Over the Summer

Sometimes, Harry wondered why he bothered, what it was that he was doing, who it was that he was doing it for.

It wasn't that he thought no one cared about him. Ron and Hermione did, of course, sort of like gravity, always reliable and working. And then there was Ginny, and then the twins - well, all of the Weaselys, really - and Neville, and Dean, and Seamus -

There were plenty of people who cared about him. Harry knew that. And it wasn't that he was ungrateful, either. He appreciated them. He knew how much they all meant to him, with the clarity and depth borne of fear. They . . . were his family now.

But Sirius had been family in a way that they weren't. Godfather. Not surrogate family, not best friend, godfather. He had known Harry's father. He had known Harry as a baby. He had sworn to Harry's parents that he would take care of him if they couldn't. And from the beginning, he had promised Harry a home, something real and solid, a place where he was always wanted.

Sirius was dead. He had to get used to that. No more family, no more godfather. Just a . . . gap where it all used to be.

Harry was sitting in the living room as his mind drifted, trying to blend in with the wallpaper. Uncle Vernon and Dudley managed to take up both the loveseat and the couch, leaving him only a little corner on the floor.

He didn't mind, really. They weren't chasing him out of the room with burning sticks, which made it a definite improvement over last year. Even if it was rather cold, with the air conditioner blasting up his jumper every few minutes.

The knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. His hand slipped into the front pocket of his jumper as he leaned back, craning his neck to see past Dudley's head. He caught sight of Aunt Petunia opening the door, her stunned expression. She shrieked. Slam!

"Petunia!" Vernon turned to glare at her. "Keep it -"

She rounded, searching for Harry, and found him halfway to his feet. "What is he doing here?"

Dudley staggered upright. "Wh-who is it, Mummy?"

"Another one of those . . . freaks, eh?" Uncle Vernon demanded, standing slowly, cracking his knuckles. "Give 'im a right lesson, I will."

"Who is it?" Harry asked, moving ahead of them all. "Did you recognize them? Him?"

"Did I recognize him?" She wrung her hands. "He said - he said - but we haven't been mistreating you! What is he doing here, you wretched boy?"

Harry rolled his eyes and left his wand in his pocket. "Making sure of that, probably," he said scathingly, and opened the door.

Remus Lupin greeted Harry with a small smile, as if he hadn't just had a door slammed in his face. "Hello, Harry."

Harry couldn't help but grin up at him. "Hello, Professor."

"Professor?" Vernon bellowed. Harry rolled his eyes helpfully at Lupin, letting him know that yes, this was to be expected. "What kind of professor? At that freak school of yours?"

Lupin cleared his throat. "Tragically, yes," he said. He had the look of strangled amusement Harry remembered from third year, when Parvati dressed all in black and recited poetry, mourning the death of her 'true self' at society's cruel hands. "Might I come in?" Lupin asked politely. "I would like to speak with Harry for a few minutes, if that's permissible."

"Permissible?" Uncle Vernon seemed to have lost the ability to access his own vocabulary. "It's not permissible. Like we're going to let a freak like you into the house - what will the neighbors think - permissible -"

Harry rounded on his uncle, his hand back in his pocket. "I want to talk to him," he said coolly. Vernon's eyes focused on the front of his jumper. "The Order won't like it if he's not allowed - think about what happened the last time someone from the Order came here . . ."

Uncle Vernon, Dudley (halfway up the stairs in an attempt to escape), and Aunt Petunia stopped for a moment, pondering precisely that. Vernon's eyes twitched towards the fireplace - it had never been the same.

In a voice rather higher than normal, Aunt Petunia said, "Come in for a moment, Lupin, but then leave."

"Of course," Lupin said serenely.

Uncle Vernon swelled indignantly. "Petunia - !"

"If not, we'll never get rid of them!" Aunt Petunia was glaring at Harry as if it was his fault, which, Harry supposed, it was. "They'll be coming out of the woodwork - the chimney - blowing things up - again -"

"Fine, fine." Uncle Vernon stumped off into the kitchen. Dudley fled to his room.

Grinning again, Harry turned to look at Lupin, whose lips were twitching with outright amusement. "Come on in, Professor."

Aunt Petunia was the only one who hadn't left. She hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest, as if she was protecting Uncle Vernon from Lupin's influence. Harry glanced at her a few times as he led Lupin to the sitting room, wondering what she was doing.

"You don't need to stay if you don't want to, Petunia," Lupin said finally, standing just behind Harry in a quietly supportive fashion. He looked spectacularly odd with his shabby coat, jeans, and flashing copper eyes, smack in the middle of the Dursleys sitting room. "I'm not going to kidnap Harry or endanger him in any way."

Petunia was chewing furiously on her lip. Harry figured that his well being was about the last thing on her mind. She dithered about a few moments, as if to leave, and then turned back. "I remember you," she said.

Harry was waiting impatiently for her to go; it was clear that Lupin wasn't going to tell him anything with her there. "Yeah, of course you do, you just saw him a few days ago at King's Cross -"

"That's not what I mean, boy!" she snapped. She gripped the doorjamb with a white-knuckled hand. "I remember you from - from her wedding."

Harry was stunned. He looked swiftly to Lupin for guidance.

"Yes," Lupin said. His face was quite unreadable. "I rather thought you might."

Petunia lingered a few minutes more, but whatever it was that she wanted to say would have to wait. She disappeared into the kitchen with a huff, casting a venomous glance over her shoulder at the two wizards in her sitting room.

Lupin sat in the loveseat with a little sigh, smiling at Harry as he sat on the couch and tucked his legs under him. "How have you been, Harry?"

Clearly, he didn't want to talk about his exchange with Aunt Petunia. Harry fiddled with the sleeve of his jumper as he answered awkwardly. "All right, I guess. Nothing - nothing's happened."

"Good." Lupin glanced at the telly with some amusement - Dudley's wrestling show was still playing - and asked, "How are they treating you here?"

"Well enough." Harry shrugged when Lupin's odd eyes fixed him in a mild glance. "Not as nice as they treat Dudley, but, you know. They're not trying to lock my stuff in the cupboard beneath the stairs, and most of the time, they just ignore me." Lupin was looking down the hallway past Harry's ear. At what? There wasn't anything interesting in the hallway. Just some photos, and Harry's old cupboard . . . . "Unless I do something really unusual, that's how it'll be all summer."

Lupin wore an odd, vague expression. He came back to himself quickly at Harry's silence. "Do you need anything? For your homework, or just in general?"

"Nope," Harry said cheerfully.

"You're certain?" Lupin sat more comfortably, resting his ankle on his knee. "James couldn't live without Quidditch Illustrated."

"Quidditch Illustrated? What's that?"

"A Quidditch magazine, naturally." Lupin inspected his expression. "I'll get you a subscription. You'll like it, I imagine."

Harry imagined that he would like it, too, a very great deal, but he wasn't certain if Lupin could afford to pay for it. He didn't know how to breach the topic, however, so he bit his tongue and flushed scarlet. "Oh. Er - thanks."

"Anytime." Lupin gave him a small smile. "How's your homework going?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. Lupin asked the question like a man who knew more about Harry's homework than Harry did. "I haven't started it yet," he said cautiously. "Why?"

"You might want to as soon as possible." The small smile was threatening to turn into a full-fledged smirk. "Particularly your Transfigurations essays . . ."

"Usually I wait until I meet up with Hermione," Harry admitted. "It's easier that way."

Lupin gave a quiet little laugh. "Undoubtedly. I believe, though, that Minerva advises some of her fifth-years to get an early start on their assignments - due to her injuries last year, she didn't get the chance to speak to you."

Harry could feel himself starting to grin. "What do you know that I don't?"

Lupin gave a little shrug. "Depending on your O.W.L.s, you could have a great deal more homework to do before the summer is up. I'd recommend getting an early start."

Harry's mouth almost fell open. "D'you know what my O.W.L.s are, then?"

"Not as such. Minerva asked me to pass the message along." Now Lupin did smirk. "And James was very good at Transfiguration, of course."

Harry leaned back into the cushions suddenly, his good cheer forgotten. "How old was he when he became an Animagus?" he asked quietly. He'd been thinking about it for a few days now, in an idle, almost fanciful, way. And if it came about that he'd done well in Transfiguration . . . maybe, with Ron and Hermione's help . . .

"He was fourteen when he started searching for the spells," Lupin said, with the distant, genuine smile that Harry remembered seeing before. "The biggest problem was getting hold of the Potions ingredients. Our Potions professor wasn't as . . . thorough . . . as Severus, so there was no ready source. Sirius wound up buying most of them over the summer." He ducked his head briefly, and added, "James was sixteen when he finished the spell. It took Sirius a few days longer, and Peter wasn't able to transform fully until after his seventeenth birthday."

The air was charged with electricity at the mention of Peter's name. Harry bit his lip nervously, before asking the question that had already begun to plague him just days after leaving Hogwarts. "Does anyone know what Voldemort is doing?"

Lupin looked completely serious now, without even a hint of a smile. It made him look a great deal older. Harry wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

"Not yet. After his defeat in the Department of Mysteries, it will probably be a while before he's overtly active again." Lupin's face had gone slightly pasty with the words 'the Department of Mysteries'. Harry watched the telly rather than his expression.

"The Ministry?"

"It's doing everything it can, which isn't much." Lupin sighed. Harry could feel himself being watched intently; he wondered what Lupin saw when he looked at him like that. "Fudge is most unhappy with the loss of Umbridge and being proven wrong about Dumbledore. He's taken to fawning over him, having decided that if they're not enemies, they must be friends."

Harry snorted, eyes unfocused. "Idiot."

"At times." Lupin stretched, and Harry glanced at him. "He can be clever at the most inopportune of moments, like when he's coming up with new Educational Decrees."

"I thought Dumbledore made him get rid of them?"

"He did. But Hogwarts has lost a great deal of the Ministry's trust. It will be a long time before even Professor Dumbledore can get it back." Lupin sighed again and made a little gesture with his hand. "Let's talk about something else. What are you planning on doing over the summer, if anything?"

Harry forced an apologetic grin. "Sleeping?" he asked. "Summers with the Dursleys aren't good for much else."

~~~

Lupin continued to drop in every three days, despite Aunt Petunia's eventual order to stop coming by, and Uncle Vernon's continual threats. He greeted their hostility the same way he used to greet pranks or tardiness to class; he would stand silently, listen to a rant, tirade, or speech, and then disregard it completely, often leaving Petunia and Vernon speechless with fury. Harry had wondered, initially, why Dumbledore chose Lupin over, say, Tonks, who could probably find a new disguise every three days, thereby avoiding the Dursleys' wrath. After watching him sidestep a rampaging Vernon and greet Harry with his small smile, Harry figured it out.

As he had promised, Lupin got Harry a subscription to Quidditch Illustrated, much to Harry's delight. Ron's team, the Chudley Cannons, was doing as horribly as ever, but Harry was fascinated with the articles and the pictures. His fingers fairly itched to try some of the moves on his Firebolt. He satisfied himself by explaining them to Lupin who, while he lacked Harry's skill for the sport, was supportive and amused by Harry's enthusiasm.

Other than Quidditch, Lupin helped him with his homework. Harry worked-in ways to ask him about Animagus transformations, hoping that he was being subtle. His desire to become an Animagus like his father and godfather hadn't lessened - if anything, it had increased. Quite privately, he nurtured a dream of becoming an eagle or a tiger, something big enough to impress a stag and a bear-like dog. Although, he reminded himself, he'd likely become something boring, like a housecat.

It was two weeks before Harry's birthday when Lupin arrived a day early, an envelope held in his hand. Harry caught sight of Aunt Petunia spying from the kitchen as he ran down the steps, skidding to a halt at the sight of the envelope. "My O.W.L.s?"

Grinning, Lupin handed them over. "All yours, two days early."

Harry ripped open the envelope eagerly. "You can come in - what's this envelope made out of, plastic - how d'you read this paper, that's baffling - what's this, a letter?"

Laughing, Lupin entered and shut the door behind him. "It's from Professor Dumbledore, probably," he said, coming to Harry's side, "about what classes you're eligible to take next year - see, there you go."

Harry scanned the list with glee. "Advanced Transfigurations . . . Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts . . . Advanced Potions?"

Lupin was reading over Harry's shoulder with every bit as much surprise as Harry himself. "Huh," he said thoughtfully. "That explains why Severus was in such a sour mood."

Harry was pole-axed. "Potions?"

"Yes, Potions," Lupin said, following a stunned Harry into the sitting room. "Advanced Potions. It's quite a bit longer than your usual Potions class, I believe, and a good deal more useful and dangerous. I didn't pass my O.W.L. in Potions, though, so I never had the class."

"I'd rather chew off my own arm," Harry said, grinning, "then willingly take another class with Snape."

"He can be rather unpleasant."

Harry gave him a wry look. "That's one way of putting it." He returned to his grades. "What does all of this gibberish mean?"

Amused, Lupin helped him interpret his grades. Harry scribbled notes onto the back of his envelope, not entirely certain he was going to be able to translate the parchment again, and Hermione would want a full report. When they were finished at last, the envelope was covered with scribbles, and one short list, boxed in with dark lines.

O = Outstanding

A = Acceptable

P = Passing

Potions - A

Divination - P

Charms - A

Transfiguration - E

Defense Against the Dark Arts - O

Herbology - A

Astronomy - A

Care of Magical Creatures - A

"Seven O.W.L.s," Lupin said, looking at the envelope with a smile. (Above 'Potions - A' was a scribble that might have been 'Yuck!' or something else.) "Excellent job, Harry."

Harry beamed at him. He wondered what Hermione and Ron would say. "Thanks, Professor."

"Do you have any idea of what classes you're going to take next year?"

"None," Harry said cheerfully, setting the envelope and his grades aside carefully. He unfolded another packet. "Is this about the classes?" he asked, and saw that it was.

"You'll have a time deciding, with your grades." Lupin was reading the letter from Dumbledore. "The headmaster offers his congratulations, by the way."

Harry was reading the description of Advanced Transfigurations eagerly. "Huh? Oh, cool. For, er, what exactly?"

"Your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., of course," said Lupin. His voice turned slightly dark, although Harry knew the darkness wasn't aimed at him. "It's incredible you did so well, especially with Umbridge as a teacher."

Harry shrugged, his face coloring. "Hermione helped me," he said. "She taught me a lot of jinxes and stuff . . . and then, you know," here he paused, "my Christmas present from you and Sirius, that helped a ton . . ."

Lupin seemed pleased.

"Plus, you know, you were my teacher third year, and the stuff you taught was dead useful."

Lupin seemed almost embarrassed. He patted Harry on the shoulder. "Your grade is your own doing," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm very proud of you, Harry."

Harry flushed to the roots of his hair. No one had ever said that to him.

"Thanks."

~~~

One day after Lupin left, Harry had a strange dream.

He was standing on the corner of Privet Drive, looking down the street. He could see a man - tall, bald, with a gold hoop through his ear - standing a bit further down the street, watching a house. (Was it his imagination, or was the house familiar? Had he seen it before? He couldn't think . . .)

It was obviously getting late. The streetlights clicked on, suddenly, and the man ducked into some bushes, not losing sight of the house.

Harry left his post and walked towards the man. He could see his own hand - small and thin, pale (that's not what his hand looked like, his hand was larger . . . his nails were bitten . . .) - wrapped around a wand. He stepped into the grass . . . he was getting closer and closer to the man . . .

The man seemed to hear something. He turned, dark eyes catching the light. He had a wand, but not pointed at Harry. He was scanning the air, murmuring a spell . . . and then he saw Harry. He started to move but it was too little, too late - Harry had already cast a spell of his own -

With a cry, Harry sat up in bed, his scar burning. Spots danced before his eyes, the color of the green flash he'd seen in his dream.

~~~

Harry waited on the stairs, his knees drawn up to his chest. His blank gaze was directed at the door, as he waited for Lupin to knock. His heart wouldn't stop pounding.

Petunia came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Earlier, he'd listened to her do the dishes, wondering how on earth she managed to waste so much time cooking and cleaning. They seemed like the dullest chores in the world. Maybe it was a woman thing.

"What are you doing in here?" she demanded. "Get on up to your room."

Harry kept his chin on his knees as he glanced at her. He had the hood of his jumper pulled up; she was little more than a pink-and-yellow blur from the corner of his eye. "I'm waiting for someone."

She froze. "Someone? Someone who?"

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "Just someone."

"It's that Lupin, isn't it?" When he didn't answer, she swatted him with the towel, keeping her distance. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy!"

With a furious glare, Harry pushed off his hood and turned to glare at her. "Yes, it's Lupin!"

"What d'you think you're doing, inviting him over like you - like you've got the right, like you're a member of this family?"

"I am a member of this family," Harry gritted sullenly. "I'm a member of your family -" you stupid old hag, he thought, but didn't add, "- and unless you want me to wind up as dead as your sister, you'll let me talk to him."

Petunia had blanched at the words 'your sister'. She stared at him in appalled silence, clutching the towel tightly. Harry glared up at her furiously.

"How dare you?" she finally choked.

"That's an interesting question," he said coolly, "coming from someone who locked her sister's son in a cupboard beneath the stairs."

"I never," she whispered. "I never . . ."

"Right," Harry said sardonically, his agitation making him short. "I guess that was all my idea, the two-year-old I was when you threw me in there. My apologies. Are you quite finished, then, or is there something else you'd like to add?"

Her mouth pursed and she looked at him with furious hatred. Rather than continue the argument, however, she returned to the kitchen in a huff.

Harry yanked his hood back over his head and wrapped his arms around his knees, hunched up as if he was cold. He was cold, in a way that had nothing to do with the air conditioner or the temperature outside. He felt like something in his core had been turned to ice.

It was his dream. Someone . . . a woman, he thought, but he couldn't be sure . . . sneaking up to Privet Drive, to where he was right now . . . He'd thought it frightening to dream about Voldemort, to see what he doing and feel what he was feeling, but it was nothing like this. And the worse part . . . . The worse part was that in his dream, he had killed Kingsley Shacklebolt, a member of the Order, a friend. The only reason that Kingsley could have for being on Privet Drive was to protect Harry.

He closed his eyes. Green light flashed against his eyelids.

This was too much. What if he got the Dursleys killed? He bore no love for them, certainly, but he didn't want them to die . . . And certainly he didn't want them to die because of him - that would be evil, barbaric.

Someone knocked on the door.

Harry was there, yanking it open before the last knock was finished. A startled, tired-looking Lupin greeted his eyes. "Harry -"

"I had a dream," Harry said in a rush, "last night, if Kingsley is guarding me, you have to make him stop, I think Voldemort's got someone watching me, and I killed him -"

"In the house," Lupin said, catching Harry's arms and gently maneuvering him inside. "Calm down, Harry." His hands rested on Harry's shoulders - Harry realized with a distracting jolt that they were almost of a height. "Kingsley's not due to guard you for several days yet, and your dreams have never been prophetic, exactly. Petunia, if you would give us a moment?"

She had come out of the kitchen, and was standing in the hallway, her hand over her mouth. Her pale eyes were riveted on Harry's face with a horrified expression. He couldn't be bothered to care.

Lupin waited a moment as Harry's aunt stared at him. Finally, he prodded in a slightly sharp voice, "Petunia?"

She glanced at him, annoyed, and left.

Lupin led him to the sitting room, forcing him to sit and sitting across from him. "Tell me what you saw, in as much detail as possible. Try not to leave anything out, all right, Harry?"

Harry nodded, still frantically shaky. His stomach felt like it had been wound around a spool like thread. Even Lupin's unshakable calmness didn't help.

He recited the details of his dream to Lupin, stumbling over his words in his haste to make sure he got everything out. Lupin watched him intently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He might have been as nervous as Harry, although he certainly managed to hide it better.

When Harry finished his story, Lupin asked him to repeat it. Harry did, as calmly as possible. When the story ended the second time, Lupin leaned back and stared thoughtfully at the wall.

Harry bore the silence for as long as he could. A question bubbled irresistibly to his lips. "D'you think - d'you think something's going to happen?"

"Honestly?" Lupin asked. "I would be surprised if something didn't. Voldemort knows there's something about you, Harry . . . he hoped that finding the prophecy would reveal some kind of vital information, and now that it's been destroyed . . ." He trailed off, eyebrows drawn sharply together.

"The prophecy?" Harry asked. "You know about that?"

"A bit." Lupin sat up, glancing at the entrance to the hallway. With a little gesture for Harry to stay seated, he got to his feet and made his way to it. Harry watched him, puzzled, and then spotted his aunt's shadow, thrown into relief by the light from a window. He rolled his eyes.

Lupin rounded the corner. "Petunia."

There was a muffled shriek. Harry left his post on the couch and joined them in the hallway, shutting the door before he could start thinking about Death Eaters lurking in the shrubbery.

Petunia stared at Lupin in horror. "I didn't - I was just - I -"

"Relax," Lupin said calmly, "I'm not going to hex you. How much did you hear?"

"All of it." She shot Harry a look, unreadable but for its darkness. "Everything he said . . ."

Harry shoved his hands into his jumper pocket, feeling unaccountably guilty. He should have told her himself, not reduced her to eavesdropping. She was probably worried about her family, after all, and it was hardly her fault that her 'family' was a giant pile of rat droppings.

"Harry has had dreams like this before," Lupin said, drawing Petunia's and Harry's attention back to him. "They are not visions of the future." He glanced over his shoulder at Harry, clearly addressing his words to him as well. "What he saw was nothing more than a sign that Voldemort has turned his interest to him.." More quietly, he added, "There is no immediate danger."

"No immediate danger?" Petunia glared at Harry. "But there's danger."

"Unfortunately, yes," Lupin said, frowning slightly. "Harry can't -"

"Vernon's right," Petunia said abruptly, completely ignoring Lupin. "He was right all along, of course. You're a risk - a danger - you need to go. I can't keep you here"

Harry's sympathy for her fizzled and vanished. She was just a coward - a whinging, crybaby coward . . .

"If you turn Harry out now," Lupin said, a hint of steel to his voice, "you're signing his death warrant. The only guarantee of his safety - however slight - is if he stays here until his birthday has passed."

Petunia gnawed her lip, painfully ugly. Her violent glare contained a hint of fear, as if she expected them to gang up on her. Her hands were drawn up to her chest defensively when she turned to Lupin.

"Take him with you," she ordered. Her eyes flicked between them wildly, giving her a half-mad look. "Get him out of here."

"I will not," Lupin said calmly.

"You don't understand." She was almost on the verge of tears. "He's a danger. A danger. As long as he's here, my son and my husband are - oh, you, you freaks, you'd never understand, it's all just - get him out!" Her voice was shrill and hysterical. "I don't want to see him ever again!"

Harry turned to go up the stairs and gather his things - he didn't need to listen to this. If she wanted him to leave, then fine. He'd leave. He'd go somewhere far away, he wouldn't let anyone come with him, and then he'd let Voldemort find him - let him kill him, it hardly mattered -

Lupin caught his elbow and hauled him back. He caught Harry's eye, seemingly surprised by the fierce, almost pained look there.

"Stay here," Lupin ordered quietly. He turned back to Petunia. "Harry is not . . . leaving. Under any circumstances. He is protected by a group of witches and wizards, who have orders to look after your family as well. And the power of Lily's charm is enough to keep him - and you, and your husband and son - safe -"

"Get him out!" Petunia shrilled. "You take him! You take him - you be the one in danger -"

"I can't keep him safe." Lupin's voice was abruptly soft, conciliatory. "Not like you can. Petunia, this is Lily's son. You know that if it had been your son in Lily's care, she would protect him no matter how much danger -"

"Why don't you take him, then!" Petunia turned her back, obviously overwhelmed by her emotions. "That wretched boy said you were like brothers - well then, I've been like a sister all these years, you be like a brother, take him -"

"You're not listening to me," Lupin said tiredly. His hand on Harry's elbow was tight; Harry wondered if Lupin remembered the last time he'd held Harry back like this, when Sirius fell behind the veil and Harry was set to follow.

Petunia stormed into the kitchen, slamming the door hard enough so that a panel of glass fell out. Lupin took a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning to face Harry with a tired expression.

"It's all right," Harry told him quietly. "You can let me go, I'm not going to go running off, I promise."

Lupin released his arm, apparently accepting Harry at his word. "I'm going to go talk to Dumbledore," he said. "I want your word that you'll stay inside, and that you'll avoid your relatives."

"Why?" Harry asked bitterly. "They can just come crashing into my room whenever they feel like bullying me a little - might as well plop myself in front of the telly -"

"Harry." Lupin's voice was stern. "Promise me."

Harry stared at him, practically glared, and then shook his head. "Fine," he said. "I promise."

"Thank you." Lupin rubbed a hand over his forehead; he was clearly exhausted. Harry wondered if he'd been sleeping when Hedwig delivered his letter. He must have dropped everything and rushed right over to arrive so quickly. No one had ever done that for Harry, except for Sirius. "If they try to throw you out . . . I'll tell whoever's on watch to keep an eye out for you. If you're thrown out, they'll escort you to Hogwarts."

Harry nodded.

"Look after yourself, Harry, and try to get some sleep."

Harry nodded. "You too."

Lupin gave him a fleeting smile and Disapprated on the spot. Harry stared with unaccountable loneliness at the vacated carpet. After that morning's excitement, he had thought he would be relieved for a little peace and quiet. But now he just wished that he could summon Lupin back.

Sighing, he turned and went upstairs.

~~~

Five days passed, without word from Lupin - or anyone else from Order, for that matter.

Harry, who'd thought this sort of thing ended last year, was going out of his mind. It had been one thing to keep him in the dark when there was no real danger (after all, Voldemort had been trying to get into the Department of Mysteries, not Privet Drive). But when Voldemort was sending people after him . . . when his godfather had already been killed fighting for him . . . .

Sullen anger, hotter and deeper and infinitely more painful than ever, welled inside him at the thought.

His dreams continued, with the same unerring clarity that earlier dreams had possessed. The only thing that changed was the guard - sometimes it was Kingsley, Tonks, Mr. Weasely, and on one heart-stopping occasion, Lupin.

And the body that Harry inhabited was always the same. A woman, tall, with small, pale hands.

Harry couldn't be sure, of course. He'd never really looked at her hands. But he was willing to bet that he knew the name of the woman who haunted his nightmares - Bellatrix Lestrange.

The thought that Sirius' murderer was walking Privet Drive, in reach, and yet so far away, got under his skin like nothing else did. He snapped at Aunt Petunia when she tried to boss him. He glared so intensely at Dudley that his cousin avoided him constantly. He woke Uncle Vernon up several times with his pacing.

He didn't care, and broke his promise to Lupin by shouting angrily at all of them, too full of rage to even realize the trouble he was getting into. She was out there. He knew it.

He had never wanted to kill anyone before, not even Voldemort, really. Not like this. It was terrifying.

When the fifth day came and went, Harry broke his other promise, stepping outside Privet Drive and sitting on the doorstep. He went inside before it started to get dark, however, feeling vaguely guilty.

As the sun was setting, Harry sat on the living room floor and ate his dinner with Uncle Vernon and Dudley. They were watching some Muggle sport that Harry had never been interested in; he watched it cooly and thought to himself that Quidditch was much more interesting. The reminder that his issue of Quidditch Illustrated should be arriving soon barely dented his mood.

Uncle Vernon and Dudley made Harry take their plates into the kitchen. His too-large socks flopping off his feet, Harry did so.

Aunt Petunia barely glanced at him from where she was watering the plants. They looked like they'd been drowned; Petunia had taken to locking herself in the kitchen lately. Harry thought it might be stress. Or the belated development of a conscience.

Perhaps not. "Take that garbage out," she ordered.

Harry set the plates in the sink. "I'm not supposed to go outside," he reminded her.

"Go on, you, take it out," she said again, distractedly. "You need to earn your keep somehow."

It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that he earned not only his keep, but the keep of several others as well. Instead, he bit his tongue and grabbed the garbage. He'd been wanting some fresh air anyway.

It wasn't until he was halfway down the driveway that he realized it was dusk, the same time of day as his dream. With an impatient shake of his head, he continued. His dream wasn't a prophecy, Lupin had said so. It didn't matter that it was dusk.

Still, he hurried as he stuffed the garbage back into the overflowing can, keeping his head up and his eyes open. It was pure luck that he spotted the swift-moving shadow across the street; it was a testament to his shock that he didn't think to move until it was too late.

A curse bounded off the ground near Harry's feet. Someone shouted in the distance, but Harry was already moving, knocking the garbage can over in his haste. There was a flash of blue light close by him - he ducked behind Uncle Vernon's car, fighting off sudden nausea.

It wasn't until he threw up that he realized it wasn't fear-induced. No matter how frightened you were, your vomit wasn't supposed to have blood in it. He thought distantly that he needed to find his wand, he needed to be ready, and then another wave of nausea hit him. When he finally stopped vomiting he sucked in a desperate, choking breath. His nose and mouth were flooded with the scent and taste of iron.

He glanced down at his shirt. It was covered in blood. Pools of the stuff, mixed with his dinner, were spreading across the ground. He threw up again, his stomach empty, blood mixed with stomach acid pouring out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin.

Someone was standing near him. Harry was too dizzy to lift his head, too sick to move. But he recognized her voice.

"Is the ickle baby sick?" she asked pityingly.

And then someone shouted, "Stupefy!"

The next thing Harry felt was a hand on his shoulder, holding him up, the only thing that kept him from falling into the mess he'd made. Uncle Vernon was roaring in the distance. "God," Tonks' voice said, faint and far away. "Hang on, Harry."

He couldn't. Everything went black.

~~~

Harry opened heavy eyelids, breath rasping in his lungs. It hurt to breathe through his nose, as if the air was super-hot and sharp edged. His mouth was unbelievably dry.

"He's awake!" an urgent voice said. He could hear spells being muttered, and the pressure on his lungs eased. His thoughts skittered from his grasp with the force of his alarm - where was he, what was going on, what had happened? A hand pressed itself against his back, lifting him up. "Drink this, Harry."

That was Madam Pomfrey's voice. Harry obeyed her instinctively, the sweet, fruit-juice-flavored stuff coating his throat with sugar. He tried to look at the people gathered around his bed, but he couldn't make out their features. Where were his glasses?

A hand tugged on the empty cup. "Harry, look at me."

Harry took a deep breath, fighting an onslaught of weakness. He didn't need to look at the speaker - even half-asleep, half-blind, he recognized the voice. "Professor Lupin?"

The hand on his back was supporting all his weight. "Yes, it's me. How are you feeling?"

Harry couldn't muster the energy to form a proper reply. "Tired," he mumbled, bowing a head too heavy for his neck. "What happened?"

Another hand caught his shoulder, rubbing it soothingly. "Later, Harry," said Mrs. Weasely's voice. "Just sleep, now."

Mrs. Weasely would put him in a room and make him sleep for an eternity if she thought it would keep him safe. Stubbornly, he glanced at the Lupin-blur to his left. "Professor?"

"There was an attack, of course." Lupin leaned him back against the pillows, standing long enough to tug the blankets up around Harry's shoulders. Harry sank into the sinful softness. He ought to keep his head up, but . . . tired . . . . "Everyone is fine but you, Harry. You're at Hogwarts now."

Harry nodded, eyes falling shut. "The Dursleys?"

"Much better than they ought to be," Lupin muttered, resentment lowering his voice. His hand was warm and surprisingly soothing on Harry's shoulder. He waited a moment longer, for whatever other questions Harry had - Harry wanted to know if he was going to go back to the Dursleys when he was better, but he was too tired to shape the words. Surely he would be allowed to stay with Lupin . . . .

"He's asleep," Tonks' voice whispered. "Thank goodness he's all right."

Mrs. Weasely sounded like she was sniffling. "Poor boy." He felt her smoothing down his hair.

"He'll be fine when he wakes," Madam Pomfrey said briskly. "Now, Professor Lupin."

"I'm fine," Lupin said, but his voice was heavy with exhaustion. His hand was still on Harry's shoulder - he gave it a pat and withdrew. But he didn't move from his seat on Harry's bed, as Harry could feel the mattress dipping towards him, the warmth from his body.

It was hard to concentrate on the conversation taking place around him. He heard Tonks tell Lupin that he really needed to rest, that he'd been awake all night, watching over Harry. Mrs. Weasely chimed in with a motherly rebuke.

"Fine," Lupin said quietly. "Find a chair."

"Remus -" Tonks started.

"Here," Madam Pomfrey said, voice laced with fondness and disapproval. "It won't be very comfortable, I'm afraid. It's only a few days after the full moon, dear, you really need to rest."

Lupin left his spot on Harry's bed. Harry rolled to the side, the conversation stilling as he was watched, to see if he would waken - he left his eyes glued shut, cracking them just long enough to see Lupin sitting at his side.

"When he wakes up," Lupin said firmly, "I'll sleep. Till then -"

The women in the room sighed. Harry felt Tonks and Mrs. Weasely kiss him on the forehead, and then they were gone, taking the light with them.

It was dark and divinely peaceful. Harry would have thought that trying to sleep with someone watching over you would be uncomfortable, but it wasn't. It was, curiously, one of the most reassuring things he'd ever felt - he realized suddenly that Lupin cared about him, as much as Sirius had. He was just too reserved to show it often.

Must be all that werewolf stuff, Harry figured sleepily. So often shunned . . . always dealing with the weakness and the pain . . . Lupin must have gotten used to never showing any emotion at all, and Harry understood that. It was really quite simple. Harry wondered why he hadn't figured it out sooner.

He burrowed deeply in the covers, and fell asleep.