Chapter 20
Snow crunches under Harry’s trainers as he treks around the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
He can see his breath in the air and frost curling around the branches over head, but he’s pleasantly cozy in his cloak. It had still been radiating faint warmth this morning, probably from ages ago when Remus cast a spell on it when they went out to the Quidditch pitch, but Remus had recast it before they left, anyway. Harry’s nose is a bit chilly, but overall, he’s comfortable.
Hogwarts is colder than Harry’s used to. The temperature at Privet Drive generally bottomed out at ‘a bit nippy’, and Harry always had Dudley’s old clothes and jumpers to wear, tatty and stained but warm enough with all the extra fabric. Here, Remus’ cloak seems to do the trick just fine, which is a relief, since Harry doesn’t have any of Dudley’s clothes or coats anymore.
Remus said he’d be getting a proper wardrobe of his own, soon. Probably with coats and everything. Mittens, maybe, and shoes that fit without shrinking charms. Knowing Remus, he might even ask Harry what colours he wants, as if that matters.
Harry thinks of his bedroom—his!—with the blue bedding and matching curtains, tailored especially to his tastes. It’s the same blue as the sheets for his mattress in the cupboard, a sort of faded, old blue, the pigment mostly lost in the wash over the years. He hasn’t told Remus that, of course; he never meant to tell him about the cupboard at all, and he thinks maybe it might upset him. But Harry likes that blue. He’d stared at it every night for years and years, trying to fall asleep, imagining ships on the sea and stars in the sky.
He doesn’t miss the cupboard or anything, but it’s nice, having something familiar when everything else has changed around him.
Anyway, thinking of his very own bedroom at Remus’ cottage fills him with another kind of warmth, matching that emanating from the cloak. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this comfortable while outside in the winter, not ever. If only he’d had this cloak back when he got locked out and slept outside, the night he—
“Steady there, Harry,” Hagrid says, reaching out a dinner-plate-hand to catch his shoulder before he trips over a gnarled tree root. He nearly lifts Harry straight off the ground in his effort to get him back on his feet, and Harry flails for a moment before he finds solid footing.
“Thanks,” he says. “Didn’t see that one.”
Fang wriggles his way in between him and Hagrid, investigating the offending tree root. The dog’s stuck behind them the whole time they’ve explored, close at their knees while they’ve been carefully skirting the forest, which makes Harry think Hagrid was right, earlier—Fang really is a coward. It’s sort of funny, since the dog’s so big and scary looking himself. Not that Harry’s scared of Fang, of course. Despite his name, Fang’s nothing like Ripper or Aunt Marge’s other nasty dogs.
“How do we know if there are bowtruckles around?” Harry asks. “Neville says they blend in really well.”
“You have to know where to look. They prefer the big old trees, deeper in the forest,” someone answers. The someone is definitely not Hagrid, who looks just as startled by the voice as Harry. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Hello, Hagrid.”
Hagrid shifts nervously, moving to block Harry from sight of the newcomer, and thereby blocking Harry’s view as well. He stares at the back of Hagrid’s great coat in frustration.
“Oh, er, hullo,” Hagrid stammers, not at all suspicious. “What are you doin’ all the way out here, then, eh? You should be up at the school, eating lunch.”
“I’ve got some sandwiches from the kitchens,” the voice says. “And another box of Mum’s cakes, if you’d like some. Wondered how you were making out with the last batch. Anyway, I’ve got a niffler essay for Kettleburn due, and you’re better than Pince.”
Whoever they are, they sound friendly enough, and like they know Hagrid. Harry knows what Remus says, that it’s important to stay out of sight, to not let anyone see him or know he’s around, that it could be dangerous, but—dangerous how, exactly? They’re just saying hello and, apparently, offering sweets as a bribe for homework help. Besides, if anything does go wrong, Hagrid’s here, Remus is just up at the school, and Harry is a real fast runner.
It’s not like Hagrid’s doing a good job of getting whoever-it-is to go away, anyway. He’s just sort of mumbling and staying planted in front of Harry. His cover’s going to be blown any second now. Harry ducks under his elbow.
The mystery voice is a student, to no surprise, wearing loose black robes over worn jeans and a red and gold knitted jumper. Those colours mean Gryffindor, Harry remembers. The House with the lion. Professor McGonagall’s House, Remus’ House—his parents’ House.
The boy looks older than Harry by several years, though his face is still round and young. He’s stocky and pale, with freckles and shockingly red hair. There’s a bookbag slung over his shoulder and a brown parcel in his hands. He looks friendly, Harry decides, and slightly familiar. Harry wonders if he’d been one of the Quidditch players at the practice he and Remus had crashed those weeks ago.
The student’s gaze immediately drops to Harry as he sidesteps Hagrid, blue eyes widening in surprise. To his credit, he recovers quickly, offering up a smile. He doesn’t even linger on any of Harry’s scars, at least not obviously.
“Oh, hello,” the boy says. “Didn’t realise there was anyone hiding in Hagrid’s coat. You’re free to have one of Mum’s cakes, too, and a sandwich if you like. The house-elves always give me too many. I’m Charlie, by the way.”
Hagrid is flustered now, looking between them with thinly veiled panic. Harry decides to ignore it and hope he gets over it soon.
“Dudley,” he says, because he isn’t an idiot. It’s too late not to be seen, but at least he can tell Remus he tried.
Charlie’s eyebrow twitches but his smile doesn’t falter. “Nice to meet you, Dudley,” he says. “You’re not a student, are you? I haven’t seen you around, and you look too small to be a Firstie. Friend of Hagrid’s?”
“Ha—Dudley,” Hagrid protests in an anxious whisper.
“Yes,” Harry says. “We were looking for, er, bowtruckles, but you said they’re deeper in the forest?”
“That’s right. I found a colony a few weeks ago. Don’t look at me like that, Hagrid, it was for Professor Kettleburn, I promise, I had full permission to be wandering. I could probably show you where they are. I think I remember the way.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hagrid says stiffly. “No, I won’t be having it. Remus told me to look after you, H—Dudley, and exploring the forest isn’t that. Professor Kettleburn and me will find the bowtruckles some other time. Let’s get back inside, before anyone else sees—er, before we freeze out here. Oh, fine, you might as well come, too, Charlie… Let’s have a look at those cakes, then…”
*
Charlie laments only that he probably won’t be able to tell Pippa that she was right.
Not that he needs to, really. Pippa’s never doubted herself for a moment in her life. If anything, he’s been the one reluctant to take her word for it, trying to reel back her iron-clad certainty. Still, who can blame him? He’d been the one to wrangle Pippa to the hospital wing in the first place, so he knows how dizzy and disoriented she’d been under the vicious Scrofungulus fever. Then she comes back the next day, spouting stories of Harry Potter walking about the halls of Hogwarts? Charlie thinks he can be forgiven for his scepticism.
Maybe it’s for the best that he can’t confirm anything. He shudders to think how big her head may get.
Because sitting in Hagrid’s hut and doling out his mother’s baked goods, Charlie knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Harry Potter is sitting across from him.
Oh, he can call himself ‘Dudley’ all he likes, and Charlie certainly won’t burst his bubble. There’s likely a reason for the cover, as flimsy as it may be, and Charlie respects that. Merlin only knows the kind of dangers Harry bloody Potter might be involved in, hinted at only by the mysterious scars on his face. Though, looking at him now, Charlie finds himself struggling to picture this scrawny slip of a boy doing any kind of secret Auror missions or training to defeat Dark wizards. He’s just a kid, smaller and shorter than Ron last time Charlie’d seen him, maybe even smaller than Ginny.
“Try the toffee,” Charlie prompts, spooning some out for the boy and feeling uncomfortably like his mother. “It’s homemade.”
He’s just so skinny, is the thing. And it’s not like Charlie doesn’t have plenty to go around. As unhappy as Molly Weasley had been at the thought of her second eldest staying at school over Christmas, she’d made sure to bring him enough sweets to more than make up for the missing Weasley spread. He doesn’t even have to share it with Ron and the twins, who always demolish anything their mother serves up within hours, barely leaving enough time for Charlie and Ginny to scavenge for the rest.
“Thank you,” Harry/Dudley says politely. “Was it you that brought the cakes Hagrid had earlier? They were very good.”
“Oh, yeah, those were Mum’s. Did you go through them all already, Hagrid? I only gave them to you Friday.”
Hagrid flushes, only just visible through his beard. “Ah, well,” he says. “I’ve had a couple visitors, you see…”
Charlie laughs. “Well, good thing for you that Mum paid me a visit this morning, then. She was trying to convince me to come home after all, but I think she must have known I’d decided, since she brought me these and my presents to drop off.”
Harry’s teacup hits the table with a dull thud, probably harder than he intended, since some of the tea sloshes over the side and hits the table.
“Oh, no,” he moans.
“What’s the matter?” Hagrid asks, already reaching over to mop up the spill with a tea towel. Harry snatches it from him to clean it up himself, muttering apologies. “Nevermind that, Fang’ll get what’s on the floor.”
“Right,” Harry says, clearly embarrassed. “It’s just, er, I’d sort of—forgotten about Christmas. And gifts. Do you think… I should do something for Remus, shouldn’t I?” He looks to Hagrid anxiously, wringing the tea towel in his hands.
“Well, I’m sure he’d be grateful for anythin’ you’d give him,” Hagrid says, a little bewildered. “Don’t worry much, I’m sure he’s not expecting anythin’ grand, like.”
This doesn’t seem to comfort Harry much. He wrings the tea towel harder, to the point that some of the tea gets squeezed out, dripping into his lap.
Charlie takes out his wand and clears up the puddle on the floor, since Fang hasn’t shown particular interest. He then dries the towel still in Harry’s hand before it can do more damage.
He doesn’t know who ‘Remus’ is, but he recognises the look of someone new to gift-giving. He hasn’t had this problem himself since second year, when he spent days agonising over what would be appropriate gifts for his new friends—his new female friends, who surely must have strange and incomprehensible tastes in presents.
Turns out he’d been worried for nothing, of course. Pippa had been happy enough with a new scarf, warm and practical, and Tonks had given him the same Honeydukes’ sample pack as he’d given her, with some Zonko pranks for his trouble.
“Most people will be happy just to get something,” Charlie advises. “It’s really more the thought that counts. Sweets are a safe bet if you can’t think of anything they really want, or you can just go for something you know they need. New quill, socks, that sort of thing, though they say it’s best to get them something they’d like but that they wouldn’t necessarily get themselves, if you can.”
Harry looks miserable. “I didn’t even think of it,” he says. “You’re supposed to give them to friends, aren’t you? I’ve never, well, it’s never come up, but—I should probably get something for Neville, shouldn’t I? Since we’re friends. I’ve never had people to give gifts to before.”
Charlie blinks at this but decides not to question this unfathomable concept. Who knows what Harry Potter’s been up to all these years? Maybe Christmas just hasn’t been high on his list of priorities. Hell, maybe the Potters didn’t celebrate at all, despite what those holiday comics say.
“At your age, I doubt anyone will be expecting anything extravagant,” he offers. “Give ‘em some chocolate frogs and you’re good to go.”
Harry frowns. “Really?”
“Well, sure,” Charlie says. “Just think, what would you be happy to get?”
“I don’t get presents,” Harry says simply.
“What!” Hagrid intercedes. “Not get presents! You’ll be getting some this year, I reckon. I’ve got one for you meself, just here… Won’t be sending it to you ‘til Christmas, mind. Not get presents—honestly!”
Charlie wants to be amused at the sheer flabbergasted look on Harry’s face, but it just makes something prickle unpleasantly in his chest, instead. What sort of ten-year-old is so utterly convinced they won’t be getting a single gift? Unless he just doesn’t celebrate Christmas, he supposes, but if that isn’t the case… Even Charlie, with his six siblings and limited family budget, has never doubted that he’ll get something, even if it’s only Mum’s handmade jumper, and that’s not even considering his friends.
He can tell that Harry’s starting to get uncomfortable, though, clearly taken completely off guard by this revelation.
“Careful, Hagrid,” Charlie says. “Remember, you can’t send him a dragon through the post.”
Harry blinks, suitably distracted. Charlie mentally congratulates himself.
“Dragons?” Harry repeats.
“Oh, yeah. Didn’t you know? Hagrid’s mad for them, not that I can blame him. I’d love to see a dragon, me, just as much as he would, right, Hagrid? But they’re illegal to own, so don’t worry, he probably won’t be sending you one for Christmas. As if he’d give it away, if he had one.”
“I’d love to have one,” Hagrid says mournfully. “Lovely creatures, they are. I’d take good care of it, ‘course. I’m good with misunderstood wee beasts.”
Harry looks at them with amusement. Charlie’s barely even putting on his pout, at this point. He really does love dragons.
“I’m going to see one, one day,” Charlie declares. He thinks back to the application letter waiting in his trunk, the one he’s started and scrapped half a dozen times. He just needs signatures from a few references and then he’ll be able to send it off and hope for the best. It’s his goal for the holiday break—butter up Kettleburn and McGonagall enough to earn their ink. Maybe Hagrid, too, now that he thinks of it.
“I’m sure you will,” Harry encourages, hint of a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. “Loads of dragons. You, too, Hagrid.”
Hagrid beams. “Ta, Dudley,” he says. “A man can dream, at least. Now, Charlie, go on and pass me one of them shortbreads, there’s a lad.”
As they steer carefully away from the apparent conversational landmine of gifts, Charlie lets himself consider Harry Potter. Small for his age, unfamiliar with and unaccustomed to Christmas presents, back in the wizarding world for the first time in who knows how long, obviously just a normal, if quiet, ten-year-old kid… he is nothing like Charlie expected. Not that Charlie knows what he expected, exactly. He hasn’t really had cause to think about it, never had a reason to pay much thought to Harry Potter, legendary hero.
He’s heard all the stories, of course. Ginny loves them, always makes Mum tell them again and again at bedtime. Personally, Charlie’s never known whether or not to believe them. Because Ron’s ten, too, and there’s no way Charlie can picture his baby brother doing any of the things people claim Potter’s been up to. But then, Ron isn’t Harry Potter. Harry Potter is a fantastical, mythical hero with one Dark Lord already under his belt, child or no.
The boy sharing cakes and tea at Hagrid’s table with him is polite and uncertain and going by ‘Dudley’. He’s wearing an obviously second-hand cloak and filthy shoes. He’s nervous about giving his friends Christmas presents, because, apparently, he’s never had friends before. He has strange, unsettling scars on his face that Charlie has consciously tried to avoid staring at: the famed lightning bolt, hidden mostly behind his wild fringe and caught only in glimpses; parallel lines along the side of his face, trailing off under his chin, still somewhat dark and raised, tickling something in Charlie’s memory, telling him maybe he should recognise them more. Charlie doesn’t remember those scars from the stories.
Charlie is having tea with Harry Potter and it’s entirely normal. Nevermind Pippa—Ginny would flip if he ever brought word of this home.
But Charlie knows how to keep a secret. He’s already tipped off his parents about Harry’s appearance in the castle, but in his defence, he wasn’t entirely convinced of it himself at the time, so it was mostly unintentional. Going forward, Harry’s secret is safe with him.
“Take the rest of the toffee,” Charlie says, shoving it into Harry’s hands. “No, really. I’ve got plenty. Consider it my gift to you. Happy Christmas.”
Harry beams and takes the toffee.
*
Since this is likely the last time Harry will be at Hogwarts until the new year, he convinces Hagrid to take him up to the school to see Madam Pomfrey. He would have gone with Charlie, honestly, but figures he should probably try and adhere to Remus’ rules, and maybe avoid giving Hagrid heart failure.
Getting caught out by Charlie seems to have made Hagrid nervous, though, because he’s reluctant to agree, even with Harry promising not to go introducing himself to any more students. Hagrid does admit that because the school is so empty, what with most students home for the holidays, the hospital wing should be safe enough to venture into, especially since the minor epidemic has been largely resolved, with any stubbornly ill students shipped off home or to a magic hospital.
“We’ll be careful,” Harry pleads. “If we see anyone coming, I’ll duck behind a door or something. Go on, Hagrid, please…”
Hagrid grumbles and hums and haws, but eventually, he heaves a gusty sigh and pins Harry with an exasperated look.
“Alright, fine,” he says. “But only ‘cause I’m sure she’d like to see ya! You’ve gotta stick behind me and hide as soon as I say. Dumbledore’s told me to make sure you’re not seen, and I’ve already gone and messed that one up with Charlie. Best not risk it again. I’d better send a note to Remus…”
Harry is quick to nod his agreement. He doesn’t say that he’s very good at getting around unnoticed, or that he’s mastered the art of being overlooked, but he sure thinks it. Who would have guessed that the Dursleys would end up being good for something after all?
Hagrid really means it when he tells Harry to stick close to him; he practically tucks him into one of his coat pockets. With Hagrid’s great bulk on one side and Fang’s mass on the other, Harry can barely take a step without tripping over one limb or another.
They skulk their way up the grounds and towards the school without incident. Hagrid gets more and more paranoid the further they get, all twitchy and jumpy, ready to shove Harry behind the nearest suit of armour at the first indication of someone approaching. Thankfully, it doesn’t prove necessary, which is good, because Harry isn’t particularly eager to risk getting his shoulder dislocated.
They both seem to relax when they reach the safety of the infirmary. The door’s already cracked open, so Hagrid quickly bustles Harry inside with some final covert looks down the hallway.
“What on earth could you have gotten up to—Oh, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says, storming out from her office. The scolding look on her face abates somewhat at the sight of him. “I didn’t expect to see you today. You aren’t hurt, are you? Looking for the sweets you left behind?”
“No, Madam Pomfrey. I just wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas, since Remus says we prob’ly won’t be back until maybe January.”
She softens. “That’s nice of you, dear,” she says. “Happy Christmas to you, too. I’ll give you the sweets anyway, so long as you promise not to eat them all at once. Hop up onto this bed for me, there we are. Might as well look at you while you’re here. Are you excited for the holidays, then?”
Obediently, Harry settles himself on the indicated bed, though he only perches on the edge. Hagrid hovers some feet away, shuffling in front of Fang as if to shield him from Madam Pomfrey’s dirty looks. Dogs probably aren’t very hygienic, Harry thinks, but she doesn’t kick them out.
He submits to her exam with grudging patience, answering her prodding questions about his appetite, sleep, and the healing of various injuries. She tests the range of movement of his bad shoulder (limited, but no worse than before, just stiff) and takes a look at the new scars around his ribs (all healed, no lingering pain), all the while Hagrid distracts himself by looking around the infirmary, Fang at his heels. Harry assures the matron that Remus has been treating him very well, with no injury from the moon lasting longer than that first day, and that Harry’s considering taking over the cooking entirely at this point.
Madam Pomfrey tuts. “Maybe you should get him a cookbook for Christmas,” she says wryly. Harry blinks. Has everyone been expecting him to already know to get Remus a gift? It would have been much simpler if someone had just said something, explained all these new rules.
Finally, Madam Pomfrey gives him a clean bill of health, which he could have told her if she’d just asked, he doesn’t say.
“I’ll send you off home with some Dreamless Sleep,” Madam Pomfrey says knowingly. Harry feels himself flush. He purposely hadn’t mentioned the nightmares he’s still sometimes having. But the matron, miraculously, makes no more fuss about it. She just makes a stop at one of the big cupboards near her office to poke around the shelves, coming back with a handful of familiar phials, as well as a familiar box with a demolished stack of wizarding sweets.
“Now, you mustn’t overdo these,” she warns as if she hasn’t already given Harry and Remus this very spiel in the recent past. “The Dreamless will stop being effective with repeated use, and it’s best to go a few nights between each dose of the general sleep aid to avoid any unpleasant side effects.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Harry thinks he does a passable job of not pulling a face as he tucks the phials into his pocket. He’s grateful for Madam Pomfrey’s help, of course, and he knows that the Dreamless Sleep is pretty handy, and he knows he should really be sleeping more, but he really doesn’t like taking all these potions. It’s a stubborn, uneasy part of him that he hates, but that keeps whispering uncertainty into his ear when he sees all the strange ‘medicine’ they give him. Aunt Petunia used to give him funny ‘medicine’, too.
The sleeping potions especially remind him of when he had that splint on his hand and the pain kept him up at night, causing Uncle Vernon to complain so bad that Aunt Petunia finally shoved some of her own sleeping pills into Harry’s hand and told him to sleep it off. He’d been groggy and woozy for a full day afterwards and felt nauseous every time he laid down.
Madam Pomfrey’s potions have never made him feel like that, but he still doesn’t like it.
“How are the two of you doing for other potions?” Madam Pomfrey asks.
Harry has no idea. He doesn’t make a habit of looking in Remus’ cupboards unless he’s trying to find something edible for lunch, and it’s not like Remus keeps him updated on their inventory.
Madam Pomfrey clucks her tongue. “Well, how have you been feeling, then? You’ve still got a few weeks before the next moon, have you been feeling any ill effects yet? Nausea, headaches, fatigue? Oh, no need to look at me like that, I’ve been through all this before with Remus. He was the same. Seven years and he never made it easy on himself—refused to admit when he needed help for something. I’ll talk to him about starting you back up on the nutrition potions, at least, and—”
Harry’s sure his face must be flaming red by now. It’s just Hagrid in the room with them, but still. He’d be embarrassed even if it were just him. At least Hagrid’s politely occupied with Fang, face turned away from the bed Harry’s slowly sinking into. Maybe if he times it right, he’ll be able to sink straight through the floor without anybody noticing. A great time for some of that whatsit Remus talks about—accidental magic. Harry would kill for some accidental magic right about now.
“Poppy?” a familiar voice calls.
All at once, Harry’s breath punches out of his chest in a ginormous, relieved gust.
Remus spots him on the bed and changes course, scanning him quickly in visible concern. Harry feels leagues better as soon as Remus reaches his side. It might not be accidental magic, but he’ll take it.