Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and probably never will…

Once in a Blue Moon

It didn't take as long as Calla first thought for the Lupins to gain custody of Harry. Nobody disputed the fact that Harry would be better off with a werewolf guardian to see him through his first years with the curse. That, coupled with the fact that Calla was his aunt and therefore blood relative made it nigh on impossible to find a flaw in their case. Despite some revoltingly discriminatory comments from an equally revolting toad-like woman dressed in a horrifying shade of pink, the majority of the court agreed that Remus and Calla were the most suited for the job.

Some people had been swayed by the toad woman – Umbridge, her name was – but they were only the weak minded members of the Wizengamot who held little power in the first place. The only significant opposition was the coven of pureblood fanatics, like the Malfoys. They seemed to be of the opinion that werewolves should be slaughtered on sight. They pushed for Harry to be 'mercifully euthanised' to put an end to his 'eternal suffering', and for Remus to be executed for allowing Harry to be bitten in the first place. Fortunately, their arguments were immediately shot down by the army of valiant boy-who-lived supporters. Some good did come of fame, after all.

The only delay in the proceedings was the oath of secrecy that all Wizengamot members had to swear before even being told the subject of the court case. It wasn't compulsory for adoption cases, of course, but Dumbledore and the Lupins decided that with Harry's unique circumstances, it would be better to stay on the safe side. Some people had protested, but the other option was to sit out of the meeting altogether. Their curiosity got the better of them and they submitted.

Harry had been all too eager to live with the Lupins. Disturbingly so.

Calla had paid a compulsory visit to the Dursley household. Throughout the trip, she was careful to maintain a strictly professional attitude towards her sister, whom she had not spoken to in years. She even took the trouble to wear coloured contact lenses and dye her hair (the muggle way: transfiguration and charms had never been her best subjects) to make sure Petunia remained ignorant of her true identity.

But all she had found was the most normal, ordinary, mundane family she had ever met, with the exception of the morbidly obese father and son.

Calla didn't like it. She had a gut instinct that something wasn't quite right. Their family situation seemed a bit… off.

To begin with, she couldn't find where Harry had slept. The master bedroom was obviously Vernon and Petunia's. Calla was all too familiar with the overly feminine flower patterned curtains and bed sheets. Vernon had clearly not had any input whatsoever in the interior decoration. And it didn't take a genius to figure out that the second bedroom was Dudley's, from the sign on the door.

So that must mean that the third and final bedroom would be Harry's… right? But when Calla opened the door, it was filled to the brim with outdated and broken toys and technology. There was no sign of anyone sleeping there, at all. That left three options. The preferable option was that Dudley had just moved his toys in extremely quickly. However, the thick layers of dust on some of the clutter suggested otherwise. So the first option was regretfully cast away. This left the possibility that Harry had never lived there in the first place, or that he hadn't slept in a bedroom. Calla didn't know which one was worse.

She wouldn't know for sure until she asked Harry some questions, but there was only so much interrogation a six year old could take, however gentle. So for the time being, she kept her worrying observations to herself: Remus would drive himself spare trying to find the answers.

Harry was settling in amazingly quickly. He had moved to the Lupins' as soon as he was discharged from St Mungo's. The nurse had said that although his shoulder hadn't yet healed fully, it was no longer at risk of infection. On the condition that he had to drink some healing potions and a mild pain relief solution once a day, he was allowed to leave the hospital. It was possible to tell that his injuries still pained him every now and again, but he didn't complain and drank the required potions without a fuss.

He seemed to remember Remus on some level, and they both doted on each other. Calla loved the little boy to pieces, too. Once, she had thought that she would never see eyes that green again, but now they lovingly gazed at her on a regular basis. He was such a sweet child, with impeccable manners. Not to mention the fact that he was remarkably adept at household chores for a nearly-six-year-old, but on more than one occasion, that had been quite unsettling…

Calla slowly awoke and opened her bleary eyes. The muted blue and white colours of her and Remus' bedroom swam into focus. She turned on her side to see her husband's face peaceful in sleep. It would do him good to have a little rest – he hardly ever relaxed any more. With her index finger, she traced his jawline and the sloping curve of his nose. She traced the worry lines in his brow, and the laughter creases by his eyes. In his sleep, he murmured contentedly and shifted closer to her. Calla smiled.

Carefully extracting herself from underneath the sheets, she slipped out of the bed and put on a silky, ocean blue nightgown over her crumpled sleepwear. As she crept out of the door, she looked over her shoulder to see Remus sprawled across the bed, wrapped in the sheets.

Her bare feet were warm against the cold wooden floor.

It had taken her a long time to convince Remus to let her put more of her money towards the house. He felt guilty that he couldn't contribute much to the cost, but she insisted that it wasn't his fault, just that of the backwards laws of their country. Werewolves struggled for employment and he rarely held a job for more than a few months, often spending weeks searching for another. Eventually, she wore him down, insisting that they would be much more comfortable in a bigger house.

Calla wasn't rich. Not by a long way. But she had enough to live comfortably. The cost of the house had taken a large chunk out of her savings, but not so much that they had to watch the knuts.

Since Calla had paid the larger portion of the funds for the house, Remus had taken it upon himself to redesign it to make it their home. It showed in the Gryffindor red and gold accents in the upholstery. Even with the painful memories that his school days held, what with him being the last Marauder, he still retained his house pride. He believed in what his house represented, and always would. The occasional splash of sunshine yellow always brought a smile to Calla's lips. Like Remus, she held her house values and morals dear.

She hopped down the stairs and spun around the newel post. Sliding down the worn, smooth hallway floor – childish, but forever fun – she waltzed into the kitchen.

The cabinets were hand painted Hufflepuff yellow. Remus had agreed with her that sometimes the muggle way was best. Painting with magic just didn't give quite the same effect. A paintbrush painted with love.

Bifold doors opened onto a geometrically paved patio, which led to a meticulously kept garden lawn with a backdrop of an evergreen forest.

She made to go and seat herself at the table to enjoy the view, but was disturbed by the quiet clattering of metal. Looking up in surprise, she met the green gaze of a sheepish black haired boy. He held a frying pan tightly in one hand and there seemed to be some sort of yellow batter in a bowl on the side.

"Harry?"

"I'm sorry, miss! I didn't mean to make a noise! Promise!" Harry started backing away into the corner, frying pan abandoned on the side. It was Harry's first morning at the Lupins', so he would naturally be nervous. But this?

Calla's eyes widened when she realised what he was doing. Someone had undoubtedly mistreated this child for him to be so frightened of her for the smallest of things. His eyes were darting around like a trapped animal, and his tiny hands were trembling.

"Harry?" She repeated quietly, "What are you doing?"

"I was making breakfast, miss, for when you woke up." His voice trembled.

"First of all, Harry, I'm your Aunt Calla, you don't have to call me 'miss'. And why are you making pancakes? You're six years old, not a house elf."

"But mis – Aunt Calla, I always make breakfast. Every day. Ever since I could reach."

"Oh, Harry! You don't need to do that! Remy and I do all the cooking here. In fact, we quite enjoy it."

"But that's a freak job, only freaks are supposed to cook." Calla had to stifle a gasp. What kind of monster would call a child a freak? Much less enough that he was convinced it was true.

Calla's voice was serious when she spoke. "Harry, let's get one thing straight. You. Are. Not. A. Freak. Okay? You never have been, and you never will be."

"But I can make freaky things happen. Nobody else can."

"Look. They're not freaky things, that's magic! Remy and I can do it too." To demonstrate, Calla slowly pulled out her wand (pine wood, unicorn tail hair, 12 ¾ inches, slightly swishy) and levitated the bowl of pancake mix over to her, along with a spoon, and began to stir the batter. She heard a sharp intake of breath, and gave a small smile. "Come on, then. We can bake together." She turned to the stove and gestured for Harry to pass her the frying pan. He did.

"Aunt Calla," He asked slowly, "what's a house elf?"

Remus had been pleasantly surprised when he came downstairs that morning to find his wife and nephew happily (and messily) baking pancakes in the kitchen. Harry had been quiet and withdrawn the previous evening, despite being obviously pleased with his new living arrangements. With Calla, in the kitchen, he was no longer as held back. Constantly asking questions and inspecting Calla's wand, it seemed as though an invisible glass wall between them all had broken. He was still as perfectly polite as he had been, but Remus could see a new inquisitive side to Harry. He noted the boy's witty sense of humour – advanced for his years – with a smile. He could make a marauder out of him yet.

What Remus loved most about Harry was that nothing ever fazed him.

Nothing.

Harry had barely recovered from his ordeal and the shoulder wound had yet to heal fully, but he acted as though nothing had happened. He didn't ask for pity. He didn't seek attention. He just carried on.

For someone who had never heard of the magical world, he took to the concept like a duck to water. A single display of magic – a mere levitation charm – and he didn't doubt it for a second. That wasn't to say he was gullible, not by a long stretch. It was quite apparent that Harry had more than enough brain capacity to think for himself. Remus supposed that young minds adapt more quickly than older ones that are set in their ways. Even Calla had been surprised. As a muggleborn, she too had been forced to quickly adjust to the new world, but the rate at which Harry did so astounded her.

Finally, Harry's lycanthropy did not bother him. At all. This shocked Remus more than any other thing. Remus himself still often struggled to come to terms with it, and he had had it for more years than he cared to remember. He had sat down and explained to the young boy what it meant, but Harry had just accepted it with a smile. When a confused Remus asked 'Doesn't it bother you?' Harry had replied, 'Well, you're a werewolf too, and you're the nicest person I know.' As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Currently, the boy in question was attempting to converse with the gnomes in the garden. He had discovered them the first time he ventured out into the garden. Remus had a fascination with magical creatures of all kinds, so had allowed a small number of gnomes to continue living there. The population still grew, but he only had to degnome once every three or four months.

The gnomes seemed to be content around Harry, if a little confused. Harry was curious to find out more about them, and they were curious as to why small humans roamed the earth.

Since the gnomes did not speak English, save for a few words, they were conversing in a weird concoction of gestures and noises. Harry had picked up a few of their names and Remus could hear some entertaining, gnomish attempts at saying 'Harry'.

It amused Remus. He'd always considered himself to be respectful of other creatures, but he'd never considered talking to them. And here he was, being shown up by a six year old who had only known magic existed for less than a week.

"Uncle Remy?" A small voice called from a few yards away. Evidently the gnomes had scampered off to their homes and left Harry to his own devices.

"Yes, Harry."

"Could you play tag with me?" Remus inwardly sighed. He had once thought that he was quite energetic, but one game of tag with Harry had caused him to reevaluate his status in the hierarchy of fitness: Harry left him in the dirt. But he couldn't refuse. Not in the boy's first week.

"Of course!" He leapt forward and tapped Harry on the shoulder, "You're it!"

And so began a kerfuffle of chasing, ducking and dodging as they raced around the garden. It would be long past sunset when they finished.

A/N: I just want to say a huge thank you to those of you who have followed, favourited and reviewed this story. It means so much to me. Thank you again