Werewolves at Hogwarts

Chapter 1

John let himself into his small cottage and locked the door after him. He glanced around the small, cosy room with new eyes as if seeing it for the first time. Maybe he was. After all, his world had just taken a mighty blow and he was only just beginning to think about the implications.

George Pasco was dead.

They had been friends since John joined Forman's Security Services four years ago. He had been assigned to George as his new partner for training. A big, bluff man, George had accepted the rookie and they had grown to be friends as well as work partners. He thought he was finished the day George found him crying in the locker room. It was over another failed relationship and he had outed himself rather accidentally. George had simply handed him a handkerchief, told him to blow his nose and they had gone out on patrol as usual.

Then there was the time he'd gone to pick George up for work and found him so stinking drunk he couldn't even walk. The divorce papers were still clutched in George's hands and it was his turn to cry. After drying him off, giving him some food and putting him to bed, John had clocked George on and done their rounds alone.

After a bad transformation, John had failed to show for work. George had come to the cottage to find him, and thought he had been attacked by home invaders. George wanted to rush him to the medical centre and make sure he was all right. That was when he had told George he was a werewolf. George had chewed on that for a couple of days then decided he had some sort of mental and physical condition that made him think he was a werewolf. That it was not catching but just a mental aberration to be catered to. George had arranged their shifts so that they never worked on full moon or if they did, they did the day shift and had the next few days off.

And now George was dead and buried!

Two weeks ago George had complained of gut pains. John teased him and told him to change his ways or he was going to end up with a heart attack. Since George was something of a health fanatic, it was a running joke. George trained religiously while John only did the required minimum and yet John was still stronger, faster and more enduring than anyone else. At the health club John declared it was his porridge for breakfast every morning and his Grandmother's malted whiskey toddy every night that kept him so fit and healthy. Privately he told George it was because he was a werewolf. No matter what a human did they would never be as strong or as fast as a non-human. George laughed but accepted it, as he always did.

Then last Tuesday night George had stayed in the car saying he felt a little tired. John locked up the pub and made sure the burglar alarms were set on his own. As he returned to the company vehicle he realised George was slumped in his seat in a very uncharacteristic way and he had hurried over to find his partner unconscious.

Shaking and poking him made no difference so John had cautiously taken his wand from hiding and cast Acclaro over the man. There was definitely something wrong with his stomach! John drove like a maniac to the nearest Muggle emergency department. He wasn't a big man, barely five feet and eight inches and slim built, but he carried his much larger partner through the double doors and laid him on the stretcher a nurse hurried to bring him.

And that was the last time he saw George alive.

The company paid for the funeral since technically George had died on duty. The fact was, he had died of a burst peptic ulcer, which was confirmed by the autopsy that the law insisted was performed when someone died suddenly. The family made the arrangements for a service to be said in a small church on the Cheap Side. After the cremation, George's ashes were to be scattered in the church gardens and a small brass plaque added to the wall of remembrance.

~~*~~

Shaking his head at the suddenness of it all, John had wandered out of the churchyard and to the local supermarket to get groceries as if it was any other Thursday night. The comfort of routine fought with deepening shadow of depression that was beginning to weight him down again.

The butcher called to him and presented him with a big beef bone, "nice and fresh with lots of marrow just as your spoilt dog likes it," the bluff man teased then frowned as his favourite customer barely managed a smile for him. "What's the matter mate? Did your best friend just die?"

"Yes, we just buried him up at Saint Luke's," John said softly, willing the tears to stay away.

"Oh bloody hell, me and my big mouth. Sorry to hear that John, will you be all right?"

John smiled back sadly and patted the man's shoulder in passing. "I'll be fine; I've lost friends before, many times. I always seem to survive it, somehow."

Shaking his head, the butcher watched John out of sight, not registering the slight pop that marked his apparation out to his cottage. John had to hurry home; he had forgotten what night it was.

~~*~~

The cottage was on a walled piece of land in a rundown area on the outskirts of Muggle London at the edge of a wizarding area. John had owned the cottage for five years, using his Services Settlement to pay for it and his wages as a security guard to cover expenses. It wasn't home, it was just the place he laired up and one room had been converted and warded to hold him on moon nights.

There was no Wolfsbane potion to curb his transformations, no one to help him if things went badly so he had made his own arrangements and they were reasonably comfortable. The small attic bedroom had been completely stripped and sterilised with the most potent of charms. He had then padded and cushioned the walls, floor and ceiling of the space, making sure the windows were thoroughly secure and the bars were as sturdy and reinforced as the walls. The door would only open to a spoken spell and there was no latch to stick or cause problems. Double strength silencing charms were set to invoke as soon as the door lock spell was said and a pouch built high up in the wall held his wand well out of harm's way.

There was a built-in food tray and a water dispenser that was tank fed from the roof. All he had to do was fill the food bowl and lock the door after him, stow his wand and wait until the transformation took him. Since the only things that smelled of humans were the beef bone and the food bowl, he often found both utterly destroyed the following day. Fortunately, while the wolf was attacking the bones and meat, it wasn't taking its anger out on him.

He had forgotten that tonight was a Moon night as the funeral had utterly thrown his calendar out. Only Murray the butcher had reminded him and he was utterly thankful for that. A werewolf loose in Muggle London was good movie fare but absolutely terrible in real life. The Ministry for the Control of Magical Creatures would be thrilled to display his hide in the Main Hall, if they caught him. No one liked a werewolf; especially when they were beholden to him for helping save their way of life. Although the laws governing werewolf movements had not become as stringent as the registration tattoos Fudge had proposed at one point. He was still not allowed to leave the country without a permit, and they were rarely granted.

In fact, the prejudice had been so bad before the end of the war that as soon as he had fulfilled his obligations, he had pretty much opted out of wizarding society. After establishing himself, he dropped his first name, answered to John Lupin and stayed away from all things magical. Oh, he used charms and spells at home and mainly apparated to get around but he never shopped in Diagon Alley and stayed well away from wizarding functions or venues.

Occasionally he received missives from other werewolves, his old network established during the war, but not often these days. Technically, he was still the elected Beta Prime of the massed packs but it was not a very important title anymore. Werewolf society had been normalised and settled by the laws they had formulated during the war. The majority of the 'tame werewolves' had agreed to abide by the ruling of the Alpha Prime who was in effect, President of Werewolves, Lupin being his right hand. Most of the werewolves had integrated into society while the worst of the rebels had been killed by the Ministry or sent off shore where they eked out a meagre existence until a bad transition killed them.

Occasionally he heard of atrocities against werewolves but not often. The whisper was that the Aurors were still persecuting their kind in a quiet vendetta that was undeclared but not well subscribed to. Remus wasn't sure about that as most of the older werewolves were like him, anxious not to draw any attention to themselves or their families. Still, the rumours persisted and he was keen to stay away from anyone who might be dangerous to him.

Only twice had he ventured back into wizard society and both times at the request and invitation of Harry Potter to meet his new born children. Harry, godson of Remus' first husband Sirius Black, had never forgotten his second godfather, Remus, and had made sure he knew where the older werewolf was. Despite being blinded in the last battle of the Second Voldemort War, Harry was still an influential and intimidating figure in Wizarding circles. His tireless campaigning for better treatment of non-human species was slowly beginning to tell. Still, even venturing into St Mungo's as a visitor with Harry's invitation clutched in his hand had reminded him that he was still an animal as far as the majority of wizard society was concerned.

Washed and ready, Remus cast locking spells on the cottage then climbed the stairs and shut the door after him, plopping his bowl of skirt steak into the holder and putting the beef bone down on the ground. He had only once tried canned dog food and had been so ill he could hardly sit up for days. So now he saved up a few extra pounds and bought rib eye or skirt steak, which the wolf seemed to like best. Putting his wand into the pouch, he lay down on the folded blankets in one corner and tried to dose off as he waited.

~~*~~

Two days later, tired and depressed, he stood in front of his supervisor's desk and blinked stupidly.

"Look, all I'm saying is, now that George has gone you have to go onto Barry Kelley's roster. It's not like you are getting less money or days off, just different ones." Sidney Jones said in exasperation.

John shook his head. "No, I need the full moon days and nights off, I can't work then. That's why George set up our roster like that. See, we even work extra days to make sure we have the full moon off."

"And now you don't get it off, that's all. You get one weekend in three and two four day breaks instead."

"No! I have to have the full moon off," John insisted, knowing he was getting a little hysterical.

"Well you bloody well can't okay! Take it or leave it!"

John stared down at the red-faced man and slowly shook his head. Reaching up, he pulled off the name badge and tossed it on the blotter. "I leave it," he said flatly as he turned away.

"Oh come on John, don't be so stubborn, I know you...."

Snarling, John virtually leaped across the room and landed on the desk, growling deep in his throat. "You know nothing, Human! Nothing at all," he snarled and jumped down again. Literally tearing the door off its hinges, he let himself out leaving a horrified and shocked Sidney Jones plastered to the back of his chair.

~~*~~

Apparating home, John slumped into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. "You are a bloody idiot, you know that?" he told himself aloud. "You should have kept your temper and negotiated or took stress leave or something. But no, you had to throw a tantrum and get on your high horse and now what are you going to do? The best job you ever had and you have just blown it off. And if the Aurors hear of it, you are dead, you idiot, or transported forever!"

Shaking his head, he flopped back into the chair and stared at the ceiling for a very long time. He knew all about depression and the signs to look out for and he knew George's death had affected him very badly but this was no time to give in to the creeping shadow. Something would happen for the good, it always did. "And if you keep telling yourself that then the fairies will stay out of your flowerbeds too," he chuckled in black humour as he went off to bed.

~~*~~

The incident report was short and succinct; a werewolf by the name of Remus John Lupin had used his animal strength and temper to intimidate a Muggle. In this one act he had endangered the security of the Magical world and had almost caused an Incident. The paperwork was automatically generated and all it needed was a signature to send a special task force to pick up the werewolf, stun him for transport, brand him and send him to the Orkneys where he would live amongst his own kind, no longer a danger to modern society.

The perpetual, slightly worried frown drew bright red eyebrows down harder over round blue eyes that always looked so innocent especially when teamed with a childishly snubbed nose and freckles. The ruined right hand picked up the Official Action Stamp and a single word changed the face to the desired wording. A bright red 'Closed' was slashed over the report and the proper drawer in the filing system unsealed to accept the missive. He read the notice again, saw that it was one copy of one and carefully filed it in the incidents file on his desk, under interesting phenomenon.

Leaning back in the comfortable swivel chair that went along with his desk bound job, Divisional Inspector Ronald Weasley glared up at the ceiling and chewed thoughtfully on the bright red moustaches that adorned his lip. Since a slashing hex had taken the lower half of his right leg and half his right hand, he had been forced to use his brain while conducting his business as an Auror. It wasn't like he and Harry had imagined, dashing about in bright red uniforms, righting the wrongs and slaying the evil overlords. No, his business was the reception and sorting of the myriad titbits of information that crossed his desk every day from a thousand different sources.

Sometimes he thought of himself as a bloody great red spider, not an image that inspired any joy as he hated the hairy beasts, sitting in his web, trolling the wizarding world for the bits of filth and evil that floated freely about. Lately, however, he had begun to notice a trend, nothing particularly overt, just a few more werewolf incidents, and a few more vampire incidents being reported. Each time it seemed like a big deal over a little thing but each time someone was deported or sterilised or property was confiscated. In the last two years fifteen suppression of non-human species laws had been repealed, re-written or revoked but at the same time fourteen non-humans had been either deported or fined usuriously under the remaining laws. There had to be a pattern but as yet, it eluded him and he wasn't happy.

Rising, he made sure his prosthetic leg was safely disguised with a spell and his right hand was neatly gloved in dragon hide before he left his office to mingle with the rest of the Aurors on duty this afternoon.