Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own it.
A/N: Sorry for the long delay. Class and a highly addictive Christmas present have stolen my time away. Ah, the wretched vices of mortal flesh!
-cough- In any case, we're still in the past here. There's a lot to cover, and I don't feel as if I can appropriately describe it all in "flashbacks." You will still see more of the adult!Harry and Snape interactions of the Present every five chapters or so, until I believe I have sufficiently told this arc of the story.
Dreaming, or, rather, pleasant dreams, was a luxury that most people were not even aware they had. It was an extravagance not lavished upon the thin, strained shoulders of the Boy Who Lived. Harry Potter had not known more than the occasional pleasant night's sleep since his fourth year and Cedric Diggory had been the first victim of returning war. More often, the power of Dreamless Sleep potion was required to keep both the boy's sanity and health, lest he give in to chronic insomnia out of fear of sleep's tidings. Now, as he tossed and turned in the vicious throes of a nightmare, was no exception.
He was running, running, unable to slow down despite the stitch in his side and his gasping breath. Though he was fast, a good runner, a good flyer, his pursuer seemed never to tire, never to falter. Stumbling, scrabbling, he picked himself up from the floor and hurried on. His chest ached, his lungs burned, his muscles were screaming from lack of oxygen… and still he was chased. Fingers gripped tightly around a golden locket, defying the cry of "Accio!" in his ears, he leapt over musty tomes littering the ground…but then they shifted, opening, clasping about his legs and pulling him under, mocking him, asking him what he thought to accomplish when all he seemed to bring was pain and death. Did he have a chance to stop Voldemort? He was relying too heavily on the Prophecy, he was unable to suppress his "saving people thing," inadvertently causing yet more death. Sirius was falling, falling back into the veil, his spine was arching, the expression on his face surprised, afraid, accusatory. He stared straight at Harry, not at Bellatrix, and Harry knew that his godfather blamed him for his death. And Harry was so helpless, so desperate, running from the high, cold laughter resounding in his ears…
"Harry!" they called. "Harry! Harry!"
"Harry!" With a jolt, the soon-to-be seventeen-year-old awoke, thrashing against the bedcovers and throwing himself into a sitting position. His green eyes blinked wildly, dark hair falling in irrepressibly tousled locks about his sweat-soaked forehead. His chest heaving, he blindly struck out for his glasses, willing his heart to not beat so quickly, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins to subside. Placing the familiar wire rims about his severely myopic eyes, he blinked owlishly at the owner of the voice that had coerced him into wakefulness, adjusting the glasses about the bridge of his nose. Slowly, the fuzzy shape of Remus Lupin came into sharper focus, and the young Gryffindor shook his head as if to clear it.
"Sorry," he muttered self-consciously, glancing down at the damp pillowcase beneath him. The bedclothes were severely rumpled, twisted about his long legs, showing clearly signs of the struggle he had enacted during his nightmare. And it was a nightmare, he knew, as already the images were fading from his conscious mind; visions, what few he had had since Sirius' death, recalled themselves despite Harry's personal reluctance to pursue them. After a moment, shifting uncomfortably, he glanced back up at the graying, amber-eyed werewolf by his bedside. However, as he regained lucidity and self-awareness, the urgency of his last memories thrust themselves forcibly into his mind. Suddenly alert once more, he clenched his hands about the sheets, throwing them off his body and moved quickly to his feet.
"What happened! Where am I? Did everyone get out!" Fierce green eyes met tired amber, fiery determination shining in their youthful depths. For his part, Lupin seemed slightly taken aback by the sudden energy and vehemence of his young charge, but practiced as he was, did not appear to be startled for long. Almost immediately, characteristic reserve and kind mildness shone on his weary demeanor as he gently pushed Harry back to the bed.
"You're at Headquarters, Harry," he murmured quietly, knowing that Harry would have recognized his surroundings in a moment, anyway. For a few minutes, he quietly scrutinized the youth, letting the knowledge sink in. Harry had never been fond of Grimmauld Place, and his distaste for the ancestral Black home was increased tenfold with Sirius' death; a sentiment Remus empathized with completely. Subduing the pain the thought elicited in him, the last remaining Marauder stepped closer to his surrogate godchild's bed, sitting companionably on the mattress' side after coaxing Harry back onto it as well. Though briefly reluctant, the boy eventually settled once more atop the covers, though the intensity of that emerald gaze never wavered.
"There were a few injuries, but we're alive." A ghost of a sad smile flitted briefly across that tired, lined face. For a moment, Harry thought that Lupin might grasp his shoulder, but in the end, the man seemed to think better of that motion and desisted. Even with the relative reassurance of that statement, Harry couldn't help but feel as if there was a fairly large 'however' about to follow, and apprehension twisted sourly in his belly.
"What about my relatives?" he asked, searching the werewolf's features carefully, trepidation clearly visible on his face. His fingers dug reflexively into what he recognized as his pyjamas, lines of tension evident in his forearms and tight grip.
"Your aunt and cousin are safe, thanks to your courage and quick action," the older man began slowly, seeming somehow older than he was. Looking at him, Harry was almost overcome by the sudden guilt and horror rising. He knew what was coming.
"My uncle's dead, isn't he?" Harry wasn't really sure what to feel. He didn't hold any love for his uncle, and he knew that the sentiment was more than reciprocated, but he had never wanted the man dead. At least, not seriously, he amended. Somehow, it felt as if he had failed again, as he had with Cedric, with Sirius, with Dumbledore… Irrationally, a sickening pulse of hot fury threaded through his veins, but he managed to quickly suppress it. He tore his gaze away from Lupin, not wanting to see sympathy or, worse, pity, in that familiar, lined visage.
"I'm sorry, Harry," came the quiet reply, and then Harry did feel the warm weight of a hand on his shoulder. Briefly, the adult wizard squeezed the flesh beneath his palm before standing, the mattress squeaking as he moved. He turned to look at his charge, understanding in his brown eyes.
"You did everything you could, and more besides." For a moment, he hesitated as if wanting to say more but thinking better of it. When he spoke again, there was none of that quiet reluctance in the calm tones. "How do you feel?"
Bloody brilliant. However, Harry was not going to voice that sentiment, as he was physically fine. Instead, he kept his gaze down, fingers clenched tightly about the blue-gray fabric of his pyjamas, unruly mop of raven hair falling low on his forehead and obscuring his eyes. The thin lines of his mouth were pressed together in a line that spoke of taut control: or, rather, what passed for taut control with Harry Potter.
"Okay," he mumbled, still not daring to look up. His mind was a jumble; flashes of emerald light burst behind his eyes, and Bellatrix's mad shrieks of pain and vindication reverberated in his ears. He could still see the figure of his stout Uncle Vernon in his mind's eye; limbs jerking, muscles quivering, inhuman cries of excruciating torment wrenched from his throat. In this instance, it would seem that his famed Gryffindor courage had deserted him.
Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes as those thoughtful brown eyes of the werewolf stared into him, threatening his resolve with tender understanding and kindness. Harry managed not to tremble with the force of emotion running through him, but it was a very near thing. How many more people were going to die because he could not act properly? Logically, he knew there was nothing more that he could have done for Vernon; his heart, however, was a different story.
"How're Aunt Petunia and Dudley?" he asked softly, words slurring together ever so slightly with the discomfort of guilt weighing down his slender physique.
"Physically unharmed," Lupin responded, though perhaps a bit cautiously. Harry finally dared to look up, asking the truth of the man with a piercing emerald gaze that was somehow hollow and blazing with inner fire at the same time. "But I must say they are not dealing with your uncle's…passing… well." Even as he processed that, Harry knew that Lupin had a tendency to understate. By saying that Petunia and Dudley weren't dealing with Vernon's death 'well,' the mild-mannered werewolf meant that they were likely beside themselves, ranting, wailing, and blaming Harry. Harry wouldn't fault them if they did; after all, it wasn't as if anyone else could have saved his uncle but had instead failed.
Harry didn't reply; instead, he turned his face away, staring unseeing at the far wall. The death-grip he had held on the sheets began to relax, as a world-weariness settled over his body. Pride and the refusal to break down in front of Remus were the only reasons he did not dip his head and loose his frustrations in a flurry of tears. It was war; what right did he have to mourn the steady loss of his innocence since fourth year? Hell, from his first year, Dumbledore had been grooming him, however affectionately, into the role of the Light's weapon. He hadn't even liked Uncle Vernon; the Dursleys' ill opinion had never mattered to him before, and had always been unlikely to change. Why, then, did their blame hurt so much? And why did he find himself agreeing with them?
"You did everything you could, Harry," Remus quietly soothed, resisting the urge to take the boy into his arms in a parental gesture. Harry would certainly resist, and what right did Remus have to attempt to do so anyway? All those years… all those years that Harry had spent under the stairs in a broom cupboard, malnourished and starved for affection and Remus had been unaware. Oh, how he would have dearly loved to have taken the boy, the last, precious remnant of his youth and the wonderful friendship and camaraderie of the Marauders, in as his own. However, anti-werewolf legislation made adoption impossible, and the lingering stigma of the dark beast made supporting the child hopeless. Often, Lupin had barely managed to feed himself. But he could have checked on the boy, left small tokens, learned of the abuse… anything. Nevertheless, he hadn't, and now Harry had grown, and grown stronger for his suffering and neglect, and it pained Lupin terribly. He knew that the boy had taken Sirius' death harshly, almost as harshly as he himself had, and this new blow would not be taken easily. Despite the harsh cruelty and madness of the overlarge Muggle and reciprocated hatred between himself and his nephew, Vernon had been, in the boy's eyes, Harry's responsibility to protect; a responsibility he had failed, much like his view of his failure to save his godfather.
Sirius. The boy has so much promise, but so many scars. I fear that even if he manages to survive this war with his life intact, his soul will be damaged beyond my ability to repair. But I will try, Padfoot. I will protect him with my last breath, and I will help him heal. Just give me strength: I do not think I can do this alone.
"If it weren't for your quick action, your aunt and cousin would be dead as well," the werewolf reminded his charge gently, surveying the boy with sorrowful amber-flecked eyes. He fought the urge to wring his hands helplessly against his patched, shabby robes, succeeding only marginally. "There is much to be grateful for, Harry."
Much to be grateful for? There was just as much injustice to be furious at! Harry wanted to scream at the sheer unfairness of it all, of the stupid prophecy and Voldemort and his unwilling role in this stupid war and the unluckiness of the people who died merely because of their connection to him, but he kept his mouth shut. He would demand retribution from the Dark Lord later. Voldemort, Pettigrew, Snape, Bellatrix, and Malfoy would pay, he knew. They would pay dearly for their treachery and innate evil. It was not revenge, after all: it was justice.
"Harry?" Lupin prompted, his tones concerned and worried. It was not like the teen to be so reticent, he knew. If anything, the force of Harry's emotions and firestorm temper were infamous.
"Sorry, Professor," Harry spoke up quickly, not wanting to worry his former teacher any more than he already had. His own personal demons were simply that; his own, and he was being silly and childish by parading them in front of Lupin. The werewolf had enough of his own problems to deal with; why should Harry add on to them? He'd already proven that he could take care of himself; it was only when others' lives were connected to his that he failed miserably.
He glanced back up at Lupin, pushing aside that increasingly cynical line of thought. If he had not known better, he would have said that such a statement would have been more fitting emerging from Snape's mouth than his own inner monologue. The former Professor's gaze didn't waver, and observed him far too candidly for Harry's taste, but the young man didn't allow himself the puerile luxury of fidgeting.
"Harry." There was a note that could have almost been paternal in the werewolf's tones, and Harry found himself fighting the urge to squirm again. The last time he had had a conversation similar to this one, he had raged about Dumbledore's office, throwing things in a right tantrum upon learning of the supposed course of his destiny. This time, there would be no petty fuming and storming about, and there would be no kindly, wizened visage staring out with grandfatherly concern through half-moon spectacles at him, lines of immeasurable age and sorrow etched upon his face. That thought alone brought another hot rush of anger and indignant fury, but the young, impetuous Gryffindor quashed the sensation.
"Your uncle's death was not your fault, and neither was Sirius'." Lupin's voice was uncharacteristically firm, and he leaned over the bed, making sure that Harry's green gaze was firmly attuned to his own brown. Despite himself and the stubborn, youthful compulsion to turn away, Harry found himself drawn to the empathy, veiled pain, and absolute steel in the older man's eyes. For a moment, he thought he might believe what he was being told, but it was clashing with the layers of guilt and self-deprecation ingrained in him with his emotionally abusive childhood. Whose fault could it have otherwise been? If Harry had acted more quickly, rather than deliberating over taking revenge on Wormtail, Vernon would likely still be alive. If he had paid more attention to Occulmency instead of being riled by Snape's taunts, if he had not been so rash and convinced of his own integral role in saving those connected to him, Sirius might still be alive, too. Stubbornly, he pursed his lips, not wanting to let on that he didn't believe Lupin entirely, but at the same time unwilling (or incapable) of admitting his harbored guilt.
"Harry." The boy still didn't respond, those brilliant green eyes shuttered and closed off, his posture inherently defensive without the utterance of a single syllable. Inwardly, Remus sighed, cursing his own negligence for not noticing the emotional storm that had been gathering in his charge for years. In that moment, the youth's resemblance to Lily was uncanny: not in physicality, save for the beautiful eyes, but in mannerism and fault. Someone should have expected this sooner. He should have expected this sooner, Remus knew. Yes, he had been preoccupied with his own personal difficulties, his own guilt and guarded pain regarding Sirius and Tonks, but he was also the last of the Marauders, the last of those closest to Harry's parents. He should have known, or at least suspected that Harry hadn't been dealing nearly as well as others had surmised. It was his own failing.
Forgive me Prongs. I have been failing your son for years, and too blind to see it until now.
"Look at me. Sirius died in the heat of battle, fighting for what he believed in, and protecting you. He chose to go to the Ministry that night, and given the chance, I can guarantee you he would do so again." The strengthening amber in his irises, giving a distinctly wolfish quality to his manner, heightened the intensity in his gaze. Reaching out, he gripped Harry's shoulder once more, knowing without hearing the protest lingering in the youth's slumping posture.
"For all of his shortcomings, there was no one that he loved more than you," Remus insisted, his voice quavering only slightly with restrained emotion. Sirius was still a raw wound in many ways, ways that would never be fully rectified, but he found that he could say this, for the boy's sake. "It was Bellatrix who killed him, and it was You-Know---Voldemort----who is ultimately at fault. It was he who preyed upon and manipulated you. As always, it is him we are fighting against. You were a victim in all of this as much as Sirius, or your uncle, or Dumbledore." There was a definite sadness in the graying visage as the werewolf regarded Harry for a tense, sorrowful moment. Finally, he looked away, seemingly lost in memory as he continued, "This is what Voldemort does, Harry. For every family that he devastated with deaths in the last war, he touched far more with fear, discord, and unfounded feelings of guilt. He sowed the seeds, and we tore ourselvesapart." Dry lips tightened in a grimace, and he sighed softly, looking down at the boy, who appeared to be absorbing at least some of this. For several long moments, neither said anything, lost in their own memories and pain. In the end, Remus broke the silence.
"He was so proud of you, Harry," he said softly. There was no need to elaborate on whom.
Unexpectedly, Harry turned towards the werewolf and wrapped his arms tightly about the thin torso. After a heartbeat of what must have been surprise, he felt Lupin return the embrace just as fiercely. He had heard the quiver in the older man's voice, and felt the weight of his godfather's death press more heavily on his shoulders. He knew Sirius had loved him, even if they had not been together long, and the unfairness of their stolen future, of his godfather's stolen life and freedom seemed all the more inescapable and painful. Despite himself, tears of anguish filled his eyes, and silently he let them pour, grieving in a way he had not allowed himself to do previously through his anger and his desire for distraction. More than responsibility for the man's death, he had loved Sirius in return. That love, this pain, was what tormented him now.
"I miss him," he whispered painfully, clinging to Lupin. It took only half a second before he realized that the werewolf was holding him just as tightly, mourning with him the loss of their loved one. He buried his face in the man's shoulder, not daring to think that this might have been what a parental embrace was supposed to feel like; not with the weight of grief pressing down his soul, choking his words.
"So do I, Harry," came the hoarse rasp from Remus, who only held the boy more tightly. This had not been what he had set out to do when worriedly checking on the sleeping Harry, but it had been something they had both silently craved. Others had sympathized with their loss, but none else had loved Sirius the way they had. No one else understood so intimately the ache of his passing. "So do I."
And as he held the youth, Remus was distinctly reminded that for all of his remarkable accomplishments, for everything he had done and everything that the world as a whole still expected of him, the Boy Who Lived was still just that: a sixteen-year-old boy. And more than that, a boy lost in the throes of grief, adult responsibility, and burdens beyond what anyone, much less a hurting teenager, should be forced to shoulder.
After the scene in Harry's accepted bedroom, neither he nor Remus brought it up again. Everything that had needed to be said appeared to have been, and whether from embarrassment or simply a desire not to reopen raw wounds, neither of the pair had felt inclined to expound on their mutual breakdown. For his part, Harry seemed to have begun the healing process he should have started a year ago, a fact that gratified the werewolf deeply. It was important to him that Harry heal, and if some space was helping that, then, by all means, Remus was inclined to give it to the boy. Remus, on the other hand, was still quietly dealing with his own difficulties; not, of course, that they were problems to be shared with his teenage charge.
Heaving a slight sigh, the man who was younger than he seemed stirred a teaspoonful of honey into his cup of tea, inhaling the scent with lycanthropically enhanced senses: the full moon had been but a few days prior, and the effects still lingered. A noise upstairs caught his attention and, setting the spoon on a saucer, the werewolf glanced up in time to catch a glimpse of bony neck before a door shut with a strong click. Harry's relatives had not taken the death of their own well; the most anyone saw of them was an occasional passing on the way to the loo or the kitchen, and even then, the woman and her child were not sociable. Even genial Molly Weasley had been rebuffed thoroughly despite her warm, sympathetic attempts to offer food and comfort. Of course, the plump woman's hospitality had then been quickly rescinded, and it was clear that the Weasley matriarch had been attempting to put-aside a well-nursed grudge against the Muggles for their, "Absolute starvation!" of Harry. And the question of what exactly to do with the snappish woman and her morbidly obese offspring lingered still. They could not simply set them free; despite his unwillingness to think any worse of Harry's relatives in the wake of their personal misfortune, Lupin would not have put it past them to stupidly attempt to go running to Voldemort, bargaining Harry's life for their own. And even if they did not, it was clear now that they were already targets for their connection to Harry, and they knew far too much about the Wizarding world for anyone's comfort. It was really a losing situation however one looked at it, he considered regretfully. And as much as he agreed with Molly that having them here would only hinder Harry's emotional progress, there was little else to be done.
As he turned his thoughts to his teenage charge, Lupin decided that the boy was probably still asleep. It was earlier than the boy would be up if allowed to sleep in, and he had appeared to be doing a lot of sleeping lately. That and studying with an almost obsessive-compulsive fervor. But as he was still grieving the losses and burdens of his existence, Lupin was inclined to let him work out his pain any way he could for now, and the extra study would only prove helpful in the end. It was so unfair to throw these expectations on the slender shoulders of a boy soon to enter manhood, when it should have been girls (or perhaps boys) and careers that should have interested him. Not war. Never war. And yet, it seemed that Harry might never have that opportunity. Prophecy indeed! The wolf in him was snarling at the thought. Why should a boy be fated to destroy the strongest, Darkest sorcerer in a millennium? With fierce vehemence, Lupin pushed the thoughts away, attempting to cool the boiling, almost lupine rage that simmered whenever his musings took this turn, as they did so often lately. There was no way that he was going to let Harry fight Voldemort alone, Prophecy be damned. He had lost so much already, he was not about to lose the last of his family.
And as he lifted the teacup to his lips, Remus wasn't entirely certain if that last thought was for Harry or himself.
Though he supposed the chat and minute breakdown with Remus should have made him feel at least somewhat better, all that seemed to have been accomplished was that his determination and resolve to get justice for Sirius, Dumbledore, and his family were increased tenfold. He had thrown himself into whatever studies he could work on while trapped in the foreboding old mansion, wishing upon wishing that the horrid portrait of Mrs. Black would die a slow, agonizing death into nothingness and that the heaviness of guilt didn't lay so thickly on his shoulders. His schoolbooks were strewn in the floor before him, scraps of parchment and notes decorating the spaces between them. Yawning, Harry stubbornly rubbed at his eyes before looking blearily down at the mess about his crossed legs. Adjusting his glasses, he picked up one of the pages closest to him, reading over the lines for what had to be the fiftieth time. As much as he was loathe to take Snape's vitriol-enhanced advice on anything, Dumbledore had pressed the advantage of Occulmency too. But it was so bloody hard! The books weren't helping him any more than Snape had, even if they, at least, weren't degrading his intelligence and bloodline. With a curse, he tossed the paper to the side again and leaned against the bed, shifting the discomfort and stiffness from his back and thighs as he rubbed at his eyes again. This was impossible! But, he admitted grudgingly, the slimy bastard was right about one thing, at least. Knowing offensive spells wouldn't be of help if his opponent could pluck them from his mind and prepare the counter before he had so much as uttered the first syllable.
Really, his body seemed far more inclined to sleep than to do anything else, but as far as Harry was concerned, he'd been doing far too much of that since the incident on Privet Drive. His physiology, however, was spiteful, and despite himself, he yawned widely. Who cared if it was only seven in the morning? He had work to do. He wasn't going to lose any more of his loved ones, or those that counted on him, to the evil of the Death Eaters. And with his treacherous body, there was his more treacherous mind, bringing forth images and secretly harbored doubts of his own capabilities and aptitude for the tasks, but the youth pushed them away with a spurt of irritation that might have just as easily been desperation. Yes, fighting Voldemort was, in its way, his choice, but it was also the only choice he could make and still live with himself. Hissing another sigh, he ran a hand through his perpetually-tousled raven hair while chewing at his lower lip with stubborn concentration. He could ask Remus, probably, about Occlumency, but that would involve showing that he still blamed himself for his uncle's and Sirius' deaths, something he never wanted to do after everything the werewolf had already done for him. He had seemed so haggard lately, and part of Harry couldn't help but wonder if there might be a connection between the older man's lingering unease and the snippets of conversation he had been made privy to in the Hospital Wing after Dumbledore had died. But that was not fair; Tonks was a great woman, and it really wasn't any of Harry's business, and Lupin was obviously still grieving Sirius, too, or they wouldn't have had that scene the other day. Thinking on it, Harry fought the childish temptation to make a face; he didn't remember the last time he had cried like that, much less been held like that, and he was still embarrassed. He really wasn't even sure what had come over him, only that he had lost all semblance of control. Yet Lupin hadn't mentioned it since, and Harry could hope that maybe the werewolf was a bit embarrassed too, and neither of them would have to talk about it. There was still a war to fight, after all.
A sharp noise, eerily reminiscent of the dark crack of Apparition, sounded outside the window of Harry's room of the old, foreboding manor, making the boy jump in pure reflex before quickly moving to his feet and scrabbling for his wand. A moment's pause, however, revealed the coursing, thick stream of sound characteristic of a summer downpour, and he realized, vaguely attempting to slow the beating of his racing heart, that the cracking noise had simply been thunder.
" 'Constant vigilance' my arse," Harry muttered, stashing his wand on the bed as he moved to change out of his unflatteringly striped pyjamas, glancing at the thick sheen of gray gleaming on the windowpanes as the rain coursed down in unhindered rivulets, "All I'm doing is making myself paranoid." It was only thunder, for Merlin's sake. No need to act as if there was going to be an onslaught of Dark wizards and witches out for his blood every time he went to change his shorts. But he definitely understood how Mad-Eye could have gone mental if this is what he felt like all the time.
Casting another irritated glance at the windowsill, Harry turned away from it and grabbed a pair of overlarge jeans from the wardrobe, slipping them on and cinching the waist as tight as his belt would allow. One of these days, he promised himself, he would exchange some of his wizard's gold for Muggle money and buy some clothes that fit; there was really no need to keep wearing his obese cousin's hand-me-downs. But that was, of course, unnecessary and extravagant for now. What was more important was that Voldemort and his Death Eaters be stopped, and if he had to do so while wearing pants that he could have folded in half twice and still probably worn, then so be it. Shaking his head ruefully, Harry attempted to run a brush through the unruly locks, but the result was that his hair merely looked only more tousled than before. Long used to the disaster that was his hair, Harry merely slipped on a tent-like, rather unattractively striped t-shirt that hung almost to his knees. He'd get some tea, maybe some breakfast, and then tackle Occlumency again. Not that he expected better results, but it was worth a try.
With the long-legged, slightly ungainly stride of a young man adjusting to the increased height of a rather sudden growth spurt, Harry took the stairs two at a time as he bounded after breakfast. Lupin was probably awake already, though Harry probably could have stood to be quieter in his descent. As he neared the final steps, however, the sound of a woman's sneeze caught his attention and he froze with reflexes honed from constant danger, hovering two steps from the foyer. The sneeze had come from the drawing room, where the fireplace was. So it was probably an Order member, then, as no one else could get in. Harry had been worried about the safety of Grimmauld Place with Dumbledore's passing, but Lupin hadn't seemed in the least concerned. Apparently, someone else other than the Headmaster had become the building's Secret Keeper. At least, that was what Harry thought, but he was fully prepared to admit to not knowing the slightest about the Fidelius Charm. They were supposed to learn a bit about it this year, but Harry's mind was not on normal NEWT curriculum. He had Horcruxes to destroy.
Fighting back his own sneeze, the raven-haired boy-hero paused on the steps, careful not to take a step down to the next stair, which he knew from previous experience to be the squeakiest one of the lot (and also the one most prone to awaken Mrs. Black). If this was an important meeting, he didn't want to interrupt, particularly as he probably wasn't supposed to be awake this early. Curiousity, however, held him in place.
"How is he, Remus?" Minerva McGonagall Vanished the soot clinging to her robes with an idle wave of her wand, smoothing the wrinkles a moment later as she stepped from the hearth. She had never been fond of Floo travel: the powder always made her sneeze. As she turned to survey the werewolf currently handing her a cup of tea, she noted the tired lines about his eyes and the weight of responsibility and old illness that lingered on his thin form. There was no need to elucidate whom she was referring to.
Remus stood, indicating one of the chairs in a display of hospitality that was rather unnecessary, given the status of the house as Headquarters and his own lacking claim to its ownership---with Sirius' death, the house was Harry's. His expression was mild, a bare hint of a welcoming smile on chapped lips as he retook his seat, the newly elected Hogwarts Headmistress following suit. The Scottish woman lifted her teacup to her lips, inhaling the soothing aroma before indulging in a gentle sip.
"As well as can be expected, Minerva," Remus responded quietly. "He is still mourning Sirius' death too, after all. And though I don't think Harry was ever openly fond of his uncle, the man was still his relative. He's coping, but then, he has a remarkable ability to do that." The unspoken rebuke, that Harry should not have had to develop that ability, hung darkly in the air. Despite herself, Minerva winced. She had told Albus, all those years ago, that leaving Harry in the care of those Muggles was a mistake. The first of many, she supposed, heaving a mental sigh. What was done was done.
"Things are only going to get worse, Remus. You know that." Her tone was gentle, but firm. They needed to accept this now. Without Albus, defeating the Dark Lord was going to be an extraordinarily difficult task----one Minerva wasn't sure they would be successful in completing, though she would never announce her harbored fears and misgivings. Dumbledore's death had left ripples in many things, the morale of the Light only one of them.
"I know, but, bloody hell, Minerva, he's only sixteen." As the Transfiguration professor looked over at her former colleague and student, she thought that Lupin never looked so much like the wolf he harbored than when he was concerned over Harry. Little wonder, she reasoned, as the boy was all the werewolf had left of either blood or adopted family.
"I'm not suggesting we throw Harry into You---Voldemort's," here the stern woman pursed her lips in an expression often seen by recently-caught, troublesome miscreants in the castle, as if saying the man's name was still a chore, "grasp, Remus. I know he's only sixteen. But I've also had him in my House for the past six years. If he thinks that someone he cares for is in danger, he'll throw himself at Voldemort's feet."
Harry, for his part, as he listened from outside the drawing room door, thought that McGonagall's estimation of him was slightly unfair. He did stop to think, usually, before running off. Still, his conscience niggled at him (with a voice that sounded oddly like Hermione), forcing him to admit to himself that he did often go running off anyway. The Philosopher's Stone, first year, came to mind, as well as the subsequent years and their trials. He'd raced off to the Chamber of Secrets second year---though, in his defense, he reasoned, he had tried to enlist the help of his DADA professor. It wasn't his fault that the man was a fraudulent ass. He'd saved Sirius third year. Fourth year, which he still had nightmares over, he didn't have much choice, really. If he'd had one, he definitely wouldn't have volunteered to be in that creepy cemetery with Wormtail slicing cuts in his arm after killing Cedric. Fifth year….was still too painful to think about, and it expressed McGonagall's observation clearly. He had merely run off after his Godfather without much in the way of asking for help, and he had nearly gotten the students with him killed. They hadn't died, but it had been a narrow escape, and Sirius had died instead.
Remus let out a sharp exhale, pulling a cup of the warm tea to himself and moodily scrutinizing the ripples in the dark surface of the hot liquid. The war was draining in every way, perhaps more, than it had been the first time. Then, at least, Dumbledore had still been a beacon of strength and hope, someone for the Order and the greater Wizarding public to follow and whose shadow said public could take refuge in as the weariness of battle settled upon their shoulders. That refuge no longer existed. Rather, the hopes and fears of the public rested upon the slight form of a sixteen-year-old who as short and rather scrawny from years of neglect and malnourishment because that boy had saved them all just after his first birthday. It was cruel to thrust the child into the heart of battle, Prophecy be damned. The very thought raised the man's hackles: if he were in wolf form, his fangs would have been bared.
"I fear you're right, Minerva," he said at last, forcibly calming himself with the scent of lavender that flavoured the tea. "And I'm uncertain what scares me more----that Harry would race off to face Voldemort, or that he might be destined to do so."
McGonagall's expression was vaguely catlike as she surveyed Lupin before she, too, sighed and eased herself into a wooden chair. They could have moved this discussion to the kitchen, but the drawing room was just as comfortable, and a decent distance from the abhorrent portrait in the corridor. Were there breaks in the fighting, Minerva thought that her free time might be devoted to figuring out a way to remove Madame Black permanently.
"In any case, we cannot worry over that now," she murmured, though steel colored her tones. "There are too many concrete concerns, and Harry is safe here, for now. What of his aunt and cousin?"
There was no mistaking the curl of distaste in the normally mild-mannered man's lips as Lupin thought about the bony, horselike woman and her obese child, and the care that they had been assigned to give Harry throughout his life but had instead chosen to withhold.
"I see them perhaps once or twice a day, when they deign to accept a meal from the 'freaks,' as Petunia Dursley so eloquently presents it." The werewolf's tone was dry, but it was obvious he was distinctly unhappy over the situation. Minerva took another sip of her tea.
"We'll figure out what to do with them later. So long as they're not actively hindering Harry's own healing, I'm inclined to let them stay. The decision, in the end, is Harry's, of course." McGonagall sighed softly. "This is his house now. Unfortunate that he moves from one nest of bad memories to another."
Lupin chose not to respond, instead stirring his tea unnecessarily with a small spoon. Sandy brown hair flecked liberally with gray framed his pale features. Though he always carried the look of a tired, almost sickly man, there was more meat on his bones and more color in his skin than there had been in a while. Minerva suspected it was Nymphadora's influence, but knew better than to comment. She knew the man's troubles all too well. It had taken him some time to find a measure of solace and peace upon Sirius Black's incarceration years ago, and it had been Nymphadora Tonks who was responsible for a large portion of it. Though there was a significant age difference between the pair, their friendship had built slowly and steadily as the lycanthrope nursed his wounds over what he saw as his lover's betrayal of both himself and their family. And many years later, that friendship had become shyly romantic. Minerva had never been surprised, really. In fact, she was glad that the man had found a measure of happiness. But then, less than three years ago, Sirius Black had been found innocent, bringing all those emotions to the fore. Remus didn't talk about it, of course, but the problem was quite obvious. The man was torn between two loyalties and two loves, as well as his own self-chastisement for allowing himself to believe in Pettigrew's deception. Nonsense, the lot of it. She sympathized with his torment, but Minerva was far more fond of her sensible, Professor's life than she ever would have been with family and spouse.
"In any case, Remus, discussing Harry is not why I'm here. At least, not entirely," she amended, finishing off the cup in front of her before refilling it. "If there had been any doubt about…Albus' death," here her voice cracked slightly, "there can be no more. His will was unsealed, Remus, and part of it pertains to Harry."
Outside, Harry blinked, hovering still on his stair in his overlarge clothes with his messy hair and intent, but slightly dumbfounded expression. What did Dumbledore want with him in his will? He hadn't necessarily liked it, but he had understood being Sirius' heir, as he was the man's godson, but what did Dumbledore have? Did it pertain to the Horcruxes? The prophecy? Would it help him defeat Voldemort and Snape and stop more killings from happening? Blinking, he rubbed at his bright green eyes beneath his glasses and stared at the door, wondering what his professor had to say so early in the morning.
"Harry?" the werewolf repeated, glancing up at the woman who had one been his teacher and was now his peer, "Albus had a tendency to be eccentric from time to time, but in a matter such as this…"
"Albus was always fond of the boy, Remus, you know that. And, really, I'm not even entirely sure what the man meant to do, but I have the instructions for Harry here. Is he asleep?" The woman was once more brisk, stern, and businesslike. She had to return to Hogwarts to continue preparing for the school year and to help plan the retaliation of the Order to the latest Death Eater raid. Things were not looking well for the Wizarding community. Notable figures such as Ollivander were still missing, and others were dead. Voldemort and his supporters were growing steadily bolder and stronger as the resolve of the people waned, flowing into panic and hysteria. The attack on the Dursley home was almost an open declaration of war. With Dumbledore dead, Voldemort was no longer holding back, and the thought aged the Headmistress of Hogwarts beyond her years with an intense world-weariness and determined resolve. They had defeated him before. They could do so again.
"Probably," Lupin responded, pushing himself to his feet and ignoring the pops and cracks of a few of his joints. Even with Wolfsbane---a product that was increasingly hard to come by now, what with Severus turned traitor and shops closing their doors--- his transformations pulled more and more from him with each successive month. If he did not fight so hard, then perhaps he would have been more at peace with himself and less in pain, like Greyback, but Lupin would never lower himself to that creature's level. Not even to lessen his own pain. Without Wolfsbane, Lupin was a monster three nights a month. Fenrir was never human.
"Let me get him." He nodded over at the older woman, before opening the drawing room door. Upon hearing it slide, Harry froze momentarily on his stair, not wanting to let on that he had been listening in but at the same time wanting to know more. Well familiar with the habits of his charge, it didn't take Lupin more than a casual glance to know that his conversation had been overheard. Warm, brown eyes swept over the boy, before the man sighed.
"Very well. Come on, Harry. I don't know how much you heard, but Professor McGonagall has something for you." He surveyed the youth, who hastily nodded his head and took the last two steps at once before stopping at his surrogate godfather's side, looking up into the tired, weathered visage.
"Thank you," he said softly, just loud enough for Remus to hear, before preceding the older man into the drawing room where McGonagall waited. Though he disagreed about being a child---he hadn't been a child since he was eleven, or earlier, in his estimate--- it was somewhat nice to know that there was at least one person who wanted to protect and guard him in an almost parental fashion. Not that Harry was going to delude himself into becoming accustomed to the sensation.
As he shuffled into the room, he lifted his head and adjusted his glasses to see his Transfiguration teacher in one of the wooden chairs at a small table with tea, and he nodded to her. As sleepy as he still was, the tea she was holding gave off a wonderfully tempting appeal.
"'lo, Professor McGonagall," he offered up mid-yawn, nervously taking a seat as Lupin shut the door and followed suit. How much did Professor Dumbledore's will tell her? Did she know about the Horcruxes? Harry wouldn't tell her, but that didn't mean Dumbledore hadn't. If she knew, if Remus knew, they would try and stop him from doing what had to be done. But Dumbledore had imparted to him the importance of his task before he was murdered, and Harry intended to carry it out. No one would be safe until Voldemort was dead, and his uncle's death had only pounded the necessity of that lesson more deeply upon the youth's heart. He wasn't even going to let Ron or Hermione, and definitely not Ginny, come along if he could help it. It was bad enough losing Sirius, losing Professor Dumbledore. Harry didn't think he could bear it of something were to happen to his closest friends or Ginny because of his poor direction and guidance. They'd already nearly died for him once in the Department of Mysteries. He wasn't about to let that happen again.
"Good morning, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said crisply, though her tone and expression was a bit more gentle than she would normally allow it to be in class. She was not a mean woman, but she was strict and stern. "As your expedience to arrive would attest, I'm assuming you were listening outside the door?" She didn't appear to be rebuking him, so Harry nodded. If anything, she had sounded merely exasperated, as if she were used to this sort of behavior from him and expected it. Which, Harry reasoned, was probably not that far from the truth.
"Yes Ma'am. I was about to come in for breakfast when I heard you and Professor Lu---er, Remus--- talking, and didn't want to interrupt." Remus raised an eyebrow, as if stating that they both knew that Harry had been more curious than anything else. McGonagall seemed to know that, too.
"Very well then. Now, you know that Professor Dumbledore was fond of you, Harry," her voice softened for the first time. "When he…died, he left you something in his will. I'm sorry to say that I don't know what it is, or what use you will find for it, but Albus was quite firm in making sure you received it."
Perhaps it was something to do with the Horcruxes then, if McGonagall didn't know what it was. Had Professor Dumbledore located intelligence of any of the others? They'd already taken care of the diary and the ring, but the locket was missing, and there was still the snake and the cup and something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's… He blinked almost owlishly at his professor, confusion evident on his features. Even as much as he hoped it was guidance from beyond the grave that the old wizard had wanted to impart, he still couldn't help the anxiety clawing in his belly.
"Here you are, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, pulling from a pocket of her stately robes a small, slender glass vial. Inside of it, shimmering in the light, was a remarkable silver substance that Harry dimly recognized, but couldn't place.
Lots of little threads have been started in the past two chapters, some of which were not originally intended. Ah, well. Outlines are flexible things...
And, though I'm writing for myself, a little review or two is always nice as well. I'm not one of those silly people that refuses to update over reviews, but they do help me feel more self-confident about my characterizations and such. Til next time.
Autumn Ruby