I'm hungry."

"Me too," Erin said, more than a little impatient. "But he's working. I don't mean like regular working but working a lot. And he said he was coming out... Maybe she should come dump a plate over his head, it'd at least get his attention!"

Jeremy considered, reconsidered, and left Erin with the odd bloody werewolf to go open his father's door. "Dad," he said, peering past the edge of the door in case someone was in there, "Mum is going to kill you with the potroast if you don't get back home soon. She didn't say so," he added hurriedly, not wanting to be misquoted, "but that's just a guess by me."

"Death by potroast, it sounds like your mother's style," Owen Curenton answered immediately without looking up, tearing a letter in half and disposing of it in the rubbish bin by his desk. He finally looked at Jeremy, and realized that he'd gotten sidetracked. Again. "... Oh. Oh dear," he sighed. " Is Erin still out there? Did she go home? What time is it, anyway?"

"It's -- half-past eight, Dad." Jeremy sighed and leaned back on the threshold. He paused and nudged the door shut with his trainer, walking nonchalantly towards Owen's desk. "Fenrir's out there. He was talking to Erin. I think he wants to talk to you," he added in an offhand tone, so he wouldn't make it sound as urgent as his gut made it feel.

Half-past eight. Brighid really was going to kill him. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and smiled briefly at Jeremy. "All right then," he said, and stood. Trying to figure out how to explain this away to his wife, he took his cloak off the stand in the corner and made sure that there wasn't anything still smoking in his rubbish bin (it had been known to happen). "This can be quick," he promised, ushering Jeremy out and preparing to lock the door behind him.

Fenrir only carried on a vague conversation with Erin from then, attention focused on the closed door and the privacy within almost to the point that he forgot the girl, the sweet little girl. "Your brother's not taking bets, I think," he said, and then the door opened. Jeremy barely had time to move out of the way before Fenrir pushed the door open, refusing to let Owen shut it. The grin on his face was nasty, the one he used on the doubting pack members, as his anger boiled to the surface. "Ah, Owen. We need to talk."

Owen leaned heavily on the door when he was met with resistance, and steadied himself. He wasn't particularly fond of the markedly predatory grin he was getting from Fenrir, but he pushed his unease aside. "Fenrir," he greeted, hoping this could be short, since not one but both of his children were now waiting for him.

Fenrir stepped past Owen and turned to catch a last glimpse of the girl. Her eyes were still on him, so he flashed what he considered a kind smile to her as he leaned against the wall and waited for Owen to close the door. It was time for this conversation to finally occur, and oh, was he looking forward to it.

Jeremy took a few steps back, more than a little unnerved at what this scene looked like, and grabbed Erin by the wrist. "Time to go. We'll tell Mum Dad's on his way."

Erin didn't realize that Jeremy was trying to pull her away until she felt her shoulder began to complain with the stretch, so entranced was she -- entranced and maybe just a little bit horrified. "But -- "

"Erin, go with your brother, and don't give him trouble. I'll be along soon," Owen told her calmly, and gave a significant look to Jeremy.

She had a hard time not looking put out, but agreed. "Come on, then," she told Jeremy and began to pull him out the door, as if it had been her idea to go all along.

Owen watched long enough to make sure that they were actually going out the door and not lingering on the staircase or something, because Erin did not usually capitulate that easily. But the front door slammed shut, and presumably he and Fenrir were alone. He turned back around into the office, trying not to think about how much he didn't really want to have this conversation, not right now, at least.

Fenrir fixed his gaze on Owen, cracking a smile when he saw that the boy had abandoned the leather binding of the destroyed book where it now lay on the floor outside of the room. He closed the door of the office. "I wonder why you waited until after my Father's death to publish your little book," he said, managing to restrain the anger of his wolf for the time being.

"I'm probably lucky it didn't take longer," he said honestly, stacking parchments while he was still there, mostly busy work to keep his hands occupied. "It's not purposeful," he added, somehow knowing that Fenrir didn't really care, but continued anyway.

"You could have made it very short," Fenrir said, watching Owen occupy himself to avoid keeping focus on the conversation at hand. It was very difficult for Fenrir to stand still, to be civil. This is your chance, the wolf told him. He tried not to sneer. "One page - 'I lived in a nest of chimaeras and survived, aren't I clever?'"

"I suppose I could have, if that had been my intention and message when writing the book, yes," Owen answered frostily, looking up and determining that his activity was more than pointless, so he stopped. "Your Father knew and understood what I was trying to do with that book, he was a significant contributor to my understanding and now, the understanding of more."

Fenrir couldn't contain himself, the wolf, or his own anger any further and saw no need to; a snarl tore from his throat, a low threatening rumble. "You think you understand?" he asked with a dark laugh. "Oh, you think you can understand pack by surrounding yourself with packs, that you can tell everyone what pack means just because you observed? Pack is not just a gathering of werewolves - pack is not just a family - it's everything."

"Words only go so far," he conceded in reply. It was something he struggled with and partly a reason the book had turned out a bit longer than he'd originally intended it to be. "This is more insight than wizards have gotten before... ever. Understanding is what is needed." He somehow thought talking to Fenrir Greyback about understanding was going to be moot but he never liked saying he didn't try.

"Insight? Understanding?" That was too much. Fenrir sneered, starting to fume, and as the wolf sensed the undertone and encouraged it, it started to overwhelm him. "You don't understand and you can't understand, not to even mention how you continue to tell the wizards exactly what they already thought of us. Animals -- living in packs, filthy, jobless, cannibalistic -- you're a false prophet, Owen, and you've betrayed my kind."

"I have done no such thing," he snapped in return, leaning forward on his desk. This was going to turn into a stalemate very quickly and very bitterly. "If you want to call it a betrayal so be it, walk out the door and don't return. If I have not done good I have at least done no harm."

Fenrir strode over to Owen, and slammed his hand down on the desk, jarring the parchment. He leaned on the desk, mocking Owen's own posture. The wolf stared out of his eyes at the activist on the other side of the desk; the man had almost entirely lost control. "We can only hope that the wizards, as usual, ignore you completely." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "And Owen? We both dream of a better future, and want what's best for my kind. The difference is that I'm right and you're wrong."

To say that Owen expected the book to fly off the shelves would be an exaggeration. Magical libraries would take it for the purposes of filling their shelves and taking up space. Some would buy it because it would make them look like they cared, but they wouldn't read it. Then there would be those who would buy it because they were genuinely curious. They would be the ones who would read it, and Owen was optimistic that there would be more than a few of those, and word would spread. In any event, it wasn't going to be rising to the top of the best-sellers list. "Maybe," he said slowly. "Maybe not."

Fenrir stared at him, and gave him that same wicked, toothy grin -- it unnerved many a wizard, but Owen Curenton was no normal wizard. "Don't get too lost in dreams, Owen," he said matter-of-factly, straightening to a regular posture. "Your family misses you."

"Then perhaps we can consider the discussion over for the night?" he said. He doubted that it would truly be over soon. "Undoubtedly you have pack matters to see to." That don't involve denouncing me.

"Of course." Fenrir gave a small shrug, withdrawing a few steps backward before he turned around, walking to the door. "I'm not the only one who feels this way. Be careful." He opened the door, shut it calmly, and left the Den -- it was time to eat, and it was time to think.

Owen dropped into his desk chair uneasily. Surely...no. Fenrir was no longer a boy who couldn't keep his temper. But still, he waited only a moment before taking his wand and locking the office door from the inside. Instead of making the walk tonight, he was going to Apparate. And he did so, Disapparating with an unfocused crack. His family was waiting for him.

~*~

It was a tried and true formula, one that had yet to fail. Fenrir would make the decision, Laurel would make the arrangements, and she and Wesley would put them into practice. The house would be picked, the window would be open, and in the end, the appetite of the wolf would always be satisfied.

Tonight Laurel proved herself. Fenrir wasn't one to often praise or appreciate one member of the pack over any other, but Laurel had made her mark tonight. There were others who kept control near the full moon almost as well, but Laurel was the most loyal, trustworthy, and courageous, the most willing to give anything for the good of the pack. He made a mental note to reward her when the dust settled.

Tonight broke the formula; tonight he was at the Den, in their highly reinforced full moon rooms. It was a waiting game; as the moonlight touched on the corner of the room, the werewolves began to bristle and transform. Fenrir crawled to the door, pacifying his struggling wolf until he could rap on the door. Laurel yanked the door open, and he scrambled out on his hands and knees.

Laurel collapsed through the door, fur ripping through her skin and a growl through her throat. Fenrir shuddered to contain the wolf as he barred the door from the outside, but the wolf tolerated no more.

We'll show him.

The wolf was happy to be free. It was angry, it was impatient, and it wanted blood, it wanted her. Fenrir let it run, guiding it with soft mental touches if it strayed from the path it was meant to take.

It guided the door open (yet another of Laurel's preparations) with its muzzle, and crept up the stairs with Fenrir's remarkable control at the helm.

Erin Curenton was sleeping. Her head rested on a defence book she'd brought home from the Hogwarts library, and her wand held loosely in her hand, still shining with a lumos and casting a soft light on her face.

She awoke immediately to the knowledge that something was terribly wrong. Her entire arm and shoulder felt like it was on fire, and she could feel her skin ripping with the force of... claws? Teeth? This was terrifying and not at all a dream or even a nightmare. This was real, and painful, and once her body hit the wooden floor of her bedroom, she began to scream. She screamed, and screamed, until she found herself literally unable to. Her throat would simply not let her, even after she tried to choke out a strangled cry.

The wolf was not exceedingly concerned with self-control, but it did know fear, both that of the victim and of itself. Looking less the fearsome wolf than the rebellious wild dog, Fenrir dragged Erin down the stairs and through the door. The man inside wished she would continue screaming.

Jeremy heard Erin screaming, and almost dismissed it as a nightmare until he heard the genuine panic in her voice and the sound of growling, and no, no, it couldn't possibly be true, no bloody fucking way -- "ERIN!" He ran towards her room and stumbled back as the hunched figure of a werewolf -- one of them, one of them attacking, how did they get out, no -- pulled her away. Fear rushing cold down his neck, he grabbed his wand from his bedside table and followed them. He had to save her, no matter what, he had to save her.

Her head hit the stoop of the door with a thunk, and Jeremy panicked as he watched the werewolf -- no, he HAD TO DO SOMETHING. "Dad," he yelled in warning, before running after the predator and raising his wand to protect her. As the first syllable of "STUPEFY" spilled from his lips, the werewolf raised its head and met his eyes. Jeremy froze in fear.

He didn't know werewolves could pounce. Its full weight was on his chest, its breath stinking of Erin's blood, hot on his face, blood on its teeth and it gave him one moment of immensely satisfying terror before it bit into his shoulder. He screamed.

"STUPEFY!" Owen hexed the wolf, wand remaining ready. His brain was going at full tilt by the time he saw the werewolf on his son. He didn't even register Erin's ravaged and unconscious body halfway out the door. The only thing on his mind was save Jeremy, while you still can.

The wolf, whoever it was, froze and collapsed where he was, on top of Jeremy. Owen's first action was to get him off his son, which he did with a rather strong wave of his wand and into the nearby wall. He took in a sharp breath when he saw Jeremy on the floor, bitten and bleeding, but thankfully breathing. He kneeled by his head and touched him briefly before sighting Erin, in much worse condition. Now it was not only his brain that was going a million miles an hour, but his heart as well. "BRIGHID," he called up the stairs to his wife. "BRIGHID, IT'S SAFE, BUT COME NOW."

Brighid ran, nearly falling over the steps, expecting to see the worst, both of her children dead and Owen torn and bloody. The worst nightmares sitting in the forefront of her mind now were not far from what was in front of her. She took his hand, then stared at Erin and her hand flew to her mouth. "Owen," she choked out.

"They need to go to St. Mungo's," he told her, calmly as possible. He saw her eyes still on Erin and gently took her chin to make her face him until her eyes followed. "You need to take Erin. I'll follow with Jeremy, right behind you. You can do that." It was certainty, not a question, it needed to be done.

Brighid had always considered herself a strong woman, but approaching Erin... she looked so pale. The blood was dark on her clothes; Brighid breathed in with a shudder and found that she was crying. She pulled Erin up, wrapped her arms around her little girl and sank to her knees. She wasn't strong enough. No one could be strong enough for this.

"Apparate, love, you have to," he told her urgently. He could take one of them but not both, and he would be damned if he was going to choose who to take first. Maybe he was mad to think there was a chance Erin could survive something like that, but it would surely be worse to give up -- they wouldn't even make it if he didn't make her go first, he just knew it looking at Brighid.

"Have to," she agreed shakily, hands still clutched around Erin and stained with her daughter's blood. She clung to Erin, Erin's body, and staring over at the rising and falling of Jeremy's chest, managed to Apparate with shaking hands.

They were gone -- to the hospital, where there would be help. Please let there be help, he thought, and glanced at the wolf again. The hex would last long enough for someone -- MLES, whatever -- to get there. "Hold on, Jeremy," he told his son, gathered him in his arms and Disapparated.