Awakenings
Chapter 3 — Demons Awakening
By Lady Alchymia
Harry’s second week in his new home started much better than the first. Armed with potions from Diagon Alley, he and Remus declared war on Black House, spraying, stunning, and otherwise obliterating as many Dark vermin and artefacts as they could find. What Harry wasn’t able to do magically (and he grumbled constantly about the underage-magic rule), he made up for in physical effort. Just as one pest vanished, another would quite literally crawl out of the woodwork. Harry was kept busy stalking, chasing, and pinning down fleeing vermin so that Remus’s wand could work its magic. But it wasn’t just Dark Vermin they had to contend with. A vigorous strain of Malevolent Mould had magically sprouted in Harry and Ron’s old room, requiring repeated doses of Spray-On-Sunshine. Sirius’s great-great-grandfather Phineas Nigellus was extremely put out at being relocated during this exercise. He didn’t seem to believe their assurances he wouldn’t be in the downstairs toilet for long.
Remus was particularly keen on sorting out the ground-floor library, which had never been a priority for Sirius. Harry was even less interested than Sirius in spending hot summer days stuck in a musty old library until he remembered the Blacks were well-known for dripping in the Dark Arts. He hoped he might find something useful on the permanently locked room in the Department of Mysteries. At least, that’s what he told himself — his fingers actually spent a good bit more time searching for books on death. This, however, was not a simple matter. Many of the shelves had collapsed, the wood eaten away by some kind of voracious termite. Further complicating access to the tottering piles of cobweb-covered books was a rare and nasty infestation of Bookworms.
Bookworms fed on knowledge and the more knowledge they consumed the longer they grew. If you stood in one place too long, you’d find one of the purple ribbon-like worms sliding up your trouser leg, making it decidedly difficult to concentrate. When you tried to pull them off they had a habit of breaking, which just made two wriggling worms instead of one. And it wasn’t just book knowledge they craved, if you weren’t careful, they’d slip into your ear, seeking whatever items of interest they could find.
Remus explained the primary defence against the creatures was to think dumb thoughts. The worms would then give up on you and go searching elsewhere (though Harry found a good whack with anything by Gilderoy Lockhart worked pretty well). If you couldn’t think dumb enough (and this was surprisingly difficult to do sometimes), then the trick was to tempt the worm to eat its own tail. The worm would then feast on its own knowledge until it consumed itself and disappeared with a musty-scented pop. This was, in fact, what usually kept Bookworm numbers from getting out of control: they were cannibals. After devouring a book, leaving nothing but indistinct lettering on the page, they would then turn on themselves, desperate to know what the other worms found out on the last page.
"But how do they even reproduce if they’ve already eaten themselves?" Harry asked Remus over lunch one day (it wouldn’t do to pose such an interesting question whilst any Bookworms were nearby).
"Leaky brains," Remus said. He chuckled at the look of disgust on Harry’s face. "Bookworms aren’t born by sexual union; they’re inspired into life by only the most tortuous, incoherent, perfectly mad thoughts."
Harry could only imagine that Kreacher left them a few presents before being carted off to Saint Mungo’s.
"It’s quite fascinating, actually," Remus continued, ever the DADA professor. "When you fall asleep and your ear is pressed against the pillow, they incubate in your earwax and —"
Laughing and revolted, Harry plugged his ears and made na-na-na-na noises to drown the man out — and thereafter made sure to keep his lobes scrupulously clean.
******
Remus was always coming and going with other Order members (occasionally armed with orchids), which Harry understood, but he liked best when he could have his guardian all to himself. Each morning, he’d find ways to draw out their ritual of tea and a chat a little longer. They would sit and talk by the fireplace in their bathrobes with fresh air and the morning sun streaming through the windows. Sirius’s bedroom was the one room in the house where Harry actually felt at home, that was his. And Remus seemed to like it, too.
With no Mrs Weasley to run interference, Harry especially appreciated that Remus talked to him about Order business — as much as he could — like how Muggle police were asking inconvenient questions about Emmeline Vance. She’d been found dead not far from number ten, Dowling Street, soon after Sirius’s death. Remus said she’d been on guard duty the night of the Department of Mysteries trap. Settling back in his chair, he grew quiet, nursing a coffee mug that had been empty for a good half hour.
"You’re worried, aren’t you," Harry said after awhile.
Remus didn’t try to deny it.
"More people will fall," he said gravely. "We’ve known that for over a year, but now he’s come out of hiding, I can’t help but see Dark Marks that aren’t even there."
Harry’s attention was divided between his guardian and one of Sirius’s beach-girls. He wondered again where Sirius had gone on Buckbeak. Leaning forward in his chair, he rubbed a hand over his few scraps of morning stubble.
"Remus, have you ever wanted to — you know — just get away, find somewhere safer to live?"
Remus looked up sharply, guiltily. "Your safety does weigh heavily on my mind, Harry. I know my sanctuary isn’t as strong as others could give you ..."
"What? No!" Harry said; that wasn’t what he meant at all. "No, here is just fine. I just — it’s nothing."
Remus gave every appearance of being deeply conflicted.
"Harry, I know this house isn’t the best thing for you. I’d understand if you’d feel safer with your real family. I wouldn’t take it personally if you —"
"No!" Harry cut in, alarmed now. "No, it’s just … look, never mind. It’s all good — truly. I am perfectly happy here."
Remus let it go, but Harry got the feeling he didn’t really believe him.
By lunchtime, the man was looking quite ill, and Harry insisted he go lie down while he made their lunch. Taking a well-laden tray to Remus’s bedroom, Harry tapped on the door. No answer. He knocked harder and a drowsy voice invited him in. Harry looked around in dismay. Half nestled beneath the stairs to the attic, Remus’s bedroom was little more than a windowless hole. It forcibly reminded Harry of his years spent in his cupboard at Privet Drive.
"Up!" he ordered firmly. "My room!"
Remus rolled away and mumbled that he wasn’t hungry. Still holding the tray, Harry raised a foot and gave his guardian a firm kick in the backside.
"Oi!" he said loudly. "Now!"
Remus dragged himself from the bed and allowed Harry to nudge him in the right direction. Soon, they were comfortably settled in Harry’s wingchairs, where Harry fussed and badgered his dissolute werewolf into eating a respectable quantity of food. After also pumping him with three strong cups of coffee, Remus began to look more like himself.
"Have you been taking your Wolfsbane?" Harry asked sternly; he knew the potion tasted horrible, but what medicine didn’t?
"Severus promised he’d try to brew it for me this month, but I haven’t heard from him ..."
"He doesn’t always brew it for you?" Harry asked, surprised.
"It’s a very complicated potion," Remus said, shrugging philosophically. "Not cheap, either."
Something suddenly clicked into place for Harry and he fumed inside at Snape’s lack of charity; no wonder Remus Lupin had been looking so increasingly ill over the last two years!
"I was very lucky to be able to take it during the year I was teaching," Remus observed distantly. "I feel sure it added a few years to my life."
Harry said nothing to that, but he made a silent vow to learn to brew the Wolfsbane Potion himself whether he got into NEWT level Potions or not!
After lunch, they resumed their battle with the house, but Harry kept a close eye on Remus and insisted he stop just an hour later. Remus offered some resistance. Harry dug his heels in, banishing the man to his room for a good long rest.
Hedwig returned that afternoon with letters from Hermione and Ron, both of them promising to visit Harry for his birthday. Ron was at his Auntie Muriel’s trying to earn some pocket money doing odd jobs for ‘the old bat’ (by the slimy green smudges on the letter, he too was getting up close and personal with Malevolent Mould). Hermione’s letter was much longer and included a clipping from Potioneers’ Monthly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fascinated!’ her letter promised. Harry rather doubted that and was ready to let his eyes glaze over until he realised the article was on the Wolfsbane Potion and how a group of Canadian Potioneers worked each month to produce supplies of the potion for donation to the Canadian Ministry’s Werewolf Registry Office.
The group, led by the inventor of the potion, Madam Elizabeth Ramsay, had hoped to interest the British Ministry in establishing a similar service but had been stymied by red tape at every turn. The article quoted Madam Ramsay as saying, "It’s all to do with that toad Dolores Umbridge! Wretched woman. She’d rather see werewolves dead despite our having a perfectly good method of controlling the condition! Nothing’s going to change over there until they get rid of such close-minded, venomous idiots!"
From her notes in the margins, Hermione seemed to be of the opinion that Madam Ramsay would get further with honey than vinegar, but Harry thought the woman was right on the money. No amount of sucking up to Umbridge (who Harry was disgusted to discover had resumed a senior Ministry position in the Beast Division) was ever going to convince her to help ‘half-breeds’.
The article included a recipe for the Wolfsbane Potion, which Harry read with a sinking heart. It was the most complication potion he’d ever seen! And dangerous, too. It would be easy to poison with this potion if brewed ill: Monkshood, Hemlock, Arsenic, Nicotine, Blister Beetle Blood, just to name a few of its highly toxic ingredients, many of which were on the Ministry’s prescribed list of dangerous ingredients, meaning that no one could brew the potion for either ‘commercial or charitable’ use without Ministry permission; it was just too dangerous.
Saint Mungo’s Healers were allowed to brew it, but their funding was limited and regular benefactors (‘Like the Malfoys!’, noted Hermione in angry red lettering) did not care to have their gold used for such purposes. That just left brewing for personal use, which actually was permitted in Britain. Madam Ramsay was particularly scathing about that, saying it was all well and good if you just happened to be a werewolf and an expert Potioneer: "Too many werewolves have died trying to brew the potion for themselves, which is exactly what people like Umbridge want!"
At the end of the article was a Canadian address for British werewolves to write to for more information. Despite being a non-werewolf, Harry had no hesitation in taking up his quill.
Tuesday, 21st June
Dear Madam Ramsay,
I was just reading about your work with the Werewolf Registry Support Group in Canada, which I think is fantastic! I wish they’d do that here in Britain. You’re right, Umbridge is an utter toad! Anyway, I was just wondering if it would be possible to get some more information on brewing the Wolfsbane Potion. I’ve got the recipe, but to be honest it’s a bit beyond me. I’m hoping to take NEWT Potions next year at Hogwarts, but I’m not sure if my marks will be good enough and I’m really keen to learn the potion. Any help you could give me would be greatly appreciated!
Yours sincerely,
Harry Potter
Harry had briefly considered concealing his identity, but on balance felt that being the Boy-Who-Lived might actually work to his advantage for once. Now he just needed to work out how to send a letter to Canada, not to mention how to get a reply. Harry sneaked a look at Hedwig. She’d flown all the way to the tropics to find Sirius, so she’d probably be fine going to Canada, but Harry didn’t fancy the idea of her flying all alone across the cold Atlantic Ocean. He decided to use an International Post Owl instead and added an appropriate postscript to his letter.
P.S. I’ve enclosed return postage — I hope English Galleons are okay. Please send your reply care of the Post Office in Diagon Alley, London, UK (sorry, I’m kind of in hiding and my house is under a Fidelius Charm).
Harry threw in his last comment just in case Madam Ramsay had any doubt she was corresponding with the real Harry Potter. Locating his money pouch, he shook out ten Galleons; he figured that’d be more than enough. He sealed the jangling envelope with both Spello-tape and the House of Black seal. By the time he was done, the lumpy envelope looked a fair bit messier than he would’ve liked, but he had a feeling Madam Ramsay wouldn’t mind. She sounded like a fair no-nonsense kind of witch.
"Sorry, Hedwig," Harry said when she flew to him, ready to be of service. "This one’s too far for you — oh come on, don’t be like that." But Hedwig had already flown on top of the wardrobe. "Honest, it’s all the way to Canada! I can’t be without you for that long, can I?" Harry finally coaxed her down to his shoulder. "Come on," he said, tipping his head towards the door, "you can help me make dinner."
Harry was quite accustomed to cooking and cleaning chores at Privet Drive, but he’d never made a proper dinner from scratch. He found an old recipe book and settled on a chicken and vegetable casserole, partly because he had all the ingredients, but mostly because it seemed not dissimilar to making a potion (and he figured he could use the practice at not poisoning people). Following the recipe faithfully, he sliced, diced, simmered and sautéed for over an hour. Hedwig watched his progress attentively.
"What do you reckon?" Harry asked her, offering her a spoonful, blowing on it first to cool it.
Hedwig delicately picked out a piece of chicken then went back for seconds. Reassured, Harry went to rouse Remus for dinner — and received a mild chastisement for not waking him earlier.
"You didn’t have to make dinner all by yourself," his guardian grumbled reprovingly. "I would’ve done it."
Down in the basement, Harry ladled a bowlful of casserole for Remus and waited a trifle nervously for his verdict (did werewolves even like vegetables?).
"Harry!" Remus cried, all quibbles forgotten. "This tastes wonderful! You didn’t use magic, did you?" he added cheekily.
"It’s just like making a potion," Harry said dismissively, pleased all the same. He was even more pleased when Remus mentioned there would be no Order meeting that night.
Lingering in the kitchen over ice-cream and Butterbeer, they chatted about plans for house improvements. Harry’s thoughts were never far from Remus’s dank bedroom.
"Remus, how about your room?" he said, trying to be tactful. "We should do up a proper bedroom for you."
"I can be a bit rough on furniture ..." Remus said, wincing a little.
"But that’s only once a month," Harry pointed out. "Keep your old room for then, and we’ll do up Regulus’s for the rest of the month. I don’t reckon he needs it any more." When Remus didn’t immediately object, Harry briskly announced, "Good, that’s settled then."
Remus threw him an amused look. "Never knew you were such a bossy little thing."
Harry just grinned and took a warming sip from his Butterbeer.
"It feels good," he said after a few moments.
"What does?" asked Remus.
Harry suddenly found the bottom of his bowl intensely interesting. "Here ... just the two of us … I like it."
Remus raised his bottle and clinked it gently against Harry’s. "So do I, Harry. So do I."
******
Blinking himself awake next morning, Harry squinted at his clock and smiled. Right on cue at seven o’clock, a soft knock sounded on his bedroom door. Harry called out for Remus to enter. Yawning and scratching his stomach, he pulled a blanket off the bed and curled up under it on one of the wingchairs. He accepted a steaming cup from an outstretched hand, but Remus didn’t sit down. Harry eyed him appraisingly. The shadows under his eyes seemed darker, his face even greyer.
"You look terrible," Harry said bluntly.
"Thank you," said Remus.
"Full moon tonight?"
Remus heaved a sigh as he sat down. "I won’t be in any shape to make your dinner."
No great loss, thought Harry privately. He had a feeling there was more to this mood than his guardian was letting on.
"I am capable of feeding myself, you know. It’s not a problem."
Remus nodded half-heartedly and drained his coffee. Harry cast about for another topic to keep him from leaving. A curly question about Shield Charms did the trick.
Remus barely touched his breakfast, and Harry was not above taking advantage of his guardian’s weakened state to talk him into allowing a solo visit to the local Tesco supermarket. With things to do, and someone to do them for, Harry stepped out into a fresh summer day with a definite spring in his step. Heavily laden with groceries, he walked home a little more slowly but still in good time. He was just about to knock on the peeling front door when he heard the bolts and chains being undone. The door opened and Harry slipped inside, throwing Remus a bemused look.
"I saw you coming down the street," Remus explained, abashed.
Smiling to himself, Harry handed Remus half the shopping bags. They tiptoed past she-who-must-not-be-woken-up and headed for the kitchen. Unpacking the groceries, Harry gave Remus an appraising glance; the man looked exhausted, as if something was leeching the life out of him.
"You go lie down for a bit," offered Harry. "I’ll bring lunch up later." Remus nodded gratefully and retired upstairs.
In an effort to branch out into even more food groups, Harry decided to try his hand at Quiche Lorraine. As with the casserole, he followed the recipe faithfully. He was very relieved an hour later when he pulled a baking dish out of the oven with something that was recognisably quiche-like. He took a tray loaded with quiche and salad and buttered rolls upstairs, but found Remus very hard to get going. Learning from the previous day, Harry started him off with coffee before trying to get him to eat anything. Remus declared the quiche delicious, but Harry noticed he didn’t eat much of it; he didn’t eat much of anything. When the man started talking about getting back to work, Harry resorted to faking his scar hurting, clutching at his forehead and moaning pitifully, to get Remus to stay put (and, if he did say so himself, he felt he gave a most impressive performance).
Remus was deeply concerned.
"Do you need something for the pain?" he asked, reaching to feel Harry’s forehead. "I can get you a potion."
"No, no, I’m used to it," Harry mumbled, not meeting the man’s eye. "I’ll be fine in a few hours. I might just lie down for a bit. You’ll stay with me?"
"Of course," Remus said.
Harry kicked off his shoes, removed his glasses, and lay on his side on the bed. Remus set about closing the frayed curtains against the afternoon light. Sunbeams sneaked through moth holes, illuminating dust particles twirling lazily on the still air.
"Try to sleep, hmmm?" Remus murmured, stopping to caress Harry’s hair before sitting back down in his wingchair. Harry’s left eye was a sliver of green, watching his guardian watching him. "Sleep," Remus chided.
Now officially an invalid, Harry had no option but to obey. His stomach full, his room dim, and his guardian close by, all combined to make sleep rather seductive, and he awoke a few hours later feeling quite refreshed. The moment he tried to rise, he found Remus by his side, pouring him water and checking his temperature.
"No, I’m good, truly," Harry said, embarrassed. "It wasn’t a vision or anything."
Remus reopened the curtains, flooding the room with light, and took a good look at him. Satisfied, he allowed Harry to get up but insisted he sit quietly with him for a while (which suited Harry just fine).
"Do you get these headaches often?" asked Remus.
Harry shrugged a little. As guilty as he felt about lying, there were plenty of other times when it was real enough.
"Depends on where he is and what he’s feeling."
Remus frowned deeply. "Do you feel he is near?"
"No, no, it’s fine. It wasn’t that bad — seriously, just a headache. He’s probably miles away."
Remus didn’t seem terribly comforted by that thought. Sitting together by the fireplace, they were both silent a good long while, each, perhaps, trying to think of a different topic. Remus nodded to Sirius’s guitar case lying open on the floor.
"How’s it going?" he asked gamely.
Just as gamely, Harry lied, "No, it’s good."
In truth, Sirius’s patched-up guitar produced sounds that could only with great generosity be described as music. Picking it up, Harry experimented with random finger positions in the hope that something resembling music might spontaneously happen. It didn’t. He caught Remus looking at him with an intensely painful expression in his eyes.
"I’m not that bad, am I?" Harry joked.
Remus shook his head, as if to clear it. "I’m sorry, the Moon, it …" He tried to smile, but the smile didn’t extinguish the ache in his eyes.
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, with no more demanding activities than tea-making, reading, and napping.
"Maybe you should go back to your family tonight," Remus suggested out of the blue.
"Sorry?"
"Tonight — the Moon."
"You’re hardly in any fit state to Apparate," Harry said reasonably, "and there’s like a dozen bolts on your door. Moony’s not going anywhere. I’ll be fine."
"What about your dinner?"
"There’s plenty of quiche left. Don’t worry; I’ll be fine."
Trying to get Remus’s mind off things, Harry remembered his letter for Madam Ramsay. He lowered his voice so as not to ruffle Hedwig’s feathers.
"When you feel up to it — not today of course — could I get you to mail something for me at the Post Office, please? It’s for abroad."
Remus nodded and Harry retrieved the letter, but then he hesitated to hand it over. Remus really did look ill.
"Actually, you know what, don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of it next time I’m in town."
"Don’t be silly," Remus said, reaching for the letter. "I should be able to pop into the Post Office tomorrow afternoon, or Friday at the latest. It’s always worse before the full moon than after. Where does it need to go?"
Reaching for the letter, Remus had to tug a little to get Harry to let go. Already very grey, he turned positively ghost-like when he read the address.
Madam Elizabeth Ramsay
Werewolf Support Group, 42, rue Sainte-Bernadette
Montreal, Canada
A horrible thought flushed Harry’s cheeks: what if Remus thought he was going behind his back, talking to strangers about him?
"It’s not what you think," he said quickly. "I didn’t say anything about you. I just wanted to talk to her about —"
"No need to explain," Remus cut in gruffly. "Of course you should feel free to correspond with her. Perfectly natural." But nothing felt natural to Harry about the way Remus was staring at the Spello-taped letter. "I’m sorry, Harry," Remus said shakily, sliding the letter into his robes. "I think it might be best if I retire."
Harry was all for that. The Moon wouldn’t rise for another eight hours, but even just getting out of his chair seemed to rob Remus of what little energy he had left. Harry, on the other hand, was feeling perfectly well-rested. After Remus was safely sealed in his room, Harry bounded down to the library where he took fiendish delight in vanquishing Bookworms. Armed with a spray bottle of Bobbins Anti-Bookworm Bile, he stood in the centre of the library trying to think of things that were interesting enough to entice the worms away from the Blacks’ Dark tomes. It was hard work made a little easier when he started pondering his prophecy: that attracted loads of Bookworms. It wasn’t long before every last Bookworm was gone. Unfortunately, pondering his bleak fate was rather depressing. A Butterbeer was clearly in order. Down in the kitchen, he grabbed a couple of bottles and a few oranges from the pantry and headed back up the stone staircase. Halfway up, he realised someone else was coming down. Harry halted mid-step, his stomach churning at the very sight of the rotten warlock in Sirius’s house.
"There’s no one down there," he said stiffly.
Severus Snape advanced a few steps, his lips curling with displeasure. "I’ll wait."
Harry blocked his path.
"I’d rather you came back later, sir," he said, putting as much contempt as possible into the last word.
Snape glowered down at him from his elevated position.
"Out of my way, Potter!" he said, waving one hand dismissively. In his other hand he held a black flask.
Harry’s chest swelled with righteous anger. This was his house! He got to decide who came and went!
"I’m sorry, sir," he said, an edge creeping into his voice, "but I’d like you to leave now."
"I said, out of my way!" Snape barked, pushing Harry aside.
His hands full of Butterbeer and fruit, Harry stumbled and lost his footing. With nothing to grab hold of, he crashed down the stairs, hitting his head hard and sending bottles smashing into the stone walls. His glasses gone, he lay on the floor gasping for breath. Snape’s dark silhouette advanced on him.
"Get away from me!" Harry yelled furiously. Snape ignored this. Harry scrambled out of reach. "GET OUT!" he roared, shaking with rage. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Snape recoiled. Spinning around, he slammed down the black flask on the table.
"See that Lupin drinks that!" he hissed then Disapparated with an angry crack and a swish of black robes.
Harry was still shaking when not a second later there was another crack. Startled and breathing heavily, Harry squinted up into the mangled face of Mad-Eye Moody. Moody rapidly assessed the scene, his Magical Eye not missing the broken spectacles, nor the bottles, nor the oranges still rolling across the floor. His spinning eye stopped on the flask on the table and his gnarled hands grabbed at Harry’s shoulders.
"Who attacked you, boy?" he demanded. Harry shook his head and tasted blood. "Tell me what happened!" Moody ordered, shaking him.
"I wasn’t attacked," Harry said, wincing at the pain in his left eye. "I fell down the stairs."
Moody looked at the stairs then back to where Harry lay trembling, a good fifteen feet away.
"You fell down the stairs," he repeated sceptically. He reached out a leathery hand and helped the boy to his feet. "How’d you manage that?"
"I had help."
"Who?"
"Snape," bit Harry. He rubbed his head and added bitterly, "It was sort of an accident."
Moody felt the back of Harry’s head and found a lump forming. His electric-blue eye swiftly surveyed the rest of Harry’s body.
"You’ll live," he decided gruffly. "You’ll want to get some ice on that eye."
Moody conjured an ice pack, which Harry accepted. Holding it to his left eye, he started looking for the broken pieces of his spectacles.
"I’ll fix those, boy," Moody growled. He swiftly summoned and repaired Harry’s glasses.
"Ta," muttered Harry, shoving them in his pocket. He picked up the flask from the table and groaned in frustration: Remus’s Wolfsbane Potion!
Moody seemed to read Harry’s mind. "I’ll see Lupin gets that, Harry."
"Right. Thanks."
More members were coming down the kitchen stairs.
"What happened to you?" asked Kingsley at once.
Harry didn’t answer. Holding the icepack to his face, he shoved past them all. Upstairs in his bedroom he collapsed on the bed. A few hours later, Moody stumped, uninvited, into the room. Harry looked up, startled.
"Meeting over?" he asked.
Moody nodded to him even as his Magical Eye did a sweep of the room.
"Just checking up on you, boy," he stated matter-of-factly. "You want to tell me what really happened in the kitchen?"
"Not really," Harry replied, not bothering to keep the resentment out of his voice. "Is there anything else?"
Moody gave him a searching look, grunted a goodbye and left. Harry fell back into his pillows, feeling sore, hungry and very hard done by. He waited until he thought the kitchen would be clear then headed down to collect his dinner. The kitchen was cold, damp and dark when Harry walked in. He flicked on the gaslights and went to retrieve his quiche but found only a few crumbs left in the baking tin.
"Perfect!" he muttered, slamming it into the sink.
******
Harry woke early the next morning and padded down to the kitchen to brew strong coffee for his werewolf. Taking the whole pot with him, Harry made his way back upstairs and knocked on Remus’s door; Remus called out that it was open. Tiptoeing into the dark, Harry murmured a good morning and left the coffee pot and a full mug on a bedside table. Back in his own bedroom, Harry examined his face in the fireplace mirror. His left eye had blackened spectacularly and was almost swollen shut. His lower lip wasn’t looking much better. Other grazes and scrapes on his chin and cheeks were impressive but more superficial. Down in the kitchen, Harry was at the stove, turning sizzling bacon, when Remus walked in. He was moving very gingerly.
"Morning, Harry," he called out warmly. "Thanks for the coffee."
"You’re very welcome, Remus," replied Harry. Setting a plate of bacon and eggs in front of his guardian, he said, "Er … Remus, I had a bit of an accident last night."
Remus smiled at the food but then looked up. His face fell and he leapt to his feet in shock.
"What happened to you?" Harry let him remove his glasses and examine his face. "What happened?" Remus repeated urgently, his confusion growing. "Did I do this?"
"No, no — nothing like that," Harry reassured him. "I just fell down the stairs."
Remus examined Harry’s head and found another lump. "Must have been a nasty fall."
"Yeah," said Harry, putting his glasses back on. "Listen, about that ..."
"Yes?"
"The thing is — look, I don’t want you to freak out — but Snape was here; we met on the stairs, he kind of pushed me aside, and I fell."
Remus went very still. "You want to pass that by me again?"
"Your breakfast is getting cold," Harry said, stalling.
"I want to know everything," Remus said with icy calm, "and I want to know it now."
Harry explained what happened. Remus, standing very still, had now gone very white. Harry squinted with his one good eye; he wished Remus would say something — yell — anything.
"Your breakfast ..." Harry said uneasily, nodding his head towards the table, "… you should eat something ..."
"Right," said Remus finally, seeming to come to a decision Harry didn’t think had anything to do with bacon and eggs. "Right," he repeated heavily. "I don’t think this is working out, Harry. I clearly can’t manage to keep you safe. Hell, I can’t even keep you fed properly. No wonder you’ve been looking for options abroad."
Harry didn’t know what was happening.
"R-Remus," he stammered, stricken, "no! I don’t want to go abroad! I’m fine, really! I’ve had worse mucking about at Quidditch practice!"
Remus heaved a weighty sigh and shook his head miserably, not seeming to see or hear Harry.
"What arrogance made me think I could be your guardian?"
"What are you talking about?" Harry blurted, really frightened now.
"I’m sorry, Harry," Remus said sadly. He reached out a hand to Harry’s cheek. Harry recoiled as if slapped. Remus’s hand fell to his side. "Harry, please, you’ve got to understand —"
"Understand what?" Harry snapped, getting angry now. "A few hiccups and you’re ready to give up? If you can toss me aside so easily, it would’ve been better to leave me rotting with the Muggles!" Remus tried to reach out to him, but Harry shook him off. "At least with them I know where I stand! At least with them they don’t pretend to care about me — they don’t pretend to —"
Harry broke off, his eyes smarting. Angry with himself for such weakness, he pulled both hands through his hair.
"Two weeks! That’s it? That’s all I get? Fine!"
Desperate to escape his miserable dungeon, Harry fled, toppling chairs on the way. Remus, breathing hard, caught him at the door. Harry shook him off.
"‘Let people into your heart, Harry’," he spat accusingly. "Well, I let you into my heart and you stabbed me in it!"
Shaking now, Remus tried to speak; Harry didn’t want to hear it.
"I’ll be in Sirius’s room, Professor," he said bitterly. "Let me know when I’ve got to go."
Taking two steps at a time, Harry rushed upstairs. On the way, he tripped over the troll’s foot umbrella stand. Mrs Black howled.
******
Duped yet again by a dream, Harry didn’t know how he could have been so stupid falling for some fantasy of living with someone who cared. He grabbed Sirius’s guitar and took a mighty swipe at the bedpost. The body snapped clean from the neck and dangled limply, still connected by the strings. He hurled the lot at the bedroom door where it made a substantial musical mess but failed to make him feel better.
Barefoot, he threw on some jeans, grabbed his Firebolt, opened the window wide, and rocketed into the sky. Within seconds, he was but a blur high over London. The red Chinese Pagoda in Kew Gardens flew past before Harry even considered slowing down. Circling back, he landed atop an enormous greenhouse.
"Look, Mummy!" squealed a child’s voice.
Far below, a mum, a dad, and a very little girl shielded their eyes to look up at the boy standing on the glasshouse’s white ridgeline. Harry reflexively waved back at them and swept at imaginary gutters with his broomstick. The family moved on. Sitting astride the ridgeline, as if riding a glass horse, Harry lingered above the greenhouse for hours, watching one happy family after another exploring the giant ferneries below.
Harry’s head was in more of a mess than Sirius’s guitar. It was bad enough to be going back to Privet Drive, but he was devastated to have been accepted then rejected by Remus Lupin. He was convinced it was his fate to be forever alone. Always an outsider, always a houseguest, a month here, a month there — but two weeks had to be a record for being kicked out of a foster home, even for a bagful of trouble like him. Anger swelled again. He wasn’t going back to Surrey! Sirius ran away at sixteen. He was nearly that.
Harry caught a glimpse of his bruised, misshapen reflection in the curved glass and felt the fight in him transfiguring back into despair. Who was he kidding? They’d just find him again. Find him and make him go back to his wretched family. Just lock him up again.
The midday sun burned Harry’s bare neck. He didn’t care about his neck, but he knew he’d need to go back eventually; if nothing else, he needed his wand — and his Cloak — and he wasn’t leaving his family photos behind. Shooting skywards, Harry gained a safe altitude then set about finding Grimmauld Place. It wasn’t that easy without Lupin to guide him. It took several hours to find the right square without being seen. Fortunately, there was a good-sized plane tree outside his bedroom window, through which Harry saw Remus seated on the floor, his head in his hands. Sirius’s guitar lay beside him, repaired. There looked to be a good deal of Spello-tape involved. Hot and tired, Harry swooped into the room, startling Remus to his feet.
"Just needed some air," Harry muttered tightly, tossing his Firebolt onto the bed. "Suppose the whole Order’s out looking for me."
"No," Remus croaked. He looked even more wretched than Harry felt. Harry waited for Remus to say something else but he didn’t.
"Head’s killing me," Harry said, pushing past him. "I’m gonna take a bath."
"Harry, wait."
"What for, Professor?"
"Harry, listen to me, please." When Harry turned to face him, Remus faltered, his mouth working but no sound coming out. He ran a hand through his hair, settling himself, before saying, "Harry, you need to understand —"
"I reckon I understand perfectly," Harry cut in. "You realised you made a mistake. You realised I’m not worth it. I get it."
Harry had the satisfaction of seeing Lupin look like he’d been punched in the gut.
"Of course you’re worth it!" he cried, appalled. His voice fell to a raw mutter. "Harry, I’m scared."
Harry’s mouth had been all but ready to blurt a vicious denial. Lupin’s admission stumped him.
"What on earth are you scared of?"
Remus’s face twisted in torment. "Myself. Of letting you down — of not being there when you need me."
"So you thought you’d just get that out of the way sooner rather than later," observed Harry, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Thoughtful."
"Harry, I’m scared of what I’m capable of — of hurting you."
From anyone else this risked sounding melodramatic. Remus Lupin clearly meant it literally.
"And you’re telling me this now because ...?" Harry prompted tightly.
"Because — I gave in to my fears," Remus said, his voice breaking, "I was wrong, I — I’m so sorry." He reached a hand to Harry’s cheek. When Harry didn’t recoil, Remus said in a voice low and hoarse, "You belong to me. I know that now. You’re not something I can or want to give up."
Fresh frustration welled inside Harry — mingled with hope.
"But what you said ..."
"I was wrong, Harry," Remus repeated, his eyes immeasurably sad, "I can’t tell you how wrong. Please — I don’t want you to leave."
Harry didn’t know what to think; he felt angry and grateful and panicked all at once.
"Forgive me, Harry," Remus pleaded, pulling him into his arms. "I — I can’t lose you, too."
Harry tried to resist — tried to stop needing someone to want him. It had never worked before, and it wasn’t working now. Not knowing what to say, he just nodded mutely into the man’s shoulder. Remus’s relief was palpable.
"You go have your bath," he said shakily. "I’ll have a Soothing Potion ready for you when you get out."
Laying in the bath, his head still spinning, Harry’s mind retraced the emotional roller coaster he’d been on ever since he sat his History exam five weeks earlier. He didn’t think he could take many more surprises. Trying to relax, he slid deeper into the bath. Bending his aching head under the water, he shook out his hair to wet it thoroughly. Some of the tension from the morning seemed to dissipate in the soothing water, and he just lay there until he grew prune-like and had no option but to face the world again.
A Soothing Potion was waiting for him in his room and he drank half as he dried off. Straight away, he felt more tension leaving him. He shot the towel across the room to score a goal into the laundry basket and was just reaching for his underwear when Tonks burst into the room.
"Wotcher, Harry, I posted your letter for you — oh, God! I’m sorry!" she squealed. Her hair turned a vivid green.
Mortified, Harry bellowed at her to get out. Before he could even finish saying the words, she’d disappeared. Striding to his bedroom door, Harry slammed it shut. Thoroughly aggravated, he skulled the remainder of his Soothing Potion. Unfortunately, the potion no longer seemed up to the task of quelling the turbulence in his mind.
******
Author Notes: