Life is Fair (Where is that Written?)

For the first time in Harry’s life, he is having a birthday party.

As he is still getting used to the idea of such luxurious concepts as ‘living in a room larger than a seven by four rectangle’ and ‘eating three meals a day, every day,’ no one is more surprised by this fact than him. 

Remus (who is adjusting considerably well, he feels, to guardianship of a child. Yes, it is harrowing in many ways. Yes, Harry is continually finding new manners in which to make him want to take hot pokers to his heart. No, he wouldn’t trade it for anything) sits him down three days beforehand to ask what he’d like in a party, and Harry stares at him, dumbfounded, for a full minute. 

“I don’t know,” he manages eventually, wracking his brain for anything left to want. He has friends and clothes that fit him, Remus listens to his idle thoughts as well as his not so idle ones, and he’s allowed out to play for wide swaths of the day, even beyond his chores. (Harry has basically no chores, but Remus still gets pinched around the eyes when he tries to do extra.) “What—er, what do you do? For parties?” 

Harry’s only experiences in this area are Dudley’s birthday parties, which he was very distinctly not invited to, and Aunt Petunia’s dinner parties with Mrs. Next Door and her other terrible friends, which Harry was also not invited to but did have to do an extra-large mountain of chores so Number Four would dazzle all the neighbors. He’s never seen an average birthday party except for on the television. (Remus has a television but prefers his wireless, and on nights when his cottage is hotter inside than out he’ll bundle Harry up and carry him out onto the porch to look at the stars and listen to his favorite terrible mystery program. He says it’s easing him back into stories, because he’s gone a long time without them. Harry thinks that’s a horrible shame.) 

Remus, on the couch opposite Harry, leans back and considers his question. “Well, I suppose it depends. When I was your age, my Mam would wake me up early—five forty-three—and explain to me the story of how I was born. I didn’t have parties then, because of my illness. We weren’t sure if it was contagious, and we didn’t want to accidentally pass it on.” 

Harry barely resists sighing at the mention of Remus’ ‘illness.’ He may have one more thing to want. 

(Ron thinks they should let Remus come to them with it. 

“I reckon if I was a bloody wolf one night out of the month, I’d like to keep it to myself too,” he protests, two weeks before Remus ambushes Harry about his birthday. 

He and Hermione are at the Weasley’s for the night, supposedly because of Remus’ ‘illness’ acting up, but within five minutes of Harry showing up, Hermione’d already thrown open Ron’s door and announced, “It’s tonight!” 

With nothing else to do, the three of them are staying up and watching the same sky Harry does with Remus, full moon hanging in the air like a luminescent marble, hoping he’s alright. 

“I’m not suggesting we accost him,” Hermione scoffs. “I just want him to know we don’t care about that stuff.” 

“I’m not sure,” Ron says, curled up on his bed and petting his brother Percy’s pet rat, Scabbers. “My Mum reads all of this bloke Lockhart’s books, and his Wanderings with Werewolves is bloody scary. It says they’ve got teeth like knives, and they target kids!” 

“Well that’s patently ridiculous!” Hermione huffs, leaning away from where Ron is shoving Scabbers at her like a weapon. “I don’t need to read that to know it’s all rot. Remus is perfectly kind, and Harry’s never been happier, right, Harry?” 

Harry looks away from the moon, still suspended in the night sky as if ensconced in oil. The more he sees it, the more it seems bloated and sickly, like a tumor someone let grow too long. It might be beautiful, but something about it frightens Harry, when he thinks about how Remus winced down the stairs and didn’t even protest Harry making breakfast, something he usually opposes at least once. The image of Remus won’t leave his mind, pale and scarred and pained, telling Harry not to worry, he’ll be fine. 

“Never better,” Harry assures Hermione, quirking his lips manually. “Just…” 

“It’s okay, mate,” Ron says. “Hey, you know what I heard from Dad—he’s got a bunch of mates in the Creatures wing—he says there’s this bloke, Belby, looking into something to help with the transformations.”

“Oh, I wonder if that’s very expensive?” Hermione looks worried now. 

“Shouldn’t matter to the richest man in England,” Ron shrugs. He’s taken to calling Remus that ever since he made the mistake of answering Ron’s idle question after what Gringotts was negotiating with him. 

“No, I suppose not,” Hermione agrees, nevertheless frowning concernedly. 

Harry bites down a smile. He loves his friends.)

“But I daresay you aren’t looking for a story like that,” Remus tilts his head, a teasing look in his eyes. Harry blinks away his reverie, flushing. 

It’s not that Harry doesn’t love Hope. He’s never had an Aunt like her in his life; one who ruffles his hair and teaches him Welsh and sneaks him sweets when Remus tries to pretend he’s a paragon of nutrition. (Which doesn’t ever really work because every time a talk like that happens, all Harry has to do is wait five minutes and he knows he’ll find Remus in the chocolate drawer.) It’s just that Harry can listen to Hope stories from Hope. He doesn’t need to listen to them from Remus. 

Not his mother’s Remus. 

“In school…” Remus brushes a finger down the length of the jagged scar that cuts across his whole face, thinking. 

Harry knows these stories take a lot from him. He knows thinking about Harry’s Mum and Dad and Wormtail is hard for Remus, and that Padfoot did something to him. He knows it in the tension in Remus’ muscles when he tells a story with Padfoot as the punchline, or the brace of his shoulders when he says Prongs. He knows it when Remus holds him close and whispers the stories about his parents, voice hoarse and breaking. 

He’s grateful. But he still needs them, like a cavern in his chest. Like Fezzik needs people. Like Humperdinck needs the hunt. Like the Count needs pain. 

Harry needs these stories. He’d be lost without them. 

“In school,” says Remus, and he sounds a million miles away. “We’d start with an early wakeup. If you hadn’t learned to hide your shite under the bed yet, you would, because James’ knee would find it, and he would make it your problem.” 

Remus sighs, cutting Harry a look when he giggles. “And then, of course, there was the Birthday Breakfast. This caught on more toward the end of our tenure, but we would attempt, at least, to lead the Great Hall in a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday. I don’t know if you know this, Harry, but a school of pre-and-post-pubescent children? Not the best place for an impromptu a capella choir.” Harry pitches against the couch, mashing his face into the cushions to stifle his laughter. 

“Yes, yes, it was very bad all around. What next?” Remus casts about for the memory, hands on his knees as he searches. “Some of these depended on the year, and some on the Marauder; remind me to tell you when you’re older about how we dared Wormtail to ask Arnold Bulstrode on a date, it was brilliant—oh, I’ve got it!” 

Remus snaps his fingers. “I cannot believe I forgot about this, Harry, I’m a fool. Allow me to inform you as to the night Padfoot and I secured your birth.” 

Harry wrinkles his nose, but nevertheless allows Remus to pull him a little closer. He waves his wand three sputtering times, and on the third try, multicolored smoke issues from the tip, coalescing into the interior of a hallway. 

“There we were—James’ seventeenth birthday, ‘seventy-seven. He took challenges like anyone, but all he wanted, all he ever talked about that year was your mother. Have you ever heard Sweeney, Harry? ” Remus grins at him, conjuring one smoke-person with short hair and one with long hair, presumably meant to be Harry’s parents. 

Harry giggles again. “I’m seven.” It’s his go-to response when Remus says something he doesn’t quite understand, like don’t ever talk to Aurors without an attorney or you have inherent value not tied to how useful you can be. 

“Well, at any rate, your father was obsessed. We’d cured him of some things, half-cured others, like that horrible feud with Snape—well, mostly—kind of. Really, it was that everyone was either turning out to be Death Eaters, decent people, or muggleborns. So. Some things were out of our hands. But! The point is, James was a better prospect than ever before.” 

“Uh-huh,” Harry nods, as around the corner he can’t see past come a pair of new smoke figures. These two can’t seem to keep from bumping into one another, ruffling each other’s hair and stopping one another with a hand to the chest. The shorter of the two (Padfoot, most likely) points to Harry’s parents before bullying its companion into an out-of-sight nook in the hall. 

Remus swallows, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he looks at the two new figures. “And I’d been a Prefect with Lily for almost three years at that point—don’t be a Prefect, Harry.” Remus shudders. “The benefits are not worth the work.—so I knew she never wanted any of the big romantic stuff James had been peddling since first year.” 

He leans over to ruffle Harry’s hair affectionately. “Your mother was the most practical wix I’ve ever met, Harry. She never met a problem she couldn’t solve, given time.” Remus closes his eyes for a moment, fingers slipping down to Harry’s cheek, and Harry lets him. With a great sigh, he continues, “James, though. James was all showmanship. If Peter and I were for plans and getting away with it, Padfoot and Prongs were our grand visionaries, leading the way to trails unblazed. He had this grand fantasy, you know, told us second year, about how his wedding would be the bash of the century, all his father’s side of the family, mehendi and dancing and so much food and a guest list the same size as the Wizengamot.” 

Remus clears his throat, looking at the smoky figures waiting patiently for him to continue. “He had an old picture, from his Mum, of her and his Da dancing at their wedding, and he’d look at it whenever he was reeling from Evans hexing his hair blue or turning his—” He cuts himself off suddenly and turns wide eyes on Harry before rushing to say, “arm into a carrot.” Clearing his throat again, Remus says, “But Evans didn’t want big, you see? She told me, once. Just after I gave her that book, actually.” 

He gives Harry time to process this, probably because he can feel the jolt that goes through him. Harry hasn’t asked—hadn’t even thought to ask about Remus giving Lily his treasure. His heart thuds with excitement, palms going clammy even as he clasps them to Remus’ wrist. 

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Remus laughs, tugging Harry just a little bit closer. Harry goes, well aware by now that Remus is enacting a plan he, Hermione, and Ron have all concocted seemingly without each other’s knowledge entitled Hug Harry More So He Associates Touch With Safety (Like Normal Kids). You flinch when people don’t announce their presence seven times, blimey. “We’ll get there. I think this was in… I want to say sixth year? We were patrolling together, and I think this was around the time Peter was obsessed with putting permanent sticking charms on the sticky notes we’d brought from home—but anyway. We’d gotten onto the subject because we found two fourth years snogging behind a suit of armor, which. You don’t need to know about, because you’re—” 

“Seven!” Harry giggles. 

“Precisely, Harry, thank you for reminding me. But the subject came to love, and I, being the investigative sort I am, asked her—just out of curiosity, mind—why she hated James so much.”

Harry’s heart jumps to his throat. “What did she say?” 

Remus pulls him into the cradle of his arms, looking down at him somberly. “She kind of thought about it for a moment, and then said, because he doesn’t love me. He loves the idea of me, like in that book you recommended at the end of last year? And she spoke for the rest of patrol about the list of Most Beautiful Women in the World, and how it was ultimately a completely flawed system, because what even is beauty? It isn’t quantifiable. Nor is love, of course, but at least there’s an act of courage in standing before someone and telling them for all of their faults you’d rather be in their presence and unhappy than happy and without them. She spoke a lot about that first confession of Buttercup’s, when she explained herself quite ramblingly and it barely made any sense, but at least it was more than simply shouting farm boy across a table and asking—” Remus put on a deep, stupid-sounding voice— “Hogsmeade?” 

Harry frowns. “Like the Count? And how he came to see the cows, but not really the cows? My Da was like that?” 

Remus smiles down at the little smoky doll of Harry’s Dad sadly. “That was what she was describing, wasn’t it, Harry. And she meant it too, but it’s a little more complicated than that. Your Da loved your Mum, he really did, but…” He trails off, thinking. “James was a prankster for a reason. He loved a joke; he loved to make people laugh. Because as long as people were laughing at him, at what he directed them toward, they couldn’t laugh at the things he didn’t want them to.” 

As if realizing he’s ventured too far into murky water, Remus brushes over Harry’s curls again and smiles wider. “So he spent six of seven years telling your Mum how pretty she was and pulling her pigtails so she wouldn’t laugh at an honest confession. Showed him right when me and Padfoot cast our favorite little hexes at him that day.” 

In tandem, the two figures at the end of the corridor spring out from their hidey-hole, pointing wispy wands that shoot multicolored smoke into the back of the one Harry’s father is. His smoke turns from gold to a brilliant, embarrassed red, stiff and alarmed. 

“We had a habit of modifying spells when they didn’t exactly suit our needs, Padfoot especially,” Remus says, eyes on Harry’s father’s smoke. “Terrible practice, Harry. Don’t take after him.” His voice is colder when he says it. 

“That said, it took the two of us until Christmas to perfect this one. A spin on the Confundus Charm to bamboozle the user into saying whatever pops into their head first, completely unprompted. So when James, in the middle of patrol with Lily—he was Head Boy by this time, another thing you’ll want to avoid, Harry—suddenly started blurting out the things we’d all been privy to for seven years, but she’d never heard?” 

Remus flicks his wand at the smoke again, and it only takes one and a half tries before—

“Evans,” the smoke puppet says, and it doesn’t sound like Remus at all. It’s a deeper voice, smoother, even as strangled and confused as it is. “How are you so bright all the time? It’s like looking at the sun, I can’t —think, I just keep looking at you, and you’re so smart, you move through us like we aren’t even there, you don’t need anyone but you’re still kinder than anyone I’ve ever met and you’re just so good and just being in the same room as you makes me feel like I’ll explode if I don’t try to do something about it, I love you so much, so I’m sorry I’m such a git all the time, but every minute you look at me there’s a greater chance of my whole body melting into real thick sludge like the Defense professor last year, I can’t remember his name and I am going to kill Moony and Padfoot. Uh.” 

Harry takes the split second before the smoke puppet moves to think, dumb-founded, that’s his Dad’s voice. 

And then his Dad’s puppet is sprinting down the cloudy corridor at breakneck pace, leaving his Mum’s smoky figure a violent, blushing magenta. 

Wordlessly, the two figures standing a few inches away, smoke trail wands still drawn, high-five. 

“Yeah, they got us back good for that,” Remus chuckles, as the long-haired puppet, Harry’s Mum, dashes off after his Dad and the scene disappears like steam evaporating. “But they were together by then, so. Your Mum got her small, knowing love, and your Da got the best witch this side of the Mediterranean. And none of us knew where we ranked on the List of Most Beautiful Women.” 

Harry turns in Remus’ arms, suddenly grateful for his plot to get Harry hugging like a normal kid. He wraps his arms around Remus’ neck and shakes. 

“Harry?” Remus curls his hand around Harry’s back, and he shudders. His Dad’s voice is ringing in his ears. “Cariad, what’s wrong?” 

Harry buries his face in Remus’ neck, tremoring from head to toe. “Thank you,” he says with all the power he has. 

He means it, though. This is the best birthday gift he could’ve gotten. 

(Harry has a birthday party, and it is not much different from other children’s. It is not themed, and he had to help with setting up or else be sat on by his best friends upon order from the adults, who are still working on operation No Child Labor. There is a vanilla cake he helped to bake, and almost drove his guardian to drink with the amount of ‘fun anecdotes’ he shared about how he got what burn or how excited he’ll be to have fresh cake—with frosting even! 

He is spectacularly, deliriously happy, especially with Hermione Granger’s gift of a video taped trailer for the new Princess Bride movie. “This isn’t the real gift,” she explains hastily, handing him the VHS tape with forceful hands. “When it comes out, you and I will go see it with my Mum and Dad. That’s your gift. This is just…for now.” 

Harry, who has never been given so many presents at once, let alone presents at all and is feeling a tad overwhelmed, has a truly impressive fit of sobbing, during which he clings to Hermione and refuses to let go, even when Remus announces he’s due for a break and carts the two of them up to Harry’s room to relax. 

“I’ll bring you both some water,” he says, laying them down on Harry’s bed and smiling at Hermione, no doubt pleased at the success of their shared plot. “You’re a very considerate friend, Miss Granger.” 

Hermione, wiping away her own tears, nods. “Thank you,” she sniffs. 

Harry just burrows closer to her, and tugs Ron into their pile when he sneaks in after Remus has gone.) 

They realize they might have to make expectations clearer when Harry tries to board the Knight Bus in August. 

Remus has a telephone, and Harry and Hermione have been using it quite a bit to stay in touch now that Harry’s not making twice-weekly trips to the Surrey Public Library to look for him. 

But that also means Harry hasn’t seen Hermione in a long time. He misses her. 

So, on a Tuesday when Harry’s chores are all done and he has it on good authority Hermione will be at home the rest of the afternoon, (her Mum cooks dinner with her on Tuesdays, because those are the days she has off from the dental clinic, and she likes Hermione to spend the day with her beforehand) Harry calls to Remus that he’s going out and sets off down the road. 

The long grass is still unmowed, despite many halfhearted offers from Harry. It’s just as well, because he likes running his hands over the top of them as he walks. The sky is blue above him, and bugs drone on in the woods on either side of the long gravel road. It’s going to be a good day. 

Harry follows the road past the small sign marking Remus’ property, and sticks out his hand. It must be a slow day, because the Bus shoots into view almost immediately, and Harry gets on, humming under his breath. 

“Wotcher, Sprog,” says Stan with an interested air. “Been a while since you dropped by.” 

Harry nods. “I know how to get to Brynmawr now,” he says. 

Stan nods approvingly. “Proper bloody skills you have then, Sprog.” He slaps the partition and Ernie gets going. 

Harry sits in his favorite window seat and watches the Welsh countryside fly by, eyes jumping from fencepost to fencepost and almost imagining a pack of four animals running alongside the Bus. 

In short, everything’s going brilliantly until it isn’t. 

With the squalling noise of tires stopped too fast, the Knight Bus shudders to an abrupt halt. It’s the middle of the day on Tuesday, so only a few old ladies are on with Harry, but they all press their hands to their chests and say oh, Merlin, and why, I never. 

Harry almost tumbles out of his seat, and Stan curses colorfully, banging on the partition again and going out to check what’s happened. He mutters as he goes. “Feckin’ hell, I’ll have Ern’s bollocks if this is his squirrel shite again…” 

Harry’s close enough to the open door to hear Stan’s side of the harried conversation, but whoever is outside is very quiet and very angry. 

“Hey? Hey! Get out the middle of the street, you numpty! Can’t ‘choo see we’re tryna drive, here?” 

Harry strains to hear, but all he catches is the barest whisper of something that could be wind outside. 

“Wha—now why are you askin’ bout sprogs on the Bus, eh? Don’t see many blokes your age lookin’ after their own—hey. Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” 

The back of Harry’s hands begin to prickle uncomfortably. He entertains the thought briefly that he can use his magic to tell a story where he disappears.

“Get back here, you—” 

But it’s too late. Whoever it is has rounded the Bus in a flash of knit just slow enough for Harry’s eyes to catch, stomping up the steps angrily, and is it just Harry’s imagination, or is there dust falling from the ceiling?

His stomach churns. 

Remus’ stormy face comes into view, drawn and dark, the scars more pronounced by the way his brow furrows around them. Harry wants very badly to hide, but he knows the safest thing to do is keep looking, so he can try to predict what will happen next. 

It only worked half the time at the Dursleys’, and he’s known Remus for less time, but maybe it’ll work? 

Stan, tripping over his own limbs on Remus’ surefooted heels, is babbling “c’mon, then, eh, what ‘choo want with the sprite? He don’t mean no harm, right?” He looks to Harry, who notes detachedly that he can no longer feel his face. He nods, just because Stan is nice. 

“See? Just a sprog out for some fun on the town, cannae begrudge him that, eh—” 

Remus reaches Harry’s seat and gestures for him to come over. Harry knows how this goes. (His mind runs overtime; will Remus lock him in his room will he still get fed will he use magic to punish Harry how bad would that hurt are there spells for hurting kids who misbehave can Harry just stop existing, please?) 

Harry comes over. 

Remus grabs his hand in a tight grip (not as tight as Aunt Petunia’s, but maybe that’s because they’re in public) and whirls on Stan. 

“For your information, I am his guardian, and you’ve been shuttling a minor across the isle for months without even a note,” Remus snaps. Stan’s eyes go wide, and he backs up a little. “You’re lucky I don’t take this to the courts, because I know for a fact you’ve put two unaccompanied minors under ten in danger multiple times in the last six-month period and I swear to Morgana,” he flicks his eyes down to see Stan’s nametag— “Stan, if you ever even whistle in the direction of this village again without my say-so, I’ll rip the engine out of your eyesore myself.” 

He pulls Harry off the Knight Bus (still much gentler than Aunt Petunia. Somehow, this is not comforting) and pulls out his wand. The world goes away in the squeezing, sucking sensation Harry is coming to hate, and they materialize again in the living room. 

Harry lets go of Remus’ hand numbly, only to jolt in shock when he hears a pained noise from him. He looks over quickly to find Remus staring at him, one hand over his mouth, tears shining in his eyes. 

“Oh, Harry,” he says, wobbly, “I was so worried. You left the wards, and I thought—I thought you’d been— oh…” Remus doubles over like he’s going to be sick. All the anger seems to have leaked out of him, and he slumps over, boneless.

Harry stares, dumbly, and all at once, he’s angry. It bubbles in his gut, overriding his common sense so before he thinks better he shouts, “I was just going to Hermione’s!” 

Remus turns shocked eyes on him. 

It makes Harry angrier, somehow. “I’ve taken that Bus so many times, Remus! I was fine! I’ve been to London and back, and it took me so long to walk home the first time and it was fine! Nobody cared! ” 

Tears are leaking out of the corners of Remus’ eyes as he looks over at Harry, one hand braced on the coffee table he lays out cheese and crackers on with a sheepish smile most days. 

Harry can’t stop. “But now you scared Stan and I’ll have made Hermione wait again and what do you care if I ride the bus, anyway? Adults do it all the time! I—” something in his throat catches. 

Remus’ eyes have gone pinched again. 

“No one cared, before,” Harry repeats, wetly this time. “Why do you?” 

Wordlessly, Remus offers his arms, and Harry falls into them, crying the whole horrible mess inside him into Remus’ scratchy jumper. It hurts so much, even if Remus isn’t angry at him, even if he doesn’t want to hurt Harry, it still hurts. Remus’ fingers smoothing over his hair and rubbing gentle circles into his back helps. 

Finally, they move to one of the couches, settling Harry over Remus’ chest as he stretches his bad leg on the coffee table. 

“I’ll call Hermione’s Mum,” Remus says quietly, “and tell her you won’t be coming over today, so neither of them are worried.” 

Harry nods miserably. 

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Remus continues. “I was scared and I let it get the better of me, and in the future I’ll do better. It might be helpful for us to have clear expectations of one another, so no one is confused.” 

“Okay,” Harry sniffs. He’s used to rules. He’s not very good at them, but he’s willing to try for Remus. 

“I’ll go first. Harry, I promise I will never, ever hit you or keep food from you or say hurtful things to you because I’m angry or frightened. That’s not acceptable behavior, and I won’t have it in my house.” 

Harry blinks. Shimmying out of Remus’ arms, he pulls away to plant his hands on the man’s chest and look at his face, searching for the lie. 

He can’t find it. 

“But what if I’m bad?” Harry refrains from adding like today.

Remus smiles wearily. “In my experience, you’re about as far from bad as it’s possible to get. But no, I wouldn’t go back on my word for that.” 

“If I talk back?” Harry must be misunderstanding. 

Remus shakes his head. 

“What if I yelled at you? What if I hit you? What if I ran around telling the neighbors all your secrets?” Harry can’t believe it. This isn’t how the world works. No one makes promises like that; and they certainly don’t keep them. 

“Harry,” Remus steadies him with a hand on his. “I know I’ll have to work to earn your trust. I understand. But I promise, those things aren’t and will never be conditional here. If you do break one of our expectations, we might refrain from stargazing or the wireless for the night, and I’d ask you to explain to me why what you did is wrong. But Harry, that’s it. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Finally, Harry nods. 

It’s his turn next. “I’ll…tell you when I’m going to see Hermione?” He asks, falteringly. 

“I’d like that a lot, Harry,” Remus inclines his head. “Do you know why?” 

“Because…When I disappear, it’s…bad?” Harry really doesn’t know. The Dursleys were always happy to be rid of him. 

“Sort of, yes,” Remus agrees. “I want you to tell me when you want to go somewhere because as wonderful as the world is, it’s also very dangerous.” 

Harry shudders, remembering Aunt Marge’s bulldogs. “Yeah.” 

“Yes. So if you’re out in the world, and I don’t know where, it’s much harder for me to find you if something dangerous happens. Does that make sense?” 

Harry nods. “Your turn.”  

They trade back and forth for a long long time, until the sun has sunk low in the sky and Remus puts a hand to his head, alarm crossing his face briefly. “I forgot to tell Hermione’s mum where you are,” he says. “Oh dear.” 

Harry straightens up. “Can you still call her?” 

Remus pulls a face. The telephone always gives him trouble, which he says is because of his fumbly fingers but Harry thinks is probably ‘cause of his werewolf ears and the crackle of the speaker. He gets real flinchy around it. 

“I could,” he says, “but what if I showed you some magic instead? As an apology for today.” 

Harry nods eagerly. After stories, there’s nothing better than Remus doing magic. He’s getting better at it, too! It only takes him twice to light the hob most days, now. 

“This,” Remus says, pulling his wand from his pocket and holding it out gently, “Is a particularly advanced spell. Only certain wix can perform it, and in fact it’s been several years since I’ve been able to. Usually, the incantation forces the caster’s magical core to take physical form, casting a sort of protection around them.” 

Harry imagines the man in black, standing protectively in front of Buttercup. He sees Fezzik, scaling the Cliffs. 

“But it can also be used as a messenger, if necessary. Watch closely,” Remus instructs. He swishes his wand once, breathing deeply, and says clearly, “Expecto patronum.” 

In a bright flash of silver Harry watches a great big dog with shaggy fur bound around the room, letting out soundless yips and trying to lick Harry and Remus ineffectually. It’s as tall as Harry, and very thin, with long hair trailing after its long, awkwardly thin snout. It looks like a ghost. It’s still the friendliest dog Harry’s ever met.

“Stop,” Remus says after a moment, voice wooden. “Enough, Padf—hm. Listen.” He leans down to where the dog is parked in front of the two of them, tail wagging incessantly. “Find Estelle Granger. Tell her Harry is with me, and won’t be coming over tonight, but we’ll reschedule for later in the week.” 

With one last silent bark, the dog (Padfoot! Harry’s Dad was friends with a dog in school!) bounds away, through the door like it isn’t even there. 

Harry looks at Remus’ face, which seems a little bit wooden, and says, “That’s a very good spell.” 

Remus smiles down at him. “I agree.” 

“So,” Hermione says, turning to Harry. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter, three large books laid out in front of her and Ron as Harry flicks his finger at a pen to her left. He’s trying to get better at telling stories to himself. 

The pen wobbles where it sits, but otherwise doesn’t move. Harry chooses to be happy with the progress. 

“So?” Harry asks. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Hermione announces, “and you should tell Remus soon.” 

Harry furrows his brow. “Tell him what?” 

“That you know.” Ron leans in, giving Harry a significant look. “If you don’t, it’ll just get worse until you blurt it out, and then you’ll both be upset.” 

Hermione, over his shoulder, turns concerned eyes on him, and Harry flushes. Remus took him to the Grangers’ early today, but apparently had warned Mrs. Granger that he is ‘no longer allowed to make his own way home, please.’ 

Harry's been hoping to avoid that discussion, so it was rather unwelcome for him. 

“But—” Harry bites his lip. “I think he really doesn’t want us to know. He never talks about it, and anytime I ask about—about anything like it, he gets all quiet and shunts me out to the garden.” 

It’s true. Remus is so nice to Harry; he doesn’t shout, doesn’t make rules without explaining them, and though Harry’s been watching since the day on the Knight Bus, he hasn’t broken one of his promises. But if Harry even mentions wolves or dogs—or even shapeshifters!—it’s like Remus can’t get away from him fast enough. Harry’s been at Remus’ for two months, and sent away from him for the full moon both times. 

His mother’s Remus does so much for Harry, he just… he wants to help. 

“So tell him about you being a parselmouth,” Ron says, leaning back in the bar chairs Hermione’s mum helped them into a bit ago, snapping his book closed. “Then you can be mental together.” 

Hermione smacks him on the arm. “You’re so rude,” she sighs, a little smile curling on her lips. “But I think that could be good. If you come clean, then he’ll have an opportunity to as well. That’s fair, isn’t it?” 

Harry nods, chewing on his lip. Something sickly and pained curls in his stomach, like noxious gas. 

(Ron told Harry all about parseltongues. Wix who speak to snakes, who everyone thinks are evil and mean and cruel. Harry listened, and now Harry thinks about Count Rugen, and his quiet, slick horribleness, and the way corn snakes and adders were his only friends at school this year. All they ever talked about were their siblings and mice and the sun. They loved the sun, how warm it was, how good its light felt on their scales. Harry wonders what it says about him, that the only things he ever finds comfort in (snakes and cupboards and the battered copy of a book he found tucked away in a corner) always end up marking him as different from the other kids. A freak, a liar, or a thief. 

At least Ron and Hermione still like him.)

“And you, Ron?” Hermione asks, turning her sharp eyes on him. Harry breathes a sigh of relief. “How do you like these, compared to wixen’s books?” She gestures to the pile of books in front of her. 

Harry winces. Hermione, who loves reading almost more than Harry, has been trying to figure out why Ron’s books move letters around for weeks. First, she suspected magical books were simply different, but Harry brought a few over from Remus’ cottage, and they don’t move, either. So today, it’s on to muggle books. 

Ron shakes his head. “Still switching,” he shrugs. “Guess I’m just dumb, huh?” 

Harry frowns and Hermione scoffs. She levels one almost-a-year-older finger at him and says, “Ronald Weasley, do not ever say that again. Of course you’re smart! You figured out what Griphook was saying at Gringotts, and you got us to Harry’s Remus, and you are the only one of us who didn’t jump to bad conclusions when Harry didn’t come last time.” Hermione throws her arms around Ron, nearly toppling their chairs in her haste. “You’re my friend, and I don’t let my friends say mean things about themselves.” 

Harry hops out of his own chair, crossing around to hug Ron (or really Ron’s middle) from the other side. His glasses dig into Ron’s hoodie. 

“We know you’re smart. Something else is going on, like…” Harry blinks, pulling back. “Like with my eyes!” 

Hermione pulls back slightly, a considering furrow in her brow. “Or my teeth!” Her eyes go wide, and she clamps down on Ron’s arms. He’s got the same look on his face as when they stole him from the line at Gringotts, eyebrows near his hairline and a surprised, tiny smile. 

“When I was little, I had a lisp because of my teeth,” Hermione explains excitedly, smiling wide to show her very large front teeth. Harry grins back on instinct. “So I had to do extra lessons to learn to pronounce words. Not because I’m bad, just my body is a little different!” 

Ron blinks at her helplessly. 

“And my eyes,” Harry agrees, tugging Ron’s arm toward himself. “When I was little, it didn’t matter, but in year one, I couldn’t see anything Mister Yates was trying to show us on the board. I had to go up after every lesson and ask him to see it again and he really didn’t like it. But eventually he figured out I couldn’t see and I wasn’t joking and Aunt Petunia got me these!” Harry taps his glasses, looking up at Ron hopefully. 

He leans back into the counter, covering his face with his hands. Harry’s grin dims as he watches Ron shake, and little gasps come from behind his hand. 

Harry and Hermione share a worried look, but eventually they just lean into Ron and let him work it out himself. 

Finally, Ron swipes his hands over his face and sniffs. “It’s not—me?” He manages in between ragged breaths. “I’m not just…stupid?”

Harry and Hermione shake their heads vehemently. Hermione’s hair smacks Ron in the face and he laughs, broken but happy. 

“Never,” They chorus, trying to force it from their small bodies into Ron’s, how much they love him, how much they care. “Never, never.” 

Harry and Ron get to stay the night at Hermione’s, and Harry insists they read all of Fezzik and Inigo’s brilliant rhyming game, and then play a few rounds themselves. Naturally, Harry wins, but Ron manages to put tumultuous with adventurous, so really, everybody’s happy. 

Harry falls asleep content, dreams full of rhyming words with switching letters that he, Ron and Hermione catch in butterfly nets and bring home for supper, where a wolf with amber eyes and a silver dog lick him on the cheek and smile. 

Harry spends the rest of August in a happy daze, playing in the field with Remus and listening to star stories and real stories all night. They’ve begun reading novels together in the evening, because Remus has either already told or forgotten all the constellation myths he knows. Right now, they’re in the middle of Howl’s Moving Castle. 

Reading with Remus is brilliant. Every night, after they tromp up the stairs, he peers across the bookshelves in Harry’s room and selects the book they’re going to read from, flicking off Harry’s overhead light and letting the lamp on his bedside table turn the whole room quiet and soft. 

Remus settles heavily onto the bed, over the covers. His weight dips the mattress, making Harry slide into him and giggle, and Remus wraps an arm around him before he opens the book, clearing his throat and shuffling around to get comfortable. 

His voice almost puts Harry to sleep, and it’s only the story that’ll keep him awake most nights, until Remus gets distracted by something or other and says you know, this reminds me of the time James or Lily used to say…

And Harry falls asleep surrounded by the echoes of his parents, the way they loved each other and adored Remus and Wormtail and Padfoot. 

Tonight, however, Remus turns wistful eyes on him, and Harry cocks his head. 

He’s put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and said goodnight to Hope, but Remus is sitting sideways on his bed instead of stretched out, halfways lying down like normal. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, clambering up onto his duvet. 

Remus turns to him. “Nothing, nothing.” He laughs, the movement tugging at the scars tracked across his mouth and nose. “I’m being silly, Harry, I promise. I just…” he sighs. “It’s funny, you know. I used to spend the whole of my summer waiting for it to be over. Now, I just…Well, it’s silly to miss you this much, that’s all.” 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Harry leans forward. Anxiety curls in his stomach, but he tries to tamp it down. What could be happening? He thought everything was going so well. Remus doesn’t even notice half the time when Harry sneaks in from the garden to fold the laundry or sweep the living room or wipe the counters and set dishes aside to dry. Harry’s pretty sure he hasn’t even looked at the flower beds behind his cottage! 

Something in Harry’s face must give him away, because Remus’ bottom eyelids pinch the way they always do when he feels guilty. “Oh, it’s nothing bad, Harry, I’m sorry. I’m just—” Remus shakes himself slightly— “absolutely bollocking this up. It’s about school, Harry.” 

Harry blinks. 

School is…complicated. Harry was good at it at the Dursleys’, (keeping his grades mostly below Dudley’s until the teachers got on him asking if he had trouble reading the questions, dear? And keeping his freaky stuff away from the other kids. He could even, occasionally, talk to the snakes near the play yard and discourage them from making dens on the wrong side of the fence, where they’d be alternately poked, prodded, or killed by kids and teachers alike) but he has a sneaking suspicion this is one of the areas of his new life where he’ll have to discard the old rules and figure out the new ones, and quite frankly Harry is getting tired of that. 

The last thing he needs is another Knight Bus. 

“School?” He asks. 

Remus nods hurriedly. “Yes, I—the school year is coming up, and I’ve been looking into getting you registered for the school in town, but then Estelle and I got to talking, and well—it’s like this, cariad.” Remus gives him a significant look. “You’ve had a lot of changes in your life this summer. And as I understand it, your previous schooling was not sufficient.” 

Harry shrugs. He knows how to read, write, multiply and divide. There’s not much else, is there?

“So, cyw,” Remus says, “If you want, I can register you for Hermione’s primary school, and the two of you can go together this year.” 

Remus must be really tired tonight, because it’s not until Harry’s already halfway choking him that he realizes what’s happening and sputters, “Oof!” 

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou thankyou,” Harry babbles.

“Oh, okay then, Hazza, I see.” Huh. Remus has never called Harry that before. “I bring home takeaway and it’s thanks, Remus but I put you in with Miss Granger, and suddenly I have to guard my neck.” 

His hand is warm where it cradles the back of Harry’s head as the two of them slide into their normal evening positions. 

Remus winces as Harry scoots over him. 

“Sorry!” Harry squeaks. He doesn’t want to hurt Remus. Remus is so good about not hurting him. 

“Not your fault, Haz,” Remus groans, swiping at the bag under his eye with his ring finger. Harry notes the use of the nickname again. (With Remus, a lot of the throwaway things have meanings. Harry likes to know them.) “Just my leg acting up again. Don’t worry about it.” 

Harry doesn’t often ignore Remus’ advice, but he is worried about Remus’ leg. It’s been bad since Harry got here, and some days (usually before full moons) Remus can’t even get around without help, not that he ever asks Harry to do anything. 

But tonight is a night for happy thoughts, and at any rate Hermione will definitely have some idea about it, now that they’re going to school together. Harry can’t believe it. 

All that’s missing is Ron. 

Speaking of which. “What about Ron?” 

“Hmm?” Remus asks, startled out of his thoughts. “What about him?” 

“Me and Hermione are going to the same school, where’s he going?” Harry asks. He doesn’t want Ron to be left behind. 

“Molly Weasley homeschools her kids. She’s quite good, but not up to new pupils full-time. Estelle and I have been talking about you two going over there to learn wix custom a few times a week, though,” Remus answers. “Don’t worry, you’ll see him plenty, Haz.” 

That name again. “Remus?” 

“Yes, Harry?” Remus tilts his head, that same Moony grin on his face. Something light and happy bubbles in Harry’s chest. 

“Why do you call me that?” 

“Call you what?” 

“Ha—” Harry’s tongue trips over the unfamiliar word. “Hazza. Haz.” 

“Ah.” Remus’ eyes go distant, and Harry realizes he’s struck his bedtime story a whole hour early. Well, he supposes school is coming anyway. 

“That, Harry, is a nickname of yours from before you were born. You remember I told you your grandfather on Lily’s side was named Henry? Well, he hated it, and wouldn’t answer to anything near it growing up, so when Lily came up pregnant and wanting to honor her father…” 

Harry settles in, something hopeful in his stomach, grounding him. 

He’s happy, and Moony is happy. 

On the first day of year four, Harry and Hermione are kicked out of class for disrupting the lesson. 

In their defense, Thomas Dillop is a terrible horrible sort, calling Hermione a know-it-all and Harry a freak all ‘cause of the scar on his head. And he said they were freaks together, because they’re the only ones in Mrs. Ironwood’s year four who don’t have pasty white faces. 

Harry and Hermione are used to these things, on their own. 

They are not used to these things being said about their friends. 

So now Thomas Dillop has a head full of bright green hair, his trousers are on inside-out, and he’s got awfully long fingernails all of a sudden. 

Did Harry and Hermione mean to do it? No, of course not. They didn’t want to hurt Thomas, even if he is the rudest boy in the world. They just want to be left alone to read in the library. 

Are they sorry?

Well. That’s a different question. 

Harry gnaws at the inside of his cheek, looking down at the striped jumper and dungarees he and Remus chose special for today. He was so excited, and now…

“It’s ridiculous,” Hermione scoffs. “They can’t prove we’ve done anything.” The way her voice wobbles gives her away. 

“Remus will know,” Harry mumbles. “Your Mum will, too. And his hair’s not fading.” 

Hermione’s face screws up and she tips sideways into Harry. “It’s not fair. We didn’t do it on purpose.” 

Harry wraps his arms around her, and the two of them wait together until Mrs. Ironwood steps into the hallway, closing the door behind her with a small click. 

“Now, then,” she says. Harry likes Mrs. Ironwood. She’s got wiry gray hair pulled back in a bun at the base of her neck, but a few strands of it have come loose and curly around her face. She’s firm and gruff, but something in her eyes reminds Harry of Fezzik. Like she wouldn’t hurt him on purpose. “What have the two of you got to say for yourselves?” 

Harry and Hermione share a look. She shrugs a little helplessly.

Harry bites his lip, and takes a chance. 

“He called Hermione names, Mrs. Ironwood,” he says. “She and I were talking during partner time, and he overheard us and called her a—a swot, and some other not-so-nice things—” 

“And he was calling Harry scarface, which is absolutely inappropriate!” Hermione continues, fixing her wide, earnest eyes on Mrs. Ironwood. “Harry can’t control if he’s got a scar, and at any rate Thomas has been making fun of other kids as long as he’s been here, someone has got to do something—”

“—and we didn’t mean to ruin your lesson, we just—we didn’t want to be called names,” Harry finishes lamely. “We’re sorry, Mrs. Ironwood.” 

Hermione nods next to him. The two of them wait, trembling faintly, for her to say something. 

Finally, Mrs. Ironwood nods. “That’s about what I thought. Now, I will have to tell your parents about this, but it shouldn’t be much of a problem. I’ve been meaning to talk to Mr. Dillop about how he treats his classmates anyway.” She crouches to talk to the two of them. It reminds Harry of Remus, somehow. “In the future, I would advise the two of you to find a more productive manner to address someone like that, but for today you did well. Come back inside with me.” 

Harry and Hermione scurry back into class, pinkies linked together. Thomas Dillop is thoroughly scandalized, and the rest of the day is wonderful. Hermione even shows Harry how to grow the grass on purpose during recess. (She’s tried shrinking it, but that just turns the blades brown and scraggly.) 

Remus picks them up at the end of the day, looking politely confused when Mrs. Ironwood asks him to stay behind to discuss the children’s behavior today. 

Harry looks up at him, watching how Remus holds himself when people are looking, so differently than at home, stargazing or hanging the laundry outside. His back is straight, (that must be hurting his leg) with his shoulders curled in slightly, and when Harry catches a peek at his face, Remus’ eyes are weary and scared. 

Harry doesn’t like when Remus is scared. 

Remus blinks at Mrs. Ironwood, apparently at a loss for what she’s told him, and then turns to Harry and Hermione. 

(Hermione’s spine straightens without her conscious input, because that is the exact face Remus put on before lying to Harry’s horrible Aunt, and she is not going to be blindsided by oar John beans again.) 

“Now, children,” says Remus, completely unlike when he talks to them any other time. “Did you put dye in Thomas Dillop’s hair?” 

“No,” says Hermione immediately. “We didn’t have any, see?” She shows her palms, ink-free. Harry nods along. 

“Did you pull his trousers?” Remus asks again, a secret tucked in the corner of his mouth, amusement hidden in his eyes. Harry realizes with sudden, startling clarity that they’re playing a game, just like when Moony was in school. 

He chokes down a laugh, and says, “No! We didn’t touch him.” 

“Well,” says Moony, turning back to Mrs. Ironwood and clapping his hands together. “I think that settles it. They say they had nothing to do with Mr. Dillob—” 

“Dillop,” Mrs. Ironwood corrects, the barest hint of a smile curled at the end of her mouth. 

“Yes, him,” Moony agrees. “They say they had nothing to do with his abrupt wardrobe change, and I’m inclined to believe them. But do keep an eye out for the culprit in the future, Mrs. Ironwood. They must be caught, no?” 

“I will,” Mrs. Ironwood drawls. “Now, you are all free to leave.” 

Remus ushers them all out of the building hastily, and then laughs himself silly on the way to Mrs. Granger’s borrowed car. “I cannot believe you two,” he says, curling a hand around Harry’s. (He’s barely let go of Hermione’s all day). “The first day? Even we barely did anything the first day, Haz.” He grins down at Harry, big and wide and bright, all Moony. 

Harry grins back. “He was being rude, so me and Hermione taught him something.” 

“Good on the both of you!” Moony crows, settling the two of them in Mrs. Granger’s car. “Though in the future, I’d advise against anything that can be traced back to you. The Statute doesn’t kick in until eleven, though, so before then just keep any magic subtle—oh, who am I kidding? You’ll do as you please, cariad, I’m sure.” 

Once he’s finished adjusting the driver’s seat, Moony looks back at the two of them. “Now,” he says, eyes warm and fond. “How about ice cream, in honor of a successful first day?” 

Hermione beams at him, and Harry grins back. 

“Yes, please!” 

Ron swallows the sick feeling in his stomach, watching Mum bustle around the kitchen. Aunt Muriel is coming like she always does just after Mum’s school for the wixen kids around Ottery St. Catchpole starts up in fall, and Mum is fretting. Mum’s always fretting. 

Ron swallows again and considers that he may also be fretting. 

“Mum?” He asks, shuffling the pages of Hermione’s letter around. It’s barely been three weeks since Harry and Hermione started school, and she’s already written half a book on The Thing Wrong with Ron’s Brain, plus she’s got ideas about how to fix it. With magic. 

Ron loves his friends. 

“What is it, dear?” Mum says, clearly still counting scones in her head, like Aunt Muriel will care as long as there’s plenty of clotted cream to go along with them. 

Ron sighs. “You know how—the way my brain—” he stifles a groan as the words jumble around in his mouth. “You know how I can’t read?” 

Mum’s head whips up and she frowns at him, indignant. “Ronald! Don’t say something like that, of course you can read.” she flutters around to Ron’s seat and cups her hands on his face. “You’re so smart, you just have…problems, that’s all.” 

“That’s what I’m saying—” 

“Don’t you worry, you’ll sort this out just like Bill did with his attention issues, you’ll see—” 

“Mum, I know—” 

“He was just fine as soon as he got to Hogwarts, and you will be too—”

“Mum!” 

Her mouth opens, but no more sound comes out. In front of Ron’s face, his Mum seems to realize that he’s sitting in front of her with a letter, trying to tell her something. 

“Sorry, dear.” She smiles at him sheepishly. “What were you saying?” 

“My brain’s weird,” says Ron. When her face falls again, he adds in a rush, “Not in a bad way! Just different. Hermione wrote me about it, she’s learning a ton at her and Harry’s school. She reckons I switch my letters in my head. It’s called dyaleckia, or something.” He holds up the paper for emphasis. 

Mum reaches out. Her hands are shaking; Ron knows she hates admitting that they’re different from other families, that being a Weasley means being something else out in the world. He doesn’t mind, though. 

His best friends are different, too. Ron doesn’t think there’s a better way to be.

“—and he’s got this genetic condition called gigantism and he was a pro wrestler for years and years, Remus, he’s perfect!” Harry babbles, hanging off of Remus’ arm as they stand in line at the cinema. 

Remus knows these facts already. Remus has known these facts for weeks, ever since the theatrical release of The Princess Bride was announced for today, September twenty-fifth, 1987. Remus is fairly certain he could recite these facts in his sleep. 

But Harry was so excited he couldn’t sleep last night, had to be plied with a rereading of his copy, (so it’s fresh, Remus, I don’t want to forget anything!)   in Remus’ bed (so Remus could make sure he slept even a wink) and then as many stories of his parents as Remus could stomach. 

(It’s getting easier. It’s still the hardest thing he’s ever done.) 

So Remus will endure the endless stream of factoids he’s already heard, standing in the concessions line while his bad leg shoots fire up the length of his back, and he’ll ignore when Harry says things like I’ve never been inside the cinema before to Hermione in a bright and happy voice like there’s nothing horrifically, catastrophically wrong with that, and he’ll lead the two of them to their understuffed seats in the one film room at the Coliseum Cinema, an hour from his cottage outside Cwm by the Knight Bus (and an hour and a half by TrawsCambria, because Stan still hasn’t responded to Remus’ apology letters). 

Remus is beginning to hate the cinema. 

“I see, Harry,” he says, handing the bored teenager behind the counter a twenty-pound note, which is about the only thing Remus isn’t sorry for at the moment. At least he can take comfort in the fact that he’s using that bastard’s money to facilitate Harry’s happiness.  

Not as good as spitting on his grave, but it’ll do for now. Remus is toying with the idea of having Griphook send him a cute little notarized list of the things he’s bought for Harry. Just so he knows he’s not forgotten. 

“How do you think it’s going to start?” Hermione asks, leaning around Remus to peer at Harry curiously. “They can’t have possibly kept all the beginning bits in. That would take too long.” 

Harry shrugs. “We’ll find out,” he says. “It’ll be fun!” 

Remus has no doubt it will be fun for them, because children find fun in everything, and at any rate he isn’t certain Hermione doesn’t get most of the joy in her life from ripping logical fallacies apart with her bare hands. 

He, however, goes into the dark, mildewed theater with no shortage of skepticism; no matter what this film is, it won’t be as grand as what he remembers. 

(Here’s a story Remus can’t tell Harry: he hated that book the first time he read it. It was rubbish and confusing and inane, and what even was the point of a book about love and adventure and brave men when he’d grow up a monster, ripping himself to pieces each month and dying young besides? 

He gave it to Lily as a gift, yes, as a way to congratulate her on making it a year as, really, Gryffindor’s only new Prefect, but mostly to get it off his bloody hands. 

Remus didn’t want it. 

But then she read it. And kept coming back to it, when the two of them went on patrols that were really glorified alibis Remus could pull out of his arse to keep Slughorn off Peter’s back about his ingredient stores, and wanted to talk, really talk about it with him. And suddenly she and James were dating, and James had read it and left behind sticky notes to accompany Lily’s carefully-highlighted passages, which made Padfoot curious, and at that point Peter would not be left out, and. 

Remus kind of…loved it. Not because he thought the thing any grand novel, no. Just, everyone else was so taken by it. Padfoot and Prongs could quote the damn thing by heart, and Peter would call Lily Her Highness when he found her particularly scary, and hell, if they were that in love anyway, why shouldn’t James and Lily put all the most passionate and pure kisses in the world to shame. 

Remus was just fine with his stubborn and ordinary love, thanks.)

The point being, when Remus read a horrible book about sword fights and adventure at fourteen, he didn’t ever expect much from it. And nor does he expect anything from this film. 

…Which is why, five minutes in, Remus is incredibly surprised to find himself tearing up. 

With a furtive, panicked glance at the eight-and-nine year olds to his right, Remus reaches up to swipe roughly at the corner of his eye. 

Dammit. 

It’s not like they’re even that similar to Remus’ friends. Robin Wright is just incredibly poised, is all, and Westley smirks just the same way James did when he was acting. That’s it.  

And Peter would love this set design. But that’s all. 

And oh, but Inigo looks too much like Sirius. And smiles with that same flighty grin Remus can almost remember on his lips. 

Remus very nearly calms himself before the fight on the cliffs, until he remembers the time James reenacted the scene word-for-word with Dorcas in Sixth Year, and then he’s off again and cries through the rest of the journey into the Fire Swamp. (In his defense, the Fire Swamp is basically just a safer version of the Forbidden Forest, and he’s got too many memories there already.) The wedding Remus spends comfortably numb, as well as the Pit of Despair. He was sort of worried about Harry and Hermione seeing captured animals anyway, as well as his (Moony’s) own reaction to them. It’s nice not to bother with it. 

Harry bounces in his seat all through it, and Remus, thanks to his heightened vision, can see him mouthing along with Westley during to the pain. 

And then the horses, and fuck. 

God, what is wrong with him? You’d think Remus would be done crying by now. He’s been numb all through the past three years. Alcoholic and depressed, sure, but not falling apart every time something so much as reminds him of his friends. 

Harry and Hermione burst out of their seats as soon as the film is over, shouting at a comfortable, childish volume, and out of the corner of his eye, Remus catches a glimpse of dark hair and a wide grin as Harry spreads his arms and says, “—beginning, but I think it really works!!! Hermione!” 

Watching him grin and scamper around without a care in the world or a troubled glance over his shoulder, Remus blinks as a helpless, heavy fondness settles over his bones, into his aching joints. As thick and inevitable as the moon pulling at his senses. 

If there’s anything this stupid bloody film proves, it’s that love is painful, isn’t it? 

In late November, Harry realizes he needs to have Christmas gifts for the first time ever. 

During Rug Time, Mrs. Ironwood reads a story all about people’s different winter traditions, and Hermione talks about how her mother lights a Yule log and makes les papillotes every year. Harry, because he is getting better and better at this ‘people care about me’ thing, does not mention that any and all Dursley Christmas traditions very specifically excluded him. 

(Show and Tell that week is holiday-themed, and Harry very shyly asks Mrs. Ironwood if he can skip. His memories of the holidays are mostly watching through the grate in his cupboard as Dudley opened presents at the table.

He is also not looking forward to the next time Remus decides to ask about what traditions Harry has, because those talks usually end with amber eyes and Remus taking a walk and Harry finding the smashed limbs of trees on the ground later.) 

“Well, what does your Remus need?” Hermione asks, rocking on her heels as the two of them wait for Mrs. Ironwood to get back after lunch. They are technically supposed to be outside for recess, but for some reason, no one can ever find them until it’s time to head back in. “I usually get my Dad socks and my Mum some hair ribbons. She always likes new ribbons, and Dad wears out his socks very fast.” 

Harry chews the inside of his cheek. 

He can name the top five records in order that his mother’s Remus likes best. (Queen, Pink Floyd, a little bit of The Velvet Underground, Simon and Garfunkel when he’s winding down after a long day, and the unnamed vinyl he only pulls out when he thinks Harry’s asleep, that's entirely Welsh songs. Whoever sings them doesn’t know a lot of Welsh and trips over his words sometimes, but he laughs and Moony sings along, voice cracking like the planks of a drowning ship) He can make such a good breakfast that Remus doesn’t even question how it got to his table, and he can point to any star in the night sky and retell Remus’ story about it with pitch-perfect accuracy. 

It’s just not fair that even with all that, Harry doesn’t know what Remus needs. 

He slumps against the wall, dismayed. 

“Now what’s this? Students falling over themselves in the hallway?” 

Harry looks over to Mrs. Ironwood, back from lunch. He likes Mrs. Ironwood. She’s strict, but not as strict as Mister Yates, who would take his ruler to Harry’s knuckles if he found him lacking. (Harry has not mentioned this to anyone else.) And she usually believes Harry when he says he didn’t do something. (On purpose, at least.)

“Harry needs a Christmas gift for his Remus,” Hermione tattles, and Harry stares at her, betrayed. 

She crosses her arms. 

(Harry and Hermione have different ideas about what adults are for. Hermione usually thinks they should go to an adult every time they have a problem, with exceptions like the time she rescued Harry from the Dursleys with little-to-no help from any adult except Remus, who in her opinion doesn’t seem to count. 

Harry, whose experiences with authority include such joys as knuckle-switching by Mister Yates and staring at the inside of his cupboard for weeks on end, not to mention all the smashed bits of wood he now finds when he goes exploring, views adults as more of a last resort. Sure, if you’re about to die in the next five minutes, spin the wheel on the nearest authority figure, but acknowledge first that you have no way of knowing if it’ll make your situation better or worse.

Hermione freely admits that Harry is better at people than she is, though, so he usually wins. Now is not, apparently, one of those times.) 

“I’m sure your Remus will be happy with whatever you get him,” Mrs. Ironwood says, unlocking the door to her room. 

Harry slinks inside with his shoulders around his ears, gnawing at his cheek. “But…I want it to be something he can use.” He places his hands gingerly on Mrs. Ironwood’s desk, ready to flinch away at the slightest provocation. “I want it to help him. Remus is so nice to me, and…” 

Mrs. Ironwood sighs. “Alright, kid. I’ll help out.” 

Harry blinks. “Really?” 

“Sure, I’ve got nothing else to do.” She grins like this is a joke. “If you want something to help him out, how about that bum leg of his? Seems to give him a bit of trouble, that.” 

Harry stares up at her in alarm. “But…” Harry can’t say Remus’ leg bothers him because of his lycanthropy, and Harry’s pretty sure he can’t help with that. “How can I…?” 

“Tell you what,” Mrs. Ironwood says. “I used to be a fair shake with a carver’s set. If you bring me a piece of wood from your house, nice and tall, I’ll show you how to work it and we’ll make your Remus a walking stick for his troubles, hmm?” 

Harry gasps, sharing an elated look with Hermione. “Yes!” He says. “Yes, please, Mrs. Ironwood, thank you, thank you—” 

“Alright, alright, enough,” Mrs. Ironwood waves them off. “Don’t you go getting distracted, you hear me? Take off your studies for this and it’s back to outside recess for you, Potter.” 

Harry nods, trembling, and scurries back to his seat with Hermione to plan for the spelling lesson after lunch. 

“Where are you going to get a piece of wood that tall?” Hermione asks. 

Harry grins at her. “Don’t worry,” he says, picking up his pencil and writing Tree Species at the top of his paper. “I know just the place.” 

Remus, as a rule, does not feel any particular way about consulting the parenting books he bought in a blind panic a fortnight after Harry moved in with him. It’s what they’re for, it’s what S— Black did back when he had his existential crisis about being Godfather (and oh, how Remus had laughed and flaunted his irresponsibility. How he had pushed away every baby book, every edition of Dr. Spock, citing the fact that he wasn’t gonna be in charge, Pads. It’s fun Uncle Moony and boring Padfoot. Of course, Hazza, have ice cream for breakfast and stay up watching R-rated films. Don’t listen to your Godfather, he’s a swot) and it’s not like Remus has to follow their directions. 

He’s certainly never going to be able to enforce strict boundaries, Remus thinks, flipping through a page of his book as he sits on the porch steps. 

It’s just that Harry is acting strangely. That’s all. 

He’s allowed to—fuck, is he allowed to. Remus would be a hypocrite if he didn’t let Harry, and neither of them wants a repeat of the Knight Bus incident, (Remus still has nightmares about it sometimes—looking for Harry and not finding him, or finding him too late) but Remus is just—worried. Is all. 

Is it normal, Remus wonders, for little boys to wander around the property at all hours, inspecting the trees and writing their findings in a spiral-bound notebook? 

Dr. Spock (30th anniversary edition, because, again, Remus’ life is one long practical fucking joke) has no fucking idea. And he can’t ask Harry, on the off chance that this is him testing his boundaries, in which case Remus has no room to talk. He did so much worse than just wandering around well-within the wards. 

Remus just kind of wishes Harry weren’t taking notes on only the trees Remus has been punching. 

(It’s an accident, he swears. Mostly. Kind of. 

Just—alright, okay, fuck, Harry is so small. James was small until Fifth Year, Lily was small (at least according to Remus’ 6’2’’ arse, which is not inconsiderable as caveats go) her whole life, and Harry came out of the two of them genetically predisposed to being small. He’s got knobbly knees and has to cuff Remus’ hand-me-down denims at least three times so the hems even begin to fit him, and when Remus finally notices he’s shivering in the evening and whips off his cardigan to hand over, it swamps his tiny body. Harry’s little. He’s eight, for christ’s sake. 

And then Harry mentions something offhandedly and Remus remembers that he was even smaller at some point, and during that time he was taking the Knight Bus to London and doing all his relatives’ housekeeping and sleeping in a cupboard —

So the options are staying in the house and gnashing Moony’s fangs together in a way that would most certainly terrify the tiniest boy in the world, or gathering up his little hands in Remus’ scarred, calloused palms (taking terror in by the fistful, something so breakable in an animal’s claws) and saying he’s going for a bit of a walk, okay, cariad? I’ll be back in a bit. 

Well. It’s not like Remus is unused to marching into the woods to scream and hit things. And on the bright side, he hasn’t punched a deer by accident yet.)

At any rate, it’s by no means Remus’ worst coping mechanism, and he’s not going to give Harry the satisfaction of watching him have a breakdown about it if he is stress-testing his boundaries. 

As if to challenge him, Harry walks by at precisely this moment, a tree branch taller than he is hoisted over his shoulder. It looks like the cypress Remus felt really bad about last week. He said one of his Mam’s prayers and everything. 

Harry notices Remus watching him and lights up, reaching up one mittened hand and waving like mad. Remus waves back, warmth blooming in his chest. 

Maybe Dr. Spock is right, Remus thinks, closing the book and settling in to watch the smallest child in the world lug a bough of conifer behind him to the edge of the treeline. Maybe Harry is waiting for Remus to snap. Maybe he’s making a nest for winter. Maybe he just likes trees. Remus will find out when Harry tells him, and that’s fine by him. 

Sitting out on the porch steps watching Harry is surprisingly useful, Remus learns at this precise moment, for accepting mail. He doesn’t recognize the owl, a great tawny with one lazy eye, but that could mean just about anything. 

“Sorry I haven’t got anything for you,” Remus tells it. “Have a mouse or something from the field on your way.” 

He takes the letter, idly wondering who could be writing him after all this time besides perhaps Gringotts. (Bloodgore now bypasses all communications services in favor of summoning Remus by the Black family magics directly, which is analogous to waking up and finding that all of your limbs have fallen asleep, and they will not wake up until you go to the bank.) 

With one eye on Harry’s stick march, Remus examines the letter. 

He curses as soon as he recognizes the handwriting. 

Hermione and Mrs. Ironwood look over each branch Harry brings to class with careful consideration. Mrs. Ironwood says that in order to have the cane finished by Christmas, they have to pick today, and the rest of the week will be for stripping away the bark and marking where they want to cut. 

Hermione wants to make something, too. Harry’s not sure what, yet. He thinks it’ll be brilliant. 

Harry’s been really careful. This is his own masterpiece, like Domingo Montoya, and he wants it to be perfect. He measured each bough by his height so they could be cut down to Remus’ size, and spent hours shrinking rocks in the garden to make sure he wouldn’t accidentally explode the wood when he tried. 

Now, he spreads out his findings; cypress, holly, rowan, and willow. 

Hermione frowns. “Willow is too pliable.” 

Mrs. Ironwood tilts her head. “I suppose,” she says. “But rowan is too selective. Not flexible enough.” 

(Rowan is also a wood that Griphook told Harry Goblins don’t like, when he wrote a letter asking about it. 

Rowan has excluded the Fae from her circle, and will not allow us to touch her hand again. She rejects many spirits of the Glen, though Gaians and Lupe are accepted, however tentatively. If you should craft an artifact with her touch, be wary of its mind. It will not fully accept you as its master. 

Harry isn’t really sure what all that means, but he mostly brought the rowan as a gift for Mrs. Ironwood. 

“I like cypress,” he volunteers. It’s true. Last night he got Remus to tell him all about wands, because it occurred to Harry and Hermione over the past few days that they must be pretty important, if everyone who knows anything about magic talks about a wand. Or a staff. Or a sword. 

Harry may be slightly irritated that he doesn’t get a magic sword. 

But it’s hard to be too irate when Remus beamed at him and offered his own wand to look at. 

(“Ten and a quarter of cypress wood and unicorn hair.” Remus twirled it offhandedly, offering the object for Harry to see, smiling wider as he leaned closer to practically tap it with his nose. “See the runes on the handle? Your mother and I planned the ward schema ourselves. To add power to our spells, see?” 

Harry nodded, breathless. The careful etchings almost seemed to come alive under his gaze, something magnetic pulling him in. 

“It’s funny, actually, we each traded who got to carve into each other’s wands. James did mine, and Lily got—” Remus cleared his throat. “Well, anyway. Here, try it.” 

“Wh—” and then Harry was holding it, the wards and symbols humming in his hand as he stared down at the wand. The faintest whisper echoed down his spine, like laughter and kind fingers running through his hair, happy to see him warm and safe. 

Harry could only watch mid afternoon sunlight reflect off the wood grain. 

“Not too bad, hm?”

Harry looked up, baffled, only to see Moony grinning at him mischievously. He snapped his fingers, and Harry jolted at the pop of cool, rustling air through the living room. It was just the same as the kind touch from before, but pulling and wanting something from him, light and energetic. 

Harry watched the amber dance in Moony’s eyes. His face split into a grin. 

He leveled the wand at his father’s Moony and got ready to play.)

“Cypress is a fine choice,” says Mrs. Ironwood. “Light and workable. Forgiving, which—pardon me, Mr. Potter—is vital for beginners.” 

Harry giggles and Hermione rolls her eyes. 

“Now,” says Mrs. Ironwood. “We have our limb, so let’s begin, yes?” 

Hermione takes the holly limb, inspecting it carefully. She picks at the vine Harry found growing around it. He did try to pull it off, but the two of them had grown together. They were entwined. He can’t really bring himself to pull them apart. 

“This will do nicely,” Hermione says, picking off a bit of extra dead wood. In her hands, the bough seems almost alive. It’s a richer brown, with smoother bark. Harry thinks it will do nicely. 

Mrs. Ironwood hefts her Rowan thoughtfully, looking down its length. “Now, children,” she says. “The first step in any woodworking project is to measure.” 

The final days of school before winter break pass in a haze of measuring, cutting, (except not really because apparently the adults in Harry's life have decided that power tools are ‘too dangerous for children’ and ‘it’s unlawful for teachers to risk their student’s safety for a Christmas present, Mr. Potter’ and ‘what do you mean your uncle left you in a moldy shed with rusted saws on your sixth birthday?’) sanding, sanding, refining cuts, (‘I am required by law to tell your guardian about this, Mr. Potter, no matter what you think him going out into the woods to shout in Welsh and punch trees is doing to his knuckles’) sanding, carving out runes which Harry actually does get to do—mostly because he doesn’t tell Mrs. Ironwood about it—sanding, and staining. 

Harry tricks Remus into teaching him the basic ideas of warding and uses his, Ron and Hermione’s runic alphabet (they’ve been making it when Ron invites them over and steals his brother Bill’s old textbook, and they’ve been getting pretty good—nothing even blew up last time!) to put up some basic schema for protection and easing joint pain. 

Mrs. Ironwood sighs at him and pronounces his whittling “crude but acceptable.” Harry is too proud to be irritated when she puts him back to sanding. 

Hermione takes her project home without showing it to Harry. She’s been adamant that it will be a surprise. 

Harry finally brings the cane home the day before school ends, shrunk down so he can put it in his pocket and under his bed easily. At bedtime, after Remus has read to him and held him tightly and said sleep well, fy ngalon bapur i, Harry leans over to swipe it from his hiding place. 

Really, Harry hasn’t put much magic into it. Remus’ cane is curved, all of Harry’s meticulous carvings running up the underside where Remus will put his fingers. The body tapers to a rounded point, and the stain turns the wood a warm, sandy color that goes with Remus’ hair. 

All Harry needs to do now is finish it. 

Closing his eyes, Harry thinks of Remus; his tired eyes and gentle hands. How safe he is, how happy Harry is to live with him. 

Harry tells himself a story that begins and ends with Remus laughing. 

When he opens his eyes, the cane has hardened, just slightly. It’s sturdier, more dependable. It won’t let Remus fall. 

Harry smiles and tucks it away until Christmas. 

As tactless as it was in retrospect, Hope spent her youth howling at the moon. 

It was in the name. Hope Howell, scourge of Rhymney, used to be the worst and most prolific vagrant for miles. They couldn’t keep her out of the pub, didn’t bother to reprimand her for most of the vandalism, and generally assumed that every bump in the night was her doing, which was at least semi-accurate. 

Watching her son crawl out of the cellar doors, shaking and exhausted with blood running down his temple, Hope takes a moment to curse herself. 

“Come here, blaidd bach. This way, that’s it,” she murmurs, leading him into the house proper and settling him on one of the kitchen chairs. “You get banged up? It’s alright, it’s alright.” 

Hope bustles around, patching his cuts and pouring the tea she made earlier. Remus doesn’t say anything, just hisses through his teeth when the dittany presses against the gashes on his temple. 

“I know, I know,” says Hope stupidly, playing at the same platitudes she filled their throats with when Remus was a boy. “It hurts, but it’ll get better, we’re almost done.” 

He would cry, back then. Every hitched little sob tore her to pieces and stuck in her throat, until eventually she stopped saying anything at all. Remus stopped crying, and stopped coming to her for help shortly after. She misses it the same way she misses carcinogens in cigarettes. 

“Here we are,” Hope whispers, tacking on the final plaster. “All better.” 

Remus snorts. He hasn’t drunk his tea. 

Hope swallows and chooses, tremulously, to be brave, to howl at the moon. “Well what else could I say? You look like you went ten rounds with a wood chipper and I hope it heals by next month?” 

To both their surprise, Remus almost chokes on a startled laugh, staring up at her with wide eyes. He clears his throat. “It would certainly be more honest.” 

“Hush, you.” Hope smacks his shoulder lightly, crossing to the stove. “I’ll make some food for you to take on the way to pick Harry up.” 

Remus stiffens, taking a sip from his mug. “Hm.” 

“What?” Hope turns back from the pan of bacon she's settled. “It’s almost twelve. He’ll be missing you.” 

Remus winces outright. 

“Cariad,” Hope warns, understanding dawning. “You can’t keep this from him forever.” 

“I know, Mam.” 

“He’s a bright sprog, not to mention his friends—” 

“I know.” 

His shoulders are tense over her stained kitchen table. Old, faded echoes of healer’s words bounce around in Hope’s ears, the toll on such a young body is extreme, keep him on bedrest, avoid strain or tension. She grits her teeth. “I’m just saying. You need to tell him, or he’ll find out on his own.” 

“I know, Mam!” Remus snaps. “Believe it or not, I am capable of foresight.” 

“I never implied—” 

Remus laughs darkly. “No, no, you didn’t have to. I recognize that.”  

Hope blinks. “What?”

Remus blinks back at her, seeming confused himself, and then breaks with a sigh. He pulls a sheaf of paper from his pocket, tossing it on the table.  “Got this letter from Dumbledore. Albus. Whatever.” 

Hope almost snarls. 

“Basically a load of shite about how I’m ruining everything taking Harry in, complete with the usual faff about my condition —” Remus rolls his eyes, “which will definitely bollocks up his development or make him unsafe or something. The usual stuff.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, and Hope’s heart breaks. 

“I’m sorry, Mam. You didn’t need snapped at.” 

“It’s alright, cariad,” Hope sighs. “But you’re not getting out of breakfast.” 

Remus makes motions like he’s going to get up. “Let me help at least—” 

“Remus John Lupin.” Hope turns flint eyes on him. (Hope Howell was feared by people outside of Rhymney.) “You are not getting out of that chair until it is time to go. You’re injured.” 

“Only a little!” Remus protests, though tellingly he makes no move to get up. 

“And you wonder where Harry gets it from,” Hope sighs, shaking her head. 

(Hope doesn’t expect a visit after Remus leaves. She doesn’t expect small Hermione Granger, who seems to have learned nothing from this summer except that she’s more capable than most adults. 

It’s an odd visit, but not a bad one. Vainly, Hope is reminded of herself at a younger age, howling.)

The Weasleys host Christmas. This is for a mix of reasons, including that their house is already used to hosting large swathes of people, that the Grangers are interested in learning more about wixen, and that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are highly interested in thanking Harry and Hermione for making Ron feel seen. 

Harry doesn’t know or learn any of this, because he’s too busy being sick to his stomach. 

“Remus is going to love your present,” Hermione reassures him. They’re sitting on Ron’s bed, huddled together, because now that Harry’s fully indoctrinated to being touched by people who care about him, he’d rather die than feel bad for even a single second without being hugged. (There’s probably drugs in the hugs—that’s what Uncle Vernon said. Kind of.)

“I didn’t tell him about it,” Harry argues. His hands are clammy and he couldn’t eat at breakfast because of the churning, squirmy feeling in his gut. “He was so mad when I didn’t tell him I was going to see you.” 

“That’s different, mate,” Ron shrugs. He’s got a platter of eggs and toast Harry couldn’t eat sitting next to him, and seems to think if he waves it under Harry’s nose often enough, he’ll suddenly acquire an appetite. “He’ll love this.” 

Harry makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds vaguely like hghghghhh. 

“Well, I’m excited to give out my presents,” Hermione says. 

Before presents, though, they have to make it through brunch, complete with Remus turning up near the end and subtly prodding Harry to eat his remaining scramble. 

“There’s a good lad, come on,” he says as Harry chokes down a bite of what are really fantastic eggs, running a hand through Harry’s hair. “Happy Christmas, Harry.” 

Harry swallows. His chest feels warm and fuzzy. “Happy Christmas, Remus.” 

Remus smiles and herds the three of them down to the living room. He’s wearing a forest green sweater with red patchwork that Harry knows very well is soft and a little bit scratchy wool. 

As they enter, Harry tugs Mrs. Weasley aside. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Can I give Remus his gift in private? You can start without us.” 

“Of course!” Mrs. Weasley cries, decked out in brilliant robes of emerald and a truly spectacular red that clashes utterly with her hair. “Don’t worry, don’t worry, now off you go, Ronnie’s been telling me all about your wonderful present, I think Remus will adore it.” 

Harry swallows, the warmth in his chest curdling. Remus tilts his head across the room. 

Harry gestures him over, letting Mrs. Weasley explain and lead them out into the garden. 

“What’s wrong, cariad?” Remus asks. 

Harry swallows and tries to explain but the words get caught in his throat. Without them, he pushes his present into Remus’ hands. 

Remus gasps softly. 

Standing there in the cold midmorning sun, Harry doesn’t want to do this anymore. He wants to go home. He wants to hide under his bedsheets and pretend he doesn’t exist and—

One day, Harry will get used to people hugging him suddenly. 

Today, he lets out a little yell in alarm, before he realizes that Remus is holding him tightly, the hooked handle of his new cane gripped in one hand. 

“Oh, Harry,” Remus says, pulling away just slightly. “Thank you so much. This is wonderful. Did you do the runes yourself?” 

Harry wiggles, a little bashful. “Hermione and Ron helped.” 

Remus laughs softly, whirling Harry up with one arm and bracing himself on his cane. “I bet they did,” he says, moving over to sit on the steps of the Burrow, just like when they stargaze in the evenings. “Would you guide me through some of these? I know I usually tell the stories, but just this once I think I’d like yours better.” 

Harry nods vigorously and starts running through Ron, Hermione and his runes. “Okay so this one is based off of berkaanan, and we thought starting with a similar property—like, er, a tree—would help—” 

Remus sits and listens for most of the morning, and uses his cane through the rest of the day, running his fingers over the smooth surface and smiling to himself. Harry is warm, and even warmer when Ron gives him a bunch of magazines about Quidditch—Ron loves Quidditch—and Hermione hands him a beautiful wooden bookmark carved into the shape of a wolf howling at the moon. 

Harry asks if that’s what her holly and vine was for, but Hermione only smiles at him with a spark in her eyes. 

“Happy Christmas,” she says. 

Harry grins back. “Happy Christmas.” 

Remus waits until evening to give Harry his present. 

They’re back at home; the Weasleys were sad to see them go, but as Hermione was yet again clinging to her mother in a very impressive limpet impression and Harry almost cried over Fred bumping into him and apologizing for it, the adults agreed to let them go. Harry curled into Remus’ side on the big loveseat in the corner of the living room as soon as they got home and is currently swaddled in the quilt Hope gifted him yesterday, snoring quietly. 

It would be kinder to let him sleep, but…

Remus thumbs over the runes carved under his new cane’s grip. Harry’s explained in his eight-year-old, rambling way that they translate, roughly, as a weapon to match your peculiarities. 

Remus is very close to losing his mind. 

This…None of this should’ve been his. None of this is his to have, to watch Harry grow from a perfect little thing into the brilliant, daft, devastatingly kind kid he’s turning out to be. It doesn’t belong to him. 

Remus should be dead. Why on earth is he here? 

“Uncle Moony?” 

Remus glances out the window before he looks down at Harry. It’s too cold for the porch, finally, but they spend their evenings here in the living room, now, bundled under quilts that leave Harry comfortable and Remus sweating. It’s alright. Anything is. 

“I have something for you, Hazza.” 

Remus tamps down the urge to smother him as Harry rubs sleep carefully from his eyes. Gentle on Remus’ aching joints, he shifts to a more alert position. Remus could burst. 

“What do you have, Moony?” 

Remus swallows. He’s been going back and forth on this for the better part of the month, wondering if it could possibly be a good idea. 

But…Harry deserves to know. If nothing else, Mam will raise him, and all the better for the two of them. 

Remus wishes he could have some brandy to numb the sting. With a sigh, he pulls out the paper, ink, and compasses. “At school—Hogwarts—you’ll take three classes that, generally, people don’t like. They’re called Astronomy, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes.” 

Harry perks up, sensing a story. 

“Lily hated the way they were taught when we were at school; once she ranted for seven hours straight about the damn things—but I digress.” Remus brushes his thumb over the runes on his cane again. “These are remarkable, Harry. Truly remarkable, for a wix of your age.” Doubly so for one who’s been starved physically and intellectually. “But without an understanding of the world around us, we can never use runes to their full potential. And without seeing them at work, past, present and future, we cannot understand the place magic has in the world.” 

Harry stares down at the cartograph paper in his hands, eyes wide and fascinated. His fingers twitch like he might start trying now. 

With a fond sigh, Remus pulls out the last piece of his gift. No time like the present. “Haz? I have a bit of a game for you. Just to get you started in the right direction.” 

He spreads the moon chart carefully over their laps, making sure nothing is wrinkled or obscured. Maybe it’s awful of Remus to trap Harry like this, under two blankets and a map he definitely won’t want to hurt, but he just wants this moment to stretch as long as possible. Just in case. 

With a deep breath, Remus asks, “Harry, can you tell me what you notice about the full moons on this chart?” 

Harry gasps, looking down at the glacial pace of the moon chart, every month slowly rotating through its phases and glowing faintly on the yellowed parchment. Remus watches his picked little boy fingers trace the arc of each month as they slowly rotate in their compartments, bobbling on their latitudes. He seems intent on shadowing each one with featherlight touches, so captivated it doesn’t dawn on Remus until the fifteenth moon that Harry is stalling. 

The revelation flashes in his spine, curling in his sinuses like static. Remus blinks. 

Well, if Harry doesn’t want to start with the obvious, Remus can get them there. 

“I can see a pattern,” he says, voice small in his mouth, as if it can save him. “The moon’s luminosity fluctuates monthly. It’s brightest in summer.” 

Oh, summer moons. Remus may hate them most of all. 

Harry jerks his head forward in a nod. All Remus wants to do is pull him close and promise, promise he’ll never do anything to hurt him. But he doesn’t. 

(It would be a lie, anyway. Remus has already hurt him.) 

The soft sound of Harry’s mouth opening is like a gunshot in Remus’ ear. “I see…” He doesn’t move. His hands tremble, one finger pointing to the scrawled note apogee: 72 km. 

Remus waits for him to be ready. 

“The moon moves closer to us once a year,” Harry says. His voice shakes almost as bad as his hands. “It looks bigger.”

Remus nods. “That’s true. The tides rise higher.” Wolves are more vicious. “I know. What about the dates, Harry?” 

Harry goes stock-still. “The dates?” 

“Mhm. Do you recognize anything about these dates?” Remus asks. 

Harry moves like he wants to look at Remus, but turns back to the chart. Remus swallows and tries to brace himself. “They’re the days you were sick, Uncle Moony.” 

Harry’s voice barely counts as a whisper, and Remus is sick to his stomach. He presses on. 

“What does that mean, Harry?” 

Harry’s straight back shudders once, and then he turns to meet Remus head-on, absolutely arresting him with his teary-eyed gaze. 

“It means you’re a werewolf, Moony.” 

Harry says it like a death knell. Like a final shovelful of grave dust. Remus’ hands shake.

He swallows, once, the heavy guilt in his stomach settling. 

“Yes it does, Harry.” 

Remus waits for Harry to scramble away from him, out of the room. The doors are warded shut for the night, but he won’t deny his—Lily and James’ kid the option to hide in his room for Hope to come tomorrow. 

What Remus was not waiting for was Harry to throw his little body on his chest, knocking all the wind out of him and wailing “I’m sorry!” 

“Ah?” Remus wheezes, the tears in his eyes squeezed out alongside approximately one and a half times his lung capacity. “What, Harry—” 

“I didn’t mean to find out,” Harry wails, “Hermione’s just smart, and—and Ron told me about werewolves, and—” he hiccups wetly, “I’m really sorry!” 

“You—you knew?” Instinctively, Remus curls both of his arms around Harry, sending the papers crashing to the floor to be crinkled and stepped on. Whatever, he’ll buy more. “Hermione knows?” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, slithering up to the crook of Remus’ neck and pouring hot tears right into the place that activates all the nerve endings on Remus’ shoulder. It’s his favorite place to cry. 

“Oh, shh, cariad, I know,” Remus says, running a hand up and down Harry’s spine, feeling it shake. Christ, he’s fucked this spectacularly. “It’s not your fault. That must have been scary—” 

“I didn’t want to make you tell me,” Harry interrupts, still focused on the exact wrong lesson here. Remus was already going to hell when he died, but now he’s definitely going to be stuck with Black for eternity, too. Bollocks. “I just wanted to help, that’s all, I wanted you to not hurt so much. That’s why I made your present, not—” He sniffles loudly. 

“I believe you, cyw, shh,” Remus says. “I know. It’s a very nice present. I love it very much.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry repeats, clearly flagging. Remus probably definitely should’ve put this off until morning. 

“I’m not upset, cariad,” Remus says. This is not the conversation he was expecting to have tonight. “I only wanted us to be on the same page. Hazza, you know I love you, right?” 

Harry is still just too long to be reassuring, but still nods. Remus decides to take it as encouraging. 

“Then I need you to understand that this is something I should have been honest about from the beginning. I told you because I wanted to, not because of anything else, okay?” 

Harry nods again, shallower. Remus sighs, hoisting the two of them up with his cane. 

“I’m sorry I upset you, Hazza. I should be more careful.” Remus heads toward the stairs, Harry’s reassuring weight in his arms. “I’ll try to make it up to you tomorrow, okay? For now we should head to bed.” 

Harry nods into his neck. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?” 

Remus could burst . “I was counting on it, Haz.” 

(Harry loves his present in the morning, and asks several paragraphs of questions on runes, stars, and arithmancy, culminating in Remus rooting around his attic for the few salvageable maps from his school days. Harry tapes them into the back of his mother’s novel, reverent. 

Remus just barely keeps him away from the multitude of charts where the planets have aligned in a manner unsuitable for children. He’d blame Black, but unfortunately these have Lily written all over them. In her bold, elegant scrawl, nonetheless.) 

The wind tells prisoners time is passing. 

Cold. Then colder. Then cold. 

The cycle continues, and continues. There are no windows. No glimpses of the outside world. Only burning frost and thawing chills. 

Only the moons tell him what he’s missed. 

Every month, clockwork. The burn as ink drains away to a pale circle of flesh, the bluish tint of veins stark against paper-thin skin. Then filling, filling, as he sits with his back against the wall, panting to keep what little food they give him down. 

Missed it again. 

He’s missed ninety-three. Maybe when he gets to one hundred, they’ll kill him, and he can beg forgiveness—

No, no forgiveness for dirty rotten filth like him, not even able to die for his friends, his brothers —not for Prongs, not for Moony, not for Ha—

Have to keep Harry from them. Can’t give them Harry. Harry’s all that’s left. All that’s left of all the good in the world, happy baby Harry—

A gust of frigid wind sweeps through the corridor, sending Bella into peals of shrieking laughter. He hates that. Good; it’ll keep him from remembering the things they can take away. 

Carried on the wind is a slip of paper. 

Most inmates don’t get paper. Not this deep. 

He watches his hand shoot out and grab it. He’s strangely detached from his body these days. That’s good, too; when they take him, he won’t feel it as much. 

Paper. It’s smooth against his fingers; new. Not a scrap of the aurors’ communications, then. Not at all. 

Hm. That means something. He tries to look at the paper, but that casts his gaze over the ink, pale flesh waxing gibbous on his wrist—almost Full. 

Full. He did something, once—to make the full worse. Almost killed Snivellus, which almost killed—

The dog is back. The dog is safer than he is, because the dog only has smells and cold and very simple memories. Sensations. Hunger. 

Cold. 

The dog notices the paper. But the dog has the mind, and the dog is cold. The dog shuts his eyes tightly, Bella’s screams echoing across the stone walls, and pretends to sleep.