Chapter Text
It was around mid-July when it started -- almost exactly halfway between full moons, the time when Remus came the closest he ever did to forgetting, which wasn't actually very close at all. He was sweaty and disconsolate trudging back up the back steps to the house, his book under his arm; he'd been banished outside in the morning, to "go play and get some fresh air," which always came out to "sit on the swing trying to read with sweat in your eyes and a mosquito in your ear, and hope your brothers don't kick the football at your head as well." Normally they didn't, though, at least not on purpose, but Remus supposed that was mainly because they didn't consider him worthy of that much attention. His brothers played a lot of football over the summer holidays. Ancus even wanted to play for England, although he was the first and most cheerful to admit it was hard to imagine someone by the name of Ancus going far in the world of sport.
Remus pushed through the door into the kitchen, hoping either he could slip by unnoticed or that his time of penance outdoors for being pale and sickly would be considered sufficient. Instead he found his mother standing at the open side window, biting her lip and muttering, and trying to wrestle something from the leg of what appeared to be a handsome, tawny owl. His mother looked harassed and sweaty. The owl looked extremely patient and long-suffering. Remus froze just inside the door, with his greeting dying of bafflement inside his mouth.
Before he could even think of the obvious consequences, the kitchen door swung shut behind him with a loud bang; his mother jumped, emitted a small, screamy little hiccup, and whirled, fixing Remus with slightly mad eyes. He resisted the urge to flatten back against the door as he stared back at her, and after a second she relaxed, closing her eyes and pressing a shaky hand against her forehead.
"Oh, thank goodness, Remus," she said, and laughed a little, not convincingly. "I thought it must be one of your brothers, I'd no idea what I'd say. Can you come help me a moment? I haven't had to wrangle one of these since I stopped taking the Prophet, and I just can't -- get -- " This trailing off as she turned back to her task. Remus could only stare a second or two longer, and then got a hold of himself, setting his book down on the table.
"Sure, mum." He approached the problem, stopped, frowned. "Er -- what should I do?"
"Get a bit of fish from the refrigerator and feed it to him," she said, without looking up, "he's been very patient -- oh, I think I've almost got it -- "
Remus didn't feel this was much of an explanation, but he did as she asked anyway, coming back to hold out the shreds of whitefish in his palm gingerishly toward the owl. It eyed them imperiously, then darted its head down to pluck them up, its beak barely scraping his skin. He drew back his hand, quickly, and then stretched it tentatively back forward to see if the owl would let him touch its head. It held still and patient, and half a smile drifted across his lips at the momentary feel of its pinfeathers, both soft and rough, under his stroking fingers. "What, um..."
"Just a moment -- there." His mother straightened, holding what looked like a cream-colored envelope in her hand. The owl took off at once, Remus thought rather gratefully, and flew back out the window. He watched it for a few seconds, as it lifted up over the treetops, became a speck and disappeared. Then movement beside him made him look back up at his mother, to find she was holding the envelope out to him. Her expression was curious, almost unfamiliar from all his eleven years of experience with her expressions: a kind of smile that was at once rueful, grim, and anxious.
"Well, it's just as well you came in, as it's for you," she said. "I thought as much."
He stared up at her, frowning deeply, half a dozen questions flitting through his mouth to ask; but the twist of her mouth didn't seem to invite them, so he just took the envelope, tearing it open and pulling out the letter inside. All that was written on the envelope itself, he noted with mounting disturbance, was his full name.
~~~~~
Dear Mr. Lupin:
You are hereby invited to a meeting, to be held on the afternoon of Tuesday next at four o'clock, in my office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is my profound wish to discuss with you the possibility of a place for you at Hogwarts, and certain other concerns which may be relevant to the matter in question.
You should consider being accompanied by a parent to this conference, although this is not strictly necessary. A staff member from the school will arrive at your home to retrieve you at the appropriate time. If the time and place of the meeting are not agreeable to you, please inform her, so that alternate arrangements may be made.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
~~~~~
Remus stared at this for what must have been a good five minutes, reading and rereading and no surer that he'd understood any one time then the last. Finally, he turned it around wordlessly and handed it to his mother. She read it much more quickly, and when she looked up her expression was even more unrecognizable than before.
"I thought as much," she repeated, and set the letter down on the table. "Although I wasn't sure..." She folded her arms, not bothering to finish her sentence, and turned away from him to look out the window. "Do you want to go to the meeting?"
Remus glanced at the letter. "I don't know. ...It didn't -- sound like I had a choice."
"Well, you do," she said, sharply -- more sharply than he might have expected, and he nearly fell back a step in alarm. "It's entirely up to you, they won't force you to do anything."
He glanced at the letter again. He knew the school's name, of course. The memory was vivid: eight years old, sitting on the back steps with his eyes and throat burning, staring at the grass until his eyes got tired and it smudged into an eternal green nonsense, his mother sitting next to him on the back step with her hand still over his hand, not so much to comfort as to restrain. Her saying I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I overreacted, Remus, I'm sorry, and It's only, your father doesn't care for it very much, and his nodding as though he understood; nodding the same way when she told him, in long, halting strides as she stared out into the middle distance and not at him. About herself, who'd never quite been a Squib (a word she'd only passingly defined, and not so he'd much understood it) but who had never had much magic, who had privately only wished to be like her father, ordinary and unremarkable and kind; her sister, whose talents for magic had always been far greater, who had gone off to the wizarding school and been injured badly in some sort of accident no one would ever tell her about, but she was always accident-prone, and she died so young, so soon after; his grandmother the witch, a real witch and not like in the fairy stories, and her disappointment for the one of her daughters, her pride for the other, the deepening of the former after the latter was taken from her.
I just didn't want to go, his mother had told him, and sighed, looking down at her laced fingers on the knees of her slacks. I wanted to be like everyone else, and I certainly didn't want to go somewhere where they told me I wasn't even any good at being different every day of my life. And after Rhea was hurt -- She shook her head slightly. I don't know. I don't know what'll happen with you, if you'll -- well, what with your -- well, I don't know. But I never had a wand, and I never learnt to do anything, and they had me take training to make sure I'd never do anything accidentally, and I've been living as a normal person -- a Muggle, I mean -- all this time. And your father, well. She had smiled, faintly, and brushed hair out of her eyes. It had occurred to him then that this was the most honest, most adult conversation she'd ever had with him, and it had made him feel both wonderful and horrible -- as though he had been praised more highly than he had ever known but now was dying, slowly. He never got along with Grandmum, what with all that, and he doesn't think too highly of wizards, I'm afraid. Not you, of course, but -- well, let's just keep this to ourselves for now, all right?
He had agreed, because he didn't really understand what had just happened or what he'd unexpectedly found out, but he didn't think he needed to cry anymore and at eight that had felt like enough to him. They'd gone inside, and she was still feeling guilty enough that he was allowed to have some sweets after dinner, and he'd mostly forgotten it until the next time one of his brothers frightened him and he made branches snap back in Tullus's face without touching them, and then he had fled the scene at once and hid under the eaves all day, feeling helpless and sick and ashamed.
Remus looked up at his mother again, and he thought he knew a little better what her expression said now.
"I think I'll go," he said, as boldly as he could, although it came out sounding more like a question than a statement. "I mean... it's just to talk, isn't it? I don't even know what they'll say if I don't."
His mother seemed to let out a small breath, and rubbed at her forehead again. "Of course. It's only -- there may be some large decisions to be made, and I don't want you to feel like you're being rushed at them, or like anyone's pressing you one way or another."
"I'm not," Remus said, instantly, and then reconsidered. "I mean, I don't. I just... want to know."
His mother looked at him for another long, hard moment, before finally giving him a slow nod. "All right," she said, and tousled his hair -- a rare, affectionate gesture, and one that made his heart rise in his throat a little every time. His father wasn't much for hugging and the like, and his mother always seemed to be finding excuses not to touch him too much unless it was necessary or important, putting distance between them in rooms. Even his brothers, for all they wrestled and beat on each other, never strayed too close. Well, Pompilius had, when he was little, but Pompy was the oldest and he'd been out of the house and married to a nice Welsh girl for a good six years now. (Presumably the Welsh were somehow more understanding about people having names like Pompilius. Their names, as Remus understood it, had all been at his grandmother's insistence, and for all that he tended to go by R.J. at his primary school, he was aware that he had gotten off relatively light, all things considered.) He squinted up at his mother through the dislodged strands of his hair and smiled, most of his concerns, at least for now, forgotten.
And she smiled back, for a wonder, and let him go. "Now go and wash your hands," she instructed; "heaven only knows what that poor bird had to fly through." And that, for the time being, was that.
---
The following Tuesday he found himself sitting outside again in the late afternoon, on the back steps, his most recent book unopened on his lap. It wasn't, he had told himself firmly, that he was nervous; only that he was curious, and who wouldn't be, about what a staff member from a magical school would look like and be like. He imagined, since the letter had said "her" (and he'd only reread it sixteen or seventeen times in the interim so he ought to know), that the person might be something like his grandmother in the strange, moving pictures his mother had only shown to him: tall, imperious, and stern, wearing voluminous garments of dark blue and purple that looked something like a cross between a dress and a poncho, a high pointed hat perched atop the impeccable nest of silver braids piled on her head. Well, perhaps not exactly like that, but along the same general lines. It was something to keep his mind off whatever might happen after she came, at least.
He was so busy looking around that he didn't see the cat approach -- or at least, that was what he assumed had happened. He just looked down and found it sitting right in front of him on the grass before the stoop: a bright-eyed, intelligent-looking tabby, with curious little markings on its face around the eyes, its tail twitching gently beside it. It stared at him and he stared back at it. The whole thing felt curiously awkward.
"Um," Remus said, smiling a little, "hello," and he reached out, uncertainly; but the cat stayed, quite firmly and with great dignity, out of range of being petted. He accepted this with good grace, sitting back again. "Where did you come from?" he asked, mostly rhetorically, but the cat seemed done with him already; it had gotten to its feet, and shook itself off, before mounting the steps of the house. As he watched, starting to frown, it climbed up right past where he was sitting, straight to the door, and scratched at the base -- three times, swift and even, more like... knocking than scratching.
His mother opened the door. She looked down at the cat, and registered absolutely no surprise at all at its appearance there; all Remus could see in her face was that same sort of rueful grimness from the other day. "Hello, Professor," she said quietly. "Do come in." Then, just when he was about to ask what on earth she was doing, she glanced up at him. "You as well, Remus."
And rather than question or argue, he just did as he was told.
Inside the kitchen, the cat turned into a tall, forbidding older woman with spectacles, which was most definitely not among the list of possible things Remus had been expecting and made him yelp a lot more loudly than he would have liked. She was, in fact, dressed very much like his grandmother had been in the photographs, and the resemblance was even stronger when she cast him a sideways glance of purse-lipped consternation at the sound. "Remus," Remus's mother said, in a tone that clearly implied she meant to pretend her son had not just done something embarrassing in front of company, albeit company that seemed, under some circumstances, to be a cat, "this is Professor McGonagall, from Hogwarts. Professor, my son, Remus."
"Pleased to meet you," Remus managed, squeakily, when the woman turned to look at him again. This time he could have sworn he saw a small flash of amusement behind her glasses, as well as discomfiture, although he didn't much like to consider the implications. She only nodded to him, though, and he could breathe a little easier when her attention turned back to his mother.
"I assume you're here to escort us to the school?" his mother asked the professor -- McGonagall -- and she nodded again.
"Indeed." She had a strong, high voice that managed to make Remus feel even more nervous and small, somehow. "And may I say it is a pleasure to see you again, Silvia. I realize this comes rather late, but I wanted to tell you how very sorry I was to hear of your mother's passing. Vesta was a fine witch, and a dear friend."
Remus watched his mother's face a little too closely at that, but if anything it seemed to soften slightly. "Thank you," she said, "but to be honest, you'd probably spoken her more recently than I had." She glanced at Remus, still nearly huddled against the front door, over Professor McGonagall's shoulder. "Remus, let's not keep the professor waiting, shall we? Go get changed and find your shoes, please."
"Yes, mum." He nodded again, awkwardly, to McGonagall, and escaped past them to the stairs. Their voices faded behind him, and for all his excitement and nerves and earlier conviction, he lingered a little bit longer in his room than strictly necessary, taking his time changing into his nicer clothes. Just... he needed a moment, to catch his breath, maybe. Sometimes things in his life became very strange, very fast.
Coming back down the stairs, he started to be able to make out the words again -- and froze, his also nicer (if still hand-me-down) shoes in hand, one foot hovering over the next riser.
" -- ive years or so," his mother was saying, in a hushed, strained voice that made it impossible to mistake what she was talking about, although that very fact shocked him; it was not something he had ever heard discussed. Everyone who needed to know had always known, and dealt with it as it came up, but it was never said out loud. He had dim, pain-laced memories of a very peculiar hospital, his mother pale and red-eyed and silent by his bed, his father extremely stiff and uncomfortable and watching the strange doctors in odd clothes bustle around with a leery eye, but even then he couldn't remember anyone explaining, anyone talking about it. The very idea seemed vaguely indecent, especially with a stranger in their kitchen. Well, a stranger to him, anyway. "He was very small."
"Surely," McGonagall's dry, strong voice answered, and Remus frowned a little, leaning closer to the corner the kitchen lay around.
Remus's mother made a little sound, not quite like a laugh. "It was so stupid, really... just a terrible accident, all of it. John, he's, well. He never really got on with my mother, and he's always had something of a low opinion of wizards and magic -- I think it makes him a bit nervous, honestly, and I can't entirely say I blame him. He's... a very straightforward man, John, he likes things in order, that's all. But he -- John was on his way home from work and saw him about in the village -- I don't know what he was doing here in the first place, exactly -- and recognized what he thought he must be." Remus had thought at first the other person under discussion must be himself, and was frowning even more deeply -- but it couldn't be, and his pulse stuttered with realization. A third, then. Or not just any third, but the third. The one who had bitten him. But -- "John was a bit irritated, I suppose, and he went to talk to him. Took him aside, and told him -- I know what you are, and go on, we don't need your kind around here." A faint, jagged laugh, far less real even than before. "I imagine he took that somewhat amiss."
"Indeed, I imagine so." McGonagall said. Her voice had gone papery and thin.
"So he hung about, I assume, and when the full moon was out, well -- " Her voice sounded a little unsteady now, and Remus's heart closed like a fist in his chest. "Remus was playing outside in the back yard, he's always been a little solitary, and I suppose it just saw him, and -- "
She stopped there, and even from the stairs Remus could hear the breath she took. He felt like he could do little if anything else, though. His mouth was slightly open, his brow knitted, and nothing made any sense at all. It almost sounded like she meant to say... he'd been bitten on purpose? Was that even possible? His mind reeled around, rebounded off things with no connections or sense made. How... but it couldn't be, could it? He didn't know why she would lie to Professor McGonagall, but why wouldn't anyone have told him?
"I'm so very sorry," McGonagall said, quietly, and Remus's mother's tone changed at once -- rather too forcefully, as though she were somehow embarrassed.
"No, no, it's -- he's very good about it, I mean, really, and it's been mostly -- his brothers don't even know. He's a very brave boy." A second's shuffling pause, and then she added, "Where on earth is he, though? If he's gotten distracted again, I swear -- Remus?"
The call of his name was instantly sobering. He shook himself almost as McGonagall the cat had done, and took three quick silent steps back up the stairs, then came back down them with all the noise and vigor he could muster. "I'm coming, mum, I've got them!" he called back. "Sorry!"
"That's all right, just do hurry up -- " Chairs scuffed in the kitchen, and by the time he came back in it was as though the whole conversation had never happened. Except for what was still stuck in his mind, nagging at him -- on purpose? On purpose? For something rude his father had said to a stranger in the street? It made no sense at all. He'd been told the one that had bitten him had been killed; was that possibly not true either?
Somehow, though, he managed to put it aside, and smile faintly at his mother and the professor, before hurrying to bend down and get his shoes on. There would be time for all of that later, he supposed; maybe even time to confront his mother, depending on how much of a brave boy he was indeed feeling. For now, he had an appointment to keep; and that concern did seem the most pressing.
---
The trip to the school itself was surprisingly unpleasant: each of them clutching one of Professor McGonagall's arms, and a long, stifling sensation like being stuffed down the bathtub drain until they finally came out in front of a gate, leading into a massive sprawl of green topped by a massive, imposing stone castle Remus supposed must be the school, although it looked like none he'd ever seen or heard of or particularly wanted to imagine. Nonetheless, they were led to it, and in and up through countless instances of the bizarre -- paintings moved on the walls; staircases appeared to rearrange themselves at whim; suits of armor, he would swear, turned their heads to watch as they passed; and more indefinably, he could swear he could feel the entire building breathing, so crammed full with life and oddity that it was itself almost alive -- until they reached a long stone hallway where a gargoyle dozed heavily in front of one wall, snoring. Before he could ask a single question or be shushed by his mum, however, Professor McGonagall said to the gargoyle in tones of firm conviction, "Nougat."
The gargoyle snorted awake and leapt aside, and the wall opened like a pair of wings, a flight of stairs rising behind it in a graceful twist. So there was something else for Remus to stare at. Frankly the total was already making his head ache.
Professor McGonagall turned back to them both and nodded, and again Remus thought he caught just a touch of warmth at her mouth when her eyes fell on him, although it wasn't an impression he would have trusted under pressure. "The headmaster is waiting," she said, more to him than to his mother, he also thought. "Go on up, please; and should you have any other need of me, give a call."
"Thank you," Remus's mother said, and before the professor could even leave she had taken Remus's wrist in her hand -- also a rare gesture, although he thought there were more nerves in it than affection -- and started leading him up the stairs. He heard the click of heels behind them in the hallway, heading away, and then even that was gone. "A lot of things may seem strange to you here," his mother said, as they approached the door; "if anything confuses you, be patient, and ask when it's appropriate. And be sure to sit still."
"I will," Remus said, slightly indignantly, although she didn't seem to notice. She was very white and he could seem to see every breath she took in her nose and throat, like a nervous horse. It was all starting to affect him, to his dismay; what was this place like, that it was making her so upset? Unbidden, pictures of this headmaster kept lurking in dark forbidding shadows in his imagination, giving him cold looks down a long nose and making insinuations about how unworthy and dangerous he was for a school like this, no matter how he tried to chase them off. His mother nodded slightly, and squeezed his wrist a little.
"And don't stare. All right?"
"All right."
"There's a lad." She glanced at him, and smiled. He didn't find it very convincing, but he tried to smile back. They'd reached the top of the stairs, and stood before a heavy door, and Remus already wanted to go home. "Well -- let's go."
Nothing, of course, was anything like what he'd expected.
The office they emerged into was nothing like any school official's he'd ever been in -- though it wasn't as if he'd been in many, apart from the occasional routine conference where said officials had looked bored and harassed and had often had trouble remembering his name. It was huge and airy and bright, a scalloped architectural marvel that made a lot of curious little noises and glimmers, a massive and gorgeous desk sitting in the middle that was, at least temporarily, empty. Portraits of numerous old men and women in varying states of peculiar dress dozed on the walls, some also to be heard snoring. Alone for the moment, they made their approach to the desk slowly, passing delicate silver devices one after another, spinning on every surface Remus could see. His eye was so tightly caught by one of these that he actually managed to slip away from his mother by a few steps, and investigate, all else at least temporarily put out of his mind by its beauty. It was a little like a gyroscope, except it kept flipping itself, finding new axes and parallels --
"Don't touch that, Remus," his mother said sharply, as he strayed a little closer, and he glanced up at her, guiltily -- and then jumped at the sound of another voice, older, male.
"Quite right, I am afraid -- although more for your sake than for its."
He whirled, already feeling stupid and like everything was going out of its way to shock him today. Emerging from the same door they'd just come in was an old man -- an old wizard, Remus supposed -- in a long silvery garment that wasn't much like a dress or a poncho, and a matching hat that wasn't even particularly pointy. His hair and beard were equally silver and both streamed down his back and front, not unlike the man Remus's father had muttered so darkly about when he'd been hanging around the village with a guitar and a tourist's map, only considerably cleaner and better-kept. The beard was tied about halfway down with a length of cord, tipped with two bells at the ends. Somehow this seemed to Remus like the most impossibly outlandish thing he could have thought of, and he had to make a hero's effort to follow the last of his mother's instructions.
But the man's face, with just as long a nose as he'd pictured and little half-moon spectacles perched atop it at that, was nonetheless as kind as any he'd ever seen. And that made the greatest impression of all.
"The mechanism is quite sturdy," Professor Dumbledore continued, closing the door behind him and absently scratching the head of a rather ugly little bird Remus hadn't noticed before, sitting on a perch by the door with an unaccountable amount of ash piled on its base, "but, in this instance regrettably, constructed of pure silver. But I trust that Mr. Lupin is by now aware of the proper balance of caution and curiosity." He smiled, benevolently Remus thought, so much that he was even able to return it with a shy one of his own. "Please, be seated."
Remus was more or less sure the chairs he indicated hadn't been there before, but it didn't seem prudent to question. He sat, keeping the corner of an eye on his mother, who if anything seemed paler and more strained now that they were inside the office. His hands kneaded into each other in his lap and gripped each other white, apparently of their own accord. Dumbledore swept around them to arrive behind the desk, and seated himself as well, folding his hands on its top. "Mrs. Lupin, young Mr. Lupin," nodding to each of them in turn, "I am Professor Dumbledore. It is a pleasure to host you here, and, I hope, an equal one to discuss your future at Hogwarts."
"Do you really intend to take Remus on, Professor?" Remus's mother broke in at once, all the words bursting out as though just let out of cages. Remus glanced at her again, but quickly looked back at his hands. "I mean, it's very gracious of you, of course, but I'd assumed it'd be out of the question."
"Mrs. Lupin," Dumbledore said gravely, "if I were not in earnest as regards Mr. Lupin's invitation, it would scarcely have been worth any of our time to schedule this meeting." Remus's mother flushed, not pleasantly, and Remus knew exactly what the way her lips thinned meant, but Dumbledore went on speaking before she had any opportunity to pursue the matter. "However, it is of course true that there are certain difficulties that must be surmounted prior to his attendance. I have already taken the liberty of devising solutions to most of these; all that will be required are Mr. Lupin's consent and cooperation, which I hope here to secure." He smiled at Remus again here, just as kindly, but Remus was too nervous now to do more than smile back at his own hands. "By the by, Mr. Lupin, might I interest you in a truffle?"
This question was so unexpected, though, that Remus thought he couldn't possibly have heard right, and looked up frowning to see Dumbledore extending a foil-lined box in his direction. Inside it was, simply put, the most astonishing-looking assortment of chocolate truffles he'd ever beheld. Each one was bigger than he could circle his thumb and forefinger around, with intricate designs in the chocolate that looked like fireworks and rainstorms and... well, magic. Remus felt like he might have already seen a hundred impossible things today, and yet this box, he was certain, was the most impressive of them all. He could only gape for a moment, first at the box, then at Dumbledore, then at his mother. Her mouth was a depressingly thin line.
"You'll spoil your supper," she murmured, although her voice was gentler than Remus might have expected, and his already-reaching hand returned to his side, crestfallen. Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted, as though she had stated some fact of which he meant to express polite incredulity.
"Far be it from me to interfere," he said, sounding like it was very near to him indeed, "but I can scarcely imagine a growing boy could be caused to miss a no doubt delicious meal by a single piece of chocolate."
To Remus's surprise, that made his mother smile slightly; she touched it on her mouth as though she couldn't quite believe it of herself, and only shook her head, although she looked no less tense. "Well, whatever you like," was her final word, and at it Remus found himself feeling unexpectedly brave -- almost defiant, of all things. He knew exactly what he'd like, and what he could manage, even if she didn't.
With a nod and a barely voiced 'thank you', Remus selected the roundest milk chocolate piece, with sides etched like the branches of tiny trees. He put it into his mouth whole, then bit down. The liquid center poured out onto his tongue, and for a moment he swore everything in the room went a little golden.
"Excellent," said Dumbledore, and smiled at him, broadly. "They were a gift, I am afraid, from a friend who overestimates the sturdiness of my digestion at such an advanced age." He set the box aside, and folded his hands again. "A place has been prepared," he continued, with no further warning, "to serve as the site of Mr. Lupin's transformations; it is an old, unused building at the edge of Hogsmeade, the neighboring village." It was difficult to tell, just now, whether he was speaking to Remus's mother, or to Remus himself. The wording seemed to suggest it was more to her, but something about it felt like it was to Remus -- almost entirely to Remus, in fact, and she intended to be none the wiser. "The building is accessible through a passageway beginning on Hogwarts's grounds. To protect the passage from other, errant students -- and the students, of course, from the hazards of Mr. Lupin's condition -- a fine young Whomping Willow tree has been transplanted to its entrance. Mr. Lupin alone will be provided with the means of safely bypassing it." He looked at Remus again, and inclined his head slightly, fixing Remus with his gaze over his glasses. "The further particulars, of course, we may discuss as the relevant time approaches."
"What about after?" Remus's mother broke in, pale again. "Sometimes -- he needs help, in the morning."
"Madam Pomfrey, our matron, will be fully informed of his condition, and will assist him as necessary." This to her, and then his attention seemed to be fixed on Remus again. "And naturally his other professors will be informed as well, so that his particular academic needs may better be accommodated. However -- "
His tone had gone suddenly severe, and he was definitely looking directly at Remus now. He did his best to meet Dumbledore's gaze, and not just shrink into his chair. "And this is quite a serious matter, Mr. Lupin, I feel I must remind you. In your time at Hogwarts, it will be necessary for you to keep your condition entirely secret from your fellow students, and from anyone else who is not specifically a teacher or a member of the school staff. This includes your classmates, your school friends, and your dormitory fellows, no matter how close or trusted they may be. I have the power to prevent my staff from spreading such sensitive information -- if indeed I believed they were so inclined -- but my power to prevent students from doing so, to their parents, to their classmates, or to other parties who might be concerned, is limited. I would attempt to protect you under any pressure from these, of course, but it would be far simpler for all concerned not to have to do so at all. And furthermore," and his eyes seemed to bore more deeply into Remus all the time, making it harder and harder not to squirm, even when all he could see in them was concern and sympathy, "it is most lamentable to to have to say so, but most wizards do not look kindly on those who suffer from the condition that you do. If you were to tell of it to your fellow students, even those you might count as closest friends, your personal safety could be in jeopardy." He looked at Remus a long moment longer, searchingly. "Do we understand each other, Mr. Lupin?"
"Yes, sir," he whispered, not daring to break eye contact but wishing he could stare at the floor. His eyes burned from lack of blinking, and he supposed for other reasons.
But then it was all right; Dumbledore smiled, and sat back, and that seemed to be that.
"Then it is very well," he said. "Have another truffle, if you please."
Remus's mother cleared her throat, unmistakably, but he managed to ignore her. The large dark one with the fireworks was shockingly spicy on his tongue, and the golden glow as welcome as it had been the first time. "Now," Dumbledore said, with a decisive air, setting the box aside again. "We have come at last to the most important question."
Remus blinked, and his mother sat forward, frowning. "What's that?"
"Mr. Lupin," Dumbledore said, "do you wish to attend Hogwarts?"
It was the last thing he'd ever expected, and yet, as he thought about it, he couldn't argue that in a way it was the most important -- a question he almost couldn't believe, now that it had been asked, hadn't been asked first. But Professor Dumbledore had wanted him to know, hadn't he? He'd wanted his decision to be made knowing everything he needed to know, not on the basis of whatever stupid hopes or fears he might have dragged in the door behind him. Warm gratitude washed over his chest for a moment, not hurt in the slightest by the lingering glow the truffle seemed to have left behind -- but all of it soured the slightest bit when he looked over at the look on his mother's face.
No, she didn't want him to; he supposed he'd known that from the start. She hadn't wanted to go herself, and wanted him to know he had the same choice, and not to pressure him like her mum had done her. But she also wanted him to make the same choice -- to be like her, to be ordinary, like his father and all his brothers. And he had to look down at the gleaming floor of Dumbledore's office, swallowing bitterness, because a part of him knew even then that she wanted it for him, but she also wanted it for herself. If her husband and all of her children were ordinary then maybe she could be ordinary, finally, instead of the crippled halfling imitation she'd been striving to maintain all this time, marred so spectacularly when her youngest son had become a -- become a monster, he couldn't quite make himself think the proper word, knotting his hands together again so tight they went white -- and started making things move on their own, at six years old. She couldn't make him not be a -- a monster, but she could make him not be a wizard, or at least she thought she could. But he'd never be ordinary. He'd always known that. And no matter how she might be doing it out of love for him, she wanted to take away his only chance to be not-ordinary somewhere where it was, where from what he'd been told it could be... well, almost normal.
"Yes," he said, with more strength than he'd said anything in this office so far. He couldn't even feel cruel or spiteful about it, in the end; she was his mum and he wasn't much for cruelty or spite anyway, and really, it was nothing but the truth. He couldn't look at her face, though, and instead settled for Dumbledore's -- Dumbledore's, which at this moment was beaming at him with a pleased, serene inner light. "Yes, I do. Very much. Sir."
"Then that," Dumbledore said, straight to him, "is all I, or anyone, should require to know. And in return, I shall do everything in my power to see to it that your stay is safe, comfortable, and pleasant -- for you and for all concerned."
"But you can't guarantee that," Remus's mother said. Her voice was stark and sharp and freezing. Remus looked up at her, shocked at the sound of it.
Dumbledore's expression, however, was mild, almost amused. "Alas, Mrs. Lupin, nothing in life is certain."
"I don't understand." Her voice was spiking in pitch, spiking in intensity, she was sitting forward so far she looked like she might spring to her feet at any moment, and Remus had to look far away from her, embarrassed and miserable. "He's eleven years old. He's too young -- How can you let him make a decision like that on his own?"
"Because it is a decision that will affect him most of anyone," Dumbledore said. With no amusement now, at least. He only looked grave, and watchful. "And, might I add, one that parallels the one you yourself were allowed to make at the very same age, Silvia. I must ask you not to begrudge your son the same privilege."
She had stiffened at the sound of her given name, but when he had finished speaking her posture altered indefinably, making Remus dare to glance back at her face. Some of the color had come back to it, but it looked troubled and careworn and older than he would have liked. She stared into her lap for a moment -- a gesture like his that made him see some of how he looked in her -- and at last back up at Dumbledore.
"He'll never be entirely safe anywhere," she said, tightly and tiredly. "You mustn't promise him that."
"Mum -- " Remus tried, but she shot him such a forbidding look that he bit his lip and gave it up. Dumbledore glanced between them before settling on her.
"I do not believe I promised any such thing. In fact, it seems to be my recollection that I advised him to be cautious, for that very reason." He pushed to his feet, and smiled at her, again, over the rims of his spectacles. "And now, before I answer any further concerns, might I ask you to excuse us, please? You and I will have a great deal to discuss amongst ourselves, certainly, but I would like to speak to Mr. Lupin alone just for the moment."
Remus's mother tensed again for just a second, her mouth opening as if to speak -- and then she seemed to give it up, rising to her feet as well. "Very well," she said, almost in a mutter. "I'll wait outside, then." She touched Remus's hair as she passed, making him look up at her in surprise. "Be good," she said, and managed to give him a small tight smile, and he answered it, feeling guilty and confused. She did care about him, very much, he knew that; probably he was being ungrateful and wretched about the whole thing. He watched her go, before turning to face front again, his chest a misery of baffled, mingled warmth and hurt.
Even in spite of all that, however, though intellectually he knew that being left alone in a strange office with a doubly strange man should have made him more nervous, Remus actually found he felt a thousand times better as the door shut with his mother on the other side of it. He relaxed into his chair, finding that his lungs would fill all the way again, and at last let his right thumb worry an old scar on his left wrist: an old nervous gesture, never quite banished in spite of his mother's best, hounding efforts.
"Have another truffle, Mr. Lupin," said Dumbledore as he rounded the desk to his chair again. This time the box proffered itself, floating bobbingly on the air as though on water, and Remus nearly jumped out of his seat. ...Well, he could see why that had waited until his mother was out of the room.
"I-I'll spoil my supper," he said, barely above a whisper, although a hint of a smile found its way across his mouth as he peered up at Dumbledore through the shaggy hair on his forehead. Dumbledore smiled back, making his sigh easier to bear.
"In the event of that terrible occurrence, I promise I shall take full responsibility." He indicated the box, and Remus caved, selected a little star-carved one that poured a delicate, astonishing cream flavor into his mouth. He couldn't help but close his eyes, soothed but also oddly dizzy.
"Splendid." Dumbledore picked up a quill and began scrawling at a parchment. "Then our work here is more or less done. When you arrive in three weeks' time, all arrangements will have been made for your safety. You'll receive a list of items required for first-years shortly, and every merchant on the list will be more than willing to do business by owl if necessary."
Remus' mouth was too full of chocolate to speak, and the chocolate was too delicious to be devoured too quickly, but he managed to get his voice back with no small effort. "...Sir, is that all?"
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his quill never faltering in its motions. "I beg your pardon?"
"I mean... is that really all there is to it?" Remus swallowed again -- catching lingering shreds of flavour -- and squared his shoulders, trying to look braver than he felt. "I don't have to, to pass a test, or prove that I'm magic, or... sign something...?"
For a moment, there was no response, and Remus wondered if he'd said something inappropriate -- wizard ways were strange, that much at least he'd learnt already, and because the last thing he wanted was to offend Professor Dumbledore, it was also the most likely thing he'd end up doing, given the ordinary state of his luck. Then Dumbledore stilled his pen, setting it in an inkwell that looked like a great iron bird's foot, and looked Remus straight on. "The state of your fitness to attend Hogwarts has never been in question, Mr. Lupin," Dumbledore said, and Remus was relieved to hear he sounded more surprised than anything else. "I thought you might have determined that much from the start. If you have received an invitation to attend a wizarding school, then it is a wizard you surely are -- despite any efforts, by yourself or any other, to prove anything to the contrary." Remus glanced down, away from the look in his disconcertingly twinkly eyes, trying to convince himself he didn't know what it meant. "You are a brave young man, Remus Lupin, one whose strength and courage I have scarce seen in a man of any age. You strike out into the unknown with the ferocity of the boldest explorer, and it will be my pleasure and privilege to do anything I may to aid you in your quest, over these coming years. Now, I bid you take one final truffle, for my sake as much as for yours; and then, for the time being, I shall also bid you adieu." The box sidled in Remus' direction again, looking shifty, and Remus could have sworn each wrinkle in Dumbledore's face looked like a smile.
Absent any response to this, and certain he'd already begun to blush to the tips of his toes, Remus reached for a dark piece shaped like a maple leaf. This one he bit cautiously in half first, exposing its heart-coloured center and marvelling at how it tasted exactly like autumn. The same gold glow returned to his vision, this time lingering long and firm, and Remus felt as giddy and sweet and confused as if the whole world were spread before him, and he had just hit his head.
"...Professor Dumbledore," he said after clearing his mouth of chocolate, cautious not to startle or offend, "I ... think these chocolates may have alcohol in them."
"Really?" Dumbledore smiled. "Oh dear. It must have slipped my mind."
---
Of course, as miraculous and strange as the rest of the day might have been, there was hardly anything to make him feel more like he was in his own life again than lying in his bed that night, staring up through the dark at the ceiling of his tiny closety room, dry-eyed and waiting with his hands pressed over his ears for his parents to give up and go to bed.
It wasn't that they fought often, but that the instances were always memorable, defining. The time after he'd been bitten was the main one, and the only thing about that whole time of his life he could really even remember with any accuracy; it seemed to have been carved into his mind by misery, burning and unforgettable. His father shouting What have your lot done to us now? and his mother shouting They're not my lot, John! They were never my lot, and it's nothing I've done, and his bluster and her most cutting tone and himself, lying in the dark, his eyes squeezed shut, willing himself not to hear. Lying alone in the dark, for that matter, even then; all of his brothers shared rooms, but he'd had his own starting from then, his own parents unconsciously starting the lifelong process of making him a pariah and outcast. It was a bribe at first, something to distract him from his pain and confusion and distress, and then a necessity -- privacy for his wounds and bed-rest. It was an unpleasant luxury in any case, although for a wonder the other boys seemed to accept it with bemused good grace, to have no trouble believing even without explanation that their youngest brother was simply odd and sickly and unfortunate enough to merit special treatment. He'd never been close to any of them, and was even less so for his enforced solitude, but what about that? So much the better for keeping it from them.
He eased one palm off the cup of his ear, experimentally, heard " -- for freaks and lunatics!" from downstairs, winced and covered it again. They were showing no signs of slowing down; maybe he just ought to pull his pillow over the side of his head, and sleep like that, with the little warm stale air he could pull to his mouth in between.
They didn't fight about money, although it was always tight, or about his brothers, although they half-flunked subjects all the time and occasionally got into cheerful, boys-will-be-boys fistfights at school, or about anything else they might have fought about, as far as Remus could see. That was the problem, really. It was always, only, ever about him. Remus the youngest, Remus the oddest, Remus the most like his disliked grandmother and lamented aunt and who got bitten and hurt and invited to strange schools and it was all just a little too exasperating, in the end, to bother with.
Those weren't charitable thoughts; they weren't really even true thoughts, probably, down at their bottom. But he was tired and wanted to go to sleep, and couldn't, and he wasn't in a charitable mood.
Three weeks, he thought, thinking of his talk with Dumbledore this afternoon, the one that already seemed like a pleasant and bizarre dream he had had weeks ago, in the small hours of morning. Three weeks until he left them for a different life, the life none of them had ever wanted for him, or wanted any part of for themselves, and if that was for all the right reasons then it was for all the wrong ones too. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, the thought of it, the joy and excitement and terror and anxiety, along with the cool night air from his cracked-open window. Three weeks right now seemed like a hundred back-to-back forevers, and not like nearly enough time to be prepared -- not only with all the arcane objects he'd undoubtedly need for his school year, but mentally, inside. Three weeks was like a death sentence, he thought; but so oddly, oddly kind.
An angry raised voice reached such a pitch that it found his ears, penetrating through the skin and bone of his hands like a weapon; and as he winced down deeper under the covers he decided, with sudden startling passion, that he would count off the days.
---
Sirius banged into his father's room and slammed the door, then rebounded off the oak chest by the wall with his foot leading, less a kick than a full-body crash. He landed hard on his shoulders against the wall, heavy and panting, his lips stripped back from clenched teeth.
"Mm?" his father said from the bed, and Sirius heaved out a sigh. Great, now he'd gone and woken him up as well. Sweaty hair was in his eyes, and he jerked it back with his hand. He waited to see if the old man would fade out again, but the soft, foggy voice persisted. "Alphard? Have they come again? Is everything ready?"
"No, Dad, it's Sirius," Sirius said tiredly, sliding down the wall to drop into a sit on the chest. Listening to clattering elsewhere in the house, but he couldn't hear any raised voices. So he left the room and she just forgot about him, did she? His hands clenched in fists on his thighs, and for half a second he thought of storming right back down there to let her know she couldn't get away with it, before realizing that was probably exactly what she'd been after. A tiny scowl curled up his lip. He hated having the better gotten of him, even almost, especially by her.
Propped up against the pillows, curd-colored and oddly childlike in his silk pajamas and the dim light, his father frowned. "Sirius...?"
"Yeah, I'm your son, remember?" He pressed his ear against the door again. He was the only one of the whole family who had any patience with his dad anymore, he sometimes thought; his mother would snap at him and argue when he didn't remember her, thrust food at him and lock the door, and he made Regulus too nervous to ever stay in the room for long. He guessed he might have felt proud, but there didn't seem to be much reason for pride in it. It was just his dad was a lot nicer to be around than most people he knew.
"Hmmm." His father seemed to concentrate on this idea for a long time. It was sort of like dealing with some of his very old relatives that he'd been made to be polite to, except his dad wasn't that old, not much more than fifty. "Are you certain?"
That actually startled Sirius into laughing, and he glanced around at his father, smiling at him a little. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure."
"Good," his father said, and his gaze was already fixing on something middle-distant again; "that's good." At least he was calm today, not having one of his panicky spells; that was something, wasn't it? Sirius listened again, and now he realized with a start he could hear footsteps -- coming down the hall, now coming into the next room. He slammed his shoulder into the door just as the knob jiggled, and when it pushed toward him he shoved it right shut again. There was a small "oof" from the other side.
"Sirius, are you in there?" Regulus. Sirius rolled his eyes, and pushed himself off the chest entirely, to brace on the floor against the door.
"No. It's Dad. I'm having an episode and blocking the door. Boo hoo, worms in my head."
There was a sound that might have been a tiny muffled snerk. "You're an idiot," Reg said, though, as witheringly as possible, which wasn't very coming from a nine-year-old. He pushed on the door again, and Sirius shoved it shut. "Come on, let me in."
"Let me in," Sirius mimicked in a faint falsetto, although his heart wasn't much in it. He let his head fall back against the wood with a soft thunk. "Mum send you up?"
There was a long faltering pause. "No," Reg said at the end of it, and Sirius snorted laughter.
"What does she want?"
"For you to stop acting like a child, she said," Reg nearly muttered outside, and Sirius sat up a little straighter, scowling out at nothing but air and his own innocent, vague father.
"Yeah? Fine. Well, you can tell her I said I don't care if I'm acting like a child, I'm not going to the platform to Hogwarts with bloody Kreacher."
"Don't swear, she'll hear you," Regulus interrupted in a tone as much cross as worried, but Sirius wasn't to be stopped.
"I don't care, let her hear me!" Unable to keep from raising his voice again, although at this time he fortunately failed to catch his father's attention. "Nobody has their stupid house-elf see them off to school. It's not normal! He smells like mothballs and he calls me names the second she leaves the room, you can tell her that too, and I'd sooner go alone!"
"No, I can't!" Reg burst out in a shrill frustrated yelp, and there was a dim shuddering thud as though he'd struck the door. "I hate it when you won't even fight to your faces, I can never remember everything you said about each other and you always end up cross with me!"
Sirius gaped at nothing for a long moment this time, and then burst out laughing.
"It's not funny," Reg said miserably, with his mouth smushed right against the wood, it sounded like. Sirius could hear little shakes of breath in it, though where his mouth had twisted and twitched around the words. "I hate you."
"You are a brain-dead little toad," Sirius said, a bit fondly, and scooted forward across the floor, so the door could just open far enough to let a Reg-sized person squeeze through. "Come on, then, stop banging your head on the door."
"I'm not banging my head on the -- " Reg protested, squeezing in the door, and then faltered halfway in. "Oh. Um. Hullo, Dad."
Their father didn't seem to register the new entry, and after a moment Sirius looked back at Regulus and shrugged. "He was talking a while ago but I think he's out now," he said. "Get in here and shut the door, if you're coming, what if mum's spying."
"You deserve it," Reg muttered, but he did as Sirius asked anyway, and surprised and amused him by plopping down on the floor right next to his older brother, adding his back to the leaning weight against the door. "...I wish I could go with you."
Sirius made a face, propping up his knees and slinging his arms over them. "What are you talking about? You'll love it. You'll have mum all to yourself and nobody'll make you remember stuff."
Reg wrinkled his nose in return. "It'll be boring. Mum'll drag me round to visit aunts."
"Oh, come on. Nobody shouting..."
Regulus snorted. "Without you around she'll only have me to shout at."
"She doesn't shout at you."
"She doesn't notice me, as long as you're in the room." Sirius opened his mouth to protest this and, finding he actually couldn't, shut it again, frowning.
"Well -- no worries, the aunts'll stuff you full of cakes. You can just roll away when she starts shouting. Like a dustball." He puffed out his cheeks, miming a mighty gust of wind, and Regulus put his mouth against his knees to hide that he was laughing again.
"That's stupid, Sirius." He sighed, and played with a corner of his robes. Sirius had already started refusing to wear his, going around the house in denims and t-shirts he'd obtained on the sly, just to make his mother furious, but Regulus soldiered on. "...You expect there'll be, you know, people who aren't pureblood at school?"
"'Course there will," Sirius snorted, with a hearty disdain he didn't really feel. "Don't be a prat. You've heard mum rant about the headmaster they've got now."
"Yeah..." Reg bit his lip, staring at his fidgeting fingers. "Are you scared?"
"What?" Sirius was silent for a moment, just staring at Reg, he told himself out of sheer disgust. "Of course I'm not. Why would I be scared?"
Regulus shrugged, and let his hands fall in his lap, looking at Sirius again. "I'd be scared."
"You're scared of everything."
"I am not." Reg scowled, dropping his head a little. "It'll just -- be different."
"Can't be different enough for me," Sirius muttered. Reg didn't say anything to that, but Sirius could feel him wanting to, stewing in it. Good. Let him. Let both of them, him and his mum, stew all they wanted in how much Sirius wanted to be as far away from them as possible. He rather relished the thought of all that stewing more than the thought of actually going away.
"Think you'll be in Slytherin?" Reg asked next, peering at him, and Sirius shrugged.
"Well, mum'll chop off my head and put it up alongside the house-elves' if I'm not." Reg scowled again at that -- Sirius knew perfectly well he hated the mounted elf heads and avoided going past them anytime he could, had actually had nightmares about them when he was six, which Sirius had thought then and still thought was hilarious -- and Sirius tried his best to smirk. "I dunno. I guess."
"D'you think you'll make lots of friends?"
Sirius sighed, thumping his head back on the door again. "I don't care if I make any friends, as long as I get to see somebody who's not my cousin or you or bloody mum." Reg's brow creased again, and he looked away, fussed with his robe some more. "I don't know, Reg. It's school. You do whatever you do at school. Make friends, go to class, get boiled in oil for picking your pimples if you believe Phineas. Which I don't," he added, when it looked like Reg was going to say something else.
"Will you write to me?"
Sirius sneered, shoving an elbow into Regulus's side; Reg jerked and pulled away, probably fearing a more concerted attack to follow. "Quit being a baby."
"I'm not being a baby! Merlin, Sirius, why are you such a wanker?"
Sirius took his retreat as weakness, breaking into a half-snarl grin and lunging for him; he managed to catch Regulus's flailing wrists before Reg could do more than yelp, tackling him toward the floor. "Oooh, is ickle Reggikins swearing now? Look out or mummy'll hear, and then he won't be allowed to go see the aunts, oh no, he can't today, he's got to dust the elf-heads -- "
"Get off!" Reg gave a shove so terrific Sirius fell back, cackling dutifully, rather than submit to the indignity of wrestling to maintain his position, and then Reg was sitting huffing and ruffled, glaring at him, scrambled half up onto his knees. "I do hate you!" This came with such unexpected force that he sprayed spit on Sirius slightly, which he would have taken pains to draw attention to if Reg hadn't still been shouting. "All you ever think about is you! You're just going off to school, you're not that special, you can stop acting like you're -- getting out of jail or something!"
"I am getting out of jail," Sirius said, after a moment's silence. Feeling like he was catching the words in his teeth. "Or something."
"You're a giant wanker, is what you are." Reg hauled himself up to his feet, smacking dust off his robes in a prissy way that might have been funny if Sirius hadn't been so suddenly wrong-footed and hacked off all over again. Reg wouldn't lift his head, and Sirius thought his face looked a little wet. The thought just made him angrier than ever, and he hurled himself away from the door, wanting to break it or the chest or something with the sheer might of his stupid, brainless anger. "Fine, don't write to me. See if I care."
"I didn't say I wouldn't write to you," Sirius said, in a furious undertone. It was a stupid thing to say, but all of it was stupid.
"I don't care. I don't want you to anymore anyway."
"Piss off, Reg," Sirius said, without rancor. He closed his eyes, and waited; and after a few minutes, muttering and stomping and yanking the door open hard enough to smack Sirius in the thigh with it, Reg pissed off.
He stayed where he was a long time, legs crossed under him on the floor, the door still open as far as it would go around him, and then pushed himself up to his feet off the chest. His dad was still staring at nothing at all that was there, his mouth slightly slack, his hair -- still mostly black except for fine threads of silver at the temples -- hanging in limp tangles around his face. There was a thin thread of drool depending from the corner of his mouth, and Sirius sighed and went over to him to wipe it off with the edge of the sheet. His father didn't appear to notice. Sirius hovered for a second, then plopped on the bed next to him, grabbing a gold-backed hairbrush off the bedside table and starting to work at the tangles in his dad's hair with it; yeah, it was girl stuff, but somebody had to do it, and his mother wasn't exactly a big one for girl stuff, come to that. His father sat, obediently, wherever Sirius pushed him, and let him work. It was sort of comforting, in a way, getting to make at least one of his parents do something he wanted.
"You won't miss me, will you Dad?" Sirius said under his breath, to the snarls of dark hair he was trying not to yank. His dad made absolutely no response, sitting as placidly still and absent as he ever had. And after a few moments longer, Sirius found that he could smile again.