Chapter Text
Harry presses his ear to the cupboard door. If he strains as hard as he can, he can hear Aunt Petunia turning the pages of her women’s magazine. She’s just across the hall and Harry would rather she be in the kitchen or better yet in the front yard, spying on the neighbours, but it can’t be helped. Careful to be as quiet as possible Harry shifts on his mattress until he can reach his arm under it. Hidden perfectly in the centre his fingertips find their target, just where he’s last stashed it.
The book was the first gift – right after the rib of chocolate and the note that is. Padfoot brought it the second night, alongside a half-dozen Cornish pasties tied up in a chequered dishtowel. The dog came alone that time, straight to Harry’s cupboard. He scratched at the door, leaving Harry to wonder just how he’d gotten into the house in the first place.
Harry lets him squish into the cupboard with him. Not an easy feat with an animal as massive as Padfoot. The pasties are delicious. Harry eats three one after the other. He offers one to Padfoot as well, who doesn’t seem convinced until Harry picks out every bit of turnip and eats it himself.
“You’re quite fussy for a dog,” Harry says. Padfoot shrugs, or more likely he simply adjusts himself in the tight space.
Hidden behind the corner of the mattress alongside the remaining pasties the book instantly becomes Harry’s most treasured possession. The day before, he just read the brief note over and over and over again. Now he has something to actually occupy his time with. Outside the cupboard books are one of the few things Harry’s allowed, mainly because they keep him quiet and Dudley doesn’t care for them. However, chores hardly leave Harry with any time for reading.
In the cupboard he has all the time in the world, but no books. Until now. Now he has a book and not just any old book. It’s his and his alone. Delivered – personally – by the most special (quite possibly magical) dog in the world and picked out presumably by Mr. Moony. Given the yellowed pages and the well-worn spine it might just have been his personal copy. At least Harry likes to think so.
It tells a wonderful story as well. One of other worlds hidden in wardrobes, adventures and talking animals. Uncle Vernon would never allow such nonsense under his roof. Sensible books only! Harry devours it in three days. Every night Padfoot returns with new food, squeezes himself next to, around and over Harry and lets himself get petted while Harry recounts what he’s read that day.
Now, with Aunt Petunia just across the hall, Harry opens the book once again, though not to read. He presses his nose into the spine, taking a deep breath of the sweet, dusty, old pages. Their smell calms him, while his fingers fiddle with the three dog-eared pages right at the beginning. One for each day since he’s last seen Padfoot. Harry feels bad for creasing the paper of what might well be Mr. Moony’s book, but he can’t risk losing track. It feels important. It feels like doing something. It helps against the dread. That and the old book smell.
Harry can’t decide what he’s afraid of more: something having happened to Padfoot (perhaps the dog catchers at last) or him no longer coming for no ulterior reason at all. Harry’s finished the story, maybe that’s all the dog was interested in. Or maybe he just grew tired of Harry’s company. His aunt and uncle never tire of reminding Harry how much of a burden he is, maybe Padfoot realised it as well.
A smart rapping at the front door pulls Harry out of his contemplation. He swiftly stashes the book back under the mattress and sits as still as he can. There are to be no noises from the cupboard with someone at the door. Harry listens intently to Aunt Petunia crossing the hall, opening the door and: “Yes, hello?” Harry can hear her lips disappearing into the thin line of her frown. Perhaps it’s the woman from Nr. 7; Aunt Petunia loathes her.
“How do you do, Mrs. Dursley.” Harry’s breath hitches. It can’t be! It sounds so close and so far off at once. But it is! It is Mr. Moony’s voice, just without any of its soft kindness. It’s as hard as his expression after Harry let slip about the cupboard. “I’m here about Harry.”
Harry’s heart is fluttering against his chest. Can it be? Is it time? He can hear his aunt bustling with indignation. “I have no idea who you think you are, nor do I care to find out. All I know is that you have no business here. Good day!” The door closes, but gets blocked.
“How dare you?!” Aunt Petunia shrieks, “my husband –”
Mr. Moony cuts her off. “Your husband is not concerned with any of this, as you well know, Petunia.”
“Who-?”
“Remus Lupin, we’ve briefly spoken on the phone some twelve years ago, I don’t expect you to remember.”
“You’re one of them!”
There’s an exacerbated sigh. “Just let us in, if you’d be so kind. You know as well as us, that we’re not leaving.”
“I will do no such thing!” Harry hears a growl. Padfoot’s here as well! His aunt shrieks. Mr. Moony – or is it Mr. Lupin? – gives a half-hearted admonishment before he pushes past Aunt Petunia with another sigh. Were it anyone else, his aunt would meet such behaviour with a hefty piece of her mind, but quite unlike her, she stays quiet.
There’s a gentle knock on the cupboard door. Despite himself, Harry flinches. “Harry?” Mr. Moony’s voice has regained all its kindness. Hearing it makes breathing easier. “May I open the door?” Harry nods hesitantly, before he realises that Mr. Moony can’t see that. “O- Okay.”
Used to the narrow slivers of light through the ventilation slits Harry is blinded for a moment. Yet as soon as his eyes adjust there he is. Mr. Moony in all his soft, kind, tired glory. In full light his scars aren’t as prominent, though he looks even more exhausted than last time. The smile is the same though. And so is the hug, when Harry flings himself into the man’s arms.
“You came,” he whispers.
“We promised, didn’t we?”
Mr. Moony pulls back first, swiping one of Harry’s tears away with his thumb.
“Harry, get away from that man and back into your cupboard at once!” Aunt Petunia says sharply. Harry flinches. She can’t hurt him, not with Mr. Moony and Padfoot around. It scares him nonetheless.
Slowly, very slowly, Mr. Moony rights himself. He just keeps going. Harry’s only seen him sitting or crouching so far. Drawn up to his full hight he towers over Aunt Petunia, even with her long neck. As soon as he’s fixed her with his cold stare, Padfoot abandons his post in favour of coming to Harry’s side. Sinking his hands into the soft, shaggy fur is exactly what Harry needs.
“Lily’s always loved you. In spite of all the things you said, in spite of how you treated her, in spite of all the pain it caused her; she never stopped. She forgave you everything…she wouldn’t have forgiven you this. If nothing else: know that you would have made Lily despise you.”
Aunt Petunia makes a pained little noise, not that Mr. Moony pays her mind any longer. He’s turned back around to Harry. So kind. So very tired looking.
“Alright then. Would you like to pack your things?”
Harry looks at him with big eyes. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. Mr. Moony looks puzzled at his inaction: “Do you need a bag?”
Harry shakes his head no. “Do you – do you not what to go? You don’t have to!” The man’s eyes flicker to Padfoot for a moment, slightly panicked, as if asking for help.
“No! No, I want to go!” Harry insists at once.
“What is it then?” Mr. Moony makes even those words gentle. “I don’t…” Harry has his eyes cast down. He’s scuffing his toes against the carpet even though he knows Aunt Petunia hates when he does that. “I don’t have things to pack.”
“Oh! Oh…don’t worry about it, Harry. We’ll take care of all that later, for now it’s just less to carry around, yeah?” Harry nods. He’s never thought life could be as easy as Mr. Moony makes it feel. It’s almost too good to be true, were it not for his hand in Padfoot’s definitely real fur, for Mr. Moony’s definitely real squeeze of his shoulder and Aunt Petunia’s definitely real shocked expression. Ducking back into the cupboards for what has to be (his heart rejoices) Harry’s last time ever, he quickly retrieves his book, the note and his little tin box of assorted tressures. He trusts Mr. Moony to store all of his few possessions in his beaten leather bag. They leave with one of Harry’s hands in Padfoot’s coat and the other in Mr. Moony’s offered hand. They’re getting him out of here. Just you wait and see.
They take a train. Outside the window the countryside flies by and Harry could watch for hours. It’s not this first train ride, mind, that was with school to the local history museum a town over. This time, however, is better. For one Harry doesn’t have to keep an eye on Dudley growing bored, for another it’s not just a day trip. Every mile the train makes is a mile Harry will never have to go back. No more cupboards, no more “Boy!”, no more Dudley. And the countryside is simply gorgeous.
Next to Harry Mr. Moony eventually clears his throat. Harry tears himself away from the view. You look, when you’re spoken to. If he didn’t know better, Harry would have thought Mr. Moony looks nervous. He’s not directly looking at Harry, instead fidgeting with the slightly frayed cuffs of his jumper. At his feet Padfoot has his head pressed against the side of Mr. Moony’s knees.
Harry doesn’t like to see Mr. Moony nervous. What if he’s changed his mind about keeping Harry? What if -? But no. He wouldn’t! Or would he? After all, why shouldn’t he? Right before the worry can grow out of bounds amber eyes land on him and the sea of Harry’s thoughts is – as if by magic – calm again at once.
“I’m sorry we took so long,” Mr. Moony says. Harry isn’t used being apologised to, usually it’s the other way around. He doesn’t quite know how to respond. Not that he has to. “There were things that needed taking care of, before we could get you. As for the last three days, I hope you weren’t worried about Padfoot’s absence. He- sometime I need him for…things.”
Mr. Moony cringes at his own vagueness, looking at Harry as if expecting (and all the while dreading) further questions, but Harry isn’t one to pry. He’s content with being given any sort of explanation, sparse as it might be.
“You’re here now. Just as you said, so I don’t mind.”
They change in London to another train. This one is old with compartments and squishy upholstered benches instead of seats. They have an entire compartment to themselves, because all the other travellers take one look at Padfoot and keep moving down the corridor. At the big station in London Harry got an equally sizable ham and cheese sandwich and a bag of crisps. He eats his lunch with relish, sneaking the occasional piece of ham to Padfoot, when he thinks Mr. Moony isn’t looking. Which turns out to be an impossible. Mr. Moony’s gift of observation is as good as Harry’s, if not better. He notices. Every. Single. Time. He never says anything though. He’ll just keep his gaze pointedly out the window while smirking to himself.
“Where is it that we’re going exactly, Mr. Moony?” Harry askes after about an hour. Asking questions still feels risky, but Mr. Moony’s near constant soft smile and Padfoot’s head in his lap make Harry braver than he feels.
“Wales. We have a cottage there, no too far from where I grew up and my mum and da still live.”
“You have a mum?!” It’s a rude thing to say like that, Harry scolds himself. He simply can’t help it. Most other kids in school have at least some grandparents, so it stands to reason that Mr. Moony might still have parents as well. The notion simply never quite clicks with Harry who is missing his parents let alone any grandparents.
“Oh yes! And she’s very much looking forward to meeting you some time. The baking over the week, that’s been all her.”
Harry doesn’t know how to respond. He’s not used to people knowing about him, let alone looking forward to meeting him. He hopes Mrs. Moony doesn’t get her hopes up too high. After all, he’s just Harry.
“Also, Harry? There’s no need to call me Mr. Moony. Moony’s just fine. Or Remus if you’d prefer. That’s my given name. Moony’s a nickname back from school.”
“So, you’re like Padfoot that way? What with the several names?” Mr. – no – Moony chuckles.
While fields and forests, hills and rivers fly by outside, they sit and talk. They play a few rounds of a card game Moony teaches Harry. There’s also chocolate from the wonderous depths of Moony’s bag and he lets Harry eat as much as he likes. It’s only after the fifth piece that advises caution with eating too much chocolate on board of a rattling train. They’re halfway through learning the moves of the various chess pieces (another tressure from the bag) and also apparently half-way through their ride, that Moony yawns more than he talks.
“I’m sorry, Harry. It seems I’m still rather…” “Tired?” Harry offers. Remus nods with another of his soft, kind smiles. “Quite. Would you mind if I take a nap for a while? You’ll still have Pads and you can wake me at any time!” Harry nods vehemently.
“Wonderful. Also: here, to pass the time.” He pulls a book out of the bag. There’s a surprising amount in there for it not being all that big at all. “Padfoot tells me you enjoyed the first part.”