To Face the Wolf

Hermione Granger

She slept contentedly after her visit to the Astronomy Tower, certain in the knowledge of having achieved more than was required of a third-year.

Sunday was a productive day; she had ample time to work out her findings of the previous night, study for the latest Defence essay, practise a number of charms, have another less than pleasant encounter with Ron ('No, I'm not going to lock Crookshanks into my dorm and it wouldn't work anyway; he's clever enough to dart out when someone else enters') and listen to Harry grumbling again about the confiscation of his Firebolt ('I acted in your best interest, Harry, and you know it!') Dinner was no success and Hermione went to bed early, knowing that her Monday would be two hours longer than everyone else's. Unfortunately, sleep was slow in coming.

On Monday, she crammed The Silmarillion into her schoolbag, as she had been doing for several weeks now. The additional weight almost broke her back, but it was worth it. In Potions class she was usually done early (whispered instructions to Neville Longbottom included) and though five to ten minutes wasn't enough for serious study, it was just right for a few pages of lighter reading. A most efficient use of time. She had charmed the cover to look like a Potions text she had seen in the Library (though she hadn't had the opportunity to read it yet), in case Snape would grow suspicious and come flitting to her desk.

Until now he hadn't, but today her luck finally ran out. Hermione quickly closed the book before Snape was halfway, looking pointedly from him to her cauldron in a bold attempt to redirect his interest. But he went straight for The Silmarillion. Her throat went dry.

'The Benefits and Side Effects of Sedatives and Sleeping Draughts, by Polveria Mortar,' he read in his most disdainful voice. 'Not a subject we will be dealing with this year, miss Granger. Nor do I remember including it in the school curriculum. The author is a charlatan who has the audacity to suggest the Wizarding World could benefit from mass-produced Muggle remedies, and I have no idea what it's doing in our library. Maybe' - and he cast a sarcastic glance in Ron's direction - 'you ought to show this to Mr. Weasley senior, who undoubtedly will feel tempted to poison himself with such pulverised dung.'

Some Slytherins snickered, Malfoy loudest of all. Ron looked both furious and embarrassed. She felt sorry for him despite everything and hoped he would not think she had somehow done it on purpose. 'I will take it back to the library, sir,' she said loudly, willing him to leave Ron alone.

Snape glared at her. And then it happened. He opened the book. Not randomly in the middle, but at approximately two-thirds, as if he was looking for something in particular - suggesting that he knew Mortar's book like his own pockets

He frowned. His eyes narrowed. 'What is this?' he hissed, and raising his voice he read: '"Yet the lies that Melkor, the mighty and accursed Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate -" He stopped for a moment, looking utterly baffled, but then he recovered and went on: " - sowed in the hearts of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest of days." Miss Granger, do you know what class is this?'

'A Potions class, professor Snape,' she replied stiffly, wishing she could tell him not to treat her like a six year old.

'Correct. Five points to Gryffindor for remembering the fact. And twenty points from Gryffindor for disregarding it. I will, of course, confiscate the offending item.' Snape shut The Silmarillion with a loud bang that no book of any size could have produced unaided, and returned to his desk.

Hermione flinched, and not only because the looks of all her fellow Gryffindors (except Neville) struck her like so many blows. When Snape sat down she raised a tentative finger.

He eyed her coldly. 'Miss Granger. You will get these verbal excretions back when I judge the time ripe to return them to you.'

***

Remus Lupin

The last hour before lunch was the third-year Gryffindor class. Though Remus tried not to give in to house bias this was one of his favourite groups, something he tended to ascribe to the presence of Harry and of Hermione Granger.

On this particular Monday, though, Hermione was not in her usual top-form. She missed an open question - Parvati Patil raised her finger a full second earlier - and she looked unhappy and more tired than any thirteen-year old girl should, with the same bluish shadows beneath her eyes as he had after a his transformations. The problem could be hormonal, but Remus felt he should at least try to find out if it was of a more specific kind.

'Hermione,' he began at the end of class while the other students filed out, 'are you all right?'

To his surprise, she panicked, her nostrils widening visibly. Her eyes darted to her watch.

'You're not going to lose any house points if you're a bit late for lunch,' Remus said in an attempt to cheer her up, and not quite understanding why she flinched. 'But if you don't want to take the risk, we can talk on our way to the Great Hall.'

This morning, he had decided not to eat lunch in his rooms today, feeling that he had shown his face too little in public the last few days. The house-elf Dribbly, aware of Finrod's presence and sworn to silence, was instructed to bring up meals from the kitchen, and Finrod claimed he didn't mind being alone. He had found Adalbert Waffling's Magical Theory among Remus's books and declared himself determined to decipher it, though Remus doubted his present reading skills were entirely equal to Waffling's meandering style.

Hermione fidgeted, avoiding his gaze. 'I'm fine, Professor,' she said, her tone belying her words. Again, she glanced at her watch, and began to back out of the classroom.

Remus reached her in two steps. When he saw her troubled look, he almost put his arm around her but then thought better of it. He ought to keep his distance. She would no doubt think that a male teacher thrice her age had no business getting so close, even though she didn't know said teacher was a werewolf to boot.

'Hermione, what's wrong? You really don't look well,' he said concerned, hovering at her elbow. 'If you don't want to tell me, maybe you should go and see Madam Pomfrey.'

'No, it's nothing sir, really.' She kept averting her face. 'It's just... Professor Snape confiscated my favourite book this morning during Potions Class and took fifteen points, so I'm a bit down, but it'll pass. I'm awfully sorry, Professor, but I have to leave now!' Hermione turned and trotted off with her much too heavy schoolbag - but not toward the Great Hall, Remus saw. Was she going to skip lunch? He frowned. She was on the skinny side.

He tried not to feel too disappointed at her refusal to confide in him. It had to be a girl's problem; hopefully she'd take his advice to heart and consult Poppy.

Meanwhile, her story about the book sounded credible enough, and knowing Snape the man was capable of keeping it for months. Remus resolved to talk to him; that much he could do, at least. Not right away, though. As long as the offence - perceived or real - remained fresh, few people would stand a chance against the world champion in grudge bearing. He'd wait a couple of days, maybe until the weekend.

When he entered the Great Hall Hermione was in her usual place at the Gryffindor table, as if she hadn't run into the opposite direction mere minutes ago. She eyed him briefly before re-engaging in what looked like a debate with her friends - too briefly for Remus to see the expression on her face.

Someone else is hiding a secret here, he thought. He refrained from confronting her.

***

Sirius Black

Sirius chafed. The Kneazle hadn't delivered yet. True, the passwords wouldn't be lying around in the Gryffindor common room. So the animal wasn't at fault. Still, having to wait was infuriating. Padfoot paced from bush to bush. Well. At least he had no cause to think happy thoughts that would attract Dementors.

Having the Dementors here was an insane idea. Those fools in the Ministry hadn't used their wits - didn't possess any wits worth mentioning. But the castle was full of young boys and girls. Many of them had to have happy thoughts or fuzzy feelings. He knew he must have had them when he was their age, though he didn't remember them. With all those tempting snacks in the vicinity the Dementors would inevitably be lured onto the Hogwarts grounds sooner or later.

He sat down, sniffing the air. Cold but not chilly, so they weren't too close. He could go hunting rabbits in the Forest - though he'd prefer to eat rat. Drooling, Padfoot rose.

And tensed.Who was that?

The tall bloke crossing the lawn looked unfamiliar to him. (But then, who was he supposed to be familiar with after twelve years?) To the dog's monochrome vision, the man' robes were grey and his hair was pale. He walked with graceful steps, looking all about him. Every once in a while he halted, seeming to breathe deeply. Visibly enjoying himself. Oh yes, don't worry, be happy, do bring in the soul-suckers.

Where was he going now? Stupid git. Did no one tell you about the Whomping Willow?

Obviously not. He'd get smacked quite thoroughly. Shit.

Padfoot would be fast enough to keep the poor sod out of harm's way. And so, Padfoot burst out of the bushes and ran for it. He bounded across the lawn, allowing himself a single, warning bark. More noise would only draw undue attention.

The man cast a glance at him but his steps didn't even falter. Bloody hell! Padfoot hurried on. The Willow, sensing the nearness of moving things, raised a branch. No way, tree! With a mighty leap Padfoot smashed into the intended victim, knocking him over. The branch swept over his head, touching the tips of his ears. The man rolled aside with remarkable agility.

Padfoot wheeled and fled as well, just before the next branch came crashing down. Safely out of reach, he sat on his haunches to see if his action had been successful. Apparently it had. The man rose, extricating himself elegantly from the twisted folds of his robes. He turned his gaze toward Padfoot, and across the four, five yards of lawn that separated them his flaming eyes met the ice-blue gaze of the dog. Padfoot huffed in surprise.

Then the man - fucking idiot! - turned back towards the tree.

This time, Padfoot wasn't going to intervene. Some people were beyond help. He settled down to watch the carnage.

The next moment, his ears caught an unexpected sound. It was the strange man, who had started to croon an eerie tune. Padfoot kept watching. Part of him knew he had better seek cover to avoid being seen; anyone could be looking out of the windows. But he was unable to leave. Though no wand was being waved and no words were being spoken, he found himself spellbound.

Carefully the man approached the Whomping Willow, the crooning turning into a wordless song. His arms and hands were spread as to signal his peaceful intentions. All the time he kept singing, an enchanting melody. And all the time Padfoot watched and listened raptly, tongue lolling from his mouth.

The Willow loved the song, so much was plain: the tree didn't lift a branch against the singer. It allowed him to draw close until he reached the bole. There, the singer raised his hand and laid the palm carefully against the bark, a gesture like... a caress? Vainly, Padfoot tried to remember how a caress felt, or a pat. He thought he saw a shiver go through the tree, through bole and branches and leafless twigs. Briefly, he shook himself.

The singer gazed up, still chanting softly. One of the Willow's slender twigs bent down to touch his crown.

Padfoot's heart felt as if it was about to burst. It had never occurred to him that the fucking tree might have a soul. He wanted to howl - in sorrow or joy, he didn't know which. Before the howl could escape his throat he raced back towards the bushes.

***

Finrod Felagund

He wondered what had made this particular willow so angry; most others of its kind were prone to weep, not to whomp. Maybe Remus knew. Again, Finrod patted the tree. Its branches swayed despite the absence of wind, and he knew that if hadn't been winter its leaves would have rustled. He replied that if it depended on him, he would be back soon.

This reminded him that he was not supposed to be here in the first place, having assured Remus that he would stay inside to apply himself to the art of reading English. He had indeed done so until Dribbly appeared out of thin air bearing a tray of food and Finrod had vainly tried to engage in meaningful conversation with the house elf:

'I hope I'm not being obtrusive, but why are you always dressed in a rag, Dribbly?'

'Is a tea towel, Mr. Felagund, sir. Clean and newly mended.' Proudly, the elf showed him the pink patch on the yellow and red squared piece of worn cloth.

'But wouldn't you rather wear proper clothes? I'm sure something could be arranged -'

The little elf looked crestfallen. 'Is sir not being happy with Dribbly, that he is proposing to offer him clothes? Is you not liking the food?'

'The food is fine,' Finrod replied truthfully, this being the question he understood.

Beaming, the house elf said: 'Then you will not be shaming Dribbly by offering him clothing, Mr. Felagund, sir.' And without waiting for a reaction he vanished.

Giving a house elf clothes was apparently offensive. To judge by what Dribbly had said it was a sign that you did not appreciate their services. In that case, he had better not broach the subject, next time the house elf appeared, Finrod had mused.

The exchange had robbed him of any desire to read about magical theory. Giving in to his urges he had left the castle by a window and chanced the twelve feet drop to the ground. He regretted being out of bounds, but the temptation to go outside for a walk under the sky had simply been too strong.

Fortunately, he had not encountered anyone so far, except the black dog with the blue eyes. The grim, he thought. The harbinger of death, according to Sybill Trelawney, who had foretold his demise. Perhaps she was right. What if, returning to where he came from, he would do so only to die? He had been near death when he was spirited away. He wondered if this was the reason why he had not mentioned either of her predictions to Remus, or if this had something to do with the 'fleeing wolf' in the first, more serious sounding one.

But whatever was the case, this was an intriguing dog. Turning away from the willow Finrod saw it run back towards the edge of the forest. Following it was almost not a conscious choice; he had also left in the castle to find a suitable piece of wood to carve, and what better place to look for it than in the woods?

Entering the forest was like stepping from day into dusk. It was thick with various kinds of trees: Finrod's gaze caught beeches, oaks, yew trees and pines in a single glance. The undergrowth was dense and in places thorny, though not impenetrable; without some innate sense of direction one could easily get lost here. The air beneath the canopy of leaves was stuffy rather than fresh, and his skin tingled as if someone was scrawling a message on it: you are being watched. He sensed no outright hostility, yet he knew he was not precisely welcome. He was an intruder, and these woods were determined to harm him if he treated it with anything less than the utmost respect.

Finrod smiled; this atmosphere of vigilance resembled that in the forests of Ossiriand, where the Laiquendi dwelled. With light steps, careful not to break even the tiniest twig, he set off toward the sound of a brook gurgling in the distance. It would be good to sit down for a while and listen to the voice of the water. The little stream was close by; soon, he caught a glimpse of it between the trees. He increased his pace, skirting a thorn bush by less than an inch.

And halted. On a boulder beside the brook was the black dog, lying down with its head resting on its paws. When it spotted Finrod, the animal looked up. Somehow it reminded him of the Hound his cousin Celegorm had brought from Valinor, though it was not nearly as huge as Huan. Finrod approached it cautiously, more for the dog's sake than for his own. Since had been mauled by a werewolf - an evil werewolf - little could daunt him, either this side of death or beyond.

Sitting up the dog fixated him. The intelligence in its gaze also reminded Finrod of Huan; perhaps a greeting was in order. 'Well met, Humor,' he said, inclining his head courteously. 'I am Finrod, also known as Felagund.'

At that, the black dog bared its teeth in what seemed to be a grin rather than a threat. But it wasn't accompanied by any tail wagging.

Drawing closer until he came within five feet of the boulder, Finrod searched the animal's eyes that seemed more than animal eyes. His curiosity soon overcame his reluctance, and he decided to venture behind them, gazing right into their owner's mind...

... to discover that this dog was even more fascinating than he had thought.

'Can you talk?' he asked.

Humor stood, gazing down at him, and for a moment Finrod thought that he was about to speak. But then the dog froze, panting, ears twitching, turning into all directions. Suddenly he flattened them and leapt straight across the brook to melted into the trees on the other side like a shadow.

If this was meant to be a reply to his question it seemed overdone, but Finrod doubted that it was. Trust an animal's instincts. So he went still, listening, looking, smelling, sensing. And finding. A new element had crept into the atmosphere inside the forest, something uncanny and chilly that had nothing to do with the armed vigilance he had registered before. The murmuring of the brook had darkened to an unsettling mutter.

Perhaps he had better leave. Pulling his robes more closely around him, Finrod quickly retraced his steps toward the lawn and the castle on the rocks. At the edge of the trees, he stopped briefly when he saw precisely the piece of wood he had come to seek. He picked it up, hoping the forest would not begrudge him such an insignificant a piece of itself.

Straightening, he discovered that he had landed himself into trouble by going out. A small group of students was descending the lawn towards the lake.

(TBC)