Innocence Lost and Found

When morning dawned, the sky was fittingly gray, and the grass was fittingly bowed beneath what was either an especially heavy frost or a light dusting of snow. No light, no heat, no life, November, Remus thought irrationally, uncertain as to why the old quip had traipsed into his mind as he walked toward the church. It was the same one at which he had attended a baptism almost exactly a year earlier.

Remus cringed as he thought of Sirius, blithely promising on behalf of one Harold James Potter to ‘strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.’

Indeed. A more honest-- not that any Death Eater had ever cared about honesty-- oath might have been to ‘strive for the anarchy which would surely result should Lord Voldemort come to power and attempt to deprive everyone who does not agree with me not only of a voice but of life itself, no matter if they're my best friends.’ The irony of a child's godfather causing his parents' brutal deaths rang loudly and dizzily in Remus' ears as he reached the church's front door. He nearly swayed on his feet when a young man, even younger than Remus himself, caught the arm of his dark, black robe.

‘He's all right. Don't bother with ID,’ called an authoritative voice, one he recognized as belonging to Cornelius Fudge, a junior Ministry of Magic official who had been present as Remus' interrogation two days earlier.

How long have you known Lily and James Potter? What was your relationship to them? To Sirius Black? Was Sirius Black the Potters' Secret Keeper? Did you have reason to suspect his alliance with You-Know-Who? Did he ever behave in a suspicious manner? When did you last see him? When did you last see the Potters alive? What did he say about his role in protecting them? Did he seem eager?

‘But Dumbledore said--’ the younger man began to protest.

‘Dumbledore won't be happy if you give him trouble. Trust me.’

Still not entirely sure as to what was going on, but wanting to deliver his detainer from the arrogant lecturings of Fudge, Remus pulled out an identification card and placed it in the hand that had just relinquished its grip on his sleeve.

‘He's okay,’ the man said, sounding at once frightened and relieved.

‘As I was saying,’ Fudge continued more pompously than ever.

‘Why are you checking identification at a funeral?’ Remus cut in, finally finding his voice. Voldemort was, if not dead, at least weakened to the point that no one was in danger. Precautions of this magnitude hardly seemed necessary even if there did happen to be a large number of powerful, active wizards and witches present in one small space.

‘Dumbledore's orders,’ the guard replied smoothly. ‘They want the service to be private. But everyone out there wants to say good-bye, and thank you. Give them a real martyr's sendoff. They were afraid people would try to sneak in and see the bodies, even, even though it said in the papers that the caskets would be closed, and everyone knows that that's always what they do when it's Avada Kedavra, and this time the whole house blew up--’

‘SEAN!’ Fudge forcefully cut off the nervous ramblings. ‘HOLD YOUR TONGUE!’ Then he turned to Remus, and his voice hovered between repulsive distaste and equally repulsive smarminess. ‘Just go inside. It's horrible out here.’ A firm hand placed itself on Remus' shoulder in an unaffectionate half-caress, and Remus obediently left the entryway.

He did not, however, go directly inside. Instead, he sought a window in the lobby and stared out at the throng through which he had just walked unthinkingly. It now seemed as if the surrounding streets were filled with crowds of wizards and witches, many crying, a few laughing, most bearing flowers. How had he made it to the church unaware? Had people recognized him as James and Lily's friend, perhaps from a Daily Prophet article, and simply let him pass? Had the signs of his most recent transformation marked him as a werewolf and prompted the crowd to give him a wide berth? Had he forced his way through them without knowing what he did? This last seemed at once unlikely, because the war of the past few years had taught him nothing if not to remain constantly aware of his surroundings; and likely, because although he had decided to walk all the way from his home to the church he remembered nothing of the journey.

The mood inside the sanctuary was indeed more subdued than the mood outside. Heads were hung low, eyes were red-rimmed, and voice were kept to quiet whispers as the group mourned the loss of a woman and a man instead of celebrating the victory of their shared cause.

Even the children present were quiet, as if they understood the gravity of the situation. A little girl whose name Remus did not know stood transfixed, staring at the coffins, until her mother pulled her away to sit down. Frank Longbottom-- it was somewhat surprising to see an auror of that magnitude here when so many Death Eaters needed tracking down, but Frank had known James and Lily-- held his son Neville, who was no older than Harry, tightly, and the child did not object, choosing instead to look around with solemn eyes.

The silence was broken by a squawk. ‘MINE!’ said a babyish voice, quite clearly. It was not Neville, who remained calm and who probably was not (Remus sneered to himself) a brat. His head snapped toward the distraction, but his annoyance fell away with a thud when he became aware of its source. The man and the woman were quite obviously Muggles, and if he thought back to the handful of times he had seen Lily's family waiting near the Hogwarts Express, he could recognize the woman as her sister. The blond, squalling boy must be Lily's nephew, then; and if he was there, Harry was there.

Remus strode quickly across the church, not bothering to decide what to say when he reached his destination, not even bothering to wrack his mind for the woman's name. Frantically, he assumed that the words would come naturally when he opened his mouth.

He stopped suddenly when could see the small family clearly. Had he not known for a fact that Harry and the other boy were mere weeks apart in age, he never would have guessed. The blond boy, the one who had yelled, was nearly twice Harry's size. Harry had never looked scrawny before; he had looked like a happy, healthy, well-loved baby with impossibly adorable green eyes and messy black hair. Now, though, next to his fat, blond cousin, he looked reedy and sickly, as if he had led quite a difficult life for the past fifteen months-- in truth, of course, he had. The half-healed cut in his forehead bore testimony to that. The two were seated side-by-side in a twin stroller, and the blond had just snatched the blanket that covered Harry away. Now he was methodically poking the smaller child, as if seeing which movement would produce the loudest, most pained reaction.

Thus far, Harry had been very patient, and Remus was quite surprised. Neither James nor Lily would have let such torment go this far without reaching for a wand-- not that a toddler could reach for a wand-- still, Harry had not accidentally magicked himself out of his cousin's reach. Did the Muggles know that such behavior was a risk? Weren't they going to stop their son's spiteful little game?

A finger in one big, green eye at last drew a cry from Harry and action from his aunt. Her hand swiftly parted the cousins' interlaced arms and she coolly reprimanded ‘Harry, don't touch Dudley.’

Dudley? Remus wondered in awe. How aptly named.

Dudley was now pouting, causing his mother to reach for him comfortingly, pulling his already substantial weight from the stroller. ‘I know, Duddykins,’ she crooned. ‘If that nosy Mary Ann Hopkins hadn't seen my sister's obituary, we wouldn't have to be here, but we can't have people saying we didn't go. Of course, if she hadn't married that man and gotten herself killed--’

Rage rose in the chest of their observer, rage of the kind he ordinarily felt just once a month, and even then only if provoked. One part of his mind was repeating, mantra-like, that people mourned in different ways, and the poor woman was probably in shock, but the more cynical parts of his mind remained unconvinced. He had heard too many stories from Lily over the decade or so he had known her not to suspect that this woman was as bad as she seemed.

Words came floating back to him as in a dream. Petunia stole my biting teacups, I can't figure out what she did with them . . . Another summer of Petunia calling me a freak . . . She didn't invite me to her own wedding . . . Lily. Lily's voice that he'd never hear again.

Suddenly, brutally aware that he could not carry on a conversation with these people, be they Harry's only living relatives or not, he began to turn away, stopping only when he was called by name.

‘Moony.’

That was an appellation he had not expected to hear again. Everyone who had used it was dead or, in the case of Sirius, worse than dead.

‘Moony.’ Again. The voice was child-like and purely innocent. Harry's saucer-like eyes were fixed upon him and he extended one small arm in an indescribably beseeching gesture. Remus locked his gaze with that of the child and returned to his original plan.

He doesn't even know ten words, not even ten words, but one of them's 'Moony.' Of course, one of them's also 'Padfoot,' not that he could say it quite right the last time I heard him try . . . more like 'Pafooh' . . . he'll never need it now . . . won't need 'Mama' or 'Dada' either . . .

‘What is he saying?’ the woman he now remembered as Petunia demanded sharply of her husband.

‘He's saying 'Moony,'’ Remus answered quickly. ‘It's what Lily and James called me.’ Petunia looked up in thinly veiled disgust. ‘We were friends. I'm sorry for your loss.’ She grunted something which he could almost believe was a thank you. He wondered if he should offer to shake their hands, but, deciding that he would almost surely be rebuffed, forged ahead verbally. ‘Is it all right if I take Harry during the services? You'd be able to hold your son and not bother with the stroller.’ He offered up what he hoped was a winning smile.

‘Vernon,’ Petunia hissed under her breath, through teeth clenched into a smile. Remus wondered if she really though he could not hear her. Perhaps he would not have been able to had he not been a werewolf.

‘We'll have years, Petunia,’ he returned in the same voice. Then, more loudly: ‘Take him. And keep him away from Dudley.’

Wouldn't I just like to keep him away from Dudley permanently. ‘Thank you.’ He wasted no time in pulling Harry from his seat, which was not difficult as Harry was still reaching for him, as if craving the comfort being given so freely to his (undeserving) cousin. Semi-awkwardly, he wrapped Harry in the again-abandoned blanket. He had not had much experience with the handling of babies, but what experience he had had had come with this particular one.

‘Moony,’ he half-crooned once more. A tiny hand reached up to grab the hem of Remus' cloak.

‘That's right,’ he whispered.

Harry smiled, and he looked almost grateful to be taken away from his ‘family.’ Babies can't feel gratitude. Remus reminded himself harshly. Stop imagining things. Still, he could hardly have imagined that the pout had melted off of Harry's face as soon as he'd seen Remus. Now, though, he was falling asleep in cradled arms. Probably the first time since his parents died that he's been away from his wretch of a cousin.

He sat down as far from Petunia and her family as he could, positioning himself so that Harry could drift off in complete comfort. He was happy that he would not have to have anything to do with the eulogies. General consensus seemed to be that he had been too shaken by the murder of two of his best friends at the hands of the third, not to mention a twelve-hour interrogation under Veritaserum, to handle any responsibility with regards to the funeral. He was also under the impression that not much had needed doing. Lily and James had known that they were primary targets, and they had been prepared. Prepared the funeral. Prepared the will. Prepared for Harry's future.

But in that last, most important case, their preparations had not been enough. Dumbledore had decreed that Harry would be better off living with his Muggle relatives. Had Sirius not been a traitor, he could have reversed that decision. Contrary to popular opinion, Dumbledore was not a god who ruled the wizarding community by divine right. Sirius had the legal right to raise Harry, and if he had fought Dumbledore through official channels, the Hogwarts Headmaster would not have stood a chance.

As the tributes to Lily and James began, Remus tried to force thoughts of Sirius from his mind. Sirius isn't worthy he snarled inwardly. Still, the idea that he should be allowed to mourn James, and Peter, and even Lily, but that he should just forget about Sirius seemed somehow wrong. He wished that, at the very least, he could ask Sirius why. But Sirius had been taken to Azkaban without so much as a drumhead trial.

The assembled mourners laughed weakly and succeeded in breaking Remus' train of thought at last. The speaker had told the story of James accidentally calling Dumbledore ‘senile’ to his face. Remus had been there at the time, and he hadn't thought it very funny. Neither had James, for that matter. The tale had only begun to be passed around as amusing after Sirius had gleefully embellished it-- but Remus wasn't thinking about Sirius, not at James' funeral, not with James' image still asleep in his arms.

He managed to listen to the rest of the service, although he could derive no comfort from it. Harry awoke during the walk to the graveyard and favored Remus with a crooked smile so reminiscent of another crooked smile that he was forced to beat back tears. He was almost relieved when a voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘This is their son?’ The speaker was one of the wizards more or less employed by the church to help run events of this nature. As Harry's picture, and the story of his scar, had been in every edition of the Daily Prophet for the past week, Remus felt sure that the inquiry was made not in hopes of receiving an answer but in an attempt to open conversation. He nodded in the affirmative, not unfriendly, not encouraging. The wizard pressed on. ‘Technically, he's the chief mourner. Do you want to take him and walk behind the coffins?’ Remus nodded again. Ordinarily, he might have thought the idea exploitative and melodramatic, but he wanted to be away from the throng eager to get a closer look at Harry. He wanted to keep the one living reminder of a small circle of people he had dearly loved to himself for as long as he possibly could.

As he had hoped, the few feet of space he was suddenly granted made it easier for him to detach himself from the tears of the other mourners, which surely multiplied when they were granted a clear view of the Boy Who Lived. The tears increased tenfold when Harry, with little prompting from Remus, seized a handful of dirt in his tiny fist and dropped it into the open grave.

Ceremony over, Remus was forced to step back, and was annoyed but resigned when he felt a presence close beside him. His half-anger abated slightly, however, when he realized that his companion was Minerva McGonagall.

‘It's about time for you to give him back to his aunt,’ she murmured.

‘Not yet,’ he answered, startled that he sounded more assertive than pleading. Pleading was how he felt, after all.

‘How long do you mean to keep him?’

‘Indefinitely.’ Again, he was surprised to hear himself speaking in this way to his former teacher, whom he had, throughout his education, respected as an authority second only to Dumbledore. He still sometimes felt himself in danger of a stroke when he was asked to refer to her not as ‘Professor’ but as ‘Minerva.’

‘Remus--’ Her voice held sympathy in place of reprimand, but he interrupted her anyway.

‘It's not right! Those Muggles don't understand who he is, or what he is, and they wouldn't even want to raise another child who was just like their own son! God forbid that two of him should exist!’

‘Remus--’

‘They don't want him, they won't love him, who knows if they'll even take proper care of him?’

‘We will know if they take proper care of him.’ He opened his mouth to protest, but she raised her hand slightly, and he obediently feel silent beneath to force of her gaze. ‘As it happens, I agree with you. I stood outside his aunt's house the day after Lily and James were killed, and I argued with Albus about it. He knows the family and their ways, but he believes that it's what's best for Harry. Really, it's a good situation. He'll be with blood relatives, which means strong protective spells. He'll grow up in the Muggle world, without having a chance to be spoiled by his fame. He'll have another child to play with.’

‘I don't want him playing with that child.’

Minerva sighed. ‘Perhaps Harry's good nature will rub off on him.’

‘No adult, let alone a one-year-old child, has enough good nature to change that family.’

‘No adult, let alone a one-year-old child, should be able to block Avada Kedavra. And at the very worst, Remus, it's just until he comes to Hogwarts. He'll be there most of the time until he's old enough to decide for himself where to go.’

‘So we hope he's had enough love and affection in the past fifteen months to last him the next ten years?’

‘You never know. It's surprising that he's even here. I would never have thought that that family would come to the funeral, let alone bring Harry. We may have judged them too harshly. You haven't had much time to observe them, and you aren't in the most objective frame of mind right now.’

‘Lily had her whole life to observe them, and she never had a single positive thing to say about her sister,’ he half-hissed in reply. ‘She and James went out of their way to keep Harry from being raised by those two! This is not what they wanted for their son! We'll honor them as heroes and martyrs but we won't respect their wishes about the baby they gave their lives to protect?’

Minerva's eyes hardened. She agreed wholeheartedly with her former student, but her feelings were irrelevant to the task at hand. ‘Give me that child, Remus. Now.’

He knew that there was no room for argument. ‘See you when you're eleven,’ he told Harry. ‘Bye,’ he added almost sarcastically.

‘Bye, Moony!’ Harry sang out. He had not yet mastered sarcasm.

Remus had no desire to remain, now. The crowd was thinning anyway, and the later receptions promised to be more public and more raucous. He moved off over the grassy hill, dragging his feet more than was customary. He lowered his head to ward off any potential conversations, and thus only narrowly managed to avoid running headlong into Severus Snape. If Snape had been lurking around earlier, he had not noticed. He would have preferred not to notice him now, but Snape broke the silence between them almost immediately.

‘Poor werewolf.’ His voice dripped with scorn. ‘Sad now that all his friends are either dead or in jail? Not so brave now, are you? Don't feel like you own the world now, do you? You oughtn't look so down, though. I don't believe that Gryffindors are allowed to cry.’

‘My condolences to you, too, Severus,’ he muttered before continuing on his way. There was no reason to curse Severus, just because James would have, or punch him, just because Sirius would have. James was dead and Sirius was the cause. That was what they were here to mourn.

Peter, of course, wouldn't have been able to hold his own against Snape; but the time to mourn Peter would be tomorrow. Remus was just wondering whether the rumors of his finger being sent to his mother in a box were true when a figure Apparated in his path.

‘Remus, hold on.’

‘Minerva.’ Slightly removed from the situation, he felt guilt rush through his numbed senses and to the forefront of his weary mind. ‘I'm sorry for the way I spoke--’

‘Forget it. You were hardly harsh, and it's more than understandable.’

‘Nonetheless--’

‘Nonetheless, nothing. You're leaving?’

‘No reason to stay. The mood is getting to be celebratory, and I just won't fit in.’

‘I suppose I understand. But do make certain you take care of yourself.’

‘I will.’

‘I mean it. Eat and sleep before you come back here for Peter--’ her own voice began to break.

‘I promise,’ he replied as smoothly as he could. ‘Take care of yourself as well.’ She nodded and returned to the crowd the way she had come, leaving Remus alone with his unhappy thoughts.