Fathers and Sons

Fathers and Sons

Chapter 3: Ends and Beginnings

The investigation of the crimes of Fenrir Greyback is pending. For once, the Curenton family declined to comment. Trenton Williamson, "Werewolf Attack in Wales" The Daily Prophet, 6 January 1977.

January 1977

Rufus Scrimgeour began each day with a cold shower, a hearty breakfast, and a single-minded focus on getting into the Auror office and right to work. Today was the start of the third day that his job -- generally described as tracking Dark Wizards and trailing Death Eaters -- became that of petsitter and prosecutor to a dangerous, murderous werewolf. The importance of handling this situation well, however, was not lost on him. With every owl of concern from every frightened mother and angry citizen he'd received in the past two days, he knew this case coud very well begin a panic among the public if left to a lesser Auror. Really, he was flattered.

Reality lessened the appeal, unfortunately, as he went from writing practical platitudes in response to strategically picked letters of concern and began to prepare himself for another conversation with the werewolf. Most might not have involved themselves and appointed the more junior Aurors to deal directly with the prisoner in a situation that was as cut and dry as this, but that was why he was worthy of this stirring, controversial, and ultimately pointless and forgettable case.

He tossed his quill aside and stood straight, with the pictures of the brother and sister in hand; the girl was unrecognisable, mauled, the boy pale and ripped to shreds but alive, but both were too young to have suffered in such a way.

The delay was fortunate, as a memo flew to his desk as he stood in contemplation. He unfolded it without hesitation.

Auror Scrimgeour,

Mr Crouch requests your immediate presence in his office.

Respectfully,

Emily Bradley, Asst to the Department Head

There was no need to be nervous. He made his way without hesitation to the desk outside of the Department Head's office, and simply nodded to Emily (a nice and comely girl) at his arrival, and patiently waited as she opened the door of Barty Crouch's office to announce "Auror Rufus Scrimgeour" before he entered.

"Good morning, Mr Crouch," he began, head lowered in deference.

Memos fluttered around Crouch's head, an owl waiting on his desk to carry back a response, but he took his time and prioritised as he spoke. "Yes, it's a fine morning, isn't it, Scrimgeour? I do think we're off to a good start today."

Smalltalk -- the bane of the Auror's existence, but politics was unavoidable, particularly with a man so skilled at it running the Department. "Yes, Mr Crouch, today is looking up. Auror Moody was already on the move when most of us were on our way to the office, that always bodes well for good news at the end of the day."

Crouch looked up with approval. "Ah, yes, Auror Moody. A good man, fine Auror, a credit to our Department. I've heard you've benefited thoroughly from his leadership."

Scrimgeour chose to bite his tongue. His opinion of Alastor Moody was not the usual sort of frightened respect, but most didn't know Alastor as well as he did. "Yes, Mr Crouch."

Crouch took that as his cue to get to the point. "I summoned you here for a specific reason, Auror Scrimgeour. I'm to understand that you're currently working on the werewolf?"

"Yes, Mr Crouch, and things are progressing as we expected, and as they should."

He looked over his glasses at the Auror. "I would like to be briefed on the situation, and you're the man to do it. Can you spare some time?"

It wasn't an offer any employee could refuse, naturally, but it was his professional duty to at least hesitate. "Sir, I wonder if there aren't more, ah, pressing matters than the werewolf -- "

As expected, Crouch waved that off. "This story is a nightmare, a horror story come to life and printed on the front page. Dark Creatures running amok, maiming innocent children, I'm sure you've received your share of anxious post from angry mothers..."

"Yes, sir," Scrimgeour said, with feeling.

Crouch gained a thin smile at that. "I expect you're handling it well. In any case, I feel the need to address and reassure the wizarding peoples of Britain that things are truly under control. There's a press conference this afternoon. You understand."

"Yes, Mr Crouch." He assessed the situation and went on. "The werewolf is not registered with the Werewolf Registry, but that's a problem to be expected -- many werewolves purposefully sequester themselves away from proper wizarding society. This presents a further problem, however. We don't have his name on record, and he refuses to give it."

"What does he say for himself, then?" He leaned forward, looking over his glasses with a discerning look.

Scrimgeour gave an unamused, grim sort of smile. "He says his name is Fenrir."

"A clever little alias," Crouch scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "Nonsense. Well, what has he said under Veritaserum?"

"He believes this. Brainwashed, perhaps, too far removed from normal wizarding society. We're working on him, sir, he is..." Scrimgeour hesitated to say it aloud.

Crouch didn't have time for games. "Go on."

Scrimgeour cleared his throat and stood straight. "He attacked the children on purpose, sir."

"That's impossible," Crouch said, and busied himself with scribbling down a quick owl in answer to the head of the Department of Transportation about a later lunch. "Werewolves lose all semblance of reason at the full moon."

There was nothing Scrimgeour could say to that; he didn't have the nerve to contradict the head of the Department, even with the truth. "It's only been two days, sir, you'll have a complete report by the end of the -- "

Crouch stood and stopped him with a wave of his hand. "No need, Auror Scrimgeour. If I might accompany you to his cell, my questions will all be answered."

Scrimgeour couldn't have been more stunned if Crouch had hopped on the desk and begun to tapdance. "Mr Crouch, all due respect, this might well be a waste of your time."

"This is the crisis of the day," Crouch said, patiently as though explaining to a misunderstanding child, "and I would like to confront it, solve it, and be on with the real business of thwarting the Dark Lord's designs. After you, Scrimgeour, unless you have a more compelling argument."

Scrimgeour deferred, kept his mouth shut, and ordered his two junior Aurors along with them as they began the long walk to the holding cells. The third door led to a specially reinforced cell used to hold Dark Creatures, and could never be mistaken for a cell meant to hold a dyed-in-the-wool illegal potion ingredient dealer.

Much to his surprise, Crouch wore that thin smile again at seeing the daunting door. "I recall there being a long debate about whether or not Araminta Meliflua was best held in this cell rather than one of the others," he said. "Go on, open it."

Scrimgeour undid the many charms and took out the key, nodding to the two junior Aurors to take out their wands and flank him as he opened the door. "Keep your distance," he warned Crouch in an undertone. "We aren't as certain as we'd like about the irons."

"Yes, of course." Crouch strode inside, followed by the Aurors, and looked down at the huge, ragged man. The werewolf was easily twice his size and young, even if it was difficult to tell underneath the overgrown hair and facial hair.

He flicked at his sleeve with one long yellow fingernail and eyed the new arrivals. "Brought some fresh meat for me this time, eh, Scrimgeour? Little early for lunch."

"I'm afraid we have no more time for your games and riddles." Scrimgeour was unmoved. "What is your name, sir?"

"Fenrir," he repeated. "Educated at Hogwarts, and he can't remember my name -- "

Scrimgeour set his jaw. "A very clever alias, sir, but I need to know your real name, your legal name, as a matter of public record."

"Fenrir is my real name, Scrimgeour, I don't know how many times I have to say it for you to understand."

"Mr ... Fenrir," Crouch interrupted, stern but polite. "My name is Bartemius Crouch, sir, and I am the head of -- "

"I know who you are," the werewolf said, scathing. "Everyone knows who you are."

"The charges you are facing are very serious, and I'm afraid that you are in no position to halt our investigation. Now, I will ask you again, what is your name, your full name, first and last, that your parents gave you?"

"My Father named me Fenrir," he snarled, and spat on the floor.

Crouch's lip curled in disdain. "And your father's name?"

A look of arrogant pride immediately eclipsed his disdain for the wizard. "Greyback."

Crouch turned back to Scrimgeour. "Fenrir Greyback, there you have it." Nonsense, of course, but they had known from the start that the werewolf was delusionally mad, so such a name fit the horror story well.

"Yes, Mr Crouch," Scrimgeour said mildly as he took note of this.

"I like that son of yours, Crouch."

Everything was still for a moment as the atmosphere in the room perceptibly changed, with the werewolf now more smirking than cryptic, his mocking gaze on the Department Head who was frozen in place. "Excuse me?" Crouch asked, anger slipping into his tone.

Fenrir went on, relishing the words. "Too old for my tastes, I think, too selfish and fat-headed at that age, but doesn't mean I wouldn't enjoy a bite if I had the chance -- "

"That's enough," Crouch snapped. "Scrimgeour -- "

"Same age as Curenton's boy, isn't he, or nearly? Too bad, I meant to keep the girl, sweet girl she was, so sweet -- "

"Greyback, that is all," Scrimgeour started, advancing with his wand raised.

Fenrir gave a harsh tug at the irons on his arms, which creaked at his strength, and Scrimgeour didn't even blink. Fenrir grinned. "She had the sweetest smile, but smart as a whip. I wanted her, not the boy. World doesn't need another Curenton like Owen, do they? Tell me you're not relieved, wizards, or at least amused -- Owen Curenton's out of your hair now, with me to thank."

Scrimgeour was, as always, unmoved by the werewolf's raving attempt at intimidation. "I doubt it. Now that's enough babbling from you, I won't have you waste -- "

Crouch raised his hand to stop the Auror from going on. "You meant to hurt those children?" he asked the werewolf.

Fenrir contemplated that, and looked up at them. "Children are our future," he said. "And Owen can't be trusted with them. Can you?"

Abruptly, Crouch turned to Scrimgeour and away from the werewolf. "I want a report on my desk within the hour. Let's get this over and done with by the end of the month, Scrimgeour, I expect nothing less."

"When's lunch?" Fenrir called over, with a wide, yellow grin.

Scrimgeour ushered the others out and turned to the werewolf. "Whenever we damn well feel like it, now keep quiet," he said, and shut the door. He sent the junior Aurors on their way and looked to Mr Crouch, who looked as shaken as Scrimgeour had ever seen him in a decade. "As you can tell, Mr Crouch, at best he is not in his right mind. It's our duty to remove this sort of danger to society, to the children."

Crouch shook his head. "Save it for the report," he said curtly. "Within the hour, Scrimgeour. There's no more time to waste. We have a war to win."

At that, Scrimgeour watched the most powerful man in wizarding Britain walk away, and locked the door. One report, one trial, and one execution, and Magical Law Enforcement could get back to the regular sort of madmen and the fight that actually mattered.

~*~

The funeral was small, simple, and went about as well as the funeral of an eleven year old girl could be expected to go. Brighid managed to fend off two reporters at the onset without resorting to any sort of act of violence, and she was there to soothe her son, which was enough for her. Jeremy had particular difficulties leaving the hospital only three days after the attack, and his condition was obviously only worsened by being freed to go to his sister's funeral, so Brighid couldn't help but dote on him. He looked so pale, so thin, like he was suffering from an exhaustion that no amount of rest could save him from. The way he looked terrified her, a constant reminder of how easily she could lose them both.

Owen held one of her hands and her other gripped Jeremy's as Damocles Belby, Owen's best friend and Jeremy's godfather, gave Erin's eulogy. Halfway through she felt Jeremy start to shake, and it broke her heart, but she thought nothing of it, listening, then sobbing, and by the end it was just a matter of breathing in and out. Her little girl was dead, her world was destroyed, but at least her son was alive.

She shook someone's hand and took in the mostly empty room with an equally empty gaze as the service ended, comforted only by her husband's presence beside her. "Nell did a good job," she said after a moment. "Of course, she's been taking care of me since we both could walk, suppose it's not very surprising." Here she was, at Erin's funeral, chattering and joking about her sister. Insanity.

The way Owen saw it, Brighid could use a little taking care of these days, and while he didn't know that he'd ever say it in all seriousness, Nell had been a godsend. "Your sister did very well," Owen agreed, and pressed a kiss to Brighid's hair. He caught a look at Jeremy, and watched him carefully for a moment -- he was white, very white.

"Yes -- yes, oh, she's back, I'll thank her again -- " Brighid reminded herself to breathe again, and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "And Damocles did well."

"He did," he said with a slow nod. What else was there to say? It was a fitting tribute to his girl that shouldn't have had to happen. It was like a nightmare, except nobody was going to wake up. "Thank her for all of us."

She nodded, slowly withdrew with a few steps back, and forced herself to leave Owen's side for what was probably the first time all day.

Owen bit back a sigh and rubbed his forehead. He glanced back at Jeremy, unable to help but be concerned. He'd hardly said two words since they picked him up this morning -- then again, he'd spent the better part of the last two days mostly unconscious. "Jeremy?"

His name. He could answer to that. He could get his head to clear for at least a second long enough to answer. "Yeah?" he forced out, and with the brief instant of control and clarity he could feel himself in a cold sweat.

"Just making sure you're still with us." He tried to keep it light, but it was proving difficult. He reached out to touch his son on the head, and was momentarily shocked -- he was drenched. He immediately cursed himself; why hadn't he been paying attention? "Jeremy," he repeated.

Now he had control, now he could speak, so he leapt on the opportunity. "I -- I can't -- why can't I -- they never say it's like this Dad," he babbled. His voice sounded far too loud to his ears but it wasn't nearly as loud as his mind.

Owen smoothed Jeremy's dark hair like he was six again instead of sixteen. It didn't occur to him immediately what was going on, although it perhaps should have. Three days after the infecting bite, the wolf was making its presence known. "It's okay," he said. "Deep breaths."

Jeremy barely felt his father's touch but the wolf flinched and he jerked back hard enough to start the pain in his infected shoulder again. He's not our father, he isn't one of us, it spat. The misery, the confusion and the sudden flash of pain was enough to force tears into his eyes. "It -- no -- I can't, it won't," he said, breathing hard.

He withdrew his hand -- was he ever going to be able to touch Jeremy again? A hug, a handshake, anything? -- but otherwise did not budge an inch. "You can," Owen said calmly, much more calmly than he felt. "Slow, deep breaths," he repeated.

He obediently tried, slowed his breaths to something near normal, and attempted to draw in one deliberate breath that entered so sharply it hurt. It was the fight for control in his own head he had to focus on. His head. Not this other thing, the wolf. This was his head. No. Mine. My body. You wait.

Then he closed his eyes hard and focused on the pain in his shoulder, on the knowledge that his sister's coffin was only feet away with her little midget firstie body inside it, on the fact that he would never see Hogwarts again, and breathed out. And it was there, but quiet. He breathed again, and barely kept from breaking down out of exhaustion right where he sat.

"There's a lad," he said quietly, swallowing the emotion balled in his throat and trying not to be awash in the ever persistent guilt.

"I'm tired," Jeremy muttered, and sank back in the chair out of the posture of the calm, controlled grieving brother to the much more comfortable position of invalid.

"I expect you are," he said. He was tired too, but out of sleepless nights and the emotionally exhausting trials that had been placed before them.

"What is going on?" Brighid finally asked after hovering for a good few seconds. "Jeremy, are you feeling all right?"

Owen looked up at Brighid. "He's worn out," he answered for his son. "And it..." It somehow seemed unnecessary at the moment to describe it in full, Brighid could hear about it later. "It's been a trying day," he concluded.

She sat on the other side of her son and touched his hair tenderly, drawing him into her arms when he shivered. "Oh, we should get you back to the hospital," she soothed. "Just a bit longer, love, and it'll all be fine."

Owen stared ahead at Erin's casket -- closed, even cleaned of the blood she wasn't fit for a viewing -- and sighed heavily. It was perhaps for the best that everyone's memory of their Erin would be with a throat. Deep breaths, he silently reminded Jeremy, sorry that was the best advice that he could him right now.

Brighid held onto Jeremy as tightly and desperately as she'd held onto Erin three days earlier, just glad to feel him warm and alive in her arms, though he clung to her like a child. When he rested against her, calm, taking even breaths, she looked up at Owen. "Let's go."

He swallowed and looked to Brighid, and at Jeremy, what was left of his little family. "Yes," he agreed, and stood. "They're waiting on us, I expect."

"Are you ready?" she murmured to her son, only withdrawing when he nodded. She caught Owen's eye for a moment, but looked away, unable to speak in platitudes or comfort while her family was falling apart. "Come along, love," she whispered to Jeremy, carefully helping him up.

God, his son looked like the walking dead. Owen kept a hand on him as well, just on his arm. The only reason he felt secure about Jeremy being there in the first place was because Damocles was there as well. He silently led them outside into the January morning, on a short walk to where Erin would be laid to rest.

~*~

Remus suppressed a yawn as he wandered downstairs, and finally gave up the fight as the yawn overpowered him. It was fairly early in the morning yet -- late for Remus, though, who was habitually an early riser. The house was quiet, but then, there was nothing new there. When he was younger, Remus often wondered how much noisier it would be if he were not an only child. As he grew older, he grew to like the quiet, though, not only because he was himself a quiet person, but the wolf (it was the only way he could think of it) much preferred it to the cacophony of being surrounded by wizards.

The house still held a little bit of the early morning chill, and Remus shivered slightly as he stepped from the rug in the corridor to the tile in the kitchen. Breakfast dishes were still on the table along with the newspaper. The only thing out of place in the Lupin kitchen was Nichole, or more exactly, the expression on her face. She stood at the sink and stared out the window at the yard, seemingly deep in some kind of thought -- and a disturbing thought, from the look of it. "Mum?" he asked, concerned.

Nichole Lupin snapped out of it, her head whirling around to glance at her son. For a moment Remus thought she looked as though she'd been caught at something she shouldn't be doing, but chalked it up to nothing when she smiled. "Morning Remus," she said and kissed him on the cheek.

He returned it, adding, "Morning." He looked at the table again. "Did Dad go to work yet?"

"Not yet, he's in the study," she said, with an odd tone to her voice. Her smile faded slightly to something more tinged with worry. "Go ahead and sit down, you need to finish packing before you head back and no one can do that on an empty stomach."

Well, there was toast. He sat down at the table, picked up a slice and began to spread marmalade on it. He also snagged the paper from the place next to him, where his father sat. Things were quiet as he breakfasted, his mother busying herself. He scanned article after article; Ministry said this, someone else said that. It was all quite in the ordinary until one article caught his eye. He dropped the toast and picked the newspaper up with both hands. "Mum," he said suddenly, "it's the..."

"The Curentons?" she said. "Yes, we -- we saw," she finished as casually as possible. If Remus saw her face he would have seen the perturbed look return to it, but he was entranced on the newspaper. The Curentons did not live far, and Owen Curenton's Den was easily just as close. Given Remus's condition, it had been something unavoidable but at the same time avoided. Even though Remus knew it was there, it was an unspoken rule that Lupins were to have as little to do with anything pertaining to werewolves and things related as possible.

After he'd read the article, he uneasily put the newspaper down and looked at his plate. His stomach turned and he didn't so much feel like eating anymore. The girl had died, they said. He looked up when his father strode into the room. Alexander Lupin was not normally an agitated man -- quiet yes, but his silence now was not an aspect of personality, instead more akin to irritation and keeping his mouth closed for fear of saying something he'd regret. Remus straightened, ignored the jump of the wolf, and said, "Dad, did you see? The -- "

He picked up the abandoned coffee cup from its place on the table. "Curentons, yes," he said so sharply that Remus didn't reply further. "I should go, I'm late," he added, moving to kiss Nichole and put the now empty coffee mug in the sink. He went back to leave through the back door and Disapparate, and looked back to Remus. Remus wished that he could read the look on his father's face, one so marked by so many different things as to render it puzzling. "Have a good term," he told him, not unkindly, and left.

The kitchen was silent for a long moment until Nichole spoke up again. "Well. Big day, Remus, d'you want something else with the toast?"

Remus looked at the plate again, and at the newspaper. "I'm not really hungry, I don't think," he said.

His mother approached behind him and rested her chin on the top of his head. "Nothing's going to happen to you," she said softly, with such love that his breath caught in his throat. "Help me with breakfast dishes, then we can finish packing and get you on your way to London."

He nodded his agreement and she kissed his hair before withdrawing. Remus picked up the newspaper again and folded it neatly, leaving it on a corner of the table. They washed, rinsed, and dried the dishes in silence, with each lost in their own private thoughts, disturbed by the morning's news.

~*~

Julia stared at the headline of The Daily Prophet with blank shock. Well, it wasn't really the headline, but it was a nice sized article on page three, and there was a rather bold statement at the top: Activist Family Tragedy. Son bitten. Daughter dead. Father on the defensive. Mother mentioned only in reference to her children. All bereft, a family torn apart by a werewolf called Fenrir Greyback.

She read the article several times, and then each paragraph several times in a row, and then the article again. Breakfast activity continued around her, her younger brother Daniel reaching across her several times without reprimand (unusual, but not worthy of remarking on), older siblings Michael and Abigail were talking animatedly, but none of their words managed to penetrate the shock that was tightly wrapped around her brain.

Her mother, finished with the most recent issue of Herbology Quarterly, then asked, "Are you finished with the paper yet, love?"

"I'm reading," Julia answered blankly.

"You've been reading for the past twenty minutes," Moira Frobisher said gently. "Maybe I can trade you?" she asked, beginning to hint at the exchange by pushing the magazine at her and trying to slide the newspaper out from under her hands.

"No," she yelled, refusing to let the newspaper move. Her cheeks reddened when she realized she'd brought the breakfast table to a complete stand still. All three of her siblings were now quiet, staring at her. "I'm reading," she repeated in almost a whisper.

Surprised and confused, Moira blinked. "Okay..." she said. "What are you reading?"

"Article," she murmured. She stared at the newspaper, none of the words making sense anymore, just a jumble of black letters on a white paper. One sentence jumped out at her. As for Fenrir Greyback's fate, one need look no further back than 1967 for the last werewolf that committed such a heinous crime. "There's a werewolf going to get Dementor's Kiss for killing Erin Curenton and biting Jeremy," she said, the words spilling out like water out of an overflowing cup.

Julia looked across the table at Michael. He looked just about the same as he ever did, a guarded expression on his face with no intention of letting it down. They were the ones who shouldn't be here. They'd never been made to feel any such way, of course, but it was a deeper feeling, that they were being denied something. She knew he felt it, too. "Going flying," he said abruptly, jumping up from his chair and going out the back door before anyone could stop him.

Nobody spoke as Michael left, and Moira shook her head slightly when she heard the door slam. "Just like his mother," she murmured, not loud enough to make it an official part of the conversation but loud enough so that the people at the table heard. There were some things that the family didn't talk about or mention. A lot of it was surrounded around the fact that Julia and Michael weren't really Moira and Matthew Frobisher's children, but the children of Matthew's brother Joshua, and why they were there. They fit into the family neatly, and they closely resembled one another, so it was easy to believe that the four Frobisher children were one family, rather than two and two.

Abby pushed her leftover bangers and mash around her plate awkwardly, and Daniel gnawed on a piece of bacon. Julia stared at the paper again. She found it difficult to equate leaving the table at an uncomfortable moment with the unspeakable offense of walking out on your children and husband. If they both had subpar coping skills, so what? Michael would be back in an hour or two, after eleven years it was a safe bet that Mairwyn Frobisher was not coming back.

"Isn't the Curenton bloke your boyfriend?" Daniel asked, breaking the silence. Five very long seconds ago, Julia would have given anything for it to end, and now she wished Daniel had never spoken.

"No," she answered, jumping up from her chair. "Going upstairs," she added over her shoulder, making a beeline for the staircase.

"She wanted him to be her boyfriend," Daniel said as an authority on the subject, having teased her about it repeatedly. "Too bad, now he won't be around."

"Eat your toast, Daniel," Moira told him, folding up the newspaper, having quite lost her interest in reading it.

~*~

His hospital bed was comfortable, there were Healers on call for food and painkillers whenever he wanted or needed them, and the end of holidays didn't mean a looming return to classes and homework for him, but Jeremy couldn't have been unhappier than he was trapped in a comfortable hospital bed at St Mungo's. Really, his own firm mattress, mum's stew and a simple Dreamless Sleep potion would've been enough for him. Though the Healers seemed to try to make it standable, there was no denying that right now he was just as imprisoned in his hospital bed as Fenrir Greyback was imprisoned at the Ministry.

His mother was gone for the day after a constant vigil at his side, and when he'd been foolish enough to think he could get some peaceful sleep or good conversation with his dad when a man from the Werewolf Registry arrived. He introduced himself to Owen as Elliot Pittiman without actually introducing himself to Jeremy at all. He had no problem with that. To acknowledge him would be admitting that this man was there for him, and that he was in fact a werewolf.

"Would you lay on your back, Jeremy?" Pittiman sent the boy a polite smile and withdrew the wand from his pocket. "This is simply procedure, a regular tracking charm, and so no need to worry about your privacy. Only in the case of... mishaps do we actually pursue our werewolves."

Their werewolves. It offended the latent activist in Jeremy, but he didn't say a word, just rolled over to allow the charmswork to begin.

Owen couldn't make himself believe that mishaps occurred, not now. He'd always thought that things happened with a reason, an end to them, although in this case he despaired of finding one. No reason for Jeremy to be bitten and have all the doors that had once been open to him slam shut, no reason for Erin to be dead and in the ground. Nothing that could come instead could possibly be worth it.

No end, but he knew clearly enough that he was the cause. When it was found that Fenrir was responsible for the attack, there was no doubt in Owen's mind that it was deliberate, planned, and vengeful. It was a crime intended to take his very heart and slowly kill him -- and it was working. He tried to send Jeremy a slight smile, but couldn't stand to see the hopelessly blank expression on his face, and so resumed his pacing at the side of the bed.

"I can tell it works so well," Jeremy said acidly. The wolf sensed the surge of resentment and moved within him, pressing for control. Pittiman gave him a warning look, but the wolf didn't back down and Jeremy let it seize the reins. It was easier not to fight. "But why don't you just do your job so someone in the fucking Werewolf Registry can say as much, all right?"

"Jeremy," Owen started. He'd meant for it to be a warning, but it came out virtually toneless, more tired than anything else.

"The Werewolf Registry does what it can." Pittiman spoke up in defence of his employer, though his tone was strung with tension masking the panic of someone who had been through this sort of awkward situation more than once before. "We do what we can with what we have, and Mr Scamander -- "

"This isn't what the Registry was made for," Jeremy interrupted. "This isn't what Newt Scamander wanted and it's stupid to say otherwise, I don't know who the hell you think you're fooling."

"We know what you do," Owen said flatly, and fought the absurd urge to laugh. It wasn't really funny, but an employee of the Registry was trying to justify their operations to him? "Just... finish, please," the silent addendum to that being and then you can go.

The charm was complex, but Pittiman was a professional with the strong desire to get out of there, and finished without delay soon enough. "Here," he said with a bit of a sigh as he held the envelope out to Owen, "is the paperwork, I'm sure you know everything involved, if you have any questions, you know to direct them to, ah, Mr Twiddle. I'm sorry for your loss," he added before leaving.

Owen nodded, accepted the envelope and just held it for a moment. He did indeed know what was involved, knew what every scrap of parchment was going to say. He set it down on the table at the side of the bed delicately, as though it was something that would otherwise explode. "Damocles said you would likely be able to come home today," he started, and cleared his throat. "Barring any complications with the wound itself."

"You mean I might actually see him?" Jeremy didn't exactly expect his godfather to be thrilled that he was a werewolf now, but he'd been in the hospital since the attack and he could count the times he'd seen Healer Damocles Belby on one hand. "But, good, I guess."

"If we'd known what it takes to get his attention..." he answered wryly, unable to keep still as he resumed his pacing. "He said he'd be in before lunch, anyway."

"If you want to get out of here, you can," he said, practically mumbling as his father made an attempt to wear a rut into the floor. "I mean, I wouldn't blame you or something."

Owen stopped in his tracks again at the end of the bed, and gave Jeremy a look. "I'm staying," he said, very mildly for the look he was giving him. A couple more steps, slowly. "What d'you suppose your mum and Aunt Nell are up to?"

"Do you want a thoughtful, nice answer, or what I really think they're up to?" Jeremy returned, in much the same tone.

Owen had a feeling as to what his wife and sister-in-law were up to that day, but he didn't want to dwell on it. Brighid was his grounding force, seeing her devastation was wearing hard on him, and he was left feeling shiftless and helpless. "Surprise me, I have time," he sighed.

"I think Aunt Nell's getting her drunk." Jeremy shifted in his bed, compensating for his shoulder. "Just watch, she'll be two to three sheets to the wind once she gets here."

He considered it, and finally nodded. "You're probably not wrong about that," he said, and bit back another sigh.

Jeremy looked at his dad for a moment, the wolf calming, backing down, and he started, "Dad -- " only to halt at hearing someone open the door to his room.

Owen looked up too, at the woman who was looking back at them. He eyed her, she was looking bright-eyed, eager, and... young. Older than Jeremy by a few years, but undoubtedly young. "May we help you?" he asked warily.

"Mr Curenton," she began, approaching him and offering her hand, "I thought you might remember me, I contacted you about a short human interest piece for The Daily Prophet, my name is Mary Brookstanton? Oh, I don't know that we did meet in person, well, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"I've been busy," he said dryly, and reluctantly shook her hand briefly. "We did not meet -- Miss Brookstanton, this is... an inappropriate time and place to discuss it -- " In addition to the fact that he knew what human interest looked like to the Prophet, and didn't have an interest in perpetuating the myth of it.

"I was hoping to talk to your son, actually, if you wouldn't mind. There's been a great outpouring of sympathy for your family, and I'm sure people would want to hear your story, Jeremy," Mary said to the boy, encouraging but gentle. "And your opinions, Mr Curenton, about the consequences Fenrir Greyback is likely to suffer for this act."

Even the Ministry charmsworker hadn't made him or the wolf feel so threatened, and Jeremy lost control so thoroughly he could barely find words. "You're not allowed in here," he snapped.

A resounding no, then. "Please leave, Miss Brookstanton; if you don't go I shall have you removed," Owen said, moving to stand in between her and Jeremy.

"We can arrange a better time, maybe once he's out of the hospital, whenever would be most comfortable," Mary suggested, looking over Owen's shoulder and nudging her glasses up her nose to send Jeremy another friendly smile.

"No," Owen replied firmly. "This family isn't interested. Goodbye."

She took that in stride. "Do you have any comment, then, on Fenrir Greyback's trial?"

"No." Nothing he wanted to share with everyone who read the Prophet, he was barely able to dwell on everything that had occurred for the sake of sorting it out. "Good day."

As her high heels clicked away, Jeremy breathed out slowly and sank into the bed, away from his father only because his right shoulder was the mauled one. "Haven't seen The Prophet recently," he said, half into the pillow.

He pushed the door closed, with a little more force than was probably necessary. "You've seen it before, I'm sure you can imagine the sorts of things they're saying," he replied evenly.

Really, Jeremy hated politics, but when it was in your blood, there was no use fighting it. "How many shots at us?"

No one had actually said that they'd had it coming, but the implication remained. "Enough." He turned back to face Jeremy, and resumed his pacing. "We haven't said anything to them, other than basically what you just heard. They're basically sticking to the legal angles of it."

"What a great defence there could be at the trial. 'Well, yes, he did kill the girl and bite the boy, but they were Curentons, so it's fifty-fifty.'"

If he had been feeling more like himself, Owen may have laughed, but he didn't feel like himself. He chortled and said, "That's right, give the defence a leg up. Like they can't use it."

Jeremy smiled wryly into his pillow. "We're kidding ourselves to think anyone will show up, though."

"They'll show up," he said quietly. "It's been ten years since they had a werewolf trial, and they're usually the most sensational... even if they ignore werewolves every other time, they find they can't look away when one has committed a crime."

The idea made him sick, but Fenrir deserved it. "I meant, no one will show up in defence. Not that they should, not against him." He swallowed. "That night he threatened you, Dad...."

"He has no defence," he said in agreement, not really acknowledging his last remark -- he didn't know what to say to it.

"The night he threatened you he was looking at Erin."

This was not conducive to him breathing. He exhaled steadily and forced himself to remain calm. "What do you mean he was looking at Erin, Jeremy?"

"You were staying in the office late, Mum sent Erin up to the Den, then me. When I got there, I -- " He couldn't believe how well he remembered this. "I found a copy of your book ripped into confetti when I went upstairs. And when I came downstairs, Fenrir was talking to Erin. And looking at her."

Owen did not speak for a long time, taking it all in. Fenrir had... a history, everyone in the Greyback pack knew it, members of the pack had left over it, but no one talked about it. He'd known as well. "I see," he said finally.

"You know it's not your fault, Dad," Jeremy said, staring ahead at the wall.

He didn't really think he did know that. He did blame himself. So he said nothing.

A knock on the door saved him, and it opened a bit as Damocles Belby stuck his head in. "Good day, Curentons," he said, when Owen indicated for him to come in.

"Arguable," was Jeremy's immediate response, but he did turn to face him though it twinged his shoulder.

"Always an argument with you people," he said, picking up Jeremy's chart from where it was hooked at the foot of the bed and began to read. "Did Brighid step out?"

"Nell's with her. Jeremy thinks they're getting drunk," Owen added conversationally.

"That always bodes well," he answered, replacing the chart and turning to Jeremy. "How's the shoulder? Better, worse?"

Jeremy thought about it. "It still hurts when I move it the wrong way, but that's to be expected, right? They don't heal."

"To be expected," he agreed. It hadn't ever really occurred to him he'd treat either of his friend Owen's children, who he considered like his own, in his field of specialty. "It fades with time, the pain, so long as the wound's kept clean. Let's have a look, shall we?"

Jeremy swallowed and nodded, pulling the shoulder of his robes down to bare the cursed wounds. He looked up at Damocles instead of at his shoulder, what he could see of them. "They came and put a tracking charm on me today," he said. "A man from the Werewolf Registry. Then he felt it necessary to tell us how the Werewolf Registry works."

His mouth quirked upward as he examined Jeremy's shoulder. "Yeah? And what did you tell him?"

"Less than you'd think, and less than we probably would have liked," Owen broke in, dryly.

"Oh, and the press got in, you should look into that," Jeremy went on, doing his valiant best to ignore what Damocles was doing.

Damocles frowned. "The Welcome Witch has been known to... well, they shouldn't have been up here, I'm sorry. Can you raise your arm for me, as high as you can?" he asked, demonstrating.

Jeremy stretched until he winced audibly and felt the wolf complain. My body, not yours, he told it. "I remember her, Dad, she was snooping around the Den one day. We caught her interviewing a pack leader who was there for the night."

"Now they're growing them persistent and sneaky as well as underhanded and roundabout," Owen said as Damocles continued to check Jeremy's shoulder and his range of movement. "I suppose we'll have to talk to your mother, keep a closer watch -- she said her name was Brookstanton?"

"Mary Brookstanton, with the horn-rimmed glasses and the ponytail," Jeremy added. "You know me, I'm the Den's personal security and law enforcement."

"No one does a better job," he returned with a slight smile. "Or works for beans."

"Now that you've said that, you're going to have to put him on payroll, Owen," Damocles warned him.

"Good one. You're a funny man," he replied.

"No werewolf expects a paying job," Jeremy said under his breath.

This elicited another sharp look from Owen, but Damocles spoke first. "You're healing well. Better than I'd thought, actually," he admitted. "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to go home as soon as we can draw up the paperwork and get it signed."

"Really?" Jeremy asked, warily. This was hard to believe, since he didn't feel much better than yesterday.

"Really," Damocles said. "You're sensible, and I don't foresee any problems with the wound. Being at home will do more good than harm at this point."

"Wish Mum was here to hear this. Maybe we should sneak me out and give her a heart attack," Jeremy suggested wryly.

"Yeah, and then we'll both be in trouble," Owen answered in a similar tone.

"No, no," Jeremy answered, correcting, "all three of us would be in trouble."

"Yeah, and I never do anything wrong," Damocles said dryly. "You two, always getting me in trouble -- I'll get the release forms done up, unless you have any questions."

Jeremy paused, then just asked. "It's not going to get worse, is it? At the full moon."

"It won't reopen," he answered. "And as long as you avoid... I don't know, cleaning it out with a rusty nail, it should keep healing. If it gets worse, or if you feel like something's wrong then you can drop me a line. I'll check it out."

"And -- the full moon, I just." He swallowed, and pretended his dad wasn't there. "I've seen people come out of it really badly."

Damocles now understood the reason for not treating family members. I was hard to keep professional. "Some do," he said. "And you may. But it's different for everyone."

Jeremy put his face in his hands. "Can we just get the release papers?" he mumbled.

"Sure," he said, picking up the chart again and making a brief note. "I'll bring those right back for you, Owen."

"Thanks," he said. Damocles slipped out the door again, and left father and son alone.

As soon as the door closed, Jeremy spoke. "It's my fault. Not yours."

Owen looked back at Jeremy then. "Jeremy, you -- you can't expect that -- it's not," he finished firmly. "It's Fenrir's fault."

"I had my wand, I could've done something."

"You can't think it of that way," he said.

"It's true, Dad, I froze up -- "

"You're both children, this was more than deliberate on his part and you shouldn't -- "

The door opened again, and Owen cut himself off. Damocles held up the release forms, pinned to a clipboard. "Signature?" he said, and Owen held his hand out for the clipboard and quill.

Jeremy propped himself up, sat up, then swung his legs out from the bed. "Finally," he said in a deadpan, stretching again.

Owen banished Jeremy's shoes from the small wardrobe to just under him, and scribbled his name on the appropriate line, and initialed on the next. "Anything else?" he asked.

"Satisfied at this end. Be nice to Brighid," he said, taking the forms back.

"She wouldn't know what to do with herself if we were nice," Jeremy interjected as he put his shoes on, restraining his wince and the wolf as he leaned to tie his shoes.

"Or highly suspicious," Owen said, picking up the Registry papers that Mr. Pittiman had left behind for them and slipping them into his pocket. "Thank you. For everything," he added to Damocles.

Damocles tried a smile for his friend, but it had been a trying time. "It's nothing," he said. "Can I see you both out?"

"I think we can find our way out," he replied.

Jeremy just stood by his father. "Thanks," he added to Damocles, awkward but genuine. "Hopefully I won't see you for a bit."

"Not too soon," he promised, and smiled. "See you later," he added, and left with a wave to them.

Owen sighed slightly, and looked at Jeremy. "Ready to go home?"

"Of course," Jeremy said, albeit not totally convincingly. "Let's go."

"Of course," he echoed, and moved with his son to the lifts, out of the hospital, and all the way home to Wales.

~*~

School started again, and life went on without the Curentons at Hogwarts. Two beds stood eerily empty in the Hufflepuff dormitories, waiting for occupants who were not going to come back to school. The halls buzzed, although not with rumours -- the papers were clear as Austrian crystal about the circumstances surrounding the attack on the Curenton family and the werewolf responsible, known as Fenrir Greyback. Some called it a tragedy, many more called it an inevitability, a few called it fortuitous -- maybe now Curenton would finally stop sucking their pockets dry, with no way to run his betting pool.

Julia thought that was simply stupid. If you didn't want to bet your money, then why would you? It wasn't like he'd ever forced anyone into it.

She'd read all the articles with alarming voracity, almost to the point of memorisation and being able to quote verbatim. She couldn't explain it. Maybe because Jeremy was a friend, perfectly decent and one of the few people in her year she didn't mind associating with because they weren't an idiot, a pureblooded bigot, or both, or didn't mind associating with her for whatever reasons. Maybe it was thinly veiled references to "the last werewolf to commit such a crime." Or again, maybe it was both.

Either way, Julia sat at the very end of the Gryffindor table, quite on purpose. The people in her house were particularly insufferable, and the discomfort was increasing steadily for every meal since returning to school. By the third day, it was unbearable and even walking to the Slytherin table was more than enough to cause dread to settle in her stomach, heavy as lead. So she sat where she would bother nobody, reading her newspaper and waiting for Gilly, should she deign to show up for breakfast that morning.

Gilly was sick of the news, sick of the response people had to it, and generally just sick of everything except Quidditch these days -- that was her general state of mind, admittedly, but it was worse because of Frobisher. This werewolf thing with Curenton obviously dominated Frobisher's thoughts, and since she was one of the few people Gilly could stand at the bleeding school, something had to be done to shut people up mocking werewolves.

It was with great amusement, surprise and happiness, then, that Gilly spotted Frobisher at the Gryffindor table. She sat down across from her. "Didn't know that you transferred, Frobisher. Not that I blame you, but where did you sleep after transferring into the best House of them all? Normally I'd say in Curenton's bed, but since it's empty, well, hell. What fun is that?"

Julia waited for Gilly to finish speaking before she gave her a significant look at her over the top of the sports page. "I wouldn't exactly call it a transfer," she said, lowering the paper slightly, "but if I have to sit over there, I'm going to go mad." Or be sick. She wasn't really sure which, but neither was a completely appealing option.

Gilly made a show of rolling her eyes, stabbing her fork into her toast for emphasis. "You're not a prefect! That alpha bitch Davis got the Prefect spot. Why do you care? If she says something about the whole Curenton thing, punch her!" She demonstrated with a short jab with her wand hand. "Yeah, you might miss a few practices, so what? Imagine her face!"

She had to admit that the idea of marring Isabelle Davis's face gave her pleasure. Hell, even the idea of thinking about doing it caused the corners of her mouth to quirk upwards. "I think you're trying to sabotage Slytherin Quidditch by denying them a Chaser," she said.

"Maybe a little but I'm out for your interests here too, I always am, you suspicious Slytherin." Gilly picked up her toast by the knife and yanked it off of the utensil. "You need to relax. First step to relaxation is punching someone's face in."

"Maybe," Julia allowed. She was not ordinarily a very violent person, unless it was a special situation, and maybe this would be a special situation. She had no doubt Isabelle could probably push her that far (another reason for sitting with the Gryffindors - removal of temptation), and maybe it would make her feel better. But still, there were more of them than there were of her, even if Gilly helped her out. "You should market that," she advised. "I bet it'd be a huge success."

Gilly swallowed her toast and blinked at Julia. "What, the punching thing? Oh yeah, I can just see it -- 'violence is the first step on the way to inner peace'!" she narrated with a wide gesture. "People would eat that shite right up. So. Have you heard from Curenton yet?"

"No," she said, looking down at the picture of the Puddlemere Keeper blocking the same shot time after time. She hadn't even sent him a note saying something along the lines of "Sorry you got bit and your sister died." She'd tried, but it just all sounded kind of silly and paltry in comparison to how she felt, so she hadn't said anything at all.

Gilly stared at her blankly for a long moment as though hoping the holes bored into her skull by pure disbelief would cause her to raise her head. "I can't blame him for being a little distracted, but what about you? Unless you're being all girly about it. You aren't dating, are you? I think you would've mentioned it, but I have to check these things, sometimes this girly shite gets past me." She paused only for an instant. "They're looking over here."

"No, we're not," she informed her, looking up for only a moment. "And we haven't done anything else, either, so get the idea out of your head." Julia knew who Gilly was talking about. The aforementioned Isabelle was undoubtedly imparting some sort of untrue but wildly entertaining lie (probably about the two of them) to anyone would listen, and she always had at least two willing cohorts: Sophia Higgs and Maude Bletchley.

If they were looking at them, it was all the more reason to pay as little attention as possible. "They can look and talk all they want," she said, and folded her newspaper.

Gilly swallowed a huge chunk of toast with some difficulty before pronouncing in complete seriousness, "I did not just hear that. Do I have to go over there and punch them for you? I can." Or Frobisher could just get over it, but Gilly knew that wasn't going to happen, so the next best thing was to get rid of the detractors. "Or maybe we could set your brother on them."

Julia chortled. Michael was... well, he was Michael. And very much her older brother, which was really more than enough to send most people in the opposite direction. "There's not going to be anything left of them if we set Michael on them."

"You say that as though it's a bad thing. Only good Slytherin is a gone Slytherin," Gilly recited happily, then patted Julia on the hand. "Except for you, you can stay. You're practically a transfer. The hell are you looking at?" she segued seamlessly into a snap at a few younger Gryffindors who seemed more than disconcerted at the Slytherin at their table.

Julia tried not to look at the gawking younger students, although after Gilly's outburst they were now eating and desperately trying not to look at the two of them. Startled into submission. She made a small noise in her throat that could have been described as "mngh."

Gilly took a long drink of juice. "Anyway, I -- oh, shite -- " she stared past Julia, hand grasping for something and considering the knife before even she deemed such a reaction as overkill. "Bitches incoming. I'll take whatever you bring," she muttered under her breath in their direction, tensing.

Isabelle Davis walked with a swing in her hips. It was well-known why, because she had a very handsome French boyfriend who attended Beauxbatons and lavished her with fancy jewelry, stories of whom she regaled to anyone who sat still long enough. A well-manicured hand lifted to Isabelle's lipsticked mouth in surprise, as she stared down at Julia. "Really, the Gryffindor table," she said; despite her attempts at maturity her naturally childish voice betrayed her age with its squeak. "I'm not sure if that's a step down from werewolves... both act like animals and don't seem to be human."

"They're practically on the same level," Maude Bletchley was quick to agree, sending a particularly contemptuous look at Gilly, since Julia wasn't looking up at them.

But just because Julia wasn't looking at them didn't mean she wasn't hearing it, no matter what she wished. "Shut up about it," she told them through her teeth, grabbing her bag from the floor and stuffing the newspaper into the side pocket, ready to bolt if it became necessary. "You're a bunch of idiots."

Gilly's expression formed into a snarl as she stared at Maude, which led to Isabelle's sudden attack of the giggles. "Oh, look, she's even acting like a beast, girls! Back off, she might bite you with her yellow teeth and then your hair will look as ratty as hers!"

"Go to hell, Davis," Gilly snapped off, standing with a violent shove to her chair as she lost her temper. "Don't you have love letters to go write to that French ponce of yours, if he even exists?"

Isabelle ignored Gilly for a moment, leaning elegantly onto the table and speaking directly into Julia's face: "Don't you have a werewolf to write love letters to? Even if he's too stupid now to write you back."

"Pretty strong words, considering the unintelligent subspecies you find yourself hanging around with," Julia snapped in reply, really wanting Isabelle out of her personal space.

"We are not unintelligent!" Sophia Higgs replied, her blonde hair practically flouncing itself. "Besides, you're the one who's wasting her time mooning over a werewolf, not even -- " she stopped herself, and giggled, a high-pitched sound that grated on Julia's nerves. "Mooning."

"Very clever," Julia glowered. Forget killing them, she just wanted to die herself. "Now kindly SHOVE OFF."

Isabelle pouted at Julia, grimaced and made an exaggerated gesture to indicate wafting away Julia's bad breath. "I wouldn't want to stay this close to Gryffindors for very long at any rate -- might catch something," she said, eyeing Gilly. "Girls, come on."

Gilly made it a point to trip Isabelle as she stepped away from the table, crossing her legs innocently as the Slytherin glared her down. She nudged Julia's foot under the table and grinned.

Julia smiled slightly, and then grinned, and before she knew it, she was laughing. "Well, that's something, anyway," she said.

"Next time, shove the knife into her pretty little makeup-covered eye." Gilly seized her knife and made a jabbing gesture. "She'll never know what hit her. Anyway, I have to finish the Charms essay that's due next," she added, nicking another piece of toast from Julia's plate, "so I ought to go, but bloody stop brooding and write to Curenton or I'll write him one myself and sign it with pink ink, LOVE FROM JULIA FROBISHER, MARRY ME." She hopped happily to her feet. "Have a good day!"

She partly wanted to chide her for not doing the homework until just before the class it was due, but she knew that would only draw more teasing and such. It was far less complicated to just let it go. As for writing Jeremy... "I will," she said. Or she'd keep trying. If she managed to write down something that sounded half-intelligent, she would send it. If nothing else to avoid Gilly's forged letter. "Go finish your homework."

Gilly gave a somber, understanding nod and a brief wave before letting out a long, satisfied burst of laughter. She then ran out of the Great Hall, bumping more than a few students on her way out.

Julia sighed and looked at her half-eaten breakfast. She looked back down the table and there was a collective head turn as the students who had previously been gawking at them attempted to not be caught at it again. As if anyone could write anything in conditions like that. She stood and picked her bag up off the floor, slinging it over her shoulder before making for a safer, more neutral haven, composing and editing the letter in her mind all the while.

~*~

The last week of January saw some unseasonably warm days for the Scottish Highlands. IT wasn't quite warm enough yet to go without the cloaks and scarves; spring was not there yet, not by a long shot, but the sun was warm and the snow had begun to melt. All the same, Hogwarts students flocked to the courtyards to absorb all the sunshine they could get before it sank behind the hills -- and enjoy the snow before it was all gone.

Remus's read-through of the recently assigned Defence chapter was interrupted when a slushy snowball hit the side of his head. He winced and squirmed slightly as some trickled down his neck. "Your aim leaves something to desire," he told Sirius, shaking the rest out of his hair.

"Blame Prongs, he's the one who keeps moving," Sirius said, already gathering up more of the snow to throw at James.

"It's not hard, you have worse aim than a Slytherin Chaser," James laughed, and threw another snowball.

"Well you throw like a girl," he returned, successfully ducking the snowball and immediately throwing his next one.

"Yeah, well, you throw like a Hufflepuff!"

"The Hufflepuff Chasers aren't that bad," Peter spoke up from where he sat by Remus.

Remus smirked as Sirius chortled and retorted. "Two of them are also girls," Remus put in.

"So where are you going with that thought, Remus?" Sirius asked, tossing his new snowball from one hand to the other with a careless air.

"Moony's noticed there are girls at Hogwarts, that's a big step," James noted with a smirk, and threw another snowball at Sirius.

"Very big," Sirius agreed, immediately releasing his snowball when he saw James throw his, but was unable to avoid being hit. "I'm impressed Moony, which one were you looking at?"

Remus rolled his eyes but didn't answer, readjusting his textbook.

"No need to be shy, we won't tell," James managed to say with a straight face for a few moments before sniggering.

"Did anyone else ever tell you two that you're hilarious?" Remus asked without looking up from his book.

"It's been known to happen," Sirius answered, and after a thoughtful moment, threw his snowball and hit James squarely in the chest. "YES, who throws like a Hufflepuff girl now?"

"A lucky shot," James exclaimed, and readied himself to take another shot, only to stop at spotting something more interesting in the distance. "Snivellus, three o'clock," he said. "Should I take the shot? It'll be more of a shower than he's had in years."

Sirius grinned. "You can't hit that from this distance," he said, squinting against the sun.

"Two sickles says I can," James said, squaring his shoulders.

"Go for it, James," Peter encouraged.

"You're on," Sirius said, nodding.

James squinted, focused, and whipped the snowball in Snape's direction. He whooped as it hit Snape squarely in the head. "BRILLIANT," he shouted.

"Damn," Sirius cursed at having lost his two sickles, but was forced to admit, "Nice shot, Prongs."

Remus forced himself to turn and look at Severus Snape, who had recently been nailed with a snowball and looked like it. He made a face and groaned. "Guys," he started.

James hunched over in laughter at the sight of Snape sopping snow out of his hair with his cloak, distracted enough to miss the hex that grazed him and nearly took him off-balance. "Oi, what the -- "

"Oh no," Peter said under his breath at seeing a second figure by Snape, and glanced at Sirius to see if he'd noticed yet. "Oh no."

"If you want a duel, let's go, bring your second, you'll need 'im," James shouted to Snape as he and presumably another bastard Slytherin in a hooded cloak approached.

For what it was worth, Sirius had noticed exactly what Peter had. "Or don't bother at all, he fights like a little girl too -- don't you, Reg?"

Regulus Black pushed back his hood and stopped Snape with a hand to his arm. "Severus, don't waste your time, they'll get what they deserve," he said, with more disinterest than disdain. "Snowballs, how juvenile."

"Lay off," Sirius snapped, not standing down. "It's a bit of fun which is, I'm sure, too difficult and complex a concept for you poufs to understand. You just get all shirty over it --"

"Now who's getting shirty," Regulus retorted. "You're not ready to duel with the least of us, Sirius -- "

"There's someone lower than either of you? Poor bastard," James snapped.

"Yes, there is, and I'm looking right at him," Snape said, his glare set right at James.

"What, you and all your Death Eating mates? Like I'm scared of you lot," Sirius laughed harshly.

"Then you're stupider than I thought." Regulus gained a sneer, and his hand went to his wand.

"Remus," Peter hissed. "Come on, they're actually going to duel, there's no way this ends well!"

Peter was right -- he saw Sirius's wand in his hand before he could even fully process what was being said. "Hold on," he said, and came to stand between the two pairs. "There's no point in this and -- and magic isn't allowed in the corridors, anyway --"

"Oh well, we could do it without magic, but I suspect that would just make it too bloody easy," Sirius broke in, his wand still at the ready.

"I wouldn't touch a filthy blood-traitor like you even to punch your face in," Regulus scoffed, speaking right over a nonverbal hex of Snape's darting right past Remus at James.

James blocked it and pushed past Remus. "You sodding bastard -- "

Regulus gave a laugh as James and Snape started to duel. "You have no idea what you're up against, any of you," he said, smug. "Snape will destroy him."

Remus stumbled back after the unexpected jostling, and watched in dismay as the situation exploded in seconds. "James. Sirius," he said in a tone that was more pleading than authoritative.

Sirius had confidence that James could handle Snape perfectly well and didn't seem to hear Remus, and was not overly concerned just now with any of them. "Of course not. You wouldn't want to dirty your pretty little mummy's boy hands in a fight now, would you," he snarled as he approached his younger brother.

Regulus actually laughed aloud. "Now I remember why Mother's so happy you're gone," he taunted, and pointed his wand at Sirius, all semblance of amusement gone. "Don't give me another reason."

Just as Sirius was about the dispense with the wands business and slam his fist into Regulus's twisted little face like he so desperately wanted, an all too familiar voice shouted above the din, "WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN IS GOING ON HERE?"

Heads turned, and hateful expressions dimmed as Professor McGonagall stared back at them with narrowed eyes over the top of her spectacles. "I am waiting for an answer, gentlemen, and I do not have all day," she prompted severely.

"Snape hexed James," Peter spoke up. "James is just defending himself -- "

Regulus scoffed loudly. "You can't actually believe that James Potter is an innocent victim, Professor McGonagall," he said. "We were attacked and threatened, first of all."

"Oh, shut up, Reggie, that's why Snape hexed me twice while I was unarmed, because I was bullying his slimy arse?" James snapped, his wand raising to Snape's face yet again.

"I think Black and Potter's record speaks for itself, Professor," Snape said, tone even and cool as he stared right back at James.

"Your face speaks for itself," Sirius shot back.

"ENOUGH," McGonagall roared over top of them, and looked at each boy in turn. Her eyes finally went to Remus Lupin, who had said nothing and was eyeing the ground. "Have you anything to add, Mr. Lupin?"

He looked up and was at a loss for a moment. "Um, no," he said. "I mean, it was -- more or less like Peter and James said," he added, inwardly wincing.

Professor McGonagall sighed and motioned. "You four," she said, pointing to Sirius, James, Regulus, and Snape, "come with me. Mr. Potter and Mr. Black will come to my office and Mr. Snape and Mr. Black, we will deliver you to Professor Slughorn -- "

"Oh yeah, that'll show 'em," Sirius muttered.

"Another word out of you, Mr. Black, and you will be cleaning my blackboard until you sit your NEWTs in addition to whatever punishment is coming for this incident."

Regulus looked back at Snape with a clearly victorious expression, only to find that he and Potter were glaring. Instead, he called "Severus!" and incidentally shoved past his blood-traitor brother on his way back inside.

James stood motionless and stared at Snape's back with a focused glare as though to strike him dead like a basilisk. He let it go, gave Sirius a grin, and tripped Snape one last time, sending him stumbling into Regulus. "Careful, Snape," he called.

"Move it, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said frostily. Sirius didn't dare react until she had turned around to lead them back into the castle, at which point he sniggered and high fived James.

"That could've been worse," Peter said to Remus, still a little shaky.

"That could've been avoided," he replied with a slight frown.

"They're asking for it, they should keep their Dark Arts and their -- loyalties to themselves, if you ask me." He put his hands in his pockets. "Suppose we should go back inside then."

Grateful for the change of subject, Remus nodded in agreement. "Yeah. It's getting late," he said, going back to the bench where his Defence text had been abandoned.

"Time to study," Peter sighed, as they headed back inside. "Figures McGonagall ruins our fun."

"She has impeccable timing," Remus conceded ambiguously.

"They'll get away with it," Peter decided. "They always do."

"Probably," he said, readjusting his bag over his shoulder. Slughorn had a habit of winking an eye at rule infractions -- particularly those of favoured students. "On the other hand," he started, "maybe he'll put his foot down this time."

"Maybe. And maybe Lily Evans will snog James at breakfast tomorrow. Anything's possible."

Remus couldn't help but let himself smile a little at that. "I suppose stranger things have happened," he said, leading the way back towards Gryffindor.