Chapter 11
Outside of the hospital wing, Remus smooths down his robes nervously. He usually tries not to linger out in the open too much when he visits, not wanting to be seen by students or professors who might wonder what he’s doing at the school, but he finds himself dawdling.
He didn’t stop by to see Harry yesterday, too busy sweeping off to Surrey and having some… revelations. He was in no fit state to visit. He thinks he’ll be able to earn Harry’s forgiveness easily enough, since he did tell him that he intended to speak to the Headmaster about the Dursleys, but beyond that, he can’t deny his apprehension.
Harry never permitted him to seek out his relatives in person, after all. And given how reluctant he was to share certain details of his home life, Remus somehow doubts he’ll appreciate it.
But at least Remus can try to win him over with the news that he won’t be going back there, that there are plans already in motion to keep him away from his aunt and uncle, safely in the wizarding world.
Besides, Remus is a Gryffindor. Surely, he can face a ten-year-old boy.
“Excuse me, sir,” a polite voice says.
Remus starts unpleasantly, turning quickly to the side. A student is hovering a few feet away, smiling apologetically and lugging an overflowing book bag at his side. A Gryffindor, based on the crest of his robes, and an upper-year—sixth or seventh, if Remus has to guess. He’s short and stocky, with a shock of red hair that tickles something in Remus’ memory.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you,” the boy says. “Only, it looked like you weren’t sure where you were going. Can I help direct you somewhere, or find someone for you? I’ve got a few minutes before I have to be in Potions.”
“Oh,” Remus says, embarrassed. “No, thank you. I’m only here to see Madam Pomfrey. Just gathering my courage, I suppose.”
The boy’s grin cracks wider. “Yeah, Pomfrey can be scary,” he says cheerfully. “She once threatened to bench me from Quidditch for a month if I didn’t stop landing myself in one of her beds every other practice. I find it’s always best to just smile and nod, go along with whatever she recommends.”
Amused, Remus thinks this is quite accurate. Poppy had been the same way in his own school days, particularly since Remus had found himself in her care for at least a few days every month. “Very wise advice,” he tells the boy. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Well, good luck, sir,” the student says, hefting his bag. “I ought to get going now.”
Remus watches him go, hurrying for the stairs. It occurs to him belatedly that he didn’t catch a name, and also that the hospital wing is rather out of the way for the Potions classroom. Remus wonders where the boy was coming from that he came this way and risked being late.
Then he doesn’t have time to wonder much more, because the doors to the hospital wing open quite without his input.
“Remus Lupin,” Madam Pomfrey says frostily.
He blinks at her. “Good afternoon, Poppy,” he says tentatively.
“Just where have you been?”
“Er—visiting Minerva and the Headmaster?” He doesn’t mean to make it a question, but he finds himself quailing under her sharp scrutiny, thoroughly thrown off balance. He’s usually on quite hospitable terms with Poppy, and this coldness is coming as a surprise.
She harrumphs. “And I don’t suppose you could have sent Potter a note,” she says. “He wondered where you were, you know. Quite put out that you didn’t visit.”
Shame threatens to strangle him. “Ah,” he says weakly.
“Well, come in, then,” Poppy says impatiently, stepping aside. He inches past her obediently. “He’s been sulking all morning. I expect you to fix this, Remus. I’ve gone through my stock of nutrition potions far too quickly, and Severus doesn’t have time to help restock until at least Wednesday.”
She shoos him pointedly towards the back, where the antechamber leading to the private quarters is. She doesn’t follow.
“Harry?” Remus calls gently, knocking on the door. He waits for a moment but doesn’t hear a reply. “Harry, it’s Remus. May I come in?”
Still no response.
Remus wavers. He knows how to take a hint, and if Harry doesn’t want to see him—
“I’m going to open the door,” he warns, and then does.
Harry is lying with his back to the door. He isn’t asleep, though, because Remus can hear his breathing, and it isn’t deep or even enough for him to be. Remus can also see from the door how tense Harry’s shoulders are, hunched and deliberate.
“Good afternoon, Harry,” Remus says softly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come by yesterday.”
Harry remains quiet.
Hesitantly, Remus eases into his usual spot, sitting on the chair he transfigured. It’s gotten less comfortable as the days pass, his transfiguration work wearing thin. One bonus of Minerva not yet visiting the boy is that she hasn’t laid eyes on Remus’ shoddy handling of her craft.
Remus is far too many years out of practice in handling moody children to be comfortable in this position. He did some work on the grounds of a muggle primary school once, some years ago, and interacted awkwardly with a few of the children once or twice, but other than that, it’s probably been a good fifteen years. Even then, he hadn’t been the most proactive Prefect, especially when it came to handling disputes amongst the lower years. Lily had always been much more suited to the task.
“I understand you must be upset with me,” he tries anyway. “I should have let you know not to expect me, but that I’d be back today. I’m afraid I got… distracted, and rather lost track of time.”
There’s a harsh note to Harry’s breathing that Remus can faintly hear. It unsettles him, makes him even more nervous. It’s almost as bad as the ongoing silent treatment.
Remus sighs. “I spoke to the Headmaster about your aunt and uncle. I told him what you told me, as well as my own experiences when I visited them—”
Harry jerks around abruptly to face him, expression outraged.
“You visited them?” he demands. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Caught off-guard by his anger, Remus draws back. “Yesterday. Professor McGonagall and I paid a visit to their home, wanting to discuss your living arrangements.”
“You had no right to do that!”
Remus feels like he’s missed a step going down the stairs, stuck in that moment of sickening freefall. He’d expected some push back, some embarrassment, perhaps, but not this level of hostility. Harry has always seemed so kind and reserved when he’s spoken with him before, reminding him of James’ polished good manners, if admittedly more timid in nature.
“I’m sorry if you feel I overstepped,” he says.
The boy’s eyes are green fire, glaring at him from the bed. He’s drawn himself up, no longer slouching against the pillows, and his back is ramrod straight with indignation. It reminds him of Lily at her most righteous.
“I only want what’s best for you, Harry. I thought meeting your relatives myself would make the Headmaster more inclined to listen to my concerns.”
“You didn’t even ask me,” Harry bites. “I would have—I would have told you not to bother. I don’t want you sneaking around to learn things about my life. It isn’t fair. I don’t know why you even care, anyway.”
This stings Remus more than anything else, more than Harry’s anger, more than even Dumbledore’s subtle accusations. More than his self-recriminations, more than Minerva’s disappointment.
“I do care,” Remus says. “Please don’t doubt that.”
Harry meets Remus’ eyes. “Then why didn’t you tell me about my dad?” he asks harshly.
Remus recoils. He feels like he’s been doused in the Black Lake, chilled and shaken to his core.
“I know you were friends,” Harry continues before he can recover. His voice has gone flat, and his shoulders are slumping inwards. “Madam Pomfrey told me. She said you were… were really close.”
“James was one of my dearest friends,” Remus confesses, mouth dry.
“Then why didn’t you tell me? You’ve been talking about Hogwarts, and magic, and Quidditch, but nothing about my dad! I didn’t even know you went to school with him! Why wouldn’t you say something? Didn’t you want me to know?”
“Oh, Harry, no. That isn’t it at all,” Remus says desperately. “I’m so sorry. I always meant to tell you. I was going to tell you that first day, but then you didn’t even know about magic, or about—” The war, he was going to say, but clenches his teeth at the last minute. Because Harry still doesn’t know about that, about Voldemort, the truth behind his parents’ deaths, Sirius’ betrayal, his morbid fame.
There is so much Harry doesn’t know, and Remus is entirely unequipped to be the one to teach him.
“I knew you as a baby,” he says, because all he can do is handle one mistake at a time. “I was friends with both your mother and your father for several years before you were born, and I… At one point, you called me Uncle Remus.”
Harry stares at him.
“You—” His voice cracks. “You knew me when I was little?”
“Yes,” Remus says. “Yes, I did. You were—are—so loved, Harry. Your parents adored you. They never shut up about you. James told us every time you did anything at all notable. ‘Harry spilt his peas today. Harry grabbed his foot. Harry took the wand straight out of my hand—’”
Remus stops because James’ voice is ringing in his ears, a little too loud, and he has to take a moment to rediscover his equilibrium.
“You were their pride and joy. They loved you very much, and we did, too. I’d never known anyone with a baby before you came around, and you terrified me, at first. But I loved you, too.” Remus wants to say he still does, of course, he still does, but—He can’t say it. Merlin help him, he can’t say it.
The colour has leeched from Harry’s face, leaving him wan and washed out. The bags under his eyes are stark, so much so that Remus wonders how he missed them before.
He hoped telling Harry about his parents, about how much they adored him, would bolster him, make him feel better, but somehow, he feels he’s made it worse.
“I don’t understand,” Harry says. “If—If you were there, if you actually cared as much as you say you did, then why? Why did I go to the Dursleys in the first place?”
From the moment Remus started talking to Harry, he’d known this question was coming. How could it not? The forewarning has not given him the ability to offer any better answer.
“It’s,” Remus struggles, as he always does. “It’s complicated, Harry.”
Harry’s eyes go cold. “Right,” he says flatly. “Of course.” He starts to turn away again.
“No, wait,” Remus says, making an aborted move to reach out. His hand falls short before it touches Harry’s shoulder, the inches between them feeling like the length of the Quidditch pitch and as dangerous as the Forbidden Forest. “I’m sorry. Please let me explain.”
Wary, Harry does. Remus swallows thickly, dropping his hand to smooth his creaseless robes.
“While I was one of your father’s closest friends, they could not give me any kind of claim to you in the event of their deaths,” he says. “Do you know how guardianship of children is usually handled?”
“Uncle Vernon says that if something happens to him and Aunt Petunia, Dudley’d go to his sister, Marge, because she’s named in their wills.”
Remus nods, a little too jerkily. “Parents can name people who will take in their children. Sometimes it’s family members, other times it’s close friends who are named godparents. Your father had no family left, and your mother only had your Aunt Petunia, so they decided their friends could be your potential guardians. However, your godmother was… injured, shortly after your parents’ deaths, and she couldn’t take you in. Your father… He always said I should be able to help raise you, but legally, it wasn’t possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a werewolf. I can’t—We can’t raise children; it isn’t considered safe. So, when your parents died, there was no one else to take you. That’s why you ended up with your aunt.”
Harry eyes him. “You didn’t visit,” he says. It isn’t a question.
Remus bows his head. “No,” he croaks.
“Why?”
A single word, a damning question. Remus is painfully aware there is no redeeming himself.
“There’s a reason we can’t raise children,” he says. He stares resolutely at the floor. So much for being a Gryffindor. “It really isn’t safe. I didn’t want to put you at risk. You deserved better than—than me.”
“No. I deserved better than being abandoned at the Dursleys.”
Remus flinches.
“That’s just an excuse,” Harry says, sounding furious. “All this tripe about werewolves not being safe—you’re just trying to make yourself feel better. You’ve been visiting me for days and nothing’s happened. You could have visited me at the Dursleys. You could have written letters!”
“There’s so much you still don’t understand,” Remus says, more than a little desperate. “How can you? You don’t know what it’s like, how dangerous it is—”
“Then tell me!” Harry shouts. “I’ve told you plenty, and you’ve snooped for the rest!”
His fists are balled in the bedsheets, his eyes are practically glowing, and he’s nearly shaking with the force of his—what? Anger, betrayal? Fear?
Remus looks at Harry and, for perhaps the first time, he sees him.
Harry is the picture of James with Lily’s eyes. He’s kind and reserved and fierce like his parents. He talks about fairness and wanting a say in his own life, sentiments Remus remembers them all expressing emphatically in the war. He’s suffered at the hands of his family, like Sirius. He’s a werewolf, like Remus. He is all that Remus has left of his friends, the only remnant of his happiness that survived the war.
Harry is all of that, but he is so much more. He is more than just an amalgamation of all that Remus has lost.
Harry is a child, orphaned and cursed and afraid, adrift in this new, strange world, surrounded by people he doesn’t know telling him his life is going to utterly change. He is not just Lily and James’ child; the baby Remus remembers. Nor is he some nameless, faceless, unfortunate child who Remus can foist responsibility of off onto somebody else.
Remus is, for a very long moment, utterly overwhelmed, drowned by it all. He feels like he’s finally seeing past the fog that’s been obscuring his perception of Harry this whole time.
He closes his eyes, pained and deeply, deeply ashamed.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” he says. “You’re right. I haven’t been telling you things.”
Harry falls quiet for long enough that it prompts Remus to open his eyes again. The anger has slowly drained out of the child, leaving him suspicious and surprised by Remus’ apology. That aches, too, but Remus pushes it away with the unfortunate ease of practice.
“I’ll tell you about your parents,” he promises, gratified by the way Harry perks up hopefully. “I’ll tell you about the wizarding world, and Hogwarts, and much more that you should know. But first, I need you to understand what it really means that you’re a werewolf. I’ve… I haven’t done as much as I should, in teaching you.”
And he really hasn’t, he sees now. He’s been fighting Dumbledore for his right to stay in Harry’s life, arguing that he can help in a way that only another werewolf can, but he hasn’t actually been doing that. Harry knows next to nothing about the realities of their curse. He doesn’t know what things will look like during the next full moon, what he can expect, what he can do to help himself through it. He doesn’t know how the rest of the world views them, how they’ll treat him if they ever find out about his affliction.
Even Remus, as young as he’d been when he was bitten, had been offered better support, better knowledge. His da, as much as he’d preached for the killing of werewolves, had been quick to change his tune when it was his own son he was preaching about.
Remus hasn’t told Harry any of these things. He’s been putting it off, promising himself he’ll do it some other time when he isn’t busy showing Harry the grounds, or showy magic, or sweets. He’s been afraid, unwilling to confront the fact that Harry, the boy he last saw as a happy toddler cradled in his mother’s arms, is like him. Bitten and scarred and cursed for the rest of his life.
His new and belated ability to see past his regrets has also granted him the ability to see how tired Harry is, how scared. The bags under his eyes, Poppy’s mention of nutrition potions, his hesitance to discuss the last full moon when he attacked his cousin—or even the one before, when he was attacked himself—it all tells Remus that he has left Harry floundering, terrified and without answers.
Harry is traumatised, as surely as his muggle cousin. Merlin, Remus has been so blind.
“There is no cure,” Remus says, because he’s been avoiding it. “You will be a werewolf for the rest of your life, and once a month, during every full moon, you will transform.”
“Like when I hurt Dudley?” Harry says in a quiet voice. “That’s… that’s going to keep happening?”
Remus hates himself just a little bit more for having to say, “Yes, Harry. It’s going to keep happening.”