XLIV
Remus Lupin was still itching after the full moon. He'd spent the night locked in his office, and as he woke up the next day, he realized his wolf had thoughtlessly gnashed on the blanket. He needed a new one. There was wolf hair all over the mattress. Even though he knew that was fairly normal – and really preferable to dead people or even dead animals - it still left him feeling embarrassed. That was why he woke up early that day to change the sheets himself. Having the house elves deal with his ruined bedsheets would be the last thing he wanted.
It was that, which made him arrive late to breakfast on Monday. As always, before sitting at the teacher's table, first, his eyes roamed over the Gryffindor table, searching for the well-known head of messy black hair. Harry looked so much like his father from this distance. He looked like James from up close too, but from here, Remus couldn't even see the green eyes that were such a striking distinction from his father.
Seeing Harry there, talking to his friends remembered Remus of better times. Years ago, he'd sit at that table just like Harry did now. It was the night after a full moon, so the Marauders would all still look a little exhausted and yet full of adventure and excitement about the things they'd done the night before. Nowadays, it was hard to imagine, but for a short time of his life, the full moons had been the best days of his life. Back then, he had looked forward to them, to the adventures they'd experience, exploring the school grounds. Even the still painful transformation was something he'd gladly accepted as the necessary price to pay for such escapades.
That was a long time ago, when the Marauders were still in Hogwarts. When they were still alive. Long before James was murdered, and Peter too… And Sirius…
Remus tried to push the thought aside. The memory of Sirius was a painful one, riddled with confusion and anger, and guilt for not having seen it coming. They all…they'd just fallen for the charming Black. Remus was the only one of them to survive, and thus the only one to bear the guilt and burden of their loss, for not having prevented it. If he hadn't been blinded by Sirius' charm, by his performed disgust of all things pureblood…
But… These kinds of thoughts didn't help Remus now. It was too late for regret. All he could do was sit here, eat his breakfast, teach his students and…maybe if Sirius truly came, if he was truly so depraved to try and break into Hogwarts to finish the job he'd started – as the ministry seemed convinced he was planning… If Sirius truly was mad…
He knew he should tell the ministry, or his colleagues, or at last Dumbledore who gave him this opportunity, but he couldn't. He felt like a traitor all over again, stupid for protecting Sirius, even from Dumbledore who had given Remus this chance of a lifetime to prove his worth as a teacher… Getting and holding a job as a werewolf wasn't easy, so Remus owed Dumbledore his loyalty.
And yet…
The Dementor's Kiss…
Could Remus truly live with himself if he brought that fate upon Sirius? Remus hated Sirius for what he'd done. Truly hated him! There was no forgiveness in his heart—unimaginable. And yet, some misplaced sense of loyalty for old times' sake, or some lingering affection he held for an old friend, stopped Remus from spilling Sirius' secret to everyone he knew.
Initially, he'd told himself, he didn't tell anybody to protect James' memory, and to maintain his own innocence—surely Snape wouldn't be amiss to mention that Remus having withheld this truth for so many years might have led to his escape in the first place—but if Sirius was truly after Harry, how could he use James' memory as a justification for his continued silence?
"Headmaster," he spoke before he even knew what he was doing.
Albus Dumbledore looked up from his breakfast porridge, a bit of pumpkin juice on his beard above the lips. "Remus? The full moon went without complication I hope."
"Yes, Headmaster, thank you." Remus nodded. "The potion did its job." Snape snorted from Dumbledore's other side as if the mere suggestion that his potions could fail, was an insult to his person. "I wanted to…"
The Dementor's Kiss…
Did Sirius truly deserve that? A life sentence in Azkaban was surely warranted and just, after what he'd done. But losing his soul? It was a cruel punishment, one Remus didn't wish upon anybody, least of all a person who'd once been a friend. And after all…
When he thought of Sirius, he tried to picture the way he looked now; the way he'd look if he ever saw him again. He used the pictures circulating in the Prophet for reference. And yet, there was also always this other picture. An eleven-year-old boy, full of brash energy, glaring at anybody who suggested he was in the wrong house. A teenager growing into his rare beauty, full of confidence and natural grace. A friend, grinning at stupid pranks, always the first to defend his friends—even those who were not his friends—from Slytherins and bigots, turning into his Animagus shape to stand by Remus' side when Remus needed his friends the most.
Snape never stopped talking about the Sirius Black he had met in their school days. A relentless bully, harassing him over the course of many years. Full of reckless confidence that could've gotten Snape killed—really could've gotten all of them killed. And there was a truth to what Snape had said. Sirius was that too. James and Peter as well, and yes, Remus too… But it had never been all they were, and it hadn't been all Sirius was. And as often as Snape liked to tell everybody how this cruel bully had been the true, the real Black, it couldn't be right, could it?
The friend he'd known in Hogwarts wasn't all fake. At some point, at some time, something must have changed Sirius. For Remus, to pinpoint that moment was impossible now, but not once did he believe that Sirius had always been this evil. It must have come later… No eleven-year-old could be this good a liar.
And could Remus really betray the truth of his Animagus form – that Sirius only learned for Remus' sake – to the authorities, subjecting Sirius to that fate?
He coughed. "You wanted to inform me about Charlie Major."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled over his half moon glasses as if he knew that hadn't been what Remus wanted to say at all. However, he simply took his napkin, patted his lips and mustache, and leaned back.
"Correct," he nodded gravely. "There's no need to spread the whole truth around the castle. And I am convinced, we have only scratched the surface yet. But the boy is only fifteen and I feel it necessary to protect him from the prying eyes of the ministry."
Snape scoffed and huffed audibly, making his disagreement known.
With a curious glance at Snape, Remus nodded. "Of course, Professor, I simply worry. After all, I saw his Boggart, and…" he shuddered. Charlie's Boggart had been unlike anything he'd seen before. To most students, he figured it wouldn't be all that weird. After all, there had been a few gruesome sights. But this hadn't just been a common phobia or a dangerous creature. This Boggart, Remus was certain, had been a person…or a memory. And if he tried to imagine Charlie witnessing another person receive such injuries… No child should see that. No child should be that injured either – as Remus had to acknowledge the other brutal reality: that this ghost hadn't been only a teenager himself. So if it was a real memory, something that had happened…
"I'd be the last to share this truth. I only worry."
Snape stood, glaring at Remus. "Of course," he pressed through tight lips. "Worried. Worrying about your partner in crime, is that it?"
With billowing robes, he took a sharp turn, leaving the Great Hall through the back exit. Remus looked after him with curiously raised eyebrows.
"So, I take it, what you found out wasn't enough to alleviate Severus' suspicions the boy might work with Black?"
Dumbleore watched Remus for a moment before he answered. "I'm not sure, anything can lift Severus' suspicions when it comes to this boy." Or you, his eyes said.
Remus felt a bit guilty then, because though he didn't want to help Sirius kill Harry—Merlin, no!—but he did withhold important information. Averting his gaze, he knew he looked anything but innocent.
"What did we learn?"
The Headmaster sighed. "He's Japanese and an orphan. The Boggart you saw is the memory of a dead friend."
Remus looked at his feet, feeling sad and compassionate for the boy. Truly, when they talked about the Dementors – or, well… didn't talk about the Dementors – Remus had seen the trauma in the boy's eyes. He hadn't been able to place it, but there had been something there. A deep-rooted pain that made Remus look like a child. And truly. To have lost his parents so early, and watching a friend die like that… Remus felt a little naïve about trying to teach him how to handle trauma. Remus didn't know anything about that, or he'd be doing much better himself. Of course, the boy had seen it, had essentially schooled Remus on the topic. It had been quite embarrassing.
And heartbreaking…
"Do we know how he came to Britain?"
Dumbledore's hands folded over his belly. "He alluded to something which seems to resemble a spontaneous apparation. Not uncommon for a child."
Remus scoffed. "But transcontinental? I've never heard of something like that."
"Who knows…" Dumbledore's blue eyes were drilling into Remus. "The magic of children is a mighty thing, and fear or loss…Those are powerful emotions. It is difficult to say what powers a single child could awake faced with such trauma."
Remus halted. It was true. If Charlie had truly witnessed a friend die in such a grotesque manner—What had even happened to cause such injuries. The boy-boggart had been so deformed, as if it was just half a body. Had Charlie truly seen how these injuries came to be? Was the Boggart's depiction accurately representing reality?
"So, you think that it might be possible? For a child to—For Charlie to just apparate to England."
Dumbledore's head tilted slightly in a show of wonder. "It seems possible. But I'm certain we don't have the full story yet." His eyes traveled to his porridge as if lamenting the fact that Remus had interrupted his breakfast. "There's a piece missing, and I'm not certain where to find it. For now, I think we should accept it as the truth we know."
Remus felt unsatisfied by the answer, feeling a strong sense of worry for the boy who seemed so full of mystery, that it was mind-boggling. And yet, Remus would not sink so low as to poke holes into a fifteen-year-old boy to sate his curiosity for the whole sensational story that was Charlie's trauma.
"We continue referring to him as Charlie?"
Dumbledore nodded. "It seems the best solution. I'm sure the ministry will have some questions for him, if they find out the truth. Or even just part of it. After all…" He looked a bit tired when his eyes met Remus again. "Are you aware that they are searching for a young man? A young wizard who escaped the Ministry's officials in London and then was apparently seen again, by Auror Tonks during Sirius Black's escape."
Remus eyes bulged wide as saucers. "You think, Charlie would… Why would he help Black?"
"Who knows?" Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling musingly. "It's what Severus believes, in any case. He was convinced of it, ever since the boy first appeared. Him, meeting Harry, happened only a day after the unknown young man got away in London. Did you know?"
Remus was completely baffled. He'd never heard of this. Of course, he'd read about Sirius' escape from the ministry in the Prophet and there had always been the assumption that Sirius had help. He'd never heard about this boy though, or the fact that the Ministry was searching for somebody specific.
"No, Headmaster. I never heard about this."
Dumbledore rolled his eyes, smiled in a casual way as if making a joke. "Well, the Minister is not too eager to publicize the fact that a mere teenager outwitted his best aurors and the Ministry's protective wards." He coughed in amusement. "I think they even tell themselves, that the intruder was using Polyjuice just to spare themselves the embarrassment. Not really a kid, but an adult masquerading as one."
Remus nodded. His opinion of Minister Fudge had never been particularly high, and his experiences with the Ministry overall were rarely pleasant, so he didn't doubt that they would want to save face. Especially since – truth be told – Sirius was already showing them off. And still, he wondered, why the Ministry wasn't automatically suspecting Charlie after popping up with such timing.
Dumbledore apparently read his mind, because he smiled in that way he did when he knew more than anybody else. "You'll be surprised to know, but the Ministry has excluded him as a suspect."
"How did they do that?"
"They used an age line. When he went to the Ministry to meet with Severus, they installed an age line around the door. I don't think he even noticed. His age checks out. I'm even convinced that the birthday he gave them was correct. Apparently, everything he told them was a lie, and yet that part seems correct. The boy is in fact fifteen. And the ministry is not looking for a fifteen-year-old."
More confused now than ever, Remus sat on the chair Snape had left empty.
"I don't understand. You said they were looking for a boy? Are they so convinced, that this intruder took Polyjuice?"
"They are looking for…if I understood Cornelius' information correctly…either a man using Polyjuice, or a young-looking seventeen-year-old. Charlie is underage and he is so clearly magical. If he had been the one running from authorities in London, the trace would've activated. It didn't. Not once during the chase, ergo, they are looking for an adult."
Now, that made sense. The argument was perfectly reasonable. The trace was unfoolable. In highly magical places, things like underage magic, would fall under the radar, but not in the middle of Muggle London. It didn't just make sense. It was a perfectly reasonable decision to exclude Charlie as a suspect based on that alone. Underage magic was closely monitored, and if that man in London had been a minor, the trace would've picked it up. And yet, Dumbledore sounded as if Remus had missed something, as if there was more to this story.
"So, why shouldn't they exclude him as a suspect?" he asked vaguely, aware that Dumbledore wanted him to ask the question.
Laughing silently, the Headmaster's eyes sparkled with curious wonder. "Did you know that the Hogwarts wards initially registered him as a Muggle?"
Remus' jaw fell open. This had to be a mistake. He was quite certain, that he'd seen Charlie perform magic in class. "I'm sure he is magical," Remus said with certainty because he trusted his own eyes.
"Oh, of course," Dumbledore nodded. "The boy is definitely…something. And there's the missing piece. But one thing, you should take into consideration: Whatever he is – a wizard, a muggle, a magical creature unknown to us yet – if my wards don't pick him up as magical, why would the trace?"
This…made a shocking amount of sense But for a fourteen-, fifteen-year-old to fool the trace… Remus had always thought it was without fault. And yet, he'd thought the same of the Hogwarts wards. Infallible...yet apparently flawed. If this boy could fool one, why not the other? And yet, it didn't seem like it was something Charlie would do on purpose. Surely, getting around the trace would be useful – especially if he wanted to help an escaped criminal – but not registering with the Hogwarts wards correctly, would only give him trouble. So, was it something about his person that he had no influence over, which made the wards fail? Something he couldn't control himself.
Had they failed? What if Dumbledore's musings weren't just empty words, and the boy wasn't a wizard after all?
"So, what is he then?" Even as he asked the question, he knew there wouldn't be a satisfying answer. Dumbledore had already admitted that he didn't know.
"He's a fifteen-year-old boy, Remus. That is the only thing we know for certain. And a student of this school. Frankly, I don't like the idea of the Ministry getting involved in our business. I had to concede to the presence of the Dementors, but allowing the Ministry to investigate one of the students in my care on charges that could bring him to Azkaban for a long time, despite his age… And then…" To Remus' chagrin, the Headmaster didn't finish his sentence.
"You don't think they'd throw the boy into Azkaban?" he asked, disbelieving. Remus didn't like the ministry, but he thought they had some standards. "And if he's truly helping Black—"
"Not any boy, now," Dumbledore answered and when he looked at Remus again, there was a piercing sharpness in blue eyes. "Remus… This boy can fool our wards, the trace. They'll want to know how he does it, and I don't think he knows. Whatever he is, the Ministry will want to find out. You – more than anybody – you know how this society treats people who are different than them."
Remus' eyes widened in shock. Immediately, he understood Dumbledore's insinuations and the fate that might await Charlie... Who – Dumbledore was correct, whatever he did or didn't do – was just a boy, when it came down to it…
"He has potential, Remus. More than anyone I've seen before, in a way even I can't completely fathom. Not in the way you'd think. He's not overflowing with magic, not able to do the impossible, and yet…I've seen him do things, I couldn't do. Make no mistake, Remus. Behind that frivolous show, he's putting on, there's power there. And the Ministry will see it too. Once they know what to look for, it will be impossible to miss."
This was dangerous, Remus understood. If the Ministry found out, there was no limit to what they might do. He knew, how they treated werewolves on a regular basis, and werewolves – unlike whatever Charlie was – were not an unknown, powerful entity. If this truth came out, it would for the rest of Charlie's life subject him to the Ministry's whims. And the fact that he might have helped a convicted criminal escape would only be used to further control him. This wasn't about Sirius at all – though, Remus wondered how Sirius found the boy if it was true.
Which caused another concern to bloom in Remus' aching heart: Did Sirius know? Did Sirius have anything to do with this? Did Voldemort? Because maybe that would explain it. Charlie would be just the right age: a toddler in the late stages of the war. What if Voldemort and his sympathizers had done something to a young baby Charlie and Sirius was now reaping the benefits, using—No! No, that didn't make sense. Charlie was Japanese, had lived in Japan for most of his life as it seemed, and yet…
In his mind, Remus already connected the dots again, created a way in which it could work, because what other explanation was there? How would Charlie and Sirius even meet so shortly after Sirius' escape? Was that the reason why Charlie had come to England? Not by accident at all but called by one of Voldemort's most heinous followers. Was that it? If Sirius had truly sunk so low to accept the help of a mere child, was that version of events really so unbelievable?
Remus hoped it wasn't true. He hoped, that after all, Dumbledore was wrong, and this boy had nothing at all to do with Sirius Black. That he was just a boy, who appeared with the most horrendous timing Remus had ever seen, to look suspicious without having done anything. Just a boy in need of protection, and not somebody in league with a mass murderer.
He couldn't continue with this track of thought. It put him on a downward spiral.
"And Severus knew that from the start?" It was frustrating for Remus to admit that Snape of all people might have been right in suspecting a student.
"I think, Severus held a certain base distrust against the boy when they first met…" Dumbledore nodded gravely. "And then, Charlie had to go and perform wandless magic in front of him. I don't have to tell you how special that is. At such an age..." His hands unfolded, finally, taking up the spoon to his by now very soggy porridge. "Before the two of us had even met Charlie, Severus already knew two things about him: That he's lying, and that he's powerful." He winked at Remus. "I think it puts him on edge." Twirling his spoon in his porridge, he sighed. "Ah, it's all mushy now."
Realizing that the conversation was over – and that he really should be going to his first morning class, Remus stood from his chair, but before he could leave, Dumbledore called him back.
"And Remus, if you need to investigate further, do it subtly. Our dear Pomona has grown quite protective of him, it seems."
"Poor Professor Lupin looks horrible," Hermione wined looking up from dinner and her Potions book and at the teacher's table. "I heard he was sick this whole weekend. You think he'll be alright?"
"I hope so."
Professor Lupin had easily become Harry's favorite teacher, by far the best he ever had in Defense Against the Dark Arts and immediately the subject had turned into Harry's absolute favorite. He was good at it. Saying that wouldn't even be bragging. After learning about Boggarts Professor Lupin had given them some additional reading over the weekend on their next subject: Red Caps. Small, dwarfish creatures who gravitated towards bloodshed from what Harry had learned reading the whole chapter. Rarely could he bring himself to devour a whole chapter in his schoolbooks. He still remembered how excited he'd been in the summer before his first year, reading half Hogwarts: A History before school even started. Nowadays, he'd lost most of that excitement, reading what was required and not much more. And yet, he'd read the whole chapter in the Defense book, even if only part of it was required for the next lesson.
He would've probably even read on, to learn about Kappas as well, but then he also had to do Quidditch practice.
Oliver Wood, their Team Captain drove them to breaking point, grinding them until the whole team was whining from exhaustion and aching with bruises. It would be Wood's last season and after the Quidditch Cup had alluded them the last two times – last year the season was even canceled because of the basilisk – Wood was not the only one to desire his name on the cup, but he was the most eager. Gryffindor would play the first game, and they still didn't have confirmation whether they would play Slytherin, somebody else, or at all.
"Yeah, Defense is really the only thing to look forward to," Ron agreed between bites of his bean stew. "Seriously!"
Hermione shifted in her seat. "Well, I like Arithmancy!"
Ron snorted. "Of course. Well, I got no idea about that. But this year's a bore so far…"
Obviously, Hermione had to vigorously disagree, to nobody's surprise. "What are you talking about? Transfiguration is super interesting if you'd just pay attention."
In a way, Harry had to agree. This whole Animagus business sounded very interesting. Then again…
"It's just theoretical stuff. When do we get to do magic?" And that was just the issue. Harry had to agree with Ron. He much preferred Professor Lupin's practical teaching style, even if it wasn't much of a shocker that Hermione liked learning from books. "And Flobberworms? If I see one more Flobberworm, I'll chop it up and throw it into Snape's potions!" Ron added with passion, and again…
Harry was a little ashamed to admit it, but Ron was right. They'd all looked forward to Hagrid's classes, and of course, Harry liked the gamekeeper too much to break his heart by telling him, but Hagrid's classes were a bore, ever since the Buckbeak-Incident. They hadn't moved on from Flobberworm care for the whole month and that although it now became painfully obvious, that Flobberworms were simple creatures, with barely any needs and – like any other vermin – perfectly capable of surviving on their own.
Some of the Slytherins had grown so annoyed that they stopped feeding their Flobberworms, for a few days. Harry had naively expected the worms to die… but of course, they hadn't. Left to their own devices, those nasty pink creatures had thrived and soon grown even fatter. It was then, that Harry had understood that the Flobberworms probably liked and enjoyed the attention of the students as little as the students did the Flobberworms. And still…twice a day he went to their Creature's classroom and – for Hagrid's sake – pretended that he enjoyed feeding the vermin, even when just about everybody else was leaving them alone now. Ironically, it meant that Harry's worms were objectively doing the worst.
"Well—" Hermione squirmed, clearly not wanting to admit to the truth of Ron's words.
"And don't get me started on Potions!"
At least, all of them could easily agree that Snape after the Boggart incident was nastier now than ever, relentlessly bullying Neville, first and foremost.
Harry leaned back on his bench, thinking about the other subjects. "Trelawney is still regularly predicting my death. That's fun." Truthfully, he started hating Divination more than Potions. And that was quite the feat…
"Oh yeah, that too," Ron agreed, pointing at Harry for emphasis. "Never mind, I start hating tea. Can't look at tea leaves anymore without seeing death and destruction there."
When it came to Trelawney, even Hermione had to agree. Divination, that was no secret, had quickly become Hermione's least favorite subject. She was constantly complaining about it and quoting Professor McGonagall on how useless of a form of magic it was. Harry was at least partially convinced that she only hated it because she was bad at it. The only time they were graded on an exercise so far, Hermione had gotten an A. Which to most would be Acceptable but to Hermione was the Absolute Worst Grade She Ever Got In Anything Other Than Potions And Even Then Only Rarely.
"Professor Trelawney is the worst!" Hermione declared with such a loud voice that everybody at the table turned to stare at her. Parvati and Lavender specifically scowled and frowned. They'd grown quite attached to their Divination teacher. "Professor McGonagall says she never made a single correct prediction during twelve years at this school. Muggle Weather Reports are way more accurate than her!"
"You're just nasty because she doesn't give you easy grades for nothing," Parvati defended her favorite teacher, and Lavender readily jumped in:
"Is it that difficult to admit you're just bad at something for once, Granger?"
Hermione opened her mouth to retort something, but then she blushed and ducked her head. "Sorry," she whispered. She probably hadn't wanted the entire Gryffindor table to hear her passionate declarations, and after two years at this school, she had understood that crying about one of her rare A's wouldn't endear her to her fellow classmates.
"At least," Ron readily changed the topic, "History is much better now. I love those transcripts!"
Harry scowled darkly. Yeah, he didn't need that reminder now. He'd just been in a mostly good mood, and now, Ron just had to remind him of Charlie. Just thinking about him made Harry angry, now. They were trying to figure him out for days and still hadn't learned anything new ever since the twins revealed his true name.
"By the way," he asked in a softer voice, whispering, so only Ron and Hermione could hear. "He didn't drink his pumpkin juice today either, did he?"
As he asked the question, Hermione turned to the Hufflepuff table, trying to act surreptitiously, but in doing so was very obvious. She froze suddenly, blushed, and averted her eyes. Curious about her reaction, Harry was about to turn around to see for himself when—
"No, I did not," Charlie's voice was sharp as a knife with a hint of both annoyance and amusement.
"Ah…" Hermione scratched the back of her head nervously. "Ahaha… Charlie… What are you doing here?" Her voice was so horribly pitched, betraying her bad conscience. Ron on Harry's other side was blushing so hard, his freckles disappeared completely, staring into his stew. Well, if his friends thought just because they were now obviously caught, they had to feel bad, that was on them. Harry didn't feel guilty – annoyed at being caught, sure, but he had nothing to feel bad about.
Thinking himself very much in his right, Harry whirled around, glowering at Charlie. "What are you doing here?" he hissed. "This is the table for my real friends."
Charlie looked taken aback, and… A few of the Gryffindor's snorted. Harry blushed only now realizing the terribly childish thing he'd just said.
"That's so sweet of you, Harry dear!" Fred – or George – called from across the table. "We can all stitch red and gold friendship bracelets!"
Gnashing his teeth, Harry felt a need to take his words back, but it was too late now. He'd already made a fool of himself and backpaddling would only make him look more foolish. Angry with himself for voicing his emotions of betrayal so loudly, he jumped from his bench, shoved Charlie away, and stormed out of the hall. The screeching of wooden chairs on stone floor and hurried footfalls behind him told him that Ron and Hermione were scrambling to follow him.
When he smacked the door shut, he became terribly aware of the fact, that just about everybody would have seen this scene, and surely people like Malfoy would never let him live it down. Ignoring the pooling shame in his gut, he ran through the Entrance Hall, up the Great Staircase until…
"Well, I can respect your need for privacy for this conversation."
Right at the top of the stairs, Harry stopped dead. Hermione bumped into him, yelping in shock. Ron came to a halt next to Harry, first looking at Harry surprised at his sudden halt, then with wide eyes to the boy easily leaning against the wall, waiting for them just opposite the stairs.
"How did you get here?" Ron asked, voice trembling a little. "You were behind us!"
Charlie waved. He acted so cool, as if this wasn't weird at all…as if he wasn't a liar who knew he'd been caught.
"I passed you on the stairs," he said easily. "I just want to—"
"Bullshit!" Harry interrupted loudly. Finally recovering from his shock, he pushed himself, to move on. He had no interest in listening to whatever lies Charlie came up with. Passed them on the stairs? Yeah, right! He'd said something similar to Hermione when they thought they had seen two Charlie's that one time. Lies, all lies. Why would Ron even ask the question? They knew Charlie would just lie more.
Charlie looked taken aback by Harry's exclamation. However, when Harry rushed past him, Charlie pushed away from the wall and followed him.
"So, are you going to stop trying to poison me?"
"No!" Harry yelled a little too loudly and too angrily.
"We're not—" Hermione had started before she was interrupted by Harry's reply. "I mean, it's not really, ehm… like, we're not trying to kill you or anything."
Charlie snorted as if it was all a fun game to him. "Oh, I would hope so. But what are you trying to do? Is it a potion?"
"Mh-hmm," Hermione squirmed too easily intimidated to stop herself from answering.
"Don't tell him!" Harry commanded. He stopped and whirled around to glare at Charlie – Clearly, he couldn't just run from him. "We won't stop. Not until we know the truth!"
Charlie's brows furrowed as if he failed to see what Harry was even talking about. Yeah, a right actor he was. But Harry didn't fall for it anymore.
Ron pulled up next to Harry, strengthening his back.
"So, what do you want to know exactly?"
Harry scoffed. "Forget it," he growled. "You'd just lie again. But we'll find out. You're not the first to try that bullshit on me."
Eyes flitting from Harry to Ron and Hermione, it was the first time that Charlie showed an instance of insecurity. "What bullshit? I'm not trying to do anything with you."
"Yeah right," Harry huffed in fake amusement. "So, you're not just faking to be my friend, trying to get closer to stab me in the back?" He shrugged casually as if the thought that this might indeed be Charlie's plan hadn't kept him awake for many nights. Was Charlie really Tom Riddle all over again? Or Quirrell? A person he saw as a trusted friend or mentor turning around to try and murder him… Harry was so tired of that.
Charlie actually looked a little guilty now. Or maybe he just looked surprised, it was hard to tell with that boy, what he truly thought. Now, that Harry knew what to look for, knew that the casual smile was just fake, it often felt like the boy was wearing a mask. It didn't make Harry trust him any easier. However, even behind that mask, Harry thought his words had moved something in Charlie. Maybe he'd hit the nail on the head, or maybe Charlie was a little hurt by the accusation.
Even so, even if his accusation ultimately turned out to be wrong, Harry didn't feel bad for it. After all, it was all Charlie's fault. He'd started with this masquerade, and he could hardly blame Harry for drawing his own conclusions from it.
"I won't stab you in the back," Charlie said, turning to Ron next to Harry. "What do you want with the potion?"
Clenching his teeth, he could only barely keep himself from screaming in anger, when Charlie apparently just acted as if Harry was the problem; as if Harry was the one there was no talking to… Well, he'd soon see, that Ron and Hermione knew his insidious game as well as Harry did!
"We're trying to find out your hair color," Ron answered with a shrug.
Feeling betrayed, Harry turned to his friend, then at Hermione.
He'd been wrong.
When Ron had pulled up next to him, he had expected him to be on his side in spirit too, glaring at Charlie and letting him know what they thought of him. Instead, Hermione's face was still flushed red from embarrassment at being caught red-handed, as if she had anything to feel guilty about, and Ron looked as if the whole thing was really more trouble than it was worth. He stood slouching and casual, hands in his pockets as if it was just another day and not a potential Voldemort-sympathizer with a plan to murder Harry in front of them.
Harry felt surprisingly betrayed then. He knew they weren't as suspicious of Charlie as he was. They had suspected him before Harry had even considered that Charlie might be dangerous, and yet during the last few days, their perspective had shifted...
To Ron it had always seemed a bit more like a game, a puzzle to solve or maybe one of his chess matches, trying to outsmart Charlie which was seemingly impossible. To Hermione, it had been a challenge, clearly, something that bugged her and spiked her curiosity. Did they really think that just because Charlie was a teenager like they were, he was therefore harmless? Had they forgotten everything he'd told them? How Charlie had disarmed the Minister, or how he just switched their food without Harry noticing, something that should be impossible. Were they just lured into false security, because he was young and kind and helped Ron with his History transcripts? Surely, they couldn't be so naïve! Age wasn't really a factor. After all, Harry and his friend had already battled a basilisk, he'd survived Voldemort twice, they'd passed all the tasks set to protect the Philosopher's Stone when they were just eleven… And Charlie was older than them. Harry was not so stupid to not deem him a threat, just because he was young. His whole life, Harry had to more or less look out for himself, and though a lot of adults underestimated him due to his age, Harry was very much aware, that age was not a reason to write somebody off.
How could his friends be so naïve? They were the first to warn him about Charlie, after all!
"My hair?" Charlie asked, surprise in his voice, touching a strand of his freshly cut hair. "It's a light grey."
"Grey?" Ron echoed.
"Similar to Dumbledore's, actually."
Which would be almost white…
"Don't believe it," Harry warned. Of course, Charlie had grey hair! And Harry's eyes were sparkling purple with pink dots in them. He huffed in disbelieve. Charlie could've at least tried to come up with a more believable hair color. "Or did you lie with your age too? Fifteen and already grey? Yeah right!"
"Colin has grey hair," Hermione argued meekly.
"Yeah, dark grey, mouse grey, almost brown really," Harry snapped, but he felt called out. After all, grey hair wasn't entirely impossible. Nor was it impossible, he assumed, to go grey early. As the thought occurred to him, for the first time he felt a twinge of guilt and quickly wrestled it down. "Well, why do you hide it then?"
"It stands out," Charlie replied, and Harry couldn't say if he was lying. "I didn't want to stand out." It was so frustrating, that Harry could never tell with this guy, if what he said, was true.
"So, why do you want to hide?" Harry asked sharply, trying to find the hole in the story. Trying to find that part of it, where he could dig his claws in and show Ron and Hermione that he was right, that this wasn't just a casual affair.
"Harry," Ron muttered warningly. "He said it makes him look old."
"I wouldn't want to grey early," Hermione nodded ruefully.
And Harry had to relent to that. He actually felt a bit awkward for making such a big deal out of it. There were after all a lot of old people hiding their grey hair – Harry knew that his Aunt Petunia was also hiding the stray grey hairs on her head – and surely that would apply for children too. Maybe more so, because it would be very uncommon to turn grey so early…
Huffing in frustration at having to relent the point, Harry crossed his arms He wasn't about to make it any easier for Charlie, just because he might have a good reason to dye his hair. That was after all the least of Charlie's offenses.
"But it's not the only thing of your face you hide!" Harry argued. "And you lied about your history, and your name, and where you come from. You aren't even South African!" Feeling accomplished at revealing all these things they had found out, Harry glared at Charlie daring him to come up with another lie. It was a bad situation, he knew. There was truly nothing Charlie could say that Harry would believe.
With some satisfaction he watched Charlie's lips twist unhappily in a first sign of that blasted mask slowly beginning to crack.
"Well?"
"So, what do you know?" Charlie asked in an innocent tone, but Harry knew that game. Charlie would pull everything they knew out of their noses and then spin a story around it. Not this time! Harry grabbed Ron's shoulder and Hermione's wrist, to stop them from replying.
"You tell us," Harry smiled meanly. "After all, if you even cared about telling the truth, you wouldn't need to know what we already found out. Just tell your story, and then we can see if it checks out." He was being unfair, he knew, because even still, he was convinced that Charlie would lie. Charlie was a smart boy. If nothing else, he was smart. Harry was certain of that. Maybe he already figured out what Harry knew and what he had to work with… So, really, nothing he'd say would ever be trustworthy enough.
"Maybe we shouldn't do this here on the corridor," Charlie suggested, and Harry agreed eagerly.
Truly, he didn't care. In a corridor, in a classroom, wherever. He was for sure curious about the story Charlie would spin, certain that it would be a grand, tragic, heart-wrenching tale eager to gain their sympathies. Harry wouldn't fall for it, but he wanted to hear it regardless. And if Charlie thought that luring him into an empty classroom, knowing he was caught, would be his last chance to finally attack… Well, Harry had his wand and Ron and Hermione. They were in the majority, and could certainly take Charlie out, or at least flee before anything worse happened. He didn't even consider calling the teachers, because clearly, the teachers had failed to catch the intruder before and Harry was quite used to dealing with his problems himself, by now.
"Fine," he agreed and with two long strides went to the closest classroom, pushing the door open. It was a Transfiguration classroom, complicated formulas up on the blackboard, clearly intended for the NEWT or OWL graduation courses. He didn't understand any of it.
When the others followed after him, Hermione had finally recovered from her embarrassment, Ron's feet shuffled a little over the ground and Charlie's face showed a vague sort of trepidation that Harry quite enjoyed. At least, he'd succeeded in making the boy nervous.
"So, who are you?" he asked sharply, banging the door shut after they had all entered.
Instead of answering immediately, Charlie took a few steps into the room, looking around himself, reading the formula on the board as if it was the most interesting thing – Hermione was reading it too, Harry noticed – then he pulled himself up on a table and set, one leg casually resting against the backrest of a chair. Harry was once again struck with how cool Charlie could look if he wanted to hide his nervosity.
"My name is Kakashi Hatake," he started. "You probably already figured that out. I have no idea how you found out about that, but you said you knew my name was fake… And I assume after investigating my Boggart, you came to the conclusion that I am Japanese." Harry huffed annoyed at getting the immediate confirmation, that indeed, Kakashi had guessed exactly what they knew.
"However," Kakashi continued vaguely, "that's not completely true. Japanese is my native language – apparently – but I was never in Japan."