To Face the Wolf

Hermione Granger

Today's classes were finally done and Hermione was on her way to the Library to borrow some books she needed for her latest assignments. Her stomach, oblivious to the existence and use of time-turners, told her it wanted dinner now. Sternly she told it to stop growling, but it refused to comply. With a sigh Hermione put down her schoolbag to dig up a biscuit.

When she straightened, the sight of Professor Snape ascending one of the stairs met her gaze. He was approaching the landing when it began to move away. But instead of allowing it to transport him elsewhere, Snape hitched up his robes and leaped, displaying a strength and agility she hadn't known he possessed. After a graceful touchdown the Potions Master strode on without missing a beat. It was only then Hermione realised he wasn't wearing his usual black robes.

Maybe he was in a good mood, she thought, convinced that not even Severus Snape could remain grim and gloomy all the time. Cramming the whole biscuit into her mouth and hauling up her bag she hurried after him, ready to apologise profusely for reading novels during Potions class if only it would help her get the Silmarillion back.

Keeping up his pace was hard, but just as she was about to give up Snape reached his destination. Hermione halted, swallowing her mouthful of biscuit. Weren't those Professor Lupin's quarters? Then why did he enter them without knocking?

Something didn't seem right. Maybe it would be better not to have seen this. On the other hand, she had a good pretext to accost him, and what if she could prevent him from doing something... well, undesirable, just by going in?

Deciding it was a clever plan, she followed him in.

Snape stood facing the door when Hermione opened it, holding a harp she recognised as the one Quirrell had used to lull Fluffy asleep. His startled look was swiftly replaced by the usual glare. 'What are you doing here?' he snapped; apparently the colour of his robes wasn't indicative of his mood.

Had he always been so dauntingly tall? Had his eyes always burned so intensely? She cleared her throat. 'I was hoping to find Professor Lupin, sir. I need to consult him about - something. These are his rooms, aren't they?'

Snape folded his arms across his chest. 'Can I - just tell me. I'll convey your message.'

Had he been about to ask if he could pass it on? Hermione stared at him. His mouth was pursed rather oddly, almost as if he was doing his best not to laugh. One of his long fingers touched a harpstring, but surely he didn't play? The idea that Snape and music could go together defied credulity.

'Er... it's... er, personal, Professor,' Hermione stammered. He scowled but said nothing. Could she leave now without feeling a coward? If something untoward were to happen, she would be able to tell who it was that had visited Professor Lupin's rooms while the occupant wasn't there. Unless, of course, Snape was going Obliviate her on her way out.

Still scowling, the Potions Master pointed at the couch. 'Sit down then, and wait for him.'

His behaviour was definitely odd, and for some reason his speech sounded odd as well. Hermione swallowed. 'Thank you, but er, I have a lot to do before dinner. My errand can wait.' She gathered all her courage. 'Professor, about the book you confiscated...'

The black eyes in the sallow face narrowed; but why did she have the impression he had lost her? 'Not today,' Snape muttered at last.

Disappointed and slightly baffled Hermione walked out with measured steps, trying not to make her retreat resemble a flight. She still remembered him standing there in his blue robes, so he had not Obliviated her. Or else he had partly erased her memory of what had happened in that room; the problem, at least from the Oblivated person's viewpoint, was that you couldn't tell what you didn't remember.

The surprise came when she entered the library several minutes later. Madam Pince was sitting in her usual place. In front of her desk was Professor Snape - dressed in black. And the book he was showing the librarian looked very familiar.

***

Severus Snape

Pince bent her shriveled face toward the book. 'Tolkien? A dead Muggle author,' she declared in that typical library hush. 'Quite popular here at Hogwarts in the sixties, after some Muggle born students introduced him. I never read anything he wrote, but we have his Lord of the Rings here, a battered copy forgotten by a student who left school. But I don't remember having come across this book before.' She cast one more glance at the title page. 'Are you certain it's the cover that was charmed, not the contents?'

'I am,' Snape replied irritably. 'Charming the cover of a Potions treatise to look like a Muggle text in a Potions class makes no sense. And while most students generally do fail to make sense, this one is an exception.' Galling though the admission was. 'I happen to know, by the way, that the Lord of the Rings was still popular during the seventies among hare-brained and overly romantic Gryffindors.' He was positive he'd seen Black with a copy once. 'I never read it, but now I need to know what kind of books this Tolkien wrote.'

Dark matter, if Granger's book was anything to go by. He had leafed through it before and during lunch, to discover that it contained an unknown mythology with Platonic (or Plotinic) influences, followed by a chronicle dealing with various kinds of evil, such as treason, maiming and killing, more treason, robbery and rebellion, war and destruction, still more treason, abandoned children, werewolves, dragons and other unsavoury monsters. It even contained an incest story.

Incriminating material, even dangerously fascinating for certain people - the likes of Black would positively relish it! - but not a book one would expect Granger to enjoy. Unless she was reading it for educational purposes; however grudgingly, Snape was forced to admit the author, Muggle or not had a firm grasp of human folly and weakness and a refreshingly pessimistic worldview. But other elements were merely ridiculous, such as the suggestion that most of the perpetrators were Elves. Elves!

The reason why he wanted to know more, though, was that parts of it seemed familiar, reminding him of the enchanter Felagund's illusions, yesterday in Lupin's rooms, that tale full of sound and fury. He was sure it had mentioned this Morgoth, a lord as dark as any, while the jewel theft and the ensuing slaughter of innocents also rang a bell. Snape, who didn't believe in coincidence, was determined to solve this riddle. The preface - written by a son who seemed to have tampered with his father's manuscripts - was not very helpful, but he supposed the author's chef d'oeuvre would yield more information. 'Where do you have this copy of The Lord of the Rings?'

Pince rose, grabbing her feather book duster. 'I'll get it for you.'

Once more, Snape opened The Silmarillion in an attempt to make sense of the weird lettering on the title page. He wondered if it was not, in fact, a highly dangerous curse waiting to be triggered by some unsuspecting fool. Could it be that the author was a dark wizard, masking as a Muggle? Slowly, he closed the book, telling himself his interest was purely academic and cautionary.

'Why am I not surprised!'

The librarian's angry voice upset the precarious balance of his thoughts, and Snape nearly jumped out of his skin. 'What??'

'The book's gone. Nicked by a student, no doubt, and the Founders know who, and when. I should have jinxed it.' She waved the feather duster threateningly into his direction, as if he had anything to do with the book's disappearance.

'Oh? I didn't get the impression you'd consider it such a big loss,' he snapped, feeling attacked for no reason.

'It's the principle.' Madam Pince's nose acquired several more wrinkles. 'Well, as I can't help you, you may want to try one of the students.'

He nodded and turned away. Try one of the students, indeed! The student most likely to possess another Tolkien text was sitting at one of the library tables right now, hunched over a book and pretending not to notice him. Snape eyed her malevolently. It would be no use to ask Granger for The Lord of the Rings as long as he held her other book hostage: she'd never own up to having a copy. Well. He could probably figure it all out on his own, even though he really wasn't looking foward to it.

When he strode past her she looked up, raising a finger as if they were in class. 'Professor Snape?'

He halted, his long fingers clutching The Silmarillion more tightly. 'If it's about your book...' he began threateningly.

Granger shook her bushy head, looking at his collar rather than at his face. 'I just wondered why you changed robes again, sir,' she murmured.

Idiot question. Was Potter's impertinence starting to rub off? 'Miss Granger, if you are suffering from hallucinations, I may have to brew you one of my more unpleasant remedies. So I strongly advise you to consult Madam Pomfrey before it comes to that,' he told her.

She stared at him, frowning slightly. Thinking hard.

Snape did not like what he saw. With one last glare at her he swept out.

***

Remus Lupin

'The Headmaster is delving into the problem,' Remus announced from the doorway, 'but so far -' He stopped abruptly, his hand still on the knob. The person sitting on his couch beside the harp was not the one he had expected to see.

'Severus!' Remus said neutrally. 'Can I help you?'

Instead of replying, the Potions Master eyed Remus curiously, an expression that seemed an alien presence on his face until it shifted into a more familiar glare.

'I really hope you haven't come for the harp,' Remus said. 'I'm afraid our guest would miss it very much if you took it.'

'What if I did?' Snape said, rising to his feet with a fluid motion and picking up the instrument. 'It isn't as if he can claim it for himself. Or you, for that matter, Lupin. I think I'll put it back where it belongs, now that your packmate has used it to spin his yarn.'

'Pity,' Remus replied, shrugging. 'But I can't stop you.' He gestured toward the door. 'Now if you don't mind, Severus, I have some vampire essays to grade...'

'Are you throwing me out, Lupin?' Snape said haughtily, drawing himself up.

Remus stepped closer. This was fun. 'You're good,' he said. 'The voice is brilliant. The face could use an extra pinch of resentment and the hair a little more grease, but otherwise...'

'What gave me away?'

'The robes, mostly. Snape never wears anything but black.

Finrod pulled a face. 'I was afraid so, but I could only cast an illusion about myself. It's a miracle I got the hair approximately right.' An arpeggio on the harp, a soft chant in that strange language this room had never heard until yesterday, and the shape in front of Remus shifted from Snape to Finrod.

'Splendid!' Remus said admiringly, trying not to grin like an idiot. No wizard, indeed! This had to be a form of Metamorphmagic, but he had never heard of a Metamorph who worked with spells, instead of being born with the potential. He walked over to the couch and sat down, leaning back and stretching his legs. 'Can you use that charm to change the appearance of other people?'

Finrod sat down, too, putting aside the harp. 'I have used it. Surely you remember the part of my tale where I changed my companions and myself into servants of the Enemy?'

'I do.' Remus recalled the ugly, misshapen creatures quite vividly. A jarring, brutal contrast with the beauty of Finrod and his people. And to no avail, in the end.

'What would you have done if I had walked out just now and continued to impersonate Severus Snape?' he heard Finrod ask suddenly.

Without looking at him Remus said: 'Why do I have the impression that you did walk out earlier today, and that changing into Severus was an emergency measure to avoid being seen?' Not that he blamed Finrod. In fact, he was reasonable certain he would have wanted to do the same if he had been cooped up in these relatively small quarters for days. But he realised he had spoken in a mildly disapproving teacher's voice.

'When I opened the window and smelled the wind I could stay between walls no more... Once, I was a rebel.' Something in the other's tone made Remus turn his head, and doing so he saw that Finrod was mostly speaking to himself now. 'I deemed myself confined. With my fellow rebels I broke out of what we considered our prison, calling it escape, though with every step my roving feet brought me to another prison, worse than the first. In that deep dungeon, wondering if this was fate, I lay dying - until I was transported to this place that seems to lie outside the music of fate. Were you in my place, would you not wonder if this were freedom?' His voice had grown strong, more imperious than Remus had known it could become. 'I was held by the same hands that shaped seas and moved mountains, and I turned away from them - what are your Headmaster's restrictions to me?'

A magnificent show of teeth - teeth that had torn a werewolf's throat. Meeting Finrod's piercing gaze Remus suddenly realised what he had known all along but had not allowed to sink in: that those eyes were older than Dumbledore's. Many lifetimes older. It occurred to him that if Finrod would change, he would be the most dangerous werewolf the Wizarding World had ever known. Remus blinked, though he managed not to look away.

Though he wasn't sure if he was expected to reply he took a deep breath and asked: 'So you're pulling rank on our Headmaster, your Majesty? Do you mean to say that as an immortal, one-time king you're above our petty rules and restrictions?' Gritty as his words sounded to his own ears, he didn't think Finrod would take offence at a few honest questions.

A lopsided grin appeared on Finrod's face, and gone was the King. 'Yes and no,' he replied. 'It's just that I happen to be somewhat restless by nature. My older cousins - and I have more than a handful of them - would tell you I've always been a silly boy who couldn't sit still and hold his tongue if his life depended on it.'

'But your Headmaster.' he continued after a pause, 'could have informed me why he considers it necessary to keep my presence here a secret, instead of expecting me to stay put like an obedient student. I should think that I'm old enough. But I also know he is protecting you, my friend, and watching over his young charges. And this is the reason why, once I ran the risk of being seen by a group of students, I chose not to show myself as I am but to impersonate someone I met here. I took care to pick the most forbidding of you, hoping to avoid being approached.'

'And did you succeed?' Remus asked. Like the previous day, the word 'friend' warmed him like a chocolate bar consumed after an encounter with a Dementor, and he was more than ready now to applaud Finrod's actions as befitting a true Gryffindor.

'Almost. One girl followed me here. She said she wanted to see you, but when I told her to wait for you she left. As far as I can tell she didn't suspect anything.'

A short interrogation led Remus to the conclusion that Finrod had met Hermione Granger, though he proved his inability to estimate the correct age of youthful mortals by thinking she was about sixteen. Remus also doubted Hermione hadn't noticed anything, as the girl was more perceptive than approximately ninety-nine percent of the Hogwarts population.

But for the moment, he decided to let sleeping dogs lie. 'You didn't speak with anyone else while you were, er, being Severus?'

'No.' But if Remus was not mistaken, Finrod had hesitated ever so slightly before replying.

***

Finrod Felagund

His reply was true enough: It was not the Hogwarts Potions Master who had encountered the black dog, and as the animal had never replied there had been no conversation. Finrod did intend to tell Remus about Humor, but he wanted to find out more about him, like he also needed more time to ponder the Divination teacher's mysterious prophecy - or whatever it was - before mentioning it to anyone else.

Words spoken in foresight were rarely trustworthy guides of deeds. They should not be repeated without good cause, while a lone Elda in a world full of mortals would do well to keep his own counsel. Though admittedly it was pleasant to dwell among humans who showed no inclination to worship him when he told a tale in his own manner, or gaped when he used his own... well, magic.

'No, Severus Snape did not speak with anyone,' he repeated. 'But Finrod took something along and finds himself in need of a knife now.' He rose to show Remus the piece of yew wood he had picked up at the edge of the forest.

'You've been in the Forest?' Remus asked. 'And nothing attacked you, or told you to sod off?'

'Nothing,' replied Finrod. I did have the impression the Forest was watching me suspiciously, but I'm confident we will reach an agreement, the forest and I. After all, the willow was also willing to listen to me.'

'The... you mean the Whomping Willow?'

'The fighting tree, yes.'

'Are you telling me it stopped trying to beat you into pulp?'

'Yes, once I'd calmed it with a song. Do you know why it is so upset?'

'Well...' Remus said, still looking amazed. 'I suppose I can tell you what's behind the whomping.' And he proceeded to explain why the Willow had been planted there.

Finrod did not know what shocked him more: the story of Remus's violent nights in the Shrieking Shack, or the casual way in which his werewolf friend glossed over his monthly self-mutilation. 'Of course, now that the Wolfsbane Potion helps me to keep my human mind when I transform, I don't go there anymore,' the wizard finished cheerfully.

Finrod felt grateful for the existence of the potion, and not in the first place because there was a tiny chance he would need it for himself. 'Has no one informed the willow it's whomping in vain now?' he asked after a silence. 'Perhaps I should pay it another visit?'

Remus eyed him with wry amusement. 'You can't sit still, can you? The problem is... Let me put it like this: If I provide you with a whittling knife, will you stop getting yourself into situations where you'll have to turn into Snape to avoid being seen?'

Finrod cocked his head. The wording seemed to allow for creative solutions to what was, in fact, no better than house-arrest. He suspected Remus was aware of the loopholes. 'Promise,' he said.

The wizard eyed him shrewdly. 'You'll get your knife. What are you going to carve, by the way?'

Turning the wood around in his hands Finrod replied: 'Whatever this wants to be.' He did not add that he knew.

The next day, he kept his promise. He spent it whittling away at his piece of yew, improving his reading skills and practising his letters on sheets of sheepskin parchment. Remus, returning to his chambers late in the afternoon, reported some sightings of Snape-in-a-blue-robe, adding that most students assumed it was a practical joke and were ready to cheer if the perpetrator should reveal himself ('which I think he should not.').

In the evening, they had a debate about what Finrod considered a circular definition of magic in Waffling's book on magical theory, because it contained words like faculties and powers without explaining what these were in other than magical and wizarding terms. Remus then challenged Finrod to define musicality without using terms referring to music, or artistry without using the word art, after which Finrod asked him if he thought magic was an art and they somehow ended up talking about Dark Arts and sorcery.

That was the point where the gloomy note crept into their pleasant debate and they decided to call it a day. Remus did not say what it was that bothered him, while Finrod was loath to speak about his failure to withstand Sauron's dark sorcery and save Beren. Nor did walking the path of dreams bring succour that night, for he found himself in Sauron's pit again, wrestling with the werewolf. This time, though, the pit was not dark but illuminated by the wan light of a full moon - and the werewolf was black, like a grim hound of death.

(TBC)