Chapter 15
The cellar seems darker and dingier than it ever has before, cast in a new and unflattering light by the apprehensive presence at Remus’ elbow.
Harry’s near vibrating with nerves, having fallen pinched and quiet as soon as the sun began to set. Remus had done what he could to distract him, pointing out interesting bits in the books strewn around the sitting room, prodding Harry gently for information on his schooling and this Mr Alden. Harry had given half-hearted answers that got shorter and shorter as the hours passed until, eventually, he resigned himself to curling up in one of Remus’ armchairs with the mug of tea Remus had given him.
Remus wishes he could have added some calming draught to the tea—with Harry’s permission this time, thank you, Minerva—but he’s learned through unfortunate experience that ingested potions can have unexpected side-effects for the transformation. He has no desire to inflict any further distress on Harry, not when he’s clearly terrified enough as it is.
It doesn’t help that Remus feels equally as nervous.
He’s never been on this side of things, never been the one to fret over another’s transformation. Unless he counts his friends and their reckless attempts at underage Animagus transformations, but they didn’t tell him about that until after they’d already learned it, and by that point Remus was embarrassed and touched enough by the gesture that he didn’t have time to worry.
He looks at Harry now and wonders how his parents ever managed, watching their five-year-old go through this every month.
Then they both turn to face the post in the middle of the cellar and Remus wonders how his parents did this, knowing they had to lock him up and restrain him for both his and their safety.
Remus usually casts a personally modified version of Incarcerous, an ugly trick his father taught him just before he went off to Hogwarts. It lashes him in place, immobilising his limbs enough that, theoretically, he won’t be able to injure himself with claws or teeth. It’s far from fool proof and runs the risk of broken bones and dislocated sockets, but he’s grown used to the discomfort over the years.
It’s routine, the magic almost as practiced and natural as breathing, and yet Remus finds himself facing Harry, wand trembling in his hand, feeling ill.
He physically cannot make himself turn his wand on Harry.
Harry watches him anxiously, back stiff and shoulders up to his ears. Remus finds himself wishing for someone else—anyone else. Anyone to take charge, take it off his hands, solve his problems for him. But he’s always been that way, and it’s, ultimately, what led them here in the first place.
“Right,” he says, injecting as much false confidence into one word as he can. “You sit there, Harry, that’s it. I’m just going to spell you to the post, just so there aren’t any mishaps. I’ll vanish it as soon as morning comes, I promise.”
Remus raises his wand and makes himself direct it in the vicinity of Harry’s knees.
“Incarcerous.”
With a little bit of extra effort that leaves him unsteady on his feet, the ropes that spring into place are much less thorough than the original spell; only one cord snakes around Harry’s waist and hugs him to the pillar, tight enough that Remus can rest easy and loose enough that he can live with himself.
He quickly casts a few more spells to strengthen the rope, make it largely impervious to teeth and claws, and twin cushioning charms to offer Harry some shielding from the post and the floor, then steps back and sternly tells himself not to drop to the ground in an alarming heap. He isn’t used to doing this much magic this close to the moon, and he’ll pay for it come sunrise.
Harry wiggles experimentally in place. Remus watches closely, noting that he’s given Harry a few inches of moving space, but that the bindings should hold true. He’s left his arms free out of fear of injury, not wanting to find a dislocated shoulder or broken arm come morning, particularly given Harry’s already bad shoulder, but he’s wary about it; leaving Harry’s arms free means flailing claws later, and that damage can be harder to heal.
“Just for a few hours,” he reminds the boy, wanting to catch the unease he can see building before it turns to panic. “As I said, I’ll make sure to remove it the very moment I’m able.”
Harry’s chin dips nervously. “Okay,” he says.
Remus wants to say something more, try to find any kind of words that might be of comfort—he doesn’t think there are many, remembering how his friends used to try—but he can already feel his bones starting to grind, his skin feeling too tight. He gave Harry as long as he could upstairs, but they’re starting to cut it close, now.
So, instead, Remus retreats to a corner of the cellar, a decent—and hopefully safe—distance away.
He has no idea how his wolf form might react to an intruder, even a fellow werewolf. He’d been alright in school with the others, but their forms had been muggle prey animals, if magical at core, and werewolves are decidedly neither. Back in the war, he occasionally transformed alongside others like him, but that had been a different time, a different world. He’d been an entirely different man. Besides, he’s been alone for so long now; there’s no way of predicting the wolf’s response.
“Incarcerous,” he casts again, wand pointed awkwardly at himself. He fights the feeling of his reluctant magic, strain prickling behind his eyes, and finally, cords burst into place around him, squeezing his arms to his torso. He wobbles in place and crumples unceremoniously to the ground, knocking the breath out of him.
His wand falls from his hand, rolling across the floor. He’d engaged the usual protection magic at the door before they descended the stairs, locking it behind them and erecting the anti-intruder, anti-escape, and anti-Dark creature wards. There’s also a delayed alert in place, courtesy of the Headmaster: should the door open before sunrise, or should it fail to open by dinner time tomorrow, Dumbledore will be notified and will know to send someone to investigate.
It's a level of paranoid defense that reminds him of the war, but he can’t deny that it makes him feel better, for both his and Harry’s sake.
Remus’ discarded wand lays still for only a moment before the safety precautions snap into place, carefully crafted wards detecting its presence and summoning it to the hidden alcove by the door. Only Remus, as owner of the cottage and keyperson to the wards, can access that alcove. It’s an intricate piece of anti-intruder spellwork that Alastor Moody taught select members of the Order, under the threat of death if they ever dared share it around.
Harry stares at him from across the cellar with wide, green eyes, luminous in the dark. Remus hopes his grimace comes across as comforting. It’s hard to look at Harry, so young and scared and painfully familiar, trapped down here with him. Nine years ago, when last Remus had set eyes on him, he’d never, ever have dreamed, even in his worst nightmares, of being here, transforming alongside him. It isn’t fair. It isn’t what Lily and James would ever have wanted for their only son.
There are no windows down here, but they both know the instant the moon reaches its height.
Unlike the Shrieking Shack, the cottage has strong silencing charms interwoven with the wards across the grounds, and Remus makes a point of checking and refreshing them every few months. He doesn’t have any neighbours close by who might wonder about the noise, but Remus has already been the basis for enough ghost stories in his life; he isn’t interested in risking any more.
Distracted as he is by his own transformation, Remus stays focused on Harry as much as he can, as much as he can bear. He grinds his teeth and swallows the pain, desperate to keep quiet, to spare Harry from his own screams, even though he doubts the boy would be able to hear him anyway.
His consciousness blurs, starts sliding away like water through his fingers. Everything is going dark around the edges, narrowing down to a single point, pain pain pain. All awareness of the other presence in the room fades away and Remus fades with it.
*
Remus wakes slowly in fits and starts.
He’s flat on his back, blinking blindly at the ceiling and feeling not unlike he’s been used as a Welsh Green’s chew toy. His joints creak unpleasantly when he even thinks about moving, so he quickly stops thinking.
It takes an unbearably long time for him to marshal his thoughts together, the darkness at the edge of his vision threatening to tug him back under at the first opportunity. His first coherent thought is ouch and his second one is oh no because he quite abruptly realises that he is not bound.
A surge of horrified adrenaline carries him upright, heart lurching in his chest as his hands fly easily up, unrestricted. He finds the remnants of his restraints scattered in a trail across the cellar floor, fragments and tatters telling a damning tale.
“Harry,” he says, or tries to, but his voice hasn’t quite returned.
He makes himself turn, feeling every inch of his body protest, expecting to find a scene straight out of his worst nightmares—bloody remains, an unidentifiable corpse, Harry’s trust ripped to shreds under the wolf’s teeth. He feels bile rise in his throat, feels panic slicking his palms, as he finds the post and looks down to see—
Harry, whole and breathing, unconscious on the floor. He’s grey and covered in goosebumps, clothes long destroyed, but his breathing’s even and he doesn’t appear to be bleeding out, so Remus is forced to consider the impossible. He’s asleep. Just asleep.
Just to make sure, Remus drags himself over to get a closer look, to ensure he isn’t just hallucinating, mind shattered under the horror of what he’s done mid-transformation. But no, Harry really is alive, even without mortal wounds, so far as he can see. He’s also several feet away from the post, as untethered as Remus.
Remus falls back in relieved disbelief. His hands are still trembling faintly, but he only notices when he goes to lightly touch Harry’s shoulder.
“Wh… Remus?” Harry murmurs, squinting up at him, cheek pressed against the wooden floorboards.
“How do you feel?” Remus asks. “Hurt anywhere? You’ll have to get up, I can’t see if you’re injured.”
Harry doesn’t move for a moment, eyes clouded. Then he does a series of rapid blinks, nose crinkling as he must realise he isn’t wearing his glasses. Remus isn’t sure where they went, but he’ll try summoning them later. Right now, he’s more concerned with Harry’s continued wellbeing. He’s having stressful visions of Harry succumbing to some undiscovered injury before Remus can even call for Poppy.
“Everywhere hurts,” Harry complains, but pushes himself up anyway.
Remus descends on him, checking for wounds with practiced movements. There are plenty of bruises that will ripen colourfully by the end of the day, and a few sluggishly bleeding scrapes and cuts that will need closer examination upstairs, where he can reach for the silver and dittany if needed, but he doesn’t find any bites or broken bones. The worst of the lot are along his ribs, curving wounds that are still weeping, edges torn and ragged. They’re the source of most of the blood drying on Harry’s skin and into the wooden floor.
“I think I’m okay,” Harry says cautiously, voice only a little bit shaky. “Did I—Did everything go okay? Are you alright?”
Suitably convinced Harry won’t be dropping dead any second, Remus pauses to consider the question. “Ah,” he says. “I think so.”
Somewhat sheepishly, he assesses his own injuries quickly. He finds that his are remarkably similar to Harry’s—the usual bruises and scrapes from the initial thrashing of the transformation, and then some cuts that he has to assume are from the escape out of the restraints. This is disturbing, as he’s been relying on those restraint spells to keep him secure for years, and the thought that he could have gotten free at any time, that he hasn’t been diligent enough in his precautions, alarms him.
But he sets that aside to agonise over later.
Harry frowns at him. “You’re hurt,” he says unhappily. He reaches out a hand to poke at Remus’ neck, just below his chin. It throbs faintly.
Remus raises his own hand to probe the area gently, wincing slightly at the touch. It isn’t bleeding freely, though, and doesn’t seem too serious.
“Just some scratches,” he assures. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up.”
He hauls himself to his feet, grimacing, and then sticks out a hand to help Harry up after him. They both move like elderly muggle men, or like Remus’ da after the various curses and illnesses started to set in. Remus hobbles over to the pile of folded blankets by the stairs, thankfully intact. He’d wondered if they’d make it through the night with two werewolves, restraints or not, but figured he’d give it a try for Harry’s sake. He throws one of them over his own shoulders and wraps Harry in the other. Remus has long grown used to waking up after the moon without a stitch, but he can see Harry’s face and neck starting to flush dark as he grows more aware of his surroundings, and the blankets are woven with heating charms besides.
Harry looks at the stairs in dismay.
“I have pain reliever and muscle relaxant potions in the kitchen,” Remus entices. “As soon as we get patched up, we can sleep for as long as we want.”
This must decide things, since Harry sets his jaw and tackles the stairs, one laborious step at a time. Remus stays close behind him, keeping an eye on the clumsiness of his footing. He snags his wand as they pass the alcove, and tiredly dismantles the enchantments on the cellar door.
“Sit,” he says, waving a hand at the dining table. Harry obeys without complaint.
Luckily, Remus had the foresight last night to leave all of Poppy’s potions on the counter, ready and waiting to be distributed in pre-portioned doses. He grabs the pain relief, dittany, and Dreamless Sleep, leaving the blood replenisher close by, just in case he’s severely misjudged the state of one or both of them.
As he brings his bounty over to the table, he makes note of the time from the battered kitchen clock. It’s a little after lunch, which means he isn’t in immediate danger of the cavalry breaking down his door, but he probably should try to send along a message to Poppy soon.
Harry drinks the pain relief with him, and then eyes the dittany suspiciously.
“Minor healing spells like Episkey will work on some of the shallow injuries,” Remus explains, gesturing to the nasty, but superficial, graze on Harry’s arm. “But wounds caused by a werewolf’s teeth or claws can’t be healed by anything except a solution of powdered silver and dittany, and they’ll always scar. I’m a bit too tired to safely use healing spells right now, but we’ll use the dittany for the worst of it and see about the rest after a few hours’ rest. Alright?”
Harry nods, already looking half-asleep. “You first,” he says.
Remus very much wants to disagree, but Harry’s got a familiar stubborn glint in his eyes that tells him an argument is inbound.
“I’ll show you how it works,” he compromises. “Then you can heal yourself.”
Under Harry’s watchful eye, Remus uses two drops of the silver and dittany on the scratches under his chin. He doesn’t have a mirror handy, but Harry sucks in a startled breath and the site doesn’t feel sore anymore, so he assumes it’s healed as it should have.
He hands the potion off to Harry insistently, nodding to his injuries. As Harry clumsily tends to them, Remus peels back his own blanket and gets a better look at the rest of his own cuts and scrapes.
Remus and Harry pass the dittany back and forth, healing a handful of minor injuries each. Remus helps to reach the glancing claw marks curving around Harry’s ribs, and then Harry takes care of the wounds on Remus’ back. In the muggle world, they likely would have both needed a share of stitches each. The dittany seals the wounds in a matter of minutes, leaving only ropey, silver scars behind where the skin knit back together.
By the time they’re done, Harry’s drooping over the table, struggling to keep his chin off his chest. Remus feels much the same, but figures that at least one of them should keep their head on straight for long enough to alert Hogwarts of their continued survival and then usher them both to bed.
He nudges Harry awake for long enough to take the Dreamless Sleep. Nothing worse than passing out for some much-needed rest after a full moon, only to wake a few hours later from the midst of horrible, pain-filled nightmares. He knows from many years’ experience.
Harry stumbles off in the direction of Remus’ room while Remus digs through his kitchen drawers, looking for a bit of parchment and a quill. He finds a scrap of parchment that looks to be a corner of a job application letter and a half-dry muggle pen.
Poppy—
All well, healed fine. Talk later.
He’s momentarily stumped when he realises he doesn’t have an owl handy. There’s the latest edition of The Daily Prophet waiting for him at the window, but the courier has long since given up on being paid and flown away, likely to report his missing payment and discontinue his subscription.
Remus decides to just send the note through the Floo and eat the cost of the powder. It’s not an ideal way to send letters, but it’s not impossible, and it’ll save him the trouble and scrutiny of speaking to Poppy face-to-face. He doesn’t have the magic or energy to spare to cast any sort of travel protections or location charms on the note, so he just throws the Floo powder in the grate, calls for Poppy’s office, and drops the parchment into the flames, hoping for the best.
Either it’ll work and the note goes through, or Poppy will show up in his fireplace herself sometime after the students have retired for the night. In either case, he should be able to get a few hours’ sleep before he has to deal with anyone.
Remus downs his dose of Dreamless Sleep and collapses onto the sofa, wrapped only in his blanket and threadbare dressing gown.
*
There is toast on the coffee table when he next opens his eyes, and another one of his blankets thrown over his lap.
There is also a still-steaming mug of tea waiting for him, strongly steeped and with cream and sugar, the way he likes it after the moons. Remus stares at the offering for a long time, struggling to wrap his brain around its presence. He hardly ever bothers plating up any kind of meal to eat the day after the full moon, usually settling with whatever he can scavenge by hand out of the icebox.
He hears faint sounds from the kitchen.
His body feels less stiff and painful after the pain relief potion and his nap, he’s happy to note. He heaves himself up from the sofa, blanket wrapped haphazardly around his shoulders, and carries his toast and tea into the kitchen, already knowing what he’ll find.
“Oh, hullo, Remus,” Harry says from the sink. He’s dressed himself in a pair of Remus’ pyjamas and looks to have showered sometime while Remus was asleep. There are soapsuds clinging to his fingers and the dishes from yesterday piled in the dish rack on the counter, clean and gleaming. “I thought maybe magic toasters would be weird, but they’re just like normal ones.”
“That’s because mine is muggle,” Remus says, spotting said appliance by the breadbox. “It doesn’t run on electricity anymore, but I bought it from a charity shop in Merseyside. Cast the spells to make it run on magic when I moved here. What are you doing?”
“Er—doing the washing up?”
“Why?”
Harry looks at him uncertainly, hands dripping a puddle on the tile floor. “Because the dishes were dirty?” he tries, as if unsure why Remus would ever ask such a stupid question. “You weren’t up yet, so I thought I’d get a head start. Help out.”
Remus settles at the dining table, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. “You know I can do all of that with magic,” he reminds gently. “You don’t have to do chores here, Harry, though I appreciate the thought.”
Harry shifts on his feet restlessly, finally thinking to dry his hands before he floods the whole kitchen.
“Did you at least make something for yourself to eat?” Remus sighs, seeing that he probably won’t be getting any productive answers right now.
Harry shakes his head, flushing. “Wasn’t hungry,” he mutters.
That won’t do. Remus pushes his plate forward pointedly. “We can share,” he says, waiting until Harry reluctantly picks up one of the slices of toast before he takes his own. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Yeah, coupla hours. No dreams or anything. Just not used to sleeping that long, I guess. I got a lot of sleep with Madam Pomfrey.”
“I imagine so. I see you found your glasses, too.”
Harry absently reaches up to adjust the frames on his nose. They look to have survived the full moon in one piece, which is a relief since Remus forgot to warn Harry that he might want to take them off before the transformation. He could probably fix them with a Repairo, assuming they weren’t too mangled, but it’s nice that he doesn’t have to worry about it.
As they munch on their toast, Remus grimaces at the time. They’re risking becoming fully nocturnal at this rate—it’s about dinner time and they’re essentially eating breakfast, in their pyjamas and all. He’s used to his schedule being thrown off by the moons, but he tries to pace himself so that he can keep normal hours most of the time. Poppy won’t be happy if he’s messed with Harry’s sleep schedule too badly.
“I can finish healing us both, now,” Remus says. “Then why don’t we show our faces to Madam Pomfrey, let her know we made out okay, and maybe go back to the books if you feel up to it? Or straight back to bed, if you prefer.”
Harry agrees listlessly, slowly nibbling away at his toast.
Remus wishes he could remember his first moon, how he felt afterwards, how his mother settled him. But it’s been so long, lost amidst the countless moons since then, and he’d been so young anyway; he hardly remembers anything at all of that time. What few memories he does have mostly feature his da whisking him off to St Mungo’s, demanding he be seen by only the most discreet of healers, staying stuck to his side as a silent sentinel, warning off anyone who may have eyed Remus’ injuries a bit too closely. He hadn’t offered much comfort itself, but then, that’s what Remus’ mum was for.
None of that is really applicable here, of course. Harry doesn’t need a healer, Remus has enough wards on the cottage that he doesn’t need to worry about prying eyes, and Harry’s too old and too distant for the kind of comfort Hope Lupin used to provide her only son.
If Remus had been a part of Harry’s life for longer than little more than a fortnight, maybe—
Remus finishes his tea and waits for Harry to give up on the ends of his toast.
“Roll up your sleeve,” Remus says. Harry does so, bunching up the arm of his left sleeve. A scrape winds around his wrist and up his arm, nothing serious, but likely sore. “Episkey.”
Harry watches with interest as his skin heals over, leaving his arm as good as new. He rotates his wrist a few times as if to check for signs of an illusion. Remus takes the chance to heal his own grazes, mainly the ones on the heel of his palms.
They’re both remarkably recovered, considering it’s been less than a day. Remus has been dreading what they might find on the other side of the moon, considering everything, picturing injuries bad enough to warrant a home visit from Poppy—or even a trip to St Mungo’s, with hasty attempts at concealing Harry’s identity. Dumbledore bribing the healers—Remus casting glamour charms—coaching Harry to lie without telling him why, assuming he’d be conscious enough to worry about it—
James used to say he had a bad habit of catastrophizing.
Now that they’ve actually made it through the moon, all Remus finds himself having to do is throw some Floo powder in the grate and stick his head through. Harry makes an alarmed noise from the sofa, despite Remus having had the forethought to warn him.
“Remus!” Poppy says as soon as he appears in the flames. She’s settled in her office with a tea tray and Minerva sitting across from her.
“Hello, Poppy, Minerva. Just wanted to check in and assure you that Harry and I are alright.”
“You look dead on your feet,” Poppy scolds. “Have you slept? Taken the potions I gave you? How badly were you injured—and Harry? I hope you remembered the Dreamless Sleep for both of you.”
“Let the man breathe, Poppy,” Minerva says.
“Well, if I can’t have them both here, where they should be for care—”
“We really are fine, just tired. I expect it will take a few nights of solid sleep before we’re back to normal, that’s all. I would have called for you if there had been any significant injuries.”
Poppy reluctantly settles back into her seat, doubtless having been a second away from springing forward and pushing past Remus to get to the pair of them.
“And Harry?” Minerva asks. “How’s the boy holding up?”
Remus thinks about the toast and the clean dishes, the glasses he must have scoured the cellar for. He remembers Harry’s face when they talked about Mr Alden, the wild, panicked look in his eyes and his hitched breathing, the same as down in the cellar. Thinks about how when he was Harry’s age, the transformations used to leave him bedridden for at least a day afterwards, exhausted and wracked with pain, until his body and magic stabilised and adjusted to it.
“We’re both alright,” he repeats for lack of anything better to say. “Actually, you might have competition. Harry seems quite enamoured by the charms books I have laying around.”
Minerva sniffs. “Filius will be thrilled. Any interest in learning is a good thing,” she says, diplomatic and entirely unconvincing.
“Maybe you can give him another demonstration when he gets back,” Remus suggests. “Win him over. He really was quite taken by the Animagus trick.”
“About that,” Poppy cuts in. “I’m afraid he won’t be able to come back just yet. We’ve had a minor outbreak—Scrofungulus. Manageable, but contagious. We’ve only had a few students come down with it so far, but I expect they’ll be funneling in in droves soon, you know how schoolchildren are. The hospital wing will be teeming with germs and prying eyes. Terrible timing, I know, but I can’t in good conscience allow Harry back here.”
“But where will he go?” Remus asks stupidly.
Minerva levels an unimpressed look on him. “Where, indeed,” she drawls.
Suddenly conscious of how long he’s had his head stuck in the flames, Remus thinks of Harry, essentially alone back at the cottage, maybe hurting or bleeding or waiting to be taken back. He’s starting to feel panicky, anxious to get back.
“Calm down, Lupin,” Minerva says, taking pity. “Talk to Albus. Harry will be meeting Augusta soon, and if all goes well, she’ll take him off your hands. You’re just responsible for the boy for a few more days.”
“Right,” Remus says numbly.
Remus told Harry he would just be giving Madam Pomfrey a heads-up. Harry’s probably wondering what’s taking him so long. Remus still has to tell him about the upcoming meeting with Madam Longbottom, and the potential arrangements for his changing custody—and about everything else he’s been avoiding.
Remus’ head is spinning even before he says his hasty goodbyes and pulls his head out of the flames.