A/N:This is my first foray into a new fandom since I started writing fanfiction. Even though I've been into Harry Potter longer than any of my other fandoms, I've never thought about writing it until recently, when my love of HP came roaring back with a vengeance. This is what happens when the eleven-year-old who read Prisoner of Azkaban all those years ago and was instantly desperate for the story of the Marauders spent fifteen years in other fandoms before finally coming home.

May 7, 1943

Lyall Lupin's best subject was easily Defense Against the Dark Arts, and during their whole third year, he'd enjoyed it more than he ever had. He supposed it was only natural; he'd been fascinated by Dark creatures since he was very young. When he thought about next year, when they would move on to basic jinxes and hexes, he couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. Perhaps he should specialize in Dark creatures as a career.

He read the chalkboard as he walked into class that morning: werewolves. He shuddered; he knew which Dark creature he wouldn't be specializing in. Lyall honestly wasn't sure if he could think of anything that was much worse than a werewolf. Oh, there were more dangerous creatures, yes. The nundu, for instance, or the lethifold. But nundus were native to Africa and lethifolds to the tropics. Only the werewolf was common enough in Britain to prove a real danger. Besides, there was something particularly horrifying about so dangerous a creature that appeared human.

Professor Merrythought rapped her wand smartly against her desk. "Attention, class. Exams are coming up, and the last Dark creature we need to cover before we begin revising is the werewolf." The class quieted down, and Merrythought began pacing around the front of the room. "I'm going to assume that at least one of you knows the basics of what a werewolf is?" she asked, eyeing the class.

One of the other Ravenclaw girls raised her hand. "Well, they turn into wolves during the full moon," she began, "and the victims of a werewolf bite change into werewolves themselves."

"Yes, quite correct, thank you," Professor Merrythought said. "A werewolf, when transformed, has an insatiable urge to bite any human they come across, and unfortunately for the victim, there is no cure for a werewolf's bite, nothing that can alleviate the symptoms of transformation."

One of the other boys let out a disbelieving laugh, and Professor Merrythought raised her eyebrows at the offender. "Something to say, young man?"

"Well, isn't that a waste of time?" the boy asked. "Who cares about making it easier?" Lyall privately agreed; he could see the necessity of searching for a cure, so no one else would become a monster, but alleviating the symptoms? All that would do was make life easier for the ones that did already exist. He didn't see why anyone would spend their time trying to help creatures everyone agreed were too dangerous to be around.

"I'm told," Professor Merrythought said, "that the transformation is quite painful." Lyall scoffed, and Professor Merrythought went on, "Certainly, however, any treatment would raise the possibility of integrating werewolves into the rest of wizarding society - holding jobs, perhaps even attending school, and I'm sure many people would take offense at that." Lyall's mouth fell open in horror at the thought of one of those things in Hogwarts, perhaps in his dormitory. He wasn't the only one; several other students were looking at each other, disgust written on their faces.

"Can anyone tell me where werewolves are usually found?" Professor Merrythought continued, as everyone got back to note-taking.

Lyall raised his hand. "Don't they sort of live in packs in the woods?" he asked. Attacks always seemed to cluster in one place, until all the ordinary people were driven away from their homes. It was enough, he thought angrily, to scare anyone.

"I was referring more to geographical area - to which the answer is all of them - but Lupin is correct," Merrythought said. "Most werewolves choose to band together among their own kind, living as far away in the forests from wizards as they can." Lyall nodded; an article he'd read in Defense Monthly over the summer had raised the question of how little most of these packs did to prevent themselves from attacking others. His dad had said that just because they weren't in animal form all the time, it didn't mean that wasn't what they were.

Another girl raised her hand. "Professor, how exactly is the condition transmitted by the bite?"

"Well, very few people have managed to extensively study werewolves," Professor Merrythought said. "The prevailing theory is that it is an infection passed on by the bite and carried through the bloodstream."

"Oh," the girl said. "So it's like a illness."

"That is the current theory," Merrythought said. "However, it is also true that the wounds left by a werewolf do not heal. They are cursed, the same as if the victim were hit with a powerful, Dark spell. It is unknown whether the condition is truly an illness or a result of the curse. Or if, perhaps, the infection is responsible for the physical changes, while the curse is the cause of what many people believe is the change in the soul."

Lyall looked up from his note-taking, intrigued. He raised his hand. "So there is a change in the soul?" Of course there was, he realized. Why else would so many newly bitten werewolves change so utterly, choosing to live in vicious packs in the woods? His father had been correct; the human form was only an appearance.

"As I said, it is currently unknown whether that is the case," Professor Merrythought said. "But the number of deliberate attacks and petty crimes committed by werewolves certainly lend credibility to the idea," she admitted.

"I'd say it's true, then," Martin Doggle muttered next to Lyall, who nodded

"Now, it is important you be able to recognize a werewolf should you see one," Merrythought said. "There are several small but key differences between the werewolf and the true wolf. The most notable is the tail." She showed the class an image of a werewolf and a wolf next to each other. "You see the werewolf's tail is tufted, the true wolf's is not. That's the most obvious way to tell. The snout is also shorter on the werewolf. Some people say they have seen signs of intelligence in the werewolf's eyes that are not present in a true wolf."

Lyall nearly gasped in horror. "Are they aware of themselves?" he asked, and Martin began giggling next to him. Too late, Lyall realized the pun he'd made and felt his face flush, but Professor Merrythought shook her head.

"Most experts concur that, no, werewolves are not aware of their human form while transformed, and would easily attack even their closest friend on the night of the full moon. They are unable to help it," Merrythought said.

"Well, Professor, I disagree," Martin said lazily, raising his hand. Lyall stared at him; best friends they might be, but Martin was braver by far.

Merrythought was used to him by now, so she only raised her eyebrows. "And why is that, Doggle?"

"No werewolf's going to attack their best friend," Martin started, "because what sort of werewolf has friends?" Lyall laughed appreciatively along with the rest of the class; he hadn't thought of that.

"Yes, well," Merrythought sniffed disapprovingly. "I will also teach you the skill of identifying an untransformed werewolf, since you're much more likely to encounter a werewolf during the days of the month when the moon is not full." She began pacing the room again, and Lyall prepared himself to write down as much as possible; this could be very useful.

"The untransformed werewolf appears human," Merrythought began, "but there are signs, particularly if it is close to the full moon. They will often appear to be ill; pale, sickly complexion, dark circles under the eyes, feverish. Werewolves age prematurely, due to the effects of transformation. A werewolf who has lived for say, twenty years with the condition, will appear to have aged perhaps double that amount of time; it cuts their life expectancy in half. They also begin to lose their voice after a time; those who have lived with the condition the longest may not be able to speak at all. Both of these will allow you to determine a long-lived werewolf. Newly bitten werewolves may not be able to control some of the more...animalistic behaviors, particularly around the full moon, and many refuse to. Behavioral markers are things you will need to watch for."

Lyall made notes of the identifying marks and read them back, horrified, remembering how many stories he'd heard of untransformed werewolves losing control and attacking innocent people. No wonder things like that happened, if they couldn't control the wolfish behaviors. And many of them refused to?

"Traditional curses, even the Killing Curse, are less harmful to a werewolf while transformed," Merrythought continued. "Some curses, such as the Stunning Spell, may not work to their full extent even on an untransformed werewolf. These," she wrote out a few curses on the board, "will drive a werewolf away, if performed with strength and focus." Lyall wrote them down carefully; even at thirteen he recognized how powerful they were.

Professor Merrythought paused and said, "If any of you are ever the victims of a werewolf attack, something I sincerely hope will not happen, the wounds will not seal themselves. They don't ever heal, and the only chance of survival is by applying a mix of dittany and silver immediately."

"Why would you want to?" Lyall asked under his breath.

"Mr. Lupin?" the professor asked, and Lyall glanced down. He hadn't meant for her to hear him.

"Er, I said, why would you want to? Bother sealing the wounds, I mean, if you know you're just going to be a werewolf?" he asked. "I think I'd rather die."

Professor Merrythought nodded seriously and said, "Many people have made that choice. Let us hope that no one here ever has to." She glanced at the clock and closed her book. "Class dismissed. Please hand in your essays on how to recognize and defeat a werewolf by Friday."

Lyall shuddered as he left class. "Can you imagine a worse creature?" he asked.

"Probably," Martin said, shrugging. "Honestly, Lyall, dementors are worse by far."

Lyall shook his head, trying to explain it. "Dementors don't look human. You always know where you stand with a dementor. But werewolves...it could be anyone! You'd never know until it's too late."

Martin grinned at him. "Well, I mean, you're right, but you really don't like werewolves at all, do you?"

"Is there anything to like?" Lyall asked. "No hope of a cure, being cursed forever with an animal's soul, living and acting like a monster? They ought to round up the lot of them and send them to Azkaban."

Martin grinned at him. "You're not wrong there."

Wrong. The knowledge of how wrong he had been was something Lyall now had to confront every day. His ignorance, and his certainty in his own beliefs, had nearly destroyed his entire family.

Now, Lyall glanced over at the young werewolf next to him, who he loved more than he had ever believed possible, and ruffled his hair fondly. He was right about that, he knew, right in protecting his only son at what was commonly believed to be the expense of others' safety. Right to send his son to school to get the same education anyone deserved, to try and give the boy any chance he could.

Lyall Lupin knew the truth now, regardless of what others believed, but he knew also that, thanks to him, it had come too late, and at an unbearably high cost.

May 7, 1943

The air raid siren went off at 10:30 at night, sending a sinking feeling into nine-year-old Hope Howell's stomach. Her mother ran into the room and all but pulled her up. "Come on, Hope, we've got to get to the air raid shelter."

"I'm coming," Hope said, but her mother grabbed her hand and pulled her along behind.

"Get outside and to the shelter!" her mum yelled at Hope's older sister and brother, Claire and Ernie, as they came down the stairs.

They ran outside, hearing the first of the bombs go off. Hope's mum pulled her along even faster, and Ernie and Claire ran ahead, stopping as they reached the shelter.

"Go on, inside," their mum said, opening the door, but Ernie stopped, looking up at the sky.

"It's a full moon tonight," he said. "The planes'll be able to see no matter how dark we make the city."

"Stop it, Ernie, you're scaring your sister," their mum scolded. Hope and Claire looked at each other, wondering which of them was supposed to be scared. The war had started when Hope was five, and Claire was six. Neither of them remembered what it was like to not have to be scared of air raids. It was just normal now.

"It's true," Ernie protested as he went down the stairs. He was twelve now, and considered himself an expert on everything to do with wartime. Hope liked it better when he told stories of what it used to be like before there was a war. He was the only one who really remembered it, and could tell them about peacetime, and having butter all the time, and their dad. Hope remembered her father a little, like how he would hug her tight and call her his angel, and read her stories, but they were fuzzy. The clearest memory she had of her father was the day the telegram came telling them he wouldn't be coming home.

"Used to be," their mother said, turning on the lamps and sitting down with a sigh, "the only thing you had to be afraid of the night of the full moon was a werewolf attack." She shook her head. "Shame of it."

Hope sat down on the hard floor, hoping her mother would tell them a story to pass the time until the all-clear was sounded, but Claire rolled her eyes. She didn't like their mother's stories of magical creatures, and witches and enchantments. She said they were ridiculous, especially with the war going on. Hope thought Claire was ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with magic stories, especially during the war. Hope felt like she disappeared out of Cardiff and away from the war when she was reading her beloved copy of The Hobbit, or one of the Oz books, or imagining herself as a princess or something in one of her mother's stories.

But before their mum could continue, Ernie grinned wickedly. "Yeah, that's right. You would go out into the woods on the night of the full moon and," he pretended to growl menacingly. "They'd get ya. Tear you to pieces, if they don't make you one of them first."

Claire scoffed. "Everyone knows werewolves aren't real, Ernie."

"So?" Ernie said, undaunted. "It's a great story anyway." He made his fingers into claws. "Seemingly normal person by day, terrifying monster by night. They're evil." He drew the word out and laughed even harder as Claire glared at him.

"They are not!" Hope said angrily, frowning at Ernie and forgetting all about the possibility of a story.

"What else would you call something that'll turn you into a monster too?" Ernie asked, and laughed. "Feeling bad for the monsters again, Hope?" he asked. Hope's cheeks flushed; she always thought about the monsters in stories who had to be defeated. It wasn't so much that she felt bad for them; it was just that no one else ever seemed to look at things from their side.

Another bomb went off close by and they all looked up. "Come on, behave," their mum said tiredly.

They ignored her. There was really nothing else to do in the tiny air raid shelter, so they always ended up arguing. "No," Hope said stubbornly, thinking of Beorn from The Hobbit, who wasn't her favorite character, but wasn't a monster either. "I just don't think they're monsters. Even you said they were normal the rest of the time." Neither Claire nor Ernie had read The Hobbit, but Hope was used to that. Neither had anyone from school. It was just hers.

Ernie rolled his eyes. "They just look normal, Hope. That's the whole point."

Hope narrowed her eyes. "How would you like it if you had to turn into a wolf that wanted to attack everyone each month?" she asked angrily. "They're probably nice people who don't want to bite anyone! I bet it hurts, and everyone's scared of them for it." She glared at Ernie triumphantly as he started laughing. "Nobody would want that!"

"Hope, they're not real!" Claire said sharply. Another bomb went off, closer this time, as if to remind them what was real.

"I know they're not real!" Hope protested. She didn't want to admit that sometimes she still liked to imagine that magic, and witches and wizards were real, if only to herself.

But Claire wasn't done, and she said exasperatedly, "You're such a baby, Hope. You think life is a fairy tale in some story you can hide in. It's not. Can't you see that?"

Hope glared at Claire and Ernie. "I'm not a baby!" she said. And I don't hide in stories. Dad hadn't thought so; he'd always loved to tell her stories. If he was alive right now, he'd agree with her, she was sure of it.

"That's enough," their mother said sharply. "If you three can't behave you're going in separate corners until the air raid is over, understand?"

They nodded sullenly and fell silent, none of them able to fall asleep until the all-clear was sounded and they went back inside, each refusing to speak to the others and their mum just trying to get them to bed.

Many years later, Hope knew, though she could never tell anyone, that she had been right. This was the real world, full of magic and wizards and enchantments, like all the stories she had always heard. She lived it every day.

But Claire, Hope realized, had been right too. It was no fairy tale. Her gaze fell on the sofa, where a slightly too-thin boy was curled up under a blanket despite the summer weather. He tried to smile at her and she just smoothed the hair off his forehead, murmuring at him to rest.

No, it was no fairy tale, despite the fact that she was married to a wizard and had a son she adored. That, at least, she had been right about, even if no one believed her. No one except Lyall, who had helped her build the walls around their little family, walls that had worked all these years, but still seemed too fragile at times. Now, Hope sighed to herself, thinking of all the preparations she had to make.

The full moon was coming.

A/N: May 7, 1943 was one of the last instances of a German blitzkrieg attack in Cardiff.

Lyall Lupin, according to Pottermore, was around thirty in 1959-60, making his date of birth somewhere around 1929. This would put him in third year in 1942-43. There is no birthdate for Hope, but I put her at a few years younger. Anything about their families is completely made up on my part.