Tattered and Torn

The rain was drumming relentlessly on almost all the windows in England. Little children had their noses pressed to the windows, wishing the rain would stop so they could go outside. Adults stared morosely out of their office windows and thought dismally that they would have to try to make a break for their cars in this weather.

In a small, neat, respectable suburban house in Surrey, a young woman sat on a front porch, squinting into the rain, looking for a lonely figure trudging through the rain as it had every day that week. Behind her, a blonde woman with watery eyes and a long neck looked out the window every so often, searching for the same thing.

Two streets over, in another neat, respectable suburban house, a small girl engaged herself in a game of checkers with her father. A second girl curled in an overstuffed armchair, her nose buried in a book; a third girl lounged on the sofa, also reading, but at the same time listening to an old record that was playing on the stereo. Every once in a while she would look up from her book and belt out the lyrics; occasionally she, too, would peek out the window, though whether she was looking for someone or simply wishing for the rain to stop was anyone's guess.

Somewhere in a small village farther south, a woman tapped a pencil on the top of an upright piano, beating out a rhythm better than any metronome, while a young girl, carefully watching her fingers, played a sort of rag tune. As the girl finished, the woman corrected her techniques, then glanced out the window herself into the pouring rain. Silently, she prayed that it would stop long enough to allow a scared, lonely boy to get home safely, then turned back to the piano and instructed her student to try again.

In a hidden hospital in the heart of London, framed against a stormy window, was a tableau that cared nothing for the storm outside. A young man sat beside a bed, holding the limp hand of the older man lying on the bed. The boy's gaze was fixed on the man's pale, lined face, tenderness and fear covering every inch of his own. A woman bustled in, checked over the man in the centre bed and handed him some paperwork to fill out, then came over to check the pale man by the window. After a second, she straightened, patted the boy on the head, and left.

But Harry Potter did not move; he barely even registered that the Healer had been there. He was more concerned about his old teacher, the man who had come to mean so much to him. The Healers wouldn't say anything to him--probably because they didn't want to worry him--but he didn't need them to tell him that Remus wasn't doing well. Harry understood Remus in ways most people couldn't even imagine, and looking down at his pallid form Harry could tell that he was very sick indeed, that he was in a lot of pain.

It hurt Harry to see it. He didn't want to lose Remus...but he didn't want Remus to be in pain either. Squeezing the man's hand gently, Harry bowed his head and prayed silently, Please...please help him. Free him from the pain...heal him. He doesn't deserve this kind of pain. Take the pain out of his body and put it in mine...please...I can handle it. He can't. Help him...please, please, please help him...

Harry wished there was more he could do than just sit there holding Remus's hand and praying, but he knew there wasn't. Deep inside, he knew how incredibly lucky he was to be able to sit there. The Healers had been on the verge of forbidding him to come to the hospital while it was raining, claiming they didn't want him to make himself sick walking in the rain. He had spent a good fifteen minutes pleading with them before Tonks arrived to pick him up clutching a large umbrella. To his relief, the Healers had said that as long as he used it, he could continue coming.

A sort of empty feeling was rattling around in the pit of his stomach. Lily had stopped by two days before for about an hour and sat with him next to Remus; when she'd left, she had promised to come by whenever she got the chance but explained that her piano lessons often made it impossible to get out. Harry had assured her he understood, and he did. His dad, however, hadn't been by. According to Hermione, he hadn't even asked how Remus was; he would stop by, ask if Harry was there, ask where he was, then leave without further questioning. Hermione had finally told him in exasperation that if she was sitting on the porch, alone, reading, it was safe to assume Harry wasn't there because she was waiting for him to come back, and James hadn't stopped by since. Harry suspected that Hermione really didn't like James...and Harry himself was starting to wonder if James was really the man he'd been brought up to believe, or the man Snape and Uncle Vernon had always said he was.

The sky darkened; it was getting later. Harry knew that he'd be thrown out sooner or later, and he dreaded it. He didn't want to leave Remus's side, especially not if he'd have to wait for someone to turn up to get him. He was deathly afraid that something would happen and he wouldn't be there.

Suddenly, Remus stirred, turned his head, and opened his eyes. "Harry?" he murmured.

Harry's heart soared. "Remus," he croaked, gripping the man's hand tighter. "Oh, thank God."

Remus gave him a tired, sad smile, raised his free hand, and rested it on Harry's cheek. "I love you," he said, his voice soft and hoarse.

Harry felt tears stinging his eyes. He bent down and gave Remus a hug, then drew back a little, one arm still behind the man's shoulders. "I love you too," he said softly.

"My boy," Remus whispered, a gentle smile on his face, his eyes fixed on Harry's. "My son." Slowly, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the bed and Harry's arm. He breathed deeply...then his head rolled limply to the side.

"Remus?" Harry choked, a single tear wending its way down his face. "Remus, c'mon, wake up...please..." No response.

Harry didn't move. It would be okay. He'd just sit there until Remus woke up again. It'd be okay.

One of the Healers came in about an hour later, took the paperwork from the man in the centre bed, and nodded; he stood, glanced briefly towards the window, then left the room. The Healer walked over to the far bed and saw Harry sitting in the same position as always, clutching Remus's hand and staring lovingly at the man's face.

Gently, she untangled Harry's fingers from Remus's and told him what had happened.