Our Fathers

(Chapter Twenty)

"There, as I looked, was another horse, sickly pale; its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed close behind."

Revelation 6:8

Be There

Minerva McGonagall flipped idly through Harry’s files, avoiding the commotion just through the doors she sat beside. Lupin and Harry and Albus were in the Headmaster’s office, happily discussing the boy’s future. She’d been invited in, of course. And she’d have to join them soon enough. As guardian for the boy, however temporary that title had been, she had forms to sign and concessions to make. For the moment, however, she sat and read over the triumphs and mistakes committed by the boy in question, put down in script on the papers and forms neatly filed away and stored in the folder sitting on her lap. Committed by the boy she’d slowly come to see as her own, since his permanent removal from the Dursleys.

She hadn’t believed that the Ministry would pass the act in the first place, especially in light of the political climate of the moment. Fudge still refused to recognize Voldemort’s resurrection and kept a tight fist around the press. Only two or three papers (not including the Daily Prophet, of course, the most popular wizarding paper) would run stories about the young men and women murdered mysteriously, just out of Hogwarts, and none would connect them to the Dark Lord. Those fighting in the name of Light were forced to work in shadow even as those staying silent beside them, those whose resistance was the only fight they could make, were picked off one by one in their youth. But despite it all — the mounting prejudice, the fear, the control, the greatest freedom of all had been granted to the two or three dozen werewolves residing in Britain, that of citizenship and beinghood.

Minerva cheered for Remus, cheered for all those afflicted by the curse. However, his triumph stole her happiness. The boy had become dear, despite attempts to separate him in her mind from perfect Henry and dependable young James and charming Lily. True, he’d be happier with Remus. And true, Remus would be able to see him as Just Harry, a status no one but his closest friends could see him as — Harry, not the grandson of Henry or great-grandson of Ulysses, not the nephew of Henry, Jr. and Julius or the Boy Who Lived; not a boy hanging over the edge of darkness or the last beacon of Light. He’d be simply Harry, a boy on the threshold of being a man, and Remus could be the father finally there to bring him through it in one piece. With Remus’ help, Harry might reach and return from the battle whole and able to function in real life, where Henry had collapsed and retired to his own death.

Despite her happiness at Harry’s new life and new chance at living it, something seemed torn away. Her final chance at motherhood, even a fostered one, was gone. She felt old, dried up, and fading away. Inside the room beside her, new life of a sort was being created while she, the old woman, sat by.

Her thoughts were too maudlin. Resolved at her fortunes, she packed away the papers decidedly and steeled herself away from her loss, finally pushing into the room. They were all smiles, waiting for her: Albus in his new red robes, Remus and Harry grinning at each other, sharing secret smiles of happiness.

"What do you have there, Minerva?" Albus asked, gesturing broadly at a chair close by Harry’s side. "Forms and parchments?"

"Harry’s records," she murmured briskly, tossing the thick folder upon the desk. "I felt it best to bring the lot. The custody forms are buried there as well." Minerva thought she was doing at least an adequate job at hiding what she felt. She sunk into the offered chair and examined her fingernails.

She then made the mistake of glancing up into Albus’ eyes. He knew — of course he did, he could sense her moods better than her own husband had, in her youth. There was apology there, but also a sense of justice. He knew, as well as she, that what was being done was right. Harry deserved a father, and Remus would be better than Minerva could ever be a mother. "You’ve just to sign this form over here — Remus brought it when he came today — and we’re all finished."

Minerva stared at the form and suddenly found herself unable to move. Right there lay the absolute and final end of the dream. Her mother would be crushed — no Christmases spent around the tree with a young man present, no holidays meeting the first love, no more visions of the Potter line continued and visiting, no grandchildren (of a sort, at least) to watch grow. Perhaps she’d wished for it too much. Maybe this was her final payment for waiting to have children with her husband until the war came and it was too late...

It seemed Albus caught her mood, and he lightly set down the parchment before her, moving to other subjects. "You do have a place other than that London flat for Harry to stay, Remus? There’s not enough space in there."

From the corner of her eye, Minerva caught Harry sending over a confused glance. Remus continued on in the background, white noise to her troubled thoughts. "Well, my mother’s family home is owned by my cousin. There’s little love lost between us, but he might do it, even if only for the publicity — he’s a musician. Lead vocal of Two Sickles and a Knut. He’d do anything for publicity."

"That could work..." Dumbledore drew back the form and made a scribble across the top. "Oh, Harry — how did you want your name to appear on the form?"

Harry’s gaze darted from Minerva to the Headmaster. "My name? What about it?"

"Remus is adopting you. If you wish, you could add his name, you know. It’s common practice, especially in wizarding adoptions... there were many after the war..." The last was an afterthought, quiet and seemingly unintended, but it did the trick for Minerva. She and her husband were to have adopted one of the children orphaned by He Who Must Not Be Named, but Fate had intervened and taken him away instead. That thought was even more painful than notions of losing a chance with Harry, and snapped her away from the past completely.

Harry had turned to Remus, bright-eyed. "I don’t want to give up my dad’s last name... it’s not really proper, is it, after the sacrifice they made?"

"Their sacrifice was to give you happiness. Proper or not, do what makes you happy," Minerva finally allowed herself to interject.

She seemed to surprise Remus with it, but Harry nodded thoughtfully. "May I just add it on? At the end, make it part of my name, and not have to take anything else away?"

Remus was nearly in tears of joy. "Certainly... you can, anything you want... it’s your name..."

Minerva nodded curtly and slipped the parchment from Albus’ grasp. A quick, neat ‘Lupin’ was attached to the end of ‘Harry J. Potter’ and, allowing herself a sharp breath, she signed away her hope. "There. All done." Her voice cracked, and she berated herself silently. They needn’t have seen the pain, had she been more careful.

But Harry smiled softly, turning his eyes up to her. "I still want to meet your mum, Professor," he murmured. "If you don’t mind, Uncle Re. You know... since I’ve never had a grandmother and all..."

A jolt of surprise and elation hit with blinding force. Minerva’s eyes went quickly from Harry to Remus and, with some shock, she noticed that he was still smiling widely. He nodded curtly to her... he silently offered her one last chance. Not mother, perhaps, but aunt. Involved. "Of course," she whispered with a smile. "Of course you can meet her. She wanted a grandchild..."

"And if Uncle Re doesn’t mind, we could have holidays together... almost a family? Could we?" The plea was nearly gutwrenching, and Minerva’s heart was certainly tied in it.

"I certainly wouldn’t mind," Remus responded, ruffling Harry’s locks. His eyes remained locked with Minerva’s, and there was only understanding — no jealousy.

If possible, her smile grew wider. "I wouldn’t mind either," she murmured. No, the dream was not gone. Only changed.

On The Ground

Draco crept up the stairs, shoes held in hand in an attempt to remain silent. The Death Eaters (junior) were in the Common Room, loudly joking and playing Exploding Snap, giving him the opening to sneak in without being noticed and mount the stairs to the fifth-year girls’ dormitory. He cringed as he pushed the door open, but Filch had been around to fix it — it no longer squeaked. Pansy’s bed was nearest the door — she was downstairs with Ross Blake, and Draco idly considered hexing her sheets. However, the sound of quiet sobs caught his attention and drew him across the room to where a trunk lay thrown open. Clothes were strewn over the bed and Blaise was digging frantically through her wardrobe, tossing articles of clothing over her shoulder — some found the trunk, some the floor — her back to the door.

He set down his shoes and started picking shirts up. "Where are you going?"

Blaise squealed and spun around, groping for her wand until she focused on Draco. "Oh, God. Draco, I thought you were Pansy, come back with Ross!" She turned back to the wardrobe. "I don’t have time to talk. It’s not safe for you to be up here."

"It’s not safe for me to be anywhere. Where are you going? Are you moving rooms?" Draco added another shirt to the trunk, rounding the obstacle to perch on the edge of her bed.

She wiped her hand across her eyes, brushing the tears away. "My parents are dead. My brother is dead."

Draco was struck dumb. It wasn’t often that he lacked a word for the situation. His memory unconsciously flickered back to a morning, only months earlier, when he’d stood with his mother and father in front of the mansion. They’d been a family that morning — a family torn, a family soon to be in pieces — but a family all the same. He wondered what Blaise was thinking. "I’m sorry," he murmured after a moment, on automatic. He felt terrible, thinking only of his own parents when Blaise was learning how it felt to lose her own — but what other choice had he? The wounds were fresh, and no one had come to fill them.

Blaise shook her head wordlessly, climbing onto the bed next to Draco and letting her tears fall. Draco provided a shoulder, but couldn’t help staring anxiously at the door — someone could come in at any moment. "Are you going home for the funeral, then?" It was blunt, yes, but lingering would mean at the very least a minor scuffle with Ross.

"Can’t go home," she murmured. "He did it. The Headmaster is sending me into hiding, tonight." The composed Slytherin girl was back, scrubbing away at her wet cheeks. "I have to be ready soon. Snape’s coming to see me off — he’s got a secret way out, or something such, so the others won’t notice."

Once again, Draco found himself dumbfounded. "You mean... you’re going... for good?"

"Yes," she whispered. She turned paler and threw her arms around Draco. "I’m so sorry! I don’t mean to leave you all alone like this, but I’ve no choice!"

Draco shrugged her away, nodding blankly. Everything seemed to be falling apart around him. He’d just found a friend, just found a way to make it without his family, and it had been torn from him. This time, he hadn’t a clue what he’d done to deserve it — his father had always said that losses were merited as much as gains. He’s been nice to Potter, he’d turned away from Dark Magic, he’d put his all into his classes, he’d done everything virtuous and befitting a practitioner of the Light — however little he wanted to be one — and what had come of it? A broken life.

"Draco?" Blaise had grabbed his shoulder and was shaking him lightly. "Are you alright? Have I said something?"

He glanced up, jarred out of his melancholy for a moment. "I’m as well as I can be. Do you need my help in packing?"

She looked hurt. "No, not really... are you going to answer my question?"

"I’m sorry, I was thinking," he replied lamely.

If anything, she looked more hurt. "I asked if you’d write me. Owls can find me, Dumbledore said."

"Yes. Sure, I’ll write," Draco muttered. Was that a noise? Was someone on the stairs? He just wanted it to end — for it to be safe to walk outside in the spring air — to not be afraid that at any moment, Voldemort might leap from a hidden passage with a knife —

The door slid open silently, and Draco leapt to his feet, wand at the ready. A snort of impatience greeted him — Snape. "You’re not supposed to be up here," the professor scowled.

"You were going to make her leave without saying goodbye," Draco accused. He tucked his wand back into his belt and sunk back onto the edge of the bed. He couldn’t elaborate without showing Blaise more than he’d intended — there was no need for her to see how miserable she’d be leaving him — but contented himself with glaring at Snape as pointedly as possible.

Snape, of course, missed the point. "Of course I was. It was safer if no one knew. However, it’s too late — Miss Zabini, there’s no time to waste. I’ll post anything you’ve left behind, but the portkey’s to activate in only a few moments. Someone is waiting on the other end for you." He handed her a paperweight — it was likely one of Dumbledore’s, considering the little Muggle castle on the inside of the glass ball — and grabbed Draco’s arm. "It’s time for you to be leaving, Draco. Please try not to alert Blake or Parkinson on your way out."

"Bye," he muttered, miserably sparing a glance for Blaise before ducking through the door. Alone again, he slipped down the twisting stairs and stood in the shadows as the card game continued. Gregory Goyle took that moment to lumber down out of the boy’s dorms, and Draco used his bulk to shield himself as he made a dash for the portrait hole. Luckily, he made it.

He wandered the hall, in a daze. It made sense to send Blaise away — she had someplace to go; someone to go to. Her danger wasn’t to the level of Draco’s, but every moment she spent with him made her a greater target. Could he follow Snape’s example; lock himself away in order to stay safe and keep others safe? No — he could never become the dour, affectionless man hiding away in the dungeons. Not in a thousand years!

Draco rounded a corner and found himself outside Professor Dumbledore’s office. The door was open a crack, and he could hear voices echoing down the staircase from above. "There, then — there, it’s all done. Harry J. Potter with a Lupin on the end, you’ve got a father."

He froze. It was unreal — Potter’s dad was the werewolf? The ridiculous act had passed? His father would be furious when he learned — a werewolf made into a being, able to adopt children! Lupin wouldn’t have to alert his employer to his disease, he’d probably be assured at least a day off every moon by law... how many afflicted children would it take before the stupid act would be repealed?

But Lucius Malfoy would never hear. A footstep sounded on the stair and Draco took a step back, planning on being gone before anyone knew he’d listened in, but the sight of Potter stepping through the doorway, beaming up at Lupin instilled so much envy — so much despair — that he was rooted to the spot.

Potter seemed surprised to find him. "Er — Malfoy... what are you doing here?"

Draco opened his mouth, but words didn’t come, especially as Lupin laid his hand on Potter’s shoulder — it was a gesture so reminiscent of his own father’s that Draco was barely able to hold back a sob. He took another step back. "I- chess, with — but he’s busy. I’ll go."

"He’s not busy, Draco," Lupin said kindly. "Go on up. He’s with Professor McGonagall, but there’s just chatting."

He wasn’t with McGonagall. The two professors emerged behind Potter and Lupin. "Oh, Draco!" Dumbledore greeted with a smile, crossing to pat his shoulder. "Is there anything I can help you with? I’m all free for tea, or a game of chess? Remus here has just adopted Harry, isn’t it exciting?"

Draco choked on his own response. He stared at Dumbledore, smiling like a fool; at McGonagall beaming maternally at the Golden Boy and Lupin’s hand on the grinning Potter’s shoulder. And Voldemort was after them all — a single wrong move, a single "Avada Kedavra," and that happy picture would be ruined as surely as the photograph of last Christmas at Malfoy Manor. With another glance at Dumbledore, he turned and took flight.

If I Should Fall

Harry watched Malfoy flee down the hall and turned to Dumbledore in confusion. "Professor, what -"

"Don’t let it ruin your good spirits," the headmaster murmured. "I’ll speak to Severus later. Now, then... your friends are no doubt waiting in Gryffindor Tower to hear the good news. Why don’t you head back there... Remus, you’ve permission to accompany him, if you so wish."

"I’d love to." Remus patted Harry’s shoulder. "Shall we? I’d love to see how your classmates are doing — has Neville faced up to Snape yet?"

Harry waved at McGonagall and Dumbledore as he allowed himself to be led off. "No, not yet. He’s just terrible in class. I think Malfoy’s making Snape angrier on purpose."

Remus gave a snort. "I wouldn’t doubt it. Can you imagine living with Severus Snape?"

He wrinkled his nose. "It almost makes me feel sorry for him. Except, of course, that he’s so bloody smug all the time. I almost had to stay with Snape — remember?"

"I’d rather not think about it, actually. James would’ve come back to haunt me if I’d allowed that to happen... you really want to add Lupin to your name? You’re not just doing it to make me happy, are you?" Remus nudged Harry’s arm, lifting an eyebrow questioningly.

"Well, I don’t think I’ll want to go by it — after all, how many jokes can you make from ‘Harry Lupin’? — but I don’t think my father would mind. I didn’t know him or anything, but he wanted Sirius and you to look after me, right?"

Remus nodded. "And Peter. Peter was always part of the plan, Harry." A sad smile worked its way onto his face. "He wasn’t always the way he was when you met him. I don’t know what happened to make him into the monster he became... but he used to be warm and caring. We were the best of friends — just like you and Hermione and Ron. Oh, we got into plenty of arguments, don’t get me wrong. Sirius and Peter didn’t get on as well as Peter and I or Sirius and James... that’s probably why Peter chose to pin the deaths of your parents on Sirius in the end, rather than on me... but we were a team."

"Then why did he go to Voldemort?" They were outside Gryffindor Tower, now, but Harry didn’t want to go in yet. He leaned against the wall, waiting for an answer.

"I don’t know," Remus sighed. "People change, Harry. Maybe he felt as though he was unappreciated. Maybe Voldemort’s offer was one he couldn’t refuse — Peter’s mother and sister could’ve been threatened, though both passed on while Sirius was in Azkaban. Peter changed. Sirius changed, too — I did as well. James would’ve, if he’d had the chance... you’re growing up, surely you’ve watched your friends grow up too. They won’t be the same people at the end."

Harry thought of Ron’s newfound adoration for his father, of Seamus and Dean mooning over the Ravenclaw girls, of Hermione blushing when she caught him in his boxers, and of the despair on Parvati’s face as Dumbledore escorted her off into hiding. It was true — they’d grown and changed in hundreds of ways since the first moment he’d stepped from the Hogwarts Express and stared up at Hogwarts towering across the lake. "But... do you think one of them could do what Peter did?"

Remus sighed. "It’s always possible that one could. However, that doesn’t mean you should stop being friends with them, or be suspicious of them at every turn. You still have a childhood to finish. You didn’t get enough of one with the Dursleys, but it’s my job — my pleasure — to see you get your chance. Let me be the one who worries."

Harry grinned and launched himself into a hug. He couldn’t get enough hugs — Aunt Petunia certainly hadn’t blessed him with any, even as she showered Dudley with kisses. "Do you want to go in, now? Hermione won’t believe it — she thought the act wouldn’t pass."

"Neither did I," Remus replied. He kept an arm slung over Harry’s shoulder, grinning more broadly than Harry could remember seeing him. "Alright, then, let’s see how you’ve fixed up the old place."

"Buffy rules," he told the Fat Lady. "Seamus chose the password this week," Harry explained at Remus’ confused expression. "Seamus is one of the prefects. Hermione’s the other in my year. Seamus thought it was just hilarious when he got the letter — he doesn’t take it seriously, like Percy did."

Remus followed Harry inside. "Neither did your Dad. He thought it was just a joke. Hey, the chairs have been reupholstered."

Ron, siting in front of the fire, caught sight of them and bounded over. "So Percy knew what he was talking about? Think he’s got the new job? Should I call you Lupin now?"

Harry laughed at the barrage of questions. "Ron, calm down! I’m not going anywhere! And I’ll be spending the summer in London! Can he come and visit?" He turned to Remus and grinned.

"At my cousin’s, not in London probably — and yes, of course. Anyone you want can come to visit. We can probably pull together a birthday party, too." If anything, Remus’ grin widened as Harry gave a yelp of happiness.

"Wow... I’ve never had a party before..."

Harry found himself surrounded by his friends — the Quidditch team, Seamus, Dean, Neville, Lavender, Ron, and Hermione leaned over to whisper in his ear. "It’s nice to see you smiling again."

"So you’ve a professor as your da," Seamus mused. "Plenty of help with the DADA homework now... and you owe me for writing up all those reports of yours..."

"Ooooh, Professor Lupin, I think there’s something haunting my wardrobe!" Lavender cried.

"Harry, you well enough for Quidditch yet? Ravenclaw’s soon," one of the twins put in, while the other (Fred?) stepped up to pat him on the back.

The commotion was getting to be too much, even for Harry at the height of celebration. Not a celebration. Voldemort, leaning over a map — the Death Eaters surrounded him, in formation, all with wands ready. Harry took a step back and tripped over someone standing behind him.

Hermione grabbed his arm and kept him standing. Voldemort grabbed a Death Eater’s arm and pointed to the map. "Here. This is where we strike. The old man won’t know what’s hit him." She was shaking his shoulder violently, but the wispy vision hung over her face. "Harry? Harry, are you alright?"

"How can we be sure passage hasn’t been closed up over the centuries? Surely some Headmaster or another has found it," asked a man, blonde hair visible at the edge of his hood. Only months earlier, Harry would’ve assumed the man to be Lucius Malfoy.

"Salazar Slytherin noted that it had been concealed. Do you doubt me, Avery? If the entrance fails, the fault is yours — you provided the diaries from which I found the information; you and Malfoy. He has paid for his crimes." The Dark Lord traced something on the parchment. Harry couldn’t make it out. "We strike soon. They’ll be distracted by Potter and the werewolf."

He grabbed Remus’ sleeve before pitching to the side, into Hermione’s arms. There was no way to stop the vision — he could only hope to hold on for the ride and remember to report. Someone murmured in his ear. Someone took his hand. Someone brushed the hair from his forehead.

"Do we go for the Potter boy, or bring you the Malfoy child first?" another Death Eater asked, sinking to one knee to address Voldemort.

There was no spy. For a moment, Harry felt sorry for the deaths he’d likely be causing once Dumbledore got word of the attack. But there was no helping it — death for the other side was preferable to losing his friends. "Kill anyone who stands in the way. If I hear word of any hesitation, over any kill, a dose of Cruciatus should be enough to cure you of it," Voldemort was continuing. "We strike at the last rays of the sun. The room should be full at that time in the evening. Hostages will ensure our getaway, and my power will be returned by the brat’s blood. Apparate. Now."

The Death Eaters disappeared, but Voldemort remained for just a moment. He glanced around and suddenly, inexplicably, met Harry’s gaze. He screamed, suddenly able to see the Common Room once more. He was cradled against Remus’ chest, and Hermione had hold of his hand. Ron and Seamus were hanging over Remus’ shoulders helplessly, and the others were all visible a step back. "Harry? Are you okay?" Hermione asked, as soon as he was able to focus on his surroundings again.

"What did you See, Harry?" Ron asked, moving around to kneel next to Hermione.

Harry looked up and met Remus’ eyes. He was worried. He gave Harry a squeeze, as if to say that he needn’t answer. Harry did anyways. "He’s coming," he whispered to Remus. "He’s coming — now."