Hey guys, I'm back. And while I was, my beta wasn't standing still and she edited this piece that I have made just before I left…Hope you like it!
Ow, because I was away, I forgot to change my name into Rowling….. So I'm still not her….
On with the story!
When Remus awoke, it was to the sound of a very loud knocking at the door of his office. Clearly the person outside had no regard for other people who hadn't gotten more than four hours of sleep . . . such as himself. Groaning, he lifted himself up and limped over to open the door. Naturally, it was Snape, who had come to retrieve his cauldron. The man (Remus had to stop himself from thinking slimeball) drew back as he glanced at Remus. When he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror, Lupin nearly did the same. Of course, it was not the first time since he had become a werewolf that he had badly scratched his own face. But it had never been a pleasant sight, and Remus hadn't even started to think about how he would explain his appearance to his students.
"Did you do it yourself, or is your old friend the fugitive responsible?"
Remus looked up. Was Snape going to start again about Sirius? How many times did Remus have to say that he wasn't friends with the traitor anymore?
"Before you start your whole speech about not helping Black," Snape said, as if he had read Remus' mind, "I wanted you to tell the latest news about your friend myself. Apparently, Black has found a way to enter the castle. Although I'm sure you already knew."
Remus didn't hear the last remark; the second had caused his heart to stand still. This couldn't be true; Snape was obviously lying to him. But . . . it was possible, much as he wished it wasn't. When Remus didn't reply, Snape said, clearly enjoying his role as the bearer of bad news, "He nearly got into the Gryffindor Common Room."
Unconsciously, Remus gulped. Then the rumours were true! Harry really was in danger! And he had been a werewolf, locked in his office instead of helping the rest of the staff capture Black . . . Snape interrupted his thoughts.
"He escaped, of course. Always manages to get away, doesn't he?" Remus wanted to say that twelve years in Azkaban isn't exactly getting away with one's crimes, but then he realised that Snape was talking about their times in school, and he couldn't argue against that: Black (it hurt somewhat, even after all these years, to call someone who had been among his best friends by his detested last name) had always been the one who got away with most of what he did. Peter had been the person who was almost always caught red-handed . . .
"When I saw you with Potter yesterday, I assumed that you would care more about his safety than the to let in the person who wants to kill him."
"I would never let Black in, Snape. We've discussed this," he said, fists clenched.
"It's lucky for you," the tone of his voice suggested he wanted nothing more than to make Remus very unlucky, "that Dumbledore still believes that cock-and-bull story."
Remus snapped.
"What do you want, Snape? Why are you still here?"
"I want to know how you're planning to teach with such interesting scratches on your face," he answered. Truth be told, he didn't sound remotely interested.
"Well, firstly, I would need someone to report this to Dumbledore."
"Not going yourself, then?"
Remus' patience was wearing thin. "That would rather defeat the purpose, as a student might easily see me."
Snape sneered. "I'll tell him of your . . . injuries."
With that, he walked out of the room and Remus sighed. He had the feeling that Snape was about to do something horrible . . .
And he had guessed right. In five minutes Snape came back with Dumbledore, who decided that Remus couldn't teach in his state. Today was a Sunday, but it was obvious that the marks wouldn't disappear before the end of the week at least. Remus would have to hide in his chambers until the scratches were gone and Snape had volunteered to cover his classes. Surely no good could come of it; clearly, Snape had not made the offer out of kindness.
When they had disappeared, Remus cursed. He would be locked up in his study for the rest of the week, where he could hear the students being bullied by Snape, thought he could not hear the material being covered.
He felt imprisoned, and the thought that Dumbledore was locking him up to prevent him from "helping" Black crept up in his mind once or twice.
His meal was brought by Madame Pomfrey regularly, and Remus felt like that little first-year again, lying in the hospital wing to rest after his transformation. Pomfrey hadn't changed a bit since his years at school; she still had the same stern look about her . . . Not the same as McGonagall, who could kill you with her gaze, but more as an impersonator of the professor, who didn't quite succeed.
The rest of his "free-time", as he had heard Snape saying to his classes, was spent hearing how the students dealt with Snape, and feeling too ill to do something about it. That included the students' questions of why Snape was teaching Defense, then the quick docking of points from the relevant house to get some order, followed by the silent lessons, with only Snape's comments about how terrible Remus was as a teacher remaining audible.
Remus hadn't done his job badly; Snape had just never asked for the lesson-plans Remus had made at the beginning of the year. He would gladly hand them over, but Remus figured that Snape didn't really want them. What he did want was to enforce the idea that Remus was a lousy teacher. And Remus let him. He knew, or at least hoped, that his students would know better, and that he was in their eyes a pretty good professor.
Staying in his room was hard, but it was even harder when Remus heard that the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game was going to take place during the coming weekend. He had looked forward to finally seeing Harry fly; if he was to believe Madam Hooch, Harry's flying skills were superb, possibly even better than James'. And she would know – she had played keeper against James during her time at Hogwarts and had seen him send the Quaffle through the hoops quite a few times.
Remus had heard a lot of students complaining about the match: apparently, Gryffindor was supposed to be playing against Slytherin, but thanks to Hagrid and the infamous hippogriff lesson, Slytherin couldn't play as their Seeker was injured. Remus was sure that Hagrid had played a big role in the injury, but the Ravenclaw sixth year whom he heard complaining certainly thought so. Remus knew about the whole incident with Malfoy. And he also knew that if Malfoy was anything like his father (and when one looked at the unnaturally light blond hair one couldn't help but think he was), the whole thing was probably just a set up. In one fell swoop, the kid had probably destroyed Hagrid's new-found teaching career as well as prevented himself from having to fly in the inclement weather.
The week crept by very slowly. With only his thoughts, memories, and the sounds of the nearest class to entertain him, he was very soon depressed; who wouldn't be if one's mind was endlessly making up conspiracies, one's memories made one realise how screwed up everything was now and the sounds of the classroom made one want to forget that, much as he hated the fact, he needed Severus Snape for the potion? And to make matters worse, the wounds on his face took longer than usual to heal. Clearly, he would have to stay in the whole weekend.
The Friday before the Quidditch match, Remus heard from the other side of the door what would be his favourite third year class entering his classroom: there were the usual babbling noises, students pulling out (and dropping) books, the rustling of parchment. Apparently, the rumour of Remus' illness hadn't spread through the whole school.
"Please take your seats everyone," he heard Snape's cold voice say. There was a murmur, and Remus heard Dean asking Seamus "Why's the crack-pot giving this lesson too? Can't he just rot in the dungeons and leave the rest of us alone?"
"Professor Lupin has not left any records about his lessons. We will therefore start with a new topic. Turn to . . ."
"Sorry, I'm late, Professor Lupin, I –" He heard Harry's voice and the opening of the door.
"This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think we'll make it ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down."
Curious to hear Harry's reaction, Remus opened the connecting door very slightly, and looked at the scene below him (to enter his personal chamber through his classroom, people had to climb up the stairs.)
"Where's Professor Lupin?" he heard.
"He says he is feeling too ill to teach today," came Snape's standard answer. "I believe I told you to sit down?" Harry wasn't moving.
"What's wrong with him?" he asked.
"Nothing life-threatening," Snape said, rather as though he wished it were life-threatening. For a moment, Remus could have sworn that Snape was looking in his direction. "Five more points for Gryffindor and if I have to ask you to sit down again, it will be fifty."
Harry moved to his seat at the front, next to Hermione and Ron.
"As I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far –" Remus knew for sure that Snape glanced at him as he said this. He couldn't care less, though; Snape probably knew that he was bored to death and that he would hear anything through the thin walls anyway.
"Please, sir, we've done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas and grindylows," Hermione interrupted Snape with her voice on top speed. "And we're just about to start –"
Snape wasn't thrilled by the interruption.
"Be quiet. I did not ask for information. I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin's lack of organisation." Remus was rather irritated by this comment; he had always been the most organized of his friends, and the lessons he had planned were lying on his desk. Actually, the lessons were almost under Snape's nose (not very coincidentally, seeing as half of the world could fit under that abnormally large nose).
"He's the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had," Dean said and the rest of the class murmured in agreement. Remus felt his heart swell at that comment, but he knew that Snape wouldn't appreciate the comment as much as he did.
"You are easily satisfied. Lupin is hardy over-taxing you – I would expect first-years to be able to deal with Red Caps and grindylows. Today we shall discuss . . ."
With a nasty feeling in his stomach, and fearing what would come, he saw Snape turning to the last chapter of the book: the chapter on . . .
"— werewolves."
Remus was barely able to stop himself from dashing down to take over the lesson himself . . . maybe a nice little practical session about how to strangle a former Death Eater would be fun for the third years.
"But sir, we're not supposed to do werewolves yet, we're due to start hinkypunks –" That, of course, was Hermione.
"Miss Granger, I was under the impression that I was teaching this lesson, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to page tree hundred and ninety-four." Nobody moved and the class fell silent.
"All of you! Now!" Snape said with an even more deadly edge to his voice.
"Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?"
Snape seemed to be getting more amusement out of this than was natural; he looked to be about half a minute away from telling them all the awful truth. Remus' already clenched fists were getting, if possible, even tighter.
Yet Snape had, at least of yet, said nothing. He looked through the class, ignoring the usual occurrence of Hermione's hand shooting up into the air as soon as the question was asked (in fact, the question hadn't even been completely out of his mouth when Hermione raised her hand).
"Anyone?" If he hadn't been glowering at everyone rather dangerously, Snape would have looked stupid: Hermione was in the middle of the front row, putting her hand, now waving slightly, almost directly into Snape's line of vision.
However, Snape merely smiled (Remus could not restrain the mental swearwords that began to erupt in his head) and continued, "Are you telling me that Professor Lupin hasn't even taught you the basic distinction between –"
"We told you, we haven't got as far as werewolves yet, we're still on –"
"Silence! Well, well, well, I never thought I'd meet a third-year class who wouldn't even recognise a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind you all are . . ."
Remus was reminded of his own werewolf class in second year; it was not long afterward that his friends had discovered his secret. It had been in one of the last weeks of the term; they'd had to write an essay, and suddenly everything fell into place for his fellow Marauders.
"WHY did you never tell us?"
Yes, that's a good point, James. Tell, me, Remus…Did you really think that you could hide such an important part of your life from us"
"Well…. I…"
"I mean…You can't have such big secrets for us! I told you everything about my horrible mum!"
"Yes! And I told you about the girl I like, Remus! (no Sirius, I'll tell you later!) And here we were, believing every word of your monthly sick mother. Even buying flowers so you could bring them with you!"
"I mean, Peter and me even considered that it would have something to do with severe, deathly PMS!" Peter nodded.
"I didn't want you to think that I was a freak! I wanted to be normal, and have friends…." He had answered lamely. They had been silent for a while, and then James had said:
"Why would you ever think that we wouldn't want to be friends with you, when you would tell us?"
"Ehm… do you have an hour?" Sarcasm had been his best friend.
"No, we won't have an hour. We will go straight to the library to find a cure!" Sirius had yelled.
They obviously hadn't found a real cure, that day or any other, but Remus had found some friends he knew he would never lose . . .
Except that he had.
"Please, sir," The voice from Hermione downstairs woke him from his day-dreaming. "The werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout of the werewolf –"
"That's the second time you've spoken out of turn, Miss Granger. Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all."
Remus felt the urge to stand up and prevent Snape from bullying his students more, but he heard that he didn't need to: the class was entirely on Hermione's side and loud mumbling was heard from downstairs.
"You asked us a question and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don't want to be told?"
A voice suddenly boomed through the room. Remus thought it was Ron Weasley.
After that, there was a deafening silence.
"Detention, Weasely. And if I hear you criticise the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed."
Remus couldn't take it any longer. He slowly closed the door and moved away from it. He sat at his desk, and unrolled a long piece of parchment, where he had carefully documented his lesson plans. Slowly, he started writing in his careful script, pretending that it was necessary to have everything planned until the end of June.
Finally the lesson was over. Remus heard that Snape was keeping Ron to discuss his detention, and then left the classroom. It was already the weekend and although that wouldn't change anything about his situation, at least he wouldn't have to endure Snape's comments.
The scars started itching like mad on Saturday morning, when the thunder was slamming against his eardrums. According to Madam Pomfrey the itchy feeling was a good sign; at least, that's what she told him when she came to his office to check up on him.
"Yes, yes, Remus, they seem to be healing just fine. In a few more days, I should that no one would be able to tell."
"Too bad concealment charms don't work on werewolf-bites. I could attack my face again next time . . . and frankly, the idea of staying in this room for another week is enough to drive me mad," he sighed.
"Well, I may have something for that. It just came in . . . it's a sort of liquid, designed to keep gnomes out. Wizards who grow their own vegetables in their garden spray it on the fences. Somehow, it repels the gnomes."
Remus looked at Madam Pomfrey as though she'd just told him she was in the process of growing wings and was planning to fly to the moon. Based on the explanation, she apparently equated his condition to people trying to keep gnomes out of their gardens. Not only that, but she expected him to apply it to his face!
"I altered the ingredients a bit myself, so it should prevent you from scratching yourself. I'll give you some next full moon."
Remus smiled somewhat falsely and nodded at Pomfrey's enthusiam. This was the most idiotic idea he had ever heard, including all James' schemes to make Lily fall in love with him. Maybe Peter had been right when he said that hospitals were where the government performed mental experiments. But they must be using nurses as test subjects these days.
Before he could come up something grateful to say, there was another thunder clap, and a nearly simultaneous knock on the door. As Remus turned his face to the wall, so the person on the other side wouldn't see his face, Pomfrey opened the door.
"Madame Pomfrey, Dumbledore sent me, he says to come quickly, Harry's been attacked by dementors and he fell off his broom!" Remus recognized the tearful voice of Ginny Weasley, Ron's little sister, a second year who had mastered the Bat-Bogey Hex during her first Defense lesson with him. The words had come out of her mouth at such a speed he was hard-pressed to understand what she'd said.
"Merlin! Potter again? Protecting that boy is a full time job!"
Without another word, she dashed out the door with Ginny close on her heels. As the door closed, Remus sighed. So Harry had fallen off his broom and been attacked by dementors. He wished more than ever that he had been there to do something. But, as always, he was forced to sit on the sidelines, watching while people he knew were hurt . . .
By Sunday evening, the great gashes across his face had faded into pale scars, and Remus was able to eat dinner in Great Hall. He heard the whole story from McGona . . . erm . . . Minerva. She looked emotionally affected, and not only because Gryffindor had lost to Hufflepuff.
"Yes, yes, Potter gave us quite a scare. He was flying towards the Snitch; Mr. Diggory was ahead of him. Then the dementors came . . . Dumbledore says they couldn't control themselves with all the excitement in the air. And . . . well . . . Potter is affected more by those things than any of us. He fell . . . What was it, Pomona? Fifty feet?" – Pomona nodded while helping herself to more mashed potatoes – "He just kept falling, it seems, and I've just heard from Filius that his broom was caught by the wind and swept into the Whomping Willow . . . thoroughly destroyed, it was . . . not that that is the worst of the whole situation, of course, but I remember that I gave that broom to Potter myself, and his teammates say he was very fond of it." She paused to take a sip of her pumpkin juice.
"What happened to Harry after he fell?" Remus reminded her of the main subject.
"Well, Albus of course interfered. He was furious. I've never seen him so angry before. Falling is just as much a part of Quidditch as anything, but the fact that the dementors got involved . . . it's quite ridiculous." Seeing Remus gazing at the headmaster's empty chair, she said, "He is now at the Ministry, demanding that there will be some measures taken to keep the dementors in check. I quite agree with him, but I'm not sure the Ministry will. They're convinced that their presence is for the best. Especially after that attack on the Fat Lady.."
A knot formed in Remus' stomach. He really had to find out what happened with the Marauders Map . . . He suddenly realized that Minerva was speaking to him.
"Remus? Do you happen to know what makes chocolate work so well to counteract the effects of the dementors?"
"What? Oh, well, it's quite simple," he said, snapping back to the present. "Even the muggles know. There is a kind of stuff in the chocolate that makes you happy; I seem to recall it's in butterbeer as well. I hear that Honeydukes is trying to get the stuff out of the chocolate, to put it in more of their products."
Minerva looked pensive for a few moments and then said: "Yes, I suppose I could have figured that out myself. Poor Harry," she suddenly said, and Remus almost choked in his drink. This was really not something he had ever expected to come out of Minerva's mouth.
"I really wouldn't like to be in his shoes right now. With everything he has experienced in his life, having Black on his tail . . ."
Minerva seemed to have forgotten that she was sitting next to a man who had been friends with said mass-murderer.
Remus swore that he would protect Harry better, as Dumbledore had asked. And his first task was to find the Marauders' Map.
The same night, he went to Filch. Remus knew it was the last known location of the map; Lily had insisted that they give it to Filch on their last day of school. The thing would be useless to them once they left Hogwarts, "and Filch can use it to catch . . ." "future kids who like adventures," James had interrupted.
Finally, they had agreed that they would put the map on the caretaker's desk ("If he knows who it's from, he will give us detention, even if we're already finished with school," Peter had said) and that the Map would be closed ("Lily, stop pouting. We won't give our greatest achievement away to Filch so he can use it against future Marauders.").
"A map?" Filch said.
"Yes. The last day that I was here as a student, we . . . I mean, I put an empty piece of parchment here, with a note, saying that it was confiscated and highly-dangerous, signed by McGonagall," Remus said impatiently. The office was even smellier then in his school days and Filch gave him still the creeps.
"Well, if it was from McGonagall, why don't you ask her?" Filch asked, clearly not understanding what Remus had said.
"No, it was not really from McGonagall. We . . . I mean, I put it here, saying it was from McGonagall."
When he saw the blank stare on Flich's ugly face he sighed. "Look . . . can I just look through these drawers?" He motioned with his head to the wall behind him, where all the records of misbehaviour were kept.
Without waiting for permission, and ignoring the sputtering sounds from Filch, he opened a drawer where the title, 1970-1980, was dribbled on by some unidentifiable substance. But besides a lot of memories (he had forgotten that they had tried to paint the Slytherin table in Great Hall red and gold, along with all the Slytherins who were sitting there), he didn't find a trick piece of parchment. Filch had left; probably checking the corridors. His eye fell on a drawer with the words Confiscated and Highly Dangerous. He opened the drawer and smiled; half of the stuff in it wasn't dangerous as the title would lead one to believe. Behind the fake snakes, the dungbombs and the Fanged Frisbees, there were some pixie eggs, and feathers that were probably covered with Firewhiskey, judging from the familiar smell that came from the drawer.
No parchment, however.
"Still here, eh?" Filch's voice made him jump.
"Yes, but I was just going," Remus said, realizing he wouldn't find the map in here.
"Ah, that drawer? The filthy miscreants won't see any of that back, there's things in there going back to when you were in school, I'll bet. Haven't opened that drawer since those bloody twins stole something out of it . . . never could prove they'd swiped anything, though . . ."
Filch was mumbling more to himself and his cat than to Remus, and the latter decided that it was really time he got going.
He let his eyes wander over the names on the drawers, and saw that under every title was a sticker with a few names, apparently designating the top troublemakers of the era. His name, along with those of the other Marauders, was on the drawer he had opened, as well as on a few others (altogether, the files on the Marauders seemed to take up almost an entire filing cabinet) and he saw that the newest drawer didn't show the years in question, only the legend "Weasley, Fred & George." With a sigh, he thanked Filch and walked out of the door back to his own rooms. The map was obviously missing. But was it really in Black's hands? Remus could easily believe that when they had put the map in Filch's office, Black might have come back to retrieve it. After all, the guy seemed to do a lot when everyone's backs were turned. But how could he still have it? He couldn't have taken it with him to Azkaban; if he had, it would have been confiscated there . . . Was it hidden at his old flat, or his mother's house, and had he retrieved it since his escape? But both of those houses were being watched: Even his own home had been watched by Aurors in the week before Hogwarts. Sirius couldn't possibly have the map. That left Remus right back where he'd started: If Black didn't have the map, then who did?
"It's not fair, he was only filling in, why should he set us homework?"
"We don't know anything about werewolves –"
"—Two rolls of parchment!"
Saying that it was a delight to get back to work that Monday would have been a huge lie. Remus had to endure every class's complaints about Snape. At this moment, it was the third-year-Gryffindors.
"Did you tell Professor Snape we haven't covered them yet?" Remus heard himself ask. He pretended that he hadn't heard a single word form their class; he couldn't let them know he'd been in his office the whole time.
"Yes, but he said we were really behind –" Parvati began.
"—he wouldn't listen—" Seamus yelled.
"—two rolls of parchment!" Ron shouted again in a panicked voice.
He smiled and looked at his students. This came out actually very well. As long as the students were too indignant to write the essay, they'd never work anything out . . . although he doubted most of them would be able to connect all the dots, at least at this point.
"Don't worry. I'll speak to Professor Snape. You don't have to do the essay," he said, looking at the students' overjoyed expressions.
"Oh no. I've already finished it!" Hermione said, disappointed. Remus thought that he saw a glint of something unidentifiable in her eyes, but the next moment it was gone. He'd probably imagined it . . . overreacting to the whole situation.
He proceeded with the planned lesson on hinkypunks. The class was silent and took notes for most of the time. Remus looked at Harry, who still seemed to be a bit pale from his adventure the past weekend. As he walked trough the class he saw that Harry's notes contained remarkably a lot of doodles about a broom, and there was even a sketch of the Whomping Willow on fire.
When the bell rang, Remus had made up his mind. He had to know how Harry was.
"Wait a moment, Harry. I'd like a word."
He concealed the hinkypunk with a red cloth over the cage and then started to pack his books into his suitcase, not exactly knowing what he would say to the boy.
"I heard about the match," he started lamely, "and I'm sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?"
When he asked the question he suddenly heard Flitwick's word from that morning: That broom resembles nothing so much as firewood and matchsticks.
"No, the tree smashed it to bits."
Remus sighed. He felt responsible for the whole situation; the tree had been planted there for his sake.
"They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts," he suddenly heard himself blurting out. "People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance." He subtly left out a few facts: for instance, the fact that the whole incident had been a rumour Dumbledore had spread to keep everyone away . . .
"Did you hear about the dementors too?" Harry asked, his voice now quite soft.
"Yes, I did. I don't think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry," he said, remembering his talk with McGonagall. Then he stared out of the window, where he had a view of the horrible creatures stationed at the main gate.
"They have been growing restless for some time . . . furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds . . . I suppose they were the reason you fell?" Hopefully, this would assure Harry that he thought of him as a fairly skilled flyer.
"Yes," came the answer. Harry looked hesitant, and then he asked suddenly, "Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I just—?"
"It has nothing to do with weakness," Remus heard himself say. He didn't want to see Harry doubt himself more. He had enough trouble as it was. "The dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don't have." He saw that he had Harry's full attention. "Dementors are amongst the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can't see them. Get too near a dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory, will be sucked out of you. If it can, the dementor will prey on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself – soulless and evil. You'll be left with nothing but the worst experiences in your life. And the worst that has happened to you, Harry," he said, now turning his attention to back to the boy sitting in front of him, "is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of."
He saw that Harry understood, and that he had a bit more colour on his cheeks.
"When they get near me," he said, in a small voice, "I can hear Voldemort murdering my mum."
Remus stood not an arm's length away from this boy, who had seen such horrors in such a short time . . . More then ever Remus felt an urge to hug him and tell him that he knew far more about his parents than Harry suspected. He wanted to tell Harry everything he could remember about Lily and James, and how proud his parents would have been. He saw that his arm was already outstretched, to pat Harry's shoulder, but then he remembered he was a teacher, and not the right person to tell Harry the story about Black and his parents. Not Harry's best friend, who could tell him a secret that would probably make Harry furious for not knowing all those years. He really wanted to help the boy, but no matter what he did, Harry would have questions. And Remus couldn't stand to tell him about his past, he who looked so much like one of those he had allowed to be murdered.
"Why did they have to come to the match?" he heard Harry saying bitterly.
"They're getting hungry," he answered, automatically snapping back into teacher-mode. "Dumbledore won't let them into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up . . . I don't think they could resist the large crowd around the Quidditch pitch. All that excitement . . . emotions running high . . . It was their idea of a feast."
"Azkaban must be terrible," Harry said, and Remus nodded. His uncle had spent one night there because he had stolen some brooms and had tried to smuggle them to the Netherlands. He was never the same after that . . .
"The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, but they don't need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they're all trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most of them go mad in weeks." His uncle'd had, according to Remus' mother, a very unhappy childhood and had gone mad in a single night.
"But Sirius Black escaped from them. He got away . . ."
Remus felt the book he had started to put in his briefcase slam against the back of it, and with a quick movement, he prevented the thing from falling. Great…. Just my luck….Exactly the person I've been trying to avoid discussing, and the person asking is the one I would least like to discuss the subject with.
"Yes. Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn't have believed it possible." Although there are quite a few things I wouldn't have believed possible . . . but they happened anyway, didn't they? "Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long . . ."
"You made that dementor in the train back off."
"There are – certain defences one can use." He saw that Harry suddenly looked somewhat hopeful, and he continued. "But there was only one dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist." But the damage had been done. Remus remembered seeing the kind of glint in James' eyes; though they'd been very different eyes, the effect was certain to be similar. No good had ever come of that look . . .
"What defences? Can you teach me?" You see? Never any good of that glint in a Potter's eye . . .
"I don't pretend to be an expert at fighting dementors, Harry – quite the contrary . . ." he broke off just in time. He had wanted to say that seeing as his condition had given him far more depressing memories than happy ones, he had more difficulty than most defending himself against dementors.
Harry hadn't noticed though. "But if the dementors come to another Quidditch match, I need to be able to fight them –"
Remus looked at Harry's face, which was pleading and full of hope. He wanted to help the boy, protect him, but at the same time, the urge to tell Harry all he knew became worse in his presence. On top of that, he didn't want Harry to discover what he was . . . Then he heard Dumbledore's voice in his head, asking him to keep an eye on Harry . . .
"Well . . . All right. I'll try and help. But it'll have to wait until next term, I'm afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill." Harry looked at him with a beaming smile, thanked him, and walked out of the classroom.
This would give Remus two full months, and two transformations, to come up with a plan for the lesson. And it would also give him two full months to come up with a way to keep his mouth shut in Harry's presence.
Okay, I hope you liked the chapter. For those of you who think that I think too movie-wise with the whole bedroom is next to the classroom, I had that in my mind before I saw a potter-movie. And I also had the idea that Snape was not only tormenting the class, but also Lupin, who he knew could hear every word. Reviews will get reply:D:D
Ps: Egypt was wonderful:P