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Chapter Text

I. Most Of Gryffindor

Minerva McGonagall was not used to feeling shame. She had decided long ago, before she became a teacher -- though the decision was excellent preparation -- that shame was an emotion for people who were wrong, and she was not going to be wrong, ever.

She'd grown out of never being wrong, of course, you had to, but she had then made the decision that if she was going to be wrong, she was going to be wrong for the right reasons.

And, if she looked, deep down, this was one of those times; she'd been wrong, but she'd been thinking of the children, and of Dumbledore's reputation. What made this different was that she'd been wrong about a person, in ways that could have caused him serious trouble.

But it was so easy to remember Lupin as a mischievous youngster, tagging behind James Potter and Sirius Black but ahead of Peter Pettigrew, in the little gang the four had formed. Well-fed, a decent student, a cheerful boy with a penchant for escaping trouble, unlike his partners in crime. But also irresponsible, and easily influenced; unable to control James and Sirius as they'd hoped he would when they made him Prefect.

He was a werewolf, a danger to himself and others for one night in every twenty-eight, and therefore also useless as a teacher during that time and during his recuperation. And then there was the fact that he was a friend of Sirius Black, and recognizably good with Dark Arts, and nobody knew how Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban.

So it was perhaps surprising to Dumbledore, though it shouldn't have been, that after a few preliminary objections Severus Snape had merely sneered and gone about his business when the new Dark Arts professor was hired. Minerva McGonagall, on the other hand, had tried every argument, ploy, and tactic in her power to get Lupin barred from teaching at Hogwarts.

That was before he'd defended Harry on the train. His owl to her about the incident had been sensible and businesslike. And then she'd seen him -- gaunt, already going grey, sunken-eyed, in patched robes and carrying a briefcase tied together with twine, for the love of Merlin. At least, she thought, no matter what else, Hogwarts might put some flesh on his bones.

Most stunningly of all, he'd become a popular teacher. The children liked him, were more or less obedient, and actually seemed to be learning something in his classes. He was unfailingly polite to the other teachers, gracious to Severus -- who happened to drop him a cutting remark or an icy glare every time they met -- and he deferred to their authority as a junior teacher.

All of which led her to the conclusion that she had been wrong, and the unfortunate accompanying shame that came with having mistrusted one of her own former students. And so now she stood outside the door to his office -- noticing how carefully he'd charmed the name on the door, neat and even -- and knocked.

"Just a moment," came a voice from the other side, hoarse but cheerful. There was a crash, as of something being knocked over, and then the door was pulled open.

She could see, in his face, traces of the boy he'd been. Now that he'd had a few square meals -- Merlin alone knew what he'd been living on before arriving at Hogwarts -- he didn't look quite so much like the survivor of a starvation diet. He brushed his hair out of his face and smiled at her easily.

"Deputy Headmistress, come in," he said, stepping back and picking up a chair as she entered, placing it on its legs again. "Just erm...still getting everything sorted...well, they were sorted, but I was doing some research -- I'm sure you know how that goes -- pardon the mess..."

He gestured around the room, and she saw that several stacks of books were sorting and shelving themselves with deliberate care.

"Do sit down. I was -- tea -- " he lifted up a pile of books and produced a battered tin. "Care for some?" he asked, breathlessly.

"That would be nice, thank you," she replied, settling onto the chair he'd recently righted.

"I'd meant to come speak to you before now, but I'm afraid between the grading and settling in, and of course classes..." He shook his head. "Well. I could wish for three more hours in a day. I'm not used to this much activity. I do like it, though."

He pointed his wand at an elderly kettle, and it whistled; he dropped one of the tea-bags in and produced two shabby but serviceable cups from a shelf.

"I've only honey and lemon," he said apologetically.

"A little lemon, please," she answered. "Did you have something in particular you wished to see me about?"

"Oh! No," he answered, passing her one of the cups. She sipped, and he leaned against the shelf, studying his own. "No, I just thought I ought to make sure there weren't any complaints about me -- above and beyond what Dumbledore warned me to expect," he added with a wry smile.

"Quite the opposite," she replied. "You seem to be a favourite among the students."

He flushed with pride, and dropped his head a little until the hair fell across his eyes; she remembered the gesture from when he'd been a student. "I thought they seemed to be enjoying...but you never really know."

"Teaching is not," she said with a small smile, "for the insecure."

He glanced up sharply, as if she'd been reading his mind.

"I came to speak to you because of the success of your classes," she said, wondering how to begin. She was unused to apologising. "You appear to have overcome nearly everyone's doubts."

"Everyone but Severus, eh?" he asked, a spark of mischief still in his eyes.

"Severus...did not overtly object to your hire," Minerva continued. "I'm sure he wasn't happy about it, but he didn't say much in the end."

"But Dumbledore told me that the faculty -- "

"Some of the faculty," she corrected smoothly, "felt that your link to Sirius Black, your...past history at Hogwarts, and yes, your lycanthropy...would be stumbling blocks."

"I just assumed he meant Severus."

"No. He meant me."

He looked as if she'd slapped him, and set his tea down slowly. "I see. Erm. No, actually, I don't." His brow creased. "You came here, because I've done so well, to tell me that you don't want me here?"

"No. I came to...apologise," she said. "For fighting your appointment to Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor."

He was silent for a few long minutes.

"Transfiguration was my favourite class when I was at school here," he said, finally. "Everything I know about how to be a good teacher, I learned from you. I'm glad you approve of the way I'm teaching." A pause. "You er...you do approve, don't you?"

"Yes. I do."

"Ah. Good." He picked up his tea, fiddled with the handle of the cup. "I don't blame you, you know. You're certainly not the first."

"It was very wrong of me to judge you solely on my memories of you at school, and your friendship with -- "

"Yes, well, as I said. You're not the first," he said swiftly. "You will probably not be the last. I appreciate your honesty."

They lapsed into silence. He drew a breath to speak, stopped, sipped, drew another breath.

"D'you know, James fancied you," he said with a small smile. She blinked. "Most of Gryffindor did. And I reckon a good percentage of Ravenclaw, too."

"I hardly see how -- "

"Just thought you'd like to know. An honesty for an honesty. It's not often you get to talk to your teachers as an equal -- more or less. Or to a former student, for that matter."

She nodded. "Remus, I do believe you've grown up."

He laughed, and it turned into a cough halfway through. He sipped tea hurriedly. "I should hope so. If not, I've wasted my time scandalously."

She finished her tea and set it on the desk. He watched her with amused brown eyes.

"I do appreciate what you've said," he murmured, as she stood to go.

"Good," she said briskly. "I'll leave you to your work."

She made it to the door before curiousity got the best of her. She sensed that no matter how surprised he would be by the question, he would never, ever take advantage of her asking it. He was deft about preventing misunderstanding or upset feelings, almost to the point of absurdity.

"Remus," she said, standing in the doorway. "Did most of Gryffindor...include you?"

He looked up from his tea. "What? Oh. Yes," he said frankly, with a warm smile. "Indeed. But then I suppose everyone fancies their teacher sooner or later, eh?"

"I suppose so," she answered.

"I'll see you at breakfast. Minerva," he added, with something like the old boyish daring.

She smiled and shut the door, fingers lingering on the knob for a minute before she started down the hallway, towards her quarters.

***

II. Question and Answer

"Professor McGonagall!"

Minerva McGonagall, moving towards the dining hall amidst a sea of hungry students, stopped mid-pace. She knew who the voice belonged to before she turned -- the mixture of student-like respect and professorial authority could only belong to one person.

"Professor Lupin," she said, with a small smile, as he caught up with her. He grinned and tossed hair out of his eyes, and for the thousandth time she was reminded of the student he'd been, twenty years before. "Did you need to speak with me?"

"Oh I -- yes -- " he dodged a second-year dashing to be early for dinner, and called an absent "No running in the hallways, Creevy!" after them. "Sorry, I'm eating in my rooms tonight, papers to grade, you know how it is, and I wanted to ask if I might drop by later. I wanted to..." he looked uncomfortable. "Er, pick your brain on a certain topic. Animagi," he said, dropping his voice so that only she could hear. It was no secret that Professor McGonagall was an animagus, of course, but she appreciated the courtesy. Then again, Remus Lupin would be the one to treat that sort of thing carefully.

"Of course, though I can't imagine I could supply anything other than personal anecdotes," she replied. He shrugged.

"I thought it might take less time if I went to the source," he continued. "If you're uncomfortable with it, of course I can do the research myself..."

"No, that's fine, I trust your discretion. With what questions you ask," she continued, a slight edge creeping into her voice.

"Certainly. Thank you," he finished. "Ah, I see Miss Granger, I need a word with her also. If you'll excuse me -- is nine o'clock all right?"

"Nine o'clock will be fine," she said as he turned to go. She watched, students still passing her, as he caught up to Hermione and touched her arm to get her attention. They exchanged a few words; he seemed to smile in relief; she continued on and he turned down a side corridor, heading towards his rooms.

She frowned, curious as to why he would have questions about animagi -- it wasn't as though he could become one, after all -- but continued on to dinner, for the most part unconcerned.

***

He arrived promptly, and came bearing gifts; a tin of biscuits from Honeyduke's and a smaller one of tea.

"Gratitude in advance," he said, as he set the biscuit-tin on the desk in her office. She smiled, more able to act at home with the man now that they weren't standing in a corridor full of students. "Though I should warn you this is a new brand that they're testing out..." he shook the tea. "According to the side of the tin, it has alcohol pre-added. I confiscated it from -- "

" -- the Weasley twins?"

He tapped his nose. "Got it in one. Apparently it's mild but quite flavourful."

She gestured him into a chair and conjured two delicate white teacups and two fine wire-mesh strainers. He measured out a scoop of the loose tea into each while she heated a kettle, pouring while he pried the lid from the biscuit tin.

"So," she said, in her best Lecturing Professor voice. "You had some questions for me about Animagi?"

He nodded, and took the teacup when she offered it. "Yes, I...well. I was wondering. I've not dealt much with Animagi in any official capacity, that is to say..." he shook his head. "In the many and varied jobs I've been fired from over the years, I've handled boggarts and red caps and the rest, but not many Animagi."

"I wouldn't imagine so. It's not as though we're particularly prone to violence."

"Unlike werewolves," he said with a small smile. "I was wondering if there was any way to detect an Animagus in human form."

She pursed her lips, thinking. "Not that I know of, and I'd think I would know. Of course, sometimes the animal form takes on characteristics of the human form, or vice versa, but it's very rare. I did know one whose nose changed entirely after his first transformation -- poor man turned into a penguin..."

"A penguin!" Lupin said, with a laugh. "Hard luck to him."

She shrugged. "He was always fond of formal wear." Lupin blinked, and she smiled again. "That was a joke, Remus."

"Oh -- of course..." he sipped his tea. "Blimey. I'm going to have to ask the boys where they got this," he said. She tried it.

"That is rather good."

"The tin's yours. Compliments of Fred and George Weasley," he grinned. "Ahm...on the topic of Animagi transformations...is there any way to force a transformation? From animal to human?"

"I believe there's a potion. You could ask Severus."

"Perhaps I'll bribe someone to ask him. We...don't get on well."

"No, I would imagine not."

"What about..." he leaned forward, growing more serious. "Would there be a way to flush an animagus out of hiding? A spell you could cast to reveal where they were?"

"There is a very old spell, not reliable at all. It's closer to an expelliarmus -- it would only work at close range, say in quite a small room. Can I ask..." she set her tea down. "Can I ask why you need to know?"

"Oh, I was thinking of doing a class unit on Animagi -- "

" -- it's not Dark Arts, you know," she said sharply. He froze.

"I know, oh, yes -- I know that, but historically many Dark Wizards -- I just thought the children ought to be informed. A sort of...Defence Against The World At Large unit, as it were," he said quickly. "I was just mulling it over. Though it doesn't sound like there's much to tell," he added. "I -- uh -- thank you for your time..."

He spilled his tea as he rose to go, and cursed softly to himself. She stood also, and offered him a handkerchief, which he took gratefully.

"It's not like you to be clumsy," she observed. He brushed at the dark tea-stain on his waistcoat.

"Sorry I...well you know..." he looked up at her, tongue-tied. "I didn't mean to imply, Minerva, that you were in any way -- "

"It's all right," she said, surprising herself. "You're right about the history."

"Inexcusable..." he muttered. He held up the handkerchief, now also stained with tea. "I'll have this washed..."

"Is there something else on your mind?" she asked curiously. She saw the fingers of his free hand twitch.

"No. Just lessons. School. And that," he said quickly. She crossed her arms.

"By god, you've gotten good at that," he observed. "If I were still eleven you'd have scared me to death."

"Did you actually come here tonight to talk about Animagi?" she asked.

"Yes...why else would I...?"

She was silent. He swallowed.

"There's something else you're worried about," she said, after a pause. He nodded. "Is it a student? Sometimes they do come to us when they're in trouble."

"No, it's..." he put a hand to his face, fingers tracing across his cheekbone, over his mouth. "It's Sirius," he said, finally. "Sirius Black."

Of course. She should have known. She should have realised. She walked around the desk and took the handkerchief from his hand. He watched her warily.

"You were friends," she said. "Close friends, if I recall correctly."

"I thought I knew him," he said, almost absently.

"You must know part of the reason Dumbledore contacted you was to bring you here. To protect you," she observed.

"I'm not afraid for myself. I could always beat him, if I needed to," Remus continued. "It's just having him loose...knowing that he might try to come for Harry, or that he might make a try for me. Harry worries me more. He's so small, Minerva. He's so young. I don't know if I can protect him -- "

"Did it occur to you that it's not your personal job to protect him?" she asked.

"Who else does he have?"

"Dumbledore. Myself. The wards on Hogwarts are very powerful."

"They didn't stop him from getting in, did they? When he slashed the Pink Lady?" He ran his hand through his hair, brushing it back. "And then, I walk into a classroom and someone has a Daily Prophet -- and there's his face. Staring at me. It hardly looks like him anymore. But it's his face, and it's everywhere. He killed James and Lily and Peter, you know..."

She heard his voice crack and saw the last shred of calm fall away -- saw the professional, cheerful, gracious professor dissolve into a frightened man who'd nowhere else to turn.

Minerva McGonagall did something she hadn't done to a colleague in years, and certainly never to a student. She reached out, drew him close, and hugged him.

He was taller than her, but she pulled his head down until his face was pressed against her hair, held his thin, sinewy body until his own arms wrapped around her shoulders, and she absorbed the shivers running through him.

She could hear his breathing, low and shallow, easing slowly, some of the tension leaving his body. He was frightened, and he'd come to her.

He was surprisingly solid and warm; anyone looking at the man would think a strong wind could knock him over, but there was a strength there she could feel -- and understand. She had the same herself.

"It's all right," she soothed quietly. "They'll catch him."

"I'm not sure if I'm more afraid that they don't, or that they do," he said, releasing her shoulders and stepping back slightly. His face was dry; she had the strong suspicion that he hadn't wept in a long time. "I'm very sorry," he continued. "You must think I'm a fool."

"Not at all."

"I didn't mean..."

"Remus Lupin, stop being a sop," she said, with a smile. He managed a weak one in return.

"Thank you, Minerva," he murmured. "I...I appreciate your understanding."

"Nonsense. I'd do the same for anyone," she lied. He nodded, and she knew he'd seen through the lie.

"I should go," he added. "I'll consider what you've told me when preparing my lesson plan."

"If you need anything else, don't hesitate to call," she agreed, as he moved towards the doorway. "And Remus..."

He turned back, patient and calm and utterly without emotion in the open doorway, hand on the doorknob.

"You will have to help me finish off this tea, some time," she said, holding the tin in one hand.

"It would be my pleasure," he answered, closing the door behind him as he left.

***

III. Looking

The library of Hogwarts School was a bright, warm place to sit and study, purposefully so; it was designed to encourage students to spend their time there, as long as they were quiet and orderly about it. As a student, Minerva had loved the library, and over her years as a teacher at the school she had come to know every inch of it. She had a spot she always went to read in, just behind the more advanced books on Magical Creatures, near a window that looked out onto the Quidditch Pitch.

She looked up when she heard footsteps, too heavy to be one of the younger students; probably a fifth or sixth year doing research for a paper. They were carrying candles, by the look of the light sliding along the hall corridor; she'd have to reprimand them for that, whoever they were.

She kept quiet as the tall figure rounded the corner and turned to face the bookshelf -- he hadn't seen her, and she was just as glad of that. Remus Lupin stood in front of the shelf, one hand absently scratching the back of his head, the other, palm up, holding a small ball of green flame. It turned his greying-brown hair a deep, almost copper colour, and picked out the threadbare patches on his white shirt -- a Hogwarts school shirt. It looked as though he'd raided the school's lost-and-found for any Hogwarts uniform shirts that would fit him, and some that didn't, quite. The one he had on was a size too big for his gaunt frame.

Certainly after nearly two months at the school, drawing good salary, he couldn't be so poverty-stricken as all that, she thought; perhaps his scrounging was habit. She could well understand why he didn't wear robes when he didn't have to. One more thing that would wear out, fall apart, need patching.

He ran the fingers of one hand across the book spines, illuminating their titles more brightly with the small green flames, taking down two slim volumes. Finally he reached a gap where Minerva herself had taken out a book, ten minutes before. He let out a little sigh of frustration.

"Looking for this?" she asked, and he started so badly that the flame went out, shrouding his face in shadow.

"Bloody, give me a heart attack," he said, clutching his chest dramatically. "How long have you been there?"

"About twenty minutes," she answered. "I think I've got the book you want."

He cocked his head at the book, lying on the study table, turning so that he was reading it only partly upside-down. "That's the one," he replied, setting the other two books down and circling the table to lean over her shoulder. She began to close the book, but he put out a hand to stop her.

"All I really need is a reference," he said, more to himself than to her, marking her place and flipping pages deftly. "I'm working on a lesson about handling dark creatures used in transformative charms -- thought it might be a nice class for Hallowe'en. Here we are..."

He bent further forward, eyes scanning the text, face now on a level with hers. "Selkies shed their skin and I know it's used in the Proteus Curse, but I wasn't positive how..."

"I believe it's worn like a cloak," she said, following his finger as it ran over the writing.

"No, I think that's a different charm altogether -- this is a curse, they don't work so well if you have to force the victim -- ah, perhaps this is it."

"Oh, I recall this now. It's mainly for use in making sure transfigured wizards stay that way, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes, that's the one." He turned his head to smile at her, and their faces were suddenly very close together; she could see the black rings of his pupils in his brown eyes. She waited patiently for him to speak, but he just stayed there, head tilted slightly. She watched as a faint blush spread across his cheeks, and he turned his head away, clearing his throat.

"But I'm nearly sure Skamander says elsewhere that it's not accurate..." he murmured, reaching out to turn a page, and she stopped him gently.

"Remus," she asked, quietly. "Did you want to kiss me?"

His whole body tensed.

"Yes," he answered.

"Why didn't you?" she said, as if asking a student a particularly complex question.

"It would be inappropriate," he said, still looking down at the book.

"Is that all?"

He bowed his head a little in a gesture she'd seen once or twice since he'd returned to Hogwarts -- his hair would fall across his face, and you couldn't see his eyes. It was his way of hiding.

"You mightn't have liked it," he whispered.

"Or I might have."

She heard him catch his breath.

"You wouldn't have known unless you'd tried," she continued, closing the book. "I think you ought to forget Skamander, he was researching for a children's textbook and he's likely to simplify things. Try Bios' monograph on Selkies, they stock copies of it in Flourish and Blotts."

"Certainly. Thank you, Minerva," he said, stepping back as she stood and straightened her robe, picking up the book. She smiled.

"We're not equals, Remus, but we're on the same footing," she said, slowly. "We're both teachers. We're both human."

He rubbed his neck again, and smiled faintly. "Neither of us completely, on the other hand."

She matched his smile. "I'll leave you to your research," she said, vanishing into the stacks. She could hear him mutter something to himself, and then the quiet rustle of books being opened.

***

IV. Visitor

It wasn't as though it was unknown, among the faculty, what Remus Lupin was. They had all been sworn to secrecy by Dumbledore; Severus Snape nearly twenty years ago, the rest...more recently. At first there had been some dark grumblings about marking calendars and wearing silver, but Lupin proved a polite man who never lost his temper, and soon most of the faculty stopped noting when the full moon was up -- especially since Remus so rarely dined in the great hall in the first place.

He was a solitary figure, not yet accustomed to the faculty routine, still retaining some boyhood awe of the others, most of whom had taught him as a student. Minerva could see him smile when a student addressed him as professor, as if bemused to find himself in such a position at Hogwarts, where he'd grown up.

She'd taken to watching him lately; it had really started after her visit in September, when she'd apologised for fighting his appointment to professor. She hadn't been aware of it until recently, though. They had become...if not friends, then at least closer acquaintances. She sensed they shared an intellectualism that also seemed to link him to his students, a love of learning that few were able to communicate well.

She already knew the house elves wouldn't go into his rooms; they said it smelled wrong, and they were frightened to clean there. She didn't blame them, though all she smelled in his office, the few times she'd been, was orange tea and dry paper.

She knocked gently on the door to his rooms, a few hallways down from the entrance to Gryffindor tower. As with his office, he had charmed the name on the door with a fussy perfection that made her think he must be rather more proud of his position at the school than the scruffy threadbare robes and scuffed shoes would show.

"Come in," came a voice, magically magnified through the door. Minerva pushed it open and peered into the narrow, many-windowed sitting room. Every curtain was thrown wide, and the windows themselves were flung open. The room smelled of cut grass from outside, and yes -- there was the orange tea that Lupin drank like a fiend.

And quite a lot of dust, she saw, disapprovingly. If the house elves wouldn't do it, the man might shift for himself. Still, the room was tidy, she couldn't fault him there.

He appeared in the doorway, wrapping a scarlet robe around his patched white pajamas. At least the robe looked new.

"Headmistress, this is a..." he stopped, coughing. "A pleasant surprise," he finished. His cheeks were hollow but his eyes were bright and warm, almost affectionate. "You'll excuse me...I've just woken."

"I'm sorry, if I had known -- " she began, but he held up a hand.

"You didn't wake me. I was expecting Severus, in fact. He usually checks up on me to make sure I haven't killed anyone in the night."

She looked at him, taken aback, and he smiled. "My little joke. I think he feels...responsible. For making sure the potion works. There was one time it didn't, oh, nearly a year ago now -- I didn't have so reliable a brewmaster as our good Professor Snape. It took me a week to recover." His eyes faded, slightly. "One doesn't bounce back from these things at thirty-four the way one does at fourteen. Would you like tea? Broth for me, I'm afraid..."

"We always seem to end up with tea, don't we?" she asked with a small smile, to cover the mild horror at the thought of how calmly he accepted this. He moved like a man twice his age but still gracefully, as he prepared hot water and added some sort of bluish powder to his cup and a tea-bag to hers.

"Lemon, yes?" he asked, and she nodded, accepting the cup from him. He dropped into a chair, pulling the robe across his legs. "To what do I owe this pleasure? I hope my students haven't been disruptive."

"No, not at all. I merely thought you might enjoy some company. Professor Snape gave me to understand you usually spent the day in your rooms."

"He does so delight in discussing my infirmity," Remus murmured, without quite as much good humour as earlier. "Still, I have nothing but gratitude for his services, so I suppose I might overlook a...character flaw or two."

"Or two dozen," Minerva replied, before she thought about it. He laughed, hoarsely.

"Headmistress! I'm sure I didn't hear you remark upon the personality of one of your most dedicated junior faculty," he said, sipping his broth. "What a very Gryffindor sentiment -- appreciate the man, whether or not you actually like him."

"I am a Gryffindor," she replied.

"As am I," he answered. "Though I never made a very good showing of it, out in the world. Somehow mindless bravery never appealed to me."

"I hear that you did all right for yourself. You traveled, didn't you?"

"Extensively," he replied. "If not for the conscious choice to have no home, the word 'homeless' might indeed apply. However, I believe the term on my records is 'itinerant'. Wandering destroyer of boggarts, capturer of household pests, small and large, occasional rescuer of damsels in distress, though come to think of it that was just the once. It wasn't much of a living, but it kept me on the move. Kept, if you'll excuse the expression, the wolves from my door."

She listened as he spun out a story about a wrestling match with a vampire in Sweden, which from Gilderoy Lockhart's mouth would have sounded ridiculous and egotistical, but which, told in Remus Lupin's easy manner simply seemed entertaining. She matched it with one of her own, about a summer spent in the wilds of Africa, studying African shape-shifters in preparation for her own Animagus transformation.

"Now I've a question for you," he said, as she finished the story, both her tea and his broth long since finished. "Did you choose your animal, or did it choose you?"

"I've never thought," she answered. "It's sort of muddled, you see, remembering the process; it all runs together after this long. I quite like being a cat. It would be interesting to hunt up the rest of the registered animagi and ask. I would reckon it depends on the person."

"Yes, I suppose so. I know Peter was -- " he stopped, as if he'd said too much. After a second, he recovered. "Peter was planning on becoming one," he finished weakly. "Peter Pettigrew, I mean. He wanted to be a hawk, but..." he shrugged. "Idle curiousity. Perhaps there's a paper in it."

"Perhaps so," she answered. "Will you be teaching again tomorrow, do you think?"

"Oh, I should think so. A good night's sleep will do the world of good, it always does." He glanced down at his empty cup. "I just finished giving that lesson I was researching, you remember -- the Selkies. That monograph you recommended was extremely helpful. I find I learn as much as I teach," he added, gesturing to what were clearly lesson plans, laid out on a desk.

"You seem to enjoy it."

"Oh, I do. I hope -- " he set his cup on a nearby table. " -- I hope I'll be allowed to stay on. Next year, I mean."

"The children like you."

"I like them."

"The mark of a good teacher."

He smiled. "Thank you. As I've said," he added, standing as she did, "I learned it from you."

"I'll leave you to your planning," she said with a smile, and turned to the door.

"Minerva, wait," he called. She stopped and glanced back inquiringly.

"Thank you for coming," he said, formally. "I enjoyed this, very much. You're far superior company to Severus. Not saying much, I know, but...I can't imagine anyone I'd rather have visit."

She nodded. "You owe me a visit, now, I believe. I still have that tea you took from Fred and George."

"Perhaps...I'm chaperoning the children to Hogsmeade next weekend, and...and Saturday I am sure I shall be a wreck."

"Saturday evening, then," she answered. "Good afternoon, Remus."

"Good afternoon, Minerva," he replied.

The smell of cut grass and the taste of orange tea remained with her all afternoon.

***

V. Elegance of Spirit

"You know, I really do think if I paid closer attention to Fred and George, I could feed myself without having to spend any cash at all," Remus Lupin said, settling comfortably into a chair in Minerva McGonagall's spacious sitting room. The digs for House Heads, he had to admit, were a lot larger than for junior faculty, although he couldn't imagine what he'd have done with this much space. "I could just take all the contraband they bring into school."

"As long as you didn't mind living on sweets and exotic exploding foods," she answered, sitting across from him at the small table.

"Perish the thought," he replied. "They're good lads, though. I really rather like them."

"Oh, they're smart enough," she sighed. "I could wish they applied themselves to less troublemaking."

"Still, if it hadn't been for them..." he lifted his cup, which smelled of tea and brandy. "And you know they do keep an excellent eye on the younger children."

"I imagine so. How did you enjoy your first trip chaperoning in Hogsmeade?"

He rolled his eyes expressively. "One trod-on foot from too much crowding in Honeyduke's, two children with not enough money, and a Butterbeer Incident that I would rather not discuss."

"You seem to have survived intact."

"Yes, it wasn't so bad all in all."

"And done some shopping of your own?"

He glanced down at the crisp white cuffs of a new dress shirt, and the new, unpatched waistcoat he wore. "Yes, I found I had more Galleons in my pockets than I would have expected. I'm unused to having a steady job where I'm paid every week. Besides, Malfoy really is becoming entirely unbearable. It's demoralising, having a boy who can't yet shave remarking on the state of my robes."

"For all his father's wealth, Draco Malfoy wouldn't know true elegance of spirit if it bit him," she said sharply. He smiled disarmingly at her.

"I shall take the compliment, and merely observe that I hope, some day, something does bite him," he replied. "Now I believe I was going to ask you to tell me about some adventure you had on the return trip from Africa, and then offer to swap you a story about a haunted grandfather clock in return."

They drank tea and told their stories, Remus flushing lightly after the third cup, murmuring that he'd best not have any more or he'd have to sneak back to his own rooms like a student out after curfew. Minerva, herself on her fourth cup, merely laughed quietly and agreed that it wouldn't do to be caught by Severus, who had a habit of prowling the halls.

"Why do you suppose he does it?" Remus asked, leaning his head against the wing of the chair. "I mean to say, why do you think he does any of it? He's a good teacher, the Slytherins seem to like him. Why is he such a bastard?"

Minerva tsked, and he touched a hand to his forehead in an apologetic salute. "Headmistress, I am quite sorry. But he really is, you know."

She shook a finger at him, but she was laughing, and he smiled, a particular warmth in the curve of his lips.

"It's good to be among people again," he said suddenly. "It's good to be able to make someone laugh. Although if you'd told me years ago that I'd be taking evening tea in Headmistress McGonagall's rooms, I'd have died of fright."

"Were you so scared of me, then?" she asked.

"No, I suppose...not scared. But the impropriety of it, as anything other than a Hogwarts teacher myself, might have prevented me."

She nodded, and saw the warmth in his smile spread to his eyes. "Do you remember," she said quietly, "what you said to me in the library about propriety?"

"Of course."

"And what you said to me a few months ago, about Gryffindor house?"

He nodded. "I believe," he said easily, "I said that when I was a student, most of the house was madly in love with you."

"You weren't quite that emphatic about it."

"I didn't know you then, not so well as I do now. Schoolboy crushes of course, of the worst sort, but there you have it."

"And now?"

"Oh yes," he answered. "I quite fancy you now, but I'd appreciate it if Minerva didn't tell Deputy Headmistress McGonagall that. I do still happen to be afraid of her."

She stared at him, until she saw he realised what he'd said.

"Does it strike you that perhaps one ought to limit the amount of alcoholic tea one drinks?" he asked, straightening, resting his arms on the table. She nodded slowly. "You told me that I'd never know whether you liked it or not unless I kissed you, implication being I was a coward for not seizing the moment," he said, musingly. "Once again, quite a Gryffindor sentiment."

"Are you considering it now?" she asked, surprised she could even find her voice.

"Yes, but I fear I oughtn't to. I never trust my instincts when drinking." His fingers traced small circles on the table, until she put one hand out to stop them. He looked up at her, sharply.

"Minerva, considering this rota we seem to be following, I do believe you are due to take my hospitality next, poor as it might be," he said, eyes drifting down to where she lightly touched his long-fingered hands.

"I'd like that."

"Would Friday be suitable?"

She smiled. "Friday would be lovely."

"Then I shall expect you on Friday, and see you at breakfast tomorrow," he said, standing and unnecessarily straightening his waistcoat. "Thank you for the tea, and the stories, and not pointing out how big a fool I just was."

She smiled, and watched him leave, walking steadily but slowly.

And then she gathered up the tea things, and put a lid on the brandy-tea tin, and cleaned and put them away neatly, hoping Remus did not run into Severus Snape on his way back to his rooms.

***

VI. Friday Hospitality

Perhaps it was some compulsion on his part, Minerva though, that Remus Lupin could not keep an entirely clean home.

He had dusted since she'd been last, and it wasn't as though the sitting room, with its many wide windows, was any kind of a mess; indeed, for bachelor quarters where the house-elves refused to go it was tidy and well-kept. But the books, which had been stacked neatly, were now in utter disarray. Almost none of them were on the shelves, a great many of them piled on his desk.

"Essays," he said by way of explanation, carefully carrying two cups of tea in one hand and a plate of scones in the other. He managed to deliver all three to the small round table that was the only empty surface in the room, between two wing-chairs stolen from a little-used reading room in the library. Scrounging furniture off the school was considered perfectly acceptable, especially for junior faculty. "A bad habit I picked up from Muggle academics."

"Essays? As if you were a student?" she asked with a smile.

"Well, never cease learning and all that, don't you know," he replied, dropping into the chair and turning slightly, so that he faced her. "Muggles are mad for essays. They have thousands of journals you can publish them in. I worked at an American university for nearly a year...caught the disease from them."

"What do you hope to prove by writing them?"

"Various things. In this case, that the transfigurative properties of certain potions are preferable to charms, as being more stable and less likely to fail at inopportune moments. There's a small medical journal out of St. Mungo's that might take it."

"Had anyone ever mentioned to you, Remus, that you are a bit of an odd duck?" Minerva asked. His smile widened.

"Odd wolf," he replied. "Bigger, and inclined to eat odd ducks."

"You seem quite inclined to joke about it, too."

He settled back in his chair. "To you, perhaps. You've shown you're capable of handling such an idea, and you would appear to have a...unique understanding."

"Because I'm an animagus."

"Well. Because you're you, I suspect, though that part doesn't hurt."

She regarded him as he ate his scone neatly. He matched her gaze, with the quiet curiousity that seemed an inherent part of him.

"You're fascinated by transformation, aren't you?" she asked, while he swallowed. He drank his tea and considered it.

"It is a large part of my life," he answered. "I could say the same about you -- you do teach the subject, after all."

"It is a particular talent of mine."

He nodded. "D'you know, the Greeks were obsessed by it? Gods turning people into trees and what not. Ovid wrote a whole book about it. Recording the transformative myths."

"Your travels do seem to have continued your education," she said.

"I doubt it could have been otherwise. I'm not designed for anything more than the intellectual life," he answered. "My one brief and painful encounter with real manual labor proved that. But I'm sure you understand -- you've been a teacher for many years yourself."

"I like learning, I suppose," she said, thoughtfully. "But I believe I've taught because I like teaching. I like forming childrens' thoughts, the way they see the world."

"What a terrifying idea," he replied.

Minerva smiled. "Like it or not, when you take the salary and the grades-book, you become a role model. You especially."

"Sorry?"

"You must know the children love your class. I do believe most of Gryffindor prefer it to any of their others."

He ducked his head a little, and she saw his fingers trace small circles on the arm of the chair. It was a nervous habit she'd noticed; she wondered if he did it when he was teaching.

"Dark Arts is naturally more interesting to children, I think," he said.

"Perhaps when taught correctly. I assume you've heard the horror stories from last year?"

He chuckled. "Professor Binns had some choice words about poor Lockhart, it's true."

Their conversation drifted to the usual topics -- classes, the children, the other professors -- until Remus stood to light several lamps in his sitting room, closing the wide windows against the cold.

"I should leave you to your essays," she said, also standing. He closed the last window neatly, flipped the latch on it, and turned back to face her.

"Minerva...I realise this is a very polite way to go about things, but do you suppose sooner or later we ought to stop dancing around the subject of..." he paused. "...our friendship?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well. Now is normally the time you mention that you owe me tea, and then I'll say yes, I'd like that very much, and we'll discuss the fact that Wednesday seems to be a good day..." he brushed his hair out of his eyes and, for once, met hers with a direct look. "We dance," he said softly.

"Is there anything wrong with dancing?" she asked, in reply.

"Minerva, would you have dinner with me?" he said impulsively. Before she could answer, he continued. "At Graves', in Hogsmeade? Next Thursday? At seven?"

She smiled and shook her head. He looked hurt, crestfallen.

"It's not your turn, Remus," she said. "Come have tea with me on Wednesday. Then ask me again."

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, distractedly. "I'm very nearly having a breakdown asking you once, you know."

"Then the practice will do you good," Minerva answered. "I shall see you at breakfast tomorrow, Remus."

She shut the door gently; he hadn't moved from where he stood, near the window. Once outside, in the corridor, she smiled as she walked back to her own rooms.

***

VII. Dancing

Remus Lupin stood outside the door of Minerva McGonagall's rooms, trying to breathe. He would have felt like a student called onto the carpet, except that...

Well, all right, he did, but only because he was nervous, and the only time he'd ever been this nervous was when he'd been in trouble at school. It was well and good to hunt kappas in Brazil and field the vicious academia of American universities, but another thing entirely to face Minerva McGonagall after thrice making an idiot of himself in front of her.

Have dinner with me. Of course she'd said no. She'd never actually admitted to anything more than a friendship with him -- though one that was deepening by the day and borne of a unique brand of honesty that only Minerva could pull off with a straight face.

But the truth was, when he'd said yes, he did want to kiss her, she hadn't said he ought to. She merely said he ought not to be a coward. When he'd told her he fancied her, she'd merely stared and agreed that he shouldn't drink too much spiked tea. When he'd asked her to dinner, she'd very gently said no, using the excuse that it wasn't his turn to provide the hospitality that their friendship was built around.

But she did tell you to ask again, he thought, as he raised a hand to knock on her door. She answered promptly, and he stepped inside amid the usual pleasantries exchanged by colleagues and friends on such occasions. They had almost developed a habit; he would sit in the wing-chair while she prepared the tea, and then they would share stories and occasionally gossip, over the magic brandy-spiked tea Remus had appropriated from the twins earlier in the year.

"Best be careful with that, this time around," Minerva said, as he sipped his tea slowly. He grinned and nodded.

"I promise," he replied. "I hear you had quite the exciting morning in class, today?"

She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. "One of the fifths decided to adjust my assignment a little."

"Yes, we heard the screechings in my first-year class. What was it?"

"My best estimation is, a cross between the owl it was supposed to be and the turkey vulture they decided to make it instead."

"Now there's an unhappy creature," he laughed. "I believe I remember that lesson -- books into birds, yes?"

"In this case, a dozen outdated copies of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three," she answered. "Though by the time we turned the monstrosity back, it was some sort of awful adventure novel."

"I'd rather like to read that," he answered. "Bit keen on adventure novels."

"I'll lend it to you," she said. "But I want you to see this, as well. One of my NEWTs honours students came up with it in class yesterday." She rose and he followed her, intrigued, to the nearby desk on which sat something covered with a yellow cloth.

"She calls it Partial Transfiguration," she said, removing the cloth carefully. He regarded the object, fascinated.

"It's a Muggle turntable," he said, crouching to be on eye-level with the machine. "Where on earth did you find one of these?"

"How do you know what it is?"

"I encountered them when I was working in South America, once or twice. You don't actually own any LPs, do you? Other than the one on it now?"

"Any what?"

He put out a hand to touch it, and she pulled him back before the arm leapt up and snapped at him. He stared at the small black beak which he'd mistaken, briefly, for a needle.

"How...?" he turned to her. She picked up a jar and took out a scoopful of what appeared to be birdseed mixed with sunflower seeds. She poured the seed into a slot and rested the arm where the beak could reach in for some.

"She took a songbird -- see the feather pattern in the wood? -- and transfigured it only partially, on purpose. Feed it, and it makes music," she said. Remus was eyeing the black beak warily as it crunched up sunflower husks. Minerva picked up the arm and rested it on the turntable -- which he could now see was simply a black-grooved circle, not an LP at all. It began to spin.

A low warbling filled the room. He grinned, glancing at her.

"That's brilliant!" he said, straightening and putting his hands on his hips. "Does it play different -- "

He stopped as actual music began to overlay the warbling. The music was obviously scored for instruments, but each part was replaced by birdsong.

"It's a waltz," he said. He saw Minerva give him a surprised look. "Does it always play that?"

"No, it never seems to play the same thing," she answered.

"I have never seen anything quite like that," he laughed. "Listen! That's a dancing tune -- "

He didn't wait for her to reply, because she would have some safe, or possibly taunting, answer for him; instead he stepped forward and pulled her away from the desk, moving her into the fast waltz that the songbirds were playing.

She gasped as he swung her around, and he realised she probably hadn't danced in some time, though it was inconceivable to him that Minerva McGonagall did not know how to -- and he was right. After a few more steps she seemed to fall into the rhythm of the music, and they turned and turned, barely missing the desk, the table with their tea things, the wing-chair Remus had claimed as his. When the music finally stopped -- apparently the turntable was hungry again -- he was nearly breathless.

Minerva had continued moving for a second, bringing her closer than they'd been while dancing; his hand was still on her waist, and one of hers on his shoulder. It was the most natural thing in the world to bend his head slightly, and draw her forward, and kiss her. She was warm and curved into his arms, and she was kissing him back...

When she stepped away, he followed for just a second before letting her go.

"Yes," she said.

"What?" he asked. This situation had fast gone beyond his control.

"Yes, I will go to dinner with you tomorrow," she answered. "In Hogsmeade, at Graves', at seven."

"Oh," he said, stupidly. Then, "Good, that's -- that's good, I'm glad." He paused. "Would you mind terribly if I did that again?"

She was only halfway through "not at all" before he cupped her chin and kissed her a second time. And technically a third, though the pause between the two was hardly worth mention.

He felt her fingers on the collar of his shirt, gently pushing him back.

"Well," she said, "I see your continued education outside Hogwarts has extended past history and music."

He laughed and covered her hand in his.

"I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow," he said lightly, and kissed her once more. He brushed past her, turning to give her a last grin as he opened the door. "And in Hogsmeade at seven!"

He saw her put her hand to her lips, thoughtfully, before he closed the door.

***

VIII. A Walk In The Snow

It was coming on towards the holidays at Hogwarts and, while the week had been sunny, snow often fell overnight. Quite a lot of it had fallen the night Remus Lupin kissed Minerva McGonagall in her sitting room, and at breakfast even Severus Snape could not contain Lupin's good cheer.

"Be breaking up snowball fights before the day is through!" he said happily, devouring his breakfast. He and Snape were at opposite ends of the table to prevent the students from ever having to testify at a homicide hearing, but they both ate early enough that there was a regrettable lack of filled chairs between them. Snape merely glared. "Liked a good one myself on days like this -- not that I would ever tell the students that," he added, as a few of the senior professors looked at him askance.

The children noticed his good cheer and picked up on it, as students often do. By the end of the day there had been at least four snowball fights, including one which had ended in a charmed snowball soaring through a second-floor classroom, much to the disgust of the professor teaching the course.

"All right you lot, settle down!" Remus called, as he walked out into the courtyard. He ducked two snowballs and batted a third aside. "Weasley, Weasley, and Smith, don't think I didn't see who threw those," he added. "Come on, you'll get me in trouble with Dumbledore," he continued, wading into the fray and slowly petrifying those too rebellious to immediately comply. By the time he'd made it to the far side of the courtyard, it looked rather like some kind of Greek temple, full of statues dedicated to the God Of Warm Clothing.

"Points for imagination, Professor Lupin!" called a voice from one of the towers, and he turned, saluting with his wand.

"A pleasure to serve, Professor McGonagall," he called back.

Something wet and freezing hit him in the back of the head. He didn't look to see who had done it; he merely gave Minerva a contemplative look and then bent slowly, packing a large, hard snowball in his hands. He turned and tossed it up and down a few times.

Blaise Zabini was hiding behind one of the frozen students. Remus grinned.

"Don't dish it out if you can't take it, Zabini," he shouted, and hurled the snowball as the student began to run. The rest of them applauded as it knocked the unfortunate Blaise flat.

"I didn't spend seven years here without learning a few things," he announced, scooping up another handful of snow. "Anyone else care to try your luck?"

It was the cockiness that did him in, he decided, as a cascade of snow from McGonagall's windowsill landed on his head. By the time he'd recovered, one of the lucky students had unfrozen the others and they were dispersing. He helped a few of them get fully mobile again and then glanced up once more at Minerva's window before ducking inside to dry off and warm up.

He was perfectly dry, and already had his hands around a cup of hot coffee, by the time she arrived at Graves' cafe in Hogsmeade that evening. It was an unspoken agreement that they would meet there; both were private people, and neither wanted to draw particular attention to what was, despite four extremely good kisses, still not much more than a friendship.

"That was entirely unsportsmanlike of you, this afternoon," he said, standing to greet her. She unwrapped her muffler and pulled off her coat, hanging them on the chair back before sitting down.

"Well, one has to take the juniors down once in a while, otherwise you'd be gunning for my job next," she said, with a smile. "Besides, you were the one who hit Blaise Zabini with a snowball. Bad for your image, that. Makes the children think you're human."

"Yes, well, that was turnabout and therefore fair play," he replied. "What you did was a blatant offensive move. If I wasn't a gentleman..."

She raised an eyebrow, but he merely blushed slightly and looked away.

"Classes go well, today?" he asked, after a minute. "No more screeching turkey vultures?"

"Not today," she agreed. "Did you hear about the first year Herbology class, though?"

His eyes sparked with interest. "No, do tell."

It was, she considered, not really any different from any other evening tea they'd spent together; they talked and ate, and in-between lapsed into a sort of comfortable silence. She decided he must have spent a good few years learning to live with silence. Perhaps too many years alone.

"I thought we might walk back together," he said, as they pulled their coats on against the bitter evening wind outside. "At least as far as Hogwarts' front entrance. It's really...I don't think it's so very wise to be walking alone after dark, especially after this...business about Sirius," he said, his voice tightening slightly. She touched his arm.

"Still worrying you?" she asked softly. He shrugged as they began to walk, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"No more than it ever did, which is strange, all things considered. I've reached the point where I try not to think of it too much. Which is ironic, really, as he was always the one telling me I needed to be more philosophical about life. It's easier, now..."

"Oh?"

"Well. On days like this." He looked up at the darkening sky. "I mean, of all the places I've been, and I've been a good many, including some that I'd rather forget about...I've never found anywhere that gives such perfect days as Hogwarts. Just really perfect days. They just happen here. You don't even have to try. You just get them. Perfect."

There was no other sound than their shoes crunching on the snow, until he finally looked sidelong at her. "Perhaps I said too much," he said quietly.

"I was just thinking that I'd never met anyone who said it so well," she answered. They had left the town behind, and there was only a bridge across a little inlet of the lake, before the wide path through the forest which led to the Hogwarts gates. She moved to lean on the railing, looking down at the frozen water. She could see his breath in the air, where he stood facing her.

"I don't know why it should be this way, because we've known each other barely three months, but it is," she said softly. "I don't count your time as a student."

"Neither do I," he replied. "That was different."

"I don't think of you as a student."

"That's probably good," he said with a smile. He bent to ask her something, but as his mouth was opening she kissed it, and he was quick to respond, kissing her back, gloved hand rising to touch her jaw, to guide her a little closer. This was not the half-playful gesture of the night before, exhilarated from dancing and from brandy-tea. This was deliberate, unhurried, with an element of exploration about it -- how far they could safely go, standing in the snow on the bridge to Hogwarts.

"What was it you had said about dancing, the other day?" she asked, when it ended. He stared at her, breathless.

"I think I could get used to it," he said.

"I'm pretty sure that wasn't it," she smiled.

He shook his head a little. "I'm changing my opinion."

She held out her hand; he offered her his arm, and she took it. They ambled slowly towards Hogwarts, almost dawdling; at the front gate, he drew away a little.

"Perhaps we ought to..." he began, then faltered.

"Sneak in?" she asked.

"I'm fairly certain the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts does not sneak, but it's practically required, as a professor associated with the Dark Arts, that I lurk at least a little, once in a while," he said lightly. "I ought to speak to Hagrid at any rate, I've some rather intriguing creatures coming in for a lesson and I thought he'd be interested to see them."

She nodded. "Breakfast, perhaps, on Saturday?"

"I'm rarely awake early enough, they're usually done by the time I get to the -- "

"I didn't mean in the Great Hall."

"Oh," he said. She saw him glance at the ground, and then back up. "Your rooms?"

"Perhaps ten-thirty or so. A nice change from our usual teas."

He nodded. "That...sounds fine. Yes."

"Saturday it is, then."

"Saturday, yes."

"Yes."

They were silent for a moment, almost awkwardly; finally she put a hand on his chest, and he glanced at her.

"I thought you said you weren't afraid of me," she said gently.

He looked uncomfortable. "I'm not," he said. "It's just...Minerva, that was a really great kiss. I mean, do you have any idea how good a kiss that really was?"

"Some," she said, amused.

"And I don't want to be clumsy about it -- "

She leaned up and kissed him again, quickly, on the lips. He exhaled, as she stepped back.

"Goodnight, Remus," she said, turning to walk back up towards Hogwarts.

"Goodnight, Minerva," he murmured, watching her go. She heard him turn in the snow, and followed the sound of his footsteps towards Hagrid's hut, until she was inside the castle.

***

IX. Stay

Remus Lupin was late.

Minerva glanced at the clock, curiously. It wasn't like Remus to be anything other than prompt, and often he was early; she was sure something had delayed him, but after fifteen minutes she was beginning to wonder.

After fifteen minutes. And after Thursday night...

She'd seen him since then -- quick glances and smiles at their meals on Friday, and a passing greeting in the hall. He'd stopped to ask if he could borrow a volume for one of his students, and she'd said fine, and met his eyes. There was something...pleasant. Pleasing. In the way he looked at her.

Surely a man who looked at her that way wouldn't be...frightened? Put off? By the sudden kiss in the snow, by the hand on his chest when they parted. Surely he had already realised that she was older than him, eighteen years older, and he didn't seem to care that he'd been her student at one time.

Surely not.

Hopefully not.

Minerva McGonagall was not one to waffle about such things. She gave him a full twenty minutes and then stood, locking her door behind her as she left and proceeding down the corridors and stairways of the old castle until she reached his rooms, with the neatly charmed name on the heavy wooden door.

She raised a hand to knock, but before she could she heard a crash from inside, followed by yells and cursing.

"Professor Lupin?" she called, through the door.

"DON'T OPEN THE DOOR!" came the shouted reply, in Remus' slightly hoarse voice. There was another shout, but it didn't sound like him.

"Can I help?" she called.

"STAY THERE!" More crashing. It sounded as though his bookshelves were falling, or at least the books inside them. She heard one especially high-pitched crunch, and winced. That was probably his tea cups. She decided she could hear at least three peoples' distinct voices -- Remus, of course, and...and it sounded like -- the Weasley twins?

There was a final shouted curse, apparently from Remus, and then a deadly silence. After a second the door opened, and Fred Weasley's face peered out at her. He had his broomstick and his beater's bat in one hand, and was in full Quidditch gear. There had been a Gryffindor practice scheduled for this morning, she recalled.

"Dare I ask?" she said. He swung the door open wider.

The sitting-room was a wreck; books had indeed tumbled from their shelves, not a lamp remained unbroken, there was a large hole in the old wooden desk, and she thought she could see the shattered remains of his teacups lying in fragments on the floor --

She caught her breath. George knelt near the chairs (one now spilling stuffing out of one arm), carefully wrestling a struggling Bludger from Remus, who was curled in a foetal position she recognised as someone in immense pain.

"It got in through the window," George stammered, holding the struggling Bludger tightly against his side. "We came to help -- "

"Fetch Madam Pomfrey at once," she commanded. "And get that thing out of here -- out the window!" she added, as George made for the door. Fred scuttled out the door to find the Healer, while George dove headlong out the window on his broom.

"Where did it hit?" she asked, bending over him. He held up a hand.

"I'm okay."

"Where -- ?"

"Can't...talk," he added, rolling to his knees, his arms clutching his ribcage. "Just let me..."

She helped him up and managed to support him into the bedroom. He fell onto his bed, curling up again, breathing hard.

"Time," he said. "I'm okay, just...give me time."

She took his pulse while he drew careful breaths, and she felt the tension slowly ease out of him. He uncurled, slightly.

"Broken ribs," he said, still breathing deeply and evenly. "No...cracked. They're mending. You shouldn't have sent for Madam Pomfrey -- " he winced as he moved his arms. "I'm fine."

"That doesn't mean you don't need to be looked over."

"I'm all right, Minerva," he said, with a reassuring smile. "I know I'm late...sorry about -- uhm. Breakfast."

"Nonsense." She watched as he pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing, and then supported him by his shoulders as he sat up, dangling long legs off the edge of the bed.

"It came in through the window. Then Fred and George showed up with their bats..." he wheezed. "Bloody wrecked the place, hasn't it?"

"Very nearly."

"First and last time I...take one for the team..." he winced, hand going to the buttons on his collar. "D'you mind if I..."

"Oh -- of course not," she said, turning away politely while he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt.

"Well, that's handsome enough. It looks like I've been sucker-punched."

She turned to see him regarding a low, blue bruise on his abdomen, almost proudly. Even as she watched, it was darkening. Higher up, there were red and purple lines where, she imagined, his cracked ribs were healing.

"That looks awful," she said. He glanced up, then back down.

"It'll be fine," he said, shedding the waistcoat and closing the shirt around his body again. He seemed to have caught his breath, though he spoke much slower than usual. "Tomorrow at this time, you'll never know I'd been hit. The one advantage of lycanthropy, other than an ability to tell real silver from a fake."

"Not much of one, is it?" she asked, surprising herself by reaching out to brush hair away from his eyes. He watched her, soberly.

"Strong and quick, good senses, quick-healing...you'd think I'd be more than fit for this world," he said quietly.

"None of us are fit for all of it. We have to find our place."

"Perhaps so." He took her hand, thumb rubbing the skin below her knuckles almost absently. "I think Hogwarts might be my place."

"Do you now?" she asked, with a small smile. "You enjoy getting attacked by sports equipment?"

"A hazard I can well brave -- " he stopped, and dropped her hand, suddenly. She looked surprised, until he turned towards the doorway and pushed himself unsteadily off the bed.

"They're coming," he murmured, walking into the front room. She had just opened her mouth to ask who he meant when Madam Pomfrey walked in, followed by Severus Snape.

"Fred Weasley just told me the most fantastic story about you getting knocked flat by a Bludger," she said, by way of greeting. Remus drew his shirt aside, displaying the bruise which was now a deep purple, green around the edges.

"Three cracked ribs as well, but they don't need to be set," he said, as Pomfrey came forward to examine them. "Professor McGonagall was kind enough to help me up and send Fred off for assistance, though I don't really need -- ow!" he cried, as she tapped her wand lightly against the centre of the bruise.

"Nasty enough, though not as bad as some I've seen in my time," she said, briskly. "I suppose healing spells are out of the question."

"They don't work on me," he said, doing up his shirt so that she couldn't jab him again. He looked past her at Snape. "Hallo, Severus, something I can do for you?"

"I was dragged along by Pomfrey," Snape grumbled.

"I thought you might have need of someone a bit larger than I, to set the bones if you'd broken anything," Pomfrey said blithely. "Would you like something for the pain?"

"Slows the healing," Remus grunted. "Just let me be for a few hours and I promise I'll be ready for another round with that Bludger."

"Bed rest," Pomfrey said, decidedly.

"Three cracked ribs, that's hardly -- "

"Bed rest!"

Remus narrowed his eyes at her, but nodded.

"And if you're out of that bed before tomorrow morning, I'll hex you!" she added. "Now, perhaps I ought to go try and calm down the twins, they're quite unreasonably hysterical over the whole thing."

"I should try unreasonable hysterics sometime," Remus said thoughtfully as Pomfrey left, Snape still trailing her like a shadow. "It sounds like fun."

"Come on, you can be hysterical once you're in bed," Minerva said. He cocked an eyebrow at her, grinning slightly as he walked into the bedroom.

"Has anyone ever told you, pain seems to make you flippant?" she called from the sitting room. She could hear him undressing, pulling on his pajamas.

"Well, it's sort of a habit," he answered. "One has to cope with it somehow." He leaned through the doorway. "I'd invite you to stay and sit up with the invalid, but I doubt I'll be a very scintillating companion."

"I'm going to fetch something, and then I'll make tea," she said, decidedly. "You go lie down."

"Yes, Headmistress," he said, his smile widening slightly as she turned to go.

By the time she'd gone to her rooms to fetch the breakfast she'd planned, as well as a few other items, the twins had spread the news; she was greeted at the door by Hermione Granger and Lee Jordan, as well as a handful of Ravenclaws.

"Is he all right, Professor?" Lee, apparently the spokesman of the group, eyed the box she was carrying.

"He'll be fine with a few hours' rest," she reassured them.

"Did Fred really hit him with a bat?" Hermione demanded.

"Whoever gave you that idea?" Minerva asked. "Let me through, please...he was hurt helping the twins capture a stray Bludger, that's all. Run along now, nobody likes to be peeped at when they're trying to rest."

The students dispersed as she opened the door, Hermione lingering a little longer than the rest.

"Go on, Hermione, he'll be fine in no time at all," she urged, and the girl reluctantly turned, wandering away.

She found Remus sitting crosslegged on the bed, blanket pulled over his lap and strewn with parchment, books, and --

She smiled. His tea set, now repaired, complete with steaming kettle and a dusty tin of loose-leaf, sat just below his feet.

"It's always tea," he said, looking up from his book with a smile. She set down the box she'd been carrying and scooped brandy-tea into both cups. He raised an eyebrow.

"At eleven in the morning?" he asked.

"It's been a long morning," she answered. "And you ought to sleep, eventually."

"Taking advantage of an invalid, Minerva?" The look he gave her made her quite sure that, whatever reservations she could imagine, he'd gotten rid of them all. "I am sorry we missed breakfast," he said, blowing on the tea to cool it.

"We haven't yet," she replied, opening the box. "I brought it along."

He accepted a hastily conjured plate heaped with toast and sausage, and helped himself to the jar of marmalade she produced.

"Do you, in fact, think of everything?" he asked, around a mouthful of toast. "I don't think I've ever met anyone so well-prepared as you."

"Well, if I'd known you were going to be murdered by the twins this morning, I would have given them a Saturday detention," she pointed out. He laughed, resting his plate on one knee, and then winced.

"Ribs?" she asked. He nodded. "How...long will it take?"

"Nearly a day, give or take, for something like that. Probably a good idea to keep me in bed, though I can't say I like it. Still, I've got work I can do. Much as I wish magic worked this way, papers do not grade themselves."

By the time they were done with breakfast, he was on his third cup of tea, and his eyelids were beginning to droop over the book he was consulting about a spell she'd mentioned. She took it from him, closed it, and set it on the pile next to his nightstand.

"Spoilsport," he murmured.

"You need to rest," she answered firmly. She began to rise to leave, but he caught her arm just above the elbow, fingers as gentle but as firm as she had been a moment before.

"Stay for a while," he said, watching her earnestly. He gave her arm a small tug, and she leaned forward, meeting him halfway.

He tasted like orange marmalade and tea, and he didn't easily release her, even to allow her to sit on the bed, leaning over him.

"You realise, of course," he said, between one kiss and the next, "that this makes our habits more complex."

She looked at him questioningly, leaning back. His fingers had moved up her arm to her cheek, and a point of warmth spread from where he touched her, through her body.

"Your hospitality, my rooms," he said quietly. "So I shall have to bring you something next time. Besides..." he leaned forward, shirt brushing her neck, kissing her with a strange mixture of hunger and laziness, "...I want to hear those songbirds again."

"Surprise me," she said, leaning back. She stood, flicking imaginary dust off her robes, aware that her face was flushed -- that he had an effect on her which had nothing to do with the brandy-tea.

"That could be dangerous," he said.

"Surprise me," she repeated, and squeezed his shoulder. "I'll send someone up to check on you this evening."

He let his fingertips brush her hand before she released his shoulder, and nodded.

When she was gone, he slid down under the blankets, curling into a tight ball, the pain wavering in the face of brandy tea and a promise of more kisses, like those he'd just had, to come.

Chapter Text

X. The Risks

With the holiday coming, the students were growing restless; being cooped up inside the castle on especially chilly or snow-bound days didn't help either. There were Dementors to prevent children skiving off the grounds as they'd done time out of mind, and tempers ran high in the dormitories and hallways.

Remus was coming from the third hallway-fight he'd broken up that day. It was just past full moon, and he was still feeling it; sometimes he could sense -- sometimes he wanted to scream at -- the tightness of the skin over his cheekbones, across his knuckles, anywhere bones were close to the surface.

Still, he had enough in him to stop children from squabbling -- at least he hoped he did, otherwise he might have to relegate himself to the category of Entirely Useless, instead of Only Occasionally Hopeless.

"Professor Lupin?"

Lost in thought and too tired to concentrate properly, he started when someone called his name, and turned to see Headmaster Dumbledore moving amiably through the crowded hallway.

"If your classes are finished for today, may I have a word with you?" he asked with a smile. Lupin swallowed.

"Of course, Headmaster -- CREEVY! NO RUNNING!" Lupin yelled, as Colin once more pushed his way through the crowds at breakneck speed. He turned to follow the Headmaster down a less chaotic hallway, towards the gargoyle that guarded his office. They climbed the stairs in silence, and Remus wandered over to Fawkes' cage as Dumbledore circled behind his desk.

"Good old Fawkes," Remus murmured. "He's in fine form today."

"Yes, he seems to thrive in the winters," Dumbledore replied. "I won't waste your time asking if you know why you're here, Remus."

There were two options, of course. Two reasons he might be here, speaking to Dumbledore now. But only one of them was at all possible, because the other one -- the knowledge about Sirius Black's animagi talents, which Remus Lupin was the only living person to possess -- that one was too awful to think about. To think that Dumbledore might have discovered it was...unthinkable.

So he took a deep breath and, without taking his eyes from Fawkes, said, "Minerva."

"Yes."

"I thought you'd find out, and sooner rather than later."

"You are aware that there are...complications that arise from an affair of this nature."

Remus bowed his head and laughed a little. "Neither of us have been able to put a label to it yet," he said. "One dinner, and a breakfast ruined by the Weasley Twins. Hardly grounds for marriage proposals."

He turned and saw that Dumbledore had fixed him with a shrewd gaze -- one he'd learned, and sometimes used on his own students.

"You are aware that she is your superior at the school?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

"And you are aware of the risks of having...a relationship with a fellow teacher?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

Dumbledore nodded. "And the students?"

Remus gave him a blank look. "What about them?"

"This is a small school. These things do not have a habit of staying very secret for very long."

Remus shrugged, a little too carelessly. "Neither of us have prior commitments which would make us bad role models in the students' eyes. We're not likely to go about flaunting in public any relationship we might form. Minerva is...private. And I have learned to be."

"Very well, then. As long as your eyes are open, Remus," Dumbledore said, with a surprisingly gentle tone in his voice. "You may go."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Remus said, a little of the old schoolboy formality slipping into his address, and left as quickly as was dignified.

Outside, he leaned against the stone wall and let out a deep breath.

He was not so unreasonable a man that Dumbledore's prying made him angry. In the Headmaster's shoes, he would have done the same. And yet the idea that he could not do as he pleased, here of all places, where he had always been allowed freedoms denied him elsewhere...

It was nearly dinnertime, and his stomach was making him aware of the fact. He ducked down towards the back kitchen entrance -- good lord, it was even the same painting, with the same ticklish pear.

The house-elves in the kitchen were far too busy to notice he was even there, and if they had, they were all far too fearful of him to do anything about it. They didn't bother him as he collected enough food for two dinners, appropriate plates and glasses, and a bottle of wine from the hidden drinks cupboard (James had finally found it, sixth year, and the hangovers the next morning were truly a sight to behold).

He caught Minerva on the threshold of the Great Hall and managed to stop her before she entered.

"Minerva, come with me," he said softly, pulling her back from the doorway.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, as he continued to tug her away from the students and teachers pouring through the corridors.

"No, nothing's wrong," he said, leading her around a corner and pulling her close for a kiss. She smiled at him and backed away slightly -- this part of the school wasn't completely deserted, and a student could come along at any time. "Nothing us having dinner in your quarters won't fix," he added, holding up a makeshift basket with the food piled in it. "You did say surprise you."

This time she took his arm and pulled him away from the wall, gently. "That sounds like a fine surprise."

By the time they were near her quarters, there were few enough students that he risked putting his arm around her waist as she opened the door and let them inside.

"Now, I do not cook, and I think you should know this, but I'm really quite good at putting things on plates," he said, setting the food on the table and unpacking it piece by piece. She leaned on her desk and watched, an amused smile on her face as he very carefully and ostentatiously began to add food to the plates. He finally looked up to see her eyes dancing.

"What?" he asked, placing the rolls on the edges as a finishing touch. She shook her head, still smiling. "Did I pick the wrong wine? I don't know anything about that, either, but I didn't think that really mattered..."

"It's not that, Remus," she said, coming forward. He pulled out her chair for her, then pulled up his own.

"Well, I know I'm irresistibly amusing, but..."

"Did Albus talk to you today, by any chance?" she asked. He blinked.

"Irresistibly amusing and, apparently, seeing a mind-reader," said Remus.

"I thought he might. Did he give you the 'you are aware of the risks' speech?"

His jaw dropped. She sipped some of the wine and smiled.

"Good intuition, on the wine," she said. "Don't look so shocked. He's had to give it before, you know. You're not the first professor in the history of Hogwarts to fancy another one. Nor am I," she added, and he felt warm pleasure fill him. "He asked me to give it once. I think he enjoys it. Especially seeing the effects."

"The effects?" he asked, dumbly. She neatly broke open her roll.

"Of course."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Minerva amused, Remus puzzled. After a while, he slowly took a sip of the wine, and covered his eyes with one hand.

"I knew you'd get it, if I gave you enough time," she said.

"He knew exactly what I'd do, didn't he?" Remus asked.

She nodded and poured more wine. "I think he probably had a good idea."

"And you knew as soon as I -- "

"Remus, do salve your wounded ego," she said, cutting him off.

"But you knew!"

"Yes, and I didn't stop you, did I?"

For the second time in an evening, he found himself speechless.

"You're charming when you're a step behind the facts," she continued.

"That's probably good, as apparently I am never anything but," he said, only a trifle sourly. She was already digging in the basket, pulling out the dessert pastries he'd packed -- some sort of chocolate-stuffed thing he probably ought to know the name of.

"You might put on the turntable," she said, indicating the wooden contraption on her desk. He nodded and crossed to it, scooping some birdseed from a nearby jar into one of the slots in the machine, careful to avoid the snapping beak that was attached to the end of what appeared to be a record-player needle arm.

The turntable always played something different, and always in birdsong; he thought he recognised the tune, this time. It sounded like...oh, he was a Muggle American chap, some time ago, trumpet player...

When he turned around, she was standing in front of him. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she cupped the back of his head, pulling him down for a kiss. He kissed back with enough intensity to make her gasp, borne of a frustrating afternoon and, recently, a full-moon locked in his rooms without much human contact.

"You're so good at this," he said, against her lips.

"You're not too terribly bad at it yourself," she answered. Even as they kissed, his hands were moving to her waist, and his hips began to sway to the music, subtly shifting her body as well.

"So did you enjoy your surprise?" he asked. He felt her against him; the last time they'd been this close was the day he'd broken, the day he'd gone to her because he was frightened, because Sirius was free and he couldn't protect Harry. She'd touched his arm and pulled him into an entirely unexpected hug, and the next time they'd met he had a nearly uncontrollable urge to kiss her.

He wondered if she thought about that too.

"A kiss to build a dream on," he sang softly, finding some of the words to the birdsong-music coming from the turntable. "And my imagination will...something..."

She laughed against his cheek. "You're off-key."

"Well, I've neglected my musical talents terribly," he answered.

"Do you suppose..." she began, then stopped. He leaned back a little, to look at her.

"Do I suppose...?"

"Well, at this point it seems as though hospitality has gone a bit far," she said, with a smile. "Perhaps it's time to stop thinking of who calls on whom."

He continued to dance, turning them slightly. "That sounds suspiciously like a good idea."

"So perhaps," she continued slowly, "when we make plans to meet...we can have dinner at Graves' again."

"Hmmm," he said, pretending to consider. "You don't think Headmaster Dumbledore would disapprove, Deputy Headmistress?"

"I don't think it would matter if he did, Professor."

The music ended on one last note, and he stepped back.

"Then Graves' sounds like a fine idea. Although..." he frowned. "The next week or so..."

She nodded. "Very busy, I'm aware. And then there's a Hogsmeade weekend before holidays end. So perhaps not until school is out?"

"I think that would be wisest." He bent to kiss her, but she felt him tense, suddenly, as he glanced towards the door.

"Someone's coming -- " he said, stepping back, out of the line of sight of the doorway. He had an uncanny knack, some werewolf sense that knew; she'd grown almost used to it by now.

Ten seconds later, there was a knock on the door. She answered it, ready to give the interlopers a short answer and send them on their way.

It was Severus Snape.

"If I might have a moment of your time, Headmistress," he said, not waiting for her to answer before brushing past her into the room. "I'd like to speak to you about -- "

He stopped, robes swirling around his ankles. Remus leaned against one of her bookshelves, looking more composed than he felt.

Snape's eyes slowly took in Remus, the table, the remains of dinner still on it. The wineglasses.

"I see," he said. "I'm interrupting," he added snidely. "Perhaps another time, Headmistress," he added, and turned to go.

"Snape," Remus said calmly. He paused, but did not turn around.

"Yes?"

Minerva could see Snape's face; it was as composed as she knew her own to be, but his eyes were sharp and angry.

"I wasn't able to properly thank you for the Wolfsbane potion, last week," Remus said. Snape turned slowly.

Something silent passed between them; she understood that the thanks was a form of debt-acknowledgement, that Lupin was making a gesture of some sort, possibly a plea.

"A simple enough thing," Snape said sneeringly, and turned on his heel, walking away swiftly. This time, neither of them stopped him.

When she had shut the door, Remus rubbed a hand over his face.

"Perhaps I ought to go," he said softly.

"Perhaps so."

"He won't tell."

"Would you care if he did?"

He was gathering the dinner things, repacking them into the basket. "No. But -- "

" -- everyone else in the school would."

"And I prefer to keep my..." he smiled as he finished packing. "My affairs to myself."

"Is this an affair?"

"Would you prefer 'romance'?" he asked, his voice low and unsure. She stroked his arm, and kissed him on the cheek.

"I think I would," she said softly.

***

XI. Holiday

"What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Minerva McGonagall, in nightclothes and dressing gown, peered down a line of books in her bookcase with her wand at the ready. Behind her, a recently-arrived Remus Lupin was watching her as if she'd gone mad.

"Doxies," she said. "Is the door shut?"

She heard him close it, and his footsteps on her carpet.

"You know, I am professor of Defs," he repeated. "I can show you my pay vouchers."

"Do you know, every time I think of Professor Remus J. Lupin, I come up with this image of a sixth-year student who got his head stuck in a wall sconce while trying to catch a loose pixie."

He sighed. "I should have known you'd bring it up, sooner or later."

"Yes, well. Be grateful I haven't told your students."

"You wouldn't!"

"It could be arranged."

She felt firm fingers on her shoulders, thumbs kneading her neck.

"With two of us here," he said, in her ear, bent over to follow her line of sight along the books, "We could handle them easily. I'll expel them and you freeze them. Then we'll toss them in a spare aquarium and I'll terrify my first-years with them."

Discussing the disposal of wayward Magical Creatures should probably not send tingles down her spine the way it did.

"Or I suppose we could leave them for now, and fortify ourselves with breakfast," he added. "It is the first day of holidays, after all. No reason to go looking for more work."

"They're not going to get up and leave my bookcase on their own," she said rebelliously, but his thumb was still making small circles on her neck, and his voice was entirely rational. And seductive.

"It'll be an education for them, I'm sure," he said, straightening as she did to avoid bumping into her. "Come have breakfast."

"If you don't mind, Professor Lupin, I do think I need to dress myself first," she said, drawing the dressing gown tighter around her shoulders. He grinned and kissed her. She could tell that he'd meant it as a cursory gesture, but he had a charming inability to control himself, and it was several seconds before they parted.

"I'll meet you in the Great Hall?" he asked, eyes bright. She knew her own probably matched his.

"Save me some toast," she answered, pushing him gently towards the door. He went, reluctantly, and she could hear him linger in the hallway before his footsteps began to move towards the main hall.

***

With only a handful of students and a few professors remaining over the holidays, the Great Hall was echoingly empty, and seating rank was not so closely followed. Remus still sat at one end of the table as befit a junior professor, with Severus nearly all the way at the other, because it was bad form for Professors to attempt grievous bodily harm on each other in front of the students. Normally Headmaster Dumbledore would be in the middle, with Minerva on one side and Professor Flitwick on the other; today, however, neither man was to be seen, and Minerva came to sit with Remus as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Remus could not help a small bubble of satisfaction when he saw that Snape had been joined by Hagrid. It wasn't that he didn't like Hagrid, but he knew Snape didn't.

"I was thinking," he said over his eggs, once she'd begun to eat, "that perhaps you might want to accompany me to Hogsmeade this afternoon."

"Do you mean after I dispatch the doxies in my sitting room?"

"Do you mean after we dispatch the doxies in your sitting room?"

"Point well taken, Professor," she said, taking a sip of lukewarm tea. "Would this visit to Hogsmeade be of the dinner variety?"

"It might include dinner," he allowed. "Actually I've some Christmas shopping to do, and I hate shopping in general. So, as per our previous agreement that dinner at Graves' was in the offing..."

She fought down a smile; it wasn't decorous in front of the students.

"After we dispatch the doxies in my sitting room," she said firmly. He nodded agreeably, and continued his breakfast.

She watched him with interest; it was unusual for her to actually be able to keep an eye on him at meals without leaning around Dumbledore. His eyes flicked over the students regularly, and she had the feeling that even if all the students at Hogwarts were in the Great Hall, he would still find out Harry Potter, most of the time.

It was natural, she supposed. Remus and Harry's father had been friends at school. She knew he felt protective of the boy; he had once nearly wept, in her office, over his inability to keep Harry from harm. Not that it was his job, she'd reminded him. Not alone, at any rate.

"I think perhaps we ought to see to those doxies," she said, to take his mind off of what looked, to her, like a really fantastic brood in the making. He glanced at her and grinned. It took ten years off his face, when he smiled like that.

***

It took them two hours to be rid of the vicious little creatures, especially while avoiding their bite; Remus let out a relieved sigh as he clamped a lid on the small aquarium he'd conjured to store them in.

"I suppose I'd best put these in the classroom," he said, leaning on the lid and tilting his head to crack the bones in his neck. "Perhaps we can mee -- mmm..."

The end of his suggestion was lost in a kiss, surprising and pleasant, as she leaned forward, her fingers resting on his arms. He slid sideways, away from the aquarium, still kissing her; she let her hands move up to his shoulders as his own hesitantly circled her waist.

"You know I'd do the removal as a public service," he said, around kisses and touches that were moving slightly beyond common propriety. "Tips are welcome, of course, but -- "

"You talk too much," she replied, solving the problem by kissing him soundly. He laughed into her mouth, and stepped back, hand rising to stroke her cheek.

"You're just trying to distract me from Hogsmeade," he said, mocking sulkiness.

"Do you really want to go?"

"No," he admitted. "But I have to -- oh..." he took hold of her wrists, firmly, and kissed her with finality. "I have to. I've finally money for decent Christmas presents this year. Some years I couldn't even send cards. I'm a wretched friend, really."

"I doubt that," she said, straightening his collar. "Who do you send them to? I would imagine, considering your travels, you haven't had much time to spend in making acquaintances."

He ran a hand through his hair, re-ordering it. "Well, it's mostly old school mates and that. Dumbledore, of course, mainly to let him know I'm still alive. I try to write to Moody when I can, he likes to hear from me. Protege of his, as it were."

"Mad-Eye Moody?"

"The very one. Taught me loads about Dark Arts. A couple others from the old Order..." he bit his lip, watching as she tucked some stray strands of hair into her bun. "I tried to send cards to Harry but they all came back, and finally I gave up. I don't know if it was Dumbledore's protections, or Harry's family..."

"Probably both."

"Could be. At any rate...well, I don't suppose I can buy Harry a gift now that I'm his teacher," he sighed. "But Dumbledore, I owe him for getting me this job, and Hagrid's been most helpful. I think I ought to get him a book on not murdering his students with magical creatures...and...and there's you, of course..."

"Me?"

"Well, yes," he said as she opened the door, leading the way out and into the hallway. "I think, considering everything, especially everything between ten minutes ago and now, that you are definitely on the Christmas list."

She smiled and walked at his side down the staircase and out onto the grounds, heading for the bridge to Hogsmeade. For years, her only association with the bridge was of chaperoning schoolchildren across it; now, as they passed the posts on the other side, she felt a small shiver of pleasure knowing they had stood there and kissed, not long ago at all. She saw his eyes on her, and knew he was thinking the same thing.

***

"Well, I feel the day was not mis-spent," Remus said, over the remains of his meal that evening. Minerva, although she had discovered his major character flaw that afternoon -- he could not properly shop to save his life -- did have to agree. He'd found a muffler for Moody that screamed out when poison was anywhere near; a book on sweets-making for Dumbledore; something he wouldn't let her see, for herself; and a few various knicknacks for people she didn't know, everything to be sent up to his office at Hogwarts. She'd also caught him looking longingly at the Quidditch books, muttering about teachers showing favouritism, before turning reluctantly away.

"I feel it would have had to go a lot worse to be considered wasted," she agreed. "Shall we ask for the check?"

He smiled. "It's taken care of."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, is it?"

He was standing, pulling on his cloak. "I did them a favour, got rid of some troublesome magical...infestations, in one of the unused storage rooms. They offered me free meals for the rest of the school year. Remus Lupin plus guest," he finished whimsically.

They stepped out into the bitter December evening, tugging their cloaks tight against the icy wind.

"Going to be a cold holiday," Remus said, kicking a flurry of snow across the road idly.

"Do you think so?" she asked, wrapping her cloak tighter. He nodded, blowing on his gloved hands.

"Don't mind, really. Nice to stay inside, find a book...or some company," he added, as they passed onto the bridge back to Hogwarts, neither of them willing to stop this time. "I've papers to grade, other work to do. Never an empty moment," he added, almost...wistfully.

"And of course someone has to keep some sort of eye on the children still at school," she said quietly. "I expect you'll want to be on your guard, there."

"Sirius is still free," he said, his voice hardening slightly.

"I wasn't reproaching your motivations, Remus," she said softly. "Merely your resolution to always follow them alone."

"Dumbledore called me here as much for my protection as for anyone else's," he continued as the castle loomed before them, the candlelit windows looking warm and inviting. "I won't do anything stupid. But it's always there, in the back of my mind. Sirius is free."

She linked her arm with his, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Let it stay there, then. In the back of your mind. You can occupy the rest with better thoughts."

"Hmm," he answered, and she could feel his shoulders relax. "I'm not unhappy here."

"So you've said."

"Besides, I've got all those free meals at Graves'."

She laughed and began to step away as they approached the school, but he caught her arm and pulled her into the shadows of the entrance hall. He kissed her, one hand on her cheek, the other around her waist. It was affectionate, but there was a certain desperation in the way he held her, the way he hesitated.

"Here's where we part ways," she said, leaning into him, feeling his heartbeat through his clothes.

"Or..." he said, uncertainly. He still smelled of the snow.

"Or?" she asked, leaning back and lifting an eyebrow. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she imagined he blushed.

"Or you could come to my rooms," he said softly.

She paused for a moment to kiss him again, and then replied.

"No, I think not."

He looked more puzzled than hurt; he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and tilted his head.

"Can I ask why?" he said softly.

She stepped back, and tugged his hand gently.

"My bed's bigger," she said, with a smile.

He seemed stunned for a moment, and then a wide grin broke across his own face as he followed her into the castle, up the stairs to the corridor leading to her rooms.

***

XII. Awakening

She hadn't thought Remus a particularly modest man, though of course she knew he was somewhat shy; it wasn't until she saw the trace of a scar on his leg that she realised why, and was patient, though her breath came short and quick and she saw the faint blush of desire on his face, the deep, quiet want in his eyes...

Slow waking, and the warmth of bodies; the press of skin on skin, knees tucked into knees, secured by a firm, a surprisingly strong arm around the waist. Slide of fingers over bared, sensitive places. Even breathing. Warmth, under the blankets, shared warmth.

"Good morning," said Remus Lupin in her ear. She opened her eyes and smiled.

"How did you know I was awake?" she asked, feeling his hand shift slightly on her stomach.

"I guessed," he replied, breath making the skin below her ear tingle. "Sleep well?"

"Yes," she answered, voice low and throaty from sleep, closing her eyes again. The smile stayed. "You?"

"I can't complain," he replied, and she laughed a little. "Although..."

"Mm?"

"We are faced with an important decision," he said, his tones mock-serious.

"It's too early for decisions."

You have to understand, he'd said, it's not as though this is something I do very often.

And there it was, dark on his skin. There they were really, two jagged scars where the jaws of the wolf had clamped around his thigh --

Six inches more and I'd be singing soprano all my born days, he'd said with a smile, and she'd said Remus, pain does make you flippant.

Oh, it doesn't hurt anymore.

That's not what I meant.

"Well, either I ought to leave now, to avoid the possibility of being caught sneaking out of the Headmistress' rooms..." he said, and she laughed at the thought, "or you're stuck with me until we make it look like I was just having an early breakfast with you."

"Stay," she mumbled, sliding her own hand over his. She heard his breath hitch, slightly.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he answered. They were still for some minutes, neither of them needed to speak to enjoy the closeness, and she suspected that he was giving her time to wake up more fully.

"There is one more thing," he said, nuzzling the back of her neck.

"Oh...?"

"Christmas," he continued. "I want you to have dinner in the Great Hall, with the others."

"Well, of course, I -- " she paused. "Won't you be there?"

"Unfortunately not. Christmas eve happens to be the full moon. And I don't want you skipping the feast on account of me, since I will probably be fast asleep for the whole thing."

"Sick on Christmas," she said softly. "How awful."

You should think about this, about me, what I am --

Do you mean, she'd said, a brown-haired man who teaches children, who likes brandy in his tea and puts his scrambled eggs on his toast?

You know what I mean. What I am, he'd answered wretchedly, tilting his head so the hair screened his face.

Who you are, I know. What you are, I don't care.

"It happens. It's worse when it comes on my birthday," said Remus, and she could hear the forced good humour in his voice.

She considered for a moment before speaking. "Would you like me to come see you?"

"You can if you like, though I can't imagine I'll be very entertaining," he replied, and again there was that note of false bravado, false humour. She'd heard it too often in students who were desperate not to show that some fear or loss was clawing at their insides, trying to break free. She heard it most often in those who were least likely to ever admit it.

"We'll have tea in the morning, like last time," she said. "And I'll bring you some dinner before the feast."

"There's really no need -- "

"Nonsense. It's Christmas."

She'd pushed the hair out of his eyes, made him look at her.

I should have known, he'd whispered as she pulled him close, as his arms went around her waist. This was always my home, always where I found myself. I should never have stayed away so long.

You're here now.

He'd smiled, his whole face lighting up. I am.

His hands had moved suddenly, sliding up her back, tangling in her hair, and his mouth was demanding on hers...

He fell silent, and after a moment she felt him move to prop himself up on one elbow, so that he could see her face. She turned her head, slightly, and let him kiss her -- unhurried, no longer anxious as he had been in those first few days. And she'd been nervous too, she could admit, only she was more adept at hiding it.

It wasn't passion so much as a very thorough affection that drove the kiss. Which was, she thought, how their entire...romance? Affair?...had gone.

"In some ways, Minerva," he said, resting his forehead on hers, "You are quite a revelation."

"Of all the things I've been called by men, I don't think revelations were ever mentioned," she replied. Their bodies began to move, to shift slightly into the increasingly familiar and far more intimate touches of the night before.

"You are unique," he continued, pausing for another kiss. "You're stern but evenhanded..." A slide of hips -- "You're strict but the children love you..." Hands, touching, his arms supporting him over her, "You have the ability to admit when you're wrong, though you rarely ever are...and you apologise. Which frankly," he was silenced for a moment by her mouth, "is very nearly unheard of." He paused and drew back to look at her, brown eyes warm and dancing with real good humour now. "Besides, as I believe I've mentioned, you kiss exceptionally well."

"Kiss?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. He made a low noise in the back of his throat.

"And other things," he said, and when she laughed, softly, he moved again, beginning to prove his point.

I never thought...

Then what were we doing, up until now?

I don't know, he'd admitted. Enjoying each other's company?

And she'd laughed, low in the back of her throat, and he'd realised why, and joined her. And then there was no reason not to kiss, and touch, and no reason not to share her big bed, warm under the blankets, warm against her body.

***

"You know, I wasn't entirely enthusiastic about the holiday," Remus said, as he buttoned the collar on his shirt. She straightened it slightly.

"Oh? I thought you'd welcome the quiet."

"Well, I do. And the company," he added. "Certainly enjoying that."

She smiled.

"But...I like keeping busy. I suppose I've papers to grade, and lesson plans to make and all the rest. For all my talk in Hogsmeade, I just didn't see how I was going to keep myself occupied."

"And now?"

"Well, I've managed the first day or two, haven't I?" he asked, pulling her close before she could finish dressing. "We've missed breakfast, you know."

"I don't care."

"Mm, me either," he agreed. "And I think I could quite easily fill up my days this way. I say we make a habit out of it."

She gave him a blandly inquiring look. "A habit out of what, Professor Lupin?"

"I was referring to the idea of Hogsmeade, Headmistress. Say, tea and scones, every afternoon, in Hogsmeade. Dignified...unimpeachably civilised..."

"An opportunity for more walks in the snow?" she asked, amused. He gave her a guilty grin. "The faculty will talk."

He tensed, and she knew it had been the wrong thing to say. After a moment he pushed his hair out of his eyes and met hers directly.

"If you're rethinking what you said last night -- I understand, if you and I were linked and the truth happened to come out about me..."

"Oh, no -- Remus, that wasn't what I meant at all," she said, as he pulled away. "I only meant that..."

The miserable, closed look on his face could break hearts.

"I meant that they always do, when two professors are involved," she said. "That's all. I wanted to warn you. Remus..."

He let himself be drawn back into an embrace, and even returned it, after a minute.

"I don't care if you're werewolf, vampire, human, or anything else under the sun," she said. "You know better than that. What I care about is that your first year here isn't marked by cruel talk. Any more than it has been," she added, knowing that his first few weeks had been difficult -- and not made any easier by her, she recalled.

"You don't know how many people...when they find out. It's so ugly," he said quietly, against her hair.

She smiled. "Believe it or not, animagi don't have it precisely easy all the time, either."

"Yes, but a housecat doesn't have the reputation of mindlessly going for the jugular."

"Obviously you've never owned cats," she said, and he laughed. "Remus...I want this. As long as you do. If you don't mind the talk, I won't."

"I don't mind," he said, stepping back. "It'll be a relief to hear Snape go on about something other than my lycanthropy."

"And don't think he won't," she said, only a little sourly. "For someone who claims to hate people, he certainly likes gossip."

"Good, I'll be paying him back for the Wolfsbane, then."

She let him step away, and they continued dressing in comfortable silence.

"Tea, then?" he asked, kissing her quickly and resting his hand on the doorknob. "Four o'clock?"

"I'll meet you on the bridge to Hogsmeade," she said.

She heard him whistling as he left.

***

XIII. Scarlet and Gold

Memories of the Change were always, and mercifully, hazy; it was like rising in the night to get a drink of water -- you knew it had happened, you just didn't remember how you'd managed it. Usually these days he would be conscious for the Change back, and then stumble into bed and sleep a few hours, fitfully, waking sometime mid-morning with the feeling he'd caught a bad 'flu.

He had never, in recent memory, woken to the smell of hot food and tea steeping nearby. He wondered for a moment what had happened.

"Good morning," Minerva McGonagall said with a smile. "Happy Christmas."

He pushed himself up on one elbow, squinting; the window-blinds had been flung open and bright sunlight filtered through.

"Good morning," he answered, bewildered. On a table near the bed were two trays; one had a teapot and two cups, plus a tin of loose-leaf. On the other was an enormous breakfast, still steaming. She sat next to the table in one of his battered wing-chairs, a book resting on her knee. "What...?"

"You said I could come see you," she continued. It was a tacit agreement between them that on full-moon days, he was left alone unless he asked; it was a private experience, and she respected that.

"And you catered," he observed, trying to preserve his dignity with the blankets, unsure precisely why he bothered. It wasn't as though, since the holiday started, she hadn't seen him in less. Their daily teas in Hogsmeade were pleasant affairs, and more often than not led to even more pleasant evenings, usually in her rooms.

He crossed his legs on the bed, facing her, blankets across his lap. She offered him the plate and he ate hungrily as she sipped her tea.

"Thank you," he said fervently, around bites of sausage and waffle, fried eggs, potatoes, and sliced apple.

"The house-elves made it, I merely stole some," she said. "How...do you feel?"

"No more sick than usual. Awful way to spend Christmas, but I've had worse," he said, gulping tea before realising it was some of the brandy-tea he'd given her at the beginning of the term. She smiled as he nearly choked.

"Slow down, I promise it won't run away," she said. He set the plate down and concentrated on the tea.

"Sometimes I'm starving," he said, around slower sips. He knew he looked tired and worn; he always did on full moon days. "Sometimes it's like a hangover, I couldn't eat if I wanted to. I'm not sure why...could be a fiddly variation in the potion."

"I'm sure Severus wouldn't intend to hurt you."

"You have a lot more faith in him than I do. The only reason I think he hasn't given me a bad batch is that it would injure his reputation." He finished his tea and poured some more, setting it down on the table. "Have you had a good Christmas so far?"

"I think so, yes," she agreed. "It's been quiet. The children are preoccupied with their gifts and such."

"Ah, speaking of which..." he turned to the nightstand next to his bed and rummaged in a deep drawer, fingers closing on a slim, gold-wrapped box. "Happy Christmas, Minerva."

She accepted the box with a smile and opened it deftly, lifting out some tissue paper and laying it aside on the bed. Inside the box was a long, black silk ribbon with a heavy silver-coloured clasp and a small charm strung on it, shaped like a holly sprig. She lifted it out carefully, glancing up at him. He looked hopeful. And worried.

"It's lovely, Remus," she said softly. "But silver?"

"No -- it's pewter. I just...like how it looks," he said, as shy as a schoolboy. "I...it needs some explanation."

She held the thin ribbon in her hand, weighing it. "It's charmed, isn't it?"

He nodded. "I know you'd said that...when you were...well. When you Changed, sometimes if you went to Hogsmeade the dogs tried to chase you. The charm should keep them off," he added. "It's not exactly...I wish it were nicer, but -- "

She kissed him, stopping his excuses. "It's lovely. And thoughtful." She offered it to him. "Put it on?"

He nodded, eyes dark and pleased, and put out his left hand to unbutton her high collar, holding the necklace in his other. When he wrapped it around her neck it was snug, flat against her skin, and she could tell how much pleasure it gave him to see it there. He straightened the charm fussily.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "What a lovely gift, Remus."

He smiled happily. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like it. I hoped you would. It's...been a long time since I could give something to someone I..." he coughed, and took a sip of tea. "Well. I'm glad you like it," he repeated.

"I do. And..." she bent, retrieving a brightly-wrapped red package from below the table. He took it, looked at the gold box his gift to her had come in, and laughed.

"Scarlet and gold," he said, through his laughter. "We are so terribly Gryffindor, Minerva."

She smiled as he shook his head, tearing the red wrapping off with slightly less care than she'd taken. His eyes widened when he saw what was inside, and he removed the rest of the paper more slowly.

"A first edition?" he asked breathlessly, opening it with the utmost care. "Oh...with the Latin included..."

"It's quite a long book," she remarked. "I thought it would keep you occupied on...bad days."

His fingers touched the pages, stroking the print as if he could feel the words. "Oh so appropriate," he murmured. "Ovid's Metamorphoses."

"You might appreciate it more than most," she said, with a small smile. "And I know you have an...unusual respect for books."

"It's perfect," he breathed, eyes scanning the text. "I've been looking for a copy with the Latin included but I could never aff..." he stopped, eyes lighting on a particular line. She watched as he read a passage with unadulterated pleasure. When he looked up at her again, she caught her breath sharply.

"No one else would have understood," he said, his voice almost harsh. "A book about magical transformations -- they would have thought it tactless or rude...no one else could understand."

"About this book?"

"You Change," he said. "You know what it's like. Do you know how -- " he stopped, abruptly, and closed the book, fingers still tracing the cover. "It's a wonderful gift, Minerva. I'm sorry, I'm still tired..."

"Of course, and me keeping you up," she said severely. "You should sleep."

"No, stay a while -- "

She kissed him and pushed him gently down against the pillows. "Sleep. I'll bring you dinner this evening."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

"Oh." He let the book fall onto the blanket next to him, and looked up at her. "I'd like that." A pause. "Will you wear it tonight? At the feast?"

She touched the hollow of her throat, where she could barely feel the holly-sprig charm under her shirt-collar.

"Of course." She smiled. "Read your book if you can't sleep. I recommend Atalanta's transformation into the lion."

He grinned. "I always liked Pygmalion."

"You would." She stroked his hair. "Sleep a little."

"Yes, Headmistress," he said facetiously, closing his eyes. His breath evened, slowly, and she was as silent as she could be when she left, carrying the gold box and scarlet wrapping-paper with her.

***

XIV. Snow Clean

The snowball hit the external wall of Minerva McGonagall's study with a soft thwapping noise. She studiously ignored it; probably stray-thrown ammunition from a snowball fight amongst the students staying at Hogwarts over holiday.

The next one hit her window square.

She scowled and looked up from the trunk she was sorting through. She carefully opened the window next to the one that had been assaulted and leaned out.

"Good morning, Professor!" came a voice from below. "It's a beautiful day for a walk!"

"You'll wake the whole castle," she scolded. "Are you still a sixth-year, Professor Lupin?"

"Sixth years have more sense than to throw snowballs at your study, Professor!"

"Yes, they do," she replied, leaning on the windowsill. He shot her a grin just as a nearby window also opened.

"Good morning, Headmaster!" Lupin added, giving Dumbledore a cheery salute. "Just breaking up a snowball fight!"

Albus Dumbledore leaned out the window, looked from him to a furiously blushing McGonagall and back, and smiled.

"Carry on then. Mind you don't wake Severus," he advised, and slid the window shut.

"Are you coming down or shall I come up?" Lupin asked. She put a finger to her lips.

"Come up, if you must," she said, trying at once to be as quiet as possible and still allow him to hear her. He vanished into the doorway of the school, and a few minutes later she heard him stomping the snow off of his thin-soled, well-scuffed boots.

"Come in," she called, anticipating his knock. The door opened and he sidled sheepishly inside, meeting her embrace with a kiss before unraveling his muffler.

"Sorry, I know it was foolish but it's so beautiful out, and the temptation was too much."

"Detention," she murmured, helping him off with his coat. It was only then that he looked around and then, very slowly, turned to look at her.

"You haven't been ransacked, have you?" he asked -- then, realising how that sounded, added, "Your rooms, I mean."

She turned to regard the messy piles of books, stacks of papers, and furniture-covered-in-clothing. He must be stunned; she was a neat person by nature, and the chaos in front of them would never have occurred on its own.

"I'm cleaning," she said simply. He regarded her thoughtfully.

"Isn't that a spring...thing?" he asked.

"I've always liked to do it on New Year's. Means you go into the next year with a clean home and much less clutter," she added.

"That makes sense."

"Plus you find the most amazing things," she added, picking up a stack of books and piling them into a trunk carefully. "And it lets me dust really thoroughly -- " she paused. He was standing by her desk, watching her, snow still melting in his hair. "What?"

***

Normally Minerva McGonagall wore her hair back in a tight bun -- not even hair dared disobey McGonagall. While cleaning, however, several wisps had worked their way loose, and he found himself contemplating them admiringly.

He sometimes felt he admired everything about her. And now he could add independence of thought to the list; she hadn't apologised for the mess, merely explained it, and hadn't tried to clean up, merely kept cleaning what she'd started. If he didn't like it, he could leave.

Having been forced to cultivate independence in himself, he liked it in others.

"What?" she asked, and he realised he'd been staring at the way her hair framed her face.

"Nothing...can I help at all?" he stammered, noticing the books on the highest shelves hadn't been taken down. She followed his gaze and nodded.

"You're welcome to, if you'd like," she said with a smile. "I haven't bothered with those in years -- they're not really worth getting up on a stepstool for, just a set of old books that came with the rooms. An encyclopaedia of some sort. I thought they finished the shelf nicely."

He reached up, easily running his fingers along the spines, pulling them down two or three at a time, stacking them on the lower shelves. He was just lifting the last of them down when something on a lower shelf caught his eye.

"That's peculiar..." he tugged at the scrap of paper caught in the wood, pulling it free.

"What is it?" she asked, and he grinned, looking down at it. "Remus, what did you find?"

He turned it around and held it up, still smiling like an idiot. "And this, my dear Minerva, is the reason half the Gryffindor house had a crush on you the year I graduated."

In the photo a young, dark-haired woman in witch's robes was laughing, showing off some sort of complicated spell. She couldn't have been more than eighteen, but the keen brightness in her eyes and the knowing look on her face showed that she could only be one person.

"I haven't seen this in years, I didn't even..." she took the photo from him. He circled the desk, sliding an arm around her waist.

"Quite the handsome woman," he said, and she smiled.

"I was, yes. Didn't think so at the time. Thought my nose was too long."

"I wasn't talking about her," he said softly.

She shook her head. "Even in good light, Remus, we both know that's not true. I don't mind -- "

She stopped as one of his hands, nimble and slightly calloused, smoothed her hair back, tipping her head gently against his shoulder.

"It's true to me."

She set the photograph down, smoothing it slightly. From thirty years ago, the young witch in the picture grinned and rolled her eyes.

"A far cry from how this year started," he continued. "I seem to recall a very pale, very stern Deputy Headmistress coming in high state to my office to -- "

"Hush," she answered, and he turned his head to kiss her for a moment before she pulled away and returned to her books. "I've got to get on with this cleaning."

"I love you," he stammered, and then had to suppress a wave of horror at what he'd said.

***

Despite having been out in the snow, he was warm when he pulled her close. At least he had a decent coat, though he didn't seem to have spent much of his salary on new clothing.

She half-thought what he'd said had been flattery. Remus had a certain amount of boyish enthusiasm that spilled over into an odd charm, and sometimes made him say things more than he might actually mean them.

As she went back to her books, his hand followed for a moment, on the small of her back, and she swore she heard him say "I love you."

"What?" she asked, before she could think, as she turned abruptly. She wasn't quite able to believe what she'd heard -- or even whether she wanted to believe it, to trust the pleasant feeling that crept over her when she considered him saying it.

He stood there, surrounded by dust dancing in the morning light, hand still outstretched a little, grey-brown hair still damp from the snow. Young eyes watching her carefully in a face older than his years.

She opened her mouth to reply. He raised the hand he'd held out, pointing quickly to the bookshelves.

"Above you," he said, and there was barely a trace of -- guile? Guilt? -- in his brown eyes. He coughed. "The erm, the shelves are above you anyhow, I think you should just leave them."

She stared at him for a long moment. He ducked his head. His hair fell across his eyes.

Oh.

"Yes..." she said slowly. "Perhaps it's...time."

He stayed where he was, not looking at her, as she faced him with her hands full of books from the table.

"Time?" he asked, after the silence had stretched out almost to a breaking point.

"For a change, I mean. New Year's is a good time for changes. You should clean your rooms, too."

He let out an anxious laugh. "I don't own enough to warrant cleaning house."

"Stay and help me with mine, then?"

He was still standing there, still not looking at her.

"Remus," she said quietly. "Look at me, please."

He lifted his eyes to hers.

"Stay," she said.

"But perhaps I ought to -- "

"Stay." She set the books down. "I know what I'm saying to you. Stay."

He exhaled, slowly. After a second, he reached out and picked up a plain black hatbox sitting on one of the chairs.

"Where should I put this?" he asked.

She smiled.

***

XV. Nightfall

The holidays went far too quickly, and far too quietly. Not for the students, certainly not for Gryffindor tower, where Harry and Ron raged against Hermione for being a tell-tale and a thousand other horrible things; for the professors, however...

Well, Remus didn't like that Harry'd had his one really nice present taken from him, but as it did seem rather dangerous to accept broomsticks from anonymous donors, and as it was in his best interest to keep Minerva McGonagall happy, he simply ignored the whole problem and hoped it would go away.

It was the last day before the rest of the children would be returning, two days before classes were to start, and at least for the moment Minerva was quite happy. They'd relaxed their guard just a little since there were so few students about, and they were not looking forward to going back to hidden dinners in their rooms, stolen weekends at Hogsmeade when the students weren't there, and talking only of school troubles in the hallways.

Dumbledore had given the Deputy Headmistress a bottle of mead for Christmas, of the charmed type that never grew cold, and they were sharing it out of a flask that Moody had sent to his protege, finally having an address for him that year. They were sitting together in the shelter of one of the older trees near the fens outside of Hogsmeade, where you could see the sky seemingly go on forever, and getting quietly drunk to mark the end of the holidays.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked with a smile. He leaned down to kiss her, then settled his arm more firmly around her shoulders, pressing her face into his neck.

"Do I feel cold?" he asked.

"No, but your jacket's thin, and..."

"Warming charms," he answered. "And our Headmaster's excellent mead."

"Hmm." She took the flask, sipping. From the feel of it, he'd had most; still, the warmth of the drink was making her flush a little, even in the chill. "You'll be hung over tomorrow."

"I'd worry if I thought anyone would notice," he answered. "It's not as though dark circles under my eyes are much of a surprise."

"You're looking better than you did."

"I'm eating regular meals."

She felt his chest rise and fall, slowly, and his hand take the flask from her, bringing it to his mouth for another swallow.

"Was it really so bad for you?" she asked. "Were you that desperate?"

"Well, that depends on how you define 'desperate'," he said, his voice a little slurred. "Dumbledore sent me an advance on my salary, otherwise the Feast would have been my first meal in three days."

"Merlin, and I almost..." she buried her face in his thin coat.

"What? What is it?" he asked, one hand stroking her hair clumsily.

"You know I didn't want you here, it was stupid but I was thinking of the children -- "

"I don't care," he said, a note of rebellion in his voice. "Why shouldn't you defend the children? Why shouldn't you?"

"Because you didn't deserve to be starving over something you can't control," she replied quietly.

"Bollocks," he answered. "I love 'em, no reason you shouldn't. Love 'em. Love you," he added affectionately.

"You too," she whispered into his muffler. It wasn't the first time he'd said it, but it was the first time he'd admitted to saying it.

"Good. That's settled," he said, with the firm resolution of the drunk. "Splendid good. Now what?"

She laughed a little, and looked up at him. "We should leave soon. Dark's falling."

"Is it?" he asked, glancing up at the sky. She used him as a handhold to lever herself to her feet, and he struggled up as well, tucking the flask in his pocket. "So it is -- oi -- " he added, as she stumbled. "And so are you," he laughed, catching her by the shoulders. "All right then?"

"I think so," she answered, leaning on his arm as they made their way cautiously across the uneven, snow-covered ground.

"Got to be more careful from now on," he said, as they walked. "No more kissing in hallways."

"We only ever did that the once," she protested.

"And no more...no more..." he pondered this a while. "Well, that doesn't seem fair. We'll just have to keep an eye out. Eternal vigilance!" he added sweepingly.

"No drinking too much mead," she added.

"Hah! No," he agreed, as they passed over the bridge to the school. "I don't -- "

Suddenly he froze, and tensed. She stopped, glancing up at him. His nostrils flared.

"Something's wrong," he said softly.

"What?"

He looked entirely sober now. "Someone's watching us."

He turned unerringly towards the forest on the left of them. After a second he held up his hand and muttered a few soft words. Green flames leapt up from his palm as something scrabbled away in the darkness, a flitting black shadow.

"Just a dog," he murmured, but there was something in his voice that made her worry. "Let's go. Let's hurry."

They made their way quickly across the bridge and up to the entrance hall. He didn't stop until they were well inside, and then he closed his hand, dousing the light.

"Let me walk you to your room," he said, and she grinned, pulling him down for a kiss. It took a moment for him to return it, and she could still see worry in his eyes.

"Stay tonight?" she asked. He kissed her again, hungrily, but shook his head.

"The students," he reminded her. She pressed a hand to his chest, and he moaned quietly.

"They'll be here the rest of the year, you know," she said. "At some point we'll have to stop caring that we share the castle with hundreds of children."

"Merlin," he breathed, as her fingers stroked his jaw.

"And then there's summer holidays. Three whole months without papers to grade, classes to teach..."

He nodded, eyes closed.

"Tomorrow then," she said, kissing his cheek. "Goodnight. Try not to be too bloodshot in the morning."

He let her go, fingers lingering until the last possible minute, and she left him there in the stone entryway, looking out at the rapidly-darkening grounds.

***

XVI. Someday

As classes began again and the daily routine of Hogwarts was once more ordered by brief intervals between lessons, meals, and evening study, the Christmas holiday quickly began to seem like a distant memory to Remus. Pleasant, yes -- especially pleasant with regards to certain events with Minerva McGonagall -- but distant nonetheless.

"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"

And getting more distant by the minute.

Remus looked up from the book he was reading. His office door had been open, but now the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts had shut it, and was standing in front of it, looking -- well, looking composed, but with a glint in her eye that could definitely be interpreted as furious.

"Reading?" he asked hesitantly, suddenly feeling as though he was fourteen all over again, and caught outside Gryffindor Tower after hours.

"Hermione Granger tells me you're giving Harry Potter extra tutoring after classes," she said sharply. "Is this true?"

"Yes," he answered, beginning to divine a hint of reason behind her sudden mood swing. "We had the first one last Thursday. That's not against school policy, is it?"

"That depends on your motivations," she shot back, and he raised his eyebrows, closing the book and setting it on his desk.

"Surely you don't think I have -- "

"He's James Potter's son, what am I to think?" she demanded.

He blinked. He wasn't used to people being outright angry with him; usually nobody got to know him well enough to dislike him.

"That Harry needed extra tutoring, and so I gave it to him."

"Don't you think that might be considered favouritism? He's never had trouble with that class before."

"One might make the case that he's never had a competent teacher in that class before," he said cautiously. "Gilderoy Lockhart one year and a servant of Voldemort another hardly -- "

She hissed when he said the Dark Lord's name, and he gave her a measured look.

"And a servant of Voldemort, hardly combine to make a single decent teacher," he finished.

"Is Harry behind in class?"

"No," he admitted. "He does very well in class."

"Tutoring a student in order to give them an advantage over other students -- "

" -- is done all the time," he finished, feeling frustrated. "Severus Snape -- " he paused, and saw the look on her face. "Ah. I see. All right for Slytherins, but Gryffindor is fair and impartial, right?"

"Or should be." She put her hands on her hips. "What are you teaching him that he can't be taught in class?"

"The Patronus charm," he said evenly, meeting her eyes. He had the dubious experience of actually seeing Minerva McGonagall at a loss for words. Few ever had.

"And how," she said slowly, "Precisely, Remus, are you teaching him the Patronus charm? A charm difficult for graduates of Hogwarts, let alone a thirteen-year-old boy?"

"He's an extraordinary boy," Remus answered. "We both know that. I'm using a boggart."

"A boggart? For a Patronus lesson? Are you daft?"

He put his face in his hands. "If you'd let me explain, Minerva..."

"I am here as the Headmistress," she answered, a note of ice in her voice.

He glanced at her through his fingers. A long time ago he'd made the distinction between Minerva and Headmistress McGonagall. He'd even mentioned it to her. To use it against him like this was, he thought, rather unfair.

"Headmistress, then," he said. "Harry's Boggart is a Dementor."

He stood and walked around the desk, leaning on it. She didn't move.

"Harry's Boggart is a Dementor, and I'm keeping one in my office." He waved a hand in the direction of the boggart's cupboard. "I release it, he attempts the Patronus, and then we recapture it and try again."

"This is utter madness, you can't expose a boy to something like that on a regular basis. It's cruel!"

He gave her a shrewd look. "He asked for it. I didn't tell him he had to."

"Why on earth -- "

He made a frustrated noise, and straightened. "Do you know what happens to Harry when he encounters a Dementor? Do you? Do you know why he passes out -- why he used to pass out, since he hardly ever does anymore, now that he's had some tutoring? My god, everyone's so busy looking out for the boy that nobody's looking at him!" he nearly shouted. She watched him, wide-eyed.

"He hasn't told anyone," she said, quiet but still defiant.

"Well, he's bloody well told me," Remus continued angrily. "Harry hears his parents."

"What?" she asked.

"Harry hears his parents. When a Dementor comes near. He hears James and Lily screaming," he said. "Harry hears his parents being murdered by Voldemort."

He spat the name with such bitterness that she didn't bother to stop him saying it.

"So excuse me, Headmistress, if I'd like to at least try to teach the boy how to stop hearing his parents being executed mercilessly, over and over," he continued. "I'm sorry if I happen to have a strange habit of wanting to prevent any child from hearing that. God knows, I..."

He threw himself into the overstuffed chair on the other side of his desk, rubbing his face with one hand.

"I didn't mean to shout," he said sullenly. He heard her moving, thought she was going towards the door; he started when her fingers stroked through his hair gently.

"I didn't know, Remus," she said softly. "You didn't tell me."

"Well, you didn't exactly consult with anyone before taking away his Firebolt," he answered.

"That was for his safety."

"So is this."

"They're different, and you know that. If you'd told me your reasons I wouldn't have been so angry."

He reached up to take her hand, pulling it down to press the fingers against his lips. They were smooth and dry, and cool.

"I'm not used to having anyone to tell," he said, against her palm. "It didn't occur to me that it was anyone's business other than Harry's and my own."

"He's my student too," she chided. "As James was."

"As I was," he added wryly.

"As you were, though you no longer are. I don't want you telling me everything you do," she said, moving her hand to tilt his chin up until he was looking into her face. "But where Harry is concerned..."

"I'll stop if you tell me to," he said. "I don't love seeing him suffer the way he did when we tried it. But you should see him the rest of the time. He loves the work, he smiles so much when he gets it right. And he's so smart, he really -- "

Her thumb shut his mouth, pressing against his lips gently.

"Is it in Harry's best interest?"

He nodded.

"And not motivated by your wanting to spend more time with the boy?"

His eyes flicked away from hers for a second, but he shook his head.

"And you're taking the necessary precautions?"

"Full supervision, and chocolate," he said.

"But you can understand why I -- "

"I'm just trying to keep him safe."

"Alone. As usual," she answered, and he closed his eyes.

"I've been doing things alone for a long time. And there are still things I can't -- tell, not even to you," he said. "Believe how much I want to, Minerva."

She pulled on his shirt-collar, fingers hooking into it, and he obediently stood, awkward for a moment as she hugged him. Then his arms rose, and he wrapped them around her shoulders, burying his face in her hair.

"Someday?" she asked quietly.

"We have time," he answered. "Someday. Yes."

Standing in the warmth of his office, wrapped in each other's arms, it was difficult to imagine anything other than someday.

***

XVII. The Game

Technically, of course, professors weren't supposed to take sides on Quidditch matches, unless they were House Heads, in which case it was hardly avoidable. Still, this was easily circumvented, as Remus Lupin only owned one coat, and it was red. Or, after a very subtle charm for this particular match, green.

"I cannot believe," Minerva said, helping him straighten his collar, "that you are going to a Ravenclaw-Slytherin game dressed like this."

"Dressed like what?" he asked innocently.

"You're rooting for our rival!"

"I'm wearing a coat which happens to be green. I think it goes well with my eyes," he said.

"Your eyes are brown."

"I never claimed to be a logical man."

"No, that you certainly did not," she agreed, stepping back. "How do I look?"

"Well-wrapped," he replied. "Also perfectly presentable," he added, when she glared at him. One did not take a glare from the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts lightly. "Shall we?"

He held the door for her as they left his rooms and walked down the stone corridors, boots ringing on the floor and echoing against the walls. It was, after all, not illegal for professors to walk to a Quidditch game together, he told himself, as they passed out of the castle and into the chilly January afternoon, amongst small knots and crowds of students also making their way to the Quidditch Pitch.

Dumbledore and Flitwick were walking together, and nobody would see anything romantic in that. Not without serious mind-altering chemicals, anyway.

"So I take it a younger, more handsome man is waiting to steal you from me?" he said.

"You know I have to sit with Lee, if only to make sure he doesn't say any more unpronounceable words," she answered. The edge of her very carefully neutral red muffler flapped in the wind.

"Don't let his many charms fool you."

"I'm not in the habit of letting younger men fool me," she answered, and he laughed. "Finding that funny, Professor Lupin?"

"Not at all, Headmistress McGonagall," he said, grinning. "I would never presume to be amused in your presence."

"Quite right. Now, are you still going to insist on rooting for Slytherin, however covertly you may do it?"

"Yes I am," he said seriously, as a couple of first-years ran past, pelting each other with snow. "Just because I was a Gryffindor is no reason not to like all of my students."

"The primary and basic difference between you and certain Potions Masters we could mention," she murmured.

He shook his head. "Now, now, I owe him, and it would be bad form to think it."

"I'm not thinking it, I'm saying it."

"My Slytherins are good students."

"You're not serious."

"Considering what I teach, it's perhaps not all that surprising, Minerva. They like learning about Dark Arts, even indirectly. Draco Malfoy, for example -- "

"Draco Malfoy!"

"He's rather clever when he applies himself. Certainly not as much of an idiot as he acts."

She gave him a look that said he was out of his werewolf mind.

"Does he actually, ever, apply himself?" she inquired.

He grinned. "I told you, Slytherins like Dark Arts. He does all right."

"Not as well as the Gryffindors."

"You mean not as well as Harry," he said. "The truth is, Hermione's leading the Gryffindors. And Susan Bones is top of the year."

"Little Susan Bones? But she's a Hufflepuff!"

"Got a mean hex, that girl does," he said.

"House traitor," she murmured, so low he barely caught it. He grinned.

"Well, there's also the fact that if Slytherin and Gryffindor both beat Ravenclaw, Gryffindor'll go to the cup," he said quietly in her ear, as they reached the ladder up into the stands. She turned to him, surprised. He shrugged. "Oliver Wood tutors for my fourth-years, he mentioned it to me. After you, Headmistress."

She flashed him a quick smile and began to climb, followed by the first-years, who got a hand up from their Dark Arts professor. By the time he reached the top, she was already settled in the broadcasting box with Lee Jordan. He glanced around, looking for an open seat, waving absently to a few students who caught his eye.

"Professor Lupin!" a voice cried. "Over here!"

He followed the shouting to a raucous crowd of students down near the front, Gryffindors by the look of it, a sea of scarlet and gold stripes. "Come sit with us!" Oliver Wood called. Fred and George Weasley turned and waved as well, and he could pick out most of the rest of the Gryffindor team, plus Ron and Ginny -- and Hermione, carefully situated as far away from Ron as possible, on the other side of Oliver.

He walked down the steps and grinned when Oliver stood and shook his hand firmly.

"Brisk day for a game," he said, leaning on the railing as Oliver sat back down. "Glad you lot aren't playing."

"So're we," Angelina answered. "Do sit, sir, we'll make room."

Lupin lifted an eyebrow. "Do you really want your professor sitting with you while you watch your game, Angelina?"

She blushed. "None of us mind you, Professor Lupin."

He glanced at the others, who were mostly nodding their agreement, or watching the Pitch.

"All right then. Hermione, budge over a bit, thanks," he said, sliding onto the bench between Hermione and Oliver. "Winds aren't too bad, actually. Might be trouble -- won't knock you off your broomstick, wind like this, but it'll send the Quaffle Merlin alone knows where."

Oliver glanced sidelong at him. "You're a Quidditch fan?" he asked, then quickly added, "Sir?"

"I was, when I was at school. Never missed a game. Up Gryffindor," Lupin answered, with a grin.

Watching Quidditch with someone who played the game regularly was always more entertaining; Oliver kept his own running commentary for the benefit of his teammates, which was edifying too. Remus' attention was torn between the game and the students -- it was interesting to see Ginny sitting quietly, soaking up every word out of Oliver's mouth and glancing occasionally at Harry.

Hermione coughed, beside him, and he glanced at her.

"Haven't you got any gloves, Hermione?" he asked. "Here, take mine."

"Professor -- "

"You can give them back afterwards, I know more warming charms than you," he said, pressing them absently into her hands and returning to Oliver's rapt play-by-play with renewed interest. It wasn't long before Oliver caught his breath and pointed -- just in time for them all to see Draco Malfoy to grab the Snitch, ending the game and throwing the stands into chaos.

"I think I'll get out of here before there's a line for the ladder," Remus said, as the Gryffindor team began to gather their belongings. Oliver nodded. "Thank you, it was a pleasure hearing you discuss the game, Ja -- "

The first letter was hardly passed his lips before he froze. Oliver glanced at him, curiously.

He had not just tried to call Oliver Wood 'James'.

Fortunately, while Wood was a clever boy and a brilliant athlete, he wasn't much on subtle interpersonal relations, which Remus suddenly had cause to be grateful for, as Oliver turned away to answer a question by George.

"There's Professor Snape, excuse me," he said hurriedly, and nearly bolted for the aisle, where Snape was following a few hulking seventh-year Slytherins out. He made up his excuse quickly.

"Professor Snape," he said, and the Potions Master looked up, grimly. "Congratulations, that was a well-played game."

He held out his hand. Snape looked down at the hand, then back up at him.

"Yes," he said. "It was."

He pushed past him, carelessly.

"Still arrogant," Remus murmured to himself. "That's really going to bite you in the arse one day, Severus."

He saw that there was already a crowd bottlenecking at the ladder down to the ground, and cast around. There had been some trick to this...

"Professor?"

He glanced across the aisle. Hermione was standing there, looking solitary as the rest of the Gryffindor team pressed forward.

"Yes, Hermione?" he asked. Now, what had it been...

"Here are your gloves back," she said, holding them out. He took them, stuffing them into a pocket absently.

"Thanks..." he said. If you went all the way to the end of the stands...

"They kept my hands very warm," she said, following him.

"I'm glad," he replied, still not paying very close attention. Aha, here it was. A row of stairs down one side, hidden inside the paneling of the stands. Nobody ever used them because nobody ever noticed they were there.

She followed him down the dark stairs, curiously. "I've never seen this way before..."

"Yes, nobody ever does," he answered. "We used to use them when we were bored with a game and wanted to sneak down to -- well, that's neither here nor there," he said, catching himself. He was a professor, after all, and ought to set a good example.

"Is it safe?" Hermione asked.

"Only if you use a silencing charm," he replied, under his breath, as they emerged into the chilly sunlight once more. "Hermione, there's Professor McGonagall, I'm afraid I need a word..."

"Thanks again for the gloves!" she called after him, as he hurried to catch up with the Headmistress.

***

XVIII. Students

It is the unique prerogative of teachers, especially those of older children, that they take the place of parents on the pedestal from which, by the age of thirteen or so, most parents have fallen. Teachers become unique confidants for some students, usually the very clever or the very troubled (sometimes they are the same). More tears of adolescent angst are shed in their offices and empty classrooms than will ever be shown to the childrens' own parents. Teachers, after all, are impartial. They can comfort without smothering, can listen without judging.

On the other hand, sometimes a student comes to know a teacher too well, and gets a bit ahead of themselves...

"Mister Wood, I will thank you to keep your voice within a reasonable volume when speaking to me," Minerva McGonagall said sharply. Students trembled in their boots at that tone, but Oliver Wood had spent seven years hearing it, and had, it was true, taken a few Bludgers to the head over the years. He was not as afraid of the Deputy Headmistress as he probably ought to be.

"But I don't see why -- "

"Mister Wood!"

That voice not even Oliver Wood could disobey.

"Yes, Professor," he muttered, lowering his voice. "But really, I think it's quite unfair of you to keep such a -- if you realised what a Firebolt -- "

"I am fully aware of the capabilities of the new Firebolts," she said, slightly more gently. "But you must realise that Harry's life is worth more than Gryffindor Cup, and considering the extremely suspicious circumstances under which he received it...well. You don't want Harry dying, do you?"

"Not before he catches the Snitch," Oliver agreed. "Harry's very quick, though, and there's no reason we can't have a game played and done with by the time -- "

"Wood, I'm surprised at you! You were appointed Captain because it was assumed that you would act responsibly."

"I am! I'm thinking of the team, you know," he said, slightly reproachfully.

Minerva McGonagall fought the urge to cover her eyes. "This broomstick may very well be hexed to murder Harry," she said, measuring each word slowly. "What if it throws Harry off in the middle of a match?"

"As long as he catches the Snitch first -- "

"Consider your priorities."

Oliver sighed. "How much longer are you going to keep it, Professor?"

"As long as necessary, Wood," she said, with an air of finality. "I promise we will have it cleared as soon as possible. You may go."

Oliver, casting a regretful glance over his shoulder, left in a slouch, muttering under his breath.

***

"Professor Lupin?"

Remus looked up from a particularly ill-written paper on simple hexes, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hermione," he said. "Come in, sit down."

He laid down his quill and stretched, popping a few stubborn vertebrae in his back. She sidled through the open door of his office and sat on the edge of a chair, letting her book bag fall to the floor. It made rather a louder thud than he expected, and he noticed it was full almost to bursting with books.

A conversation with Hermione Granger, on anything, was bound to be a welcome relief from papers. She reminded him of himself when he was a student -- well, all right, a bossier, louder, less tactful version of himself -- really, she was more like James. Still, he liked intelligence in a student, and Hermione had that in spades.

"Did you have a question?" he asked, folding his hands on his desk and leaning forward slightly. She looked tired -- closer to exhausted -- and her face was pale, eyes nervous.

"I...um...about the assignment for Thursday..." she said.

"Was something unclear?" he asked, worried. If Hermione was confused, he could expect mystified befuddlement from the rest of the class.

"No, I was wondering..." she looked down at her knees. "ficodaveanstenshn."

He tried to make sense of what sounded like a spell gone wrong. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

"I was wondering if I could have an exension," she said, slower but no louder.

He sat back and regarded her. "Are you ill?" he asked. She shook her head. "Have you been called out of school?"

"No," she said softly.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but it's school policy not to -- oh, blast."

He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief as she began to cry, quietly and with more dignity than one normally expected a thirteen-year-old girl to possess. He crouched by the chair and offered it; she took it, stared at it for a moment, and then crumpled it in her hands, twisting it in her lap.

"There's just so much work and I haven't had t-t-time to go to the library and I can't find anything on the topic and..." she trailed off into another discreet but heartfelt stream of tears.

"Minerva told me you're taking a heavy course load," he said, then bit his tongue. "Headmistress McGonagall," he corrected, hoping she hadn't noticed, "did have reservations -- "

"I can do it!" she said defiantly. He took the handkerchief away from her and dabbed at her face.

"I've no doubt, but there's no shame in not doing it," he said, wishing Dumbledore was here. He'd barely encountered children at all before Hogwarts, how did one deal with a blotchy-faced, defiant teenage girl?

"But I can," she insisted. "Just a weekend extension, I promise I'll have it on Monday, I can even turn it in Sunday night..."

He sighed and put the handkerchief back in her hands. She swiped at her eyes with it.

"It's just Ron and Harry won't talk to me and that means Dean and Seamus don't want to and I was only trying to help," she continued, sniffling every few words. "I don't want Harry to die!"

He smiled. "None of us wants that, Hermione. Harry and Ron are being arses, I'm afraid, but that's not unusual at their age. They'll grow out of it. Most of us do."

She tried to match his smile, only half-succeeding. "You weren't ever like them, were you?"

He thought, reservedly, of a few times when he desperately wished he'd opened his mouth and said something to James.

"As a matter of fact, I was," he answered. "I was probably worse. There now, that's amusing, isn't it?"

She nodded, and blew her nose noisily. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make a scene -- "

"Nonsense," he said, sensing vaguely that this might not be the most appropriate thing to say, but not having any better ideas. "Now, about this extension..."

"Please, you can take points for lateness. I'll write an extra-long essay to make up for it," she said desperately.

"I tell you what, I'll give you until Sunday night, you can slide it under my door. But I really do think you should at least consider lightening your workload, Hermione. Between you and me and the grindylow, Divination isn't worth your time, and Muggle Studies is ridiculous when you were raised in the Muggle world." He straightened. "You look a bit better now. Run on and get some rest. And that's an assignment, not a request," he added. She smiled, and shyly offered him the damp handkerchief back.

"Thanks," she said, in the doorway. "I'm sorry -- "

"Don't be sorry, Hermione," he interrupted. "Just have the paper to me by Sunday, and get some sleep in the meantime."

She nodded and vanished out the door, leaving him with a damp square of cloth and the feeling that there were probably better ways to handle this.

***

"My god. Possible murders, upset students, civil wars, and it's only January."

Minerva smiled as she continued answering her correspondence, seated at the large writing desk in her private study. Remus was slouched in one of her chairs, feet propped on another, eyes closed, hands folded on his stomach.

"And it's full moon next week," he moaned. "This job should come with sedatives."

"You look fairly sedate already," she observed. He opened his eyes and turned his head to grin at her.

"Not for me," he answered. "For the students. I had someone weeping in my office today."

"Really? Who? No -- don't tell me," she held up a hand to stop him. "Student privacy."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Headmistress," he replied.

"What did you say to them?"

"Not much really. What do you generally say?"

She dipped her quill in the inkwell. "Depends on the student. And the problem."

"Speaking of problems, did you know the Gryffindor boys are ostracising Hermione Granger?"

She looked up sharply. "Why on earth would they do that?"

"Might have something to do with this," he said, gesturing to Harry's Firebolt, which at the moment was suspended in a tank of gelatinous orange liquid. It was supposed to leech out any harmful hexes. It looked like the biggest fruit cup he'd ever seen.

"Ridiculous boys," Minerva muttered.

"Well, it was rather a sneak thing to do, you know."

"It was the right thing to do," she replied, in the same tone of voice he'd used. "Besides, she spends entirely too much time running about with Potter and Weasley as it is. It'll do her good to socialise with the other girls."

"How delightfully parochial!" he cried. "You don't mean that, do you?"

"I do. I don't think Hermione's attitudes are entirely healthy. Of course she's the smartest witch in her year, but intelligence will only ever do her so much good if she can't talk to people. Perhaps it's not so much that she should spend more time with the girls, as she should simply spend less time with two particular boys. And one particular professor," she added. He frowned.

"A professor?" he asked. She gave him a small smile.

"Surely you've noticed? She hasn't much time to spare, but she always manages to hang about after Dark Arts..." Her smile widened when she saw his confusion. "She fancies you."

"She does not!"

"She does. I'm willing to bet she's not the only one. It's one of the perils of being youthful and charming," she added. He leaned his head on the edge of the chair.

"Minerva."

"Yes?"

"Please put your quill down, stop being rational, and come here and kiss your admirer."

She smiled. "One more letter."

"You murder me." Remus clutched his chest. "He asked for a kiss and instead she wrote a letter. So be it. How was your day?"

"Well, I taught classes, ate lunch, yelled at Oliver Wood, and made myself radically unpopular with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which is quite a lot to accomplish in an afternoon."

"I hate January," he decided. "It's cold and boring."

"At least it's almost over," Minerva answered, quill scratching away on parchment. "Not that February will be that much more interesting, I imagine, but -- "

" -- it'll be shorter," he finished.

"There is that."

He closed his eyes again, and slouched down a little further in the chair, listening to the sound of her writing -- the pleasant scritscrit of the nib on the paper, the occasional clink when she dipped it in the inkpot. It was so easy to just stop thinking for a while...

He woke from a half-doze to hear her folding paper, and when he opened his eyes the room had grown considerably dimmer.

"Enjoy your nap?" she asked.

"I wasn't napping. Professors do not nap," he replied.

"Gathering your thoughts for a lecture, then?"

"Precisely."

"So the snoring -- "

"Professors also do not snore."

She lifted an eyebrow. He grinned and slid awkwardly out of the chair, stretching. "Have we missed dinner?"

"I rang for a house-elf to bring some up," she answered, gesturing at a covered tray on a nearby table. He lifted it and presented her with a bowl of soup and a plate of hot fresh bread.

"It's gone nine already," he noted, glancing at her clock. "Remind me to be cautious when I sneak out tonight."

"Or you could sneak out tomorrow morning," she said, spreading butter on a slice of bread. He watched her. They hadn't had much spare time together since school had started again, and it was tacitly agreed that discretion would have to take more precedence than passion.

"I could," he agreed. "An early-morning consultation about some...troubled students."

"I am the Deputy Headmistress," she said.

"So, Deputy Headmistress McGonagall," he added, sliding his chair next to hers and stealing a piece of bread, "I was wondering if I could have your thoughts on some problems that I, as a junior faculty member, am having at Hogwarts..."

She smiled tolerantly as he kissed her neck before going back to eating. "Oh?"

"Yes, I've become infatuated with a fellow professor -- "

" -- Severus Snape? -- "

"Oh, it wouldn't do to tell," he whispered. "Leave the soup. Come consult with me."

He held out his hand and she took it, allowing him to pull her close as he stood.

"January's suddenly gotten better," he murmured, leading her away from the table.

Chapter Text

XIX. A Different Sort of Game

It wasn't that Minerva McGonagall was an unfair woman; it was just that she was a woman who spent a lot of time in thought -- she had a lot to think about -- and if she was short with the students sometimes, it was only that she expected them to be as thoughtful as she was.

"Do watch where you're going, Potter!" she cried, as Harry Potter quite literally ran into her, going up the stairs. He looked tired, and lost in considerations of other things. She'd seen him come out of Lupin's office, which meant he'd probably just had another Patronus lesson. She bit down hard on lingering disapproval of the thing.

"Sorry, Professor..." he stammered, backing away.

At least there was some pleasure in the reason she'd come to find him. She held out his Firebolt, finally cleared of any possible hexes. She wouldn't have to apologise, though admitting there was nothing wrong with came awfully close.

"I can have it back?" Harry was saying. "Seriously?"

She allowed herself a brief smile at the way his face lit up. "Seriously. I daresay you'll need to get the feel of it before Saturday's match, won't you?"

As he turned to leave, she added an encouragement towards winning, and the threat of Professor Snape keeping the cup for yet another year. When he was gone -- nearly bolting for Gryffindor's common room -- she continued down, peering into Lupin's office.

He was pale, and his hands were shaking as he poured something from the flask Moody had given him into a cup.

"Long day?" she asked, and he started. "Sorry, I didn't mean to -- "

"No, no..." he capped the flask and visibly mastered himself. His hands stopped shaking as he wrapped one around the chipped teacup, spoon-stirring it with the other. He took a deep gulp and collapsed into his chair. Two empty Butterbeer bottles stood nearby.

"What happened? Harry looked all right when he was leaving -- "

"Oh, you saw him? Good...I wasn't sure..." he drank deeply again, and poured another cup from the teapot, adding what smelled like firewhisky from the flask. She put out a hand to stop him.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" she asked. He winced.

"Sorry, I just..." he pushed the cup away, and rubbed his forehead with one hand. "It's very trying, being the impartial teacher all the time."

"Did you have trouble with the boggart?"

"No, no..." he sighed. "Harry asked what's under a Dementor's hood."

She could feel herself turn pale. "Why would he want to know that?"

"I don't know. He's fascinated by them, you know, I'm not sure -- well, I have guesses as to why. So I told him about...about the Dementor's Kiss, and what it does, and how that's what's going to happen to S...to Sirius..." his eyebrows drew together a little, almost puzzled. "And he said..."

She'd left her hand on his wrist, and he turned it over, drawing his fingers across her palm.

"He said Sirius deserved it. And I very calmly asked him if anyone deserves that, really, and he said yes...for some things..."

She waited until he seemed to have himself under control again.

"And he left and I just broke," he finished. "He looks so bloody much like James."

"That's what I thought, the first time I saw him," she agreed. "I nearly stuttered when I called his name for the Sorting Hat. Such a small boy. You'll be happy to know I just gave him his Firebolt back, however, so he can get himself killed in several new and imaginative ways on the Quidditch Pitch on Saturday."

He gave her a weak smile. "I'm glad it's finally been cleared. It'll be a good game on Saturday."

"Are you going? It's near after the full -- "

"Wouldn't miss it," he said firmly, and she could see that he was gathering himself up after a go-to-pieces moment. "I should be up and about by Saturday."

"Do you want me to come see you tomorrow?" she asked softly. It was a ritual now; he mentioned the full moon, she asked, sometimes he said yes, sometimes he said no. She never understood his logic, and he gave no explanation. It was enough that he sometimes said yes.

"If you have time," he said, in an offhand fashion. "Lunch, perhaps?"

"Beef broth?"

He nodded vaguely, and she ducked her head to meet his eyes. He smiled again. "Really, I'm all right. How was your day?"

"Other than giving back the Firebolt, it was quiet," she said. His fingers were still stroking her palm, where it lay flat on the desk.

"Why do you take care of me?" he asked suddenly. She looked at him, a rare moment of confusion washing over her. "You...whenever I feel I might...and there you are..."

"Shh," she said, pulling her hand back slightly and raising it to stroke his face.

"But it's not equal, you're never stark raving mad," he said, leaning into her touch.

"Not outwardly," she said. He looked up quickly. "But you...fill a void. In my life. We don't need the same things from each other, Remus, don't think of it that way."

"It's not fair to you."

"I never expected fairness," she replied. "I never expected to fall in love with you, however, and so..." she spread her hands on the table. "Let it be what it is."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Do you think of him often?" she asked finally.

"Harry?"

"Sirius Black."

"I try not to," he whispered.

***

True to his word, he was up and about on Saturday, though looking worse than usual. He wore a few extra layers to the Quidditch match; she could see the measuring eyes of the students on him as he unsteadily climbed the ladder up to the stands and sank onto a bench in the back, huddling against the rails. She wished she could go up with him, but even if she didn't have to sit in the broadcast booth with Lee Jordan -- and a good thing she did, as he was partial to going into digressions over the Firebolt -- it wasn't as though it would be...proper. And both of them always did what was proper.

The Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game was probably brilliant, was probably up to the usual excellent standard of Hogwarts games, but nobody really remembered it later. What they remembered were two things: Gryffindor winning, and the wretched trick Slytherin played.

The very second the Dementors appeared on the Pitch, she stood up. By the time Harry had his wand out and was casting the Patronus, she was dropping from the broadcaster's booth to the ground, and her eyes were searching the stands...

Lupin was already gone from his seat.

She turned when the crowd roared, and saw Harry landing triumphantly, Snitch in hand -- a second later mobbed by the Gryffindor team. She ran instead for the dark figures writhing on the Pitch where Harry had fired the spell. She saw Lupin barreling towards her. He dropped to his knees next to the shapes -- nobody could stay sane that close to a Dementor...

"Malfoy!" he growled. He looked up at her. "It's students. Posing as Dementors..."

"I'll see to them," she said, her lips thinning into a hard line. He nodded.

"I'll make sure Harry's all right," he answered, standing and staggering for a moment before regaining his balance.

She saw him push gently through the crowd, and bend to speak in Harry's ear; through the mass of bodies she could see Harry beaming at him, saying something excitedly, and then he was leading Harry back. She rounded on the Slytherin boys and began to shout -- to actually shout -- as much because she could see how shaken both Remus and Harry were as because they had committed the unforgivable error of interfering in a Quidditch match.

It didn't take long for the Gryffindors to haul Harry away, and soon the students dispersed, leaving the pair of them with four badly rattled Slytherins and a handful of Dementor costumes.

Lupin looked furious, almost too angry to speak. He bent and neatly tore the costumes, freeing Draco Malfoy from the confines of the cloth with a single rip. The boy found himself face to face with the Dark Arts professor in all his considerable rage. Minerva waited for the explosion.

It never came.

"For shame, Draco," he said, and while his voice was hard, he wasn't shouting. Somehow it was worse. "Absolute shame. You are not worthless. Stop behaving like you are just because it's easier than working for what you want."

The others were watching, fascinated, as he grabbed Draco's chin when the child tried to look away.

"Nobody is ever going to think you're worth anything unless you prove you are," he growled. Crabbe whimpered, and Lupin looked up so fast that all four boys flinched.

"Stand up, all of you," he ordered. He straightened slowly as they shot to their feet -- she doubted the others noticed, but she could see it was so that he wouldn't lose his balance.

"Professor McGonagall, my apologies," he said formally. "They are your responsibility now, of course."

"Thank you, Professor Lupin," she said, finding her voice. She had expected him to shout, to -- to tear their costumes, or perhaps even knock a few heads together . It wouldn't be the first time a Hogwarts professor had tried that technique, especially when old Kiernan was teaching, years ago.

She could see him controlling himself. She could also see him trying not to vomit. He wiped his mouth, gave the boys another searching look, and turned to walk away. She realised she was watching him, instead of the boys, and turned back to them. They stared at her.

"Inside," she ordered. "Now."

***

After she'd escorted the troublemakers to Slytherin and elicited a grudging promise from Snape to see that they were confined to their rooms for the night, she went looking for Remus. She thought he might have gone to check in on Harry but the Gryffindors, caught up in a party of monumental proportions, hadn't seen him.

She finally found him in his rooms, wrapping a bandage around his left hand.

"What happened?" she asked, as he looked up. She hadn't knocked; they rarely did anymore. He gave her an embarrassed look, and gestured with his right hand at his desk. There was a splintered hole in the edge, several pieces hanging off of it.

"I know you don't like spiders crawling on your desk but this seems something of an overreaction," she said gently. He sighed.

"I got angry. It happens. Better the desk than anyone's head," he said. "I -- it doesn't happen often," he said quickly, when he saw her face. "Not in years. But sometimes..."

He sighed again, biting the bandage in half and tucking the end into a fold, flexing his fingers gently. "Besides, I heal quickly. This time tomorrow I'll be fine."

"You sure you don't want me to take a look at it?"

"I'm more worried about the desk. People heal. Belongings don't, unfortunately," he said, sliding out of the chair. "It's so frustrating. Such a stupid prank. It's..."

She raised her eyebrows.

"It's exactly what Sirius would have done," he growled. "Not during a Quidditch match, he wasn't that mad, but if he'd known Snape was afraid of...of Dementors or what have you, he'd have done that exact same thing. And god help me, James and I would have helped." He rubbed his head with his bandaged hand. "His mother is Sirius' cousin, you know. His last name might be Malfoy but that boy is Black to the core, Minerva. Arrogant and proud and foolish."

She drew close and let him rest his head tiredly on her shoulder, more amused than upset now that the rage had cooled.

"Is that why you like him so much?" she asked softly.

He laughed. "You know, it probably is," he replied. "I know he's a weasel and a cheat, and I could have killed him this afternoon...but I can't help thinking he'd grow out of it if someone walloped him upside the head hard enough."

She smiled. "Well, while you're plotting his murder, I think I should go make sure Gryffindor house doesn't set anything on fire in their enthusiasm." She kissed him briefly, and he let her go only reluctantly. "I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Get some rest, you look worn out."

"I am worn out. But we did win," he grinned. "Life is good."

"Hold that thought till we take the Cup," she replied, and vanished out the door. He sat quietly for a few minutes, before turning to see what could be done about his poor abused desk.

***

XX. Searching

"Remus, wake up. Remus!"

He batted at the hand that was shaking him gently, opening his eyes to a dim, shadowy world. "I'm up, I'm up -- why?"

Minerva McGonagall stood next to his bed, pale and drawn-looking. Something must be wrong -- nothing scared Minerva. But her expression was a sharp contrast to the woman who, earlier the same day, had been thoroughly enjoying a Quidditch game and who, after it was over, had yelled a handful of Slytherin pranksters into submission. He pushed himself up to a sitting position.

"Wha'?" he said, trying to shake sleep from his brain.

"There's been a break-in," she said. "Get dressed."

"Right..." he slid out of the bed and reached for a shirt, pulling dark trousers on over his pyjamas. "Someone broke into the castle?"

"No -- into Gryffindor."

He stopped in the act of tucking his shirt in, and turned around. "What?"

"Ron Weasley says he saw Sirius Black standing over his bed with a knife," she blurted.

"Merlin," he breathed. "Oh, gods above -- is he all right?"

"He's fine -- shaken -- of all the idiot things, Sir Cadogan let that monster in because Neville left his passwords lying about..."

"I'll kill him," Lupin said vehemently.

"Well, I'm angry at him too -- "

"Not Neville, Sirius. Is he still in the castle? Do we know? This ends now," he said, rage filling him. His bandaged hand was throbbing with the peculiar pain of werewolf healing, but he used it anyway, slamming his feet into his boots and tying the laces angrily.

"We're searching the castle. I thought if he couldn't get to Harry he might have..." she swallowed. "He might be after you, too, you know."

"Let him come! I'll break his bloody neck!" Lupin cried. "Oh god, Harry -- he's not hurt, is he?"

"No, as far as we can tell..." she grabbed his arm. "Be careful, if he can get into Gryffindor there's no telling where he's hiding."

"Sirius Black knows this castle better than anyone except me," he replied. "Where do you want me to search?"

***

There was coffee, cocoa, and hot oatmeal in the dining hall at dawn, when the professors slowly began to gather after a thorough search of the castle. Severus Snape was eating tiredly, folded into his usual chair in the great hall, while Minerva took reports from the other teachers. Slowly, students began to drift in, yawning and speaking in low voices about the events of the night. In a spare moment, she wandered to the pitcher of coffee and poured herself some, adding milk and sugar.

"No sign?" Snape asked, over his breakfast. She shook her head. "I'm not surprised."

"Me either, unfortunately," she sighed. "Though I can't imagine how he got both in and back out without the Dementors noticing."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Can't you? I should think it would be obvious. He was assisted."

"Stop that line of thought this minute, Severus," she said sternly. "I won't have you passing insinuations around the school."

"I was merely observing that someone had to help him. Now who do we know who's friends with Sirius Black?" His dark eyes glittered. "Why, our very own -- "

"You wouldn't say that if you ever bothered to speak to him, except to insult him," she replied icily. "If you knew..."

He waited, finally prompting her. "If I knew...?"

If you knew how he worried about Harry... "If you knew what he's been doing to protect us from Black, you'd think differently," she said lamely.

"A moot point, however," he continued, "as whatever he's doing doesn't appear to be working. Where is Professor Lupin this morning, by the way? I notice he hasn't reported in yet."

"Dumbledore spoke to him an hour ago," she answered. "He said he wanted to check on some passageways that aren't often used."

"How convenient."

"Stop it, Severus, or I will put a stop to it for you," she replied, just as a familiar, slouch-shouldered figure loomed in the doorway.

"Good morning," Remus said, tucking his wand into his back pocket as he entered. "Oh -- food -- " he spooned a generous helping of oatmeal into a bowl, added brown sugar, and leaned against the high table as he ate. "Bit disorganised this morning, isn't it?" he asked, noticing professors wandering amongst the student tables and students moving from one table to the next to spread rumours and reports.

"Did you find anything?" she asked, sipping her coffee. It was harsh and bitter, even with sugar, but it would wake her up better than tea.

"Not a thing," he answered. "And I looked in placed I'd forgotten existed."

"Do tell," Snape drawled. "Where exactly were you looking?"

She had to admit that the glance he gave Snape was almost guilty. "Here and there. Unused hallways, behind a couple of fake walls. I was safe," he added, when she opened her mouth. "I promise."

Snape gave a derisive snort, and stood, taking his oatmeal away with him as he left the Great Hall.

"Git," Remus muttered.

"He thinks you're helping Black," she replied. He nodded.

"I thought he might. If I knew where he was..." he shook his head. "I keep thinking maybe Harry's right. Maybe there are some things that deserve...a harsher punishment than death."

"You don't believe that, really."

"Don't you think he was trying to kill Harry? He got past the guards, got Neville's passwords, found his way through the castle and up to the exact room without anyone seeing him..."

"...but didn't find the right bed?" she asked. "It...well, it doesn't make an entire lot of sense."

"Maybe he thought Ron was Harry. Azkaban confuses people, drives them mad. Lily had red hair..." he added, almost wistfully. "I don't see how we can keep anyone safe, Minerva."

"Tighter security, though I hate to say it," she said. "I didn't think a dog could get -- oh, here..."

He'd nearly dropped his bowl, and was fumbling to keep it balanced. She put out a hand to keep it from tipping over.

"...well, as I was saying, security. And lifetime detention for Neville Longbottom wouldn't hurt," she added angrily. He looked pale, but after a moment, he smiled.

It was a smile she was used to; a warm curve of the lips as his eyes cut downward, and his whole face seemed to transform. It was...almost intimate. When a man smiled at a woman that way, things were said which weren't often put into words. She hoped none of the students saw it.

"I'm too tired to do much more right now than eat and try to think of a way to keep awake through classes today," he answered, finally. "But let's have dinner tonight. We can go to Hogsmeade and ask if anyone's seen anything there."

"I don't know that Dumbledore will even let professors off the grounds," she said. He scowled, but nodded.

"That seems sensible, in the long run. All right -- then we'll eat in. I'll talk to Dumbledore and meet you, either way, around seven. If we're banned from Hogsmeade, I'll steal food from the kitchens."

She fought the urge to kiss him as he set down his empty bowl and stood.

"Seven sounds good," she said quietly. "Remus..."

He gave her an inquiring look.

"Please. I know you feel responsible for keeping the world safe from Black, but don't do anything foolish," she said. "Talk to me before you sneak into Hogsmeade."

"I'll get a signed note," he replied, and she saw him move -- just a slight gesture, almost a flinch, and she knew he'd been stepping forward to kiss her before he stopped himself. "I'll see you at seven, if not before," he said, biting his lip. He turned, and found his way out into the corridors, dodging students as he went.

***

The lines of privacy between two private people are sometimes not delineated by physical things; neither of them, after the Christmas holidays were over, bothered to knock before letting themselves into the other's rooms, unless there was a student nearby.

Instead, they adhered to strange courtesies. She stayed away from him during the full moon unless he invited her, and he never pried into her business -- if she said she wasn't available for dinner or tea (or a night in), he merely smiled and went about his day. It was comfortable. It worked for them.

He let himself into her rooms quietly, because he suspected she wouldn't be there yet, though they almost always met at her rooms when they were walking down to a Quidditch game or going to Hogsmeade.

He let his eyes drift over her bookshelves, the neat racks he'd helped clean during the holidays; over the well-worn furniture, the writing desk, the photographs on the walls -- Quidditch teams from years long past smiled and waved out of their frames, and a younger Dumbledore winked from behind the shoulder of a scowling Severus Snape, who looked all of twenty-two.

His senses, which were keener than human senses even on a bad day, were telling him she was nearby; it wasn't so much scent as presence, something his ears and nose were both catching. He frowned and wandered towards the bedroom door, not quite sure if this was within the bounds of where he could go, though it wasn't as though he'd never seen the inside of it before...

He grinned, and leaned in the doorway. "So much for dinner, I guess," he said, softly.

She was asleep, curled under the considerable quilt on her bed. Neither of them had slept much the night before, not with a madman running loose in the castle, and he didn't blame her for wanting to get a few minutes when she could; he'd at least been asleep when she'd woken him with the news.

He smoothed down a stray wisp of hair, and took the book that was in her hands, placing it on the bedside table next to the clock and -- ah, that was where his good cuff links had gone.

He found a spare scrap of parchment on her desk and wrote a brief note, propping it on top of the book as quietly as possible. Still, when he dimmed the lamp, she shifted, her head turning, shirt-collar gapping open.

He caught his breath and smiled.

She was wearing his Christmas present, the black silk choker with the pewter holly-sprig charm. She must have come back to her rooms specifically to put it on that morning; in the confusion none of them were fully dressed at breakfast. He'd been wearing his trousers over his pajamas, and Snape's buttons had been one buttonhole off.

He ought to tell her. He had to tell her. He had to tell Dumbledore. If they knew Sirius was an Animagus they could protect the castle properly.

And yet...

He didn't know how to explain it where Dumbledore wouldn't look at him with that disappointed glance that said he wasn't the good student, wasn't the responsible man he wanted to be. He couldn't even imagine what Minerva would say. Didn't want to. Come to that, he was beginning to reach a point where he couldn't imagine his life without her.

He leaned in the doorway again, smiled, and then turned to leave.

He'd just have to find Sirius before anyone else did. Before Sirius found Harry -- or himself -- or Minerva.

***

XXI. Moony, Prongs, Padfoot, Wormtail

"You will never, in a thousand years, guess what happened today."

Remus Lupin looked up from his chair and his tea. Both were comforts that he was loathe to be without; they were two parts of a formula he'd become used to, over the months. The third and most important part was sitting at his window-seat, framed by the early mid-March foliage outside, setting down a pile of papers to grade and smiling at him.

"Other than my getting called onto the carpet by Snape -- who by the way does not have the authority to call me onto any carpet, anywhere -- and being forced to confiscate an extraordinary magical toy from Potter and Weasley?"

She glanced up. "Which Weasley? Is that tea?"

"Ron. Yes -- would you like me to pour?"

"No, I'll do it," she said, rising and crossing to the kettle. "What was Severus angry about?"

"As if he needs a reason," Remus said drily. "He thinks I gave some silly toy to Harry and Ron."

"Did you?"

"Of course not. I took it away from them. Why, what happened to you today?"

"It's not what happened to me. It's what happened to Draco Malfoy."

He sipped his tea and shifted slightly, so that he could watch her as she settled back into the window-seat and picked up her papers, pausing for dramatic effect. He waited.

"Draco Malfoy," she said, "was slapped, in the hallway, by Hermione Granger!"

"I knew it!" he exclaimed. She stared at him.

"Knew what?"

"He propositioned her, didn't he? I was sure that he fancied her!"

Her mouth opened, then closed.

"Er. That is what happened, isn't it?" he asked.

"They're thirteen!" she said, scandalised.

"Well, when I was thirteen -- that's not the issue," he finished hastily. "And I'm sure when you were thirteen -- "

"You weren't born yet, when I was thirteen, so keep a civil tongue in your head if you please, Professor Lupin."

He laughed and stretched, slouching down in the chair. "So what happened? Do you know? Come on, Minerva, you get all the good gossip and you never share any of it."

"All I know is that Malfoy's lurking about with a bruised face and ego, and the Gryffindors are all saying it was Hermione Granger who did it," she answered. "You don't...you don't really think he fancies her, do you? He's such a little..." she paused. "He's a student, and I never speak ill of students," she said primly. "Now, you haven't finished telling me about Severus and his traumas."

"Not much to tell. Actually it's quite amusing. I wanted to be angry, but really..." he snorted. "Well. When we were boys -- the four of us, you know -- "

"Never saw one without the other three," she sighed.

" -- we took to inventing jokes and the like."

"That explains the low marks you took in sixth-year Divination."

He looked blankly at her. "I'm sure that's not something you've had committed to memory for all these years," he said.

"I went back and looked up your grades," she answered smugly. "So that when you got too cocky, as you have a habit of doing, Professor, I could take you down a peg or two."

"Does the Headmaster know about your mean streak?"

"Why do you think I'm Deputy Headmistress? You were telling me about jokes, I believe."

He frowned. "Right. We invented a bit of parchment that insults anyone who tries to read it. It's been circulating since we left -- really, nobody ever throws anything out around this place -- and Harry somehow got hold of it. You wouldn't believe Snape's expression. 'Lupin, I want a word!' he snaps, and so there I go, and when I get there..." he went off into a chuckle. "There's the parchment reading 'Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball!'"

"Wormtail?" she asked, and she could feel him tense, suddenly.

"It was...er...it was our nickname for Peter. We didn't use our own names, of course," he said warily.

"That's an odd nickname for a boy."

"He picked it," Remus said, somewhat defensively, she thought. She shrugged, and turned back to her paper.

"I do hope Harry's not in too much trouble."

Remus waved a hand. "Harry's fine. Snape's problem is that he doesn't understand that children get up to trouble sometimes."

She glanced up at him. "The sort of trouble James got into when he played pranks on Severus?"

He looked guilty. "But this wasn't like that. It was just a bit of fun."

"Severus doesn't see the distinction."

"Exactly my point!"

"Neither, I must say, do I."

He looked surprised. "Surely you see a difference between owning a bit of rogue parchment and showing the school someone else's unwashed underthings?"

"Not when a Professor turns a tolerant eye," she said. "If a child is led to believe they can get away with smaller infractions, they may attempt the larger."

He mused on this in silence.

"I can't agree," he said finally.

"I'm not asking you to agree. Teachers at Hogwarts adhere to an honour code, but are given leeway within that code for personal interpretation for exactly this reason."

"Yes but...if a student is allowed a little bit of lenience, he rarely wants more than simple pranks. Restrict a child too much, and they rebel all the more."

"And that," she said, with a smile, "Is the secret of good teaching. Knowing how to turn a blind eye without appearing to do so."

He gave her a look of admiration. "So as long as we don't actually look like we're letting them get away with it..."

"I never said a thing," she murmured, returning to her papers. He set his tea on the table and folded his hands. "But you have just figured out in what -- seven months? -- what it took Severus three years to discover." She sighed. "Three extremely trying years."

He smiled and stood, crossing to stand by her, hand on the back of her neck, looking out the window. She leaned against his hip, affectionately. After a moment, he laughed again quietly.

"What?"

"Just remembering the look on his face when that parchment told him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other peoples' business," he answered. "I know it's awful of me..."

"Indeed it is," she said severely. "However, I think you might be forgiven."

"Oh?" he asked, wide palm stroking her cheek.

"Well, you did confiscate it from Harry," she answered. "And I imagine saved him from an outrageous punishment at the same time. What will you do with the parchment?"

She could feel something tense in him again, and wondered idly why.

"I put it away in a book," he said, voice tightly controlled. "It was funny at the time, but then when I took it back to my office...seeing all our handwriting like that, it's not...good for me."

"Oh," she said thoughtfully. He moved, crouching, pulling away slightly so that he could kiss her, taking the paper she was grading out of her hands.

"The snow's melted," he said softly.

"We could...make sure no-one's making trouble on the grounds," she suggested. "How do you feel about a walk?"

"I feel a walk would be good," he replied, rising and pulling her off the window seat at the same time. She fell against him, which was, she knew, his entire intent. He released her after a moment, and reached for his coat.

"I hear the seventh-year Herbology students are growing orchids," he said.

"Those aren't that useful, are they? Magically, I mean?"

"No, but they're delicate -- it's good practice for growing less durable plants, outside of school. Teaches them how to cultivate growing things properly."

"Hmm, not at all like our job," she said, as he held the door. "Lead the way then, Professor Lupin."

"My pleasure, Headmistress," he replied.

***

XXII. Glory and the Game

The first that either student saw of it were two broad hands, a professor's hands, coming towards them.

Then they saw the ceiling.

"I did try to tell you lads to stop," Remus Lupin said with a sigh. He didn't like laying hands on students, but flattening them on the floor with a Horizontum! seemed to be the best way to get them apart.

It was the fifth corridor-fight in two days, and while Lupin was for the most part a pacifist, he had finally given up. When he couldn't put himself between two scrabblers he'd simply knock them flat, gently, which usually made them stop, if only for a moment.

"Ten points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin -- I don't care who started it!" he said sharply.

Then he grinned, suddenly.

Then the other children around him grinned. Leeks were sprouting slowly out of the ears of the combatants, no doubt from a partially-deflected hex gone wrong.

"Right. You two had better...Percy?" he called, as a crowd of Gryffindors approached -- Harry's honour guard, he thought wryly. They went everywhere with the boy, ostensibly protecting him from Slytherin treachery.

"Yes, Professor?" Percy asked, detaching himself from the crowd.

"Take these two up to the hospital wing, would you?"

"Of course, sir," Percy said proudly. Remus fought the urge to smile at the slightly pompous young man.

"Run on, you two. You're lucky I'm not giving you detention for a month as well," he called as they followed Percy, the leeks already reaching their shoulders. The rest of the hallway was slowly dispersing, and he joined the general flow of students towards the Great Hall for dinner.

"Fight number five," he murmured to Minerva, as he passed. "Leeks in their ears."

She choked on the water in the goblet she was drinking, but didn't say anything in reply.

***

The house rivalries had always been vicious, he recalled; Gryffindors hated Slytherin, Slytherin hated Gryffindors, Ravenclaw thought them both almighty fools, and Hufflepuffs just tried to stay out of the way. He was a teacher, though, and should be well out of the whole mess by now; he wasn't even a House Head, and only a few of the students knew he'd been a Gryffindor. Still, the excitement on the night before the Qudditch match was almost tangible, and it made for restless sleep.

It made for no sleep at all, in fact.

Which was why he was awake at an ungodly hour, wandering down the hall, half-hopeful that he'd see a light on under Minerva's door as well. The nights were beginning to warm now that it was April, but the stones were still cold under his bare feet, and they helped to clear his head.

His way took him past the entrance to the Gryffindor common room and the Pink Lady, dozing in her frame. There was a scrabbling from within, and then the portrait swung open and a thin body shot out --

"Harry!" he cried, catching him by the arm. Harry started back and nearly screamed, but Remus raised his lit wand to his face. "It's okay, it's me -- Merlin, what's happened?"

Harry stared at him, wide eyed for a moment, until recognition dawned.

"A Grim," he said. "I saw a Grim."

Remus pulled him against the wall opposite the Pink Lady, and with a gesture lit the torch above their heads. "What?"

"I saw a Grim and Crookshanks and then they disappeared and Ron was asleep -- "

"Harry, calm down. No, listen to me, calm down. Tell me what happened."

"I told you, I -- "

"Harry, you are not five," Remus said sharply, and it seemed to work. "Start with why you're awake at this hour."

Harry took a deep breath. "I had a nightmare," he said. "About the game. I got up to get a drink of water. From the pitcher near the window."

He nodded, and Harry took a gulping breath before continuing. "And then I looked out through the window and there was something on the lawn, but I thought it was just Crookshanks..."

"Hermione's cat?"

Harry nodded. "And, and it WAS Crookshanks, but then..." he gulped again, and Remus put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "There was this thing coming out of the shadows -- this giant black shaggy dog..."

Remus felt his pulse freeze in his veins.

"And they walked across the lawn and I tried to wake Ron up and when I turned back they were gone -- "

"It's okay, Harry," he said, hearing himself as if from very far away. "It's probably just a stray."

"But -- "

"Harry, trust me. Considering the amount of people looking out for you," continued the voice that wasn't quite his, "your seeing Grims is probably a sign the world is coming to an end. No, listen," he said, when Harry opened his mouth. "Harry, it was just a stray. You'll be fine tomorrow."

Harry looked up at him.

"You'll be all right," he repeated. "I promise."

Harry drew a deep breath. "I should...I should go back to bed," he said. "Got the game and all."

He nodded and released his shoulder, gently. "Go on then. Sleep well."

He watched as Harry ducked back through the portrait-hole, and after a moment, doused the torch he'd lit. He wanted nothing more than to run down the corridor and bang on Minerva's door until she let him in. He could lose himself in her; he often had, even just kissing her, forgetting the world and everything but her, her, her...

He covered his mouth to stop the ragged breaths he was drawing.

He had responsibilities. He was a teacher. He was paid to guide these children and keep them safe. How could he go to her now knowing that Sirius was wandering onto the grounds at night, how could he touch her when he hadn't told her what Sirius was, how could he hold her when his own cowardice might mean --

He pressed against the wall, thinking fast. He would not make trouble, not now, not so close to the game, the catharsis that these children desperately needed. Sirius hadn't...hadn't done anything to Harry. He'd just...crossed the grounds. Heading away from the school. None of what Sirius had done had been obviously aimed at Harry. Perhaps Sirius couldn't bring himself to kill his godson. Perhaps he could be captured.

And a little bit of him wanted Sirius free, because he had seen what Dementors did to a person and nobody, not even Sirius, deserved that. Sirius might have betrayed him, and James and Lily, but for the ten years they'd known each other, Sirius had been one of his best, his only friends.

When the year was over, he would...he'd leave, for a week or two, and track Sirius down. Sirius would follow Harry, probably, and it was much harder for a giant black dog to hide, in suburban England.

In the meantime, he would make sure Harry never went anywhere alone.

***

The day of the match dawned bright and crisp, and it was a damn good game; watching Lee Jordan commentate was half the fun, and watching Minerva try to wrestle the microphone away from him, twice, before giving up because Slytherin were such obvious cheats -- well, that was amusing too. Remus wished he'd brought a camera, but he could see little Colin Creevy snapping away, down below his high back-row perch, and made a mental note to buy some prints off the boy later.

Harry won, of course.

By god, he looked like James.

Remus stood in the back of the stands, watching, eyes sweeping both the Pitch and the grassy spread beyond; if Sirius was going to try and kill the boy, now -- when Harry was being lifted to the shoulders of his teammates and paraded towards the school -- now would be the time. When the professors were as lost in the moment as the students...he could see Minerva crying, wiping tears away with the edge of a Gryffindor flag, and made a second mental note to tease her about it later.

He had a crystal clear moment where he saw his own detachment -- saw himself as a lone figure up in the stands, watching what was going on below like...

Like a ridiculous fool.

He ran to the ladder and nearly slid down it, crossing the field to catch up with the tail end of the mob, trying to push through to where Harry was, to congratulate the boy. And, in one swift movement, to push past Harry once he'd cried a few words up to him, and grab Minerva McGonagall by the elbow and pull her away from the crowd, behind a corner of the building...

She started in surprise but only for a second, as his hand covered her mouth before she could shriek a hex in protest. "Got you," he whispered, and felt her body relax a little. She turned to look up at him, and he bent to kiss her as she turned, wanting nothing more than the feeling of her mouth on his, her fingers in his hair.

"Remus!" she said, pulling back a little. "Anyone could have seen -- "

"Only if they got past the distracting charms I cast," he answered into her mouth, not releasing her long enough for her to escape completely.

"A dirty trick -- "

"Very possibly," he agreed, walking her slowly backwards until she was pressed against the stone wall of the castle, until they were standing between two rosebushes. "Congratulations, Professor McGonagall, Gryffindor won the cup."

"And I should be -- "

"Here with me, celebrating," he finished, lining kisses down her neck. "Splendid game."

"Yes..." she sighed, fingers curling around the edges of his jacket. "Very well -- mmm, played."

He laughed against her throat. "Indeed. Do you remember that essay I wrote, seventh year?"

"There was one..."

"Got me in heaps of trouble."

"About Quidditch and..."

"...other things," he said, pressing close against her, warm and firm. She laughed and tapped her fingers against his collarbone, gently pushing him away.

"We have to go," she said. "They'll wonder where we are."

He bent for one last, hungry kiss. "Let them wonder."

"You know you don't mean that," she said, sliding her hands down his chest. "Come, the children are waiting."

"Right," he answered with a sigh, straightening his shirt. "The children. Right."

"However, if you are well-behaved, I may let you walk me to the great hall," she said magnanimously. He wrapped his arm around her waist.

"If you let me cast another distracting charm -- "

She shook her head, and he sighed.

"Fine, fine. The sacrifices I make," he said mournfully.

"And if you behave yourself that long," she added, as he released her and stepped back, brushing a few wisps of hair back neatly, "I may let you walk me to my rooms."

He grinned, and followed her into the castle, pausing only briefly on the steps to look back, as if he expected to see Sirius -- his old Padfoot -- at the forest edge.

If Sirius saw Harry play, he thought, turning to catch up to Minerva, he could never want to harm the boy.

***

XXIII. Roof Lessons

In June, after the Christmas-like excitement of the Quidditch Cup, exams began in earnest. The professors were not immune to the pressure; they had to create them, after all, and lead reviews, and make sure some of the less ambitious learners were at least minimally caught up. Then there were students coming by their offices at all hours of the day, and classes to keep focused (when really all anyone wanted was to be outside) and evenings spent marking term papers.

Marking would not have been such a chore, Remus Lupin reflected, if he could have had someone else around while doing it, but he had discovered that with the proper company -- ie, Minerva McGonagall -- he got very little marking done. He would read her a particularly entertaining passage, and half an hour later they would still be talking, and his papers would lie forgotten on his desk, hers on the window-seat that she'd claimed as her own.

So they had imposed a sort of moratorium on common-time together, and thus for a week and a half had seen each other mostly at meals, or passing in the hallways. As used as they were to each others' presence, the situation rankled him. He was too tired in the evenings to do more than undress and tumble into his bed, and he was sure she must feel the same. In fact, he had confirmation of it after the first day, and a particularly disastrous second-year exam. His fault, really; either he hadn't taught them well enough or he'd made the test too hard, but considering everything, he wouldn't fail them for his lack of forethought.

Minerva, he'd decided, had looked just as frustrated and tired as he did at dinner. He'd been thinking about it for a few hours, and finally had come to the conclusion that a late-night date, even if it was only tea, would be a welcome relief.

She obviously had the same idea; they'd met in the hallyway, he on his way to the kitchens, she possibly on her way to his room. He caught her around the waist, pulled her into a shadow, and kissed her.

"Going somewhere?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. He grinned.

"Not anymore..."

"I was coming to see if you wanted a late tea. I've papers still to work on, but once I have those done..."

"Stuff the papers."

"You're always saying things like that and you know you don't mean it," she responded, as he cupped her face in his hands.

"Because you always scold me for it," he said, kissing her again. "A late tea, you were saying?"

"I should be done around eleven, and I know you don't have any more exams until tomorrow afternoon," she said, against his cheek. "If you steal the cakes from the kitchen I'll provide the tea."

"Tempting," he answered, an idea forming in the back of his mind. "But let's do this instead. I'll steal the cakes if you bring the last of your mead, and meet me at the portrait of Gren the Green on the top floor of the north wing."

"What are you plotting?" she asked, suspiciously.

"A surprise," he replied.

***

He was a little late in arriving, but when he did he carried an odd-shaped bundle under one arm and the promised stolen tea cakes in a box in his other hand. She eyed the bundle warily.

"You know, Professor Lupin, I'd hate to think you were considering indulging in anything illegal," she said disapprovingly. He grinned and kissed her forehead in greeting, and turned to Gren the Green.

"Polaris," he said, and the portrait swung aside. She stared at him.

"How did you know that was there?" she asked.

"Seven years with too much time on my hands," he answered absently, stepping through. Inside the corridor there was a stairway upwards, and the dim hall was illuminated by starlight, without ceiling, leading to...

"The roof?" she asked.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of heights."

"What on earth are we going to do on the roof?"

He grinned. She blushed.

"Come on. It's really a splendid view," he said, starting up the stairs. He offered his hand to help her out onto the roof of the school, and she had to admit that the amount of surrounding landscape was breathtaking.

"There's more," he added, leading her along a narrow pathway. The Astronomy tower loomed ahead of them, and she saw an iron railing on the outside that she'd never noticed before, with a narrow row of stairs leading up to the flat battlement roof.

"How come this is never used?" she asked, as they reached the top. He shrugged.

"Nobody knows it's here. Except me. And you, now, and probably Dumbledore, I've yet to find something he doesn't know," he said with a grin. He set down the box and shook out his bundle. A thick padded blanket unrolled, and he laid it on the stone.

"A star picnic," she said with a smile. He offered her a cake.

They sat on the blanket, drinking and eating, talking of the past week and what they'd been working on. He told her about the Exam Disaster and listened to her advice, as well as her own troubles with her Transfigurations third years. Finally he stretched and laid back, his head near her thigh, looking up at her and at the stars. She shifted, moving to lie next to him, pushing him over slightly, and he grinned.

"I could never pay attention in Astronomy come spring," he said. "I did all right, but I still can't name spring and summer constellations. Besides, I get confused when I travel and the stars aren't in the places they're supposed to be. As if Hogwarts was the centre of the universe."

"And the constellations just moved around the castle?" she asked. He laughed.

"Something like that. The universe could do worse than Hogwart's School for an axis."

"You really love it here, don't you?"

He propped himself up on one elbow, looking at her instead of the stars. "I do," he said softly. "But sometimes...what are you doing this summer?" he asked abruptly, and she shrugged.

"I hadn't thought about it. Stay here, prepare for the new school year. Why?"

"Let's go away together," he urged, eyes bright. "Somewhere no one knows us...Wales, or northern Scotland, or somewhere where the first language isn't English."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said with a smile.

"What's ridiculous about it? I've saved a little, and I'm sure you must have. We can rent a flat in some tiny village and spend the summer...I don't know, reading awful novels and birdwatching and that. There's loads of magical creatures still wild in some parts, I bet we could get Dumbledore to pay our rent out of Hogwarts' funds if we bring something interesting back for Hagrid."

"You don't just pick up and run off to foreign parts," she said.

"I do. I miss traveling. I can get a Muggle job, even, I've done it loads of times," he said. "Think about it. A whole summer without anyone watching us, without anyone to tell us what we can and can't do." He bent to kiss her, then rolled back until he was looking up again. "We can watch the constellations from an entirely different part of the world."

There was silence for a while, and he turned his head to look at her.

"Unless you'd rather not," he said. "Or...you'd rather not with me. I know we're not...we never really say, I mean, what we are, and maybe that's too much -- "

"I love you," she said, "and that's not too much."

"Oh," he answered, turning back to look at the stars. "That's...good."

"I've never thought about just going away. Without a reason to."

"I'll find a reason," he replied. "I'll -- "

He paused and then rolled suddenly, pressing a hand to her lips when she opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing. "Astronomy exam," he whispered, just as the chatter of sleepy student voices drifted up through the windows below. His body was pressed against her, fingers on her mouth; after a moment, his lips replaced his fingers.

"Students," she said as softly as she could.

"They won't hear us," he replied, lips brushing hers. "Say yes, Minerva."

She smiled as he nuzzled her neck. "Yes to?"

"Come somewhere with me this summer. Just us," he continued. She twined her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, and he laughed a little, trying to muffle it against her skin.

"Yes," she murmured. "Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere you like."

"I don't care."

His lips grazed her ear. "Say yes again."

She smiled, and listened to the soft chatter below, felt the warm breath on her skin.

"Yes," she said. "Yes."

***

XXIV. Failed Everything

Hysterical laughter was not a sound one generally associated with Professor Lupin's office. He was a nice enough man, a good teacher, and his sense of humour, while quirky, was far closer to a student's idea of funny than most professors' would be. He was not, however, given to the sort of laughter that was emerging from behind his office door.

McGonagall, herself smiling, knocked gently, and heard a thunk -- as of someone's feet hitting the floor -- before his footsteps approached and he opened it, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Oh, I hoped it was you," he said. "Come inside. I've been going over my notes on the third years' exams..."

She stepped inside and he shut the door behind her, throwing himself into one of the wing-chairs around his desk. She took the one next to his, and rested her head against one edge, watching him.

"I gave them the obstacle course," he said, still drying his eyes. "And there was a boggart -- I thought if I had him in my desk all term I might as well make use of it."

"Oh, don't tell me...Ron and the legless spider," she said. He shook his head.

"Ron got flummoxed by a hinkypunk, and Ron Weasley waist-deep in mud is funny enough, but oh, it was Hermione..." he went off into laughter again, slouching down in his chair. "She climbed into the trunk to fight the boggart, and she came bursting out of it screaming..."

"I don't find that very funny," she observed. He held up a hand.

" 'What's the matter?' I asked her, actually quite worried, it's not like Hermione to lose her head...and she turned to me and gasped," he imitated her voice as best he could, " 'Professor McGonagall! She said I'd failed everything!' "

She covered her mouth, and after a shocked moment, burst into laughter herself.

"Oh, Hermione," she shook her head. "Poor girl."

"It almost, but not quite, topped Severus Snape in Neville's Gran's dress," he chuckled. "I just found my note about it and remembered the look on Hermione's face..."

The lines around his eyes crinkled pleasantly, and she privately added it to the list of reasons Remus Lupin was worth every risk they took.

"What about you?" he asked, when they had laughed themselves tired. "Any more nasty literary accidents in Transfigurations?"

"No, though my seventh-years are doing some very interesting work," she answered. "The NEWTs candidates are going to stun their examiners."

"Partial transfiguation?" he asked, and she nodded. "Reckon there's a living to be made in that, somehow," he observed.

"It wouldn't be my first choice," she answered. "You should see some of the messes they make when things go awry. I don't let them work with animals unless they've tested the technique on something else...one of them transfigured a stuffed bear into a pancake-thin splatter, and very little more."

He frowned. "What on earth would one use a stuffed bear for? Or a real bear?"

"Their idea was for living bearskin rugs. Comfortable to walk on and a good house-guard," she replied. He covered his eyes and shook his head.

"Interior decoration that eats intruders, it all sounds a bit Dark Arts."

"Well, as they had reason to discover, it's not the most practical of plans," she said, "so the point is philosophical."

"My favourite kind," he remarked. "Good NEWTs turnout this year, then?"

"Oh, yes, I think so. Certainly they'll do no worse than some years," she said serenely. "Which reminds me..."

She reached into her pocket and drew out something wrapped in tissue paper. "I asked Miranda -- she's the girl who transfigured my turntable for me -- if she would look into this as a project for extra credit."

She offered it to him, and he held out his arm, letting her place the small, heavy object in his palm. He weighed it carefully before unwrapping it with his other hand.

"A music-box?" he asked curiously. It was square with small curling feet, about the size of a match-box, though deeper; dark green enamel covered the sides, etched here and there with yellow filigrees and brown edges.

"A music box which once was a yellow poppy," she explained. He opened it but no sound came out; there was no mechanism inside, merely another enameled surface, a slightly lighter green. "Hold it under the window."

He looked perplexed but obeyed, lifting the box into one of the last rays of sunlight to slant through his office drapes. He opened it again, and soft music emerged this time.

"It needs sunlight and air to play," she said as he listened, fascinated.

"It's the waltz," he replied, after a minute. "The one we danced to."

"I asked for that specifically."

He closed the box and returned to his chair, bending to fetch the tissue paper from his desk as he re-wrapped it. He held it out to her, but she shook her head.

"It's for you," she said. "A gift."

"For me? Whyever?" he asked, amused.

"A congratulations gift. For completing your first year at Hogwarts," she replied with a smile. He laughed and removed the tissue paper, putting the box in a place of prominence on his desk.

"If ever there was a hard-earned gift..." he said, still smiling. She rose and came to stand behind him, one arm around his waist, cheek against his shoulder. His right hand fumbled for hers.

"Were you ever nervous?" he asked. "When you were a student? About passing exams and such."

"No," she answered, as his thumb rubbed across the pads of her fingertips. "I always knew I would pass, because I'd always studied hard."

"And when you were a teacher?"

"Well, they don't give teachers exams -- "

"No, weren't you...afraid of failing your students? Not having an answer to a question? Or marking them and then not being able to explain why?"

She considered it. "It's been a long time since I thought about that."

"When I started I...I had nightmares about it, sort of. About not being prepared. Not rising to expectations, I suppose. But the longer I do this...I'm a good teacher, you know," he finished, and there was just a bare note of questioning in his statement.

"Yes," she agreed. She felt him relax a notch. "You are."

"And I'll get to see them -- the students I mean -- get to see them grow up, learn more, graduate. Is it hard?"

"Seeing students graduate? Of course," she replied. "You'll see when your seventh-years leave. But there are always more children to care for."

"I like children," he said softly.

"Me too. Otherwise I would have left Hogwarts long ago." She paused. "You don't have to be afraid, you know. Of that -- not knowing the answers, not teaching well. You're a smart man. And the children like you; they'll forgive you even if you do make a mistake."

"Better than I am," he said, more to himself than to her, and she wondered what he meant. She didn't ask; merely held his hand, and leaned into his shoulder, and enjoyed the warmth of him. He didn't speak either, for a while.

"Thank you," he said finally. "For the waltz."

***

XXV. Sunrise

There had been theoretical discussions in some of the more scholarly Wizarding forums in recent years about the werewolf phenomenon; every so often when things were quiet someone would bring it up, and the debate would bounce around for a while before dying out again.

It started with a theory that nobody could place the origin of, that since werewolves were only hostile towards humans, if confronted with other animals, or animagi in animal form, they might not be entirely aggressive. More learned exponents of the theory would point to Muggle studies in which animals were used as therapy for people with various medical conditions, including emotional instability.

Minerva, wandering in the dark, eyes wide and reflecting what little light was to be had, fur on end and tail high in the air, hoped the theory was correct, as it was about to be tested.

It is a little-known fact that cats are as good as, if not better than, dogs, when it comes to scent-tracking. Humans have not discovered this yet, because cats are far too intelligent to show the sort of useful traits that have gotten dogs in so much trouble. Nobody asks you to fetch them a rope when you're a cat, or lead them to where Timmy fell down the well.

Dumbledore found her after MacNair's angry roars had roused most of the professors from their beds. It was the first she knew of any of it; MacNair and Snape shouting about Harry and something about Black escaping. Before she could ask, however, Dumbledore had pulled her aside and, in a few quick sentences, sketched out what had happened -- Harry, Hermione, and Ron in the hospital wing, Peter Pettigrew back from the dead and a betrayer to boot, Sirius Black innocent (though she rather thought that Dumbledore barely kept himself from adding 'if slightly unbalanced') and escaped from a brief imprisonment through unlikely means he would explain later...

And Remus loose in the Forbidden Forest, Changed and dangerous.

"There's not time for more discussion," he said. "Buckbeak and Sirius are well on their way to safety by now, but nobody is safe on the grounds with a werewolf loose. He won't attack an animagus, not without provocation -- Sirius has told me as much."

"How would Black -- "

"He is also an animagus," Dumbledore said impatiently. "You must find him, Minerva, and do what you can to keep him from harming anyone before sunrise. Take this," he added, thrusting a blanket into her arms. She nodded, slowly, and stepped backwards. The advantage of Animagus transformations was that one's clothes, and anything in one's hands, went along; in feline form, the blanket in her hands was merely transmuted into the feeling that her fur was slightly thicker.

She flattened her ears against her head, crouching down and gathering her bearings; when she had acclimated herself to the feeling of four feet and whiskers, to the monochrome vision but heightened senses of smell and hearing, she turned and skittered away, towards the stairways down to the entrance of the school.

He wasn't hard to follow; werewolf scent stood out like a neon sign in the midnight air. She tried not to think about what a werewolf could do to a cat. She tried not to think about what the rest of the denizens of the Forbidden Forest could do to a cat. The world was different as a cat; emotions were simpler, and while logic was still accessible, it never seemed as important.

When she found him, he was attacking a tree.

Possibly, werewolves were not the brightest things on four legs.

That was a cat thing to think, and she squashed it quickly. This was Remus, her fellow professor, her...the cat said mate but Minerva was not so melodramatic. He was her...something.

Ah, and now she saw he was trying to get at a squirrel, chattering animatedly down at them from a high branch. She smirked mentally.

She stepped forward, into his line of sight, and his eyes fixed on her immediately, head whipping around. She arched her back a little, flattening her ears. So much of conversation in the animal kingdom was body language...

He snapped his jaws, moving forward slowly. When he was three feet away, she hissed, and her claws shot out. He stopped, and a short growl emerged from his throat, questioning. She hissed again, and he slid his front paws forward. Vicious claws gleamed on the end, longer than true wolves' claws by at least an inch. He slid down into a sitting position and glared at her.

She let her own claws slide in again and crept forward, ready to jump and run at a moment's notice. She could probably get up a tree pretty quickly, but getting down was always the difficult bit.

He didn't move.

She put out a paw, tentatively, and batted his nose. He snapped, half-heartedly. She hissed again. He whined. The next time, he didn't move. She could see something in his eyes, even as a cat; it looked as though he was just sane enough to realise what was going on now.

Interesting.

She moved forward again, hesitating every few inches, and finally rubbed the side of her head along his, just below his ear, very carefully not thinking about the fact that his head was the size of her entire body. He whined again, but he didn't move.

Satisfied, she jumped away, and watched him scramble to his feet, tongue lolling out briefly. His teeth looked awfully sharp.

All she had to do now was make sure he didn't eat anyone (including her) before sunrise.

Oh, was that all.

***

Remus woke -- well, 'woke' out of the Change -- to find himself in the woods; he could tell by the smell, the feel of dirt under his naked body, the slight chill in the air. Shaking, half-blind as he always was, he scrabbled to push himself upright, waiting for the tang of blood in his mouth, the horrible nausea that came with the vague memory of crunching something tiny up in his huge horrible jaws...

The memory never surfaced, and instead there was the distinctly puzzling one of following a cat. And not wanting to eat the cat. That was the puzzling part. A ten pound cat was a nice meal for a hundred pound wolf.

Something warm wrapped around his shoulders, and he started, turning his head. The world was a blur, and a monochrome blur at that. He reached out blindly.

"Shh, it's okay."

Minerva. Well, that explained the cat.

"Where -- oh g-god -- Sirius -- " he managed, shaking his head, trying to clear it. Hands tightened the blanket around him, and supported his back when he tried to sit up.

"It's all right, everything's fine," she said, soothingly.

"No, Sirius -- Peter -- "

"Shh, just breathe."

"But H-harry -- "

"Remus, they're safe."

"I lied to you," he blurted. "S-sirius is an anim-magus..."

"Dumbledore told me," she said gently. His vision began to clear, and he looked into her face, trying to discern her features.

"You came for me," he said, wonderingly.

"Of course I did. Dumbledore sent me. We couldn't have you getting hurt, or hurting someone."

"Much more l-likely to be the l-latter," he said, trying to get his voice under control.

"Shh, don't talk," she said, stroking his hair. He blinked away the last of the blurred vision, and shook his head.

"Harry?" he asked.

"Safe. When I left he was sleeping in the infirmary, unhurt."

"Sirius?"

"Escaped, Dumbledore didn't say how. Peter too, unfortunately."

He let his head fall back and tried not to weep. He was always weakest right after the Change, and in those last three years at Hogwarts, the others had mercifully left him in the Shack to sleep it off, or one of them would sit with him, usually Peter.

Peter.

He was too exhausted to feel much rage, but as he fell, his arms no longer supporting him, he felt Minerva catch and hold him. He shook helplessly.

"Sirius is still free," she whispered to him. "He's innocent and still free. Harry's not hurt. You'll be fine. I watched over you. It'll be all right."

No it won't, he wanted to say, but couldn't. Peter is gone again, and Sirius is innocent, and I lied to you. How can it ever be all right again?

He shook against her, trying to gather his strength. He would not let her see him weep over this.

"You're all right," she continued, voice soothing, hands stroking his hair, his back under the blanket. "It'll be all right."

"Yes," he said thickly, giving up and believing her. He wanted to. She was here, after all, and would care for him. She came for him when he was in trouble.

The first rays of sunrise trickled through the leaves, falling on the pair of them, until it was indistinguishable where the division between them lay.

***

XXVI. Departure

He was used to packing quickly. He'd had to do it many times, and this time was no different. There were always regrets and there was always that ache, familiar to him since before he could remember, that once again his Difference had changed things, made them difficult, made them go wrong.

They'd encountered Hagrid when Minerva was bringing him back to the castle, just after sunrise, and he'd reassured the Groundskeeper that he hadn't...well, hadn't eaten anything, the night before. By the time she left him in the infirmary, to be examined by Madam Pomfrey -- the school was in uproar and she was needed more elsewhere -- he already knew he had to leave; if he'd had two days to think about it he might have talked himself out of it, or been talked out of it by Dumbledore, but Snape --

His hands shook a little as he pressed his new clothes -- the nicest he'd owned in some time, bought on a real salary -- deeper into his suitcase, laying some papers from his office desk on top of the white shirts. He forced himself to be steady as he added the small green-and-gold music-box Minerva had given him, wrapping it carefully in a handkerchief.

I am not angry at Severus, he told himself. If anything I am grateful. He forced me to do something I would not have had the courage to do on my own.

He'd already tendered his letter of resignation, and Dumbledore, who usually heard everything that happened in the castle sooner or later, had accepted it without protest. By then the Slytherins already knew he was a werewolf, and were spreading the news.

He sensed Harry before the young man knocked on the door-frame, and located the Marauder's Map on his desk, checking it to be sure. When Harry did knock, he looked up and forced himself to smile.

"I saw you coming," he said. Harry, with all the directness of youth, did not stop to greet him before demanding if it was true that he'd resigned.

He had not been looking forward to this discussion, and had hoped he could avoid it. It was one of two he simply did not want to have, but when faced with it, what choice was there?

Harry didn't want him to go. The thought warmed him a little, as did being able to give him back James' invisibility cloak and the map. Being able to explain to Harry, with a steady voice, that there were people less tolerant in the world, who would not want a werewolf teaching their children...being able to tell Harry he was proud of him, something he was afraid to do most of the time in case it should seem like favouritism. Remus had trained himself to look for the good in every loss. One had to, in order to survive. These goods were so small, though, and the loss was so great.

Dumbledore's arrival cut him short, and he nodded to Harry, shook the Headmaster's hand, and fled. It was a dignified bolt, but there was no doubt as to what it was.

He slunk through the corridors, keeping as much as he could to back-ways and shadows, hoping not to encounter anyone else. Once on the grounds it was a short walk to the gate, and he refused to look back as he loaded the small briefcase and slightly larger aquarium into the carriage --

"Remus!"

Oh god. The other conversation he really, truly did not want to have.

He turned around. Minerva McGonagall stood in front of him, breathless; she must have run from the castle.

"Madam Pomfrey said you'd gone -- " she gasped, then clutched her stomach, catching her breath. He waited. It would be rude, now, not to. "I was torn between chasing after you and finding Severus Snape and slapping seven kinds of hell out of him..." she added, with a small smile. He steadied her, holding her by the shoulder.

"You'd be reprimanded," he said gently.

"It would be worth it," she answered, breathing a little easier now. "I'm glad I caught you."

"Severus only did what he had to, in order to protect the children. You once did the same," he reminded her, dropping his hand from her arm. Anger flared in her eyes.

"And wasn't I wrong?"

"No. In the end, you were right."

She moved forward as if to hug him, and he moved back.

"I don't -- I'm dangerous," he said. "I can't help that. But I could have saved us all a lot of trouble...I lied to you..."

"You protected Harry."

"Not very well."

"Remus, stop being an ass."

He gave her another small smile. "I'm trying to make this easy for us. Please don't make it harder, Minerva. Surely you see I'd never be allowed to stay here."

"Do you love me?" she demanded.

He stared at her. "Of...of course I do...but that's not the -- "

"Marry me."

Surely he'd misheard.

"Marry me," she repeated. "Marry me and stay here. You can't be thrown out if you're married to a professor at the school -- "

"No, but you can be fired," he whispered, stunned.

"I've taught at Hogwarts for thirty years. I'll fight that battle. I'm good at fighting."

"Minerva, I can't."

"Yes you can -- I'll help you -- "

"No, you don't understand," he said. "I can't marry you."

She looked as though he'd slapped her. "Why not?" she demanded. He flinched.

"Ministry regulations," he said, spreading his hands. "They...I can't marry without written certification from the Ministry. No werewolf can."

She stared at him in horror.

"And..." he continued, wretchedly, "And they'd never give me permission to marry you."

Silence fell. After a moment, he shrugged.

"I was going to write to you when I was far enough away," he said softly, looking down. "I was going to explain everything, I was going to apologise..."

He felt her hands on his face, tipping it just slightly, and her body pressed against his when she kissed him. Oh, it was like the first time he'd kissed her, after dancing, both of them breathless and tense, his arm around her waist just like that and she was so warm, so real...

"I'll write," he promised, against her lips. "I'll write to you -- I'll be back for visits -- to check on Harry, to, to go to Hogsmeade, and see Dumbledore, and it'll hardly seem like I'm gone at all..."

"That's not good enough," she said, pressing her face against his neck. "I don't want letters. I want you."

He sighed, stroking her hair, wanting to remember the smell of her, the feel of her, wanting to remember that right this minute, when he held her, he could feel that she was still wearing the charm he'd given her.

"If I could stay I would," he said softly. "But I can't; it's too dangerous, too difficult. I can't stay in Hogsmeade, they'll know and I'll never find a job there now. I can't even marry you."

He released her, and summoned a true smile from somewhere. "I have to go," he said, stepping back. "I'll owl you as soon as I know where I'm headed."

"Just a day or two -- "

"I can't, Minerva. We both know that."

The hardest three steps in his life were the ones it took to get him into the carriage. She stood there, fingers on her mouth where his lips had been a moment before, and the world jerked and rattled as the carriage moved away. He sat back in the seat, covering his face with his hand, and tried to remember how to breathe.

When he'd had a few moments to gather himself, he opened the suitcase on the seat next to him, and took out her music box, flipping up the lid and setting it down where the sunlight would hit it through the carriage window.

The waltz played all the way to the station.

***

XXVII. It Must Be True

June 18
My dear Minerva,

It's been a long time since I wrote a proper letter; you'll have to excuse me if I'm rusty at it. It's been even longer since I wrote to anyone I truly cared for.

I wanted to tell you so many things, and I feel I said so many things wrong, that last day at the school. I know it made you angry. I hope more with the state of the world than with me. I don't want you angry with me. You are, at the moment, my one touchstone with the real world, such as it is: a world where a person stays in one place more than three weeks at a time, and the whole of existence isn't taken up with finding where your next meal's going to come from. (Please don't worry on that front; I have savings from this past year, and I've never actually starved yet.)

When you -- how foolish do I feel, writing this? -- when you asked me to marry you what I wanted to say was yes, this minute, tell me where and when, and what to do.

But we are both realists, and so when I said that you could be fired and that I couldn't marry you because the Ministry wouldn't allow it, I was thinking realistically. I know you are too rational a person not to see that, though I also know that love tends to make even the most sensible of people irrational. Else why would you ever have taken up with me in the first place? Not the act of a rational woman, Minerva. For shame.

I want you to know that if I could have said yes, I would have. If I felt I could have asked you, I would have. I wanted to. Asking you to come away with me this summer was what happened instead.

I miss everything about you.

Remus

The letter arrived by owl post early one morning when the teachers, those who had not yet gone for the summer, were still dining. Severus Snape looked up and saw her turning pale; he inquired, blandly, if she was ill.

"No," she said, re-folding the parchment carefully. "Just a letter from Lupin."

It seemed strange to call him Lupin, but she would not give Severus the pleasure of seeing her discomfited.

"Ah. And will you write back?"

She turned to regard him coolly. "I'm surprised you take an interest."

He shrugged. "Idle curiousity. I would think, considering his continual lies, deceptions, and I hardly need add -- "

"That will do, Severus," she said sharply.

"Consider carefully," he continued, after a pause. "Consortion with a known werewolf cannot be good for either your reputation or the school's. He deceived you in ways that could have endangered yourself and the students."

"So did you," she replied. He went very still.

"And what, Deputy Headmistress, did you think of me when I did so?" he asked. She saw shame in his eyes, for his lies about how he had saved Harry and the others, though she heard none in his voice. "But perhaps romance makes us blind," he added.

She ran her thumb along the crease of the letter, thoughtfully.

June 30
Minerva,

I am sorry not to have heard from you, but I understand the aftermath of exams and classes must take a while to recover from, and there must be many jobs to do to prepare for next year.

If you can come to Sheffield on the eighth of July, I shall be waiting at the address on the back of this letter. I've two months' employment here, writing for a Muggle paper. It's not exactly Wales and birdwatching, but there are theatre tickets, and my sublet flat is too big for one person. Write and tell me if you can come.

Remus

When she got the letter her heart rose. She could see him again -- two whole months --

The other letter, still resting on her desk, rustled when she picked it up, and she heard Severus' words again. Over top of those came her own thoughts, now; that he had lied to her, and in ways that betrayed her trust more deeply than almost anything else he could do. He'd endangered the children, which in her mind was worse.

And if she saw him again she didn't know that she could leave him. Or let him leave her twice.

She sighed and laid the letter on the desk, next to the first.

July 10
Minerva,

I am sorry. I know I lied to you.

I didn't want to lose you. I didn't think I had.

You did ask me to marry you, you know.

At least write to tell me you don't hate me. I couldn't bear it if you hated me, but the silence is worse.

Remus

She couldn't even read that one. She could see that it was only a few sentences, and she didn't know what he had said. She didn't want to know. If he was angry with her, she didn't want to think about it; if he missed her, her resolution might break. And the worst of all, if he was writing to tell her not to write to him after all...

July 19
Minerva,

I hope something isn't killing the owls. Have you looked into having the gargoyles removed from your guttering?

Please write back. Please. I am not particularly proud but I have never yet begged a woman for anything.

Please, please, please write to me, if only to tell me not to write anymore.

Remus

There were no words. No words came. She tried so many times but there were no words, there was no way to answer him, no way to write on paper the ache, the fear...she was not accustomed to feeling fear.

She tried all through one long night and in the morning she threw all four letters into the fire, one of them still unopened.

July 25
Minerva,

This has to work sooner or later.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

(There, see, I said it three times, it must be true.)

Remus

Dumbledore found her sleeping, fitfully, in a chair in the library, the letter on a nearby table, crumpled and smoothed many times. He was not sorry he read it. He was only sorry there was nothing he could say to her.

July 30
Minerva,

Dumbledore tells me you're well. I won't write again.

I'm so sorry.

I love you.

Remus

The letter went astray. His hands had been shaking too badly when he'd addressed it.

August 8
Minerva,

You don't have to write back. Please make sure Harry can afford all his school supplies. If not, I'm enclosing two Galleons, seven Sickles. It's not much, but it'll buy a new cauldron or some school books.

Remus

She only opened it because it was heavy and obviously there was something inside; when she finally did, and found the carefully-wrapped coins, along with his instructions to look after Harry, she set them down in neat piles on her desk. She knew what the amount meant; he was sending all the money he could spare. Two Galleons, seven Sickles. For Harry.

There was a knock on the door, and she rose to open it.

Severus Snape stood there, a letter in his thin, pale fingers. He offered it to her.

August 8
Severus,

If there was anything to forgive between us, I have; perhaps it was owed to you, my humiliation, for what I did not prevent when we were at school. Indeed, perhaps the debt is still mine, for the Wolfsbane.

I bear you no ill will. I hope you bear me little. I wish you would watch over Harry; I know you don't like the boy but I also know that you would not turn down a further debt I could owe you.

Please, Severus, look after him. Ask what you like in return, but don't make life harder for the lad. Think of your own childhood.

Remus Lupin

She looked up from the letter.

"Write to him," was all he said. "I have no wish to see you unhappy."

August 10
Remus,

I love you.

You're a fool.

Don't starve.

Minerva

The reply was unsteady, and hastily written, with cheap ink and a nearly-broken nib.

August 12
Minerva,

Please come to Sheffield. There are two weeks yet before school term starts.

Remus

When he opened the door to the knock, she was standing on his doorstep.

"I brought dinner," she blurted, holding up a basket. "And tea."

He smiled.

Minerva,

When I woke up this morning and you were still sleeping I saw you and I wasn't sure whether I wanted to touch you or run away.

So I've decided on a compromise, and gone to get breakfast from the shop around the corner.

I'll be back soon.

I love you more than I thought possible.

Remus

END

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
-- Rent