Visitor
Year One: Visitor
Cold iron bars pressed into Remus’s back. He shivered, his skin clammy. It was pitch black, except for a single blinding streak at the top of a staircase. Remus whimpered, trying to adjust his eyes. His muscles ached, and his shoulder snapped back into place with a slight pop. A wail of pain escaped his mouth before he could stop it.
There was no use—Remus knew that. He’d feel better soon. Remus dry heaved, dragging himself along the floor when he heard timid steps upstairs. His hearing had been exceptional ever since he could remember.
The lock clicked, and light flooded the cellar. Remus covered his eyes as his mother peeked her head through the gap. He folded in on himself, trying not to whimper at the pain this caused him, instantly aware that he was naked. His mother descended, keys jingling in her hand. She unlocked the first set of bars, heavy iron coated in silver, and picked up a blanket from a chest of drawers on the wall that she dropped at Remus’s feet.
Remus had tears in his eyes and pulled the blanket over himself, grateful, attempting to swipe its edges over his face inconspicuously. His mother pressed her lips into a thin line, and dark bags hung under her red-rimmed eyes. She looked frail and small. Remus shrunk—he hated seeing her like this.
“It’s alright,” he croaked, clearing his throat.
His mother shook her head, her hands trembling as she tried to jam the keys into the second lock. The metal shrieked, and Remus flinched. His mother hovered for a second before patting his hair and turning her back, leaving him to get dressed.
Remus took his time. He found several new bruises and cuts all over his body, but none seemed to run deep, and beside his now relocated shoulder, he found no broken bones. Still, his entire body ached. He tried to bandage his wounds as best he could, but had trouble reaching the ones on his back. With a sigh, he pulled the shirt over his head. Remus already dreaded this month’s scars.
His mother sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window. Her eyes briefly flicked to Remus when his chair scraped over the hardwood floor before returning to the forest edge towering over the low garden wall. Faint lines had formed on Hope Lupin’s face over the past years. She was a thin, small woman, only half a head taller than her eleven-year-old son. Wisps of dark blonde hair escaped from the ponytail at the base of her neck, and the ends of the patched cardigan she’d wrung around herself dangled from the chair. Remus was her first and only son. She’d had him less than a year after marrying Lyall Lupin, a wizard who had saved her when she’d been fresh out of school, exploring woods she knew to keep away from.
Remus nibbled on a slice of bread, still nauseous. He could feel his mother’s concerned glances. After having finished half of it, he excused himself. The stairs creaked with every step, and Remus had to stop and take a deep breath every so often. He pulled off his bloody shirt in the bathroom and stepped under the shower. Remus didn’t bother to wait for the water to run warm. It was August, and he always ran a fever the morning after his transformations. The water burned in his open wounds, and he shivered, his knees weak.
The cabinet under the sink held a wide variety of first aid materials. Remus pulled out bandages and several glass bottles containing repulsive-smelling liquids that his father had brought home one day. He used a dropper to spread some olive-green solution on a dressing that he manoeuvred onto the large cut on his back, wrapping it tightly around himself. Remus examined the rest of his body for injuries.
He found three parallel scratches on his leg, which he bandaged quickly. They’d already be gone tomorrow. Remus straightened. This spring, he’d finally grown enough to see himself in the mirror without a stool. A purple mark discoloured his shoulder, extending to the column of his spine, and it hurt to move his arm. He’d had worse, and there was nothing he could do about it.
A light bruise had formed right above his left eyebrow. Remus swiped his finger over it. At least it contrasted the green of his eyes. Still, he tugged at his light brown hair, hoping it would cover the mark. Remus was glad he could manage all the injuries himself—he hated the distraught look on his mother’s face whenever he needed her help.
Exhausted, Remus fell into bed, wincing and tossing to find a comfortable position.
***
When Remus woke, the sun was already low in the sky. He clamoured to his feet and dressed, concealing the silver scars lining his body. He padded down the hallway, dragging his hand along the old stone wall, trying to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
Remus stopped when he reached the stairs. A low voice carried from the ground floor. He thought his father had come home for a split second, but he usually stayed away after a full moon unless Remus was severely injured. No—the voice was strange, lower than his father’s.
They rarely got any visitors. Remus settled atop the stairs. He focused on his hearing, his heart pounding with excitement.
“Mrs Lupin, I entice you to reconsider this,” the man said.
“I have discussed it with my husband. You understand. I don’t know an awful lot about any of this, but even I am,” his mother paused, “weary.”
“I assure you we have taken steps to ensure his safety.”
“But what about your other students? Remus’s condition—”
“I wouldn’t offer you this if I wasn’t absolutely sure that it is safe.”
“I—”
“How much does your son know, Mrs Lupin?”
“About what?”
“Magic. Forgive me, but I don’t see a lot of magic used in your household. And his condition, of course.”
Remus shifted, edging closer to the conversation. He’d done his fair bit of sneaking, and knew which steps didn’t creak.
“I—You must know I am not like you.”
“And his father? I remember Lyall, a brilliant young man, truly. Did he ever—”
“Lyall is seldom home. I don’t think he’s ever found the right opportunity.”
“Well, if you were to keep Remus home, he’d still have to be taught.”
“Lyall always said Remus would have a difficult life. That people like him are, well, misunderstood.”
“Your husband is not wrong. There will be many challenges ahead of your son. I simply wish to prepare him the best we can.”
“I will have to discuss this with Lyall. I can’t just… He’s the one who knows about this stuff.”
The man didn’t answer. Remus held his breath until the man said, “Have you ever asked Remus what he wants?”
Remus flinched. He drew back into the shadow, hoping he wouldn’t be caught. What was going on? Remus knew he was often the topic of conversation between his parents, but a total stranger. That was new.
A chair scraped over the kitchen floor, and then slow, purposeful footfall drew nearer. Remus couldn’t move, not if he wanted to remain undiscovered.
The man who stopped at the bottom was the strangest person Remus had ever seen. He was tall, thin and old. His stomach-length white beard was tied with what looked like a broken pearl necklace, and he wore a cloak. Unlike Remus’s father’s cloaks, this one was heavy velvet, a colour so hideous Remus didn’t want to know the name of.
The man had kind eyes behind half-moon spectacles, smiling at Remus as he waited. Remus’s mother wasn’t far behind, looking from the stranger to Remus. The old man extended a hand, “I am Professor Dumbledore. Pleased to meet you, Remus.”
Remus hugged his knees, unsure of what to do next. From a young age, his father had cautioned him against strange wizards, and this man certainly was one.
“It’s alright, Remus,” his mother finally said, her voice low.
Remus descended until he was at eye level with the professor. He shook his hand, entranced by the spectacles.
“What is going on?” Remus asked, surprised at the unfamiliarity in his own voice.
“I am the headmaster of Hogwarts, a school for witches and wizards,” Dumbledore said, “and I have come to offer you a place to study there starting September first.”
“I—Mum?”
“Your dad—”
“I assure you, Mr Lupin. You will be safe with us.”
“But I’m dangerous.”
“We have taken precautions; you won’t be able to harm anyone.”
“How do you know about me? My dad always says it has to be kept secret.”
“You are a brilliant young man, Mr Lupin, and Hogwarts would be glad to have you.”
“You—”
Dumbledore clapped his hands. “Shall we move this conversation to the kitchen?”
Remus took his mother’s hand and followed the professor. His mother appeared smaller than after other full moons. Her breathing was shallow and unsteady. Remus squeezed her hand, hoping she’d relax.
Remus rubbed his eyes. The kitchen was warm and bright, the curtains dancing in the breeze. A pot stood on the stove, ready, steam rising into the air. Remus’s stomach grumbled, and saliva pooled in his mouth. He had barely eaten in two days.
“I will have to discuss this with my husband,” Remus’s mother said, looking at her hands.
Remus studied Professor Dumbledore. A star pattern adorned his heavy robe, sparkling in the light. The professor didn’t look at them. His gaze swept across the room, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before his eyes settled on Remus. A low hum filled the room.
“Don’t worry. I think he will join us soon,” Dumbledore said.
Remus crossed his arms on the table and rested his head. His stomach rumbled, and he felt observed. He’d have preferred to crawl back into his skin, shrinking until he was invisible. Remus pondered what Dumbledore could have meant. His father was away on ministry business, just like he’d been most of Remus’s life. He was a tall wizard with dark, watchful eyes. Remus liked to sit on the floor and observe his father’s wandwork while he repaired the tears in his robes.
Remus took to counting the seconds until the hand on the clock over the stove moved. His mother seemed too nervous to speak, and the professor didn’t elaborate on his earlier remark. Remus counted, and the hand seemed to slow with every passing minute until he finally heard the high-pitched whistling sound that announced a new arrival.
His father burst through the door, wand at the ready. Dishevelled and panting, a strand of sandy hair falling across his face, his father’s eyes darted nervously between Remus and the old professor. Dumbledore rose, stretched out his arms, and with a friendly smile, said, “Welcome, Lyall. I apologise for the short notice. I hope you understand; many preparations for the new school year.”
Remus watched his father closely. His eyes twitched, the fist around his wand tightening. Remus slipped from his chair and ran to his father. He stopped before him, looking up his lean frame and said, “He said I could go to school, Dad. Can you believe it?”
His father looked at him briefly before saying, “Go to your room, Remus.” Lyall pushed past Remus, sitting stiffly next to Dumbledore.
“But Dad, he says—”
“And I said go to your room.”
Remus hung his head and swallowed.
“Actually, I think we ought to let young Mr Lupin decide. Wouldn’t you agree?” Dumbledore asked, looking at Lyall intensely.
“You don’t know—”
“In fact, I do. And despite everything, I expect Remus’s attendance at Hogwarts.”
Remus looked from his father to the professor. His heart fluttered. He was scared—nevertheless, getting out into the world was his biggest dream.
“Alright,” his father said.
Dumbledore pulled a letter out of the sleeve of his robes. Remus ran his hand over the heavy parchment addressed to him in emerald ink.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr Lupin,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
“How exactly are you planning on containing Remus?” his father asked, his voice quiet, almost breaking.
“I have prepared a space for his transformations,” Dumbledore said. “Far away from students and staff—no one will get to him. Poppy Pomfrey will be glad to supervise his care.”
“Why are you doing this? You don’t have to offer him a place.”
The old man looked at Remus over his half-moon spectacles. His pale eyes sparkled. “Your son seems every bit as brilliant as you once were, Lyall. He is not at fault for what happened to him, and it is no reason to hold him back.”
“With the current climate?”
“Especially because of the current climate,” Dumbledore said.
Remus fidgeted with the parchment and eyed the pot on the stove. Wisps of steam rose high into the air. His mother, small and frightened in her chair, clasped her bony fingers into the wool of her cardigan.
“Now that we have agreed that Remus will attend Hogwarts. I must be off.” Dumbledore turned to Remus. “I look forward to seeing you in September.”
Remus smiled small.
“Go to your room,” his father said as soon as the door fell shut.
Remus sulked, climbing the squeaky stairs. He sat on the floor just around the corner, his muscles aching. From there, he could barely hear his parent’s hushed whispers.
“What do you—” his mother’s voice was hard to make out.
“It’s more than we can provide for him.”
“But—” Remus strained, poking his head around the corner. “—never be part of—”
“Maybe not. But still. If he’s got a chance—”
Remus rubbed his shoulders, smiling. Slowly, footsteps approached, the stairs creaking under the weight. Remus scrambled to his feet, darting to his room. He sat on his bed, heart hammering, as he listened to the steps in the hall.
His father knocked, his head appearing in the frame. Hopefully, the heavy breathing wasn’t too obvious. Remus’s lips twitched. “I can go to school?”
“It appears you can.” His father sat beside him, picking up a stuffed owl on his bed. “You need to be careful.”
“I know,” Remus mumbled, hugging his knees tight.
“No one can know what you are.”
“How does the professor know?”
“Dumbledore has his ways.” His father shook his head, placing the owl back on Remus’s pillow. “He was a transfiguration professor when I was at school. In my fifth year, he defeated a dark wizard named Gellert Grindelwald. In all my time, he’s been very opposed to the dark arts. I suppose it’s only natural he would learn of someone like you.”
“Am I evil then?”
“You’re not a bad person. You’re a very good person, who bad things have happened to. You understand?” His father pushed a strand of thin brown hair out of Remus’s face. “We all have both light and dark inside us. What matters is the power we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.”
Remus nodded. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
His father flung an arm around him, squeezing slightly. “I never wanted to see you harmed. Wizards don’t understand—and they don’t accept. No matter how well you behave, if they know you’re a—a werewolf—they’ll judge you for it.”
Remus sucked in a sharp breath, clutching his shoulder.
“Remus?”
“I’m fine,” he said, shrugging through the pain. It never lasted.
His father shook his head. “Show me.”
Remus lifted his jumper, revealing his purple shoulder. His father tapped his wand on the skin, and the pain eased. “I’ve never been good at healing,” his father murmured.
Remus smiled. “It’s much better already.”
“Come. Your mum has made dinner.”