Chapter 16
Harry Potter sees a picture of his parents for the first time in Remus’ sitting room.
It’s been two days since the full moon and Harry hasn’t been shipped back to the Hogwarts infirmary yet. He’s curious about this but doesn’t dare mention it, in case acknowledging it tips the fragile balance and he finds himself chucked out. Not that he thinks Remus would chuck him out, really, but then, he didn’t think Uncle Vernon would ever believe in anything as namby-pamby as magic either.
The past two days have been… fine. Not nearly as terrible as Harry thought they would be, when Madam Pomfrey and Remus kept warning him of how awful the full moon would be, how long it might take him to recover. But he’s fine. Really. All healed up, has been since the first day, hardly even hurts anymore, and he’s still in Remus’ house, stealing the man’s bed from him. He eats beans on toast at least once a day, drinks plenty of tea, and spends hours reading his collection of books, because he has a collection now, several to choose from.
He’s gotten most of the calcium build-up scrubbed off of Remus’ bathroom sink, makes the bed every morning, and carefully folds the clothes he borrows. Remus had shown him how he shrinks the clothing yesterday, taking a threadbare jumper and jeans out from his closet and using magic to change them to Harry’s size. Harry hadn’t dared ask if it can be reversed.
Maybe Harry isn’t exactly sleeping, and maybe he leaves most of the beans on his plate during meals, but he doesn’t think he’s doing too badly. Sometimes he goes hours without remembering just how it felt to transform, even.
He occupies his time with reading a lot, mostly flipping through his mother’s charms book and understanding very little, but he’s read through a few of the wizarding children’s stories and finds he quite likes them.
Remus has spent the past two days tackling the spare room, rooting around through the detritus and talking lowly to himself. He shoos Harry away every time he offers to help, so Harry figures there must be personal stuff in there, or maybe valuables, like the jewelry box Aunt Petunia never let him so much as look at without a scolding. This has always just served to make Harry intensely curious more than anything, but he tries to restrain himself from prying.
Then, on Wednesday afternoon, Remus emerges from the spare room. He’s dusty and pale and looks at Harry like he’s surprised to find him curled in front of the fireplace, paging through The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
Remus clears his throat. He’s gripping a box in his hands very tightly.
“I promised I’d give you answers,” he says.
Harry closes the book immediately.
Remus drifts over to the sofa, leaving a spot open at his side. Harry slides from the armchair and joins him, eyeing the wooden box being set on the coffee table cautiously. It’s a pretty enough box, he supposes, though not quite delicate enough for Aunt Petunia’s pearls. Maybe something Uncle Vernon would use for his fancy watch, or Dudley for his marble collection.
When Remus opens it, however, Harry just sees a bundle of photos, thrown inside with no semblance of order. He’s immediately struck by how they move, like movies in polaroid form. He thinks back to those textbooks Remus had fished off of his bookcase, and how he’d thought maybe those covers moved, too, and the chocolate frog card collection he’s slowly building, with the portraits that come and go as they please. Magic is amazing.
The picture on the top of the stack is of three people. As soon as Harry catches sight of it, as soon as he gets past the awe of seeing them move, he’s drawn closer, as if by a magnetic pull. He’s never seen these people before, but he recognises that hair, those eyes.
James and Lily Potter wave at him with cheery smiles. Harry didn’t know he looked so much like his dad, but he recognises the features he sees in the mirror every day, a connection he never knew was there. In the picture, his dad is holding a baby, pudgy-cheeked and gnawing on his fingers.
“Your parents sent that one to me shortly before they died,” Remus says quietly. “I have others. You can look through them all.”
Harry doesn’t hesitate to reach out now that he has permission, eagerly pulling out a handful of photos. He’s overly conscious of his breathing, of the sweatiness of his palms. He tries to be careful with the pictures, not wanting to damage or mishandle them.
There’s another photo of him and his dad, a tiny broom clutched in his father’s hand while baby Harry totters at his knees. Harry feels—something, at the sight of that broom. Feels something settle in him, like something makes sense. He knew he’d like flying, and his dad must have, too. It feels like another connection, a reminder that his dad was a real, living person at some point. For so long, Harry’s parents have just been like story book characters; nice to dream about, but not real, not really, not to Harry.
There’s a few more pictures of him as a baby. One of them is with Remus, which Harry mentally stumbles over for a minute. Remus had said he’d known him as a baby, but it’s weird to see proof of it. The Remus in the picture looks younger, happier, holding the baby carefully but smiling, a bigger smile than Harry has seen in the time he’s known him.
Harry gently lays each picture on the coffee table as he looks through them, not wanting to put them away, out of sight, yet. He gets to older pictures. His parents’ wedding, with his mum in a pretty gown, her red hair long and loose, wearing gold jewelry to match his dad’s gold robes next to her, Remus beside them with people Harry doesn’t know. His parents smiling in front of a fountain, his mum holding out her left hand with a sparkling ring. His dad in what he recognises as the halls of Hogwarts, wearing a red and gold tie. His dad, Remus, and two other boys, laughing and pulling faces at the camera. His mum reading by a lake. His mum, Remus, and another girl sitting in front of a fireplace. His dad, young and tiny and grinning, barely older than Harry is now, so similar yet so, so different.
Each photo makes him feel stranger and stranger, like he’s looking at them through a long tunnel. These are his parents and they’re strangers and they’re dead and they’re right there, waving and smiling at him, moving around like he’s looking through a window instead of at a picture. A moment in time, forever on loop, a glimpse into the lives of real people before he ever came along, people that are gone now.
Harry feels dizzy. His eyes are gritty.
“I met your father in our first year at Hogwarts,” Remus says. “We were both sorted into Gryffindor, sharing a dorm and all of our classes. I, your father, and—and two other boys quickly became inseparable. Your mother was also in our year in Gryffindor, but I didn’t befriend her until our fourth year, and she and your father not until our sixth. We were rather too immature for her, I think.”
“What were they like?” Harry asks, voice scratchy.
“Extraordinary,” Remus replies promptly. “The best of friends I ever had. They were both kind, and smart, and brave. They stood for what they believed in, no matter what.”
Harry hesitates. “What would they—that is, do you think—” Frustrated, he almost gives it up as a bad job. He doesn’t know if he wants to ask, anyway. But Remus just patiently waits for him to gather his words. “D’you think they’d… like me? How it—how I am now?”
Remus blinks and keeps his eyes closed for just a beat too long. “Oh, Harry,” he says. “They loved you. There is nothing in this world that could have made them stop, not even for a moment. This isn’t the life they would have picked for you. Living with Petunia, not knowing about magic… being a werewolf and only having me around. They’d be heartbroken, I think. But that wouldn’t change how they felt about you, Harry, please believe that.”
Harry chews on his lip, staring blindly at the photo in his lap. He will not cry. These are Remus’ pictures, Remus’ memories, and Remus’ friends. Harry doesn’t—Harry doesn’t even know them.
“Your father discovered I was a werewolf, entirely against my wishes, when we were twelve,” Remus continues. “I had spent our first year terrified of anyone finding out, convinced I would become an outcast, a pariah in my own House. When he told me that he and the others knew, I thought they would abandon me immediately and out me to the school. They didn’t. James firmly told me that I was one of them, no matter the phase of the moon, and my lycanthropy didn’t change a thing.”
The tightness in his chest abruptly reminds Harry to breathe. He consciously reminds himself to loosen his fingers, tight on the last photo. It’s of his dad, a little older than Harry, arm slung over the shoulders of a black-haired boy with a careless, arrogant grin.
“Oh,” is all he can say.
“They were good people. They’d be—they’d be very happy with the boy you’ve turned out to be, despite your upbringing. You’re just as kind, just as clever.”
This declaration settles uneasily on Harry’s shoulders, so he deflects. “Aunt Petunia never told me much about them,” he says. “Just that my mum was a freeloader, and my dad was a drunk who crashed the car and killed them both.”
Remus makes a sudden movement, a violent jerk, or a flinch like he has to stop himself at the last minute. Harry, seeing it out of the corner of his eye, instinctively flinches back, pressing himself against the arm of the sofa.
There’s a long moment of tense silence. Remus holds himself unnaturally still and Harry watches him warily, feeling his whole face heat up in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” Remus says eventually, voice carefully even. “I didn’t mean—You just surprised me, that’s all. I’m not upset.”
Harry says nothing but narrows his eyes, not relaxing.
“Well, I’m not upset at you,” Remus amends. “I’m very upset with your—with Petunia.”
This sounds plausible enough, and Remus really does seem fully in control again, so Harry eases away from the side of the sofa. He keeps a few extra inches of distance between them, just in case. He’s never been afraid of Remus, never thought he’d… do anything, and he still doesn’t, because Remus has never given any sign that he’s like that; but Remus has also never moved that quickly or sharply before, never reacted like that. Harry will have to be on the look out in the future, even if just to make sure he doesn’t overreact again. Remus is still holding himself very carefully, and he seems sadder, now. Harry curses himself.
“Your mother was not a freeloader. She was working towards a Charms Mastery and a potential career in teaching or spell creation. Your father wasn’t a drunk, and he certainly didn’t kill himself and Lily. They didn’t die in a car wreck at all.”
Harry starts. “They didn’t?”
Remus sighs, visibly bracing himself. “No. They were… They were killed by an evil wizard on Halloween night, 1981. There was a war, you see, in our world—began about twenty years ago, now. Wizards and witches like your parents, like myself and many others, fought against a wizard named Voldemort. He believed only certain wixen deserved magic, only the ones who could trace their magic back several generations. People like your mother—and yourself—with muggle family, weren’t worthy, in his mind. He did terrible things and gained quite a lot of power, a lot of supporters… Your parents helped to fight him, tried to put a stop to it. That’s why he targeted them that night, I suppose, though we can’t know for sure. In any case, he broke into your home that night, when you were a little over a year old, and killed your mother and father.”
This is quite a lot of information to try to swallow. But Remus, it seems, isn’t finished.
“He tried to kill you, as well,” he says. “But it didn’t go as planned. Somehow, it went wrong. His magic rebounded, destroying the house and him along with it, but leaving you alive with only a scar.”
Harry’s hand drifts up to brush his forehead. He did always think it strange, that he should get such a distinctive scar in a car wreck and no other lasting marks. Whenever he wondered about it, Aunt Petunia just snapped at him to shut up and stop asking questions.
“There’s more,” Remus warns. Harry’s head spins, rebelling against the influx of information, but he stays quiet. He wanted this, wanted to know, made Remus promise to tell him everything. “The spell he cast on you, it’s known as the Killing Curse. It’s highly illegal and completely deadly. There has never been a survivor of the curse—except for you. Because you survived, because Voldemort vanished that night, people in our world consider you… You’re famous, Harry. Every child for the past decade has grown up hearing your name, calling you the Boy-Who-Lived. That’s why we have to be careful that no one sees you.”
Harry’s stomach has settled firmly in the vicinity of his slippers. There has, he concludes, been a horrible mistake.
“But I’m nothing special,” he protests. “I’m just… me. I didn’t even know magic or any of this was real until a stupid werewolf bit me on Wisteria Walk! I could never even stop Dudley from breaking my nose or Aunt Petunia hitting me with the frying plan—I can’t have defeated some evil wizard.”
Remus looks pained. Harry realises he’s said too much again.
“Nevermind,” he says quickly, squeezing his eyes shut. “Is that everything? Is there more?”
Remus doesn’t say anything for a long time. Harry’s heart beats very fast. How can there possibly be more? How many secrets can there be?
“Yes,” Remus says reluctantly. He’s looking at the picture still gripped in Harry’s hand, of his dad and the other boy. “But it’ll keep. It’s old history, now. Are you alright?”
“I think I’d like to take a nap,” Harry says. He has no intention of sleeping, not with all of this hanging over him, not with faint impressions of green light and yellow eyes swimming behind his eyes, phantom teeth in his shoulder, fire in his scar. He feels very distant, suddenly. “Can I—Can I take these with me? I’ll be careful.”
“Of course,” Remus says. “They’re yours.”
*
The picture of him as a baby and his parents gets placed carefully on the nightstand, angled so that he can see it easily from the bed. He shuffles through the rest and pulls out the wedding photo and the broomstick photo to keep out, and then hesitates over the one with Remus holding the baby so gingerly. Eventually, he decides to leave that one out too, though he keeps it under the others. The remaining stack of photos gets put back into the wooden box and tucked safely into his transfigured bag.
Harry studies the photos he’s left out, entranced and unsettled all at once. He wonders about the people in them.
About his mum and dad, with the faces he has to put to their names for the first time, and how they died when he didn’t. It isn’t a new concept; even when he thought they’d died in the car wreck, Aunt Petunia had told him he was there, that he should have gone with them. But now Remus says they weren’t drunk, that it wasn’t their fault. Someone killed them, and tried to kill him, too. Harry doesn’t know what to make of that, yet.
He wonders about Remus, who stayed away for so long because he thought he was dangerous, and yet who clearly used to be around him as a baby, who used to hold him and smile at him and should have been his guardian, if what he says about his friendship with his parents is true.
There are other people in the wedding photo. Two men who Harry remembers cropping up in the other photos, a woman and a man glued to each other’s sides, a blonde woman who grins widely over his mum’s shoulder. He has no idea who any of these people are. He wonders if he would have known them if his parents had survived. Wonders where they all are now, what happened to them.
Remus had said there was a war, and that he and Harry’s parents fought in it. Harry doesn’t have much concept of wars, not really. They learn about them in school a little bit, and he’s overheard Aunt Marge and Uncle Vernon talk all sorts of things when they get tipsy, but he’s never known anyone who’s been in one.
Except for Remus, apparently. And his parents, but maybe they don’t count, because Harry doesn’t really know them at all.
*
When Harry next surfaces from his—from Remus’ room, it’s because he’s started to feel a bit bad about sulking, monopolising Remus’ space in the man’s own home, and because he’s started to get hungry.
He finds Remus in the kitchen, frowning over some pieces of funny paper—parchment, Remus had called it, when Harry had asked. Apparently, wizards don’t believe in A4s or biros.
“Ah, there you are,” Remus says, spotting him hovering in the doorway. “Fancy some dinner?”
At the thought of yet more beans on toast, Harry can’t help it—he pulls a face. Remus winces sympathetically.
“I should have enough for sandwiches,” he suggests. “How do you feel about corned beef? I keep a few tins for emergencies.”
Harry offers to make them, since Remus seems occupied by the parchment at his elbow. They’re running low on bread, but Harry figures they should have enough to at least last until he goes back to Hogwarts any day now, so long as they vary their diet a bit more. He finds the corned beef in one of the cupboards and is thankful that they’re tins—he doesn’t have to worry about expiry dates. Remus doesn’t exactly seem on top of grocery shopping.
“You remember that I told you the Headmaster would be reaching out to trusted wizards and witches, looking for someone to take you in,” Remus says as Harry finds his way back to the table, a plate of sandwiches in hand. Remus is fiddling with a corner of the parchment, worrying it between his fingers.
Harry’s chest squeezes. “Yeah,” he says cautiously.
“We’ve been invited for tea at Longbottom Manor. Madam Augusta Longbottom, the head of the family, has agreed to meet you and decide if—if she’s willing to take custody. Her daughter-in-law, Alice, was your mother’s dear friend and your godmother.”
Another puzzle piece, another mythical character made real.
“So, I should’ve… I shoulda gone with her, then, instead of the Dursleys?”
“With Alice and her husband, Frank, yes,” Remus sighs. “But they were… badly injured, shortly after your parents passed, and couldn’t take you. Their own son, Neville, is your age, and Madam Longbottom has been raising him in stead of his parents.”
“Oh,” Harry says. “When does she want us to visit?”
“Saturday, at noon. It should only be a few hours. We’ll introduce you to Lady Longbottom, let her ask some questions about your schooling and your interests, and then I imagine you’ll be able to go off and get to know Neville while I discuss particulars with her.”
Harry frowns worriedly. “My schooling?” he says. “But… does she know I’m muggle? I mean, that I’m raised muggle? I won’t be able to answer any questions about magic.”
“Try not to worry,” Remus soothes. “No one your age knows any real magic, that waits until Hogwarts. She might just ask you about the magic you’ve seen so far, what you like, what you’re interested in learning more about. You can tell her about your reading.”
“Does she know I’m… you know. And that I’m famous?”
Remus grimaces apologetically. “She and Neville will be aware of your name, yes. On the bright side, I don’t think Augusta is the type of woman who would have raised Neville on ridiculous heroic stories of you, so he should be alright with you. As for being a werewolf… that’s something I’ll have to discuss with her. I’ll handle it.”
Harry picks at his sandwich, appetite waning. “What if she isn’t okay with it?” he whispers. “You said loads of people hate werewolves.”
“Let me worry about that,” Remus says firmly. “If she won’t take you, we’ll find someone who will. I promise.”
“Yeah,” Harry mutters, glaring at the tabletop. He’s starting to feel ill again. “Sure.” He grabs the remaining half of his sandwich and slides out of his chair, stomping back towards Remus’ bedroom. He shouldn’t have left it in the first place.
He wishes he was back in the infirmary with Madam Pomfrey. It was much less confusing.