Hullo lovely readers. I'm so sorry for my absence. I've been both busy AND sick. Ch13 will be out within the fortnight, hopefully sooner (I'm on break). In mid-November I'm less busy so hopefully updates will be faster then.

Happy reading!

Chapter 12: Tea with Professor Lupin

Harry had never been so cold before. The feeling crept up upon him, a terrible iciness that froze his lungs and made his veins thin. And never had he felt this fear before.

"HARRY!" Screaming… A woman's cry.

"Don't kill my Harry, please!"

"Foolish girl, step aside."

"Harry!" Tom's voice broke through the icy enthrall. "Harry, are you there?" There was an edge of panic to Tom's presence, a cold layer that closely resembled Harry's own. He opened his eyes. There were lanterns above him, and the floor was shaking. He remembered now, yes, they'd been on the Hogwarts Express, and then that thing, it had come and Harry broke off that thought. Ron and Hermione were kneeling next to him, and above them, he could see Neville and that man, Professor Lupin watching.

"Harry," Tom murmured, and Harry was enveloped by warmth. It tasted like honey and smelled like cinnamon, nutmeg, boiled apples, his eyes fluttering shut like the sensation of sleep on a winter's night and-

Ron and Hermione heaved him back onto the seat. "Are you okay?" Ron asked nervously.

"Yeah," said Harry automatically, looking around the cabin confusedly. Fog rifled through his mind; it hurt to think. "What happened? Where's that… that thing? Who screamed?"

"No one screamed," said Ron. His face was pasty white. Harry looked around the bright compartment. Ginny and Neville looked back at him, both very pale.

"But I heard screaming." "Didn't you hear screaming?" "I swear I heard screaming." "Did you hear screaming?"

The loud snap of Professor Lupin's chocolate interrupted Harry. "Here," he said, handing Harry a large block of chocolate. Harry took hold of the piece and stared at it. He felt like he'd caught the flu. Head weighted, the room swaying. He was suddenly aware of Tom's own fear; a flutter of panic in his ribcage like a bird was in there, screeching. The taste of bile when there was none. Harry sat down.

"I'm alright," he said out loud. "Please, I'm alright. What was that thing?"

"You know what they were, Harry," Tom whispered softly.

Yes. Now that he thought about it. He did. But Harry didn't want to know. He wanted to burrow inside the warmth of Tom's laughter and never leave. He wanted to soak in the sunshine of his friends' smiles forever, and wanted never for the sun to set. It was still so spitefully cold.

But the fluttering still went on, in his chest, in his throat, in his skin. He wanted out of his body so he wouldn't have to notice it.

"Dementor…" Tom said.

And so went the journey to Hogwarts.

That night, Harry lay in bed, lifeless. "I can't believe Sirius Black might have had to endure those things whilst being innocent," he murmured to Tom. "If he is indeed innocent, that is..."

"Terrible," replied Tom. Harry's heart knocked against his ribs then, one, large stutter, not of him. He dived deep into Tom's mind (because Tom always hid these things and never admitted to the fear but Harry knew, he did) and that's when he heard the screaming. Not the lone cries of the woman of before, but the terrible, terrified, pleading screams of many. He listened with horror to them, before he was promptly shoved out.

"No Harry! I don't want you to hear that."

Harry sighed. "And I don't want you to go through it all alone, when you are so afraid." There was a silence. But now he tried to enfold Tom, like he imagined a mother would do. He tried to soak Tom in that sunny warmth, tried to replace any chill with his worry. The mental gasp was enough to make him smile, and he could feel Tom's fear melt away and he could feel that peace flow around them.

"Harry…" he heard murmured, and a flush of gratitude with it.

"I'm so excited about this class," Hermione whispered to him as they filed into Ancient Runes. The class was quite small; only a few Ravenclaws and the less notable Slytherins accompanied them. The air was hushed, and the books in Harry's bag, namely his extensive Rune dictionary, and Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms, seemed extremely heavy.

"Harry?" Hermione tugged on his arm. He turned to face her.

"Oh sorry. I'm just… a little nervous I guess."

"I heard Professor Babbling is really good," said Hermione, obviously attempting to encourage him. "A veritable leader in the field. I read about her in-"

"A History of Ancient Runes Study?" Harry interrupted.

"Yes! Did you read it?"

Their conversation made Harry relax a little as they settled into their seats. The room was just that; a wooden floor, bare walls and an old, rickety desk at the front of the classroom.

"Why so nervous?" Tom asked. Harry wanted to roll his eyes, but feared offending Hermione. Tom knew why he was nervous. Although he'd read the books back to front all summer… he had the absurd fear that he'd fail the subject. For the first time in his entire life (which wasn't particularly long, but still), Harry wanted to not only succeed, but to excel. He wanted to do well in this subject. He liked it.

He communicated just that to Tom.

"Relax," his friend ordered. "You'll be fine. I know it. You were fine last year."

Well yes. Harry had done fine last year. Very well in fact.

But this was a new class. A new Professor. He wanted to do even better.

Any chatter faded away as Professor Babbling walked in. She was a tallish woman with thick, black hair that had been left to roll down her back. She wore simple grey robes, appeared just short of middle-aged, and possessed piercing eyes that seemed to assess each student as she passed them.

Harry glanced at Hermione. She was smiling splendidly.

"Good morning," Professor Babbling said, ignoring the desk at the front, and merely standing in front of it. "The purpose of this class is to give you a solid understanding of the written forms used by our ancestors to create spells, wards, blessings, auras and so forth. Though you should know this, if you have done the assigned summer readings." She quirked an eyebrow at the class. "Perhaps one of you would like to expand upon the content?"

A few students raised their hands. This of course included Hermione, but Harry placed his hand in the air too, face carefully blank.

"Mr Zabini?"

The Slytherin paused, glancing down for a moment before looking back at the Professor. "The most commonly used runic alphabet in the Elder Futhark, which came to England with the Saxons from Scandinavian countries. Muggles were also familiar with it, until the Middle Ages. It became an excellent device to conceal magic afterwards, as only magical people could understand it."

Harry felt his confidence climbing. He knew this. He knew this.

"Mr Potter?"

His confidence vanished. For a moment, he felt ice cold.

Before…

"Harry. You know this."

He breathed. "Well Professor… The Elder Futhark in particular contains 24 runes, often arranged into three groups of eight runes called ættir. Each ætt corresponds to a certain difficulty of casting. Only experienced witches and wizards could use the third ætt safely, whilst beginners could more freely use the first. The first called upon aspects of daily life, the second upon nature, hence elemental magic. And the third… it called upon mythologies and deities, as well as the Sun."

Professor Babbling smiled.

When the class ended, Harry was one of the first to stand. His books felt light. It had been fine. Easy. He felt peaceful. As he walked out the door, he turned back for Hermione. But she wasn't there.

How odd.

A week into the new school year, and Harry warmed himself in the common room. It was always cold in Hogwarts, just a little. Ron and Hermione were discussing their Divination class, which Harry hadn't had the misfortune to experience. He'd had his first Arithmancy lesson that day and his mind still buzzed a little from the magical equation he'd seen on the board from the sixth year class. Third year was… slightly easier to say the least. It seemed that having a muggle upbringing, and learning primary school math had helped Harry and Hermione. It was… nice to have the advantage for once (he didn't include Tom in this, because well… that would be cheating).

Harry had almost regretted not choosing Care of Magical Creatures; Hagrid had been heartbroken when he'd found out. And he did seem to be missing out, if what Hermione and Ron were saying was true. He'd already been regaled with a wonderful story of how Malfoy had been forced to fly on a Hippogryph and had fallen off into the Black Lake. Luckily, Hermione (of all people), with a clever Wingardium Leviosa had levitated Malfoy safely back onto land, and he'd been too embarrassed to complain. The story had made Harry laugh like a madman (Like Sirius Black, perhaps). But he definitely did not regret not choosing Divinization. Ron's trembling face was a testament to the fact.

"She says I only have until Halloween to live," he told Harry, huddling into one of the Common-room sofas. "What should I tell mum and dad?"

"Honestly," said Hermione, rolling her eyes at Ron's fear. She sat on the floor in front of the fire, her homework warming her lap. "Trelawney's a fraud."

"Like Lockhart was?" Ron snapped.

Hermione flushed. "You're not going to die, and I'm dropping."

"The muggleborn is wise," said Tom with a hint of laughter in his voice. "But I do wonder… how on earth did she get to Arithmancy? Divination was at the same time."

Harry cocked his head to the side, watching Hermione curiously. "Maybe we have another mystery."

Ron was complaining about Hermione dropping the subject however. "Then I'll be alone!"

"No you won't," the girl replied. "You have Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas and you mustn't forget Lavender Brown."

"Fine," said Ron sulkily. "At least you'll be there for Magical Creatures. If I spend one more class learning about Flobberworms-"

"No more Hippogryphs?" Harry asked, remembering the hilarious story of Malfoy's injury.

"Unfortunately not," said Hermione. "They were far more educational."

"And fun," added Ron.

"I think Hagrid's being careful now; he doesn't want Malfoy making trouble with the board and all," Hermione said.

"Could you imagine?" Ron moaned. "All the trouble we'd have to go through to get Hagrid out of trouble!"

"At least he's not raising dragons this year," said Hermione.

"The peril of Hogwarts!" Harry said, and they all laughed.

School wasn't perilous though. If anything, Hogwarts was more peaceful than it had ever been, except of course for the matter of the escaped fugitive. Everyone was obsessed with Sirius Black. And Harry found his own obsession; wondering whether the alleged serial killer was innocent (based on Ron's rat's lack of a toe) and his theorizing took up more of his time (and Tom's) then he expected. But most ravenous for the finite hours that Harry possessed, was Hagrid's extreme hurt that he wasn't taking Care of Magical creatures this year. The only thing that amended this was visits, as well as avid praising of his rock cakes, much to Tom's disgust.

"I can't believe he makes you eats those things," Tom had exclaimed upon seeing this. "Why, it's practically child abuse!"

Harry had rolled his eyes. But in truth, he was glad Tom was starting to relax around Hagrid (even in an insulting sort of manner). When Tom had first met Hagrid, Harry's friend had become quiet as the grave, and all emotion had disappeared with it. Behind that damn wall again. Tom had stopped cutting off his presence like that (because Harry hated it so much) but Harry had learned to wonder what Tom had against Hagrid.

Tom was like that around a few people, Harry realized on thinking of it. Around McGonagall a little, and around…Now this was odd. Tom completely shut down around Moaning Myrtle, the ghost that had haunted the girl's bathroom on the second floor. The first time there had been a sick rush of fear, before silence, and unlike Hagrid, this didn't seem to abate with Myrtle. Harry wondered whether Tom had known these people before.

Before.

The word had a curious ring to it. It pecked at Harry's head like an obnoxious owl, attention-seeking, distracting… He couldn't stop wondering about it.

That time before, the time that Tom refused to speak of.

That time before, the time that Harry wanted to know of most of all.

When Tom had been a person. A real, material being with skin and bones and blood.

Harry still desperately wanted to help Tom obtain a body. He wanted to know who had been evil enough to break Tom's very self up into tiny pieces. Why, it was like his soul had been torn apart! And Harry wanted to unite those pieces, though he had been very careful not to let Tom know of this. He did not want to destroy the diary, still hidden safely at the bottom of his trunk, just as he did not want to hurt Tom. On the contrary, Harry knew he'd almost do anything for his friend.

Tom had done so much for Harry after all. He'd been with him for over a year now, but Harry knew that the year would have been so much worse without Tom. Ginny would probably be dead too. And his friend had been trapped for so long, and Harry almost burned with sorrow at the memory of that darkness. Just as now Tom was helping Harry, Harry wanted to help Tom.

Tom wasn't being very helpful in that regards.

But school, although it was not stressful or dire or potentially fatal, was distracting. There was no way Harry could help Tom this year, even though there was no possessed Diary to steal. Defense Against the Dark Arts had easily become Harry's favourite class, even winning over the abstract beauty of Ancient Runes, and the almost aesthetic equations that littered the Arithmancy chalkboard. For Professor Lupin was a wonderful teacher, far better than Lockhart (or Voldemort), much to Harry and Tom's pleasure. But there was something strange about the man too. Tom had first brought it up after his first lesson with the Boggart. The Professor had deliberately prevented Harry from tackling the Boggart yes, but it was what had happened after that concerned Tom. The silvery, white orb that represented the Professor's fear (what Lavendar had called a crystal ball) was suspicious.

Harry didn't think anything of it. He was more concerned with the strange behavior Professor Lupin showed around him. Almost like it hurt to look at him. Harry remembered all his classes with the man. Red caps, naughty little goblin like creatures, and kappas, creeping water dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys. The lessons themselves had been extraordinary, but Professor Lupin's eyes never paused on Harry's face, even if he was asking a question. They seemed to skim past him, to look at the wall behind him and the desk in front of him. But never on him.

Potions was abhorrent of course; rumour had gone out about Neville's boggart and Snape seemed to thrive now on deducting points. He could never seem to find a legitimate excuse for taking points off Harry though. Last year's stunt in Potions had made Harry practically top of the class with Hermione and Malfoy, but because he rarely raised his hands, and Tom kept an eye out for Slytherins hoping to destroy his work, Harry remained safe. Well, safer than Neville anyway. But soon the Quidditch season would be here, and Harry had something else go fill his schedule his still peaceful school life. Oliver Wood had called a meeting one Thursday evening to discuss tactics.

"Tactics?" complained Tom. "This game is pointless, Harry."

Harry had never understood Tom's hatred of his own beloved sport. "Just try to enjoy it," he said, as they listened to Olvier's address. After the wonderful summer (excepting the Dursleys), the thought of creating that glass barrier between them made him feel ill.

"We know we've got the best ruddy team in the school," Olvier said, punching a fist into his other hand. "three superb chasers, two unbeatable beaters-"

"Stop it Oliver, you're embarrassing us," said Fred and George Weasley together, pretending to blush.

"And we've got a seeker who has never failed to win us a match," Wood rumbled, glaring at Harry with a kind of furious pride.

"And me," he added as an afterthought. Tom snorted.

Gryffindor had won the Quidditch house cup last year. Harry had won a particularly difficult game versing Malfoy, but Tom had remained adamant that Quidditch was boring, foolish, dangerous and "don't forget conceited. Flying around on silly those broom sticks."

"But how could it be both dangerous and boring?" Harry had asked.

Tom had been very distracting last year, actually. Although he remained quiet when Harry played Quidditch (that glass wall…) Harry often caught the copper taste of worry from him when flying. This training session however, Harry was anxious to help Tom enjoy it. To Harry, flying was magical, it was freedom, and wonder combined with the wind, and the endless earth beneath him. On a broomstick, Harry could go anywhere and escape anything. Quidditch was an outlet for that magical freedom, an excuse to fly and fly again, to swoop and soar and dive and race. The light and the wind of flying so powerfully destroyed any last remnants of the shadows that played so insidiously at the border of Harry's consciousness. He was free of the darkness of his humid, little cupboard in flight. Harry wanted Tom to feel the same. To free him from the dark stalker that formed his most terrible memories.

Tom must have received some inkling of Harry's thoughts, because his emotional protest suddenly vanished and so did the ever-present wall. Harry knew then of Tom's fear. He was transported back to another time on that same Quidditch field, but this time he was no longer Harry Potter. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle, an orphan, a mudblood, and Abraxas Malfoy was laughing at him, jeering: "-the mudblood can't even make his broom stand up!"

Tom was ashamed. "Up!" he yelled, full of blistering rage. "Up!" But it wouldn't work. It wouldn't. He was left standing on the muddy grass, Malfoy and his cronies lifted up into the air, flying, leaving him behind. All alone again.

Harry ignored his team-mates, and flew up to a raincloud drifting in the evening sky. It was cold, and the air pressed wetly against his cheeks. But it was worth it, for the silence. He flew up higher, holding onto Tom with everything he could, going higher and higher into the night sky until the air was thin and he was dizzy from it.

"Harry," said Tom urgently. "You're too high. Get back, go down."

But Harry ignored him. Suddenly he stopped, so that he was the center of the sky, now purple and veined with silver, glimmering stars. They were above the clouds now.

"Can't you see it Tom?" Harry panted. "We've left them all behind." He looked up to the trembling lake above him that was the sky. "We're free."

He channeled his utter bliss at the sky and the night and the very act of flying, made it into a cloak that he placed over Tom, enfolding him. And suddenly, Tom was laughing with him. It may as well have been sunrise then, with the way the night rose up with light. A glorious rainbow, all in Harry's mind.

It seemed to him, embraced by night (so gloriously bright), that he'd never be trapped in darkness again.

"That would indeed be nice," said Tom softly.

He returned to the Gryffindor common room that, languid and tired, to find the room buzzing excitedly.

"What's happened?" he asked Ron and Hermione, who were sitting in two of the best chairs by the fireside and completing some star charts for Astronomy.

"First Hogsmeade weekend," said Ron, pointing at a notice that had appeared on the battered old bulletin board. "End of October. Halloween."

"Did you manage to get your note signed?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowing. She knew something of Harry's relatives.

Harry grinned, thinking about the note Tom had created for him. It lay folded neatly between his Rune Dictionary and a book on Quidditch History on his bedside table. He nodded. "Yes. Though they didn't want to do it at all."

"Not one lie in that sentence," Tom said. "I am proud."

"That's great, mate!" said Ron. "Hogsmeade is brilliant; just ask Fred and George."

"That's right, Harry," said Fred, appearing miraculously from nowhere.

"Zonko's Joke Shop is our favourite," George said, who materialized on the other side of Harry. "They've got Dungbombs -"

"- Hiccough Sweets -" said Fred.

"- Frog Spawn Soap -"

"- Sugar Quills-"

"- and Nose-Biting Teacups!" finished George.

"Oh really," said Hermione, her jaw stiff. "And none of them are on Filch's list of banned objects?'

"The Hogwarts banned list?" the twins said in unison, eyes glittering.

"Now who would have thought Hermione Granger-"

"of all people!"

"-would know of a thing like that?"

"Lay off," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "Really, Harry. There's not enough time in the day to see it all!"

Harry nodded, excitement filling him up.

"I remember Hogsmeade," said Tom, conversationally. "I loved the bookshop. They had many old books you can't get at Flourish and Blotts."

"Really?" Harry wondered. "But Flourish and Blotts is huge!"

"I know," said Tom, a mischievous feeling coming from him. It tasted something like sour sweets. "That's my point."

At that moment Crookshanks leapt lightly onto Hermione's lap. A large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth.

"Does he have to eat that in front of us?" said Ron, scowling.

"Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by yourself?" said Hermione.

Crookshanks slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow eyes fixed insolently on Ron.

"Just keep him over there, that's all," said Ron irritably, turning back to his star chart. "I've got Scabbers asleep in my bag."

The conversation continued.

"I'm just worried about Sirius Black," said Hermione. "We know he might be after you, Harry. This would be a perfect opportunity for him to act."

Harry quieted. "Or a perfect time to contact him."

"Harry…" warned Tom. "You don't know he isn't dangerous. He's been at Azkaban for twelve years. He may well have turned mad."

"You were in my head for eleven years!" Harry said. "You're mostly well-adjusted."

"Why thank you, Harry."

"Harry?"

"I know," he said aloud. "But I'm sure there'll be loads of security! We'll be fine."

Those were the words running through his head that Halloween as he stared at Professor McGonagall, and his Hogsmeade permission letter in her hands.

"I'm sorry, Mr Potter," she said. "But the Hogwarts Forgery Warding system wouldn't accept your letter. I assume of course, that you haven't tampered with it," she raised a single eyebrow over her spectacles at him, "but you'll simply have to stay at school until your guardians can send you another letter."

Harry continued to stare at her, mind not at all blank.

"You said it would work."

"Well obviously the Warding system has become more advanced!" Tom defended, his embarrassment (which tasted like overly sweetened coffee) obvious. "It's been a while since I created that spell. Times have changed, I imagine. It's simply bad luck."

"How old are you?" Harry wrinkled his nose. Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed, before he realized, quickly apologized and walked away. "We're just lucky she thought it was a malfunction or something. Though that's obviously not the case."

Tom sighed. "I imagine she thinks someone tampered with it so you couldn't leave school. A prank. Sufficient levels of Forgery aren't reminiscent of a Third Year. It's not possible that it could have been you."

"Small miracle," Harry said moodily, making his way over to where Ron and Hermione stood, obviously excited.

"Coming Harry?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head, shoulders slumping. "Something's up with my permission note. I'm not allowed."

There were displeased sounds, sighs of empathy, and murmurs of frustration. There was little they could do.

"We'll bring you lots of sweets back from Honeydukes," said Hermione, looking desperately sorry for him.

"Yeah, loads," said Ron.

"Don't worry about me," said Harry, in what he hoped was an offhand voice, "I'll see you at the feast. Have a good time."

He accompanied them to the entrance hall, where Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front doors, checking off names against a long list, peering suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no one was sneaking out who shouldn't be going.

"Staying here, Potter?" shouted Malfoy, who was standing in line with Crabbe and Goyle. "Scared of passing the dementors?"

Harry ignored him and made his solitary way up the marble staircase, through the deserted corridors, and back to Gryffindor Tower.

"Password?" said the Fat Lady, jerking out of a doze.

"Fortuna Major," said Harry listlessly.

He walked into through the entrance, looked up and walked right back out. The room was crowded with the younger Gryffindor, too loud and too much for him at that moment. He tried the library, bumped into an irritated Filch, and decided to try somewhere else. He climbed a staircase, thinking vaguely of visiting the Owlery to see Hedwig, and was walking along another corridor when a voice from inside one of the rooms said, "Harry?"

Harry doubled back to see who had spoken and met Professor Lupin, looking around his office door.

"What are you doing?" said Lupin, though in a very different voice from Filch. "Where are Ron and Hermione?"

"Hogsmeade," said Harry, in a would-be casual voice.

""Ah," said Lupin. He considered Harry for a moment. "Why don't you come in? I've just taken delivery of a grindylow for our next lesson."

"A what?" said Harry.

He followed Lupin into his office. In the corner stood a very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with sharp little horns had its face pressed against the glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly fingers.

"Water demon," said Lupin, surveying the grindylow thoughtfully. "We shouldn't have much difficulty with him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his grip. You notice the abnormally long fingers? Strong, but very brittle." The grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner.

"Cup of tea?" Lupin said, looking around for his kettle. "I was just thinking of making one."

"All right," said Harry awkwardly.

Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout.

"Sit down," said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin. "I've only got teabags, I'm afraid - but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?"

"No," said Harry, the word lengthened into a sigh. "That would be Ron and Hermione. I don't do Divination, sir."

"Oh," said Lupin, seeming to look at Harry for the first time. It was enough that Harry could observe the tired lines on his face, the greying hair, and despite all this, the curious yellow-green eyes. "And which electives did you choose then?"

"He's curious," said Tom suddenly, breaking his long silence. "He has vested interest in you."

"Vested interest?" Harry repeated. Inwardly, he was wondered why Tom couldn't simply say 'interest'. "What do you mean?"

"Just watch."

Lupin was looking expectantly at him, still waiting.

"Ancient Runes and Arithmancy," Harry said.

There was a small moment of silence, broken only as the kettle floated upwards, tipped to the side and poured black tea into Harry's teacup. It did the same for Lupin, before settling itself back onto the desk.

"Lily chose those subjects," said Lupin. "As did I."

Harry felt his entire body stiffen. "You… you knew my mother, sir?"

Lupin's mouth quirked to the side. "I did."

"What was she like?" Curiosity was eating at Harry like some rapid beast, desperate for answers. "What about my father? Were they friends?"

Absently, Harry noticed the Professor's left hand spasm, before he picked up his cup of tea and had a long sip.

"She was…" there was a pause, and another small smile. "She was supremely intelligent. Gifted in Charms and Potions in particular. And she was headstrong. And too kind for her own good. " Lupin took another sip of tea. "Lily refused to have anything to do with James for years."

"He was friends with them," said Tom faintly. "Look at the way his hands shake as he sips his tea. No wonder he is curious about you."

"You look quite a lot like your father," Lupin said slowly. "But… maybe you're more like Lily. I had had quite enough of Magical Creatures before third year," another smile, forceful and unhappy, "and she wanted to avoid James. We were some of the only Gryffindors in the class. James didn't speak to me for two weeks," he shook his head, seemingly fond.

Harry could barely think for the eagerness thirsting away inside him. So he was surprised at what Tom said next.

"If this man was friends with your parents… then he knew Peter Pettigrew. And he knew Sirius Black."

"You think… should I ask?"

"Yes."

Harry picked up his tea then, and sipped at it, inwardly cringing at the bitterness. He'd left it sitting for too long. He placed it down on the desk, waited for the black liquid to settle before looking back up at the Professor.

"Sir…" he was quiet for a moment. "Sir, did you know Sirius Black?"

It was all too visible the way Lupin froze, as if his entire being had seized up at the name. Any fond smile vanished, the face turned even paler, the eyes dimmed, lines appeared that hadn't been there before, carving into the skin like scars.

"No," he said, too softly. "No, I did not."

"He's lying," Tom muttered.

"He must have been very close to him," said Harry. "He was betrayed too."

"Now unfortunately we'll have to put an end to our chat," said Lupin, standing up, putting the kettle away with a clutter, and finishing his tea with a large gulp. "Professor Snape will be coming and-"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in," called Lupin, ceasing motion for stillness.

The door opened, and in came Snape. He was carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes narrowing.

"Ah, Severus," said Lupin, smiling. "Thanks very much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?"

Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes wandering between Harry and Lupin.

"I was just showing Harry my grindylow," said Lupin, pointing at the tank and clutched at the desk with one hand. His fingers were clenched so hard they were white.

"Fascinating," said Snape, without looking at it. "You should drink that directly, Lupin."

"Yes, Yes, I will," said Lupin.

"I made an entire cauldronful," Snape continued. "If you need more."

"I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks very much, Severus."

"Not at all," said Snape, but there was a look in his eye Harry didn't like. He backed out of the room, unsmiling and watchful.

Harry looked curiously at the goblet. Lupin caught the expression, and turned around, face haunted.

"Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me," he said stiffly. "I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex."

"I see," said Harry, though he did not. He had the absurd urge to knock the smoking goblet down, and stood up, knowing Lupin wanted him to leave. "Can I… Can I come by again?"

Lupin clutched at the goblet, and gulped at it, shuddering. He relaxed then, shoulders drooping as if suddenly exhausted.

"Of course you can," he said, turning back to Harry and smiling faintly.

Harry walked out Lupin's office slowly, his mind abuzz. The Defense teacher had known his parents, had known Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. Had been friends with all of them.

Maybe… maybe he would believe Harry about Scabbers, the rat with a missing toe, maybe he could help Harry investigate whether-

"Perhaps," said Tom. "But do not ask him just yet. There is something I would like to make sure of first. So he does not go to Dumbledore."

"What is it?" asked Harry, instantly beware. The corridors were beginning to fill up with Hogwarts students back from Hogsmeade. He recognized the sharpness that came with Tom's suspicion. Not lightning, but like it. Not electricity, but like it. Not smoke either. But like it.

"You'll see," was all Tom said. Harry would have asked more, but he'd reached the Gryffindor common room entrance, and had to say the password.

"Fortuna major," he murmured thoughtfully, and walked in.

He worked on his Arithmancy equations in front of the fireplace. It was slow work. All he could think of was Professor Lupin's face when he'd mentioned Sirius Black. And the words about his mother. Intelligent. Headstrong. Kind.