Now
“Brief pause. I'm walking backward into my own myth.
I was trying to walkout.” Anne Carson
The owl startles him, rapping on the window like it's got no patience for dawdlers—or maybe just no patience for him.
His yelp of surprise is embarrassing, especially considering his thirteen years of hiding, but you don't expect an eagle-owl in Texas, especially when you've been out of correspondence of that sort for years now.
He could leave the window shut, but giant foreign owls tend to attract attention—and if he's learned anything, it's that letters by eagle-owl rarely bring glad tidings.
He eases the window open, only for the damn bird to swoop inside in a storm of talons, feathers, and creepy orange eyes. The talons reached out as if in punishment for taking too long, and he hissed in pain as the blood welled up on his forearm.
Most animals tended to avoid him, sensing the curse, but this one imperiously thrust the letter at him before settling down.
Well? It seemed to say, and he huffed, a little amused despite himself.
"Alright, alright," he said, pulling open an old tin of biscuits from his closet of a pantry. He handed over the snack in penance, and the thing devoured it in one brutal snap of its beak. A shower of crumbs fell onto his nice rug, and the little bastard gave him one more arrogant look before flying off through the window.
He shut the window quickly, scratch stinging painfully. He disinfects the cut, still reeling a little from the events of the last few minutes. You never got used to some things, he silently mused, especially not the Owl Express.
The letter sits on the table, his former name elegantly scrawled on the side.
If he'd been a different man, in a different life, he would've immediately torn the letter open. But if this life has taught him anything, it's that it pays to be a little patient.
He pulls out his wand from the jar he stashes it in and goes through his usual set of complicated defensive spells, homenum revelio, praedico incolumitatem, and a few other spells—precise, habitual swishes that feel like second nature.
Once he's certain that the letter isn't trapped, traced, or filled with human remains, he opens it, wand tip flicking it open as he braces himself for whatever it has to say.
Dear Remus,
I trust this message reaches you well, though I am certain it comes as a surprise. I am acutely aware that it has been years since we spoke—life has a way of keeping all of us wrapped up in our own roles.
I wish I could say that I write solely to inquire about your happiness, but that is not so. I am writing to offer you the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts for the coming year. This position, as you know, is notoriously difficult to fill. I can think of no one better suited to guide our students through the complexities of Defense than you, whose knowledge is unmatched. I have every confidence in your ability to guide and inspire the next generation of witches and wizards.
This role, however, is more than an opportunity to teach. Our students are entering challenging times, and I am certain your guidance will be invaluable to them, particularly one young man. You've heard of the news—Harry is once more in danger.
I have made arrangements for you, secure quarters, resources to conduct class, and, of course, Wolfsbane Potion provided as necessary. Please be assured that I will ensure your privacy and safety.
Of course, you are under no obligation to accept. I understand, perhaps better than most, the toll that it would take on you to return to a world you have long left. Yet I cannot help but believe Hogwarts would be better for your presence, and I know there is much we can offer in return.
If you choose to accept, please send your response by owl, and we shall make arrangements for your return to Britain.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
As he read the letter, he smiled. There was no mirth in it, just a bitter edge.
Good old Dumbledore! No one else could send a message like that, a job offer wrapped like a call to arms! Like it was a glorious opportunity and not a miserable, wretched chance to walk the halls of his childhood. He ran his fingers across the parchment, feeling the indents where the nib bit into the paper. He reread it before setting the letter down on the table.
Remy laughed bitterly. Changing times. That was one way to put it. They all thought Voldemort was gone, even Dumbledore didn't have conclusive proof yet, but he knew better. Remy had lived with the burden of knowledge that others didn't, the twisted memories of the past, of his past. Back when he had been Remus Lupin, he had been a loyal Order member, an insider, working directly under Dumbledore. He'd spent years as a spy, embedded among Greyback's camp of werewolves, cut off from everyone he'd once considered family.
That "assignment" had been Dumbledore's idea, of course. He could still remember the headmaster's reasoning: It will keep you safe, Remus. It will help the cause. Safe. Remy scoffed. The reality had been anything but safe. He had been isolated, surrounded by Fenrir Greyback's brutal pack, witnessing atrocities in the name of espionage while his friends fell, one by one. He was too far away to help, too suspicious a figure to pass on anything detailed, and torn between those who were his family and those who were ostensibly his people.
But what stung worse than the horror of his assignment was the sense of betrayal, the unspoken suspicion in the eyes of those he loved most. Sirius, James, and even Lily had started looking at him differently, whispers of dark magic, betrayal, and treachery in the air. And by the time it all fell apart—the deaths, Harry's orphaning, and Sirius's imprisonment—Remy was left alone, adrift in a storm of rage, guilt, and the foreign memories of a life he was still coming to terms with.
Thirteen years since the end of the war, since he'd torn himself from this world, seeking freedom from every haunted glance and whispered rumor. And now Albus was asking him to return, to put himself in the center of things once more as if the years and the scars they carried could be swept away. As if the war and its effects didn't haunt him even now.
Remy felt a wave of irritation rise, familiar but somehow sharper this time. He'd rebuilt his life on the fragments left after the war, only to feel it all teetering now on the edge of Dumbledore's request. He'd done what Dumbledore asked before. And look what it got him—isolated, hunted, forced into hiding while the rest of them moved on. As if those dark deeds never existed, as if they weren't all silently holding their breath.
And now, all these years later, Dumbledore wanted him to return? To teach? As if he could stroll into the hallowed halls of Hogwarts as if nothing had happened?
"Unbelievable," he muttered, gripping the letter so hard his knuckles turned white. I don't owe him anything. I don't owe any of them anything. Remus John Lupin had felt indebted to the headmaster. Remy Howell, who had memories of another life, thought the old wizard was the worst kind of collector– the kind that helped those who couldn't afford to say no, only to ask them to repay him in blood and tears.
It was tempting to set the letter on fire. His wand was still in his hand. It would take so little.
And yet, something stayed his hand.
He wanted– no. He needed a second opinion from someone more detached from the problem. He needed someone who could set him straight.
Remy closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. He folded Dumbledore's letter back into its envelope and set it aside. He wasn't sure what he would do, not yet. But one thing was certain—if he returned to Hogwarts, it wouldn't be as the Remus Lupin they remembered.
No, he thought, a hard edge settling into his gaze. If I go back, it'll be on my terms.