Chapter 17
Remus is bollocks at all the pureblood social niceties. Always has been.
His father—the Lupins—technically comes from a pureblood line, but he never bothered with it growing up, and never taught Remus any of it. Of course, once Lyall Lupin married a muggle woman, all pureblood breeding and etiquette rather became moot, even after several generations of deteriorating social standing.
Remus has seen pureblood society in practice, though largely from the sidelines. Sirius’ family of course adhered to the strictest of rules, most of which Sirius flaunted and took great delight in breaking, and even James’ family, kind and modern-thinking as they had been, hadn’t been immune to it. Then, of course, in their schooldays, Hogwarts had been a veritable breeding ground and stage for pureblood politics. After seven years, one tends to pick up on certain things, even subconsciously.
So, Remus knows at least some of the common rules and practices, and he derives some comfort from the fact that Augusta Longbottom is aligned with Dumbledore and raised a son who never seemed concerned about others’ blood status. Still, the Longbottom name is old and significant in their world; Remus knows better than to think he can get through this meeting without some pomp and ceremony.
With this in mind, he dons the best robes he has, a set he hasn’t touched in years and years. They’re probably a little dated now, but they’re clean and mostly whole, with only a few patches he has to carefully mend. He won’t pass for an aristocrat or pureblood himself, but at least he won’t offend Madam Longbottom on principle.
Harry shrugs into the robes Minerva transfigured for him, which technically isn’t correct—transfigured clothing is a bit of a no-go, particularly if you can tell it’s transfigured. But Minerva is a practiced Master; only the shrewdest eye would be able to ascertain the difference, and even if Augusta happens to notice, they can always fall back on the excuse of Harry being new to the wizarding world and in need of a fitting guardian.
Remus shrinks his best pair of shoes for Harry to wear, mentally hurting at the cost. Harry dubiously accepts them, looking unhappy, though he watched the spellwork itself with rapt attention.
They’ve been granted permission to Floo directly into Longbottom Manor, so Remus makes sure to cast impervious charms on the pair of them to avoid soot settling into their robes and making a poor first impression. Harry lets him do it, distracted with eyeing the fireplace and Remus’ pot of Floo powder, even though he’s seen Remus use it before.
“We’ll go together,” Remus decides, fielding visions of Harry stumbling out at the wrong gate, lost somewhere in wizarding Britain with no way of finding him. “Step up to the grate and take my arm. I doubt you’ll like this much better than the Side-Along Apparation, but just remember not to let go early.”
Harry obediently wraps his hand around Remus’ arm. Remus takes a pinch of the Floo powder and throws it at their feet.
“Longbottom Manor!”
The emerald flames surge up and they go tumbling through, Remus making sure Harry stays close to his side.
When they stagger out the other side, Remus quickly reaches out to stop Harry from taking a nosedive to the marble floor. He catches the back of the boy’s robes and heaves him back upright.
“Thanks,” Harry mutters. He has to adjust his glasses, sitting askew on his nose, but otherwise still looks adequately presentable.
“Sirs,” a croaky voice says. “Marnee is to be taking you to Mistress Longbottom in the sunroom.”
The house-elf is shorter than Harry, with wiry white hair and grey eyes, wearing a pristine uniform with the Longbottom crest. Harry startles badly when he catches sight of the elf, going rigid at Remus’ elbow. Adding yet another tally to his mental list of things Harry needs to learn about their world, Remus thanks the elf politely.
It takes a gentle nudge to get Harry moving, trailing after the elf as he leads them through the halls of the manor. It’s smaller than what Remus remembers of the Potter Manor, but then, he vaguely remembers Frank telling them once that his grandfather converted it from a summer home after the ancestral one was destroyed or donated during the war with Grindelwald. In any case, it’s still much larger and much more impressive than anywhere Remus has ever lived, and judging by the awed look on Harry’s face, he feels similarly abashed to be standing in a place like this.
Marnee leaves them at a door to what must be the sunroom, giving them a perfunctory bow and then popping off somewhere. Harry jumps again when the elf disappears, staring at the spot where he had been standing.
Remus knocks on the door before opening it.
Augusta Longbottom is a tall, stately woman who wears her age well. Every time Remus has seen her, she’s been dressed in the finest of robes, typically with an eye-catching hat balanced precariously on her head. Frank used to say she stuffed that vulture herself and wore it as a badge of pride for her ingenuity, though Remus never could tell if he was joking.
She sits in front of him now, head bare, in fine sea-blue robes that complement her light complexion and match the decoration accents of the room. It’s spacious and tasteful, with tall bay windows along the entirety of two walls, looking out onto immaculately cared for gardens.
Augusta stands when they enter, drawing up to her full height—which surpasses Remus by a few inches—and signalling for the boy sitting across from her to do the same.
“Good afternoon, Mr Lupin,” she says, inclining her head. Her eyes flick down. “Mr Potter.”
“Madam Longbottom. Thank you for inviting us into your home.”
“Might as well dispense with the formalities,” Augusta says, waving an elegant hand. “I’ve already called for the tea to be delivered. Come, sit. Mr Potter—may I call you Harry? You may take the seat next to Neville, my grandson. Neville, what have I taught you?”
Neville stumbles forward a step at her urging. He has a flop of gleaming blond hair that Augusta has groomed meticulously into place, and though he’s obviously shy, he’s fighting to keep his back straight. He looks a lot like his mother, short and round-faced, and it twists at Remus’ heart in a familiar fashion.
“Hullo,” the boy says, sticking out a hand to Harry. “Neville L-Longbottom. It’s, uh, it’s a pleasure to welcome you to my—to our home.”
Bemusedly, Harry shakes his hand. “Harry,” he says. “Er—Potter. Harry Potter.”
Augusta watches their interaction closely, making Remus wince at what she must be thinking, but she doesn’t comment. Harry dutifully takes the seat next to Neville, leaving Remus to perch uncomfortably in the chair at Augusta’s side.
A full tea tray soon appears on the table before them, laden with sandwiches and fruit. Remus lets Augusta serve herself first, keeping a wary eye on Harry to ensure he does the same. He needn’t worry, though; Harry, without prompting, waits patiently for their hosts and Remus to pour their tea before he so much as looks too closely at the tray.
Remus wonders what kind of manners Petunia would choose to instill in the children in her care, but shakes that thought away quickly before it becomes a dangerous distraction.
“So, Harry,” Augusta says briskly, sipping at her tea. “I hear you have been woefully uneducated in the ways of our world.”
“Uh—yes, ma’am. Mrs Longbottom. Where I was living before, they didn’t tell me much about magic.”
Remus had warned him before they came to keep the details of his previous guardians vague, just in case Augusta decides to turn them away. Remus wants to at least get a feel of Augusta’s attitudes towards Harry’s fame, his standing in the wizarding world, and towards werewolves in general before he commits to giving her sensitive information about the boy.
Augusta must have already noticed the scars on Harry’s face, but Remus is prepared to lie and deflect as much as he needs to if it comes down to it. If he must, he’ll claim he did the damage himself during the last moon, though he’d greatly prefer not to, not least of all because it will almost certainly ensure he’ll be kept far away from Harry moving forward.
Augusta sniffs disapprovingly. “And what measures are being taken to correct this deficiency?” she asks.
Harry blinks at her.
“Ah, Madam—Augusta,” Remus hastily intercedes. “We have, of course, introduced Harry to magic, and he’s been reading—”
“I believe the boy can speak for himself,” she says coolly. “Well?”
Neville is studiously keeping his head bent over his teacup, though Remus thinks he can see the boy sneaking Harry sympathetic looks out of the corner of his eye. Slowly, Harry lowers his own teacup. He shoots Remus a nervous look, but by the time he turns back to Augusta, Remus is surprised—and pleased—to see that his expression smooths out, anxiety skillfully hidden.
“Professor McGonagall and Remus have told me about the subjects taught at Hogwarts,” Harry says. “Showing me charms and transfiguration spells. I’ve been reading some of Remus’ books, too, mostly about charms and gar—herbology. And Remus has been telling me about my parents.”
This catches Augusta’s interest, of course. “Did you not know much of your parents before? Your previous guardians didn’t speak of them?”
“No, ma’am. I knew their names, just.”
“A disgrace,” Augusta says, outraged. “James and Lily Potter’s son, not knowing about them! Why, I never. I’ve always made sure Neville’s known of his parents’ achievements, their bravery, their skill. Alice and my Frank were Aurors, you know, Mr Potter, alongside your father. Stood up to Voldemort and his Death Eaters more than nearly anyone else. We’re very proud of them, aren’t we, Neville?”
“Yes, Gran,” Neville says, eyes firmly on his tea.
“Remus said Neville’s mum was my godmother,” Harry says, drawing Augusta’s attention away from her grandson.
Augusta softens a fraction.
“Yes,” she says. “And Lily was Neville’s godmother in turn. Alice and your mother were friends in school and became closer after graduating. Expecting children at the same time, in the middle of a war no less, and both with husbands running off on Auror missions at a moment’s notice. Your mother didn’t have parents of her own at that point, so sometimes she would come along to see me with Alice. Neville was born only a few hours before you; Lily and Alice celebrated quite a few milestones together.”
Remus remembers knowing that, vaguely. He’s ashamed to admit that the Longbottoms’ son hasn’t occurred to him much over the years. He’d been friendly with both Frank and Alice, and he’d known that the Potters were good friends with them, but he’d only met Neville once as a baby, snoozing alongside Harry during an Order meeting. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that the friends he’s been mourning left other people behind, too.
Harry turns to Neville with a newly assessing look. “I didn’t know that,” he says. “That my mum was your godmother, too. I suppose that makes us—what, godbrothers?”
Neville’s head lifts from his teacup in surprise.
“I’ve never had a brother before,” Harry barrels on. The tips of his ears are flushing dark, but his voice is remarkably even. “I’ve only ever known Dud—er, other kids at school.”
“I’ve never even been to school,” Neville says meekly.
This seems to strengthen Harry’s resolve, Remus is amused to note.
“Right, then,” Harry says decisively. “I reckon—Well, I reckon our parents woulda wanted us to at least be friends. So. Hello, I’m Harry. Do you want to be friends?”
Neville blinks at the hand thrust in his direction. Remus chances a glance at Augusta, wanting to know what she thinks of this display, but she’s only watching with raised eyebrows. Slowly, Neville shakes Harry’s hand again.
“Neville,” he says. “And yes, please.”
“Definitely Lily’s,” Remus thinks he hears Augusta murmur.
The rest of their tea passes relatively smoothly, after that. Augusta keeps asking pointed questions regarding Harry’s education and the process of reintroducing him into the magical world—judging by the way her face darkens and her voice gets frosty in response to Harry’s stammering answers, she isn’t pleased by what she hears—and every now and then, Harry draws Neville into the conversation with monosyllabic responses. Remus puts in his two knuts whenever Harry seems overwhelmed by Augusta’s interview, or when the lad simply can’t answer a question for lack of knowledge.
Eventually, Augusta sits back. The sandwiches and pear slices have long since been demolished, but the teapot had refilled itself some time ago, likely on the prompting of a house elf from afar. Taking his cue, Remus sets down his cup, seeing Harry do the same following Neville’s lead.
“Neville, why don’t you take Harry on a tour of the manor,” Augusta says. “If you visit the gardens, for Merlin’s sake stay on the path and be back before I have to send Tilly after you again.”
For the first time since they arrived, Neville perks up, looking lively. “Yes, Gran!” he says happily, jumping from his seat. “Come on, Harry. Have you heard of Wiggentrees? We’ve just had one put on the grounds…”
Remus watches them go, unsure of whether he’s more nervous at the idea of Harry wandering out of his sight or of being left alone with Madam Longbottom.
“Well, then, Remus,” Augusta says once the boys are safely out of sight and, presumably, earshot. “I didn’t want to ask in front of the children—Neville’s nerves are rather delicate, and I don’t imagine Harry wants to rehash things—but what precautions are you taking in light of the newest legislation? Ridiculous business, of course, but that’s the Ministry these days. Do you have access to a private healer?”
“Pardon? I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t keep up with the newspapers,” Augusta says irritably. “Surely, Albus or Minerva have at least warned you? No? Goodness’ sake. Marnee!”
The elf promptly pops up in front of them.
“Retrieve the last few editions of The Prophet from my writing desk,” she instructs. “Everything from this week.”
Marnee bends forward in a bow and disappears once more.
“Augusta—” Remus starts, unsettled, but before he has time to say anything further, the requested papers appear in a tidy stack on the table.
Augusta leafs through them quickly and then hands them over. Cautiously, Remus takes them.
The first is from December 2, the day of the full moon. It’s the most recent one Remus has read, having skimmed it briefly in-between bouts of scouring his spare room for his collection of photographs, crammed in his old school trunk. From what he recalls, it hadn’t really held anything of interest. The other editions in Augusta’s stack are new, and with a sinking feeling in his gut, Remus remembers the missing owl at the beginning of the month, the skipped subscription payment. Honestly, he hasn’t even really noticed the missed deliveries. He’s been too busy with Harry.
He flips to the next newspaper, dated December 4, and freezes.
Dark Creature Attacks Wizarding Child, the frontpage headline reads.
Shakily, Remus scans the article, heart racing in his chest. He’s desperately trying to spot a name, bracing himself for a picture of Harry to be staring up at him.
He, thankfully, miraculously, doesn’t find anything.
Instead, the article recounts, with uncomfortable relish, a tragic, premeditated werewolf attack on a muggleborn child and their muggle sibling. The author regretfully tells the readers that all identifying information has been withheld for the safety and respect of the children, but that reliable sources say that the victims were a mere nine and eight years of age, with the wizarding child horrifically disfigured and infected, and the muggle child brutally murdered.
Remus feels his breath punched out of him.
“That’s—it’s awful,” he manages to say, clearing his throat.
“Keep reading,” Augusta tells him.
Apprehensive, he does.
There’s the usual fearmongering, the revival of the long-standing, heated debate on whether werewolves deserve to live once infected. Tellingly, no one in the main article or the ones in the subsequent sections name the newly infected wizarding child in this debate. They say that werewolves are dangerous, that they’re inherently evil, that they should be immediately subject to an execution order for public safety, but no one outright says that the nine-year-old should be put to death. They manage to keep a façade of sympathy and concern for the infected child, all the while lobbying for legislation that would end their life.
It’s as disgusting as it is predictable. Remus is well aware of how these werewolf debates typically go.
Occasionally, werewolf concerns will crop up in The Daily Prophet at random. Sometimes it’s because a new Ministry official with severe beliefs is elected, sometimes it’s because people suddenly remember that those like Greyback exist and get scared for their children’s safety, but whatever the reason, it usually dies down within a few days. A rallying call will be made to strengthen the regulations on werewolves, a brave reporter will point out how useless and flawed the werewolf registry is, that reporter will abruptly retire, and the news will go quiet again for another few months. Rinse, repeat.
Remus tends to keep an eye on it all the same, because it can make his life more difficult. When public opinion of werewolves is at a new low, when paranoia is high, Remus knows not to dare look for work in the wizarding world. He’ll stick to the muggle world until things calm down, and then try again.
The look on Augusta’s face tells him that maybe things aren’t following the same pattern this time.
The more Remus reads through the collected Prophets, the more anxious he feels.
Outrage over the attack does not die down. Edition after edition, there are new articles, new reporters—letters from terrified parents, interviews with Dark creature ‘experts’, a detailed history of werewolf legislation. An exposé on werewolves’ involvement in the last war.
Something has to be done, of course, Gilderoy Lockhart says in an exclusive interview. Not every wizard can handle themselves against a werewolf, after all! I do think it would be better for everyone if these unfortunate souls would simply report themselves at the first sign of lycanthropy. We can help! My new book, Wagga Wagga Werewolf—
Children are our most vulnerable and precious resource, the Head of the Improper Use of Magic, a woman named Umbridge says. We simply cannot allow these creatures to continue to put them at risk.
Things will certainly be changing, Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge promises. We’ve reviewed the current legislation and the Wizengamot has quite agreed that things simply must change. We’ll be implementing new regulations immediately.
These new proposed regulations are summarised in the latest two editions. Every existing werewolf is required to present themselves to the Ministry and declare their status at once, and every newly infected werewolf that sets foot in St Mungo’s for treatment will be automatically reported.
“They can’t,” Remus says angrily, though it’s clear that they very much can and are. “Most werewolves that require treatment at St Mungo’s are children.”
Remus himself had relied heavily on the Healer’s Oath of discretion and confidentiality as a boy. Hell, when he first heard about Harry, he’d gotten upset with Minerva for not bringing him straight to St Mungo’s. Healers are meant to be neutral, to be objective in their treatment, operating outside of the Ministry.
“Yes, well,” Augusta sighs. “Fudge and his imbecilic cronies are framing it as for the children’s safety of course, both infected and not. Do you see that clause there? Not only are all werewolves expected to self-report, but anyone who knows of a werewolf must report them to the Ministry, at risk of a heavy fine and, potentially, a prison sentence should the werewolf in question infect or harm anyone. However they think they’ll track that is beyond me.”
Remus’ spine straightens, suddenly on alert, cold dread creeping through his veins. He can see most of the gardens through the sunroom windows. He can’t see the boys from here, but they should be easy to find along the path. If he’s quick—if the wards aren’t too strong between here and the garden—
“Oh, get that look off your face,” Augusta says irritably. “I’m hardly going to turn you in. Fudge is a brainless, spineless idiot, and I argued quite vehemently against these regulations in the Wizengamot sessions, I’ll have you know. Not that I don’t think a registry of some kind has merit, mind you, but I certainly don’t trust it in the hands of our current Ministry.”
Remus eyes her warily. He doesn’t keep a hand on his wand, but he makes sure he has easy access to the pocket it’s kept in, and that the garden path stays in his line of sight.
“And before you get your tunic in a twist again, I know Harry was bitten, too. Not reported in the papers, by great luck, but it isn’t hard to put the pieces together. How long has the boy been infected?”
Augusta’s tone is brisk but not unkind, and she doesn’t seem horrified or angry. And, Remus thinks tentatively, she did invite them into her home, around her grandson, even knowing that Remus, at least, is a werewolf, nevermind Harry. Still, this isn’t how he anticipated this conversation going. He wonders if it’s worthwhile trying to lie.
“He was bitten in October,” he says eventually. “First transformation early November.”
Augusta makes a considering noise. “Anyone else injured in the attack?”
“His muggle cousin. Injured, but alive.” For now, Remus doesn’t see the value in admitting that Dudley Dursley’s injuries occurred after the initial attack, not unless he’s outright asked.
“A pattern, then, the same as that in the article. Connected, perhaps. That leads us back to my original question. Do you have a private healer, one you trust to care for Harry should he be injured? You understand that even falling from a tree and breaking his arm could end with him revealed to the Ministry, should you bring him to a regular healer. The scarring is quite… obvious.”
Remus bristles, though he isn’t sure why. “Madam Pomfrey from Hogwarts has been looking after him,” he says. “I’d trust her with my life.”
Augusta sniffs. “A fine medi-witch,” she concedes. “She does well, healing the various maladies and schoolyard scrapes, but she has her hands full with the entirety of the Hogwarts’ student body. Surely, it would be better to entrust Harry’s care to a proper healer, one whose attention isn’t so divided?”
Remus stays quiet. He doesn’t want to admit—what? That he hasn’t considered the possibility of needing a genuine healer, not once over the past month? That no one’s taken charge of these things because Harry’s been existing in a custodial limbo? That Remus simply can’t afford to find a private healer?
The teapot has refilled again. Augusta busies herself with fixing up another cup, waiting to see if he’ll speak. He doesn’t.
“No matter,” she says dismissively. “I’ll take care of it. Neville sees Healer Bronwyn Abbott, and she has my complete faith in her discretion. Has the boy had his dragon pox vaccine, at least? Been seen to about his eyes, his general health? If he’s been living with his muggle cousin, I assume he isn’t up to date on his magical health checkups.”
He doesn’t have a single answer to her questions. His mouth feels dry and sipping at his tea doesn’t seem to help.
“Hmph,” Augusta says. “I’ll write to Healer Abbott immediately. Albus explained the situation to me, though the child’s lycanthropy seems to have slipped his mind. Harry needs a guardian, and you, of course, cannot legally claim such a title. You may have a case for it, should the Ministry find out about Harry’s condition, but they’d be just as likely to throw him to the care of some ‘Dark expert’—that Lockhart may try, or the Yaxleys, perhaps, given their history with vampires. Malfoy has Cornelius deep in his coin-purse, so he might have a chance as well.”
Remus feels ill at the thought. “No one can know about Harry’s condition,” he says firmly. “I don’t know anything about the attack in TheProphet, but the only ones who know about Harry are Dumbledore, Minerva, Poppy, and the two of us.”
“And Harry’s former guardians,” Augusta points out.
This gives Remus pause. Surely, Petunia, despite her faults, wouldn’t sign Harry’s death warrant? Wouldn’t run tales to the wizarding media? She must know what outing his condition could do… Or does she? Remus has no idea how much Lily taught her sister about the politics of their world.
“Besides the point. The Potters trusted Frank and Alice with guardianship of their heir and only son, and I will, of course, uphold that honour in their place,” Augusta says. “I regret only that I was not granted the ability to do so from the beginning. At least then we could have avoided this nasty business. However, you understand that I must look out for my grandson above all else.”
“Of course,” Remus demurs, relief making his head spin.
“I will do what I must with the Ministry and Albus to handle the legal custody change. I’ve suggested to Albus that he look into digging up the Potters’ will; if they had any sense, they would have written one up with care to Harry’s guardianship, and we may use that to our advantage if they named the Longbottom family. Regardless, I will shelter the boy as needed and look out for his magical and medical welfare. He will be taught proper etiquette and the particulars of his heritage and our world, all that he should be expected to know by the time he reaches Hogwarts. However. I will not house him on or around the full moon—I refuse to put Neville at risk. I will be his legal guardian, as Alice and Frank would have been, but he will be my charge in name only. It seems to me, Remus Lupin, that Harry has a suitable enough candidate for a guardian already.”
The look she levels on him is stern and pointed. Remus, reeling—the will, of course they had a will, why is this the first he’s heard of it—can only blink at her.
“I understand that the Ministry does not grant the custody of children to those with your affliction,” she says. “In this case, however, as Harry is similarly afflicted and the progeny of your boyhood friends, I do not hold the same reservations. I am agreeing to this arrangement for Alice’s and legalities sake. You are to take care of the boy, while I provide assistance where necessary.”
“I don’t know how to care for a child,” Remus protests. “There are long periods where I can’t find work—I haven’t been a regular part of society for years—I’m the worst choice to look after Harry.”
Unimpressed, Augusta crooks an eyebrow. “You will learn,” she says coolly. “As every parent does. Besides, Harry is old enough to be largely self-sustaining now, and will be off to school for most of the year soon enough. You have managed to support yourself for this long, and any expenses incurred on Harry’s behalf—Healer checkups, wardrobe, school supplies—I am willing to finance, as his legal guardian. You knew his parents, are unaffected by his fame, have a rapport with the boy, and you’re the only one who can help him with his lycanthropy. I would, and do, argue that you are the best choice.”
“Frank spoke highly of you,” she continues, heedless of his gaping. “That is as good of a character assessment as I need.”