Chapter Text
Harry,
How are you? Last I saw you, you were in a bit of a rough spot (I’m not sure if you even knew I was there). I wish I could’ve come with and helped you but, you know. I’ve got a reputation that makes that a bit dangerous for the both of us. I’m glad someone else was able to help you, though: I’m sorry I ever doubted you about him. I should’ve known better than to not believe you! You’re the smartest godson I’ve ever had.
I met up with my favorite wolf, if you know who I mean. He’s staying with me this summer. We’re in the wind, somewhere quiet and safe, and hopefully after a few months I’ll be a bit more… stable, I guess is the best word for it. I’ve got twelve years to re-coop from, but some fresh air and space to run around in will do me a world of good.
I hope you’re somewhere safe and quiet, too. I’m afraid I don’t know much more than you about all that’s happening, but I’m glad you never have to go back to that house again.
Write soon, Harry.
Grim
PS It’s probably best not to say anything too revealing; anyone could be watching.
↠
Potter—
I will arrive for your lesson this Sunday at seven. Tell Aberforth not to attempt to cook anything; how that man runs a pub I may never know. I will bring takeaway.
I expect you to be current with your studies, particularly on horcruxes and accidental magic. We will resume your practice with occlumency shields—if you have not been clearing your mind each night, I will know.
McGonagall and Pomfrey insist that I send you their best wishes. I am certain a letter to either of them would be the highlight of their respective summers.
Spare me the nuisance of a response; I will see you in a short few days.
—Snape
↠
Dear Harry,
I hope your summer is going well! Mum and dad surprised me with a trip to France. It’s so interesting—we wear these translator things around our necks, so we can understand and speak any language fluently!
It was good to see you right before school ended, though of course we were all a bit frazzled with exams. I’m sorry again that Ron didn’t come. He really is so thickheaded sometimes!
I hope it’s okay, but I talked with my mum about trans people. I didn’t mention you, of course—I just said I knew someone and was curious. She got me some muggle books and resources that I’ve been looking over. I will send some your way if you like—there are lots of really fascinating stories! I don’t know how transitioning works in the wizarding world, but maybe parts of it are similar to muggle practices?
I still can’t remember much, and I’m sorry. But I’ve been writing with Ginny and Luna and when they tell me stories, it’s almost like I’ve remembered them. If it is an amnesia charm or something, I don’t think it’s very strong. If it’s okay, and you still want to be my friend, then I think the best option is for us to just keep writing and then maybe next term we can hang out together again? I’ve heard that sometimes the best thing is to just act as if nothing has changed, to pretend that the memories are still there, and then they’ll return.
We’re about to visit this really old library with all sorts of manuscripts and stuff. I’m so excited!
Lots of love,
Hermione Jean Granger
↠
My Harry,
I am growing a garden at home this summer and all my vegetables are growing beautifully! I like to watch the rabbits visit and eat the carrots and cabbage. It’s like having little friends who visit each day, and I don’t even like the taste of vegetables all that much, so it works out well, though father thinks it’s silly.
Father and I are coming north in the next few weeks; perhaps we can reunite in Hogsmeade? I’ve never actually been there before, as its only now my third year, so maybe you can give us a tour. I would love for you to meet him; he’s not so much fun as I am, but he is kind and also sometimes lonely.
Ginny and I see each other all the time now, did you know we live so close together? Just a few hills apart. I don’t know how much her mum likes me, she always watches us so funnily. I wonder why.
Tell the goats hello for me,
Your Luna
↠
Dear Harry,
In retrospect, I wish dearly this were not my first true attempt to talk to you. Our mutual hairy friend has told me a lot about you and I truly wish I had spent last year getting to know you. If you will give me a second chance, I will be your professor next year, as well. I would like very much to be your friend, as everything our friend—I hear you call him Grim—has told me about you is wonderful.
James and Lily were my dearest friends, Harry, and I am appalled that I did not see you for who you were this past year. I don’t know what happened—Grim informs me this experience isn’t isolated to me, but still I am wracked with guilt. Ordinarily, I like to consider myself quite a good friend. Now, however, I know that I have not been.
Grim and I are spending the summer away from the community as it’s been quite some time since we’ve seen each other. It will be healthy for the both of us to rest and reunite; however, if you and your guardian—I’m quite fond of Aberforth, do tell him hello—are amenable, I would like to visit sometime this summer. Perhaps I can bring along our favorite dog, though it may be dangerous.
Again, I’m truly sorry I did not reach out before. Professor Snape even criticized my absence and entreated me to talk to you. I don’t know why I did not listen.
With respect and sincerity,
Remus Lupin
PS I’ve included some old photos I have of you and your parents. We spent your first Christmas together, though I’m sure you wouldn’t remember that. You look so much like the both of them, and I know they’re proud of you.
↠
Harry—
I heard a rumor you were back for the last few days of term. Yet you didn’t speak to me? I am, quite frankly, offended, and likely won’t ever talk to you again unless you provide a magnificent apology and concede that I’m the better wizard/chess-player/seeker/etc.
My mother and father returned before exams ended and I did have a home to return to, thank you so much for your concern. I appreciate all the wonderfully heartfelt letters you sent; after all, no true friend would ever just send one for months and months.
They brought with them a… let’s call it a new pet, shall we? It makes the manor not very fun to live in at all. I am not sure what options I have to rid myself of it, however. Have you had any more fun fainting spells I should know about?
Is there some place we could meet this summer? I need to talk to you face to face.
—Draco
↠
Hey Harry,
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say, but Ginny and Hermione keep nagging me. Girls, right?
Before you ask, I don’t remember anything. Not a thing. Maybe something about a giant game of chess but I’m pretty sure that’s a dream I had.
But I guess why I’m really writing is to say sorry for running my mouth last term. It wasn’t a nice thing to do and I reckon you probably weren’t very happy about it. If someone did something like that to me, I would hate them forever. But I hope you don’t. Hate me, that is. Because the way Ginny and Hermione talk about you makes it seem like you’re a cool enough guy (and I know you’re a guy now, Charlie helped me figure it out). Anyway. I’m not good at writing letters, you probably know that, but I hope you don’t hate me forever.
I always thought you were really good at Quidditch and stuff. And you seem pretty smart as long as Hermione’s not in the room. And I guess I’ve always been jealous of you a little bit because you’re so famous and popular, but Ginny told me you hate all that stuff which I can understand. I don’t like being judged because of my brothers and you don’t like being judged because of what you did when you were a baby. So we’re the same a little bit.
Dad got free tickets to the World Cup this summer, it’s going to be wicked. Do you want to come along? It’s okay if you hate me or something but I thought it’d be a good idea to hang out. (Okay, Charlie suggested it. He’s loads better at this sort of stuff than I am. Have you met Bill and Charlie?)
Hope you’re well,
Ron
↠
The air was wet to the touch, dense and humid as the sky crowded itself with darkness. There was a claustrophobic touch to the world, a tightness that wrapped around the horizon and held the world tight. The storm was coming soon, and it was bound to be a big one.
Harry grinned. Perfect; he hadn’t wanted to water the garden today anyway.
“Aberforth,” he called through the back door. “Merry and Pippin are in their shed! I’ll set the hens away in a moment!”
“See you do, son,” came the thick and crackling voice Harry had become familiar with over the last few months. Aberforth was still manning the bar—which this early in the afternoon was relatively quiet—but had no qualms about shouting loud enough for the whole village to hear. It was their main method of conversation these days, as Harry had taken to spending any second he could outside with the animals.
Harry spared one last glance towards Merry and Pippin, who were happily munching on the hay he had forked over for them. Then he made his way towards where most of the hens were: by the garden, trying to nab as much lettuce as they could before he caught them. As he neared, their clucks grew louder and more boisterous until finally he ran at them while laughing and waving his arms—they scattered in every direction, legs kicking up wildly. Pulling some kale and carrot tops, he used them to coax his girls back together and towards the henhouse.
“C’mon, Trudy,” he cooed to the youngest of the chickens, who was always most reluctant to enter the small shelter. She was the most reckless of the brood and also Harry’s favorite—he’d had to chase her through the streets more than once to the humor of the rest of the village. She pecked at his feet and then waddled her way in, clucking as he latched the door behind her. “You’ll be much happier in there once the rain hits, trust me,” he said, but she just stared at him grumpily.
Animals safely under cover, Harry surveyed the small lot behind the Hog’s Head. It had come a long way in the last two months, thanks to some joint effort from Harry, Aberforth, Hagrid, and Professor Sprout, who they’d happened to run into one morning and asked for advice. Hagrid had given them some great advice on animal warding and fencing materials, and Sprout helped them set up proper irrigation for their garden and gave them some starter heirloom seeds from her own collection. Aberforth and Harry repaid them with eggs from the hens, fresh vegetables, and the occasional weekend get-together with tea and jam sandwiches.
It was, by far, the best summer Harry had ever had in his life.
For the first time, he was free. Aberforth didn’t care what he did, so long as he was safe and didn’t run away for more than a day. As old as he was, the man was still relatively spry—though he often used aching joints as an excuse to sit out on any work he didn’t want to do.
One special day, when a gorgeous breeze lifted the town’s spirits and the air was fresh and light, Aberforth hadn’t bothered to open the pub, instead telling Harry to pack a bag and put on his best hiking shoes. They’d trekked through the forest for a day, Aberforth pointing out various animal tracks and Harry using his identification book Sprout had given him to forage for edible plants. Mid-afternoon, they reached a clear spring with large sloping slabs of stone hanging over one side, perfect for leaping off of. Harry had never learned to swim, but after some bribes from Aberforth—pizza from his favorite pizzeria and a trip to a Muggle farmer’s market in a neighboring village—he mustered the courage to wade in and, eventually, even jump from the highest ledge. He’d been fine until he went underwater, at which point he panicked and began splashing and kicking furiously to reach the surface. Aberforth had pulled him upright and burst out laughing at the expression on Harry’s face once he realized he could stand with his head out of the water. Lungs still burning, Harry had splashed the old man in the face and darted to the bank before he could retaliate, then climbed the rocks to jump again.
They camped by the pond that night, Aberforth teaching Harry how to cast an open-air tent-like barrier—mainly so no mosquitos or other insects got into their sleeping bags. The night under the stars had been near perfect for Harry, who fell asleep to the lull of crickets and the sway of trees overhead. His spirits were dampened by a nightmare about the Dursleys, whose whereabouts he still didn’t know, but fresh eggs and hash over the fire the next morning made up for it.
Things weren’t all sunshine in the Hog’s Head house. Harry’s panic attacks were still semi-regular and Aberforth wasn’t one for gentle coaxing and care; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to help, but the man simply didn’t know how, and Harry couldn’t fault him for it. His nightmares, too, were frequent, but he didn’t quite feel comfortable talking to his guardian—temporary guardian, he reminded himself—about them yet.
There’d been no sign of Voldemort since the fire at Number Four, but it was clear something was different about Harry’s mind. He had regular memory lapses, where one day he could remember something but the next he couldn’t. Sometimes he forgot whole gaps in his life. It was like how he’d felt in the hospital wing after being possessed but magnified throughout his near fourteen years. What he didn’t forget, however, were all the memories Snape had unintentionally unlocked within him during legilimency. In fact, his memories of being a baby were some of his strongest and brightest, and Harry held them fiercely, unwilling to forget them ever again.
The memory lapses were never such a big deal, although they often coincided with a great deal of anxiety or panic. Once, his panic attack had been so severe that Aberforth had summoned Snape in his concern, unsure of what to do himself. Snape had conjured a month’s worth of calming potion and then swept back to the castle.
Harry hadn’t seen Snape very often since he’d saved him from the fire, sans their biweekly lessons wherein they discussed occlumency, defense, and Harry’s second least favorite topic, horcruxes. Beyond that, their relationship was tense, to say the least. Harry was immensely grateful to the man for all he’d done for him, including standing up to Dumbledore and advocating for his safety and comfort at Aberforth’s when his brother had tried to place him elsewhere. He was also supremely embarrassed at how much his professor knew about his life and unwilling to talk about anything he’d experienced at the Dursleys—his first least favorite topic. He was quite happy to try and forget about them.
Snape, too, seemed happy to avoid the topic of the Dursleys, though he still sometimes treated Harry like he was some abused kid or something. He wasn’t, though—Harry knew what real abuse looked like and didn’t like being treated as if he was as fragile or needy. Plus, beyond even that, now that they were out of the castle neither one of them seemed to know how to talk to the other; their conversations were awkward and stilted, usually ending in Snape making his excuses and leaving the Hog’s Head as quickly as he could. After he’d left, Harry would inevitably feel guilty, as if he’d done something wrong to offend or insult the man. He didn’t want to admit it, but he missed the easy conversation he’d fallen into with the man during his visits to Number Four—and even before that, their light banter and trust during the school year. It was an odd feeling, and Harry tried to ignore it as much as he could.
A crack of lightning sliced through the sky, and Harry smiled up at it. He liked to imagine he was a kindred spirit of lightning due to his scar, in some way connected to the storms that raged. He didn’t go inside immediately, instead sprawling out in the yard and letting the fat drops of rain splash down on his dark skin, reveling in the cool relief from the usual heat.
“Get in ‘fore you catch a cold,” Aberforth bellowed, and Harry scrambled indoors, running up the back stairs to change into his favorite Weasley sweater and some of Aberforth’s sweatpants. Clean and dry, he ran back down to the pub, slipping behind the bar and nearly crashing into Aberforth.
“Hi,” he said breathlessly, grinning widely.
“Havin’ fun, are yeh?”
“Yes!”
Aberforth chuckled and ruffled his hair, something Harry had grown to love over the last few months. At the beginning, he’d had to catch himself from flinching every so often, but now he was so used to it his body didn’t even tense up. He was proud of himself for that—it had taken a long time to forget his usual defenses—and he was grateful to Aberforth for being so kind and warm.
“Do you need any help with anything?”
“Nah, I reckon I’m doin’ alright, kid,” Aberforth said, eyes still smiling. “Pretty slow today. Yer havin’ visitors in a mo’ anyway, aren’t yeh?”
“At seven! I told them how to find the back door.” Living in the same place you worked got tricky, but it was pretty simple for Aberforth. He had the stairs behind the bar that led up to his floors, but you’d have to interact with customers if you wanted to go downstairs that way. The back of the building had better entrances to the rest of it but were warded from customers and such, as was the rest of the yard. A small entryway was blocked off entirely from the rest of the first floor, so if you wanted to leave out the back door you had to walk upstairs and then back down. It was confusing and more than a little inconvenient, but Harry loved the sense of security from the rest of the world. If he was having a bad day, if his anxiety spiked or he just didn’t want to deal with any of the regulars, he could safely hang out in the back lot or upstairs—either way, he wouldn’t be interrupted. “I’ll start making dinner, if you don’t need any help?”
“Absolutely,” Aberforth said, before greeting a giggling couple that had just run in from the rain. “You know what t’ do.”
“Thanks, Aberforth,” Harry said happily, and then ran back upstairs, waving to the two witches, Jeanie and Ruth. They were some of his favorite customers, an elderly couple that liked to drink, crochet, and gossip with Aberforth. Apparently, he’d known them for decades and they had a lot of fun, as Jeanie put it, ‘stitching and bitching’ for hours. But Harry didn’t have time to talk to them this afternoon—if he wanted to have dinner ready before Sirius and Remus got there, he’d have to hurry.
It was their first visit to the Hog’s Head this summer. Harry had written to Sirius pretty regularly, eager to keep up his relationship with his godfather. Since the fire, which Harry still didn’t like to think about all that much, he hadn’t seen Sirius once and missed him awfully. Sometimes he wished he could have lived with him but knew how difficult that would have been—not only did the wizarding world think Sirius was a mass murderer out to kill him, but Sirius had his own trauma and issues to work through. The combination of their various anxieties and issues would have been chaotic to deal with. It was better that both of them had an opportunity to heal over the summer—Harry with Aberforth, and Sirius with Remus.
Harry had also written a few letters to Remus, but not many. While he understood now that his professor’s memories and ability to recognize Harry had been damaged by Voldemort—another thing he wasn’t fond of thinking about—it still hurt that the man had ignored him for a full year, especially after he learned how close he was to his parents and to Sirius. Still, though, he could tell that Remus felt awful and was trying his best to learn more about Harry. It was awkward and difficult but, considering that he’d still be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher come September, Harry figured he should put in the effort to get to know his godfather’s… roommate. Friend. Something.
Harry climbed up onto a stool and reached up the kitchen cupboards, straining to grab the book he wanted. Triumphantly pulling it down, he flipped to the page he was looking for and ran through the ingredient list. Pulling everything he needed from the fridge and the pantry, Harry set out turning Aberforth’s kitchen into a complete mess, with rice and lentils and spices spilling everywhere.
He’d never cooked Indian recipes before—Aunt Petunia despised ‘foreign’ foods, barely even tolerating the Chinese buffet Dudley loved so much, and thought all curries looked like vomit—but desperately wanted to try. After Sirius had told him in a letter that James’ mum, Harry’s grandmother, was born in India, it had been all he could think about; Harry had so few solid facts about his family and hadn’t known until then where he was even from. Sirius—who apparently had a whole tapestry dedicated to his family’s genealogy—had been shocked at his lack of knowledge and sent copies of the few photos he had of James’ parents and family. One picture was in Udaipur, the city James’ mum had grown up in—James couldn’t have been older than five or six and was perched on his dad’s shoulders, in line with his mum and her parents in front of their house. They made such a happy family, all with fiercely black hair and bright, open smiles.
That was what Harry dreamed of, and what he could never have again. He knew it was hopeless to dream of. His real family was dead, and he had no choice but to struggle on without them. But the least he could do was to recreate some of the food James—and Sirius, when he lived with the Potters—had loved to eat: a simple potato and cauliflower curry, (store-bought) naan, and a rice kheer with cardamom and pistachio. There were all sorts of flavors Harry had never really had before, so he couldn’t tell if he was royally messing everything up, but he was happy in the kitchen, happy to reach into his family’s history and try to find something still breathing.
By the time Sirius and Remus knocked on the back door, the stovetop was covered in orange curry splatters and smoke was filtering out the small kitchen window.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Sirius joked as he scuffed his shoes off and surveyed the mess Harry had made. “The color really lightens everything up.”
Harry could tell Sirius was nervous; his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were darting around the room as if checking for escape routes. He let the man take in his surroundings and settle in, giving Sirius the same space that he would want in a new environment.
“Professor,” Harry said, looking past Sirius to Remus, who also seemed awkward. “Thank you for coming. Did you find it okay?”
“Oh, yes, Harry,” Remus said, giving a wan smile and removing his navy-blue raincoat. “We spent a lot of time in Hogsmeade trying to sneak some firewhiskies from Aberforth—finding this old haunt was no trouble at all.”
Harry smiled, imagining Sirius, Remus, and James being violently kicked out by the grumpy old man. No, there was a fourth boy in their group, wasn’t there: the one he didn’t want to think about, the one still out there even now, the one who destroyed his life.
“Aberforth’s still down running the bar,” he said to shake away his thoughts. This was meant to be a happy evening, light-hearted and warm. “He said to tell you both hello, though.”
Things were awkward at first. None of them seemed to want to take charge of the conversation, and nobody seemed to know how to act around each other, but once Harry served dinner, the atmosphere lightened considerably.
“It’s really good,” Sirius had said after his first bite of curry. “Not quite like Mrs. Potter’s, but I dunno how she always managed the perfect amount of spice, the point right before you think your tongue’s gonna drop off.”
Remus murmured an assent, nodding and smiling around his mouthful of rice. Harry glowed.
“Was mum a good cook?”
Remus snorted and choked on his food. “She was the worst,” he said, still coughing slightly. “Burnt every single thing in the kitchen. She tried to learn cooking charms and such but even those failed her—we used to joke that she was under a culinary curse.”
“It was your dad who cooked for the most part,” Sirius said, pointing his fork at Harry. “He was really good at soups and stews. He’d just find whatever he had leftover and throw it into a pot—he could never reproduce the recipe, but without fail every soup was perfect.”
“We used to do get-togethers,” Remus added, sitting back and looking up at the wall. “I’d bake bread, James would bring a soup or a pasta, Lily would buy something at the store, and Sirius would show up twenty minutes late with practically a whole keg’s worth of liquor.”
“Peter was always in charge of desserts,” Sirius said quietly, face blank of emotions. “He was a pro at all the fancy French stuff, eclairs and mille-feuille and whatnot. Anything with butter and sugar, he could make it.”
Harry’s smile, which had been bright the whole of dinner, faded considerably. “I forget about him,” he said. “I try to erase him from my thoughts of you and dad, because even though I never met him it just hurts too much. How can you still remember good things?”
Sirius didn’t respond, still staring down at his plate. His eyes were shining brightly, and Harry wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
“It’s difficult,” Remus said, and Harry thought he saw him reach for Sirius’ hand under the table. “For the last thirteen years, I thought he was dead. I thought it was Sirius who had betrayed us, and I spent those years mourning both of them in different ways. To have to confront the truth, to accept that Peter—Peter, who was always so gentle and mild and kind—had lied to us, had helped k-kill James and Lily… it’s a whole other process of grief, Harry. I want to hate him, I want to curse him, I want to forget him.” Remus took a deep breath, and Harry waited, an aching tightness in his throat.
“I want to forget him,” he said again, “but I can’t. I can’t let go of those memories, because there was a time when he was someone bright and wonderful, someone I loved as much as James or Sirius. Regardless of what’s happened since, or perhaps because of all that’s happened, I have to hold on to those shining memories and remember what’s worth treasuring.”
Sirius’ head was bowed, hair falling over his face. Remus’ smile was sad, but he looked at Harry with gentle eyes.
“That’s what pains me the most about this last year, Harry. I had you in class every week and never thought a second about it; I never questioned your presence. I didn’t remember you at all, not until Sirius found me and explained everything that had happened. I am so truly sorry for my absence in my life. Sirius has told me so many wonderful things about you, but that’s not the same as knowing you, as being someone you can trust and confide in. I do not deserve your forgiveness, Harry, but I will do all that I can to earn your friendship.”
This Remus Lupin was much different from the Professor Lupin Harry had seen at Hogwarts. That Remus had been callous and oblivious to Harry, emanating a kind of polite indifference. This Remus was far more vulnerable and genuine than Harry would have ever thought possible, and he was struck by how different all his professors could be out of class.
“You don’t need my forgiveness,” Harry said, fiddling with his napkin as he spoke. “It wasn’t your fault. Whatever magic is going wonky around me is just messing things up, I guess. Sirius didn’t know the real me, either; he had to learn. So, I can’t really be upset at you for not knowing or remembering.”
“You’re far kinder than we deserve,” Remus said.
“I don’t think so,” Harry said honestly. “I just think maybe none of us have had a whole lot of people be nice to us.”
Sirius gave a throaty laugh and looked at Harry for the first time in a while. “You’re the best kid I’ve ever met, Harry,” he said. “I was an idiot when I was thirteen, but you’re incredible.”
Harry flushed.
“I made rice kheer for after dinner,” he said, ignoring the happiness welling up inside him. “I was gonna make gulab jamun like you talked about, but I couldn’t find all the ingredients.”
“God, kheer sounds fantastic though. Remember when Lily tried to make it, Remus?”
“She left it simmering for so long it turned into sludge—she could barely scrape it out of the pot!” They all laughed together at the memory.
“Oh, yeah, and then she threw some of it at dad when he made fun of her,” Harry said—right before he remembered there were some things he hadn’t explained. Sirius and Remus stopped laughing at stared at him, open-mouthed.
“How would you know that?”
“Er… It’s a long story?”
“We have time,” Remus pointed out. “I’ll make tea.”
↠
Aberforth closed the pub a bit early that night, as he wanted to check on Harry and make sure nothing had gone wrong over dinner. He climbed the stairs, knees and floorboards groaning simultaneously. Warm light and soft voices emanated from the main room. Harry was curled comfortably in a pile of blankets on the floor next to the coffee table, cheeks pink and eyes bright with happiness and late-night energy—Aberforth could practically see the boy forcing himself awake. The other men, both of whom he vaguely recognized from their school days, looked about the same, sat side-by-side opposite him. The skinny one with the long hair—Black, he thought—had his knees pulled to his chest and was leaning on the other, looking half-asleep already.
“I think it’s past all your curfews, lads,” Aberforth said, and they all startled, Black jerking his head off Lupin’s shoulder.
“Aberforth!” called Harry, stumbling out of his blanket mess and coming to stand by him. “Are you hungry? There’s curry left, and kheer, and I can pull some more naan from the fridge, and I saved your armchair for you, and have you met Sirius and Remus before officially, as adults, I mean, and did everything go okay at the bar, and did the veela from last night come back in, and—”
“Woah, kid,” Aberforth said, lightly pushing Harry’s shoulder with his fingers. “Someone’s excited, huh?”
“Sorry.” Harry’s blush was even pinker now and Aberforth couldn’t help but laugh fondly along with Black and Lupin at the kid’s excitable antics. These last few months had been… a lot of work, if he was honest. Harry brought up emotions and difficulties that Aberforth hadn’t expected. He had no clue how to deal with the boy’s panic attacks, his nightmares, his mood swings. He didn’t know what to do when Harry wouldn’t—or couldn’t—talk or look at him for hours at a time. He didn’t know what to do when he Harry zoned out and couldn’t remember the last few hours—or days. He didn’t know what to do when Harry muttered in his sleep, not from nightmares but from the conversations he was having inside his own head.
Aberforth hadn’t spent so much time with a kid since Ariana, and while Harry made him appreciate her memories so much more, he also made it harder to face the guilt that came with remembering. If only he had been able to help her, to save her. How could he be sure he was doing the right thing with Harry? What if he messed this up, too?
But Harry was worth it. Undeniably. And seeing Black and Lupin’s looks of fondness and love for the boy made it doubly so. Aberforth knew he couldn’t take care of Harry permanently—he was too old, too embittered by the past, too fond of his own privacy and isolation to be anything more than a summer guardian; they hadn’t had that conversation yet, and he wasn’t looking forward to it one bit. The boy was sure to think he was abandoning him, sure to lose the fragile trust of adults he’d gained over the last few months. It was good that there were others to look out for him—Snape was there, sure, but Black and Lupin seemed at least slightly more appropriate figures to rely on. Ex-death eaters had a certain air about them that made Aberforth inclined not to give them responsibility over a thirteen-year-old kid.
Lupin rose from the couch and leaned over to shake his hand. “Aberforth,” he said politely. “Thank you for having us. It’s been a delightful evening.”
“Anytime. This lad’s got enough energy to knock the house down if he int careful—it’s good you came over.”
Black stood as well, looking much more disheveled than the other man. Aberforth could see the dog in him clearly; no matter how well he dressed or how well-kept his hair was, his eyes were wild and his energy frantic. He was half-feral. Despite that, though, his affection for Harry was obvious, and he looked a sight better than the way the boy had described him before.
“Harry said he’s going to the World Cup next week, is that right?”
Aberforth nodded. “Aye, the Weasleys invited ‘im. It’ll be good have friends that aren’t ancient farts like us.”
Black snorted. “Speak for yourself, I’m as spry as they come.”
“We really should be heading out,” Lupin said, casting a fond glance towards Black. “Harry, thank you for the wonderful dinner.”
“You don’t have to leave yet!” Harry tried to protest but interrupted himself with a massive yawn. He swayed tiredly on his feet, and Black pulled him into a hug.
“We’ll write soon, I promise. Stay good. Stay safe. Don’t get into trouble.”
“Same to you,” Harry said, leaning into the hug longer than normal. “Be careful. Both of you.”
“Of course,” Lupin said, taking Black’s hand and pulling him towards the door. “Good night! Thanks again, for everything.”
Not ten minutes after they left, Harry was dead asleep, socks still on and not even under the covers. Aberforth had never expected to raise a kid—he’d been perfectly happy in his own isolated life—but something about having the small teen in his home, about making tea for two in the morning and reading books together on the patio and saying goodnight to someone, filled a hole in his heart he hadn’t known was there. Stepping in to the room, he pulled a light blanket over the sleeping boy, clicked the lamp off, then made his way back down the hall to his own bedroom.