Chapter Text
It was the earliest hour in the morning where it could be considered morning on Privet Drive when you walked out of the shadows. You were, at first glance, entirely odd. And at second, even more odd. Your hair was sticking up at all angles, and you were still in a dressing gown. However, haphazardly thrown over it was a robe, black and slightly crumpled.
You walked with a purpose towards Number Four, Privet Drive, clutching something in your fist. Your wand.
You knocked loudly on the perfectly painted door. You waited precisely ten seconds until you knocked again, this time even more forceful. Inside the house, a baby began to cry.
The door was wrenched open, revealing a large, angry-looking man. He surveyed you, and you could see the shock on his face when he saw your robe.
“Hasn’t your sort bothered my family enough?” He said loudly, his large moustache ruffling. “Banging on my door at four in the morni-”
You only knew of Vernon Dursley by accounts of his sister-in-law, but you knew him to be a coward, and entirely afraid of magic. You raised your wand, not quite pointing it at him, but suggesting you could. He turned white, then red, in record time.
“Where is he?” You asked lowly, almost pleasantly.
“Petunia!” He called, looking back fearfully.
Petunia emerged down the stairs, holding a large baby on her hip. She looked at you, hatred clear in her beady eyes. She always had been that way towards you. You could never think of a time where her eyes had held anything other than hatred or disgust.
“What is she here for?” She clutched her baby closer to her.
“Wants to see the boy,” Vernon grunted, not taking his eyes off of your wand.
“The boy?” Petunia scoffed. “What for?”
“I’m his godmother, and legal guardian. He’s going home with me. He should never have been here.”
Vernon glanced at Petunia. Petunia chuckled once. It was a highly unpleasant sound. “Well, take him, for heaven’s sake.” She pulled a key off of a hook fixed into the wall, and busied herself with unlocking… a room? You pushed past Vernon, to his outrage.
“Well, here you are. Leave everything, buy your own things, if you think you’re so fit to be a mother.” Petunia said, smoothing her nightgown. The baby on her hip began to gurgle unhappily, and she retreated to the kitchen.
“And don’t bring him back!” She called.
It wasn’t a room. It was hardly big enough for the tiny crib shoved into there. There was a single, exposed lightbulb hanging over the crib and nothing else. Baby Harry was fast asleep in a dirty grey onesie.
They were evil.
Gently, you picked up Harry, brushing the dark hair away from his forehead. He had a scar, shaped like lighting. It was scabbed over, and definitely not properly cleaned.
Your eyes began to burn with tears. You walked up to Vernon, rage wrapping around you like an old friend.
“You’ll get what’s coming to you,” you hissed, close to his face, and disappeared with a crack.
Privet Drive was silent.
…
When you arrived at your flat, Harry started to cry. You held him on your lap, and showed him your face. Slowly, he began to calm, and made grabby hands at your face.
He knew who you were. He remembered who you were. It shouldn’t have surprised you. It had only been a few months since you last saw him, sitting on Lily and James’ sofa. You had brought him a stuffed animal. It was a small black dog, and James had told Harry he should call him Padfoot after his uncle Sirius.
Your chest was burning, and your tears were falling in a stream. So, you clutched Harry closer to your chest and cried.
Lily had been your sister, in all of the ways that mattered. You’d spent school holidays together, whispering late in the night about all the things young girls tended to whisper about. You were her maid of honour, making a tearful speech at her wedding. Now, you were the only person in the world who held the same memories of her. Never again could you mention one of you and Lily’s exploits in an off-handed manner to her, dissolving into fits of laughter. Never again could you talk about your future in her bed. You were holding her future in your arms.
Once you had calmed slightly, you remembered that your flat was entirely unfit for a child. So, carrying the drowsy Harry on your hip, you conjured a wooden crib in your bedroom. It was jammed up against the wall and your bed, but it was better than nothing. You had a spare room, but you didn’t want Harry to be alone, like he was at the Dursleys.
He would never be alone again, you decided.
The sun had made its way up the sky, so you decided to try to feed and bathe Harry. You hadn’t been totally unprepared, you did have diapers and baby food. You tried to feed him the mashed carrots you got, but he spit it out all over your nightgown. You then tried to give him applesauce, which he finished half of. Then, you bathed him. He soaked your shirt all the way, and your hair was almost as wet as his.
But, you wrapped him in a diaper and sat him on the couch as you prepared to go to the store.
The trip to the store was fairly uneventful. You let Harry pick out five toys, and you bought everything else you needed for him. You had to buy him a whole wardrobe.
When you got home, you both took a nap. And for a few hours, there was peace.
…
It was difficult in multiple aspects.
You were young. You didn’t even know if you wanted to be a mother. Lily always knew she wanted to be a mother. She was more mature than you ever were, you think. She had a sort of silent wisdom about her, and a sort of maternal way. She had read dozens of parental books before she even had a baby bump. She knew how to react to Harry getting a girlfriend before he was even named Harry.
You knew nothing. You knew how to feed him, yes, but you didn't know how to soothe him. He wanted his mother. You were not his mother. You felt as though you were robbing Lily. Everytime you looked at the baby that so resembled James, you felt slightly ill. But you knew she wanted it like this. You knew she wanted you (or Sirius) to raise him in the impossible event-
And then there was Sirius. Everytime you thought of the man that you had trusted yourself with so implicitly, your soul and your heart in his hands, your chest seized. He was gone, locked away forever.
He sold them out. That was what everyone was told. You couldn’t believe it. Sirius, the man who lived with the Potters for years, who forsook the dark ways of his family, who promised you that nothing would ever come between you-
It was a useless train of thought. Somehow, he had fooled you all.
But sometimes, when you lay in your bed, listening to the sound of Harry’s breathing, you couldn’t help but wonder. He must have been forced to tell him. He would never of his own accord. But you also knew that the Sirius you knew would have rather died.
So, you had loved the man that murdered your sister and her husband. You had loved him, and you had to live with it.
But it didn’t really help, you thought, bouncing Harry up and down in your lap. He giggled.
“Harry,” you said. “Story time!” You reached for a board book behind you, and put it on your lap. You started to read to him in a low, soothing tone. At the end of the book, he reached for it to play with it. You smiled to yourself, and placed him on the floor. He wasn’t tired yet, and neither were you.
He kept you in the real world. You slept when he slept. You ate when he ate. The week without him, the week alone, without him, was like you were an empty husk. You walked the halls of your house. You pulled all your pictures from the wall, putting them under your bed. You slept. You ate plain bread.
He was real.
He made you real.
Harry tried to say something from the floor where he was playing with his blocks. “Aah-” he tried “Auntie,” he said. You clapped your hand over your mouth.
“That’s right,” you said. “Auntie. Good job.” You slipped off the sofa and sat on the rug with him. You kissed his cheek. He hadn’t really said much before that. He would say “Yes” and “No,” and once he said “Hungwy” but otherwise, he communicated through pointing and crying.
You looked around the room. It had looked slightly more inhabited recently. Blankets were all over. You had taken to reading more, and books littered the floor and every surface. Harry had dozens of toys, most of them transfigured by you, and some of them normal objects just charmed to be interesting.
Suddenly, you heard a tapping on your window. You tensed, and grabbed your wand from the end table. You silently creeped towards the window, and peered through the closed curtains.
An owl.
It hooted in annoyance, and tapped the window again. “Sorry,” you muttered as you opened the window, and took the sealed letter. It hooted once more before it flew away.
The envelope said your name in a neat scrawl that you recognized. You smiled. Remus.
I hope this letter finds you well. Or at least as well as you can be.
I haven’t heard from you, and I was wondering about you. It’s been a hard time, and I hope you’re alright. We could have tea. Send a letter with a date, if you’d like.
My door is always open.
Best, Remus
You folded the letter up, smiling. You missed Remus. He was- well, the only one left. The thought made your stomach drop, so you busied yourself with finding parchment and scribbling “i hope tomorrow at four is alright- i’m bringing somebody along”. You gave it to your owl, and it was off with a nibble to your finger.
“We’re gonna go see your uncle Remus tomorrow, Harry.” You looked at the time. It was getting late. If you were more responsible, Harry would have been long asleep by now. “Best get off to sleep then,” you told him.
…
Harry hated to apparate. He would cry every time you did so. You had to travel the muggle way with him. However, you had never tried the Floo network with him. He would likely find it bothersome, but you had no other option. You lazily flicked your wand and started the fire. You took the pot from the mantelpiece and pinched a bit of powder in your fingers.
“Ready?” You asked Harry. He had a thick scarf over his mouth, so he wouldn’t suck ash into it. He whined unhappily.
You threw the powder in, and shouted Remus’s address. Clutching Harry closer to you, you stepped into the green, open flame.
Remus's house was exactly as you remembered it. The flames flickered cheerfully as you wiped yourself of soot and examined it. Facing the fireplace were two worn brown sofas, with end tables with lamps. Books were on every surface- the fireplace mantle, the coffee table, and the dining room table that was just visible. The hallway that led to the bedrooms was lit by a flickering chandelier, illuminating the dark carpet.
His bedroom door creaked open, and Remus stepped out. At first he smiled, but his eyes fell to Harry, and his mouth opened in shock.
"Remus," you said, stepping towards him.
"Hello- I- thought-" he sputtered for a moment. Harry finally figured out how to get rid of his scarf, so he did, throwing it on the ground.
"I got him from them. I just knew that- that Lily wouldn't want that for her son."
Remus looked at you, almost like he was looking for something.
"You're right," he decided on saying. "And Lily would be grateful."
It was silence again, before you took a few more steps to hug him. He was stiff at first, but then you realised the shaking in his shoulders matched yours. You buried your head into his shoulder blade- into his warm sweater. He smelled warm- like chocolate and fire. You stayed there for a long time.
"Tea?" He asked pleasantly when you separated. Wiping your eyes, you laughed wetly and nodded.
He walked to the kitchen, busying himself with making the tea. He would glance at you and Harry every so often, like he wasn't quite sure you were real.
He presented you with a mug of steaming tea and he drew a chair for himself, scraping against the floor.
"So, how did Petunia react to a muggle showing up on her doorstep?" He asked, stirring his tea. You laughed, and explained her reaction. His eyes grew very dark when you recalled how his "bedroom" was.
"I can't believe Dumbledore left him there," he said.
"I reckon he doesn't realise Harry's gone."
Remus looked worried, almost. "Well, when he does, I'll vouch that you're a better caregiver than those… people."
"People is a loose term," you said darkly.
The conversation dropped off for a moment. Harry was squirming in your arms, so you set him down. You conjured him a toy, and he sat on the floor with it.
"It's so good to see you," you said suddenly. "I'm so- I haven't been with anyone who could talk to me for… oh, it seems like forever." You swallowed the lump in your throat, but it was stubborn.
"Me too." Remus said quietly. He looked away from you.
"Merlin, I'm sorry for being so depressing. Let's talk about something else."
Remus seemed to appreciate that, and said quietly. "I got a job in a muggle bookstore."
"That's amazing!" You smiled, and then looked around the room, where books surrounded you. "Seems to me you took the bookstore home with you."
"The owner is an older bloke, and he lets me take a book home with my check each week. He's almost retired, most of the time it's just me in the store."
"I'm jealous. I've always preferred muggle novels over wizard ones. After all, they don't have magic, so they can imagine it in such creative ways. I think we lack imagination."
Remus hummed in agreement. "The only time I ever read wizarding books is if they are non-fiction."
Finally having broken the ice, you and Remus fell into easy conversation. You felt almost normal- like before. Gone was the weight on your chest, if only for a moment.
The rain pattered steadily on the window.
It was something like peace.
…
"I could help," Remus said. His tea was drained, so he stood up to put the cups in the sink, him and yours. "With Harry," he clarified.
Warmth bloomed in your chest. In just an hour, your hopelessness had eased. "What days are you off work?" You questioned.
"Tuesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays."
"Well, I could look for a job on the weekends." you said. "And maybe you could watch him? At least for a bit. I could pop in throughout the day. But, are you sure? I can… figure something else out, I'm sure."
"No, I want to help," Remus said sincerely.
"Thank you so much," you said. "It's- this will help me so much."
"I remember Harry to be rather well-behaved for a toddler. How… is he… is he like James or Lily?"
You laughed loudly. "I don't know. He's well-behaved, but a bit mischievous, I'd say. A healthy mix of both."
"Well, I remember vividly James describing how perfect his and Lily's children would be in the sixth year. It was frankly disgusting."
You ignored his accidental use of children and the painful twinge it caused. "Oh, Merlin. Lily was just as annoying. Not in sixth year, mind you, but after we'd graduated."
"I miss them."
"Me too."
…
You and Remus kept in touch, and you had a sort of co-parenting situation going on. He did end up watching him on the weekends, so you got a job at a local coffee shop. You would drop Harry off early in the morning, normally while he was sleeping, and greet a sleepy Remus. Then, you would apparate to the alley next to the coffee shop.
You only worked until about one or two, and then you would go back to Remus’ house. Harry liked him, and was usually in a bright mood when you got there. Remus was too.
Seeing the two of them happy always kept you in a good mood.
…
Harry turned two. He had a lovely birthday. He got presents and his own little cake, of which he ate about one bite, and the rest went on his shirt.
Remus came over, and the two of you took Harry to the park, where you kept a close eye on him and Remus pushed him on the swings.
Your face was brave enough. You giggled when Harry did something silly, and talked to him in an animated voice. When you put him down for a nap, though, your facade crumbled, and you spent an hour on your couch, your chest heaving and your pillows becoming damp with tears.
…
Dumbledore found out eventually, two years after you’d taken him.
Through the peephole, you saw his face. He looked older than you remembered.
Your heart beat wildly out of its chest. You’d imagined the conversation many times in your head, but all the imaginary dialogue flew out of your head.
Could you just ignore him? No, you doubted that. So, your hand closed around the doorknob and opened the door.
“Headmaster,” you said. “Hello.”
“Good afternoon. How are you today?”
You both knew what he was here for. The niceties made you want to run and grab Harry, holding him as tight as you could. You wanted to scream that Harry was yours, and the Potters would have wanted it that way.
Harry, ever the lovely boy, did it for you. He ran up to you, a little toy dragon clutched in his fist. “Auntie!” He cried, slamming the dragon into your leg. It was a game he liked to play. Normally, you would reply with enthusiasm and let him save you from the dragon. This time, however, you just sighed and scooped him up into your arms.
You just stared at Dumbledore for a moment, before deadpanning, “please, come in.”
…
You made tea for the Headmaster after you put Harry in his room.
He took his tea with an insane amount of sugar, and settled on your couch after you’d pushed off a mountain of toys.
“I know that the Dursleys are not the best option for Harry,” he started after a brief interlude where he inquired after your health, and you his. “And it was not wrong of you to question if they are fit parents for Harry, given your history with Mrs. Dursley-”
It took all of your nerve to interrupt Dumbledore. “If I may,” you said. “When I went to see him, they were keeping him in a cupboard.A cupboard, sir. Anyone in their right minds would know people who kept a baby- a baby who just lost his parents- in a cupboard are not fit parents.”
His eyebrows raised. “A cupboard? You’re quite sure?”
“I took him out myself.”
There was a brief pause. “Please understand that I did not choose to put him there to be treated cruelly. I put him there because it was safest for him. When Lily died, she sacrificed her life for him. It was a sort of ancient blood magic that prevented him from being killed when Lord Voldemort put the killing curse on him. She saved his life by giving her own.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Lily’s death protected him. It protects him now, under a condition. He must be in the home of a blood relative to be shielded from harm by Voldemort. This is why it's crucial to place Harry with his blood relatives."
"Wait, if Voldemort is gone, then why does he need the extra protection?" You said. He was gone. You remembered the celebration that had rang through the air as you grieved.
"I don't believe him to be truly gone."
You could not even begin to process those words. So, you didn’t. Instead, you said gravely, “then find him."
"I promise you… we're looking for him, or rather, what remains of him," Dumbledore said grimly. "But I truly think… this would be the best for Harry's protection. I'm sure you want what's best for him."
"I do.” You said. “That’s why he’s staying with me.
"I see," said Dumbledore. "I am sure you will keep him safe. But, if he grows to power once more…"
"Harry will always be safe. I will always protect him with my life. It's my job." You said.
“Of course. Well, if you’re quite sure, I will soon cast some protections on the house, if that is alright with you.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“I will owl you a list, and you can approve of it.”
“Thank you, sir,” you said sincerely.
"I will take my leave then," said Dumbledore politely, bowing his head slightly.
…
When Harry turned four, you put all of the pictures back up. The only ones you didn’t put back up were ones with Sirius.
You thought of him often. Often is perhaps an understatement. You thought of him everyday.
You had romantically loved nobody else in your life besides him, and you were sure that would continue for as long as you lived.
Few things made you cry anymore, but when you were sorting through the photographs, the ones with him sent you over the edge.
Him and you at the Potter wedding. He held up a glass of wine in cheers, as you held his arm, smiling brightly into the camera. In the picture, he kissed your jaw several times quickly, and you laughed.
You, him, and James on a sofa talking. You sat in between them, and Sirius had thrown his legs over your lap, his socked heels on James’ thigh. Comically, both you and James were rolling your eyes.
Him as a kid, posing for a portrait. He looked sad.
Him and Lily at somebody’s birthday, both of them with silly birthday hats on. You were quite sure it was your birthday, actually. In the background, Remus walked out of the frame.
Then, him and you as teenagers. Sixteen or seventeen. He had his arm around you, his hand on your hip. You looked horribly in love.
Innocence, you thought as you looked into the eyes of the pair of clueless teenagers. They didn’t know what was coming for them.
For some odd reason, you shoved the rest of the photos back under your bed, and kept that one in your bedside drawer.
…
At Diagon Alley, you lost Harry in Flourish and Blotts. You were crouching down to grab a book and examine the back cover. When you turned around, deciding to leave it, Harry was gone. Panic filled your lungs like smoke, and you called, “Harry?”
Out of the aisle of books, you scanned the store. “Harry?” You called again, voice growing louder and more worried.
You rushed up the stairs, hoping that he simply wandered off. You refused to think of the other scenario.
“Harry!” You shouted this time, garnering a few looks.
Then, a woman from behind you said, “excuse me?”
You turned quickly, seeing first the woman, red-haired with a motherly face, then the two boys at her feet. One of them was clearly hers, with bright red hair and freckles. The other was Harry, happy as a clam.
“Is this Harry?” She asked kindly.
“Yes, oh Merlin, Harry, you scared me,” you said, picking him up. He was heavy now, and old enough where he did not like to be picked up, but you did anyway, squeezing him.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “He and my son were playing together.”
“Oh, no worries,” you said, despite in fact, worrying very much. “I should keep a closer eye on him.”
“It’s quite difficult,” the woman said, smiling. “Do you have any others?”
“Oh, no, just him,” you smiled. “How about you?”
She laughed. “Oh yes. Six others.”
Your eyebrows raised. “Wow. I can’t imagine, I have trouble with just this one.”
“It’s difficult work, but I love it,” she said. Her happiness with her life was kind of inspiring. “Tell you what,” she said. “You and Harry should come over sometimes. Little Ronnie and him were having a grand old time.”
“That would be lovely.” You told her your name.
“Molly Weasley,” she said. Vaguely, you recognized the last name. Quickly, out of her purse, Molly wrote her address down. “Owl me sometime, we can plan a playdate for these boys.”
“Great. Thank you so much,” you said.
You said your goodbyes to the woman and left Diagon Alley.
This time, you made sure to hold Harry’s hand.
…
When you were sixteen, about seven or eight months after you started dating Sirius, he got very drunk in front of you. His mouth spilled out the details of his childhood.
Every childhood has its traumas and its low points. But Sirius’ seemed to solely consist of those moments. His childhood was full of the pureblood culture so prevalent in the wizarding world.
The Weasleys were a pureblood family. When you went home after meeting the matriarch of said family, you looked at the family tree that rested in a book. Their name was there, albeit shoved in a corner. Half of the marriages were not mentioned, due to them being to people with muggle heritage. They were distantly related to the Blacks, and through the Blacks, to the Potters.
“Gonna go see your family,” you muttered as you dressed Harry. He didn’t hear you, too busy trying not to wear pants.
When you first Flooed into the Weasley home, you knew they were nothing like the Blacks. Their house was cosy, full of light and the sound of children running around.
Molly greeted you with a cup of tea and a toddler on her hip. You let Harry run wild with a pair of twin boys and Ron. Molly sat with you and you chatted. It was quite nice to talk to an adult besides your elderly neighbour and Remus.
Molly let the little girl go play with the older boys, and then with a look and a lean in, asked, “he’s Harry Potter, isn’t he?”
Your eyes widened with such shock you gave yourself away immediately. Hiding it had seemed the natural thing to do. Why, you were not exactly sure of. Perhaps you just wanted to give Harry a normal life as long as you could. You wanted to treat him like every little boy, rather than the baby that killed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
“I thought so,” Molly said, sitting up. She looked slightly pleased with herself.
“Um, how did you know?”
“You’re so young, and frankly, you look nothing like him. Also, I saw a flash of the scar.”
You let a tiny laugh escape. His hair grew over his forehead for a reason, but you supposed that he was getting a bit wild with the Weasley children.
“May I ask? How… what is your relation to him?”
It was a natural question to ask, and you liked Molly, so you answered. “I’m his godmother. Um, his mother i- was my best friend. She was like my sister.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Everyday I hope I’m doing right by her.”
“Oh, dear,” Molly said, a motherly tone in her voice. “I’m quite sure you are. Harry is a happy, healthy boy. You’re an excellent mother.”
You swallowed heavily. “Thank you.”
“Are you married or-?”
“No, it’s just me and Harry.” A flash of Sirius went through your brain, but like every intrusive thought, you had to shut it down firmly.
“Well, that won’t be so for long, a pretty girl like yourself.” She said, and you smiled at the compliment.
This time, the image of Sirius did not leave.
…
Harry was an exceptionally smart boy. Of course he was, he was Lily’s son. He was curious as could be, always asking questions about science and maths and magic and everything he saw on the telly.
However, it worked to your detriment sometimes. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, he walked up to you, a photograph in hand.
“Auntie, who’s this?” He asked, holding out the photo. When you caught a glimpse of it, your heart dropped several feet. It was the photo you kept of you and Sirius in your bedside drawer, of the pair of you as teenagers.
“Oh. Um, just an old friend. From Hogwarts.”
“I’ve seen him before,” Harry then said, examining the photo. “In mum and dad’s wedding pictures.”
Your heart raced. You couldn’t tell him the truth, he was only eight. He would find out sooner or later, but for your sake, it needed to be later. Much, much later.
“Yes, he was your dad’s friend. He went to the wedding.”
“Oh. Did he know me when I was little?” Harry asked. If you were not freaking out, you would have ruffled his hair and told him that he was still little. But you were freaking out.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Oh, okay.” Harry said. He gave you the photo and sat next to you, criss-crossing his legs.
“Harry, you shouldn’t go through my things without asking.”
“Sorry. I was looking for a spare wand.”
You fixed him with a deadpan stare. “Harry James Potter, what have I said about trying to do magic?”
“I should do it all the time?” He replied with a cheeky smile.
“Absolutely not.”
…
The most difficult thing in your life to do was let Harry get on the Hogwarts Express.
You knew it was one of the safest places in the world. He would be taken care of, and he already had friends in the Weasley children. He wanted to go, and you didn’t blame him. In the decade that you had cared for him, he had been slightly sheltered by you.
As he hugged you, and the train whistled, it took all of your willpower to unclench your fingers from his arms.
“Have so much fun,” you said. “Not too much, though. Get good marks.” He smiled, and you laughed, eyes watery.
“I will. I have to go now, otherwise Ron and I will never get a seat.”
“Okay. You have all of your things?” You surveyed him. He had his trunk, and the large snowy owl in her cage. He had on clean jeans and a sweater. He looked so grown up.
“Yes, Auntie,” he said, getting a little exasperated with you.
“Okay. I love you.”
“Love you, too.” You hugged him once more and pressed a kiss to his hair. Then, he was off.
You had to press your lips together to keep from crying.
Molly looked sad, too, holding onto Ginny’s hand.
“Never gets easier,” she told you.
“Reassuring,” you said dryly.
You waited until the train was just a pinprick in the distance before you went home.
It was incredibly quiet.
…
Harry was sorted into Gryffindor, which did not surprise you. He always exhibited traits of all the houses, but you always saw Gryffindor. You’d always thought it was in your head, trying to see things where they’re not, but it was nice to be proven correctly, rather than proven as a sentimental fool.
Harry’s first letter came three days after you’d left him, delivered by his owl, Hedwig. She dropped the letter on the kitchen table with a hoot, and you fed her a treat before she left.
The next letter came two days later, talking about how awful Snape was. You had not even known he worked there, though you supposed it made perfect sense. The fact he was giving Harry a hard time filled you with a rage that was almost holy.
Lily’s son. Yes, James had been cruel to him. It was unfortunate to admit. But Harry Potter was also Lily Evans’ son.
And Harry Potter was also eleven, and entirely innocent in any misdeeds of his father.
So, yes, you wrote to Dumbledore.
…
Loneliness swelled inside of you. The ache felt physical. Sometimes you wished that you went back to dating. But you knew you never could. It felt wrong, almost like cheating, which was ridiculous.
But you’d never really broken up with Sirius, you ruminate over breakfast. Technicalities.
The respite you had from the loneliness was when you saw Remus, about once a week. He came round for tea, and the two of you would talk, or when you both were in a particularly sad mood, watch terrible reality television.
Another respite was Harry’s letters. One such letter arrived November first. You loathed having to open the window to permit Hedwig’s entry, due to the winds slamming against it.
Hedwig hooted once and ruffled her feathers, nipping your finger affectionately. She dropped a letter next to your toast. Sitting back down, you opened the letter.
It was a short one.
Hi,
I’m not quite sure if McGonagall is going to Owl you. I’m not sure. She seemed quite pleased with us.
But if she is, I wanted to tell you before she did. It’s nothing bad!
Spoiler alert, it was something bad. A troll had somehow gotten into the school. And Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley had ran into the girls bathroom to warn a fellow student, where the troll was waiting for them.
And somehow, three eleven year-olds defeated a troll. Honestly, some things you can’t make up.
You couldn’t be mad at Harry, really, he was being a good person. Without him, who knows what would have happened to the girl.
But once again, teachers do exist for a reason. Merlin, he was as reckless as his father and just as averse to help as his mother.
You wrote a reply, telling him you were proud, and once again telling him to attempt to stay out of trouble.
…
It snowed early in the season. It was a welcome change.
You’d always been fond of snow from a safe distance. Inside your house, preferably, wrapped in blankets. When Harry was little, though, you rarely got that, because he was infatuated with snow. Every time it snowed, you would have to dress yourself and him up, and make snow angels and build snowmen. Although it was freezing, and your fingers would go numb as soon as you stepped outside, you wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
You wondered how it was at Hogwarts. If it was snowing. If Harry was warm under a blanket or if he was making snowmen with his new friends.
Hogwarts in the winter was always a delight. The snow reminded you of significantly happier, carefree days. Hot cocoa at breakfast, your warm breath fogging up while walking to the greenhouses. Buying presents for your friends at Hogsmeade, stopping to sample chocolates with Lily. Snowball fights with the boys, warming up next to the fire.
You sincerely hoped that Harry’s experience was as good as yours.
But you would hear from him soon, in person.
The time dragged, as time often does when you’re anticipating something.
But it passed eventually, and then you were standing at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. hugging your godson so tightly he tapped on your back, silently telling you to let go.
You held on to his shoulders, taking one hand to smooth his messy hair. You told him how much you’d missed him, and he introduced you to his new friend, Hermione. She was a muggle-born girl with tan skin and bushy brown hair. She greeted you brightly, standing in front of her quite emotional parents.
Ron greeted you too, but you got a hug from him, since you’d known him for such a long time and since he was staying over for the holidays. His parents were visiting his brother, and Harry had invited him to stay. You didn’t mind at all. Ron was a good boy, and a great friend to Harry.
After a bit of socialising with Hermione’s parents, who you found out were both dentists, and very proud of their daughter, you and the boys apparated home.
They both went to wander around in the snow, and you made tea for when they came back.
It was a nice day.
…
Harry and Ron were being suspicious. Furtive looks were exchanged with each other when they thought you weren’t looking.
Stupidly, you assumed it was of no importance. You let them have their secrets.
It was only after they’d gone back to school, and your regular routine had recommenced that you realised you should have paid closer attention.
A letter arrived at the end of the term, delivered by a stately looking owl.
The letter was all in Dumbledore’s handwriting. It explained that Voldemort had been possessing their teacher. Reading it made your stomach twist, and your heart hammer against your chest.
You made your way to Hogwarts immediately.
…
“You brilliant, idiotic boy,” you said, brushing his hair away from his face.
…
During the summer, Harry spent a lot of time with the Weasleys. He also spent a lot of time inquiring about Voldemort.
You told him what you needed to. Thankfully, he did not ask about the night of his parents death. You wouldn’t be able to justify telling him about the death of his parents. Maybe it was selfish, too.
But whatever it was, it was in the future. Harry was still young, you had time. And Voldemort must be gone, now, though doubt had creeped into your mind and made a home there. Perhaps Dumbledore was right.
But everyone you thought that, you thought of the cupboard he was kept in.
…
Merlin.
You really had no words for the trouble that your godson found himself in almost every day of his life. It was truly extraordinary.
He attracted trouble, and you were just his guardian, worried sick every single day.
You had half a mind to homeschool him. Or send him to Ilvermorny. At least Ilvermorny doesn’t have a Chamber of Secrets. Or a giant fucking basilisk that petrifies students.
How was Hogwarts even legal?
…
After Harry’s stressful second year, all you wanted was a small semblance of peace.
Of course, you did not get that.
The morning started normally. Harry was parked in front of the television, and you were finishing washing the dishes. The owl came with the Prophet. It landed on the table, hooted, and you yelled for Harry to pay it. He did, and let the paper flop on the table before heading back to the couch.
In no hurry, you put a plate on the drying rack, drying your hands off. Then, you picked up the paper.
And then, you dropped it.
It was him.
Older and quite mad looking, of course, but it was him. There hadn’t been a drop of news about him in over ten years, and that’s how you liked it.
The headline caught your blurry vision.
BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN
You almost dropped to the floor, stumbling backwards as if he would jump out of the paper. Your hand caught the counter, and you breathed- in, out, in, out.
It was impossible, you thought hysterically. Impossible. When you were a bit more steady on your feet, you grabbed the newspaper and sat down, leg bouncing.
Even the Ministry didn’t know how he’d escaped. There were no hints as to where he was.
You sat there, quite still for some time. You had to tell Harry. He would find it out eventually, and you needed him to hear it from you. But when you opened your mouth, no sound came out.
Standing up on unsteady legs, you threw the newspaper away, face-down.
Tomorrow.
…
You did not tell him the next day, or the day after that.
It came out at dinner a week later, as you pushed around the peas on your plate.
“I need to tell you something,” you said. Harry looked up quickly.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Exhaling sharply, you replied, “it isn’t good. I need to tell you something about your parents' death.”
Harry turned a little white, and put his fork down, waiting for you to continue. This was not a topic you discussed often. Most of the time, it ended with crying.
“You know who… killed them. Um, but I’ve never told you how they were found. They were in hiding. They had a Secret-Keeper. They chose Sirius B-black. He was your father’s best friend.”
“I’ve never heard of him before now,” Harry said, and the moment after he said it, he realised why. If it was his own brain connecting the dots, or your strained expression, you would never know.
Swallowing heavily, you said, “he betrayed them. Sold them out. That’s how he found them.”
Harry closed his eyes. You didn’t want to continue. You hated to cause him pain, but you knew it would be worse if he found out from someone else.
As you told the rest of the story, Peter’s death, and Sirius’ capture, you avoided looking at Harry. You did not mention your relation to Sirius, just calling him “Black”.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, after you had finished.
“Harry, I was trying to protect you-“
“You don’t need to protect me!”
“That’s my job! It’s my job, Harry. Please, listen. I didn’t want to tell you this, not until you were much older. It’s a terrible thing to know, and a terrible thing to withhold from somebody. But I had to tell you this. Sirius Black escaped Azkaban last week. I needed to tell you now, and I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot.” It all came out in a rush, which wasn’t ideal.
“He escaped.” Harry said, his tone flat.
“Yes.”
“So, based on my track record, I assume he probably wants to kill me.”
“Harry!” His voice was scaring you a bit, with the void of emotions.
“Is that not what’s happening?” He asked.
“I don’t know!” That was the scariest part of it. “I needed to tell you, you would have found out anyways, and I didn’t want you to think I was hiding it from you.”
“You kind of were,” Harry said.
“Okay, yes, fine. A little bit.” You replied, scrubbing a hand down your face. “I was scared, Harry. That night will always haunt me, and I don’t want to talk about it to anyone, especially not you. I love you so much, and I hate telling you things that will hurt you.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m not- I’m not mad. It’s a lot.”
“I know.”
“I don’t really get much of a break, do I?”
“I suppose not.”
…
The days passed slowly and anxiously. The Prophet never came fast enough, and it never came with enough news. Remus came over often, to chat or to sit with you in knowing silence. One day, he told you that he had gotten the job as Defense professor. You were so happy for him, and you knew he would be an amazing teacher. He had always been brilliant, and had always been patient with Harry when he had to ask him for help on his summer work.
You didn’t know how Harry was feeling. Sometimes he would look at you and his eyes were unfocused like he was thinking deeply. It was unnerving. He didn’t speak to you as much, and when he did, he sounded more withdrawn. You were scared you had robbed him of his innocence. There must have been another way to tell him, you thought. A way that preserved what little innocence he had left, but didn’t make you a liar.
There was no guidebook for the situation you were in.
Then, two days before Harry was going back to school, he came into the living room, a large book under his arm.
A photo book. You had many of those, and you and Harry went through them often, pointing out pictures of you, his parents, and Remus.
But you had safe ones, and not safe ones.
And you knew for a fact that the thick scrapbook that Harry had under his arm was one of the not safe ones. A wave of panic hit you. It was from your seventh year, and you knew for a fact who was in it. Judging by Harry’s face, he knew as well.
He was never going to trust you again, was he? You had failed so miserably with that situation that you had no idea how to remedy it. So, you just sat there as Harry said, “you know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
“I can guess,” you replied.
“You knew him. Sirius Black. More than knew him-“
“I’m sorry.”
“You- you’re not gonna deny it?”
You took a steadying breath. “Quite sure the evidence is quite damning, but I’ll take a look.” When you held out your hands, he placed the book in them.
You opened the fabric-bound book that had “Seventh Year” written in bright glittery letters. The first page was photographs of Hogwarts, with little notes and doodles in the margins. The next was some pictures of you and Lily on holiday at a sunny beach. The next was of you and Sirius, as you had suspected, kissing on James’ parents couch, then turning and smiling to the camera, not looking the least bit embarrassed about it.
You looked up from the photographs to Harry. “This was under my bed. Quite far under.”
He looked a little embarrassed. “I’d seen him before, I knew it.”
“In your parent’s wedding pictures, I suppose. He’s hard to avoid.”
“He’s so young,” Harry said, looking down at the photo. Sirius smiled at the two of you, your younger self burying her head into his neck.
“None of us ever thought he would betray them. He was… he was loyal-“
“Loyal?” Harry interrupted loudly, getting worked up.
“That’s what I thought, Harry, you have to understand that none of us saw it coming. We all loved him, he was- we thought he was a good person.”
“You loved him.” He stated.
“We all did.”
“But you loved him.”
You leaned farther into the couch, wishing you could be sucked into it. “I loved him until he murdered my sister.”
“I just don’t understand how nobody knew what was happening. Seriously, not one person suspected anything? The papers say he was Voldemort’s right-hand man.”
“I still don’t believe that,” you said, and at Harry’s raised eyebrows, you continued, “the papers don’t know anything, anyways. I really doubt he could have balanced all of those lives efficiently. The story has never made sense to me.”
“Are you sure it’s not because you loved him?”
You clenched your jaw, and in the calmest tone you could manage said,“Harry, never say something like that again, please.”
He mumbled “sorry.” You closed the book.
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you with all these things, that’s why I didn’t tell you, okay? You didn’t have to snoop, I would have told you. I hope you don’t think any less of me.”
“You didn’t know. I was… just confused.”
“That’s okay. You can always ask me anything, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too,” he replied quietly. “I’ll put this away,” he said, taking the book and tucking it under his arm.
Watching him retreat, you thought that that was a small victory. It was all out there, and he didn’t hate you.
…
Seeing Harry off was not any better that year. If anything, it was harder. Remus was going to be with him, which was the only good thing you saw about the situation. You knew he would keep him safe.
So, with dread surrounding you, you dropped Harry off. That evening, you paced around and tried to resist the urge to pull him out of school indefinitely.
That urge did not lessen when you received a letter from Remus later that night about dementors at Hogwarts.
…
Harry’s school term passed in anxious waiting to hear terrible news. You got news often, and most of it was bad. Remus sent you a letter about the Fat Lady’s Portrait being slashed due to Sirius breaking in to find Harry.
It was hard to reconcile the Sirius you knew with the murderer that he truly was, even after all of those years.
You received a letter from Hermione about Harry getting a Firebolt as a gift from an unnamed person. Fortunately, Hermione was the only one of their trio with common sense, and she told McGonagall about it already. You thanked her profusely, and felt sorry that Harry and Ron were dumb boys who resented her foresight.
You heard about dementors at a Quidditch match, and your godson almost dying. You felt helpless. It was your responsibility to protect him, and you were unable to. He would resent you for pulling him out of school, but his anger was starting to look preferable to the increasingly likely alternative.
In June, Remus’ patronus appeared in your living room. You jumped out of your seat the second it started to talk.
“ Peter is alive. Sirius is at the shrieking shack with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I don’t understand, but come quickly.”
You didn’t need to hear anything more. You apparated.