Title: Harry Potter and the Werewolf of Azkaban

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, settings or anything else from Harry Potter.

Warnings: AU

Chapter Six

It snowed during the night, and Harry lay awake for a long time watching the fat heavy flakes bump against the window. When he woke up in the morning the world was white as far as he could see, and Hogwarts seemed like a tiny island adrift on a vast sea of snow.

Breakfast, but he didn't feel like eating. Ron and Hermione cast worried glances at each other that they thought he couldn't see, and Harry was grateful for them, but couldn't tear his mind away from the letter he would have to write soon. He was a jumble of feelings, none of them making enough sense to put into words. Anger, betrayal, hurt, all these, but also sympathy and other feelings that just didn't seem right after what he'd learned the night before.

How could Sirius do this to him? How could Harry himself be so stupid

A noise distracted him and he looked up from his cold, barely-touched toast to see the owls swooping into the Great Hall. Sirius' owl was among them.

Rover came to a messy landing right on Harry's toast, which he wasted no time in devouring. Harry took the letter from its leg, recognising his godfather's scruffy scrawl on the address, and was about to open it when another owl crashed onto the table before him.

The tiny owl hooted shrilly, flapping its wings with nervous energy so hard that it almost hovered above the table. It was unfamiliar, but did not wear the mark of a post office owl around its leg.

"Not me," Harry told it. "I don't know you. You want someone else."

Hoot! Hoot! The owl hopped closer. Rover looked up from his meal and gave it a contemptuous glare.

Harry, curious, looked at the address on the letter attached to the owl's leg. Harry Potter, Hogwarts, in a neat, even hand. He unfastened the clasp which secured it and examined the envelope. It was plain but for the address and the words open in private on the other side. Strange.

"Who's it from?" Ron asked.

"I don't know," Harry replied, frowning. "I don't recognise the handwriting."

"Open it," said Hermione.

"It says 'open in private'," said Harry. "You don't think it's from the Ministry, do you? About my aunt?"

"Ministry owls are...not like that one," Ron said, indicating the tiny creature that was flying in fast, tight circles around the pitcher of orange juice, drawing many oohs and awws from the girls at the table. "Anyway, you said Fudge had sorted all that out."

"Well then, let's see what Sirius has got to say first." Harry opened the letter.

Harry,

How was Hogsmeade? Brilliant, I bet. Try not to get into too much trouble with all those Zonko's that I bet you've spent most of your money on, and even if you do, don't worry, because you're coming to spend Christmas with me this year! The Weasleys are coming too, so we'll have a full house. Ask Hermione if she wants to stay as well.

Can't wait to see you again, Harry. It's going to be the best Christmas ever, I promise.

Sirius

Harry wanted to be angry with Sirius. He'd spent the whole night being angry, burning inside with the unfairness of it all; but now, reading Sirius' words and seeing how excited he was, he remembered the first time he'd met him, and all the times they'd spent together since. It was difficult.

"Well?" Hermione prompted. "What does it say?"

"Says we're spending Christmas at his place this year," Harry said, passing the letter to Ron. "You're invited too, Hermione."

"Sounds like he's looking forward to it," said Ron. "That'll be good. Unless you aren't speaking to him because of yesterday?"

"I don't know. Part of me wants to write to him, because it's...it's just easier. Part of me thinks I should wait until I see him."

"He might be able to explain why he did it," Hermione suggested. "Give him a chance."

"I know, I know, but still..." Harry took the letter back and folded it neatly, holding it tightly in his hand. "I don't know. I don't feel like I know anything anymore." He sighed.

"Well, what about the other letter?" Hermione prodded.

"It says 'Open in private'."

"Well, we're not going to tell anyone are we? Come on, Harry It might be important."

Something in the writing, the way each firm black letter was exactly proportionate to the ones before and after it, something in the evenness of it, something that familiar without being recognisable. Harry regarded the letter intently, hardly hearing Hermione.

"No," he said at last. "No, it's my letter. I'll open it later."

"But, Harry-"

"Hermione, no," he snapped. "It's my letter, it's addressed to me, not to you or Ron. I'll open it when I want to."

Hermione blinked, looking hurt. "A-alright," she said. "If that's what you want to do. I haven't got time, anyway. I've got to go and do my homework." She got up a little more quickly than usual and left, without looking back.

Ron just sat and looked uncomfortable, and Harry wished that he hadn't been so snappish with them. It was just...everything.

He tucked the letter into his robes.

"We'd better do our homework, too," he said a little awkwardly, standing up. "I don't want to give Snape another chance to take points off us."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, but his voice was stiff and slightly distant.

Harry felt guilt settle in his belly, joining the myriad other emotions he was struggling with. Great, he thought. As if things couldn't get any worse.

He turned to leave, and as he did he glanced over at the Slytherin table. He started. Draco Malfoy's eyes were on him like headlights, like a physical force, practically spitting sparks of such sheer hatred that Harry almost stepped back from the force of it, but then Goyle muttered something in Malfoy's ear and Draco turned away, leaving Harry staring rather stupidly at the Slytherin table until Pansy Parkinson made a rude gesture at him and Ron dragged him away.

Open in private.

The letter sat on the table next to a stack of textbooks and great heaps of parchment. Harry was supposed to be working on his Potions essay, but his eyes kept slipping from the facts and figures to the letter. The letter. He had to open it.

Ron was bent low over his essay, frowning with concentration and angrily crossing out a word or a quantity here and there; he wouldn't notice if Harry stopped working for a moment. The letter couldn't be long, he reasoned, it would be the work of a moment to scan over it. It couldn't be that important, probably just junk mail - did wizards get junk mail? he wondered idly - or something like that.

He glanced at Ron, who was still absorbed in copying down some notes from the textbook. Harry seized his chance and took up the letter, ripping open the envelope and spreading the thin sheet of paper over his own essay, bending over it so that it would look as if he were working on it.

Didn't I tell you that you'd hear from me?

A chill ran the length of Harry's spine, and the Common Room seemed to recede from his awareness so that he was absorbed wholly in the letter.

Don't worry. I'm nowhere near Hogwarts now. You're safe from me - not that you were ever in any danger, but I suppose your godfather has told you differently. A full moon is coming up and I must get to a safe place, safe for myself and for others. I wouldn't wish my curse on anyone.

But I digress. I wanted to continue our conversation near the Shack. I was sorry when we were so rudely interrupted by Mister Malfoy. I wonder if he is anything like his father - I suppose so, or he wouldn't be after you as he is. I heard him talking to you after I left. I wouldn't worry too much about a Malfoy; they talk a good threat, but are fundamentally cowards, as bullies generally are. Dudley Dursley, for example?

I must admit you startled me when you pulled out that old map. I hadn't seen it in such a long time, and it brought back memories. Difficult memories. We must talk about it at some time.

If you want to write back to me, send the letter with the little owl it came with. He will stay around the school until you call for him. His name is Pigwidgeon, which I assure you I did not choose myself. Don't think of telling anyone, Harry, because they won't find me. But I don't think you will anyway, will you? You wouldn't have come to meet me at the Shack if you wanted them to catch me.

I hope to hear from you soon. Until then, keep well.

Remus J. Lupin.

Harry sat feeling as though he'd just woken up from something like a nightmare. Hogwarts was safe, he knew that logically, but in his gut for the first time he was /afraid, afraid that someone from outside could get in.

He should tell Sirius this. He should tell Dumbledore. He should tell somebody.

And admit that he'd gone to see Remus outside the Shack? Admit that he'd actually spoken to the man who had betrayed his parents?

"Are you alright?" Ron was looking at him in concern.

Harry wrestled a moment with the selfish impulse to say that he was fine, to keep this secret for himself. Guilt washed through him, though, and he handed over the letter. Ron read over it quickly, and his face grew darker with every line. Finally he set it down and said,

"Bloody hell."

Harry couldn't have put it better himself, and smiled at Ron's outburst.

"Seriously, Harry, bloody hell. You've got to tell someone."

"I can't. Then they'll know that I went looking for him."

"What are you going to do, then?"

Harry turned the letter over in his hands. It felt wrong, to be holding something written by the hands that had killed his parents. Or rather, it didn't feel wrong. He felt guilty for not feeling guilty, for not experiencing that rushing hatred that he was so sure he should feel towards a werewolf and a murderer and a follower of Lord Voldemort.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I...I'm not going to tell anyone, I don't think."

"You're not going to write back, though?"

"No," Harry scoffed, but in the back of his mind was that self-same idea. He could find Lupin through these letters. He could...he could...go up against a Death Eater, the slaughterer of thirteen Muggles and one wizard with a single curse?

Ron was looking at him closely. "You are going to write back."

"I'm not!"

"I know you, mate. You're thinking that you could take him yourself. Don't, Harry. Tell Dumbledore or something. Let other people handle it, just this once."

"What, let the man - the werewolf - who betrayed my parents get away? He'll get away, Ron. I won't let him get away. If I could, I'd...I'd-"

"Kill him?"

Harry looked at Ron in shock. Put like that, so bluntly, it sounded horrifying, but he couldn't deny that that had been the spirit of his plan, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it.

"How would that make you any different from him?" Ron went on, and Harry wondered from where Ron was pulling this sense, this wisdom, in a way.

"It would be different," he insisted. Ron was quiet. Their forgotten homework lay spread between them, suddenly childish and insignificant, something wholly out of place amid talk of werewolves and betrayers and murder.

"Harry," Ron said at last, "do you remember the first Divination lesson, when Trelawney said you had the Grim in your cup?"

Harry nodded. It had seemed funny at the time, wild-eyed Trelawney peering tragically at him over those ridiculous spectacles.

"Well," Ron continued, "don't you think you'd better be careful? McGonagall said that none of Trelawney's other students have died but none of them were you, were they? None of them had insane murderers writing letters to them. I'm just saying," he finished, "that I think you need to be more careful than before."

Harry wanted to make a flippant comment and brush Ron's fears away like something funny or stupid, but the truth of the matter was that Ron, by some strange quirk of circumstances, was making sense.

"You've been hanging around Hermione too much," he said, with a smile which was rather weaker than he'd intended.

"Oh, what have I done now?" Hermione groaned, coming up and dropping gratefully into the free chair at the table. "Haven't you done any work?" she observed, glancing over Harry's essay. "You've spelt that wrong. It's one l, not two. And you only need three doses of dragon's blood, not thirty, Ron. I've been working hard all day, and not just on schoolwork," she added cryptically. "I- what's wrong? You look like you've seen a banshee." She glanced from Harry to Ron and back again, her own expression of triumph fading into concern.

Ron glanced at Harry and shrugged, as if to say, you tell her, it's nothing to do with me. Harry felt again the selfish temptation to keep the letter a secret, but again he handed it over, and looked away to the fireplace while Hermione read. A couple of first-years were huddled around the bright glow, and Harry felt a memory tug at the back of his mind, of a name and footsteps on the Map, but he got no further. Hermione was a fast reader, and before he could follow that niggling thought any further she had finished the letter and was staring at Harry in abject horror.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed. "Have you told Dumbledore?"

"No! Why does everybody think I should tell Dumbledore? What could he do about it?" Harry snapped in more irritation than he felt.

"Well, the owl obviously knows where he is, doesn't it? Dumbledore could track it back to wherever Lupin is hiding, and with the full moon coming up it's the perfect time, isn't it? Lupin says himself that he won't leave his hiding place for fear of attacking someone in his werewolf form. The Ministry could wait and capture him after the transformation, when he's still weak."

"You," Ron said admiringly, "are a bloody genius, Hermione."

Hermione looked pleased at the praise.

"Why is he so afraid of killing someone as a werewolf?" Harry mused out loud, deliberately changing the subject. "If he's that bad, why would he care?"

"Because he's a raving loony?" Ron suggested, dryly.

"Actually, there's a lot of things that don't make sense about Lupin. I was reading about him in the library." Hermione reached into her overstuffed book-bag and pulled out a roll of parchment written completely over with notes in her neat handwriting. "I was reading about his trial - Lucius Malfoy was there, by the way, which is how Draco must know about it - and you know, there are things which just don't make sense."

"Lot's of things don't make sense around homicidal maniacs," Ron muttered.

"Do you know that nobody actually saw Lupin perform the curse?"

"Apart from a streetful of Muggles, you mean?"

"How would the Muggles know a curse when they see one?" Hermione said dismissively. "Listen to this: There were two men, and then there were words - I couldn't understand them - and the street - it was like an explosion, like a bomb, only...only...and then the smaller man, he was gone, and the tall man was laughing. That's from one Muggle. That's not proof."

"Hermione, it says there were words, an explosion, and one less man. It's proof!"

"It doesn't say who said the words, does it? And it doesn't say what happened to Peter Pettigrew's body."

"The finger in the box?"

"Why a finger? Doesn't that seem like a strange thing to have survived when nothing else did?"

"He betrayed my parents and you're trying to clear his name," Harry said suddenly. His tone was carefully blank.

Hermione's face fell. "Harry, I didn't mean..."

"He killed my parents. He killed Pettigrew. I don't know why you have to try and be cleverer than everyone all the time, Hermione. A whole court full of senior wizards and you still think you know best!"

Hermione's eyes were wide and filling with tears. "Harry, I'm sorry, I don't...I didn't mean..."

"Come on, Harry. She didn't mean anything by it," Ron broke in gently.

Harry rubbed at his eyes angrily. He was tired and nothing made sense, yet again. Why couldn't anything ever make sense?

"Okay," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm just - tired."

"Harry, I can't imagine what you must be feeling. I'm really sorry," Hermione said. "But please - please - tell Dumbledore about the letter. Please?"

"I-" Harry didn't want to lie, not to his best friends. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'll tell him first thing tomorrow."

Hermione looked doubtful, but wise enough not to push the issue any further. Ron breathed a sigh and looked down at his unfinished homework, which he knew now would never get finished that night. They had enough on their plates. Again.

AN: Eee! Update in less than six months! Go me. does the dance of updating happiness

Ahem. Anway, you know my feelings about feedback, so dooo iiiit, dooo iiiiit.