The Past Is Mine

He did it even more than usual, lately, and that was saying something.

The Weasleys worried about him, though not openly. He had been at the Burrow for a week, and it was quite obvious that he did not want to be bothered, let alone nagged, though Molly insisted -- while managing not to act upon the boiling blood that turned her face those interesting shades of purple -- that she was not a frequent participant in the latter. He was cordial, of course, and obviously very glad to see them all, but he was silent. They had thought he would open after a few days, that his time at the Dursleys, while brief, might have accustomed him to the absence of a lent ear, a caring shoulder. They would not pry, at least not for his emotions, but all of Molly's soft-spoken, "Would you like a second-helping, dear?"'s, or "Are you sure you don't need anything?"'s carried an extra layer of meaning that no one in the house even pretended to miss.

He was silent, unable or unwilling to confide in these people who might as well have been his family, and it made the family silent, too.

It was well-known amongst his loved ones that he leafed through his photo album when distressed; they had all seen him do it at some point. The fact that he arrived, a dusty mess in their fireplace, with it unpacked and tucked tightly under his arm, was not the best of signs.

And yet it did nothing to prepare them for his complete silence.

Surprisingly, he remained amongst them most of the time, surrounded by their company and completely alone. Yet he smiled at their jokes, their pandemonium, their love, their general Weasley-ness, and there were very few times that it seemed he really wanted to be alone, though to those who knew him less than the Weasleys, such a fact would have been hard to tell.

Still, there were moments, moments they all were familiar with, though they couldn't remember them occuring with such frequency before. Moments where he sat on his bed, closed the door, and pored over the wrinkling pages of that leather-bound book. It seemed he regretted to do it when he first arrived, but after the first week he would stand up unannounced, cross the room, ascend the stairs, and let the click of the door ascertain his departure.

They never inquired anything of him at these times, even in the subtle ways they had managed before; on rare occassions did they even approach his door. For as little as he had allowed any of them into his life so far, it was in these moments that they knew that Harry truly wished to be alone.

* * * *

He couldn't imagine anything more familiar or more dependable than those thick, crinkly, dog-eared, well-loved pages. As if the only thing stable in his life was this sturdy book. An idea which actually wasn't too far off. After all, pictures never change.

These memories, that weren't his, would never die.

Only the people in them would.

At his more extreme moments, he wondered if the book was a curse. If these photos, full of just memories, were destined to force the people within them to become nothing more than memories as well. There were times when he contemplated throwing it in the fire.

At his most extreme moments, he wondered if he were the curse. This collection of memories was, after all, only put together because of him. And the only people in the photos who had had death forced upon them -- indeed, the only people in the photos who had meant anything to him -- had all died in an attempt to save him.

He would have ripped those people from the book, if he had thought it would make any difference. He had tried to remove the pictures of loved ones who, as of yet, had been the luckier few, until he realized something.

Besides his parents, his parents' parents, a handful of aunts and uncles and throngs of cousins, the only other person featured in the pages was Sirius.

It ached to look at him, to think about him, but he had to do it. There were days when he did it merely out of respect for the man, and had to tear himself away from the Weasleys to do so. There were days when he couldn't stand the family's company and locked himself in his room with the solace of Sirius's young, smiling face and repetitive gestures. There were days where, if he watched long enough, he could almost think that Sirius was looking and waving right at him, as if he was just through the looking glass, as if this Sirius, brash and smooth and with eyes unhaunted, was not a Sirius he had never known.

Only in one photo did Sirius never look at him. This Sirius instead looked constantly to his right, where there was nothing, save the fuzziness of a torn edge. Occassionally he'd reach over hesitantly to touch it. Less often, but Harry had seen it occur, would he press his entire frame against the edge, as if it was a wall that must be budged. Always, always, his expression was pained.

It was the picture that Harry looked at the most.

* * * *

Imagine the Weasleys' surprise when the first words out of Harry's mouth in ten days' time were, "I want to see Professor Lupin."

Bill might have said it best. "Uh..."

Harry, for a change, gave silence no chance to settle. "How can I get there?"

Molly and Arthur exchanged glances. "Well... Harry, dear, our houses are networked, you know that, but as long as you have to floo, wouldn't it be better simply to speak to him, first? It isn't wise to contact Grimmauld too frequently, and you don't even know if he's there --"

But Harry already had a handful of powder and a fist in the fireplace. His green eyes were steady on Molly's. "Mrs. Weasley, I know the risks, but this is important. He'll understand. And even if he isn't there, I'll wait for him."

Only then did Molly notice the heavy book nestled under Harry's arm. Unable to find anything to say, she met his gaze again.

His eyes hadn't moved. "He'll understand," he said again.

And she had no doubt that he would. He was probably the only one, too.

She nodded.

He left.

And the Weasley house was silent, again, in his wake.

* * * *

He didn't land a dusty mess. Fires hadn't been lit in 12 Grimmauld Place for quite some time.

The hearth was grated. He kicked his way out.

"Professor Lupin?"

He came immediately, nearly before the words had left Harry's lips, tugging pushed-up sleeves back down his arms, over his hands. It was a strange sight to see, his former professor in denims and a v-neck, fleshy scars criss-crossing their way down what appeared, at least at the angle, to be a hairless chest.

"Harry!" Lupin exclaimed, and everything was familiar again, especially the dark circles that shone under his teacher's blue-black eyes. "What's wrong?! Is everything at the Burrow alright? Are you alright?!"

He stopped short, quite close to Harry, and Harry had the sudden impression that he had wanted to reach out and touch Harry's face, turning it at different angles toward the light, checking for bruises, scrapes, goose-eggs on the back of his head, like Mrs. Weasley had done on so many occassions. Hell, Harry had even seen her do such to Lupin more than once. But, the man had halted himself, though the almost motherly gleam of worry remained in his doe eyes, his pursed lips.

There was something about it that Harry found oddly comforting, endearing, but whether this was because Lupin obviously cared about him, or knew Harry well enough to recognize boundaries, he didn't know. Either way, it helped him find his voice again.

"No! No, Professor, nothing like that, it's just... I have a problem. A... question, really. And you're the only one who can help me."

Lupin merely blinked, but then nodded, expression serious. "Alright then, Harry." And then he smiled. "Well, come into the kitchen, won't you? I was just making myself a little breakfast, but that can wait. Is there anything I can get for you? Tea?"

Harry followed him the few steps into the small dining area; the banquet room was a door away, but Harry knew that it only served as meeting hall for the Order, and had very little to do with meals, now that they had all moved back to their own respective homes for the summer. As Harry pulled out a chair and settled himself, his chest tightened when he realized that Professor Lupin was staying in the ancient house by himself. Why hadn't Dumbledore allowed him to spend his school vacation here? There was no doubt that they both could use the company.

Lupin, at the counter, was looking at Harry over his shoulder, and Harry realized he had been quiet for a long time. Passing a hand over his eyes, he tried to muster a smile and said, "Sorry, Professor. No tea, thanks. But some hot chocolate would be good."

How the haggard man before him managed to grin, Harry would never know. "Ah, I have taught you well. Hot chocolate it is, then." Harry saw that the chocolate mix had been in his hand all along. Somehow, Harry smiled, too.

"Only," rang Lupin's voice a few moments later, as he put the kettle on, "I think there's one thing I never took the time to teach you before. Always assumed you'd pick it up on your own, but I guess old habits are hard to break." He turned his back on the stove and leaned against the counter, arms and legs crossed, smiling. Harry noticed then that Lupin had not rolled up his sleeves again, though he must have been about to go through the same activities in the minutes before Harry arrived as he was going through now; breakfast ingredients were strewn about the cupboard.

"And what's that, Professor?"

Lupin quirked an eyebrow and pointed one long finger at Harry's lips. "That. No more of this 'professor' nonsense, Harry. I am not your teacher anymore, I probably never will be again, and hell, I don't think I ever was to begin with, considering being hired to teach by Dumbledore was the only credential I ever had in the field. No, Harry, call me Remus. Had situations been a bit different, I suppose you'd be calling me 'Uncle Remus,' but that is neither here nor there, and if it had worked out as such, neither one of us would be in this room right now, anyway."

Harry watched the man's eyes widened, and he knew he had not intended to say that much; perhaps even he hadn't realized how starved he was for conversation until that moment. Harry didn't mind, though. In fact, it was information like that that had brought him here in the first place.

"Actually, Prof -- er... actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

One eyebrow raised, but not in the humored expression that he had worn before, and he gazed into Harry's eyes until the kettle whistled. He merely turned off the flame and took the seat across from Harry, the concept of hot chocolate gone from both men's minds.

Lupin laced his hands together on the table and leant forward. "You brought your photo album."

Harry met his eyes, resting a hand on the book. "Yeah."

Lupin's gaze didn't waver. "It's been a long time since I've looked at pictures, Harry."

Nor did Harry's. "I look at them every day."

Lupin sighed and sat back, eyes lowered thoughtfully. "I have no doubt that you do."

He was silent for a very long time, eyes diverted and black at this angle, and guilt washed over Harry, settling in his stomach. He was forcing memories on a very lonely man, a man who would probably rather forget, a man who never received company from anyone recently, unless they needed something.

He was about to stand, apologize, leave, when Lupin's gaze snapped up and his hand found Harry's, on top of the album. "I think about them every day, though." And Harry knew he was not referring to photographs.

It had always been there, that deep understanding that they shared, but only now did they fully realize it. Without looking away, Harry slowly slid his hand out from under Lupin's touch and gripped the edge of the leather-bound cover with his fingertips.

Lupin nodded, assuring him.

And Harry opened the book right up to that torn picture of Sirius.

Perhaps Lupin was expecting their viewing to go a bit more slowly. Perhaps he was at least expecting them to start at the beginning. Perhaps he merely wasn't expecting that photograph, to look at that man, so soon. Either way, he breathed in sharply, looked away, and grew even paler than usual.

Harry shut the book immediately. "Professor --?!"

But Lupin's quick hand against the page kept the album from closing completely. "No, no, Harry. It's alright. I'm alright. It's just... I wasn't -- Gods, he was so young...." He shook his head and looked at Harry. "I haven't seen him like that in so long."

It must have made every bittersweet memory all the clearer in his mind, and for the moment, Harry did not reopen the book. But he still had questions.

"Profess -- uh... argh... Remus," with such heavy emphasis that Lupin laughed, "I... you're the only one that can answer this for me, I'm sorry --"

"It's ok," Lupin assured him immediately.

Harry smiled his gratitude and pressed on. "The pictures in this book. I... I know it was mainly meant for me to have images of my parents, my family, but... Sirius is in here, too. But no one else, just him. Why just him? Why not pictures of you, or my mother's friends, even of Wormtail? Is it because he's my godfather? Does that make him family, too?"

Lupin looked at Harry the whole time he spoke, but when he was done, his eyes went to the book. Gently, he took it from Harry's grip and flipped it open with the hand he'd stuck between the pages. There was Sirius again, running a hand across that ripped edge, but suddenly, Harry saw something that had never happened in all the hours he'd spent staring at the photographs. Sirius stole a glance forward, right into Lupin's eyes, and then literally did a double-take before bounding as close to the front of the picture as he could get, waving frantically, a huge grin plastered on what was normally a brokenhearted face.

Lupin turned a page, and Harry saw a three other little Siriuses, who had certainly all waved and smiled out of their pictures before, but who were now almost desperate in their gestures, looking for all the world as if their greatest dream had come true. Lupin sighed, and Harry's attention was drawn back to him. Slowly, slowly, Lupin reached out a hand and touched a fingertip to a Sirius covered in fresh-fallen snow, as if trying to brush the soft flakes from his hair, caress them from his eyelashes.

Lupin sighed again, and seemed to have forgotten that Harry was even in the room, making Harry feel as though he had intruded upon something, that he should leave Lupin alone.

"These pictures..." Lupin said quite suddenly, though softly, causing Harry to jump. Lupin looked up into Harry's eyes, though his touch never left the pages. "All these pictures of Sirius. They're mine, Harry. I sent them."

Harry could think of nothing to say for long moments, but Lupin did not look back down to the pictures, just watched Harry expectantly. Finally, Harry managed, "Why? Why just you? Why didn't anyone else send any in?"

Lupin pressed his lips together and looked back down at the pictures, giving one a final brush before shutting the book and folding his hands again. "Everyone else burned their pictures of him. Or buried them in their attics, with the other parts of their past they'd rather forget. No one wanted to remember him as a good person... not after what we all thought he had done. But me? I couldn't bring myself to get rid of him. He'd always be a part of me, and destroying photographs would never change that. Even though I had more reasons than anyone to want him ripped from my life, it wasn't going to happen. I... I couldn't look at his face, Harry, but I knew that someone had to. When Hagrid sent me an owl four years ago, asking for pictures, I knew it was time for Sirius to be put to good use again. You had every right to know about him. You had every right to know that, even though he was a madman, he had been our friend before. He had been a good person. And Sirius, despite everything that had happened, had every right to have that part of his being passed on. His past goodness shouldn't have been forgotten just because he had destroyed it for the future."

The truthfulness of the words rang clear and heavy in Harry's head, and he could do nothing but nod. Lupin watched him carefully before nodding back, and opening the album yet again.

It was a waste. It was a waste of an amazing man, that he was forgotten, his memory destroyed, because of something he had never done. Harry found himself regarding Sirius with a respect and an awe and a love that had never been quite this powerful in his mind before, and suddenly he wanted to know more.

"Are these all the pictures you had?" Harry asked Lupin, hope laced in his voice. "Or are there more?"

"Oh, there are more," was Lupin's response, and he wasn't meeting Harry's eyes again. "I kept... others."

The man's reluctance was obvious, but Harry had to see them. "Can I..." He faltered, until Lupin looked at him again. "Can I? Please."

Without a word, Lupin stood and went up the stairs. Only seconds later he returned, a box in hand.

He settled himself again, sat the box on the table between them, and only stared at it for stretching moments. Finally, he grabbed the seat of his chair and maneuvered himself next to Harry, who slid himself to the side to let him in.

"I'm afraid that some of these are muggle photographs," Lupin started, as he pulled piles and piles of pictures from the box. "I seemed to be resident photographer, so in the beginning I used my mother's film. Around mid-third year, though, are the better ones."

Harry picked up the pile closest to him and looked at the one on top. It was a stationary image of Hogwarts, looking like a postcard, which to Harry was an amusing thought.

"First year, first day, sitting in the boat," Lupin commented, a smile in his voice. "I'm afraid that's the only shot I managed to get before I nearly lost my camera in the lake, and then had it taken away from me outside the Hall by McGonagall."

Harry grinned before looking at the next picture, which made him "GAH!" and laugh. It was a massive close up of a very young Sirius, his tongue nearly pressed against the lens.

Lupin was grinning. "Yeah, Sirius took a particular interest in me that first day, because I was the kid with the camera, and thus had something for him to play with. He always knew how to make himself hard to ignore, and how to make sure you didn't want to ignore him as well."

Harry smiled and kept flipping through, watching as the photos began to include Peter, a handful of Lupin himself, even more of Sirius and, causing Harry's stomach to squirm, his father. Lupin had comments for every picture, and the two men spent most of their time laughing.

Slowly, the boys in the photos grew older, their poses and grins more intimate as their friendship and love for each other grew. Harry expected the snapshots to feature more images of girls, and there were a few, but none of their positions or gestures suggested romance, not even the moving wizarding photos. There were a great deal of photos of his mother, however, and Harry recognized many of her surroundings from pictures in his own album.

Lupin grinned at Harry's quizzical expression. "James," he said, "thought it fun to use up my film to, uh... feed his obsessions."

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cringe. He compromised by blushing. Lupin patted his shoulder.

The Lily-fest ended, and Harry and Lupin were faced with a long chain of Marauder shots, dated as the summer before their fifth year. Lupin was only in a few of them; it was likely he had taken the others.

Something inside Harry squeezed. "You didn't send Hagrid any group shots. It would have been nice to have a picture of you, too. Or even of Wormtail."

He tried to keep his voice light, but the words dripped with wistfulness, and he knew Lupin hadn't missed this fact.

"Peter, Harry. What I said about Sirius before could just as easily apply to Peter. And... I'm sorry, I really am, it's just that... well, I guess I decided to be selfish. At the time, Peter was like a martyr to me, murdered trying to stop Sirius, to defend his loved ones. I wanted to keep all the pictures I had of him, most of which were group shots, and I kept those for my own sentiments, obviously. As for pictures of me, well... you'll notice I'm not in many of them. I'm more of a... behind the scenes guy. Not exactly photogenic."

Harry couldn't disagree more with that last statement. His former professor, though shabby and gaunt, was elegant, and had made an attractive teenager. But, Harry knew that was not what Lupin had meant. Watching the older man fiddle with the length of his sleeves, which hung past his knuckles, and seeing his younger, photographed self trying to hide fresh red welts on his face with too-big hands or shaggy bangs... it made Harry think of his own scar, his own insecurities, and he pushed his hair casually off his forehead and grinned widely at Lupin, who caught the understanding immediately and shared the smile. In that moment, it was like hanging out with the lanky kid in the pictures.

The next twenty or so pictures were pretty much the same as all the other ones, only the boys were older, broader, and a prefect's badge shone on Lupin's robes. There were even a few pictures taken of Lily which, Lupin affectionately commented, "Did not involve use of an invisiblity cloak and a silencing charm."

All the necessary back-to-school shots ended, and each picture began to share the same stark white quality. Winter. There were several shots of Sirius, and Harry knew this was where his own version of a snowy Padfoot had come from.

Lupin was abnormally quiet during this batch of pictures; he had spent the whole time commenting on and narrating every single one, but now he was silent, lips a tight line, cheeks flushed delicately. Harry stole a few curious glances at his teacher, but Lupin did not meet his gaze, and Harry was too transfixed by the photos to offer him any more than flickering attention.

It was when he got to Christmas Day, 1975, that all of Harry's questions were answered.

There was a right vicious snowball war that day, and all the pictures to prove it. The boys were soaked, hats and scarves strewn about the photo's limited landscape, and Peter definitely had a bruise forming under his right eye. Harry smiled at a picture of his father, glasses askew, tackling Peter and flicking tufts of snow at his face, almost able to hear the words James was mouthing: Ice will fix that right up, Wormtail!

Sirius and Lupin were sitting slightly to the side, laughing hysterically, but still managing to retain their upright positions. Sirius, behind Lupin, had his chin on the young werewolf's shoulder, and a hand on his waist. Lupin was nestled between Sirius's knees.

Harry stared for long moments. Sirius smiled and put his nose to Lupin's ear, and Lupin met his gaze, both boys smiling warmly, almost mischievously, completely oblivious to their two other friends, who were now chasing each other with about three dozen hexed, flying snowballs nearly smothering them from view.

Harry looked up at Lupin, but he had turned his face completely away, a hand that Harry couldn't see raised up to his mouth. The back of his head gave no answers, and Harry opened and closed his mouth cautiously, trying to speak words that would not focus in his mind.

Able to think of nothing else to do, Harry disregarded that pile of pictures entirely and looked at the very last bundle, untouched, off to the side. Picking it up, he saw it labeled New flat, 1979.

All he needed was to see the first picture. It was an older Sirus and Lupin, but still so similar, though they were surrounded by stark white walls as opposed to stark white ground. Boxes were everywhere, and they sat on the biggest one, Sirius behind Lupin, Lupin yet again between his legs, but instead of nuzzling, they were kissing. Lupin's hands were deep in Sirius's hair, and Sirius had his hand in a place that nearly caused Harry to drop the photo in quick surprise. He had never seen two human beings appear so desperate for each other, every inch touching, with neither man having any intention of letting go. Only once did they pull away, and Sirius winked and licked his lips at the camera, while Remus blushed and tugged at a thick lock of Sirius's hair.

"Remus..." Harry started slowly, in a voice so devoid of hesitation and so full of sadness that Lupin could only stare at him.

Harry stared back. "You and Sirius... you were... you were..."

Lupin steeled himself for whatever words or titles were going to end this statement, but was even more surprised when Harry finished.

"...In love."

Their eyes bore into each other for a long time before Lupin nodded slowly, wearily.

Harry shook his head, dropped the photo from his hand, and looked like he was about to drop to his knees, shock, almost horror, etched over every line of his features.

"I can't believe... I can't believe no one told me! After everything I said, after I hurt all of you, after how worthless I've been, after all my bullshit...!" He shook his head again, looking disgusted at himself. "Fuck me. Why didn't anyone tell me?!"

"Not many people know," Lupin explained gently. "Dumbledore knows. Tonks knows. Snape, unfortunately, knows. Arthur and Molly know, Bill knows, but that's it for the Weasleys." He paused and looked at Harry, gaze thoughtful, soft, analytical, Perfectly Professor-esque. "You don't ask me why I never told you."

Harry didn't have to consider this. "You've only ever told me what I need to know. And you're... private, I know that. I only know so much about you."

"Yes, well, I think we might have to rectify that." And his smile was a little grim.

Harry did not return it. Instead, he lowered his gaze and let it slide across the table, until it rested on the photo album.

Lupin watched. "You want to know why I ripped that picture, don't you?"

Reluctantly, Harry nodded.

Lupin followed suit. "Alright. Take it out of the book, Harry."

As Harry did so, Lupin reached down and pulled his wand from the waistband of his jeans.

Harry looked at Lupin before pushing the other photos carefully out of the way and placed Sirius, forlorn once again, before his teacher.

Lupin looked like he was bracing himself, his face set, taut. "Hand me the box."

Harry did as he was told, transfixed as he watched Lupin tap the lid with his wand, conjouring a well-hidden flap. From the flap, he pulled half of a photograph.

He stared at it, face unreadable, before handing it to Harry.

Fifteen-year-old Remus Lupin looked back at him, smiling and poised, looking comfortable despite his wintery surroundings. He was the exact opposite of Sirius's parallel, distraught scene, though Harry often saw his eyes flick to his torn side, and when Harry turned away to regard his older counterpart, he caught a tiny arm reaching out, not quite touching the edge, fingers trembling.

Lupin's fingers trembled still as he held Sirius's half up. Understanding , Harry took his half and touched it to the other.

With a shaky sigh, Lupin raised his wand. "Reparo."

The uneven edges melded into each other, and the two hands that had been reaching out, touched. Harry expected some explosive scene of reunion, but there was none. The boys simply smiled; Sirius put an arm around Remus's shoulders and pulled him close.

And they simply smiled at the camera, at Harry and Lupin, until Sirius leaned over to Remus and mouthed words that were impossible to misread.

I love you.

There was no kiss, no nuzzling, no inappropriate hands. Just a smile, warm and sweet, simple and yet so happy that Harry's breath caught. He realized, quite suddenly, that the only times he had ever seen either man look remotely as content, were during all those moments of playful interaction at Grimmauld Place.

"That was the second time he ever said that to me," Lupin all but whispered, and Harry watched him with wide eyes.

Lupin looked from the picture to Harry, and smiled. "The first time was earlier that day. It was his Christmas present to me."

Harry's question did not have to be spoken.

"Why did I tear it? Too many reasons. It's the only picture I have of him saying that to me. I thought he had lied. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to destroy those words, to get rid of the evidence, so I wouldn't think about it, about him. Like it had never happened."

He looked at the picture and gave it a watery smile. "Thank you for bringing it, Harry. Not a day has gone by that I haven't regretted what I did. You've... made me happier than I've managed to be in years. Thank you."

Harry's green eyes clouded immediately with tears, and Lupin had a hand on his shoulder before he thought about it.

"Harry -- !"

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted out, shaking his head vigorously. "I'm sorry. I barely knew him, and you loved him all your life, and you lost him twice, so many times, and I..." His voice shook. "I have no right to be like this, when no one will let you be. I'm sorry."

"Harry," Lupin breathed, and he gripped his other shoulder. "Harry, I did love him, more than anything, but I'm not the only one. You loved him, and he loved you. You were family, and you have just as much right to grieve him as I do. You have just as much right to say how much you miss him."

Harry said nothing to this, but the tears still swam in his eyes, and slowly, hesitantly, Lupin took a hand from his shoulder and placed it gently in his hair. It was an invitation to open up, just a little touch to assure him, possibly to crack him, but Harry wouldn't let it. He leaned slightly into it, unused to such contact, but when the shimmer didn't leave his averted gaze after five minutes, Lupin sighed, gave Harry's nape a squeeze, and stood, putting the kettle back on.

They got through the whole process, this time without a word, and Lupin set hot mugs on whatever empty table space he could find. They drank in silence for a long time, Lupin thumbing through the spread out piles of his memories, chuckling at some of the shots they hadn't come across yet, including a handful of seventh year shots from the graduation ball. He had just come across a picture of himself, dipping Sirius --

-- when the sudden shattering of Harry's mug against his saucer snapped him out of his reverie.

"Remus."

Lupin, half out of his chair, stared at Harry's lowered head. It wasn't until the boy's shoulders began shaking that Lupin ran to him and gathered him in his arms.

"Remus, I miss him!"

Lupin tucked Harry's head under his chin while Harry clung to his shirt and sobbed.

"I know, Harry." He choked on his words halfway through, and put a tear-stained cheek to Harry's hair. "I know."

They sat there, like that, for hours.

The Weasleys, Lupin knew, would be pleased to hear of this development.

But, Lupin also knew that Harry wasn't likely to return to the Burrow. Not during this summer, at least.