Chapter 12
Harry is going to be a monster for the rest of his life.
He’s suspected it for a while now. It’s hard not to, waking from dreams every night where he remembers the look on Dudley’s face, the blood on the kitchen tile. But having Remus confirm it makes it real. Unavoidable.
Harry doesn’t know how he feels. Everything’s gone a little fuzzy, a little strange. All he can do is keep looking at Remus and listening to his gentle, gentle words.
The anger from earlier is gone, mostly. He was so upset with Remus for keeping secrets, and he still is, he thinks, but… well, he apologised, didn’t he? And it sounded like he meant it. He’s even promised to tell Harry about his parents sometime, and since he’s always been willing to answer Harry’s questions, that probably means Harry can ask as much about them as he likes. That’s an opportunity he’s never had before.
But first Remus wants to tell him about werewolves.
About full moons and transformations, becoming a dangerous beast every month, a terrible threat to himself and everyone around him. Harry sees Dudley, sees countless other nameless, faceless people that he might hurt in the future. He feels dizzy.
Almost as if he can sense it, Remus pauses. His amber eyes are soft and kind. The scars on his face have never seemed so prominent. They’re ugly things, now that Harry thinks about it, feeling disconnected from the thought. They slash right across Remus’ face, more so than Harry’s. At least his can be hidden by his fringe or by tilting his chin down just so, like he’s practised in the mirror.
Harry wonders what scars he gave Dudley. Because he must have given him some. Harry doesn’t remember that night clearly, not really, but the blood… Sometimes Harry can still smell it. Taste it, like maybe—but Dudley isn’t dead. He can’t be. The stern woman told him so, and if that had changed, surely, someone would have told him? Or maybe Remus is going to tell him that, right now. Maybe that’s one of the secrets he’s been keeping.
“Harry,” Remus says as if from very far away. “Harry, breathe.”
With a jolt, Harry feels hands on his. He blinks quickly, focusing back on Remus’ face, seeing it swim in front of his eyes. Remus is closer now, sitting next to him on the bed. He’s holding Harry’s hands in his own, squeezing gently. Harry can’t get enough air, like he’s breathing through a straw, like he’s being crushed.
“Is Dudley dead?” he asks. “Did I kill him?”
Remus’ hands squeeze tight. “No,” he says. “He’s alright, I promise you. I saw him yesterday. He was happily playing a game while his mother fussed over him. He’s okay, he’s alive.”
Harry remembers how to take a full, if shaky breath, and the tightness of his chest eases just a little. His head stops spinning quite so much. “Promise?” he says in a small voice, even though Remus already did.
Patiently, Remus says, “Yes, I promise. He’s healed now, only scarred.” Slowly, he pulls one hand away from Harry’s and raises it to Harry’s face, hovering just over the skin of his cheek, right under his ear. Where his newest scars start. “Like you. From here—” He traces from his cheek to his neck, slightly off from where Harry remembers his scars being. “—to here. He really is alright.”
Harry feels his lip wobble dangerously. “I didn’t want to hurt him,” he says.
Remus’ face crumples. “Oh, Harry.”
It’s stupid and risky and childish, but abruptly, Harry doesn’t care—he falls forward and wraps his arms around Remus. Remus, who lied and kept things from him, but who is kind and sorry and a friend of his dad’s. Who knew Harry when he was a baby, who’s visited almost every day for over a week, who’s a werewolf, the only other werewolf Harry knows, and even though that makes him dangerous, it also makes him safe, because Harry is a werewolf, too, which means he won’t end up accidentally hurting Remus like he might anyone else.
Harry hasn’t hugged anyone in a very long time. He doesn’t remember the last time.
Maybe Remus hasn’t either, because he goes stiff and stops breathing, making alarm bells start to ring in Harry’s head. But before he can think to pull away, Remus unfreezes and tentatively hugs him back.
Ten is far too old to cry. Luckily, no one can see his face buried in Remus’ robes.
*
“Remus?” Harry asks tentatively.
They’re still sequestered away in his private room, but Madam Pomfrey’s been by with an early dinner, accompanied by a suitable glare that convinced Harry to make an honest try at eating it, and Remus has so far made no mention of leaving any time soon.
Harry thinks maybe Remus feels as flustered by their earlier display as he does, which is actually kind of comforting. At least it hasn’t chased him off.
“How long do I have to stay here?”
Remus pauses. He’s been prodding at his chair and mumbling to himself for the past few minutes, leaving Harry to watch him in bemusement, but now he looks up.
“Not that I don’t like being here and talking with you,” Harry is quick to add. “It’s just… it’s a hospital room. And I’m not hurt, not really. Not anymore. The Headmaster said I’d be going back to Privet Drive soon—”
“That won’t be happening,” Remus says, a dark look passing over his face. Thankfully, it fades almost immediately. Harry only catches it because he’s gotten good at detecting that kind of thing. “I spoke to Headmaster Dumbledore, and he agreed you won’t be staying with your aunt and uncle anymore.”
Harry wants to be relieved. He’s been daydreaming of the day he can leave Privet Drive since he was small, and here it is just given to him. But usually, in his daydreams, he has somewhere else to go, some plan, some idea of the future. Here, he doesn’t. How does he know wherever he ends up won’t be worse?
“So where am I going?” he asks, uneasy.
Remus frowns. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “The Headmaster is going to contact some families, people who knew your parents. I actually wanted to discuss it with you. I know they’ll be strangers, but they’ll be wizards, able to properly introduce you to magic and our world, prepare you for Hogwarts. There’s also… There’s some other stuff you should know, about your name in the wizarding world. I’ll tell you all of it, I swear, but I think maybe we should tackle it one thing at a time, hey?” He smiles weakly, almost sheepish.
A part of Harry wants to demand answers now. If there are secrets about his own life floating about, he wants to know them sooner rather than later, especially if they’re badly kept secrets that everyone else seems to know. Remus has already shown that he’ll keep things from Harry, even if he says he’s sorry now, and Harry doesn’t want him to change his mind later if he puts it off. But. Harry wants to believe him, just this once. Wants to trust this adult when they say they won’t keep more secrets, even though he knows adults lie and trusting them is stupid.
Harry’s head hurts. He’s so tired of never knowing who to believe.
He wants to know everything about himself and his parents, yes, and he thinks he ought to know soon, but—he’s tired. Remus looks tired. Harry’s still thinking about werewolves and Dudley and the feeling of blood under his fingernails, and he worries that if he hears anything more, he’ll want to curl up under the covers of his bed and never, ever come out again.
If Remus thinks it can wait for a little longer, then Harry will follow his lead. If, once he hears it, he thinks Remus made a bad call, then he’ll adjust his future decisions accordingly. But Harry wants to trust Remus. He wants to try.
“Okay,” he says eventually.
Remus’ smile gets stronger, becoming more genuine. “Alright. As soon as I know more about the people Headmaster Dumbledore is reaching out to and their responses, I’ll let you know, okay? But, Harry, wherever you go, whoever you stay with, I’ll—I’ll be around. I know I wasn’t there before, but it’s different now.”
Harry relaxes, undeniably relieved. Maybe whoever takes him in will be like the Dursleys, or maybe even worse, but at least he’ll have Remus. And Remus said he’ll be going to Hogwarts next year, so really, all he has to do is manage until then. He can do that.
“You’ll be there for the full moons,” he checks.
“Of course.”
“That’s alright, then,” Harry says decisively. He’s nervous about the moons, doubly so because his singular experience so far went so disastrously, but Remus has promised that he’ll help with the next one, that it won’t be so bad. Or, at least, he won’t hurt anyone else.
Remus is beginning to look sad again.
“What are you trying to do with that chair?” Harry asks.
“Oh,” Remus says, looking down at the furniture. “Well—I’m afraid my transfiguration is a little rusty. I think it might dispel soon. Conjuring is tricky and doesn’t typically last long. Some witches and wizards with a particular gift for it are able to transfigure something and make it stay that way for however long they wish, but I’ve never been quite that good.”
Affronted on his behalf, Harry makes an unhappy noise. “I think you’re very good!”
“Thank you, Harry,” Remus says, sounding amused. “But I’m not nearly as talented as Professor McGonagall, who teaches the class, remember, or even your father. It was his best subject.”
“It was?”
“Oh, yes. Minerva’s star pupil—or he would have been, if he could have stayed out of detention for longer than a fortnight.”
Harry considers this, eyeing the transfigured chair. “D’you think I could be any good at it, like my dad?” he wonders.
Remus shrugs. “If you study hard enough, perhaps. You might have an innate gift for it, as he did, or you might have an affinity for a different subject. I believe I already mentioned your mother was good at Charms? Granted, she was top of all her classes… Of course, you could be gifted in another field entirely. You’ll quickly find your own interests, things you want to focus on.”
“What was your favourite class?” Harry asks. He loves hearing anything and everything about his parents, but he’s curious about Remus, too, the one who’s actually here with him.
“I enjoyed Herbology,” Remus says after some consideration. “And Defence Against the Dark Arts.”
“I can garden,” Harry offers. “I don’t mind it, so long as Dudley isn’t around. I like watching things grow.”
It’s slightly easier to mention Dudley without flinching, so long as he doesn’t think too much about him, doesn’t imagine his face.
“Considering how fascinating you find wizarding sweets,” Remus says wryly, “I’m sure you’ll be thrilled by all the varieties of magical plants.”
This does indeed sound like a promising subject. Maybe even half as interesting as the very concept of flying.
“If you’re interested in knowing more about transfiguration, I’m sure Professor McGonagall would be happy to discuss it,” Remus suggests suddenly. “She hasn’t had much chance to visit since you were first brought here, but I know she’d be pleased by your enthusiasm.”
Harry frowns. “Who—oh!” Suddenly it makes sense, some missing piece of information slotting into place. “The strict lady who told me Dudley was alive!”
Remus blinks at this, but gamely accepts it. “That sounds right,” he says. “Would it be alright with you if she visited?”
“Sure,” Harry says. “You’ll be there, though, right?” He refuses to be embarrassed by asking. Remus can always say no, and he won’t whine about it or anything.
“Of course,” Remus says easily. “But if my chair disappears by then, do me a favour and don’t tell her.”
*
Harry convinces Remus to split a package of pumpkin pasties with him, chosen from his still formidable stack of sweets from the Headmaster. He hasn’t made much of a dent in it, other than picking out some of the chocolate frogs and peppermint toads.
In return, Remus encourages him to give the Bertie Bott’s beans another go, despite his reluctance.
“Your mother had a knack for it,” he says. Harry is incredibly pleased to be getting these random insights on his parents now that Remus is trying to be open about them, and it encourages him to pick out a bean.
To his delight, he gets chocolate cake.
Remus gets broccoli and is slightly less pleased.
“Ah, well, there’s always next time,” Remus sighs good-naturedly. “I should be going now, though. Don’t want to keep you up too late and risk Madam Pomfrey’s wrath.”
Harry deflates but doesn’t protest. “Yeah, alright,” he grumbles. He’s dreading trying to sleep. He knows Dudley is alive and well now, but that doesn’t mean his dreams will be any better behaved. “Night, Remus.”
Remus pauses in the doorway, looking at him critically. “Hold that thought,” he says, then leaves.
Harry blinks, bemused.
Soon enough, Remus is back. He has a funny looking cup in his hand that Harry eyes suspiciously. He hopes it isn’t another nutrition or healing potion; he gets enough of those from the matron, he doesn’t need Remus to start piling on more.
“Dreamless Sleep,” Remus explains, holding the cup aloft. “Madam Pomfrey tries to use it sparingly, since it loses potency if used too often, and it’s rather difficult to make. Still, she’s agreed there’s no harm in giving you a dose for the night. If you’d like.”
“It’ll keep me from dreaming?” Harry asks doubtfully. “The whole night?”
“If we get the dose right,” Remus says. “I’ve used it a few times myself.”
It is a tempting idea, Harry has to admit. He gives in and reaches for the cup.
Remus lets him take hold of it but doesn’t let go right away. “It’s not a permanent solution,” he says softly. “Perhaps, in the future, you could tell me about your dreams. It might help.” He releases the potion.
Embarrassed, Harry shifts away and quickly downs the potion. “Thank you,” he says awkwardly.
“Goodnight, Harry,” Remus says. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Harry settles back against his pillows, feeling warm. This morning, he’d been so upset with Remus, convinced he was like every other adult, keeping things from him maliciously. And he is, kind of, except for the malicious part, but he’s also trying to be better, and for Harry, that’s all that really matters. It’s more than anyone else has ever done.
He believed Harry about the Dursleys and, better yet, even managed to get him away from them. He can tell Harry about his parents, and he answers his questions, and promises to stick around. He is, maybe, the best adult Harry has ever met.
Harry knows he has a lot to think about. Magic and his parents, living with strangers, figuring out what every full moon is going to look like for the rest of his life… it’s daunting. Terrifying. And there are only more secrets for him to learn, for Remus to tell him, and who knows how much worse those might be? But Remus will tell him, because he promised, just like he promised to stick around to help.
And just for tonight, Harry will sleep without nightmares. That’s enough, for now. It has to be.