The little bell above the door tinkled, signaling the arrival of a new customer. The tired looking man behind the bar looked up in surprise. He did not have customers very often anymore, besides the regulars, of course, and they were all already present, drowning their sorrows in firewhiskey in each remote corner of the darkened pub. The bartender, Matthias, studied the man in the door suspiciously. These were dark days and anyone could be an enemy. It had been two years since the famous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, had come face to face in combat with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It had been two years since You-Know-Who had staggered out of the house in Godric's Hollow, triumphant. And now, the wizarding world lived in fear, in terror, in constant preparation for death. Matthias shuddered a little as he continued to wipe out a dusty mug with an old rag, following the newcomer with watchful eyes. He was a scrawny man, appearing underfed, though most people were these days. His clothes were ragged and he wore many layers in an attempt to shut out the frigid North winds. As he settled on a stool, uncomfortably close to one of the usual blokes, and unwrapped the scarves from around his face, Matthias was struck by the gauntness of his cheeks, the scar that coursed its way across his chin, and the animal ferocity of his eyes.
"Can I get you anything?" Matthias asked the newcomer without a bit of the timidity he felt. He knew that a paying customer was a paying customer, and he could not afford to turn anyone away.
"An apple cider," the man growled, "please." Matthias was surprised by the politeness, despite the gruff tone. Matthias noticed the regular customer to the newcomer's left shudder a bit and stiffen at the man's tone of voice. The regular, who called himself "Tom," was quite the mysterious fellow himself. He was always bundled in multiple robes and scarves and other mismatched garments. This was not necessarily unusual considering the temperatures of Siberia, but the man never disrobed, no matter how warm the inside of the bar became. In fact, Matthias had not seen any of the man's actual body, aside from the grubby hand that clutched the steins of beer and those piercing green eyes. In fact, it had taken Matthias weeks of prying questions before the man had said to "call him Tom," although Matthias was quite suspicious that that was not his name at all.
Matthias listened carefully as he prepared the steaming apple cider for the newcomer, wondering if the two men would exchange words. When he turned back around, the newcomer's gray, wolf-like eyes were focused on the man next to him, who was refusing to meet his stare. When a bedraggled old witch, with bloodshot eyes, called him over, Matthias was forced to give up his position at the bar, leaving the two men to their own devices.
His sharp gray eyes studied the man next to him. He recognized the defeated hang of the head, the malnourished slump of the shoulders, and the loneliness in his eyes all too well. His eyes bored into the side of the man's head, willing him to look at him. It was not to be. Instead, the man cleared his throat.
"Can I help you?" The voice was foreign to him. Too cold, too rough. This was not the voice he had taught, not so very long ago, how to pronounce "Expecto patronum" just so.
"Do you not recognize me?" Lupin asked timidly, with those eyes still begging to be met. His neighbor shuffled again on the stool, not saying anything.
"How?" Harry asked. Lupin understood all that was unsaid. How did he find him? How did he know it was him? How are they? How many dead? So many questions that they choked him.
"Harry," Lupin said simply. It pained Harry to hear his name spoken again, after so long. "You've got to come back. You've got to help us. We've been forced into hiding. We're living like animals. We need you. We all need you." Lupin's voice shook with pain and emotion. Harry appeared unmoved, but inside he was melting. All his defenses, all his walls and barriers, everything was sliding away, pooling down at his feet, which had begun to shake.
"I can't," Harry said simply. It seemed even the slightest word caused great pain to pronounce.
"You won't," Lupin answered back. He had been here before. He'd been to the edge, looking over into Hell, willing himself to fall in. He'd been brought back from that place, and he must do it now for Harry. He had to. "Harry please. Not for us, but for you. You need this. You need to come back. You need to know that people still care. No one cares what happened back then. The only thing that matters is the future. We have the chance to fix things. We can't let it slip away again," Lupin pleaded. Harry still refused to meet his eye and took a deep gulp of ale. Lupin placed his bone-thin hand upon Harry's arm and felt the other man jump beneath him. It had been a long time since anyone else had touched Harry. The idea of another person talking to him, touching him, treating him like a human being was almost too much for Harry to handle.
Lupin understood how Harry felt. There were times after Hogwarts, after Lily and James' deaths, that he would go months without speaking to another human being. He would hide away in abandon caves, sometimes even holes in the ground, from full moon to full moon, waiting for his time to run free, cavorting with other werewolves, and when he returned to his isolation, he would be thinner, older, sadder than before. It was a slow but steady means to an end; death. He imagined death came even quicker here in the arctic, where a man's blood never really ran warm, and he would be damned if he left Harry there to waste away.
"Please will you think about it?" Lupin entreated. Harry made no response so he continued, "Think about it, and if you decided to come, meet me in front of this pub tomorrow morning at 9. The train leaves at 9:30, Harry. Don't be late." With that, Lupin dropped a galleon on the bar, donned his scarves and hat and mittens, and left the little pub. He could feel Harry's eyes on his back as he left and knew he would come.