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 Eight

It was hard to say goodbye to Sirius after the Christmas holidays had ended, and hard to settle back into the rhythm of the school day. He found his attention drifting far oftener than it was focused on whatever the teacher was droning on about. The only lesson in which he paid close attention was Defence Against the Dark Arts, and then only because he didn't want to miss any tidbits of information Professor Fell might drop about Lupin. He was always disappointed, though: she seemed to have been warned off the subject of werewolves entirely, and though her lessons were always interesting he found himself unable to drum up much enthusiasm for Kelpies or Hinkypunks.

He hadn't gone to Dumbledore with the picture, or the two letters that he kept hidden at the very bottom of his school trunk.

He'd meant to, even got so far as to stand outside the office door and run through two or three of the more popular Muggle sweets before he realised that he didn't want to go to Dumbledore. Was it misplaced loyalty? An overdeveloped hero-complex? Whatever it was, it told him to keep the letters and picture to himself. After all, what could Lupin possibly do to Harry when he was in school? Dumbledore didn't have to know about particular dangers in order to protect him; surely it was enough to be inside Hogwarts.

So it was that Harry would often find himself waking in the middle of the night to hunt through the mess of his trunk, pulling out the picture; the faded, dog-eared picture. He would watch it for hours while his father smiled and waved, his hair messy and being ruffled into further spikes by Sirius, but mostly he would study the thin, scarred face of the young Remus Lupin. He would try to detect in the pale face some hint of what he would become: some edge to his quiet smile, some spark in his eyes. There was never anything; Remus Lupin at that age was as innocent as any of them.

It was when he was studying the picture one night that there came a soft tapping at the window. Harry knew immediately what it would be, and he was right: little Pigwidgeon was shivering on the outside cill, fluttering his tiny wings. This time Harry knew better than to let him in, and when he went to open the window he made sure that he gripped the miniature owl tightly and took the letter from him there before whispering, "Go on, go to the Owlery." Pigwidgeon gave him a baleful glance but flapped off anyway, and Harry shut the window firmly.

"Wassat?" came a sleepy voice from the dormitory. "Harry? Wassamarrer?" It was Dean, lifting his head off the pillow and peering at Harry through sleep-slitted eyes.

"Nothing. I...needed some fresh air, that's all. Go back to sleep."

"Mmph," said Dean, flopping back into his blankets. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and padded back to bed.

He could see by the dim moonlight that Lupin's writing was as thin and weak as it had been at Christmas. Harry Potter, Hogwarts was so spindly that Harry could barely read it.

Harry,

I want to meet you again. In Hogsmeade. You know you've got nothing to fear from me, Harry. You know that. When you're in Hogsmeade next, I'll be waiting for you in the place you last saw me.

Please, Harry, I have to tell you something. It's very important.

Remus Lupin

Harry's heart beat hard as he read the letter. This isn't happening, this isn't happening. Why wouldn't Lupin leave him alone? Why would he keep sending letters, keep being polite and kind, keep acting for all the world like an innocent man when he'd betrayed Harry's parents, murdered thirteen people and was coming after Harry? He didn't write like a madman, hadn't acted like a madman. If Harry had not known about the murders, he would have thought him perfectly normal.

There had to be something more. Harry looked again at the picture, at the smiling boys. James Potter, messy-haired and smiling; Peter Pettigrew, golden-haired and chubby; Sirius Black, handsome and carefree; Remus Lupin, thin and scarred, but happy. There was more to it, there had to be. There had to be.

And almost before he knew it he was letters-in-hand down the corridor outside the Library, padding along under his father's cloak, the one that Sirius had handed to him at the station the first time he stepped onto the Hogwarts Express. He'd winked, and said, "I imagine you'll have just as much fun with this as your dad did." Guilt churned inside him as he remembered that, thinking what Sirius would say if he knew that his godson was doubting the convicted murderer and betrayer of his parents, Sirius' best friends.

Inside the Library, Harry began to wish he'd spent more time over his years at Hogwarts learning where the different kinds of books were kept. His usual research generally had nothing to do with schoolwork. He guessed, and began searching. There were plenty of books on werewolves, and many of them had chapters entirely devoted to Remus Lupin, citing him as an example of the vicious nature of all werewolves, and as proof of the need for stricter and stricter methods for their control - Harry was reminded of the day in Professor Fell's class - but none of them seemed to give even the briefest thought as to whether, perhaps, he might not be guilty. Harry was beginning to feel as though he was going mad to even think of the possibility of it when he discovered the book that Hermione had been talking about the night he'd snapped at her, the transcript of the court case involving Lupin.

He read through is rapidly - it wasn't long, the case was open-and-shut, it seemed. Harry found nothing of interest until the very end. There was a note, apparently written on as an afterthought by the stenographer - Lupin turns to public gallery, mouths a word - worm-something, wormtail?

Wormtail?

Harry looked at the picture in his hand, then turned it over. In pencil so faded the words were difficult to make out was written, 'Prongs, Wormtail, Padfoot, Moony'. He'd noticed the words before, and taken them as evidence of Lupin's madness, because they were nothing but nonsense to Harry. But what if they meant something?

And then another stab of inspiration sliced through Harry's skull: the Map, and Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. You didn't need to be Hermione to work it out now: they were nicknames. Moony - that one, at least, was obvious: the moon, and Lupin a werewolf. That meant the names were in order on the photograph, and that would make Wormtail Peter Pettigrew. Harry couldn't pretend to know what the other nicknames meant, but he felt like he'd suddenly been offered a revelation. Why would Lupin mouth 'Wormtail' to someone in the public gallery, when it was the name of a man he'd just murdered? It didn't make sense.

He found himself wondering when the next Hogsmeade weekend was.

Harry made it through the weeks leading up to the Hogsmeade weekend without being forced by Hermione to go to Dumbledore, or having to give up his new secret. Ron and Hermione suspected, he thought, from his distraction and the way he would often drift off into daydreams that he was loathe to explain when they shook him to attention again.

"Honestly, Harry," said Hermione one day, drenched in potion that Harry had caused to explode with an ill-timed ingredient, "the sooner they catch Lupin the better. You're in a world of your own these days."

"Are you alright, mate?" Ron asked him, on finding him awake at the window of their dormitory in the middle of the night.

"Oh, I'm fine," Harry said on both of these occasions, and countless others.

On the chilly, pale morning of the Hogsmeade visit he was even more distracted than ever. He wandered along in a kind of world of his own. Ron was saying something about Scabbers, and the pet shop in Hogsmeade. Harry found himself straying away from Hermione and Ron because he couldn't keep his mind even on walking with them. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron and Hermione giving each other concerned looks. Harry didn't care; all he could think about was Lupin waiting for him by the Shack. He was so engrossed in it that managed to crash straight into Draco Malfoy, tripping over his feet and bringing them both down into a tangle on the hard ground.

"Potter!" Draco snarled, hitting out at Harry as he tried to free himself. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I didn't do it on purpose," Harry spat back, annoyed at himself but mainly at Draco. "If you hadn't have been in my way it wouldn't have happened."

"If you're so stupid you can't even walk in a straight line I don't see why I'm to blame for it. Crabbe! Goyle!" The two bigger boys lumbered over, kicking Harry ruthlessly out of the way and hauling Draco to his feet. Malfoy brushed ineffectually at the mud spattered over his expensive robes and glowered at Harry. "You'll pay for that," he warned.

"What are you going to do," said Ron, reaching them at last, "fall on him?" Hermione reached down and pulled Harry up.

"Oh, here we go, Potter's loyal minions to the rescue. You're all pathetic," sneered Malfoy. "I hope Lupin rips you to shreds when he finds you. Or," he added with a sly grin, "when you find him, eh, Potter?"

"I don't know what you're on about," said Harry, heart thudding. "You're mental. Isn't it you who'd be more likely to go looking for Lupin? Like father like son, isn't it?"

"You leave my father out of it," Draco snarled. "At least I've got one."

Only Professor McGonagall's sudden presence saved Malfoy from another and rather more painful encounter with the ground. She appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, just in time to catch Harry lurch forward with Ron and Hermione each clinging to one of his arms to try and hold him back, and Draco shrinking back in fear behind Crabbe and Goyle.

"Potter!" she snapped. "What is going on here?"

"He's dangerous," Draco said. "He just attacked me!"

"He insulted Harry's father," Hermione countered, glaring at Malfoy. "And he-"

"I don't care!" McGonagall held up her hand for silence. "This feud is petty and ridiculous, and if you cannot control yourselves long enough to walk to Hogsmeade, then I think it will be best if neither of you are allowed the privilege. Do I make myself clear, Mr Malfoy? Mr Potter?"

Harry swallowed and nodded glumly. Ron and Hermione warily let go of his arms, staying close. Draco, flanked protectively by Crabbe and Goyle, nodded too, albeit reluctantly.

"Well then," McGonagall, giving the two a final disdainful glare. "Hurry along."

Harry was glad to oblige, stamping along furiously so that Ron and Hermione had a hard job to keep up with him. By the time they reached Hogsmeade town, both were panting with the exertion. Harry seemed to be running on nothing but anger and anticipation; he was barely even breathing quickly.

"I've got to go somewhere," he said, and made to walk away. Ron grabbed his arm.

"No, you don't," he said, pulling Harry in the opposite direction. "You're going to tell us what's going on."

"Nothing's going on," Harry insisted, trying to twist away, but it was no use, Hermione caught his other arm and between them they dragged him into the Three Broomsticks, sitting him forcibly down and setting a Butterbeer in front of him.

"Now," said Hermione, slamming the bottle down on the table. "I've bought you a drink and it'll be rude to leave. Talk."

"There's nothing to say," said Harry, tracing the woodgrain of the table because he was so reluctant to meet his friends' eyes.

"Yeah, and Malfoy's my new best friend," Ron snorted. "C'mon, mate. We all know there's something going on. Tell us."

Harry sat in silence for a few moments longer, staring at the slender neck of the Butterbeer bottle, though he wasn't really seeing it. At last, he said,

"I'm meeting Lupin today."

He saw Ron's mouth drop open and Hermione slump back against her seat, her eyes closed in exasperation.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed. "How can you?"

"Look, it's just that-"

"Harry. Listen." Ron made Harry look at him. "Lupin is barking. He's probably convincing, but he's insane. He's trying to kill you, and you're going to just walk up to him and say, Hello Mr Lupin, nice day isn't it?"

"It's not going to be like that, it's-"

"Why are you putting yourself in such danger?" Hermione gripped his shoulder tightly. "Lupin killed thirteen people. He betrayed your parents. Why?"

Harry pulled the picture out of his pocket, where he had kept it safely hidden until then. "Look at this. Sirius gave it to me at Christmas." He put it on the table, so that they could all see it.

"Is that your dad?" said Ron, peering at the waving figures. "And is that Sirius?"

"Yeah, and the one between them is Pettigrew. And the one on the end is -"

"Lupin," Hermione breathed. She touched the tip of a finger to the corner of the photo, just above Lupin's head. He looked up briefly and smiled; she pulled sharply away.

"That's right. Now, does he look like a man who would betray the other three people in the photo?"

"Harry, this was taken a long time ago..."

"Yes, but even still..." Harry trailed off, because how could he justify his gut feeling to Hermione when he couldn't even justify it to himself? "D'you remember the night I shouted at you because you questioned Lupin's trial? Well, what if you're right, Hermione?"

"Harry," she said, shaking her head. "You were right about that. There was a courtroom - a Ministry! - full of wizards much older and much - yes, Ron, I admit it -much cleverer than me."

Harry sighed. "Lupin's a werewolf, right? And what does the wizarding world feel about werewolves, Ron?"

Ron looked sheepishly away.

"Exactly. Now, what if Lupin was just the most convenient suspect, and they knew he was a werewolf, and that was enough to put him away?"

"You said before," Ron began, slowly, "that you'd kill Lupin if you ever saw him again. What's changed."

Harry rubbed at his eyes behind their glasses. "I don't know. I just...I have this..."

He trailed off because the pub had gone suddenly and utterly silent, the atmosphere instantly from amiable to icy. For one awful, stomach-wrenching moment, Harry felt sure that a Dementor had just glided in, but when no freezing blackness engulfed him he looked first at Ron and Hermione, who seemed just as confused as himself, and then around the bar for the cause of the silence. All he could see was a man at the bar, quite respectable looking, if a little shabby. Harry peered closer. What was wrong with the man?

Behind the counter, Madam Rosmerta was not smiling anymore. She had stepped back from the bar, a strange half-fear, half-loathing on her face. The man shifted uncomfortably.

"A Butterbeer, please," he asked, in a voice that was soft and timid, shaking a little.

"I don't think so," said Madam Rosmerta, with none of her usual friendliness.

"Please," the man said. "I am not a criminal. I haven't done anything wrong."

Somewhere in the bar, a person snorted in derision.

"I can't serve you," Madam Rosmerta said, gesturing to something on the man's jacket. "You want the Hog's Head, over the road."

The man reached up convulsively to touch the spot Madam Rosmerta had pointed to. Harry strained to see what it was; a badge of some kind? "There's no law that says you can't serve me. Please..."

"No, but there is a law saying that I can serve whoever I like, and I'm telling you that I don't serve your kind. Please leave."

The man bowed his head, hands dropping to rest on the bar as if for support. "It isn't my fault. I haven't done anything wrong. Why do you hate us?"

Hagrid was at the man's side then, with one enormous hand firmly gripping the man's shoulder, guiding him towards the door.

"I think yeh'd better be on yer way, mate," he said, forcefully. The man allowed himself to be steered out, meekly avoiding the glares of the other patrons. Only once he was gone, and Hagrid seated again, did the chatter slowly return.

Hermione began, a little shakily, "Did you see what was on his jacket?"

The others shook their heads.

"It was a moon," she said, looking down at the picture of Lupin. "It was a full moon." She looked at Ron. He nodded.

"A werewolf," he confirmed.

"That was awful," Hermione said, her voice thick. "It was so cruel. Even Hagrid was so awful."

"Yeah, but werewolves are, well, they're Dark Creatures," Ron explained. "You don't understand what it's like for wizards, neither of you do. All the werewolves joined You Know Who."

"Is it any wonder?" Hermione snapped back.

Harry said, "Can we get back to Lupin, please?" He was in no mood for more bickering. "D'you see what I mean, now?"

Hermione bit her lip, as if she half-agreed but didn't want to admit it. Ron just stared at Lupin's young, smiling face.

"I just have this feeling," Harry tried. "I feel like I have to go and see him."

Ron nodded at last. "We'll go with you."

"No."

"You're not going on your own. That's final."

"You're not coming with me and that's final, Ron."

Ron had opened his mouth to protest when Hermione cut him off: "Okay."

Harry looked at her in surprise. "What?"

"I said, okay. Okay. Go."

"Hermione-" Ron began, but she stopped him again. Harry looked at the two of them, not sure whether to feel grateful or guilty. In the end he decided that it didn't matter. He stood up, and they watched him. Hermione looked like she had tears in her eyes, and Ron looked deeply unhappy, but neither of them made any more attempt to stop him.

"I-" Harry said, then stopped. He just gave them a little smile and walked out, and didn't stop walking until he was standing in front of the Shack.

There were butterflies in his stomach. Butterflies made of lead, he thought, with rotars instead of wings. It was worse than facing the basilisk, he thought. This was no monster, not really: it was a man. Magic couldn't help him.

"Harry?" Lupin. Harry turned to face him, and found him even shabbier and thinner than before, like a skeleton draped in rags. Trying to trace a resemblance between this pitiful figure and the boy in the picture was impossible. That boy didn't exist any more. Thinking that, Harry felt a hot stab of fear in his gut that not even Lupin's good-natured if grotesque smile could relieve.

"You haven't any food, have you?" Lupin asked. He was standing only a little way away from Harry, and his voice barely carried over the distance.

"No," said Harry, and his voice sounded tight and strained, even to him. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't expect anything else," Lupin said. "Though one does hope...rats aren't very appetising, you know."

"No."

"Even if," Lupin went on, more to himself than to Harry, it seemed, "they acquire a certain ironic flavour." He laughed dryly, a rough sound. Harry only watched him.

"Why did you give that picture to me?" he said at last.

"I wanted you to have it."

"Why?"

"Because that was a good time. It was a happy time, for all of us. I wanted you to see that." He looked down. "Even if what came after was so awful, we were happy then."

"You made the Map, didn't you?"

"Yes." Lupin smiled. "Sirius and your father were so gifted at mischief, they wanted to pass it on down for the next generation. Did it work?"

Harry found his lips curling into a smile in spite of himself. "Yes," he said. "Definitely."

"I am glad," Lupin said. A short silence fell between them, in which they regarded each other closely.

"You are so like your father," Lupin said at last. "And your mother. And even like Sirius. In character, I mean. Although you're quite as handsome as he was at your age."

"Last time you were here," Harry said, ignoring Lupin's change of topic, "you said that you didn't understand what had happened to you or my parents, but that you were going to find out. Did you?"

Lupin came a little closer, and Harry felt the urge to step back but didn't. "I did," he said. "Harry, it's a wonderful thing: I am innocent. I promise you, Harry, I am - what's that?"

Lupin looked away sharply, turning this way and that like a startled animal scenting its predator. Harry's heart hammered thick and fast in his chest, so fast that he felt sick with it.

"What's happening?" he said, or started to, because he was cut off by the streak of red light that sliced past Lupin, missing him by the barest of inches, and the accompanying cry of Stupefy!

"Did you tell anyone?" Lupin cried, a look of wild terror on his face, distorting it horribly.

"No!" Harry shouted back. "I didn't! I..." But he had. Ron and Hermione.

More beams of red light began to arrow from the bushes, and then came the people behind them: McGonagall for one, and others that Harry didn't recognise.

"No!" cried Lupin, and he grabbed Harry's shoulder tightly. "I need to explain to you!"

Harry wriggled desperately, but Lupin was pulling out a wand from his pocket. Harry thought, with stunning irrelevance, where did he get that?

"Stop!" McGonagall was shrieking, and the wizards did. They stood in a wide arc around Harry and Lupin, wands at the ready.

"Drop your wand, werewolf!" shouted one of them, a tall, black, powerful looking man. His voice was deep and echoed.

"Harry," Lupin whispered desperately. "I'm so sorry, but I need to tell you this. I need you to know this."

"Let me go," Harry spat, pulling at Lupin's skeletal fingers clasped on his shoulder, but though they were thin and brittle-looking, they were strong. He couldn't make them shift.

"Harry," came McGonagall's voice, high and strained. "Don't move. You'll be alright."

"You will be alright, Harry," Lupin echoed, softer. "I won't hurt you, I promise. I just need to talk to you." He raised the wand, and said something, and Harry felt only a heavy pressure against his back before the world blacked out around him. It was dark for a split instant, and then he opened his eyes. They weren't outside the Shrieking Shack anymore.

Lupin had relaxed his grip, and Harry jerked himself away, falling backwards onto something that gave a loud "Oof!" as it cushioned his fall. He rolled over, and found himself staring at Ron.

"What the-?"

"Where are we?"

"We're inside the Shrieking Shack," said Lupin. He held out his hands, offering to help the boys to their feet, but they just shuffled away from him. He looked crestfallen, but nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean for it to turn out like this."

A/N: Okay, people, stick with me. We're on the home stretch now: there are two chapters left, and I have them written. One will be posted next week, the other the week after, and then it's all over!

As always, leave me feedback on what you liked, what you didn't, what you ate for lunch today. Okay, maybe not, but you catch my drift. g