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Chapter Text

Some nights, some votes, some elections matter more than the rest. One such night, warm for October and falling on a Sunday in 1976, would be remembered long after. The Department of Magic had cast its ballots at midnight. The next morning, Hogwartsdid not wake easily. It stirred, slow and uneven, as if even the stone could sense the weight hanging over the morning. Light crept in through tall windows, but it didn’t brighten much: the corridors carried a hush beneath the usual shuffle of shoes. Even the portraits seemed alert, their painted eyes following students hurrying toward the Great Hall.

By breakfast the hush had cracked into murmurs. Tables filled quickly—too quickly for a Monday morning. Owls had not yet come, but everyone knew they would. Everyone knew what they carried.

At the Gryffindor table, the boy named Remus Lupin leaned his forehead on his crossed arms. His stomach turned at the scent of breakfast, like it was wont to in the week of the full moon. But today, it was not that. Or not just that. He heard James and Sirius approach before he lifted his head. 

It was the sort of morning that begged for Quidditch. Clear sky, crisp air, the pitch still wet with dew. On any other Monday, with first period free, James would already be out there flying hard, training seriously. Sirius would have gone too, not for the practice, but for the pleasure of circling lazily overhead, shouting encouragements that sounded suspiciously like jeers.  But today, neither was dressed for the pitch.

James sat down, twirling his wand between his fingers.  “It’s today, isn’t it,” he said, though no one needed reminding. “Bet half of them were up before dawn waiting.”

Across the table, Sirius sat down, boots on the tabletop - something that would usually earn a glance from Remus.  “They won’t go through with it,” he said, reaching for the toast. “Even fossils know better than to write rubbish like that into law.” His eyes flicked down the table—just a glance at Lily bent over her plate—before he added, quieter, “They’d better not.”

Peter was already buttering toast with slow, distracted strokes, as if the knife might steady his hands. His eyes looked smaller than usual today. No wonder - Remus hadn’t heard him snore last night.  “They’ve been debating for months,” Peter said quietly. “The numbers were never close.”

Remus let his gaze drift down the long tables. Most of the Slytherins ate as though it were any other Monday, though a few wore the kind of smirk that made his stomach knot. Yaxley—the younger one—laughed loud enough to carry, nothing forced in it. The Muggleborns he knew sat close together, pale and restless. Mary hadn’t touched her plate. Lily kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if staring made the owls appear faster,

Everywhere else the talk ran easy, too easy. A Ravenclaw fourth-year leaned over his pumpkin juice to reassure his friend, “No reason to worry. We Ravenclaws will rise, after all.” Even Rowan Johnson, polished Gryffindor Head Boy, was grinning as if the morning belonged to him.

“Look at them,” Remus muttered as he propped his chin back on his arms. “Most don’t care.” 

Sirius gave a short, sharp laugh. “You’re usually better at reading the room, Moony.”

Remus pressed his forehead against the table, hoping for some relief from the cool wood.  It was Peter who broke the silence that followed.
“Dumbledore isn’t even at the staff table.”

“Of course not,” James scoffed. “He’s in London. Whatever’s happened, he’ll be sorting it out.”

Remus didn’t lift his head from the table. The scrape of plates, of clattering cutlery and chatting students seemed far away, muffled by the wood under his forehead.

James nudged him with his elbow, voice low enough that only he would hear his friend. “Remus - hey. Don’t look like that. You’ll be an afterthought in all this.”

Remus shifted just enough to glance up. James tried for a grin, but it didn’t quite reach. 

 James’ hazel eyes narrowed, daring him to argue. “And if it isn’t, we’ll hide you.”

Great. Another thing I can’t possibly manage to repay.

The thought never had time to spiral; the cacophony of hundreds of owls tore overhead. He sat bolt upright, every sound drowned out by the rush in his ears. All he saw was a tawny blur arrowing down at him. The owl made a beeline and dropped its delivery squarely before him. The Prophet struck the table with a heavy slap, louder than paper ought to sound. 

James leaned over at once. “Go on, then—let’s see it.”

Remus’s fingers fumbled at the string. He had expected numbers, some cautious headline about percentages, about reform. Not the black ink stretched bold across the fold.

Sirius leaned in, grin already crooked, as if he meant to sneer the whole thing away. But when Remus spread the paper flat, the grin caught.

Across the Prophet’s front page, the letters loomed:

WIZENGAMOT BACKS CHAME PLAN BY LANDSLIDE.

For a moment, the Hall’s noise surged on—clattering cutlery, shouts for pumpkin juice, owls winging back up to the rafters. But around their end of the table, silence pressed in close.

James stared. “By landslide?”

Remus’s eyes dragged down the print, though the words blurred for him. “Seventy-five percent.”

Sirius tipped his chair back with a sharp scrape, lips curling but not into a smile. “Fuck.”

Remus went on reading. “Seven tiers. Based on—listen to this—‘Magical Ancestry Number and Citizen Evaluation.’”

Sirius gave a bark of laughter that cracked halfway. “They made MANCE into law? Mother’s going to be beside herself. She used to rattle on about it like gospel. Said it was proper history, the way things were before people went soft. Common folk just said pureblood, halfblood, Muggleborn. She swore there’d been numbers once.”

James stared. “Numbers?”

“Little calculations,” Sirius muttered, stabbing at his plate. “Five points for this, three for that, like some rotten game of Gobstones. She used to say it was the only way to stop wizardkind from disappearing. I thought it was just her usual rot. And now it’s law? How in Merlin’s balls did that get through the Wizengamot?”

Remus read further, lips thinning. “‘As one senior figure put it—no one can pluck fruit from two orchards and then claim hunger besides.’” He let the paper sag a little. “They’re saying Muggleborns already get their lot. That they can live off the Muggle world if they have to.”

“The same thing as in Portugal?” Frank Longbottom leaned forward. “But that doesn’t even work here! We already live in the Muggle world. It’s not like there, where most wizards are tucked away in villages. Hogsmeade’s the only one we’ve got.”

“Not just where people live,” Remus muttered, dragging a finger down the column. “Muggle schools. Hospitals. Jobs. As if that makes any sense. Muggleborns already go to Muggle primary schools. Muggle hospitals can’t fix magical injuries. And jobs—Merlin’s sake. It’s not like we’re drowning in unemployed wizards.”

“They have been saying that unemployed wizards are using benefits for months now.” Alice chimed in. “Using *our* resources. So the Wizengamot actually swallowed those unsustained lies?”

“Not swallowed - used.” Frank snorted. “They’ve twisted it for their own gain. Can’t be the only excuse.”

James leaned forward, jaw tight. “Excuse or not, people believed it. That’s the worst part. Sit in the common room any night—you’ll hear someone moan about handouts. They lap it up because it’s easier than admitting the Ministry’s failing.”

Sirius shoved his plate away, knife clattering against the table. “Handouts, Merlin. My mother’s been shrieking about that rot for years. ‘Our gold, our schools, our traditions’—always ours , never theirs. The Wizengamot’s just dressing it up in fancier words so they can feel righteous while they do the same thing.”

“It’s not the only excuse.” Remus dragged his eyes down the page. “‘The new system is presented as a response to the decline of wizardkind. A century ago, one witch or wizard for every five hundred Muggles. Today, closer to one in five thousand.’” His voice faltered. “Then they start in on the numbers—how it’s a waste for purebloods to marry Muggles. How it’d be better, statistically, to keep wizard to wizard, and Muggleborns to marry out.”

He swallowed hard, stomach twisting. All he could think of was his own parents.

 His father, Lyall,  was a half-blood, by old standards. His mother, Hope, a muggle.
“That’s bollocks. Doesn’t even make sense.” Sirius’s jaw was clenched so tight Remus could almost feel it himself.

“Oh, Sirius. Your family won’t like this one.” Remus skimmed further down. “‘The traditional way of keeping pureblood with pureblood, however, has proven to diminish the number of wizards in the long run. Not only because it leads to… genetic complications’”—his mouth twisted—“‘but because modelling the current trends makes clear it lowers overall Magical Aptitude. Which, in turn, increases the number of non-magical children born to magical parents. See Chame et al, On the Topic of Magical Decline , yada yada.’”

“Huh.” Sirius stared at Remus. “You’re bamboozling me. So, they aren’t in favour of our ways? I mean their ways?”

“Merit,” Remus said flatly, eyes still on the page. “Merit-based rising through the Tiers. Very clever, very useful—then a Board can raise you.” He glanced up. “That wasn’t how it worked in Portugal, was it?”

“They’ve got a board,” Alice said, turning her head slightly, “but it doesn’t let you rise. Just… gives exceptions.” Her voice faltered. “This sounds… good. Doesn’t it?”

Remus murmured on. “Examples. How you can rise… or fall. Standard is no Muggle relatives, Tier One. Sirius, that’s your lot. Frank, Alice—Tier Two. They’re using school registers going back to the seventeen-eighties. Muggleborns, Tier Six. Squibs or Muggle kin, Tier Seven. Lose the right to magic after a criminal offense—you drop.”

His eyes caught a line further down. Humans suffering from lycanthropy… The words swam. See also WORA, page twelve.

His chest clenched. He couldn’t react—not here, not with Alice and Frank watching. He forced a swallow, dragged his finger back up the column. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice low. “It’s just… Hagrid.” The lie tasted dry, but he made himself say it.

James caught on at once. He straightened in his seat, voice pitched just loud enough for Alice and Frank to hear. “Right. He’s not allowed magic, yeah? That’d make him Tier Seven.”

Remus’s vision blurred, but he forced himself to focus on the next line. His finger traced it down the page. “Under direct sponsorship of a Tier One—or Tier Two with Board approval—they can use magic. Under supervision.”

Remus didn’t catch what Sirius said next. His eyes were locked on the single word in the margin: WORA.

He forced himself to move, fingers nudging the Prophet open to page twelve as if it were nothing. At the same time, Sirius, James, and even Peter picked up the slack—louder now, dragging Alice and Frank into an animated debate over the seven tiers. Their voices rose and tangled, a cover as deliberate as it was obvious, giving him the chance to read in silence.

---

Werewolf Oversight and Rehabilitation Act Ratified by Wizengamot
WORA approved by Wizengamot by overwhelming 95 percent majority. Only scattered dissenting voices recorded.

Not all individuals afflicted with lycanthropy present a danger to wizarding society. Ministry experts now confirm that a small proportion remain humans suffering from lycanthropy, unfortunate but redeemable. The majority, however, have been found to be what scholars term mimicking werewolves : at the moment of turning, the human soul is devoured, leaving only a beast that imitates human mannerisms without truly being human at all.

The Ministry has authorised a decisive remedy in the form of the soothing spike , a specially-enchanted device which, once implanted, distinguishes between the human sufferer and the mimic. For humans, the spike redistributes the violent energies of the full moon across the month, easing secondary symptoms. For mimicking werewolves, the spike—when paired with the new Rehabilitation Programme—renders them fully incapacitated during transformation. In both cases, bite incidents are projected to fall sharply.

All werewolves must present themselves at an approved testing centre before the November 1976 full moon. After that date, any who remain untested will be presumed mimics and automatically placed into rehabilitation. Humans suffering from lycanthropy who comply will enter a shortened programme and, with the sponsorship of a Tier One wizard—or Tier Two with Board approval—may live without direct Ministry oversight. These individuals will be classified as Tier Seven, with potential to rise to Tier Six through proven merit.

Mimicking werewolves who undergo rehabilitation will henceforth be known officially as Lycans. Lycans will remain under Ministry care, though arrangements are being made for qualified Tier One families (or Tier Two with Board approval) to host them. Participating individuals will undergo a period of Ministry training to ensure proper handling and supervision. Lycans will be classified under the new Bipedal Assets statute, placed outside the human tier system but above dark creatures, occupying Tier None.

Both humans suffering from lycanthropy and Lycans will be guaranteed food, shelter, and care in exchange for Ministry-sanctioned labour. Officials hail the Act as a humane and pragmatic advance: compassion for the truly afflicted, and productive use for those otherwise condemned to beastliness.

---

 

Remus rose before he knew he meant to, the bench scraping back too loud. The Prophet stayed behind, splayed open like it belonged to someone else. He didn’t look at James or Sirius, didn’t look at anyone. Just needed space—air, time, something. His legs carried him out of the Hall, steps echoing hollow against stone.

Chapter Text

Sirius grabbed Remus' backpack with one hand and the paper with the other, and let James continue to talk to Frank and Alice. They seemed slightly surprised, but James would handle it. He always did. He didn't think about why, just that wherever Remus had gone, he'd been white as a sheet.
Sirius dodged several people - he caught some of the discussions amongst them. '... it's marginally better than you know who...' and '... Most people are tier three or four. They can't possibly lock everything to tier ones...'

Sirius ignored the feeling in his heart. The one that made him feel guilty and furious knowing he was 'tier one', despite not having done anything to be granted that. He had seen the list of names. Black was, naturally, on top. With a 'perfect' history, basically meaning that as a Black, you couldn't quite marry someone who had a muggle grandmother, it meant that every Black had no muggle great-grandparents. That, in turn, led to the Blacks having a perfect 75 score. Maybe, if a great grandparent had been a half muggle, it would go down to 73, but for Sirius, that was not the case.

He wasn't thinking about this, clearly not, when he nearly ran over a small girl. Breath caught by the impact, Sirius sent her to fall on the ground.
Only then did Sirius realise who this was. Long, perfect dark hair that was ruined by a face that perpetually looked wide-eyed, like a child caught stealing treats. Lavinia Selwyn was not a child - she was in fact older than Sirius by just a few months. She was not a beautiful girl - far from it. Her nose was too wide and flat, and her ears made her look barely older than thirteen. On top of that, freckles did not help her childlike look. She did wear her normal school robes, although instead of the coloured school sashes, her green sash was made of satin with fine silver stitching. Her eyes were large light brown that made some mistakenly think her innocent, even harmless. He knew she was neither.

"Black, why are you always causing trouble?" A melodic voice said. "Two points from Gryffindor for not looking where you're going."

Sirius bit away an insult as he turned to see the other seventh-year Slytherin trio of girls. Wisteria Travers was, unlike Selwyn, a very pretty woman. Although she knew a little too well how pretty she was. She was almost on Sirius' eye level, her heeled shoes doing only a little work. She wasn't wearing her green sash, just the common black one with Hogwarts' crest. But there was no doubt she was Slytherin, with fine silver snakes that kept her blonde hair out of her green eyes. Her Head Girl crest neatly embroidered on her chest instead of the pins that normal people used.
Next to the blonde girl stood slightly plump Aurora Plymouth. Her dark skin signalled her Shacklebolt heritage, but that was unfortunately the only thing she had inherited from the decent family. Plymouth was a snake. All three of them were. Sirius remembered attending primary 'school' with Selwyn and Travers. School was maybe generous, with a dozen pureblood students a year that came together a few times a month to learn the basics - writing, simple math, literature, bloodlines, basic French and Latin.
Travers and Plymouth were blocking his way to the doors of the Great Hall.

"Well?" Selwyn asked after she got up.

"Well what?" Sirius retorted. The arm that carried Remus' backpack slowly becoming numb. He wondered how many books Remus had stashed. Not that Remus was bookish - he just liked to pretend so he didn't need to intervene. Sirius liked that about Remus.

"Are you going to apologize?" Selwyn's lips almost smiled.

"Don't bother, Lav." Travers cut in. "He is just panicking that his mother is on the board."

"I don't care about that." Sirius lazily swung Remus' backpack on his shoulder. That wasn't true. He did care. From the little he had read before Remus had gone to the page with the werewolf news, he had caught how the Board would be directly responsible for deciding if people could rise or fall based on merit. He had not realized that his mother was on the board. He should have known. His house would. Especially since their PRISM score had been the highest amongst all purebloods thanks to Sirius himself. Which meant that currently, it was the Blacks on top once again.

Selwyn narrowed her eyes. "You don't?"

Plymouth laughed a full chuckle. "He's lying, Lav. Of course he cares. If Walburga is on the board, he will lose his privelege the moment he turns seventeen."

Selwyn just kept staring with those too large amber eyes.

"Get out of the way." Sirius lowered his voice.

"Threatening a head girl, Black?" Travers asked and she turned to her companions, giggling. "Look at Black. He's so shocked he forgot his manners. Maybe we ought to teach him."

"I think he's just running to the owlery to write an apology letter to his mum." Plymouth added.

Selwyn shook her head. "He is chasing his friend."

Sirius clacked his tongue. "Get out of my way."

"Black. Your friend. He's the prefect, no?" Selwyn's voice softened. "He will be fine. Prefects will probably be raised to Tier Four if they apply. I think he went upstairs."

He almost laughed from incredulity. But at least Selwyn stepped back and let him through. Sirius didn't bother thanking her as he ran again. Selwyn wouldn't lie outright. She might be a serpent but she had never lied. Back in their 'school', Selwyn had always been a perfect attendee that made Sirius, who back then had embarrasingly cared about things, look like he couldn't remember anything. She had once thrown her shoe at him for being lazy in a debate. She had been seven. She would manipulate the teachers by acting shyly. But she would never lie. She just didn't bother.

The noise of the great hall was cut off when he exited, giving blissfull silence. He had an inkling where Remus had run off to. Taking the stairs two steps at a time, he found himself on the fourth floor. At the end of a particular empty corridor, there was a double wall. Behind it, a cozy room with a single chair and a view on the forbidden forest. Remus sat cross legged on the ground in the corner.

"Sirius..." Remus said without looking up. Remus always said Sirius made a lot of noise walking. Sirius had never noticed. He thought Remus' ability to tell his friends apart without looking was a little off anyway. His lycantrophy caused that, which made Sirius, despite wanting to be better, always a little uncomfortable.

Right. Lycantrophy.

Sirius dropped Remus' backpack next to Remus and sat down on the ground next to his friend as he read the paper. The more he read, the more he actually understood why Remus had run.

With a very small voice, the smallest Sirius had heard of him, Remus mumbled "Will you sponsor me?"

Sirius froze. Sponsorship. It read as ownership with ribbons. "Merlin, Moony!" then immediately softened his voice, "of course."

*If my mother drops my tier, I can't.*

He would think of something. "Otherwise, Dumbledore can, right? If he won't be Tier One, no one will."

Remus made a choking sound as he wrapped his arms around his legs. "I can't... Do you think I am a human with Lycantrophy or a mimic?"

"You're a human afflicted by a curse." Sirius shot back.

"But will they see it that way?"

"If you're not a human, then no one will be according to their stupid standards." Sirius replied.

Remus just folded smaller as if he could vanish if he occupied little space. Sirius played a little with the paper but stopped when, with every crinkle, Remus shocked. Sirius saw the words 'Bipedal asset'. It was obscene.

"You won't actually get tested, right?" Sirius asked.

"I have to. Before November." Remus replied, voice half muffled by his knees."If I don't... They will have reasons to..."

"They won't know. You're not registered." Sirius tossed back.

At that moment, James and Peter arrived. James' hair was perfect - which meant little good. The only time when James' hair was unruffled was when he was too distraught otherwise. James and Sirius looked at one another and had a silent conversation. Sirius gave James the paper and his friend quickly read it.

"But what if it works?" Remus looked up for a second. "What if that spike really works against the secondary effects of being a werewolf? Then..." He didn't continue and looked down again. The sun finally reached the window and the small room burst aflame with golden morning light.

James puffed up with protective energy, the light brightening his hazel eyes to an almost green. "He's not seriously considering going in? Moony, you won't get in. I will protect you. Hide you. Like Sirius said, you're not registered. They won't know. If you go in... You won't be allowed back at Hogwarts. Wait a few years, then we'll know the real effects of the spike."

Remus' bushy eyebrows furrowed. And he finally let go of his knees. One hand ruffled through his hair before nodding. "Yeah, I might do that."

"Don't go." Peter sat down next to Remus. "Sirius and James will protect you here."

"I know." Remus sighed. "I suppose... I will go to professor Dumbledore."

"I don't think he's back yet." James replied as he slung his backpack to the ground. He reached into it and grabbed a piece of empty parchment from it.

"I swear I'm up to no good."

The marauder's map became visible. It was far from complete. For example, Dumbledore's office was not yet mapped. "He isn't in the Great Hall." James scanned the map. "Nor between his room and the great hall."

"I'll wait." Remus said. "In front of his office."

"We'll accompany you-"

"No. I just... need some time alone." Remus got up and shook his legs out. He was too tall to sit folded up for long. "However, I would like to know the password for the gargoyles. They get annoying."

"Most Minted Marbles." James told Remus. Remus nodded.

"Don't follow me. For once. I'll be fine, just... Let me do this alone." Remus said, readying his backpack. He looked at Sirius and James. His brown eyes looking strict.

"Fine, fine." James said.

Remus focused his eyes on Sirius. "Promise me you won't follow me. If I'm still waiting in an hour, fine."

Sirius sighed dramatically. "Fine."

With that, Remus squeezed between the walls to leave the room.

When his footsteps had vanished, James put the map on the floor so they could watch, transfigured a pillow from nothing and sat down on it. Sirius snorted. James huffed. "You knocked me off my broom, Black. I want something soft to settle on."

"I am so sorry for your delicate behind, Prongs." Sirius said.

"And I am so sorry you allow your own to touch the cold, cold floor despite being a wizard."

Peter chuckled, but it was far more hollow than usual.

They followed the footsteps accompanied by 'Remus Lupin' that went to the seventh floor.

James folded the prophet. "He's still thinking about getting that bloody spike."

"He won't do it." Sirius leaned back against the wall, spinning his wand. "He's not an idiot. He just wants to confirm it with Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore didn't vote in favour of it, did he?" Peter murmered, taking the folded-up prophet. "It doesn't say."

"Of course Dumbledore didn't! That's probably why he's still in London." James replied shortly.

And then Sirius saw Lily’s name move toward Remus’, their paths meeting before the Headmaster’s office.

“Or it’s about making sure Tier Six students still get to attend,” he said quietly, mostly to himself. “Dumbledore was against that too. Tier Six students or a single werewolf.”

James made a sound, sharp and jealous. “Prick. Wouldn’t let us go, but Evans? No, she’s fine.”

“I don’t think he had a choice in denying her.” Sirius allowed himself a grin, faint and quick. “You know how she is.”

James’s fingers were already in his hair, smoothing it, ruining it again. “Yeah,” he said, far too softly. “I do.”

Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the ink figures pause before the gargoyles. The light on the parchment caught in his eyelashes, flickered. “Wonder why she’s going to visit the big man.”

---

The castle quieted as Remus climbed. It was the sort of silence that settled between classes—thin, listening. His footsteps echoed soft against the stone until he heard another pair fall into rhythm behind him. He glanced back and caught the auburn gleam of Lily Evans’ hair in the light from the windows.

“Oh. Good morning.” He tried, instinctively, to take up less space, as if shrinking might make her turn around.

“Remus.” She came level with him, expression intent. “Why are you going to Dumbledore?”

He hesitated. He couldn’t tell her—not that. But he didn’t want to lie either.
“The tiers,” he said finally, the words quiet but steady.

“Me too.” Her nod was brisk, righteous. “Good that at least the sixth-year Gryffindor prefects are taking a stand.” Before he could answer, she caught his arm and tugged. “Come on. If we go together, it’ll show we’re united.”

He let her lead him, half pulled, half walking. He didn’t mind Lily, not really. She was sharp and impatient in the ways he wasn’t. As co-prefects, she’d scolded him often enough for being late or distracted, but never cruelly. He’d always meant to be better about time, about rules, and somehow never quite managed.

When he eased his arm free, she didn’t protest—just quickened her stride, all purpose and motion. Her voice carried easily through the still air as they moved: talk of injustice, of how the Board was a farce, two Tier One voters able to veto anything; how the word merit was only there to make it palatable.

Remus listened, though the anger she spoke from was not the one he felt. His own anger had cooled into dread—toward the WORA, toward the word asset. She didn’t mention it, and he was grateful.

They reached the gargoyles. The creatures loomed grey and severe, jaws locked in snarls, one paw raised mid-motion. The corridor around them was empty except for portraits leaning from their frames to watch. The bell rang somewhere below, oddly sounding normal in a day that was anything but.

“Do you have an appointment?” one of the gargoyles asked, its voice sly and stone-dry.

“No,” Lily said, standing straight, chin lifted. “But we need to speak to Dumbledore.”

“He is absent,” said the other gargoyle, its stone tongue grinding faintly as it moved. “But someone from the Ministry is in the room.”

Lily blinked. “Ministry?”

“They asked us,” the gargoyle went on, voice echoing from within its throat, “to let angry students pass.” The eyes rolled downward, settling on her, then on Remus. “Are you angry?”

Lily drew herself up. “Yes,” she said. “Quite.”

The gargoyle gave a sound like a snort of gravel. Its twin’s jaw shifted; the two statues leaned back in tandem and the staircase beyond began to turn.

Remus stood still for a heartbeat longer. The question lingered—are you angry—and he didn’t know what the right answer was. By the time he moved to follow her, Lily was already on the steps, the light of the upper landing catching in her hair like a flare.

It wasn’t the first time Remus had entered the office, nor the first time he’d climbed these slow-turning steps that always seemed to measure his resolve. He’d been summoned here for his condition more than once, and scolded with the others when their mischief had gone too far. The office always smelled faintly of warm hearthsmoke and magic - if magic could be smelled.

The perch by the door was empty, no glint of gold or low, musical croon. *Fawkes is gone*, Remus thought, and the absence pressed at the room like missing warmth.

Near the hearth, two strangers stood waiting.

The man was tall, well-built, and far too composed for someone standing in another man’s office. His dark hair was struck through with clean streaks of white that only seemed to sharpen him, the sort of contrast that drew the eye rather than aged it. He held his posture like a politician.

Beside him, the woman was unremarkable in almost every visible way: average height, average build, plain brown hair drawn back neatly. Yet her grey eyes were sharp and cool, narrowing as they fell on the two students as though measuring their use.

Both wore formal Ministry attire—robes pressed to severity, wands visible but holstered with studied restraint. Neither looked familiar. Neither looked friendly.

"Ah." The woman said. Her voice was slightly grating. "Two prefects, if I am not incorrect."

"Angry Gryffindor prefects." the man's tone was lighter, almost amused.

Remus almost instinctively hid his red-banded sash. The woman noticed and returned a mirthless smile.

"Where's professor Dumbledore?" Lily asked. "And who are you?" Remus really admired her steadfastness in that moment.

The woman gave a shallow bow. Gesture, not respect. "Regrettably detained in London. I am Nemene Bonn. And this is Samuel Lodgkins. We are here to hear you out."

Lodgkins smiled thinly, one hand folded over the other. The firelight caught on the ring at his thumb, the old Auror's seal showing - deprecated for a few years, but still carrying the weight of authority.

Lily straightened. “Hear us out about what?”

“Your concerns,” Bonn said, the word turned delicate by her accent. “Your fears, if you prefer. The Ministry is not unsympathetic to students, especially those struggling to understand recent reforms.”

Remus caught the faintest flicker in Lodgkins’s expression—a trace of amusement, maybe contempt—and felt his throat tighten

“But first—Lodgkins, if you’d be so kind—keep notes.” Bonn’s tone was light, clipped at the edges, as though each word had been filed down beforehand. She turned back to them, the lines of her face softening into what might have passed for reassurance in poorer light. “I would like to hear your names.”

Lodgkins withdrew a slim leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket and flicked it open with the ease of habit. His quill came to life between his fingers, scratching faintly though he hadn’t yet written anything.

“We don’t intend to keep this for Board degradation or anything of that sort in future,” Bonn went on. “We merely wish to inform Professor Dumbledore later of whom we’ve spoken with. Transparency, you see.”

Her eyes lingered on Lily first—taking in the hair, the sash, the certainty. Then on Remus, who felt that glance slide over him like a measurement. He wondered if she already knew his name before he spoke it, if the act of asking was only part of the ritual.

Lily hesitated—just the briefest pause, a breath caught between suspicion and pride—then she drew herself up to her full height. The light from the hearth caught the auburn in her hair, sharp against the sombre tones of the office.

“I am Lily Evans,” she said. Her voice was clear, formal in a way that made Remus’s own name sound heavier when it followed. “And this—this is Remus Lupin.”

Lodgkins’s quill moved at once, the nib whispering over parchment. The sound of it seemed to fill the room, a slow, steady scratching that made Remus’s skin prickle. Bonn inclined her head again, a small approving motion—as if the confession of names had been a test they’d passed.

“Good,” she said, her tone softening. “It’s always best to begin with truth. Now, before we continue,” Bonn said, folding her hands neatly before her. Her voice didn’t change—still even, still carrying that mild civility that made the words sound almost kind. “Mister Lupin. We have trustworthy information that tells us you are a werewolf. It is a good thing you came to us.”

The sentence landed without ceremony, without pause for effect.

Lily’s intake of breath broke the stillness like glass. Her eyes snapped wide, the green of them suddenly too bright in the dim office. She looked from Bonn to Remus, back again, as if waiting for someone to laugh, to say no, that’s absurd.

Remus couldn’t move. He felt the heat rise at the base of his neck, slow and choking. There was no surprise in him—only the dull shock of hearing it spoken aloud, the word werewolf standing in the air like a drawn blade.

Lodgkins didn’t look up from his notebook; the quill scratched on, steady and patient. The sound was obscene in its normality.

Lily’s voice came out small and thin. “That’s not—” She stopped, swallowed, tried again. “That can’t be—”

But Bonn only smiled faintly, as though the reaction were expected, as though she’d rehearsed it. “It is all right, Miss Evans. We are not here to shame him. The Ministry’s new measures are intended to help those like Mister Lupin. Rehabilitation, not punishment.”

Remus finally managed a sound—half breath, half word. “Help,” he repeated, the syllable rough in his mouth.

Lily moved before Remus could breathe again. One sharp step forward and she was between him and Bonn, shoulders squared, chin high, the red of her sash cutting across the dark air like a wound.

“You won’t take him,” she said.

The words weren’t shouted; they didn’t need to be. The quiet in them was fiercer than any raised voice.

Bonn regarded her with the faint surprise of someone not accustomed to being opposed so directly. Then she smiled, the kind that softened nothing. “Take him?” she repeated, as though the notion were a mishearing. “Miss Evans, please. This is not an arrest. We’re simply offering assistance. Surely you’ve read the Act—WORA ensures humane treatment for those who comply.”

Lodgkins glanced up from his notes, his gaze skimming across Lily’s stance—her body angled slightly forward, her hand half-lifted in instinctive guard—and then to Remus behind her. His eyes lingered for a beat too long. “It would be wiser,” he said mildly, “to let us determine the extent of the affliction before judgment. Cooperation is looked upon favourably under the new system.”

Lily didn’t move. “You’re not determining anything,” she said. “And he doesn’t need your favour.”

The flames cracked in the hearth; one of the portraits coughed into its sleeve. The sound was small, almost apologetic.

Remus watched her from behind, every muscle in his body tight, torn between terror and a strange, rising awe. He’d never seen anyone make a Ministry official take a step back with nothing but conviction. Bonn’s smile didn’t falter, but the warmth of it curdled.

“Lodgkins,” Bonn said, her voice dropping to a level that didn’t need volume to command. “Let’s proceed.”

The man closed the notebook with a soft, deliberate snap. The quill still hovered for a moment before he tucked it neatly behind his ear. His movements were practiced, precise—the motions of someone used to making unpleasant things look orderly.

Lily didn’t flinch, but Remus felt her weight shift, the slight lean that meant she was bracing herself.

“Miss Evans,” Bonn said, her tone turning almost maternal, though the edge beneath it could cut glass. “If Mister Lupin does not come with us right now, it will do him no good.”

“No,” Lily said. Her arm came up at once, firm across Remus’s chest.

He felt everything at once—fury, shame, gratitude so fierce it hurt. The air around them seemed to tighten, the smell of smoke and polish sharp in his nose. Lily hadn’t even flinched, hadn’t paused to weigh what she’d just learned. She stood there, unshaken, as if his secret changed nothing.

“No, Lily. I’ll…” His voice wavered, caught between reason and surrender. “I will come.”

“Absolutely not.” Her voice cut over his. “We will go—now. Professor Dumbledore—” she began, edging them toward the door, keeping herself between him and the Ministry pair. “You’ll have to go through him first.”

The words gave Remus a flicker of strength. He moved with her, a half-step back, ready to run the moment she did.

Then the flash came—wordless, fast.

Lodgkins’s wand was in his hand before Remus had even seen the motion. Red light burst from the tip, swallowing the room in a single pulse.

Lily’s cry split the air; Remus saw her reach for him, too late. The floor tilted, colour folding in on itself. The last thing he saw before the dark came rushing in was the Auror’s ring catching the firelight—an old mark of service, glinting over the body of a man who’d just cast on a student.

Chapter Text

Lying on a bed of steel, Remus awoke.

The first thing he knew was cold. It seeped through his robes. Into his spine, his shoulders, even his teeth. He drew a breath that tasted of disinfectant - the muggle kind. He opened his eyes. The room was light, with bright lamps in all four corners.
He sat up, moved to find his wand, but it was gone.

"That was... unfortunate." Bonn said.

Her voice came from the right, calm as if she’d been waiting for him to wake. She was seated at a narrow metal table, robes folded neatly around her, one leg crossed over the other. The clean gleam of the room made her seem unreal, as though she’d been cut from the same cold material as the bed.

Remus swallowed, throat dry. “Where—” He had to stop and try again. “Where am I?”

Bonn tilted her head slightly, studying him the way a healer might examine a patient—or a researcher a specimen. “You’re safe,” she said. “That’s what matters. Now, let's proceed with the test, won't we? I usually don't attend, but you have a very high chance of succeeding. Please, these are Josef and Prim. They have done this a few times already."

The man—Josef—was short, heavy-shouldered, his robes replaced with a white apron marked faintly with stains that no amount of cleansing spell had fully lifted. He gave a curt nod, eyes expressionless. The woman beside him—Prim—looked younger, with neat braids coiled at the back of her head and a quill tucked behind one ear like an ornament. She didn’t smile, though she tried to.

Josef began arranging instruments on a tray: silver and glass, a wand fitted with tubing, something that hummed faintly when touched. Prim followed him with parchment and a clipboard, noting something each time he moved.

Remus pushed himself upright against the steel, the sound scraping through the stillness. “What test?”

Bonn’s eyes flicked to him. “The soothing spike, of course,” she said, as if he should have known. “If it works as we expect, you’ll be among the first to demonstrate that humans suffering from lycanthropy can reintegrate safely. You’ll be helping others, Mister Lupin. That must be some comfort.”

Remus' breath came shallow and quick. The air felt heavier now. He shifted his weight, sliding one leg towards the edge of the bed. The metal was slick under him, but he managed to plant a foot on the floor.

He moved anyway. A single step, or half of one—he wasn’t sure which—before a whisper of air brushed past his ear and something cracked against the bedframe.

Prim’s wand was already levelled. A word—soft, efficient—and ropes leapt from its tip. They moved like living cords, twisting over his arms, his chest, his legs. The first touch was cold; the next, searing. Within a breath, the bindings had pulled tight enough that he could feel the steel pressing through the fabric of his robes.

“Stop—” The sound came out ragged, barely more than a gasp.

Prim didn’t respond. She only adjusted her grip on the wand, the cords cinching with obedient precision.

Bonn glanced up at last, expression serene. “Please don’t struggle, Mister Lupin. It makes the restraints overcompensate, and they leave marks that heal poorly. Josef?”

The man was already at the tray, selecting something small and silver that glinted like a needle.

Remus fought the ropes once more, instinct, nothing more—then stopped, breath coming in broken bursts. The hum in the walls grew louder, steadier, until it felt like it was inside his ribs.
Josef approached with slow, deliberate steps, the weight of his boots ringing dull against the steel floor. The scent of antiseptic sharpened as he came closer.

“Sit still,” he warned. His voice carried the rough patience of someone long accustomed to resistance.

Remus tried to twist away, but Josef’s grip found his shoulder, firm and impersonal. A shove, not cruel, but absolute, pressed him forward until his chest met the chill of the bed’s frame. The ropes cut into his arms as he strained against them.

“Focus on breathing,” Josef murmured, as if that made it mercy.

The man’s hand found the base of his skull, thick fingers spreading against the nape of his neck. He pushed Remus’s head down just enough that the skin stretched tight along the spine

Remus tried to obey, to breathe as told. But each breath snagged on itself, cold air scraping down his throat, lungs refusing to draw deep. He felt the first touch of metal against the back of his neck—small, cool, precise—and every muscle in him went rigid.

It hurt.

The pain came sharp and immediate, radiating out from the base of his skull like fire threaded through wire. The sound it tore from him was somewhere between a gasp and a growl—quickly swallowed, forced down. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron.

Breathe through it. Breathe.

He’d told himself that before. Every month. Every time his bones began to split and shift, and his body forgot what it meant to be human. This was nothing like that and yet somehow worse for its precision, its deliberate calm.

The spike slid deeper, guided by Josef’s steady hand. The pressure built until it felt as if something foreign had taken root inside him, cold and pulsing. He focused on the rhythm of his breath—short, shallow, counting in his head the way he always did when the change came.

One. Two. Three.

His fingers twitched against the ropes; the cords held. Sweat ran down his temples, though the air around him was freezing.

“Hmm.” Prim leaned close, watching the base of his neck where faint light pulsed beneath the skin. “No response. It’s a mimic.”

The words slid through the air with clinical ease, followed by the soft scratch of her quill against parchment.

Bonn made a small, approving sound. “How unfortunate.”

Remus couldn’t lift his head, but he heard the turn of fabric as she stepped nearer. Her voice stayed gentle, almost sympathetic. “Apply the Lycabond.”

Josef moved without hesitation. Metal rattled softly on the tray; something heavier was lifted, its weight announced by a low mechanical hum. Prim adjusted her clipboard, noting the time.

“Wait—” Remus tried, but the word barely formed. The spike had left his limbs numb and distant. He felt the tremor before the touch—the static charge of a charm being primed.

Bonn came to stand just beyond his line of sight. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “The bond ensures safety. It will make certain you can no longer harm anyone—including yourself.”

The hum deepened, the air thick with the scent of ozone.

He twisted against the ropes, a useless, instinctive motion. The cords held. Josef’s hand settled at his throat to steady him

Then, something cold clicked around his neck. A metallic clasp settling against skin, precise and final.

Remus flinched. The sound it made was small, yet it echoed through him like a lock turning somewhere deep inside his chest.

“Hold it for a few moments more, Josef…” Prim’s voice was low but clear, every syllable recorded as if part of a ritual. Her quill scratched the timing onto her parchment. “Now the collar is attached.”

He felt the weight of it then—heavier than it should have been, though it fit snugly against his throat. The surface was smooth, cool enough that he could feel his own pulse against it.

Josef’s hand still pressed between his shoulders. “Keep still,” he murmured, though Remus couldn’t have moved if he tried.

All right,” Prim said, her voice too cheerful for the room. “That was it. Now, Nemene, do you want to try the bracelet to check if everything worked?”

Remus couldn’t see her. His head was still bowed, muscles slack, the ropes now loosened but not removed. He heard a chair scrape lightly, someone rising—had to be Bonn.

Bracelet? The word snagged in his mind like a thorn. What did that mean?

Then—another click.

“Lupin,” Bonn said. Her voice was different now—closer, and quieter. “Look at me.”

He lifted his head slowly, muscles aching.

Nemene Bonn stood barely a foot away, one hand raised. Around her wrist sat a band of black metal—sleek, unadorned, and very deliberately crafted. It might’ve looked unremarkable if not for what hung from it: a chain of very fine links, almost delicate in construction, that led taut from her bracelet… to the collar around his neck.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that connection.

“You are now a Lycan,” Bonn said, her tone unchanging, as though she were stating a result rather than a sentence. “The collar you wear and this specific bracelet right here are connected. They are called the Lycabond. It will protect you, and us.”

The chain shifted slightly as she moved her wrist, not with force—just a subtle demonstration. The weight of it tugged faintly at his neck, a reminder. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to show.

Prim used her wand and the ropes holding Remus fell away. Remus didn't move. Bonn moved closer. So he tried to move subtly. He was able to do that.
He waited—counting the rhythm of her approach, the soft brush of her robes, the distance closing inch by inch. When she came near enough that he could smell the faint trace of something floral beneath the sterile air, he moved.

Every muscle that still answered him sprang at once. He threw his full weight forward, arm arcing up in a desperate swing that caught her clean across the face. The impact jolted through his shoulder—satisfying for the barest instant—before the pain arrived.

It came like a blow from inside his skull. His vision flared white; his jaw locked; fire tore across his cheek and into his temple. The bed clanged against the wall as he doubled over, a groan breaking loose before he could stop it.

When the brightness ebbed, Bonn was still standing. Not a mark on her save for the faint reddening where his fist had landed. She was smiling, the same small, measured smile she’d worn since the start.

“The first lesson, then,” she said, voice almost tender. “Everything your active handler feels, you feel tenfold." She was holding a handkerchief that smelled like dittany. As if she had expected it.

“The second lesson I give you for free,” Bonn said, dabbing at her cheek with the handkerchief. “That was the only time you will ever be able to move with the intent to hurt someone. As long as someone is wearing your bracelet, they can decide to allow that—or deny it. Try it.”

Remus stared up at her, chest heaving. The chain between them lay slack, glinting faintly in the hard light.

Then he spat. The motion was small, weak from exhaustion, but the spittle caught her collarbone, a sharp dot against her immaculate robes.

Bonn sighed, not angry, not even surprised. Just weary, like a teacher faced with another slow pupil.

It began almost gently. A crawling at his feet, pins and needles under the skin. Then the sensation sharpened, climbed his legs—itching, burning, stabbing all at once. It was like plunging into a field of nettles and being unable to pull free.

He jerked once, a hoarse sound breaking out of him before he could stop it.

“Any active handler can send anything,” Bonn said evenly, as if reciting procedure. “whatever is necessary to maintain order. As long as your bracelet is worn, you will obey.”

The burning spread up his spine, crept into his hands, his throat. He tasted metal again.

“If no one wears your bracelet,” she added, folding her handkerchief away, “you still cannot remove the collar, of course.”

“Now, let’s bring you to your room,” Bonn said, her tone returning to that clipped, professional calm—as if the last few minutes had been no more than administrative formality. “Prim, can you… ah, thank you.”

Prim stepped forward, holding out a small tag between two gloved fingers. It was thin and rectangular, made of pale metal, its edges rounded smooth by handling. Bonn took it and turned it toward Remus so he could see. The tag gleamed under the sterile lights, stamped with a single code in neat block lettering: L25.

“Once you reach Phase One,” she said, conversational now, “your name will be etched on it.”

She adjusted the fine chain linking her bracelet to his collar, sliding the tag into place between the leash and the metal band at his throat. The clasp clicked once, quiet but final.

Remus stared at it—the simple piece of white steel, blank except for those characters. The collar felt heavier with it attached, as though every small addition drew him further from himself.

Bonn gave the leash a small, testing tug. “There. Secure.”

The movement forced his chin up. Her smile returned, smooth and instructive. “You see? We will make you a good Lycan yet."

Chapter Text

Lily woke in total darkness and lay there beneath comfy blankets for a moment. She sat up promptly. She felt around the bed and found a light switch. The light turned on and coloured the small room in a pleasant golden light.
Lily got up- she was still wearing her hogwarts robes- and looked around her room. It wasn't a cell. If it was supposed to be one, it was the most luxurious one Lily had ever heard of. The room was large enough to hold a large bed, a desk and chair, a bookcase, a wardrobe and a nice settee with reading lamp in one corner. The other corner had a door to the bathroom. Although it did not have a bath, it had a shower. It was quite modern albeit muggle- y.
The entrance door had a small peep hole, and through it, Lily saw the outside corridor. White and modern.
She tried opening it, but found it locked. Searching her robes for her wand, she found it missing, naturally. She sighed. Of course.
She walked to the bookcase, where some books were neatly stacked. 'Lycantrophic Dangers', 'Werewolf attacks in Europe, 1900- 1960', 'the psychiatry of the werewolf' and titles like that. Some in French, Russian and languages she didn't know. But it was clear it all displayed the same: werewolf propaganda.
She sat down on the settee. Right. What had happened? After that red light, she... That man, Lodgkins, had turned on her. Then... nothing.
Remus.
Remus was a werewolf.
Well, that didn't come as a huge surprise. Severus had talked about that. Hypothesized. Lily had wanted to hear nothing of it, then. Even if Remus was a werewolf then Dumbledore must know. And if Dumbledore allowed it, it couldn't be half bad. So even though she had partially wanted to agree with Severus, Severus would always have decided that Remus being a werewolf was something horrible. And she just couldn't agree. Remus probably had never asked for it. And she wasn't afraid of Remus.
Severus was a prick anyway. She had severed the connection end of last year. She hadn't regretted it for a moment.
No, Remus being a werewolf hadn't come as surprise. Right.
But why had he been taken now? Why had she been?
Rehabilitation? Yeah. That's what it had been. Right. Sure it would be. For Remus Lupin. Who usually only hurt people because of his inactions, not because of his actions.
Remus had always been an interesting case to Lily. She had barely spoken to him in their first four years. Then, when he'd been made prefect along with her, she'd come to known him a little bit more. Before that, she'd looked down on him, quite frankly. Because as much as she disliked Potter and Black, at least James and Sirius had fun. Lupin and Pettigrew had always looked like they'd only followed.
After their first times working together, she realized a few things. One: Remus was really kind and very good a prefect to young first years, helping them acclimate, being a trusted ear and listening to the underdogs. Two: he was terrible at making people follow rules, especially when it came to his friends. Three: he was often ill. Four: he was forgetful and so often late in duties. Not because he didn't want to, he almost seemed flustered and apologetic. He said it was due to his illness and him having to catch up. Which Lily believed, although she had also noticed that he couldn't say 'no' to James or Sirius to save his life. Which meant that if one of those was holding him up, he'd be late.
Someone knocking on the door startled Lily. She stared at her door. Thought for a bit.
Then got up and walked to the peep hole. Nemene Bonn was on the other side.
Lily opened the door and dashed out. Trying to get under Nemene and run. She then felt herself lift into the air.
Dangling around, she noticed Lodgkins looking at her. Concentrating and calm. "I am sorry, miss Evans." He had the decency to say. Lily huffed as the ex- auror moved Lily back to the room.
Nemene didn't seem too bothered.
"Ah, miss Evans. I have an offer to make." She said. "May I come in?"
"As if I have any other choice." Lily muttered. But stamped to sit on her bed.
"Thank you." Nemene replied. Lily stared daggers at the average woman with her high pitched voice. The woman closed the door behind her.
Nemene took a seat on the settee, legs crossed. She took Lily in, her brown eyes scanning Lily from top to bottom.
"Where is Remus?" Lily started.
"Safe. But I do not want to talk about mister Lupin right now." Nemene said calmly. "I want to talk about Lycans and make you an offer. First, Lycans. I think you may not have read the newest research on werewolves, am I right in believing that?"
Lily bit back an insult.
"Very well then." Nemene started. And she took a book out of her pocket. It was small and blue. On the front was a yellow symbol of a wolf howling. At first glance, it looked like the wolf was in front of a full moon, but on second glance, the circle could also be a collar. Lily swallowed. "Handbook for Handlers" it said.
Nemene opened the book and recited. "Werewolves in the past have often been declared humans except during the full moon. New research has proven that this is not the case. On all werewolves that have been tested thus far, it has been found that they are mere mimics of humans. Although their mimicry is passable on many occasions, a simple test can prove they are not. Research has also shown that treating them like humans will result in them being miserable in general. Treating them like wild beasts is only marginally better.
"Within packs, outside civilization, werewolves treat themselves as these beasts. It results in them often hunted and having to steal or kill for food and like many wild beasts, are often starving and do not contribute to society. With the right rehabilitation that this books discusses, they can live happy, fulfilled lives within civilization. With this method, it is proven that even 'feral' werewolves can be redeemed and rehabilitated."
Lily snorted.
"What is it?" Nemene asked gently.
"It sounds like rubbish." Lily replied. "First, werewolves are only living miserable lives because of society. Second, why is it relevant that they live useful lives?"
"Very good questions, miss Evans. And this is exactly why I would like to offer you a job."
"A job? I'm sixteen."
"And yet, you cut right through the case. Indeed- " Nemene leaned forward slightly, her tone shifting to something almost conspiratorial. "You see the contradictions immediately. Most people don't. They read the research and nod along, accepting the conclusions without questioning the premises."
"That's not a compliment," Lily said flatly. "You're saying I'd be good at spotting your lies."
Nemene's smile didn't falter. "I'm saying you'd be good at refining the truth. Making it more palatable. More effective." She gestured to the handbook still open in her lap. "This is a first draft, Miss Evans. It needs work. It needs someone who can see where the arguments are weak, where the language is too harsh, where we might lose our audience."
"You want me to help you write propaganda."
"I want you to help me help them," Nemene corrected. "The system we're building- the Facility, the rehabilitation programme- it's going to save lives. Werewolves who would've been killed on sight, who would've starved in the wilderness, who would've hurt people during transformations- they'll be safe. Fed. Cared for. Productive members of society."
"In captivity."," Lily said.
"In safety," Nemene replied. "Our rehabilitation provides safety. For us and for them."
Lily stared at her. The woman's face was so earnest, so calm, as if she genuinely believed every word she was saying. It made Lily's skin crawl.
"And what if I say no?" Lily asked. Nemene closed the handbook gently, tucking it back into her pocket.
"Then you stay here for a few days while we sort out the legalities. You're a minor, after all, and you've seen things that are- well, sensitive. We'll need to ensure you understand the importance of discretion."
"You mean you'll Obliviate me.""If necessary," Nemene said, without a hint of apology. "But I'd prefer not to. You're bright, Miss Evans. You have potential. I'd rather you join us willingly.
"She stood, smoothing her robes. "Think about it. I'll return in a few days."
"No," Lily said.Nemene paused at the door, glancing back with that same measured smile.
"I expected you'd say that. For now, at least." She gestured to a small bell mounted on the wall beside the door. "If you need anything- food, books, toiletries- ring that bell. Someone will come."She opened the door, stepped into the corridor, and closed it behind her. The lock clicked.Lily sat on the bed, staring at the place where Nemene had been, her hands clenched into fists.
-- -
Lily had read the handbook. It was worse than she'd feared.
It wasn't a complete handbook- it only seemed to be the first chapters. The opening detailed six phases of rehabilitation, though only Phase 0 was explained in full. The rest were listed by name only:
Taming: Phase 1: Breaking Hope, Phase 2: Breaking Mimicry
Training: Phase 3: Basic Training, Phase 4: Designation Training
Phase 5: Employment
Lily stared at those words for a long time. Breaking Hope. Breaking Mimicry.
They weren't even trying to hide it. This wasn't rehabilitation. This was dismantling someone piece by piece until there was nothing left but whatever they wanted to mold in its place.
Her hands trembled as she turned to Phase 0.
##Phase 0: Intake
Phase 0 begins immediately upon collar placement and continues for a minimum of seven days. The collar tag will remain white during this phase. Upon successful completion, the tag will turn green, signaling readiness for Phase 1.
Primary Objectives:
- Acclimation to captivity and collar
- Cessation of direct violence (toward staff or self)
- Establishment of baseline compliance
### Environmental Protocol:
The Lycan's room during Phase 0 is designed to prevent rest and encourage disorientation. Lighting will flicker at irregular intervals. Ambient sounds will play intermittent, preventing sustained sleep. Sleep duration should not exceed two hours at a time.
The room will contain no personal effects, no entertainment, no tasks. Boredom and sensory deprivation are integral to this phase. Staff check- ins will occur at irregular intervals to prevent predictability.
Rationale: A Lycan who cannot establish routine cannot establish resistance. Exhaustion reduces aggression and increases receptivity to instruction.
### Self- Harm Prevention:
Lycans in Phase 0 are monitored closely for signs of self- harm. Beds are charmed to trigger alarms if damaged. The collar prevents the Lycan from picking up potential weapons or engaging in asphyxiation. Any attempt at self- harm will result in immediate intervention.
Refusal to eat is classified as self- harm. Food will be provided (standard human meals at this stage). If the Lycan refuses, forced feeding protocols will be enacted.
*Note: Staff should remain compassionate but firm. Self- harm is often a final attempt at control. Removing that option is an act of care.*
Lily set the pages down carefully, as if they might burn her.
She sat there on the settee, the golden light from the lamp casting everything in a warm, pleasant glow that felt obscene given what she'd just read.
They were going to do this to Remus.
They were doing it to him right now.
Sleep deprivation. Isolation. Forced feeding. Torture dressed up as "intervention" and "care."
Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her knees, trying to steady herself, but the tremor wouldn't stop.
She thought of Remus- quiet, kind Remus, who apologized too much and never said no to his friends, who helped first- years find their classrooms and listened when no one else would.
She thought of him alone in a room like this one. Smaller, the handbook had said. With flickering lights and sounds that never stopped and no one to talk to except the people who were doing this to him.
Her throat tightened.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the handbook across the room, tear the pages to shreds, break something.
But there was nothing to break. Nothing to do. Just sit here in this comfortable room with its soft bed and warm light and wait for Nemene Bonn to come back and ask her again if she wanted to help.
Lily stood abruptly and crossed to the door. She pressed her ear against it, listening.
Nothing. Just silence.
She stepped back, staring at the lock, and thought about Remus on the other side of some other door. Locked in. Alone.
"I'm going to get you out," she whispered.
She didn't know how. But she would.
-- -
Five days passed. Lily could tell by the fake window set into the wall opposite her bed- it cycled through dawn, day, dusk, and night with mechanical precision, never quite matching the quality of real sunlight but close enough to keep track of time.
Five days of good meals delivered on trays- hot, carefully plated, always accompanied by a cup of tea that smelled faintly of chamomile. Three days of silence except for the footsteps in the corridor outside, muffled and infrequent. Five days of reading and rereading the handbook, looking for something- anything- that might tell her where Remus was, how to reach him, how to stop this.
She found nothing.
When the knock came again, Lily was sitting at the desk, the handbook open in front of her. She'd been staring at the same page for the past hour, the words blurring together. It was just after dinner, but she had only eaten half her curry.
She stood, crossed to the door, and looked through the peephole.
Nemene Bonn. Again.
Lily opened the door before Nemene could speak, blocking the threshold with her body. "I want to see Remus."
Nemene blinked. She smiled gently. "Miss Evans- "
"I want to see him," Lily repeated, voice steady despite the way her heart was hammering. "Before we talk about anything else. I want to see him. I want to know he's all right."
Nemene studied her for a long moment, then sighed softly. "Miss Evans, I came here to ask if you'd reconsidered my offer. If you've changed your mind about joining us."
"No," Lily said. "I haven't."
"I see." Nemene's tone didn't change- still calm, still patient. "Very well. I can arrange for you to meet him now. However, I will have to confirm with you that you will not join our cause?"
"Of course not." Lily said. Voice low.
"Then you will return to Hogwarts tomorrow. However, you do need to make an unbreakable vow to not tell anyone what you have seen here. Nor the details on how mister Lupin got taken."
"You mean with violence?"
"Precisely. It was stupid of us. And it might endanger the future of the Facility. That is why we had to let you stay. We figured it would be best if you would join our cause, but if you refuse, then we cannot keep you here. Which is why we found the alternative of the vow."
"Fine." Lily said. She'd find a way to break it. Dumbledore would help her. "I'll do your vow. Now bring me to Remus."
"Very well then. Let's go to mister Lupin now."
Nemene led the way down the corridor outside Lily's room. It was as modern and sterile as it had looked through the peephole- white walls, bright lights, doors on either side marked with small plaques. It looked like an office building. Bland. Functional. Unremarkable.
"We're underground," Nemene said, as if making casual conversation. "The Facility is designed for discretion. Most of it resembles administrative offices. But the lower levels..." She gestured ahead. "Well. You'll see."
Lily said nothing. She focused on the sound of her own footsteps, the rhythm of them, trying to keep her breathing steady.
They turned a corner, and the air changed.
The walls here were thicker. The doors heavier, reinforced, each one fitted with a small viewing window at eye level. The light was harsher, colder. The hum of magic felt different too- tighter, more oppressive.
Lily's stomach twisted.
"Mister Lupin is currently in Isolation," Nemene said, her voice quieter now. "Not his standard room. This is part of Phase 0. It's temporary."
Lily didn't trust herself to speak.
Nemene walked past several doors- numbers etched into the metal beside each one. 18. 21. 23.
She stopped at door 25.
Lily's breath caught.
"I'm opening the door now, Miss Evans," Nemene said. "Please remain calm."
The lock disengaged with a heavy clunk.
The door swung inward.
The room was small. Smaller than Lily's by half. No bed, no furniture, no window. Just bare walls, a bare floor, and a single ring bolted to the ceiling in the center of the room.
Remus sat beneath it.
He was pale - paler than she'd ever seen him. He wore blue robes- slightly reminiscent of their school robes, but instead of floor length, this one ended at his knees. On his chest was the same symbol of the Facility Lily had come to recognize - the wolf howling in front of the collar or the moon. His robes were rumpled, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His arms were wrapped around his knees, his body curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller. His breathing was uneven, shallow, like each breath cost him something.
Around his neck was the collar.
Black metal, smooth and heavy, fitted snugly against his throat. A chain- fine and silver, delicate in appearance but clearly strong- ran from the collar up to the ring in the ceiling. It hung slack, pooling slightly on the floor beside him.
Lily's breath caught.
Remus looked up. His eyes were dull, exhausted, but when he saw her, something flickered there- recognition, then raw panic.
"No," he said, voice hoarse and cracking. He shifted forward slightly, the chain clinking softly, and his hands pressed flat against the floor as if he might try to stand. "No- don't- "
"Remus- " Lily started toward him.
Nemene's expression didn't change. "Mister Lupin, Miss Evans requested this visit. I've granted it. Nothing more."
"You don't understand- " Remus's breath hitched. He pressed a hand to his stomach, his jaw tightening. "You can't- not now. Not- "
"It's perfectly safe," Nemene said, her tone still that same infuriating calm. " Miss Evans will be fine."
Remus squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body trembling. "Please," he whispered. "Don't make her stay. Please."
Lily crossed the room in less than a step. She dropped to her knees beside Remus and reached for him.
He jerked back- just slightly, instinctively- his hands coming up between them as if to ward her off. "Lily, don't- "
But she didn't stop. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close despite the way he tensed, despite the way his breath came fast and uneven against her shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm so sorry, Remus. I tried- I tried to stop them- "
"It's not your fault," he muttered, barely audible."You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't- "
The door closed behind them with a dull, final thud.
-- -
Nemene stood outside the heavy door, hands folded neatly before her, listening to the muffled sounds within. The girl's voice- low, shaking, full of misplaced conviction. The boy's desperate protests, already fading into exhausted silence.
It was a pity, really.
But she had expected this to happen.
Evans had been a nice girl. Bright, certainly. Principled in that fierce, uncompromising way that might've been admirable under different circumstances. She would have made a decent addition to the staff, given time and proper guidance.
But she'd refused.
Which meant she'd be an enemy. If not to Nemene directly, then to Chame.
And that, ultimately, was the same thing.
Beside her, Lodgkins shifted his weight slightly, his expression tight. He didn't like this. Nemene could tell. He'd been uncomfortable with involving teenagers from the start- though his discomfort stemmed less from any moral qualms and more from a concern about complications. Teenagers were unpredictable. Emotional. Harder to control.
"She won't cooperate," Lodgkins said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry through the door. "You knew that."
"I did," Nemene replied, equally quiet.
"Then why bring her down here?"
Nemene adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, smoothing a wrinkle with absent precision. "Because now she knows. She's seen what Phase 0 looks like. She's seen what we're capable of. And when we send her home, she'll remember that."
Lodgkins frowned, but said nothing.
Nemene didn't look at him. Her gaze drifted toward the viewing window set into the door, though she didn't look through it. There was no need.
She'd been careless with Lupin. She could admit that now, in the privacy of her own thoughts. She felt rueful.
After getting WORA finally through the Wizengamot, after years of lobbying and revisions and careful negotiations, she'd acted too quickly. She'd been so eager to begin, to prove the system worked, that she hadn't thought through the implications of taking a student- a Hogwarts student, no less- so soon.
She should have made him one of the exceptions. Should have waited until he graduated, until he was no longer under Dumbledore's protection. Should have been patient.
But she'd received that anonymous letter- just two days after the public announcement about werewolves in hiding, urging them to come forward for testing- and it had named Remus Lupin, sixth- year Gryffindor, as a werewolf attending Hogwarts.
She hadn't expected the letter to be truthful. Anonymous tips rarely were. But she'd gone to Hogwarts anyway, planning to ask a few discreet questions, maybe talk to some students about the new Tier system, gauge the general mood.
She hadn't expected the first person to walk into Dumbledore's office to be the werewolf himself.
And his reaction- the way his face had gone white, the way his hands had trembled- had confirmed everything.
He'd been the first Lycan, the first safely leashed werewolf.
Well. The first one who wasn't a criminal on death row.
She'd gathered them for research, those condemned men, just before their executions. Offered them a choice: participate in the trial, or die. Most had chosen the trial. Most had not expected to become werewolves. Most had not expected to become Lycans.
But they'd been useful. They'd proven the spike worked. They'd proven the collar worked. They'd given her the data she needed to write the handbook, to design the phases, to refine the system.
Lupin's number was 25. But that didn't reflect reality. Now, only a few days after the official start of the programme, there were about twenty Lycans in the Facility. There would be more. The urbanists- those who lived amongst humans, who held jobs and kept their condition hidden- would be the first. They'd either come themselves, begging for the spike and the safety it promised, or the public would betray them.
She'd already received letters with hints. Suspicions. Accusations.
Soon, they'd also employ the few Lycans that had been trained to hunt werewolves. The isolationists- those who didn't bite others but lived in the wilderness, avoiding civilization- would come next. Along with the ferals.
And once the public saw how well- trained Lycans could be, how useful, how safe... other marginalized groups would follow.
Squibs. Muggles married into wizarding families. Halfbloods in the lower Tiers.
The system would expand. Inevitably.
Nemene had written the handbook herself. Making sure it had the right wording. The right tone. Compassionate but firm. Clinical but humane.
She thought of Evans again, sitting on the floor of that cell, holding Lupin like she could protect him.
Well. That was a pity.
Lodgkins would probably be angry when he found out what she was planning. Oh well. She'd just have to act surprised. Lodgkins was too good to lose- he was excellent at subtly altering memories of bystanders, at smoothing over complications. Just like he'd done at Hogwarts, Obliviating the portraits, adjusting the memories of students who'd seen them leave with Lupin and Evans.
Evans had been too emotional, though. Lodgkins hadn't been able to guarantee her mind would hold under a full Obliviation. Too much resistance. Too much emotion. Which was why Lodgkins had suggested the vow.
So they'd have to do it carefully. Precisely.
It really was a pity that she didn't want to become a Handler.
Not that it mattered for the long term.
Oh, wizards could be so selfishly arrogant. Even Chame, star- eyed for her, thought he knew everything. He'd designed the spike, developed the theory behind the collar, written the foundational papers on Lycan psychology. He believed in the work. Believed they were saving lives.
And perhaps they were. In a sense.
But he didn't see the full picture. Didn't understand what Nemene was really building here.
He would, eventually. When it was too late to stop.
Nemene exhaled softly, adjusting her robes, and turned away from the door.
She would finish what her mother had started.
The dream that had given Nemene her name- Nemene, for the name of that woman in her mother's dream- would lead to a better world for all.
A world where everyone knew their place. Where the strong guided the weak. Where chaos was replaced by structure, and fear by certainty.
She walked down the corridor, her footsteps measured and quiet, and didn't look back.
Behind her, the door to cell 25 remained locked.