To Face the Wolf

The next morning, Finrod's mood was overcast like the sky. What if he was stuck here until the End of Arda and a day? But the instant he caught himself musing that Sauron's dungeon was, in a way, preferable to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Finrod pulled himself together and dedicated himself to his woodcarving. The basic shape was there but getting the hairs right would require quite a bit of additional work.

It was late in the afternoon, when Remus was still away, that a diversion presented itself in the form of the Hogwarts Potions Master.

'Did you have the evil courage to impersonate me, the other day?' Snape hissed without preamble, his eyes spitting fire. Even when he stood stock still in the middle of the room his robes seemed to flutter a little, as if his fury spurred them into movement. He had his wand out.

Finrod found himself wondering if the wizard intended to transform him, and if he would be able to prevent such a thing from happening. Facing his accuser unflinchingly he replied. 'Indeed I am, sir - and I ask your forgiveness. If this is unsatisfactory, what do you wish me to do? Do I grovel, pleading for mercy?'

'How did you do it?' Snape demanded, the bright red spots on his cheeks indicating that he was even more furious now, as if he took the apology for an insult.

By applying the teachings of my youth? By being who and what I am? Somehow, Finrod doubted these answers would satisfy the irate wizard. 'How do you do magic?' he countered.

The other ignored his question, too. 'It was Lupin, wasn't it?' he spat, panting with rage. 'Lupin provided you with polyjuice... to allow you to leave the castle... and contact the murderer Black without drawing undue attention. But being his usual sloppy self... he forgot the black robes.'

Wizards used potions to create such effects? Interesting. 'He did nothing of the kind, sir. On the contrary, he disapproved of what I did yesterday.' Verbally, that was.

The wand was pointing straight at Finrod now, and the Potions Master's face twisted in disgust, as if he smelled something foul. 'Lupin, disapproving of something a friend did? That would be a first!'

He detests Remus, Finrod realised, and not merely, or even mostly, because he is a werewolf. 'And I swear to you that neither he nor I are in league with Black,' he continued, ignoring Snape's words. But even as he spoke, it was plain that the wizard did not believe him.

The next moment, Finrod noticed to his surprise that Snape sought to enter his mind, uncoiling a tendril of thought, and extending it toward him. But it was not nearly strong enough; it lacked the acuity with which the Deceiver had pierced his mind during their duel on the Isle of Werewolves, baring his guilt and bleeding his resistance dry. Wizard or not, Finrod could keep this embittered man from reading him.

'I acted on a whim and entirely of my own accord ,' he said, trying to salvage at least something from the wreck. 'If you wish to mete out some form of punishment, please leave Remus out of it.'

'I, punish you?' The wizard stepped closer, beaming with sudden malevolence, his voice gone soft. 'If you were true to your own nature, you'd have to punish yourself for your misbehaviour, wouldn't you?'

Finrod felt he had lost him. 'I'm sorry - if you told me what you are referring to, I might be able to answer your question, sir.'

'You're an elf, aren't you?' the other insinuated, as if uncovering a shameful secret that Finrod had done his utmost to hide. 'You are bound to the werewolf Lupin, whose creature you became the moment he sank his filthy teeth into you. So you are accountable to him, like the Hogwarts house elves are accountable to the Headmaster and the heads of the four Houses.'

House-elves? Finrod was baffled, insulted and intrigued at the same time. So I am a kind of house-elf?

'Remus did not bite me,' he muttered, but his thoughts were running wild already, and his words carried less conviction than they should.

'And elves,' Snape finished silkily, as if Finrod hadn't spoken, 'are obliged to punish themselves if they disobey their masters and act contrary to their wishes and interests. They must iron their own hands. Bang their heads against the wall. Cut their -'

Ignoring this outlandish and disturbing suggestion for the moment Finrod said, genuinely curious: 'Could you explain to me why you believe I am a house-elf?'

'It's in this book, isn't it? The talkin' book. You must have read it, or you wouldn't have come up with that fairy tale to explain your mysterious appearance in our dungeons. Or was it Lupin's idea to use this drivel?' Again that look of disgust. 'He would know such books; one of his parents is Muggle-born, after all. A lame prank, but he was never very ingenious.'

Suddenly, Finrod had enough of it - enough of the riddles and the insinuations, enough of the ill-will behind them. 'What is your quarrel with Remus?' he asked. 'He can't help being a werewolf - or do you think he asked to be bitten? It could have happened to anyone. It could have happened to you.'

The fanatical glitter reappeared in the wizard's eyes. 'Thanks to Lupin and his cronies,' Snape said in a voice ragged with fury, 'thanks to them, it almost did happen to me. Ask Lupin what they did two decades ago, while we all attended this school. Ask him who it was that tried to send straight at a werewolf's teeth, and where this crazy murderer is now. Ask him, and pray that he doesn't lie to you as he does to everyone else, including the Headmaster.'

The man exuded bad feelings like body odours; but Finrod began to have an inkling why he was so unhappy and so full of spite. Their eyes met - and Finrod decided to face it.

Snape stabbed at him with his wand. 'Legilimens!' he cried.

And Finrod remembered the werewolf.

Sauron's beast stalked into the Pit, hackles raised. It went straight for Beren. Desperately, Finrod strained against his bonds. Take me! My life for his! Oh Valar help me in this hour of need! Save the son of Barahir, for he is innocent. He has ever been Morgoth's foe. Tulkas, lend me strength!

The werewolf stopped for a moment, unholy, glowing eyes turning away from the mortal. Finrod struggled. Take the guilty one, wolf!

The moment he felt his bonds burst, Finrod realised what was going on: the wizard was invading his memories. He fought back fiercely against this violation; this was his, and his alone to grant; no one should rip it from him...

... the werewolf, fangs dripping, came towards him and crouched...

NO!

New images stabbed at him like knives, and these were different. Two dark-haired adolescents, one ugly, one handsome, yet oddly similar, were looking daggers at one another. The handsome boy spoke and pointed, smiling viciously. His ugly mirror image wheeled and stalked away. A familiar looking willow with flailing limbs was stilled with a stick. The ugly boy crept through a tunnel, the tip of his wand a tiny light in the gloom. Ahead, outlined by yellow light, was a hairy head with an elongated snout. Huge paws carried it toward the boy, who froze in horror, wetting himself. Slavering jaws, full of razor teeth, gaped wide; red nostrils flared. Finrod could not have said if he heard the snarls, or supplied them from memory.

Monster. Werewolf. Bent on slaughter. Finrod braced himself. He could take this; his flesh had known such teeth.

Something? Someone? dragged him away. The images vanished. Finrod found himself staring at Severus Snape, whose forehead glistened with sweat.

'That beast,' Snape said in a voice dripping with hatred and choking with remembered terror, 'was Lupin. And the piece of filth who tried to send me to my death was Black, his friend, the escaped criminal who is lurking outside the castle at this very instant, with murderous intent.' He stabbed a finger at Finrod. 'Unless he's inside, waiting for the right moment to strike? Maybe you know? Maybe you could tell us more about Black's comings and goings, Mr - Felagund?'

Strictly spoken Finrod did not know. But he had his suspicions; claiming otherwise would be a lie. And so, he remained silent.

***

When the Deputy Headmistress stepped from the fireplace into the Headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore was just wrapping up a conversation with one of his predecessors. 'Well, Phineas,' he was saying, 'if you're really convinced this house elf could retrieve this book from the family library without making it kill him, I suppose you could ask him to search for it.'

He looked sceptical. Minerva McGonagall wondered what was going on. Unless she was very much mistaken, the Headmaster had just expressed an interest in some Dark Arts book from the library of the ancient and most notorious House of Black.

'The likes of Kreacher do not perish so easily, Albus,' she heard the portrait reply. 'And I know how to make them co-operative.' Sniggering, the late, unlamented Phineas Nigellus departed, leaving an empty frame behind.

'Take a seat, Minerva,' Albus was saying.

As she had been trying to read the contents page of the text on his desk upside down (Essence, Being and Presence; The Embodiment and Disembodiment of Fantastic Imaginings; Solidified Wishes and Desires and the Evanescence Thereof; Summoning Fancies-), she sat down with her curiosity unsatisfied.

'Sherbet le-' Albus began while she sat down, but then he shook his head. 'What am I thinking!' He conjured up a tin of shortbread in front of her, and the eyes above the crooked nose twinkled merrily.

Minerva supposed she ought to be grateful the Headmaster hadn't saved any Haggis-flavoured Beans especially for her*. Suppressing a shiver she said: 'Thank you, Albus,' without touching the tin. Dinner was in half an hour; she had no intention to spoil her appetite.

'What can I do for you, Minerva?' Albus asked. She saw his fingers slide towards the book, and for a moment she had the impression he was going to close it inconspicuously, as if he wanted to hide it from her without appearing secretive. But all he did was flatten the dog-ear in the lower right hand corner. Minerva relaxed. Though she knew the Headmaster of Hogwarts had secrets no one was privy to, she did not need a demonstration.

'Two things,' she said. 'One, I could use your advice in a matter concerning one of my Gryffindor third years. Two, I have a question I hope you're able to answer.'

Albus gestured for her to go ahead, and she continued: 'The student I'm referring to is Hermione Granger. I'm beginning to wonder if she uses her Time-turner as wisely as I assumed she would. When she entered my classroom today, I was unpleasantly surprised to see how tired and haunted she looked.'

'Did you discuss this with her?' the Headmaster inquired.

'I tried. But apparently Remus did the same earlier this week' - Albus smiled - 'and my impression was that all those solicitous, meddlesome teachers were getting on her nerves. Hermione assured me she was fine in a voice that suggested the exact opposite. But when she told me that Poppy's examination had yielded nothing out of the ordinary for a girl of her age, I couldn't very well give her the lie. Using Veritaserum would be a bit overdone, don't you think so.' Minerva straightened in her chair. 'I'm inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt for the... time being, but all the same I'd like to have your opinion, Albus.'

The Headmaster nodded. 'You know, Hermione Granger reminds me of another Gryffindor girl who visited this school once upon a time,' he mused.

Minerva pursed her lips, knowing what girl he was referring to.

'She also used to resent the interference of meddlesome teachers,' he went on, making her wonder how he knew this, as he hadn't meddled with her. 'But to return to miss Granger: I agree with you, Minerva. Do give it some time. Nevertheless' - he looked serious now - 'I think you should make sure it has nothing to do with the Time-turner itself.'

The Time-turner the Ministry of Magic had sent after approving Minerva's request, was supposed to have been thoroughly tested. Any jinxes or curses left behind by previous users ought to have been removed. But given the sloppiness and incompetence of some of the Ministry's employees, it was possible they had missed a thing or two.

The delivery owl had carried a note stating that the item was 'ancient but operable, and perfectly suitable for your purpose' (meaning 'severely antiquated, but good enough to be used by a mere student'). Minerva remembered wondering how old it was, for unlike Muggle artefacts, magical objects could last thousands of years without being any worse for wear, if treated with respect and discernment. Now, she found herself wondering about the history of this particular Time-turner.

'Indeed,' she said briskly. 'I'll owl the Ministry to ask if they keep records of the previous users. And I believe a double check would be in order. I'm sure she can miss the turner for a few days.' After all, Hermione thought Harry Potter could miss his brand-new Firebolt for a while, Minerva added silently and without much remorse.

'And your question?' Albus said, eyeing her invitingly across the bridge of his large, crooked nose.

'Do we have a guest resembling Gilderoy Lockhart?'

When Albus raised his eyebrows Minerva explained: 'A few days ago, during one of my classes, I went to my office to retrieve a book. Looking out of the window I saw a blond man in blue robes enter the Forbidden Forest. At first I thought it was our previous Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, escaped from St. Mungo's. But this man was taller, and unlike Lockhart he moved with a natural grace.' She paused before adding primly: 'Then there are these rumours about someone impersonating our Potions teacher but wearing blue instead of black robes. And please do not tell me this is a student prank.' She eyed the Headmaster evenly.

'I won't,' he replied smoothly and promptly. 'The Deputy Headmistress has a right to know what is going on in this school. I ought to have informed you earlier, and I will not come up with the excuses I judged valid at the time.'

Minerva allowed herself a hint of a smile. Once again, Albus had managed to take the insult out of the injury. When he finished his account, she indicated the textbook on his desk. 'And if I interpret the presence of this volume correctly, you believe this Mr. Felagund is a figment of the imagination? Someone's wish-fulfilment, come alive?'

Albus sighed. 'For a figment of the imagination, our guest has quite a will of his own. But I have to take every possibility into account - and this seems to be one of them.'

***

Back in the relative safety of his private dungeons, Snape set himself to the task of doubting the correctness of his perceptions and arguments as if they belonged to someone else. It was one of his ways to cope with the constant threat of being found wrong or wanting, which would lead to unbearable loss of face - just as he had ways to cope with the terrors of being despised, hated and vulnerable, a ceaseless, tiring fight that had to be fought all the same.

Two things had prompted this particular round of self-scrutiny. There was his recent discovery that Felagund had not known about Black's murder attempt, almost twenty years ago. His shock had been genuine. Ergo, Black and Lupin hadn't told him. Black probably didn't deem his long-standing enemy worth the breath it would take to mention his crime, while the werewolf was a compulsive liar-by-omission and probably afraid Felagund would condemn them.

However, this meant that Felagund would hardly be plotting young Potter's demise together with those two. And he definitely wasn't their trusted friend.

The second element was Granger's book. After his brief survey he'd already suspected it might be the source of Felagund's story. Now that he'd actually read most of it he knew that it was. Lupin probably owned the book; why he'd lent it to Granger was any werewolf's guess. As a Defence against the Dark Arts textbook it left rather much to be desired. It wasn't as if one could expect those Powers of the West to show up as dei ex machina if one were unlucky enough to run into a dark wizard bent on murder and destruction.

This still left the important question unanswered, though: why refer to this book at all? According to the text the character called Felagund was mauled by a werewolf. He had killed the monster in return but died shortly afterwards from his injuries. The stranger had been badly wounded when he appeared in the dungeons. But why tell such a tale and admit that a werewolf had caused those wounds if he were a dark wizard in league with Black and Lupin? What purpose could such an admission conceivably serve, except to single the fellow out as a potential threat? It just didn't make sense. Was he feigning to be honest? But in that case, he would have denied any knowledge concerning Black's movements - which he had not!

Somehow, it did not add up, and the Potions Master detested calculations that refused to stay in line just as badly as he detested students who did so.

To make it even more complicated Felagund's enchantment had broken off mid-song, as if he did not know the outcome. He even had the memories to go with the story; he had to possess a vivid imagination. But if I were the one who retold this Tolkien book and assigned myself a part in it, Snape mused, would I pick a character that died halfway through, or one that was still alive at the end? If I felt I had to be a singer and a harper, I'd have picked this Maglor guy, the one who walked in pain and regret ever after. (This would bring the additional advantage of a werewolf-free existence.)

He shook his head in annoyance. Nonsense. He'd never recount a story from a book to explain his presence in a place where he was not supposed to be. Unless it was the Life of Severus Snape the Permanently Misplaced, he thought bitterly.

It still didn't add up.

The bulky volume, Granger's concealing charm removed, sat before him on his desk. Except its unrealistic contents - immortal, superior elves! Sentient dragons! A jewel becoming the Evening Star! - it had yielded nothing; the weird signs on the title page were merely an English summary. As Snape couldn't imagine the entire text was a cipher he was unable to decode, he was left with the choice between fact and fiction.

The former was blatantly absurd. So Felagund was either delusional and belonged in St. Mungo's, or a fraud who used a dark fantasy for his own obscure purposes and was laughing himself silly now together with Lupin. Once again, Snape felt his fury rise to the skies. Impersonating him!! Creating Boggart Snapes and dressing them up!!

But of course for some, even a modicum of respect was too much to ask. He hated both of them.

Abruptly the Potions Master jumped up, but after a brief bout of agitated pacing he calmed down far enough to recapitulate. He was certain he had exhausted all possibilities and reached the only logical conclusion. He had a case. He could take the incriminating book to the Headmaster and ask him to read it without risking to be considered paranoid and getting the usual, paternalising response. Never mind that he felt a headache coming on. Being right was worth some suffering.

'But,' the Devil's Advocate suddenly spoke up in his mind. 'But... would Felagund impersonate you, of all people, for a meeting with Black, and risk having him jump at his throat from behind a bush?'

Damn.

'And,' the Devils Advocate went on. 'regarding the use of Polyjuice - do you miss any boomslang skin this year? Would Lupin - a Potions brewer barely Dreadful enough not to be a Troll - be capable of brewing it?'

Damn again.

He needed a headache draught.

(TBC)