Remus and Aurora decided to alert Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore about the whole thing. It had been an excruciating decision, and the way they went about it, contacting the teachers through the fireplace in Aurora's office, only emphasized how precarious the situation was. Neither of them could risk being seen in the state they were in. Their faces, still pale from the earlier revelation, were far too telling. No student should sense that something was amiss, and no one could start a rumor that might spread through the castle like wildfire. The risk of Harry connecting the dots and realizing it was about him was far too great.
Now, the four of them sat gathered in Aurora's dimly lit office. The room felt oppressively heavy, the silence between exchanges thick with worry and tension. Aurora was still perched on the couch, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, trembling as though she were freezing. Remus sat at her desk, his posture rigid despite the calm tone he maintained while explaining everything. His eyes, however, betrayed him. They were red and glassy, a silent testament to his inner turmoil.
McGonagall, who had initially peppered them with questions, had gone quiet. Her sharp mind was now processing the information with visible strain, her lips pressed into a tight line. Even she looked shaken. Dumbledore, seated in an armchair by the fireplace, stroked his beard thoughtfully. His usual air of calm authority was still present, but there was a subtle weight to his movements, a sign that the gravity of the matter had not escaped him. Every now and then, he asked a probing question, his tone measured but deeply serious.
"Thank you for informing us," said the Headmaster finally, breaking the uneasy silence after Remus had finished explaining. His voice was grave, laced with an undertone of sorrow. "I understand your concern. The suspicion of domestic violence is, without question, a grave matter. However, surely you realize that based solely on a few bruises on his arm, we are unlikely to achieve anything concrete. They won't take Harry away from the Dursleys with evidence this thin. You must consider that Harry plays Quidditch. That alone could dismiss our claims as nothing more than unfortunate accidents."
Aurora's head snapped up. Her shaking had subsided slightly, but the frustration in her expression was undeniable. Her voice rose, tinged with desperation. "So what do we do?" she asked, her words trembling with a mix of worry and anger. "Let him continue living with them? What if they hurt him even more? What if one day he doesn't return to Hogwarts after the summer holidays and we find him dead in his own home?" Her tone cracked on the last word, and she immediately looked away, swallowing back the lump forming in her throat.
McGonagall, her face pale but resolute, stepped in. "Well, what do we do about it, Albus?" she asked firmly, her tone insistent. Her gaze bore into the Headmaster, unwilling to let him deflect the question.
Dumbledore leaned back slightly, his expression contemplative. "Well," he began, his words slow and deliberate, "we have six months to act. I think in time—"
"I think I have an idea," Lupin interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He straightened in his chair, his eyes gleaming with a sudden clarity of purpose. "I believe Madam Pomfrey is EXTREMELY concerned about the health of our students, especially since it's winter now, and I'm pretty sure she'd be happy to do a general check-up for the whole school. I think she'd be overjoyed to start tomorrow."
McGonagall and Dumbledore left Aurora's office shortly after. The air in the room was heavy, almost suffocating in its silence. Remus, however, remained seated at the desk, his hands clasped tightly together as if holding himself in place. It wasn't that he couldn't move, he simply didn't want to. He didn't want to leave Aurora alone in the quiet, oppressive aftermath of their conversation. And she didn't mind his presence. A silent understanding had settled between them, an unspoken acknowledgment of how deeply this situation was affecting them both. Their thoughts spiraled endlessly, always returning to the same troubling reality: Harry.
"Remus?" Aurora's voice finally broke the silence, soft but tinged with an edge of desperation.
"I'm listening," he replied, his tone gentle but weary.
"Does Harry have any other family he could go to, who could take care of him?" she asked, her voice faltering slightly.
Remus sighed, the sound heavy with old grief. "No," he said after a pause. "Lily and Petunia's parents died before Harry was born. James' parents, well, they were quite old when he was born, their only child. They passed away not long after he married Lily. Dragon pox." He shook his head, the memories clearly painful. "There was no hope for them; they were too weak to recover."
Aurora lowered her gaze, her hands gripping the edge of the couch as though grounding herself. "So where will he live when...?" Her voice trailed off, the weight of the question too much to articulate.
"I don't know, Aurora." Remus's voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his helplessness. "I wish I knew the answer."
Aurora nodded slowly, her lips pressed into a tight line as she fought to keep her emotions in check. Her thoughts raced. Surely Harry must have some other relatives, even distant ones, some connection to someone who could care for him. But every avenue seemed to close as quickly as it opened in her mind. The thought of Harry in an orphanage made her stomach twist, a child like him, with so much burden and so little love, left alone in a cold, indifferent place. She couldn't bear the image.
"And you?" she blurted, the thought striking her suddenly. "You were the Potters' closest friend. If it weren't for what happened on that Halloween night, you would have been like an uncle to him."
"I can't, Aurora," Remus said, his voice quiet but firm. He looked her directly in the eyes, and the pain there made her breath catch. "Magical law forbids people like me from adopting children."
Aurora froze, her breath halting for a moment as the realization sank in. She felt a pang of guilt for even suggesting it. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You shouldn't blame yourself," Remus said gently, though his tone carried the weight of years of bitterness. "Few people think about werewolves. To them, we're just beasts."
Aurora's lips pressed into a thin line, but her mind was already moving to another question. "What about having biological children?" she asked, hesitantly but with genuine curiosity.
Remus hesitated, then gave a mirthless chuckle that held no humor. "The Ministry claims that biological children are part of our kind, even though there's never been a documented case of a werewolf having a child with a normal human. They don't forbid it, technically. But few of us choose to marry or have families, it's... complicated."
He paused, and his expression darkened slightly. "The law forbidding us from adopting, though, that's different. It was written to 'protect normal wizards', to ensure they wouldn't be murdered by an adoptive parent." His voice turned bitter, laced with a frustration born from years of injustice. "The Ministry insists that such violence is inevitable unless we're constantly controlled by someone else. But when it comes to biological offspring..." He let out a sharp breath. "They claim we wouldn't harm our own child, that we'd see it as just another pup. It's absurd, really, but that's the Ministry for you."
"I'm sorry, Remus," Aurora said, her voice soft but heavy with emotion. "Someone like you doesn't deserve such a fate."
Remus raised an eyebrow slightly, his expression touched with quiet skepticism. "You know, Aurora, not all werewolves are nice and—"
"But I didn't mean werewolves, Remus," Aurora interrupted, her voice firm but warm, her eyes holding his. "I only meantyou.You're too good for this world. Maybe that's why you were condemned to this hell."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Remus's face. He inhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of her words pressed against his soul. "I've gotten used to this hell," he replied after a pause, his tone even, though it carried a trace of weariness that made Aurora's heart ache.
Their gazes met, and for a brief moment, silence stretched between them. There was no need for further explanation—each understood the other far better than words could convey. Slowly, they exchanged faint, almost wistful smiles, a small, shared acknowledgment of lives marked by pain and resilience.
Aurora gestured for Remus to follow her as she opened the door to her quarters. She stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the space doing little to dispel the lingering tension from the evening. "Make yourself comfortable," she said softly, her voice tinged with an exhaustion she couldn't entirely mask. Remus nodded, settling into a chair near the small hearth, his movements unhurried, as though he too was lost in thought.
Aurora closed the door behind her and retreated to the bathroom. She needed a moment to herself, a chance to steady her emotions before she could face him—or her own thoughts—again. The sound of the shower filled the small room, the rush of water echoing like a heartbeat in her ears.
She leaned against the cool tiles, letting the steaming water cascade over her skin, washing away the cold that had settled in her chest. But no matter how hot the water ran, it couldn't touch the chill that lingered in her mind.
Harry's bruises. The angry, dark marks marring his skin. The image was burned into her thoughts, vivid and unrelenting. What kind of cruelty had left those behind? How much pain had he endured, physically, emotionally, without anyone to protect him?
Aurora pressed her hands against the tiled wall, her breath hitching as a wave of anger and sorrow swept over her. He was just a boy, no more than a child, yet life seemed determined to take everything from him. She clenched her jaw, the thought of what he must have suffered making her chest tighten painfully.
It must have hurt so much when...She couldn't even finish the thought. Her mind refused to complete the sentence, as if by doing so, she would make it more real.
Her stomach churned at the unfairness of it all. This shouldneverhave happened. Not to Harry. Not to anyone.
Aurora stayed under the water longer than necessary, hoping the steady stream might soothe the ache in her heart. But when she finally turned the faucet off, the weight of the evening remained, heavy and unyielding. She wrapped herself in a towel, taking a moment to compose herself, her reflection in the fogged mirror barely recognizable through the haze of her emotions.
"Aurora?" Remus's voice came through the closed door, his tone quiet but laced with concern. "Is everything okay?"
"Let's just say so," she mumbled, her voice muffled by the thick wood. She paused for a moment, then added, "Come in if you want. I've finished my shower."
The door creaked softly as Remus pushed it open, stepping inside with his usual calm, deliberate movements. He froze mid-step as his gaze landed on Aurora. She stood near the fogged-up mirror, her damp hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, her form wrapped in nothing but a towel.
For a second, Remus forgot to breathe. His mind waged an internal battle he hadn't anticipated.Merlin, Remus, don't even think about it,he chastised himself, his sense of propriety warring with the sudden flush creeping up his neck.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he stammered, quickly averting his gaze.
Aurora, however, seemed unfazed. She glanced at him through the mirror, her expression soft but slightly amused. "Come on," she said lightly, "I lived in the same house with a nosy sister for years. I'm used to it."
Remus's brow furrowed. "She came into your bathroom when you were almost naked?" he asked, a mix of curiosity and disbelief in his voice.
"Or naked," Aurora replied with a shrug, her tone almost teasing. "I said she was nosy."
He nodded, though his expression remained one of mild disbelief. Slowly, he moved further into the room, leaning against the edge of the bathroom counter as if seeking a safe distance. His gaze met Aurora's, and the humor of the moment faded, replaced by a quiet intensity.
The air between them shifted. Neither spoke for a moment, but something unspoken passed in the space of that silence.
"We'll do everything to make Harry's life better," Remus finally said, his voice low but resolute. His eyes held hers, steady and full of conviction. "I won't give up, I promise."
They looked at each other for a long time after those words, the silence heavy with unspoken feelings and the weight of the evening. Their gazes locked, an invisible thread pulling them closer, as if the shared burdens of the night had drawn them into a world only they could understand.
What broke the moment was the subtle shift of Aurora's towel. It began to slide, the loosened fabric slipping dangerously low along her torso.
Remus reacted immediately, his reflexes sharp despite the turmoil in his mind. His hands reached out instinctively, catching both ends of the towel just in time, shielding her from further exposure.
"Fuck" Aurora breathed, her voice tinged with embarrassment and amusement. Her cheeks flushed a deep red as she quickly adjusted the towel back into place, her fingers fumbling slightly. "Forgive me, Remus. That wasn't planned."
Remus let out a soft chuckle, his smile kind and disarming. "It's alright," he replied gently, though his pulse quickened.
Still, his internal battle raged.Don't do this, Remushe scolded himself.Don't let this urge take over. She trusts you.
But it was futile.
Before he could make sense of his racing thoughts, Aurora stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes searching his for any hint of hesitation. And then, in a moment of boldness, she closed the distance, pressing her lips to his.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, almost questioning, but it quickly deepened as Remus responded, his hands instinctively finding their place on her waist. There was no hesitation now. They gave themselves completely to the moment, just as they had done on Christmas Eve.
For that brief minute, nothing else existed. The pain and worry of the evening melted away, replaced by the warmth of their shared connection. They kissed as if the world outside the bathroom had disappeared entirely, leaving only the quiet, safe haven they had created together.
Neither of them wanted the kiss to evolve into something more. This wasn't about desire or need, it was about finding solace, even if only for a fleeting moment.
And so it was.
They kissed for the next minute, not caring about anything. They just wanted to forget about the problems that awaited them outside of that bathroom. And they did.