Rated PG for cheating and getting away with it.

Albus Dumbledore set down his empty tea-cup and steepled his fingers. “Remus,” he said, “I see no reason why you should not become a teacher.”

Remus hardly dared let himself hope. “Are there any teaching vacancies at Hogwarts?”

“Alas, we did have one, and I offered it to Furius Spleen yesterday. But if you are determined to teach, you could consider teaching Muggles.”

“Does the Muggle system accept wizards?”

“Obviously the Muggle education boards do not know that wizards exist. However, you would not be the first wizard to have transferred to the Muggle workforce. Since the Muggle education authorities borrowed their exam system from the Hogwarts model, a qualification can be translated. Do you have your exam results with you, Remus?”

“They were destroyed six years ago when the Death Eaters attacked my home.”

“No matter, we keep copies at Hogwarts. Accio!” Several sheets of buff-coloured paper sailed out of a filing cabinet and landed on the desk in front of Dumbledore. “Zerocso. Keep these, Remus; consider them your new originals. Ah, I always thought you did unusually well… ”

Remus held in front of him a perfect replica of his O.W.L. results.

The ink on Professor Marchbanks’ signature looked so authentic, as if she really had set her quill to the paper; no one – certainly no Muggle – would ever know that this page was a copy.

“There is a standard trick to convert this to something that Muggles will accept.” Dumbledore placed a blank sheet of paper next to the O.W.L. certificate, tapped each with his wand, and commanded, “Translato!”

The blank sheet suddenly acquired words of black typeface and the beige-patterned background of the certificate. It looked like an O.W.L. certificate, but the words spelled out the names of institutions and school subjects of which Remus had never heard.

“But I never have – ” Remus began.

“For some reason, Charms always comes up as ‘English Grammar’ and Defence against the Dark Arts as ‘Mathematics’. That creates a problem, of course, because Muggles don’t have an English Grammar course at N.E.W.T. level, so wizards who take the Charms N.E.W.T. – which is most of them – find it translated into all kinds of strange courses in the Muggle version.”

“What is that number at the bottom of the page?”

“An exam number – Muggles are fond of such things. The way we make your number look authentic to the Muggles when you didn’t actually sit exams with their Board is to borrow their next unused number. Although that may be an over-particular piece of magic; I’ve never heard of a case when the Muggle authorities actually bothered to check that the result-sheet was genuine. If they did, of course, they would now find your name and results entered into their computer, just as if you really had sat their exams.”

Remus decided not to ask what a computer was at this stage.

“We do the same with your N.E.W.T.s, of course,” Dumbledore continued. “Translato!”

Remus’s original certificate read:

But the Muggle version untruthfully declared:

“Ah, I see that this time Charms has decided to be ‘English Literature’,” said Dumbledore. “And Ancient Runes has dropped off the list. That is inevitable. It would look decidedly suspicious if you claimed to have taken as many as six subjects, for few Muggles take more than five. Besides, there is no such subject as ‘Viking Studies’. You can get away with fabricating an obscure and exotic course for fifth year, but never for the seventh.”

“Why do I have a D grade for Chemistry?”

“Another Muggle peculiarity. They recognise five passing grades at N.E.W.T. level, so your Outstanding, Exceeds Expectations, Acceptable have to be translated into A, B, C, D or E – not always predictably. But now for the important thing, Remus. You have to apply to a Muggle Teachers’ Training College – and you have missed the deadline.”

His heart sank. “So I have to wait until next year?”

“Oh, we can fix it. You just have to be aware of what you’re claiming that you’ve done. Accio! These are the application forms… ten years out of date now… Annus nunc!” Some of the words blinked and altered, and Dumbledore passed the forms to Remus.

“You should have filled this out and addressed it to U.C.C.A. – ”

“What?”

“The Universities Central Council on Admissions. You should have addressed it to them and put it in a Muggle post box. Only you won’t, of course, because you’ve missed the deadline. Just fill it out now, and I’ll send it to Sapiens Tofty, our representative at U.C.C.A. He will ensure that your details appear on the computer, and that the form goes into the correct filing cabinet, and that no one notices that it arrived late. He’ll also negotiate with the college you’ve chosen, so that they send you a backdated offer, and later don’t notice that they sent it out late. Offers aren’t finalised until the Muggle N.E.W.T. results are published, which won’t be for another month yet.”

Remus began to write. “Professor… to which college should I apply? Is there more than one?”

But finally the paperwork was sorted out, together with the charmwork to go with it, and Dumbledore turned to his bookshelf. “Now,” he said, “obviously you can’t expect to be rewarded for telling such bare-faced lies. We have to justify your fraudulent claim by introducing some level of truth. Unfortunately, Remus, that will be very hard work, and no one can do it for you.” He took down a heavy volume. “We now have to find out just what exactly you have claimed to learn, and then you have to go away and learn it! Ah, here we have it. The year was 1977, and the texts are… ” Dumbledore began to write on a blank sheet of paper. “Here you are, Remus. The set texts for the Muggle O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s that you claim to have taken. Except for ‘Viking Studies’, which doesn’t exist. You now need to go to a Muggle bookshop and buy the books. Ideally, go to a second-hand academic shop and buy the editions published in 1973 and 1975. Sometime over the next two months, I’m afraid, you will actually have to read them, and absorb as much as you reasonably can.”

Remus gulped. “I have to absorb fifteen courses – four years’ work – in two months?”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as that. The average Muggle student forgets everything he ever learned within one hour of sitting the exam. You won’t be expected so much to memorise the texts as to understand the broad general principles. And you’ll find you already know some of it – there’s considerable overlap with magical education. The subject that worries me most is Transfiguration. It always comes up as ‘Physics’ on the translator. And you’ll notice that the theories of Muggle physics take no account of magical forces. Newtonian and Einsteinian theory is all very well as far as it goes, but you’ll have to block out a lot of what you know about magical forces and matter when you’re teaching Muggle children. It will be a true education for you, young man.”

Aghast, Remus nodded, and decided not to look for another farm job. He had planned to find seasonal work picking fruit, but he now knew he would need every spare moment for reading.

“By the way, Remus, do you have any basic knowledge of Muggle woodwork?”

“No, but I expect I could buy some wood and Charm or Transfigure it into whatever objects I was supposed to have made.”

“Fair enough. They won’t expect you to remember any of the theory of carpentry, given it’s so long since you’re supposed to have learned the subject, and that woodwork is so unrelated to what you plan to do next. Oh, but do buy yourself a book of Norse mythology, or something to make it sound as if you know something Muggle-friendly about Ancient Runes.”

When Remus finally left Hogwarts, booklist in hand, he remembered Ariadne asking, “Would you teach Muggles?” and he began to wonder if he ever would.

He tried not to think about Ariadne again. Think about the books. Think about going to college. Think about where I’ll find the money. Think about… anything, really. But it wasn’t helping to remember that today Ariadne had left Hogwarts behind her, that he had (quite deliberately) missed seeing her again by a single hour.

There was still an hour before the shops closed. He Apparated to Diagon Alley and made his way out to Muggle London. There were bookshops there. By a series of enquiries, he could find out which ones sold ten-year-old academic texts. Tomorrow he could begin shopping in earnest. He even managed to pick up second-hand copies of the set texts for the English Literature courses. That would be the easy part of his homework. He had read Muggle fiction before, and he knew that no one would still require him to remember the techniques of literary criticism; he need only give some evidence that he remembered reading the books.

When the shops closed he Apparated to his house in Nottingham. He had moved in two days earlier, when he left Kincarden for good. He had bought some furniture from a second-hand shop – a formica-topped kitchen table and mismatched metal chairs, an upholstery-spilling lounge suite, a battered but solid wooden desk, a creaking bed and garish orange-painted wardrobe – and tried not to hate the hideous design of all of it. In the end he decided he didn’t hate the desk quite as much as the rest; but the attempts to turn his sisters’ old bedroom into a study stopped short when he realised that he had forgotten to buy a bookcase. He would have to pile his new books on the study floor.

He was worried about money. He had two and a half years of wages, saved almost completely intact, but he now had to live off it, as well as buy books and stationery, for the next three years. (It took three years to become a Muggle teacher!) Since he owned his house, he might just manage, but not if he had to keep making major outlays on furniture or clothes. Dumbledore had told him not to worry. “Enrol in the training course anyway, and if you have to defer a year later on, that won’t be the end of the world. If you wait until the perfect moment, you’ll find that it never comes.”

But had Dumbledore ever tried to support himself on eight Galleons a week, with no reserves for special expenses or emergencies?

Worrying about money was hardly more productive than daydreaming about Ariadne. Yesterday he had paid a visit to Chippendale and Hepplewhite in Diagon Alley. He wasn’t sure what he wanted there, beyond kitchen pots and bed covers, but he was driven to distraction by the cost of buying these items new. He didn’t dare ask the price of curtains.

“We can do anything, sir,” Mr Arvel Chippendale assured him. “Upholster your favourite armchair, French-polish your table, throw a pot to your liking, build a cabinet into your wall. We are Furniture with a Capital F. We don’t just retail, you know; we do all the work ourselves.”

Remus was about to ask for a kettle when he was distracted by the large photograph montage behind the reception desk. “Your Servants at C & H” showed mug-shots of various Chippendales and Hepplewhites, each portrait flashing white teeth as it waved energetically at the approaching customers, and each labelled with a title. There, between “Madam Verbena Hepplewhite – Drapery Consultant” and “Mr Sophereth Chippendale – Accountant” was a face he recognised – a pink-cheeked, black-haired girl, introduced as “Miss Hestia Dearborn – Apprentice.”

He ripped his eyes away and made himself hear the proprietor’s question about how the Chippendales could serve him today.

“I really only came to buy a frying pan and a kettle,” he said. “But an everlasting candle would be nice – the plain sort, which can be used as a desk lamp.”

Hestia did not seem to be in the shop today. No, of course not, he reminded himself. Apprentices usually began work on the first of August, so the friendly montage was in anticipation of the fact – Hestia wouldn’t arrive in person for another month. But if Remus did much more business with Diagon Alley traders, he would certainly run into Hestia – or someone – eventually. The magical community was of limited size, and if he had too many dealings with it, he would find himself unable to avoid people who knew Ariadne, people who might even try to pull him back into her orbit.

Today he surveyed his under-stocked kitchen and wondered how he was going to fit housekeeping around studying. Back in the golden days of the Order of the Phoenix, he had eaten so many meals at the courtesy of other Order members that he had been able to live off cheese sandwiches at home. It wasn’t that he absolutely could not cook – he had learned all the basic recipes when he was ten years old – but that it always seemed too much trouble when there was only himself to eat the food and when there was a world outside that needed saving from Voldemort.

He emptied a tin of lentils into one saucepan and set brown rice to boil in a second. Now he had run out of saucepans, but he had a vague idea that he should add cabbage to make a balanced meal. He began to push the shredded cabbage around in the new frying pan. Turning vegetarian was proving easier than he had expected, because buying beans was a great deal cheaper than buying meat. He ought to learn some new recipes, but there was already a great deal of learning in his life.

After dinner he sat on the ruined sofa and opened the O level maths book. It was amazing what Muggles thought they needed to do with numbers. He had vague memories of learning basic algebra at his Muggle primary school, and these problems looked almost like a Transfiguration exercise, but… no… there was something going on here that he had never met before. He wondered if he should have invested in the first-, second- and third-year maths textbooks as well. He would definitely never teach any O level courses. He would become a primary teacher.

He delayed going to bed as long as he could. It was past eleven o’ clock when he knew that he was not absorbing any more O level maths. But in the end there was no help for it. He needed to sleep, and he knew what awaited him there.

Ariadne invaded his dreams. Even when he didn’t remember the dream, he always awoke knowing she had been there. Tonight he relived his interview with Professor Dumbledore. Dumbledore smiled at him, and asked, “Would you teach Muggles?” but he spoke with Ariadne’s voice.

“You should teach,” said Ariadne – the person in front of him was definitely Ariadne now. “You only need to forge your qualifications. A Zerocso Charm will do it, even though that’s Greek and not Latin.”

“My whole life has been forged,” he complained.

“Then forge ahead,” she said. “Claiming that you took the exams is no more a lie than pretending you’re not a wizard.” And he could see she was laughing at him. “Of course it’s a lie,” she admitted. “You would not be needing to tell so many lies if I were here to tell the truth for you.”

After such nonsense his head was spinning even in his dreams. “But it’s all right,” she said, holding her hand to his forehead. “You only have the cold, and I can brew you some Pepper-up. I’ll tell my parents that you’re teaching me algebra. Algebra will be useful if I have to invent a new kind of shampoo.”

“Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Don’t tell them anything.”

Suddenly she had his hands in hers, was stroking them, and was gazing at him with a tearful glitter in her huge blue eyes. (How could he have once thought her bland? Even in his sleep, every contour of her face was seared into his memory, every one of her thousand expressions was accurately reproduced.) “I will never leave you,” she said. “It’s you who leave me. I love you even though you would not read the Norse fairy tales.”

“I am going to read them,” he protested, “but I don’t know if I can fit that much reading into just nine weeks.”

“If you had read them on time,” she insisted, “you would know that when a princess kisses a wolf, he turns into a prince.”

“But no woman wants to kiss a wolf,” he said.

“I’m wanting to,” she said, and her mouth hovered very near to his face, and for a moment the dream threatened to become indecent. Some nights the dream did become very crass, and he ripped her clothes apart; other times he crushed her in his arms until she whimpered. But it always ended the same way, whether he was touching her or not. At some point he would recognise that he had come too close to her, and that was always the moment when she vanished.

And someone – the Ministry official in charge of the Werewolf Registry, or Severus Snape, or the long-dead Lily Potter, or poor Connell Dewar – would say something like, “But she had to go. Staying near a werewolf would have destroyed her.”

That summer he read his way through the Muggle physics and chemistry courses. Chemistry was more difficult than Potions – although Ariadne could have doubtless managed it. Physics seemed so easy… but just when the next step looked obvious, the textbook jumped, and landed somewhere else. It was as Dumbledore had said: magical forces were completely omitted. Remus would have trouble with remembering what to leave out (how Ariadne would have laughed!), but he had to adopt a working model of their assumptions.

For light relief he hacked away at the overgrown garden (“Tondeo! Incendio!”) and tried not to imagine how Ariadne would have lined it up with herbs. He had his garage fitted with a Muggle lock and key, so that he could lock himself away safely for his Transformations, and he hung the key around his neck so that it counted as a garment and would transform with him, safe from the wolf’s jaws and claws.

In due course he heard that he had been accepted by the local teacher training college, and he wondered how Ariadne had fared in her N.E.W.T.s. She would be starting her apprenticeship now. He hoped Professor Jigger’s temper had improved. He reminded himself that he did not need to go to Diagon Alley. If he needed anything that could not be bought from Muggles, he must go to Hogsmeade. But in fact he should learn to live on Muggle items; if he were to attend a Muggle college, he would need to live like a Muggle.