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Awakenings
Chapter 4 — Transfiguring Things Out

By Lady Alchymia

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Still fraught from his morning, Harry fitfully prowled his bedroom’s threadbare rugs.   Though his head had stopped throbbing, a deeper ache inside him had yet to subside.   From his bedside table he picked up the photo of the eleven-year-old Lily with shining green eyes.   He wondered if his would ever look as bright and happy.

        "Hi, Mum," he whispered, stroking the little girl’s long auburn hair.   "Do I take after you at all?   Would you think I was worth it?"

        Lily Evans twirled happily, proudly displaying her new robes.

        On the mantelpiece, Sirius and James, captive to moments in time, smiled and waved to Harry from inside their photo frames (except for the fifteen-year-olds; they were far too cool to betray any interest).   Harry swapped Lily with a fifteen-year-old James (much to James’s annoyance).   Lily was tickled pink and waved cheerily to the big, black-haired boy who framed her.   She even attempted a handstand for him but got thoroughly tripped up in her new robes.   An eleven-year-old James next door sniggered at her efforts.   Lily pointedly ignored him.

        Harry couldn’t help but smile at his clueless little Dad, though his smile faded the longer he stared unblinking at his paper family.   He and Remus just had to find a way to make things work.   They just had to.   They were all each other had.

        Remus materialised a short while later with sandwiches, more apologies, and a confession he’d sent Tonks in an effort to cheer Harry up.   By now, Harry had calmed down enough to almost feel sorry for the man; it seemed clear Remus Lupin felt like he kept getting everything horribly wrong.   Settling together in their wingchairs, Harry accepted Remus’s peace offering (which wisely included a jug of Butterbeer and a Hagrid-sized block of chocolate).

        After his second gloom-lifting Butterbeer, he ventured through a mouthful of chocolate, "I just fell down the steps, for Merlin’s sake.   You’d have thought I was at death’s door the way you reacted."   Remus flinched at that.   Harry persisted in trying to understand.   "Was the full moon getting to you?   ’Cause if that’s the case —"

        Remus waved that away.   "I can’t blame the Moon for everything, Harry."

        Harry squinted shrewdly at him with his one good eye.   "But it gets to you; makes you doubt yourself."

        Remus didn’t deny it.   "Tell me what I can do to make it up to you, Harry.   I want to earn your trust back."

        Harry considered that; he didn’t fancy going through this every month.

        "How do I know you won’t try to send me away again?" he said at last.    Remus rubbed at his bare fingers for a moment before replying.

        "A long time ago I pushed someone out of my life for much the same reasons I tried to push you away this morning.   I never saw that person again.   I was wrong then and I was wrong again today.   I don’t deserve your trust, Harry, but I’m asking for it anyway."

        Harry searched the man’s worried eyes.   Sincere as he clearly was, Harry couldn’t help but remember how fast and completely Lupin disappeared on him two years before.

        "Look," Harry said evenly, "I don’t know how this is supposed to work, but you’ve got to know by now I’m a magnet for every kind of trouble.   Stuff’s going to keep happening to me — to both of us, I guess.   When it does, we deal with it together.   Right?"

        "Right," Remus agreed, his relief evident.   "I should let you rest …"   He gripped Harry on the shoulder on the way out and said, "You’re quite something, Harry."

        Harry permitted himself a small smile, but he still wondered how much he could really rely on the man.

******

Near dinnertime, another knock sounded on Harry’s door, but it wasn’t Remus.

        "Harry, it’s me!" called a wonderfully familiar voice.

        "Come in!"   Rushing across the room, Harry wrapped Hermione in a bone-crushing hug.   "I’ve missed you," he said hoarsely, kissing her cheek and holding her tight.   He was beyond delighted to see her.   In five years, Hermione had never let him down, had never ever given up on him.

        "I’ve missed you, too," she said, smiling as they pulled apart.   Her smile faded when she saw his face.   "Remus said you’ve had a rough week ..."

        "Oh, you know, up and down," Harry replied uneasily, pulling  her to the wingchairs.   "I didn’t expect to see you so soon."

        Hermione was busy wincing at his battered face: his split lip, his badly swollen eye, the grazes on his chin and cheeks.

        "How are you?   You look like a train wreck."

        "Well, this," Harry said sourly, pointing to his face, "is courtesy of being tossed down the stairs by our friendly neighbourhood Potions Master."   Hermione gasped in horror.   Harry just shrugged.   "He was being his usual charming self, but I don’t think he actually meant for me to fall.   But enough of my melodramas," he said determinedly, "what have you been up to?"

        "Oh, you know, the usual," Hermione said, looking interestedly around the room.   Then she stopped and gasped.   "That’s me!"   She jumped up for a closer look at her drawing — neatly nestled between two beach-babes — then found Ron’s as well.   "These are wonderful, Harry!" she gushed.   She added  triumphantly, "I just knew you’d love Charmed Charcoals!"

        Harry had no particular love of drawing demons, but he wasn’t about to deny Hermione her moment of glee; she so loved being right.

        "May I try them?" she asked excitedly.

        "Of course," said Harry.   He set up a fresh drawing pad and charcoals for her on his desk.

        Hermione took her time carefully reading all the instructions — twice.   When she was done, she looked up at Harry with a pained expression on her face and said, "I can’t think of what to draw."

        "I started with Hedwig," said Harry.   "Why don’t you try Crookshanks’s face?"

        Hermione held her hand poised over the sheet of paper and screwed up her face in concentration.

        "Okay," she said, nodding to herself.   As instructed, she closed her eyes, but she kept peeking to see what her hand was doing, and forcing it to go where she thought it should.

        "You need to let go," Harry suggested.   "Relax."

        "I am relaxed," Hermione insisted.   Squeezing her eyes shut, she clutched her charcoal tighter.

        Harry stood over her shoulder awhile, watching her progress.

        "Are you sure you’re thinking about Crookshanks?" he asked dubiously, tilting his head for a better look.

        Crookshanks might well be the ugliest feline of Harry’s acquaintance, but he definitely did not have full lips and a long freckled nose.

        Opening her eyes, Hermione looked down with dismay.   She quickly turned the sheet over and started again, murmuring over and over to herself, "Crookshanks ... Crookshanks ... Crookshanks ..."

        Just then, Crookshanks padded into the bedroom, sniffing the air and condescending to let Harry pick him up and pet him.   When Hermione opened her eyes, her face fell again; her second attempt was recognisable as a cat, but had none of the finesse of Harry’s drawings.

        "How did you get those ones of Ron and me to come out so well?" she asked, deeply miffed.

        Harry fondled Crookshanks’s ears and declared with a very straight face, "Emotional certitude."

******

At dinner that evening an unusually large number of members were in attendance — despite Remus’s cooking.   Even Professor Dumbledore was present.   Ignoring the curious glances people kept sneaking his way, Harry sat down with Hermione across from Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour.   Harry hid a smile at the way Bill gently fussed over the French witch, making sure she had enough to eat and drink.   Fleur appeared equally smitten.   Harry’s improving mood was tested upon hearing Snape’s name mentioned further up the table.

        "I never did think he could be trusted," Mad-Eye Moody grumbled.

        "But if Harry says it was an accident ..." countered Hestia Jones.

        "Accident my eye," Moody growled.   "You didn’t see him shaking in the corner."

        Harry slammed down his goblet with more force than he intended.   "I’m right here, you know!"

        Conversation around the table halted; Harry felt his face grow hot as all eyes turned to him.

        "Thought you didn’t want to talk about it?" Moody said.   Harry glared at the man; he wasn’t wrong.

        Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat.   "Harry, there are some who are calling for Professor Snape to resign from the Order of the Phoenix — only you can tell us whether such drastic action is warranted."

        Harry met Dumbledore’s inscrutable gaze with his one good eye and took a moment to consider his response.   He’d dearly love to see Snape get a good kick up the backside, but to be thrown out of the Order?   Who would keep tabs on the Death Eaters?   Who would make Remus’s potion?   That Ramsay woman might come through for him, but it’d still take him a good while to learn the potion, even with Hermione to help him.   Harry gritted his teeth; there was really no choice.

        "Professor Snape’s guilty of being careless and petty, but I don’t want him kicked out on account of last night."   Harry looked around at all the members and added significantly, "The Order of the Phoenix is too important for that to happen."

        There was a moment’s silence then a clamouring of voices.   Dumbledore let the conversation die down before clearing his throat again.

        "You are important, too, Harry, but thank you.   I should like to ask you another question, Harry, and I would hope you feel you can speak your mind."   Harry nodded to the Professor to go on.   "This house belongs to you now ... what are your feelings about the Order continuing to use your home for its headquarters?"

        Harry felt surprised by the question.   Although the members of the Order were inconvenient at times, it had not occurred to him to stop them using the house.

        "Not much of a home anyway, is it?" he joked, but no one laughed.   Harry shrugged indifferently.   "I don’t mind, sir.   I won’t be around much longer — might as well be useful for something."

        Dumbledore’s brow knitted at that.   Harry happened to glance towards Remus, who was staring dispiritedly into his coffee, and felt a pang of remorse; he hadn’t meant to sound so cold.   The members were also looking at each other uncomfortably.   Whispers raced around the long table.   Dumbledore raised a hand and silence fell once more.

        "The Order of the Phoenix has benefited greatly from the use of Black House, Harry.   I suspect it might be time for us to pay a little rent."

        "That’s really not necessary, Professor."

        "I’m not talking about money, Harry," Dumbledore countered.   There was a much-missed twinkle in his eye.

******

The next few days flew by in a frenzy of activity Hermione dubbed the Black House Blitz.   Sirius set aside ample gold for Black House to be ‘made bearable’ for Harry, and new furniture and fittings quickly materialised, but that was just the start.   Professor Dumbledore decided the Order should ‘pay a little rent’ by performing the renovations personally and the members took up the challenge enthusiastically, swarming over the house like busy bees.

        An unusually determined Remus Lupin created a task force of ten members (amongst them at least three Aurors and a certified Curse-Breaker) and systematically cleansed the house from top to bottom of lingering vermin.   They also strengthened existing security charms and even added a few new ones Bill picked up from the goblins.   A special Disillusionment Zone was  installed on the roof, protecting a broomstick landing-pad and  a rooftop greenhouse (at Harry’s request) to give Remus a decent chance to grow more orchids.

        Wizarding Folk just couldn’t help showing off when the opportunity presented itself, and the members of the Order of the Phoenix were no exception.   All over the house, rooms were freshly repainted within minutes, new drapery hung with a few flicks of a wand, and furniture moved around as effortlessly as if in a dollhouse.   Those were the easy bits; there was one thing that was very much like Muggle renovating: trying to get people to make up their minds.   Harry was constantly called upon to settle disputes between competing witches and wizards, all of whom had their own distinctly different and flamboyant styles.   Fleur Delacour proved easily the most talented when it came to interior decorating and assumed, unchallenged, the role of artistic director.

        "Zee ’ouse, it ’as good bones," she said imperiously, waving airily at the ornate vaulted ceilings, "but it lacks, ’mmm ... a leetle cinema."

        For Harry and Remus, Fleur opted for a mannish elegance that would not be out of place in a gentlemen’s club: deep comfortable leather sofas and warm, muted tones.   She was often brought to tears, however, when confronted with ‘surprises’ from some of the more exuberant members of the Order.

        "’Arry!   I cannot work like ziss!" she cried when Dedalus Diggle transfigured her elegant coffee table into a purple wishing well.

        Harry and Hermione negotiated a new spot for the wishing well, but they couldn’t be everywhere at once, and members contesting for supremacy in a room made the renovations take on the feel of a duel.   On Saturday, there was so much wand crossfire in the drawing room that the piano actually exploded.   Harry tried to comfort a deeply apologetic Elphias Doge, assuring him he didn’t even play, but the old wizard insisted on replacing the instrument.   Considering his ratty old piano had been infested with Biting Fairies, Harry felt he came out well-ahead from the mishap.

        "They’re completely barmy," Harry whispered to Hermione, watching from the third-floor landing as half a dozen members tried to manhandle a grand piano up the stairs (Elphias Doge refused to even consider using magic on it).   "I don’t need all this stuff."

        "It’s what Sirius wanted," Hermione whispered back to him.   "Oh don’t look at me like that; you know he hated the house the way it was."   Her voice lowered further.   "And I daresay the members are trying to make up for everything you went through last year."

        Harry held his tongue.   It was all very nice, but none of it was going to bring Sirius back.

        And so the renovations continued at a pace that would have both delighted and terrified Harry’s Aunt Petunia.   On the third floor, Regulus Black’s old bedroom was fitted out for Remus (complete with anti-moonlight shutters), and Mrs Black’s huge old bedroom was enlarged and furnished with a dozen girlish fantasy beds (just in case, Harry presumed, he happened to need to open a girls’ boarding school).   However, when it came to Sirius’s old bedroom, Harry politely refused all but the most basic updates, though he did remark that a private bathroom would be nice.   Hestia Jones was so excited to do something personally for Harry that the results almost put the Prefects’ bathroom at Hogwarts to shame.   Harry didn’t even want to think about how many plumbing charms she must have cast.

        Phineas Nigellus was finally rescued from the downstairs toilet.   Although a little shocked by the changes, he was well-satisfied to take up a premier position above one of the fireplaces in the downstairs dining room.   The dining room  had been given over to the Order as their new war room (with Mad-Eye Moody conjuring complex security for the room).   Opposite the war room, the library was completely refurbished.   Also on the ground floor was a new potions laboratory.   Harry was surprised to learn that even Professor Snape made a contribution, providing many of the rare ingredients now stocked in the lab.

        At last Harry surrendered to temptation and requested a new kitchen be set up on the first floor opposite the drawing room (he was well-sick of the dungeon basement).   Smaller details were not forgotten.   Professor McGonagall took particular pleasure in transfiguring all the serpent-headed doorhandles in the house into the lion-headed emblem of Godric Gryffindor (although Harry spotted the elderly Elphias Doge mischievously tip-toeing after her and changing a few back again).   Chandeliers and candelabras received similar transformations.   But no one, no one at all, could outdo Professor Albus Dumbledore when it came to glorious whimsy.   Using a combination of Wizarding Space and the weedy back garden of number twelve, he created a cathedral-like enclosure housing a full-sized Quidditch pitch, complete with grandstand towers and a roof that was charmed, like that of the Hogwarts Great Hall, to reveal the London sky.

        Alas, a few ugly items persisted.   Fleur managed to camouflage the Black Family Tree tapestry with some kind of floaty material that made it look like a long window, but the one thing no one was able to change or permanently cover up was Mrs Black.   To general dismay, the old harridan continued to resist all efforts to remove her.   Even so, with more than twenty powerful wands at work, within just three day the feral house had transformed into a handsome home that was, as Sirius had strictly instructed in his Will: ‘unrecognisable as the residence of my ancestors’.

        And yet, as impressive as the renovations were, there was something unreal about it all to Harry — like it was some beautiful illusion — a dream that could vanish at any moment.   Try as he might, he couldn’t completely shake the feeling.

        "You okay?" Remus asked, finding Harry alone on his four-poster bed, spreadeagled on his stomach, looking through his family photo album.

        "No, I’m good," Harry said quietly.

        When Harry said nothing more, Remus sat on the bed with him, watching as Harry turned to a wedding-party photo where his parents stood in front of a church with a crooked steeple, beaming and waving at him from between their best man and a blonde bridesmaid.   Harry smiled slightly as Sirius ducked around James and Lily to grab the bridesmaid around the waist.   She laughed and swatted him away with her bouquet of blood-red orchids.   Sirius didn’t seem to mind.

        "I think I took that one," Remus offered with a faint sad smile.   "It was the happiest of days ..."   He dragged his gaze away from the photograph long enough to look around appraisingly at Harry’s new scarlet drapes and rugs and wallpaper.   "Harry, I don’t want you to think we’re trying to erase Sirius’s memory …"

        Harry closed his album and shook his head at the idea.

        "I reckon Sirius would’ve been more than happy to erase a few memories."

        "True," Remus said.   He tilted his head a little.   "Something else worrying you?"

        "No," Harry said.   Then he sat up on his heels and said, "Yes.   I don’t deserve this — I don’t deserve any of it."

        "Harry …"

        "I’m serious.   There’s a war going on, and the Order’s giving my house a ruddy makeover!"

        "Harry," Remus said chidingly, "you know better than anyone we’ve been at war for more than a year.   Whilst Voldemort’s forces are in retreat, there’s not a lot we can do that we aren’t already doing.   A couple of days mucking about with paint and curtains isn’t going to make any great difference in the scheme of things.   To tell you the truth, we’ve all been going quietly nuts, checking and re-checking the same things, waiting for Voldemort to make a move.   It’s actually been good for morale to be able to work together on something happy for a change — something we know Sirius wanted for you.   The only things you should be worrying about are OWL results, and Quidditch, and trading Chocolate Frog cards and girls and — well, maybe not trading girls — that might be illegal these days ..."

        Harry smiled reluctantly.

        "That’s better," Remus said, messing the boy’s hair.   "Give me a hand with dinner?"

        Harry’s smile grew more confident; dinner he could manage; he only hoped he’d be able to get rid of his werewolf before he started cooking.   Admittedly, Remus’s Sunday roast wasn’t too shabby.   His one speciality was a kind of poor-man’s trencher: day old bread rolls bought cheap from a bakery in Leicester and stuffed with hot roast beef and gravy.   These were eagerly wolfed down at lunchtime by the troops (and Harry), but Harry did crave some relief from red meat three times a day.   Luckily, someone kept ringing the doorbell, setting off Mrs Black and leaving Harry in peace to cook up his tasty chicken casserole.

        Though not as large as the basement, the new kitchen was considerably more cheery.   Light and airy, there was a good-sized dining table and a beaten up old dresser filled with  mismatched pieces of Black Family china, silver, and pewter recovered from Kreacher’s hidden stashes.   None of the old wooden chairs matched, but Harry liked it that way.   It reminded him of The Burrow.   He did, however, have something of his Aunt Petunia’s liking for top-quality equipment.   State-of-the-art charmed cooking appliances could be found behind a black-granite breakfast bar with bar stools boasting broomstick-quality cushioning charms.   Harry especially liked this layout because it helped keep Remus on the non-cooking side of the counter.

        By the time he was finished his casserole, made up a salad, and had buns warming in the oven, most of the members had gone home, and Harry was very pleased to set the table for just him, Remus, and Hermione.   Just as he was finishing, a member passed by the kitchen and sniffed the air appreciatively.   Harry relaxed when he recognised the voice.

        "My, my, something certainly smells delicious," Professor Dumbledore declared.   "I didn’t know Molly was here."   Harry grinned and invited the professor to join them for dinner, an offer the elderly wizard was most delighted to accept.   "But you must allow me to bring dessert — I have something at home that is just ready to pop in the oven!   I shall return anon!"   The professor returned in an ebullient mood, which only improved when he learned who cooked their dinner.   "Outstanding, Harry!" he declared, and the others echoed the sentiment.   Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled merrily as he dabbed his napkin to his lips.   "Which reminds me … if you’d be so kind as to excuse me for just one moment, Remus, Harry, Miss Granger …"

        The Headmaster rose from the table, spun gracefully, and Disapparated without the slightest sound, returning five minutes later with a steaming pie in one hand and two official-looking envelopes in the other.   Hermione shrieked.   Remus made a grab for the pie as she lunged for her OWL notice, almost bowling Dumbledore over.

        "Sorry!   Sorry!"   She ripped it open and scanned her results, mumbling to herself as she read them.   "Oh — oh — oh!" she said excitedly.   "Harry, may I borrow —"

        "Yes, go, go!" Harry said, confident that Hedwig would soon be delivering very good news to Mr and Mrs Granger.

        He opened his own results with greater trepidation.   Should be enough, he thought with relief.   He’d failed History and Divination, but he somehow scraped an Outstanding in Potions and passed well-enough with everything else that mattered.   He was over the first hurdle towards becoming an Auror, though he wondered if career-planning even mattered any more; he didn’t imagine you needed too many NEWTs to become a murderer.   Lost in his own thoughts, he only belatedly noticed Remus’s outstretched hand.

        "Don’t I get to see them?" said the man, smiling.

        Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never asked to see Harry’s school results — Sirius either for that matter.   Harry handed them over and crossed his arms to wait, oddly nervous for his new guardian’s reaction.

        "But this is excellent, Harry!" said Remus.   "DADA especially: Outstanding and a special commendation!"   Holding the results in one hand, he reached out with the other to pull Harry into a one-armed hug.   "I’m so proud of you!"

        Harry’s cheeks went pleasantly warm.   Then he groaned deeply on hearing the doorbell.

        "I keep telling Dedalus …" Remus moaned, rolling his eyes.

        He left to deal with Sirius’s mother, and Harry started putting out bowls of ice-cream to go with the Professor’s apple pie.   They waited awhile, but when the others didn’t come back, they started without them.   As delicious as the dessert was, Harry felt a little awkward to be all alone with Dumbledore, the last time having been when he’d trashed his office.

        "The house is looking brilliant," he offered when the silence started becoming oppressive.   "You and the twins did a phenomenal job with the poolroom — that indoor Quidditch pitch is seriously cool."

        "Good, good," Dumbledore said.   He sat back and curled his long beard through his fingers.   "I must admit, I did hope improving the state of your home might help relieve some of the pressure of being locked up."

        Harry recalled their conversation the night Sirius died.   "Yeah … yeah, maybe."

        "You were very quiet, Harry, when you received your results.   Is something troubling you?"

        Harry avoided Dumbledore’s clear blue eyes.   First Remus, now Dumbledore?   Was he that obvious?

        "Oh well, you know," he said, "failing Divination wasn’t fun."

        "You don’t care about Divination, Harry."

        Harry couldn’t deny that.   "Sir, I want to think ahead to what I’ll do after school, but I can’t help knowing it’s all a bit pointless.   What with a Death Mark over my head and all."

        Dumbledore’s brow furrowed.   "What do you see as your future, Harry?"

        A bitter laugh escaped Harry’s lips.   "Well, that’s the point, isn’t it.   I don’t feel like I have one — not one I have any choice over anyway."

        "There are always choices, Harry," Dumbledore said serenely.   He peered thoughtfully at the boy over his spectacles.   "Have you had any visions or pains from your scar?"

        "No, nothing," Harry said.   "What do you think that means?"

        "I imagine it could mean at least two things: one, that Lord Voldemort has found inner peace and tranquillity," Harry snorted at that; Dumbledore pretended not to notice, "or, two, that he is deliberately closing his mind to you, unwilling, perhaps, to provide you with any unwanted insights."

        Harry was just fine with that.   He started to clear away the dinner plates, but Dumbledore stopped him.

        "Do allow me," he said graciously.

        Rising from his seat, he waved his wand with the grace of a music conductor.   Dirty plates, goblets, and cutlery glided towards the sink, which magically filled with bubbles.   Dumbledore pushed up his sleeves.

        "I always did like playing with the suds," he said dreamily.

******

Late that night, hiding in his bedroom from Dedalus Diggle, who was keen to discover Harry’s opinion on live cushions, Harry pulled out his ‘demon’ drawing pad from its hiding place beneath his mattress.   Just after arriving at Black House, he’d tried again to draw Sirius, but succeeded only in reproducing nightmare visions of himself as an increasingly bloodthirsty demon chasing down Bellatrix Lestrange.   Turning grimly through his pages of demons, Harry wondered if this was what his subconscious was telling him he needed to become in order to kill.   Was Lestrange right?   Did he need to lust for inflicting as much pain and suffering as she did before he could even attempt to defeat Voldemort?   Harry didn’t want to accept that, but he couldn’t see any other way.   The last drawing in the pad was no help either.   After he’d given up trying to draw Sirius, he’d tried to draw himself, deliberately, and that had worked just fine in that he looked perfectly normal — not a demon at all.   The only problem was that ‘perfectly normal’ apparently meant a face full of pain and grief.   And this was supposed to be his great power?   That he could feel like that?   Staring fixedly at his tormented self-portrait, he hated to think this was what he really looked like to other people.   No wonder they all thought he was nuts.

        "Can I hide in here?" said a voice from the door.   It was Remus.   "I just killed a cushion," he whispered cheerfully.   Harry snorted a laugh.   "It was looking at me funny!" Remus said in his defence.   Flopping down into his wingchair, he nodded interestedly to Harry’s drawing pad.   "Ah, who are we drawing now?"

        Harry hesitated for a moment then peeled his self-portrait from the pad and handed it over.

        "Do I really look like this?" he said plaintively.   "Honestly, I’m not that depressed — truly."

        Remus examined the portrait carefully, nodding to himself.

        "Not depressed, no … but there’s a lot of pain there," he suggested.

        Harry shrugged.   "I guess so."

        "Do you want to talk about it?" Remus asked, leaning forward in his chair.

        Harry didn’t answer for a moment.   Then he sat down and leaned forward, too, elbows to knees, eyes to the floor, and toyed with his fingers.

        "I guess I just know too much about things I can’t do anything about," he admitted.   Taking a deep breath, he lifted his eyes to Remus and said, "After the Department of Mysteries, Professor Dumbledore told me what was in my prophecy."

        Remus couldn’t hide his shock.   "He did?   You must be the only one!"

        "You don’t know what’s in it?" checked Harry.

        Remus shook his head, clearly rattled.   Harry examined his knuckles, trying to work out how he felt about Remus not knowing.   It was probably safer he didn’t know, but what if Dumbledore told him anyway?   Would Remus still want to be the Chosen One’s guardian?

        "Well ... let’s just say it makes OWL results seem a bit irrelevant," Harry said finally.   He drew another deep breath and steeled himself for what he had to say.   "Remus, I think what’s been bothering me more than anything else is that there are these secrets hanging over me, and it’s only a matter of time before they surface and you’ll try to send me away again because — well, because you’d think being my guardian was too hard.   I need you to know what I’m in for.   I need you to know — I need to know — whether you’re in this for good."

        Remus offered no empty bluster, did not even try to deny Harry’s concerns were genuine.

        "What do you need me to know, Harry?" he asked quietly.

        "I — I don’t know what I’m allowed to say … I need to check with Professor Dumbledore …"

        Remus rolled up Harry’s drawing and rose to his feet.

        "Come on then," he said, standing at his fullest height and with a very determined look on his face.   "No time like the present."

        They located Professor Dumbledore in the ground-floor hallway, contemplating the scrappy curtains covering Mrs Black’s portrait.   As they descended the stairs, Harry wondered why it was that the only wizard Voldemort ever feared was unequal to the task of obliterating a stubborn old painting.

        "Headmaster?" Remus prompted in a low voice.   "A word?"

        Dumbledore smiled and followed Remus into the library.   Surprising no one, Hermione greeted them brightly from behind a hefty tome.

        "Oh, there you are, Harry!   I wondered where you got to.   How were your results?"

        "Could’ve been worse," said Harry.   "Erm … they’re up in the kitchen, if you want to look."

        "Why don’t you take your book with you," Remus suggested leadingly.

        Hermione looked from Harry to Remus to Dumbledore then back to Harry.   She wasn’t stupid.

        "Right … yes, probably time to turn in, anyway."   Gathering up several plump books for ‘bedtime reading’, she slipped away, closing the door quietly behind her on three generations of wizards.

        Remus waited until they were all seated comfortably in Fleur’s deep armchairs before he began.   After receiving a nod from Harry, he handed over his self-portrait to Dumbledore.

        "Sir," Remus started carefully, "there’s something eating away at Harry, but he doesn’t want to break your confidence."

        Dumbledore unrolled the picture and looked at it for a long while.

        "What would you like me to do, Harry?" he asked kindly.

        Harry moistened his dry lips; there was no going back now.

        "I’d like Remus to know about my prophecy, sir.   If that’s okay?"

        The Professor looked deeply into Harry’s eyes.   "Are you certain you wish to open that door, Harry?"

        Harry gave the question serious consideration.   Could Remus deal with the prospect of his ward being murdered?   Given his response to him getting a black eye, Harry knew it was a risk, but he’d rather know now if the man was going to bail on him.   He’d rather know now whether the man would just give up without a fight, like when he resigned from Hogwarts after being revealed as a werewolf.

        "I do," said Harry, trying to inject more confidence into his voice than he really felt.

        Professor Dumbledore curled his long beard through his fingers and observed, "It is very hard, keeping secrets from those nearest and dearest to you.   You have my permission, Harry, to share your prophecy with Remus, or indeed with Miss Granger or Mr Weasley, should you wish to; they have certainly proven themselves trustworthy allies."

        Harry nodded to that.   Although it was good to know he could, he wasn’t sure if he wanted his friends to know his destiny was to become a killer.   Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remus watching him.

        "That can probably wait a bit," said the man perceptively.

        Dumbledore rose from his chair.   "I believe we have a Pensieve in our new war room.   Would you care to join me, Remus?"

        Fifteen minutes later, Remus returned to the library, pale but determined.   He walked directly to Harry and sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of his chair, peering intently into the boy’s eyes as if searching for his soul.

        "I know I made a right mess of things last week, Harry; I know that.   And you have no idea how sorry I am it fell on you to set me straight — but you did.   Whatever happens I am going to be here for you.   You have my word."

        Harry rubbed his hands across his face and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.   Remus’s hands found Harry’s wrists.

        "Maybe not on the full moon," he said apologetically, "but we can work around that — can’t we?"   Harry looked up into Remus’s earnest face and nodded.   "Good, good," Remus said with relief.   He gave Harry’s wrists a final squeeze before releasing them.   "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

        Harry shook his head slightly.   "It’s not even that I particularly want to talk about it ... It’s like, well, it’s just good to know I can if I want to."

        Remus considered that for a moment.   "I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through, Harry, but I do understand what it feels like to have your future stolen from you."

        Harry’s eyes flickered with interest; Remus rarely spoke about his condition.

        "Professor Dumbledore can talk about choices," Remus continued, "but sometimes none of the choices available to you are terribly palatable.   It was only a few short years ago that the Wolfsbane Potion gave me some hope for a normal life.   The years my friends kept vigil with me made the transformations bearable, but when they were gone — well — things got pretty dark … then I very cleverly chose to push away the one person who could save me.   I told myself I was protecting them ..." Remus laughed hollowly.   "Well, we both know how that story goes.

        "I’ve been alone a long time, Harry, and there’ve been times ... well, there have been some pretty bleak times.   For every step forward, fate seems to want to send me three steps back.   Sometimes I just feel so helpless.   That no matter what I do, things manage to get even worse than I ever thought possible."   Remus sighed deeply and reached out again for Harry’s wrists, gripping them firmly.   "And then I met you again, after so many years.   I was so proud of you — of what you’d achieved — of the young man you’re becoming."

        Harry felt a lump rising in his throat to hear this.

        "I don’t know what my future holds, son, and I don’t know what choices I’m going to have to make, but I do know that right now, at this moment in time, being here with you ... well, my present is feeling pretty damn good."   Remus curled a hand around Harry’s neck, his touch a welcome caress under Harry’s thick hair.   "Carpe diem, eh?" he suggested.   "Use each day the best we can, and leave the future where it belongs."

        "Carpe diem," Harry agreed huskily.

        Remus rubbed Harry’s neck a moment longer then said very seriously, "Did you save me any pie?"

        Harry snorted a laugh and let his guardian haul him to his feet.   Up in the kitchen, the pair sat at the kitchen table, armed with spoons and with the leftover hot apple pie between them.

        "Really needs ice-cream," Harry said leadingly.

        "Oh no, let me get it," said Remus wryly.

       Harry reached for his OWL results.

        "Can you believe I got an Outstanding in Potions?" he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

        Remus flopped back into his chair, ice-cream tub in hand.

        "Having eaten your chicken casserole, Harry, why, yes, I can!   Have you given any thought to which subjects you want to go on with?"

        "Yes, actually," Harry said, dumping fat scoops of ice-cream onto their plate.   "Professor McGonagall gave me which ones I need to get into Auror training."

        "You want to be an Auror?" Remus said, impressed.   He looked over the results again.   "So, what did you do to earn a special commendation?"

        "Conjured my Patronus," Harry said through a mouthful of pie.

        Remus smiled.   "Prongs rides again!"   He lifted one eyebrow and added, "Do I want to know what happened with Divination?"

        Harry hid a smirk and said with all innocence, "I thought we weren’t going to dwell on the future?"

******

Rising earlier than Remus on Monday morning, Harry stretched out deliciously under the covers, feeling as good as he had done in many months.   Recalling the depressing self-portrait he’d drawn two weeks before, he felt convinced he could do better.

        Sitting at his desk, charcoal in hand, he let his mind drift across his emotions about himself.   He didn’t think he’d ever lose the ache in his heart over Sirius — it was part of him — but there were things that were going well for him, too: he had place in a real home at last; Voldemort was out of his hair for the time being; the last lingering doubts about Remus deserting him had been dealt with; his OWL results weren’t too shabby, and he was perilously close to making it all the way to another birthday; and on top of all that, Hermione was here, and with any luck Ron might escape Auntie Muriel’s Malevolent Mould long enough to join them.   All in all, he was feeling pretty good, right here, right now.   Holding fast to those optimistic thoughts, Harry closed his eyes and let his hand float across his drawing pad.   He was almost finished when Remus arrived with their morning drinks.

        "Don’t talk to me," Harry mumbled, unwilling to stop.   Remus waited obediently in his wingchair.

        Within a few minutes, Harry was finished and opened his eyes onto a pleasant surprise.   The boy before him looked calm and confident and wore a quiet smile that reached his eyes.   Harry thought he was starting to understand the ‘emotional certitude’ thing.

        "You can talk now," he said to his guardian.

        "How are you feeling this morning?" asked Remus.

        Harry exchanged his new drawing for a cup of tea.   "You tell me."

        Remus unfurled the second self-portrait.   A slow smile grew on his care-worn face.

******
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