Chapter 4
The morning after the full moon, Remus wakes up slowly in the cellar.
His bones creak and ache as they always do after his transformations, so he has to give himself some time to get moving. His thoughts are still a little groggy.
Eventually, he gathers his wits enough to undo the bindings he secured around himself last night. They fall away with a gesture, borne from years of practice of that particular bit of wandless magic. He pushes to his feet and carefully stretches, wincing at the popping of his joints.
At thirty, Remus Lupin is hardly old, even by muggle standards, but he feels as ill-used and frail as a man three times his age.
He pulls on the house coat waiting for him by the door, shielding his nakedness from the cold of the cellar. He retrieves his wand from the hidden alcove and uses it to undo the physical locks and magical enchantments keeping the door closed. This was much easier back when he had someone on the other side, like when his da locked him away as a child and dispelled the charms as soon as daylight broke, but he hasn’t had that kind of help in a long time. Now he’s well-versed in keeping himself contained.
In the better lighting of the kitchen, Remus takes stock of his wounds.
It had been a rough one last night, even compared to the average pattern of the last ten years. He has his suspicions that the recent anniversary played a part in that, but there’s no point in dwelling on it, really. Every moon has been rough since he graduated Hogwarts and lost his hard-earned support system, and every moon going forward promises to be just as difficult.
Remus puts the kettle on as he makes for the cabinet in the hall where he keeps his assortment of potions. He’s running low on supplies, but he doesn’t have the cash to replenish right now. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to pick up some odd jobs in the muggle world in the next few weeks.
The worst of the injuries is a cut along his side, just below his ribs. It isn’t particularly deep, thankfully, but it’s long and nasty looking with jagged edges. He’s conservative with the silver and dittany as he dabs it over the cut, hoping to make the rest of it stretch to next month. In front of his eyes, the dittany makes quick work of sealing the wound, leaving a shiny silver scar to add to his collection.
He has a smattering of minor scrapes and cuts littered across the rest of his body, including what looks like a bite mark on his calf, but that one hasn’t broken skin and none of the others seem critical enough to waste the potion on, so he ignores them.
The kettle whistles as he finishes up.
Remus drinks his tea blearily. He can’t be bothered to make anything to eat, and he isn’t sure there’s anything in the cupboards anyway. He’s as ravenous as he always is after the full moon, but it doesn’t seem important.
There are so many reasons to hate these transformations, and he really does hate them all, but he thinks the quiet of the morning afterwards is particularly hateful. He used to have people around, people to check up on him and distract him from the settling of his bones, and somehow, even after all this time, he still wakes up half-expecting it.
Remus hates this place, this cottage. He bought it twelve years ago with what little was left of his late parents’ savings, not long after leaving school, because it was cheap, and it was discreet, and it would keep him under the radar during the war. It also had a cellar with built-in wards and protections that he could easily tweak to suit his purposes. He always meant to fix it up, eventually, make it more like a home, but, well. He always assumed he’d have help.
The paper gets delivered before he finishes his tea, which is just as well. Gives him something to do.
The tawny owl bristles its feathers and snaps at him when he gets too close, but reluctantly accepts a few knuts as a peace offering. Remus picks up The Daily Prophet while the owl eagerly ducks back out the window.
It’s more of a gossip rag than a reputable news source, but Remus half-heartedly peruses it anyway. There’s the usual drivel on the comings and goings of various Ministry personnel and high-society wizards, as well as a fluff piece on the Minister himself, highlighting all the good he’s done since being elected and the good he plans on doing in the future.
Near the back, hidden between two mindless articles so well Remus almost misses it, is a note on werewolf legislation. Remus reads it carefully, but it’s mostly empty words, mentioning the unused registry and saying there’s ‘stirrings’ in the Ministry of implementing more stringent restrictions. It probably won’t come to anything, but he’ll have to try and pay closer attention to any future bills that are passed. It’s hard enough already for him to find work and housing; if the Ministry’s going to make it even harder, he’d like some warning.
Speaking of finding work, Remus resigns himself to the task of the day. He’s in no fit state to go job-searching the day after the full moon, but he can at least familiarise himself with the muggle postings nearby and work on a plausible excuse for the patchy nature of his CV.
It occupies him for most of the day.
He flips through muggle papers and makes note of the jobs that look promising, pausing sometime past noon to root through his kitchen to find something to eat. He finds the last of his bread and a packet of bacon he’d forgotten about, so he fries it all up and devours it straight from the pan, finally settling the disgruntled grumbling of his stomach. He also takes a break for a nap, though that’s less of a conscious choice.
He’s just decided he’ll try for a courier job in the next town over, since travel won’t be a problem for him, when he’s disturbed by the flare of his long-neglected Floo. Nobody’s used it in so long, he’d almost forgotten it was connected.
Minerva McGonagall appears in his fireplace.
*
Having his old professor joining him for tea in his semi-derelict cottage is surreal. What she’s come to tell him is one of his worst nightmares.
“I don’t understand,” he says faintly.
Minerva’s mouth is pressed in a thin, unhappy line. She’s been politely sipping at her tea, and Remus has the sudden thought that he should have tried to transfigure the cup into something nicer before he gave it to her. He feels dizzy just looking at her delicately handling the cracked teacup, though, admittedly, there could be other contributing factors.
“He was supposed to be safe,” Remus manages. “Dumbledore told me he’d be under protections, that there would be people watching him, making sure nothing happened—”
“Yes,” Minerva says tightly. “He assured me much of the same. Believe me when I say Albus and I have been having words over Potter’s supposed safety, and we’ll be having many more. But I suppose that doesn’t do the boy much good now.”
Remus puts his head in his hands. The room has started swaying around him. His breathing’s gone a little funny, and for the life of him, he can’t seem to get it back under control.
“So—So Harry was bitten.” The words taste like ash. They’re physically painful to say. “He was—He’s like me, then. How did this happen?”
The clink of china against the tabletop tells him that the tea is being abandoned. He can’t make himself look up.
“I don’t suppose you remember Arabella Figg,” Minerva sighs. “No, you wouldn’t have met. She was a part of the old crowd back in the day, acting as a connection to the muggle world. A squib. When Albus assured everyone that Potter was safe and under supervision, he failed to mention that said supervision was Arabella minding the boy a handful of times. If I’d known—”
Minerva stops herself. Remus feels himself sinking into his chair, into the very floor. If I’d known, he thinks. If I’d known. But would it have mattered if he had? Would he have done anything differently, knowing Harry wasn’t as secure as he’d assumed? Believing Dumbledore, trusting his word, was easier. Neater. He’d never probed, never bothered to ask too many questions.
Well, look where that’s gotten them. Lily and James must be spinning in their graves.
“As Arabella tells it, the boy was attacked by an animal some weeks ago. We know now, of course, that it must have been a werewolf during the last full moon, but being a squib, she might not have thought of it. She says he had a bite on his shoulder that she snuck him a healing potion to help with, and by all accounts, he didn’t seem bad off aside from a fever. She only thought to write Albus about it after the boy started looking ill.”
Remus pulls his hands away from his face. “He’s already transformed?”
Sympathetic, Minerva nods. “Last night,” she says gently. “If Albus hadn’t been concerned by Arabella’s letter, I’m not sure the alarm would have sounded early enough. By the time he reached Privet Drive, Harry had already broken out of his room.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“His cousin. Not bitten, thank Merlin, but injured. He’ll have some nasty scars, but he’ll live.”
For a worrying moment, Remus thinks he might be sick. Harry bitten by a werewolf is unthinkable. Harry transforming for the first time scared and alone, likely not knowing what’s going on, is horrific. Harry having attacked his muggle cousin while transformed… Even Remus, having been a werewolf for as long as he can remember, has never had to live with that on his conscience, despite some close calls. All that on the shoulders of a ten-year-old who never should have been at risk in the first place.
“His relatives are understandably upset,” Minerva says. “I haven’t spoken to them myself, but Albus says tensions are running quite high, and they all agree that keeping some distance is best for now. Harry’s at Hogwarts, being treated by Poppy. He’s a bit banged up, the poor lad, and frightened.”
“Hogwarts?” Remus repeats. “Shouldn’t he be at St Mungo’s? The first transformation after being bitten is particularly violent, and he’s so young—”
Minerva raises her hand to forestall his arguments. “I know,” she says. “Believe me, Remus. I’ve had this exact conversation with Albus, but he’s adamant. Admitting the Boy-Who-Lived to the scrutiny of St Mungo’s healers for this sort of thing, and as his reintroduction to the magical world no less…”
“He’s a child,” Remus protests. “He needs proper medical care, regardless of whatever inane title people have given him. New transformations can be deadly even after the moon, the body goes into shock. He needs a trained healer, someone who—”
“Poppy does know how to patch children up, even werewolves, as I’m sure you remember,” Minerva says, a little wry. She sobers quickly. “Remus, the boy’s terrified. Poppy’s keeping him unconscious for now, so he doesn’t interfere with his healing, but I spoke with him, briefly, and he has no idea what’s happening to him. At least at Hogwarts, he can be kept in the private quarters, away from too many strangers and prying eyes, without the threat of the Ministry and the rest of Wizarding Britain imploding from the excitement.”
Reluctantly, Remus sees her point. He spares a thought to imagine the potential headlines—Harry Potter Admitted to St Mungo’s: Saviour of the Wizarding World, Dark Creature—and the subsequent panic that would surely follow. No, Harry doesn’t need that.
“Oh, Harry,” he sighs, stricken. “James would have my head.”
And doesn’t that just sting? Remus Lupin, last standing Marauder, and he never bothered to check on James’ son.
“Yes, well, unfortunately, there’s nothing to be done to change it,” Minerva says tiredly. “We can only try to move forward with the wand we’ve been dealt. So, when shall I tell Poppy to expect you?”
Remus blinks at her dumbly. “What?”
Minerva arches a brow at him, gathering her robes. “To visit the boy, of course,” she says. “You’ll have to give Poppy warning so that she knows to allow you access to the private quarters of the infirmary.”
“I’m not—I can’t—”
“Why not?” she demands. “You’ve kept your distance until now, under his relatives’ wishes and Albus’ suggestion, I understand, but surely you see that can’t continue? He’s going to need people around him, to support him. I hope his relatives will come around once they see his cousin’s alright, but even then, he needs someone who will understand. Who better than a man with the same affliction, and who knew his parents, no less?”
Remus shakes his head, panic crawling up his throat. “Anyone else,” he says, desperate. “Anyone else would be better. I’m—I can’t help him. I’m dangerous.”
“So is he,” Minerva says sharply. “You’ve been wallowing in self-pity for too long as it is, Lupin. I know these years since the war have been difficult for you; you’ve lost more than anyone should. But Harry has no one. Do you understand that? We don’t even know who bit him or how they were able to get to him. He needs someone in his corner, and I think, if James and Lily were here now, they’d want it to be you.”
She sweeps up out of her seat and brushes off her robes, turning from his agonising. He can’t make himself stand to follow her out.
“Let Poppy know when you’re ready to visit,” Minerva says briskly. “Thank you for the tea.”
She leaves in a blaze of emerald flames, as abruptly as she’d arrived.
Remus is left staring after her, feeling about two inches tall, and like his blood has turned to ice.