Written for Camp Hogwarts, the July Writing Club and the Spring Seasonal Challenges of the same forum.

Disclaimer: Refer to chapter one, please.

Chapter warnings: none.

Word count (chapter): 4273 words

Slower chapter here, but still pretty essential plot-wise. Honestly, every chapter here will be essential plot-wise, so…

Enjoy!

Once upon a time we had it all

Somewhere down the line we went and lost it

1.4 - In Yearning

He's made his way here hours beforehand, bagging a seat in the very last compartment to set down his suitcase and try for a little nap. He has been waiting for this day for years, and now that it is finally here, he has no idea what to do.

Twelve years. It's been twelve whole years since the day everything fell apart, and he doesn't remember a single day of it. All he recalls is ticking the day of their deaths, the day of his imprisonment, off the calendar every year. He's done it eleven times already, and the eleventh time hasn't been any easier than the first.

He finally gets to see his cub again. He's been trying for years and years, pleading with Dumbledore for just a single visit, just to make sure he's alright. He's been staunchly refused, every time, and it's been driving him insane.

He's checked with every single Order member, asking around to find out if James' son has been placed with them. He's spoken to Sturgis Podmore and Emmeline Vance, braved a talk with Augusta Longbottom and her horrendous brother, cornered Arthur Weasley outside the Ministry.

He's talked to Elphias Doge, a doddering old man almost the same age as Dumbledore; he's even traded the old watch his father had given him on his seventeenth birthday to Mundungus Fletcher, for no worthwhile information whatsoever. Dedalus Diggle said that he's once seen Harry, but he doesn't remember where they'd met, what he wore, how he looked, whether he was smiling—just that stupid lightening scar.

He doesn't care about an inconsequential scar on a forehead. He cares about the boy wearing it. He cares about James and Lily's son.

He doesn't know what Dumbledore is up to, why he has taken so many pains to hide the boy, and he's running out of excuses to make for the man's inexplicable behaviour.

But he's here now. He's here on the Hogwarts Express for his debut as a professor—the Defense Against The Dark Arts teacher, specifically—and he'll get to see his cub again. Dumbledore has been suspiciously unresponsive for the past twelve years, but he's coming through now. Right when he needs the job most.

He knows why he's been called in for the post—he's not naive enough to think that he's gotten in on merits alone, or even pity, no, but because he's the most knowledgeable informant Dumbledore has on Sirius Black. If he's been hired as a Hogwarts professor, it's because of Sirius, in every sense.

But semantics don't bother him, not for this. He gets to see his cub again, and that's all that matters.

Searching for his cub is all he remembers of the past twelve years, the only other memories standing out in stark contrast being his efforts to search for the mystery behind Sirius' imprisonment. The longer he thinks about the case made against his lover, the less he finds it believable.

There are still times, many times, when he cannot help but find him guilty, because try as he might, he cannot find another answer to this mystery. He's exhausted his resources, exhausted his efforts, but at the end of it all, he is still a werewolf, and his efforts have never been enough once burdened by the stigma of what he is.

But he knows, in his heart, that Sirius would never have committed a crime so macabre against the people he's loved so fiercely. It doesn't make sense, and he doesn't believe it. Sirius would have never let them get hurt, not on his life.

He is coping with his losses—not very well, but he is coping. He's been able to call his lover by name again, to think of his voice and smile without having a full-on panic attack. Thoughts of Sirius still come off stilted, unsure, but he's learning. And now that he's managed to relatively regain his confidence regarding his lover's innocence, now that he's been able to speak and think his name again, memories of Sirius are all he can think about.

He can finally look up at the stars without flinching, he can finally walk around London without imagining Sirius everywhere, standing there beside him. He misses James too, and Peter and Lily, but the loss of Sirius has hit him the hardest—he's so close, yet so unreachable.

It's maddening, frustrating, and at times, when the pain of the loss reaches its peak, he loses his mind with it so completely that he's a stranger to himself. His self-control is completely shot, and the memories do nothing but unravel him.

It's been getting worse, over the past month. The memories, the flashbacks, the pain they bring. He had just been getting better, he'd just started to finally put the events of twelve years' past behind him.

Then one morning, Sirius Black's face showed up in his copy of the Daily Prophet.

That single black and white picture has haunted him for weeks. Every waking minute, every second he's asleep, every time he closes his eyes, he sees that unfamiliar face—screaming. He doesn't recognise this man, he has never seen such madness in his life. There's madness in his eyes, on his face, in his scream. Everything about the photograph screams insanity, and what terrifies him is that this photo had been taken before Sirius had been imprisoned.

He shudders to think about how Sirius has turned out after his years spent with the Dementors. If this was what the man had been hiding while they were still together, all this madness right underneath the surface, what will become of the man now?

Everything about Sirius Black is unfamiliar, uncharted, and it's a blow to his heart, because this had been the one thing he'd thought he'd known like the back of his hand.

Sirius Black has mended him up and broken him apart, over and over again.

They say that Sirius has escaped. It's plastered all over the news, all over the city—both Muggle areas and Magical. It's surreal, and he still doesn't believe it. How did Sirius escape? Why now, why after twelve whole years? Where is he now?

Why didn't Sirius come to him?

Isn't he trusted anymore?

The Ministry has muddled every bit of information about Sirius' break-out, and the public doesn't even know which bits are right and which aren't. His date of escape isn't very clear, but word on the streets has been that it was pulled off on the 31st of July. His godson's birthday.

He doesn't know what to think about this. Is it a coincidence? The characters at Knockturn certainly don't think so. A theory being whispered around is that Sirius plans to go after his godson, finish what he started with the Potters. He doesn't buy it, of course—even if he did believe Sirius a killer, he knew that the man would never, ever harm the little boy whom he once carried everywhere on his shoulders. Sirius adored him, both as himself and as Padfoot.

He knows that their whispers are untrue, but what of the others? They don't know any better, and soon enough, these lies will be taken as the truth. If that Skeeter woman gets hold of these rumours, there will be no stopping this madness. What then? What would happen to Sirius? What if James' son gets wind of this so-called threat? Would he be fearful? Vengeful? Would there be measures taken to protect him?

He changes his position in his seat once his legs go numb. He can't seem to get any sleep, despite lying awake all night, every night for the past week. He's always been a night person, but this is ridiculous, even for him.

He stretches his legs, wiggles his fingers, and his hand brushes against his suitcase as he does. He's kept it pressed against him, unwilling to let go of his leather case—it's far too precious for him to dump in the luggage loft above his head, and he can't bear to keep it by his feet. It's too precious.

He's wearing his best brown suit for his first day at Hogwarts, and his least worn-through pair of shoes. He's found Sirius' old cream tie to match, and Sirius' old silver watch adorns his wrist. He has no watch of his own anymore, and this is just another piece of Sirius to carry with him. He's brushed himself up, dressed in his best, but the handsome, crisp tan leather case outshines him in every way.

It has his initials in shining gold, R. J. Lupin, and attached to the base of it's handle is a small gold plate with the tiniest lettering—Professor Moony. The leather is thick, rich, and placed against the shabby state of his clothes, no one in their right mind would ever think it anything but a gift.

"Sirius, what is this?"

"It's… a suitcase? Isn't it obvious?"

"Y—yes, I know it's a suitcase, Siri, but why? What's it for?"

"Why, for when you become a professor, of course! See, it's written right there—Professor Moony, see? It's tiny, you'll have to squint a bit—"

"Sirius!"

"What?"

"What are you up to? When have I ever said that I want to become a professor?"

"Never. Because you are chronically incapable of telling anyone what you want, and I always have to either worm it out of you, or deduce it myself."

"I—"

"No. You're going to tell me that you can't do it, you're gonna sprout some bullshit about being a werewolf and leave it at that. Well, I'm here to tell you that you will. I've seen how much you love to teach, Rem, and you're a natural at it. You deserve having a job you love working at, and you deserve a career as much as the next person. One day, that suitcase will find itself put to its rightful use."

"Sirius, it's not so simple. People hate me, they hate what I am. I can barely hold down a job in a Muggle diner, how will I ever get one teaching children?"

"If you're worrying about the full moons, don't. We'll all be there in our Animagi forms, you know that. Yes, that's what we'll do—Jamie, Pete and I will be there for you every month, and we'll watch over you like we always do. Easy as that."

"No! Not as easy as that, Sirius. It's the farthest thing from easy. For as long as I'm a werewolf, I'm a danger to people everywhere. Don't you get it? I'm not one of you! I'm not—I'm not human. I don't even have any rights."

"What do you think I'm fighting for, Rem? Why do you think I'm fighting this war? Yes, to protect my friends, but I'm also fighting for you. You think I care for the rest of the world? They mean nothing to me. I'm fighting so that Peter remains safe, that James and Lily can come out of hiding, that my godson grows up in a better world. I'm fighting for your rights, for your dignity. I don't care about the rest of them. I care about you."

"Sirius—"

"No, Rem. I want you to listen to me. One day, you will be able to walk on the streets with your head held high. One day, people will treat you like a hero, not a monster. One day, you're gonna walk through doors with that very same suitcase in your hand, and the kids will be calling you Professor Lupin. You've always been one of us, Rem. You're better than most of us—you're good, genuinely good, and that can't be said for half of the rest of us. They'll see who you are soon, I promise you this. I will make sure of it. I will fight for you to my last breath."

"Thank you, Siri. I—you have too much faith in me. But I can't let you die on me, Si, so I guess I'll have to fight right there with you."

The case is far too ostentatious for him—the whole thing is entirely made of leather—and he knows that Sirius too, was aware of it, even as he bought it. Knowing him, he probably bought it for that very reason. The plain brown design looks simple enough though, at first glance, and he knows that for Sirius, it's a major concession on his part.

It's also far too big—he doesn't know what had gone on in this extravagant idiot's mind, because when has he ever had the need or belongings for so much space? But this too has a reason, he knows, because Sirius does everything with a reason. He could have easily gone for a magical space saving luggage case, but no, he'd brought this big, fancy one instead.

"You've always been one of us, Rem. You're better than most of us—you're good, genuinely good, and that can't be said for half of the rest of us."

He knows what Sirius was trying to tell him. He still doesn't understand the sentiment—he never had—but this leather case will always be a reminder of Sirius' baffling declaration.

"You deserve more than you think, darling. You deserve the world."

He's not sure he does, but when Sirius had been around, he'd done his very best to give it to him.

The train jolts. He blinks, startled, and glances down at Sirius' silver watch. Is it eleven o'clock already?

Ten fifty-nine. His compartment is still empty, and he concludes that it'll most likely remain unoccupied for the trip to the castle. He leaves his suitcase on the seat. It takes up far too much space, but if he is to remain unaccompanied through the ride, he sees no point in setting it down. He doesn't want it to touch the floor.

He's surprised at the lack of crowd on the train—even the platform hadn't been packed when he'd first arrived. Platform 9 ¾ had always been full to bursting with jostling bodies before, back when he was a student. He supposes that the decline in students is most likely attributed to the war. All those families who could have been sending off their children to Hogwarts today—all dead.

He'd last rode the Hogwarts Express a little more than fifteen years ago, in the large compartment right behind the Prefects' carriage. He'd had his friends around him, Sirius beside him, and all of them had unspokenly put aside all talk of war for their last ever ride on the Hogwarts Express. They had had fun, and he had been hopeful for a better future.

He scoffs at his past self. He'd been so stupid. Young, stupid, and in love. He's still in love, unfortunately, torturously so, but it's not the same. This time, he's by himself, only Sirius' watch and Sirius' suitcase to accompany him for the ride. He's never felt more alone, and the nostalgia of the old days just drives the loneliness deeper.

Another jolt, more pronounced this time. Eleven o'clock.

He gears himself up for a long ride. He's brought an old paperback with him, but he's not in the mood to read. He lays his head on the window, trying and failing to pretend that the cold hard glass is Sirius' shoulder. He misses Sirius.

He nearly does succeed. No, that's a lie—but he nearly does delude himself into believing that he's succeeded.

Then Harry Potter comes in.

He—he's been waiting to see his cub for years, but his mind can't comprehend that this living, breathing young boy is the little one-year old he'd adored so much.

"Moo'y! Moo'y, see, see!"

The boy before him is startlingly like James. He's not that tall for a thirteen year old, and his clothes are as old and ratty as the ones he himself used to wear when he was young—only much, much wider. But there's a smile on his face, and he's laughing at someone behind him.

He's wearing James' glasses. He first thinks that it's just the style that's similar, but no—there's that white scratch on the rim near its joint, right where James had scratched his own, one drunken night out. How did Harry get hold of his father's old glasses?

He nearly gives himself away, very nearly reaches out and touches Harry's face, just to know that this is real. He catches himself in time, falling back into the pretence of closed eyes and lax body right before the boy turns his head back.

His eyes are still open and watchful, just the tiniest slit, and that's how he notices. The eyes.

He'd always loved to see little Harry's bright green eyes when he was an infant. The emerald colour was so entrancing, and it spoke of so much innocence. He'd never thought of those eyes as Lily's eyes before. Just Harry's.

But now, Harry's turned towards him, thirteen years old and not one and three months, and he's faced with the startling realisation that he's looking into Lily's eyes. Those are Lily's eyes he's seeing. Same wide shape, same jade green, same long lashes.

Then Harry blinks and starts talking to his friend again, and those two green orbs go back to being Harry's.

Harry is debating with his friends on who he is. He knows that these kids aren't used to seeing adults on the train, and definitely not one seemingly asleep like he is.

He hadn't planned this trip by train, but then he'd woken up today with forty seven minutes of sleep under his belt and a drunken nostalgia far more prominent than the intensity of his flashbacks over the past weeks, and he had no other choice. He doesn't want to Splinch himself, as he knows he will if he tries to Apparate to Hogwarts while he's this distracted.

The bushy haired girl seated opposite Harry is smart, very smart. The red haired boy he'd seen walk in was particularly loud in his question of what is this stranger doing on the train, and the girl, Hermione, if he's heard right, instantly states his name as read on his suitcase.

He can't see the red-head's face, but he sounds flabbergasted at this Hermione's seeming omniscience. Then she explains where he got his name from, and he can practically see the boy deflate.

He almost laughs, then and there. These two kids remind him of him and Sirius, oddly enough—back when they had been nothing more than friends.

He's been wishing back on the old days, and he's now forced to witness his memories played back in different colours, by different people, in a different setting, and he can do nothing but sit here and pretend to be asleep as he's taunted by his past.

The three kids adamantly discuss the question of who he is and what subject he'd most likely be teaching, and once again, Hermione impresses him. The three talk about the subject as if it's a great mystery to be solved, and he gets the distinct impression that this is how they always are. Every topic, to them, is just a mystery waiting for its answers to be revealed, and it takes him back to his own time with the Marauders, sneaking around the castle at night as they try to map its secrets as best as they can.

He watches Harry all through the ride. He's laying on his side, the back of his head cradled against the glass of the window, and with his chin tucked into his chest, he has the perfect view of Harry seated beside him. Harry isn't as comfortable as he could be, because the stupidly big suitcase is blocking most of the seat. He's torn between pretending to wake up and shifting his case to make room for the poor boy, and staying right where he is, taking in everything he can of his young cub. He's been aching to see Harry again, and he wants to see what this boy is like around people he's comfortable with.

Harry is a mess of contradictions. He's animated, yet reserved. He's smiling, but the smile almost looks forced. He's laughing along with his friends, he's happily scratching the neck of Hermione's ginger cat's fur, but yet, he looks like he's far, far away. He looks tired, but content.

The boy is a mystery, but at least he's smiling. He seems happy. He looks far too thin for his age, as skinny as he himself was at that age, but his cub does look healthy, and it brings him relief, as short-lived as it is.

He feels guilty, so guilty for not seeing his cub sooner, not trying harder. Harry's two friends seem like good kids, and he's sure that they take good enough care of him—Hermione, especially, shows concern and empathy far more than he expects from someone at this age. He certainly wasn't that good a person when he was thirteen. Harry's been in good hands at Hogwarts, he can tell, but Harry looks like he could have used a friend when he was young.

He feels guilty, but as the hours go by, as he sees his cub steadily grow more comfortable in his friends' presence, his guilt is cloaked by the utter fascination he feels, watching Harry interact. He's packing twelve years of wishful experiences into eight hours, and he soaks up as much as he can.

He can't look out the window, he can't read the book he's brought with him, he can't even shift in his position—he doesn't want to even move a muscle, and he feels the consequences of his decision as the cramps creep up his legs to the tendons of his thighs. His neck muscles already feel caught up, and his back will be in utter agony once he gets off this train in a few hours, but he doesn't care for any of it.

The trolley woman, Martha, comes and goes, and Harry's bought a whole bucketful of assorted sweets from her. He's amused at this boy's apparent sweet tooth, so much like his own, yet unsure of how to feel at seeing Harry spend so much gold in a single splurge.

But then Harry turns around to his friends and divides the candy into three equal parts, and he hears Hermione's soft thank you, Harry, and Ron's almost unintelligible thanks, mate, around a mouth full of chocolate.

It's such a James move, and then and there, he knows that this boy is the perfect legacy, of both James and Lily.

He can feel the light fading outside, and he can picture the sky fading from its light, clouded grey of the late morning to the murky grey of the drizzled oncoming twilight. He hears the students in the carriages around him grow steadily more boisterous as the hours pass, but the three in the compartment are just as soft as they were when their ride first began. He doesn't know if they are naturally quiet, or the muted tones are a concession towards his sleeping profile, but he's grateful for their consideration nonetheless.

He's slipping into dreamscape—the soft voices of Ron and Harry blend into memories of seeing Sirius and James talk, of Lily rocking little Harry to bed, of him reading Harry his bedtime stories, of Peter coming around to the Potters' for Christmas with a heavy bag of Muggle toys for Harry—rattles and soldier figurines and plastic rocket launchers and a memorable fifty block Lego set—all of which he and Sirius had put together over the next two weeks for the little boy.

Harry's grinning at something Ron says, and he thinks of the adorable green-eyed toddler grinning toothily up at him from his crib as he plays with tiny fingers, of the thin wisps of fine black hair, already showing signs of James' signature rat's nest of hair. Hermione scolds Ron for eating too many chocolate frogs, and he remembers Lily wagging her finger at them, as he feeds little Harry a bit more of his chocolate, and Sirius makes silly faces at his godson from the back.

It's peaceful, seeing them again, young and happy and carefree, even if it's just in his dreams. He's spent seven silent hours in Harry's presence, and already, that overwhelming pain of loss is muted to a bittersweet buzz, as he contemplates over scenes from the past.

He's in a good place. He's content with this in-between, content to stay right here in this haze between memory and reality and never move again.

And then the train jolts to a complete stop.

The sky hasn't darkened fully, the evening lights in the carriages have only just come on, and he knows that they haven't reached Hogwarts yet.

The four tiny lights in their compartment flicker off, one by one. Hermione gasps, Ron sounds worried, and Harry looks a mix of anxious and resigned.

Then the Dementors break in.

He throws himself off his seat, wobbling as the numbness in his feet sharpens into pins and needles, and pulls his wand into his palm, conjuring the quickest Patronus he can.

Then Harry falls to the floor, clutching his head as his gasps falter into unconsciousness.

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