Chapter Text
October, 1993
Remus remembered the first time he met the boy who he should have known as Prongslet, who should have known him as Uncle Moony. It was back in September, on the train to Hogwarts. He remembered the icy cold, the face of what could have been a young James being sucked into the darkness by a demontor of all things. It had made him nauseous.
After handing the boy a square of chocolate, Remus had stood up and backed away from the trio of bewildered young students. “I’ll go have a word with the driver…” James. “Eat!” He’d said, thinking he must’ve appeared like a mad man in his bewildered dishevel. Out of all the carriages, how had Remus ended up inadvertently sitting with Harry Potter and his friends?
Remus had to choke back the word, James, once more, bumping into the glass pane of the compartment on his way. Fumbling for the latch, he’d left as quickly as his wired body would let him, achingly. The full moon was only days away, and Moony wasn’t going to let him forget it.
Remus did not in fact go to the front of the train to speak with the driver who he wasn’t even sure existed. Instead, he’d slipped into the nearest bathroom acting on muscle memory.
He’d sat himself on the lid of the toilet and keeled over, threading his hands through his hair as he pulled roughly at the ends—pretending the physical pain was the reason for the tears springing to his eyes, even in his own company. James Sodding Potter, you bastard.
Remus had silently cursed his dear friend for producing an offspring who looked just like him, spare for the rounded glasses and forest green eyes.
Lily. Always the more subtle of the pair, the final punch in the gut to break Remus out of his post-nap stupor. The defining feature letting him know he hadn’t suddenly travelled back in time, everything wasn’t okay. Sirius was guilty, still. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
Oh, Remus couldn’t go back now, he realised then.
The very fact that Albus had somehow lured him in was biting Remus in the arse, now. If he didn’t already live day to day thinking perhaps he should just end it all, he would now. He’d been sure, remembering the doe-eyed look on Harry’s face, the confusion and mistrust in his eyes as he stared at the man who would have Uncle Moony.
Not so long ago.
Not that Harry would know that.
By October, Remus was beginning to realise there was something about Harry Potter that didn’t seem quite right. Whether it be the way he jumped at sudden noises, or the way his eyes scanned every room he entered as if searching for an idle threat—it worried Remus, terribly how quickly his small heart beat picked up over and over, interrupting his thoughts. Thankfully, the students were none the wiser to Remus’s distraction.
The boy’s disposition didn’t seem to match the bigger-than-life Gryffindor’s star seeker reputation he seemed to fall so easily into on a game day—the only time everybody seemed to watch him close enough to notice. And it equally didn’t seem the boy was anything like his mother or father no matter how often he was compared to them. Not that Remus expected or wanted him to be, but it would be a lie to say Remus was ready to face the near-always tired fear of eyes which never failed to calm him in the past.
It was jarring.
But after asking Professor McGonagall and Albus who both assured Remus that there could be nothing wrong with Harry for he was a happy young thing, Remus decided to go out on a limb. It was the Friday before Halloween, about a week before the impending full moon.
“Mr. Potter, please see me after class,” he said as inconspicuously as possible. But alas it was much to the entertainment of the rowdy students who oohed and ahhed at their friend’s expected peril. Remus waved them off with an air of confidence and a small smile to deter their mocking laughter. “Class dismissed!”
Quickly enough, the room emptied out and Remus was left alone with the boy he should know better. Leaning back against his desk at the front of the room as his calves pulled themselves taut, Remus watched Harry for a moment.
“Am I in trouble, Professor Lupin?” Harry said into the silence. He picked up his satchel and stood, hanging his head as he sauntered to meet Remus.
Turning to his desk, Remus clicked his tongue. He decided to leave his things and walk toward his office, instead. “Are you often in trouble, Harry?” He asked over his shoulder, keeping his voice quiet.
“Only when I’m reckless…” Harry mumbled, following Remus up the stairs.
Once inside, Remus left the door wide open, and chose to brew two cups of tea in the kitchenette—by hand. He beckoned for Harry to relax in the meantime. In response, the boy cautiously sat on the armchair in front of the fire, furthest from Remus. He fiddled his hands in his lap as he nervously surveyed the space.
As Remus turned his back again to acquire two tea bags, Harry softly inquired, “Did you know my parents?”
Remus paused, a spoon of sugar hovering over the second cup. “I did,” he said. He poured the boiling water into the cups, and let them sit.
“Oh, so that means you knew Sirius Black.”
Remus’ breath hitched, his voice coming out sharper than he intended, “What gives you that idea?” He discarded of the tea bags, dripping water on the bench top.
Harry, clearly taken aback, muttered, “I just knew that Black and my dad were friends.”
“Oh, yes,” Remus replied calmly. He added a dash of milk to each cup, picked them up, and brought them over to the coffee table, placing one gently in front of Harry as he sat down in the unoccupied arm chair. “I knew them both, very well. Your mother too,” said Remus sadly. If only Harry knew how well indeed he knew them all.
“Was she…did she…”
“She was the brightest witch of her age—a bit like your friend Hermione. You have her—Lily’s eyes. And your father’s knack for mischief, I hear.”
By the way Harry’s lips turned upwards at the words, Remus thought for a moment perhaps it was simply that the boy was more like his mother than he would have liked his peers to know. Perhaps his worry had been for nothing, and Harry was just another teenage boy figuring out who he was.
But then, rather suddenly, a bird of sorts flew into the glass window in the kitchenette, the noise reverberating throughout the office.
Startled, Remus let out a choked laugh as he stood up. But when he looked to Harry, expecting the boy to be amused or even holding in a swear word, Remus realised Harry wasn’t amused at all. He was the opposite, his face white as a sheet—a stark contrast to his usually dark complexion, as he stared blankly into his cup of tea.
Remus didn’t say anything at first, expecting the boy to be the first to speak. But when Harry failed to do much of anything, Remus leaned in close and whispered, “Harry?”
Harry looked up, blinking away his glassy gaze. His voice was tight, rigid and practised as he said, “Yes?”
Remus leaned back, putting a good amount of distance between he and the boy. He sat down on the coffee table behind him, carefully extracting the mug from Harry’s shaking hands. He faced the messy-hair boy, levelling him with a stare he hoped was more gentle than it was intimidating. You’re not Uncle Moony, he reminded himself as he cleared his throat and let his gaze wander. “Did that scare you?”
Reminding Remus of when he and…when he found out James was afraid of the dark, Harry lowered his gaze. “N-No,” he stuttered. “Why would it have scared me? It was just a bird.”
“Sometimes, noises or feelings or even physical touch can bring about…memories,” Remus said carefully, beginning to think it all might be something to do with the boy’s encounters with Voldemort. Why hadn’t he thought of that in the first place?
Or at least that’s what he was thinking until Harry said, “Was my mother anything like her sister?”
Remus grimaced as another thought entered his mind—a thought he wished wasn’t true. “Oh, well I never met your mother’s sister. But…is that who you are living with, Harry?”
“For my whole life,” Harry said miserably.
Dumbledore must have a reason, Remus told himself. He must. “Do you like it there?”
“Not really. But Aunt Petunia, she is better than Uncle Vernon,” he said quietly. However, in normal teenage boy fashion, Harry appeared to process the vulnerability he’d willingly shared with his professor. As his eyes widened slightly behind his thin round spectacles, Harry bit his lip, collected his satchel, and stood up in one swift movement. “I’ve got Quidditch practice, professor. I really must go,” he said unconvincingly, a shaking hand on the back of his neck.
Nevertheless, Remus nodded and allowed him to go without another word.
Days later, Sirius Black broke into the castle, and Remus forgot all about his conversation with Harry.