Since the recent events at the Astronomy Tower, Aurora had been keeping her distance from Remus. She wasn't avoiding him outright, that would have been too obvious, but the space she maintained between them was deliberate. They still exchanged pleasantries during meals and collaborated when necessary, but the warmth that had once marked their conversations had dulled. The shift was subtle yet undeniable, and apparently, even the students had noticed.
"Um... Professor Moonridge?" Harry's hesitant voice pulled her from her thoughts as the last of his classmates filed out of the History of Magic classroom.
Aurora looked up from her desk, her usual wide smile breaking across her face. She'd grown especially fond of Harry over the weeks. There was something in his earnestness that reminded her of her younger self, a bright curiosity tempered by an undercurrent of uncertainty. "Yes, Harry?"
He lingered near the door for a moment, clearly debating whether to continue. Finally, after a glance over his shoulder to ensure the hallway was clear, he stepped forward, his expression serious. "I know I shouldn't pry into your private life, Professor, but... well, Ron, Hermione, Lucrecia, and I noticed something. It's just..." He hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. "It seems like something's wrong between you and Professor Lupin. And we're... we're worried. Did... did Professor Lupin do something to you?"
Aurora froze, her smile faltering as his words sank in. A flash of shock coursed through her, followed quickly by disbelief and a pang of hurt.Did they think... No. Did Harry think...?
Her heart tightened as she pushed her chair back, standing so abruptly that Harry flinched. "Never in my life, Harry! Merlin, no!"
The boy stepped back instinctively, his wide eyes betraying both alarm and confusion. Aurora realized immediately that she'd startled him and softened her tone, though the rush of emotions still twisted in her chest.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she said, taking a steadying breath. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk for support, and her voice trembled slightly, though she fought to keep it calm. "But never think that Professor Lupin would do anything like that. Not to me, not to anyone. He's—" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "He's one of the kindest, most honorable people I've ever known. I... I'm sorry if anything about how we've been acting made you think otherwise."
Harry shuffled awkwardly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's just..." He trailed off, then tried again. "It's just, something did happen between you, didn't it?"
Aurora's heart ached at the quiet sincerity in his voice. She folded her arms across her chest, as though the gesture could shield her from the vulnerability of the moment.
"Harry," she said gently, "there are things, grown-up things, that aren't always easy to explain. But please know this: nothing bad happened between Professor Lupin and me. If you're worried about him, don't be. And don't worry about me either, alright?"
Harry looked uncertain but nodded slowly. "Okay, Professor. I just... we wanted to make sure you were alright."
Her chest swelled with unexpected emotion at his concern. "That's very thoughtful of you, Harry. Thank you," she said, her voice soft.
He nodded again and turned to leave, but just before he stepped into the hallway, she called after him. "Harry?"
He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Professor Lupin is lucky to have students like you," she said with a warm smile.
Harry's lips twitched into a small grin before he disappeared down the corridor.
When the door shut, Aurora sank back into her chair with a sigh, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed them against her temples. The encounter had left her both touched and shaken. The students had picked up on more than she'd realized, and now she had to figure out what to do next, about her feelings, about Remus, and about the tangled mess she'd found herself in.
As Aurora settled into her office later that day, her thoughts kept circling back to her conversation with Harry. What lingered most wasn't just his concern, but the fact that he had come to her—and not Lucrecia.
Aurora knew her sister better than anyone. If Lucrecia had noticed something amiss, she would have marched into Aurora's office without hesitation, demanding an explanation. Subtlety wasn't her style, especially when it came to people she cared about. The absence of her sister's usual inquisitiveness felt glaring.
Could they be hiding it from her?Aurora thought, unease prickling at her skin. She hated the idea of excluding Lucrecia from something she might find important, but maybe it was for the best. Protecting her sister from unnecessary worry had become second nature, though Aurora wasn't sure how long she could keep up the act.
Then there was Harry. His reaction earlier kept playing in her mind. She hadn't even been angry, just startled — and yet he had flinched, his body recoiling as though she had unleashed all her fury upon him. It hadn't been loud, and it certainly hadn't been directed at him.
What if...?
Aurora closed her eyes, trying to push the thought away, but it lingered. Her mother's voice echoed in her memory, calm and measured as it had been during those many conversations about her work as a psychologist. Growing up, Aurora had often listened in fascination as her mother described patterns of behavior, the telltale signs of fear, anxiety, and trauma. She had devoured every book her mother left lying around, absorbing case studies and theories.
It had even crossed her mind once to leave the magical world altogether and pursue psychology in the Muggle one. There was something so captivating about understanding people, the layers of complexity beneath every action and reaction.
But now, that knowledge felt less like a gift and more like a weight.
Harry's flinch. His hesitance. The quiet way he navigates the world, as if trying not to take up too much space...
Aurora opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. The pieces didn't form a complete picture, but they whispered of something she couldn't ignore. She couldn't be sure, of course, and jumping to conclusions would do more harm than good. Still, the gnawing doubt had taken root, and she knew it would stay there until she found answers.
Leaning forward, Aurora rested her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her hands. She hated this helpless feeling, the suspicion with no proof, the questions with no easy way to ask. But if there was even a chance that something was wrong, she couldn't ignore it.
Her gaze shifted to the stack of lesson plans on her desk, her mind tugged in two directions. For now, she would focus on her responsibilities, but she resolved to keep a closer eye on Harry. If there was one thing her mother had taught her, it was this: trust your instincts, but proceed with care.
The next morning, Aurora decided to go down to breakfast with a clear purpose. She needed to talk to Remus about Harry. Whatever had almost happened between them in the Astronomy Tower was shoved firmly to the back of her mind; this felt far more important, more pressing.
The Great Hall was quiet at this early hour, the long tables sparsely dotted with a few early risers. The soft clatter of dishes and the occasional murmur of conversation echoed faintly in the vast space. Aurora took her usual seat at the staff table, her eyes instinctively drawn to the doors as she waited.
She didn't have to wait long.
Remus entered just after six-thirty, his steps unhurried but lacking energy. His robes were slightly askew, his hair mussed, and his face bore the unmistakable signs of exhaustion. The dark circles under his eyes stood out starkly against his pale complexion, and the way he carried himself—shoulders slightly hunched—made it clear he hadn't slept well, if at all.
Aurora's brows knit together as she watched him make his way to the staff table. He looked like he was barely holding himself together.
"Remus," she greeted him as he settled into his usual spot beside her, her tone clipped and purposeful.
"Aurora," he replied with a nod, his eyebrows lifting slightly in mild surprise. "You're making a habit of surprising me at breakfast."
"We need to talk," she said curtly, leaning slightly toward him. "It's urgent."
His expression shifted slightly, wary but calm. "If this is about the Astronomy Tower—"
"It's not," she interrupted, her voice firm and steady. "Forget the Tower. This isn't about me or you." Her intense gaze left no room for debate.
"Alright," he said slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Go on."
"Not here," Aurora said, her eyes darting briefly around the Great Hall. The noisy clatter of plates and murmur of students' voices were a stark contrast to the weight of the conversation she was about to have. "Come on, let's go somewhere private where no one can overhear us."
Remus raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement breaking through his exhaustion. "Is that some kind of suggestive suggestion, Aurora?" he teased, his lips curving into a faint smirk.
She snorted, unimpressed. "Remus Lupin, aren't you feeling a bit too comfortable this morning?" she said sharply, fixing him with a pointed look.
The smirk vanished, replaced by a sheepish expression. "Sorry," he muttered.
"Ugh, just come on," Aurora said, standing abruptly and strode toward the exit without looking back.
Remus watched her for a moment, his curiosity piqued. Whatever this was about, it clearly weighed heavily on her. He sighed, rising from his chair to follow her out of the hall. The morning sunlight filtering through the tall windows glinted off his robes as he quickened his pace to catch up.
Aurora entered Remus's private quarters without hesitation, the heavy oak door creaking softly as it swung shut behind her. She stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed, her expression troubled. She barely registered the cozy disarray of the space—books stacked haphazardly on the desk, a patched cloak slung over the back of a chair, the faint scent of old parchment and the earl grey tea Remus always drank.
He followed her in, closing the door with a quiet click. "Aurora, what's the matter?" he asked, his voice low and careful. He had a way of sensing when something was weighing on her, and now was no exception.
"Remus," she began, her tone uncharacteristically cautious, "what was Harry like as a child?"
The question stopped him in his tracks. His brow furrowed deeply, and his eyes clouded as if he was searching through a memory he hadn't revisited in years. "What?" he asked, unsure he'd heard her correctly.
Aurora stepped closer, her gaze steady. "Harry. What was he like when he was little?"
For a moment, Remus said nothing. His shoulders sagged slightly as he let out a slow breath. "You know..." he began, the words coming reluctantly, "when Harry was a little boy, I was often away on missions for Dumbledore. It was during the war, things were chaotic. Dangerous. I—" He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck, his discomfort palpable.
"I feel ashamed admitting this, but... I wasn't around as much as I should have been. I didn't visit the Potters nearly as often as I wanted to. I was always rushing off to some new task, always telling myself there'd be more time later. But there wasn't, was there?"
Aurora's chest tightened as she saw the guilt flicker across his face. It was a guilt so deeply ingrained that he couldn't seem to let it go, no matter how much time had passed.
"But the times I did visit..." Remus's voice softened, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. "Harry was so much like James. Always smiling, always moving. He had this boundless energy—Merlin, it was infectious. I remember once thinking he was going to fly straight into me on a broomstick."
Aurora tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. "A one-year-old on a broom?"
"A toy broom," Remus clarified, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. But the smile didn't reach his eyes, and Aurora noticed how his hands tightened at his sides. "It was a gift from his godfather."
The mention of the man made something unspoken pass across his face, a shadow of sadness that Aurora decided not to press.
"Anyway," she said, drawing him back to the present, "when you saw Harry, did he ever seem... quiet? Withdrawn? Reserved?"
Remus blinked at her, caught off guard. "Quite the opposite," he said, shaking his head. "Harry was full of life. Confident, even as a toddler. He was his parents' son, through and through. James's charm and Lily's fire, you could see it in him even then."
Aurora lowered herself onto the couch, her movements slow as if a weight had suddenly settled over her. She stared at the floor, her mind racing. "So what happened to that child?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
"Aurora?" Remus's tone sharpened, his concern evident. He stepped closer, kneeling slightly to meet her gaze. "What are you getting at?"
"Remus..." She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. Finally, she looked up at him, her eyes glistening with a mix of sadness and resolve. "I have reason to think that something is very wrong at Harry's home."
Remus straightened, his brow furrowing deeply. "Wrong? Aurora, what are you saying?"
She exhaled shakily, her mind piecing together the clues she had been collecting, the way Harry flinched when voices were raised, the quiet acceptance he carried like a shield, the subtle way he tried to fade into the background when he thought no one was looking.
"I think he might have been hurt," she said softly. "Not just emotionally, Remus. I mean... really hurt."
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Remus stared at her, the weight of her implication crashing over him like a wave.
Aurora watched his face change, saw the guilt deepen in his expression as if he was blaming himself for something that hadn't even been confirmed. She knew him well enough to know he'd take this burden personally, whether or not he had any power to prevent it.
And as she sat there, she realized just how much Harry's childhood had been shaped not by who his parents had been, but by the absence they had left behind, and the hands into which he'd fallen.