Chapter One - Epiphany
The sky looked unnatural at the witching hour, so dark and still, glittering with the sparse suburban starscape, and yet the bright moon illuminated the world with its cool light so much that it was like daylight. Under the light of the summer's brightest moon sat a young man. A passerby would probably have wondered why he sat hidden amongst some bushes at the rear of his house, Number Four Privet Drive, saying nothing, motionless, not seeming to be waiting for anything, at midnight.
But that was no one about, which the young boy, one Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the orphaned, the godfather-less, the misunderstood, the marked man, could not have been happier about. He could be happier about nearly every other facet of his life however. His family, or rather his unfortunate lack there of, could offer no reassurance as his completely consuming guilt and sorrow drug him lower and deeper into a state of absolute depression and despair.
In his world, or actually the wizarding world as he had fallen into something of another, even darker reality due to the recent loss of his beloved godfather Sirius, Harry was extremely famous. His claim to fame originally was his amazing defeat of the great Lord Voldemort, made even more astonishing because of the fact that he was a baby at the time, he had indeed been in his crib just a few feet away from his mother's lifeless body when the Dark Lord fell victim to his own curse. In doing so he also sealed his own fate becoming the prophesied opposition to Voldemort, bound either to murder or die by the hand of his ruthless, inhuman enemy.
Though torn apart spiritually and psychologically, Harry did not cry. He actually looked stone faced his green eyes showing in their emerald depths nothing but loss. Remembering the night of the Sirius' death made him think back to other pain that he blamed himself for, Cedric's murder, Wormtail's escape, Quirell's death, all of the pain that the Death Eater's had caused since Harry had allowed Voldemort to regain his body. He felt a blow to his heart like a sledgehammer had crushed his chest as he realized that 'his' prophesy had killed his own parents. He knew it was his fault entirely and little he could think of made him want to disprove or dispel the notion. For a moment he pictured a knife, a long inanimate metal blade, sharp and unknowing. That could answer all his wishes, merely placing the blade to the soft skin of his wrists and pulling it to the bone would send him off to his godfather and his parents and he would be rid of this world. He thought of all of the people who would no longer be in danger because of him, Ron and his family, Hermione, every other Gryffindor for that matter.
From the back of his mind came a voice suddenly, a whisper, a voice that he hadn't heard for many months, it was singing or chanting, repeating its mantra,
"You might belong in Gryffindor,
where dwell the brave at heart." The song the sorting hat had sung his first year, he remembered being proud to be put in the house of the brave. Suddenly an image flashed in his mind of an old white haired man with twinkling eyes,
"It only put me in Gryffindor," Harry said in a defeated voice,
"because I asked not to go in Slytherin."
"Exactly, "said Dumbledore, beaming once more. "Which makes you
very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show
what we truly are, far more than our abilities."
Harry sat motionless in his chair, stunned.
"If you want proof, Harry, that you belong in Gryffindor, I suggest
you look more closely at this."
Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall's desk, picked up
the blood-stained silver sword, and handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry
turned it over, the rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw
the name engraved just below the hilt.
'Godric Gryffindor'
"Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the hat, Harry," said Dumbledore simply.
Harry considered this for a moment and suddenly felt very dirty and ashamed. He saw how selfishness could pervade him. How brave, Harry sardonically muttered, kill myself to be away from the pain. And then in a rush the loving faces of Ron and Hermione came unbidden to his eyes. He closed them as he thought of how he had been with his friends. He nearly wept for self-loathing as he thought of how he had treated them, and how much their pain would hurt him. How close he had brought them to their deaths and how their deaths would end him. This thought brought the gravity of suicide, no one but Harry could stop Voldemort. His suicide would bring terror pain and tragedy to his family and the entire world. In a moment he could hardly stand his thoughts just a minute before. And what did he care about Quirell, he did nothing to stop Voldemort only helping out of ambition. 'Fuck him' he made his choice. This brought the Dumbledore's words back to him about choice. It had been his parents' choice not to give him over to Voldemort, Wormtail's to betray them, Voldemort's to kill them.
Suddenly Harry had the realization that Voldemort, the embodiment of depravation and human weaknesses, the epitome and embracer of evil, was the reason for his pain. For the first time in his life he felt hatred, pure unadulterated hate, for himself and his actions, but mostly for Voldemort and the strife and evil that his nemesis had caused. The hate was so all consuming that he felt it burn. His body became hot, and infuriated him more. He began to get so hot that it felt like the hate was purifying him. It came to such a point that he wanted to howl, to roar until his throat bled.
Yet his remembrance of his environment stayed his voice. As he surveyed the yard from behind the small hedge he saw a new addition the back garden. On a thick wooden post towards the opposite edge of the yard hung a large canvas punching bag. It was shielded from its surrounding by several tall hedges on three sides.
Obviously the Dursleys had put it there to encourage Dudley to keep up his boxing. It was perfect, a nice dirt patch had been either worn or more likely made around it. Harry stood immediately and walked to the bag. He pushed it a little and finding it very heavy, he swung at it as hard as he could.
At four o'clock, Harry was completely exhausted, his arms hung limply at his sides and he was covered in sweat. His legs felt like tightening leg weight from his trying to 'dance' around the bag. For the first twenty-five minus or so Harry had simply hit the bag as hard and fast as he could before having to stop. He did not have very strong punching power but fairly fast hands. He also did not have very good technique, or good footwork. He was not actually a very good boxer but he felt much better after doing it. In fact in this state of complete exhaustion he felt content. Moreover when he was fighting he did not think about his dead godfather, or the Death Eaters, or Wormtail. In fact all he thought about was how much he hated Voldemort and put this hatred into every punch.
As he dragged himself up the stairs, he decided that he liked to box and wanted to get better at it. It was the first happy thought that he had since he got back from Hogwarts. As he fell asleep there was nothing in his mind and he felt good. His sleep was without dreams.
Harry awoke the next morning with the hatred brewing in his heart like fire. When he got down stairs Aunt Petunia berated him for his sleeping habits.
"You should get up like a normal person," his aunt said condescendingly. Dudley wasn't up yet either. " Surely those. your kind don't sit around all the time, no matter how lazy they might be. Now be happy with your lunch and get out of my house. Don't come back until supper and be happy you are getting that. And tell those friends of yours that you are okay. What would the neighbors think if they came around in the day time!"
With that Aunt Petunia handed him a piece of bread, a slice of ham and a boiled egg. He ate them greedily and left out the back. Dumbledore had not told him to stay inside his house yet so Harry took the opportunity to start running. He thought it would be a good way to improve his foot work. He had come to the conclusion that physical activity was to be the way that he would approach his hate and sadness.
His mind would occasionally flicker upon certain things in his life as he ran. Oddly, the main point he saw was Dumbledore. He wondered how he could have felt and said such terrible things to the man he wanted to become. He came to that thought as well. Though he loved his father and his godfather very much he had long felt that Dumbledore was simply the greatest man he had ever met. He was also at the same time feeling very angry towards him and blaming him. His emotions were torn and he fought both sides of his feelings. But mostly as he ran he thought of nothing.
That night Harry ate dinner and studied his books for several hours as he had nothing to do until the Dursleys went to sleep. Once they had gone to bed he went silently outside the house and pounded the bag until nearly sunup.
*****************
Harry's routine continued in this manner for weeks. He would awaken and workout as hard as he could until he could not move anymore and then he would study until his mind could no longer process the words on the page. He had been fairly consistent in owling those whom he needed to but other than some very terse correspondence he had been completely tacit.
It seemed that though his 'watchers' as he referred to them in his mind had come to understand his letters and did n push him. He had already ordered the necessary books for the semester and had actually completed all of is assignments just a week after he had received the books. In order to occupy himself he had bought books on dueling and Quiditch and memorized them all already. He had, in fact gone through every book he owned memorizing their contents and trying to put his mind off other things. One o the most useful books he had gotten actually had been an in depth and technical book on Occlumency and Legilimency. Until he had mastered the Occlumency strategies in the book his dreams would continue.
One night he would be back in the Department of Mysteries and Voldemort would go over his plan step by step and would play Sirius' murder over and over. He would laugh at Harry and then tell him that his friends were next. Those 'insufferable muggle-loving fools' he would say, they are going to die terrible deaths. The kind that even me tremble. in delight. Then that inhuman crackle would bring him back to his own pained and miserable reality.
However after even the first day of study of the text he was able to find some relief. He was gradually able to meditate every night before he slept. It was actually quite easy to clear his mind and he was gradually becoming more even tempered. This was partly because he was always both hungry and in some degree of exhaustion. However he had a perspective on things that was becoming clearer by the day. Seeing his uncle, no godfather die had done something to Harry. It had not eased his anger by any stretch of the imagination nor had it alleviated any of his hate, it might have increased on the contrary. Yet his hatred had become honed. It was Voldemort, the scourge of humankind. That hatred was as an inner flame for Harry. He could feel the fire burning in his heart. It had taken a month to melt him and finally break him down.
Just days before his birthday it had truly come to pass that Harry understood his purpose. He knew what he had to do. The full gravity of the Prophesy, and its full effect on himself, those he loved so dearly, and the entire world feel into him. As the tears began to fall on his cheeks the fire that had been building within him was allowed to consume his insides and melted his being. As he came to the verge of madness and suicide it was as if the calming truth that he now accepted, that defining vice of fate had brought a new man in Harry. Or more like it brought out the man in Harry. He took a hold of the fire inside of him held the molten soul within his hands and in a great epiphany of mind and heart molded the Harry Potter he was into the Harry Potter he was to become. Not Voldemort, not Sirius, not his father, not Dumbledore, but Harry James Potter master of his own will, son of a murdered father, brother to murdered sisters, friend of a murdered comrade, heir of a prophesy that assured him a chance to avenge his stolen childhood, to reclaim the joy that had left the world because of the evil one. And he would have his vengeance in his own life or the next.
With this thought he felt something from his link with Voldemort that he had only felt once before in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic, when the Killing Curse meant for him was blocked by the great bronze statue, he had felt Voldemort's fear. Voldemort's puny, ball-less fears for himself. Even as he pondered such a fear he knew that he would not likely feel it again. For all he had to lose were those he loved, he himself was very expendable. Yet even as he thought it over he knew the reason for Voldemort's fear. Dumbledore. Voldemort feared great power. He was alive once more, both the old Harry but a new Harry, alive because of Sirius' and his mother's, even Cedric's sacrifices and his heart, his love was at one time more wonderful and terrifying than anything he knew. As those strangely familiar words echoed in his head, in his newly wrought heart he felt the love and passion clearly, it enveloped him like a burst of flame so hot that nothing could withstand it. And he knew something that made him sleep more soundly and restfully than he could ever remember. "Voldemort knows fear." He thought, "And I going to embody that fear."
********************
Harry awoke after his epiphany with something that he had never felt before in his short life. He had a purpose, not like the times when he had to save his friends or his loved ones, but a purpose in the world for his life. It was like Hagrid had come to rescue him all over again. He could easily remember when the giant man had knocked down the door like it was a piece of plywood. His wild hair. His warm smile. Harry's personal savior. Then he thought back to the last thing he had said to Hagrid before leaving for the summer. How could he have been so unfeeling towards Hagrid when the man had been so wonderful to Harry in the past. He was even trying to help Harry in his own way. Harry knew that he would have to some how make amends with his truly largest friend.
He thought back on that time when he was so young, pure, and stupid. When things had been so easy, and so much fun. He knew now why Dumbledore had not told him. He now felt even worse. His mood had gone from delightedness in his own epiphany to complete shame for his horrible actions and words. His reaction to Dumbledore finally treating him like an adult, finally giving him some responsibility and trust was to have a childish temper tantrum. In his position he could only hope that his friends and mentors would be able to forgive him for his stupidity. He had almost begun to owl all of them but just as quickly decided that he would rather ask for forgiveness in person.
After brushing up on the studying he had already done he went out into the afternoon heat to run. He had run ten miles and was nearing the final leg that would bring him back to the Dursley's when he felt as if someone was watching him. He did not slow down, merely sprinting the last quarter mile home and hoping no one would curse him in the back. In a few moments he made it to the Dursley's doorstep and then turned and looked around.
When he heard the tell-tale 'pop' of apparition he dove inside the door and locked it. Looking out the peephole he caught a glimpse of someone in the bushes. There was a hint of that tattered cloak Harry knew so well. He quickly opened the door and sprinted to the bush where Lupin was hiding and dove into it grabbing his old teacher by the collar while he did with a somewhat mischievous grin on his face.
"Bloody Hell Harry!, you scared me half to death!" Lupin yelped with a smile on his face.
The sky looked unnatural at the witching hour, so dark and still, glittering with the sparse suburban starscape, and yet the bright moon illuminated the world with its cool light so much that it was like daylight. Under the light of the summer's brightest moon sat a young man. A passerby would probably have wondered why he sat hidden amongst some bushes at the rear of his house, Number Four Privet Drive, saying nothing, motionless, not seeming to be waiting for anything, at midnight.
But that was no one about, which the young boy, one Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the orphaned, the godfather-less, the misunderstood, the marked man, could not have been happier about. He could be happier about nearly every other facet of his life however. His family, or rather his unfortunate lack there of, could offer no reassurance as his completely consuming guilt and sorrow drug him lower and deeper into a state of absolute depression and despair.
In his world, or actually the wizarding world as he had fallen into something of another, even darker reality due to the recent loss of his beloved godfather Sirius, Harry was extremely famous. His claim to fame originally was his amazing defeat of the great Lord Voldemort, made even more astonishing because of the fact that he was a baby at the time, he had indeed been in his crib just a few feet away from his mother's lifeless body when the Dark Lord fell victim to his own curse. In doing so he also sealed his own fate becoming the prophesied opposition to Voldemort, bound either to murder or die by the hand of his ruthless, inhuman enemy.
Though torn apart spiritually and psychologically, Harry did not cry. He actually looked stone faced his green eyes showing in their emerald depths nothing but loss. Remembering the night of the Sirius' death made him think back to other pain that he blamed himself for, Cedric's murder, Wormtail's escape, Quirell's death, all of the pain that the Death Eater's had caused since Harry had allowed Voldemort to regain his body. He felt a blow to his heart like a sledgehammer had crushed his chest as he realized that 'his' prophesy had killed his own parents. He knew it was his fault entirely and little he could think of made him want to disprove or dispel the notion. For a moment he pictured a knife, a long inanimate metal blade, sharp and unknowing. That could answer all his wishes, merely placing the blade to the soft skin of his wrists and pulling it to the bone would send him off to his godfather and his parents and he would be rid of this world. He thought of all of the people who would no longer be in danger because of him, Ron and his family, Hermione, every other Gryffindor for that matter.
From the back of his mind came a voice suddenly, a whisper, a voice that he hadn't heard for many months, it was singing or chanting, repeating its mantra,
"You might belong in Gryffindor,
where dwell the brave at heart." The song the sorting hat had sung his first year, he remembered being proud to be put in the house of the brave. Suddenly an image flashed in his mind of an old white haired man with twinkling eyes,
"It only put me in Gryffindor," Harry said in a defeated voice,
"because I asked not to go in Slytherin."
"Exactly, "said Dumbledore, beaming once more. "Which makes you
very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show
what we truly are, far more than our abilities."
Harry sat motionless in his chair, stunned.
"If you want proof, Harry, that you belong in Gryffindor, I suggest
you look more closely at this."
Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall's desk, picked up
the blood-stained silver sword, and handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry
turned it over, the rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw
the name engraved just below the hilt.
'Godric Gryffindor'
"Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the hat, Harry," said Dumbledore simply.
Harry considered this for a moment and suddenly felt very dirty and ashamed. He saw how selfishness could pervade him. How brave, Harry sardonically muttered, kill myself to be away from the pain. And then in a rush the loving faces of Ron and Hermione came unbidden to his eyes. He closed them as he thought of how he had been with his friends. He nearly wept for self-loathing as he thought of how he had treated them, and how much their pain would hurt him. How close he had brought them to their deaths and how their deaths would end him. This thought brought the gravity of suicide, no one but Harry could stop Voldemort. His suicide would bring terror pain and tragedy to his family and the entire world. In a moment he could hardly stand his thoughts just a minute before. And what did he care about Quirell, he did nothing to stop Voldemort only helping out of ambition. 'Fuck him' he made his choice. This brought the Dumbledore's words back to him about choice. It had been his parents' choice not to give him over to Voldemort, Wormtail's to betray them, Voldemort's to kill them.
Suddenly Harry had the realization that Voldemort, the embodiment of depravation and human weaknesses, the epitome and embracer of evil, was the reason for his pain. For the first time in his life he felt hatred, pure unadulterated hate, for himself and his actions, but mostly for Voldemort and the strife and evil that his nemesis had caused. The hate was so all consuming that he felt it burn. His body became hot, and infuriated him more. He began to get so hot that it felt like the hate was purifying him. It came to such a point that he wanted to howl, to roar until his throat bled.
Yet his remembrance of his environment stayed his voice. As he surveyed the yard from behind the small hedge he saw a new addition the back garden. On a thick wooden post towards the opposite edge of the yard hung a large canvas punching bag. It was shielded from its surrounding by several tall hedges on three sides.
Obviously the Dursleys had put it there to encourage Dudley to keep up his boxing. It was perfect, a nice dirt patch had been either worn or more likely made around it. Harry stood immediately and walked to the bag. He pushed it a little and finding it very heavy, he swung at it as hard as he could.
At four o'clock, Harry was completely exhausted, his arms hung limply at his sides and he was covered in sweat. His legs felt like tightening leg weight from his trying to 'dance' around the bag. For the first twenty-five minus or so Harry had simply hit the bag as hard and fast as he could before having to stop. He did not have very strong punching power but fairly fast hands. He also did not have very good technique, or good footwork. He was not actually a very good boxer but he felt much better after doing it. In fact in this state of complete exhaustion he felt content. Moreover when he was fighting he did not think about his dead godfather, or the Death Eaters, or Wormtail. In fact all he thought about was how much he hated Voldemort and put this hatred into every punch.
As he dragged himself up the stairs, he decided that he liked to box and wanted to get better at it. It was the first happy thought that he had since he got back from Hogwarts. As he fell asleep there was nothing in his mind and he felt good. His sleep was without dreams.
Harry awoke the next morning with the hatred brewing in his heart like fire. When he got down stairs Aunt Petunia berated him for his sleeping habits.
"You should get up like a normal person," his aunt said condescendingly. Dudley wasn't up yet either. " Surely those. your kind don't sit around all the time, no matter how lazy they might be. Now be happy with your lunch and get out of my house. Don't come back until supper and be happy you are getting that. And tell those friends of yours that you are okay. What would the neighbors think if they came around in the day time!"
With that Aunt Petunia handed him a piece of bread, a slice of ham and a boiled egg. He ate them greedily and left out the back. Dumbledore had not told him to stay inside his house yet so Harry took the opportunity to start running. He thought it would be a good way to improve his foot work. He had come to the conclusion that physical activity was to be the way that he would approach his hate and sadness.
His mind would occasionally flicker upon certain things in his life as he ran. Oddly, the main point he saw was Dumbledore. He wondered how he could have felt and said such terrible things to the man he wanted to become. He came to that thought as well. Though he loved his father and his godfather very much he had long felt that Dumbledore was simply the greatest man he had ever met. He was also at the same time feeling very angry towards him and blaming him. His emotions were torn and he fought both sides of his feelings. But mostly as he ran he thought of nothing.
That night Harry ate dinner and studied his books for several hours as he had nothing to do until the Dursleys went to sleep. Once they had gone to bed he went silently outside the house and pounded the bag until nearly sunup.
*****************
Harry's routine continued in this manner for weeks. He would awaken and workout as hard as he could until he could not move anymore and then he would study until his mind could no longer process the words on the page. He had been fairly consistent in owling those whom he needed to but other than some very terse correspondence he had been completely tacit.
It seemed that though his 'watchers' as he referred to them in his mind had come to understand his letters and did n push him. He had already ordered the necessary books for the semester and had actually completed all of is assignments just a week after he had received the books. In order to occupy himself he had bought books on dueling and Quiditch and memorized them all already. He had, in fact gone through every book he owned memorizing their contents and trying to put his mind off other things. One o the most useful books he had gotten actually had been an in depth and technical book on Occlumency and Legilimency. Until he had mastered the Occlumency strategies in the book his dreams would continue.
One night he would be back in the Department of Mysteries and Voldemort would go over his plan step by step and would play Sirius' murder over and over. He would laugh at Harry and then tell him that his friends were next. Those 'insufferable muggle-loving fools' he would say, they are going to die terrible deaths. The kind that even me tremble. in delight. Then that inhuman crackle would bring him back to his own pained and miserable reality.
However after even the first day of study of the text he was able to find some relief. He was gradually able to meditate every night before he slept. It was actually quite easy to clear his mind and he was gradually becoming more even tempered. This was partly because he was always both hungry and in some degree of exhaustion. However he had a perspective on things that was becoming clearer by the day. Seeing his uncle, no godfather die had done something to Harry. It had not eased his anger by any stretch of the imagination nor had it alleviated any of his hate, it might have increased on the contrary. Yet his hatred had become honed. It was Voldemort, the scourge of humankind. That hatred was as an inner flame for Harry. He could feel the fire burning in his heart. It had taken a month to melt him and finally break him down.
Just days before his birthday it had truly come to pass that Harry understood his purpose. He knew what he had to do. The full gravity of the Prophesy, and its full effect on himself, those he loved so dearly, and the entire world feel into him. As the tears began to fall on his cheeks the fire that had been building within him was allowed to consume his insides and melted his being. As he came to the verge of madness and suicide it was as if the calming truth that he now accepted, that defining vice of fate had brought a new man in Harry. Or more like it brought out the man in Harry. He took a hold of the fire inside of him held the molten soul within his hands and in a great epiphany of mind and heart molded the Harry Potter he was into the Harry Potter he was to become. Not Voldemort, not Sirius, not his father, not Dumbledore, but Harry James Potter master of his own will, son of a murdered father, brother to murdered sisters, friend of a murdered comrade, heir of a prophesy that assured him a chance to avenge his stolen childhood, to reclaim the joy that had left the world because of the evil one. And he would have his vengeance in his own life or the next.
With this thought he felt something from his link with Voldemort that he had only felt once before in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic, when the Killing Curse meant for him was blocked by the great bronze statue, he had felt Voldemort's fear. Voldemort's puny, ball-less fears for himself. Even as he pondered such a fear he knew that he would not likely feel it again. For all he had to lose were those he loved, he himself was very expendable. Yet even as he thought it over he knew the reason for Voldemort's fear. Dumbledore. Voldemort feared great power. He was alive once more, both the old Harry but a new Harry, alive because of Sirius' and his mother's, even Cedric's sacrifices and his heart, his love was at one time more wonderful and terrifying than anything he knew. As those strangely familiar words echoed in his head, in his newly wrought heart he felt the love and passion clearly, it enveloped him like a burst of flame so hot that nothing could withstand it. And he knew something that made him sleep more soundly and restfully than he could ever remember. "Voldemort knows fear." He thought, "And I going to embody that fear."
********************
Harry awoke after his epiphany with something that he had never felt before in his short life. He had a purpose, not like the times when he had to save his friends or his loved ones, but a purpose in the world for his life. It was like Hagrid had come to rescue him all over again. He could easily remember when the giant man had knocked down the door like it was a piece of plywood. His wild hair. His warm smile. Harry's personal savior. Then he thought back to the last thing he had said to Hagrid before leaving for the summer. How could he have been so unfeeling towards Hagrid when the man had been so wonderful to Harry in the past. He was even trying to help Harry in his own way. Harry knew that he would have to some how make amends with his truly largest friend.
He thought back on that time when he was so young, pure, and stupid. When things had been so easy, and so much fun. He knew now why Dumbledore had not told him. He now felt even worse. His mood had gone from delightedness in his own epiphany to complete shame for his horrible actions and words. His reaction to Dumbledore finally treating him like an adult, finally giving him some responsibility and trust was to have a childish temper tantrum. In his position he could only hope that his friends and mentors would be able to forgive him for his stupidity. He had almost begun to owl all of them but just as quickly decided that he would rather ask for forgiveness in person.
After brushing up on the studying he had already done he went out into the afternoon heat to run. He had run ten miles and was nearing the final leg that would bring him back to the Dursley's when he felt as if someone was watching him. He did not slow down, merely sprinting the last quarter mile home and hoping no one would curse him in the back. In a few moments he made it to the Dursley's doorstep and then turned and looked around.
When he heard the tell-tale 'pop' of apparition he dove inside the door and locked it. Looking out the peephole he caught a glimpse of someone in the bushes. There was a hint of that tattered cloak Harry knew so well. He quickly opened the door and sprinted to the bush where Lupin was hiding and dove into it grabbing his old teacher by the collar while he did with a somewhat mischievous grin on his face.
"Bloody Hell Harry!, you scared me half to death!" Lupin yelped with a smile on his face.