December, 2018
Memories Of A Lesson Learned
By A Father’s Son
My mother was a Metamorphagus.
I inherited her unique and rare ability to morph my features into any shape or color I can conceive. It is both a blessing and a curse. I can change my looks according to my mood and find an outlet for my emotions; yet I am too often asked by friends to entertain them with amusing faces or distrusted by strangers who are not sure I am who I really am.
I know who I am.
My father was a werewolf.
Some of you will not be surprised to read this, some of you will. Some of you may be disgusted; others will not bat an eyelash at this confession. I did not inherit his condition, as it is not passed on to offspring.
And yet sometimes I feel as if I did, because his legacy has followed me my entire life. Sometimes it has haunted my steps, other times it has supported me in my darkest times. It, too, has been both a blessing and a curse.
My father was a professor at Hogwarts Schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He taught there for exactly one year, and by all accounts was one of the best teachers to come along in several years; yet at the end of the term he was forced to resign. His condition was let slip by a disgruntled colleague, and he excused himself before the owls began arriving with letters from parents demanding he be sacked before he hurt their children.
My father was also a member of the Order of the Phoenix, along with my mother and dozens of other brave witches and wizards. Together they fought You-Know-You throughout his rise to power, and they were at the final Battle of Hogwarts that ended Voldemort’s rule over the wizarding world.
They were both killed by Death Eaters.
It has been twenty years since that battle. I know these things about my parents—and so much more—because my grandmother made sure I knew them, as did my father’s family and friends. I grew up on stories of my mother and father; I feel as if I know them personally, as I was not allowed to forget them or their sacrifice for one day.
Why, then, does it sometimes feel as if the battles they fought still continue?
For years I was taunted at school, teased not only for my appearance but my heritage. I was called names by students who simply could not believe I was not like my father—that I was not a werewolf, bestial and dangerous. During my second year I even ran outside under the full moon in front of the entire school to prove that I wasn’t a werewolf. I was desperate to separate myself from my father’s name and condition. I was in more fights and more detentions than I would have thought possible. I suppose I had been shielded from the lingering prejudice by growing up with so many people who loved my father.
It was during my third year that I realized I was my father’s son, and that I should be proud of that. It was not something to deny—it was something to accept with dignity and honor. He had helped save the wizarding world, after all, from the parents of some of the very students who harassed me, and to some extent, feared me.
The shift was life changing. It was almost as if an Impervius Curse had been cast around the part of me that became enraged at the comments and taunting. They bounced harmlessly from my newly thickened skin, and I was able to continue my meal, my class, or my day with a smile and a newfound confidence in my heritage.
What changed during my third year?
As so many generations of Hogwarts students have done, I was allowed to journey into Hogsmeade. With my two closest friends I explored the shops and pubs that have been delighting wizards and witches for hundreds of years.
On our first visit, my friends decided to head to the Hog’s Head. Having been particularly mocked on the walk down to the village, I decided to wander on my own a bit and cool off. I remember being upset and thinking many dark thoughts that day—about the students who had teased me, about Hogwarts, about werewolves, about my father.
I found myself turning down an empty and unfamiliar alley. A single shop was open at the end of the street; it was dark and decidedly questionable. Feeling reckless, I entered to find myself in an apothecary. The walls were lined with potions, the likes of which I had never seen and have not often seen since. There was shelf upon shelf of every ingredient imaginable and books with potions that were certainly banned at school.
The apothecary was a tall, lank man. He had long, dark hair, deep green eyes, and a piercingly hooked nose that reminded me of a bird of prey. I immediately disliked him. He must have disliked me as well, for he growled his greeting in a raspy voice, ragged scars on his throat witness to an old injury.
I stammered a reply and tried to edge my way back to the door. He swooped out from around the counter and stopped me, piercing me with those green eyes.
“You’re the Lupin boy, aren’t you?” he rasped. “Strange place to find a boy like you. Your father would not be proud to see you prowling back alleys such as this.”
I protested that I didn’t realize what his shop was and was merely exploring Hogsmeade for the afternoon. I stopped when I realized he had mentioned my father.
“Did you know my father?” I demanded. When he merely raised his eyebrows, I continued with interest. “How? When?”
The man cocked his head to one side and seemed to contemplate his answer. “I knew him at school. I worked with him later.” His face took on an ugly sneer, and I felt the same defensive anger I felt when the students at school teased me.
“He was good at both!” I snapped. The strange man merely laughed.
“That he was,” he replied, and I heard the resentment in his voice. I was surprised and intrigued, so for some reason, I stayed. I struggled to ring answers from the peculiar, green-eyed man. I only managed to learn that he had been a student with my father at Hogwarts and had worked with him long after they had graduated. He seemed to hate my father and yet not hate him, perhaps even respect him. I wanted to learn more, so that I could defend him from this daunting man.
Every time I went back to Hogsmeade, I found reason to leave my companions to seek out the apothecary and the bitter man who ran the shop. Under my relentless questioning, he reluctantly told me many tales about my father. He did not hold back his scorn or dislike; I was constantly moved to stand up for my father, continuing to grow closer to his memory as I did. I think that in some ways, defending my father armed me to defend myself back at school.
I continued to visit the apothecary each year, and each year I found myself growing closer to my father through this strange man’s unpleasant memories of him. Yet underneath the disdain, I could sense a reluctant acceptance of my father. Somehow, through the old man’s rumblings, I came to know my father in a different way, a way that was just as important as what my family and friends had imparted on me. More importantly, I realized something even then, at such a young age: this man was as ostracized as my father had been. Something set him apart from the wizarding world.
I found out that he was shunned in Hogsmeade, and that people avoided him because of the bitterness he carried like a cloak. He was coarse at times and could be cruel, and he did not seem to care for anyone or anything anymore. Apparently he had once been a Death Eater, though he had renounced it long before Voldemort rose to power for a second time. I wondered what had happened to him, how he had survived.
Like my father, he was rejected for something he could not change about his life; the mark on his arm scarred him as surely as the bite to my father had scarred him. In the apothecary’s case, it was his past life; for my father, it was the attack that had turned him into a werewolf. I knew I was one of very few people to befriend him, if that was what our curious relationship might be called. I felt like my father would have appreciated that, though the man rarely had anything positive to say about him.
I never learned his name.
Last week I returned to Hogwarts for a snowy Quidditch match and made it a point to visit the dark-haired man and his run-down shop in Hogsmeade. I found it boarded up and was saddened to learn that the old apothecary had died. Oddly enough, he had died on the very anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. He had no family, no friends; he was only discovered several days later. There was no funeral, and he had been buried alone outside the village.
Though the shop was closed, I let myself in for one last visit. As I glanced around, I was struck by a great sense of loneliness and regret. I walked over to his table and was surprised to find a letter addressed to me; I was moved to tears when I read it.
Yes, this man had once been a Death Eater, but he had also been a hero. In the end he had fought hard against Voldemort and had suffered greatly for it. He had lost everything. He had chosen exile outside the gates of the castle where he had once lived in comfort, instead of fighting for his true place in a society that would never had understood or accepted him.
More importantly, he had befriended the son of someone he had not liked very much, even if he had reluctantly respected my father. And although he did not know it, the apothecary had taught me one last thing, though it wasn’t about potions. He had taught me that beneath the roughest of exteriors there is always a human being who craves acceptance and companionship. Though bitter and angry for how life had turned out, he nevertheless accepted my visits, and perhaps even my friendship, because deep down he was a good person.
I wish people had known that about him, and more importantly, I wish more people had realized that about my father. Like the dark-haired apothecary in Hogsmeade, he too lived in exile because other wizards and witches failed to see past his rough exterior to the man underneath. They feared his condition rather than embraced his heart.
As you make your way through the festivities of the Christmas season, I ask you to remember both men and what they taught me. I ask you to remember their suffering and their sacrifice. I ask you to look beyond the next uncouth soul you meet and instead see them for whom they truly are, in that moment—not for what circumstances or even poor choices have branded them.
I ask you to remember my father, Remus Lupin, and my friend, the apothecary, and I ask you to accept them.
Happy Christmas.
Ted Lupin is currently living in London, where he works for a local nursery supplying magical plants and other ingredients for various shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade.
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