Chapter Text
24 June 1994
Remus
Remus had been careful to not use the Map since he took it from Harry back in February. He told himself it was for the best; and if its existence ever came to light, he could tell Albus that he had forgotten about it, if it came to that, and the old erudite wouldn’t know the difference.
But he hadn’t forgotten about it, not really. Just because he was able to keep himself from from cradling it to his chest, running his fingertips along the graceful whorls and lines drawn by four arrogant rascals a lifetime ago didn’t mean he didn’t want to. If he had learned anything over the decades of not being able to withstand his baser instincts for three nights every month, it was to control himself every other waking moment. Well, try to, anyway. And then hate himself for every single momentary lapse.
Which was what was going on right now, wasn’t it? Because here he was, alone in the godsdamned office attached to the godsdamned classroom which Albus had all but blackmailed him into, staring down at the faded parchment. He hadn’t Awakened it, no, not yet. Though the two of them—the parchment and himself—had been in the same unblinking position for hours.
He had argued with himself the whole while. It would hurt too much to see their names, their handwriting, their masterpiece. It was too much power for a mere first year teacher to possess, especially one given the position out of a mixture of pity and manipulation. However, most importantly, it wasn’t necessary. The term was almost over, exams done with only a free week remaining, and Harry had managed to not die (although it wasn’t as if he were trying very hard). So much like his father, Remus often thought. But that snark is all Lily.
It had intrigued Remus from their first meeting. Harry looked like James, from the constantly-messy hair (even though he was the heir to a hair product empire) to the slouch he seemed to not even notice he was constantly in, but once one dove beneath the surface, he was much more like Lily Evans Potter. Perhaps not the quickest to pick up a new skill, but the one to make it seem effortless once mastered. Surrounded by the most loyal of friends, yes, but earning that loyalty too. As much any stubborn imp could earn loyalty, anyway.
His wand vibrated from his tempus charm, waking Remus from his thoughts. Fuck. He had forgotten. It was the first night, tonight, and Severus hadn’t come by yet. He’s probably waiting for me to come to him, begging for scraps of humanity like a…Well, like a dog. It’s not like Remus could play the game, if that was indeed what Severus had in mind. He was at the dungeon-dwelling man’s mercy, as it were. But he shouldn’t jump to conclusions that Severus was being malicious, no. Perhaps he, too, had lost track of the days during the pandemonium that was administering and grading exams. Very well, Remus decided. I will go to him. But, where?
His eyes landed back on the blank map. He could use it, just this once, and it was even for a good reason. He could simply find where Severus was, and then close it up again. That’s all he needed. And the sudden appearance of a need for the map, not just a want for it, was enough to break his weak resolve.
“I—” Remus cleared his throat, his voice sounding much too loud in the otherwise vacated room. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” Gods, what a ridiculous phrase we came up with. The ink appeared first as a few dots, as if accidental splatters, but then they grew and multiplied and wriggled around until he was seeing their name, their names. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Fucking gits, the whole lot. And underneath such stupid, beautiful monikers, the whole castle filled out. The massive and complex structure, available for his purview. The locations of hundreds of students, dozens of staff members, at his fingertips. Power, they had thought with their one-track teenage minds. It was power. And they were, somehow, inconceivably, correct. It was indeed power.
While he scanned the names, starting in the left upper corner and working his way through linearly, a flash of motion on the Grounds caught his eye. Someone was running, almost galloping. Who could be in such a hurry during their free week? No classes, no exams, no obligations. It was the best part of the school year, at least he had thought so as a student. Perhaps that was not the case now as a professor, not with so much grading to do. But his breath caught. The name there, streaking away from a cluster of three very familiar ones, was not that of a student. Not even that of a professor.
But it wasn’t possible, either. Was it? Albus had told him, sworn to him, both twelve years ago and ten months ago, that it wasn’t possible. Peter was dead, and Sirius had done it. Sirius was responsible for three wizard deaths—James, Lily, and Peter—and twelve Muggle ones. Probably countless others, seeing as he was Voldemort’s spy, and so, so many members of the Order had been killed in the last few months of the war. And then the Longbottoms… Remus tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t budge. No, it wasn’t possible. But if it was—what would it mean? Why was his name here?
His mind flashed, flickering between scattered thoughts trying desperately to calibrate and the memories such thoughts brought to the surface. The first train ride, terrified after being kept away from other children for seven years, ever since he had been attacked. But James and Sirius had found him, had forcefully adopted him before he knew it. Pete slid in to round up the quartet during the Feast. Rooming together from the first night, best friends from the first breakfast. The four of them getting kicked out of the library for the umpteenth time, as Severus and Lily smirked from their table overlaid with tomes. Pranks and detentions and infirmary visits. Studying with feet and heads propped on each other, the strangest quadrangle but feeling like home. The four of them racing across the grounds, whooping and hollering as they ripped off ties and jumpers in the noonday sun. Sneaking over the same paths in the middle of the night, this time under James’s cloak, whispering amongst themselves. Firewhiskey and Pink Floyd and chocolate. The three others working so hard and then finally gaining their animal forms. Pete wriggling with happiness when he was the quickest for once. The four of them, brothers: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.
Then more of them, a larger family, but feeling right just the same. Marley and Sirius and James sweating through their practice kits, but looking and smelling victorious. Lily and Remus in Prefect robes, trying and failing to keep their stern expressions. Laughter and light and life. Flashes of scarlet and gold robes, chasing Prussian blue blurs. Shrieks and cheers and boos, a pale hand clutching his own tightly even as the redhead next to him pretended not to care about a certain raven-haired chaser. And Pete jumping up and down in front of them, chanting along with Mary and Fay. Bonfires on the beach, music blasting from an enchanted boombox nestled between their blankets. Marley and Dorcas and Siri and Remus all on one battered sofa. Pete and Mary and Dearborn and Benjy on the other, everyone’s thighs and arms and heartbeats touching as Lily taught James how to butcher Clair de Lune on the piano. Bottle of fortune and truth or dare. And then a few years later, Lily in a white gown and James in his neatest robes, forearms crossed as a mage had them vowing to cherish each other forever, Siri grinning from his spot right behind the groom, mouthing “love you”.
But more than the flashes of happy, of home, the last morning he lived in what they all just called “The Attached.” The memory tasted acidic on his tongue as it enveloped him completely. The thundering of the door, as if a herd of graphorns were demanding entry. He had fallen off the couch—why wasn’t he in bed? Where was Siri? And stumbled down the short hall, not even bothering to put on a shirt. If someone was that desperate to wake him before the sun was properly up, they could handle seeing his chest crisscrossed with the scars, silver and purple and red, in varying stages of healing. He could handle them seeing it, too. Because he was part of the problem, as Lily and Siri had told him too many times. He saw every look of disgust, of loathing of his condition, because he was looking for it. Well, here he was, manfully opening the godsdamned door with his chest bare, and Siri wasn’t even there to see it, to applaud his courage, to kiss the anxiety away. Instead, there were two blue eyes glaring over half-moons, silver beard not succeeding in hiding the frown. Gods, Albus and Aberforth really were brothers, weren’t they? Not that he would dare mention their near-identical expressions, not if he didn’t want a nose as crooked as theirs. But such flippant thoughts disapparated as soon as the old man seethed, “Did you know that you were sleeping with the enemy?”
Yes, Albus had promised that unbearable morning that he was sure, there was no other explanation. Sirius had been a double agent, he said. He was the secretkeeper for James and Lily, they all knew it. Oh, he had tried to keep it to himself, but he had gotten drunk with the rest of them the very next night and it had just slipped out. None of them were surprised, of course. James and Lily had plenty of friends within the Order, even after so many of them had been killed lately. But they were still closest to the rest of the Marauders, and Pete had been absent more and more lately, mourning their lost friends in his own quiet way. Remus knew that he himself wasn’t the secretkeeper; so of course it was Siri. Remus hadn’t even been jealous when they named Siri as Harry’s godfather. It only made sense, and it wasn’t as if he wasn’t going to be in the boy’s life as much as his partner was. They were both such doting uncles already, and one of them having more of a technical claim wasn’t going to change anything. It wasn’t an issue.
It was smart, anyway, both as godfather and secretkeeper. Remus was liable to ambush every time he had to find somewhere to transform for the full moon. All the Death Eaters had to do was nab him and not die while he was in his other form, wait for him to come back to himself, and torture him for James and Lily’s whereabouts. Years of having his body re-break itself every month had left him physically weak, and the week after a full moon was the worst. He’d break easily, as much as he hated himself for it. And now that Siri hadn’t been able to come with him on full moon nights—Dumbledore’s decision since the Bones’ murders earlier in the spring—he was that much more vulnerable.
Siri hated it too, of course, that he couldn’t be there to comfort and help him though the hell that was each transformation. He was always there, though, when Remus stumbled across the threshold, with chocolate, alcohol, substantial food, whatever he thought would help. He would heal magically what he could, mundanely what he must, constantly murmuring soothing platitudes until Remus’s trembling stopped, until the pain faded or he could ignore it. Gods, Siri may not have been with him during transformations anymore, but he did his best to make up for it afterwards.
But Siri…it was Siri—fuck, no not Siri, not if he…if he had…he must be Sirius, now. But how could it be him? Sirius, who had been so outspoken against the Noble House of Black since his first days at Hogwarts? Sirius, who had been disowned when he was sixteen, who had all but been adopted by Fleamont and Euphemia Potter? Sirius, the best man at James and Lily’s wedding, who had smilingly twirled each and every single witch at the reception, in between dragging Remus himself to the dance floor for their favorite songs? Sirius, who had kissed Lily’s forehead and whispered fierce encouragements through every contraction as James desperately Floo called every obstetrician healer in the book and Remus sent owls to the Evanses, to Fay, to Iris, to Marley and Dorcas, to Pete, desperate to get her everyone she wanted and needed? Pete. Where was Pete? Where had he been that night that Harry was born on the floor of the sitting room? Where had he been the night Harry was orphaned? Where had he been for the past twelve years, because he was supposed to be dead, dead by the hands of Sirius who had betrayed them all? He had left. Left Remus all alone to pick up the pieces and plan the funerals and, a decade later, look into Lily’s eyes on James’ face and not tell the boy how much he meant to him. Yet, Pete was here now? Here inexplicably with Harry and Hermione and Ron and WHAT THE FUCK DID IT MEAN?
And then he saw Sirius’ name, fast approaching the heap of letters that showed the trio of teenagers and Pete all in the same spot of grass, Sirius’ name joining the jumble and then it didn’t matter anymore because the parchment was on his desk and Remus was not, he was at the door to his office, and then into the classroom where he had spent so much time this year, and then across it, and the whole time he could hear the cacophony that was his blood, pounding a single word into his mind with each beat: a-live. A-live. A-live. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alivealivealivealivealive. The door was open and he could smell the inhabitants of the castle, their exuberance at the end of exams, their sweat tinged with hormones and cannabis, their fingers stained by sweets from Zonkos and ink from letters. They pressed to the walls of the corridors as he passed them without a word or glance or care. He hadn’t flown down stairs like this, feet lifting again before he even knew they had made contact on the stone, since his own years as a student. He was too broken of body and soul to move like this, but he didn’t feel it anymore. The aches that he usually favored so carefully, amongst them his stiff knee and weak back, forgotten. Peter was ALIVE. And if Peter was alive, then that changed everything.
He didn’t go to the entrance hall, because the Willow wasn’t close to the front entrance. That would have been begging for attention, and the point of the Willow was to not garner attention. No, it was the side door closest to the hospital wing which blew open as he approached it, breath puffing out with each chorus of “alive” in his heart, slamming behind him. He had his wand in his hand, but he hadn’t uttered any unlocking spell, had he? Did it matter? Was it his mind, distracted as it was, blasting obstacles out of his way as he sprinted to his past and present and future? Was it his soul? Did he even have one anymore, after transforming into a demon every month for decades?
The sun had only just set, but with the mountains cradling the castle close, dark was creeping in. The wind played with his cloak, bringing more scents to him as he hurried to the tree that had been his secret salvation. Blood and fur and fear, so much fear. From the children, he knew their individual tastes from their experiences with the boggart in his classroom; from himself, because what if he had finally gone mad in his desperation to not be alone anymore? Could he handle that, if he visited their old haunt and it was empty, proving he was seeing things that weren’t there?
Branches swinging for his head wildly, agitated to have so much anticipated prey on this night and yet capturing none, but he didn’t even have to concentrate to levitate a nearby fallen stick and press it against the knot hidden at what had been eye level when he was a scrawny eleven year old. The tree’s limbs froze, and he ducked underneath them for what had to be the hundredth time. The tunnel was dark, but he didn’t need to see the exposed roots to avoid them as he hurried along, nose now picking up the deluge of fear from the previous travelers, as well as a hint of…..yes, that was heady, fierce victory from Sirius, full of whiskey and amber and barking laughter. It, once upon a time, had been among his favorite aromas, one he had expected to never smell again.
It had been over a decade since he had been in the Shack, his last full moon of his last year as a student. This year, it hadn’t been a necessary abode during his transformations, not with the potion Severus so skillfully, albeit reluctantly, brewed. It was funny, actually, the afternoon that Harry had been with him in his office when the Potionsmaster had delivered the disgusting concoction. The boy was so sure that Severus would poison him, it was clear. But of course he wouldn’t, and Remus had tried to calm his fears without giving the situation away. Not only would Albus know immediately if he fell dead from a tampered potion, but Severus couldn’t even shirk his duty and provide a half-assed version; it would put everyone in the castle in danger if the beast was not fully contained, and again Albus would know immediately what had happened. So not only did Severus have to provide the potion three nights a month, it had to be to the best of his abilities. Remus imagined it was the worst possible punishment for the man who had hated him for so long, to constantly be the source of Remus’s salvation and gratitude.
The Shack looked like shite. Well, actually, it looked the same as it always had. So, complete and utter shite. The furniture that Remus’s demon had mauled was still laying in scattered pieces on the scarred and stained floor. Hell, there were even bite marks on one chair leg. It was miraculous he hadn’t emerged from every full moon covered in splinters, actually. There was more dust than oxygen in the air, more boards than windows. It was so dismal that it broke his heart to imagine what it would have been like to experience every transformation in this godsforsaken shack all alone for seven years instead of with his friends for the last three.
His friends. There were voices upstairs, harsh and hissing, not even the closed door blocking them out. So he ascended, heart threatening to burst out of his chest at any second. This was it, he knew. Everything would have to come out in the open tonight, no matter what it meant. He wanted to tell Harry everything from the first moment, when he woke to what he thought was James’ worried voice as the dementors boarded the train. He wanted to embrace him, the son of his best friends, the orphaned and abandoned mirror of some of the bravest souls he had ever met, but Albus had been quite clear it would not be tolerated. So he had resisted, even during all the private lessons he and Harry had facing down boggarts. He only answered the questions Harry asked, and even the Headmaster couldn’t argue with that.
But tonight, it was different. If Peter Pettigrew was alive, it changed absolutely everything. It meant that even Albus Dumbledore wasn’t omniscient, and that meant that his demands of Remus were flawed too, thus open to be defied. So he burst into the upstairs bedroom of the Shack built for the demon itching under his skin, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again, for better or worse.