Chapter 23
Remus hasn’t much celebrated holidays in the past few years. His parents would sometimes do something small for birthdays and Christmas, but that sort of petered out once his mother got really ill, and his father didn’t see much point after she passed. By then, Remus had been in his later years at Hogwarts and often chose to stay at school over the winter hols or, on one occasion, to go home with James for their birthdays.
Once graduated, Remus spent holidays either at the Potters’ or out on one of the Order’s missions, under an alias and too on-guard to take notice of the dates.
After the war, well. Remus never saw much point in the hassle without much payoff. No friends to celebrate with, no gifts to exchange. It seemed more depressing than festive, so he just didn’t bother.
Now, though, he’s trying to make more of an effort, for Harry’s sake. They have a bare little tree in the sitting room dug out from the attic, and Remus is doing his best to forget how he came in possession of it.
(That last year of the war, when everyone was too busy and too cautious for extended celebrations, so he saw little of his friends. Sirius showing up on his doorstep with a bottle of Firewhiskey, clucking over the lack of decorations. Waking up the next morning with a dragon of a hangover, finding the sitting room covered in hasty DIY banners and garlands, tiny tree in the middle with a handful of newspaper-wrapped gifts underneath.
There’s a reason Remus shoved the tree in the attic and didn’t look at it for ten years.)
“D’you have any ornaments?” Harry asks guilelessly.
They’ve been having a good morning, all things considered, with Harry clearing his plate at breakfast and asking Remus what games he knows how to play with his new muggle playing cards. It’s been a few days since their trip to London, and either Harry’s recovered from the less than stellar reception in Diagon or he’s good at hiding it. Remus, rather uneasily, finds that he isn’t sure which to believe as more likely.
“Er,” Remus says. “I might have, once upon a time. Afraid I’m not sure where they’ve gone to, now. We’ll just have to make some of our own.”
Harry wrinkles his nose. “Like paper snowflakes?”
“If you like. I thought more magic, though. Here, go grab some bits and bobs around the place, anything small that we won’t miss for a few weeks.”
Harry dutifully scavenges around the cottage, ducking in and out of mostly his room and the kitchen. While he’s occupied, Remus takes up his own position in the kitchen, deciding they might as well commit to the idea if they’re going to be decorating. He draws out a pot, the milk, and his stash of Honeydukes chocolate that he replenishes once a year when he can afford it. It’s typically for special occasions—or the very worst of occasions—but he and Harry’s first Christmas together might as well qualify as the former. Even if it isn’t technically Christmas just yet.
Remus is just pouring the chocolate into two mugs when Harry pops back up again, pockets full.
“Let’s see your spoils, then,” Remus prompts, clearing a space on the table.
Harry withdraws a balled-up pair of socks (thankfully clean), a few green plastic muggle army men he’d bought on their trip to London, two pieces of a broken quill, and various other nondescript items. It looks more like a pile of rubbish than anything worth putting on a tree, and based on Harry’s dubious look, he’s seriously questioning Remus’ vision.
Remus contemplates the loot as he gently nudges Harry’s mug closer to him. Harry takes a cautious sip and blinks in surprise, likely at both the fact it’s cool enough to drink—courtesy of a wandless cooling charm—and that it’s significantly better quality than the last time Remus made hot chocolate.
“This should do us, I think,” Remus says. “Might not have the best-looking tree. You know how spotty my transfiguration can be, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
“It’ll be great,” Harry says decisively. “Fancy trees are rubbish anyway. Aunt Petunia always had a theme for hers and colour-coordinated it with her holiday dress. No one was allowed to touch anything.”
“Well, ours certainly won’t be colour-coordinated,” Remus says. “A theme, maybe, if the theme is household objects.”
Harry grins into his mug. Remus sips from his own. The chip in the rim scratches at his lip.
Remus pulls out his wand and starts prodding experimentally at the socks. They switch from black to red. He prods them again and they grow uneven patches of shiny fur.
“I’ve never decorated a tree before,” Harry says, casually offhand.
“I don’t suppose your aunt wanted anyone to interfere with her plans,” Remus says mildly.
Harry shakes his head. “Not even Dudley. But ‘least he could help with other things. Aunt Petunia didn’t even like me in the living room at all when the decorations were out, not even to dust or hoover! She said I’d ruin the tree or the presents.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“S’okay. I didn’t want to mess with their tree anyway. ‘Sides, it meant I didn’t have to clean the living room while it was up. And now I’m with you, so we can decorate your tree.”
“However we like,” Remus agrees. “Our tree, our rules. Now, what do you want to do for the army men?”
*
The decorations at Longbottom Manor put Remus’ humble attempts to shame.
As soon as they step out of the Floo, they’re greeted by a towering tree, barely visible through the sparkling glass baubles, shimmery garland, and array of tiny, delicate candles. As a proud, if more modern-thinking pureblood matriarch, Augusta hasn’t gone in for the kind of gaudy decorations that are common in the muggle world, but she’s clearly made some concessions to differ from tradition, likely for Neville’s sake. It looks like Alice’s influence still has a place in her son’s life, as she and Lily used to try and sway their pureblood husbands’ families into embracing more of the muggle traditions. It’s nice to see.
Admittedly, it’s even nicer to see that Harry, while clearly awed by the display, doesn’t seem put out like he’s comparing the manor and the cottage and finding the latter lacking.
“Can you make those?” Harry asks, peering at the iridescent bubbles perched strategically on some of the branches. As they watch, the bubbles start slowly moving, migrating from one point to the next in a captivating display.
“Yes, though I’d have to brush up on my charms,” Remus says. “I think I remember your father and Neville’s flooding the Gryffindor sixth year dorms with ones like these, though. I believe they made them quite a bit bigger in red and gold. House pride, they called it.”
Harry grins. “Brilliant,” he says approvingly. “I like our army men, though.”
They’d elected not to transfigure the toys, having instead changed them to a variety of colours and then stuck them in their small tree wherever they’d fit. Once they’d finished, Harry had taken a step back to assess their work, ultimately declaring that Petunia Dursley would have hated it. That had been worth a toast of more hot chocolate.
“Harry!”
They both start, sheepishly caught. Neville stands under the archway leading deeper into the manor.
“Gran thought that was you arriving,” he says. “Best come along before she thinks you’re lurking. It’s good to see you! And you, Mr Lupin, sir.” His cheeks flush a bit pink, manners clearly forgotten.
“Hullo, Neville,” Harry says. “Happy Christmas, nearly.”
They find Augusta waiting for them in the parlor. She has tea and scones already out, and this room, too, is tastefully decorated. There’s another tree of a more reasonable size tucked in one corner, hung with more colourful and child-friendly ornaments, a neat stack of presents underneath. The two windows along the wall have been spelled with a charming frosted effect, artistic snowflakes slowly drifting across the glass, and a framed picture of Frank and Alice takes a place of prominence, highlighted by the light of the candles on the tree.
“I see you’re wearing new dress robes, Harry,” Augusta comments once they’ve run through the usual pleasant greetings. She nods at Harry approvingly. “They look very nice.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Harry says politely. “Remus helped me pick them out. I still can’t really tell the difference between good and bad robes.”
“You will learn,” she says. “The more time you spend in the magical world, the more you’ll grow accustomed. It will all be second nature to you, no worries about that. In the meantime, if you have any questions, you can always ask Neville.”
The boys share a look. Remus doesn’t think they’re in any danger of this buddy system failing.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Remus says. “We haven’t had much chance to leave the house, other than our visit to Diagon. I know Harry was excited to see Neville before Christmas got too close.”
Or the moon not long after Christmas, he thinks. The pre-moon ill effects haven’t hit them yet, and Remus is hopeful they’ll make it through the holiday itself before it starts to wear them down, but it’s always hard to say for sure.
“I suspect that’s for the best,” Augusta sighs. “I haven’t been much to Diagon myself, can’t do with the bustle of it anymore, but I’ve certainly heard some things that raise concern. The public is always so terribly excitable. I don’t imagine the Alley took too kindly to either of you.”
Remus grimaces. “Not really, no,” he says. “We weren’t decried in the street, but we had a few closer looks than I would have liked. No one recognised Harry, though, so I suppose that’s the best we could hope for. I think we’ll be careful where we go out to from now on.”
It’s why he agreed to meet with the Longbottoms before Christmas despite being apprehensive after their last excursion. He knows better than most what it’s like to be confined to your home for your own safety, and he doesn’t want that isolation for Harry. Remus found his friends to be invaluable when he was younger, and so when Harry tentatively asked if he and Madam Longbottom could arrange something, he didn’t have the heart to say no, even if being out of the house and away from their wards makes him anxious.
If they’re going to need to stick close to home for the foreseeable future, he may as well let Harry out when he can.
Besides, it’s Christmas. And looking at Harry now, engrossed in whispered conversation with Neville, heads ducked together, Remus decides it’s worth the risk if it means Harry gets to have some kind of relationship with at least one other child his age. Ever since he was bitten, he’s been largely stuck with adult witches and wizards, which he imagines must be hell for a ten-year-old.
Admittedly, it being Longbottom Manor and likely just as warded, if not more so, than Remus’ cottage does ease his concerns a fair bit.
“Well, you are both welcome here,” Augusta says. “Excellent thinking with Gringotts. Having Harry request a copy of the will directly should bypass that ridiculous Ministry red tape. If all goes well, I’ve been told the next step will be interviews with someone from the relevant departments, child safety and placement or some such. They will want to speak to both myself and Harry, and perhaps Neville.”
Neither boy responds to the sound of their names, which Remus takes to mean that they’ve thoroughly forgotten the adults’ existence. If anything, this is reassuring, as it means Harry feels comfortable enough to not carefully monitor their conversation for hint of landmines.
“It all seems a bit unnecessary, if you ask me,” Augusta sniffs. “I never had this much trouble when I took over guardianship of Neville. If Frank and Alice were still of sound mind, they’d have assumed care of Harry and adopted him into the Longbottom line just the same without half as much hassle.”
“I appreciate all you’re doing to help Harry,” Remus says.
He really means it, too. He was nervous when the idea was first suggested, but he honestly doesn’t know how he’d weather the political storm doubtlessly on the horizon when the public finds out that Harry isn’t the child hero they’ve been picturing, without Augusta’s backing. If pressed, he probably could have disappeared into the muggle world to keep Harry safe, but that would only last so long. Eventually, Harry would have to re-enter the magical world for school, unless Remus planned to keep him away from Hogwarts.
Augusta sips at her tea. “As I’ve told you before, I uphold the Longbottom debts. If nothing else, Lily Potter was a fine witch, and her and James’ sacrifice saved our world from a lot more suffering, even if it was too late for Frank and Alice. Besides,” she adds, “I admit to some satisfaction in circumventing Cornelius’ ridiculous new werewolf rulings.”
Having Harry’s official guardian be someone on the Wizengamot can’t hurt either, Remus thinks wryly. It’ll certainly provide him an added layer of protection that Remus can’t give him.
“Gran,” Neville interjects tentatively. “May Harry and I be excused? I’d like to show him Dad’s chess set, and I’ve promised to teach him some other wixen games. He doesn’t know a lot of them.”
Remus catches Augusta giving her grandson an almost indulgent look. Almost, because he can’t imagine Augusta Longbottom being anything other than stern and proper with anybody, even Neville. Still, it definitely seems like she smiles, just a little.
“Very well. Be careful with the pieces, you know how enthusiastic they get.”
Before they go running off to cause doubtless mayhem—under the house-elves’ watchful eyes, most likely—Harry lingers for a moment, looking at Remus beseechingly.
Remus gives him a smile of his own. “Have fun.”
That, it seems, is all that Harry needs to hear. He and Neville leave so quickly Remus is almost surprised they don’t see smoke at their heels.
“I’m glad they get along,” Augusta says. “Neville has always been so withdrawn from other children his age. He used to spend time with some of the older Abbott cousins, and he’s passably acquainted with the Macmillan children, but he never grew very close to them. Much different from his father, of course; Frank was always very sociable, even as a boy.”
“I don’t believe Harry’s had many friends either,” Remus says. “At least, not that he’s mentioned to me. He likes spending time with Neville.”
“Have you considered introducing him to other families?” Augusta asks. “Expanding his social circle before he reaches Hogwarts will be the best way to prepare him, not to mention cultivating allies.”
Remus shifts uneasily. “No,” he admits. “Not really. I understand that a boy his age needs friends, but I’m… hesitant. His name alone would be enough to warrant caution, but the risk of someone finding out about the lycanthropy, particularly now, is just too high.”
Augusta makes a considering noise. “It is your choice, as his primary guardian,” she says pointedly. “I understand your concerns, but I would suggest at least considering some families, those that can be trusted with this sort of information. I am happy that Neville and Harry are fostering a friendship, but it would be a shame if it discouraged them from connecting with others once they go to school.”
“Of course.”
They work quietly through their tea for some minutes, finishing off the pot and a few more of the sandwiches. Harry and Neville already demolished the plate of Christmas biscuits that had been set aside, leaving only green and red crumbs.
Remus wonders how Harry is making out with the wizard’s chess. He wonders how Neville is doing with the muggle card games. He’d much rather be playing games with the children than sitting here making responsible adult conversation. He may have been considered the mature one amongst his friends, back in the day, but that hadn’t exactly been a high standard to meet.
“How did Harry find Diagon?” Augusta asks eventually. Her eyes have strayed to the picture of Frank and Alice on the windowsill. They’re smiling and waving, young and unconcerned. Newlyweds with their futures ahead of them, Neville barely even a thought on the horizon. “It was his first trip, was it not?”
“That’s right,” Remus says. “Other than a few unfortunate instances, I think he was quite taken by it. He was very interested in the Quidditch shop, though he seemed eager to explore all of them the same. The first moment when we went through and he saw it fully—I don’t think I’ll forget the look on his face.”
He smiles faintly just at the memory. Seeing Harry’s awe at the type of magic that’s largely considered ordinary and everyday often reminds him how wonderful it can really be. His mother had been the same.
“A special moment for every magical child,” Augusta sighs. “I still remember taking Frank to get his wand. It will be just as special to take Neville for his school supplies, but it won’t be the same, knowing I am not the one that should be there with him.”
“No,” Remus agrees, smile falling. “As happy as I am to introduce Harry to these things… James and Lily should have been the ones to take him to Diagon, should be the ones to wave him off the train to Hogwarts in the fall.”
Remus still remembers James and Lily’s excitement at—well, everything to do with Harry. From the moment they’d announced the pregnancy, Remus had known that Harry would want for nothing. He’d be loved and cared for and spoiled completely rotten. James would teach him how to fly, Lily would teach him chess, they’d both introduce him to more friends than he could keep up with, and he’d have plenty of aunts and uncles to sneak him treats and let him get away with murder.
Except, of course, Remus had been wrong. Harry had none of those things. Instead, he had Remus, living in a shabby cottage on a shoestring budget, enduring werewolf transformations every full moon for the rest of his life, without even the memory of his loving parents to soften it all.
It's far from a fair trade. He hopes James and Lily know he’s trying as much as he can, even if it’s several years too late.
“I’ve done what I can to make sure Neville knows his parents,” Augusta says. She’s drawn herself up now, far away look safely tucked away. Augusta, Remus remembers not for the first time, is in arguably the best position to help him navigate this whole ‘raising his friends’ orphaned child’ thing. “I tell him stories, tell him what his father was like growing up, what I knew of Alice after they wed. I hope these things will inspire him to work hard, to achieve his full potential just as Frank did—but I suppose Neville’s still a bit too young to grasp these things. He will, in time. We visit them, you know, every Christmas. The occasional birthday.”
Remus starts. Augusta eyes him knowingly.
“Sometimes it feels as if they died that night,” she says bluntly. “But no, they’re in a permanent ward of St Mungo’s, open for family visitors. I ensure they get the utmost care.”
Remus clears his throat. “Of course,” he says awkwardly.
Truthfully, while he’s known for years that Frank and Alice are still alive, it has never really occurred to him to wonder what became of them after the attack. He cut himself off so thoroughly from what little remained in the wizarding world after the war, it had just been easier to treat everyone from his life before as just as dead as James and Peter.
The idea that Frank and Alice, brave and decent people who he has fond, if few, memories of, have spent the past almost decade in a healing ward with few sporadic visitors… Well. It seems as if he’ll never stop finding new reasons to regret his choices.
“I think the visits do Neville good,” Augusta continues. “It may not be the same, but he gets to see them, gets to know them as real people, as the war heroes they are. He gets dreadfully quiet after the visits, but some introspection isn’t a bad thing.”
Remus can’t even imagine. Seeing his own mother’s health deteriorate growing up had been hard enough. In the end, it had almost been a relief when she’d finally slipped away, guilty as that made him feel. He remembers reading that letter from his father, brief and to the point, without even mention of a funeral. Even still, he at least has memories of her from before she got so ill, while Neville doesn’t even have that much.
Neville, never knowing his parents as they had been, only as ill as they are now. Harry, never knowing his parents at all. It makes Remus feel very tired and very old.
*
Augusta treats them to a lovely dinner. The food is rich and delicious, potatoes and gravy, beautifully roasted beef, a wide array of side dishes that Remus himself can only recognise a handful of at first glance. It isn’t quite a full Christmas spread, but the Longbottom house-elves have clearly thrown themselves into this meal. He sees Harry practically bug-eyed, utterly overwhelmed. Remus sympathises.
He and Harry are hardly starving—and what Harry gets at home now is a damn sight better than at the Dursleys’, Remus knows—but Remus would have to save for months to get even half this elaborate a spread.
“Whoa,” Harry says, so low that Remus is likely the only one to hear it.
Harry doesn’t end up clearing his plate, but he happily takes one serving of dessert and splits another with Neville. Remus doesn’t even need to break out the appetite stimulant he’d tucked in his pocket just in case, which is gratifying. The longer they can go without needing to restock from Poppy, the better.
Over their food, the boys tell them about their adventures in wizard’s chess and muggle cards.
“I’m not very good at chess,” Harry admits freely. “I lost every game ‘scept for one, and I think that’s because we tipped over the board and the pieces kept lying about where they’d been before.”
“My pieces never went where I told them to,” Neville says. “I only won because they played for me.”
“You’ve got to be firm with them,” Augusta advises. “Have confidence and make them take your directions.”
Neville frowns down at his peas. “My directions were bad,” he laments quietly. Harry pulls a sympathetic face in his direction.
Luckily, they had a bit more fun with the playing cards, even though neither of them really know many games. Remus had attempted to show Harry cribbage some days ago, based on his own fuzzy memories playing with his mother and, later, Lily and Sirius, but it hadn’t taken.
Nonetheless, Harry and Neville seem pleased enough with their afternoon. It’s nice to see Harry talk so happily with Neville, for once like a normal child with normal concerns on his too small shoulders, and Neville seems to straighten more and more in his chair the longer they chat away.
After dinner, they exchange gifts. Neville hurries over to the tree in the corner to scoop up some of the presents waiting underneath, while Remus reaches into his pocket and withdraws Harry’s travel bag, unshrinking it and handing it over so that Harry can dig out his own parcels, of which he spent the past several days agonising over.
“You can only open them on Christmas,” Neville says apologetically. “Gran’s rules.” He gives Harry two wrapped gifts, and then, with a covert look at Remus, another, slightly bulkier one in blue paper instead of glossy red. Harry quickly stashes this blue one in his bag.
To Remus’ surprise, Neville then hands him a small gift as well.
“Oh,” he says dumbly. “Thank you, Neville. You didn’t have—”
“It’s from me and Gran,” Neville says quickly, eyes glued to the floor. He shuffles back a few steps, round face turning pink again. “S’only fair, you looking after Harry and all.”
Remus is painfully glad that he’d thought to pick up something for Augusta, admittedly with Harry’s, ah, financial contribution. He isn’t exactly proud that a ten-year-old had to help him pay for a gift, but Harry hadn’t even batted an eye—he’d been the one to suggest it.
(It reminds Remus of his schooldays, James and Sirius easily and happily picking up quills and books and sweets for him, unheeding of any embarrassed protests. They’d never treated it as a big deal, as something to be embarrassed of, just as blithely unfazed as Harry. Nevermind that it really should be the other way around.)
Harry presents Neville with the lumpy gift Remus had helped him wrap last night. It’s not nearly as neat and pretty as the ones they’ve been given—the wrapping paper is old parchment and Prophets that Remus transfigured into something more festive, and they’d quickly learned that neither of them are very good at the wrapping itself—but Neville’s face lights up all the same. Harry’s sacrificed his remaining store of wizarding candy for Neville’s presents, as well as a variety of muggle sweets he picked out carefully in London, and a muggle gardening book from a second-hand shop, because Harry said Neville would probably get a kick out of it.
Harry then gives Augusta her gift, a small thing that fits into the palm of her hand. It’s a brooch enchanted with standard but intricate protective and detection spells, styled in the dominant colours of both the Longbottom and Potter crests. She doubtlessly has many trinkets more valuable and useful, but it’s a decent display of gratitude on Harry’s part.
Augusta raises an eyebrow and thanks him politely, nodding towards Remus as well. She has Neville cart it and his gift back over to the tree, while Harry keeps his gifts in his lap, running his fingers absent-mindedly over the crinkling paper.
All told, it’s a pleasant evening. They stay for an hour or so longer, Neville and Harry roping Remus into a game of cards under Augusta’s faintly disapproving but amused eye, and they only start packing up to leave when Harry cracks his jaw yawning for the second time in a single game.
Remus fastens the top of Harry’s traveling cloak, pries his travel bag from his hands long enough to shrink it and the packages inside to slip into his pocket, and nudges Harry to say his goodbyes. Harry exchanges an awkward sort of handshake with Neville, the pair of them smiling sheepishly.
“I’ll send you an owl once I know when the interviews are being scheduled,” Augusta says, allowing Remus to lightly clasp her arm farewell. “Until then, have a good holidays, Remus. And you, Harry. If you keep writing Neville as you have been, we may need to invest in an owl for yourself, hm?” She’s teasing, mostly, Remus thinks, but honestly, it’s hard to tell. Especially when it comes to older families with money to spare.
Harry blushes. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Thank you very much for having us. See you, Nev.”
On the way back to the Floo, escorted by Tilly, Remus sees Harry pause to spare another look for the elaborate tree. The light of the candles and softly glowing bubbles reflects off his glasses and in the green of his eyes. He yawns again.
“Come on, then,” Remus says, taking a pinch of Floo powder. “Let’s head home.”