Chapter Text
It’s been three weeks since they brought Harry home.
Their small flat makes things a bit cramped but at the end of the day, Remus is grateful for that. He’s worried about Harry, more worried than he’s ever been about anything. Sirius tells him to give their godson space and time—and he’s probably right—but Remus can’t help but feel that leaving everything on Harry’s own timetable gives the boy an excuse to hide—from his godfathers and himself.
This particular afternoon, it’s just Remus and Harry at home, Sirius off working at the private investigation firm James started before he was killed.
Remus and Harry returned from the supermarket an hour ago. Remus thought it would be nice to take Harry out and give him the opportunity to pick out some clothes and hygiene products himself—something refreshing, and probably new for the boy.
The fun bonding extravaganza the elder envisioned was quickly squashed by Harry’s reluctance to participate, a quiet, saddening apathy that soon transformed into a biting irritation as the trip progressed.
Now Remus hears the shower attached to Harry’s room shut off and smiles a tag smugly to himself in the kitchen as he seasons the chicken breast he plans on cooking for dinner.
That was another thing Sirius and him have been struggling with when it comes to their godson: getting him to eat. The pediatrician Harry is seeing recommended personalizing the food they made as much as possible, making Harry feel included in the decision making and allowing him to eat the foods he liked.
Therefore, chicken breast. Remus hears Harry shuffling around in his room and figures he might as well ask what Harry would like as a side. The chances of getting an answer beyond a shrug were slim, but Remus is nothing if not persistent.
“Hey, love. What would you like to go with the chicken tonigh—“
Remus pushes open Harry’s bedroom door and freezes. His godson wears just a towel draped around his neck.
Harry stares at his godfather with eyes wide for a moment, also frozen. Remus feels the floor leave from beneath him, his heart slides up his throat and his stomach sludges down to his feet.
He knows Harry has scars. He saw them at the hospital through the loose back of his hospital gown, sees them everytime Harry’s t-shirt slips down his shoulder. But these scars. These scars passed the belt marks and burns from frying pans and sunk lower into the dark.
Bitemarks littered his godson’s thighs and crotch. Bite. Marks.
“Oh god, Harry…”
“GET OUT! GET OUT! Oh my god, get out!” Harry shrieks as he pulls his underwear up frantically and scrambles across the bed, shoving Remus out the door and slamming it behind him.
“Harry, Harry I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, love.” Remus leans his head against the door. He hears Harry moving on the other side. “Love? Are you alright? Can you please open the door so we can talk? Harry?”
Remus waits three long minutes standing there at his godson’s bedroom door, heart pounding with worry. Tears wet his eyes just as Harry lets out a quiet: “Ok.”
Remus blinks away his tears as Harry opens his door, quickly turning back into the room and putting the bed between him and the older man.
Holding his breath, Remus takes in Harry’s frazzled appearance: rocking subtly in place, holding his elbows, breathing a little too fast. He looks through the opened bathroom door and sees the medicine cabinet above the sink open, bandaids and mouthwash pushed hurriedly to the side.
He reminds himself to apologize to Sirius for calling him harsh when he took the aspirin out of there.
“Hey, love.”
“Would you stop calling me that,” Harry snaps.
Remus does his best to keep his reaction off his face. “Ok. Ok, Harry I’m sorry for not knocking—that was wrong of me.”
He pauses waiting for Harry to respond, but all he gets is a stiff nod.
“Can—could—w-we—I think we should maybe talk about the…scars you have on your legs.”
It happens so fast Remus thinks he must’ve blacked out for a time: his godson goes from rocking back and forth, breathing quickly, to statues-still, chest barely rising.
“What?” Harry whispers, turning away from Remus.
“Did someone hurt you, lo—Harry?” Impossibly, the boy holds himself tighter. Remus takes a deep breath. How does one broach this topic of conversation? How do you keep calm when even the idea of, of anything happening to that person who you love so much—it breaks you up inside.
“Harry. Harry, can you look at me?” He does. “No matter how old you were, or who it was, or what you said, or were wearing—“ Harry’s carefully crafted veneer begins to crack, adam’s apple bobbing, the shaking making its way back. “No matter what, you did not deserve that. Nobody deserves that.”
Remus moves to sit in the middle of the bed, looking up at his godson, whose eyes are scrunched shut, a salty glimmer lining his eyelids. Remus whispers, “Harry?”
And it all comes crashing down.
A deluge of tears floods Harry’s face, his chest heaves, heart-wrenching whimpers and breathless gasps fall out of his mouth on every breath.
“I-I-I-I di-idn’t want to. I swear, I swear. I-I th-thought—I couldn’t—and he , he just—“ His words chop each other apart and he chokes on a tearing sob. His voice is high and reedy, warbling on every syllable. “I was all alone.”
Remus is crying too. “Oh, Harry, can I—could I hold you, please?”
His godson nods frantically, sobbing so heavily, his face has turned red.
Remus stands and pulls Harry into a hug, as gently and slowly as he can. The moment his head is buried in Remus’s shoulder, Harry’s knees collapse.
As they both lower onto the bed—a knot of tears and snot and sadness—Remus begins a quiet litany in his godson’s ear.
“You’re not alone, you’re not alone, you’re not alone, you are not alone, you’re not alone, you’re not…”