Child of the Dark Moon

by Sw-0608

Fleeing from Dudley and the 'Harry-hunters' under a full moon, Harry Potter saves his hated cousin from a giant wolf and is nearly killed. Severus Snape comes upon the bloody body not ten minutes later and takes the child into his home, against his better judgment. Can Snape come to terms with the vulnerable boy and help him to adapt to being a werewolf? (Manipulative Dumbledore)

14. Chapter 14: Azkaban

Rated T

(Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will. Just doing this for fun.)

HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP

Chapter 14: Azkaban

I'm bored, Harry sighed silently.

Today had been a good day, and since Harry had spent most of the day napping, he was wide awake and feeling antsy now. After a really good supper of pasta with a garlic butter sauce and chicken, (the Professor was a brilliant cook, the best Harry had ever met) the man allowed Harry to join him in the sitting room instead of sending him back to bed. But the Professor was just reading and Harry was left with the same book he'd been looking at all day long. It was about potions, only it seemed more like a schoolbook than the big huge one with the magical pictures and it wasn't as interesting. There was tea on the coffee table, but Harry had already had three cups and he wasn't thirsty for more, even if he was bored. He propped up his book on his knees again, but in a few seconds, his gaze strayed and he found himself watching the Professor again. The man was absorbed in his book, only moving to turn a page every few minutes. He seemed okay, though the tightness around his eyes could be stress or worry, and Harry hoped that the Professor wasn't still stressing about what happened last night. It was making Harry jittery and uncomfortable. Didn't the Professor understand that it was over? He had been hit lots harder than that by his Uncle, and even his Aunt, and neither of them had ever said sorry. He wanted to explain, but the Professor seemed to get more distressed the more they talked about it.

Harry sighed quietly again and tried to drag his eyes back to his book. But he was too worked up to concentrate, not that he understood anything in this book anyway. So far, all he could remember was that wolfsbane and monkshood were the same plant. Next thing he knew, he was staring at the Professor again. He could see a thin scar on the man's chin that stopped just shy of his sallow cheek, and another smaller scar near his eyebrows. Harry was fascinated, and realized that he had never been able to see such small details before, unless he was very close to something. A thrill of excitement ran through his little body as he realized that he really wasn't imagining things. His eyesight was getting better. Maybe it was even healed. Many times in the past year since he'd been forced to start wearing the stupid things, he had wished with all his heart that he didn't need glasses. They got broken too often, and they were just another thing for Dudley to take away and hide from him for a joke. Plus, he always had to clean them and keep them safe, especially when his Uncle was throwing fists or other things at him. A little smile of relief quirked his lips, as he realized that this was one thing he would never have to worry the Professor about.

"Is there something on my face?" the Professor suddenly asked without looking up.

Harry jumped in surprise. He hadn't thought that he had been noticed. "S-sorry," he muttered, and slouched behind his book again, barely peeking up to see if the Professor was mad.

Professor Snape calmly marked his page in the book and looked up at Harry. "You keep glancing up at me as if you are waiting for something. So what is it?" His voice was calm enough, but Harry squirmed under his sharp eyes.

"Are you … m-mad?" the boy whispered, watching the Professor carefully over the top of his potion book.

The Professor's face tightened slightly before he slowly shook his head. "I am not angry or upset," he said quietly. He seemed to search Harry's face with his fathomless black eyes before he spoke again. "Do I seem angry to you?"

"N-no," Harry stammered nervously. He stared at the Professor for another few seconds before he was satisfied that the man was telling the truth and he set his book down. "I'm bored," he blurted out. "Can we do something else, please?"

"Bored?" the Professor arched one of his dark eyebrows. "I thought you said you like reading."

"I do!" Harry exclaimed, jiggling his foot in agitation. "I just can't understand this book, that's all. And I've been reading it all day!"

"Indeed?" the Professor smirked. "Then I suppose a quiz may be in order." Harry stared at the man in horror, wondering if he was serious. "Why the long face?" the Professor sighed, dropping his smirk at the look on Harry's face. "I thought you wanted to 'do something different', did you not?"

"Well, yeah; but …" I didn't want a pop quiz about something I don't know anything about, Harry added silently.

"Hmm," the Professor muttered, tapping his long fingers on his book. "Why don't I quiz you, and if you can answer five questions, I will play one game of chess with you. Agreed?"

Harry brightened excitedly. No one had ever offered to play anything but Harry-hunting with him before. "Chess?" he said hopefully. "Y-you'll teach me how to play?"

The Professor scowled suddenly. "You have never learned how?"

"No sir," Harry said uneasily. "I've only read about it."

"Well then, I suppose tonight will be a night of lessons," Professor Snape sighed. "Can you tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry almost laughed with delight. Hadn't he just been reading about it? "That's easy!" he crowed. "They're the same thing, just different names!"

"Excellent," the Professor nodded, making Harry beam with pleasure. "But what is another word for Wolfsbane, or monkshood?"

Harry squinted as he thought about that one. He couldn't really remember another name for that. Why would any plant have three names? Harry scrunched up his nose and his fingers itched for his book. "I remember reading about it but I can't remember … can I look in my book real quick, please Professor?"

"I suppose so," the man nodded thoughtfully. "But you only have one minute."

Harry flashed him as grateful a smile as he could before he started flipping frantically through his book. He found the right page in a few seconds, and he concentrated on skimming through the paragraphs until he came to the section about Wolfsbane.

He looked back up at the Professor, grinning in triumph. "It's aconite," he answered decisively. "But why would a plant need three names anyway? I mean, I've got three names too, but why would a plant need that?"

The man looked like he was about to laugh. "Yes, that is correct," he said calmly, not betraying the mischievous light in his dark eyes. "And as to the three names, most plants have more than one name. In fact, Wolfsbane actually is a genus of over two-hundred-fifty flowering plants and has many more names than that. There are thousands of magical plants used in potions and I must know all of their different names in order to identify and use them correctly."

"Wow," Harry whispered, his eyes huge. The professor was so very smart. Maybe one day, the boy thought wistfully, he might know half as much as the Professor did. "How are you so smart, Professor?" Harry asked frankly, feeling overwhelmed with wonder.

The man blinked, looking surprised and uncomfortable for a brief moment before it vanished. "I studied a great deal," he answered shortly. "Never stop learning, Mr. Potter. That is the key to being, as you say, 'smart'. Now for your second question."

"But that was really more like two questions," Harry protested, feeling a little nervous at contradicting the man, but he felt bold too as their easy conversation kept going. "You asked me what was the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane and then you asked what else it was called."

"Hmm," the Professor smirked. "I suppose l let you get away with that. Very well, we shall count that as two questions." Harry grinned to show his relief and he relaxed a little. He hadn't noticed how nervous he was feeling at contradicting the stern Professor right when things were getting friendly again with them. "Now," the man said. "See if you can tell me where I would look to find a bezoar."

Harry frowned and bit his lip. The word sounded familiar, but he couldn't recall reading about it in this book ... "Oh!" Harry cried and started laughing. He remembered the big book that he had dreamed about throwing at the wolf in the doorway a few days ago. "Bezoars are in goat stomachs, so I guess you'd look in goat poo." He giggled again at the expression on the Professor's face.

"Impressive," the Professor said drily. "A bezoar is created in a goat's stomach, but of course I would have to search their excrement unless I wished to butcher the creature. And here I thought I heard you say you didn't understand that book."

Harry squirmed suddenly under the praise that sounded strangely like a rebuke. "I dunno," he said slowly. "I guess it all makes more sense when I talk about it. Anyway, I learned about the beezo-thingies in that other book you gave me. The Bubble-Trouble book."

"Ah, the compendium," the Professor smiled briefly. "How much of it did you read?"

"I started at the beginning and I got to a Birth potion or something." Harry crinkled his nose in distaste. "It was making me feel icky so I stopped."

The man froze and stared at him without expression for several seconds. Harry squirmed. The Professor's eyes were making him feel creepy.

"Icky?" he finally repeated in a flat voice.

"Um, yeah," Harry mumbled, feeling stupid. "I just ... it ... Where do babies come from, Professor?" he blurted out. "I just don't understand and Uncle Ver..." Harry trailed off with a strangled gulp. He looked down into his lap and at his fingers clenching the cover of his book.

"What were you saying?" the Professor asked carefully.

"N-nothing," Harry whispered. "Never mind, sir. I'm sorry."

"Harry," the Professor's voice sounded worried. "Did your uncle ever ... do anything to you that made you feel ... icky?"

The boy frowned down at his book but didn't look up. "Like ... creepy stuff?" he asked cautiously. Harry looked up at the Professor, who looked rather pale and his dark eyes were intensely worried. Harry realized that the man was worried that his uncle had hurt him like a creeper. Harry tried to smile to show that he was okay, but he was feeling twitchy and fidgety thinking about creepy, scary things. "No, Uncle Vernon didn't like touching me at all, but he said other bad people would. He wouldn't 'cause he said I'd infect him with my freakishness." He blinked hard at the forbidden word, but the Professor said it was okay to say that word if he was answering a question or talking about his relatives, so Harry didn't think he'd get in trouble for it.

The Professor seemed to relax. "Ah," he answered hesitantly, and a little awkwardly. "Well ... good. I'm ... I'm glad he didn't ... well ..."

"Yeah," Harry smiled nervously. "I was scared of you at first 'cause Uncle Vernon said creeps who pick up little boys off the street do ... that stuff, to them. You know."

The Professor looked slightly sick. "I see," he muttered.

Harry shrugged. "I know you won't hurt me. It's okay." He squirmed again at the look on the Professor's face. "Um, can you ask me another question, please? I've got two left."

"Oh, of course," the Professor murmured. He shook his head absently and blinked several times. "Why don't you tell me why it is important to have a clean cauldron before you begin a potion?"

Harry almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. "Well, you don't wanna contaminate your new potion with old bits from other potions," he explained. "It's like cooking, really, and you have to wash the dishes for potions too," he added with a grin. "Some ingredients are explosive if they mix and you could ruin your potion or get hurt."

"Well, I am glad to see that you have common sense, unlike most of the dunderheads I teach," the man said easily. "So I have to think of a last question for you …" The Professor fell silent as he thought. Harry squirmed nervously, wondering why the man suddenly looked so serious. Why was he taking so long to think of a stupid little question? Was he trying to make it extra hard so he wouldn't have to teach Harry how to play chess? Was he annoyed at having his reading time interrupted?

"I have one," the Professor said at last. His voice was very soft, but Harry didn't have to lean forward to hear. Somehow, he could still hear the man's words perfectly. "But tell me if you can't answer," he warned, and Harry braced himself for a super hard question.

"Can I use the book? Do I have a time limit?" he blurted out.

The Professor threw him a strange look that was almost a smirk. "You are welcome to take as much time on your answer as you need, and yes, you may use the book if you need it." The man paused and took a breath. He looked right into Harry's eyes as he spoke his question. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry blinked at the unfamiliar words and just stared incredulously at the Professor. Was that it? That was his last question? Harry had never heard of such things, and he didn't know too much about what the different ingredients did mixed together, just their properties. After all, this book mainly talked about ingredients, like plants and animal and bug parts and their qualities. Harry's face flushed painfully as he realized that he'd been tricked.

"Tell me if you give up," the Professor smiled at him briefly, and settled back with his book.

Harry groaned under his breath and shuffled frantically through his book, looking for something to answer the Professor's last question, which Harry felt was horribly unfair. How was he supposed to know what asphodel and wormwood were? Much less, what you would get if you mixed them? But he wasn't going to let the Professor beat him. He was feeling pretty stupid right now, and he wished he hadn't trusted the Professor not to trick him like this. Of course he would ask four easy things and then give him an impossible question for the last one. It was so very unfair. Sometimes, he really, really hated grown-ups. Several silent minutes passed, and Harry very certain that his book didn't mention wormwood or asphodel at all.

"Give up yet?" the Professor suddenly asked in a cool voice.

Harry scowled up at the man, wishing that he could sneer as well as the Professor could. "I'm not giving up yet," he retorted boldly.

"Suit yourself," the Professor smirked serenely. "Just let me know when you require the answer."

Harry sighed heavily and fell sideways on the sofa in a very dramatic fashion. To his surprise, the Professor jumped to his feet, his self-satisfied little smirk gone and only worry on his face. Harry stared at the man in surprise, his former despair and ill-temper forgotten.

"Harry?" the Professor said, his worry swiftly disappearing and being replaced by annoyance. "What are you doing?"

Pouting, of course, Harry thought forlornly. "I think you tricked me," he said instead, his voice quiet, but steady. Staring at the Professor sideways was interesting, and he made no move to sit up. "You never wanted to play chess with me," Harry accused softly, fighting the lump in his throat. "You just wanted to shut me up and make me look for something that doesn't exist."

The Professor actually flinched. He carefully set his book down on the arm of his chair and stepped over to Harry. The boy sat up, feeling too hurt and stupid to bother being afraid of a smacking. He supposed he deserved one for accusing the Professor of toying with him just so he could mock him.

"That was not my intention," the Professor said quietly as he sat beside him on the couch. "I … all I wanted was for you to ask me for the answer so I could explain it. To be honest … I thought I was being rather clever. I never meant to forego the chess game. I would have played a game with you regardless. But … I suppose I forget that you are not used to anyone … playing riddles with you."

Harry stared up at the Professor in confusion and wonder. He felt even more stupid now, and he could feel his face getting hot with shame. So … the Professor was asking him a riddle? That was a weird way to play a game. He supposed he ought to have asked why he was getting such a weird question instead of assuming that the man was just messing with his head to be mean.

"I didn't know, sir," Harry mumbled shamefacedly. "I'm sorry."

"I wanted you to ask me for the answer," the Professor repeated. "I suppose …" he hesitated. "I suppose I was testing you. To see how quickly you ask for help when you need it."

"I'm not a baby," Harry retorted automatically. I don't want to be a burden to you too, he silently thought.

"No, that is true," the Professor replied patiently. "But it is important that you seek out help when you need it, especially if it is offered to you."

"But …!" Harry protested. "I thought I'd lose the chess game if I gave up! I wanted to learn how to play it, sir!"

"I know, and I realize I made a serious lapse in judgment …" The Professor fell silent, and Harry suddenly wanted to scoot closer to the man, hug him and make him feel better. He obviously wasn't used to dealing with freaks that didn't know how to play normal games. This was all his fault again!

"I'm sorry!" Harry blurted out. Before he could change his mind, he launched himself at the Professor and wrapped his little arms around the man was far as he could. "It's okay, I'm sorry, please don't be sad, Professor," Harry babbled into the man's shirt. He smelled like cloves today; cloves and mint and sweat. It was a scent all the Professor's, and Harry felt himself relaxing. The man's arms were around him, and one hand was rubbing calming circles on his back. He felt that everything in the world was better now, and all was forgiven and forgotten. All that existed was the circle of the Professor's arms, his strong heart beating under his ear, and the clean, spicy smell that surrounded the man and marked him as safety personified; tall and stern and immovable as a stone pillar.

"Asphodel is a type of flower in the lily family," the Professor said softly. Harry did really notice when the man started to speak, but it wasn't sudden and it didn't startle him. He burrowed deeper into the Professor's arms and nodded to show that he was listening. "Do you know what your mother's name was, Harry?" the Professor asked gently.

Harry scrunched up his nose as he thought. He couldn't remember. "No sir," he whispered.

"It was Lily," the Professor answered in a strained voice. "Your mother's name was Lily." The man seemed to pause to gather his words before he spoke again. "I assume you know nothing of the language of flowers in the Victorian Age," he said softly.

Harry frowned and shook his head, but he didn't say anything. Could flowers have a language? he wondered. It was almost as odd as thinking of plants that had first, middle, and last names. Flowers sure were weird.

"Well, in the language of flowers, Asphdel means ... 'my regrets follow you to the grave', or something to that extent. Wormwood is bitter, and this flower means 'absence'." The man paused and took a deep breath. "Wormwood also represents ... Bitter sorrow. Grief. Remorse. Do you understand what I'm trying to say here?"

"N-not really, Professor," Harry murmured.

"Try and think about it," the man said gently.

Harry loosened his grip on the man's ribs and squirmed into a more comfortable position, nestled against the Professor's side. He tried to wrap his mind around the riddle, taking the information and putting it in order. So he had a Lily-flower Asphodel, (meaning regret following somebody into a grave) and Wormwood, (meaning bitter sorrow and absence) but what would the two of them mean together? Lily was his mum's name, so the Professor was probably talking about her when he said Asphodel ... his regret followed her to the grave ... her absence ... bitter sorrow and regret ... Harry's little brain spun for several seconds before it all clicked. "You're …" Harry whispered in awe.

"You're telling me you're sorry my mum died? That you're really sad about it?" Harry could hear the Professor's heartbeat quicken under his ear, and he suddenly tangled his fists in the man's shirt and held on tight, afraid that he might leave.

"In a very clumsy and roundabout way, yes," the Professor answered hesitantly. "I came up with that arrogant little puzzle a few years ago and determined to use it during our first class together. Of course, I envisioned you as a pampered little eleven year old slouching in my Potions classroom as if you owned the castle. I … I planned to ask you this question to humiliate you and see if you ever worked it out." The man sighed. "But it seems reality has caught up with me, and here we are, nowhere near my imaginary scenario."

Harry was too confused and overwhelmed to say anything right that second, though he had a thousand different questions. The two of them sat for several minutes, watching the leaping flames in the fireplace. Finally, Harry said something that he had been itching to say to a sympathetic ear ever since he was old enough to understand. "Aunt Petunia hated my mum, I think," he said quietly. "But ... anything she hated I just loved all the more, you know? She couldn't control what I was thinking or how I felt."

"I assume she tried," the Professor muttered, sounding bitter. Harry just nodded. "On a different note," the Professor added, "I would get the Draught of Living Death if I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood."

"What's that?" Harry asked nervously. Living Death didn't sound very good at all.

"It is one of the most powerful sleeping potions ever created," the Professor explained. "Sometimes I call it the coma potion. A full dose can make a person appear as if dead. Hence the name 'living death'."

Something teased at the edge of Harry's mind and he suddenly recalled stories he'd heard in Primary School when he was about six. "Like Sleeping Beauty," he whispered. "Or Snow White's apple."

The Professor actually chuckled, sounding surprised. "Indeed," he said drily. "Where did you hear those stories? I didn't think your Aunt approved of fairy tales."

"School," Harry answered shortly. He didn't explain that the school's dingy little library had been one of the few places where he was safe from Dudley. Books had become an avenue of escape for him, and he suddenly found himself missing the grimy little school and its dim, cramped library. Miss Honey had been a terribly nice teacher, and she read them plenty of stories when other teachers would have been making them copy out the exercises in their Spelling books; which reminded him of a joke one of his classmates had told close to Halloween and he sat up straight so he could look the Professor in the eye.

"Wanna hear a joke, Professor?" he asked eagerly.

The man looked skeptical. "I suppose," he replied cautiously. "But don't expect me to laugh."

Harry grinned. "What's a witch's favorite school subject?"

The Professor cocked his head at the boy. "Did you just now come up with that?"

"Um, no," Harry blushed. "Cindy Green did last year. I just remembered it. D'you wanna guess?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," the Professor replied with the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Tell me what a witch's favorite school subject is."

"Spelling!" Harry crowed triumphantly. To his delight, the Professor's lips twitched and a light of amusement appeared in his dark eyes.

"Clever," the man said drily.

"I've got more," Harry offered.

"I thought you wanted to learn chess?" the Professor countered, looking uneasy.

Harry lit up. "We're still gonna play?"

"I suppose we are," the Professor sighed. Stay here while I fetch my chess set."

Harry stayed on the sofa while the Professor got up and left the sitting room. The little boy grinned to himself with excitement as he waited. He could hardly ever hear the Professor walking around the creaky old house, but if he was very quiet and tilted his head just right, he could hear the man's soft footsteps upstairs. Harry closed his eyes and frowned in concentration as he tried to picture the upstairs, and figure out where the Professor was. He wasn't in the two rooms Harry ad seen, that was for sure. But Harry had noticed another couple of doors in the upstairs hallway that were never open. The Professor was probably rummaging through one of those rooms for his chess set.

Suddenly, the fireplace whooshed loudly and the flames turned green, filling the sitting room with eerie dancing green light. Harry cried out and jumped off the sofa, covering his face with his arms as if to protect himself. He ran blindly out into the narrow hallway and up the stairs, crashing into the Professor halfway up. The man grabbed him by the shoulders and kept him from falling backwards

"What is it? What happened?" the Professor demanded, his voice stern and alert.

"I d-dunno," Harry gasped. "Th-the n-noise, the f-fire, g-green," He shut his eyes, trying to shut out the nightmare. A green flash, screams, high-pitched laughter. "G-green l-light," Harry whimpered and buried his face in the Professor's torso, taking deep breaths and focusing on the man's familiar scent. His panic receded quickly, but the Professor wasn't interested in snuggling right now.

"Stay here," he said sharply. The Professor released Harry and hurried down the stairs to the sitting room, his weird stick held firmly in one hand.

Harry sat down heavily on the step, his heart pounding and his head swimming. He was terrified and confused and he hugged himself for comfort. The sound of the Professor's raised voice from downstairs made him jump.

"Albus!" the man shouted. "You ought to have told me you were coming! You scared Harry half to death!"

"My sincerest apologies, Severus, but this couldn't wait," an old, tired voice answered.

Harry was surprised that he could hear them so clearly. He remembered when he had snuck downstairs a few days ago and stepped on the creaky step, but he had not really been trying to hear anything. Right now, sitting halfway up the staircase, he could hear the voices in the sitting room as clearly as he would if he were sitting in the room with them.

"I've found Remus," the old voice went on. "And it looks like he'll be let out in a few hours."

"So what was he doing in Azkaban?" the Professor demanded. Harry frowned and wondered what that was. He stored the new word away until he could ask about it, the same as he had done with widdershins.

"For now, Amelia won't give me much information, but it looks like he was arrested under nothing but a suspicion," the older voice replied. Harry thought it sounded like Professor Snape's boss, the weird old man who looked like a goofy Merlin.

"Well, at least they don't mean to keep him there under such a dubious charge," the Professor muttered. "How long was he there?"

"A few days," the old man replied sadly. "But Severus … he'll be in no condition to meet with you for several days at least. I asked Moody to go get him and take him straight to St. Mungo's."

"Mungo's is not always very friendly toward werewolves," the Professor warned. "Wouldn't Poppy be a better choice?"

"She doesn't have much experience treating the marks left by ministry interrogation."

"You mean torture," the Professor snarled bitterly.

"Correct," the old man replied mildly. "Anyway, I thought you would want to hear the news. Moody is going over tonight or tomorrow morning to get Remus out of there."

"Why was he even arrested in the first place? I may not like Lupin, but even I know that he's no criminal; at least, not one worthy of Azkaban. He's too emotional and a coward to boot."

"Severus, be kind," the old man reproved in a mild tone. "But Amelia wouldn't tell me, I'm afraid. She seemed very stressed and worried about something."

There was a pause and Harry strained to hear what was going on. "Well, whatever it was, Lupin will tell us, I'm sure," the Professor finally grunted. "Thank you for telling me right away."

"My pleasure, and do give Harry my apologies for frightening him. Was it that he's never been on the receiving end of the floo before?"

"Possibly," the Professor replied shortly.

"Well, I am sorry, but I'm sure you'll clear it up in no time," the old man chuckled. "I suppose I'll be going, then."

"Wait one minute," the Professor interrupted. "Have you … contacted Augusta yet?"

"I'll do that as soon as I get back to my office," the old man sighed. "Thank you for reminding me. With everything going back and forth with the ministry and getting release forms done for Lupin, I haven't had much time to do anything else."

The Professor lowered his voice suddenly. "You had better not forget about it again, Albus. I'm screwing up royally with the boy as the hours tick past and if you don't hurry, I might end up truly hurting him, physically or emotionally. I can't even engage in a conversation without being a world-class git about it." Harry swallowed hard and hugged his knees tightly at that. The Professor thought he was going to hurt him?

"Well, you do excel at that, dear boy," the old man said drily. "But I'll hurry, Severus, have no fear." Here, the Headmaster paused. "And I do not doubt that you will do what is right," he said quietly. The professor didn't answer, though Harry could picture him frowning the way he did when Harry tried to convince him that it was alright and he didn't need to feel bad.

The boy heard nothing more than the whoosh of the fireplace as the old man left to wherever he had been before. He flinched at the noise and shut his eyes as he lowered his head to rest on his knees. He was feeling a little strange. It was weird to have someone caring about him enough to be worried that they might hurt him. He didn't understand why that made the Professor scared. Harry had never been treated like he or his feelings ever mattered before. The man was scary, but he was also comforting. He was stern, but he could be gentle too. How could Harry explain that the comfort, the gentleness, the affection … it all more than made up for the Professor's 'mistakes'. But he knew that the man wouldn't really understand. Harry stayed there on the stairs for several minutes once the old man was gone, face hidden in his knees, struggling to puzzle out this strange man who was a contradiction in everything.

"Harry?" the Professor's voice startled him. Harry looked up and saw the man standing a few steps down, watching him warily. His eyes seemed to be swirling with emotions that Harry couldn't even begin to try sorting out, but he could sense the man getting control of himself as he asked casually, "Do you … still want to play chess?"

Harry stared at the man, studying his shuttered-off expression and his inscrutable dark eyes before he nodded slowly. He really did want to learn how to play, if only to get his mind off the conversation he just heard.

The Professor looked relieved and mounted the rest of the stairs. "Come with me," he ordered. "I'm keeping you in my sight now, agreed?"

Harry just nodded and got up to follow the Professor. They entered a room just to the left of the landing, directly across from the upstairs bathroom. There was a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling with a pull-switch that reminded Harry of the one in his old cupboard. The room was lit up in dull yellow light that flickered every so often, and Harry wondered if the light bulb was screwed in right. The place was crammed with boxes of junk, but under the piles of cardboard boxes, Harry noticed an old metal bed-frame without a mattress in one corner, a dresser against the other wall, and a writing desk opposite that. It was an old bedroom, that much was plain. Harry found himself indescribably happy that the Professor had put him in his own bedroom rather than putting him in here. The window was narrow, but it was the only one in the house so far that was just right for Harry to look out of. He scampered over and peered out, parting the shabby curtains. It was too dark outside to see much, but he could see the shapes of trees and some other houses.

He turned to the Professor in surprise. "There's other houses!" the boy exclaimed.

"Yes," the man grunted, searching through one of the boxes on the shabby desk. "What of it?"

"Well …" Harry hesitated, looking back out the window one last time. "I th-thought you lived far away … you know." Harry shrugged and stuffed his hands awkwardly in his pocket. "It's quiet here," he added in a soft voice.

"There are wards and charms around the house to block out the mundane neighbourhood sounds," the Professor replied in a distracted tone. "Some of my neighbours can be rowdy, and I have no desire to hear cars backfiring or dogs fighting while I'm brewing delicate potions."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. That made a lot of sense. After all, if you could use magic, why not use it to protect your house? But it did make him feel strangely claustrophobic to be in another suburban neighbourhood. He just hoped the people who lived in the houses on this street wouldn't think he was a freak and look at him like he was a criminal in training. Without his Aunt to tell them what a bad boy he was, they probably would ignore him, which was good enough for him.

"That was Albus," the Professor suddenly announced.

Harry blinked cluelessly. "Huh?"

The man looked up briefly. "My employer? You remember Headmaster Dumbledore, do you not? It was only him who came through the floo. There was nothing to fear."

"Oh, yeah," Harry grimaced painfully and felt his face getting hot. "I heard him. I guess it was pretty stupid to get all scared."

"You were not stupid," the Professor retorted mildly, going back to his box. "I am … glad, that you ran to me the instant you were surprised. It is possible that someone other than the Headmaster could come through my floo. It would be wise for you to come to me when it is activated, or else stay in the bedroom, which is the best warded room in the house right now."

"Okay," Harry answered softly. He looked down at one of the shabby cardboard boxes at his feet to avoid the Professor's dark-eyed glance. He was thinking of the green flash again, and wondering why he should be thinking about his bad dreams now. He always had the green-flash dreams when he was feeling stressed and terrified and he really hoped he wouldn't have one of those tonight. He shivered and clenched his fists in his pockets.

"Are you alright?" the Professor suddenly asked.

Harry looked up, surprised at the concern in the man's voice. Their eyes met and Harry had the weirdest sensation that the Professor was trying hard not to do something, like read his thoughts or something. It was just … odd.

"D'you ever have bad dreams?" Harry blurted out. "Not like regular bad dreams … but really bad bad dreams?"

"I believe everyone has nightmares on occasion, some more than others," the Professor replied cautiously. He closed the box he had been looking through and picked his way across the room, gazing distractedly at all the boxes.

"I get bad dreams lots of times …" Harry said. "But not so much since I came here with you," he added shyly.

The Professor paused and looked at him as if he didn't quite believe him. "The 'big bad wolf' dreams don't count as nightmares?" he asked incredulously.

"Nope," Harry shook his head and scrunched up his face as he thought. "Those dreams are weird, but not exactly … scary. I wake up confused, so that's kinda scary … but in those dreams … I want to go with the wolf. So I'm sorta … excited … you know?"

"No, but I can imagine," the Professor replied drily. He picked up a box from the rickety desk chair and set it on the floor so he could sit in the chair while he looked through it.

"Well … I got scared of the floo … 'cause it was green."

The Professor looked up with a confused look on his face, and Harry immediately realized how stupid that sounded. His face got hot and he looked down again. He started poking one of the nearby boxes with his toe to have something to do with his nervous energy.

"It's the worst bad dream," Harry said quietly. "I always wake up crying. I used to cry for … for my mum. But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon punish me if I call for my mum or dad. I guess it's 'cause they're dead and can't come."

The Professor didn't answer. When Harry looked up, the man's face looked unusually white and his dark eyes were burning with intensity. He had abandoned his box and was simply sitting there, staring at him and not saying a word.

"It's a green light," Harry went on desperately, feeling his body start to tremble. He felt like he had to make the Professor understand, though he wasn't sure why it was so urgent. "G-green light, and s-screaming … and somebody l-laughing … and my head hurts. It's really stupid … but it always scares me when I have that dream. So … when the fire got all green, the whole room got green … so …" He trailed off, feeling even more stupid.

To Harry's surprise, the man abruptly stood up and pulled him into a fierce hug. Harry flinched when the Professor grabbed his shoulders, but he relaxed into the man's strong arms. He wasn't sure what the hug was for, but it felt nice anyway. His eyes prickled with tears, but none fell. He felt safe, and the tension seeped out of his body. After only a few seconds, the Professor pulled back, but didn't let go of his shoulders.

The Professor's eyes glinted with moisture, but his voice was brisk and business-like. "Would you prefer regular chess, or would you like me to teach you how to play Wizard's Chess?"

Harry smiled and reached up to wipe the moisture from his own eyes. "Wizard's Chess?" he repeated with a little laugh, wondering if the Professor was joking.

The Professor smirked. "I think I left my old set in that box under the bed. Would you mind getting it out?"

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How long had it been? The Werewolf had been in Azkaban for what felt like forever. His daily interrogations had been worse than he thought possible, and this was coming from a man who knew what it was like to feel his body physically ripped apart thirteen times a year ever since he was six years old. He knew nothing about anybody's escape, and he was pretty sure that the Aurors knew it. He'd overheard one of them asking when they would turn him loose. The warthog wizard was not eager to do so, however, and Lupin wondered how long they would keep him locked up. Would they just 'interrogate' him until he went insane? He hoped not. It wouldn't be very nice to be an insane Werewolf. They would probably just want to 'put him down' like a sick dog.

The gloomy thoughts continued to swirl through his brain as he sat in the corner of his small stone room, staring at nothing, wondering how he could have ever thought that anybody deserved Azkaban. It was simply torture to sit here in the freezing cold and dark, feeling your happiness and sanity slowly draining away as the hours and days ticked past. What was worse for Remus was the feeling of being trapped. He could sense the wards and spells of the prison that would help keep him alive and sane for longer that would be normal in the presence of Dementors. As Remus thought more about it, he supposed that people like Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch Jr. deserved to be slowly tortured into insanity as they had done to the Longbottoms, but he couldn't imagine this punishment for common thieves or unregistered Animagi. To be forced to endure this slow torment for years on end for smaller offenses was simply too cruel and unusual for a civilized nation to condone. If Remus had been fully human, he might have resolved to campaign for the building of a separate prison for the lesser criminals once he was free. But he knew that he was powerless in the Wizarding world. Most people considered him sub-human or worse, and at any time the Ministry could call him in for whatever they wanted. There were minimal laws keeping those in charge from abusing werewolves. It didn't help that most werewolves actually were vicious and bloodthirsty, no better than Death Eaters.

Remus Lupin closed his eyes as he heard footsteps approaching his cell again. His sharp werewolf senses could make out three people accompanied by one or two patronuses. His stomach turned and his body shivered with apprehension. He was not afraid of breaking during a torture session, since he didn't have anything to hide. He'd done nothing wrong. No, he feared the pain that his tormentors were able to inflict, and would inflict when they thought his denials and ignorance were feigned. Taking a deep breath, the Werewolf stood up and leaned against the wall. Despite being fed once a day and being given medicinal potions after his interrogation sessions, he felt dreadfully weak and exhausted. But he wasn't going to show his weakness. He would stand to receive his tormentors until he could no longer move. A Marauder had to have his pride, of course.

The cell door clanked open, unlocked with a combination of special magic and a physical deadbolt, and Remus felt a wave of relief as the presence of the patronus restored some of his lost spirit and warmed the chill in his limbs. He threw his arm over his eyes to shield his sensitive eyes against the silver glow of the animal that loped into his cell and the three lumos spells shining from the wands of the three people standing in his cell's doorway.

"Lupin, Remus?" A strangely familiar, rasping voice growled at him, echoing off the walls and making the Werewolf shiver.

"I still haven't remembered anything," Remus answered wearily, still hiding his face. "Asking me again isn't going to change that, and I'm not stupid enough to make something up and get myself thrown in here for real."

There was a brief silence, and then Remus flinched as someone gently took his arm and guided him forward. He squinted his eyes open just a bit, and his gaze latched onto the unfamiliar patronus watching him. It was a hyena. When he managed to look up at the Auror awaiting him, he wanted to cry out in either horror or relief. The battle-scarred wizard, with his magical eye glowing in the dark, his false leg sticking out of his trousers instead of a boot, and his crookedy wand aimed at his head, was an old friend, but he was also notorious for catching and interrogating Dark Wizards. Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody. But was he the new torturer, or was he the rescuer?

"Got yourself tangled up by the Ministry, eh?" the grizzled Auror demanded in a raspy voice.

"I know, I know," Remus sighed. "Constant vigilance."

"Damn right!" Moody barked. "Come on; let's get you out of here."

Less than an hour later, a very dazed Remus Lupin was on the transport barge off the rock of Azkaban prison. He was sitting in between Moody and his fellow Auror, a silent, unfamiliar man who was missing some of his fingers and an ear. The scarred man silently held his arm the whole time they were going through customs, while Remus retrieved his belongings, (especially his wand) and signed release forms for his non-existent arrest. When they stepped aboard the barge on the choppy waves, the Auror shoved a chunk of chocolate into his hands, but it was too sweet, so he was still holding it between his shaking fingers. He knew that his robe's pockets held his favorite bitter dark chocolate, but reaching in and pulling out a piece was just too much effort. He felt dizzy and sick and cold, and his worst memories were still playing on repeat in his brain.

"You gonna eat that or let it melt?" Moody barked at him, basically in his ear. Remus jerked in surprise and nearly dropped the melting chocolate in his lap.

Mumbling apologies, the werewolf managed another small nibble of the sickly sweet milk chocolate before he leaned over and threw up on the floor. Shuddering and shivering, he barely registered when the silent Auror evanescoed his mess and conjured a glass of water for him. He sipped the metallic-tasting water, (it always tasted metallic when it was got from an aguamenti) and he fumbled in his pocket for his good chocolate. Once he started munching on the bitter square, he started to feel better. His fuzzy brain cleared and the dead cold in his limbs slowly began to fade, along with the nausea churning in his gut.

"Feelin' better yet?" Moody growled.

This time, Remus wasn't as startled by his harsh voice so close to his oversensitive ear. "Much better," he whispered. "Thank you for getting me out of there." He ate two more squares of chocolate in silence, listening to the slap of the waves outside the enclosed barge and the drumming of the rain on the tinny roof. "How'd you know I was there?" he asked in a stronger voice. "They wouldn't let me call a solicitor or anything."

"Yeah, 'cause you're a werewolf," Moody grunted, his magical eye rolling back and forth watchfully. "No matter; Dumbledore wanted to contact you for something and nobody could find you. Bones at the Auror department finally found the magical notice that you were currently under arrest in Azkaban, but no charges. Once she found out what happened, she lit into Warty and Pembridge like you wouldn't believe."

Remus figured Warty and Pembridge must have been his arrestors, interrogators, and jailers. It would be funny if Warty was the name of the wart-faced Auror with the warthog patronus. It was all just too ironic and he almost laughed. But he was too tired. "I always liked Madam Bones," Remus muttered a bit woozily. He closed his eyes as the exhaustion from his imprisonment caught up with him.

"Me too," Moody barked a laugh. "She's good; not like Crouch was. You know, Scrimgouer's attempting to make a bid for head of the Auror department. That man is a maniac."

Remus had no idea who Scrimgouer was, but if even Mad-Eye Moody thought he was crazy, that was saying something.

"So what happened?" Moody demanded. "What did they arrest you for?"

"Not sure," Remus mumbled, struggling to stay awake. "I think they thought I helped some prisoner escape."

"Black?" Moody demanded, sounding suspicious.

"I guess so," Remus sighed. He rubbed his eyes with the hand not covered in melted milk chocolate. "I had no idea he'd escaped before they asked me questions about it, and I would never do such a thing anyway."

"You knew Black before," Mad-Eye Moody growled. "Now I'm suspicious."

"Black betrayed us!" Remus growled right back, his wolf rising up inside and lending his strength and rage. He wasn't completely sure anymore whether Sirius actually had betrayed anybody, but it would do him no good to voice such doubts with the ever-paranoid Alastor Moody right next to him. "I wouldn't help him escape! Why would I?"

"The notice said you were arrested while in Azkaban," Moody snapped. "So explain what you were doing there."

"I had something like ten words with Black days ago when I was doing some work in that tower, and I let him have the crosswords, but I didn't know he was planning to escape! They arrested me when I came back to Azkaban looking for the house elves that went missing. Again, Ministry hired me."

"Alright, puppy; put your hackles down," Moody grumbled. "So you did talk to him?"

"Ask Dumbledore," Remus muttered peevishly. "It wasn't a secret."

"What did you say to each other?"

"Oh the usual," Remus snarled sarcastically. "You traitor, I said; I'm innocent, he said; you're crazy, I said; can I have the crosswords, he said; why the hell not, I said; the end."

"The end," Moody repeated with a snort.

"The end," Remus repeated with more of a snarl. "I didn't do anything wrong. I was there on Ministry business. If you look through my employment records, you'll find that I was completely within my jurisdiction."

"Ah, well you seem to be regaining your higher brain capacity," Moody announced, sounding irrationally pleased. "If you're using words like jurisdiction."

"I'm tired," Remus snapped irritably. "If you can't say anything intelligent, then leave me alone and let me sleep."

"Don't get me wrong, kid," Moody grunted. "I never thought you were guilty of anything or I wouldn't have volunteered to come get you. This was all irregular and unlawful, even for a Werewolf, but unfortunately, Warty and Pembridge don't get more'n a slap on the wrist for what they did." The Auror fell silent for a few minutes before he spoke again. "We're taking you straight to St. Mungo's."

Remus jerked and started to tremble. "No …" he pleaded, cold sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. "No, please don't take me there. I'll be alright, I just need some rest. I have potions at home …"

"And how the hell are you gonna make it home, idiot?" Moody smirked. "You can barely stand on your own two feet, much less apparate without splinching yourself all over Scotland."

"You can't take me to Mungo's!" Remus gasped, shivering as he hugged himself. "What they'll do to me … it's worse than what Warthog and nice-cop did to me."

"Warthog and nice-cop," Moody almost laughed, but he grew serious again. "They tortured you?"

"What do you think?" Remus snarled, not really wanting to relive such memories. "I've been to St. Mungo's before, and my experience was enough to convince me I'd rather die than go through that again."

"When were you at Mungo's?" Moody demanded. "How many years ago?"

Remus hesitated before he hunched over and muttered his reply. "I was ten or maybe eleven. Just before school. Don't remember much beyond the fear … humiliation … pain."

"Laws and guidelines can get better in twenty-odd years, Lupin," Moody grunted, sounding strangely comforting. "Trust me when I say they'll be good to you. Nobody'll hurt you there. A lot's changed."

"What's changed?" Remus whispered faintly, unwilling to believe the old Auror.

"Well for one thing, Lyall Lupin isn't Head of Magical Creatures Department anymore," Moody chuckled drily. "They only conducted experiments on you 'cause dear ol' daddy said they could. If you don't give consent, they can't do anything like that to you."

"Blow it out your eye socket," Remus threw back in a weak voice, unwilling to believe so easily. Not after his father's empty promises and assurances. His own father would never have actively approved of the St. Mungo's staff experimenting on him … would he? But he knew very well that Lyall Lupin had hated Werewolves with a hatred that rivaled Moody's loathing for Dark Wizards. The man had treated his own son like an inconvenience to be hidden away or fixed, if possible. There was a reason Fenrir Greyback had chosen such a wickedly ironic mode of revenge for the Lyall the Werewolf Hunter.

"Hey, if I think Mungo's is safe, shouldn't that be enough for a Werewolf?" Moody snarked with a hint of teasing humour. "At any rate, I'll be around. Nobody'll try nothing if I'm looking over their shoulders."

"Constant vigilance," Remus conceded with a ghost of a smile.

"That's the spirit!" Moody barked and clapped him painfully on the back. Remus stayed stubbornly silent until his various injuries began to throb mercilessly in response to the not-so-friendly blow. Heaving a defeated sigh, the Werewolf glared at the grizzled old Auror beside him.

"Fine, I'll go to St. Mungo's," Remus snapped. "Now will you desist from hitting me?"

"A fine idea," Moody growled, ignoring the dig about the painful back slap. "'Cause Dumbledore'll have both our heads if you don't."

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Petunia Dursley was a smart woman who rarely forgot anything, but no matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn't remember. All week, it had been nagging at her as she cleaned the house and did the gardening, cursing that brat of a nephew who had to just up and disappear right as the weather was getting hot. It didn't matter how much she protested to the freaks, she was absolutely certain that the ungrateful boy had simply decided to run off. She made lunch for her darling Diddy-dums and sent him out to play. She did laundry and changed the bedsheets, and still it nagged at her. Was there something she was supposed to remember? She couldn't figure it out. The freaks had eventually stopped coming by every few hours, to her vast relief, but there was one chunk of time late one afternoon which she couldn't account for. Ever since that evening, her darling Vernon had suffered from migraine headaches, and had yet to say anything intelligent. Her own head ached at odd moments too, mostly when she was straining to remember what had happened that night. She remembered setting out supper, and then … nothing. She could not remember whether they ate the beef wellington or not, just that they all woke in their own beds the next morning, every one of them suffering from headaches and complaining of bizarre nightmares. She was determined to figure it out, but whenever she felt she was getting close, it would slip away from her like a wisp of smoke. She knew that it had to be a freak's doing. She'd never had memory problems before, and for her whole family to be affected like this … she was one hundred percent certain that whatever happened was illegal. They were victims! But she couldn't just call the police. Not even the freak police, unless she had some idea of what had happened.

It was all Harry's fault, she fumed as she ripped the weeds out of her flowerbeds. If that stupid little freak hadn't run away, none of this would have happened! The brat was just bound and determined to make her life miserable. To be honest, the boy made her irrationally angry in a way nobody had since … Petunia paused, glaring at the blooming iris inches from her face. Severus Snape. She must have briefly heard that he was working with Dumbledore now, despite what an absolute creep he had been back when they were children. No one had enjoyed tormenting her the way Severus Snape had, and she had never forgotten her childish vow to 'get him back good'.

Some might have called it petty revenge, but Petunia called it instinct. Somehow, she was convinced that Snape must have called on her home and cursed her family. She knew enough about the freak government to know that an action such as that was blatantly illegal. Petunia Dursley smiled and stood up as she dusted off her hands. She believed that some of her sister's old things in the attic might have the mailing address of the Ministry of Magic. All she had to do was launch a believable complaint, and Severus Snape would be pounced upon like the vermin he was. Did he dare hurt her family and erase their memories? Then she would fight back! Give her a few days, and she would make Sevvie's life a living hell in payment for what had happened to her husband and son, and herself, of course. Petunia almost laughed at her own brilliance.

She wasn't completely sure in any case that Snape was responsible for whatever happened, but she had to have someone to pin down … and Severus Snape was as good a freak as any to blame.

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Did you think those nasty Dursleys were gone for good? But don't worry, I'll take care of them eventually as soon as they have played their part. Thanks for all your reviews and suggestions, and while I already pretty much know where my story is going, I appreciate mulling over additional ideas, (like letting Snape become an Animagus or stuff like that). Don't hesitate to tell me what you think would make the story better! As to the Snape/Animagus idea, I have been bumping it back and forth for several weeks, to be or not to be? Tell me your thoughts on that, because I am really not sure what kind of animal he would shift into if I decide to take it that way, (which I might if I find the perfect Animagus form for him). I would want him to be a strong animal because of his hidden strength and courage, and I would want the choice to feel perfect and yet be a little surprising, and I don't want him to shift into a deer like his Patronus. (Even though his Patronus is a doe, I would think that Animagi don't change their sex when they become an animal, so there's that)

So let me know what you think! If you have an idea, drop a review or PM me, and tell me your reasoning behind your choice!

I hope you all enjoyed this nice long chapter. Thank you all for your encouraging reviews. I'm touched by all the kind comments you leave!