To Face the Wolf

Peter Pettigrew

The cat, if it was a cat, had almost caught him in the dormitory. Its claws had raked his back and drawn blood. But its jaws had closed on empty air, and with a mighty leap - for a small rodent - Wormtail had launched himself from Ron's bed and made a dash for the nearest hole, which was underneath Harry's bed. As he squeezed through, his throat emitted a shrill squeak of pain, but at least the hole was too narrow for the cruel ginger monster, and he was safe. For now.

His back was afire, but the claw marks were superficial and he knew they would heal. After all, his paw had healed even though he had cut off an entire toe. Finger, he corrected himself for the umpteenth time. He had cut off his finger. For Wormtail it was a toe, but in reality he was a man named Peter Pettigrew, not a sentient rodent. Don't ever forget it! Unfortunately, remembering his humanity brought along memories he'd rather suppress. Nightmares. Bouts of bad conscience. A painful shiver rippled through his furry, but no longer chubby body. A daily run for your life was not an exercise he could recommend.

Where next? The kitchens were out of the question; Crook - as he called the monster since he'd found out what name the pedantic girl had given it - had almost caught him there on two previous occasions. So were the dungeons, after the resident rats had attacked him and he'd barely come away with his life. Besides, the dungeons were Snivelly's territory, and Snivelly loved rats only as procurers of potions ingredients, such as livers and spleens.

Life was lousy, Peter Wormtail Pettigrew mused. No one loved him except the Weasley boys - and even their affection was meant for the pet, not for him. Not even his "friends" at Hogwarts had truly liked him. However hard he tried, he had never been up to their standards. They had merely tolerated him, in the condescending way reserved for harmless idiots you can send on errands nobody else wants to carry out. Well, Moony not so much. Kind, polite, mild-mannered, infuriating Moony, who was here as a teacher and still hadn't told the Headmaster about bloody Padfoot.

Moony, who'd probably hate and despise him even more than Padfoot, if he knew. Though Moony would ask why, at least. And the answer was easy enough: until the little Potter brat mysteriously offed him, the Dark Lord had been the biggest bully in the playground. Just like, back at school, James Potter and Sirius Black had been the biggest bullies in their year, something little Peter Pettigrew had sensed the moment he met them on the Hogwarts express. If you can't beat them, join them.

His back hurting worse than ever, Wormtail scurried along narrow passages unfit for anything larger than a rat until he suddenly found himself in a spot he didn't recognise. He could see well enough in the gloom, but what he saw was unfamiliar. Of course, the place was never quite at rest, so maybe it had shifted a little while his thoughts were occupied elsewhere.

The nearest way back to the man-inhabited world turned out to be a loose floorboard. Lifting it with his head he sniffed and caught a mixture of known and unknown smells. One of the more familiar scents rang a bell, but no more than that. He managed to push up a corner of the board and move it aside a little; then he scrambled out and crept a foot or so along the edge of a carpet. He sniffed and went still. There was something living in this room, but it wasn't human.

Wormtail looking about and up...

... right into a pair of piercing, sea-grey eyes in a sculpted face surrounded by long, blond plaits. The owner was bending over the armrest of a couch and gazing down at him. The rat froze. Who the hell was this - man? Yes, the unknown face was male. He thought he knew every adult here. He also thought he'd moved soundlessly. Apparently not.

'Greetings, little fellow,' said a melodious voice. 'No need to be paralysed with fear. I am no rat-catcher, though someone recently tried to turn me into one.' Suddenly, a frown appeared on the stranger's face frowned. 'But you're wounded. Someone did try to catch you, it seems.' He smiled, without showing his teeth. 'If you could decide to trust me, I could take a look at those scratches.'

The voice was kind and held both a promise of relief and a hint of benign power. It was hard to imagine the owner had evil intentions. Creeping forward a few inches, Wormtail gaze up, his whiskers twitching. A long arm was lowered slowly to the carpet. The hand attached to it looked safe: the palm was turned up. The rat found himself climbing on the outstretched hand. He let it lift him, thinking vaguely that he still had the advantage of surprise. He could always transform, hex and Obliviate the man, if need be.

A large head bent over him to examine him, and the wide mouth, less than a foot above him, told him that his wounds were more painful than serious. A finger carefully touched his injured back. To his surprise a warm sensation flooded him, while the burning diminished. A Healer? Had they added a Healer to the Hogwarts staff? he wondered. But the man didn't even have a wand!

'I'm no Healer,' said the mouth. 'I've dealt death too often. Still, there is some healing power left in me to alleviate pain. This should help.' Gingerly he stroked the rat's fur, avoiding the scratches. Relaxing, Wormtail began to give himself over to the pleasure when the voice suddenly went on: 'I wonder if there isn't more to you than meets the eye.'

His bright, piercing eye. What did it see?

The man frowned, and his hold on the rat seemed to grow a little tighter. Wormtail tensed, ready to bolt.

The next moment, an alarming noise just outside the window made him jump. Balancing on the ledge, nose pressed against the windowpane, was Crook. The ginger horror was emitting the blood-curdling kind of yowl usually reserved for rival cats in territorial conflicts. A feline war cry.

'Sorry,' Wormtail heard the man say over the thudding of his little rat heart. 'But I don't think I'll open the window for you, rat hunter.'

It wasn't reassuring enough, and the panic broke through. Shrieking Wormtail jumped down and fled.

***

Minerva McGonagall

Hermione Granger was in the library, bending over a piece of parchment behind a pile of books high enough to hide her from sight. Of course, no other student would gather a pile of books high enough to hide behind. The Deputy Headmistress was unable to suppress a smile - until the girl, realising the game was over, slowly looked up from her writing.

'Miss Granger,' Minerva McGonagall said. 'I was under the impression we had an agreement?' One of the books was about time-travel, she saw.

'But,' Hermione said. Minerva waited. 'Something happened,' the girl continued, gazing up at her Head of House with a mixture of apprehension and defiance. She lowered her voice. 'I really can't give it back yet, Professor, but tomorrow-'

'Today, I think,' Minerva corrected her in a firm voice. She looked about to make sure Irma Pince and the other students currently perusing the library were out of earshot. 'You are not supposed to use the Time-turner for anything but your extra classes, Miss Granger. It's dangerous to meddle with Time. I told you about the risks at the start of the year, and I'm disappointed that you, of all people, apparently fail to grasp this. If you are in need of help, tell me. Do not try to solve things on your own.' She gazed pointedly at the pile of books.

'But, Professor McGonagall...' Hermione seemed unable to decide between an indignant protest and a weary-eyed plea.

What, for goodness sake, had she been up to? In an unguarded moment, Minerva found herself wishing she were Albus, able to use Legilimency to find out more. But being rather fond of her own privacy, she knew she shouldn't want such a thing. 'Please, tell me.' She tried to sound less disapproving. 'What happened, Hermione?'

Just when she thought the girl would confide in her, Hermione shook her head. 'That's part of the problem, Professor. I'm not sure - that's why I'm studying these books.'

Feeling rebuffed, Minerva held out a hand. 'You are free to continue your research when you've handed me the Time-turner. If you get stuck somewhere you can always come to me, or to one of my colleagues. Which reminds me: Professor Lupin wanted a word with you, but you were not in the Hall during lunch.' Again. I don't think I was ever that thin. And she looks as tired as Remus does. She stretched out her arm a little further. 'The Time-turner, please, Miss Granger.'

The fight was too unequal, and Hermione's resistance caved in.

'Thank you,' Minerva said, pocketing the device. 'I hope I'll be able to return it soon.' She allowed herself a ghost of a smile. 'You may want to know there was nothing wrong with Mr. Potter's new Firebolt; he's got it back now.'

She knew the two had been at odds about the broom. But if she had hoped to cheer the girl up by suggesting that she and young Potter could put the Firebolt affair behind them, she was mistaken. 'I know,' Hermione said, hunching her shoulders. 'I'm happy for Harry, and he's happy, too. Now it's Ron looking daggers at me. It seems my cat Crookshanks ate his rat.'

It was all Minerva could do not to snicker. She knew the rat, an outrageously long-lived and ugly little rodent that had been in the Weasley family for more years than seemed humanly (rodently?) possible. But it didn't look well this year, and on one occasion, roaming about in Animagus form, she'd actually been tempted to end its miserable existence. I must remember to congratulate my ginger friend.

Not very nice, Minerva. The boy doesn't deserve the loss.

'I'm sure he'll get over it,' she replied. She was about to turn away when her eyes caught the title of another of the books Granger was studying. The Effects of Evanesco: Observations and Speculations.

'A rather advanced book for your level,' she remarked. 'You'd better stick to what you really need to read this year, which is more than enough already.'

'But I have to satisfy my curiosity, Professor McGonagall,' Hermione countered, unabashed.

Or you'll die? Minerva suppressed a snort. With a nod she left Hermione to her studies to carry out some preliminary tests on the Time-turner. On her way to her office, she decided to request the help of the Charms and Defence against the Dark Arts teachers once again. After all, Filius and Remus had both done a fine job on young Potter's mysterious broomstick, too.

***

Finrod Felagund

The woodcarving was finished. Finrod didn't have the original at hand to make a comparison, but his memory told him the likeness was striking enough for the wooden version to be recognisable, even though the colour was wrong. Abandoning the idea of painting it he hid it under the couch. It was meant to be a farewell present for Remus.

He would not stay, that much he knew, with the certainty of foresight - for in Sauron's pit he had seen the Halls of Mandos with the eyes of death, and they did not exist here in this reality, in this Wizarding World. What he did not know was the manner of his departure, nor the time.

Hopefully it would be before the next full moon. If he should turn into a werewolf - and Finrod could not ignore the possibility that he would - Severus Snape, the man who lived of his grudge, would warn the people who disposed of Dangerous Creatures and point an accusing finger at his fellow teacher Remus Lupin. It was plain that he didn't believe Remus was innocent, and his fear and loathing of werewolves was great. The thought that Remus would suffer because this was a world were a man could change into a monster against his will and yet be made to pay for it, was outrageous. But he did not harbour the illusion that he could do much against a group of wizards.

Outside the window, dusk crept in from the East, stealing light and colour from the world. Gazing at the waving trees of the dark forest, Finrod wondered where Black - in whatever shape - would be, and if he would get to see him again.

Behind him, the door opened and Remus came in, reading while he walked, and closing the door with a foot. He sauntered on without taking his eyes from the page until his knee hit a table leg.

'Bother,' he said mildly.

'Must be a fascinating book,' Finrod remarked, while the wizard rubbed his knee. 'Maybe I should take a look at it, too, once you're finished.'

Remus straightened. 'Oh, I don't think you'd want to,' he replied. 'This is a textbook about magical creatures, useful to me as a teacher, but of no particular interest to you.'

The word best fit to describe the look in his eyes was furtive. He closed the dark blue volume and put it on the table, the spine facing away from Finrod - who immediately knew that from now on, he had better keep an eye on it and watch out for an opportunity to lay hands on it.

'I hadn't expected to see you yet, Remus,' he said. 'Isn't it dinnertime? Or did you return to refresh yourself? You do look a little heated.'

If Remus went to the bathroom, he could venture to take a look at the mysterious book before the wizard could pull a magical trick on it; Remus had drawn his wand almost absent-mindedly and was playing with it now, but Finrod wasn't fooled.

Neither was Remus, it seemed. 'Really? I feel fine,' he said sounding genuinely surprised. 'I only wanted to ask if you were all right here, alone as you are. By the way, would you mind closing the curtains, now that you're standing at the window anyway?'

He would bespell the book as soon as Finrod turned his back 'I wonder, could you close them by waving your wand?' he inquired.

Remus raised an eyebrow. 'I suppose so. It just didn't occur to me.' He studied his wand, stalling for time.

They might have gone on like that for quite a while if someone hadn't knocked on the door right then.

'Who's there?' Remus asked.

'Hermione Granger,' came the reply. 'Can I come in, Professor?'

The wizard turned to Finrod, who expected he would be told to hide from the visitor and had half a mind to stay where he was. But Remus merely said: 'Hermione knows you're here. She has even seen you once - as yourself, not as Snape, I mean. So it won't do any harm if I let her in - unless you don't want to be seen?'

Finrod gave him a mocking smile. They were both aware of the game they were playing. 'By all means, let her in.'

No sooner had she entered the room, or he recognised the girl with the bushy brown hair and the slightly elongated front teeth who had followed him here a few days ago, while he was wearing Snape's appearance. She looked unhappy.

Finrod, stepping forward, sketched a bow. 'Miss Granger.'

He had been unable to refrain from borrowing Snape's voice, and Hermione promptly giggled. But the giggle ran out of control, becoming shrill and nervous, while her cheeks went pink. She stared at him as if he had sprouted wings. 'You are Finrod, aren't you?' she whispered. 'Finrod Felagund.'

Keeping an eye on the blue book Finrod nodded, slightly baffled. By now he knew that wherever he was, mortals who saw him for the first time were prone to go wide-eyed. However, this was the first exaggerated reaction to his name he had encountered at Hogwarts so far.

Suddenly the girl appeared to realise she was gawking. Quickly, she looked away, and turning to Remus she said, her voice struggling towards normal: 'Professor McGonagall told me you were looking for me, Professor.'

'Professor Snape asked me to return your book,' Remus replied with a smile. And to Finrod's utter disappointment he gestured towards the blue volume on the tabletop.

Hermione put out a hand, but Finrod beat her to it. His arm shot out to snatch the book from the tabletop. One glance at the spine told him this was The Silmarillion, by one J.R.R. Tolkien. A stylised flower crowned name and title, and now it was his turn to gape. It was the badge of Lúthien, daughter of Thingol of Doriath.

Finrod felt himself descend to wholly new levels of incomprehension. There ought to be no book in English about the Silmarils. It could not exist - and yet he was holding one. His hands seemed to open the volume of their own accord, approximately in the middle, and the words OF BEREN AND LÚTHIEN pounced at him from the top of the page.

Hermione's cry of dismay pulled him back to the present. From the corner of his eye Finrod saw Remus point his wand. 'Accio Silmarillion!' the wizard cried.

If Finrod had been prepared for the power of the magic involved, he could have made an attempt to resist it. As it was, The Silmarillion flew from his grasp. Remus caught it deftly with his free hand. He was shaking his head. 'No,' he said almost pleadingly. 'You can't. Please, Finrod, don't try to read this book. Believe me, you can't.'

(TBC)