Awakenings
Chapter 1 — The Invisible Family Member
By Lady Alchymia
Harry Potter could be very quiet — and still, which was lucky because right at the minute he was under his Invisibility Cloak, spying on his Aunt Petunia and hoping the telephone would ring again. He wouldn’t ordinarily give a toss about his aunt’s social life but for four words, fiercely whispered, still ringing in his ears, "Stay away from Harry!"
The calls started the moment Harry arrived home from Hogwarts and persisted for the next three days at odd times of the day and night. Confronting his aunt yielded nothing — she insisted Harry was imagining things. Uncle Vernon supported his wife, observing that ‘the boy’s freaky friends’ were too thick to use a telephone. Given past evidence, Harry found this difficult to refute.
On the third evening, Harry narrowly beat his constantly vigilant aunt to the phone only to hear a weighty silence — followed by a click. His efforts earned him a clip across the ear and banishment to his bedroom for the rest of the week. Aunt Petunia even bit her own son’s head off at one point — until she realised he wasn’t Harry. Profuse apologies, twenty pounds, and the promise of a triple-tier chocolate cake pacified an impressively indignant Dudley. Bizarre as it was to be mistaken for his elephantine cousin, Harry was more curious than concerned. Just a month shy of his sixteenth birthday, he’d been hunted all his life and found it difficult to be frightened of a foe polite enough to call ahead first.
Hiding now in his aunt’s kitchen, squatting beside a cupboard chock-full of health-food treats, Harry knew there was no place in the world that could possibly be safer for him. Dumbledore had seen to that. It wasn’t a particularly cheery thought. Yet as safe as Harry was, his current situation was not without its perils: if he heard Greensleeves one more time, he thought he just might invite a couple of Dementors to tea.
"Alas, my love, you do me wrong," she wailed tunelessly, "to cast me off discourteously, for I have loved you well and long, delighting in your company …"
Harry tried plugging his ears. It didn’t help. The electric mixer didn’t think much of its mistress’s singing either and aggressively drowned her out, giving the boy some respite. Invisible, he resumed clinically appraising his aunt. It was odd seeing her alone. Not once all morning had anything pinched her nose, or creased her brow, or sucked in her breath. On the contrary she looked — though Harry hated to admit it — perfectly happy. Just a normal mum going about her business, mixing batter for a cake Harry knew he would only ever smell.
The electric mixer ground to a halt, leaving the kitchen silent and full of enticing aromas that hung upon the air, just itching for a pair of nostrils to twitch. Hermione once tried to convince Ron and Harry that smelling food was even better than eating it. Neither Harry nor Ron thought much of that idea. Smells aside, Harry’s hamstrings were killing him. Why had he thought squatting was a good idea? He awkwardly tried to shift his weight without his trainers squeaking on the pristine linoleum. A shrill ringing split the scented air, shattering Aunt Petunia’s serenity and jerking Harry to his feet. It was them.
"I told you last night he’s perfectly fine!" she snapped into the telephone handset, her knuckles white around her chocolate covered spatula. "I’m not going to allow — don’t give me that — you know very well this is the safest place for him! He doesn’t need you, and I won’t have you meddling with my family! … Don’t you think I know that? … Yes, well, your Professor Dumbledore was good enough to remind me."
Harry blinked as the penny dropped; he realised now it was just the Order of the Phoenix checking up on him. The mystery solved he was left merely mildly surprised any of them finally worked out how to use a ‘feletone’.
"I’m well aware of that!" Aunt Petunia said angrily. A frustrated swish of her spatula sent chocolate flicking onto Harry’s cloak. Harry hastily hid the stain. "No, absolutely not! You know the agreement; if he wants to contact you, he will. Just stay away from me and mine! That’s my last word! I’m serious! … See that you do! Goodbye! And don’t call here again!"
Breathing hard, Aunt Petunia banged the phone down and glared at it for long moment, just to be sure. Rage inflated her chest again: chocolate could be seen insolently dribbling down her refrigerator.
Narrowly missing the woman who might have been a real mother to him, Harry slipped back to his room, sucked the chocolate right off his Invisibility Cloak and penned a short note to Remus Lupin, saying he was just fine and that the Order didn’t need to worry about him. Funnily enough there were no more phone calls, yet Harry took to wearing his Cloak more often. Invisible, he was spared the usual dark looks, the resentful mutterings, the bitter sufferance of his existence. Invisible, he could also mess with his family’s heads.
Remote controls mysteriously disappeared. Drinks tipped into laps. Radio stations persistently drifted into static. Keys were forever being found in the first place Uncle Vernon looked (but only after a two-hour search). Invisible, Harry could watch the nightly news in peace, and even the odd movie, as he helped himself to Dudley’s chocolate sultanas. Invisible, Harry overheard his family’s excited plans for a Christmas holiday together in Australia, "Look, Duddikins, they have whale watching!" Harry nearly choked on a sultana.
Initially amusing, three days of silently dogging the Dursleys started to get to Harry. Even Dudley’s spoilt-brat antics weren’t enough to disguise how happy they all were when their houseguest wasn’t around. They didn’t even complain to each other about him; Harry wasn’t invisible, he just didn’t exist. It was a whole new kind of lonely.
There seemed no point in leaving his room any more, and the darkness that had been confined to his nightly terrors slowly stretched its tentacles into the stifling summer days. If it wasn’t losing Sirius, or being tortured by Voldemort, it was Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Witch who killed her cousin and the last of Harry’s true family in one vicious red hex. But for all of his righteous anger, how had he punished her? For all of two seconds he’d knocked her off her feet. Just thinking of how useless he’d been that night made Harry’s insides fizz and ferment like rotten fruit left in the baking sun. Maybe some day he’d be able to do more than buy a few seconds grace to run away from danger, but what then? He’d hated Lestrange with every fibre of his being, and yet it was barely enough to give her a headache. What kind of demon did he need to awaken in himself to turn murderer?
When sleep claimed him that night, Harry’s head was still full of Lestrange. Her laughter cackled deep inside his mind, filling him with venom. He tore after her down a cavernous tunnel, his eyes wild and bloody, his hair lengthening into whips that cracked the air. She wouldn’t escape him this time! Legs pounding, robes billowing, he leapt through a fire-filled gorge, landing cat-like on a narrow rock bridge. His prey stumbled and fell. He had her now! He wrenched back her hood. Flames exploded left and right; they illuminated a terrified face.
"NO!" screamed Harry. He woke sweating and shaking. The image of his mother’s face would haunt him for days.
Sleep was his enemy. He lay miserably in the heat and the dark until the dawn came and with it his copy of the Daily Prophet. He paid the delivery owl, glanced at the front page just long enough to see that the world hadn’t ended again, and flopped back onto his bed. The ‘Chosen One’ they were calling him. What would they do, he wondered, if the Chosen One just disappeared — just vanished, like Sirius did when fleeing Britain on Buckbeak? He’d gone somewhere tropical, Harry recalled, given the birds that delivered his letters. The smallest spark of curiosity stirred, catching Harry off guard. Sirius said no one had any chance at all of finding him there.
From beneath his trusty loose floorboard, Harry unburied his small treasure of old letters and birthday cards and found the first letter Sirius ever sent him. He’d read it so many times he knew it by heart. Re-reading it anyway, a rare smile tempted his lips. He could just see Snuffles lounging about in some deserted island paradise, sipping from coconut shells decorated with little umbrellas. Harry’s smile distorted into something remote from pleasure. It was him, Harry, blabbing about his scar hurting that dragged Sirius back to Britain, back to danger. And it all started with this first letter, and an offer Harry didn’t have the strength to resist:
If ever you need me, send word. Your owl will find me.
In the pale dawn light, Harry’s fingers followed the folds of the old letter, felt the ink caked here and there on the stiff parchment. Almost seriously, he wondered what would happen if he wrote a letter and threw it, like a paper aeroplane, through the black veil. Would Sirius be able to read it? Harry’s lips moistened over his furry un-brushed teeth at the thought. There was so much he never got a chance to say.
On the back of Sirius’s envelope, Harry wrote one line then another and another, and then he just couldn’t stop. His quill blackened the envelope with words that ran over and through each other in every direction until the inkwell was sucked dry and his fingertips were as black as his memories.
A soft hoot sounded; Hedwig was back. Harry didn’t even hear her leave. He glanced at his clock, startled to see that several hours had passed. And what did he have to show for it? A dark mess of soggy scribbles. Hedwig hopped onto the desk and nudged the wet envelope with her foot, her disappointment evident. Harry couldn’t really blame her. But even if he could compose his thoughts properly, and even if he could somehow get a message through the veil, did he seriously expect a reply? At least with the two-way mirror there’d been a chance of speaking with Sirius again.
"Ow!"
It was the first word he’d spoken in days. He rubbed his knuckle and eyed Hedwig reproachfully. Harry knew she wanted him to write a proper letter to someone, but he didn’t want his friends’ pity. They’d listen, he knew, but then they’d want to ‘fix’ him. And Harry wasn’t of a mind to be fixed. Below stairs, he could hear his Muggle family in motion: Uncle Vernon readying himself for another drilling day, Dudley whining about grapefruit. Harry and his dreary day plodded along, consuming a little food and a lot of sitting about on the bed. Hedwig was growing increasingly agitated, and when she flew out that afternoon Harry didn’t see her again for two days. When she returned, it was clear where she’d been: Hermione’s handwriting was all too familiar.
Dear Harry,
I hope this letter finds you well and that your family took to heart what the Order said and are treating you better this summer. And I trust you have been practicing your Occlumency, because you know how important it is that your mind stays empty.
I know you must be going mad with boredom, so I did some research and found something fun and educational for you to do whilst strengthening your mind. The instructions are in the box. I haven’t tried them myself, but Professor Dumbledore recommended them for developing Mind Arts, so they must be good.
Write and let me know how you go and if you need anything at all. And remember, the summer won’t last forever.
Lots of love,
Hermione
It was with some trepidation Harry opened her packages: his and Hermione’s ideas of ‘fun’ were usually several planets apart. The first seemed harmless enough: just a selection of drawing pads. The second was box of three-inch long sticks of charcoal. Taking one, Harry doodled aimlessly on one of the pads. He knew Hedwig was watching him. He could well-imagine her nipping at Hermione’s fingers, and his doodle started taking on the shape of the owl’s face. He stopped after a few moments, startled to see how good the drawing looked, and that Hedwig’s etched face was moving just slightly — like a newspaper photograph. He glanced at the instructions:
‘… with Charmed Charcoals you must picture your subject very clearly in your mind, the more precise the image the finer the result. But it’s not enough to concentrate on just an image, you must connect emotionally with your subject as well. Emotional certitude is key. Then let your hand relax — don’t try to force it. It may help to close your eyes ...’
Turning to a new page, Harry tried thinking about Hermione. It was a sunny summer day, so he was confident her slim nose would be shaded by a great big book. Settling on that familiar image, he picked up a fresh charcoal and concentrated on the shape of her face, the play of light and shadow on her cheeks, the direction and intensity of her gaze. That part turned out to be easier than Harry thought: Severus Snape forced so many memories out of him during his useless Occlumency lessons that Harry’s mind had inadvertently become highly adept at retrieving them. He checked the instructions again. He wasn’t sure what ‘emotional certitude’ meant, so he just thought hard about how much Hermione meant to him and how scared he’d been when she was knocked out in the Department of Mysteries. Before he realised what was happening, his hand was hovering over the paper.
Harry drew for an hour, pausing only for fresh charcoals. When his hand finally stopped, he took a good look for the first time at the whole picture and was delighted. The moment was captured perfectly. Turning to a new sheet, he thought of Ron and remembered the moment when he told him Gryffindor won the last Quidditch Cup. On finishing Ron’s picture, he grinned at the sheer joy on his face. His mood improving the longer he thought about his best friends, Harry stared for a long while at the next pristine page. He wanted to draw Sirius, but it was hard to think of him without seeing him falling through the veil. Closing his eyes, he let his hand drift freely, finding its own way. At last, his hand stopped of its own accord. Harry opened his eyes and immediately regretted it.
Sick to his stomach, he stared not into Sirius’s face, but into the demon-face of his nightmares — his own face — bloodied and savage, consumed with hate and rage. Before he could even get his head around what he was seeing, a horrified scream sounded. Harry raced into the hall, his wand at the ready — and quite unnecessary.
Remus Lupin, looking as painfully neat and clean as one could possibly be in decades-old clothing, stood on the doorstep smiling pleasantly at a furious Petunia Dursley. Uncle Vernon was at work; Dudley was off with his mates; Harry, perched on the stairs, held his breath.
"Get in, get in!" Aunt Petunia said, yanking Lupin inside and shutting the door with enough enthusiasm to frighten the glass.
"Hello, Harry," Lupin said.
Harry attempted a smile; he had a feeling it didn’t work too well.
"Get back to your room," shot Aunt Petunia, adding for Lupin’s benefit, no doubt, "where it’s safe."
"You can’t keep me from —" Harry started angrily, but he broke off at a look from Lupin.
"I have a few matters to discuss with your aunt, Harry," he said lightly. "Perhaps we might have a chat afterwards. I’ll come upstairs — where it’s safe."
Although burning with curiosity, Harry bid a tactical retreat to his room, where the first thing he did was rip out and set alight his last drawing. So much for ‘fun and educational’, Harry thought grimly as he watched his demonic face reduce to ashes in his fingertips.
He briefly contemplated digging out his Firebolt but knew that if Lupin were here to escort him anywhere he wouldn’t have come alone. The man clearly only wanted to chat, and Harry could guess what about. Already on edge, he rubbed dirty fingers through his grotty hair. Maybe there was going to be a funeral, but with no body to bury, that seemed pretty pointless to Harry. Suddenly aware he was about to have a visitor, he made a token effort to tidy his room, shoving two weeks of discarded newspapers under the bed and dirty clothes under the blankets. He couldn’t do much about the smell: the window was already open as wide as it would go; the western sun merely thickened the air and rendered visible grubby fingerprints on dirty glasses and plates on the desk.
Tap. Tap.
"Come in," Harry said at once.
Looking as faded and worn as the room he was entering, Remus Lupin smiled warmly at his former student. Harry had never had a proper guest in his room and waved self-consciously towards the bed, which was now looking rather lumpy.
"Have a seat," Harry said.
Lupin gave no indication of discomfort as he sat upon Harry’s laundry.
"How have things been going with your family, Harry?"
Harry shrugged. "Your phone calls were entertaining."
Lupin looked blank. "What phone calls?"
"Wasn’t it you calling to see how I was when I came home?"
"No. Professor Dumbledore has always been very firm about maintaining our distance. I can ask around, if you like."
Harry shook his head; he had bigger things to worry about than nosy Nellies. Settling cross-legged on the bed, he listened soberly whilst Lupin brought him up to date with the latest happenings in the Wizarding World. Not that there was much to tell; Voldemort was lying very low. After the desertion of the Dementors, Madam Bones, Head of Law Enforcement, acted quickly in securing Azkaban Prison, and word was that Lord Voldemort was looking elsewhere for fresh minions, biding his time until he had a clear numbers advantage.
"We think he’s been making inroads with the Giants," Lupin said, "and there’s a growing number of werewolves going over to his side. I’m trying, but …" Lupin’s hoarse voice trailed off, and he shook his head in a defeated kind of way.
Just then a tray slid through the cat flap of Harry’s door. Rapid footsteps could be heard fading away. Both Harry and Lupin stared dumbly at two cups of tea and at a saucer boasting no fewer than four shortbread biscuits. Harry retrieved the tray. Lupin’s gaze drifted to the crusty crockery on Harry’s desk — and the locks on the door.
"Does that often?" he asked in a carefully casual tone, indicating the cat flap.
"Don’t usually get biscuits," Harry said in the same carefully light tone.
After they’d drunk their tea and vanquished the biscuits, Harry caught Lupin eyeing him cautiously, as if considering how best to approach a ticking bomb.
"How are you really doing, Harry?"
"Fine," said Harry. He had an awful sense of where this was going. Lupin just sat patiently, waiting for something more. "What is it you want me to say?"
"The truth would be a start."
"I haven’t lied to you!" Harry bristled. A shadow passed over Lupin’s face. "Sorry, Professor," Harry said mechanically.
Lupin winced at that. "You don’t have to call me Professor, you know; you can call me Remus — or Moony, if you like."
Harry had nothing to say to that. The silence between man and boy thickened on the stale summer air. Harry avoided meeting Lupin’s eyes: they were far too observant. Instead, he stared into the dregs of his teacup, deluding himself into seeing the shape of a great big dog.
"You can’t be afraid to let people into your heart, Harry," Lupin ventured. "Believe me, that’s no way to live."
Harry found his throat tightening. To his horror, his eyes began to itch. Lupin half extended a hand, but Harry shrank from the touch, covering his discomfort by scooping up the tea tray and dirty plates.
"I’ll just get rid of these," he muttered and fled for the kitchen, where he could always rely on being safe from people understanding him.
On his return, Harry found Lupin standing by the window, his face healthier in the glow of the late afternoon sun. Harry settled back on the bed, feeling both relieved and oddly forlorn when Lupin didn’t try to sit down with him again. The man seemed to be bracing himself for something.
"I have another reason for wanting to see you today, Harry. It’s about Sirius’s Will. You are his principal heir."
Harry had expected as much, but he could feel no pleasure in the fact.
"I never wanted his money," he said sadly. "My parents left me well enough."
"There’s something else," Lupin said hesitantly.
Harry was curious in spite of himself. "What, the house?"
"Well, yes, there’s that," Lupin said. "Naturally, Sirius bequeathed all his property to you. I know he had a flat in Chelsea at one stage — there might be others — Black family residences are notoriously difficult to locate." He buried his hands in his pockets and started pacing a little. "Harry, there’s something I need to tell you, I …" Lupin’s voice trailed off; he was looking so apprehensive, now, that Harry began to think he was about to told he’d inherited Dragon Pox. "The thing is," Lupin said at last, "Sirius nominated me to take over as your guardian should anything happen to him."
Harry sucked in an excited breath, but his hopes had been dashed too often to be toyed with.
"Does it mean I’d come and live with you?" he asked bluntly.
"Well, yes, but only if you want to, of course," Lupin said uncomfortably. "I’m not the easiest person to live with."
Harry’s confusion deepened at this half-hearted invitation. As tempting as it was to believe his father’s old school friend might care enough for the Potters to take their son in, Harry found the idea difficult to credit, not after leading the man’s best friend to his death. And yet an old and painfully familiar emptiness inside him ached for it to be true.
"Why?" Harry asked, not really sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"Why?" Lupin repeated, his anxiety displaced for a moment by surprise. "You know, full moon and —"
"I don’t mean that," Harry said, feeling his face grow hot. "I — I mean, why would you want me to live with you?"
Lupin appeared genuinely stumped and took several long moments to consider his response.
"To own the truth, Harry, I could use the company."
Still waiting for the catch, it took a moment for it to sink in for Harry that he was really being offered a place in Lupin’s home — a real home. A slow smile crept onto his thin face.
"When can we leave?" he said.
His guardianship accepted, Lupin ran a relieved hand through his thick greying hair, his eyes crinkling with pleasure.
"Straight away, if you like."
Harry was full of questions, but as he listened to the answers he felt his happy bubble bursting.
"You need to be somewhere safe, Harry," said Lupin. "It’s either Grimmauld Place or Privet Drive, I’m afraid."
Harry kneaded a sock-shaped lump in the bed; he knew there was really no choice.
"What about Kreacher?"
"Yes," Lupin said, wincing, "I’m afraid you inherited more than just gold and property. Kreacher wasn’t the sanest being to begin with, but betraying the Black family really pushed him over the edge. I found him one morning completely catatonic. He’s been in an isolation ward at Saint Mungo’s ever since."
Harry nodded soberly; he found it difficult to feel any great sympathy for the traitor. Lupin went on to explain that Harry would need to return to Privet Drive for a period the next summer.
"It’s important you understand you still have a home here with your aunt. We want the sanctuary charm to last for as long as possible."
Harry nodded philosophically. A few weeks he could handle.
Packing didn’t take long. Harry sent Hedwig ahead, leaving only an empty cage and a heavy trunk to transport.
"How’re we going to get there?" he asked Lupin, who was taking a moment to clean Hedwig’s cage.
"Side-Along Apparition," he replied. "I don’t imagine you’ve done it before. No? The Ministry has approved the use for safety reasons; you might’ve missed the memo. Kingsley’s been so good as to take care of the red tape, meaning we can Disapparate from inside this house," Lupin smiled a little, "hence the conspicuous lack of an Order escort. But we’re still smoothing out some niggly problems with old Mr Black’s Side-Along Apparition Jinxes. I’ll get you to the meeting point and we’ll finish on foot. Okay?"
Harry was well-excited. "I’m going to Apparate?"
"We’ll give it a shot," Lupin said brightly. "If I lose half of you over Kew, try not to panic." Harry wasn’t entirely sure whether Lupin was joking. He was crouched low over Harry’s trunk, tightening the straps. "I’ll just need to pop back to Headquarters to assemble the troops."
"Troops?" Harry said warily.
Lupin stopped what he was doing and raised to Harry a pair of grey eyes warmed by a self-conscious smile. "I wasn’t sure — if you’d want to come that is." Standing up, he patted a hand to his chest and pulled out an envelope. "Sorry, nearly forgot. I thought you might like this."
Harry accepted the envelope and gasped softly. Very carefully, for his fingertips were still grimy with ash and charcoal, he pulled out a Wizarding photo of a very young Lily. She was standing on the lawn in front of Hogwarts Castle, wearing pink bobbles in her hair and brand new robes. The little girl smiled hugely and winked at him.
"I found it while I was searching through some old boxes …" explained Lupin. "We were in first year then," he added reminiscently. "Elizabeth was desperate to try out her new camera, but she usually captured more feet than faces. This one came out well though."
Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He’d never seen his mother this young — and happy — she was so happy. His nightmares forgotten for a blessed moment, he could just picture her under the Sorting Hat, excited and nervous, her grand adventure just beginning.
Lupin gave Harry’s shoulder a squeeze and said, "Back in a tick."
With a faint pop, he Disapparated, returning not thirty seconds later. He transported the luggage first, firmly gripping Harry’s trunk and birdcage before Disapparating again. When next he popped back into the bedroom, Harry was more than ready to leave, but Lupin merely smiled and tipped his head to the door.
"You might not be seeing your aunt for a while."
Down in the kitchen, Harry and Aunt Petunia stared at each other in a slightly bewildered silence. Lupin looked between the pair then found something else to look at.
"Bye," Harry said finally. "Thanks for the tea."
He waited but his aunt’s horse-like face remained pinched in agony about some internal battle. Whatever it was she might have said or done, she didn’t. She merely turned on her heels and left the room.
"You’ll want to let me hold onto that for you," Lupin said, indicating the envelope still clutched in Harry’s hand. "I’ll be careful," he promised, sliding it back into his pocket. "Now grab onto my arm and whatever you do don’t let go. Oh, and take a good deep breath. You didn’t have a big lunch did you? Ready? One — two — three!"
Yanked into a vortex of nothingness, Harry became a very square peg being ferociously sucked through a small round hole. Vomited back into reality, he bore the indignity of needing to cling to Lupin awhile longer.
"You okay?" Lupin said, steadying him.
Harry managed a nod. He really fancied throwing up. If that was Apparition, he’d stick to broomsticks, thank you very much. Still wobbly he found himself in a shadowy alley full of dustbins. Clustered all around, pressing in on him, were at least a dozen people. Mad-Eye Moody was there — his electric-blue eye spinning — and a whole bunch of others, many of whom Harry didn’t even know. They were all having a good sticky-beak, craning their necks to see him — and his scar.
"Maybe we should carry him," said one.
Harry pushed free of Lupin. "I’m perfectly fine."
"I can whip up a potion," suggested another.
"He’s always been delicate," Dedalus Diggle tutted.
Harry lost his temper. "I am not delicate!"
"Harry’s fine," Lupin said, his exasperation evident. "You didn’t all need to come. It’s not two blocks away."
"Looks like he could use a good Cheering Charm," Dedalus noted wisely.
"And have him giggling all the way?" Mad-Eye growled. "He’ll walk it off."
"Let go of me!"
"Just trying to Disillusion you, boy."
Harry was having none of it. "Get your hands off me! All of you!"
Scrambling out of reach, he grabbed his trunk and birdcage and started dragging them out of the alley, knocking over dustbins on the way.
"Harry!" Lupin called, sprinting after him. "You lot stay where you are!" he shot over his shoulder.
Harry reached the end of the alley, stopping just before daylight. He dropped his trunk with a thud and turned mulishly to face Lupin. Lupin said nothing. Harry’s spark of anger was already fading away leaving only a lingering nausea. In all the fuss, he’d almost forgotten what lay waiting for him just two blocks away.
"You forgot Lily," Lupin said, holding out the envelope.
Harry felt even worse. "Thanks," he muttered.
The longer Lupin just stood there looking quietly apologetic the more miserable Harry felt.
"If you let me Disillusion you," Lupin offered, "we’ll go on alone, just you and me."
Harry looked back at the others, standing in the dark, some looking bewildered, some looking annoyed, all of them there for the express purpose of putting their lives on the line for Harry Potter. Harry just didn’t know what was wrong with him today.
He nodded to Lupin and mumbled, "Sorry."
Lupin smiled a little before going back to brief the others. Moody didn’t seem happy but Lupin insisted. Returning alone, he cast a Disillusionment Charm, causing Harry and Hedwig’s cage to disappear into the bricks and shadows of the alley. Lupin took hold of Harry’s trunk.
"Come on," he said firmly, stepping into the light, "let’s get you home."
Making their way on foot towards the house, Harry felt a heaviness dragging at him that had nothing to do with the Order’s fussing or his cumbersome luggage. They entered the house very quietly so as not to disturb the horribly life-like portrait of Mrs Black. Lupin removed the Disillusionment Charm, and Harry could feel the man’s eyes on him as they carried his things up the stairs. Harry determinedly passed his old room without a glance and climbed higher, to the top floor, where he paused at one brass name-plate only long enough to read ‘Regulus Arcturus Black’ before moving on to the next.
"That room isn’t ready," Lupin said uneasily. "There's a bed made-up in your old room," he offered hopefully, nodding back towards the stairs.
Harry shook his head slightly. Dumping his belongings, he took a deep breath and stepped into Sirius’s bedroom. Lupin started to follow, but Harry held up a hand to stop him.
"I need to do this on my own if that’s okay," he said quietly.
Lupin didn’t look too happy, but he nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The large bedroom, softly gilded by the early evening sun, felt very still. Harry inched towards the four-poster bed, fingered the gold fringing on the faded scarlet drapes. The sheets were crumpled and unmade. A feather pillow showed the dent of a man’s head. Harry couldn’t look at it. Clothes were strewn here and there in piles around the room; nothing seemed to have been touched since Sirius left. Above the fireplace stood silver-framed photographs of James and Sirius, young and carefree. None revealed the tortured soul Harry loved so unconditionally.
At Harry’s feet, Sirius’s winter cloak lay puddled on the hearth, as if Padfoot had used it for a bed. Picking it up he caught a whiff of something familiar. Nowhere near as rank as wet dog, Sirius’s scent was distinctive nonetheless. Inhaling deeply of the musty cloak, he was back once more under his godfather’s wing, drinking hot Butterbeers and laughing at daft Christmas Carols. His throat thickened horribly and he dropped the cloak, almost resentfully; he didn’t understand why a smelly old rag should affect him so.
He gripped the sandstone mantel, felt the grit beneath his fingertips and hung his head to avoid the dozens of black-haired boys, smiling and waving and dead. Harry could almost see Snuffles now, with one fluid leap, transforming from Padfoot to Sirius, lunging for his wand, tripping over the mess on the floor, bellowing orders to Kreacher, his only thought to rush to his godson’s side.
His head hanging, a ragged breath forced open his eyes, and he stared bleakly down into the charred remains of the last winter fire. The wickedly grinning head of Sirius Black refused to materialise.
Harry was just so tired, so done in by loss. He suddenly felt far older than his mere fifteen years, like he’d lived too many lifetimes — and none of them happy. His legs weak, he sank to the hearth, where his hot face found cool relief against the tiles. Squeezing shut moistening eyes, he dragged Sirius’s cloak over himself and curled his back to loneliness.