"Mom, why does the moon look different every day?"
A soft whisper carried through the darkness, faint and distant, yet familiar.
"I don't know, sweetheart. Do you? Tell Mommy about it," the witch replied gently, her voice warm.
"The book says the moon doesn't glow on its own—it reflects the sun's light. But it orbits us, so sometimes only part of it gets lit, and only that part shines. That's why it changes every day."
"Really? My clever little one! What kind of moon do you like best?"
"I like the full moon. It's pretty!"
"…"
Hearing their exchange, Remus felt a warmth in his chest, as if transported back to childhood, lying in his mother's arms, asking silly questions to pass sleepless nights.
The voices faded, and his consciousness slipped back into endless darkness.
---
Morning light streamed through the window. The figure in the shadows slowly rose, spitting out a towel and unwrapping heavy iron chains from his body. Leaning back on the sofa, he exhaled deeply.
Outside, the neighbor's house buzzed with activity. Lisa, a witch, tucked a lunchbox into her chubby son's bag, kissing his cheek before he left. The boy, shy and blushing, mumbled complaints before dashing to the school bus, waving goodbye.
"…"
Watching this, Remus smiled, only to wince as the motion tugged at his bruises.
He pressed gently along his body—a chain-shaped welt ran from his right shoulder to his left abdomen, mixed with scraped skin from struggling too hard. His stomach and knees bore purple marks, their origins unclear but painful nonetheless.
The injuries were manageable, but his clothes were torn again—claw marks, likely from his wolf form. A mending charm wouldn't work; he'd have to sew them up later.
Frowning in frustration, Remus shuffled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face.
"Phew…"
In the icy February thaw, the water was chilling, snapping him out of his groggy exhaustion. Studying his reflection, he noted his pallid face and sore jaw—no obvious scars.
His employer at the owl emporium wouldn't suspect anything. He could keep his job.
Relieved, Remus relaxed, washing up thoroughly before changing into patched clothes. He savored last night's fish canned and jam-smeared bread.
The bread was decent, the expired jam still good, and the canned fish delicious.
These small comforts eased his weary, difficult life.
After breakfast, he packed the chains, gathered his trash in a bag, and stepped out with a light stride.
Lycanthropy, or "mad wolf disease," was a dangerous contagious condition akin to dragon pox. Infected wizards transformed into wolves under the full moon. Though different from regular wolves, these werewolves were ferocious and bloodthirsty.
They couldn't choose whether to transform, losing all sense of self and reason, sometimes even attacking loved ones. Cruelly, they recalled every detail of their actions the next day.
Applying a mix of silver powder and dittany to fresh werewolf bites could heal the wound, but many victims chose death over living as a werewolf.
Even outside the full moon, lycanthropes differed from others. Their senses were sharper, drawn to raw meat and blood, able to hear sounds dozens of feet away.
Thus, Remus overheard his neighbors' hushed talk behind their window.
"Do you think he's… one of them?"
"No way. Remus is a kind, poor soul."
"He's kind when he's not… you know. Who knows what he's like when it happens?"
"Stop it, Lisa. Don't slander him."
"Slander? He refused to come over last night, said he had to get up early. Has he?"
"Maybe he overslept a bit. It's normal."
"What if he was transforming? Who knows what he's up to?"
"Don't say that!"
"I hope he's not, but what if? We have a kid!"
"Well…"
Remus paused mid-step, quietly tossed his trash in the bin, and turned back home.
He dug out his suitcase from the corner, packed his patched clothes, and stuffed in the chains. After a moment's hesitation, he added the leftover jam and black bread.
A wandering wizard's luggage was simple, especially with a wand. In minutes, he was out the door again.
The bald wizard next door blinked in surprise. "Remus, off on a trip?"
"Yeah…" Remus forced a faint smile. "The boss needs me in Durham to pick up some trained owls. I meant to leave earlier, but packing took a bit."
"Safe travels, then!"
"Thanks! Goodbye!"
"Goodbye!"
"…"
Head down, hiding his dim eyes, Remus dragged his suitcase down the path.
At the street's end, the public school bus was stalled—likely from the cold. The burly driver, smudged with oil, tinkered under the hood.
The kids, unwilling to wait in the chilly bus, played outside, laughing and hoping to be late for school.
The chubby neighbor boy spotted Remus and ran over, eyes bright. "Mr. Lupin, I need help!"
Remus crouched down to the Squib boy. "What kind of help?"
"My teacher asked for a myth about the moon, but I was watching the Memory Mirror last night and forgot," the boy said, scratching his head sheepishly. "Do you know any moon stories?"
Remus thought for a moment. "In Norse mythology, the moon is pulled by a chariot driven by a horse named Alsvid, steered by the god Máni."
"Why do they keep running with the moon?"
"They don't want to, and they're tired, but they can't stop," Remus said softly. "A giant wolf named Hati, from the Iron Wood, chases them. If it catches up, it'll swallow the moon, Alsvid, and Máni."
---
Friday
A week into the new term, school was in full swing.
Morning brought Muggle Studies for seventh-years. Melvin, a diligent professor, didn't slack despite exams being four months away. He held a pop quiz in the first week back, had students swap papers for grading, and made those who got questions wrong explain them aloud.
It tortured the students effortlessly, saved him work, and breezed through the class.
No Muggle Studies in the afternoon, but he had Defense Against the Dark Arts. Like last term, Lockhart's mess was split among the professors. Per McGonagall's orders, Melvin handled second-years.
In the last two weeks of the previous term, Lockhart's memory-based lessons were effective, and with simple second-year material, the students hadn't fallen too far behind.
Following the revised syllabus, Melvin delivered the lesson with humor, finishing with half an hour to spare.
With time to kill, he quizzed students, making those who couldn't answer stand in front to be embarrassed. Others were warned of a quiz next class to ensure the material stuck.
Five minutes before dismissal, he asked casually, "Any questions?"
Seamus shot up his hand. "Professor Levent, can we still watch Memory Mirror programs?"
"Sunday evenings, you'll get news broadcasts."
"Just news? Can't we watch something else?"
"No."
"Oh, no!" The students groaned dramatically.
Unfazed, Melvin drawled, "You're students. Your job is to study, not play. Every night, ask yourselves: Have I memorized today's lessons? Finished my homework? Prepped for tomorrow? You've got twenty weeks until exams."
Seamus and Dean clutched their ears, feigning agony as if attacked by a banshee.
Harry joined their silly laughter but stopped when he saw Hermione, lips pursed, brows furrowed, scribbling Melvin's advice in her notebook, deep in thought.
She didn't take that seriously, did she?
At five sharp, the dismissal bell rang.
Melvin grabbed his packed textbooks and left the classroom with a spring in his step.
---
Hogwarts' bells, rung by Filch, were simple copper chimes that echoed through the castle. The morning bell was quick and urgent, hurrying stragglers to class; the dismissal bell was slow and leisurely, encouraging a relaxed descent.
Students headed to the Great Hall for dinner, surprised to find a crowd by the marble staircase. The usually quiet noticeboard was bustling.
Lee Jordan, dark-skinned and animated, stood before it, clearing his throat to read an announcement. "This Friday at 8 p.m., the Dueling Club's second session will proceed as planned. All interested students are welcome. The instructor is—" He paused for effect. "Professor Filius Flitwick!"
The crowd erupted in chatter.
"I knew it! Lockhart's not coming back. The club needed a new instructor!"
"It's Flitwick? I thought it'd be Levent."
"Flitwick was a dueling champion in his youth. It's gotta be him."
"Levent's no slouch either. Remember his demo duel last time?" a young witch said, eyes starry. "I bet that wasn't even his full strength!"
"By that logic, Snape's pretty fierce too."
"…" The mention of Snape's cold glare silenced them. "Flitwick it is, then."
Amid the banter, Harry, Ron, and Hermione trailed the crowd toward the Great Hall.
Harry gripped his wand, eager. "This time, I'll teach Malfoy a lesson!"
Ron scratched his head, struggling to recall his last dueling opponent. That Basilisk stare and his hospital stay had muddled his memory.
Whatever. Dinner first.
---
8 p.m.
Flitwick's dueling lesson differed from Lockhart's. No gilded stage or velvet carpets—just a simple platform. Leftover candles from the last session floated overhead, and the magical ceiling cast bright moonlight, illuminating the empty Great Hall.
The house tables were gone, leaving the space vast.
Tiny Professor Flitwick stood on a tripod stool, clapping to gather the students, then winked playfully at the two assistants by the platform.
Why am I stuck with Snape as an assistant again? Melvin grumbled inwardly, stepping onto the stage.
Snape's black robes billowed like a giant bat's wings, his greasy hair falling over half his face. Expressionless, his dark eyes glinted faintly.
"Lockhart's dueling lesson was rushed and ill-prepared," Flitwick began. "Though we saw an impressive duel, Professors Snape and Levent slowed their movements for your benefit, but their skill gap with you was too wide, limiting the lesson's value. This time, we'll focus on specific spells, not general dueling, with practice to improve results.
"Today, we'll learn the Shield Charm and Disarming Charm. The professors will demonstrate, then you'll practice in groups.
"Those who've mastered both spells, step back. Let those still learning take the front."
The students jostled briefly before settling, with younger ones filling the front.
Flitwick, in his element, explained the spells with a practical focus, emphasizing casting motions and incantations over origins, history, or Latin grammar. He answered questions on the spot, making it more effective than regular Charms class.
The Disarming Charm was intermediate, familiar to many older students but unpolished. The Shield Charm, more advanced, was known only to a few sixth- and seventh-years.
"Any questions?" Flitwick asked. "If not, let's have the professors demonstrate."
Melvin looked up, locking eyes with Snape across the platform.