Notes: begins a couple weeks after the final battle, ends about 20-25 years afterwards. My first real Harry Potter fic in a long time (and yes, I know I'm supposed to be working on my Doctor Who Shelter!verse fic); tell me what you think!
Warnings: illness, some ableism, one swearword, and vague mentions of canonical child abuse.
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Teddy won't stop crying.
Harry doesn't mind the noise, doesn't mind being awake, definitely doesn't mind having someone warm and breathing and so so alive in the dark empty hours when he wouldn't be sleeping anyway, but these aren't the normal complaining wails of a baby who misses someone he barely remembers. He sounds scared and upset and in pain and Harry doesn't know what to do.
He holds the screaming infant close and does his best to speak soothingly and thinks about going upstairs and waking Mrs. Weasley.
He doesn't. The Weasleys aren't like him; they deal with their grief by eating and talking and going to bed at reasonable times, not by waking up in a cold sweat at two in the morning and pacing back and forth in the sitting room until sunrise, occasionally accompanied by a colicky two-month-old.
He doesn't even know what colic is. Hell, he doesn't know anything at all about babies, but as Teddy's cries give way to exhausted whimpers and Harry's eyes land on the full moon outside the window, he thinks maybe he understands.
Harry draws the curtains. He doesn't know anything about babies but he knows about pain and grief and helpless fury in the face of something you don't understand. He settles into a soft chair, and turns on a dim, warm light, and, not allowing himself to think too hard lest he choke on the words, he murmurs to Teddy that he's safe, that he's loved.
Together, they wait for the dawn.
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The primary school headmaster is frowning disapprovingly at Harry from behind his imposing desk. Harry meets his eyes and suppresses the urge to try to flatten his hair, reminding himself that he is twenty-three, not ten, and anyway, he's faced down much scarier things than his godson's Muggle teacher.
"Mr. Lupin –"
"Potter," Harry corrects. "I'm Teddy's godfather."
"I see," says the headmaster – Stevenson, his nameplate reads – glancing down at the papers in front of him. His tone is slightly disapproving. He is white and middle-aged, with a square jaw and a professional haircut and a perfectly straight tie that exactly matches the gray of his hair. Vernon Dursley would have approved, and Harry wonders vaguely what kind of car he drives. "Well, Mr. Potter, I hope you understand that here at St. Matthew's we do not tolerate violence."
"I understand," says Harry, trying to project calm maturity and consciously biting back the 'sir' on the tip of his tongue. "But I think if you'd just talk to Teddy, you'd see that it's more complicated –"
"No. Tolerance. Do you understand what that means, Mr. Potter?"
Harry bristles, flexing his right hand where five words still stand out in stark white against his skin. He glances over his shoulder, where a violet-haired boy is watching his tattered trainers as he kicks his feet, and forces himself to breath.
"So the other boys are being suspended as well?" he asks, as evenly as he can manage.
"They're being disciplined."
"That's a no, then," Harry says sharply.
"Your godson was the instigator –"
"He was defending another student!"
"Be that as it may," Stevenson cuts across him, raising his voice. "It is our duty to teach our students that violence is never acceptable. Boys will be boys, but to physically attack another student – and you must admit, Mr. Potter, you godson already has a significant record of disregard for school rules –"
"For dress codes," Harry contradicts. "It's not exactly a criminal record."
"And attendance policies –"
"He's ill," Harry says through gritted teeth. "He has a note in his file –"
"And some of his teachers have expressed concerns about his odd behavior in class –"
"He's –" Harry blows out his breath in something between a sigh and a huff. There's no point. What was he going to say? That Teddy's a half-werewolf metamorphagus wizard orphan with little to no control over his hair color, so forgive him and everyone involved if he was a little strange? That would go over well. "Look, I'm not going to do this today. I need to take Teddy home."
"Of course," says Stevenson frostily, standing as he does. "I trust you'll communicate that his actions were unacceptable."
Harry smiles tightly. Stevenson is much taller than him, but he thinks he sees his stern expression waver as he meets his eyes.
"Don't count on it."
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It's been months since Teddy missed school because of the full moon, years since he cried. It doesn't make it any easier. He's shaking and panting against Harry's side, face buried in his shoulder, knuckles white as they grip his shirt, and Harry thinks of Remus, of his fear that he would pass his curse on to his child, his isolation and his pain and his self-loathing.
Teddy shudders and presses closer to him, ten years old and ill and overwhelmed but not scared, not alone, and Harry thinks of fists and glares and cupboards, and knows that there are worse things than illness.
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"No offense, Harry," says Neville, about four drinks in, "but your kid is weird."
It takes Harry a moment for his alcohol infused brain to dismiss the three small children at home and realize who Neville must be talking about.
". . . Teddy."
"Tha's the one. And it's not just the, y'know." He waves his hand vaguely towards the ceiling of the Leaky Cauldron, deserted except for them, Hannah laughing at them behind the bar, and an old wizard in the corner who obviously doesn't give a damn who's at the counter, Harry bloody Potter or not. "Werewolf stuff. Or the," He gestures again, this time at his hair. "other stuff. He's just a weird kid. A good kid," he adds. "But weird."
Harry nods solemnly.
"Hermione reckons he's kinda . . ." He taps his temple. "Different. Neuro . . . neuro . . . divergent, she said. Thinks different." He considers this for a moment, a vague worry entering his mind. "He gets on alright with the other kids, right?"
"Yeah," says Neville, waving his hand in front of him as if to bat away his concerns. "One time, 'cause he was wearing a skirt – but he just smiled at 'em real wide – it was the full moon, an' his teeth were doing that thing –"
"Yeah," Harry agrees. "Tha's different stuff. Gender stuff."
"Yeah. I had some of that stuff, when we were at school."
Harry blinks at Neville, trying to reconcile that with what he knows of him. It's surprisingly easy.
". . . you coulda said," he says at last.
"Eh." Neville waves his hand again. "You had your own stuff."
Harry thinks of Cedric, and nods.
"Yeah, I guess I did."
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Teddy is pale and trembling, leaning heavily on the cane Al had enthusiastically gifted him with last Christmas, but his smile is warm and genuine as he pulls James into a one-armed hug and sends him off to attack the enormous birthday cake again.
"It's good of you to be here, Teddy," Harry says, stepping up beside him. "But you know, you could leave anytime you want," he adds, in case Teddy hasn't picked up on that particular social cue, too caught up in the festivities or the noise or the oncoming full moon to watch for the signals he's so carefully learned and catalogued over the years. "James would understand."
"No, I want to be here," says Teddy. "I'd feel like shit wherever I was; might as well be here. Anyway, he only turns eleven once, right?"
"Don't let Grandma Weasley hear you swearing," says Harry, glancing warily over his shoulder at the Burrow.
Teddy's grin shows off inhumanly pointed canines, glinting in the setting sun.
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"Incoming," says Ron before disappearing from the doorway as quickly as he'd arrived, and that's all the warning Harry has before Draco Malfoy sweeps into his office with the air of an offended duke.
"Hello, Malfoy."
"Theodore Lupin," Draco spits, as if he hadn't spoken, "is a menace!"
"Please, come in," Harry mutters under his breath.
"He was giving wands to merpeople."
That gets Harry's attention.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing that could legally be called wands," says Draco, rolling his eyes, and Harry breathes. "Little Miss Weasley made sure of that. Bits of metal infused with basilisk venom, with mandrake extract, with werewolf blood – they bloody work, too, and there's not a damn thing we can do about it! What the hell is trying to do?"
"Last we spoke, he said he was trying to dismantle magical society as we know it."
Malfoy gapes at him, open-mouthed.
". . . in Merlin's name, why?!"
Harry looks at Malfoy, former schoolboy rival, former blood purist, former right and total git. He was forged in fire, just like the rest of them.
"He thinks we can do better."
Malfoy deflates. He suddenly looks much older than his thirty-seven years, but his eyes gleam with something young and scared and fragile. Harry thinks maybe he recognizes it. He thinks maybe he's seen it in the mirror.
"I hope he's right."
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Teddy is staring at the moon. His hand is white-knuckled on the wolf's head of his cane, his breathing slow and carefully controlled. Harry sits down beside him as the snow begins to fall.
They sit in silence for long moments, and Harry watches his godson. He has his father's height and kindness and resilience, his mother's nose and humor and spark. Sometimes, when he's feeling self-indulgent, Harry likes to think that he has his temper, Ginny's laugh. Tonight, his hair is his natural tawny, as it usually is on nights like these when he's exhausted and colorblind, and his eyes are sad and older than his years. He's never looked more like Remus.
"It's so beautiful," Teddy says, and his voice cracks, and Harry thinks he's talking about more than just the moon. "It's so beautiful but it hurts so many people and I want to fix things but I don't know how."
Harry could say you're already helping people and he could say change is always slow and he could say I'm so proud of you, but he knows a little bit about having the weight of the world on your shoulders, and he knows that there will be time for all that later.
He wraps an arm around Teddy's shoulders, and pulls him close.
Together, they wait for the dawn.