Rated PG for references to legalised child abuse.

“Remus, did you hurt your face?” asked Valerie.

Remus touched the scratch on his cheek, wondering how serious it really was. “Encounter with a dog,” he said. “How did you find the essay on teaching maths?”

“It was – ”

“Oh, calamity!” wailed Claire. “My presentation is today, and the O.H.P.’s broken!”

Remus sat quietly, hoping to work out what O.H.P. stood for, while Claire ran her fingers through her green hair. Simon marched up to some Muggle contraption in the corner, jiggled a switch a few times, and muttered that it seemed to be connected. He gave the flat surface a hard thump, and the glass replied with a resounding crack.

Samantha giggled to Nicky. “It’s definitely broken now!”

Simon and Claire stared back at them in horror. “It isn’t funny!” Claire protested. “We could be accused of vandalism! And I can’t afford to pay for it, can you?”

“They won’t make you pay. Simon’s the one who broke it,” said Nicky.

“I was only trying to help!”

Remus forced his wand back up his sleeve. It would be so easy to throw a Reparo at the device. He still wasn’t sure what the machine did, or what had been wrong with it even before the glass broke, but he didn’t need that information for such a simple repair job. Ariadne could have done it even before he started helping her with her wand-work.

But magic must not be used to solve Muggle problems.

“Fogg’s arrived,” interrupted Melanie. She dragged herself out of the comfortable chair, and they all trekked out to the lecture theatre opposite.

Remus was last. He lingered in the tutorial room as the theatre doors swung shut behind Valerie. He must not use magic to solve Muggle problems. Yet it was such a very small spell to save so very much trouble; and no Muggle would see it, so it was not technically a breach of the Statute of Secrecy.

Technically? They would still notice that a broken object had been suddenly mended and they would remark on how very strange it was. Even though they would never, ever guess how it had happened, they would know that something abnormal was going on. They might even connect the strange event with the presence of the eccentric Remus Lupin. It would confirm their impression that he just didn’t fit in. Every wizard knew that to make himself conspicuous among the Muggles was the first step to revealing himself as a wizard – to betraying the Statute and hence the entire wizarding community.

He walked away resolutely. He would not look back.

“Reparo!”

It wasn’t until he spoke the word that he knew he had his wand in his hand. He would definitely not do anything like that again.

After an hour of trying to rearrange Dr Fogg’s lecturing into something that made sense, Remus had forgotten the incident until Claire squealed from the tutor room.

“It’s fixed!”

Remus lagged back again, not wanting to be caught anywhere near the scene of the crime.

“It can’t be, they – It is! Someone fixed it! How…?”

“Don’t ask!”

As Remus entered, Valerie was running her hand over the O.H.P. “It certainly doesn’t look as if it suffered any damage today, and there hasn’t been time to fix it. Are you sure it really broke?”

“Of course it really – ” began Claire.

“Nah.” Simon stopped her. “It was a loud crack and it felt bad, but I reckon we exaggerated when we panicked. Look at it – that glass was never actually broken.”

“Then I expect I’d better set up my presentation.” Claire was completely calm; the Muggles had talked themselves out of noticing magic. But Remus knew better than to count on always being able to hide his tracks so successfully.

He was very glad that he had not brought Ariadne into this mess. She was so pure-blooded that she wouldn’t have been able to hide her magic for an hour; the Muggles would have known she didn’t belong the minute she entered a room.

It turned out that the O.H.P. was a kind of Muggle magic lantern, which Claire was using to show her pictures. Remus wasn’t quite sure how photographs of children at the local playgroup, accompanied by enthusiastic anecdotes of their games, illustrated the theories of Lev Vygotsky, but perhaps it made sense to their tutor.

“Do you really think they’ll ban corporal punishment?” asked Melanie, spreading her gipsy skirt over the carpeted steps.

“No, it’s all talk,” said Nicky. “They’ve been lobbying it for years, but nothing ever changes. The tawse will always be legal, and there will always be some schools that refuse to use it.”

“It’s a cane in England,” Simon reminded her. “And here’s a hint I’m going to give my pupils. If you go to be caned, don’t hold your hand out flat, with the muscles tight. Hold it loose, with the muscles relaxed, and it doesn’t hurt so much.”

Samantha giggled. “Ooooh, were you caned a lot, Simon?”

“Only twice; once for starting a fight and once for walking on the roof. It was rare at my school. What about at yours?”

Remus remembered the legends of Apollyon Pringle, whose Flagellus Jinx had been said to leave permanent scars in multiple colours. Dumbledore had put a stop to the torture before Remus had started Hogwarts, but the Daily Prophet throughout his schooldays had been peppered with regular petitions to “bring back the Flagellus”. Remus couldn’t remember reading one since the war ended; either Dumbledore had carried his point, or the enthusiasm for inflicting pain had died with Voldemort’s downfall.

“… What about you, Remus? Where did you go to school?”

“Oh… up north. They never beat us, but it was extremely easy to get detention. I had a friend who served a detention just about every week, and he still managed to become Head Boy.”

“I never found detention much of a deterrent myself,” said Brian. “Often you didn’t serve it before the next week. If you want to knock kids into shape, you need to do it on the spot. A ruler across the knuckles at the scene of crime is worth a week of detentions.”

“But that’s secondary school,” Valerie reminded them all. “Primary schools don’t go for the rough treatment. Perhaps they should; a good smack never did permanent harm. I’ve no idea how I’m going to manage a class. Any ideas?”

Brian frowned at Claire, as if she were the pupil who needed the good smack.

Startled, she let the tuna and cucumber drop out of her sandwich. “I expect I know how to mark a register, but I’m really dreading writing all those reports.”

Samantha giggled. “That’s not what she meant, Claire. She was asking how you plan to control children’s behaviour. You know, punishments and stuff.”

“Well, how will you?”

“Haven’t thought yet. I’m too busy with last week’s essay.” Samantha giggled again.

“You’d have to stop giggling like that, for a start,” said Valerie.

“That’s right, the ‘never smile in the first week’ rule,” said Nicky. “Actually, there’s some sense in that advice. If you pile up the homework and detentions at first, they start behaving, and then you can ease up later. But you can use rewards too. Stars on charts, elephant stickers, class storytime and so on.”

“What’s the big deal with controlling people anyway?” asked Simon. “I don’t have a problem with letting kids run around and play a bit. I always hated those teachers who claimed you weren’t learning unless they could hear the classroom clock ticking.”

“The problem is that if you let kids run wild, they will,” said Brian. “That’s what’s happening nowadays – kids are so wild that you can only teach them if you use serious punishments.”

Melanie’s jaw dropped with horror. “Just what do you mean by a serious punishment?”

“I mean putting electric shocks in the canes.”

Ariadne would not have found that funny, but Samantha giggled again. Melanie declared that she did not believe in punishments. “Children are good when they’re happy. Hasn’t anyone thought of being nice and winning them with love?”

Several people looked sceptical at this point. Remus tried not to think of all the times he had teased Professor Flitwick.

Jackie, the bespectacled girl, lifted her nose from her book and used tact. “That could work well with the reception class, Melanie.”

Brian snorted. “And what’s your plan, Miss Know-All?”

Jackie shrugged. “I don’t have one yet. It’s obvious that children mustn’t be left to get bored; if the lesson is interesting enough they won’t think to misbehave. But school can’t be fun and games all the time… So, no, I’m just hoping I’ll pick it up as I go.”

Remus tried to remember which Hogwarts teachers had never had a behaviour problem in their lessons. There had never been serious disrespect towards Sprout or Slughorn, but they had allowed a level of background chatter that just didn’t work for, say, Transfiguration. Of course, everyone was always absolutely silent for McGonagall, but it wasn’t because of anything she did, but simply the way she was when she walked into a room. Ariadne might have been able to explain that quality, but Remus had no idea how to capture it, or whether he could ever learn it.

He wondered how Ariadne would manage a classroom full of unruly Year Six Muggles. Probably she would approach them one by one and tried to “win them with love”. But he couldn’t imagine that method working with a young Mulciber or Avery. The truth was, he couldn’t really imagine Ariadne as a teacher. Her voice was too soft; she disliked demanding obedience; and sooner or later, without even realising she was doing it, she would find herself using magic.

“Oh, no!” wailed Samantha. “My little sister’s scribbled all over this library book – it’s ruined!”

Remus resisted the temptation to throw a Tergeo at the purple wax crayon.

He was going to be happy at work. He wondered if he would ever be happy at home. The house in Nottingham seemed very large for one person, and the pile of books in his study seemed very unresponsive company. After being professional all day, he wanted to speak to a friend in the evenings. He wondered if Ariadne still thought of him, and decided that she probably didn’t. She had had five months now to congratulate herself on her lucky escape from a werewolf. Meanwhile, she had the support of her old friends, her budding career, and constant opportunities to meet people, many of whom would become new friends.

I have a new career too, he reminded himself, because he didn’t want to dwell on the friend-shortage. With his first round of exams approaching, he probably needed the pile of books more than he needed a friend. He should count himself lucky to be able to spend the next three weeks utterly divorced from human company. So he made himself study.

Fortunately the full moon fell just before the exams; Remus was more or less well by the time he first entered the exam hall. There was nothing conceptually difficult about the material he had learned, nothing tricky about the exam questions: both “how to teach maths” and “early childhood development” seemed a great deal easier than mastering Potions. The exams were well-spaced, and he left the exam hall for the last time with no fears about his performance.

“Question three was a horror,” said Simon. He was nursing a beer in the parlour of the Little John and the extra safety pin through his eyebrow made him look quite jaunty. “What is the difference between ‘authoritive’ and ‘authoritan’?”

Claire groaned. “Let’s not do the whole exam again. Especially as it’s too late to get any marks.” Her hair was blue today.

“I’ve failed, I know I’ve failed everything,” Melanie moaned. “There was disaster in my tarot reading this morning.”

“Then drown your sorrows in another drink,” said Valerie briskly. “My shout, I think.”

Remus leaned further back into his corner, making his one tomato juice last an hour. He hadn’t yet absorbed that the term was over. He was still adjusting to the idea that today’s exam really had been the last one. There would be three weeks without lectures, without essays, without discussions in the college library.

It was dark outside, but not so dark that he could Disapparate without being noticed, so he walked on home, wondering for the first time what he would do about Christmas. It was not only being alone on Christmas Day, but having over two weeks of unscheduled time, that bothered him. His only remaining family were an aunt in Canada (who always sent a very friendly Christmas card) and an uncle in Manchester (who had severed all pretence at contact since the death of his parents, almost as if he believed that Remus had died too). In the end he shelled out a Galleon for a box of chocolates and went to visit Mrs Pettigrew.

“You’re the only one who comes to visit me,” said Mrs Pettigrew mournfully, as if Remus had been in the habit of visiting regularly. “It’s been three years, you know, and public sympathy has dried up. Nobody remembers my brave wee Peter any more.” She indicated a small table, covered with a red velvet cloth, which was cluttered with photographs of Peter and a scrapbook of his meagre life achievements. Propped up in the centre was a pasteboard covered with a newspaper découpage.

“I’ve kept every newspaper clipping,” said Mrs Pettigrew, eyeing off her chocolates in a way that Remus found strangely uncomfortable. “I pasted up everything that ever appeared in the Daily Prophet, or the Quibbler, or the Witch Weekly, or even the Muggle press about my little Peter. That table is a kind of shrine to him. It’s such a pity that the world has forgotten how heroic he was.”

“It won’t be forgotten by anyone who actually knew him,” said Remus, wondering why it felt so awkward to discuss his friend.

“But that’s only you and me, Remus,” said Mrs Pettigrew, clutching convulsively at her chocolates, so that the corner of the box was dented. “He had no other real friends who are still alive. His dear father passed away the year before he did, and even his sister seems to have forgotten. But I keep my lonely vigil every, every day. You see that silver box on the table?”

Remus nodded, trying not to feel repelled by what was coming.

“That’s it. Him. All that’s left of Peter. Take a look if you like, Remus. His index finger is all that’s left of him.”

Remus had to look, but he wondered why he wasn’t in the mood to oblige Mrs Pettigrew. He ought to feel sorry for her, after all she had lost, but somehow he found himself wondering if she had enjoyed all the media attention when Peter had died.

It was a relief to spend the rest of the weekend at home, sorting out his stationery supplies and reading through What to Expect in the Classroom: the B.Ed. Student’s Guide to Teaching Rounds. But of course the relief did not last. By the third day of solitary confinement, he found himself wondering if it would be so very wrong to walk down to Diagon Alley and call on Emmeline Vance… collect the news, find out whom she’d been seeing… He jerked his mind away from that idea. I might just as well take a trip to Azkaban and ask to visit Sirius Black!

So he took himself out every day. He walked between the red buildings of Castle Wharf or the bare trees of Sherwood Forest, imagining that Wormtail and Prongs were racing through the trees with him. When imagination expired, he resorted to being jostled by frantic Muggle shoppers in the Victoria Centre, watching them pay high prices on Christmas Eve and low ones on Boxing Day, listening to the railway clock tower strike away the hours until he could return to college and wondering what Ariadne would have to say about a Muggle Potions enterprise like Boots… He squashed that idea too. Why on earth was he contemplating that Ariadne might want to live in a place like Nottingham?

Eight full days of living like Robinson Crusoe on an urban island was all that anyone could stand. On the ninth evening he boredly toyed with the idea of Apparating to Diagon Alley, simply to see something different from the walls of his own house. Most places would be closed, but there would be enough people around to give the illusion of company. In the end his better judgment prevailed, and he went instead to Hogsmeade, where one shop in every four had been open but was now closing down for the evening. Enough people were spilling in and out of the buildings to make the village look alive, and the taverns were brightly lit and still doing a roaring trade – he had forgotten that it was New Year’s Eve. While there was little chance of actually meeting anyone he knew, he wondered if he could blend into the crowd for a while, walk along with them without entering a tavern, and fool himself into believing he had company –

“Oi, Remus!”

So much for that theory. Sturgis Podmore was walking out of the Three Broomsticks.

“Good to see you,” said Sturgis, because Sturgis was usually pleased to see everyone. “What are you doing here? Are you going to Emmeline’s tonight?”

Remus had time to reflect that Sturgis was harmless, and probably the nearest thing in all the world that he presently had to a friend. “What are you doing here?” he countered. “Don’t you work in London?”

“Yes, I’m still with the Ministry, but the Leaky Cauldron is packed with rowdy types – I like it better at Rosmerta’s. My workmates are just having their third round, but I want to be sober for this evening. You haven’t answered my question yet – are you going to Emmeline’s?”

“She didn’t invite me this time.”

“Well, she wasn’t very formal with the invitations; she and her grandmother ran up the party at the last minute when they realised that a dozen of their friends hadn’t been invited anywhere. I’m sure it would be all right if you came along. You aren’t doing anything else, are you?”

Remus had to admit that he wasn’t.

Sturgis kept him chatting in the street for several minutes, asking what he was doing now, and why he hadn’t kept in touch. Remus countered with questions about Sturgis’s own life, although Sturgis kept saying he had nothing to tell. “Still working for the Department of Transportation. Still living in the Clapham house and still have too much mortgage on it. Still don’t have a girlfriend. Still hoping to visit Romania one day… Which reminds me, why didn’t you come to Wales with us last summer?”

“Money was one reason.”

“And anti-social mood was another? You’ve hidden yourself for months now… Anyway, you won’t tonight. You’re coming to Emmeline’s, right?”

Remus still hesitated. “Where does she live? I’m not sure I can take myself there unsplinched.”

“She’s still living with her grandmother in Sheffield. You know the house; we had Order meetings there. Come on!”

There was no time for further protests, because Sturgis immediately Disapparated, and Remus had nothing to do but follow him. A second later they were both standing in the porch of the smart Regency terrace in Ecclesall. Sturgis rapped at the door, and a not-very-elderly lady in a ruby-red shawl let them in.

“It’s Mr Podmore, isn’t it? Emmeline is in the drawing room, but come through to the kitchen first; we’ve made mulled wine. And your friend ... We have met before ... Yes, you’re Remus Lupin, aren’t you? Young man, I’m Matilda Plumpton.”

Remus followed Madam Plumpton down to the kitchen, accepted the hot wine, then accompanied Sturgis back to the drawing room and looked around at the strangers. At least half of them were over ninety years old, clearly a cohort of Madam Plumpton’s generation. The rest were young, presumably Emmeline’s friends. He scanned the crowd for Emmeline herself, hoping that this really was the sort of party to which Sturgis was allowed to bring a random uninvited guest. Sturgis evidently spotted an acquaintance, because he started off across the drawing room, knocking his head against mistletoe and tinsel as he went. Remus followed him a couple of paces, then stopped dead in his tracks.

He was staring straight into the Gaelic-blue eyes of Ariadne MacDougal.

A/N. Nicky was wrong. Corporal punishment was abolished in British government schools only three years later.