Black Letters
By Neurotica
Three: Night Caps and Midnight Meetings
Sitting alone in the basement kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmuald Place, Remus Lupin rubbed his eyes tiredly. It was the middle of the night and he still couldn't sleep. The past few weeks had been Remus' definition of hell. First losing the last true friend he had in the world, and now dealing with Voldemort.
Like Harry, he had been reluctant to return to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, but he really had no other place to go. He'd sold his childhood home in the woods to move in there with Sirius and to buy them both some much needed clothes.
Kingsley Shacklebolt had offered Remus a guest bedroom in his home just outside London, but the werewolf kindly refused. He couldn't afford to pay Kingsley rent, and he would never freeload off a friend.
Sirius had been a different story. He flat out refused to return to Number Twelve if Remus didn't come with him. Sirius said there was no reason for his friend to Apparate every time the Order met. It was a lame excuse, and Remus suspected Sirius just didn't want to be alone in his childhood home. Remus didn't blame him one bit, and if he was honest with himself – which he usually was – it was good to have someone to spend his days with. No, it was great.
For over a year, they'd gotten reacquainted with one another. They'd grown used to each other's annoying little habits. Like how Remus had to have his newspaper folded neatly in the mornings, or how Sirius would crack his knuckles when it got too quiet. Overall, it was going quite well in Remus' opinion. Until, of course, that night.
Also like Harry, Remus visited that night in his dreams. He woke up finding it difficult to breath, and would need to go for a walk to clear his thoughts. It wasn't easy losing a friend, and it was worse losing a friend twice.
When Sirius had been taken to Azkaban, another part of Remus died. The Marauders had been so close up until a few months before it all happened, and Remus couldn't wrap his mind around why Sirius would betray them. No one loved the Potters more than Sirius – not even Remus could claim that. Sirius would have died protecting them, and, in the end, he did.
"Morning, Lupin," said a deep voice from behind him.
The werewolf turned in surprise, not because somebody was in the house- people filed in and out all day, everyday. Remus was surprised that somebody was still awake at this ungodly hour.
"Hello, Kingsley," Remus said.
Kingsley collapsed, exhausted, in a chair next to Remus. "I've forgotten how busy the Ministry is when there's a war going on," he commented casually as if they were merely discussing the weather.
Remus chuckled. "I can imagine."
"You see Harry today?"
"Yes."
"How is he?"
"Miserable. He didn't come out and say it, but you can see it in his eyes," Remus said.
Kingsley nodded. "Since we're both wide awake as it seems, would you care for a night cap?"
"Absolutely," Remus said, summoning two glasses and a full bottle of Firewhiskey from a cabinet.
Harry stared wide-eyed at the third letter he'd received from the mysterious writer. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what was going on. It had been a week since he'd received the last one, but instead of requesting food, or suggesting Harry get some sleep, this one asked for something different.
'Meet me in the park at Midnight.'
Now, we all know that Harry James Potter is not stupid by any means. He's made mistakes, yes, terrible mistakes, but everyone makes mistakes. And Harry learned tough lessons from those mistakes.
Regardless of his past experiences, Harry found himself looking from the untidy black scrawl to his bedside clock. 10:47, it read.
Did he dare? He had to admit to himself that he was curious to find out who was sending him one-lined notes. Who would possibly want to meet him in a dark park at midnight? That was easy to answer: Voldemort and his Death Eaters… They all wanted him dead. But they couldn't touch him in the sanctuary of his mother's blood… right?
The handwriting looked familiar, but perhaps that was only because he'd received two previous letters. He knew it wasn't one of his friends; Ron's writing was far worse, and Hermione's was always perfectly neat. It wasn't Lupin – his was as neat as Hermione's.
The only person the writing partially reminded Harry of was Sirius, and that was so far fetched even the bloody Boy-Who-Lived wouldn't think about it for more than a second.
Making a reckless decision, Harry went to his Hogwarts trunk and pulled out his father's old Invisibility Cloak. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.
He tiptoed down the stairs, being sure to jump over the creaking one at the bottom, and headed out the front door. With the cloak covering his entire body, Harry went to the park, and waited. The second hand wristwatch he'd gotten off Dudley because it seemed to grow too small for his cousin said it was 11:58.
For two minutes he waited on top of a slide. Harry's eyes grew wide in anticipation, his wand grasped tightly in his hand, as he watched a large black shape emerge from the bushes.
