This was written sometime back in the spring. I've been meaning to put it up on FFN for a while, because I have a tendency to lose things on livejournal. I'm also hoping that posting it will inspire me a bit.

Standard disclaimer: HP is not mine.

Semi-standard disclaimer: Don't expect too much. You'll be disappointed.

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::Remus? Why are you being such a pig headed idiot about this?::

"Shut up. You're not real."

::Yes, I am.::

"No, you're not. You are just a product of my stress induced imagination."

::Were you this difficult when we were kids?::

"I'm not having this conversation."

::And yet, we're still talking.::

"Go away. Please."

::You're always so polite when you're trying to manipulate people. You know, I don't know that I ever saw that before.::

"Maybe that's because you were only ever interested in seeing what you wanted to see. God, you were so fucking blind sometimes. Even up until the end, you couldn't see what was going on right in front of your face until it was too late. And like always, you just rushed right in. Heaven forbid you talk it out with someone else first or plan."

::So you're mad at me?::

"How can I be mad at you? You're just a repressed part of my subconscious that's acting up."

::Well, granted, you'd be the one to know the most about repression, but do you think you could remove the stick from your ass long enough to hear me out?::

"Fuck off."

::Remus, I'm asking you. Begging you. I can't leave things like this, and you know that you can't either. You have to do something about Harry.::

"No. You know what? I don't have to do anything. It's not my responsibility or my obligation. It was yours."

::I know that.::

"So quit fucking asking me to pick up your slack, Sirius."

aaaaaa

There was a warm spot next to him on the mattress that smelled a bit like wet dog, but it was hard anymore to know if that were just his imagination at work, reality, or just another mind game played by those who saw him as their own little personal toy. In all honesty, Harry wasn't sure he much cared. They could take their power plays, their little intrigues, and their manipulations and they could go fuck themselves.

He'd written letters rather faithfully to his friends and to members of the order for the first two weeks. They'd been poisonous little notes with filthy words and filled with anger. And after he'd bled that little bit out, they'd returned with letters of their own, filled with sympathy and confusion and affronted sensibilities. Then he'd written them all one last note to say that there wouldn't be anymore notes for the rest of the summer. He wasn't interested in talking to them, and he was fairly sure now that they weren't interested in hearing from him.

He'd lived in this house for ten whole years without them babysitting him. He'd spent portions of the first four summers here without a peep from anyone but Ron, Hermione and Sirius. And last year there had been no meaningful communication at all. Just inane little small talk to appease a supposed savior with a bad temper. He wasn't going to spend the summer waiting with pathetic hopefulness for letters that may or may not come.

He pulled the threadbare blanket up tighter against him, inhaling deeply and relaxing, just a little, at the overly ripe smell of dog. He didn't know how it had gotten there. Best guess was that this was just some old blanket Aunt Petunia had pulled out of a garbage bin. It might even have been a reject of Aunt Marge's. But even that didn't seem to matter. It smelled, and it smelled like Padfoot.

The blanket he'd used at Grimmauld Place had smelled the same. And some mornings, he'd woken up with the same familiar warm spot beside left by a godfather who never said much, was never big on the physical or verbal displays of affection, but who had occasionally calmed a nightmare or wordlessly reaffirmed that Harry was not so achingly alone as he imagined.

And here in the pitch black mustiness of the closet beneath the stairs, it was all too easy to pretend that he was back at the hated house, sleeping off and on in between those most peaceful moments he'd ever remembered having in his life. Aunt Petunia was furious with him, he'd given Dudley two black eyes, and Uncle Vernon had about gone into epileptic shock when Harry had told him he could take the chores and go fuck himself. Being banished to the closet wasn't a punishment. Not anymore. And since all he wanted to do anyway was sleep, it was a blessing in disguise.

Which probably explained why he didn't take kindly to anyone intruding in on the solitude, no matter who they were.

"Harry?"

Cracking an eye, Harry could see Professor Lupin peering in at him, concerned. And maybe a tiny part of him wondered what the man was doing here, and so maybe there was a tiny spark somewhere inside that hoped that the man had come out of concern for him. Not for the Boy Who Lived. Not for the tool of Voldemort's imminent destruction. Not for the boy in the prophecy or the old school mate's whelp. But just for him, Harry.

He made sure to squelch the hope as hard as possible as he rolled over to face the back wall of the closet. He was going to go back to sleep so that he wouldn't have to think about it. He was going to just sleep until Professor Lupin went away, until the hateful thoughts swirling around in his head about Sirius vanished, and hopefully until he just wasted away and didn't have to deal with anything anymore.

"Harry, are you sick?" The hand at his shoulder, pulling him back into the light wasn't so complacent though. And scowling up at his Professor, Harry shook off the shocked man's arm and tried to curl back up under the blanket in the corner. They'd left him alone up until now. They'd always left him alone, and assumed that he'd handle it on his own. Well, this was him handling it. And fuck them for thinking that now was the time to finally stick their noses in. Fourteen years ago, it might have been a different story. Hell, even last year, he might have welcomed what looked like an intervention. This time? Sorry, he wasn't interested. "What have they done to you?" The underlying anger in Professor Lupin's unnaturally calm voice almost amused him.

"Nothing," he mumbled. Because it really depended on who was defined as "they". And since he was sure the good professor had meant the Dursleys, his answer was as honest as it was going to get. "I'm fine. Just a bit tired."

"Get up, we're leaving."

Yeah, the hell they were. "I'm fine, really. Just a late night last night." He shoved away Professor Lupin's hands as they gingerly went to grasp his upper arm.

"Your Aunt and Uncle claim you haven't left this closet for the last three days." So? Who gave a fuck what they said?

"I've just switched sleeping patterns. I'm nocturnal now. I wanted to now what it's like for Hedwig." He'd sent her off to Hogwarts the minute they'd arrived. He might deserve this punishment. And maybe he deserved the isolation and the three month banishment, but she didn't. She wasn't any safer here because of some stupid ass blood connection. Better that she had a chance to be in a place where she was accepted and taken care of and appreciated.

"Look, we're leaving right now whether you want to go or not."

Maybe it was the hard edge to Professor Lupin's voice that had him sitting up and glaring at the dark silhouette formed by the light shining in on his sanctuary. "Say what you like, I'm not moving a damn inch."

"Harry, I just want to help." From Professor Lupin's voice, Harry imagined that there was a "strangle you" portion of the sentence that hadn't been spoken. He wasn't even sure why Professor Lupin cared. He didn't sound at all like he wanted to be here, happy to be taking Harry on, or upset that Harry didn't want to go with him. He had that same stance, the same tone of voice, the same old and tiresome resentment in his voice that Harry had heard day in and day out for ten years from his Aunt Petunia. Professor Lupin wanted him just about as bad as he probably wanted malaria.

"Well, I appreciate your concern, and thanks for the offer, but I'm more than capable of handling it on my own," he offered up just as politely and distantly as Professor Lupin had done to so many members of the Order during those short times Harry had been at the house.

"That's nice, but this isn't a democracy, I'm sad to say," the Professor mocked back, grabbing Harry's wrist once more and flipping something out of a small pouch in his other hand into the palm of Harry's. The sinking sensation in his stomach gave Harry just enough time to feel the glimmer of fear mixed with panic before the portkey whisked them both away.

aaaaa

::Harry, quit being such a fucking brat. Remus can only take so much.::

"Go away."

::Look, you have no idea how much persuading it took to get him to get you out of that place. The least you could do is be a little thankful.::

"Hn. Thanks for nothing."

::You are jumping all over my last nerve.::

"So leave me alone."

:: No, see, because I know that's what you want. You want us all to just go away and let you wallow.::

"Leave me alone."

::I'm trying to make things right here. But I can't do that if you won't fucking cooperate with me. Give a little, for god's sake.::

"Leave me the fuck alone, already!"

::Harry::

"Do whatever you want to me."

::It's not like that, kid.::

"Yes, it is."

aaaaa

"Harry," Remus started out patiently as the kid looked ready to square off for another fight. He couldn't sneeze without getting a growl out of the boy.

"I'm here, what else do you want?" Honestly? To shake the brat until he realized that Remus was not the bad guy in this. He hadn't wanted to do this. He hadn't wanted to take Harry on, and he hadn't wanted to deal the myriad of problems the boy had. It wasn't his fucking business, and no one had asked him to intercede. He was good at teaching the basics. He had the patience to help kids through their mistakes and learn from them.

He hadn't the first clue how to lead Harry through the minefield of emotions that Sirius' death had caused. He hadn't even gotten over it himself, how could he be expected to help someone else through it? There were other people. More qualified people to be taking on this challenge and making things right.

So why the fuck hadn't they stepped up? Why had it been necessary to force Harry back with those loathsome muggles? Why had it fallen to him to fix what was so obviously wrong?

"Your cooperation might be nice." He kept his tones even if just to keep the brat from figuring out how much he was getting to Remus. Although, he had to say that it was a bit amusing that Harry thought he could match wills with him and win. He'd had over thirty years of experience at keeping himself contained and controlled. Greater, stronger and far angrier people had tried to test his resolve and had failed to shake him. A fifteen year old with a chip on his shoulder was petty change in comparison.

"What's going to happen if I don't? You gonna drown me in the lake? Send me back to the Durselys? Force feed me to Voldemort?" Harry mechanically shoveled food into his mouth as Remus absently reminded himself not to gnash his teeth.

"If that's what it takes."

"Go for it," the kid had the audacity to shrug uncaringly. "Whatever makes you happy."

"And what would make you happy?"

For a moment, Harry's eyes met his and they were devoid of the constant hostility they'd had for the last three days. "Right now?" he asked, a smile on his face that was completely at odds with the despair in his eyes. "Not a damn thing." And with that, Harry abruptly got up, and went up the rickety ladder that led to the solitary bed on the second floor that was doubling as Harry's room.

The cabin had been his parent's parting gift. They'd spent the last of their money to buy it, and in the hospital, his father had painstakingly written down the exact address and location of the cabin and it's surrounding waterfront property along the lake before casting a Fidelus charm that kept it firmly hidden from everyone's view after his death. He knew Harry didn't think he understood. And maybe, in some huge unforgivable way, he didn't. But Remus understood the closet.

Because this cabin was his closet. And he'd spent many years in between James' death and his first year teaching at Hogwarts hiding here from the world, and at times, from himself. But this time, it wasn't about him, and he wasn't hiding for himself. It had been hell on earth managing to get the authorization for the portkey from the Americans, and he knew that when the Order members got the solitary owl informing them that he'd taken Harry on an extended vacation to some unknown part of the States to recover, there were going to be consequences. He'd be lucky if they even let him step foot back onto British soil when it was all said and done. He could all but kiss his tentative acceptance among them goodbye. They were never going to trust him again after this, and that was if they'd even trusted him beforehand.

So fine. Fuck them. He scowled at his own cooling dinner sourly. This was all Sirius' fault.

He squelched the thought as soon as it popped in his mind. Sirius was dead, and there wasn't any point in accusing the dead of past wrongs that they couldn't fix. Assigning the blame wasn't going to solve anything, it wasn't going to bring anyone back from the dead and it certainly wasn't going to change the consequences of the actions Remus had taken.

And so maybe nothing in the world was going to make Harry happy right now. Maybe nothing could. But he was only fifteen. He would bounce back. Kids did that surprisingly well, and he would know.

"Leave me the fuck alone, already!"

Harry's voice was strained with both anger and unshed tears. Remus hadn't lived as long as he had, and been that far gone as many times as he had, without recognizing the pain the words couldn't accurately convey. Scrambling, he managed to make it up the ladder in time to see Harry burrow underneath the old white comforter Remus had loaned him.

::I fucked up but good this time.::

The blanket was littered with short, black dog hairs.

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