Work Text:
Remus closes the door to the office, his office, he thinks, which is absurd in itself, and drops his head against the door with a low thud. He feels dead on his feet, the long train ride from London, the Dementors, finding himself eye to eye with Harry so unexpectedly and then the sorting and the welcoming feast on top of everything else was definitely a bit much on the evening before a full moon. He had excused himself straight after dinner, declining drinks in the teacher’s lounge to seek refuge in his private rooms.
He had felt the other professors watching him as he left. McGonagall’s mild, almost pitying expression, Dumbledore’s piercing gaze, Sprout’s reserved frown, Snape’s hatred. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Get a grip, Lupin, he tells himself firmly. He didn’t blame the other teachers for their reservations about him. No-one in their right mind would let a werewolf in to a castle full of children. Remus doubted that Dumbledore was in his right mind, and he himself definitely wasn’t because he had agreed.
He stumbles away from the door, turning to look at the room that would be his office for the coming school year. His trunk had been sent ahead and unpacked, the shelves along the walls already filled with the books he had ordered and he’s itching to get his hands on them, but he knows he’s in no state now. He glances at the clock, only an hour to go and he still hasn’t drunk today’s goblet of Wolfbane potion. He had expected it to sit on his desk but it’s not there, the surface empty, and he tries not to panic. His whole body is aching now, the pain that had been a dull throb when he woke up has now progressed into something else, a twisting and piercing kind of pain, and for the millionth time since Dumbledore had asked him of this favour, he wonders what on earth had possessed him to say yes.
He's disturbed from his thoughts by a knock at the door. He groans to himself, he’s in no state to see anyone right now, the pain in his joints starting to reach a point where he finds it difficult to think. He takes a deep breath, forcing his expression into something that resembles indifference as he opens the door but as soon as he sees who is standing on the other side he has to resist the urge not to slam it shut again.
“Lupin,” Snape greets, a disdainful sneer on his face and he can feel those cold eyes crawl over his skin.
Remus sets his jaw, attempting to straighten his back as he forces himself to resist the urge to lean against the door to help take some weight off his sore body, refusing to show that kind of weakness in front of his old school enemy.
“What d’you want?” he grits out, too exhausted to successfully manage to keep the pained strain out of his voice.
Snape tuts disapprovingly, eyes glittering with malice.
“A bit more gratitude wouldn’t go amiss, Lupin. That’s no way to speak to the person who is providing you with your precious potion, is it?” he leers, holding out a goblet towards him.
Remus forces himself to take a deep breath so he won’t say anything stupid, reaching out to take it, only for Snape to move it out of reach, making some of the precious liquid slosh over the edge. Remus feels his chest tighten in panic, and he knows it as clearly as if it had been written between them; Snape holds all the cards. He has no choice, no control, no power; that potion is the only reason why he’s even here in the first place. He can feel the wolf snarl in his chest but he clamps down on it, desperately.
“Snape,” he forces out, voice desperately even.
Snape merely looks at him, a cruel twist to his lips as he arches a brow, expectantly. Remus can feel the anger flare in his chest, the wolf howling somewhere inside of him but he ignores it. He could feel the moon already, the pull it had on him, he’s running out of time and he’s so tired.
“Please,” he says, loathing the quiver over the word but Snape just keeps watching him, making no move to hand him the goblet so he forces himself to continue, hating the way his voice catches slightly, “could I have the potion, please?”
He prays Snape doesn’t notice the tremble, but of course he does, Remus can tell by the triumphant flash in the other man’s eyes and the way his smirk widens slightly. This time he does hand him the goblet though, and Remus snatches it from his grip. He doesn’t wait for Snape to leave, drains it instantly, unable not to grimace at the foul taste.
Snape is watching him in silence, his face twisted in disgust and Remus feels something flare deep inside him at that look. He knows what it is, recognises it from countless of other wizards and witches once they’ve realised what he is. He feels the anger spike again, burning inside of him, and he straightens up as much as he can, pulling himself up into his full height despite his protesting limbs and the pain, as he looks down at Snape. He snarls, and he relishes the hint of fear in the other man’s eyes. He knows he’s intimidating like this, especially this close to a full moon, the wolf hinting in his features, behind his eyes.
“Get. Out!” he growls, his voice dangerously even.
Snape takes a step back, a flicker of something over his face and Remus wants to see that again, the fear and the uncertainty, but Snape gets his face under control quickly and he glares at him, the hatred clear on his face.
“You should show me more respect, Lupin, or you might just regret it,” he sneers haughtily, but he doesn’t wait for a reply as he turns around, his robes billowing behind him as he strides off.
Remus doesn’t watch him leave, he slams the door close before sagging against it. The rage is still coursing through him, his body aching all over as he stumbles towards the far end of the room. He takes out his wand to touch it against the wall, watching as a small archway appears, leading into a bedroom. He hates Snape, hates him with a passion, and he’s not sure he will be able to go through this every month. He wouldn’t put it past the other man to poison him, he thinks as he tears his clothes off with impatient movements.
Although he’s not really worried, he knows Snape will continue to brew the potion, and he will do it well, because he wouldn’t dare go against Dumbledore’s direct orders, but Remus knows there is no way he’s going to do it quietly. That’s a problem for another time though, because now he can feel the wolf closing in. He falls into bed, groaning as he feels the familiar pull over his skin, the pain in his bones. He barely manages to lift his hand to perform the necessary silencing spells, the archway seamlessly closing itself with a flick of his wand. He curls up on the bed, pressing his face into the pillow and he bites down on it to muffle the screams as pain overtakes him.
~*~*~
His first couple of weeks as a professor passes in a haze, but once he’s recovered from the full moon, and he’s managed to get through his first few classes, he realises that teaching isn’t very different from the study groups he used to organise as a student. He also realises that keeping himself busy is a good way to keep his thoughts occupied. The more he focuses on planning lessons, setting assignments and doing research the less time he has to think about the fact that he’s really back at Hogwarts.
It's not painless, of course it isn’t. The castle is still full of memories and he sees the shadows of his childhood behind every corner. There is barely an inch of this castle that he doesn’t know, that he hasn’t explored during his years as a student here. Sometimes he would turn a corner and be hit with a memory so strong, so real, it steals his breath away. He could hear the echoes of laughter ringing in his ears, the brush of air as his body imagined touches against his skin. James and Pete were everywhere in the castle. James and Pete and– and– no.
His first class with Harry’s year had been hard, but he’d managed to get through it. To deal with a Boggart had been a good idea, it made the class busy enough that he had to keep his full focus on what was happening, unable to lose himself in the past. It had been so easy to do so, one part of him wants to do nothing but stare at Harry. He looks like you, Prongs, he looks so much like you. The other part of him wants to hide, shame crawling over his skin like cold sweat whenever he finds himself eye to eye with Harry.
He still wasn’t used to seeing Harry in the corridors. Harry, who looked like James but had Lily’s eyes and laugh and who regarded him like he was…no-one. A stranger. A stranger who happened to be his professor, a professor that he sort of liked, maybe, but a stranger nonetheless. Remus wasn’t prepared for how much that would hurt. He didn’t know how many times he’d had to resist the urge to take Harry aside and tell him everything, even though he knew he couldn’t. I knew your parents, he wants to say. I knew your parents and I’m sorry they’re not here, they should be here with you and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Help me protect Harry, Dumbledore had told him when he asked him to take up the position as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Remus feels sick when he thinks about it. The second Dumbledore mentioned Harry he knew he couldn’t say no. It’s the least you can do, Dumbledore had said and looked at him with his piercing blue eyes and Remus had felt the wound in his chest that he had spent twelve years trying to close split open again. It’s the least you can do.
It's the least you can do because it’s your fault they’re dead. It’s the least you can do because you failed to read the signs. It’s the least you can do because he was your responsibility, yours to look after, and you failed. It’s the least you can do because you failed to see what was right in front of you. Blinded by the war, by a shared childhood, by memories, by love and Remus would never forgive himself for that. It’s the least you can do because you’ve spent the last 12 years hiding, like a coward.
He knows why he’s here, and it isn’t to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. He’s here because he’s supposed to be the one person who knows, knew, Sirius (Sirius) better than anyone else. Who better to understand the mind of a murderous traitor than his boyfriend? He sets his jaw. No. It’s not like that, not anymore. He doesn’t know anything about how Sirius’ mind worked, works. He thought he had, he thought he had known everything, but he hadn’t. He knew nothing. It’s the least you can do.
Remus could feel the self-hatred claw at his insides whenever he thought back to that conversation. Dumbledore was right, coming to Hogwarts to help protect Harry was the least he could do. He had failed to protect Harry all those years ago, had failed to see what was right in front of him, and because of him James and Lily were dead and Sirius– Sirius–
No. He shakes himself abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face. Not that. He can’t think about that, can’t think about…him. Not like this, not now, not ever. He rolls over in bed, pressing his face against the pillow. He feels restless, unable to get his brain to quiet down. He had gone to bed early but four hours later sleep was still eluding him. The bottle of firewhisky looks inviting where it sits on a table below the window. It’s past midnight now, and he’s no closer to sleep than he had been when he’d gone to bed. He heaves a breath, he wouldn’t turn to the drink, but maybe a walk would help him clear his head.
His skin feels too tight, clammy, stomach churning and his mind spiralling as he gets out of bed. He feels sick with himself, like he’s playing a role trying to pretend he’s someone that he isn’t. Professor Lupin. It’s a sick joke, really. Who in their right mind would ever make a werewolf a teacher? Who would even let a werewolf into a school?
He gets dressed, throwing a cloak over his shoulder as he leaves his office. He makes his way through the corridors, the castle dark and quiet around him. Walking like this, with the rest of the school fast asleep, brings back memories. He doesn’t know how many times he’s walked through these corridors at night. Sometimes alone, sometimes with– with– no! He doesn’t have James’ invisibility cloak now but, he realises, he doesn’t need it. He’s a professor now, an adult, allowed to roam the castle and the grounds after curfew. He didn’t even have a curfew (probably, he hadn’t actually asked).
Something about that thought makes him strangely giddy and he smiles to himself as he makes his way down the steps towards the entrance, past the familiar paintings. The castle is blessedly empty and he doesn’t even come across any of the ghosts. He pushes the heavy doors open enough to slip through them, wrapping the cloak tighter around himself as the night air hits him. There was nothing quite like the castle grounds at night.
He takes a deep breath, letting the cool air into his lungs and he feels some of the tension leave him as he exhales. Yes, a walk would do him good. He takes the route down towards the lake, stopping halfway down as he tips his head back to look at the sky. The stars. The star. He stops himself. No. Not like that, not anymore. He walks along the shore of the lake until he reaches the edge of the forbidden forest. He can feel the wolf in his chest stirring, and he knows it recognises the smell of the forest, the scent of magic that’s so strong here.
This is where the wolf found his pack, where Remus himself learnt to accept the part of him that he had hated with a vengeance since the age of five. The forest is calling out to him, he feels it like a tug somewhere in his gut, but he forces himself to turn his back on it and walk away. The forest can be dangerous, he knows that, but despite that he knows it would never hurt him, but there are creatures in there that could. They wouldn’t hurt the wolf, but the wolf isn’t here tonight. Remus is alone.
He keeps walking, thoughts whirling in his head, and he doesn’t even realise where he’s going until he sees the tree. It looks exactly like it did the last time he saw it, swaying softly in the wind. He stops where he knows it can’t reach him, studying it quietly, and the realisation settles somewhere inside him. He knows what he’s going to do. He feels his heart beating in his chest, the rush of blood in his ears, and before he can stop himself he pulls out his wand. He forces himself not to think about what he’s doing as he levitates a stick to press against the knot on the tree and watches it freeze.
He knows he shouldn’t do this. He knows it’s a terrible idea and yet he walks forward, crouching down enough to slip through the hole that takes him into the tunnel. It’s smaller than he remembers it, the walls closing in on him, but he keeps walking. Turn around, turn around, turn around, his pulse thrums but yet he continues, his legs moving on their own accord as he walks the familiar route. It smells of damp, of earth, every breath reminding him of a time he had spent the past twelve years not thinking about.
When he reaches the end of the passage, he pushes the hatch open, climbing through it and into the small foyer. It feels so small, now, but the smell of the house is overwhelming and he sways where he’s standing, closing his eyes for a moment to ground himself. He feels eleven years old again, remembering walking through the passage for the first time, Madam Pomfrey (Poppy, she had admonished him only last week, you’re not a student here anymore, you call me Poppy now) behind him, her soft hands as she had guided him through the hallway and up the stairs.
He moves forward without thinking, climbing the stairs with purposeful steps, as if there’s no turning back now. And there isn’t, he knows that, this is something he has to do. He feels as if his heart is trying to crawl up his throat as he pushes the door to the first bedroom open but he does it anyway, stumbling inside. He looks around the wrecked room, a thick layer of dust settled over it. The windows are still boarded up, the broken furniture scattered around the space, the smell of the room so familiar that it unlocks something deep down inside of him, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. He takes another step inside, his legs buckling under the weight of the onslaught of memories and he sinks down to his knees on the floor.
First, the memories of the years he spent here alone. The excruciating transformations, the pain, the agony, the wolf’s desperation at being locked up. He remembers coming to in the morning, body hurting and ripped to shreds, joints sprained, bones broken, long red gashes where he had slashed and bit himself during the night. He remembers Madam Pomfrey (Poppy) coming to get him, healing what she could, her sad eyes and soft touches. He remembers his own shame, the self-hatred that burned like a fire inside of him.
Then, the memories when he wasn’t alone. Of his friends risking their lives for him by becoming animagi, of the moment the wolf found his pack. The rat, the stag, the dog. The dog. Of Padfoot, on his back, offering up his neck in submission to the wolf. Padfoot, chasing his tail in a burst of energy, yapping and leaping and barking. Padfoot, throwing his head back and howling to the moon. Padfoot, close on the wolf’s tail chasing rabbits in the forest. The pack, his pack, exploring the forbidden forest and beyond.
NO! He tries to wrestle his mind back under control. No dog. Only the stag, the rat. Prongs, whose near carbon copy was now walking the corridors of Hogwarts. Wormtail, the silly naive boy who tried to avenge his best friend. Remus sucks in a breath as if he was drowning. The stag and the rat who were gone, forever, dead, leaving only Remus behind with the shame and the guilt that was crawling up his throat, settling across his chest.
His body jolts with the sob that fights its way up through his body, and he startles himself with the force of it, pressing a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. He tries to resist, to force his mind to stay on the things that don’t hurt but it’s useless. He doesn’t have enough power to protect himself, not here, the memories are too strong, too overwhelming, and he bows his head in surrender as they wash over him, one after the other, relentlessly.
Sirius, grey eyes shining with pride as he reveals their big secret Animagi, Moony! Isn’t it brilliant? Sirius, hands on his shoulders in this room, grey eyes serious You won’t hurt us, I know it, I trust you. Sirius, head thrown back and laughing in the Great Hall. Sirius, face flushed and eyes dark in their dorm. Sirius, back straight and eyes shooting daggers as he defends a first year against a gaggle of Slytherins. Sirius, robes flowing behind him as he goes after a bludger, muscles straining under his kit. Sirius, making tea in their joint flat wearing Remus’ too big shirt. Sirius, kissing him goodbye before an Order mission. Sirius. Sirius, everywhere, ten years of memories, Sirius in every part of his life, nestled there and so tightly intertwined with his childhood that he doesn’t know how to separate them. Sirius, Sirius, Sirius.
Remus gasps for breath, forcing the air into his lungs, past the lump in his throat. Sirius. He wants to scream, rage, break the furniture that isn’t already broken. I trusted you, he thinks, desperately. I trusted you and you betrayed us. Wherever his gaze snags in the room there are memories. I trusted you and you betrayed me. It’s been twelve years but the pain feels as raw as it had done that first night. He remembers raging at Dumbledore when he brought the news, refusing to believe a single word. The months after Sirius imprisonment were a blur, his own denial that consumed him despite the evidence that was presented. The doubt in everyone’s eyes as they looked at him. Doubt first, then, pity. He really didn’t know? they whispered, he heard them as he turned his back on them, shutting himself away.
Nothing makes any sense. He closes his eyes and sees Sirius with Harry, his eyes shining with pride as he looked at the baby. Sirius playing with Harry on the floor of the cottage. Sirius calming Harry when he woke in the middle of the night to allow James and Lily to sleep a full night. Sirius and Harry. Sirius and James and Harry and nothing makes sense, Remus thinks he might be losing his mind. Sirius has escaped Azkaban and might be coming here and still, despite everything, all the evidence, all the time spent going over and over everything that had happened in his mind he still can’t believe it. It’s not making sense.
It had taken so long for him to accept the truth, and even now, the pain of it is sharp and hard in the pit of his stomach. He can’t believe it, won’t believe it, it makes no sense but somewhere inside he knows it’s only his own pathetic mind that won’t accept it. Too ashamed of what that means for himself and his own actions. He curls the hand over his face into a fist, pressing it against his mouth to stop the sobs that are threatening to take him over. He bites down hard, using the pain to clear his head. This isn’t good enough. He needs to be strong, to be able to protect Harry if– if the worst were to happen. He’s the only one who knows everything. He still hasn’t told Dumbledore about Padfoot, and that thought alone sends another wave of self-hatred rolling through his body.
He should’ve said something. He should’ve said something the moment Dumbledore asked him to become a teacher, to protect Harry from– from– no. He should’ve said something. But the stag is gone, the rat is gone. Dead. Both of them dead, dead because of the dog and the dog, the dog, the dog. The dog didn’t matter. After twelve years it didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter.
He pushes himself up into standing, swallowing back the bile at the back of his throat, scrubbing away the tears from his eyes. He staggers back down the stairs, back through the passageway, past the Whomping Willow and into the castle. He doesn’t know how he makes it back, stumbling through the corridors and back into his office. He doesn’t bother taking his clothes off, merely falls into bed.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is a new day and he’ll go back to focusing on what matters, protecting Harry. He won’t fail again, he can’t, and that’s the only thing that matters. He’s failed James and Lily once and he won’t do it again. It’s the least you can do. He sits up, summoning the bottle of firewhisky and a glass with a flick of his wand. Just enough to get him to sleep.