"My grandfather is an older man -- he looks a bit like a refugee from the 1920's, actually. He might have a pipe, might not. Big Mark Twain moustache."

Artemius coughed discreetly at a nearby customer's fag. Pipe tobacco and cigars were nice, but cigarettes just outright stank. He considered moving a bit further from the bar, but this was one of the best spots in the Leaky Cauldron when you were waiting for a stranger.

Baxby had met Elise at Hogwarts -- she was a mothersome girl, even when in school, and her doting on the younger ones was not missed on Artemius -- he'd been a few years her younger, and she was on a short list of people who'd called him "Timmy" and not been grumbled at. After a particularly bad owl -- Gabby's passing, if he remembered right -- he had spilled the beans about his family's troubled business: a lycanthropologist trying to find a cure, housing her patients in her own home. Part clinic, part research center, part home, they took in newly changed werewolves -- and some stayed long after they were new -- and helped them settle into a new life. The patients, though they came and went, were like family -- he took each bubotuber puss-filled letter or silver poisoning personally, and when one of their number was lost due to the Wizarding communities belief that werewolves were beasts rather than people, he took it especially hard.

That was years ago, now, but when that... week came (He still didn't have words to describe it.) everything was destroyed. Elise had family that worked with the Prophet, and Artemius' mother had recalled the family that morning.

"Artemius, darling. Do you remember that one girl at Hogwarts? She was older than you -- grandfather worked with the Prophet or something?"

He pondered for a moment. "Yes, Elise."

"Right. Blake -- your father had meant to contact them, see about getting a fundraising idea or summat. I can't remember what it was. Now, what with things as they are -- " (This was how they spoke now. "Things are they are.") " -- maybe you should pursue that. Owl them or something. See if we can't get a bit of funding to start up another Cottage. Paperwork's already been put in for Ministry funding, too. Maybe, with things as they are, there might be a bit more compassion in people's hearts, yeah?"

Bless her heart, Mum was always an optimistic one. It rubbed off on him. After she'd left for her shift at St. Mungo's, he'd composed the owl and sent it off. Now, a week later, Artemius was waiting in the Leaky Cauldron for a Fletcher Parish, who apparently still worked for the Daily Prophet. What it was, exactly, that he could do, Artemius wasn't sure, but, he was here. Waiting.

He checked his watch. When was the bloke supposed to get here, anyway?

Fletcher could never say no to a pretty face, especially when that face belonged to his soon-to-be-married granddaughter. So when Elise had turned up for dinner and begged him to meet with one of her ubiquitous Hogwarts friends and offer some help, he had agreed readily enough, but made sure to tell her to ask the boy to meet him after hours at the Prophet.

He was running a little late tonight; he had hit a snag in his indexing and had to stay a few extra minutes to fix things, but he suspected the boy would be running a little behind as well. Young men were always dawdling, it seemed to him. If the boy, by some miracle, was there, Fletcher would apologize, then they could discuss what they were--

It suddenly hit Fletcher as he paused, one hand on the door to the Leaky Cauldron, the other coming up to touch his moustache, that he had no earthly idea what Elise had in mind to help him with. All Elise had said was that Artemius's family was in a bit of a tight spot, something about "that week" having done something awful to the family business, and that his father had been planning to appeal to the Prophet for help.

Only what help could they expect from a newspaper? Especially one with Carmen Snidgeton at the helm?

Biting his lip, Fletcher entered the Leaky Cauldron and scanned the room. Mostly people sat in small clusters, or hunched alone over solitary drinks, but one person seemed to be scanning the room expectantly, now glancing at his watch. He definitely looked like a Ravenclaw, though whether that was the serious, pensive look on his face or the fact that his hair made him look like a bird, Fletcher wasn't sure. Still, he took a chance and walked over to the boy cupping his drink. "Artemius Baxby?" he asked in his typical quiet tones.

The bartender, without being asked, handed him a mug of mead. Fletcher nodded to the man, then turned back to the boy. "I'm Fletcher Parish...Elise's grandfather. She said you needed some help."

Artemius watched as an old bat of a man walked in fitting Elise's discription. He discreetly kept his eyes moving, hoping the fellow wasn't really who he was waiting for, but he nevertheless headed toward him.

"Artemius Baxby?" he asked, his voice soft -- almost like a librarian. It had a romantic melody to it, and Artemius found himself surprised. He had expected a crochety old man who would grumble and be difficult, but that was not what he'd found.

"Yes." He stood and held out a hand to the man, but he was in the process of getting a drink from the bartender, so Artie nervously moved it to the back of his head. The wizard turned back to him.

"I'm Fletcher Parish... Elise's grandfather. She said you needed some help."

Artemius tried a friendly smile, but was sure it was more of a grimace. "Yeah, sort of. Please, sit." He pulled out a chair for the elderly man and moved around him, sitting beside him. His parents had raised him to be nothing if not respectful towards his elders. Artemius then sat beside him, where they could both see each other without trouble. He set his tea aside. "Did, err... Did Elise tell you what it was I needed, exactly?"

Fletcher was surprised when Artemius pulled a chair out for him. It seemed that no one raised their children with so much as a modicum of politeness anymore. Instantly, Fletcher decided that no matter what the boy asked of him, he would do all that was within his power to help. Clearly his parents were a dying breed, and Fletcher felt some kinship with them.

The boy was nervous. Fletcher couldn't help but notice that as he watched Artemius sit down. His smile was a trifle forced, and he was fidgeting slightly with his cup of tea. Fletcher was just about to ask how he could be of service when the boy spoke.

"Did, err... Did Elise tell you what it was I needed, exactly?"

Fletcher suppressed a smile. "Elise didn't even really tell me what it was you needed generally, much less exactly. She said that your family was in a bit of a tight spot, that the now-infamous week following the creation of...of the spell hit your family business hard, and that you and she both thought I and the Prophet may be able to help you."

He paused to take a sip from his drink and to collect his thoughts. "Before we go any further, I must tell you that the Prophet is under new direction. Our Editor-in-Chief mysteriously disappeared a few days ago, and our junior editor stepped up to the plate. I'm not sure how much help we will be able to give you. I myself, however, will do whatever I can."

Setting down his mug, he leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Shall we start at the beginning, then? What exactly is your family business?"

The old man looked to Artemius with a poetic serenity. He reminded Artemius a little bit of Rufus, only in a good mood. "Elise didn't even really tell me what it was you needed generally, much less exactly. She said that your family was in a bit of a tight spot, that the now-infamous week following the creation of...of the spell hit your family business hard, and that you and she both thought I and the Prophet may be able to help you."

Damn. He was afraid of that. He felt his hand creep to the back of his neck again. He hated this topic of conversation. "I see," he replied simply, while the old man took a sip from his drink. Man, this was going to be tricky. How did his dad do this for a living?

"Before we go any further, I must tell you that the Prophet is under new direction." Artemius looked up in surprise. "Our Editor-in-Chief mysteriously disappeared a few days ago, and our junior editor stepped up to the plate. I'm not sure how much help we will be able to give you. I myself, however, will do whatever I can."

Artemius nodded. He wasn't quite sure what that meant to him, but okay. "That's fine."

Setting down his mug, ...Mr. Parish? leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Shall we start at the beginning, then? What exactly is your family business?"

A humourless smile. "Straight to the point, I see," Artemius noted, removing the hand to point in no general direction. He gave a sigh to gather himself quickly. "My mother is Elaine Baxby -- she's a Healer, more specifically, a lycanthropologist." He looked up to see if that would cause any derision before he continued. "She works with werewolves. Do you have any problem with that?"

"My mother is Elaine Baxby -- she's a Healer, more specifically, a lycanthropologist." He looked up to see if that would cause any derision before he continued. "She works with werewolves. Do you have any problem with that?"

Fletcher knew he shouldn't be surprised. So many people were bigoted about those slightly different from them--after all, he had been ostracized by several classmates because of his father, a mild-mannered professor of history and therefore a man substantially less dangerous than the people Elaine Baxby worked with. But still, Artemius had known Elise at school; surely he knew what the Parishes were like?

"No, my dear boy, of course I don't have a problem with that," Fletcher answered. He hesitated, then added, "I knew James Potter--he and my son worked together--and I met his friend Remus Lupin once. I don't think I'm giving away any secrets when I say that the Prophet reported at the time of his death that Lupin was a werewolf, and he was a good man. Not all werewolves are like Fenrir Greyback, just as not all Slytherins are like the Death Eaters."

Fletcher smiled, an almost fatherly smile as he studied the boy. "Now that we've got that business out of the way, let's continue, shall we? Your mother's work is in jeopardy, that much I have gathered. What can I--or the Prophet--do to help you? Actually, at this point I'm not sure how much the Prophet can or will do to help you, I don't know Ms. Snidgeton's politics so well as I knew our previous editor's...but as I said, whatever assistance I can render, I will."

"No, my dear boy, of course I don't have a problem with that."

Artemius' shoulders visibly dropped. A soft smile lit up his face as the relief seemed to drip from his pores. The fellow then added, "I knew James Potter--he and my son worked together--and I met his friend Remus Lupin once. I don't think I'm giving away any secrets when I say that the Prophet reported at the time of his death that Lupin was a werewolf, and he was a good man. Not all werewolves are like Fenrir Greyback, just as not all Slytherins are like the Death Eaters."

Artemius beamed. "Yes, he was! I knew him. That's exactly it! Me mam would do a sort of clinic, slash therapy, slash rehabilitation type thing for werewolves. The problem is, Baxby Cottage was discovered during... the week," he said, "And we unfortunately can't do it anymore."

The old man smiled. "Well. Now that we've got that business out of the way, let's continue, shall we? Your mother's work is in jeopardy, that much I have gathered. What can I--or the Prophet--do to help you? Actually, at this point I'm not sure how much the Prophet can or will do to help you, I don't know Ms. Snidgeton's politics so well as I knew our previous editor's...but as I said, whatever assistance I can render, I will."

"And I appreciate that very much," Artemius replied. Now that the big stuff was out of the way, he felt much better. He happily took a sip of his drink real quick to gain back whatever water he'd drained from sweating in nervousness. "Now, we've already put in loan requests and the like through the Ministry, but my father was a broker of sorts, and would always try to get some financial support here and there out of his clients. Unfortunately, his workplace was raided during that unfortunate week -- we were hiding out in a Muggle village: Tywyn, in Wales -- and he did not survive. I am left trying to find support for this, as government funding will in no way be enough to pay for the housing and medical bills conjured up in such a business. I was wondering if you couldn't help me... I don't know. Make a fundraiser or something. Me mam said my father was working on something along those lines before... that week. I'm not entirely sure how that works, but we were thinking you might be able to help." And with that, Artemius grimaced up at the fellow. Was this a waste of time? Was there anything he could do? Artemius had no idea what i was exactly he was supposed to be doing -- this was the first time he'd had to do something like this, and it was a bit scary, to be honest.

Fletcher listened carefully to Artemius's explanation, shaking his head slowly. "Elise was right to send you to me, my boy," he murmured. Government loans were all well and good. But they were just that--loans. They would have to be repaid eventually. And clearly, from what the boy was saying, the family was going to have difficulty paying them back.

He considered the Baxby plight for a long moment, staring at the mead in his mug. Finally, he roused himself and looked at the boy. "Son, when was the last time you wrote something other than an essay?"

The idea was simple, and it came to Fletcher in a flash. From working with the paper he knew several inexpensive--if not free--methods of printing and publishing small circulars. Having met at least one werewolf activist, and knowing plenty of people were sympathetic, if Artemius sold copies of a circular for even a few Knuts, it would doubtless raise enough revenue to at least keep the family afloat for a little while.

He explained this scheme to Artemius, admitting in an undertone, "It's grasping at straws, I acknowledge that--it depends on a lot of variables. But if it's good enough, if you write decently and Ms. Snidgeton likes the sound of it, she may ask you to contribute an occasional column, and that in addition to your circular might supplement...whatever your income...enough to keep your mother's research going. So what do you say, eh?"

Artemius was off-footed for a moment at the question, and then laughed in his nervousness. "Well, besides job applications and signing paperwork?" That's what his life was like the last month or so. He stopped to think. "Dunno. Not too long. Not like I've been illiterate since Hogwarts or anything. I'm a daft hand at words -- mind I don't directly dictate. I tend to jabber," he explained with a self-mocking grimace. That's why he always bout Quick-Quotes instead of Dicta-Quills. Otherwise you got whole lot of nonsense and silence as he pondered on the words he really wanted.

"How about writing a leaflet about werewolves, and selling them?"

Artemius blinked, and felt his head cock to the side. "Beg your pardon?"

"It's fairly inexpensive -- if not completely free : you write a pamphlet or leaflet or what have you on lycanthropy -- the truths, the rumours, the true hardships or what have you of the werewolf condition. Print it cheap, and sell it for a profit. Even if you sell some copies for even a few Knuts, I daresay you'd earn enough to keep even your mother's business afloat for a while."

It was genius. Artemius' eyes grew wide with the idea. If that worked... Why, it just might be the thing they need. Let the papers do the talking, rather than old Blake Baxby. Especially since he knew his parents' speeches about lycanthropy by heart...

But the old man seemed to see the excitement in his eyes. "It's grasping at straws, I acknowledge that," he added darkly. "It depends on a lot of variables. But if it's good enough, if you write decently and Ms. Snidgeton likes the sound of it, she may ask you to contribute an occasional column, and that in addition to your circular might supplement...whatever your income...enough to keep your mother's research going. So what do you say, eh?"

It was hard to believe. It might actually work, and work well. If it was good enough, he could work on the papers whenever not fixing things around the Cottage or going through beaureacratic nonsense. It was brilliant, really... He felt a huge grin on his face. "It's brilliant, sir. I'd be glad to do it. And I assure you, I have a word or two to say on the subject." Oh, how he'd love the chance to get some of the truth out there! What a stroke of luck! No wonder his father had been so keen to do this...

The unfeigned enthusiasm on the boy's face was wonderful to see. You would think Fletcher had just handed him the Holy Grail. ""It's brilliant, sir. I'd be glad to do it. And I assure you, I have a word or two to say on the subject."

"I thought you might," Fletcher said, smiling as well. "I've a feeling you may do better at this than even you imagine. Passion often makes all the difference. I could tell you about dozens of instances of circulars distributed to raise money and awareness for causes..." Noticing the look on the boy's face, he added hastily, "But I won't, not right now...my wife does expect me home at some point, and I'm sure your mother does as well."

He took another swallow of his mead, then reached into his canvas newsbag and pulled out a roll of parchment, quill pen, and ink. He began scribbling, talking as he did so. "I'll write out the spells and enchantments for you, as well as all the steps you need to take, but it's fairly easy. Write your articles on separate rolls of parchment. If you have pictures to go with them, place the pictures on top of the article. Roll the articles up--with the pictures inside them--and tie them with red ribbon. It must be red, don't ask me why, but the publisher when I was new on the Prophet tried it with other colors and it didn't work. Once you have the articles tied, lay them out in a top-to-bottom row in the order you want them in. Have a stack of paper next to it--there's a special type of news-parchment you have to use, it's a little more durable and it comes in eighteen-inch-long sheets. The spell is designed to make enough copies to evenly fill in all the papers you have, so my recommendation is to start off with a stack of ten pieces of paper, that's the best way to test how your articles will spread themselves out. Draw a figure eight over the articles--all of them at once--while you say the first part of the spell. I've drawn a line under the incantation to indicate where you need to switch; at that point you do a sideways figure eight--the infinity symbol, if you will--over the articles and the stack of paper while saying the next part. A third part, you do figure eights over the stack of paper while saying that. Then you tap the stack of paper three times and say the last four words, and the paper will publish itself--it'll even fold itself properly."

Setting aside the quill pen, Fletcher blew on the instructions to dry them, then handed it to Artemius. "Here you go, son. And..." He hesitated, then reached into his bag, rummaged around for a bit, and extracted a few Galleons. "My donation towards publication costs. It shouldn't take all of it to publish, so...keep it to pay for a few publishing runs. That way, the maximum profits from the sale of the circular can go toward your mother's research."

He leaned back in his seat again, studying the boy. "If there's anything else I can do to help, please let me know. My wife and I will do all we can."

"I thought you might," Fletcher said, smiling as well. "I've a feeling you may do better at this than even you imagine. Passion often makes all the difference. I could tell you about dozens of instances of circulars distributed to raise money and awareness for causes..." Artemius thought he must have grimanced, because he added hastily, "But I won't, not right now...my wife does expect me home at some point, and I'm sure your mother does as well."

Artemius grinned. He kind of liked this older fellow. He wasn't a dottery old fool like some of the Ministry folks he'd had to deal with recently -- or as off their rockers as his aging great-grandparents were, bless them all. He was sharp, and Artie liked that.

The fellow pulled out a parchment and quill set. He then explained how the spell would work: "I'll write out the spells and enchantments for you, as well as all the steps you need to take, but it's fairly easy. Write your articles on separate rolls of parchment. If you have pictures to go with them, place the pictures on top of the article. Roll the articles up--with the pictures inside them--and tie them with red ribbon. It must be red, don't ask me why, but the publisher when I was new on the Prophet tried it with other colors and it didn't work. Once you have the articles tied, lay them out in a top-to-bottom row in the order you want them in. Have a stack of paper next to it--there's a special type of news-parchment you have to use, it's a little more durable and it comes in eighteen-inch-long sheets. The spell is designed to make enough copies to evenly fill in all the papers you have, so my recommendation is to start off with a stack of ten pieces of paper, that's the best way to test how your articles will spread themselves out. Draw a figure eight over the articles--all of them at once--while you say the first part of the spell. I've drawn a line under the incantation to indicate where you need to switch; at that point you do a sideways figure eight--the infinity symbol, if you will--over the articles and the stack of paper while saying the next part. A third part, you do figure eights over the stack of paper while saying that. Then you tap the stack of paper three times and say the last four words, and the paper will publish itself--it'll even fold itself properly."

"Ah..." Artemius breathed. He looked over the Latin -- it was a fairly simple spell -- in pieces -- but he'd done more complicated incantations. "I should be able to do that.

When he was done, he handed Artemius the spell. "Here you go, son. And..." Artemius was still looking over the spell -- ah, there was the folding bit. Genius, really... -- before him appeared a small handful of gold coins. His eyes widened at the prospect as he looked up at the older fellow. "My donation towards publication costs. It shouldn't take all of it to publish, so...keep it to pay for a few publishing runs. That way, the maximum profits from the sale of the circular can go toward your mother's research."

Normally, his parents had taught him to never take money -- it was impolite. But, in his situation, he was essentially asking for money, wasn't he? And it was for a good cause. It pained him, but he reluctantly took the gold. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly, a little shamed. He carefully rolled up the scroll and put it aside, the gold following it.

"If there's anything else I can do to help, please let me know," the old man added. "My wife and I will do all we can."

Artemius smiled kindly. "Thank you, sir. For everything." He held out a hand. That was how one ended a business transaction, right? That's what this was, right? He hoped he was doing the right thing... "My family and I will never forget this. Thank you."

The gratitude in Artemius's voice made it all worthwhile. Fletcher took the boy's profferred hand and shook it heartily. "You're welcome, Artemius. I wish you and your family the very best of luck, and if you ever run into trouble with the spell, you get in touch with me and I will help you all I can." He winked. "And if I meet any werewolves, I'll send them your mother's way."

It puzzled Fletcher a little, why he had instinctively, on seeing this boy, wanted to help him. Certainly, he would do almost anything for his granddaughters, and certainly he could never turn away someone in need, and certainly the boy's manners had impressed him, but that couldn't be it. That was reason enough to help him with the spell, not to put money in for the production costs. Something deeper had driven Fletcher to that.

He studied the boy quizzically, and then suddenly he knew. Mapped over Artemius's face was another, a similar one in attitude and mannerisms, and a passion in another voice when speaking on another topic--history. A black headline with a grainy photograph and a father taking his small son onto his knee. Fletcher knew.

Softly, he said, "You remind me of a fellow I once knew...when I was younger. He was a student in my father's class, and he had a lot to say about history. He would have made a fine historian someday, had he had the chance. But he went off to fight in the war...he was in the Navy...aboard the H.M.S. Quorn."

Fletcher didn't know if that would mean anything to this young man, but that didn't matter. He knew.

"You're welcome, Artemius. I wish you and your family the very best of luck, and if you ever run into trouble with the spell, you get in touch with me and I will help you all I can." He winked. "And if I meet any werewolves, I'll send them your mother's way."

Artemius grinned. "Thank you very much, sir. And any support at all is greatly appreciated. Although, I daresay if you find a lycanthrope that was changed in the last nearly twenty years, odds are we've met." He grinned. It was true. Even if they hadn't been patients at the cottage, they might have stopped into the Wolf's Den -- the cafe they ran for a little extra income. It was a private establisment exclusively for lycanthropes and Cottage denizens. Everyone there had the same story, so it was never told. They were all peas in the same pod, and everyone wore their scars proudly, and sipped hot chocolate and lattes and chattered about life, it's ups and downs, and no one spoke of Umbridge or the Registry. It was a place of peace, and they were always busy.

"You remind me of a fellow I once knew...when I was younger. He was a student in my father's class, and he had a lot to say about history. He would have made a fine historian someday, had he had the chance. But he went off to fight in the war...he was in the Navy...aboard the H.M.S. Quorn."

Artemius cocked his head to the side. The Quorn... Why did that sound familiar? "I think I've heard of that ship before..." He remembered his father mentioning it, once. "But then, my father enjoyed naval histories. The Muggle side of my family has been in the Navy for generations. Should I ever join the military, I'd probably join that branch, too." Then he grinned. "Or Coast Guard. I don't know if my mother would let me travel so far from home."

Fletcher smiled at Artemius's comment about meeting most werewolves over the last twenty years. "That's as may be. Still, there's always one or two who haven't heard of such places--those who have never known anything but fear or hatred from the general wizarding community--and those who were too proud to ask for any help, the ones who 'can do it themselves.' It's unfortunate, but...it does happen more often than it should."

"I think I've heard of that ship before...But then, my father enjoyed naval histories. The Muggle side of my family has been in the Navy for generations. Should I ever join the military, I'd probably join that branch, too." Then he grinned. "Or Coast Guard. I don't know if my mother would let me travel so far from home."

Fletcher smiled. Artemius had just initiated Spontaneous Lecture Mode. "The Navy and Coast Guard are both noble choices. As for the Quorn, she was a Hunt-class Destroyer, commissioned and built in late 1940. She sustained superficial damage over the next few years, then took part in Operation Neptune, the Naval support for Operation Overlord, the official code name of D-Day. On August 3, 1944, she was hit and sunk during a heavy series of attacks. Four officers and 126 rank-and-file sailors died in the attack, either initially or during the eight hours spent in the water."

Fletcher swallowed. "125 of them were complete strangers to me, but the other was a dear friend of mine. His name was Sam, Sam Hall...as I said, he was a student of my father's, and he took care of me when I was a boy, let me help with his schoolwork. My father went to war at my request, to look after Sam. They were both on the Quorn...Papa survived. Sam didn't." He shook his head. "Ah, well, these days it's hard to meet anyone who hasn't lost somebody to a war."

He kept thoughts of Sammy to himself. All he could do was thank God that Sammy hadn't left behind a wife or sweetheart. He had seen other women who had thrown their lives away in silly, useless gestures after a husband or boyfriend died in the war against Voldemort, women who had joined the Auror's department or an underground resistance movement and gotten themselves killed because they couldn't face life without their significant other. Fletcher would have hated having another death on his heart.

The fellow burst into a strange sort of lecture mode, and Artemius listened kindly -- why didn't this guy go try out for the History of Magic position at Hogwarts? Maybe a pink slip would let Binns realise he was dead. Still, he sobered at the explanation of Sam.

"Ah, well, these days it's hard to meet anyone who hasn't lost somebody to a war."

Artemius nodded. "Yeah, you can count me in that number. My father died during that dreadful week. And we weren't even fighting -- well, we were fighting the curse of lycanthropy, but we were good people. Did our best to help others..." Artemius shook his head. "And the damn Muggles got 'im. It's not fair, is what it is. But, then, they say only the good die young, yeah?" There was bitterness in his voice, he knew. But so long they'd done their best to keep to themselves, to help others... and then this? It just wasn't fair. He looked down at his tea and considered ordering a drink. He suddenly wanted something with more spunk than this herbal tea...