Chapter 1
2000
Hermione’s patronus beams into the centre of the Weasley’s sitting room at half past five on a Friday.
It’s reasonable to assume that she’s only letting them know she might be a tad late dinner, but nobody is feeling all that reasonable – particularly so soon after the end of the war, and the memory of Bill and Fleur’s wedding only three years prior – so, within seconds, everyone’s wands are out, arms and legs poised in a duelling stance.
“Don’t be alarmed…” the blue orb flashes, adopts the form of an otter standing on its hind legs. Next to him, Ron tenses. “I’m bringing guests. Put your wands away.”
“As if!” says Ron.
Ginny thumps him. “You heard her.”
Molly tuts, wand still in one hand, the other on her hip as she adjusts the length of the table. “She didn’t think to say how many guests…”
“Why’d she bother letting us know at all?” George questions.
“Because she’s got manners,” says Ron. “Unlike somebody.”
“Lee’s part of the furniture at this stage.”
But it’s not Hermione in the fireplace. A teenage girl in a dusty, torn Hogwarts uniform steps through, face hidden by a thick sheet of bright red hair. She regards them all carefully, offers no greeting or acknowledgment beyond wariness. Her eyes are the greenest Harry’s ever seen; aside from his own, of course.
The edges of his vision begin to blacken, but Ron is quickly at his back, bracing him. Together, they sit. Next to him, Ginny is another pillar, and they both hold him, an arm each, as the girl – as his– as Lily – shuffles over to stand against the white brick.
“Is that– ”
But Ron is interrupted by the floo, and out steps another teenager – a boy, this time, with hair that’s only slightly shorter and far darker, and chunks torn from the knees of his trousers. He’s pale and thin, with angular, aristocratic cheekbones and cold, slate eyes.
“Sirius…” breathes Harry, but Sirius shows no sign of having heard him. He’s hollow and hard, defensive and uncertain; yet it’s with absolute confidence verging on superiority, that he addresses the room at large.
“Miss Granger said you were expecting us.”
“Expecting isn’t entirely accurate…” mutters George. Across the room, Mrs. Weasley claps a palm over her mouth.
“Well, where is she?” Ron asks the pair.
“She’s on her way.” If he weren’t being held either side, Harry might have collapsed at the sound of his mother’s voice – so young, so determined. This can’t be. “We just have two more coming.”
“Two more?” he blurts without thinking.
Sirius offers nothing and grips his wand tighter, though does not wield it.
“Yes,” says Lily. “Our friends.”
Friends isn’t a description that aligns with how Harry’s feeling – as though his heart is about to burst wildly from his chest and paint the room in hot blood, as though his brain is about to melt through his ear canals – particularly when the floo’s next users are two boys, one supporting the other. One being his father, his alleged carbon copy, the other being – as sure as the sky above is blue – Remus Lupin.
“What…”
They tumble with all the grace of two drunkards, caught by Sirius, by Lily. James – dad, dad, dad thrums mercilessly in Harry’s chest – is a crutch, arm in a vice around Remus’ waist as he whispers quietly to his friend. Something is wrong. Something is so terribly wrong – Remus is hunched, weak at the knees, and far paler than Sirius despite how tanned he always appeared next to him in Grimmauld Place. Lily reaches out, hands smoothing gently over his shoulder, brow pinched in concern.
“Put him on the sofa,” says Mr Weasley, just as Hermione appears in the fireplace. She is composed and neat, but Harry knows that look. This has rattled her.
“Minister Shackleb– Kingsley ordered me to take them here,” she says. Then to Ron: “Check the wards, would you? I’m closing the floo.”
Ron is gone from his side at once, George following him out the front door.
“But Bill and Fleur are bringing the baby– ” Mrs Weasley starts, face white as a sheet.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley, but could you send word that dinner is cancelled? Kingsley was adamant that I keep this quiet. I hadn’t banked on so many of you being here already, but I supposed there’s nothing to be done for it. Accio blanket.”
A woolly, patchwork monstrosity flies into the palm of her hand with a whoosh. She wraps it around Remus, who James has put on the sofa. They sit across from Harry, almost like a photograph, if not for the modern day additions of Hermione and a now hovering Mrs Weasley.
They’re so young.
“What’s– What’s happening?”
“Oh, Harry.” Hermione all but melts, anguish written plain as day across her face. “It’s a long story, but I promise I’ll explain. I just have to sort Remus out first.” Sort Remus out? From the pouch in her trousers she produces a vial of dittany and something else, small and glittering in the light. “This is going to hurt, I’m afraid.”
She speaks to Remus, but he doesn’t respond; large brown eyes like copper coins staring blankly ahead. Harry leans forward and belatedly realises that the boy is in nothing but a cloak – Hermione’s cloak, her uniform for the Department of Mysteries with the Ministry’s symbol stitched on the breast – and a ratty pair of trousers that don’t sit right on the waist. He’s not even wearing shoes.
James’ arm is slung around his shoulder and Lily comes to kneel at his feet. She takes his hands in her own, voice breaking as she says:
“We’re safe now, Remus. It’s okay.”
“C’mon, Moony,” says James, forehead pressed to Remus’ temple. “Miss Granger’s going to help you, like Poppy.”
It’s Sirius who paces, eyes the exits, stands sentry and flinches as Ron and George come back inside, shutting the door behind them.
“All good,” Ron assures.
To Harry, Sirius is a mirror of those days in Grimmauld when the walls began to close in, only he was never so distant, so shaken. At least not with Remus, who he regards as if he’s about to shatter into smithereens.
“That’s it,” Hermione whispers as the cloak slips off Remus’ shoulder to reveal a slew of pink and white scars and– and deep, angry wounds that flare against his skin in a jagged crosshatch. James tilts him back and Mrs Weasley places a pillow under his head.
“He was in an– an accident,” Sirius says to everyone, an edge of something frantic to his tone that completely contradicts the composure he held at his arrival. “The Slytherins, they– ”
“They know, Sirius,” says Hermione calmly, as she drops dittany along Remus’ torso, accepting the other vial from Lily and popping the stopper. “I told you that it is safe here and I meant it.”
She pours something into her palm and it sparkles in the light. Sirius flinches for a moment, before he settles in closer to observe as Hermione gently pats it into Remus’ skin. Powdered silver, thinks Harry, for cursed wounds.
Several glasses of water float down onto the coffee table at the command of Mr Weasley’s wand. Ginny grabs one, puts it in Harry’s hand. It takes him a moment to realise that he ought to drink it.
“Hermione,” he says desperately, when his mouth is no longer too dry to speak.
She and Mrs Weasley carefully lay Remus back on the couch, his back supported by James’ chest. Remus’ ribs are visible through his skin, rising and falling in hurried, little breaths. Lily is still holding his hand, though she’s sitting properly on the floor now and looking up at him.
“Pads,” James says to Sirius, and Harry flinches at the sight of them interacting – for all he’s heard the stories, he’s never actually seen it. “You need to relax.”
“Sit down, Black,” says Lily.
“Mind your beeswax, Evans!” barks Sirius. “This has absolutely nothing to do with you.”
Lily glares at him, though she keeps her voice level. “This has everything to do with me. I’m here, aren’t I? Remus is my friend, and Sev– Sev was– ”
“Snivellus is gone!”
What?
“And whose fault is that?” Lily’s voice breaks. Sirius rears back as if he’s been struck.
“Sirius!” James shouts. Remus does not stir.
“No, James!” Sirius shouts right back. “This is completely bonkers. I’m the only normal one here, while you two are acting like bloody prefects! Like what we just went through makes any sense!”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Hermione interrupts, voice sharp and tight, effectively silencing them; a sternness about her that has even Mr Weasley stepping out of her way. She moves to the kitchen sink, washes her hands thoroughly, and says, sure as anything: “But we are going to make sense of this, and we are going to fix it. Together.”
She wipes her wet hands on her trousers, smudges the sweat on her forehead into her hairline with the back of her wrist. Belatedly, Ron offers her a glass of water and a comforting smile, which she accepts readily.
“I’m going to talk and you’re all going to listen. Then you can cover what I’ve missed, alright?”
The three cognizant teens nod.
Hermione sighs. “Alright.”
When she moves again, it’s toward Harry. To embrace him, to wipe at the tears that are apparently running a constant stream down his face. He can’t feel much of anything. She sits next to him and keeps hold of his hand. At her nod, the room’s remaining occupants sit on the various available surfaces. It’s only Sirius who stays standing.
“I had finished all of my assigned work for the week, so I went to sit in the chamber.”
“You what?” Ron asks.
“There’s no need to sound so shocked, Ronald. It’s quiet there and, well, I supposed I don’t find it as disturbing as my colleagues do.”
Of course Hermione wouldn’t find it disturbing to eat her lunch in the palace that Antonin Dolohov very nearly killed her – and certainly incapacitated her – when they were in fifth year.
“They just… fell out. Sirius first, then the others. I thought it was the Veil giving back what it had taken, but they’re so young. And surely, if the Veil were making its amends, then it would only be Sirius.”
They all nod in agreement, to the bafflement of said boy. Hermione continues.
“I knew it was them immediately, but I couldn’t just… announce it. Not even to another Unspeakable. Kingsley felt like the only suitable and secure option, given his friendship with Lupin and his status in the Order, above all else. Him being Minister was a bonus, really.
“So, I told them I was a friend of Professor McGonagall’s– ”
“You are, right?” James asks.
“I wouldn’t lie about that,” says Hermione. “Then I said that I knew about the Marauders’ Map and the invisibility cloak, their middle names, that Remus is a werewolf and they are Animagi.”
“Merlin!” Sirius runs a hand through his hair, as if the reality of the situation is only now hitting him.
“I would have come to get one of you, but I couldn’t leave them there for anyone at all to find. So, I sent a coded message to Kingsley. Then Remus began vomiting blood, but I could hardly take him to St. Mungo’s. Kingsley vanished any evidence of their presence and instructed them to hide under the cloak – which, yes, James took with him – and follow him and I to his office. We floo’d from there.”
“Hermione…” Harry starts. “I just don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” she says. “But perhaps one of you could explain how you got here?”
“And what happened to Lupin,” George says in a rare fit of worry.
The three teenagers freeze, quick glances darting between them. Lily suddenly seems much less certain of herself; Sirius looks positively ill. It’s James who clears his throat.
“Someone found out about Remus’, ah… furry little problem and reported it to the Ministry. He was arrested in school and– and– ”
James’ warm eyes shine with something far worse than tears. He’s ashamed. His dark skin is suddenly ashen. Sirius covers his own face with both hands.
“I knew Potter and Black weren’t going to just let Remus go,” says Lily, mercifully taking over. “So, I forced them to clue me in on their plan. We snuck out of school the night before the trial and floo’d from Hogsmeade to the Ministry.”
“How did you get in?” asks Mr Weasley.
“We used the cloak,” says James, clearing his throat. “Evans and I. Sirius took his family ring and used it to gain entry. He couldn’t vote in the trial without being of age, but the Blacks have so many seats on the Wizengamot that he’s allowed to attend.”
“But I didn’t,” Sirius insists viciously.
“No, we didn’t let it come to that,” says James. “My father has a seat too, but I knew how he’d vote, so myself and Evans went to the DMLE for Moony, only he wasn’t there.”
“Dumbledore was,” says Lily. “Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey too.”
“Testifying?” asks Hermione.
Lily shakes her head. “They’d been arrested with Remus. Because they knew. We couldn’t– they weren’t the priority. They had representation and were being treated rather well, but… Remus was being kept elsewhere and it became obvious once we ruled the Auror’s department out.”
“Good thing we had Pads waiting outside the chambers with everyone else. He caused an excellent distraction, which gave Evans and I enough wiggle room to get down to the containment ward. It took us a while, but Evans is wicked at Charms and got our boy out– ”
“I didn’t use a charm,” Lily interrupts. “I picked the lock with my bobby pins.”
“Muggle magic,” says James reverently.
Lily rolls her eyes. “Anyway, then we ran back to see if we could floo from Auror Moody’s office– ”
“Because he totally saw us!”
“Yes, Potter, he did. We figured it was a safe bet, until Black came sprinting towards us with a hoard of Aurors on his tail and we had to run for the lifts. Poor Remus was in no state for it.” Lily’s dainty fingers lace with Remus’ shredded ones. “I suppose we must have pressed a random button, because we arrived at the Department of Mysteries.”
“So, what?” says Hermione. “You physically entered the Veil?”
“They were gaining on us,” says James. “I couldn’t levitate Remus and defend him, so Pads and I carried him between us while Evans led the way.”
“For the record,” says Lily. “I didn’t want to go into the Veil, that was Black’s idea.”
Sirius, who is slumped against the wall now with his knees curled to his chest, bites, “There was nowhere else to go. They’d blocked every exit. And I knew we’d be fine.”
“How?” Harry hears himself ask. “How could you know that?”
Sirius’ eyes turn to lasers in their focus. He dissects Harry without remorse, frowning harder by the second. “I just did. And I was right.”
“Merlin,” Ron gasps, slumping back into the sofa.
George ruffles his hair. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Ronald.”
“What I don’t understand is– ” Hermione is about to start theorising out loud, entirely to herself, when she is interrupted by an awful hacking.
Remus rears up, scrambling urgently from beneath the trap of the blanket. His eyes are wide, suddenly, and fevered looking in the evening light. A bright gold, nearing neon yellow. Around him, his friends panic. Lily reaches for his hand but is quickly yanked away by Sirius, who crowds Remus’ space and touches him frantically, despite every little wince it triggers.
“Moony,” says James, quiet and gentle, arm tight around his friend’s shoulder. “You’re safe. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”
Remus says nothing, only coughs again, blood trickling from his mouth and landing in the lap of his trousers. James kisses his temple, wipes away the sweat on his face with the sleeve of his jumper.
“Aguamenti,” says Sirius, refilling a cup. Together, the pair coax Remus into sitting properly, with tender nothings and careful touches.
“Do you have any Blood Replenishing Potion?” asks Lily. “And he’ll need some Healing Potion, and a Calming Draught– ”
“That won’t work,” says Sirius. “He burns through it too fast.”
“I’ve got some,” Hermione says, reaching into her small bag.
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Weasley is already crouched over Remus, a plethora of potions floating behind her as she sits on the edge of the coffee table. “I’ve got everything we need here.”
She softens immediately at the sight of Remus – who stares helplessly at his hands and the blood coating them. Mrs. Weasley takes a moment to gently smooth the hair from his face, her hand cradling his cheek.
“Oh, my dear,” she says, voice cut by grief a thousand times over. This Remus doesn’t know her, but it burns all the same. “You drink up, now. I promise you’ll feel much better.”
Remus does as he’s told, drinks his potions one after the other with the air of a child well used to taking his medicine without a single complaint. But as his eyes cast around the room and catch on every little detail – every door, window, weapon – it’s as if he’s not with them at all.