That night, after the dishes were done, Harry asked if Remus wanted to talk to the Marauders. His heart stuttered a bit even thinking about it. He sighed, sitting across from the small boy at the kitchen table.
"Harry, I don't really want to. I… I really miss your dad, but that picture, that's not your dad. Not really. And that isn't me in the picture either. That's me before I lost your dad and Wormtail and Padfoot." Remus looked down at his hands furled on the table and waited for Harry's response.
Harry looked sad and nodded. "But… what should I tell them? Dad… uhm, Prongs wants to watch you teach me how to ride a broom. I kind of promised him he could watch." Harry picked at the grain of the wood on the table, sure that Remus was going to explode at him.
"And Sirius keeps demanding that I tell you they want answers. And you… well, Moony keeps telling me that he has notes about my education that he wants to go over with you. Pre-Hogwarts stuff." Harry wasn't used to presenting arguments. He wasn't trying to get Remus to change his mind either, but asking for advice on how to handle the badgering he was being subjected to.
Remus's lips twitched in amused sympathy. He himself knew how persistent and annoying the Marauders could be. Before the world fell apart. Before a war. Before all the bad shit.
He gave Harry a commiserating sigh. "Well, you could cover the painting. That will put them all to sleep and they won't even be aware of time passing."
Harry immediately shook his head at that idea, almost sickened by the thought. "I couldn't do that to them."
Remus blinked a bit and leaned closer. "Harry, they aren't alive in there. You know that, right? The painting is just a magical artifact. You are familiar with the concept of a diary, right?" Harry nodded. "Well, a portrait is really no more than a magical diary. Some fairly advanced magic is involved, but just like ghosts, they are just an echo of the person. Like a photo, but instilled with memories of the person who lived."
Harry shrugged. "They told me they were just a collection of memories and magic mixed with paint, but it's all I have." Harry shrugged, glancing away. He had no real memories of his parents, of Sirius, or even of Remus. Just stories, just echoes.
For as long as he could remember, he had been fed nothing but a pack of lies about his family. His father was a no-good bum who got his mum killed in a car accident. His scar was just an ugly mark from the wreck. Magic wasn't real. He was just a freak, just like his father.
They lied about his parents. They lied about his scar. They lied about everything.
And now, for the first time in his life, he was learning the truth. Or something like it. And even if it wasn't really his dad—good luck getting him to believe that—did it matter? They felt real. They sounded real. They were his. He loved them all. Was that bad?
Remus seemed to be cautioning him about it. Even the Marauders in the painting had warned him. But why?
Remus studied him a moment trying to understand. He thought of his mother's diaries, the ones she had kept all her life. He cherished them. And she had raised him. Harry had nothing but this.
Seeing how deeply Harry had come to care for the people in the portrait, Remus knew it would be a pointless endeavor to convince the boy that the depictions in the painting didn't have real feelings or weren't somehow alive. Remus decided that he was too smart to fight a losing battle.
"Well, I'm sure you can understand why I'm just a bit apprehensive about visiting the Marauders. I will at some point, I assure you. But it could take a bit for me to have a true heart-to-heart. Do you understand, Harry?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah, Remus. I understand."
Remus looked at Harry, seeing a bit of the enthusiasm he'd started the conversation with wane, and he shook his head, ashamed of his own cowardice. He had known Harry needed more than just the truth; he needed someone to be there for him, without hesitation.
"Tell you what," Remus said, trying to push past his unease. "Tomorrow, right after breakfast, I'm going to teach you how to fly. You can bring the Marauders out of the box and set them up where they can see. Prongs can help teach you how to fly."
Harry's face lit up immediately, and a warmth spread throughout his entire body. Without thinking, he floated a few inches off the floor.
"Harry!" Remus yelped, his eyes wide with surprise.
"No, Remus! This is great! I'm floating!" Harry's laugh rang out, pure joy in the sound, and Remus couldn't help but join in, chuckling like a fool along with his young charge. Harry didn't deflate for an hour, still smiling, the magic lingering in the air like an unspoken promise of adventure.
"Alright, Harry. Now, to get the broom to come to your hand, you have to treat it like a pet. Have you ever had a pet?"
Harry shook his head. "Dudley had a fish." He suspected Dudley actually had a few fish, since he couldn't seem to remember to feed them or clean the bowl. Aunt Petunia tried to be sneaky about it, but Harry caught her at it. He never said anything to Dudley though.
"Hedwig isn't really a pet, she's a friend. And I've only had her a few days." Remus's smile faltered slightly. "She's delivering a message to Padfoot." A flicker of worry passed through Harry, the thought of Hedwig not finding her way back nagging at him. He'd left the Dursleys before she had returned. Maybe she couldn't find him now.
Remus looked momentarily taken aback by the comment, guilt washing over him before he angrily shoved it aside. He couldn't help but feel it, though—the weight of Padfoot's betrayal hovering in the air like a fog. The Marauders' eyes seemed to be on him, the invisible collective watching him, waiting for him to make sense of it all.
He wasn't ready to address Sirius's betrayal—not yet. He couldn't find the strength. Harry was so excited, so full of life, getting to know the Marauders; how could he tear that joy down with the weight of such a painful truth?
But part of him realized he didn't believe it himself. How could he? He had trouble understanding what had happened. Sirius had been James's best friend, more than that—a brother. Where one went, the other would follow, even to the ends of the earth.
Remus had stopped thinking about the Marauders long ago, for his own sanity. He couldn't live in that hellscape forever. He'd buried the questions, shoved them deep down, but now—now they were rising back to the surface, poking and prodding at him.
He hadn't gone to the trial. Why hadn't he gone? Maybe then, he would have the answers. The truth. He sighed, dragging his thoughts back to the present, offering Harry a smile as he watched the boy's excitement.
"Okay," Remus said with a half-smile, trying to shake off the heavy thoughts. "Well, then darn. I've never had to teach anyone to fly before." He held his hand over his broom and spoke firmly, "Up." The broom obediently floated into his hand.
Harry, eyes wide with admiration, quickly mimicked him, holding his hand out and repeating, "Up."
"Up!" The broom leaped into his hand immediately, and Harry couldn't help but grin. "I think it's as excited about getting to fly as I am."
Remus stared at him, eyes wide. "Weird."
Harry blinked, adjusting his new glasses. "What's weird?"
Remus sighed, a distant look in his eyes. "Your dad used to say something like that. That brooms had feelings, that they could sense if you were afraid. They bonded with people who loved to fly, just like they did. Like they were alive."
"A good broom is made a lot like a wand," Prongs piped up from the portrait. "There's the wood, and there's a core. You can use it as a focus too. I've seen it."
Harry thought about that, nodding. "Mr. Ollivander said that the wand chooses the wizard, so isn't that kind of like being alive?" Harry asked, mulling it over.
Remus grinned, a small chuckle escaping. "Maybe. I've yet to hear a counter-argument." He nodded toward Harry's broom. "Now, all brooms have cushioning charms. You don't actually sit on the stick part. That would be painful. It feels a lot like sitting on a very soft pillow."
A sudden laugh from the portrait broke through the lesson. James, his face alight with amusement, said, "I once canceled Flint's cushioning charm during a match because he almost knocked me off my broom. I got a month's suspension for that one, but it was so worth it."
Harry laughed, imagining the scene. He had been wondering how he'd sit on a broom without hurting himself.
Remus cleared his throat, regaining Harry's attention. He demonstrated the correct way to mount the broom, showing him how to position his hands for maximum control.
"Now, push off from the ground and hover for me," Remus instructed.
Harry did as he was told, and Remus's eyes softened, proud of the boy's quick learning. "Now, gently bring the broom back down," Remus said. "You'll need to practice turning, diving, and most importantly, braking."
Harry practiced these maneuvers under Remus's watchful eye, his dad calling out helpful tips. "Keep your hands loose. Don't strangle the broom. Treat her gently, like a woman."
Portrait Mooney quickly covered Prongs's mouth and whispered something in his ear—likely reminding him that Harry was only eleven and not quite ready to think about girls yet.
Finally, Remus gave him permission to fly around the meadow. He expected Harry to gently cruise a few feet off the ground. But Harry had other plans. With a loud whoop of excitement, he shot up like a rocket.
Remus's heart leapt into his throat, initially thinking Harry had lost control of the broom, but soon, he realized—Harry was a natural.
There was something majestic about it. Harry's flying was full of grace and fearlessness, the kind of joy that radiated from him like sunlight. Remus watched, a smile tugging at his lips as he shook his head. "Wow, James. Look at him go!"
James, propped up against a tree and watching with the others from within the confines of the frame, had tears rolling down his cheeks. "He's wonderful," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He tracked Harry's progress, a grin spreading across his face as he watched Harry execute a barrel roll with gleeful cries of jubilation piercing the quiet morning. "Just perfect."
Padfoot and Moony moved closer, placing their hands on James's shoulder in silent solidarity. He smiled, nodding, his eyes locked on the boy soaring through the sky.
"That there, boys," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's the future."
AN: Edited as of 2/13/25 (Honestly when I suggest that I edited these chapters I mean I practically rewrote these chapters. Feel free to send me a little LOVE. Also I do not own JK Rowling I just play in her sandbox.