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December, 1981
Hogsmeade at Christmastime was a wondrous sight. Blanketed in snow, decked in greenery, and glowing with warm golden light from every home and shop, the little wizarding village became magical in new and wondrous ways. All of which were lost on Remus Lupin this year.
Hoping to avoid as much holiday cheer as possible, he Apparated right next to the Hog’s Head Inn. To his dismay, however, even Aberforth—who could barely be bothered to clean his pint glasses—had tacked a wilting wreath of evergreen boughs and shriveled holly berries to the inn’s front door. Remus paused before the entrance, regarding the sad little wreath with a scowl before pushing inside.
The dim, dirty barroom was only a little warmer inside than it was outside and practically empty. A pair of witches, both of whom had kept their cloaks on and their hoods raised sat shivering and whispering in one corner, and a thin old wizard with long, trailing mustaches appeared to be fast asleep on his stool at the counter. Remus avoided them all and chose an isolated table near one of the grimy bay windows.
He was tempted to keep the hood of his own cloak up. The last two months had been hell, and his suffering was written across his skin. Nightmares and insomnia had left him sallow with dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes. His hands often trembled, and he’d begun to find strands of grey in the hair at his temples.
Of course, the wolf had left its marks as well. November’s full moon, only a day after Peter’s funeral, had nearly killed him. December’s hadn’t been quite so bloody, but it had left him with long slashes across his face. Luckily, the wolf had missed his eyes, and his father had been there with powdered silver and dittany to stop the bleeding. The wounds were nothing but thin pink lines cutting across his skin now. They would be there forever though, reminding him, for the rest of his life, of what he was and the past few months.
Ultimately, Remus pushed the hood down. It left him feeling exposed, like his secret was all the more obvious now, but he would have to get used to that. The Hog’s Head Inn, however, was precisely the sort of place where people took pains not to notice one another. The only person who even spared Remus a glance was the barman, who glared at him from behind spectacles almost as dirty as the windows and glassware.
When Remus had settled himself at the table, Aberforth Dumbledore came out from behind the counter with a bottle of firewhisky and walked to Remus’s table. Aberforth poured three fingers worth of smoky amber liquor into a surprisingly clean glass and set it in front of Remus.
“I—thank you,” Remus said haltingly. “But I didn’t—”
He was acquainted with Aberforth from their time in the Order of the Phoenix, but he wouldn’t have claimed friendship with the younger Dumbledore brother. Nor did he know of anyone who did. Aberforth did not invite familiarity or suffer pleasantries. During Order meetings he’d kept his distance, complained often, and always done his part in the end.
“On the house, Lupin,” said Aberforth, sounding grumpy about his own unprompted generosity. “Doubt there’s anyone around who needs a drink more than you do.”
Remus flinched but nodded his thanks. Satisfied, Aberforth slunk back behind the bar and seemed to turn his focus back to mopping the rough countertop with a filthy rag.
From beneath his cloak, Remus pulled out a brightly colored package. Kneazle kittens cavorted across the gift wrapping, playing with golden baubles and pouncing on one another amidst falling snow. It had made him smile when he’d seen it.
With nothing else to do as he waited, Remus took a chance and sipped the whisky Aberforth had poured for him. It tasted more like cauldron cleaner than anything, but it burned all the way down to his stomach. The heat radiated out from there until he felt warm all the way to his fingers and toes. It brought with it something worse than the cold though.
Memories.
He knew this taste. Sirius had somehow charmed or, more likely, bribed Aberforth into selling him a bottle of this exact same bottom-shelf firewhisky for James’s fifteenth birthday. The four of them had gotten drunk for the very first time off that bottle, laughing late into the night and regretting it all the next morning, though not enough to keep them from doing it again.
Nausea that had nothing to do with the drink itself suddenly roiled through Remus’s gut and he pushed the glass away.
Thankfully, it didn’t take long for the front door to creak open again and Albus Dumbledore to step inside. Unlike his glowering, unkempt brother, who practically faded into the grime of his inn, Dumbledore all but radiated geniality and his blue eyes twinkled brightly from behind half-moon spectacles. His robes, hat, and cloak were all a cheerful, Father Christmas shade of scarlet edged with silver snowflakes.
Aberforth did nothing to acknowledge his brother. If anything, he took even greater interest in his misguided scrubbing. Dumbledore spared him a brief, almost regretful glance before his bright blue eyes found Remus.
Rising from his seat automatically, Remus did his best to smile as the old headmaster approached. After all, Dumbledore was doing him quite a few favors with this meeting. Smiling stretched and contorted his new scars painfully.
“Remus, my dear boy,” Dumbledore greeted him amiably, holding out a hand to shake. He didn’t ask how Remus was and his eyes didn’t linger on the scars, for which the werewolf was unspeakably grateful.
“Thank you for seeing me, Headmaster,” Remus said in reply as they both settled back into their seats.
“Of course,” said Dumbledore. His eyes flickered to the package at Remus’s elbow and his expression fell into mild regret. “I only wish I had better news for you.”
Remus felt himself crumple, inside and out. “They won’t let me see him?” He had to ask the question, even though Dumbledore had already answered it.
Dumbledore gave him a small, sympathetic smile.
“Is it—is it the magic?” asked Remus. He should have thought of that. Lily had mentioned her sister’s dislike of magic often enough. Of course she wouldn’t want it brought into her otherwise Muggle house, especially after what had just happened to Lily and Harry both.
“I can get him a different present.” He looked down at the package on the table and its moving paper. That was easy enough to fix, though the gifts inside would be a problem as well, he supposed. He’d bought Harry a stuffed hippogriff that could toddle around on its little plush legs and even levitate a few inches off the ground when it flapped its fluffy wings. A Muggle teddy bear would be almost as good though.
The other gift inside the box he hated to alter. It was a photo of James and Lily with a six-month-old Harry held in his mother’s arms. It was magical as well. James and Lily both moved, smiling and waving while they tickled their happy, laughing son. Petunia Dursley wouldn’t have many photos to show her nephew, especially not of James or James and Lily together. Surely there was a spell that could freeze the photo though, turn it into a regular Muggle photograph. It would be better for Harry to have the still image than nothing at all.
“I believe Mrs. Dursley’s desire to give Harry a Muggle upbringing extends beyond toys and mementos,” said Dumbledore.
“They want to raise him entirely like a Muggle?” Remus asked, incredulous. James would have been horrified. He’d had a passing interest in some aspects of Muggle culture and had acquiesced to Lily’s desires to teach Harry Muggle ways as well as wizarding ones, but to have his son raised without magic of any sort? It—it wasn’t possible!
“What are they going to do about accidental magic? They can’t control that!” Harry had already had one incident that Remus knew about, levitating a spoonful of mashed carrots right out of Lily’s hand just after his first birthday. James had written of it in a letter to Remus and Sirius, his words glowing with fatherly pride. Even more importantly though—“And what are they going to tell him about how his parents died?”
Dumbledore just shook his head sadly. “That, I’m afraid, we will have to leave up to his aunt to decide, as neither you nor I are Harry’s guardian.”
It couldn’t have hurt more if Dumbledore had slapped him across the face. No, he wasn’t Harry’s guardian. Legally, he couldn’t be with his condition, and Dumbledore insisted there were powerful magics keeping Harry safe so long as he lived with his aunt and uncle. Remus knew all of that, knew better than to indulge in impossible wishes, but this…this was not how it was supposed to be! He stopped that train of thought before it could catch though. Of course this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. None of this was right.
James, Lily, and Peter were all dead, and Sirius—who should have been Harry’s guardian—had been the one behind it all. Now Sirius was as good as dead too, locked away to rot in Azkaban. They’d all gone and left Remus alone…alone but for a child he wasn’t allowed to see.
He refused to give up so easily though. Not when this was the last thing he had.
“My mother was a Muggle,” Remus said, knowing he was close to rambling. “I know how to dress and act like one—I’d promise not to say anything at all about magic. I could just be an old school friend of his parents…perfectly normal…whatever they want! If I could just see Harry…”
Dumbledore fixed him with that same compassionate, sorrowful expression. Remus squeezed his eyes shut. He would not break down here, would not start sobbing again.
“What about writing?” He asked, grasping for a last, desperate straw. “I know he’s too young to read right now, but later—again, I wouldn’t have to say anything about magic, and I could use the Muggle post office. Please…”
“Mrs. Dursley was quite explicit in her wishes, Remus.”
That was it then.
James, Lily, and Peter were all dead and buried beneath the snow. Sirius, the man he’d loved, was beyond his ability to even think about for more than a few heartbreaking seconds. Harry had been the last thing he had left worth hoping for.
Dumbledore must have seen the utter despair written across Remus’s face, because he reached a hand across the table and gripped the younger man tightly by the shoulder.
“It won’t always be like this,” Dumbledore said. “There will come a time, in only a few short years, when nothing and no one will be able to deny Harry his parents’ legacy. Then…then he’ll want someone who can tell him all about who they were, how they died, and—most importantly—how they lived.”
A few short years? It would be almost a decade before Harry was old enough to attend Hogwarts. That didn’t feel short at all. Remus could almost feel those ten years stretching out in front of him, endless and so very, bitterly lonely for both him and Harry. Was it worth it to wait and suffer for such a slim hope?
He sucked in a shuttering breath and raised his head. For Harry’s sake, yes, it was.
Nodding, he shrugged off Dumbledore’s hand and got to his feet. “Thank you again, for meeting me…for asking…”
Dumbledore gave him a smile, one so full of patient optimism it hurt Remus to look at him. “If there’s anything I can do…” Dumbledore said. “If you’re having trouble finding work or—”
“No,” Remus answered. “Thank you, but...” He looked out through the grimy window. The world beyond it was nothing but hazy shapes in grey and brown. “I won’t be staying here.”
Here, did not mean the Hog’s Head or Hogsmeade beyond. It meant Britain. The entire island felt poisoned with memories from coast to coast. Remus could find the will to keep going, but only if he did it somewhere far, far away.
Harry’s Christmas present sat on the table, kneazles frolicking happily across it. Remus tucked it back into his cloak. By the time he could give it to him, Harry wouldn’t have much interest in a stuffed hippogriff, but the photograph would always be important. He would keep them both, a reminder of what he was waiting for—what he was living for.
He saw understanding in Dumbledore’s blue eyes and turned his back on it without saying goodbye. Both Albus and Aberforth watched him as he walked out of the Hog’s Head before turning on his heel and Disapparating.
By New Year’s Day, Remus Lupin was far, far away from everything familiar. No matter where he went though, there was always a small box packed in his increasingly battered suitcase. After a few years, the charm that kept the kneazles playing faded to a flicker and then went still. While crossing the Atlantic a corner of the box suffered water damage, but the contents survived intact. Like everything else Remus owned, it became a faded, shabby thing, but it was always there with him.
Until the day he was finally able to see it opened.
*
It was early August, almost as far from Christmas day as it was possible to get. The old wrapping paper crinkled as Remus handed the package to Harry, who took it with a puzzled frown.
“It’s late,” Remus said hesitantly. “It’s about as late as it’s possible to get really. I wanted to give you this the Christmas after…” he swallowed around the lump that still rose in his throat every time he tried to talk about James and Lily. “After your parents died, but your aunt…” He left it there when he saw a flicker of bitterness in Harry’s eyes. It was for his aunt and uncle, Remus knew, but he couldn’t help but feel he deserved almost as much blame for Harry’s unhappy childhood as the Dursleys.
“I should have tried harder…” Remus berated himself.
As though sensing his thoughts, a hand settled on Remus’s shoulder, squeezing lightly and reminding him that they couldn’t change the past, only do better in the future. Remus reached up and laid his hand over Sirius’s, squeezing his bony fingers in return. They were good at reminding each other not to dwell on past mistakes, which was useful since they were both prone to falling into the morass of “what ifs” on a regular basis.
“You bought me a Christmas present when I was a baby?” Harry asked, still sounding stunned.
Remus nodded and smiled timidly. “Of course I did. It’s not quite a Firebolt…” He half turned to roll his eyes at Sirius, who was perched on the arm of Remus’s chair. Sirius grinned impishly back. “…But I wanted you to know that…that I wanted to be there, for Christmases and your birthdays and everything else.”
Guilt gnawed at Remus’s stomach again, so he leaned his head against Sirius’s side, taking strength from the fingers that moved from his shoulder to card tenderly through the curls at the nape of Remus’s neck. Sirius was still too thin. Remus could feel ribs against his cheek, but they were working on it.
Sitting on the floor, the present in his lap, Harry smiled up at his former professor. “Can I open it?”
“Of course,” Remus said. “It’s, well…you’re too old for part of it now, I know, but—”
Harry was already tearing through the kneazle wrapping paper and prying open the slightly crumpled cardboard box inside. Sirius leaned down and planted a kiss to the top of Remus’s head.
“Happy Christmas, Moony,” he said quietly.
“It’s August, Sirius,” Remus replied.
Sirius just shrugged. “So? I’ve missed far too many holidays, and right now I’ve got everything I want right here in this room. I’d say that’s worth celebrating.”
Harry had the box open now and pulled out the stuffed hippogriff. The teenaged boy regarded it with a hint of befuddled embarrassment. Then the little toy flapped its velveteen wings weakly, and Harry broke into a grin.
Remus felt an echoing smile tug at his own lips. Sirius was right. They’d both missed too many Christmases and birthdays. This moment was more than he’d ever thought he would have again, and it was definitely worth celebrating.
“You’re right,” he said to Sirius. Remus shifted, and with a flick of his wand a sprig of mistletoe sprouted from the the chandelier directly over their heads. As Harry laughed and rolled his eyes down on the floor, surrounded by bits of yellowed wrapping paper, Remus pulled Sirius down for a proper kiss on the lips. “Happy Christmas, Padfoot.”