Chapter 2
Lily and James’ heads are bent together in a hushed and urgent argument. Harry takes the chance to look at them – with their young and tired faces, shorter than him and slighter in ways that betray their seeming maturity. They are only a boy and a girl, really. To Harry, they're everything. To Harry, they only grow another five years. He wonders if his father ever sheds the baby fat from his cheeks.
Before his thoughts can stray to more morbid territory, Lily and James emerge, a decision seemingly made.
“Sirius and I will share,” says James.
“And Moony,” Sirius says from the couch, where he sits at Remus’ side like a guard dog. “Like always.”
James won’t look at his friend when he says, “No, Sirius. He needs his space.”
“I’ll stay with Remus,” says Lily.
Her fingers run absently through the curls sitting heavy on his forehead. Remus looks at her then, but only for a second, before his eyes return to his hands, clasped in knots as they are in his lap.
They’re only sixteen, is perhaps what everyone is thinking, but the ferocity of Lily’s green eyes leave no room for argument.
“I’ve run him a bath,” says Mrs. Weasley, as if to alleviate some of the worry.
“Remus,” Lily says, a gentle hand on his cheek. “Did you hear that? A bath would be lovely.”
Remus stands, somehow. He’s distant and drifting. Swaying on the spot as though a soft breeze might blow him over. Each Weasley is wound up, ready to pounce and catch the boy lest he fall, but it’s James who darts forward with a startling certainty. He pushes past Lily, though not unkindly, and eases Remus from her hold. His hands come to rest either side of Remus’ face, keeping him there, tilting his gaze down despite the blankness that consumes it.
“Moons, love, c’mon. We’re going to get you cleaned up.”
Sirius makes an aborted motion to help, stopped only by James’ fierce glare.
“Molly,” James starts, before correcting himself with a polite smile. “I mean– Mrs. Weasley. Could you point me in the right direction, please?”
“Oh, of course, dear,” she says, rushing to help. She doesn’t dare touch either boy now, though it’s clear that she longs to. Harry understands that longing, knows it like a wand to the throat. He looks at his father, at his once professor and forever friend and blurts out:
“Do you need some help?”
James stops, looks at Harry, sees him truly for the very first time and says: “No thanks, mate. I know what I’m doing.”
–
Lily has never been so angry in her life.
Her mother always said that Lily’s anger is a vicious and ruinous thing, rivalled only by that of her sister. Looking at Sirius now reminds her of Petunia – that pinched and haughty expression, as if he truly believes he’s done no wrong; or he knows he has, but will go to the ends of the earth to convince himself otherwise.
Potter was foolish to leave them alone with Miss Granger and these people – nice as they seem to be – because she will not throw Black a bone, nor will she pity him in whatever tumble of guilt and jealousy he’s worked his way into at the sight of Potter coaxing Remus up the stairs for a bath.
Which he is in sore need of. The thought makes Lily want to cry, but any tears have long since shed – in the Great Hall when the announcement was made, in the Gryffindor common room when her friends chased her, behind the closed curtains of her bed as she wept and wept for all she had lost in such quick succession – and all she feels instead is the ever mounting crest of anger that threatens to wash right over her.
It’s painful to see Remus like this. To know that however awful he looks on the outside, with his burns and wounds and his bones poking through his paper thin skin, that the inside looks so much worse.
She knows his heart. And because of this knowing she can feel how it’s been broken, crushed underfoot of people who are far more monstrous than they claim him to be.
“Hello, dear.” The older woman with light red hair is crouched in front of Lily with a steaming cup of tea. Mrs. Weasley, Potter had called her. “My name is Molly. You drink this up, hm, and we’ll get you all something more comfortable to change into.”
Lily looks down at her uniform, sees it in tatters. Next to her – by necessity and a misled sense of solidarity only – Black is comparably less shabby; though his dress robes were long forgotten in the Department of Mysteries, his shirt and trousers are as crisp as ever, smatters of blood and soot aside.
“Thank you,” she says to Molly. The cup warms her hands and yet the feeling doesn’t quite register. Not properly.
Black holds his own cup in an absent sort of way. His eyes are fixed on the stairs, where sounds of lapping water emerge. There’s nothing else to hear from there, and Lily can’t focus on it – Potter does know what he’s doing – so she looks around the room instead; takes in the poorly disguised stares, the shuffling, the uncertainty.
“Where are we?” she asks.
“Ottery St. Catchpole,” says Molly, sliding milk and sugar across the table. “Our family home.”
Lily tries again, as politely as she can manage in her current state – which is rather polite indeed. “And you are?”
“The Weasleys,” Black answers before anyone can get a word in. “That’s Molly Prewett. Gideon and Fabian’s sister.”
Black’s words are clipped and even. He’s showing no particular feeling other than that pathetic longing that’s bleeding out of him, just to be upstairs. It turns her stomach. She sips her tea to settle it.
“That’s right,” says Miss Granger. Hermione. Molly’s eyes water something awful. “I’ve brought you to the home of Arthur and Molly Weasley, whom I trust completely. These are their children – George, Ron, and Ginny.”
Black frowns.
“We’ve got four more,” Arthur explains, answering the unspoken query. “All older. It’s Bill you’re likely thinking of. He’s a curse breaker now, all grown up. I imagine he’d be able to offer some insight, Hermione.”
“I agree,” the witch responds. “But let’s leave it until morning.”
Lily’s shoulders sag. She can’t even begin to fathom this situation, not right now. They’re in the future, she knows well, because Hermione told them. Because she knew things about them that were impossible to know. Her name means nothing to Black, to Potter – a muggleborn, Lily thinks, hopes – but she’s not the only occupant unaccounted for.
“I’m Harry,” says the man, when Lily looks at him. A boy, really, but older than her. What comes after Harry is painfully, immediately obvious. It’s clear as day for those with eyes to see. Black gasps, flinches, as if they haven’t all been sharing the same room for nearing an hour.
Harry is a Potter, of course, as sure as the sky is blue. But his eyes are a true and clear thing, so familiar to Lily from her own reflection – from the vibrant emerald that beamed behind her own father’s glasses.
She drops her tea.
Harry is quick. He stops it before it can shatter, and returns it safely to the table with a subtle flick of his wand. Lily’s hands shake. This can’t be right. Next to her, Black has gone utterly silent. Not that she expected teasing for such a thing when they are rather blatantly in the future and presumably stuck there to boot.
“Sorry,” says Harry, like he is the one who nearly spilled piping hot tea onto her legs.
“Why?” Lily asks, stupidly.
There, a nervous titter from Black. Typical.
“Well, I…” Harry starts. “That is– I…”
“Blimey!” says Ron. His taller brother, George, looks guilty for laughing.
“I’m your son,” says Harry, after quite a bit of stammering. “You and, um– ”
“Potter?” Lily asks. Harry nods. “Christ.”
It’d be funny if it weren’t for the circumstances; Marlene and Mary might have teased her about it, were the versions of her friends that she knew best present. But for all Lily knows, they’re dead now. Even if they aren’t, very little seems to be the same here. Maybe they never knew each other at all.
She ought to be grateful, really, that Molly steps in before she can express any of these concerns. Because they are biting at her and begging for attention and she cannot possibly fathom a world in which she has a child with James Potter in, what, five years? She cannot fathom this world at all. She’d hate to hurt Harry’s feelings.
“Harry, dear,” says Molly. “Bring these up to your– to James. He and Remus can change out of those dreadful things.”
“Reckon we should burn ‘em,” says George.
“Too right,” says Ron, but Harry hardly reacts. He stands and accepts the bundle of clothes from Molly, Hermione’s hand sliding off his shoulder in passing.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. Lily does her very best imitation of a smile.
–
Though the door has been left ajar, Harry knocks. A quiet hum sounds from within, so he takes it as welcome.
“Mrs. Weasley said– ” he starts, stops. Sees his father at fifteen, hunched over the edge of the bath, gently wiping his friend’s battered face with a wet cloth. “She said to take these clothes.”
Harry deposits the clothes on top of the wash basket. James hardly spares him a glance. Each move is so delicate and intentional. Remus sits in soapy, steaming bathwater and James might have done this a thousand times before for the ease with which he treats it.
“Could you make ice?” he asks.
Harry blinks, shot from a daze. “Pardon?”
“Ice? He likes to chew on it. I left my wand downstairs.”
“Of course.”
He runs the tap into the small glass on the edge of the sink. The transfiguration requires more focus than he’d ever admit, but given the circumstances of the day, he’ll be kind to himself. The ice rattles around in the cup, twinkling in the silence.
“Here.”
James takes one cube between forefinger and thumb; already it melts from the heat of his skin, from the bath. He parts Remus' cracked and lips, the ice going clack as it passes his teeth.
Remus is hard for Harry to look at, being that he is distinctly Remus and not Lupin. For as scarred and worn as Lupin was, he carried a certainty with him that gave comfort to Harry; it let him know that no matter how often or far Lupin ran, he would always come back.
Until he didn’t, of course.
Remus is different in that he’s not here at all. His eyes are bloodshot – a twisted homage to Gryffindor in red and gold – and circled by inky bags. They stare at a fixed point on the bathroom wall, just beyond Harry’s head, and blink maybe twice in the thirty seconds Harry manages to spend looking at him. James is muttering things right into Remus’ ear as he wipes gently at his chest, his shoulders, and rises onto one socked foot while the other remains bare on the tile floor.
“What happened?” Harry says with a nod to the dirty sole. James’ scuffed shoes are lined up neatly by the door.
“He needed trousers, so I transfigured some.” As James speaks, Remus mechanically crunches the ice between his molars. “It wasn’t ideal, but I couldn’t think of anything else in the moment.”
Harry thinks of his father running through the Department of Mysteries, dragging his injured friend. They are a mirror of one another. But this version of the story never happened, he knows well. Lupin was never arrested, and his parents and godfather never broke into the Ministry of Magic to free their friend. Maybe this boy isn’t his father at all.
“Were you frightened?” Harry asks, though he knows not why.
James snorts. “‘Course. Still am.”
He coaxes Remus into leaning forward and dips the cloth back into the water. Blood sluices down pale shoulders; dirt and grime and all manner of things. Remus’ muscles relax where James touches him.
A moment passes, then: “My name is Harry, I’m y– ”
“I know,” James interrupts. “I know who you are.”
His voice betrays nothing as his focus remains on Remus, but Harry catches the twitch of a smile on his father’s lips.
“Rather dashing, aren’t you? That’s what made it so obvious.” James’ fingers work into his friend’s scalp. He’s opened one of Ginny’s hair potions and the excess is dribbling down his wrists. She won’t mind. “Though, you are a bit pastier than me,” he says, not unkindly. “So, we’re not quite twins. Suppose you’re older too?”
Harry nods. “I’ll be twenty in July.”
James’ head darts to the window. It’s still bright out despite the hour.
“It’s June,” Harry says.
“Solstice?”
“How did you know?”
James shrugs. “Figures. It certainly feels like the longest day of my life.”
He takes a jug from the bath’s edge and gently pours it over Remus’ head, making sure to shield his eyes. Harry feels entirely helpless. “Moony was arrested on his birthday. His trial was on mine.”
“So you’re– ”
“Not the sweetest of sixteens, I’ll tell you that much.”
Another ice cube, a scrub in behind Remus’ ears.
“Are you sure I can’t help at all?”
“I’ve worked my way up,” says James, with a final look at his friend’s hands, a nod to his toes. “There’s about four people total Moony would let touch him in this state. And Sirius isn’t an option right now.”
Harry isn’t sure how to take that. Sirius mucked something up – that much is clear. He wants to believe that this isn’t all because of that prank he played on Snape when they were in school together; unless Snape told. How did it all go so wrong?
“Would you grab his other arm, then?”
Harry jerks back to the present, taking two steps forward to swoop in under Remus’ arm and haul him the rest of the way to standing. He leans rather heavily on Harry as James towels him off, before Harry thinks to use a drying charm.
“Oh,” James laughs. It sounds like bells. “Thanks.”
Together, they get Remus out of the bath and into a pair of cotton pajamas that belonged to Fred, most likely, for the length of them. It’s tricky with all the bruising and the fragile state of his hands. This seems to embarrass James more than any of it, though Remus hardly notices. He’s looking at them, neck swinging about to catalog each movement, but it’s plain as day that he’s simply not there.
“I’m not sure what to do about all this,” James sighs, tucking a damp strand of Remus’ hair behind his ear. “It’s going to scar.”
“We’ll get a proper healer out to take a look.”
“No. No, he won’t like that. They won’t treat him nicely once they know.” Then quietly, the words lost between them. “That's why he looks like this.”
Of course. The first ever werewolf permitted to attend Hogwarts. Bitten so young, according to Kingsley, that it was a miracle he survived at all. Kept in a cage while Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Madame Pomfrey got interrogation rooms and hot suppers.
Madame Pomfrey.
Harry has an owl to send.
—
“I’ve put him to bed,” says James upon descending the stairs. “Mrs. Weasley has Dreamless Sleep, but it won’t do much for him.” He turns to Lily with a tired smile. “I could stay with him until you’re ready– ”
“No,” says Lily. “I’ll go now. Thank you.”
Bundle of clothes in her arm, she waves to Harry; who’s only just latched the kitchen window after sending an owl to Hogwarts. He waves back belatedly, timid and awkward and altogether delighted by this development.
Ginny leads her up the stairs, muttering softly about directions around the labyrinthine house, no doubt. Sirius waits hardly a second before rounding on his friend.
“Was it awful?” he asks urgently. James only shakes his head. “Just tell me! I can handle it.”
“Can you? Merlin, Sirius, what they did to him– ” James voice cracks. He runs a hand through his fluffy hair. “It’s mostly healed now, but you know he’ll never let on.”
“Sounds like Lupin, alright,” says Ron.
James laughs at that, but it’s something brittle and weak. He looks close to tears.
“I’m not sure what to do.”
Sirius wilts, as if he thought James to be in possession of all the answers.
“We’ll know by morning,” Harry says, before the certainty fades. “Or, uh, we’ll have an idea, at least.”
“Shall we pop to the shops?” asks Mr. Weasley, hands in his pockets all casual-like. “I’m sure Miss Evans would appreciate some Muggle provisions. Remus too!”
Mrs. Weasley pinches the bridge of her nose. Hermione sighs, bone tired after the day she’s had. George swoops in, taking pity on them. Perhaps he just wants out of the house.
“Alright, me and Dad will head to the shops, then.” To their guests: “Anything you lads want?”
James shrugs. “Moony’s mum sends him this purple chocolate.”
“Dairy Milk,” Hermione supplies. James points to her in thanks.
“Muggle cigarettes,” Sirius blurts.
“Padfoot!”
“They’re not for me,” he says, indignant, yet thoroughly chastised. “Moony likes them...”
Mrs. Weasley does not tut or scold or disagree. She simply waves her husband and son off, rushing them out the door. “Go, now!” she says. “Before I change my bloody mind.”