[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 20.5

"I am pleased to introduce two new members of our staff. First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly agreed to take up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher…"

Remus rose from his seat and gave a slight bow to the Great Hall, filled with his future students. The reactions varied—some gazes were warm, curious, or even grateful, while others were skeptical, mocking, or outright disdainful. He wasn’t surprised. He was well aware that he didn’t exactly look his best, but he had no illusions about making a strong first impression. He hadn’t come here to impress anyone with sharp robes and charm. That had been Lockhart’s approach last year, and they all knew how that had ended.

Settling back into his seat, he ignored the sour expression on Snape’s face and allowed himself to drift into thoughts—thoughts that were far from pleasant. He had been living in a near-constant state of melancholy for years, but the encounter with the Dementors had resurfaced old wounds in excruciating detail.

When had his life gone so irreversibly wrong?

Was it twelve years ago, when everything fell apart and their brotherhood was shattered? Or was it twenty-two years ago, when he had lied to the world and forced his way into Hogwarts, selfishly putting hundreds of people at risk just to have a chance at a normal education? Twenty-eight years ago, when he had been bitten? Or had it always been inevitable, one misstep after another leading him to this point?

His gaze swept over the floating candles and the grand hall, brimming with laughter and life. Had he ever imagined returning to Hogwarts as a professor? Perhaps, long ago, in his seventh year, sitting in this very hall with his friends after their final exams. Maybe he had pictured himself standing among the staff while James and Lily’s son sat at one of these tables, maybe even a daughter of Sirius or Peter.

He had never harbored illusions about having children of his own—he had accepted early on that a werewolf’s life did not allow for such things. But he had always thought he would be there for his friends' children. That he would be part of their lives.

Instead, it had all gone wrong.

Three years later, James and Lily had died protecting their son at any cost. And Sirius—Sirius had betrayed them. He had discarded the Statute of Secrecy, torn through the streets in a frenzy of violence, and slaughtered Peter, along with a dozen innocent bystanders. If Remus had been in London that night, if the Aurors hadn’t reached Sirius first, he might have been next.

That war had torn them apart. And for what? Centuries-old blood feuds, the obsession with pure and impure blood, light and dark magic—so many lives lost over the same senseless battles.

And now, Sirius had escaped Azkaban, supposedly to finish what he started.

If the Dementors surrounding Hogwarts failed, if they proved as useless as Remus suspected, then he was the only person left who could protect James' son.

His thoughts drifted to the black specters lurking outside the castle, to Harry—growing up alone, orphaned—and to Sirius, now the most wanted man in the wizarding world.

This was not how he had imagined coming back.

Not like this.

At the start of summer, he had never imagined that by September he would be teaching at Hogwarts. He had simply continued his aimless wandering, keeping to remote areas, struggling through each full moon, when one night in June, Albus Dumbledore found him—just as he had decades ago.

And just like then, he had made an offer.

This time, it was not a place as a student, but as a professor.

The Headmaster had explained everything, filling in the gaps of news Remus had long since stopped keeping up with. Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban. Harry Potter was in his third year. The past two years had seen two failed attempts on the boy’s life—one orchestrated by a resurrected Voldemort’s follower, the other through a Dark artifact.

The Ministry believed that Sirius had broken out for one reason: to kill Harry.

After that, there was no need to ask whether Remus would accept the position.

For months now, Remus had tried to piece together what that bastard who had somehow outmaneuvered death itself was truly after.

From what Harry had told Dumbledore, Voldemort had attempted to reclaim his body two years ago by manipulating Professor Quirrell into seeking the Philosopher’s Stone. It had been a calculated move—no one had expected the Dark Lord to show himself so soon. Harry had simply been caught in the crossfire, narrowly escaping with his life.

Gryffindor foolishness, really—bravery first, rational thought second.

They had been the same way at that age.

Voldemort had claimed he needed the Stone to return to full strength. That alone revealed something important: the Dark Lord could not restore his body on his own. A significant weakness.

The following year, Hogwarts had strengthened its protections against external possession. Voldemort hadn’t repeated his mistake. Instead, he had smuggled a Dark artifact into the castle—a relic that had swiftly corrupted the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Reports from witnesses described it as a fragment of Tom Riddle himself, dating back to his time as a student in the 1940s.

Of course, it had not been a true ghost. Voldemort wasn’t dead—not completely. But was it truly a piece of his soul, or just an illusion designed to mislead investigators?

In the end, no one knew.

The artifact and its host had been destroyed before any interrogation could take place. And now, mere months later, Black had escaped Azkaban.

Rumors suggested he had received outside help—perhaps from Voldemort’s remaining followers. But Dumbledore feared something worse: that Black had become the Dark Lord’s next vessel.

Perhaps they had struck a deal.

Voldemort would let him escape and reach Harry, and in return, Black would help Riddle come back to life.

Even after twelve years, Remus still could not—and did not want to—fully believe that Padfoot could have done something like this. Betraying James, who had been closer to him than his own brother, killing and maiming dozens of ordinary people—people he, unlike his own family, did not despise as lesser beings. That he had escaped from the most heavily guarded prison, risked his life and soul, and possibly even sought Voldemort’s help, all for the sole purpose of killing a thirteen-year-old child—his own godson.

He did not want to believe it even now, but he was ready, if necessary, to protect Harry, even at the cost of his own life.

Back then, at the end of the war, he had been powerless. He could not stop Black, could not save his only friends. And afterward, he had not even tried to take care of the child. Instead, he had simply run away from everyone and everything, and since then, he had not seen him once—until today.

And what if that lunatic had succeeded last year? Or the year before? The first thing he would have done was finish what he started and kill James’s son—the boy he had had some special plans for ever since 1981. And Remus would have never even known, lost in his wandering through forests and abandoned villages.

He owed James Potter and Lily Evans a great debt.

And now, at least, he had a chance to repay them—if only a little.

Even if it meant fighting the man he had once called his best friend.

As for the ongoing troubles—two years ago, Voldemort announced himself once, and a year later, his ghost had been identified by appearance. But there had been other incidents of dark magic too, ones where no witnesses remained to name the culprit, whether it was the Dark Lord himself or one of his followers.

In the spring of 1992, someone had summoned an unknown entity through a sacrificial ritual in the suburbs of London and then burned the crime scene to the ground. By that time, Voldemort had already taken residence at the school, possessing Quirrell, which meant the ritual had not been an attempt to bring him back from the void. Either the one performing it had no idea where Riddle actually was, or Voldemort had chosen not to enlighten them. Given his secretive nature in life, the latter seemed highly plausible.

That same year, in August, another incident occurred—a young wizard and multiple Muggle criminals were killed by an unknown assailant using cursed weaponry, and then the crime scene was obliterated by magical fire. Aurors had even consulted Professor McGonagall, as a recognized authority in Transfiguration. According to Dumbledore, she had hissed and cursed for days afterward, recalling the bullets that had been magically treated to inflict the most grievous wounds possible, even capable of killing a man with a single shot. In her estimation, such magic required mastery of Transfiguration at the level of a Hogwarts graduate, yet she refused to believe that any student could have used the knowledge from her lessons to craft something so vile.

There had been many theories attempting to connect these events. Officially, the Ministry had claimed that the culprit—at least in the last case—had been the possessed Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. But that was physically impossible. The attack had happened in August, and Lockhart had only fallen under the influence of the unknown artifact after arriving at school, no earlier than September.

So, did Voldemort still have subordinates carrying out his plans? At least one or two, possibly more. The incidents bore some similarities at first glance, but the perpetrators’ styles were vastly different.

Then, just a month and a half ago, right after Sirius Black’s escape, strange reports of poaching had surfaced in the Scottish Highlands. Someone had wiped out a small tribe of mountain trolls and taken some of their blood—an ingredient in many powerful healing potions. If the Dark Lord was using it to restore his body through dark magic, then it meant he was not just making plans—he was already acting.

Could Black have been working toward his resurrection instead of immediately seeking out Harry?

"Lupin," came a grim voice beside him.

"Is it time already?" Remus asked, glancing up at the dour Potions Master. He quickly scanned the hall. It seemed like the feast had only just begun—most of the plates were still full. He didn’t particularly want to leave the table, especially since he hadn’t even touched his own food yet, too lost in thought.

"We have ten minutes until moonrise. Come, I'll show you your office. We’re taking an unacceptable risk as it is."

"I can find it myself."

"And I cannot risk other people’s lives," Snape snapped, his voice low but firm. "Let’s go, Lupin."

Muttering a brief apology to Dumbledore and the other professors, Remus rose and followed Snape, who was already striding briskly ahead.

Since most of the corridors and floors beyond the ones leading to the Great Hall were still only dimly lit, Snape conjured a couple of blue-tinged lights that hovered silently over his head, casting a ghostly glow as they moved.

Lupin, meanwhile, found himself dwelling on what he could possibly say to the man beside him. The Dementors had dragged out plenty of old memories today, and some of them filled him with deep shame. Even when he had done nothing, simply standing by as his friends "had their fun," he had been complicit.

Naturally, in every conflict between Snape and James, he had always taken his friend’s side. At the time, it had felt perfectly natural. But now, with everything resurfacing, the memories made him uncomfortably self-aware.

The familiar dim corridors, the old doors and moving portraits, the sound of their footsteps on the aged stone floor—it was as if those fifteen years had never passed.

"You know, Severus…" he began hesitantly.

"You wanted something, Professor Lupin?" Snape interrupted without looking at him, his tone clipped and formal.

"Perhaps not. We’re heading to the second floor?"

"The third. Did you take your potion today?"

"Yes, in the morning, before the train ride."

"At least that is reassuring. Here—this is your office," Snape said, pushing open a door. "The key is on the desk. Lock yourself in."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Snape didn’t bother responding, simply turning on his heel and walking away.

"Good night," Remus called after him, though he didn’t expect a reply.

Watching the Potions Master disappear around the corner, Lupin stepped into the room where he would now be living. The first thing he did was lock the door and stash the key in the furthest drawer of his desk.

Then, with a weary sigh, he sank down onto the floor, leaning back against the couch.

This long day was finally over.

And to think, when he had boarded the train this morning, he had no idea it would turn into such a mess. Dumbledore had warned him about the Dementors, but no one had mentioned that they would be stopping and searching a train full of teenagers. Let alone that some of them would "get carried away," savoring the fresh fear and despair of children—so different from the stale, gnawed-over remnants of emotion left behind by Azkaban’s inmates, many of whom had long since lost their minds or were little more than barely-living husks.

Even in the compartment he had shared with James’s son and his friends, the kids’ reactions had been telling. When the Dementor had begun pressing down with its full strength, Harry had collapsed almost immediately. The girl sitting beside him had suddenly screamed, as if she were seeing something horrifying or falling from a great height, then yanked out her wand.

And in that exact moment, the third one—the redhead, undoubtedly a Weasley—had drawn his own and cast Expelliarmus before the girl could do anything.

Later, after Remus had driven the Dementor away and they had all been helping to revive Harry, the boy had muttered an apology:

"Sorry, Professor, but last year, Hermione and my brothers invented a new spell. If she had cast it here, we'd all have been sliced to ribbons."

And the most unsettling part was that the girl hadn’t even tried to deny it. She had just averted her gaze and silently taken her wand back.

He’d need to follow up on that later—what exactly were they teaching second-years these days, if they could create something that, by the sound of it, could rival an Unforgivable?

Lupin had already gathered from the conversations at the station that nearly every carriage had students who couldn’t withstand the pressure of the Dementors and had tried to fight them off. It was hard to blame them for that instinct, but very few even among the seventh years could cast a Patronus, and even fewer bothered to study magical creatures and their weaknesses. As a result, the Dementors had been struck with whatever spells the students could muster. Most of those spells had little effect, but what the younger students lacked in experience, they compensated for with sheer enthusiasm and numbers.

Maybe that was where he should start his first lesson—breaking down what had happened on the train. What they did right, what they did wrong, and what they should do if they ever encountered such a threat again.

Over the past two months, as he prepared to take up the role of professor at Hogwarts, Remus had developed a general lesson plan and curriculum. His focus was on helping students defend themselves against magical creatures—beings they might actually encounter in their daily lives and that could pose a real danger. He had already arranged for the delivery of a few smaller creatures, the kind that couldn’t simply be found lurking in the Forbidden Forest.

Of course, he could have taken a different approach—focusing entirely on his primary mission: protecting Harry from Black. That would mean dedicating the entire class to dueling and preparing students for magical combat. After all, Defense Against the Dark Arts was a broad subject, and each professor tailored the course to their own interpretation.

But two things held him back from taking that route. First, even if he abandoned every other student to train Harry day and night in magical duels, it still wouldn’t be enough. The gap between Black and the boy was simply too vast—too much experience, too much skill. Second, as much as Harry mattered, Remus had been entrusted with teaching all the students, not just one. He had a duty to prepare them for what they might realistically face, to ensure they passed their exams, and not to shape the course around his personal objectives. Sacrificing an entire year of education for hundreds of students just to prepare one boy for a battle he couldn’t win yet—what kind of teacher would that make him?

And then there was another issue entirely—the utter lack of consistency in Defense Against the Dark Arts education. The past two years had been a complete disaster. The seventh years were stuck at the level of fifth years, and the third years practically knew nothing at all. He’d have to start from scratch with them. Yet, by June, the inevitable OWLs and NEWTs would arrive, and his students would be expected to pass. There was a staggering amount of work ahead of him—far beyond just keeping an eye on Black.

But the worst part, the part he didn’t want to think about, was how much the current situation mirrored the last war against the Death Eaters.

Dumbledore on one side. Voldemort on the other. The two of them gathering allies, preparing for the inevitable clash.

They would sit in their towers, maneuvering their forces, while the ones in the field—the foot soldiers—would fight, suffer, die, or end up in Azkaban.

And it wasn’t just their generation this time.

Sirius. Malfoy. Arthur Weasley. All of them were being pulled back into the same old war. And now, the students were getting drawn in, too. Harry had already faced Voldemort in his first year. The next year, someone had smuggled a cursed artifact into the school—was it young Goyle? Nott? Malfoy’s son? Who would be next?

Would young Weasley throw himself into this war just like his father? Would Selwyn’s daughter follow in her father’s footsteps and pledge herself to the Dark Lord?

Chess pieces.

White and black.

Voldemort moved Black forward. Dumbledore placed Lupin in response.

The headmaster advanced his pawn—Harry—pushing him toward the other end of the board, toward the inevitable promotion.

And somewhere out there, on the opposite side, a black pawn was advancing to meet him.

Remus had never been much of a chess player, but even he could see the board for what it was. Dumbledore had made it clear—his hopes for victory rested on Harry. That the boy would be the one to rid the world of Voldemort for good.

But until then, he needed guidance. Protection.

And Remus hadn’t dared to ask himself the question: If Black were after someone else—say, the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom—would Dumbledore still be pulling every string, making every sacrifice to protect him?

Would he still be willing to endure every inconvenience to keep that child safe?

Remus hadn’t asked.

Because he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Or maybe he already knew it.

Did he like any of this? Absolutely not.

Of course, he respected Dumbledore. He was grateful to the man—for his kindness, for the opportunity to study at Hogwarts like any other child, for helping him find friends in his youth. Dumbledore understood magic better than anyone alive. More than the Minister. More than Voldemort.

And if Dumbledore believed that Harry was the key to winning this war, he undoubtedly had a reason for it.

But as a friend, Remus wanted James’s son to grow up as a normal child. He didn’t want him to be a living symbol of a past victory, a sacrificial piece in some grand ritual, or a pawn in a decades-long scheme. The boy had already suffered enough—did he not deserve a real childhood?

But to intervene meant going against Dumbledore.

Could he even change anything?

Did he want to?

Was he willing?

Would he defy the headmaster out of loyalty to an old friend, or would he trust Dumbledore’s vision and play his assigned role? Would he tell himself that Harry, as valuable a piece as he was, was simply too important to be sacrificed?

Or was that just wishful thinking?

And even if he wanted to fight against the inevitable, he was alone now.

There was no one left to stand beside him.

At that moment, even with the windows shut, Lupin felt the full moon rising beyond the thick rain clouds, just over the horizon.

If someone had walked into the room minutes later, they would have seen what looked like a large, sleeping dog sprawled across the floor.

A more observant eye would have recognized a wolf, a species long extinct in Britain for over two centuries.

And an experienced wizard, an Auror, or a hunter of dark creatures would have immediately identified the truth.

A werewolf.

A magical beast.

Not a man.

A classified Level Five threat—"Lethal danger to wizards."

Permission to kill on sight.