Chapter 6
Remus leaves the infirmary late, long after the students will have finished dinner and been sent to bed.
This works out well, since he has no intentions of waiting for Dumbledore to meander through his supper. He heads straight to the Headmaster’s office, doing his best to skirt the edges and avoid the few straggling students and Prefects roaming the halls, not wanting to risk being waylaid, lest he loses steam.
The gargoyle guarding the stairs eyes him moodily as he approaches.
“Remus Lupin here to see Headmaster Dumbledore,” he tries. The gargoyle stares at him. Remus clenches his jaw.
“Sherbet lemon,” he growls. “Ice Mice. Blasted Bertie Bott’s—”
“I’m afraid I’ve rather gone off Bertie’s Beans,” a mild voice says behind him. “Haven’t quite recovered from the unfortunate vomit flavoured bean from last Christmas.”
Remus turns around. “Headmaster,” he says tightly.
Dumbledore peers over his spectacles at him disapprovingly. “Now, Remus, I haven’t been your headmaster in some time. Peppermint Toad,” he adds to the gargoyle. It rolls its eyes but lets them pass.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, dear boy?” Dumbledore asks pleasantly. He settles himself comfortably behind his desk and gestures for Remus to take a seat of his own.
“I came to see Harry,” Remus says. “I heard about what happened, and I thought I’d check on him.”
Dumbledore’s eyebrows rise. “Well, this is a surprise, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. I’d hoped to keep the matter of Harry’s condition a bit more under wraps, for his safety. May I ask how you came by the news?”
There’s nothing accusing in his tone. Remus still bristles.
“Minerva paid me a visit and told me herself,” he says coolly.
Dumbledore hums. “Did she? She made no mention of it to me.”
“What does it matter? I’m glad she told me. I’m in the unique position of being able to relate to him at this time, not to mention my relationship with his parents—”
“Ah,” Dumbledore says softly. “But as far as I understand, you have not before contacted the boy? Please don’t think I say this to be cruel, Remus, but you’ve gone nearly ten years without showing any particular interest in Harry’s upbringing, and now here you are, wishing to establish a relationship? Purely from the standpoint of looking out for the child’s welfare—”
“I stayed away at your recommendation!” Remus cries. “After James and Lily—after Peter—I was in no state to be there for him, I know that. I trusted you when you said leaving him with his relatives was the best option because you promised he’d be safe. I trusted you when you said not to write because his aunt requested full separation from the wizarding world. I chose not to fight any of it, chose to walk away, yes, because I believed you.”
“And that has changed?”
“Yes—yes. Because you let him get bitten. Harry is a werewolf, and I hold you just as accountable as the monster that bit him. I saw his scars, Albus. He could have easily torn his own throat out while he was transformed. He could have died during the last moon, and you would have been too late. He’s a child, and we could just as easily have been discussing his death this evening!”
If Dumbledore had deigned to tell Remus of Harry’s death, that is. The thought makes his throat tight.
Remus doesn’t know when he left his chair, but he finds himself standing in front of Dumbledore’s desk, chest heaving. The fierceness of his anger is a surprise even to him, but he believes every word. He just hadn’t realised it until just now. The thought that Dumbledore would have chosen to keep this from him, of all people…
Dumbledore watches him quietly.
“I hold a great amount of respect for you, Headmaster,” Remus finally says, taking a step back. “I owe you an immense debt for allowing me to attend Hogwarts, and I will never be able to adequately repay you for all that you have given me. But I will never forgive you for allowing Harry to be hurt.”
At this, Dumbledore inclines his head, as if it has become too heavy to hold up. “Yes,” he murmurs. “I rather feel the same.”
“I’d like to keep visiting Harry,” Remus continues. “I can help him with the—adjustment. Explain what’s happening to him, what full moons will look like from now on, and how best to keep himself and others safe. Perhaps I can meet with his aunt and uncle, try to smooth the way. Minerva said they’re still quite upset—”
Dumbledore stops him with a raised hand. “I’m not sure that is a wise idea,” he says. “Harry is in a vulnerable state, confused and distressed, and you are a stranger. I must request you stay away for the time being, until the dust has settled. Once he has recovered and is back with his family, we may discuss introducing you…”
Astonished, Remus stares. “Why? I can help him. You know I can.”
“Be that as it may,” Dumbledore says wearily, “I have my concerns. Tell me this, Remus: if Harry hadn’t been bitten, if he’d come out unscathed and stayed in the muggle world until he started Hogwarts next year, would you be as ardent about playing a role in his life?”
He has no good answer to this. If Minerva hadn’t visited him, if Harry had been only frightened but unharmed, would Remus have agreed with Dumbledore? Would he have abandoned the boy he once considered family—again? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and it stings.
He’s been apathetic for so many years, now, barely thinking of those he lost or left behind because he couldn’t bear it. It would have been easy, too easy, to convince himself to turn away from Harry again. To convince himself a human child would be better off without him. But Harry isn’t human now, not as he was. As soon as Remus saw him in that infirmary room, it’s like something awoke in him, something long dormant, like recognising like, and the thought of turning his back on Harry now…
“I chose not to inform you of Harry’s condition because I was concerned the news might fall into the wrong hands,” Dumbledore says in the face of Remus’ silence. “The more people that know, the higher the risk. I recognise that you can offer unique insight and assistance for the boy, but you must understand my hesitance?”
Remus squares his jaw. “Well, you’re too late,” he says stiffly. “Harry was awake when I paid visit to the hospital wing earlier. We had an enlightening discussion, and he asked me to visit again. I intend to do so.”
For a brief moment, Remus is treated to the rare sight of Albus Dumbledore surprised by something. He feels a flash of satisfaction, lets himself bask in it for a second. Then he does his best to wrangle his frustration back, fighting for calm.
“Did you know he knows nothing of our world?” he says. “He’s been here at Hogwarts for four days and it wasn’t until I spoke with him that he even knew magic was real. How can that be, Albus? Did his family tell him nothing? Did you say nothing?”
“Truly?” Dumbledore says, a wrinkle in his brow. “You’re certain? I knew, of course, that Petunia requested complete separation from our world. I assumed… Well, perhaps she was waiting until he was older. With his history…”
Personally, Remus finds that a very poor excuse, for both Petunia and Dumbledore. He bites back his criticism, however, knowing it could quite easily—and deservedly—be turned back on him.
“The reason I came to see you today, Headmaster, is to ascertain your plans moving forward,” he says instead, stiff and formal. “I want to know what you intend to do about future moons, and additional protections to prevent further… incidents. I want to offer my help. As I said, I’m willing to act as a point of contact for his aunt and uncle, answering their questions and assuaging their concerns. And I can help teach Harry about magic before he goes to Hogwarts; prepare him for what it will be like.”
By the time he’s finished, Dumbledore’s recovered his equilibrium. “I appreciate your desire to help, Remus, but I’m not sure that’s all necessary. Harry will return to his aunt and uncle once Poppy gives him the all-clear, and should his aunt choose to withdraw once more from our world…”
“You can’t seriously intend to keep a werewolf child in a muggle home without adequate precautions,” Remus says flatly.
“I will, of course, offer to reinforce a room of their choosing for the full moon, after discussing the matter with both Harry and his relatives.”
“Absolutely not. You’ll kill him and his relatives that way.”
Remus can’t believe what he’s hearing. The anger is ringing in his ears and his thoughts are tumbling over each other, scrambling to make sense of Dumbledore’s reasoning. He knows he’s biased, perhaps not seeing things clearly, but the thought of sending Harry back into the muggle world and dropping back out of communication with him after only just seeing him again, tasting the potential of what could be, seeing the achingly familiar scars on his face, is unbearable.
Dumbledore sighs. “Perhaps we should speak with Harry and see what he thinks of the matter,” he concedes. “I believe it only fair that he should get a say, as well.”
Mollified, Remus settles. “That sounds like a good idea,” he says.
He says it lightly, in contrast with the real resentment behind the words. There are other things he intended to mention to Dumbledore, ideas and concerns about Harry, but he isn’t sure he wants to bring them up now. Not knowing that Dumbledore clearly wants to keep him away.
So he tucks those concerns away to examine later, when he has time and a clear head. He politely says his goodbyes to Dumbledore, obediently taking one of the proffered sherbet lemons, and makes his way back to Minerva’s office, where she’s so graciously given him access to her Floo for ease of visiting Harry.
In retrospect, he’s glad she did. Now that he’s met the boy, he has no intentions of letting him disappear back into the muggle world.
*
His cottage seems emptier than ever that night.
Remus stands in his living room, the soot from the fireplace settling into his robes, and stares at the place with new eyes. This is what he’s let his life become since the war: a rundown cottage with no personal effects, no social life to speak of, and a tired existence just trying to make enough money to stretch between full moons. He barely recognises it. He’d had hopes for more than this, once.
Life is hard for a werewolf; he’s known that since he was five years old and his da tried to explain to him why he couldn’t go out to play with the other children in the village. At Hogwarts, surrounded by friends, Remus had dared to dream of something more, of building a life for himself despite his condition. After the war, he gave up.
Is this the kind of life Harry’s destined to have, now?
Remus lashes his wand. The dust in the room swirls up in a giant plume, rearing above his head, and vanishes. His nose twitches with a sneeze. It doesn’t make him feel any better.
Harry has Lily’s eyes and James’ face, if James had been significantly scrawnier and warier. And if James’ face was as marred by scars as Remus’. Lily and James never would have pictured this life for Harry; they never would have pictured their friends failing Harry and their memory so badly.
Minerva was right, he thinks. He has been wallowing in self-pity, and it hasn’t helped anyone.
Remus survived as well as he did growing up thanks to his parents and his friends. Seeing as Harry has neither, Remus will have to do. He has three weeks until the next full moon. He won’t let Harry go into this one confused and unprepared.
Whether that means mediating Harry’s return to his relatives and ensuring a safe space for him to transform alone there, or taking Harry somewhere else to transform with him—his cellar or the Shrieking Shack, maybe, if a satisfactory alternative can’t be found in time—remains to be seen and depends on how things go with Harry.
With a twist of his gut, Remus acknowledges the thought that’s been lingering maliciously in the corner of his mind since he left the infirmary: Harry doesn’t know anything. He didn’t know about magic, didn’t know about Hogwarts. What are the chances someone has taken the time to sit down and explain that he’s a werewolf, and what that means?
Remus… should probably be the one to tell him, to answer his questions. It’s something he’s never wanted to do, and certainly not with James and Lily’s son.
When Harry was born, James used to teasingly call him Uncle Moony. Lily preferred the much more reasonable Uncle Remus. For his part, Remus had just been astonished that he would be allowed the privilege of being anyone’s uncle at all, regardless of what they called him.
Harry calls him sir and Remus. Harry has no idea who he is. And it is, of course, entirely Remus’ fault.
*
“Oh—hullo, Remus!”
Harry beams at him as soon as he enters the private quarters of the hospital wing. Remus smiles back, a familiar and half-forgotten warmth spreading in his chest.
“Good morning, Harry. I see you’ve discovered wizarding sweets.”
Harry looks down at the wrappers scattered over his bed as if surprised to see them there. “Er, yes,” he says sheepishly. “Headmaster Dumbledore said I should have a good selection before I decided on my favourite. He also said not to tell Madam Pomfrey. You won’t, will you?”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” he assures with no small amount of amusement. “Though I warn you, there’s not much you can hide from Madam Pomfrey. Have you settled on a favourite yet?”
It looks like a shelf of Honeydukes has been dumped over the bed, so he clearly hasn’t had a lack of variety to choose from. Most everything’s at least been sampled, including a discarded Bertie Bott’s box that’s been decisively shoved to the far corner.
Harry examines the spread thoughtfully. “I like the cauldron cakes. And these—the sugar quills? I don’t like the beans.” He throws a disgusted look at the Bertie Bott’s. Remus reaches out to snag it, peering inside.
“Bad luck?”
“Rotten egg,” Harry says glumly. “Oh, but look at this—the chocolate frog! It almost jumped right out of my hands. And there’s a card, see, I got Bowman Wright. Says he invented the golden snitch. That’s from the game you told me about, right?”
He eagerly shows Remus the card, pointing out the picture of the dark-haired man holding a gleaming snitch.
“Which candy’s your favourite?” Harry asks.
“I’m partial to the fizzing whizzbees and liquorice wands.”
“Oh, good,” Harry says fervently. “I don’t like liquorice.” He promptly shoves three of the candy wands into Remus’ hands. “I don’t have any of the fizzing whatsits. What are they like?”
Remus juggles the candy until he can get a hand free to tuck them into his pocket. “They’re sherbet, with the interesting side effect of making you float some inches off the ground. They tend to cause some trouble if you don’t pay attention; I’ve seen more than one student get a little too close to the lake and regret it once the sweet wears off.”
Harry stares at him, wide-eyed. “Candy can do that?” he asks, awed.
“That and more,” Remus confirms. “When you enter a wizarding candy shop, make sure you read the labels carefully. Also, don’t take random sweets from classmates unless you trust them.”
This is the sort of light-hearted conversation one is supposed to have with children Harry’s age. It’s bolstering, having this slice of normalcy. Remus hadn’t realised quite how much he missed it.
Harry squints at his pile of sweets. “The Headmaster didn’t say anything about side effects,” he says suspiciously.
Remus quickly looks over the assortment with a practised eye. Granted, he isn’t exactly up to date with the latest in wizarding confectionary, but he recognises the staples of his youth. Dumbledore must favour the classics. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “The beans are the riskiest.” So saying, he fishes one out and pops it in his mouth. He pulls a face. “Ah. Phlegm.”
“Gross.” Harry wrinkles his nose. He then bravely sticks out his hand for his own. He chews thoughtfully. “Oh. Peppermint. If I had these at my aunt and uncle’s, I bet Dudley—” Abruptly, he falls quiet, ducking his head.
Remus softens. “Have you heard anything from your relatives?”
Harry shrugs, picking at the blankets. “Headmaster said I’ll be going back to them soon. Dunno how he managed it, though. Reckon they’re pretty hacked off with me, after what I did.”
Remus has to tread carefully here. “And did Headmaster Dumbledore explain to you exactly what happened that night, with your cousin?”
Harry is quiet for a long moment. “Well,” he huffs eventually, strained. “I attacked him. I don’t—I didn’t mean to, I don’t think. S’cept it kinda felt like I did. Headmaster Dumbledore said—he said it was because I—” He struggles for a beat longer before giving up.
“Because you’re a werewolf, Harry,” Remus says gently. “We talked a little bit about it last time, remember?”
The boy’s shoulders immediately go up around his ears. “Can’t be,” he mutters. “No such thing.”
“Just like there’s no such thing as magic?”
Harry scrunches up even further. “But how?” he asks miserably. “People don’t just go around becoming werewolves. That’s supposed to just happen in stupid kid’s stories. Not real life.”
“Do you remember being bitten, about a month ago? It would have looked a bit like a regular wolf, except slightly different. Enough to tell.”
“Yeah,” Harry says in a quiet, hollow voice. “The night I got locked out. It coulda killed me, but it didn’t. I thought that was weird.”
Remus swallows thickly. He only vaguely remembers the night he was attacked himself; he was so young, younger than Harry, and it’s been muddled further over the years. He remembers the fear, though, the knowledge that a beast made for hunting and killing, much stronger and faster than his five-year-old body, had cornered him and there was nowhere to run.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Harry.”
Jerkily, Harry shrugs again. “Headmaster says there aren’t many other werewolves. Said I should keep it a secret because people think they’re—we’re—bad. So I guess Uncle Vernon’s right and I am a freak, even more than I was before.” He violently crumples a cauldron cake wrapper in his fist.
“That’s not true,” Remus says quickly, making a mental note to tackle that particular revelation later. “It’s true that people don’t look kindly on werewolves, but you’re not bad, Harry, and you aren’t a freak.”
Harry peeks at him through his fringe, assessing. “Do you think werewolves are bad?” He’s tense and wary, clearly waiting for rejection, as if Remus is going to get up and leave now that he knows the horrible secret.
It’s a loaded question, but Harry doesn’t need to hear about Remus’ moral crisis that’s twenty years in the making. That’s not what he’s looking for.
“No,” he says. “I don’t think they’re inherently any better or worse than any other witch or wizard, or muggle for that matter. Do you think I’m bad?”
“No!” he says. “You’re nice. You tell me stories and answer my questions and didn’t tell Madam Pomfrey about the sweets.”
The bar is so low, but in this instance, it’s working in his favour, so Remus rolls with it.
“Well, there you go then.” He does his best to smile convincingly. “I’m a werewolf, like you.”
And he can see it, the moment it clicks. Harry’s eyes widen and then scan his face quickly, taking in the scars across his cheeks, his nose. Harry has no way of understanding the full consequences of their shared affliction, but he must see Remus’ threadbare robes, his thin appearance. Remus hopes he isn’t seeing into his future. He wants to assure him he’ll have it better, but he holds his tongue.
“Oh,” Harry says quietly. Then— “I’m sorry that happened to you, too.”