Chapter 21
Remus listens to Poppy’s concerns with forged patience. He takes the potions as she offers them, making note of the doses and schedules she recommends, all the while nodding and smiling pleasantly. Harry remains a tense ball beside him, hugging his knees to his chest and glaring determinedly at the bedsheets.
Out of the corner of his eye, Remus sees Fang stick out his nose, trying to slink closer to Harry. Hagrid shuffles over a few steps, providing the dog some cover from Poppy’s shrewd eye. One of Harry’s hands slithers out to pet the beast.
“Yes, thank you, Poppy,” Remus says, slipping the last phial into his pocket. It’s started to clink faintly when he moves. “I’ll keep that all in mind. As I said, Madam Longbottom will be arranging a healer visit for Harry in the upcoming weeks, so I’ll be sure to keep us afloat until then.”
Poppy sniffs. “See that you do,” she says. “I’ve more than enough on my plate keeping the children here in one piece without worrying about students that have yet to be or have already graduated.” She levels him a weighty look.
He clears his throat. “Right,” he says, suddenly wondering just how many of those phials are really for Harry. “Well, we appreciate your efforts, of course. We should be going, anyway. Don’t want to take up too much of your holidays, now that a lot of the children are away.”
Poppy rolls her eyes. “Holidays,” she scoffs. “Please. Mark my words, I’ll have at least two in here before the week is out. No classes, no Quidditch; they tend to find their amusement in other ways, often without supervision, Merlin knows how they manage.”
Amused, Remus reckons that’s probably true. He and his friends often went home over the holidays while he was in school, except for their fifth year, when Sirius didn’t dare and Remus didn’t want to, so all four of them stayed out of solidarity. They’d had Minerva tearing her hair out by the time classes resumed, he’s sure.
“Happy Christmas, all the same,” Remus says.
Poppy sighs but bids him the same. Seeing their opening, Harry eagerly slips off the bed, herding both Fang and Remus back towards the doors. Remus waves a hasty goodbye over his head.
“I didn’t visit for a checkup,” Harry complains, safely beyond the doors. “I only meant to say hello.”
“It’s her job, I’m afraid,” Remus says. “She worries. Don’t take it personally. If we’d stayed much longer, I’m sure I’d have been up on the bed next to you.”
“Did you mean what you said, about Mrs Longbottom and a healer?” Harry asks suspiciously.
“I did. Augusta’s idea, really, but one I should have thought of myself. Poppy’s a wonderful medi-witch, but she really is busy. Besides, you’ll likely need to see one anyway before your magical custody is resolved, so it might as well be someone Augusta—and Neville—is acquainted with. Now, keep your voice down until we reach the edge of the grounds, don’t want anyone to overhear…”
Hagrid does a decent job of covering them as they leave the school, talking loudly to Fang and Remus about the current pest control initiatives he’s undertaking with Professors Sprout and Kettleburn. Apparently, giant grubs and jarveys are proving to be a real problem this year. They keep Harry in between them with his head ducked low, and keep their eyes peeled for curious students.
It makes Remus wish fiercely for James’ invisibility cloak, the first time he’s thought of the thing in years. He wonders what happened to it, whether it’s locked up in the morbid time-locked tomb that is the Potters’ home in Godric’s Hollow along with the rest of their belongings, or whether James had the forethought and good sense to store it somewhere safe, like a family vault.
In either case, they don’t have it now. Remus probably should have thought of disguising Harry before they came, or at least getting him to wear a bloody hat. He’s inexcusably rusty at this whole undercover thing.
“Thank you for the tea, Hagrid,” Remus says as they reach the edge of the grounds.
“Ah, no trouble at all,” Hagrid says, waving a hand. “Stop by any time. And you, Harry, don’t be a stranger. You can write me whenever you like. Merry Christmas.”
Harry patiently lets Hagrid ruffle his hair with a giant hand. Remus spots Harry’s knees lock into place to prevent them from buckling under him.
“Merry Christmas, Hagrid,” Harry says. He grins up at the groundskeeper, big and genuine.
“You as well, Remus,” Hagrid adds, choosing to thump him on the back. “Nice to see you both.”
Harry gives Fang some obligatory farewell scratches as Remus doublechecks his pockets to make sure nothing will go flying during their apparation. Harry pulls a face at the reminder of their travel method but obligingly steps up to Remus’ side and lets him put a tight hand on his shoulder.
“Home, then,” Remus says. And to home they go.
*
In the kitchen, they empty their pockets and pool their spoils from Madam Pomfrey’s stores. The pouch of bottles containing the coveted Wolfsbane Potion stays in Remus’ cloak for now until he finds a safe place to store it. Even without those on the table, it’s… a lot of potions. The pair of them spend a few minutes just staring at their loot in silence.
“Well,” Remus says eventually. “It’s certainly generous. We won’t need to worry about treating maladies or injuries for about—ever, really. Did she give you the same number of nutrition potions she gave me?”
Harry reaches out and pulls all of the unappetising green potions into one group. “Yes,” he says, dejected. “Do you reckon they’re all for me?”
“No,” Remus admits. “I think it’s likely a comment on my cooking skills for the both of us. Maybe I’ll try to feed us a carrot every now and then. An apple, occasionally.”
“To keep the medi-witch away,” Harry says sagely.
They look at each other. It takes approximately two seconds for them to crack, dissolving into giggles. Harry collapses into one of the dining table chairs, looking over their doubled—no, tripled—supply stores helplessly. Remus rubs his chin and thinks ruefully that he’ll have to send Poppy something for her trouble. Ogden’s finest, maybe, if he can swing it. Which, now that he thinks of it…
“We’ll have to go shopping,” he says. “Not for potions, obviously, I think we’re set for life. But clothes and things. We can pick up some presents for you to give Neville, if you like.”
Harry eyes him warily. “Really?”
Remus nods firmly. “Really. I’ve, ah—Well, I suppose you should know. Madam Longbottom’s offered to help pay for some necessities for you once the legal paperwork goes through, but I’ve also been granted permission to use one of your parents’ vaults, Harry. I say permission… It turns out that Headmaster Dumbledore has had possession of the vault key for one of the Potter trust funds, namely, the one for your schooling and general expenses. It was intended to be given to whoever was to become your guardian should your parents pass, but since you ended up with your muggle relatives, Dumbledore decided to keep hold of the key until you reached Hogwarts age and has just been paying them a stipend out of the vault directly.”
Remus does not tell Harry how outraged he’d been at this discovery, Augusta having written to him after finding out herself in the course of searching for the Potter will. He’d shared some choice words with both Dumbledore and Minerva, words which don’t bear repeating, especially to Harry. He’s still conflicted. On the one hand, it isn’t really any of his business. He’d been a friend to the Potters, certainly, but he’d never had a say over their finances, and couldn’t honestly say one way or another if they would have preferred the key be handed over to Petunia and her vile husband rather than stay in Dumbledore’s pocket. On the other hand, Remus doesn’t think Dumbledore should have been the one with the final say. He doesn’t know who should have, can’t offer a compelling alternative, but still. It rubs him the wrong way.
Augusta certainly hadn’t been impressed, he knows. From the sound of her letters, it seems like Augusta was ready to confiscate the key from Dumbledore herself if she had to. Conveniently, Dumbledore handed it over to Remus instead.
“The key’s yours, of course,” Remus hastens to add. “I don’t even have a legal claim to it as a guardian. Maybe Madam Longbottom would, once it goes through, but I doubt she’d have any inclination to it. Technically, it’s yours to do with as you want, as the only surviving heir to the Potter line. I thought we could use some of the funds to build up your wardrobe, buy some things for your room, but we don’t have to. I should be picking up some work soon, anyway.”
Harry is staring at him, so Remus makes himself stop talking.
“It’s,” Harry starts. Stops. “It’s mine? The money?”
Remus shifts nervously. “Yes. Of course. It’s only a trust fund, but once you become of age—seventeen—you’ll have access to the rest of the vaults as well. I’d never dream of interfering.”
Harry’s gone very grey in the face. If he wasn’t already sitting, Remus would be worried he might fall over.
“There’s more?” Harry whispers incredulously.
Remus blinks. Carefully pulls out a chair across from Harry to sink into. “Harry,” he says slowly. “Your father’s family is a very old one. Quite successful, at that. I don’t know what the exact number is, but there are several Potter vaults, and overall, your parents have left you quite the fortune. I doubt you’ll ever have to worry for money.”
Remus racks his brain, trying to think if he’s ever mentioned this to Harry before. Clearly, the answer is no. There’s just been so much to cover, so much Harry doesn’t already know.
Harry has gone blank in the face, staring off at a point to the left of Remus’ ear.
“I’ve never had money,” he says. “The Dursleys always said I… Called me a burden, said I was a—a drain on the house. That they paid for me out of their pockets and I never… I could have paid my own way?”
The word ‘Dursley’ is quickly becoming a curse in its own right. Harry doesn’t speak of them often, but Remus makes note whenever he does, and the disgust he feels towards them grows stronger every time. Minerva has been the recipient of several angry letters in their name, and he imagines Dumbledore has been a further recipient of her ire.
“Children aren’t meant to pay their own way,” he says gently. “That’s their guardian’s responsibility. I very much doubt you put that much of a strain on their finances. Most guardians in their position would get funding from the muggle government for looking after you, in addition to what they received from your parents’ vault.”
Harry’s nostrils flare. “Dudley always was able to get the latest gadget,” he says dully. “Even though Aunt Petunia never worked, and Uncle Vernon always complained about money and how much I ruined everything.”
Privately, Remus thinks back to what he saw of the Dursleys’ lifestyles during his visit. Fancy house with four bedrooms—and a handy cupboard, turns out—with an attic and a back garden, in a nice neighbourhood. Decent car in the driveway, two rooms full of toys, flashy telly. All on one man’s salary, supporting a stay-at-home wife and, theoretically, two children. Yes, the income they earned from housing Harry likely paid for a lot more than he cost them.
“Will you get money for looking after me?” Harry asks, pulling Remus back to his kitchen. “Like they did?”
Remus grimaces. “No. In the wizarding world, Augusta will be your official guardian, so any funding would go to her, should she want it. As for the muggle world, I’m not sure what the plan is. We’ll have to let the authorities know you’re no longer with your aunt and uncle, which means they’ll be cut off from the funding, at least, but then we’ll have to figure out who we’ll register as your guardian to the muggles. Augusta again, maybe, if she’s willing, but she’s less informed of the muggle side of things…”
“Well, why don’t we tell them you’re looking after me? It won’t matter like to the wizards, ‘cos normal people don’t know werewolves are real. Then you can get the money instead of the Dursleys. I’d rather you had it.”
“I don’t need the money, Harry,” Remus says awkwardly. “I’ve been supporting myself fine over the years. I just haven’t been able to get much work lately since I’ve been busy.”
“With me, you mean,” Harry ploughs on stubbornly. “But Remus, if I’ve got money, I can help! I wouldn’t want to with the Dursleys, not now, but I don’t mind with you. We can use my money for—for groceries, and books, and all sorts of things—”
“Harry,” Remus says loudly, cutting him off. “I appreciate the thought, I do, but no. Like I said, children aren’t meant to pay their own way. It’s my job to worry about all that. We’ll use your vault for your education, like your parents wanted, and for necessities, things like your glasses, or clothes, or maybe gifts for your friends, at least for now. None of that money is meant for me. It’s yours.”
This silences Harry again. Remus sighs and rubs his eyes.
“I’d like to get your clothes and things for you to do sooner rather than later,” he says. “You’ve been forced to wear my hand-me-downs for long enough already. We’ve got a little over a week before the next moon, but it’s best to get errands done well beforehand. If you’re up for it, we can go tomorrow.”
Since Harry still appears too gobsmacked for coherent conversation, Remus stands from his seat and starts gathering the potions spread across the table. He’ll have to figure out how to fit them all in his potions cupboard. He’s never quite mastered those extension charms.
“Remus,” Harry says in a small, quiet voice as Remus futilely tries to balance the last of the phials and bottles on the top shelf. Remus pauses, turning his head to catch Harry’s eye. He’s surprised to find the boy suddenly at his elbow, having silently left the table to hover anxiously next to him, and he jerks, just slightly.
The precariously balanced phials give up and fall off the shelf in a noisy tidal wave. Remus curses and tries to catch them, managing to stop the bulk of them. A few slip past his arm, hurtling to the floor, and he sees visions of Poppy’s dark, angry face as he tries to tell her that he’s wasted her precious and generous supply.
A small hand darts out and snags the two phials just before they hit the floor. Remus, arms full, can only watch in astonishment as Harry straightens from his sudden crouch, holding tight to the phials. He places them gently in the cupboard.
“Thank you,” Harry finishes.
*
Much to Harry’s clear chagrin, Remus puts a phial of nutrition supplement next to his glass of juice when they sit down to dinner. The meal is nothing fancy, because despite Harry’s encouragement, Remus still lacks the skills for anything better than a basic shepherd’s pie, but it has a few vegetables in it, and Harry had mentioned he liked it once.
Remus pointedly puts another nutrition potion next to his own plate. This seems to appease Harry enough that he doesn’t argue, though he does watch closely as Remus downs the potion as quickly and tastelessly as he can. In turn, Remus tries to be inconspicuous as he watches Harry do the same, sniffing unhappily before he drinks.
The shepherd’s pie had been made with the help of Harry’s directions, so it’s actually not bad. Remus still has a firm line in the sand that Harry isn’t to cook meals on his own, but he can help when Remus is especially hopeless, which seems to strike a workable balance.
“We’ll have to stop at Gringotts, the wizarding bank, first thing tomorrow,” Remus says once they’ve both made decent dents in their meals. He’s relieved to see Harry eating and slightly abashed that he hadn’t just reached out to Poppy as soon as Harry went off his food in the first place. “The goblins will need to know your identity to grant access to your vault, but we’ll disguise you so no one else recognises you.”
“Because I’m famous,” Harry says, sounding sceptical.
“Yes. If anyone realises you’re the Harry Potter, they’ll riot in the streets.” Remus smiles to soften it a little bit, but he isn’t really joking. He is not looking forward to the day that Harry’s return to the wizarding world will be public knowledge—a day that is coming far too soon, frankly. As soon as he turns eleven, people will be watching for him in every major magical establishment.
Harry looks rightfully disturbed by the thought. Likely he doesn’t know how serious Remus is; and how would he? He has no frame of reference for his own fame or for the wizarding world itself.
This will be his first true venture into the magical world, aside from Longbottom Manor and Hogwarts, technically, but those are entirely different beasts, and although Remus isn’t a muggleborn, he knows how overwhelming that can be. Remus had been kept apart from the rest of the wizarding world as much as possible as a child, and he still remembers that very first trip to Diagon Alley, the spring before his first year. The sights, the sounds, the excitement, the fear. And that had been with his parents at his side and no one knowing his name.
Remus was never meant to be the one introducing Harry to these things.
“It’ll be fine,” he says decisively. It isn’t as convincing as he’d like. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“Right,” Harry says, dubious. He pokes at his dinner.
*
Remus stores the Wolfsbane in the drawer of his nightstand. He’s never seen the potion in person before and finds himself somewhat unsettled by the sheer quantity he’s been given for only a month’s supply. Dumbledore had given him clear instructions: a cup every day for both he and Harry for the week leading up to the moon. That’s an awful lot considering it’s a highly complex potion that uses several key ingredients that could prove fatal to werewolves if brewed even slightly incorrectly—and this whole batch was made by a man who previously worked in the service of the one who killed Harry’s parents and tried to kill him—not to mention Severus’ hatred against werewolves and Remus in particular—
Remus closes the drawer quickly.
He trusts Dumbledore’s judgement. Mostly. Enough so that he doesn’t think the Headmaster would in any way risk his Potions Master poisoning Harry, if nothing else. And Remus has heard of the Wolfsbane before, had even nurtured initial hopes of procuring it for himself a few years ago, before he discovered how difficult and expensive it would be to brew. The ingredients are dangerous, yes, but so are many things used in common potions. As long as they’re made by a competent brewer, there’s nothing to fear; and Severus may be many things, but Remus knows he’s a good potions master.
Still, Remus thinks he has a right to be wary. He casts several charms on the nightstand, mainly locking and alarm spells, designed to keep Harry firmly out. The last thing they need is for Harry to go snooping and break into the volatile, untested potion that is almost certainly deadly in the amounts Remus has been given.
Harry doesn’t seem like the type of child to drink first and ask questions later, but… Remus knew James Potter far too well. He also knew Harry back when he was a toddler that endlessly caused both of his parents to tear their hair out. When it comes to raising this child, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Those safety measures in place, Remus then turns his attention to the parchment waiting for him on his bed. He eyes it warily. It’s been so long since he’s had to be so careful to choose his words when writing a letter like this, he worries he’s forgotten how. He worries he hasn’t forgotten at all.
He's settled on writing to the least contentious of his contacts, mostly just to appease Dumbledore’s requests without unnecessarily drawing undue attention to himself and to Harry. The last time he saw Sara, they’d parted on decently neutral terms with the unspoken agreement not to rat each other out no matter what side won the war. He hasn’t seen or spoken to her since and can’t imagine she’ll be pleased to hear from him now.
Still, she’s his best choice. He picks up his quill.