Christmas morning started out much like it always did now that Harry was at Hogwarts — with Ron throwing a pillow at him to wake him up, shouting about presents. They were the only two left in their dorm, so there was no worry about keeping quiet.
It still left Harry a little gobsmacked to see a pile of presents that was just for him. This year's pile seemed even bigger than the last. Most of them were wrapped in the same festive paper as half the pile on Ron's bed, so Harry assumed they were from Mrs Weasley. He looked to the others, picking up a small square parcel wrapped in plain brown paper.
Harry-
I've had this for a while, I thought you might like it. Merry Christmas.
- Professor Lupin
Tearing into the paper, Harry sucked in a sharp breath at the framed picture in his hands. It was of his parents, sat in front of a huge fireplace, Christmas decorations in the background and a huge log — a Yule log — burning in the hearth. Lily had green tinsel braided in her hair and a baby in her arms; Harry, dressed in a onesie that made him look like a tiny reindeer, complete with antlers attached to the little hood. He was beaming up at his mother, a little tuft of black hair peeking out under the hood, his arms stretching out towards his father. James sat beside Lily, a sleek ginger cat cradled in his arms like a baby, a Santa hat perched jauntily on his head. They waved out at Harry, and every few seconds James would swoop in and press a firm kiss to Lily's cheek, making her blush.
The bottom of the gold frame was engraved with the words 'Harry's First Yule'.
It took a minute for Harry to remember how to breathe.
"You alright there, mate?" Ron asked, his mouth half-full of homemade nut brittle, shreds of wrapping paper scattered all around him. Harry shoved the picture under his pillow, offering a false grin.
"Yeah." He reached for the next present on auto-pilot, not wanting Ron to investigate further.
He was surprised to find a book, titled 'The Wizengamot And You: The Wizarding Legal System Explained'. There was a note attached to the front of it.
Hi Harry,
This is from both me and Gran. She said it's the best book out there for learning about all this sort of stuff. I hope it helps. Merry Christmas!
- Neville
And below that;
Dear Mr Potter,
I'm glad to hear from my grandson that you're finally learning about your place in our world. I have to say, it doesn't surprise me that it was kept from you until now.
I hope this book is of assistance; please don't hesitate to contact me if you have any further questions. Well met, and happy Yule.
Lady Augusta Longbottom
P.S. If you get the chance this summer, I would recommend going to Gringotts and checking your family vault for a book on traditions and magics specific to House Potter. Every family should have one. If you are in need of an adult to escort you, I would be happy to do so.
Again, Harry quickly hid the book and the note from Ron's curious gaze, but a smile tugged at his lips. He was glad now for the Herbology book he'd sent Neville, unsure if they were at the level of friendship to be exchanging Christmas gifts.
Those seemed to be the only unexpected gifts in the pile — at least, until he reached the long, narrow package at the very bottom. His heart clenched at the telltale shape. "Mate!" Ron breathed, barging over and reaching to tear the wrapping paper.
A Firebolt.
This Christmas was just full of surprises.
.-.-.-.
With his spirits high from his pile of gifts, Harry was caught almost entirely off-guard as his name was called. He was having a rare moment alone — with Hermione in the library and Ron kidnapped by the twins — and enjoying taking his time wandering down to Christmas lunch, turning his thoughts over in his mind. At least, until he was stopped, and his heart sank.
"Harry, my boy!" Dumbledore's fond call rang through the stone corridor. Harry froze, turning on his heel. The headmaster was dressed in festive robes and smiling widely, oblivious to the nausea rolling in his student's stomach.
Don't look him in the eye, Harry thought to himself desperately, plastering a smile on his face and fixing his gaze somewhere over Dumbledore's left shoulder. "Hello, sir!" he greeted cheerfully, trying to think how he might have acted before the compulsion was removed. Trusting, impulsive, thoughtless. He could do that. Maybe.
"Not spending the day with your friends?" Dumbledore asked, brows furrowing. Harry shrugged.
"Hermione's finishing an essay. Ron's with his siblings, I didn't want to interrupt."
The reminder of Harry's lack of family turned the headmaster's face sad and pitying in a way that made Harry itch with anger. Perhaps the old man was aiming for empathy, but he missed by a mile. "Ah, of course. Well, you should still be careful, my boy — these days are not the best to be spending time alone. It is hard to protect you if we don't know where you are." His voice was gently scolding, and Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Did he really think Sirius Black would try anything in the middle of the day?
"I'm sorry, sir," he said instead, plastering a contrite frown on his face. "I suppose I didn't think about that. I was just on my way to the great hall for lunch."
"Not to worry, not to worry; I found you, after all," Dumbledore replied with a chuckle. He began to walk, gesturing for Harry to accompany him. "I hear you've been keeping yourself busy over the holidays, my boy. The Patronus charm is a rather tricky bit of magic — I'm quite impressed to see you attempting it. I must admit, I didn't expect for Professor Lupin to offer; with his health the way he is, he tends to value the time he has to rest."
The old wizard's face was friendly, and Harry knew he would've fallen for it easily six months ago. His stomach churned again — did Dumbledore disapprove of Harry learning the charm? Why? Surely any defence he had against dementors was a good thing!
"I— I told him what I hear when a dementor comes close," Harry admitted, carefully choosing his words. He didn't want Dumbledore to think he was hiding anything. "It's… I told him I couldn't listen to my mum dying over and over. Begged him to teach me." He tried not to meet twinkling blue eyes as they surveyed him, trying to clear his mind. "He— he said he was feeling alright, but if he's not well— if I should stop— I… I suppose I can handle it, sir." Poor, brave, orphan Harry Potter. Exactly what far too many people expected to see, but easy enough to give it to them when it suited him.
"Of course not, dear boy. If Professor Lupin believes he is well enough to teach you, then by all means, learn what you can. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to suffer through such a thing." Dumbledore paused, as if in thought. "I suppose mentioning your mother's death would make him keen to see you avoid such heartbreak."
Harry knew what the man was fishing for, and stifled a scowl behind brows furrowed in confusion. "Sir, I don't understand?"
"Did the professor not tell you that he and your parents went to school together?" Dumbledore sounded genuinely surprised. Internally, Harry smirked. Let him think that Harry was still in the dark, oblivious to the family he'd been kept from all this years. Let him think Harry didn't know the truth about Sirius Black.
"He said he knew them," Harry replied. "He never said… were they friends?"
"Indeed they were, my boy," Dumbledore told him. For the briefest moment, Harry thought he saw a pleased look flash across the headmaster's features. "They were all in Gryffindor together. But if Professor Lupin has not mentioned it, perhaps it's best not to bring it up. Grief can do awful things to a man, Harry. You won't want to disturb it once it's settled." He sounded sad, shaking his head with a small sigh.
Beside him, Harry nodded along obediently, while inside he seethed. Imagine if he had never broken the compulsion; he would have allowed Dumbledore to lead him by the nose away from Remus Lupin and all that he entailed — all the memories he could share with Harry, all the support he could offer, everything.
Dumbledore wanted Harry alone. He wanted him with no one to rely on — save those Dumbledore had picked himself. The thought made him uneasy; who in his life could he trust, and who was only there to be another player in the headmaster's game?
More importantly, why? What was so special about Harry, that the man had started playing the game so early in his life?
.-.-.-.
Scowling to himself, Severus started the journey back to his quarters, shaking his head at Sybil Trelawney's ridiculous declaration. Why Albus insisted he attend the small Christmas lunch, Severus didn't know; he would have much preferred dining in his own rooms, alone. The only person in the Great Hall he even remotely enjoyed the company of was Minerva. Especially with Lupin—
He shut that thought down before it could finish itself. He refused to think about Remus bloody Lupin at Christmas. It was bad enough remembering the sad, regretful look in those honey-brown eyes when he'd realised the full moon was Christmas Eve night, and he'd be missing out on all the festivities.
Severus' scowl deepened.
Muttering the password to his private quarters, he slunk inside and shed his cloak, tossing it to hang itself on the hook in the wall. All he wanted for Christmas was a glass of brandy, a good book, and at least twelve hours without having to see any students, or Albus Dumbledore. The old headmaster was even further from Severus' good graces than he had been at the start of the year.
The embrace of his preferred armchair was a welcome one, and Severus closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a long breath. When he opened them, he paused. There, on his coffee table, was a brown paper wrapped package. It definitely hadn't been there when he'd left for lunch.
He reached for it with trepidation, knowing without needing to look where it had come from. That sodding wolf.
Sure enough, the handwriting across the top was familiar.
Severus,
I know you weren't expecting anything. I highly doubt you've got me anything. Don't worry — I just couldn't resist.
Perhaps we could have a drink when I'm feeling better. I'm going to need help working through the bottle of Glenfiddich Minerva will undoubtedly gift me.
I'm not asking for things to be how they were. I'm just asking for us to move forward.
Merry Christmas,
Remus
Severus almost tossed the whole thing in the fire without opening it, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Carefully undoing the Spellotape holding it together, he peeled off the paper, expecting some potions book or perhaps something Dark Arts related. It was nothing of the sort.
It was a wooden puzzle box. Muggle in origin, by the looks of it. Interlocking pieces of dark stained wood, intricately carved and fit together in a way that Severus could tell the solution would take time.
He thought about a shelf, in a bedroom in a muggle house he hadn't visited in years, where a small collection of similar puzzle boxes resided, no doubt covered in dust by now. A collection that had begun when a nine year-old redheaded girl eagerly gifted him one for his birthday, gushing about the trip to Turkey she'd taken with her family, and how she'd seen the box and just had to get it for him.
Long fingers brushed carefully over the wood, his brain already beginning to look for next possible moves, keen to see if there was anything inside the box. From Lupin, it could be anything. Severus didn't know what he was hoping for.
Perhaps the box would be better off empty.
Cursing under his breath, Severus screwed the paper up into a ball, throwing it into the fire, note and all. The puzzle box remained in his lap, taunting him.
Move forward. He scoffed. That was easier said than done. They'd barely been able to figure things out the first time around, when they were young and naive and so bloody hopeful — at least, Remus was hopeful. Thinking about the werewolf back then made a sharp ache pierce Severus' ribcage.
Remus was right. They certainly couldn't go back to how things were. Everything had changed far, far too much for that.
He shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the puzzle box and staring into the flames as they turned the wrapping paper to ash. He'd been well on his way to fucking things up for good, before. Merlin only knew why the idiot wolf was still trying.
Moving forward. Severus wondered what that would look like.
He cursed the corner of his shrivelled up heart that was desperate to find out.
.-.-.-.
Ron was itching for a fight.
That much was obvious to Harry. Between his worry for Scabbers and his anger at Hermione turning the Firebolt in to McGonagall, Ron was a tightly wound ball of rage that would explode at any moment. Harry himself wasn't even mad about the Firebolt; he, too, was suspicious of its origin. He just hoped he could have it back before the match against Ravenclaw.
"Parkinson's looking at you funny," Ron muttered as the two of them walked to the greenhouses for Herbology. Harry glanced over his shoulder — Pansy Parkinson was indeed looking at him, but it was more calculating than anything, arm in arm with an oblivious Tracy Davis. Harry thought back to his odd meeting with Zabini and Greengrass, before Christmas. Perhaps word was spreading further. Or maybe Malfoy had said something, after one of their mostly-accidental late-night meetings.
"She's not doing anything, Ron," Harry assured, grabbing Ron's elbow and tugging him forward, away from the Slytherins. "It's fine." If Ron was going to pick a fight, he didn't want to be part of it.
"I swear, Malfoy hasn't given us a good reason to hex him in ages," Ron groused. "It's like you don't even exist to him anymore."
"Maybe he feels guilty about Buckbeak." Malfoy wasn't completely ignoring Harry in public these days, but he wasn't quite as eager to mock him as he used to be. Harry was honestly surprised this was the first time Ron was bringing it up.
"Doubt it. Git's probably just waiting til after the trial so he can rub it in our faces some more. Oh, look, there's Zabini!"
"Leave him alone, Ron," Harry said with a scowl, blocking him from going after the tall Slytherin.
"What's with you, lately?" Ron asked, a dark look on his freckled face. "You getting chummy with the Slytherins or something? You never get back at them anymore."
"Maybe I've just got bigger things to worry about than the Slytherins." The Slytherins weren't really bothering him anymore, he had no reason to be angry with them. Besides, the whole house rivalry thing had sort of lost its shine. Sirius Black was a Gryffindor, after all. Houses clearly didn't mean much.
"That doesn't mean you can just let them go around acting like they own the school!"
"Oh, grow up, Ron," Harry snapped before he could help himself. The redhead recoiled, shocked, before a venomous look crept in. "I didn't mean it like that," Harry hastened to soothe his friend. "I just… it all feels a bit petty, doesn't it? To be going after someone just because they're in a different house. It's stupid."
"Petty and stupid, am I?" Ron asked bitingly. "You've changed, Harry. I figured it was just about Black, but you're weird this year. Always off by yourself, doing Merlin knows what. Making friends with Slytherins. I'm not sure I like it."
Before Harry could say anything more, Ron ripped his arm out of the green-eyed boy's grasp and stalked off to the greenhouses, leaving Harry alone in the courtyard. Suddenly, Hermione appeared at his side. "What was all that about?" She seemed a little breathless, which was odd, because they'd just come from Transfiguration and it wasn't that far a walk.
"Nothing. Ron being a git," Harry muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets and carrying on his way. He knew the redhead didn't really mean it — he just wanted to take his anger out on someone — but it still made the ever-present guilt rise like a snake, twisting in his belly. He really had been neglecting his friend this year. He just… the older he got, the more he found Ron's personality hard to deal with. Especially after getting used to spending more time around people like Neville, and even Malfoy.
Ron was his first friend at Hogwarts, and he'd always be grateful for that. But did that make him the best choice?
.-.-.
After that argument, Ron avoided Harry just as much as he was already avoiding Hermione.
"I'm sure he doesn't mean it," Neville said one day, after Ron had grabbed him to partner up in Potions to avoid having to work with either Harry or Hermione. The result was a melted cauldron, and a scorch mark on the dungeon ceiling. Snape had not been impressed. "He's just got a quick temper."
"Yeah, well maybe I'm sick of it," Harry replied. "I keep feeling awful about having all these secrets, but how am I supposed to trust him when the wrong word sets him off? And the way he talks about the Slytherins, like they're not even people…"
"They have been pretty awful to you in the past, Harry," Neville pointed out cautiously. "Malfoy especially. Most of them are alright, yeah, but there are some."
"Oh, there are definitely some Slytherins that would happily see me dead," Harry agreed. "But I don't think Malfoy's one of them. Not anymore. Things have been different, this year." Neville knew that Malfoy knew about Harry being the Potter heir. He didn't know that Malfoy had started being actually civil to him, if not outright friendly, when it was just the two of them around. It wasn't often they crossed paths in the middle of the night, but it was frequent enough to possibly be considered a habit. One that Harry wasn't entirely sure he wanted to break.
Harry told him. Neville's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Malfoy? Really?"
"He's actually alright, when he doesn't have Crabbe and Goyle breathing down his neck," Harry confided. The other Gryffindor boy frowned.
"But he's still being a prat in classes. And the whole Buckbeak thing." Everyone in the school knew that Lucius Malfoy was trying to get Buckbeak killed.
"That's more his dad than him. I think he actually sort-of feels bad about it. And yeah, he's a prat, but he's not as bad as he was before. People would start asking questions if he was suddenly nice to me." Snape might have a heart attack. Ron, too, for that matter. And Merlin only knew what would happen if word got back to Lucius Malfoy that his son was being friendly to the Boy-Who-Lived.
"I s'pose," Neville said with a shrug.
Harry gave the password to the Fat Lady, and the two of them stepped into the common room. Harry came up short when he saw Hermione and McGonagall there, the older woman holding— "My Firebolt!" He looked up hopefully. "Does this mean I can have it back?"
"You've got a very good friend, somewhere," McGonagall declared. "We've done everything we can think of, and there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it." She held it out, and Harry took it with reverent hands. "I daresay you'll need to get the feel of it before Saturday's match. Just don't go out flying after dark without a professor. And, Potter—" She smirked, meeting his eyes. "Make sure you win, won't you? It's been far too long since I've had the Quidditch Cup sitting in my office."
Harry beamed at her. "I'll try my best. Thanks, Professor." He turned to the dark-skinned girl at the woman's side. "Thanks for looking out for me, Hermione," he added. His friend had been beating herself up over the broom since Ron had exploded on her about it, but Harry didn't blame her one bit.
"It's what I'm here for." She grinned back at him. "I'm glad it turned out alright."
As soon as McGonagall left, a crowd started gathering around Harry, his housemates clamouring to get a closer look at the international-standard broom. Harry let them, keeping a careful eye out to make sure no one damaged it. It would be just his luck to get it back only for some careless Gryffindor to break it.
"You got it back!" Ron shoved his way through the crowd, squeezing in at Harry's side like he'd forgotten he was mad at the bespectacled boy. "See, told you there was nothing wrong with it!" This was said smugly to Hermione, who huffed.
"There could've been. Aren't you glad that we know now?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "Can I ride it, Harry? Just for a bit? I'll be really careful."
"Maybe tomorrow. It's too dark now. I should go put it away." Ron's hands clamped around the broom.
"I'll take it. I've got to give Scabbers his rat tonic, anyway. I'll be right back." Before Harry could argue, he was off up the stairs, broom in hand.
"Well," Hermione muttered, glancing first at Harry, then Neville. "Now you've got your expensive broomstick back, we're his best friends again, I suppose." There was a bitterness to her voice that made Harry wince. "Hopefully we can put all this behind us, now. Honestly, he's giving me whiplash this year; I can never keep track of whether he likes me or not."
Neville snorted. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by a strangled yell from up in the boys' dormitory tower. The whole common room went silent. Harry flicked his wand free of its holster, tensing.
There were hurried footsteps, then Ron burst into view, dragging a bedsheet in his wake. "LOOK!" he roared, stalking straight for Hermione, pointing at her with the fist that held the bedsheet. "LOOK!"
"Ron, what—?"
"SCABBERS!" Ron yelled, shaking the sheet in her face. "THERE'S BLOOD ON THE SHEETS, AND HE'S GONE!" Harry looked closer, his heart sinking at the small, rust-red stain on the fabric. "YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE WAS THERE? THIS!" Ron thrust out his other hand, opening it to show a handful of long, ginger cat hairs. "YOUR BLOODY CAT KILLED HIM!"
"Ron, I'm sure he's just missing, he's probably hiding under one of the beds," Hermione started. Ron took an angry step forward.
"Yeah, bleeding to death!" he spat. The rest of the Gryffindors, realising that it wasn't another Sirius Black attack but actually just Ron being dramatic, promptly went back to their previous business. Harry shared an uneasy look with Neville.
"I'm sorry, Ron!" Hermione actually had tears in her eyes, but Ron was red-faced with fury and didn't seem to care. "Cats chase rats, I can't keep him locked in my room all the time! You don't even know he was in there, those hairs could've been there from Christmas!"
"You never should've bought that bloody menace in the first place! Tell her, Harry!"
"I'm staying out of this," Harry insisted, shaking his head. "I've got homework to do." He turned away, beckoning Neville to follow with a jerk of his head, ignoring Ron yelling after him. He wasn't going to start taking sides, even if Scabbers was really dead. He was an old rat, it would've happened eventually.
"So much for all being friends again," he muttered with a glance to Neville, who grimaced apologetically.
At least he had a broom now. That was one problem sorted.
.-.-.
Even a ride on Harry's Firebolt after quidditch practice couldn't cheer Ron up. He was taking the loss of Scabbers hard, and outright refusing to talk to Hermione unless it was to argue with her. It was a toss up on any given day whether he'd speak to Harry, either, but the Firebolt seemed to be the deciding factor. Up until they saw Crookshanks in the grass, the cat almost giving Harry a heart attack. He could've sworn it was the Grim again. He wished he'd never taken bloody Divination. Still, Ron's bad mood couldn't dampen Harry's spirits after the win against Ravenclaw. He felt like he was walking on air — he had one of the best brooms in the world, he'd caught the snitch, and he'd produced a decent Patronus. Even if the dementors hadn't been real.
His heart did a funny sort of squeezing feeling when he thought about what Malfoy had done. He'd thought things were getting better between them. Was he just so desperate to win the Quidditch Cup that he'd sabotage Harry?
The party in the Gryffindor common room raged for hours, especially once the twins brought back their Honeydukes haul, winking at Harry when they entered the common room with arms full of sweets and butterbeer. Harry let them drag him into the celebration, their arms flung around his shoulders and beaming grins on their faces. Even Ron was having a good time — though he was pointedly not looking at the corner of the common room, where Hermione had her nose buried in her Muggle Studies book, her hair getting increasingly more wild as she tugged on it anxiously. Harry had already tried to get her to join the party, but she wasn't having any of it. Apparently, the only reason she wasn't up in her dorm was that Fay Dunbar and Sophie Roper were having some sort of boy-related crisis up there. Considering that pair of her dorm mates had even less patience for Hermione than Parvati and Lavender, Harry didn't blame her.
Eventually, it all got a bit much for Harry. While the others were distracted by the twins letting off some Filibuster's Fireworks, Harry slipped out of the portrait hole, heading off down the corridor. He didn't have a destination in mind, but his feet seemed to be taking him somewhere regardless. He wasn't entirely surprised when he rounded a corner to see a familiar blond head.
"Shouldn't you be celebrating?" Malfoy asked as Harry approached. He reached out, dusting a bit of red and gold confetti off of Harry's shoulder. "Surely the party isn't over already."
"Needed some air. It's loud in there," Harry replied. He went over to the window ledge, sitting on it and staring out at the darkening grounds. "Why'd you do it? Pretend to be dementors?"
"It was Pansy's idea," Malfoy replied with a faint grimace. "She thought it would be funny. I thought it would be good practice of that spell Lupin's teaching you." He edged closer, but didn't sit on the ledge beside Harry, leaning against the wall instead. "People are starting to ask questions. Questions that might get back to my father. The excuse of my arm hurting only worked for so long," he added dryly.
Harry thought back to his conversation with Neville the other day. Of course; he was being stupid. Malfoy had to keep up appearances. "Your father wants you to pick fights with me?"
"My father wants me to act like a proper Slytherin," Malfoy corrected. "Including showing I'm better than Gryffindors. Especially Golden Boy Gryffindors." The nickname was almost fond, and Harry's lips twitched.
"I suppose I can toss a few spells your way between classes," he replied magnanimously. "Ron keeps telling me I'm being too nice to Slytherins these days."
"Appearances must be upheld," Malfoy agreed. Harry's mind flashed back to the terrified look on the blond's face all those months ago in the hospital wing, when he'd admitted what the dementors made him see. He was starting to think maybe Malfoy had more on the line than Harry himself did.
Slowly, Harry reached out a hand, looking into silver-grey eyes. "No one needs to know about this, though. Not in private." He tilted his head, lips curving in a smile, remembering two boys; smaller, younger, entirely oblivious to the truth of the other.
Malfoy hesitantly extended his own hand, but his grip was firm when his fingers curled around Harry's. "Draco Malfoy," he said, as if introducing himself for the first time. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Harry Potter," he returned, grinning. "I think we're going to be great friends, Draco Malfoy." Letting go of the other boy's hand, Harry glanced at his watch. "Speaking of appearances, I should get back to the party before someone notices I'm gone." He got to his feet, stifling a sigh. If only he could stay in the quiet with Malfoy a little longer. "Hey, can we start doing this on purpose?"
Malfoy stared at him blankly. "Are you saying you just befriended me by accident?"
"No," Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. "I meant meeting up. Instead of just randomly bumping into each other. We'd have to be careful, obviously, but… I feel like a Slytherin perspective to all this heir stuff is exactly what I need. No one ever taught me how to be a pureblood." And if he wanted the excuse to spend more time with his new friend, well, Malfoy didn't have to know that.
"I suppose. Someone has to make sure you don't embarrass yourself once you start representing your houses," Malfoy replied drily. Harry read between the lines, and grinned.
"Great. I'll, uh, see you around. Draco."
The blond blinked at him, taken-aback. A small, reluctant smile flittered across his face. "See you, Harry. Good luck with all your adoring lions."
Harry went back to Gryffindor tower with a spring in his step and a smile on his face, that couldn't be dragged down even when Ron started making snide remarks about Hermione.
.-.-.-.
Remus watched the flames in his fireplace fade from green back to orange, as Professor McGonagall bid him a harried goodnight. The entire castle had been searched, and there was no sign of him. Whatever had happened in the Gryffindor common room, Sirius was gone.
His hands shook. His cup of tea had long gone cold, and he heated it back up with a wave of his wand, hoping it might calm his nerves. His eyes strayed to the door, wondering if Severus was going to come bursting in, accusing him of helping Sirius break into the castle. Remus honestly wouldn't blame him if he did.
Sometimes it felt like he was as good as helping, just by not saying anything. There was no doubt in his mind that Sirius was hiding out in his animagus form. If Remus told someone about it, they'd probably catch him within the week.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it.
Deep down, in his heart, his pack instinct was screaming that Sirius would never, could never, hurt Harry. Even after tonight —standing over Ron Weasley with a knife, what the hell was Sirius thinking?? — he had to believe there was some other explanation.
Reaching for the photo album on the coffee table, Remus flicked it open to the page he'd spent more than a few nights looking at since the week before Christmas, when he'd unearthed all his old photos to find the one for Harry. This photo was from the same day.
Arms wrapped around each other and beaming smiles on their faces, the four Marauders looked up at him, all wearing festive jumpers and laughing. Merlin, they'd been so young. He watched as photo-Sirius ruffled photo-Remus' hair, while photo-James blew a kiss to Lily, who was the one behind the camera, and photo-Peter jumped as the cat brushed between his legs. In the corner of the photo, you could see the moses basket where baby Harry slept peacefully, little reindeer antlers peeking over the edge. James had been so proud of himself for finding that onesie.
Remus could remember that day like it was yesterday. Lily and James' first Yule in the new house, the first — and only — with the baby. They'd thought it was the best thing ever, starting their own family traditions — the second generation of Marauders. It had driven Lily nuts to hear her son referred to as such, but she'd had a smile on her face nonetheless. James had good-naturedly pestered the rest of them about settling down and making some playmates for little Harry, insisting he couldn't carry their legacy entirely on his own back. Sirius had laughed and promised he was in no rush to have kids, but he'd treat Prongs' like his own. Peter had blushed and stuttered and made some mention of a date he was going on in the new year. Remus had pretended not to hear Lily dropping hints about a certain Slytherin; they'd had a fight a while before that Christmas. It had been months before they'd spoken again. Again, Lily's doing. No wonder he was a mess without her.
His gaze kept drawing back to those familiar grey eyes, shining with so much life and love and joy. He still didn't understand how everything could go so wrong. Maybe he never would.
"Why, Padfoot?" he murmured to the photo, a question he'd asked thousands of times in the last twelve years. "You could've had everything. We could've had everything." Even with Voldemort's growing power, they still had so much hope in that little family of theirs. Now, it was all gone. Except Harry. The only hope he had left, the shining light in the darkness. He couldn't believe Sirius capable of snuffing that light out. Maybe he was fooling himself. Time would tell.
.-.-.-.
When the letter from Hagrid arrived at breakfast, a few days after Black broke into the tower, Harry knew something was up. The way it was addressed to just the two of them, not Hermione…
With a sinking realisation, Harry checked the calendar. Buckbeak's trial was at the end of the week. He had completely forgotten about his promise to help with the research; and from the look on Ron's face when Harry mentioned it to him on the way down to meet Hagrid at the entrance hall, so had he.
"We're really sorry, Hagrid," Harry said once they were inside the cabin. Buckbeak was curled up in the corner, snuffling at what looked like half a dead stoat. "We should've been helping more with Buckbeak's case. We've just been so busy lately—"
"I'm not angry abou' that," Hagrid assured, pouring them tea and offering a plate of Bath buns, which neither boy touched. "Yeh've had a lot on yer plate, practisin' quidditch all hours o' the day an' night. I wanted to talk t' yeh both about Hermione."
"What about her?" Ron asked, a scowl coming to his face at the name. He still wasn't over Scabbers' assumed death.
"She's bin down 'ere a lot since Christmas, helpin' with Buckbeak an' all. Cried a fair few times — she's goin' through a bit of a rough time at the minute. Bit off more than she can chew, I think, with all those classes o' hers. But more'n that, I think she's lonely. I've barely seen the three o' you together these days."
Harry winced, glancing at Ron.
"If she'd just get rid of that bloody cat, I'd speak to her again!" he insisted. "But she won't hear a word against it!"
"Ah, well, people can be a bit stupid abou' their pets," Hagrid said, looking over at Buckbeak with sad eyes. "I jus' thought yer friendship was worth more than rats, or broomsticks," he added with a glance to Harry.
"I had no problem with her handing the Firebolt to McGonagall!" he said defensively. "I'd happily spend more time with Hermione, but I can never bloody find her. It's like you said, she's taking a million classes at once. And I'm at quidditch every free hour I've got." He knew he was making excuses, but he didn't want Hagrid to think he was purposefully ignoring Hermione, or taking Ron's side. He wasn't spending much time with Ron lately, either. "We'll talk to her, Hagrid, I promise." He elbowed Ron in the side until the redhead nodded, though he didn't look happy about it. They spent the rest of their visit discussing Gryffindor's chances at the Quidditch Cup, and when they made their way back up to the castle, they found a cluster of students around the notice board in the Gryffindor common room. "Hogsmeade, next weekend. Brilliant! Oh, sorry Harry," he added belatedly. Harry bit his lip. He still hadn't told Ron and Hermione about the map yet. Maybe it was time to start mending some bridges.
Harry nudged Ron over towards Hermione. "Can I talk to you two for a minute? Privately?"
Ron scowled at Hermione, but let Harry move them to a secluded corner. He put up his privacy ward. "Don't get mad at me," he started, reaching into his bag and pulling out the map. "A little bit ago, the twins gave me this."
He explained the map, not letting on exactly how long he'd had it. Ron beamed at him when he realised what it meant. "You can come to Hogsmeade with us! Brilliant! Mate, you're gonna love Zonko's—"
"This is really dangerous, Harry! If you get caught in Hogsmeade — if Sirius Black catches you—"
"Lighten up, Hermione!" Ron cut in with a roll of his eyes. "Black's hardly gonna come after him in the middle of a crowd of students, is he?"
"How can you say that, after what he almost did to you?" Hermione hissed. "You should stay in the castle, Harry."
"Why, it's not like it's any safer," Harry pointed out. "Black's already broken in here twice."
That took a little of the wind out of Hermione's sails, but she still didn't look happy. "If you had any sense, you'd give that map to McGonagall."
"Are you mental? This thing is genius! I can't believe Fred and George never told me about it." A dark look briefly crossed Ron's face, but it faded in favour of telling Harry all about Zonko's and how great it was. Hermione huffed, gathering her books and stomping back to her previous table, where her half-finished essay awaited. "So you'll come, then?" Ron asked eagerly.
"Yeah. But I'm taking my invisibility cloak."
No need to go borrowing trouble.