cx. terrible reunions
Remus fell asleep almost the instant he found a compartment for himself and sat down.
He couldn't help it; the full moon was two nights away after all, not that many would take notice of such a thing. Mostly potioneers would these days, or lunarologists, diviners—or women picking up a copy of Witch Weekly to read their horoscopes. Remus had never set much store by the stars but sometimes he thought on the sheer power every revolution of the earth held upon his life and wondered.
Muggle fiction suggested werewolves could actually feel the moon, as if it held true, tangible power over their being—but that was superstitious nonsense, like most werewolf lore. To suggest werewolves had lore meant they had culture, and Remus was steadfast in his denial of such a thing. It was a curse, not a way of life. The moon held no power over Remus until it rose full above the horizon. His reaction to it otherwise was psychosomatic; he knew it would be time again to weather the transformation and no matter if he retained a sound mind or not, his bones still broke, his skin would tear, his limbs would contort. He'd end up a screaming, howling mess.
The full moon neared and Remus grew wearier and wearier until he could barely stand the fatigue.
He should have gone to Hogwarts earlier in the week, he knew. It would have been the responsible thing to do—but Remus had left his tasks to the last minute in a fit of self-doubt and recrimination, allowing Dumbledore all the time in the world he needed to renege on his appointment. However, the Headmaster never appeared on Remus' doorstep again no matter how long Remus sat and stared at the door. The only owls he received contained vital information for his new post, requests and advice for lesson plans, needed signatures, etcetera. Albus had even forwarded several historical periodicals to which he could submit a few articles or topics of research. Hogwarts professors needed to stay published and relevant in their fields, after all.
So Remus spent the vast majority of his remaining summer holiday with his head in a book or visiting the national Tome Archival and Depository kept by the Ministry beneath the Radcliffe Camera. He'd visited once many years ago with his mother, so he noticed right off how many of the shelves, including those in the sections relevant to his studies, had been purged of their books and scrolls. Dumbledore had said times were darker than the media would have him believe, and so Remus wasn't overly surprised by the sudden dearth. After all, the best way to control a population was to spread ignorance and control information.
He kept his articles tame but insightful enough to garner back page listings in the periodicals; he maintained a low, unassuming profile, lest someone dig deeper into the identity of R.J. Lupin. Still, it was with some wonder and excitement that he looked upon his first published piece in the Journeyman's Journal. Then, the melancholy rose up and overcame Remus because he had no one to write to, no one to celebrate with. Just him and a dram of Ogden's Best.
Being busy and procrastinating on his move wouldn't have been a big deal if not for his furry little problem, as Sir—as certain people used to refer to it. Magical means of transportation—such the Floo, or Apparating, or the use of a Portkey—had serious consequences on his weary body during these few days of the month. He could have flown, of course, but that would be exhausting for its own reasons. Albus had offered the suggestion of taking the Express and Remus had jumped at the opportunity.
Dozing in his seat, Remus remained distantly aware of his surroundings: the call of voices, the scuttling feet, scraping trolley wheels, and when the train set off, the windows' rattling as the carts went along the track. The door to his compartment came open and he heard what sounded like a few boys entering, their conversation stilted and hushed as they took their seats and tried not to wake him. Rain thumped against the glass by Remus' head, the sun hidden behind amassing thunderclouds, and the occasional word broke through the tired haze in his mind— "Quidditch," "Mum," "Scabbers," "Charms," and "Potter."
The last word, of course, had Remus' heart leaping into his throat and he almost sat up, half-asleep or not. Potter. Harriet would be a student at Hogwarts, a third-year. He would get to see her again. More than once over the years, Remus had wanted to write her a letter, but he didn't know what to say. He still didn't. In his mind, Harriet belonged to that year of his life he tried so very desperately to blot out and Remus lied so often to others and himself about his depth of friendship with Lily and James and Sir— well. He didn't know what to say. He thought she might find it a bit strange if a man claiming to be a friend of her deceased parents wrote her out of the blue. He'd wanted to see her. He'd wanted to see her grow up because he would never see—.
He doubted Harriet's aunt and uncle would have wanted an odd, scarred man showing up on their doorstep asking after their little niece.
The train continued to rattle. It felt like sitting with an old friend, that nervous trepidation of bygone years humming in his veins. His first trek from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had signaled the start of a new life—and, again, here he sat on his way to something new and terrifying and exciting. Being here was…comfortable. It lulled him into deeper dreams and Remus slept soundly for the remainder of the trip.
x X x
He woke when one of the boys—a freckled redhead in Gryffindor robes—gave his shoulder a hesitant pat and said they'd arrived. The rain went a long way in helping clear his groggy head and Remus welcomed it once he stepped onto the dark platform, pausing to turn his face into the downpour, water trickling over his brow and cheeks. Remus simpered, hearing the familiar, booming call of Hagrid beckoning on the first-years, and he would have stopped to say hello if not for the inclement weather. Instead, Remus kept on the path with the students—the students that would be his starting tomorrow. What a thrilling thought.
He didn't rush the carriages like they did, preferring instead to wait and take one near the rear of the procession. Once inside, a quick incantation dried his patched robes and heated the carriage's interior, so Remus relaxed on the bench, leaning with his elbows on his knees as he turned his idle gaze toward the window and the forest beyond.
When the sudden, inexplicable chill began to erode his Warming Charm at an alarming rate and the carriage rolled to a stop, Remus realized something was amiss. His breath fogged before him and the errant mist on the glass coalesced into a creeping frost. Another kind of cold needled along his spine, emanating from those dark, hidden recesses of his mind, that place where the war and 1981 had long been buried deep. Remus yanked his wand from his pocket and stood, crouching under the abbreviated height of the carriage, and he opened the door to lean out into the rain.
He spotted nothing unusual at first; the school's gates loomed ahead, illuminated by torchlight despite the downpour, and he could see the shadow of a person pacing through the yellow light. Movement drew his attention away from the gates to the line of waiting carriages—and Remus almost lost his grip when he saw a skeletal, robed form hovering in the air, rippling on an unfelt breeze as it descended upon a carriage two in front of Remus' own. The Dementor pressed its head into the open door—and suddenly a small student came toppling out the other side, hitting the wet ground in a solid, limp heap. They did not move.
Remus scrambled down the carriage's iron step and ran. "Expecto Patronum!" he shouted, and silver flare warbled from the end of his wand with a burst of warmth and joy as ephemeral as a puff of smoke coming off the backside of a Filibuster Firecracker. Weak as it may be, the Charm served in warning the Dementor away, as the Dark creature reared back from the silver dart worming its way and retreated toward the unlit trees. Remus watched it go for only a moment, then rushed past the uneasy Thestral to the girl crumpled by the carriage wheel.
He almost choked when he realized who it was.
Fate delighted in throwing Remus off-kilter—cursed, he often reminded himself with a chagrined sigh. He'd sat lost in thought about Harriet Potter a few hours prior, but he could not have guessed he would meet her again in the middle of a rainstorm as he knelt by her side and turned her ghostly face out of the muck. She didn't much resemble Lily or James; he could see that through the mud and rain covering her. He recognized the scar more than anything, the thin lines curling under her jaw and around her neck like pale spider limbs. Remus first saw the mark at her parents' funeral, when Petunia had arrived stone-faced and sober, carrying the unhappy toddler in a stiff, unyielding hold.
Remus shook himself. Someone approached, their heavy footfalls breaking through the puddles.
"Incarcerous!"
On instinct, Remus shielded himself, if only just. The spell pinged off his protego and spiraled into the trees, rustling leaves. "Hold your fire!" he yelled.
One of the figures he'd spotted by the gate came nearer and the glow of the carriage lantern gave relief to his maroon robes. An Auror, then. He'd know those robes anywhere. How many times had he seen James—? But now wasn't the time for that.
"Identify yourself!" the Auror demanded, his wand trained on Remus, who kept his hands raised.
"My name is Remus Lupin and I'm to be the new History of Magic professor at the school," he said. "There's a student injured here."
The Auror lowered his wand and came nearer, squinting against the lashing rain. He looked young—younger than Remus, perhaps, still green enough for his collar to be overly starched and his aim less than perfect. "Shit," the Auror muttered as he holstered his wand. "There was bound to be one."
"Why on earth is there a Dementor here?"
"Ministry orders. They're stationed outside the grounds, searching for Sirius Black."
"Searching the children?!" Remus snarled. He shook Harriet and when she didn't rouse, he placed his hand over hers. It was ice cold to the touch and the rain wasn't helping matters. What was wrong? He'd never heard of such a strong reaction to a Dementor before. Remus bent at the waist and hoisted her up, careful to hook one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. "She needs to get inside."
"Right, go on through, then. I'll make sure your effects reach the castle Mr.—err, Professor Lupin."
Remus broke into a light sprint, hurrying past the line of waiting carriages and through the checkpoint where another Auror appeared to be having students turn out their pockets. Oh, Remus didn't think that would go over well at all with the parents when their children inevitably wrote home in the morning. He ran up the path toward the waiting light of the castle's entrance, marveling that Harriet's sodden robes seemed to weigh more than the witch herself, but his burst of strength flagged as he mounted the castle steps. Panting, he banged on the door and almost dropped the girl when it flew open.
A woman gasped. Remus thought another Dementor waited in the entrance hall when a dark, looming figure stepped forward—but no, the wizard who yanked Harriet from him was definitely flesh and bone. "Give her here," the man snapped in an irritated baritone, lowering Harriet to the floor. He crouched and propped her head up against his knee.
"Term hasn't even begun! What mischief has she gotten herself into now, Severus?" McGonagall sighed—and it was McGonagall, the same witch who'd taught him in school. She had a few more lines gracing her face now but she otherwise hadn't changed a bit—.
"There's a Dementor out by the gate," Remus explained, trying to catch his breath. "She fell from the carriage and hit the ground quite hard—."
Wait. Did she just say Severus?
Reeling, Remus looked again at the wizard, at the head of oily black hair that parted at the nape of his neck, revealing a scant inch of skin. Long, pale fingers prodded at Harriet's scalp until they came back speckled in blood and mud. Merlin! "…Snape?"
The wizard stopped inspecting Harriet's head and stiffened, raising all too familiar black eyes to Remus' face.
During their time at Hogwarts, Snape had always been something of an oddball. He'd been gawky and ungraceful, always too tall and too skinny for his second-hand robes, mocked for his overlarge nose and for the fact that he'd always smelled like a cauldron. Pitiable—if not for his menace, for that quintessential Slytherin arrogance and predilection for Dark magic. That had always been the problem with Snape; he'd made it difficult to feel sorry for him when his bite had been infinitely worse than his bark.
The wizard before Remus had grown into his skinny frame, gawkiness eschewed for a sharpness so acute, it pricked against Remus' skin like a torch held too close for too long. He had scars on his face, too—small ones accrued around his left eye, a larger cut interrupting his brow and dividing his lashes. The eyes fixed on Remus had lost their teenage anger and frustration. They held only sheer hatred now, cold and unremitting, festered by time and unvoiced terror.
How could I not recognize him? Remus wondered. Sweet Morgana—Lily said he became a Death Eater. Why is he—?
"Lupin," Snape drawled almost too quietly to hear. To himself, he added, "That would explain the request for Wolfsbane. Fucking Dumbledore and his sodding misdirection." He flicked his wrist and his wand appeared in his hand. Remus couldn't fight the nervous fidget that shook him and Snape smiled—a smile sharper than his look and all the nastier for it. He pointed the wand at Harriet's chest and Remus' throat tightened. "Rennervate."
Harriet woke sputtering and gasping, nearly head-butting Snape when she sat up and swayed. She blinked wide green eyes—Lily's eyes—up at the three adults surrounding her and croaked, "What the fuck was that?"
"Miss Potter!" McGonagall exclaimed, her cheeks red with outrage and—perhaps—a tinge of relief. "How many times must I inform you that that kind of language is not tolerated at Hogwarts?!"
Harriet stared at Professor McGonagall as if the witch was a pixie short of a parade, and Remus chortled. She looked so much like James just then, and emotion blazed through Remus with such fury, it pricked in eyes.
The girl looked at him when he laughed and gave a dozy, shy grin.
"That, Potter," Snape said, grabbing her under the arm. "Was a Dementor. Up."
He straightened, dragging Harriet upright, and she sagged in his grip, struggling to get her feet under her. "Why'd everything go cold and—funny?"
"Because that's what Dementors do, you halfwit."
A sharp pain cut through Remus' cold hand and he flinched, turning it over to inspect the pain's source. A little green snake hung from the meat of his palm, tiny fangs clamped tight to the flesh—and he swore it glared at him as it wriggled about. "What in the world?" Alarmed, Remus raised his wand to vanish it—.
"Kevin!" Harriet blurted.
Snape snatched the snake before Remus could react and secreted it away in one of his robes' many pockets. Harriet made a move as if to reach for the reptile and the dark wizard slapped her hand away, his impassive glare daring Remus to question him.
Before he could, feet clattered on the castle steps and Remus let out an "Oof!" when a body hit his back. "Harriet!" a frizzy-haired witch cried. Heedless of the collision, she came around Remus and ran to her friend, dripping wet and shivering from the cold. Given the state of her shoes, Remus guessed she'd abandoned her carriage and ran here as he had. "Oh, Harriet, are you all right? We saw you getting carried to the castle and thought—."
"Great, did everyone see that? I'm fine, Hermione."
"You're going to the hospital wing," Snape interrupted.
"What?! No! I've only just got here!"
"Think about that before you dive headlong into the ground then, Potter!"
"I didn't mean to! Gerroff, Snape—."
Snape did not, in fact, gerroff; he redoubled his grip under the flagging witch's arm and marched her toward Madam Pomfrey's old domain, Harriet's complaints dwindling into ill-tempered grumbling. The other girl—Hermione—made to follow but McGonagall called her back. "Miss Granger, if you'd come with me. We have to discuss—well…."
A second witch jostled Remus and darted past with an uttered, "Pardon me." Without pause or consideration to those in the hall, she ran after Snape and James' daughter.
"Remus?" McGonagall said. He had to tear his gaze away from Snape's back to pay attention. "You can go and get settled in the Great Hall."
"Yes, thank you, Professor…."
"It's Minerva. We're colleagues, after all. Congratulations on your appointment."
"Right…."
Remus caught one final glimpse of the retreating trio. The second, dark-haired witch glanced back, and in the hazy gleam of lightning blazing across the sky, her profile became visible before she, Snape, and Harriet vanished into the dark.
He thought she looked…familiar.
A/N: According to the calendar, the full moon was on Sept 1st, 1993, so technically Professor Lupin shouldn't have been on the train, nor attended the Welcoming Feast in canon! For the sake of the story, I've moved time and space and bumped the full moon back a night. And, even without Hermione and Luna saving them seats, I have my doubts that a bunch of girls would sit alone in a compartment with a strange man. So no train ride with Remus!
Dumbledore: "We're gonna have a nice, normal year this year."
Snape: "Good."
Dumbledore: "But, y'know, with a murderous convict on the loose."
Snape: "Wait, what—?"
Dumbledore: "And some Dementors."
Snape: "You can't—."
Dumbledore: "And a werewolf, for flavor!"
Snape: "Somebody stop this man, please."
