Remus
Remus wakes with an ache in his back and his left leg stiff, hanging awkwardly off the couch. His head is pounding the way it does after a night of drinking and crying—a combination that leads to a headache quite distinct from only drinking or only crying, he has learned over the years. Finally prying his eyes open, he is suddenly hit with a wave of both nausea and nostalgia; he squeezes them shut again with a groan, willing his stomach to stop churning.
He’s in the flat. Sirius’ flat, that is, the one he went to last night with Sirius, the one he spent weeks cleaning up and getting ready for Sirius, then avoided once the man had started living there again. He groans again, trying to adjust his leg into a more comfortable position, despite the pain. He hadn’t given himself enough time to rest and recover after the moon, deciding to stake out the Dursleys instead, and although it’s not the worst thing Remus has ever slept on, Sirius’ couch is too small and lumpy to lead to the proper rest his body needs. Plus, there’s his hangover-crying headache, a result of the firewhiskey Sirius had broken out halfway through a story about Prongs, ostensibly to cheers to friends lost, until they weren’t toasting to memories of James and Lily and all the rest of them so much as crying into the drinks they were tossing back like shots. The memories had been mostly good ones, of course, but if they were too good Sirius often didn’t remember them (another shot) or else they had Peter in them (drink instead of swearing his name) or someone would mention how full of life they had been (clink your glasses together and take a drink). The last thing Remus remembers is Padfoot asking plaintively, “we were happy once, right? The two of us? We had some good times? I think I remember some, but even they’re sort of sad when the dementors come.” (Remus finished the bottle.)
Sirius had spoken like that, Remus recalls through the pounding in his head, still refusing to open his eyes, Sirius spoke as if the dementors were still coming, like they could come get him even outside of Azkaban. I should ask about that, he thinks, then immediately corrects, no, don’t get too close, Lupin. If he wants to tell you he will; no need to pry or force any intimacy. Remus is all Sirius has left, he knows, and that will inevitably lead to clinging and co-dependency, but Remus can’t fall into that trap. It wouldn’t be good for either of them.
Finally, Remus hears soft cursing from the kitchen and a few cabinets closing. Sirius. Remus had somehow missed him leaving his room and making his way to the kitchen, but Sirius would not have missed the fully-grown man laying on his couch, which means it’s time to get up and face him. With a great sigh, Remus heaves himself into sitting position, then braces himself and manages to stand on his own two feet. Slowly, tentatively, Remus shuffles over to the other room, trying to stretch his leg along the way.
“Morning,” Sirius says when Remus plops down into his seat and rubs his hip. Sirius looks almost as bad as Remus feels, which doesn’t give him much confidence in how he himself must appear, seeing as Sirius has the benefit of his haughty aristocratic looks that always manage to make him seem more put-together than he would otherwise.
“Mm,” Remus grunts, “morning. Sorry I stayed over last night.”
“No worries; although you could’ve taken a bed. I feel a bit bad, leaving you on the couch there when I’ve got two whole beds you can use.”
“Two?” Remus is grateful for the excuse of his hangover to keep his eyes closed; he doesn’t have to look at Sirius while they talk. Sirius’ voice has enough of that cold aristocratic air to it—despite his hangover—that without the familiar visual of Sirius Black after a rough night, Remus can stave off the memories, of negotiating which bed to sleep in, or fuck in, or lie across while telling stories in low voices, as if the covers would keep the war out.
“Well…” Sirius sounds sheepish. “To be honest, I’ve had trouble sleeping recently. At St. Mungo’s they gave me dreamless sleep sometimes, but they weaned me off it eventually, and it wasn’t so bad there. But being here… there’s memories, here, and the dementors come more easily when I’m alone in the flat, so… I’ve taken to just sleeping as Padfoot. Sometimes on my bed, or the couch, or the floor. Last night I must’ve taken a pillow down, I was sleeping on it when I woke up.”
“Surprised you could transform while that drunk,” Remus murmurs. He should leave the flat, but his head is pounding and he doesn’t think he can apparate without losing a vital part of himself. Sirius chuckles.
“Had to sober up a bit first, actually. You knocked out, but I threw up in the bathroom. It was awful. I couldn’t remember the vanishing charm until this morning.” Sirius sighs. “And I don’t have any hangover potions, sorry. I’ve been avoiding drinking alone, and I’m not gonna get pissed with my former transfiguration professor, so I’m not exactly prepared for this.”
“Bugger,” Remus mutters, “any Advil then?”
“What? Advil?”
“Muggle medicine. I think I might have some in my pocket, actually—where’s my coat?” Remus finally opens his eyes to look for his coat, but Sirius is the one who fetches it for him. “Ta.” Remus reaches his hand into his Enlarged inner pocket, fishing past his empty moneybag, a book, pack of cigarettes, chocolate—finally, he finds a bottle of Advil, which he brings out.
Sirius brings over two glasses of water, and they both take some of the medicine, although Sirius looks a bit skeptical and has to watch Remus intently to figure out how to swallow the pills.
“I’ll stock up on hangover and pain potions,” Sirius coughs, “that was awful.”
“At least it doesn’t taste like piss,” Remus responds, “some healing potions are absolutely horrible.”
“Yes, well, sugar and other flavourings often negate—“
“Yes, yes, so everyone says. I just think, as someone who takes these potions on a fairly regular basis and has absolutely zero potions abilities to speak of, sometimes swallowing a pill is preferable to gagging your way through a godawful potion.” Of course, if they’re brewed well, a potion was far more effective than a muggle pill; far more expensive as well, though, so Remus usually makes do with some over-the-counter pain relievers. (Back when Sirius and Lily were still around, Remus had a nearly unending supply of expert-level potions; he tries not to think about that nowadays.)
“That reminds me, you have any injuries you need to have looked at? I’m a bit rusty still with my healing charms, but I can probably do some smaller stuff. Plus, I’m perfectly capable of helping you change a bandage or two if need be.”
“I’m alright, Padfoot. The moon wasn’t that bad.” By that, Remus means that he’d had to re-align a rib and there’s a nasty scratch along his side, but nothing should be bleeding anymore, and even the bruising shouldn’t be too horrible. Perks of having werewolf super-healing to offset the cursed wounds, and he’s never been more thankful for it; he doesn’t want to undress in front of Sirius, doesn’t want Sirius to see the new scars, doesn’t want to be vulnerable around him. He’s pretty sure it’s only a matter of time, though. Remus has never been able to deny Sirius long.
“Well then, I’ll make breakfast.” Sirius gives a weak smile, and Remus knows he doesn’t believe him about the moon.
“Breakfast would be lovely, Sirius, thank you.” Remus says even when he knows he should go, “I’m sorry again, for imposing.” Maybe if he says it enough, he’ll convince his body to stop feeling like he’s home, like all he wants is to eat Padfoot’s hangover breakfast and slip back into one of the beds down the hall.
“Please, Moony, you’re so far from imposing. I hate being alone here, you’re doing me a favour being here, eating my food and sleeping in my flat. Stay as long as you want, honestly.” From the strained grin he sends over his shoulder, Sirius knows that is not a good idea, even if it may be what he wants.
“I might take you up on the offer of free food, Pads, but perhaps I should hold off on moving in,” Remus responds dryly. I will never move in, he thinks—reminds—promises.
“…Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”
In the end, Sirius doesn’t need to pop his head into the floo to badger Dumbledore into letting them meet with him; halfway through their breakfast—reminiscent of Sunday mornings at Hogwarts—an owl drops a letter into Sirius’ lap, asking if he’ll meet with the headmaster in an hour.
The next hour is filled with hurriedly finishing breakfast and borrowing (and tailoring) some of Sirius’ clothes—something far nicer than anything Remus has owned since James gifted him robes the Christmas of ’78. Sirius then spends what seems like hours styling his hair and trying not to look a mess, which results in Remus worrying about not looking presentable, and finally the two of them stand in front of Sirius’ fireplace with their hair combed and faces shaved, all-in-all looking more put-together than they probably have since James and Lily’s wedding.
They floo in to Dumbledore’s office, which Sirius has been given temporary access to. Remus is dusting the ash off his (Sirius’) robes when he hears Dumbledore’s greeting. “It is good to see you again, my boy, and to see that you have rekindled your friendship with Sirius here. I hadn’t been sure you would, after our conversations.”
Sirius stiffens at that, but Remus keeps his face carefully blank. He did not come here to rehash any of the numerous conversations he had with Dumbledore here in this office, if you could even call them conversations; in all honesty, they were more Remus screaming and crying while Dumbledore tried to explain that the greatest betrayals always come from your closest, most intimate friends. As if anyone could have understood the pain Remus was in.
“Professor Dumbledore,” Remus says in greeting, “I hope you don’t mind my intrusion into your meeting with Sirius. We had plans today anyway, so we thought it might be alright.”
“Of course, that is no problem. I have asked Sirius to come today to discuss Harry Potter; Sirius, if this is not something you’d like Remus to have knowledge of—“
“Remus stays,” Sirius says firmly. Dumbledore nods graciously, as if it were expected.
“Very well. Please, have a seat.” They sit on the other side of his desk obediently. “Now, Sirius, I understand that you have intentions to visit Harry Potter today with Professor McGonagall.”
“Yes sir, she promised to take me and Remus.”
“And, I assume, you have plans for getting there in a muggle fashion and appear as a muggle as well?”
“Of course, Headmaster,” Remus replies this time. He and Sirius exchange a look, agreeing to let Dumbledore speak his part before they start asking questions, like ‘why is Harry not with the Dursleys?’ and ‘where is he?’
“Good, that’s very good. He is living with muggles, you see, and it wouldn’t do to draw any magical attention. He is well-protected, of course, but part of that protection comes with the anonymity. Plus, I thought it best for the boy to be raised away from all the fame; let him have an ordinary childhood.”
“With all due respect, Dumbledore, his parents were murdered in front of him. I don’t think he can have an ordinary childhood.” Sirius, Remus notes, has never been able to sound the slightest bit respectful when saying a sentence with the words, “all due respect.”
Dumbledore inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I suppose you are right, Sirius. I merely meant as ordinary as possible, with a family and people who love and care for him.” But who are they? Remus wants to yell, where is Harry? “Now, that brings me to my second point.” Remus and Sirius both straighten at that. “I understand you both care very deeply for the boy, and that you, Sirius, are Harry’s godfather. If everything had gone as it should have, you would have raised the boy from the start. However, I must implore you, for the good of Harry’s life, not to take Harry from the family he has been placed with. He has been raised by them for the past five years, and has undoubtedly settled there; taking him away from that in order to raise him would be what I believe to be a traumatic and unnecessary change. However, more importantly, there have been many protections put into place that necessitate Harry living with his aunt until the age of majority.”
“His aunt.” Sirius echoes. Remus feels as though he is slowly draining away with each word out of Dumbledore’s mouth. The beast fills the void, scratching and howling, you’re wrong, you’re wrong, where’s Harry?
“Yes, Petunia Dursley, maiden name Evans. You see, when Voldemort came to kill Harry, I have reason to believe he gave Lily Potter the option to stand aside and let him take Harry.” Sirius makes a noise at that, but Remus does not look away from Dumbledore’s crooked nose; he feels numb, like a statue, like he can’t move a single muscle or even think a single thought until Dumbledore has said his part. If he moves before then, he’s afraid it won’t be him but the beast, and Dumbledore’s nose might become even more crooked, and then he won’t learn more about Lily, and Harry, and what Dumbledore thinks he knows about them. “Lily did not make that choice. Instead, she placed herself between Harry and Voldemort and offered herself in her son’s place. Thus, in sacrificing herself, she placed a very special protection over Harry; a blood protection, which I believe is what saved Harry from Voldemort’s curse in the end. It shielded Harry and the curse rebounded to Voldemort, thus making Harry the Boy Who Lived. This blood protection which Lily cast in her last breaths continues to protect Harry for as long as he lives with Lily’s sister, who shares her blood with Lily and her son. While Harry still considers Petunia Evans’ house his home, he will be protected from the likes of Voldemort.”
“But Voldemort—I mean, he’s gone, isn’t he?” Remus asks, dread at the bottom of his stomach. He’s not there, he thinks to the ink pot on Dumbledore’s table. He’s not there, so what happened to the blood protection? Remus wants to shake Dumbledore, wants to yell at him for not ensuring Harry’s safety better. He curls his fingers into his thighs instead.
“Voldemort spent much of his life attempting to achieve immortality. I have reason to believe that while he is gone in the physical sense—that is, he has no body—it is very possible that there is some part of him left in this world, and that given the right circumstances and time, he may find a way to return.” Some of Remus’ fury washes away, replaced by a stunningly cold wave of fear.
“Is that—“ Sirius’ voice cracks. “Can people even do that?”
Dumbledore nods solemnly. “It is very dark magic, but yes. It is possible to achieve a sort of immortality that allows you to lose your body but not your soul, and to return to a body after yours has been killed.”
“You’re not talking about a ghost, are you,” Remus mutters, mostly to himself. Voldemort, not completely gone? James and Lily, their deaths possibly for naught?
“And Harry—“
“Yes, I believe that if and when Voldemort returns, Harry will be in danger. He is known as the one who defeated Voldemort; I’m sure the man would stop at nothing to prove that wrong, now. Which is why it is imperative that Harry stay with his aunt and uncle in Surrey; the blood wards on them and their house provide a protection from Voldemort unparalleled. Nothing, after all, is more powerful than a mother’s love.”
Mother’s love. Remus remembers Lily, sweaty and tired on the hospital bed, with triumph and pride and love, so much love it radiated off her, all directed at the tiny baby she had spent nine months carrying and nine hours birthing. Sirius had joked to James that he was the second most important man in Lily’s life, now; James had looked Sirius straight in the eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, and said “good. Harry’s first in my heart, too.” They had loved Harry more than Remus had thought possible. They had loved him so fiercely Remus could almost taste it, watching their little family. And Lily had taken that love, so strong it shimmered in the air, so strong it was magic, and she had protected Harry with it. But why, why would she tie that love to her blood, when her only other blood was her sister, who loved neither Lily nor her son?
Not that that mattered, Remus supposes, exchanging a look with Sirius, if Harry is no longer there. If Harry was abandoned by the Dursleys, then the blood wards would have fallen; since Lily has no other known blood relatives, Harry has no such protections any longer and will not be able to regain it, unless for some reason Petunia takes him back and they are able to recreate the spell. Since the woman left the boy in the first place, Remus has no desire for her to take him back, and knows Sirius feels the same.
“Alright,” Sirius says, finally, looking away from Remus. “Alright, we’ll respect the integrity of the blood wards. I won’t try to take Harry away from the Dursleys.”
“Thank you, Sirius,” Dumbledore responds. “I promise, this is for the best.”
“Yeah, well, he better be the happiest boy in all of Britain for me to leave him with Petunia.” Sirius mutters bitterly, and Remus places a quelling hand on his arm. Now is not the time to be arguing with Dumbledore, or making comments about Petunia Dursley’s parenting. It doesn’t matter, anyway.
“Is that all, Dumbledore?” Remus asks politely.
“That is all I had planned, yes,” Dumbledore replies, “although while I have you here, Remus, I would like to inquire about the offer I made? I truly believe the world could benefit from your scholarship.”
Sirius sends him a questioning look that Remus ignores. “Yes I have, Headmaster, and thank you very much. I have been considering it, especially since it seems I will be staying in Britain for the foreseeable future.” Until they’ve found Harry, at the very least, and who knows how long that will take? “I spoke with Elphias Doge yesterday, actually, as he’s a lecturer in the department I’m interested in. He said some exciting things, I will admit, but I am still apprehensive. Keeping my secret was difficult enough at Hogwarts; I’m sure it will be harder when all my peers are as smart as those who found me out.” Remus feels as though a puppet, speaking someone else’s words. What is he talking about, school and studying? Those were dreams of a boy who died more than five years ago; those are dreams of men who aren’t monsters.
“I have much faith in you, Remus,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, “and you will have much more flexibility and control over your schedules during your studies.”
“You’re going back to school, Moony?” Sirius finally asks. Remus shrugs in reply. No, he thinks but doesn’t say. “You should; you love learning. We always said you’d be an excellent professor.”
“I’m still considering it,” Remus says again, because he can’t seem to say the word no. “If ever, I’ll join the September intake next year, so I have plenty of time to think about it. There’s a lot to consider, even outside of my… condition.”
“Of course,” Dumbledore concedes graciously, in the way he does when he knows you’re going to do what he wants despite your misdirections. Remus supposes he has seen generations of students equally uncertain about their future careers or studies, and already knows which direction Remus is going to go in—not that he won’t still think and rethink and overthink his decisions first.
“Well I think you should do it,” Sirius declares.
“Thank you for your input, Pads, I’ll take it into consideration,” Remus responds dryly. He feels a bit like a broken record, and he knows he will not be applying, no matter that tiny part of him that still thinks itself that boy, running around Hogwarts with his friends, believing them when they say he’s not a monster. “And thank you, Headmaster, for your help,” he adds.
“Anytime, Remus. It would be a great disservice to the world to allow a mind as brilliant as yours go unpolished.” Then why did you, the thought comes unbidden, after Hogwarts, Lily started studying Charms and Sirius and James started auror training and you sent me to the werewolves. I hadn’t needed a polished mind for that. You only offered after the war had ended, when I was too broken to even think of a future or a career or doing anything that would bring me happiness.
With a nod, Remus stands, Sirius following suit. They bid the headmaster goodbye, ask that he tell Minerva that they will be ready and waiting for her this afternoon, and floo back to the flat.
“Bloody—Buggering—fuck!” Sirius explodes as soon as they’re both through, Remus dousing the flames in the fireplace.
“Mm.” Now that they are out of there, Remus’ head is swirling, thoughts running too fast for him to catch them, trying to process what in Merlin’s name that meeting was. Bringing them in to talk about Harry, telling them about the blood wards, making Sirius promise not to take Harry from the Dursleys, who he isn’t even with? And that last bit, about Remus going to school; what was the play there? Why did he say it? Remus feels like a knight in a game of Wizard’s chess, only he’s already been sacrificed, and now that he’s been placed back in the game, Dumbledore doesn’t quite know where to direct him. Or maybe Dumbledore has already given him instructions, but he doesn’t understand them. Doesn’t want to be sacrificed again.
“He thinks Harry’s still with Petunia!” What piece is Sirius, Remus wonders, and how does Dumbledore imagine he can control him?
“It would appear so.” Remus’ hands are shaking, he notices, and sinks into his armchair.
“Because of some—some—fucking blood wards?” Sirius fists his hands in his neatly-combed hair and yanks. “Could Lily even do that?”
“Lily was a brilliant witch; if anyone could do it, it’d be her.”
“Right, ‘course, but—Petunia? That horrible, awful woman?”
“Well obviously that didn’t work out; Harry’s not with her.” Remus wonders what went wrong with the Petunia chess piece; what part of her did Dumbledore get wrong, that he thinks Harry is still with her, and happy and healthy and cared for?
“Harry’s not even with her! The blood wards—if they even bloody exist—well they’d be gone by now, won’t they, because that rat of a woman probably—probably—did something awful to him! To Harry! And Dumbledore has no idea; he said he was loved, and well-cared for, and happy—and Harry’s not even with Petunia Dursley!” Sirius roars, and the candles all flame brightly for a second, then go out.
Remus sighs in the semi-dark as Sirius, chagrined, mutters an apology.
“My control has been a bit more… volatile, since the dementors,” Sirius murmurs, waving his hand and lighting them again.
“It’s alright, no real harm done.” They’d have to work on that, though, Remus notes, if Sirius is going to find and take care of Harry.
Merlin, Sirius is going to have to find and take care of Harry, isn’t he?
“I’m just…” Sirius’ voice breaks, and he sits heavily onto the sofa. “I thought, throughout it all, that at least Harry would be well-taken care of. He saved the wizarding world, I knew countless families would have been willing to take him in, and Frank and Alice were wonderful parents and wonderful aurors...” Sirius sighs. “I thought he was safe and happy, and now we don’t even know if he’s alive.”
Remus’ breathing hitches. No, he thinks, Harry has to be alive. He has to, or else it’s all my fault. My fault, for believing Dumbledore, for letting him manipulate me and sacrifice me and keep me off the board when he didn’t need me, even though Harry needed me. My fault, for not looking out for Harry.
“He’s alive, Pads. I’m sure he is. And we’ll find him.” Remus makes eye contact with Sirius, seeing the anguish and uncertainty and trust. “We will find him. And we’ll make sure he’s happy and safe for the rest of his life.”
They fill Professor McGonagall in on the ride over. Minerva, as promised, has procured a car from who-knows-where, but graciously allows Remus to drive, as he is the most experienced of the three. Sirius, who sits in the backseat, leans forward between the two to tell Minerva exactly what had happened in Dumbledore’s office, and the reconnaissance that Remus had done the past week.
“But that can’t be possible,” Minerva says, baffled, “Albus assured me he was monitoring Harry and there was no need to do it myself.”
Sirius scoffs. “Well, whoever is monitoring the house is doing a bang-up job of it.”
“I caught no one watching the house, and it doesn’t seem like anyone caught me, either,” Remus says mildly, “And I don’t recall detecting anything magic nearby, although that is harder to detect.”
“Mrs. Figg is a squib,” Minerva says.
“A squib was watching Harry?”
“I don’t think it’s about whether or not she’s a squib, Padfoot, I think it might be more the fact that she is obviously unskilled in looking after the existence and wellbeing of a single child.”
“A witch might be a bit more skilled,” Sirius grumbles, but acquiesces.
“Well, I think the first order of business will be to talk with Petunia Dursley,” Minerva says in her no-nonsense teacher voice. “Dumbledore left her with a letter—“
“A letter? He didn’t even speak with her to ensure she’d take him in?”
“I watched over the boy until she took him in,” Minerva replies firmly, “I watched them take care of him for a whole day before I had to leave. And I’m sure Dumbledore explained the situation well enough to her in the letter he left, and the Dursleys will be able to tell us what happened to Harry—or perhaps that he is still there, and was merely… on vacation somewhere.” She does not sound particularly convinced.
“On vacation with whom?” Remus asks indignantly. “If they let Harry go off on a week-long trip with someone to who knows where, that’s nearly as bad as if they abandoned him somewhere on the street!” Sirius growls at that, and Minerva side-eyes him.
“Well, whatever they did, we shall find out. And perhaps we can have a chat with Figg as well, see what she knows or might have missed.”
Sirius, grumbling, settles back into his seat.
“Please put on your seatbelt, Padfoot,” Remus reminds him, only now seeing that Sirius had somehow unbuckled his after Remus had specifically reminded everyone about road safety.
“Sirius,” Minerva starts thoughtfully, after Sirius scowls and buckles himself in, “I have a problem that’s been nagging me. It’s a transfiguration problem, and I know you’ve always been quite stellar at transfiguration, Sirius, so I thought you might be able to help; Remus, you may be able to assist me in this as well.”
“My transfiguration is average at best, professor,” Remus admits, “I think I got an E on my NEWTS.”
“Doesn’t E stand for exceeds expectations?” Sirius asks pointedly.
“Didn’t you and James get Os?” Remus retaliates.
“Either way, I’m sure you both can help me with this problem. You see, my problem has to do with Peter Pettigrew.” Both of them stiffen at that; Remus keeps his eyes carefully on the road. “Now, that Peter is an animagus is unquestionable; he was found as a garden rat and admitted under veritaserum that he was one. However, Mr. Pettigrew, I remember, got only an A on his transfiguration NEWTs. He was barely able to keep up in my classes, and I’m fairly certain only managed to stay afloat by copying off of the three of you.”
“Mostly James,” Sirius mumbles. Remus shoots him a dirty look through the rearview mirror. Just because he’s close to McGonagall now does not mean he can tell her all their academic misdeeds!
“Thank you for clarifying that. My problem, then, is how Mr. Pettigrew managed a very complex and difficult form of transfiguration, when he would have had trouble turning anything into a rat, much less himself?”
Sirius pauses. “Ah.” He says. Remus keeps his face carefully blank and focuses on the road signs, to stave off the memories.
“Which way, Minerva?” He asks as they come up to an intersection.
“Keep on straight, Remus, you know exactly where we’re going,” she replies sharply. “So you see, boys, my problem comes from the fact that Pettigrew, in order to become an illegal animagus, would have had to first find books hidden in the restricted section, then gather the ingredients, manage the meditation, potion, and spellwork, then—if he was successful in all of that—he would have had to undergo the transformation, knowing that if he failed, he could become permanently stuck as partially or fully an animal, or worse.”
“Hm,” Remus says, when it appears no one else is going to say anything, “that is a tricky problem.”
“Indeed. Not to mention, on top of all the complicated and difficult magic—which I myself was only able to achieve after my schooling at Hogwarts—the reward for becoming an animagus is not, on the whole, that great. You cannot turn into multiple animals, just the one, and not even one you choose. That’s a lot of risk that I cannot imagine a boy like Pettigrew would have taken.”
“No, he wouldn’t have,” Sirius murmurs.
“Though it did save his life, it seems,” Remus points out. “I think there are loads of things being an animagus could give you.” As someone who also has no control over when, what animal he turns into once a month, or what he does when he Turns, Remus would probably kill to be an animagus, even if his form were a wolf.
“The only conclusion I have, at this moment, is that Pettigrew can’t possibly have become an animagus by himself,” Minerva continues, and Remus exchanges a fearful look with Sirius through the rearview mirror. “If you had told me that Potter was an animagus, now that I would believe. He was skilled enough and arrogant enough to try it, although I don’t know why he would’ve felt the need to be unregistered. Unless, of course, he had attempted the transformation before he was seventeen, which is the earliest you are allowed to perform the spell.” No one says anything. “Now, that would be even harder to believe, but then I remember those silly nicknames of yours. Moony and Padfoot, I thought I had understood—Sirius is the Dog Star, after all. But Wormtail and Prongs I was always more unsure about. But if Peter were a rat with a tail that looked like a worm, well I can see how a couple of schoolboys would have eagerly decided on that as his nickname. But Prongs? I assumed an inside joke no one knew about… but James was an animal that had prongs, wasn’t he?”
“…a stag, professor.” Sirius admits after a few beats. “James was a deer.”
“And what is your animal form, Sirius?”
“A dog. A great, big, black dog.”
A satisfied smile grows on Minerva’s face. “Ah, of course,” she says, “and how old were you when you achieved it?”
“Fifteen.” Although she must have known, or guessed, McGonagall still looks surprised at this. “I mean honestly, it’s not all that difficult, at the end of the day. Just gotta be brave, and patient, and determined. You just gotta do all the steps right, and not mess up or you’ll have to do everything again. Peter didn’t really want to do it, almost chickened out a bunch of times; you’re right about that. But James and I convinced him in the end, and we were able to walk him through the transformation. James and I managed it together, first, and I think he was afraid of being left out.”
“Fifteen is so young,” Minerva whispers, almost in horror.
“Fifteen was too late,” Sirius responds. “We’d been trying for two years at that point.”
“You tried to become animagi at thirteen?” Minerva whips her head around to stare at Sirius in disbelief. “You didn’t even know the required theory to even attempt such a transformation!”
“Well yeah, that’s why we didn’t manage it. We were careful about moving forward and all, of course. Would’ve been useless, wouldn’t it, if we’d botched it up?”
“Why would you even attempt this in the first place? I can’t imagine even thirteen year old James Potter thought his transfiguration skills great enough to even conceive of it.”
“No; it was my idea, actually. And it wasn’t quite ego, or boredom, or whatever. We…” Sirius hesitates. “I found out, in third year, that while a werewolf on the full moon will attack humans without a second thought, they do not attack animals, and are unable to Turn any animals with their bite.”
“You became animagi in order to see a fully-transformed werewolf?” McGonagall is clearly aghast. “At fifteen?”
Remus clears his throat, lest she forget he’s there. “We’re almost at Privet Drive,” he says casually, although his skin prickles where Minerva is clearly staring at him. “And for the record, my three best friends becoming animagi was the greatest thing anyone has ever and will ever do for me. I will forever be grateful, even to… Pettigrew, even after everything he’s done.” He flexes his hands nervously on the steering wheel. No one, save for Lily, had ever known what the other three had done for him; even Madam Pomfrey had been kept in the dark, though he’s always thought she might have an inkling. No one else knows what Remus owes to Sirius and James and Peter, or what the dissolution of their group has done to Remus’ life. He hadn’t even told Estee—
But now Minerva knows. And now it doesn’t matter, because James is gone and Peter… and Remus is never letting Padfoot near the wolf, even though last full he had woken up with his throat sore from howling for the last of his pack.
“If the wolf is left alone the way everyone says it should be, locked away so it can’t bite anyone, the wolf will attack itself,” Sirius says solemnly, as Remus turns down Privet Drive. “But if it has friends, a pack, it’s as tame as any normal wolf.”
Minerva stares in horror at the two of them, and Remus parks the car. “We’re here,” he announces, “Let’s go ask Petunia Dursley some questions.”