A Place Where I Can Hang My Hat
12 July, 1995

Dear Harry,

Your godfather has suggested you wouldn't mind too much if I wrote to you. I sincerely hope he's right. My apologies if he isn't--my fault for believing him--, and double apologies if he's not only right about that but also when he says I should have written sooner.

I admit having started about half a dozen letters to you since last July, all of them finding their way to my fireplace before being finished. Padfoot finds my hesitance foolish, he has no trouble letting me know it. But I have my reasons.

Last year my situation was clearer: I was your teacher, and Dumbledore had cautioned all the staff not to mention my connection with your father to you or any of the students. Thus I knew I should keep my distance, no matter how excited I was about being reacquainted with you after so long. Sadly as they were, circumstances told me exactly where I stood, defining what was expected from me and which lines I wasn't allowed to cross.

I've done a lot of trespassing though. Invitations for tea in my office, the Patronus lessons, a toast with Butterbeer, covering up for you to save the map from Severus, my less than impartial swearing when Draco Malfoy pulled the tail of your Firebolt in the finals--thankfully no one could hear me over Minerva McGonagall's own spurt of indignation. (Dear, dear, before that game I'd have bet six months worth of my income that she didn't know half of those words...) I suppose I haven't really changed much from the Marauder that followed your father and godfather everywhere in thrilling and very illegal explorations of Hogwarts and surroundings. And to my shame, I'm not ashamed of it at all.

At any rate, knowing where the lines are drawn is always a comfort, both to the obedient fellow and the lawbreaker, and I've always been terrified of playing any game without knowing the rules. I'm sure Padfoot will be delighted to tell you about my three-day research in the library before giving into his and James' insistent convocations to play Muggle Poker. (It paid off though. I stripped them both--and Peter--of most of their allowances in our first match.)

I'm not your teacher anymore. You know now about the Marauders and their fate, and I believe you understand why we tried to keep those facts from you. And you and I both know now that some of our assumptions--in my case, thirteen years of assumptions and resentful judgements--were utterly wrong. At this point I can't see any lines or rule books lying around, and you're no longer that cute, trusting baby that smiled and played with me without a care to where I had come from, as long as I didn't hold you too tight. In short: too many things have changed and I'm still trying to find my way around this new scenery.

As a matter of fact, it's somewhat hard to think of this as "new" scenery, having my old roommate back making a mess of the house and pulverising my brains with his hilarious, inconceivable jokes. More than once I caught myself glancing worriedly at the corners, making sure old Mrs Inglethorp wasn't around to denounce us to Filch. (Mrs Inglethorp was Mrs Norris' predecessor; she died at the age of 41 when I was a third-year. Filch was disconsolate for months--and you know what that means for the students--until Dumbledore presented him with a new kitten. I suppose I like Mrs Norris much better; she doesn't seem as sensitive to a werewolf's presence as dear Mrs Inglethorp was.)

Padfoot has been as charming and exasperating a company as he's always been. Not that he hasn't changed. We all have a little--him, me, you, Severus Snape, everyone. It's been almost a decade and half after all; we all grew up. Some of us more than the others, but the years had affected us all. And I suppose one can't talk about how much Sirius has or hasn't changed without mentioning Azkaban.

I keep remembering this fellow--another registered werewolf in fact--I've met in one of my annual visits to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He had once spent two days and one night at Azkaban, for disturbing the neighbourhood with his howling--his family kept him firmly tethered and locked up every full moon, which is a certain way of enraging a werewolf to the point of self-mutilation. I keep remembering his trembling eyelids and fidgety gestures as he told me in a barely intelligible whisper, 'Thirty-six hours at Azkaban are more than enough to change your whole perspective of life and expectations about hell.' Such a short time in a mild security cell, and it was obvious that the experience had affected him in a way the nightmare of his monthly Transformation had failed to achieve.

This was something I couldn't even begin to contemplate, and looking at Sirius now assures me I still can't. I could hardly recognise him in the Shack that night a year ago, a mere shadow of the jaunty, brawny, impish boy that was my closest friend for my whole youth. And it's frightening to realise that the physical damage is but a facet of the harm made within. Every now and then he'll become gloomily quiet, glaring darkly at the shadows on the walls, buried neck-deep in some awful fragment of memory of his days in prison, trapped inside his own mind. Sometimes he'll open up and tell me about what he sees. Other times he'll just keep it all to himself, until he's ready to flash me one of his puzzling smiles and turn me head over heels with a completely unexpected and boisterously funny joke.

When this happens, I find myself not in the least surprised at his incredible deed of having escaped from that forsaken island with his sanity intact. In a way, I suppose he's just too pragmatic to really give in to depression. He always has to find something to do about any problem. It might not be the best solution--it seldom was, back in school--but he'd always come up with some kind of action that would change the situation somehow, for better or worse. Accepting defeat is simply not his style.

He also hates to be ordered around, even if it's in his best interest. Put a plate before him and he'll devour everything on it, edible or not. Put a plate before him AND tell him to eat, and he'll start growling and throwing snide remarks about motherly wolves. Not many grown men can be found around pouting and fussing and stamping their feet, but your dear godfather too often seems to have the mind of a toddler, and I'll quit saying mean things about him just as soon as he stops reading over my shoulder, which is a very rude and annoying thing to do, thank you.

So, where was I?

Oh yes, things that have changed, things that have not.

I know Sirius told you about the photography I've fastened to the mirror. The trick, although he hated it, has been working marvellously. The mirror's bellowing has little to do with it, of course. Padfoot is as willing to obey it as to obey me. However, he's even less willing to be haunted by before/after pictures. It's not exactly a matter of vanity. He was always proud of his appearance and health, and looking like something a Troll would consider too disgusting to eat simply won't do.

He looks so much better now. Still underweight, but I'm confident that by the end of the summer he'll be able to stand beside one of those dreadful "WANTED" pictures right inside the Aurors headquarters and not be recognised by anyone. (But let's not mention this to him, okay? We don't want to give him ideas.)

If only he would give his wrist time to heal properly. On the excuse of using it but for simple defence enchantments, he convinced me to lend him an old wand that had belonged to my father, and used it to Disapparate. I'd have thought even he would have better sense than that. He could have splinched himself, for crying out loud! Oh yes, he could, and what did I tell him about reading over my shoulder? Of course that includes using the Spyoculus Charm! What is he thinking? He should go and finish his own letter to his godson, because I'm almost finished here and it's best if we don't force Hedwig to make two trips to Surrey.

You know, Harry, any of those letter attempts that wound up as coals were far less disjointed than this one, but then I suppose I can't do any better--or worse--under the circumstances.

Oh, the photo. I promise to show it to you someday, but for now I need it where it is. But I picked these other two, I think you'll like them even better.

The first was taken on the same day as the photo on the mirror. There's still Padfoot with those ludicrous sideburns hugging the greatest love of his life (his bike). The reason Prongs is laughing is because he just enchanted Padfoot's Don Iniquitous and Band tee-shirt to say "Don Insipid and Bugger"--James and Sirius were so close most people thought they were brothers, but they could never agree about music. The reason Lily is rolling her eyes is because that's what she'd always do when James and Sirius started arguing about music. And I'm sure you'll recognise me as the one leaning over the precious bike to transfigure Padfoot's stinking cigarette into a goldfish.

(Padfoot will give me away eventually, if he didn't already, so I'll just hand you my confession: I also cultivated ridiculous sideburns for a very short period of my life. Four months, if I'm not mistaken, when I was 17. I got rid of them after Petunia Evans (yes, your aunt Petunia) told me I looked "positively wolfish" with them. Lily told me I should take it as a compliment, but I know it wasn't, even if her sister didn't know half of the story...)

The second photo was taken in Paris, 1980. It's one of my favourites. I pointlessly tried to hate it for thirteen years, and I'm so glad I can go back to liking it. It caught me and Padfoot on the precise moment when he, after holding you selfishly for hours, let me carry you for a while, so the photo will sometimes show you on my lap and sometimes on his. That excursion was truly special for all of us, it was the only time we all travelled together--James, Lily, you, me, Sirius and Peter--and we had such a great time. I promise to tell you all about it to the last detail someday--if you're interested, of course. I have two trunks full of pictures and souvenirs.

Peter isn't in the photos because he was the one to take them. Actually, he was the one to take most of the pictures of the Marauders, as he was somewhat camera-shy, so I have very few pictures of him. I used to think of that as a sad thing. Now it's almost a relief.

Anyway, I hope you like the photos, even if the letter itself leaves much to be desired. I hope you and I will meet again soon enough. As a matter of fact, I'm sure we will.

Take good care of yourself,

Remus J. Lupin

-----------------------
written by Morgan D.
November 21st, 2002

"Harry Potter" and its characters belong to J.K.Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros and Merlin-knows-whom-else. Only Mrs Inglethorp is mine, but she's available to anyone who might find her any use.

This letter is part of the Hogwarts Letters project: http: // destinystruth.net / hogwarts (Eliminate the space between the characters.)