Chapter 5
Harry wakes suddenly with a yell on the tip of his tongue that he has to hastily swallow back.
There’s no one else in the room with him, which is a relief. Sometimes when he wakes, he finds a woman fussing at his bedside, muttering things under her breath and giving him strange, vile concoctions to drink. She’s nice enough, he supposes, but she hasn’t given him any answers to his questions, and she seems to have a sixth sense for knowing when he wakes up in the middle of the night, often swooping in with another phial for him to drink from that promptly knocks him back out, though thankfully it’s usually without further dreams.
This time he’s alone, which means he has privacy as he sucks in greedy breaths to try and calm the racing of his heart and the stubborn trembling of his hands. He’s had nightmares every night since he’s been here, and the matron keeps kindly and persistently asking him if he wants to talk about them. He’s glad he doesn’t have to field her questions today.
What is he meant to tell her, anyway? That he’s fairly sure he’s gone mental, that he’s completely off his rocker? That he remembers that night, seeing Dudley—hurting Dudley—that he remembers it so clearly that he sees it even when he’s awake, but at the time he could have sworn he was something else? He hadn’t been Harry when he did what he did, he couldn’t have been; the memories are too distorted and alien, and, besides, he’s never actually wanted to hurt his cousin, not like that. He wouldn’t. Not even with how strangely angry he’d been the week before, not even then, he wouldn’t.
These things aren’t normal. He can’t tell any of it to anyone, no matter how friendly the matron seems. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been thrown in the nuthouse—or prison—already.
Probably because Dudley’s still alive. If he’d died, if Harry had… Surely Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would have demanded he be sent to prison immediately. They’d probably argue for death row, too, if they thought they could swing it. But Dudley is alive—that was one of the only questions anyone’s answered for him here.
He’d been groggy and in a lot of pain, babbling all kinds of rubbish about feeling his bones break and stretch and becoming something else, and there’d been someone else there, a tall, stern-looking woman. He doesn’t remember a lot from those first few days, but he knows that he’d finally managed to gasp out a question about Dudley, trying to apologise endlessly through his tears, and she’d caught his hand in hers until he calmed down enough to look at her.
“Your cousin’s alright, Harry,” she’d soothed. “You’ve given him a fright, but he’ll be back up in no time. I’m sure you’ll be able to see him soon.”
So Dudley’s alive. Harry isn’t a murderer at ten years old. It’s a relief, but it doesn’t always help, not when he keeps dreaming about it, seeing Dudley in the kitchen, pasty white and shaking; feeling the—the anger, the bloodlust, the urge to hurt, to kill. Harry’s never been more frightened by a monster in his life, and he doesn’t know what to do when he’s the monster.
“How are we feeling today, Mr Potter?” the matron asks, bustling into his room.
“Fine,” Harry mumbles.
“Hm. Any pain? Still sore? You’ve healed up nicely, I think we can leave off the regenerative draught for your daily potions, though you’ll still have to be careful of that shoulder. Just some pain relief and nutrition boosters today.”
Reluctantly, Harry takes the phials as she passes them over. He eyes them distrustfully.
The pale blue one is something he’s been given regularly, supposedly to help with the ache in his joints and stubborn pain of his shoulder (admittedly, from what he remembers of that blurry first day here, it did wonders for the initial agony), and it isn’t so bad. It isn’t pleasant, but at least it’s not as foul-tasting as the sludge-like green one the matron started giving him two days ago after she made unhappy noises about the amount he’s been eating.
“Drink up,” the matron says sternly. “I’ve got two inattentive Transfiguration students with limbs in need of reattaching, so I can’t dawdle here. That’s a boy. Now, Professor McGonagall tells me you’ll have a visitor today, so buck up a bit. He’ll be by a little after lunch, so I want to see a clean plate, is that clear? Have to keep your energy up.”
“A visitor?” Harry repeats, perplexed. “Who? The Dursleys—Uncle Vernon?” He feels a flash of panic. He’s really in for it the next time he sees them, and he doubts even the matron’s presence will be enough to discourage one of Uncle Vernon’s signature tirades once he really starts going.
But the matron waves him off, clearly distracted. “No, no, your relatives won’t be able to visit you here, I’m afraid. I’m sure the Headmaster will come speak to you about them soon enough. Mr Lupin is the one stopping by today, making sure you’re in one piece, I imagine.”
“Who?” Harry says again, feeling a bit like an owl. The matron doesn’t answer, caught up elsewhere, sweeping out of the room to presumably tend to the students… missing limbs?
He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Hardly any of his questions ever get answered; why should this be any different? He’ll just have to figure out who this ‘Lupin’ is on his own.
*
Under the matron’s watchful eye, Harry chokes down his lunch. Food has never seemed so unappetising. Every time he forces himself to eat another mouthful, he sees a flash of Dudley again, crying for Aunt Petunia while Not-Harry lunges—
He feels queasy at every meal.
Still, he knows that if he doesn’t at least try to finish his plate of chicken sandwiches, the matron will thrust even more disgusting medicines at him. He tries to pick the lesser evil.
“I suppose that will do,” the matron sighs once he pushes the plate away. He’s finished one sandwich half and nibbled on the end of another, which is progress. “Mr Lupin should be here soon. Why don’t you use the lavatory to freshen yourself up? I’m afraid charms will only go so far, and I’m sure you’ll feel better.”
Eager to get out of bed now that he has permission, Harry doesn’t hesitate to follow her advice. He finds a small ensuite bathroom connected to his room, outfitted with all of the basics, including fresh towels and toiletries. He washes himself quickly, trying not to think about the new scars that, although look fully healed, he knows hadn’t been there before Halloween. At least he doesn’t have to mind them while he washes—they don’t even twinge.
He manages to avoid the mirror entirely while he brushes his teeth and dresses into another set of stiff pyjamas, vaguely uncomfortable but perfectly his size. He hovers in the middle of the bathroom, knowing he should make an attempt to tame his hair if he wants to be presentable, but not wanting to face himself in the mirror, in fear of what he might find looking back.
Stupid, he scolds himself. He’s just Harry, and he’ll be Harry in the mirror, too. Still, he can’t help but worry. What if he sees whatever it is that had made Dudley look so frightened?
But no, it’s just him, face the same as it’s always been. Same mop of black hair, same green eyes behind the same cheap plastic glasses he’s had since he was seven.
The only notable difference is the addition of three new scars, running parallel to each other from the bottom of his left ear to the underside of his chin, trailing off into the collar of his shirt. They’re more prominent than the lightning bolt, but that’s probably because they’re newer. Hopefully, they’ll fade, eventually.
He stares at them for a long time.
When he finally brings himself to leave the bathroom, having given up his hair as a lost cause, a man is waiting in his room.
He’s tall and thin, wearing the kind of dated, shabby clothes that Aunt Petunia would turn her nose up at. Harry doesn’t think he looks that old, except there’s grey in his brown hair, and lines on his pale white face that make him look weathered and tired. There are scars on his face that make Harry uncomfortable to look at, so he tries not to.
The man startles when Harry enters, looking at him like he’s seen a ghost.
“Er, hello,” Harry says.
The man finally looks away, clearing his throat. “Good afternoon, Harry,” he says. “My name is Remus Lupin. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come to visit you. I imagine you must still be quite tired.” He’s got an accent that sounds a bit like Mr Alden, and the familiarity soothes Harry, a little bit, against his will.
Slowly, Harry walks over to the bed and takes a seat on the edge.
“S’alright,” he says. “Uh—why’d you want to visit me, though? Sir.”
The man—Lupin—looks pained for a moment. “Well, I’m afraid that’s—a bit of a complicated answer. Do you mind if I sit?”
Harry doesn’t, though he hopes he doesn’t sit too close next to him on the bed.
Lupin pulls a stick out of his pocket and waves it in the air. Before Harry can wonder too much about his visitor’s sanity, he abruptly has to wonder about his own, more so than he already has been. Out of thin air, in the middle of the room, a chair suddenly appears, right in front of Lupin. The man does not seem suitably alarmed by this, instead taking a seat without a thought.
Harry gapes.
“Is something wrong?” Lupin asks, a frown between his brows as he looks behind him as if checking to see what Harry might be staring at.
“You—there was—how did you do that?” Harry asks.
Lupin blinks. “The chair, you mean?” he says. “I conjured it. I’m not surprised you haven’t seen it before, it’s an advanced form of transfiguration you won’t learn until your N.E.W.T year, and living with your relatives—”
This is far too much to process at once.
“You… conjured it?” Harry repeats. “Transfigure—newts—You don’t mean magic?”
Lupin looks unsure of himself, now. “Well, yes,” he says uncomfortably.
“But there’s no such thing as magic,” Harry says dumbly, despite the magic he’s just clearly seen in front of him. He can’t help it. Uncle Vernon’s voice is ringing in his ears.
Lupin stares at him. Harry stares back.
“No such thing—I thought you were living with your aunt,” Lupin says eventually, sounding strangled.
“You know Aunt Petunia?” This can’t be right. Harry cannot imagine a world where Aunt Petunia exists alongside a man who can create chairs out of thin air, and they certainly can never have met. He must be having a very long, very vivid dream. The fever’s back, surely.
“She didn’t tell—You don’t know anything?” Lupin asks.
This strikes Harry as unfair. He knows plenty of things. He’s good at maths and science, even if he doesn’t have the best marks, and he reads a lot with Mr Alden. Anything he doesn’t know is hardly his fault. Harry scowls at the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Lupin says, which is so unexpected that Harry immediately looks back up. Lupin looks even more worn than he had initially, with a tightness to his expression that hadn’t been there before. “I’m going about this the wrong way. It just took me by surprise, that’s all. Your aunt should have told you these things, Harry.”
That mollifies him a little, but he’s still deciding whether or not to be offended.
“Magic is real,” Lupin says patiently. “Not everyone can use it, however. Only witches and wizards can, and they have to keep it a secret from those who can’t. We call people without magic muggles or mundanes. Your relatives are muggles. You and I are wizards.”
“Me?” Harry says. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. I can’t be. I’m just… Harry.”
Lupin smiles weakly. “Trust me, I’m not mistaken. Your parents had magic, your grandparents on your father’s side had magic—and so do you. Tell me, Harry, have strange things happened around you, unexplainable things, perhaps when you’ve been very upset or angry?”
Harry thinks about Ms Mason’s blue hair. The time he found himself on the school roof with no memory of how he got there. The shrinking sweater, the terrible haircut that grew out overnight, the times he’s found the cupboard door unlocked despite hearing Aunt Petunia lock it the night before.
“Maybe,” he admits. A thought strikes him. “Wait, you mean my mum and dad were magic, too? They could do freak—things like I can?”
Lupin nods. “They were very good at it in school, in fact. Your father had a flair for transfiguration—like conjuring the chair, except with many different applications—and your mother had a gift for charms.”
Harry digests this for a minute. It’s more than he’s ever known about his parents before, and it’s good things, things that make his parents sound like real, important people, not the wastes of space Uncle Vernon has always deemed them. Even if the whole ‘magic’ thing sounds more than a bit mental.
“So you’re a wizard,” he says. “And you can… learn magic?”
“At magical schools, yes. I learned here, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. One of the finest in magical education. You’ll attend one day, too.”
Lupin is watching him with a distant, sad kind of fondness. He doesn’t seem bothered by all of Harry’s questions, but Harry knows that adults don’t like too many of them. Don’t ask questions has been the motto of a quiet life at the Dursleys, and here he is, forgetting it in a moment.
“Harry, has anyone told you where you are, or what’s happening?”
Harry shrugs. “The matron tells me I need to take the medicine she gives me. Another lady told me that Dudley’s—that he’s okay.”
Lupin looks unhappy. “And that’s all?” he presses.
“They might’ve told me more when I first got here,” Harry offers. “But I don’t really remember that.”
Lupin closes his eyes like Aunt Petunia does when she complains about her migraines. Harry thinks maybe he’s trying not to yell. He scoots back on his bed, eyeing Lupin warily.
“You’re in the Hogwarts infirmary,” Lupin says after a long time, opening his eyes. His voice is carefully even. “The matron is Madam Pomfrey, she’s in charge of healing everyone that comes through here, which means she’s usually very busy. The Headmaster brought you here so that Madam Pomfrey could look after you and patch you up.”
This is news to Harry. “Headmaster?”
“Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. He should have come down to see you—” Harry is very familiar with the look of adults trying to reign in their frustration, though the Dursleys were never big believers in restraint, themselves. “—But I’m sure he’s been busy, too. You must have a lot of questions; I’m sorry no one’s answered them. If you like, you can ask me, and I’ll do my best to answer.”
Harry does, in fact, have quite a lot of questions. About magical schools, and why the Headmaster brought him here, and how the Headmaster brought him here when he’s never met him; about magic, and what being magic means, and his parents; about Lupin himself, and why he’s visiting some random kid he doesn’t know; about himself, and what’s happening to him, and what he did to Dudley, and how to stop it from happening again.
“That’s alright, sir,” he says instead of any of that.
Lupin’s eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t push it. “You don’t have to call me sir, Harry,” he says. “You can call me Remus. If you like.”
Harry doesn’t know if he does like, since it feels very strange to be so informal with a stranger, but, well. Lupin—Remus—has told him more about himself and his own heritage than literally anyone else. He supposes that might warrant at least some familiarity.
“Er—okay. Thanks. Remus.”
Remus’ smile softens, enough so that Harry feels compelled to smile back, if uncertainly.
“Now, since you don’t have any questions, would you like to hear more about Hogwarts? You’ve been here for almost a week already, it seems silly for you not to know at least about the Houses…”
Harry listens to Remus eagerly, happy to learn about this mythical sounding school that he’s apparently been lodging in. It seems unfair that he’s been stuck in this one room whilst somewhere else on the grounds there are students flying on broomsticks, blowing up cauldrons, and hexing each other, but at least Remus is a good storyteller.
Harry’s never heard anything as fantastic as the tales Remus spins.
He’s so absorbed in Remus’ stories that when Madam Pomfrey drops off his dinner, he cleans the whole plate absent-mindedly, barely noticing the soup at all. Remus eats with him, too, which helps distract him, and for the first time in days, Harry eats without thinking of Dudley.
When Pomfrey finally puts her foot down and makes Remus leave at the end of visiting hours, Harry finds himself hoping the man will come back to visit soon.