#yes Remus is talking to Dumbledore in the memory dialogue bits

[bimoonphases]

@wolfstarmicrofic March 27 – prompt 27: Expecto Patronum – word count 670

Expecto Patronum - The Patronus Charm is a powerful projection of hope and happiness that drives away Dementors

A part of Remus knew it had been a bad idea, but that part had been drowning for the past hours in the alcohol, the hate for all the Christmas decorations everywhere, the cold, the ache of the second full moon the wolf spent desperately howling for his friends, only to tear himself apart when they failed to show up.

So that part was pretty quiet when he stopped in front of the tombstone, shivering from the cold.

“Hey Lils. Hey Prongs,” he slurred, raising the half-empty bottle to his friends’ names. “Merry Christmas.”

He took a swig and swayed on his feet. The cold was getting worse, but he didn’t care. After all, he had lost everything he had ever cared for. Maybe he could just lie down by Lily and James and fall asleep there and never wake up. He started shivering, and a movement in the corner of his eye made him turn around.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

Not far from him, a hooded figure was hovering by a tombstone rapidly covering in frost. He should have thought about that, really. The Wizarding World was still in such turmoil it was only logical a place so important like Lily and James’s tomb in Godric’s Hollow would be guarded by one of the Dementors Azkaban could spare. Even their son, wherever he was, must have some around.

“They’re my friends,” Remus whispered, his teeth chattering.

The Dementor glided forward and Remus stumbled back as the cold seeped into his bones and distant voices exploded in his head.

“Remus… Something awful has happened…”

The bottle fell from his hand.

“It’s not possible… Sirius wouldn’t…”

“I guess he lived up to his family name after all. I’m sorry Remus, I should have seen it coming.”

He knocked his back into James and Lily’s tombstone. The Dementor crept closer.

“Pete knew he couldn’t beat Sirius in a duel, it doesn’t make sense he went after him!”

“Grief makes us all act in ways we wouldn’t normally, Remus.”

He fumbled in his pocket, searching for his wand.

“I know I’m not his godfather or anything, but can I at least see him? For his parents’ sake.”

“He’ll be safer with his blood family, believe me. Pick up the pieces, Remus. Learn how to move on.”

Remus brandished his wand. He knew the spell and he knew he had been able to cast a fully-fledged Patronus, who ironically was in the shape of a wolf. But all that had been before. His hand trembled.

“I don’t even know if I have anything left you can take,” he whispered.

The Dementor didn’t stop advancing. If Remus was being honest with himself, it didn’t make sense. Dementors were guards, they had no business attacking someone who wasn’t doing any harm, but maybe it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t be worse than what he had lived through in the last weeks. Maybe it would even be better.

But as the Dementor glided even closer, the wolf reared up his head somewhere inside him, survival instinct kicking in. Images flooded Remus’s mind, of the Forbidden Forest and his friends galloping by his side, of the same friends by his bed when he woke up in the Hospital Wing, of smiles, and laughter, and hand holding and warmth, so much warmth…

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

He braced himself against the tombstone while the silver form leaped out of his wand and chased the Dementor across the graveyard until it disappeared somewhere. Remus exhaled. Apparently, he wouldn’t die that day. He looked up to his Patronus as it padded back to him and froze.

“No…” he breathed. “Please, no…”

He had read about what shock and grief could do to the spell, but nothing in those books had mentioned cruelty.

“No…” he repeated, his eyes filling with tears.

He let himself slide to the ground, his back pressed against the cold marble of his best friends’ tombstone. In front of him, glittering with the silver light of the spell, Padfoot wagged his tail.

[maraudersmessrs]

Remus Lupin and the Prisoner of Azkaban--- Chapter 22: Waning Storm

Ao3 link

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20 / Chapter 21 / Chapter 22 / Chapter 23 / Chapter 24 / Chapter 25 / Chapter 26 / Chapter 27 / Chapter 28 / Chapter 29 / Chapter 30 / Chapter 31 / Chapter 32 / Chapter 33 / Chapter 34

(Disclaimer: all of the dialogue in the second half is directly from the book)

“Alright.” She straightened and turned a desk chair about, gesturing to it. He made his way over, slowly, and sat while she gave him a quick once over, then she sat on a bed across from him. “What brings you in today, Remus?”

“Lily.” He answered truthfully. It was supposed to come out wry, but he feared his tone was merely dull.

Poppy froze a moment and he could see her looking at him, hard, searching her memory. Then, she relaxed. “Ah. I see.”

Rising, she wove around him and he watched as she bustled around the room, collecting things from shelves, the windowsill in her office. “I believe Miss Evans would be thrilled that she’s compelling you to take care of yourself from beyond the grave. Here,” she dropped a hunk of chocolate the size of a bludger in his hand in passing. “Gnaw on that. I’m not surprised this is happening now, to be honest. There can sometimes be side effects from the Wolfsbane potion that we are not fully aware of, as it’s so new. And I know that this close to the moon tends to catch you in a low mood anyhow.” She put the back of her hand to his forehead. “Is there anything else that might be contributing?”

Remus watched the chocolate as he slowly passed it from hand to hand to keep it from melting. “Sunday was Halloween. With Sirius and…” he trailed off.

“Heavens, it was, wasn’t it?” A look of reluctant enlightenment crossed her face before she shook herself and slowly moved her wand tip around his head, checking her watch. “Well...I’m glad that you’re coming in for help. Eat,” she added, warningly. “It’ll help.”

He almost protested that he hadn’t even been near the Dementors when the memory of Neville doing the same thing in his office surfaced accusatorily and, guiltily, he started in on it.

He left the Hospital Wing an hour later full of chocolate, empty of words, and with a strict order to rest the day of the full moon. Poppy seemed to think that something like a perfect storm had happened with certain side effects of the Wolfsbane potion, the impending Change, the happenings of Halloween, and his own depression. She had packed him off a Cheering Elixir, that he had been convinced to take once she had invoked the reminder of his status--Professor. “And what would you tell one of your students to do, hm?” Yes. He needed to be able to function.

Over the course of the rest of the day, the edge of the nothing pit softened into a slightly more manageable melancholy. The storming rose to a pitch, rattling the windows with the wind and crashes of thunder. The day of the full moon was rough, painful, and nauseating but it always was. He pushed through. The Change was literally bone breaking and soul wrenching, but…it always was. There was nothing else to do but press on. He dutifully took his small armada of potions Madame Pomfrey had assigned him over the course of the year.

Waking up became incrementally easier over the next few days and the presence of other people gradually became more welcome. The storms had cleared after the day of the Change and pale sunlight was seeping in the windows, heralding the cold turnover from autumn to winter. He had been invited to tea with Hagrid again--who assured him that it was tea, this time--and he was slightly pleased with himself that he accepted. Once again, Hagrid managed to make him smile a bit, and fed him some home baking, which proved to be...a task to ingest. But he managed. Mostly. A pity Fang was so afraid of him, he would have bribed him under the table with the food to help him finish it.

He attended the mandatory staff meeting where Dumbledore briefed all who were not present at the Quidditch match that had gone horribly wrong; Dementor invasion, Harry falling off his broom from the sky, his broomstick smashed against the Whomping Willow. How can this boy hope to gain an education when he’s being assaulted constantly? The other Professor’s expressed their concern, confusion and outrage at their strange behavior. Apparently, the Dementors had been itching to come closer to the castle, having been relegated to the entrances and very outskirts of the grounds, far from any sort of joy or human emotion. They were growing impatient. They were growing hungry. The cold, expressionless fury that sat like a chill mirror behind Dumbledore’s normally warm eyes as he relayed the tale shook Remus. He knew that Dumbledore was a great wizard, more powerful even than Voldemort but rarely was he ever reminded quite so blatantly; there was a force to his anger that was undeniable. He almost felt sorry for the Dementors. But not quite.

It tightened his chest to know that the Dementors’ affects overwhelmed Harry so totally. Voldemort, Sirius, the Dementors; he was under attack so consistently that it was a wonder that the boy had any courage or trust at all. But he had seen him laughing with his friends, showing keen attention in classes, resisting digs from bullies. Speaking of….Dumbledore had informed him that Snape had covered his missed day and he had had to contain his grimace at what that would mean for his...opinionated Gryffindor class. He hoped that Neville had fared alright. He hoped that Harry hadn’t had too hard of a time. Longing to support and help the boy was an ache that felt deeper than his bones; he felt it as keenly as he felt the chill after the Change, as he always did. But fear, doubt, and the knowledge that he was not worthy as a guardian to this boy kept him back, at arms length. What could Remus offer him that he did not have in Hogwarts and Dumbledore? He was a stranger, a man who held a fragment of his past that had been...absent. What claim did he have to any hope for the boy’s trust?

Stoutly, he stifled the impending backwards slide into despair and stoked a fire in his office. He returned to his rooms to let the heat collect while he searched for layers to don while he waited for his afternoon class. As he was digging through his clothes, his fingers hooked into something soft and he hesitated, then carefully drew it out. It was a long, faun-colored scarf, slightly pilled and worn, but still thick. Peter had given it to him, long ago, after he had noticed Remus’ tendency to bundle up after the full moon. His round face had flushed a bit as he admitted that he had knit it himself, that his mum had taught him. Remus ran his thumb over it, staring down sightlessly. Peter.

He always seemed to be slightly eclipsed in Remus’ memory; eager, short, quietly kind, but always elbowed back by the powerful personalities of James and Sirius. It had been him that had pushed for them to include Peter more, when he had seen the boy lurking wistfully at the fringes of their group. He knew what it was to be alone. To be outside. He never wanted that for anyone else. Poor Peter. Even his death was slightly over-shadowed by the sudden, shocking tragedy of Lily and James’s murder the previous day. An afterthought. But he of all people had been the one to find Sirius, to confront him, had shown his true courage at last and had been horribly slaughtered for it. Blasted apart with a street full of innocent people. The memory of Peter was always shaded with regret; I should have done more. More time should have been spent with him, spent on his memory, his sacrifice.

You have this opportunity to do something, now, something in him warned. Do not waste it.

No one should be alone. He would talk to Harry.

A few hours later, he reluctantly stopped soaking in the warmth of his fire and set himself up at his desk in the classroom. Happily, something in him seemed to have woken up and shaken off even more of the cloying weight of the previous week, for his smile as the first few students poked their heads in was genuine. Every entrance to the classroom seemed to be preceded by a strange, furtive peeking around the door frame and it took him a while to realize that they might have been expecting Professor Snape again. He then made sure to stay in full view of the doorway, after that. When it seemed everyone had taken their seats, he cast a smile around at them and it was like a bomb detonated, for everyone started to clamor and complain all at once. Through the storm of noise he gathered that Severus had been, well, Severus, and that he had skipped forward to lessons on werewolves.

At that, a cold wash went through him and he felt the smile drop from his face. With a great deal of control, he wrestled the sudden, overwhelming panic that was trying to run rampant through him. He saw only indignance, anger, and relief in the faces across from him. No suspicion, no disgust, no distrust. No one knew. No one guessed. As he was sure was Snape’s plan. I cannot believe…2 rolls of parchment on how to best kill me. And you intended me to have to read them all...give them feedback on their technique…. James and Lily’s son….Frank and Alice….

He shook himself. Pain was nothing if not familiar. With difficulty, he schooled his face into what resembled vague bemusement. “Did you tell Professor Snape we haven’t covered them yet?”

The wave of noise that followed told him what he already knew. Yes, they had, yes he had known, yes, he had done it completely on purpose. Well. Unlike some people, Remus knew how to be a goddamn professional. He smiled around at them. “Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Professor Snape. You don’t have to do the essay.”

He doubted he would, actually. What Severus would want most, besides a student revolt calling for his blood, was to know that he had shaken Remus. And that, he would not give him, not for anything. Best to let him think that he had stoically graded their murder scenarios and handed them back with praise. It was a knowledge that they needed, no doubt, but he needed to steel himself before going over the topic. He would not let that be taken away; he would do this in his own time. As the class progressed, the dread that had taken dark root in him gradually faded and he fell back into the rhythm of teaching. The students were eager and bright, the topic and specimen hinkypunk interesting. He was teaching, he was helping, he was needed.

When the class was over, he almost let Harry slip out, almost shied away from his decision to offer his support, but instead, called out, “Wait a moment, Harry, I’d like a word.”

Dutifully, Harry returned and watched as he began to pack up his things. “I heard about the match, and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?”

“No,” Harry said, mournfully. “The tree smashed it to bits.”

Ah, that tree. Yet another way I’ve made life here just that much more unsafe…. Sighing, he said, “They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance.”

There was a silence from Harry, then he seemed to force himself to say, “Did you hear about the dementors too?”

Lupin turned to him to see the bewilderment, frustration, and shame warring on the boys face. Oh, Harry. “Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. THey have been growing restless for some time...furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds….I suppose they were the reason you fell?”

“Yes.” He seemed to second guess himself a moment, then he blurted in frustration. “Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I just--?”

Remus could see the despair and doubt creeping onto his young face and all at once he was unshakeable in his decision to reach out to the boy. Alone, he was blaming himself, doubting his strength. Not knowing the truth of what it meant. Unthinkable. “It has nothing to do with weakness,” he broke in, firmly. “The Dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don’t have.”

He could see the boy struggling with this, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and humiliation. The watery sunlight from the high windows fell across his face, shining on his glasses, his green eyes, the scar on his forehead. He needed to know his worth. He needed to know his strength. “Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t see them. Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself...soulless and evil.” The torn scraps of the Fat Lady’s portrait flashed across his mind, the blazing eyes staring at him from the Prophet. “You’ll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life.” More memories attempted to blossom but he redirected his mind, looked at Harry. His parents dead, strangers trying to end his young life, betrayal at every turn. Danger where he should be safe. “And the worst that happened to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

Harry’s eyes were fastened on the desk next to them. “When they get near me--” He swallowed, and continued, with difficulty, “I can hear Voldemort murdering my mum.”

Pain clenched in his gut out of nowhere, a pain laden with guilt. Not his mother, Harry’s. But...Lily….His hand had came up automatically to...do something. To reach out, to grasp his shoulder, his hand, to comfort but he forced it down. Teacher. You are not to him what he is to you. He rooted through his mind, his heart for what to say to the boy but what does someone say? What does someone say to a boy who can hear his mother dying for him? Oh, Lily. Harry. You deserved so much better. So much more.

Abruptly, Harry’s face twisted, resentful. “Why did they have to come to the match?”

Remus continued packing up to keep his fists from clenching. “They’re getting hungry. Dumbledore won’t let them into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up….I don’t think they could resist the large crowd around the Quidditch field. All that excitement...emotions running high...it was their idea of a feast.”

“Azkaban must be terrible.”

I have often hoped so. On dark nights. “The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, but they don’t need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they’re all trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most of them go mad within weeks.”

Harry studied him, obviously thinking. “But Sirius Black escaped from them. He got away.”

The surge of emotion that welled up in him at the name took him completely by surprise and he had to hasten to catch his suitcase that slid from his grip. The damping weight of numbness that had surrounded him the past week seemed to have altogether weakened his immunity to it. It felt raw. “Yes,” he stood again. “Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn’t have believed it possible….Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long….” And yet….

“You made that Dementor on the train back off,” Harry’s sudden voice spun him onto a completely different track and he had to recalibrate a moment.

“There are--certain defenses one can use. But there wa only one Dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist.” And I barely did a passable job at resisting the one….

“What defenses?” Harry sounded eager. “Can you teach me?”

Anything. I would try to give you anything but… “I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting Dementors, Harry...quite the contrary….”

But he was nothing if not persistent, like his mother. He was nothing if not endearing, like his father. He was nothing if not completely worthy of being able to defend himself against the horrors of this world. Defense Against the Dark Arts--and all other manner of all too human error and hate. Remus agreed. The beginning of next term, of next year. He would finally be able to be of use to Harry.