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Few people could fathom what she witnessed every full moon. Every year since the Whomping Willow had been planted on the grounds, a werewolf had come to walk the halls of Hogwarts. It was all because of Albus Dumbledore's influence, and, she suspected, because of his own past. He was a brilliant man, but like Elphias Doge, she knew Ariana's death haunted him, even as a voice at the back of his mind informed him that those werewolves would later feel a debt to him. Welcoming werewolves to study at Hogwarts was something she would have wanted him to do, and so he welcomed them, and befriended them until it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between friendship and the debt when he asked them to carry out one task or another.
Every seven years since the Whomping Willow had been planted, she would see a werewolf amongst those bumbling little first years, eyes wide with awe and amazement. She would teach them, watch them grow and mature, and then, the day after every full moon, see the aftermath of their secret.
But those were the days.
It was those cursed nights that haunted her dreams and kept her awake, a lone elderly witch keeping vigil for her special cubs.
There had been a stretch of years when she had found a peculiar sort of amusement on those moonlit nights. Four of her cubs would wander the grounds, one as a werewolf, the rest as masters of their Animagi forms. They didn't have to tell her they were able to transform into animals. One Animagus could usually tell when another witch or wizard shared their gift. It was doubly true for those Animagi who were also masters of Transfiguration.
Every so often on those nights, she would catch a glimpse of them romping the grounds, a tall slender wolf-figure silhouetted in the moonlight, surrounded by a slightly smaller but more muscular dog, and a beautiful stag. She didn't know where the youngest was, but supposed he was nearby. That foursome was never far from each other.
Oh how they would romp, and play, and chase each other over the silver-gilded grass, masters of their own little world. She had lost count of the times she chuckled or outright laughed at their antics, imagining just what was going through their minds with each look of furry astonishment or silent promise for revenge later that night.
She leaned back in her chair, her fourth-years essays on cross-species Transfiguration forgotten, her attention drawn, as it had been every month for fifty years now, to the full moon. Her eyes unfocused, her attention fixated on the silvery orb hanging in the heavens. Every month, she wished she could help her cubs, wished she could bear their burdens for just one night so they could know what it was like to be without the disease.
But in all the werewolves she had personally known, not one would have allowed her to take on such a burden. Even the ones that were so weak after their transformations they could barely move the next day were stubborn, determined to grit their teeth and bear the burden on their own.
First it had been Dorcas, a clever girl with wits as sharp as anything she had ever seen. The Beauxbatons transfer student was a marvel, an ingenious witch with a bright future, but in those nights when the moon ruled the midnight skies, she was a dangerous creature. Somehow, she managed to retain the majority of her human form, and was even capable of casting spells, but later, Minerva learned it all was at a terrible price. It was that ability which caused Voldemort to seek her out during the First War, and try to persuade her to join the ranks of the Death Eaters, to mate with his other werewolf minions. Dorcas, caught in the midst of her transformation, did the only thing she could. She surrendered her control...and was murdered.
Then Remus. Then Jonathon Dorny. Then Kenneth Towler.
As if Dorcas' death was the omen of what was to come, werewolves after her found themselves suffering after leaving the safety of Hogwarts. Remus joined the Order, a sign she took as him adhering to his beliefs as well as attempting to fulfill part of his debt to Dumbledore. Within two years, his best friends were murdered, another was wrongfully incarcerated, and the last spent the next thirteen years as a rat. Jonathon suffered a mental breakdown then vanished soon after graduating. No one ever heard from him again. As for Kenneth...there was no mystery as to what happened to him. Shortly after graduating, he moved to the Muggle world. Less than a year later, he had been killed in a car accident.
And now, there was someone else to be worried about, another student whose life had been changed forever by lycanthropy. The girl had already been cursed enough in her short lifetime, Minerva thought, with her father being Fenrir Greyback. But that hadn't been enough. Greyback wanted an heir, and who better to follow his footsteps than his own flesh and blood. When his daughter was eleven, he bit her, infecting her with his disease.
He couldn't have predicted that she would rebel, following her own path straight into Gryffindor, and straight into Minerva's heart. She could have been Minerva herself sixty years before, straight down to her hazel eyes, dark hair, soft Scottish burr, and somewhat stern exterior. Slowly, Minerva found herself growing closer to young Alyson, reaching the point the year before where the teenager had actually approached Minerva to formally adopt her.
Then the War hit Hogwarts. Dumbledore died, the Ministry fell, and Hogwarts found itself with Severus Snape as the Headmaster. Alyson, like nearly every other student who could prove magical lineage, returned to Hogwarts, but now, the stakes were higher.
Now, with the Carrows teaching at Hogwarts and Snape's true colors displayed for the world to see, life at Hogwarts became much more dangerous for Alyson. At any moment, there was a strong chance her father could return to the school, and attempt to bring her to heel. If he ever discovered that Alyson had learned her aunt Dorcas' trick of controlling her transformations, he would come for her much sooner. Voldemort knew the value of having a werewolf able to force his transformations, even as he knew the disadvantages of such a talent. If he so much as caught wind of a whispered rumor of another werewolf being able to retain their humanity--and thus ability to cast magic while under the influence of their curse--he would never rest until that werewolf was his.
Just as strong was the chance of the Carrows singling her out for "tutoring" or "extra practice", two phrases which the students of Hogwarts had come to associate with Death Eater business. "Tutoring" often translated into an attempt to convert the student into a Death Eater...and "extra practice" was the Carrows' idea of punishment when the student feigned ignorance or outright refused.
Minerva's lips quirked into a wry smile at the thought of the Carrows attacking Alyson. She knew how quick Alyson's reflexes were, and just how advanced she was for her fifth-year status. If the Carrows did try to use her for "extra practice", she wouldn't put it past Alyson to curse them without a second thought, and still have the presence of mind to Obliviate them afterwards.
The door leading to her office opened, admitting the subject of her thoughts. "Professor?" Alyson inquired, her body shaking from the effort of staying human enough to speak understandably. "Is there--" Her voice cut off abruptly as her body was racked by violent spasms. Helplessness washed over Minerva's body. She couldn't do anything to help the teenager. Any movement on her part would only distract Alyson.
For what felt like a lifetime, she could only watch as the girl she hoped to, one day, call her daughter shook, fighting the creature within.
What seemed like forever later, she looked up, her breathing ragged, hazel eyes flashing between gold and near-black ever few seconds. "Is there a room I can ride this out in?" she managed to get out, her voice hoarse. "I didn't want to go, well, you know."
Minerva nodded, and rose, leading the young Gryffindor to her own quarters. Professors had a separate study in their suite of rooms, but since Minerva preferred to keep her books and such in her living room, she had a spare room. For fifty years, she had wondered what to do with the spare room.
Now she knew. Warded to the teeth, with muffling charms cast over every square inch of her suite, the study would keep Alyson's secret safe.
After showing Alyson into the room, she settled herself into her favorite chair. The fourth-years' papers could wait until morning. One of her cubs, a special one, needed her tonight.
One of her cubs...