Chapter 9
The last time Remus saw the Potters, stress had made them all weary.
It had been a few months after Harry’s first Christmas, after Remus’ birthday but before James’. They’d gathered in one of the Order’s safehouses, protected by just enough wards to let them breathe somewhat freely, without their hands glued to their wands. Dumbledore had offered them the use of the house personally.
Remus had been on edge since the moment he received the invitation.
He’d tried to ignore it, though, because moments like those with his friends were hard to come by in those wartime days. He’d wanted to enjoy it while he could, before he was sent out on another recruitment mission, before James and Sirius disappeared on another covert errand that not even Lily could know the details of. Before the conversation petered out and lapsed into grieving silence, morbid reminiscence of fallen friends, painfully bright hopes for the future none of them were sure they’d live to see.
Before they started brooding on the spy in the Order, uneasily whispering names and quick denials. Blind to the traitor that sat next to them all along, suggesting names of his own.
Despite it all, Remus has fond memories of that day.
He played Gobstones with Lily, Harry watching in fascination from her lap. Watched James charm Peter’s hair into a dozen different colours before Harry’s giggling gave it away. Helped Peter retaliate by holding James down and convincing Sirius to help transfigure his robes into something approximating Dumbledore’s wardrobe. Remus had laughed and relaxed and been happy, fully and selfishly, outside of time and away from the war for those few hours.
Harry had fallen asleep in Sirius’ arms, the man smugly delighted, refusing to put the boy down in the cot Lily transfigured from an umbrella stand. James had smiled fondly at the sight, but there had been something strained in that smile. Remus hadn’t seen it, then. Didn’t notice until afterwards, looking back on the memory and seeing the tightness at the corner of his friend’s eyes, the stiff posture of Lily’s shoulders.
“There’s something we have to tell you,” James had said.
Remus had never been a natural at divination. He’d taken the course largely out of curiosity, because Sirius had made an offhand comment in their second year about the Sight running in his family, and Remus had been sceptical. He’d signed up for the course on a whim, encouraged by the fact that he’d be taking it with Peter, and spent the next several years promptly cursing himself for a fool.
Still, in that moment, looking across the table at James Potter, Remus could have sworn he knew what he was going to say. Had that sinking feeling in his gut, telling him this might be the last good night he’d have for a while.
“Dumbledore’s said we’re in danger. He thinks we might be targeted, Lils, Harry, and I. He said—Well, we’re going into hiding. Soon. No one can know where we are. Not even you lot.”
James had smiled again, then, a rotten, crooked thing.
“How long?” Peter had asked, nervous.
“We don’t know,” Lily said. “For however long we need to.”
“Cheer up,” James had said, nudging Sirius. “Hopefully we’ll be in the clear in time for your birthday, hey?”
But, of course, they hadn’t been. By the time Sirius’ birthday came around, he was rotting in Azkaban, Peter and the Potters dead. Harry was with the Dursleys, locked in that blasted cupboard.
And Remus was sequestered away in his cottage, staring blankly at the ceiling, being of no use at all.
*
Remus blinks the sticky cobweb of his self-recrimination away for just long enough to notice the teacup gripped tightly in his hands. He eases his fingers off of it slowly, not wanting the thing to shatter. He feels oddly muzzy. Like he’s being pulled in three different places at once, not quite fully present in any of them.
The tea is too hot and scorches his tongue. It helps him gather his wits a bit more, the cobwebs bleeding away.
He finds himself in Minerva’s office again. The shadows from the candles stretch across the floor, the sun beginning to set outside the window. He has no idea how long he’s been in here.
Minerva’s on the other side of the desk, clutching her own cup of tea. She looks marginally better off than he feels, but he supposes one doesn’t become Deputy Headmistress in a school full of volatile teenagers without being able to keep their composure in times of stress.
He wonders who ordered the tea. It’s the blend he typically favours.
“In her first year,” Minerva says abruptly, “Lily dealt with quite a bit of homesickness, you know. In my office at least every other week, talking about her parents, her schoolyard friends. Her sister. She was quite distraught to be away from her sister.”
“She felt differently, by the time we were friends,” Remus says. “The most I ever heard about Petunia was how nasty she could be, and how terrible her fiancé was. Husband, now.”
Minerva makes a rude noise. Sips her tea.
“I knew they were the worse sort. I should have at least checked on the boy,” she says, not without difficulty. “I never imagined… I thought they’d be terrible role models for any child, let alone a magical one. I didn’t think they would…”
She trails off, but Remus doesn’t need her to fill in the blanks. She’s already told him what she learned from Vernon Dursley.
Lock him up. Starve him. Work him like a house-elf. Give him a smack or two if he put a toe out of line or dared to be freakish. Who knows what else? Other than Harry, of course, who knows it all, every last awful detail.
“Their own nephew,” Minerva says in disgust.
Remus must have been the one to order the tea. There’s a little dish with the cakes he likes. Looking at them makes him queasy.
“How much do you suppose his babysitter, Figg, knew?” Remus asks. “There must have been signs.”
Surely, there must have been signs. A child doesn’t get mistreated in that way without people noticing. Right?
His teacup’s empty. He blinks at it for a moment, and then suddenly finds it full. It burns his mouth again.
Minerva sets down her teacup forcefully. It rattles on its saucer but doesn’t spill or crack. Remus wonders if the house-elves are watching them, preventing every minor disaster before it occurs. Or maybe all Hogwarts’ tea sets are already charmed against damage. Handy, in a school like this.
“I intend to find out,” Minerva says. “If Albus even suspected—”
She doesn’t finish, but the way her nostrils flare tells Remus that she isn’t above inflicting grievous bodily harm to the Headmaster. He wants to be appalled by that, or pleased, or vindictively justified, but he—isn’t. He feels very tired and very strange, like perhaps he’s been confunded.
“He was very insistent that Harry return to them,” he finds himself saying without inflexion. He wonders where the anger from earlier went. He doesn’t particularly like being so angry, but at least it felt real. At least it felt like a reasonable reaction, the correct reaction to finding out your dead friend’s son has been abused by the people you assumed would look after him while you fucked off and did nothing.
“Over our dead bodies,” Minerva says primly.
Remus is relieved to be included.
*
Harry waits and waits, and Remus does not show up.
Harry picks at the porridge Madam Pomfrey gives him for breakfast, keeping an eye on the door, but the only person that comes through is the matron, who tuts at the state of his meal. He endures her light scolding and agrees to take the pear she foists upon him as a compromise, but lets it drop and roll under the bed as soon as she turns her back.
He hates wasting food. He always has. Sometimes, when he was little, he would get so desperate and so hungry that he’d root through the rubbish bins, just looking for anything he could eat. The crusty, stale bits of bread left in the bag. Potato peels, if he could get them clean enough. Bits of leftovers scraped from his relatives’ plates.
He isn’t proud of it, and he hasn’t had to do it in a while, but he remembers. Eventually, he learned how to sneak food as he was cooking, and how to hide things in his cupboard, so he didn’t need to raid the bins anymore.
So food is sort of a big deal for Harry. Normally, he’d be eating anything and everything the matron is willing to give him without a word of complaint, just happy to be getting a consistent three square a day while it lasts.
But—Dudley. Harry doesn’t know why his cousin is all he can see when he thinks about eating, but he is. It’s not so bad when he’s distracted, when he can focus on something else while he eats, but there’s no telly here, and he doesn’t have any of Mr Alden’s books, either.
And Remus doesn’t show up for a morning visit.
Which is fine, of course. Sometimes he shows up later in the day. Nothing to worry about.
Except the day drags on and he still doesn’t show. Harry turns away his lunch entirely, much to Madam Pomfrey’s displeasure, and he ignores her threats of further nutrition potions.
“Has Remus said when he’ll come by today?” he asks when Madam Pomfrey comes back with the dreaded potions. He tries to sound casual, not wanting her to think he’s whining, but he must not do a very good job, because her face goes funny. She frowns at him, but not like she’s mad. Like she’s sorry for him, and that’s far worse.
“No, Mr Potter, I haven’t heard from him,” she says. “Try not to worry, I’m sure he’ll be by soon. Drink these now, go on.”
Madam Pomfrey’s strict visiting hours come to an end. Harry hops out of bed and starts to pace around the room in tight circles, agitated and annoyed with himself for it.
It’s fine, he tells himself. Remus doesn’t have to visit every day. He’s probably busy. He doesn’t have time to keep Harry company all the time, and it’s not like Harry has much to offer in that department anyway. He’s terrible with people. He’s never had a friend before because he never knows what to say.
Not that Remus is his friend. He’s just—
Harry frowns. Actually, he doesn’t know what Remus is, or why he visits. Are they friends? Some sort of werewolf mentor program? Is that a thing?
You’d think with all the questions Harry’s been pestering Remus with, he’d think to ask about important things, instead of stuff about wizarding candy and Quidditch. It’s just so much easier to focus on those things, because they’re new and exciting and don’t feature in his nightmares. Remus is always happy to tell him about iced mice and holly harpies, and Harry doesn’t want to ruin things by mentioning something he shouldn’t. He has a nasty penchant for that. He could barely open his mouth at the Dursleys’ without offending them.
As careful as he’s been, though, it looks like Harry’s finally reached the end of even kindly Remus’ patience. He knew he shouldn’t have talked about his relatives, even with the man’s questions. Harry should have ignored them, or distracted him, or even lied if he had to. He doesn’t like to lie, but he knows it’s useful sometimes.
Because mentioning the Dursleys, telling people a little too much about them, never ends well. Teachers have a word with Aunt Petunia and stop being friendly with him; kids at school stare at him and tattle to Dudley; neighbours cross the street to avoid him.
Remus stops visiting.
Harry kicks the hospital bed, hoping it will make him feel better. Mostly it just makes his foot hurt.
Remus had asked. He’d given him hot chocolate and listened to his whining and didn’t yell at all. He’d even stayed for a while afterwards, telling Harry about classes at Hogwarts and some of the professors that teach them. Thinking back, Harry thinks maybe Remus had seemed a little… quiet, maybe, before he left, but Remus seems pretty quiet in general. Which suits Harry just fine, of course.
Harry tries to remember if Remus said anything about not visiting for a bit. He doesn’t think so, though. The man hadn’t said he’d be back the next day, but he usually doesn’t; at this point, Harry just assumes he’ll see him. He visits so often that Harry’s barely surprised by it anymore.
He must have scared him away. Must have complained too much about the Dursleys and Remus got tired of it, or thinks he’s a liar, or just got bored entirely. Maybe he only meant to visit for a few days, just to make sure Harry wasn’t going to turn into the monster again and attack Madam Pomfrey in his sleep like he did Dudley.
The thought makes his palms sweaty. He swipes them roughly on the trousers of his pyjamas, skin feeling hot and itchy. He’s thrumming with nervous energy, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. Kicking the bed again does nothing except make him feel bad; if he breaks his toe, Madam Pomfrey will be unhappy with him.
He stares at the door to his room.
It isn’t locked, he doesn’t think. He hasn’t… well, he hasn’t tried. For the first few days, he was too tired and too sore to leave his bed, and after that Madam Pomfrey started swooping down on him the second he so much as sneezed. He just never really thought about checking.
He doesn’t think Madam Pomfrey would lock him in his room. Really, he doesn’t. He’d just prefer to keep believing that, and not risk being proven wrong. Much safer that way.
He used to try to get out of the cupboard when he was small. He’d jimmy the door, stick his fingers out the bottom, peer through the slats. The more he would try to get out, the more panicked he’d feel. It would feel darker and smaller the more he shook the door, the more he begged to be let out, until he could barely see through the swimming of his vision and his ragged breathing hurt his chest.
A few times, the door had opened amidst his panic, even though he remembered Aunt Petunia locking it. The burst of relief as he’d stumbled out into the hall had been worth the screeching that followed.
It didn’t take long for him to figure out that definitively finding the door locked, instead of just thinking it might be, made things much scarier.
So Harry hasn’t tried to leave his room after visiting hours without Madam Pomfrey or Remus at his side to guide him out.
But he’s pretty sure he can. He doesn’t think Madam Pomfrey will punish him, even, not really. Maybe scold him and send him straight back to bed, but that’s all. That’s the worst she’s done so far, every time he’s stubbornly refused his medicine or his meals.
The door opens under his hand.
Harry steps into the antechamber separating his room from the main hospital wing. The stone here is much colder under his bare feet than his room had been, like a shock to his system. He wriggles his toes experimentally.
The skittering feeling over his skin eases somewhat now that he’s out. He’s out of his room and he’s alone and nothing bad is happening. He’s going to—
—going to what? Find Remus? Not likely. Harry has no idea where he lives, but he doesn’t think it’s at the castle. Explore the grounds? In his pyjamas and bare feet?
Harry is going to open the next door.
The hospital wing is dark and quiet, a few sconces flickering along the walls, light dim to let people sleep. He can make out stars through the gaps of the curtains in the tall windows. The lines of beds are neatly made and empty, trailing all the way down both sides of the room to the far doors, except for one bed, way at the end.
Harry hovers in the doorway, squinting. There’s definitely a lump on one of the beds, far enough away that it’s hard to make out much detail. It looks like it—they, for surely it must be a student—are wearing a pair of pyjamas that match Harry’s own.
This is the closest he’s been to one of the students. Curiosity battles with apprehension, rooting him to the floor. He has so many questions about what it’s like to attend here, questions that aren’t quite satisfied by Remus, who hasn’t been in school for so long. Who maybe won’t be back to answer any more questions.
But the lump definitely looks bigger than him and isn’t moving besides. Probably asleep.
Harry gets a flash of a vision—himself, standing over the occupied bed—the student waking suddenly, seeing this strange boy with scars on his face—the lump turns up its head and its Dudley, furious, screaming at him for being a freak, a monster—a streak of grey, sudden yellow—waking up to Aunt Petunia’s screaming and Dudley’s crying, covered in blood—
Harry stumbles back, right into Madam Pomfrey.
“Mr Potter,” she says sternly, looking unimpressed. “Just what are you doing out here?”
He blinks at her, still hearing Dudley in his ear.
Madam Pomfrey gets a pinched look, seeing something she doesn’t like on his face. Maybe she doesn’t like looking at his scars. He doesn’t either.
“Back to bed with you,” she says, not unkindly. “I don’t want you out here bothering the students. It will cause a fuss if you’re seen.”
She guides him back to his room, his brief freedom slipping away right in front of his eyes. There isn’t a lock on his door, but he’s trapped anyway.
He climbs back onto his bed. Madam Pomfrey lingers.
“Try not to be so distraught,” she says as if trying to be comforting. Harry lies back against his pillows and stares resolutely at the ceiling. “I’m sure Mr Lupin will be back to visit you soon. I doubt much could keep him away.”
Harry snorts, unable to help himself.
“He cares about you very much, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey sniffs. “Mark my words, he’ll be back. Boy never could resist the Potter charm.”
Confused, Harry deigns to tear his attention away from the ceiling, turning his head to look at her. Catching his eye, the matron huffs, amused.
“Every time your father landed himself in here with a Quidditch injury or couldn’t reverse some kind of prank played on him, Mr Lupin was right there by his bedside, all hours of the day and night. I had to practically chase him and his friends away for much of their seven years here.”
Harry finds he cannot breathe. This is—a lot to take in at once.
His father—his father—played Quidditch, the sport Harry’s been so fascinated by. He’d gone to school with Remus. And maybe Harry should have guessed that, should have asked the obvious question, but he hadn’t. Hadn’t dared. People played pranks on his father, bad enough that Pomfrey had to fix him up—maybe he was bullied, like Harry? His heart jolts strangely.
And Remus—Remus had been friends with Harry’s dad; good enough friends to camp out at his sickbed over the years. Good enough to be concerned with Harry’s welfare? But—why didn’t he say anything? Why now, when Harry’s spent years thinking he had no one, that his parents had no one—
“Remus knew my dad?” he says in a voice that isn’t his own.
Madam Pomfrey frowns at him, uneasy now. “Yes. They were quite good friends, as far as I recall. Didn’t he mention—?” She falls quiet quickly then, because it’s obvious that no, Remus didn’t mention.
The giant’s fist is back around Harry’s chest.
“I’m sure he was getting around to it,” Madam Pomfrey lies.
“Right.”
“He really does care for you.”
“Sure.”
Madam Pomfrey purses her lips. Harry turns back to the ceiling. She sighs.
“Well, goodnight, Mr Potter. I want you to try to eat breakfast in the morning, is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am. Goodnight.”
She shuts the door behind her. It closes with a click. He doesn’t hear anything that sounds like a deadbolt or a latch lock, but then he supposes he might not, if she used magic. He doesn’t know enough about that to recognise the signs.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. He doesn’t plan on going anywhere. The energy has suddenly drained out of him, leaving him limp on the bed. Getting up seems like far too much hassle.
This whole time, Remus has been nice to him. Has told him things, has answered his questions. Has tricked Harry into answering some of his own. All the while, he forgot to mention the important bit—the why. This whole time and he didn’t say anything about Harry’s dad.
Nobody ever tells him anything. Nothing ever changes.