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Six years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front step and in that time young Harry Potter had learned some very important lessons about his aunt and uncle, himself, and the world.
Firstly, he knew that the Dursleys operated by a strict set of rules and that these rules were even stricter where Harry was concerned. He learned that Dudley was more important and that Harry was not a real member of their family. He learned that he had to earn his keep. He learned that his parents had died in a car crash and that any mention of them would make his uncle’s face turn a shocking shade of purple and would earn him a full day in his cupboard.
Secondly, he knew that the world did not like people like him. The world did not like people who were small, who needed glasses, who wore clothes which didn’t fit because they hadn’t always been his. The world did not like people who made things happen that they couldn’t explain. The world did not like nasty, ungrateful little freaks like him.
Thirdly, and most importantly, Harry learned that the rules - and there were many of those - did not apply to Dudley.
Harry felt quite dreadful when he woke a whole fifteen minutes later than was allowed. His head felt heavy and fuzzy, like it was full of something hard and solid weighing it down and he had a tickle in his nose and throat. This had only happened once before during winter last year when he’d risked going for a walk late at night only to find that the Dursleys had gone to bed and had locked the door with him on the wrong side. He’d fallen asleep on a park bench that night and dreamt that a man with light brown hair flecked with grey and kind amber eyes had cast a magic spell on him to keep him safe and warm, had stayed with him all night and stroked his hair. When he woke up the next morning, however, he found a faded patchwork quilt had been draped over his body. No magic, just kind strangers.
(His body had been heavy and tired for a week afterwards and he had been very dizzy and sore. This was a little like that.)
Harry still slept under the quilt - he’d stayed on the bench for most of the next day, waiting to give it back, but the stranger did not return. Harry had to try very hard to convince himself that it wasn’t stealing if the stranger didn’t want it anymore and, he had to admit, he was fond of the golden lion which had been sewn carefully into the corner. He named him Mr. Lion and sometimes he told Mr. Lion all about his dreams because the Dursleys did not care to listen.
After thinking about his situation for more than his designated two minutes in the morning, Harry got to work. He usually began by straightening out the living room which Dudley generally left in a mess but his extra fifteen minutes in bed had left him behind and he thought it best to skip that step and move straight on to breakfast. Aunt Petunia got up at six forty five, Uncle Vernon at seven and Dudley at ten. Harry had become very good at timing his chores with these schedules and was, for once, thankful that the Dursleys were not the spontaneous sort.
He had to stop in the middle of Aunt Petunia’s breakfast to sneeze and immediately bolted to the bathroom to wash his hands. He could already hear Aunt Petunia scrunching up her nose and calling him filthy and disgusting but he tried to let the sound of running water block out her cutting voice. He used cold water despite there being nobody there to supervise and made sure to replace the bottle of liquid soap exactly where he’d found it.
When he returned to the kitchen, Harry froze in horror. The bacon was burning. That was not allowed. Quickly, Harry grabbed it from the pan having forgotten it would be hot and promptly dropped the two slices he was holding onto the kitchen floor, narrowly missing his foot. Had crying been allowed, he’d have done just that. Instead, he scooped up the bacon with a piece of kitchen paper and examined it carefully. There was not enough time to go to the shops for more, not to mention that he hadn’t even started cleaning yet. Would she even be able to tell?
Making up his mind, Harry turned off the hob to ensure the remaining bacon stayed hot but didn’t burn any further and placed the two contaminated strips onto a willow-patterned plate. He looked at them closely. They certainly didn’t look dirty. He sighed. It would have to do. Wearily, he glanced at the clock above the kitchen door and felt panic immediately settle in his stomach. It was already six thirty.
Working at double speed, Harry scrubbed at the grease on the kitchen floor from where the bacon had landed and made sure to put the evidence straight into the bin outside. He straightened out the living room as best he could and was thankfully just getting started on Uncle Vernon’s breakfast when Aunt Petunia appeared in her dressing gown, shooting Harry a scowl on her way past just for good measure. Harry knew that Aunt Petunia enjoyed having a reason to criticise him so she’d probably have been happier if she’d known about the bacon incident. On a better day, Harry might have told her just to get the first shouting match out of the way but today he was too exhausted and anxious to consider such a suicidal approach.
"Good morning, Aunt Petunia," he said politely, hoping he didn’t sound as stuffy as he felt. His nose and ears felt full and itchy and he wished the Dursleys would allow him to stay in his cupboard for the day but wishing only ever led to disappointment.
Aunt Petunia did not respond, already picking suspiciously at her breakfast. Harry swallowed nervously and returned to the eggs he’d just cracked into the pan. He wiped his nose warily on his sleeve, risking a minute sniff before he returned to the breakfast. But he had to duck down to sneeze softly into his sleeve again and knew that he was in big trouble the moment he caught sight of Aunt Petunia’s horrorstruck face.
She had abandoned her breakfast within seconds and had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
"Out!" She snapped, taking Harry to the back door and shoving him roughly over the threshold. "Keep your germs to yourself."
Without another word, she closed the door and locked it swiftly. Harry shivered at the sudden change in temperature. The grass felt wet under his feet which were clad only in an old pair of Dudley’s grey school socks. Thankfully, it was quite pleasant out aside from the damp grass and Harry took a moment to appreciate the sun’s warmth on his face.
Harry knew that the Dursleys didn’t like him. Harry knew that they would have preferred it if he’d died in the car crash which had killed his parents and, occasionally, Harry wondered if he’d have liked that too. Maybe then he’d still be with them. Maybe then he’d know what they looked like, what they smelled like, felt like. Harry wanted to know how his mother pronounced her t’s and memorise the exact shade of his father’s eyes. He wanted to recognise the sound of his father’s footsteps, hear his mother’s laugh, feel the wind make his eyes sting when his father picked him up.
Though he never knew them, Harry liked to pretend that his mother and father had loved him very much. He knew he did not deserve loving parents - people like him should be grateful for what they had - but playing pretend with his imaginary parents was the only way he could fall asleep at night without breaking the crying rule.
Furtively, Harry crept down to the shed at the bottom of the back garden and retrieved Padfoot from his hiding place in the gap beneath the shed. The stuffed back dog was missing an eye and his fur was dirty and matted from being kept outside but Harry wouldn’t risk bringing him indoors in case the Dursleys saw him and took him away. Technically, Harry had argued with himself when debating whether or not to rescue the toy from the top of the bin, Dudley didn’t want the animal anymore so Harry wouldn’t really be doing anything wrong.
Harry stroked Padfoot’s wet nose (which always stuck out a little because the gap wasn’t quite big enough to take him) and gave him a timid cuddle. It was shady by the shed and Harry felt a shiver come over him without warning. He decided he’d relocate to the front garden where it was warmer. Also, he thought, the Dursleys would not risk taking Padfoot away from him there if they were to catch him in case the neighbours were watching.
The front garden was, indeed, much warmer as it was in direct sunlight. Harry sat quietly on the grass and let Padfoot jump over his outstretched legs, barking almost inaudibly to himself for fear the Dursleys would somehow hear him through the closed window and over the noise of the television. He imagined that he was the captain of a pirate ship and that Padfoot was his first mate and they had endless adventures together where they sailed the seven seas and sang songs. There were no Dursleys allowed on the pirate ship because Harry was the captain and he was in charge. Engrossed in the game, Harry didn’t notice the stranger watching him from the other side of the street.
The stranger had been watching Harry on and off for most of his life. In fact, after James and Lily, he’d been the first to hold the child after his birth. And, as he’d gazed down at the sleeping boy in his arms, he’d felt something tug painfully at his heart. Even then, he’d looked remarkably like his father. The stranger smiled as he watched the young boy play. It was the first time he’d seen Harry so at ease and carefree. Whenever he came to check on him, he’d be hard at work or the victim of some horrific name calling at the hands of adults who ought to know better. It made his blood boil furiously to see the way Harry was treated and it made his heart ache to know that the boy felt he deserved his punishment, had been conditioned to believe those who told him he was worthless.
With Harry’s attention focussed entirely on the imaginary game, he didn’t notice the stranger - whose body and clothes took on the same colour and texture of the backdrop behind him - follow the postman up the garden path and post a small white envelope through the letterbox.
Exactly forty seven minutes passed before Mr Dursley threw the door open, causing young Harry to flinch in fear. He instinctively hid the dog behind his back and turned to face his uncle, trembling only slightly.
"We’re going out," he said smugly. "You’re to stay put and don’t you dare disturb the neighbours."
Harry swallowed. “Yes, Sir,” he squeaked, anxiously fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.
"And don’t look so miserable," Uncle Vernon snapped, causing Harry to straighten his back quickly. Uncle Vernon snatched Padfoot from behind him and Harry felt his stomach drop to his toes but Uncle Vernon merely examined it before tossing it back into his nephew’s lap. "You can keep that flea-bitten thing for all I care but you’re not to bring it inside, do you understand?"
Harry couldn’t believe his luck and nodded vigorously. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir!”
Uncle Vernon had always insisted on being called Sir. It was common courtesy, he’d said, to respect one’s superiors. Aunt Petunia, however, didn’t allow Harry to call her “ma’am” because it was too close to “mum” and Dudley had gotten upset and screamed the house down when he’d first heard Harry use it.
Without so much as glancing back at his nephew, Vernon Dursley got into the car where his wife and son were already waiting and left. Harry let out his breath. The sigh quickly became a ragged cough which tore painfully at his lungs. A ticklish sneeze followed the short fit and Harry flopped back onto the damp grass, feeling thoroughly miserable. He closed his eyes briefly before he remembered Padfoot and rolled onto his stomach, resting his cheek on his left arm and stroking the dog’s tangled fur with his right. He couldn’t quite believe Uncle Vernon had permitted Padfoot’s presence and, not only that, had allowed Harry to play with him while they were gone! He hadn’t been given any chores. For the first time in Harry’s memory, he was free to play.
Harry didn’t notice the stranger approaching until his scuffed brown shoes appeared in Harry’s field of vision. He quickly sat up, hoping the man wouldn’t inform his aunt and uncle that he’d been falling asleep. The man crouched down in front of Harry who found he now had no choice but to meet the stranger’s eye or appear rude. When he glanced up, he was shocked to see the same soft amber eyes from his dream. They held the same kindness Harry remembered but there were many other emotions there too which Harry couldn’t read. But he knew kindness; it was the same way his imaginary father looked at him in his make-believe world.
"Hello," the stranger said softly, taking a seat next to Harry on the grass. Harry pursed his lips shut, caught between two rules. He knew he was not allowed to speak to the neighbours - though he supposed this man wasn’t technically a neighbour because he’d never seen him around here before - but he also knew that not answering an adult was forbidden.
Harry’s internal struggle was apparently clear to the strange man who reached into the pocket of his faded blue jeans and pulled out a white handkerchief folded neatly into a square. He held it out to Harry who observed it warily and made no move to accept it.
"Go on, take it," the man said and his smile was so warm that Harry felt his stomach twisting. Those kind of smiles were never directed at him. "It’s alright."
Somewhat reluctant, Harry accepted the cloth from the stranger and said quietly, “Thank you, Sir.” He held the handkerchief awkwardly in his hands, unsure of what the man wanted him to do. Of course, he knew what a handkerchief was but he didn’t like to make assumptions. He liked to be sure.
"You don’t have to call me Sir," said the man which shocked Harry thoroughly. Some of this shock must have registered on his face because the man’s expression changed and Harry looked away quickly, waiting for a reprimand which never came. Instead, the stranger said gently, "My name’s Remus. What’s yours?"
Harry swallowed, playing with the handkerchief with uncertainty. “My name is Harry, Sir.”
Remus sighed quietly but he didn’t sound angry for which Harry was bewildered but grateful. Slowly, so as not to startle Harry, Remus reached forward and tapped the cloth in Harry’s hand.
"For your cold," he said. "You can keep that. It’s yours now."
Harry’s eyes widened. “Are you sure, Sir?” He couldn’t help but ask. Remus only nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips.
A silence fell upon them momentarily during which Harry failed miserably to suppress a shiver. It was still sunny and warm outside so Harry couldn’t say why he suddenly felt chilled to the bone. A shuffling from Remus made Harry flinch fearfully but he lifted his head to find him pulling his woolen jumper over his head. Only then did Harry wonder why he was wearing it at all since it was such a nice day.
"You’re cold," Remus stated. It wasn’t a question so Harry made no move to answer. It was safest to remain neutral. "Here," Remus went on, holding the jumper out to Harry. "Put this on. It’ll help."
Harry was astounded. He shook his head, frightened to refuse but equally as afraid to accept such an offer. “I-I can’t, Sir,” he managed, voice trembling terribly. “You’ll be cold without it.”
He couldn’t look Remus in the eye but he had a feeling he was frowning. Still, his voice remained pleasant when he spoke again.
"It’s alright, Harry, I promise," he said. "I’d much rather you had it. Besides, the sun is heating me up rather nicely."
Harry began chewing nervously at a rag nail on his right thumb and risked a quick glance up at Remus from beneath his fringe. He saw only kindness in his tired face and took a deep breath, accepting the jumper slowly so he could be sure he wouldn’t accidentally snatch. Remus nodded his encouragement and Harry quickly pulled the jumper over his head, uncomfortable with having Remus out of his sight for any length of time.
The jumper swamped his malnourished body and the sleeves fell over his hands but it was so cosy from Remus’ body heat that Harry found he didn’t really mind.
"There," said Remus with a smile. "That’s better, isn’t it?"
Harry nodded, hoping that was the right answer. There was another silence which was broken when Remus spotted Padfoot curled up against Harry’s leg. He smiled.
"And who’s this?" He asked, gesturing to the toy in a fashion which he hoped was non-threatening. He knew from observing that this was Harry’s only toy, a fact which sent anger coursing through Remus’ veins.
Harry instinctively pulled Padfoot into his lap and stroked his soft ears. He wondered exactly how much this man knew about the dog’s history and thought about it carefully.
"This is Dog," said Harry quietly, adding quickly, "He used to be Dudley’s but he was going to throw him out anyway so now he’s mine."
He didn’t want Remus to think he’d stolen the toy from his cousin. Remus registered Harry’s comment with only a slight raise of his eyebrow but otherwise acted as though he had not heard.
"Does he have a name?" Remus asked kindly.
"Dudley named him Dog," Harry responded quickly. Remus chuckled.
"And do you have a better name for him?" He asked. "I’m sure you’re much more creative than that."
Harry bit his lip. He didn’t want to get into trouble. He knew whatever Dudley said was what went in the Dursley house. He didn’t want to contradict his cousin but he wanted so desperately to trust Remus that he found himself nodding before he could stop himself.
"I called him Padfoot," he admitted at last and immediately wished he hadn’t.
The colour had drained from Remus’ pale cheeks and another emotion flashed in his eyes which Harry did not recognise. Harry did note, however, his shaking hands and immediately knew he’d upset him. The panic rose in his chest.
"I’m sorry," he said quickly, gazing at Remus desperately and willing him to stop being angry. He wanted Remus to like him. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t be upset! I’m sorry!"
Harry squeezed his eyes tight shut and buried his face in his knees, trying to block the world out. If the world wasn’t there, it couldn’t hurt him. If the world wasn’t there, Remus wasn’t there and, if Remus wasn’t there, then he couldn’t be angry and, if he wasn’t angry, he couldn’t shout.
"Harry?" Remus’ voice was barely above a whisper. Harry lifted his head reluctantly - it would be worse if he was rude and refused. But, when he caught Remus’ eye, there was not a trace of anger left. Instead, he looked sad. In fact, Harry thought, he looked like he’d been sad for a long time. Remus smiled faintly and whispered, "I’m not upset with you, Harry. I was just a little shocked. You see, that name- it reminded me of someone I used to know a long time ago."
Harry, feeling a little braver, asked, “Who?” before everything caught up with him and he clamped his hands over his mouth with a mumbled apology.
"You don’t have to apologise for asking questions, Harry," Remus informed him. "It’s alright. It was someone I went to school with, someone I miss very much."
Harry did not press the matter any further. Adults didn’t like questions and Harry often didn’t like the answers because they were usually loud and involved a lot of words which made him feel sad and lonely and frightened. He wiped his runny nose with the tissue solemnly.
"So," Remus went on, smiling again. "Why did you name him Padfoot?"
Harry didn’t know how to answer that. “I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “I suppose he just looks like a Padfoot.”
Remus chuckled. “He certainly does.”
Harry smiled. He liked when he was right. When he smiled up at Remus, he caught him looking thoughtful for a moment.
"Harry," he said with a smile. "Would you mind if I borrowed Padfoot for a moment."
Immediately suspicious, Harry wanted to say no but he knew he wasn’t permitted to refuse an adult anything and so reluctantly handed him over. Remus placed him down carefully, almost reverently, on the grass. Harry was surprised by how gentle Remus was with him. Silently, Remus stroked Padfoot’s back once and Harry felt a strange shudder of a memory inside him. Remus was grinning. Harry didn’t understand until he glanced back down at where Padfoot had lain and found him up on all fours and wagging - actually wagging - his tail.
Harry gazed at the toy in amazement, eyes widening with awe-struck wonder. Cautiously, he reached down to scratch behind the little dog’s ears and couldn’t help giggling when it crawled into his lap and placed its front paws on Harry’s chest, trying to lick under his chin with his pink fabric tongue.
"Padfoot," Harry murmured, rubbing his cheek on top of the dog’s head. Remus watched fondly until Harry looked up at him with such genuine joy in his eyes that Remus could have cried with happiness. If he’d managed to bring just a little light to this poor boy’s life then it was worth whatever punishment Dumbledore would have lined up for him.
"How did you do it?" Harry asked, gazing at Remus with a new-found curiosity which had long since been squashed out of him.
Remus smiled. “Magic,” he said lightly, the way muggle adults did with their children when talking about Santa Claus or technology.
But Harry’s face immediately fell and he looked reproachfully at Remus, glancing behind him to make sure none of the Dursleys had heard. “That’s a bad word,” he said, hugging Padfoot sadly. He knew now that it was all in his imagination.
Remus looked sad too. “It’s not, Harry. Whatever you might have been told…”
Harry felt a cough bubble up in his chest and tried to cover his mouth completely with the handkerchief so he wouldn’t cough on Remus’ jumper after he’d been so kind as to lend it to him. When he felt Remus’ hand rubbing his back, Harry was so shocked that he almost choked all over again. He’d been worried that he’d be in trouble for interrupting Remus but the man in question appeared to be more concerned about Harry’s welfare than anything else and that puzzled Harry to no end.
"You should be in bed," Remus told him, his voice taking on a sharper edge briefly. It was gone as soon as it appeared. "You’re not well," he said, more softly.
Harry swallowed. “It’s not allowed,” he told him.
Honestly, Harry wasn’t sure why Remus didn’t already know these things. Uncle Vernon had told everybody else about Harry’s imperfections, about how they should always treat him sharply because it was the only way to get through to him. Uncle Vernon had told Harry last time that he would have to learn to man up if he wanted to earn his keep.
Remus stood. “Come on,” he said, holding out a hand to help Harry up. “Let’s get you inside and we’ll get you some dry socks, shall we?” He added, noting the damp patches on the underside of Harry’s socks.
Remus didn’t let go of Harry’s hand until they were safely inside and Harry only briefly wondered how they’d gotten there without a key before he started to worry. If the Dursleys knew he was indoors, spreading his germs and…
Harry was careful not to touch anything. If Dudley got sick, there’d be hell to pay so Harry tried to minimise that chance by keeping his germs to himself as much as possible. He sat awkwardly on the sofa with Padfoot curled up next to him. He knew he wasn’t allowed to have him in the house but he didn’t want to leave him out in the front garden in case a mean boy from school saw him and took him. Uncle Vernon would never find out so long as Harry was very, very careful.
Harry was so lost in thought that he was startled when Remus held out a mug for him which was emitting hot steam. The steam cleared his sinuses a little and Harry discovered that he was content to just hold the mug with his hands still inside the sleeves of his borrowed jumper. The warmth seeped through the fabric and seemed to travel all the way up his arms.
When Harry glanced up from the swirling brown liquid in the mug, it was to see Remus watching him closely from an adjacent armchair, his own mug nestled in his lap and held steady with one hand.
"Is it too hot?" Remus asked calmly. "Or don’t you like it?"
Harry swallowed and bit hard on his lower lip. He didn’t know what Remus wanted to hear. With the Dursleys, it was easy. There were “yes, sir’s” and “no, sir’s” and he’d keep his eyes on the ground and speak only when spoken to and do all his chores quietly and without complant. With Remus, it was harder to judge. Remus had a different feel to him than the Dursleys did. Remus had kind eyes, completely unlike Uncle Vernon’s beady ones which always looked menacing. Remus had a soft voice which bore absolutely no resemblance to his aunt’s piercing shriek. Remus was welcoming.
Perhaps what Harry found most comforting about him was that they were very similar. They were both pale and skinny. Remus looked perpetually tired, Harry felt the same. They both had scars - though Remus’ arms and face were littered with them while Harry only really had one - and they could both do things that the Dursleys said were impossible. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that Remus could explain, that Remus could make everything make sense. Harry wanted to ask, he longed to ask, but he didn’t dare. Not under the Dursleys’ roof at any rate.
Remus was kneeling before him with one hand resting on Harry’s knee. He looked concerned but not angry. Harry couldn’t puzzle him out.
"Are you alright, Harry?" He asked gently. Harry nodded mutely. "Why don’t you want your hot chocolate, hm? Aren’t you feeling well?"
Harry coughed quietly to clear his throat and muttered, “You didn’t say I could drink it.”
It was Remus’ turn to chew his lower lip then and he ran a hand through his hair, making it stick out in odd directions like Harry’s did. Then, he smiled but Harry knew it wasn’t real. It was the same smile Harry caught glimpses of in the mirror when Aunt Marge came to stay.
"Of course you can drink it," he said, choosing his words and tone carefully.
Harry examined his face for any signs of falsehood. Then, slowly, he raised the mug to his lips and took a small sip, shuddering when he felt the warmth surge through him. It felt wonderful. Though he knew he couldn’t say it out loud, Harry firmly believed that hot chocolate was magic all on its own.
Unused to the attention, his stomach grumbled loudly. Harry opened his mouth to apologise but, to his great surprise, Remus laughed.
"Hungry, are we?" He asked with a grin and Harry didn’t bother to tell him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast time yesterday.
In minutes, Remus had prepared fluffy, buttered toast which he placed down on the coffee table and immediately told Harry to help himself so that there would be no confusion. Harry had never tasted anything so delightful. He closed his eyes to savour the taste and, when he opened them again, Remus was smiling with a distant look on his face which suggested he was remembering so Harry stayed quiet because he didn’t want to interrupt.
After a moment, Remus placed his mug aside and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together. He looked, to Harry, as though he were searching for the right thing to say. Eventually, after what seemed like a very long time, he said, “Harry, do you like it here?”
Harry was immediately wary again. Was this a trick? He should have known that Remus was too good to be true. It was all a big plan to get him to say something against the Dursleys so they could punish him and…
"Harry?" Remus’ voice remained gentle. "I promise you won’t be in any trouble. I just want you to answer truthfully."
Promise. That was the magic word, so to speak. Minutely, Harry shook his head, refusing to meet Remus’ eye.
"How would you feel about leaving?" He went on. Harry’s head snapped up to meet his eye. "About going to live somewhere else?"
Harry swallowed and before he could stop himself, he’d said, “Forever?”
Remus rubbed at the back of his neck the same Harry did sometimes when he was feeling scared. “If that’s what you want?”
"But…but where…" Harry wasn’t sure how to put it. "Who would want me?"
"Well," Remus murmured, still looking apprehensive and trying very hard to ignore the sadness in those words. "That is, if you want to, well, um…I- you could live with me if you want to."
That last part came out all in a rush. Harry just stared. This had to be a trap. The Dursleys were probably going to be back any minute and they’d find Harry inside where he was forbidden to be and eating without permission which was also forbidden and talking to a stranger which was forbidden too and…
But Remus’ jumper smothered him in warmth and it smelled so safe. Remus smelled safe. He looked safe. He felt safe. His voice made Harry feel protected. How could someone smell so safe but still be bad?
And, just like that, he was crying because he was just so confused and he didn’t know what to believe anymore. Everything was upside down and his nose was running but he’d lost his new handkerchief and he just didn’t know anymore. He flinched instinctively when Remus stood, bracing himself for the yelling and the screaming and the name calling but he could only hear quiet mutterings and he felt arms around him, rubbing his back. He stiffened. This wasn’t something he knew how to deal with. Before Harry could object, Remus had taken a seat beside him and pulled Harry into his lap, holding him close. He snuggled closer automatically, seeking comfort he knew he didn’t deserve while Remus bounced him gently on his knee and shushed him.
"Oh, Harry," he heard Remus murmur, apparently unaware that he could be heard. "You’ll always be safe with me. I’ll read you bedtime stories and you can have lots of toys and you can eat whatever you want and I’ll always remember your birthday and there’ll be cake and presents and you can ask as many questions as you want and I’ll be there if you have a bad dream and you won’t have any chores - look at you, too young for chores - and we can go to the park and the zoo and I’ll never let anybody hurt you again."
His voice cracked towards the end. Harry pulled back and was horrified to find tears trailing down Remus’ cheeks too. Still shaking, he pulled his knees up to his chin on Remus’ lap and curled up as small as he could. The dizziness was just getting worse and he didn’t know what to do anymore. He clung tightly to Remus like a lifeline until his sobs died down and he removed his face from where he’d buried it in Remus’ neck unconsciously.
To Harry’s utter amazement, Remus was still smiling softly.
"So," he said. "How about it, then?"
Harry couldn’t quite believe his ears. “You mean it? You’ll really take me away forever?”
"If that’s what you want."
Harry’s breath wouldn’t come properly and he threw his arms around Remus, squeezing so tight he thought he might just explode. Remus laughed.
"Come on," Remus said, standing with Harry still in his arms. Padfoot jumped down from the couch and followed diligently at Remus’ heels. "Let’s go pack your things."
Harry gasped. “You mean- you mean we can go right now?”
The smile on Remus’ face was all Harry needed. He was going away with Remus and they were never ever ever going to come back.
Remus put Harry down outside the cupboard and tried very hard not to let his anger show. Once he was inside with Harry, the cupboard seemed even smaller. His head scraped the ceiling even when he sat at the end with the most roof space. It hurt to think of the little boy in his arms being locked in here in the dark. He hugged Harry a little tighter.
Remus recovered Harry’s tatty school bag from under the bed and packed the few things Harry owned - his school books (Remus felt they might be useful in determining what stage Harry was at with his literacy and numeracy), two well-read fiction books, some childlike drawings which Remus found hidden carefully beneath his mattress, and a faded patchwork quilt with a lion sewn in the corner which brought a fond smile to his face.
"It’s yours, isn’t it?" Harry’s voice caught Remus off-guard. He’d almost forgotten he was there. "I had a dream about you that night," he went on timidly. "I waited for you to come back so I could give it back to you."
Remus smiled; Harry was far more perceptive than he’d been given credit for.
"Did-" Harry hesitated but Remus nodded encouragingly, hoping he’d continue. "Did you really stay with me all night?"
Remus sighed. “I had to make sure you’d be alright,” he said regretfully. “Sometimes, I regret not taking you away that night. I should have done.”
Harry didn’t ask why for which Remus was thankful because he did not want to admit how cowardly he’d been, shying away from Dumbledore’s wrath instead of protecting a child he loved like a son. Remus swung Harry’s school bag over his shoulder and scooped the boy up in his arms again, feeling his hot forehead press against his neck. He sighed; the boy needed looking after.
(Sometimes, he was bitter. Sometimes, he was bitter because people like the Dursleys were allowed to reproduce while he had to work round countless pieces of legislation to even find a job. Sometimes, he was bitter because children like Harry deserved so much better than they got. Sometimes, nothing was fair.)
Remus scooped Padfoot up with his free hand and tucked him onto Harry’s arms where he promptly curled up and lay still.
Harry watched Privet Drive disappearing over Remus’ shoulder, feeling his stomach twisting and contracting with a whole new emotion - hope. Remus would take care of him and Harry would be such a good boy and he’d never make Remus mad no matter what. Content, Harry fell asleep with his head on Remus’ shoulder.
Remus worried about the future. He worried about how he’d afford to support a child, how he’d provide him with a stable childhood. He worried about being a bad teacher, about keeping Harry safe from the threats both the muggle and wizarding world posed for him. He worried about arrangements for the full moon, what Harry would think of him, how they’d get past it. He worried about the ministry, about Dumbledore, about the countless obstacles they’d have to face.
Remus glanced down at Harry’s sleeping face and smiled. This was right. Together, they’d be okay; together, they’d heal.