Chapter Text
HARRY POTTER
July, 1990
It all started when Harry climbed up onto the school roof and refused to come down.
Well, that’s what the school would have you believe, but Harry had never meant to end up on the roof, he just sort of… did. He was being chased by a group of boys and knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun them for much longer, and distinctly remembered the panic he felt at finding no place to hide. His magic, apparently manifesting this panic, had pulled him onto the top of the school building without having to touch a single brick.
The part where he refused to come down, however, was true. So when the teachers called Harry a bad kid, he was inclined to believe them. A good kid would have come down straight away, but not Harry.
He’d been having quite a nice time talking to a nest of pigeons settled in the gutters. He liked the view from so high up and the looks on the faces of the boys who’d been chasing him were priceless. There was no reason for Harry to want to get down, especially because he knew what would be waiting for him when he did; tutting policemen, livid teachers, the godforsaken Dursleys-
Then he’d been expelled. Everything changed after that.
After being scolded for an hour straight by the Head Teacher of St. Grogory’s, he was finally let out of the office and ran straight to his Year Five teacher, Miss Lovell.
The Dursleys were waiting for him, but he ignored their shouts and barrelled into the classroom. Miss Lovell glanced up from her lunch in surprise. Students weren’t supposed be inside during lunch or break, but really, Harry wasn’t a student anymore.
He was, and evidently always would be, that bad-tempered, un-motivated kid, destined to be thrown out of all establishments he found himself in. That’s what everyone thought, but Harry didn’t care. So what if he was angry or disrespectful? They’d already made up their minds about him; why waste his time trying to convince them otherwise?
Nevertheless, he didn’t want to be expelled. Despite everything, he didn’t want to leave this place.
Because of Miss Lovell.
After hurriedly explaining everything, he begged, “You can’t let them make me leave! It’s not fair.”
“Oh, Harry,” Miss Lovell sighed, stepping round her desk to stand in front of him.
She wore floral dresses, smelled vaguely of lavender, and always had a smile for him. Always. But not now. Once Harry relayed the news of his expulsion, she just looked pitying.
“You know there’s nothing I can do,” she said.
Harry’s heart sunk and he stammered, “But- but you said you were going to tell Mrs Roemele about those boys… that they were always picking on me…”
“I was, yes,” Miss Lovell said slowly, calmly. She was always calm, never rose her voice. Sometimes that meant she couldn’t control the class, but Harry still liked her. For her kindness and understanding- he thought she’d understand.
“But that’s not going to change anything now,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Those boys would’ve hurt me if I hadn’t got away.” Harry could already feel his temper flaring in his chest and tried to press it down. “I had no choice, they can’t expel me for that.”
“Then perhaps it will be good to have a change, away from those boys.” She smiled sweetly, not occurring to her that it was the last thing Harry wanted to hear. “A fresh start.”
“But you won’t be there.”
“You don’t need me there, Harry. There’ll be other teachers to talk to-”
“No, there wont! I can’t talk to any of the other teachers here, why would it be any different wherever they send me? I want to stay with you.”
Miss Lovell’s brows rose at Harry’s raised voice. He quickly regretted it, but supposed it was only a matter of time before she realised everyone was right about him.
“Well,” Miss Lovell pressed on, “Change can be a good thing. Sometimes you’ve got to be brave and take risks - think of it as stepping out of your comfort zone. It’s not healthy to hold onto things.”
Stepping out of my comfort zone, Harry thought bitterly. That was something you said to a kid scared of doing a presentation or putting on a show or talking to new people. This was different. He didn’t have anyone looking out for him, barring Miss Lovell. He didn’t know what a new school would bring and the Dursleys would make his summer hell. He was already out of his comfort zone. His whole life had been out of his bloody comfort zone - all he was asking for was anyone with an ounce of authority to stand by his side.
He thought Miss Lovell would be that person. From the moment he’d entered her classroom at the start of the year, she’d been the silver lining. She’d noticed him being picked on and promised to defend him- none of the ‘this isn’t healthy’ malarkey.
“Harry?” Miss Lovell prompted, after a lingering silence on his part.
He’d known how risky it was to rely on her but she was so kind and generous, he’d done it anyway. He’d known he would only end up disappointed- why hadn’t he just listened to his instincts? They were usually right. Idiot.
“Please,” Harry murmured, head hanging low. “Please, miss, don’t let them kick me out.”
Miss Lovell knelt down and placed her hands on his shoulders. It should have been comforting, but all Harry could feel was the added weight, as if he was being pushed back under water after so long of struggling to stay afloat.
“Let’s not be silly now, Harry, you know there’s nothing either of us can do-” I know but that doesn’t mean you can’t pretend to try- “Teachers only ever want the best for you, at any school you go to. You just need to let them help, okay?”
Harry didn’t bother to voice any of the arguments running through his head. He was just a boy with a bad temper who didn’t like being told what to do and he’d proven that by getting expelled. No one was going to see him any differently after this, nor would they help him if he kept causing trouble.
The only person Harry had ever been able to fully rely on was himself.
Petunia and Vernon’s voices sounded from the corridor outside, calling his name. Angry, as always.
“Don’t look so sad.” Miss Lovell nudged him with a smile. Harry did not smile back. “A fresh start, remember?”
“Boy!” Vernon bellowed. “We’re leaving!”
“I have to go now,” Harry stated the obvious, glum and defeated.
“Yes, well… maybe I’ll see you again at some point? You never know.”
Harry shouldered his bag, turned away from the woman and crossed the classroom without a look back. He muttered, “I doubt it,” just loud enough that she’d probably heard him, but he no longer found it within himself to care.
Harry opened the classroom door, stepped out into the corridor, and slammed it closed behind him. Left alone with the Dursleys once more, he sighed and trudged over to them.
Harry would always remember the summer following his expulsion. It was just as he’d suspected it would be: complete hell. It felt like it too, due to a scorching heat-wave that overtook the country for two months straight.
His cupboard under the stairs was no longer an escape, as it became almost unbearable inside without ventilation. The hot air was impossible to breathe in and many times, he awoke in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, shoving the door open to get some air. The worst nights were when the Dursleys locked the cupboard door, and Harry could barely stop himself spiralling into a panic whilst stuck in stuffy confinement.
Usually during the holidays, he could stay out of the Dursleys way, pretending he didn’t exist, but not this time. Now they made an extra special effort to notice him and blame him for the slightest mishaps. Whilst Harry tried to stay calm and quiet, he was far from what you would call a ‘cool-headed’ boy. So he snapped back at Vernon a lot more than he should have and didn’t hold back his scathing opinions of the chores Petunia had him doing.
As his patience gradually dwindled, Harry tried to prevent himself from doing something stupid (like burning the whole house down whilst making breakfast) by staying outside as much as possible. There was a park down the street he often went to, where he could hide beneath the slide and scratch things into the bottom of it with a sharp stick. In large, jagged letters, he had carved Harry was here into the metal, marking the spot as his own. Unfortunately, however, Dudley and his little gang had discovered this hiding place last summer, so rarely did Harry get much of a break there.
Sooner or later, Dudley would show up and Harry would be forced to run away round the neighbourhood until they caught him or gave up. Harry was never stupid enough to fight back, no matter how angry he got. He just ran and ran and ran, throwing insults over his shoulder that were worth the few seconds of satisfaction before they kicked him to the kerb.
Sometimes he discarded his over-sized shoes (second-hand from Dudley) because he couldn’t run fast enough in them without tripping up. Whilst this meant he had to spend the rest of his afternoons picking little stones out of his feet, he almost never got caught when he ran barefoot. If he made it to Mrs Figg’s house before them, he could hide behind her fence and she never said anything, simply watching him from her window as he ducked down and caught his breath.
When Dudley and his mates couldn’t find him, they’d get distracted chasing Mrs Figg’s cats instead. Then Harry would return home, though he’d no doubt be called lazy for not staying outside.
Lazy, rude, troublesome - it was all the same. His Aunt and Uncle had particularly colourful insults, but it wasn’t just them. Teachers too, which was one thing Harry was happy to get a break from at whatever new school they sent him to. He reckoned he had at least three or four insult-free weeks until people started to catch on that he was a bad kid.
He’d been expelled from another school once, before enrolling into St Grogory’s. Only aged seven, Year Two, he’d been thrown out for fighting. The other kid had started it, Harry had ended it, that was all that needed to be said about that.
He’d originally been at a different school to Dudley because the Dursleys didn’t want people to know they were related, but after his expulsion they didn’t have much of a choice. St. Grogory’s was the next closest school and they already had the uniform, so less fuss.
After joining Grogory’s for the start of Year Three, it took all of four weeks and two days until teachers started calling Harry rowdy, lazy, bad-tempered, etc.
It mostly started after his teacher asked him to read something off the board but he couldn’t see it properly. He tried anyway, only to make a fool of himself when he got words wrong. The teacher had thought he was trying to be funny and told him to quit it.
“I can’t see the board properly, sir,” Harry had explained, blushing furiously.
“Don’t be stupid, boy, you’ve got glasses for a reason, haven’t you? Read.”
The more he struggled, the more the teacher thought he was being difficult for the sake of it, and Harry’s anger soon got the better of him. It derailed into a heated argument that ended in Harry storming out of the classroom. Word got around quite quickly after that, that he had a foul temper.
Other kids either avoided him out of wariness or picked on him to get a reaction. The latter group included Dudley, to no surprise, who let it slip that Harry’s parents were dead, which gave the rest of his little posse more ammo to pick on Harry with.
He wondered if he could hold all of this off for longer at his new school. Perhaps if he stayed quiet, didn’t argue, kept his anger under control, people might turn a blind eye to him. Best case scenario, he’d make himself so insignificant that people would simply forget he was there until the end of the year, where he’d be moved to a new school for Secondary anyway.
Harry thought it was a good plan, though he didn’t have much faith in himself to execute it well. It hadn’t worked at the last two schools, why would it now?
One afternoon in August, Harry rose from his hiding place behind Mrs Figg’s fence once Dudley and his friends ran off. He brushed the grass off his scabby knees, hopped over the fence and trudged next door.
He didn’t pay much attention to the unfamiliar car parked outside the house as he opened the front door and snuck quietly inside.
He began to creep towards his cupboard, but voices from the kitchen (door closed over but not fully shut) caught his attention and he drew to a halt.
“-don’t worry about your nephew, Mrs Dursley, he’ll be in good hands-“
“It’s not him I’m worried about, it’s you and whatever teacher he gets thrown on. He’s a problem child, and I don’t say that lightly.”
Harry peered through the slim crack in the doorway, into the kitchen. At the two-seater table, his Aunt Petunia was sat across from a man in a smart shirt and tie. The man seemed middle-aged, a bit red in the face, but he had a gentle smile that made Harry feel a tad less tense.
“We have good systems in place to deal with behavioural issues,” the man explained. Harry rolled his eyes. That’s what they all said.
“Still,” Petunia argued. “You better keep an eye on him-”
Harry chose that moment to push the kitchen door open and stride in, making Petunia startle and turn in her chair to glare at him.
Hands clasped behind his back, Harry blinked innocently and asked, “Keep an eye on who?”
“Ah! You must be Harry!” The man rose from his seat and stuck his hand out. “I’m Mr Jones, the Head Teacher of your new school. We look forward to having you, my boy.”
“Hello,” Harry mumbled, shaking his hand hesitantly.
“There’ll be no room for trouble at this school, boy, do you understand?” Petunia said. “They’ll be keeping a careful eye on you.”
“Me?” Harry echoed, faking confusion and placing a hand on his heart.
Jones fell for it. “Ah, see!” He thumped Harry on the shoulder heartily, though it nearly knocked him over. “Good as gold, aren’t you, lad? You’ll get on in Miss McKinnon’s class just fine, I’m sure.”
Harry nodded along. Petunia was still scowling, though it disappeared when Jones turned to her again.
“Well then, Mrs Dursley, I’ll take those forms back if you don’t mind. Would you like instruction on how to get the school uniform?”
Petunia had already shoved a wad of papers into his hands and began ushering him out the kitchen, into the hallway. Harry trailed behind them.
“No, no,” she insisted, hurriedly guiding the man to the front door. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“Are you sure?” Jones stopped in the open doorway, turning to face her. “Don’t you have any questions? I’d be happy to-“
“No, not at all,” Petunia cut him off, all but shoving him outside. “Quite alright, thank you. If that’s all, good afternoon to you-“
Baffled, the man trundled back to his car and got in with a fleeting glance back at the house. Petunia waved him off, but as soon as the car pulled off the kerb, she turned back to look at Harry with thunder in her eyes.
Still standing out on the doorstep, she jabbed a finger at him. “I won’t stand any cheek off you, boy! You’re lucky this school offered to take you in at all considering your track record!”
Harry bowed his head, muttering, “You weren’t doing me any favours,” under his breath.
“What was that?” Petunia snapped.
He glanced back up at her. “Nothing.”
“Hmph-“ Petunia then peered down at the colourful flowerbeds along the side of the house and gasped in horror. “Oh, my flowers! My beautiful flowers- they’re all ruined! What on earth have you done to them?”
Harry leaned outside to observe. A couple of the flowers were crooked and animal droppings sat in the corner of the square patch of soil. Not exactly a gasp-worthy scandal.
“That was a cat, Aunt Petunia,” Harry stated calmly. “Do you think I left those droppings?”
“Don’t get smart with me,” she hissed. “For all I know you put one of those bloody cats on my poor flower beds to deface them!”
“I don’t keep track of cats’ bowel movements.”
Harry was saved from being screeched at by Vernon’s car pulling up on the drive, distracting Petunia just enough that Harry managed to slip away and return to his cupboard.
From within, he listened with his ear to the door as Petunia informed Vernon that Harry was now enrolled into a new school. Her explanation of Jones’ visit and the forms she’d signed were merely met with grunts on Vernon’s part, but Harry was able to gather that the school was on the other side of town. That meant double the walking he was used to but he wasn’t bothered; any journey without Dudley nearby was sure to be an enjoyable one.
When September finally rolled around, Harry left the house, scruffy backpack on and decked in his new school jumper (not quite the right colour as it was second-hand, threads loose and the stitched-on logo shoddily done) but he was nonetheless pleased to be walking in the opposite direction to Dudley.
The warmth of the summer had eased and the sky returned to its typical overcast, grey state. A breeze nipped at Harry’s face and he stuffed his hands into his pockets as he walked. His mind turned to his previous plan: to become insignificant. A plan he’d initially disregarded due to his poorly controlled temper - after all, Petunia wasn’t wrong in pointing out his track record was quite bad.
But it was notable, that almost every morning Harry walked to school, Dudley was tailing him. Even during a ten minute walk, Dudley was able to wind Harry up just enough that his bad mood lingered for the rest of the day. It meant he got worked up more easily, less able to hold his tongue or concentrate in class. He didn’t want to blame it all on Dudley, but Harry was usually irate before he even stepped into the classroom and it wasn’t because of the sodding weather.
Now, his morning walks would be completely Dudley-free. A whole twenty minutes for Harry to collect his thoughts, loosen his frustrations and get his act together. Once in this new school, hopefully he could keep his head down and his mouth shut. If he wasn’t a bother to anyone, surely no one would bother him in return. Especially not teachers. It was perfect. Foolproof.
Harry was able to follow some other kids with the same school uniform to the building itself once he was close enough. In the playground, kids were standing in lines and making their way in, so Harry followed those who seemed the oldest. They spared him a few curious glances, but mostly ignored him.
The school wasn’t much different than St. Grogory’s with its brightly painted walls and display boards. At the end of one wide corridor, double doors gave way to a large hall with a stage at the other end. The lines of kids were filling up the hall, youngest at the front, oldest at the back, teachers sitting at chairs along the side.
When Harry sat down beside a boy with dark skin and short hair, the boy asked quietly, “Who are you? You’re not in this class.”
“I’m Harry,” he whispered back. “I’m new.”
“Oh, okay. I’m Dean.”
Dean smiled at him, but then turned to the boy on the other side of him and began talking to them. Harry didn’t mind. He wasn’t all that keen on making friends when the few he’d had in the past always dropped him for one reason or another. Harry realised he seemed to unnerve others, for whatever reason. But that wouldn’t be a problem since he was more than used to his own company.
Harry spotted Mr Jones quickly, who was standing at the side of the stage, talking to a taller woman. The woman had short blond hair, curly a bit like Harry’s own, though nowhere near as messy. She stood with her arms crossed as Jones talked in her ear and didn’t look all that happy to be there.
After Mr Jones gave a little opening speech, however, the woman plastered on a smile as she jumped up onto the stage to take over.
A frown tugged at Harry’s lips. He didn’t like fake smiles, as much as he knew teachers generally had to seem positive around kids. But to Harry, it just made him cautious. Miss Lovell had been a very smiley, happy person, in a way that made her seem trustworthy and comforting. Harry had learnt that freely-offered smiles didn’t always mean someone had your back.
“Good morning, everyone!” the tall woman called out.
For a fleeting moment, as the drawn out reply ensued, Harry could’ve sworn the woman’s gaze fixed right on him. In a split second, something like shock or confusion flitted across her face. But before Harry could think any more into it, she looked away as if nothing was wrong and lowered herself to sit at the edge of the stage.
Harry brushed off the oddness. He was probably just seeing things.
He tugged at a thread on his jumper for the rest of the assembly, zoning out with his head bowed. He startled once the assembly ended, scampering to his feet to follow the boy next to him, Dean, out of the hall.
In the Year Six’s corridor, he wasn’t sure which classroom to line up outside, but noticed one of the door signs read Miss McKinnon. Vaguely recalling Jones saying that name during his visit, Harry went and stood in line at that classroom door.
They had to wait for a good five minutes before Miss McKinnon actually arrived. When the same woman who’d carried out the assembly came half-jogging over to them, Harry almost sighed. She already reminded him slightly of Miss Lovell, though perhaps a bit more loud as she called out apologies and ushered everyone into the classroom.
Harry hovered behind as people rushed to take seats next to their friends. He sat in the last one empty, coincidentally beside Dean, who flashed another smile at him. Harry smiled back, though it was hesitant.
Miss McKinnon evidently wasn’t very organised. She darted about the room, rambling introductions and scribbling the date at the top of the whiteboard until she finally fell into her desk chair and blew away a stray lock of curly hair.
“I’ll just take the register, then we can get started.”
She began down a list of names on the register folder, ticking them off as she went. When she read out “Jack Morrison”, the boy answered with Sir instead of Miss, which earned snickers.
Miss McKinnon, however, didn’t look amused and gave Jack a pointed look. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely like Miss Lovell, Harry considered. Miss Lovell had been poor at handling misbehaviour in her class, but from Miss McKinnon’s silent glares alone, Harry could already tell she wasn’t a person you wanted to be on the wrong side of.
“Harry-”
Harry startled out of his thoughts, just as Miss McKinnon stumbled over his name.
An awkward pause lingered.
“Harry Potter?”
Miss McKinnon did not look up from the register.
“Morning, miss,” Harry stammered, grimacing as his voice cut through the quiet classroom.
Everyone’s eyes turned to him, including Miss McKinnon’s. Heat rose to Harry’s cheeks, especially so at the piercing edge to Miss McKinnon’s dark eyes, boring into him from across the class.
Irrationally, he expected to be reprimanded, but when she next spoke, her voice was soothingly gentle.
“Are you new, dear?”
Taken aback by her tone - so different to the almost wary look on her face - Harry nodded. To his relief, Miss McKinnon swiftly continued on with the register. Some people still scrutinised him, but Harry’s nerves eased. He’d been in this situation when he first started St. Grogory’s, he knew how it felt being ogled like a zoo animal.
The extended form time passed quickly after that. Dean was assigned designated register-taker and the little ritual he underwent before being allowed to leave made the whole class giggle. Harry did find Miss McKinnon’s exaggerated caution of Mrs Williamson funny, but a pool of dread was beginning to settle in his stomach.
Miss McKinnon hadn’t done anything wrong- in fact, far from it. She was funny and out-going whilst able to keep control of the class, but that was the problem. Whilst Harry recognised he was starting to like her, he could also see the trap laid out in front of him, and how easy it would be to fall into it.
It had happened with enough teachers in the past, he knew how it would end. Growing to like her, maybe confiding in her, and because of her kindness she would listen and offer advice until, inevitably, something went wrong. Something always went wrong. Whether Harry did something that would switch these teachers’ opinions of him, or if something bad happened to him that they didn’t help him with - it always ended in disappointment.
Harry simply didn’t have the patience to go through it all again.
When he’d first moved to St. Grogory’s, one of the teachers had immediately noticed how much Dudley targeted Harry. It was an older man called Mr Richards, white-haired and hunched back but a kind twinkle in his eyes. He wasn’t even Harry’s teacher, but still made the effort to listen and defend Harry against the other teachers that pinned him as a bad kid.
Then, about half-way through the school year, that changed. At Grogory’s, during lunchtimes, Harry had sat outside on a bench and talked to the birds. Once people heard he’d been expelled from his old school, they’d all avoided him. All except Dudley and his friends, though they had less than savoury intentions.
They’d hounded Harry one particular lunch time, picking on him as usual even as he ignored them. He shoved down his anger and retorts, because Mr Richards had been giving him advice about dealing with bullies and told Harry that fighting back would make things worse.
It almost worked. That was, until Dudley started kicking the birds.
Then Harry snapped.
The insults towards himself he could handle - he was more than used to them - but the moment Dudley chased the birds around, trying to step on their tails and kick them away from Harry, that was it.
Harry had surged up and shoved Dudley away, yelling at him to stop. Amidst laughter from Dudley’s friends, a scuffle between the two boys broke out.
Harry got the worst of it in the end. A bloody nose and knocked-out tooth (luckily one that was supposed to fall out anyway). Dudley barely had a bruise, and yet everyone flocked to care for him when he blubbered about how Harry had attacked him first. Which, technically, was true.
No one cared about the birds. Harry had started the physical altercation, no doubt about it, and everyone swiftly make up their minds about him after that.
Including Mr Richards.
“You need to do something about this temper of yours,” the man had told him, shaking his head in disappointment. “I thought I might be able to help, but your anger- it’s too unpredictable.”
“I don’t mean to,” Harry had mumbled, seven years old and not knowing what was wrong with him.
“That’s not a good enough excuse, you need to learn how to express your emotions better. What you’re doing now- it’s not healthy.”
Mr Richards did not defend Harry against other teachers after that, nor did he bother to give more advice. Harry got into more arguments, more fights, more detentions. Mr Richards turned his attention back to the kids in his own class. When moved into Year Four, Harry had hoped the teacher would be better, but that man already thought of Harry as a trouble-maker and screamed at him for the entire year.
He wasn’t sure what was worse; the teachers like Miss Lovell and Mr Richards (who Miss McKinnon seemed similar to), who gave Harry so much hope, only to stamp it into the dirt. Or if he’d rather have a teacher yell at him, because at least then he knew exactly where they stood.
Mrs Williamson also made it perfectly clear the moment Harry stepped into her classroom for English. She took one look at him and, before he could even sit down, demanded, “Are you the St. Grogory’s boy?”
Harry nodded dumbly.
“Well, you will find no such tolerance for nonsense in this school. You will sit and do your work and cause no disruption - unless, of course, you intend on being expelled a second time.”
The class murmured among themselves at this- the taboo expulsion, that young kids regarded as worse as crime. There was a notable shift in the way they looked at Harry now, from curious to cautious, as if they expected him to lash out at any moment like a wild animal.
Harry nodded and slumped into an empty seat beside a girl called Fatima. People leaned over to whisper questions at him, asking how he’d got expelled, but Harry ignored them. He barely lifted his head from his book, sure that any sort of response would get him yelled at by Mrs Williamson. Thankfully, Fatima was very effective at snapping at people to shut them up.
As soon as the lesson was over, Harry rushed outside. A dinner-lady was giving out free fruit so, stomach grumbling, Harry took one and found the nearest bench to sit at. He hadn’t been able to eat breakfast that morning, as Petunia wasted so much time trying to get Dudley’s old jumper to fit him that he’d have been late if he ate as well.
As he munched on the apple, a pigeon started pecking near his feet. He offered a bit to the bird as well, and soon enough, a whole flock gathered around him. He caught some people looking at him oddly, but luckily, no one bothered him.
Which was good, Harry reiterated to himself. The plan was still working, even after the hiccup with Mrs Williamson.
“I wish I could be a bird,” Harry mumbled to the flock around him. “Then I could just fly away.”
Harry had Maths next, with Miss McKinnon. After the first half hour, he was utterly confused. The numbers swam in his head, unable to piece them together. After getting so many questions wrong, he resigned to giving up.
His page was a mess, so when Miss McKinnon glanced at it over his shoulder, he slumped lower in his chair, as if trying to hide within himself.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered before he could stop himself. Idiot.
Then, to Harry’s surprise, she crouched down and started to help him. She went over the method again and worked through a question with him - all the while, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if she knew he’d been expelled from his old school. Surely, if she knew, she wouldn’t bother helping him and simply assume he’d purposefully made a mess of his work.
But she must know, Harry reasoned. Jones would’ve surely told her, especially if Mrs Williamson already knew. Which meant Miss McKinnon was helping him anyway. Harry’s chest grew warm, but there was an internal voice nagging at him; it won’t last, it won’t last, it won’t last.
Miss McKinnon helped him until the end-of-lesson bell rang, but by that point, Harry felt like he wanted to simply turn invisible. That way, Miss McKinnon wouldn’t look at him with such kindness and he wouldn’t grow to like her or rely on her or trust her - better to avoid this completely since it would all fade in the end anyway.
Harry had to make himself so difficult to help that she would simply stop bothering before it got too far. So when Miss McKinnon assured him she would always help, Harry didn’t look at her. Just nodded. And when she offered to go through anything he was stuck on at lunch, he nodded again, still not looking her in the eye, barely acknowledging her at all.
Stop paying attention to me, he begged, stop it, stop it, stop it. When she finally let him go, he left without a single word or look back.
He felt bad, but it was necessary. Too many stumbles and falls had made him paranoid. It extended all the way back to when he was in Nursery of his very first school, at four years old.
Harry couldn’t remember much being that age, but he could remember a woman called Mrs Lane. He could also remember just how desperate he’d been to attach himself to an adult.
Petunia and Vernon certainly didn’t care for him, even at such a young age. So the moment Harry had been put into the school, under the care of a woman who smiled warmly and sang songs and read him books - Harry had latched onto her. He never left her side, slow even to make friends with other kids because he so rarely wanted to stray away from the woman. He’d kicked and screamed when forced to leave at the end of the day, and could hardly wait to return to the Nursery the next morning.
One day, Mrs Lane had been reading a book to a circle of kids. Harry wasn’t sure exactly how the events had played out; it was something along the lines of another child stopping Harry from being close to Mrs Lane. One way or another, Harry had pushed that child.
Only he hadn’t.
Six years later, and he was still adamant that he hadn’t laid a hand on that kid. Either way, they fell over and it looked like Harry had pushed him.
It was hardly cruel. Little kids didn’t know the meaning of ‘keep your hands to yourself’ yet - in a class full of four year olds, mishaps were bound to happen.
And yet, something shifted in Mrs Lane after that. One day she was caring for Harry like a mother should, and the next, she looked at him with wariness. A grown woman looking hesitantly, cautiously at a small boy.
She certainly hadn’t let Harry latch onto her after that. And oh, how he’d cried. Cried and screamed and grabbed at her, all for other teachers to drag him away, sit him in the ‘naughty corner’, and of course, they told the Dursleys all about it.
Harry only recalled flashes of these memories, never anything concrete since he’d been so young. But there was one single moment in his mind, where he did remember someone speaking.
One afternoon, Petunia had come to pick him up and teachers had to haul Harry out the building. He’d tried to cling to all of them in that moment, any of them, in a fruitless attempt to stay. He’d hated going back home so much - still did - but at four years old, he hadn’t known how to regulate that emotion properly.
So he’d done anything to delay going back, including throwing tantrums despite usually being so quiet. The screaming fits were especially prevalent after Mrs Lane stopped being a comfort to him and even the Nursery was no longer a sanctuary. But still, anything was better than the Dursleys.
“You can’t let them grow so attached when they’re this young,” another teacher had said to Petunia, whilst Harry was being forced into her arms. “It’s not healthy.”
Mrs Lane, Mr Richards, Miss Lovell.
Harry would not make the same mistake a fourth time, no matter how hard Miss McKinnon tried to get through to him.
And good lord, did she try. Harry hated it.
She just didn’t give up. Harry could nod and shrug and flat-out ignore her all he liked, but nothing convinced her that he was a bad kid, that there wasn’t any point wasting time on him. The second day of school, he’d shown up late and she didn’t even scold him. Just smiled and offered him to sit down and that was that.
Later on, he tried to muster up the courage to ask her for some paper to do his homework on. He approached her desk, question ready on his tongue, but bailed at the last minute, because if she suspected something was wrong with the Dursleys, that might make her even more interested in him.
Since Harry wanted to avoid this, he asked about her flowers instead. Her stupid bloody flowers, the lilies on her window sill, and she’d offered him one and Harry wasn’t so rude that he’d say no. So he left with a lily and no paper to do his homework on and earned himself a detention from Mrs Williamson soon after that, all because he was a coward.
He tried extra-hard after that, to make Miss McKinnon give up on him. He didn’t have to pretend to be bad at Maths - he actually was terrible - but neither did he put much effort into improving. He hoped Miss McKinnon would see him as a hopeless case and give up, but no. A week later, and she was still crouching by his side in class, helping him through questions with that lovely, terrible smile.
What was worse, Harry wasn’t able to keep himself isolated from the other kids for as long as he’d hoped to. His attempts at keeping to himself on his bench with the birds failed as soon as Jack picked him as his new target.
Thankfully, Harry managed to keep his temper far better than he ever had around Dudley. For the most part, he was able to ignore Jack. Plus, the boy didn’t go around kicking birds. He was just another annoyance that Harry had to deal with, on top of trying to make his teacher not like him. As you do.
He’d managed to make Mrs Williamson, Mr O’Neil and Jack not like him perfectly fine. Clearly, the same tricks wouldn’t work on Miss McKinnon.
He slipped up on a Friday afternoon PE lesson, when he asked about her scar. After she’d helped him win a round of dodgeball, others noticed the scar on her arm. She told everyone it was a shark, but Harry knew that wasn’t likely, and couldn’t help but ask about it.
There was no ignoring the way she lit up as he talked to her. He didn’t understand why. What about him was so enjoyable? His moody expression and flat tone? The way he was so unwilling to talk about anything? And yet here she was, laughing and smiling despite it all.
Harry was annoyed with himself after this brief conversation. Like a fool, he’d gone and undone any progress he’d been making in getting her to ignore him. He sulked about it over the weekend and dwelled on her words. All the best people are unique, she’d said about his lighting bolt scar. You should embrace it. Harry had barely refrained from scoffing. Embrace it? He wanted to be ignored, not become a commodity.
He tried to use this to fuel his resentment of Miss McKinnon, for not understanding that Harry didn’t want to be seen, but it didn’t quite work. As hard as he tried, deep down, he knew he didn’t hate her. He couldn’t. It was extremely difficult to not like her or want to find comfort in her.
But then he would remember the Nursery teacher’s warning; don’t let them get attached. Mr Richards’ disappointment; too unpredictable, too angry. Miss Lovell giving up on him at the first hurdle; there’s nothing I can do.
The next week, on Tuesday, they started to read Matilda.
It wasn’t like Harry didn’t want to read that book, or didn’t like books in general, but the thought of reading aloud in front of the class made him squirm. The book was passed around the room for kids to read a paragraph or so each. The closer the book got to him, the more ill he felt.
Once the book was handed to Dean, Harry dreaded the moment Miss McKinnon told Dean to hand it to him.
But she never did.
Every so often, Dean would glance up, expecting to be told to stop so that Harry could read some. But then-
“Go on and finish it, Dean,” Miss McKinnon said. “There’s only a little bit left.”
Harry slumped in relief. Dean finished the chapter. The bell rang and Harry rose to leave for English with Mrs Williamson.
Throughout the rest of that day and into the next, Harry was conflicted. Miss McKinnon must have sensed his apprehension at reading aloud - and she hadn’t forced him to.
Harry couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t: he liked her for it. He smiled just at the thought, that she’d noticed his worry and done something about it. He couldn’t help but feel grateful.
Alas, things went a bit sour in the next Maths lesson. After stumbling through more questions and squinting at the whiteboard, trying to read the numbers, Miss McKinnon stopped him.
“Do you know when you last got your prescription checked?”
She continued to explain that, most likely, Harry’s glasses weren’t right and that’s why he couldn’t read things properly. After she moved him to the front of the class, he stopped mixing up the numbers and actually got some questions right.
Not to mention, he was now sat with Fatima and Dean - Fatima, who defended him from Jack even though she and Harry never really spoke. And Dean, who always said good morning to him and chose him first during last week’s dodgeball game. Harry liked them. It was just Matt that was a bit rowdy, though he was nowhere near as bad as Jack.
Harry told Miss McKinnon he would tell the Dursleys about the glasses. A bold-faced lie. Harry was good at those, even to someone he was starting to like.
Maybe he could let himself be somewhat cordial with her - surely that wouldn’t be the end of the world, he reasoned with himself. But if she started contacting the Dursleys, everything would fall apart. So Harry assured her she didn’t have to.
“It’s okay, I’ll tell them.”
She looked at him with so much faith, so much trust.
“I promise,” Harry lied, then left as quickly as he could. He had a detention with Mrs Williamson after all, and the old bat would give him hell for being late.
That Friday, it was the first time homework was due in for Miss McKinnon. Like all the other pieces, Harry hadn’t done it. But this time he felt worse, more embarrassed, since she clearly trusted him. He expected this to break that trust, to finally get a scolding off her, but all she did was give him a help sheet and told him to try again.
All this faith she had in him, and suddenly he was scared to let it go to waste. A desire creeped over him, to actually make her proud. She might have let one missed homework slip, but what would happen if they kept piling up? When would she draw the line?
He didn’t think he wanted to find out. So that weekend, he attempted to steal a discarded notepad from Dudley’s second bedroom. Harry got in and found the notebook easily, but Dudley caught him as he was sneaking back out. He shoved Harry into a wall and snatched, not only the notebook back, but the help sheet Miss McKinnon had given him as well.
With no help sheet, nor even anything to write his answers down on, Harry showed up to Miss McKinnon’s class on Monday morning with worry stirring in his chest. He tried to counter that worry; you don’t want her to like you anyway, it’s not like you could do anything about it, it’s not like you’re ever going to see her again once you leave this place.
But Harry was rarely able to ignore his anxieties. It wasn’t that he’d wanted Miss McKinnon to not like him, he’d just wanted her to not pay attention to him in the first place. It was too late for that now, and Harry’s missing homework would only stir more attention towards himself.
Not to mention, there was no doubting now, that Harry enjoyed Miss McKinnon’s company. She was funny and generous and almost scarily observant but in an endearing way. Like Mr Richards - the nagging voice in his head said - like Miss Lovell, like Mrs Lane.
Logically, Harry still wanted to stick to his plan. But he’d never been very good at following his head over his heart, and his heart was telling him to trust Miss McKinnon. It was almost instinctive to believe she was the exception.
It didn’t matter though. Now he’d ruined the whole thing by not doing the homework, so none of it mattered anyway.
As soon as form time ended, Harry made a beeline for Miss McKinnon’s desk. She smiled and began to ask, “Harry, have yo-”
“I’m really sorry, miss,” Harry cut her off, louder than he’d ever spoken to her before. “I didn’t do the homework, I’m sorry, I knew that sheet you gave me would help but I couldn’t use it because Dudley took it, and I swear I’m not just making up excuses, he really did, so I couldn’t use that anymore, and I-”
Miss McKinnon rose from her seat as Harry rambled on, trying to get him to calm down. He attempted to even his breathing and explain again, about Dudley and how he’d rather just do the work in detention, trailing off when he noted the confused look on the woman’s face.
Harry paused, waiting for the annoyance or disappointment. She’d probably noticed an inaccuracy in his excuse and assumed he was being dishonest. He expected her to call him out on something, until-
“May I ask, who is Dudley?”
Harry frowned, but managed, “He’s my cousin, miss.”
An expression flitted across her face- something Harry wasn’t sure how to describe, he just knew it wasn’t what he expected her to respond with. Was that shock? Disbelief?
“He-” She faltered. “Excuse me?”
“My cousin…” Harry repeated, his anxieties momentarily giving way for bafflement.
He went on to explain about living with his Aunt and Uncle, carefully watching her face for how she tried to conceal whatever she was feeling about his explanation. Did she not realise his parents were dead? Was that it? Was her sudden stammering a result of pity? Harry didn’t want that- didn’t want to be treated like he was fragile because of it.
When she brought up the homework again, Harry remembered why he’d been panicking in the first place and it all flooded back. However, as he should have known, she was nothing but understanding.
“If I set homework again today, on what we’ve been doing since you moved to the front, do you think you’ll be able to complete it?”
I don’t know.
He genuinely didn’t. If he could steal that notepad back, he might. Harry thought it was worth another shot, but it could easily go wrong again.
Still, he didn’t want to give Miss McKinnon any reason to doubt him, though he couldn’t quite find the words to assure her. So he just nodded at her questions, over and over until he left for English.
Throughout the week, still wary of sneaking into Dudley’s bedroom again, he reconsidered asking one of the teachers for paper. In one of Mr O’Neil’s classes, Harry had been unable to complete yet another piece of homework, so planned to ask the man for paper to do it on. Out of all the teachers, O’Neil seemed the least likely to ask questions about it.
But before he could, Jack said something that made Harry hesitate.
“Imagine being so poor you don’t even have anything to write on?”
It wasn’t directed at Harry, but it was pointed enough. Jack had already made jokes about the poor state of Harry’s clothes and glasses and bag - it was only a matter of time before he assumed that extended to Harry being unable to get paper.
Not wanting to encourage them, Harry didn’t end up asking O’Neil for paper after all. And at the weekend, when Harry went snooping around Dudley’s second bedroom for the notepad, he couldn’t find it.
His frustration welled up inside of him, especially upon returning to school the next week. Like a bundle in his chest, threads of anger, of annoyance, of apprehension at facing Miss McKinnon without his homework again. All of those emotions tangled together, building up within himself as the week went on. If he seemed more glum than usual, or less focused, nobody said anything.
That was, until Maths with Miss McKinnon. During Maths on Friday, she sent Harry out to retrieve something from the printer. But whilst he did so, she joined him out in the corridor before he could re-enter the classroom.
“Before we go back, I just wanted to ask if there’s anything you need to tell me? You looked quite worried back in class.”
Harry tried to shrug it off as he usually would, afraid to make a big deal out of it or get Miss McKinnon too wrapped up in his problems. But the more she pried, the more Harry couldn’t hold back the flood in his chest. He was finally forced to admit he couldn’t get paper because Vernon wouldn’t let him, and he was too afraid to ask because of the likes of Jack, all amidst tears that he couldn’t hold back no matter how hard he tried.
Miss McKinnon suggested talking to Jack, which was exactly the reason he hadn’t wanted to confide in her in the first place. Teachers getting involved only made things worse, in Harry’s experience, but Miss McKinnon agreed not to say anything to Jack when he begged her not to.
Then she suggested he do his homework in her classroom at lunch instead. As much as Harry was still apprehensive about trusting her, he knew this was probably the best option and agreed eagerly.
Since he’d gotten so flustered with himself, Miss McKinnon guided him to the staffroom and offered him tissues and biscuits. Harry was left to mull over his thoughts, embarrassed that he’d gotten upset over something so trivial. But after years of bottling it up, it had all just spilled out of him. Fatima joined him in the staffroom so he would have company, and for the rest of the hour, they completed their maths work in pleasant silence, pocketed with chatter of books or whatever ridiculous thing Matt had done that day.
After that, things started to look up. Now that Harry could do his homework in Miss McKinnon’s classroom, he no longer had to worry about her getting angry at him, nor did the other teachers have any reason to put him in detention. Jack was still his usual annoying self, but he at least ignored Harry whenever Miss McKinnon might be looking. Harry even mustered up the courage to start reading bits of Matilda in class.
He was utterly shocked one weekend, when Petunia announced they were going to the opticians. Harry could confidently call it one of the weirdest days of his life, since the woman was clearly annoyed about being there but it wasn’t like she could be rude in front of strangers.
Not to mention, Harry got a new pair of glasses out of it; the moment he put them on, it was like the world shifted into place. Suddenly he could see every leaf on every tree, every shift and quirk of his Aunt’s face. It was daunting but wonderful at the same time, and he knew Miss McKinnon was behind it.
He tried to be angry that she’d called home when he hadn’t wanted her to, but when Vernon didn’t scold him for it - he merely sulked to himself and gave Harry more chores - Harry was too busy enjoying his new glasses to care. Vernon was clearly willing to do anything if it meant the school would stop ringing up, which was fine by him.
Miss McKinnon quickly became the highlight of his day and Harry wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or wary about it.
It felt like it had with Miss Lovell and Mr Richards, only… not quite. Yes, he was growing more and more comfortable with Miss McKinnon, but not in the same way as he had with teachers in the past. They had been kind to him, but never quite so thoroughly as Miss McKinnon was. She didn’t just ask about his day, she asked everything. What he liked doing, what his favourite subjects were, what he wanted to be when he was older - she asked him things Harry hadn’t even thought about before.
She wasn’t just generous, she went above and beyond. She bought digestives and chocolates for the whole class and made even the most boring of lessons enjoyable.
Everyone liked Miss McKinnon, so the fact she had chosen to focus on Harry in particular made him feel special. He had never felt special before, not even with Miss Lovell.
It was an entirely new experience, and filled Harry from head to toe with warmth. Vernon demanded what he was smiling about one day when he returned from school. Harry just shrugged, still smiling, and went on with his business.
But in the back of his mind, that nagging voice was still there. Still probing at his doubts. Still waiting for the moment that it would all end.
And then, inevitably, it did.
Or more so, Harry ended it himself before Miss McKinnon could.
“I don’t think it’s healthy for you to stay in here with me every lunch time,” she’d said.
It was a silly thing to get upset over, Harry knew that. Miss McKinnon wanted him to spend more time outside rather than in her classroom at Lunch. Nothing dramatic - no fights, no detentions - but that was enough for the warning signs to flare up in Harry’s head.
”Healthy?” He’d repeated, because those words were too much of an echo of the past for him to bare.
Just like those teachers in the past, the doubts swarmed Harry’s mind. She’s sick of you, she doesn’t want you here, you’re not a problem case for her to fix anymore. Miss McKinnon did not say any of these things, but merely expecting the words was enough for Harry. So he ran from it before she could say them.
Because he was good at that. Running.
The slightest chance that it would all come crashing down, like it had in the past, made Harry flee. And no matter how much Miss McKinnon attempted to win him back, he was too afraid of the betrayal to let her. I shouldn’t have trusted her so much - he scolded himself - I shouldn’t have convinced myself this would be different to all the other times. Should’ve just stuck to the plan.
The month of October was long and cold, perhaps even harsher when compared to the previous weeks of happiness Harry had experienced.
He continued to stubbornly ignore Miss McKinnon’s attempts at reconciliation. Any day now, he expected her to stop looking so glum and give up on the whole thing - to return to her cheerful self, minus worrying about Harry. But she never did. Though she had to remain enthusiastic in lessons, Harry could tell the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.
Harry found this odd. He couldn’t speak for Miss Lovell, since he hadn’t seen her after their disagreement, but both Mr Richards and Mrs Lane had carried on with their lives as if Harry had never been apart of it. Yes, Mrs Lane had been wary of him and Mr Richards had tutted and shook his head, but neither were at all impacted by Harry no longer being a focus of their attentions.
However, after a few weeks, there was no denying the same could not be said for Miss McKinnon, despite how much Harry expected her to not care. The longer she seemed as gloomy as Harry was, the more he wanted to reel off his apologies so he could talk and laugh with her again.
She doesn’t want you around anymore- the voice tried to insist. But surely, Harry thought, if that were the case, she wouldn’t seem so disappointed about it.
Still, the weeks went by where Harry didn’t approach her, and when Miss McKinnon approached him, he barely acknowledged her.
Whilst Vernon now gave him paper for homework so that the school wouldn’t call, Harry still earned a detention with Mrs Williamson. Not because he hadn’t done the homework, but because the quality was so poor. The only time he’d had to complete it was at night, cooped up in the darkness of the cupboard, squinting to see what he was doing. His already scrawly writing became utterly dreadful, but there was nothing he could do.
The next Monday, at the end of Maths, Miss McKinnon stood by the classroom door with a resigned look on her face. Harry could already tell he wouldn’t like what was about to come next.
“Harry, I’d like to have a word with you.”
As flippant as Harry could be, he couldn’t just say no. Even if he could, he probably wouldn’t have. There was a gap in Harry’s chest that could only be filled by Miss McKinnon’s company, and time and silence had proved to be insufficient substitutes.
Harry hadn’t expected, when he’d first walked into the classroom that day, that he’d walk back out with the gap in his chest full. He didn’t think anything Miss McKinnon could say would change his mind or convince him to choose her over his everlasting doubts.
But Miss McKinnon was full of surprises. Marlene, he’d learned was her name. Marlene McKinnon, with her unrelenting kindness and stubborn heart.
Harry had fallen right back into the trap, but he couldn’t help his happiness at being there.
“You’re going to make wonderful friends,” she said. “And I’ll be with you every step of the way. Will you let me?”
Will you let me? That was the one thing that had stood in the way, all this time. Whether Harry was brave enough to take the leap of faith and let her.
You just need to let them help, Miss Lovell had told him months ago.
Harry didn’t want to be a coward. He didn’t want to run anymore. And in Miss McKinnon’s arms, he didn’t feel like he had to.
REMUS LUPIN
December, 1990
It was a night shift like any other. Behind the counter of the petrol station shop, mindlessly stacking and re-stacking packets of mints as the radio crackled out bland music at a volume low enough that Remus didn’t feel like clawing his own ears off.
Outside, a roof extended from the shop and shielded the petrol pumps, no cars in sight. An overhanging light flickered, a golden pool blinking on the ground.
When the radio began to play an ABBA song, Remus huffed and turned the station over. He perked up at the sound of David Bowie’s voice, only for the start of the song Lady Stardust to make his heart clench. ‘People stared at the makeup on his face, laughed at his long black hair, his animal grace-’ Remus turned the station back, perhaps more aggressively than he needed to, and resigned to suffering through Dancing Queen instead.
As much as he hated himself for it, Remus couldn’t help but see Sirius Black wherever he went; in any glimpse of long black hair, the motorbikes that pulled up to the station, the cigarette packets beside the till.
He tried to escape it. For going on a decade, he’d tried his hardest to run from the reminders - had gone so far as couch-hopping and paying rent for dingy basements despite owning a perfectly good flat in Camden. But it was too stained with the memory of Sirius for Remus to bare. He couldn’t force himself to hate the man whilst living there, so to avoid disgracing the memory of Lily and James, he’d abandoned the place.
During this time, Marlene had - fortunately - complied. A mutual, silent agreement that they would not bring up Sirius, would not stare their clashing history in the face. For two people who hadn’t been all that close as teenagers, it was easy to dance around the topic, even if they were all each other had left.
Then she’d gone and ruined it. Remus couldn’t help but be bitter. After all this time, and only now Marlene had decided to throw everything off kilter, forcing Remus to confront the ghosts haunting his mind.
All the love Remus still, undeniably, had for Sirius was enveloped in rage and despair. It was not so simple as peeling back that layer. The betrayal had sunk its claws into Remus’ heart and it would take a lot of effort to pry them away - effort that Remus wasn’t sure he was capable of.
Marlene seemed to think he was. Let go, she’d said. Just let go, Remus.
But he didn’t feel like he was clinging to anything. Instead, everything else was clinging to him - the love and anger fighting for space within him - and Remus just wanted to be left alone.
He glared at the waning moon through the window, still aching from the recent transformation.
Going on midnight, not a single car had pulled up for half an hour, nor had Remus served an actual customer since eleven o’clock. The monotony was slowly driving him insane. Unlike Marlene, Remus was usually content with his own company, stuck in his thoughts as long as they didn’t stray too far from him. But when all he could focus on was the dull, throbbing ache in his bones, he was praying for a distraction.
He almost considered re-arranging the sweets stalls into alphabetical order, he was that desperate for something to do. He’d only been working here for a couple weeks, but the owner was so often away at parties or on holiday that he probably wouldn’t care if Remus turned the whole shop into a circus.
Alas, finally- finally, thank all the gods and Merlin for it- a car pulled up to a pump outside. Not the most riveting of distractions, mind you (especially since he could barely see it in the dark - a circus would’ve been far more entertaining) but it was something.
Squinting, he could make out three hazy figures that exited the car. One stayed by the pump whilst the other two approached the shop.
Remus straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the counter and tried not to look so miserable. Through the glass pane in the door, he watched as the one who reached the shop first swung the door open.
A boy no older than eleven - red flushed cheeks and stringy yellow hair - sauntered in without a glance at Remus.
Another kid had just made it to the door, but as they were stepping through, the yellow-haired boy slammed it shut in their face. The other kid jerked their foot back before it got trapped, stumbling outside again.
The yellow-haired boy made straight for the other side of the shop where the sweets and fizzy drinks were.
Remus glanced back to the door just as the other kid, a boy, opened it again and stepped into the shop. He had his head bowed, grumbling something under his breath as he shut the door far more gently than the yellow-haired boy had.
Even from behind, this boy was a stark contrast. Short and stick thin, brown skin and a mop of curly black hair. As the boy turned round, Remus was met with startlingly green eyes hiding behind large round glasses and a-
Oh.
“Harry?”
Time halted. The radio music faded, the yellow-haired boy near the sweet stall insignificant.
It was Harry - standing right there by the door in scruffy trainers and an over-sized jacket that swallowed his small frame. Even without the brief glimpses Remus had of the boy so far, he’d have recognised Harry in an instant - if only by the jagged scar that cut across the side of his face.
And yet, in the ensuing moment of both Harry and Remus staring at one another, Harry did not share the same spark of recognition. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Remus, tilting his head as he scrutinised the man.
Until, a second later, it clicked.
Harry’s entire face lit up - brows raised, eyes wide. A smile also quirked at Remus’ lips; the sheer joy at seeing this boy in front of him, against all odds, and having that joy reflected right back.
Harry’s expression faltered as he glanced back through the shop window to the car parked outside, then to the yellow-haired boy by the sweet stall.
When he finally met Remus’ eyes again, something more desperate tainted his happy surprise.
Remus’ own smile wavered as the implications washed over him. That Harry was with the Dursleys in a petrol station miles away from Little Whinging - away from Marlene - in the middle of the night, right before Christmas. It was dark and cold and here Harry was seeming so small and lonely in the wake of it all.
Harry rushed up to the counter and planted his hands on the edge of it as he stared up at Remus. The yellow-haired boy - Dudley, Remus realised it must be - paid them no mind, yet Harry still whispered when he spoke; “Uncle Moony? I can’t believe you’re here-”
Remus leaned down to talk back quietly. “I work here, but- I don’t understand, Harry, what are you doing all the way out here so late?”
“Refilling the petrol,” Harry said, as if that should be obvious. Which it was, but of course it wasn’t what Remus had meant.
Did Harry not see the very glaring issue here? Remus’ brows furrowed as he glanced between the boy and the window, where he could see a figure pulling a pump to the car. Remus hadn’t a clue how to deal with a ten year old who he’d only met once in the last nine years, and could only stammer, “Err…”
Harry broke into a smile - a cheeky smile that made Remus’ shoulders slump, realising Harry had just been joking. He couldn’t have been sure, but now it was like James was standing in front of him all over again.
“I didn’t realise it’d be so easy to stump you,” Harry remarked, still smiling. “You don’t seem the type.”
Remus’ mouth fell open slightly, but the smile soon returned to his face. It wasn’t usually easy to catch him out in sarcastic comments- unless, evidently, it came from Harry.
But this was unchartered waters for him. Remus was trying to be careful. Even if thoughts of Harry had been floating around in his mind for the past decade, that didn’t mean he knew anything about the boy. All Remus had was Marlene’s anecdotes and a talent show where Harry hadn’t actually been acting like himself, as entertaining as it had been.
Remus realised what Marlene meant now, about feeling so lost around the boy. She said this was how she’d felt when first meeting him, not sure exactly where Harry stood when it came to teasing or jokes and whatnot. Now it was Remus’ turn to flounder, not knowing how Harry would react to anything, not knowing the approach he should take.
Thankfully for him, Harry carried on talking to answer Remus’ previous question.
“Aunt Petunia’s calling it a spontaneous holiday-” He said that bit with air quotes, and Remus was sure he’d never heard someone sound quite so condescending- and that was saying a lot, coming from him. “Apparently the hotel’s not far but we nearly broke down without petrol and Dudley’s been wailing about starvation and child abuse for the past half hour.”
Harry gestured over to where Dudley was still rifling through the sweets, with an expression as if to say, oh well, what can you do?
Remus tried to smile along, but all he could think of was the bitter irony that Dudley was complaining about such things whilst here Harry was, a wisp of a boy, having not spared a single glance towards the short aisles of food.
As much as he’d seemed excitable once seeing Remus, there were dark circles beneath the boy’s eyes and he kept rubbing his hands together, as if cold. No wonder, seeing how thin his jacket was. Harry was exhausted and dishevelled - no doubt far more starving than Dudley claimed to be - and Remus was starting to see his smile more as a brave front than anything.
“Spontaneous holiday?” he echoed. It would explain why Marlene hadn’t mentioned anything about it.
Harry grimaced. “It may or may not have something to do with Marlene taking me out places almost every other day for the past week. I could tell they were getting more nervy about about, I should’ve known they’d do something like this.”
Remus’ heart twisted in his chest as Harry shook his head, muttering under his breath. Remus hated seeing him scold himself for something that was hardly his fault and tried to distract him.
He asked lightly, “Marlene’s been taking you places?”
“Yeah-” Harry brightened, smiling once more as he began to ramble on, “It’s been fun! We went on the train and made a snowman in the Forest of Dean, and I even got to see albino peacocks, can you believe it?”
Harry didn’t give Remus a chance to answer-
“Marlene always lets me buy whatever I want off menus and she even brought a cat back with her ‘cause it looked sad in its cage and she sings so loud in the car which is actually quite funny ‘cause she’s a terrible singer - don’t tell her I said that - but she’d obsessed with ABBA, did you know that? She’s got, like, five of their CDs in her car.”
Remus admitted, “Unfortunately, that’ll be my fault. A joke that backfired-”
Harry scoffed at the guilty look on Remus’ face. “Why’d you regret it?”
“Well, I’m not a big ABBA fan, I have to admit. I should’ve expected her to be.”
“You’re not?” Harry exclaimed. “How has Marls not murdered you yet?”
Remus smiled once more at the nickname, briefly forgetting that he couldn’t stretch this moment out forever. But again, it faded. He couldn’t deceive himself for much longer; the Dursleys would nearly be done refilling. Dudley couldn’t rummage through sweets forever.
As desperation crept over him, Remus asked, “How long are you on this holiday for?”
Harry seemed to feel it too. His face fell, full of dread.
“A week.”
There was shouting outside from the Dursleys, demanding they hurry up.
Remus’ gut lurched, looking back down at Harry. Suddenly it was as if the boy was sand, slipping through Remus’ fingertips as he scrambled to keep hold.
How could he live with himself if he let the boy go? A whole week, stuck in close confines with them. Remus may not have encountered the Dursleys recently, but he remembered Petunia well enough and Marlene had destroyed any hopes he might’ve had that the woman was any better than her teenage self.
What if he didn’t let Harry go? What if he insisted the boy stay with him? His conscience was screaming at him, demanding that he do so. He simply couldn’t let Harry fall back into their grasp.
He had already began thinking up a plan, on what he would do to make the Dursleys leave Harry with him, when reality smacked him in the face.
It was midnight. They were in the middle of a motorway, miles from the nearest town. Remus wasn’t due off his shift until seven in the morning and the Dursleys didn’t know him. Petunia might somewhat recognise him, but that was hardly enough to convince her to leave her nephew with a total stranger. A stranger that hardly looked like your typical responsible adult in any way.
It would surely cause an argument. An argument Remus wasn’t likely to win. Especially not at midnight. In the middle of nowhere.
There were cameras in the shop. Where was he supposed to keep a kid for seven hours?
Harry shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. He may have lit up upon seeing a familiar face, but Remus was just that - a vaguely familiar face, a name that Marlene had mentioned to the boy in passing. Said this is your Uncle Moony, with no true meaning behind it, at least to Harry.
In this moment, Remus was a little bubble of safety Harry had stumbled into, but all bubbles burst after too long of drifting away. It was never meant to last, as much as Remus wanted to cling to it.
The Dursleys called out again.
Dudley marched across the shop, shoved Harry out the way and dumped a handful of sweet packets on the counter. Begrudgingly, Remus scanned them and read out the price. Dudley rummaged around in his back pocket before tossing the coins over. Remus fumbled to catch them all, counting each one before he put them in the till.
Dudley turned and left the shop without a thank you, without waiting for Harry. Remus had no doubt those sweets would not be shared.
After watching Dudley go, Harry peered back up at Remus.
“I have to go now,” he said, an edge to his voice. Of Hope? An underlying plead for Remus to help him?
He didn’t know what to do.
Remus Lupin was half man, half monster with magic that didn’t suit him, scared of his own home. He had no clue what he was fucking doing on any day, never mind right at that moment. Harry was lost, but so was he.
Remus wanted to say something. Should’ve said something, but the more the silence lingered, the more the words died on his tongue, tasting too much like empty promises.
Still, Harry did not move. As if frozen there, he wrung his hands together, waiting, lingering despite the Dursleys surely growing angrier the more he delayed his inevitable return.
And because Remus was a damn coward, he couldn’t say a thing.
Harry’s face was a book Remus wished he couldn’t read; I don’t want to go, please don’t make me go back to them, let me stay here-
“I’m gonna have to go,” Harry murmured again, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the door.
Remus opened his mouth but no words came out.
Harry pressed his lips together and turned slowly. He began to inch towards the door, still hesitating, as if waiting for Remus to say something- do anything.
Finally, Remus did move, jolting out of his stasis.
He darted out from behind the counter and strode after Harry just as the boy was about to reach for the door handle.
Remus towered over the boy, but crouched down as he grabbed Harry’s arm and spun him around.
He clasped the boy’s hands in his own. They were shaking. Harry stared at him with glassy, wide eyes.
Remus slipped a bar of chocolate up Harry’s sleeve, that he had snatched from a shelf on his way over.
The moment he let go of Harry’s hand, the boy threw his arms around him. With his bad joints and feeble frame, Remus almost fell right back at the sudden impact. But he managed to catch himself and returned the embrace, just as tight, just as clinging to the warmth.
Despite the years of never knowing one another, right then, a connection sparked between them. A thread tying their hearts together as Remus held the boy and Harry buried his face into the crook of his shoulder, sniffling.
It burned inside Remus’ chest, and somehow, he knew Harry felt it too. It did not matter that Remus was barely more than a vaguely familiar face. Because in the middle of the night, at the edge of the world, he was a little bit of hope in an otherwise bleak abyss that Harry was slipping into.
He clung on, for just another moment, until there was yet another angry shout from outside. Vernon, no doubt - his voiced seemed to be louder. Closer.
Harry slipped away, rubbing at his nose. He steeled his face, as if there weren’t tears in his eyes. Lifted his chin as if nothing at all could be wrong.
“I’m going now,” he said.
Remus nodded. “I’ll see you soon, Harry. Very soon.”
If nothing else, he could promise that.
And when Harry finally turned and left for good, Remus squinted through the darkness as the car pulled out of the station and disappeared into the night.
He stayed standing there in the middle of the shop, staring at the waning moon, feeling the ache in his bones. He mulled it all over in his head, wanting to kick himself for letting the boy go.
Marlene wouldn’t have let him go, he berated himself.
Sirius wouldn’t have either.
Remus couldn’t deny it. Sirius would’ve thrown Harry over his shoulder and run for the high hills without a second thought. Wouldn’t have hesitated. Wouldn’t have doubted.
If it had been Sirius here, standing in this shop, Harry would not be in the back of the Dursley’s car right now.
There would’ve been a confrontation but Sirius would’ve won, of course. Would have made sure of it, because it was for Harry and he’d do anything for Harry. Even if that very thing was not the best thing for Harry, he’d do it anyway.
Because he was Sirius. And if there was one thing Sirius had always prized above all else, it was putting his friends first, no matter the risk.
When Remus finally shuffled back behind the counter, another dismal song was playing from the radio. A Beatles song. Let It Be. Remus was half tempted to switch it off like he had with Lady Stardust; too much cruel irony for the night he was having, but in the end, he let it play on.
Maybe Marlene had a point about letting his decade-long anger towards Sirius go. After all, how could Remus ever hate the man who would’ve done the right thing when he’d failed to?