Remus Lupin and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Chapter 7: Promises

Remus' heart seemed to simultaneously squeeze and flip-flop painfully as he stood frozen. Just watching. He couldn't help it. He knew it wasn't James the moment the stunned thought had shot across his mind. James was dead. Remus and his heart knew this; Remus and his heart had seen his body and Lily's as they were extracted from the wreckage of their home that Halloween, after Harry had been already taken away. His heart still felt the sinking hurt at the realization of the misidentification, but that was soon overwhelmed with a different ache. My god, it was Harry. Little, cheerful, chubby legged, chatty, giggly Harry.

There had been a picture of Harry in the Prophet the previous year, sort of. It had included Gilderoy Lockhart, the photographic image of which kept stepping into center frame and flourishing with a dashing grin, while Harry's mini doppleganger kept furtively trying to duck out all together. But this was different. The living, moving memory of Harry had always been of a little toddler, bowlegged and pudgy with ever reaching hands and an infectious laugh. He loved to be held upside down. He called carrots 'kets'. He demanded to be tickled upon the entry of a new adult into his house. Remus' breath caught in his chest as this new image tried to reconcile itself with the baby he knew.

The boy was short and far too thin, but the wild flare of his hair and point to his nose was unmistakable as James. James' father was obvious in the tilt of his eyebrows when he concentrated, as he was now, over some parchment on the table beside the sundae in front of him and he saw Lily's sharpness in his gaze. Something in him needed, fiercely, savagely, and newly, to protect him, swelling within his chest with an insistent purpose he didn't know the source of. He wanted desperately to demand to know how he was being treated, how much he was being fed, if he had any questions, if he needed someone to tell him he was loved and valued and everything that any of them had ever wanted. To tell him that he was so sorry, that it was supposed to be different, that he had wanted so desperately to be there for him, with him. He felt the yawn of all that time behind them both, a sort of synchrony building between each year until it was almost a heartbeat as he counted them out; alone, alone alone, alone.... It should not have been this way for him. Sirius, how COULD you.

Harry chewed on his lip, shoved his glasses farther up his nose and scratched something out with his quill. A painful pride bloomed like some kind of too-hot flower somewhere beneath his ribs. Proud of him for just existing, just trying, so young. Remus had the suspicion that Harry could have just sat there and picked his nose and he would have felt as if he was about to be reduced to tears by the fact that he was here, being, living.

The door behind him chimed, startling him out of his daze and he moved aside for the mother of the young toddlers. They all looked satisfied, but the little girl shot him a suspicious stare as her mother carried her past that stuck a lump in his throat. All he could see now was Lily and Harry. With one last glance at the boy, who was chewing absently on the end of his quill and stirring his ice cream, he left. Harry did not know him. Chocolate in his pocket and a sudden loss of his urge to wander, he returned to his room in the Leaky Cauldron to spend the evening alone.

The morning of the train ride dawned altogether too soon after he'd gone to sleep, in his opinion, morning birds punctuating the excited hubbub inside and outside the pub. Despite his excitement, his dreams had been plagued by visions of baby Harry and grown Harry together, weeping in the wreckage of Hogwarts before both turning to him with Sirius' scalding, monstrous eyes. He very consciously and adamantly refused to take that as any sort of omen. Stomach refusing even the suggestion of breakfast, he made his bed, swept up his room, and packed up his meager belongings before levitating the suitcase downstairs. He had donated his kettle to a local charity before he had left for London and could fit all the robes he owned into the case, but his joints and ligaments saw fit to remind him that the Change was merely days away and he had done an exceptional amount of walking and standing the past few days and he ached. Still, he thanked Tom and the cleaning witch warmly before he left for King's Cross, where he, unfortunately, could not levitate his things any longer.

In his heart of hearts, he was bouncing just the same as he had been, all those years ago, when he had learned he would be able to attend the school that his father had always talked about with such fondness. The fear had set in later, when he had seen the doubt on his mother's face, the worry that he would be discovered, that he would be forced out by his peers and their parents if it ever came to light what he was. In the meeting that Dumbledore had visited their private little cottage for, the Headmaster, smiling over his half moon glasses, had asked her to trust him. That same quiet terror percolated quietly now in the back of his head, in the pit of his stomach; that no matter what he did or how hard he tried, the moment his secret got out it wouldn't matter. They would hate him. Fear him. But Dumbledore had kept his word and Remus had never been exposed while at Hogwarts. And so Remus was going to continue what he had started all those years ago; he would keep trusting Dumbledore.

His joy was still there. The joy and expectations and excitement and nerves and enchantment were all simmering in the pit of his stomach in a welcome change of sensation from the usual emotions he had grown accustomed to. But the growing full moon symptoms and nightmare hounded night had left him so damn tired that all he wanted to do was find somewhere away from the huge, echoing train station and sleep. Still, he smiled as he passed through the barrier between platforms and the great scarlet steam engine loomed before him. For a moment-- just a moment-- he was a teenager again, mother and father following behind him, James and Sirius lurking somewhere nearby to pull the first prank of the year, possibly on him, and Peter just out of sight, valiantly trying to be too cool for his mother's slightly overbearing affections. The year was sprawled out before all of them, sweet and full of countless choices, all of them fun.

The warmth and light of those memories left him colder with their recession and he rubbed his arms briskly, as if that were the problem. As if it were something he could fix. A seat. Just get a seat. One thing at a time.

The smell of the train, of the grease and wood panelling and pristine carpet and fresh laundry smell of the seats uncranked a knot of tension in his gut he hadn't even known he had. Oh, how he missed this. He had always loved this part. Though he knew it was autumn, his heart felt like spring because beginnings happened in this place. New years, friends, stories, lives. Sometimes, entirely different people left this train than the ones who had entered it.

It was nearly empty for now, for he had arrived early enough to beat the crowds, but the trolley witch trundled down the corridor, sweets on hand already. "Anything from the trolley, dear?"

He smiled, shook his head mutely. Nothing would come. It was almost too much. She nodded understanding and turned to go, but not before looking over her shoulder and adding, "It's good to have you back again, my dear." Chuckling a little at the look on his face, she said, "I remember all my children, boy." And she was gone.

Eyes misty, quavering smile seemingly locked into place on his lips, he drifted down the train corridor in an overwhelming wave of nostalgia, chose a car at random and collapsed into his seat. He was glad it was still empty. What a terrible first impression as a Professor he would make, weeping.