Saturday, October 30, 1993
I'd been uneasy all day.
Not the sharp, focused kind of anxiety that came before a duel or a dangerous experiment, but something dull and persistent, like a pressure behind the eyes. The sort of feeling that didn't scream danger so much as whisper pay attention.
I knew tonight was risky. The full moon was close enough that the Wolfsbane timetable lined up perfectly, and between the Carrows' suspicious purchases and Tom's careful silence, a werewolf attack made far too much sense to ignore.
Still… that didn't fully explain it.
I paused near one of the windows overlooking the grounds. Everything looked normal. Too normal.
Why do I feel like I'm the one being hunted?
The thought came unbidden, and I immediately dismissed it.
That was ridiculous.
I lived in Hogsmeade, practically under Hogwarts' skirts. Even a pack of werewolves wouldn't be foolish enough to attack so close to the castle, not unless they wanted half the staff and even Dumbledore coming down on their heads.
Still.
Preparation had never hurt anyone. Neglect had.
By the time Fight Club ended for the day, the Great Hall looked like it had survived a small but enthusiastic war. Scorch marks on the floor, overturned benches, lingering traces of spells clinging to the air like static.
Students filtered out in high spirits, arguing animatedly about techniques, victories, and near misses. A few of them shot me admiring glances as they passed. Normally, I'd have preened, but today, I barely noticed.
Flitwick was already floating benches back into place with brisk efficiency, his wand movements sharp and economical. Lupin worked alongside him, restoring the floor with careful, almost apologetic motions, as if he were afraid of damaging the stone.
I joined them, murmuring a few precise transfiguration spells, the three of us falling into an easy rhythm. Tables scraped back into place. Scorch marks faded. The Hall slowly returned to its dignified self, as if it had not been hosting magical brawls just minutes earlier.
As I straightened a tapestry near the staff table, that unease flared again. Stronger this time.
I turned suddenly.
"Remus," I said, perhaps more sharply than intended.
He looked up at once, eyes alert. "Yes?"
I hesitated for only a fraction of a second. "Have you taken your potions?"
For a heartbeat, he froze.
His eyes widened, a flicker of something raw crossing his face before he caught himself. Fear. Guilt. Reflexive shame. I saw it all, and I hated that the world had trained him so well to expect judgment.
Then he searched my expression.
Whatever he found there must have reassured him, because his shoulders eased and he let out a quiet breath.
"Of course you knew," he said softly, shaking his head. "Yes. I've already taken six doses. Just the last one's missing. I was on my way to take it now."
He hesitated, then added, more carefully, "It doesn't… bother you?"
I smiled, genuinely this time.
"Why would it?" I said lightly. "It's just a furry little problem. Doesn't change my opinion of you in the slightest."
Lupin blinked.
Then he chuckled, the sound low and warm, and something in his gaze softened, drifting somewhere far away.
"James used to call it that as well," he said. "As if being a werewolf was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. A bad cold, perhaps."
There was fondness there. And pain.
I let the moment sit for a second before my expression sobered.
"Remus," I said quietly. "I want you to do me a favor tonight."
He straightened immediately. "Anything."
"Stay in an enclosed space," I said. "No wandering. No late-night strolls. Even if you feel fine. I have a feeling there's going to be some trouble."
A crease appeared between his brows. "What sort of trouble are you expecting?"
I met his eyes steadily.
"The furry type."
Understanding dawned almost instantly, followed by concern.
"I'm setting up wards tonight," I continued. "Specific ones. They'll be keyed to detect werewolves, even those under Wolfsbane. I'd rather not have you accidentally triggering them and sending false alarms."
He nodded slowly, the weight of my words settling in.
"Alright," he said. "I'll stay put."
"Good," I replied.
As we finished restoring the Hall, I felt that unease coil tighter inside me, no longer vague, no longer distant.
Tonight wasn't just dangerous.
It was personal.
…
I took my time with the wards.
Not because I lacked urgency, but because anything rushed tended to fail at the worst possible moment, and I refused to give fate that kind of opening.
It took me over an hour to finish them all.
I started at the edges of Hogwarts' grounds, layering the spells carefully, one atop the other, each keyed not to aggression or hostile intent, but to state of being. Transformation. Altered magical signatures. The particular, unmistakable wrongness that came with a human soul wearing a wolf's shape.
These were not simple alarms.
Each ward was anchored to me.
If a single transformed werewolf crossed the boundary, anywhere between the castle and Hogsmeade, I would know instantly. Like a pressure against my mind, unmistakable and impossible to ignore.
From Hogwarts, I expanded outward, threading the magic along the road to Hogsmeade, wrapping it around the village with equal care. Shops. Alleys. The outskirts near the forest. No gaps. No blind spots.
By the time I finished, my magic hummed steadily beneath my skin, stretched but controlled, like a net pulled taut across the land.
I straightened slowly, rolling the tension out of my shoulders.
That should be enough.
I could have reinforced the wards, added defensive layers, turned Hogwarts and Hogsmeade into a fortress and waited out the full moon in perfect safety. Could have asked for Dumbledore's help to do it. Let the night pass. Let the danger fade. Let the Ministry clean up whatever mess remained.
But I didn't.
Because if they were coming for me, then hiding would only delay the inevitable.
And if they weren't…
Then this was still an opportunity I couldn't afford to waste.
Tom was moving pieces again. Carefully. Quietly. Testing loyalties, probing defenses. A werewolf attack fit his style perfectly. Plausible deniability. Disposable assets. Chaos without commitment.
And chaos always created openings.
I paced slowly along the edge of the village, considering angles, contingencies, and possible interception points. My wards were detection-only by design. No retaliation. No automatic traps. I wanted awareness, not noise.
If I caught one of them alive, I might finally get something I'd been missing for weeks.
Information.
Where Tom was hiding. Who he trusted. How far along his plans truly were.
My fingers tightened briefly around my staff.
The most likely scenario was obvious.
If this was an organized strike and not some feral test run, then Fenrir Greyback would be leading it. Tom's favorite attack dog. Brutal, loyal in his own twisted way, and utterly unrepentant about what he was.
Greyback didn't just kill.
He made statements.
He was a cruel bastard who liked to turn children into monsters like him. He reveled in others' suffering.
And if he was involved, then this wasn't a random act of terror. It was a message. Or bait.
Possibly both.
I exhaled slowly, grounding myself as I felt the wards settle fully into place, their magic stabilizing, linking back to me like invisible threads.
"Alright," I murmured to the empty night. "If you're coming…"
I lifted my gaze toward the darkening horizon, where the moon would soon rise, fat and pale.
"…don't disappoint me."
Somewhere deep in my chest, that familiar unease sharpened; not into fear, but into something colder.
Anticipation.
This was going to be a great test of my improved magical abilities.
…
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